Our last weeks in Bolivia

Our time in Bolivia is drawing to an end, somehow our permitted 90 days have nearly passed us by and we shall soon be making tracks towards Peru. Our final wanderings around the country took us from a classroom in Santa Cruz, upriver through the Amazon jungle and speedily back to the frigid highlands and the capital, La Paz.

We spent a week at Casa de Sara, camping out in a spare classroom, painting rooms and generally trying to be useful. We tested out our Spanish with a group of four and five year olds, learning some vital new phrases such as “I need a wee” and “look at my bruise”. The school has eight members of staff who cook for, clean after and fill the brains of 50 children aged either 4 or 5. They are an untiring team, most of whom have to either head off to other jobs or to study in their own schools after Casa de Sara finishes for the day. Back when I was teaching classes of 4 and 5 year olds there was an undercurrent of chaos that rippled noisily through every lesson yet here the kids seemed to do what they were told, amazing.

We spent just a week at the school before we had to make tracks, after a tearful goodbye we headed on our way towards the jungle.

We had spotted several rivers on the map that snake their way through the Amazon jungle to Trinidad in the North of Bolivia and that had been enough to get us excited for a waterborne adventure. To reach the river we cycled for 3 swelteringly hot days (spotted a couple of ginormous dead snakes along the way) and then 2 drenchingly wet days. The final night of camping brought a thunderstorm that our battered tent offered a rather Frenchlike resistance to- leaving us splashing around in puddles for the rest of the night.

A couple more days and we arrived at Puerto Villaroel under more ominous skies and started asking around for boats that would undertake the 7 day journey. In the end, Freddy, a friendly old man offered a deal whereby he would take us for three days to a place from which we could easily get a boat the rest of the way. Although the price was extortionate by Bolivian standards and the deal itself left a fair amount of scope to be screwed over, we were taken in by the idea and understandably comforted by that fact that our captain had the very friendly name of Freddy.

The following morning we boarded the 'Pichon' and set sail with Freddy, his very strange son and a boat kitten. As the journey progressed the wildlife diversified and we spotted river dolphins and an assortment of absurdly enormous birds, but sadly no tigers. Each night we pulled over to camp on the bank, diving for protection as the mosquitoes swarmed out in force. These aren't your normal mosquitoes, these are mosquitoes on steroids that drink repellent for fun and penetrate clothing with ease. After a week we were itching as if we had some kind of full body venereal disease.

On the morning of the third day we arrived at the confluence of two rivers, the place where we would find a new boat heading North. Sadly we had an acrimonious split from old Freddie as we weren't best pleased with the truthfulness of the picture he had so eloquently painted for us back in Puerto Villaroel, he didn't even give us any food. After an interesting moment where he chained Anna's bike to the boat we agreed a slightly altered price and disembarked onto the bank of the most isolated community we have visited on the trip. Sadly it wasn't quite the naked cannibal tribe I was hoping for but it was certainly a bra-less fish-eating community.

With no roads here we were stuck until we could find a boat heading to Trinidad, which we now discovered could be anytime in the next two weeks. We were immediately accommodated in the village and spent the next three days perched next to the river watching lots of dolphins but not a single boat pass us. Finally we awoke to find a banana laden boat docked next to our tent and managed to persuade a not so enthusiastic man to give us a lift to the next town from which we would abandon the river for a road which we were told linked it with Trinidad, just a little further North. So, 15 hours on a boat, half a day cycling and half a day on a truck through alligator infested swamps and we were at last in Trinidad.

The road direct from Trinidad to La Paz was impassable, and without any more spare tubes, patches or time left on our visa we had to board buses taking a circuitous route back through much of Bolivia we had already cycled. The first leg of our journey went without a hitch, the second had so many hitches that they merged into one enormous 24hour hitch. First our bus was delayed by an accident and then, as if suddenly seeing the dangers of the road, it made some strange noises and broke down. Two hours later our new bus arrived just in time to be stopped by a group of protesters who blockaded the road for 5 hours. One more bus later when we were finally approaching La Paz a man thoughtfully threw a rock at the bus. Our driver calmly pulled over, removed his belt and attacked the offending lads. I never want to take a bus again.

