Southern Exposure

Friday, February 20 – Uyuni to Villa Mar

We woke up early today hoping to be on the road by 8 am. As always, the packing took a little longer, the breakfast service was extremely slow, and by the time we said goodbyes to Lauren, Martin and Pedro it was already 9 am. On the road out of town we met two BMW riders from Michigan heading south, they were taking a northern and slightly easier route to Chile. We exchanged contacts and were on our way.

We knew that the next few days would be the hardest riding days of our trip. We were heading south to Chile through the Reserva Nacional Eduardo Avaroa, a 7,200 sq. km remote region filled with mineral stained salt lakes, Martian landscapes, stunning volcanic peaks, pink flamingos, and more sandy dirt roads than we had ever planned on riding.

We had read accounts of other riders who have done this route and it looked very difficult but unearthly beautiful. The sand is so deep for such long stretches of the road that falls are unavoidable. Lauren and Martin just did this road a few days ago coming from the south and all they could say when we first told them of our plan was the loaded “good luck!” Lauren had to get off the bike and walk for 14 km, and Martin said that the road tested his mental limits to the maximum. However, the more information we gathered from them by looking at the maps together, the more they assured us that the road was “doable” we just needed to take it very slow.

So off we went on the most dangerous adventure of our trip. The road started out predictably corrugated, but firm. After a couple of hours, we reached San Cristobal, the last town with a gas station before over 300 miles of nothingness. The attendant at the gas station told us it has been two days since the last gas delivery and it was unknown when gas would be available. That was the first blow to our nervous system. We rode around the town streets asking locals for gas, to no avail. We spotted a local on a small bike who was filling up his tank. He didn’t have anything to offer us, but said that in the next town we should ask for Señor X (his name escapes me now) who might be able to sell us some gas.

We pulled into the next town, and decided that it would be better for me to go in first, as sometimes locals refuse to sell gas (even at gas stations) to gringos, but a girl on a bike can work her charms on them. I pulled up to a bunch of guys standing outside a tienda on the main street and asked them where I could get some gas. One of them cracked a joke in response and they all garishly laughed. A young girl came out of the tienda to my rescue and said that she has gas for sale. She turned out to be the daughter of Señor X. Matt pulled up and we filled up our tanks to the maximum.

Back on the road for another 40 miles we reached a one street village of Villa Alota. It felt absolutely deserted with the exception of a few kids playing on the main “plaza.” We asked them where we could get some water and they pointed to a house on the street. It turned out to be a small pharmacy/convenience store inside a private residence. An old man, the owner, also agreed to sell us some gas, which was really what we were after. Needless to say we always pay triple for the gas we buy from individuals, but that is how you roll in Bolivia if you want to keep on going.

It was 12:30 pm and as we looked at the map we realized we had 80 miles to go to the next town and the really bad roads were still ahead. Getting out of town was a bit tricky. We got a general direction from the old man of where we should be heading, but we could not see a road. After riding through a vast marshy and hilly meadow and crossing a few narrow but rocky river beds we finally spotted a road, and that is where the real fun began. The road was corrugated and covered in a layer of sand. Neither of us had any experience riding in the sand so we started out slow. There were long stretches of the road when it was appearing flat but under the graded road lay hidden sand so the bike would wobble suddenly and strongly, and all you could do was hold on to it and try to ride it out. Every time I hit the hidden sand I would get covered in sweat thinking I was going to crash but somehow able to straighten the bike.

My first crash of the day happened as our road was merging with another road and I was probably going just a little bit too fast when I hit an unexpected patch of deep sand and the bike started weaving left to right all over the road. As I was heading for the left berm of the road I figured the best thing to do would be to lie the bike softly on its side, and so I did, right into a small bush.

Matt came and helped me lift the bike, which is when we noticed that the infamous bolt that holds the lower subframe was gone again. Just yesterday Matt realized that he lost his bag of extra bolts, so we had no spare to hold the frame together. Moving forward without the bolt could damage the whole frame of the bike. We were a bit at loss for a second, and decided to try to secure the subframe with plastic zip ties. I saw a truck coming our way, the first car we encountered in the last hour, and flagged them. There were a few young guys, an old man and a lady with a little girl in the truck. We asked them if they had any spare bolts and showed them our problem. The old man got a few bolts out but none of them fit. He finally found a bolt that fit, but very loosely. That would had to be our solution until Villa Mar, where he said we could find a mechanic. We thanked them profusely and got back on the road with heavy feelings.

The next few hours was a grueling jaunt mainly in first gear, puffing and huffing trying to maneuver the bikes through the sand. The altiplano scenery was beautiful and we had to remind ourselves to look around once in a while to enjoy it. Before we reached Villa Mar we each had a few more soft crashes, and my subframe bolt was gone again. Lifting the bikes up was a bit of a physical challenge, which would cost Matt strained back muscles for days to come.

At 6 pm we finally reached Villa Mar, a tiny village of may be 20 homes in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by mountains, river streams and endless altiplano terrain. We stopped at a small convenience store and while Matt was trying to see if the two men could find us a bolt, I went to look for a place to sleep.

The only two story building in the village turned out to be a hotel, and the owner was also a mechanic. Matt had no luck finding the bolt, so we were praying that the hotel owne/mechanic would be able to help us. After a few fittings he found the right bolt and cut it short to fit the bike. Eureka! We were so happy and relieved! Difficult roads, deep sand, that is all doable, but when the bike is sick, it looms over you like a dark heavy cloud. Fixing the bike made our night. We were content with our minimal accommodations. The owner’s wife even agreed to cook us some dinner.

We had a good laugh at our dinner menu: crema soup (some kind of a chicken broth), powdered mashed potatoes and fried but surprisingly mushy pieces of hot dogs. I wish I took a picture of it, it looked like dog food. In other circumstances I would not touch it, but at that time, the hot soup helped warm us up and we picked at the second dish cracking out jokes about the nutritiousness of our meal.

While we were having dinner at least three jeeps pulled up to the hotel and unloaded groups of tourists who were staying here over night. The señora cooked them a much more appetizing dinner, but I am sure they’d paid double for it.

Matt’s back was hurting, so he took a pain killer and I put some tiger balm on it and he went to sleep. Meanwhile I did a little bit of writing before retiring to sleep under 4 layers of blankets and wearing my alpaca gloves.