We are staying in a casa de cyclista in La Paz for the next few days before heading to the land of the Incas where we are looking forward to new food, new people, the sea, and plenty of really old stuff.






 

Slow progress towards the jungle

It has been over a month since my last update and I am sure that my avid readers (Neil and Elaine) are itching for a thrilling new series of tales about our two wheeled adventures. My last blog left us in Potosi, since which we have descended a lung filling 3600metres in altitude, taken a three week holiday from our holiday and have now arrived in the tropics of Santa Cruz.

From Potosi two more cycling days brought us to the beautiful colonial city of Sucre that would see our bikes gently rust and our brains aggressively expand. We spent the following three weeks studying Spanish and enjoying the luxury of inactivity. We spent four hours each morning studying at Fenix school, home to some fantastic people. During our time there we met some great characters, namely our teachers Mum, ex wrestler and nurse who dressed us up in these new cycling threads.
 After Anna had grasped the very basics of language and I had finely tuned my understanding we prepared to leave. Only it was hard to get away. After three weeks of learning Spanish and watching the world cup the idea of cycling for hours each day seemed a little less appealing than it had before. Anna had developed a throat infection and what had originally been intended as a two week stay had soon stretched beyond three.

 

After such a long time our appearance had changed; our leathery rumps had softened, sunburnt faces had peeled, muscles had wilted away and were feeling decidedly unprepared for cycling.

As soon as we were back on the bikes we realised how much we had missed them. The following few days heading towards the Amazon only reinforced our love for this country. We passed through dozens of villages, met an endless stream of friendly people, struggled through roads consisting of ankle deep dust, happened upon the opening ceremony of a national handball competition, enjoyed the heat and saw our first wet river in over 2 months. After months of deserts our view has finally turned green.

As soon as we left Sucre the weather got a little tropical. Now I am convinced that, many centuries ago, an unfortunate woman living on the coast of Norfolk had a meeting with a viking warrior. This unhappy accident has led in turn to my flowing blonde locks, muscular build and ferocious manner in battle. However, it has been noticed on this trip that whilst my viking roots have certain benefits, Anna's native American roots place her in better stead when the sun comes out. As soon as the temperature approaches 30 degrees I cycle from shady spot to shady spot while Anna glides past without a drop of sweat falling from her armpits.





















After five blisteringly hot days the clouds enveloped us and we spent two gloomy days in Samaipata (very close to where Che Guevara died). The only
redeeming feature of our stay was our visit to the monkey refuge where we met that friendly fella. After our football induced break we continued our endless downhill to arrive in Santa Cruz where we are staying in a truly tropical hostel that is home to two resident toucans.

Tomorrow we will be heading out of town to Casa de Sara, the school that we are raising money for. We will be staying with them for the week, meeting the kids and maybe giving a lesson.

As we are actually here and have still raised very little please click here to donate!!

Sickness and Salt

To the time conscious of you, here is the briefest of summaries of recent events - Me and Anna split up this week, then got back together and went mining. For a more detailed description of events, please read on.

Uyuni provided us with an abundance of cheap street food the like of which we hadn't seen since Vietnam. We threw our stomachs perilously into the fray sampling every deep fried morsel we could lay our greedy tongues on. It was always going to be a case of who met with the cold, unforgiving surface of the ceramic bowl first and to my surprise, it was Anna.

After six days rarely progressing further than the bathroom we set off towards Colchani, a town just 22kms away and from where we would begin our journey across the largest salt flats in the world. It turned out to be an entirely terrible day. A day that should be spent wrapped firmly in a furry blanket in a hotel room watching Legally Blonde and eating cheerios. Definitely not a day to be spent on a bicycle. The storm began conveniently as we left town, not the rain variety but the much less enjoyable dust variety. We choked our way through 6 kms of misery until Anna pointed how completely unenjoyable what we were doing was. And she did make a very convincing point. However, I wanted to carry on. In the end, for the first time in the last 5 months, we went our separate ways as Anna headed back to Uyuni to wait for me.

The storm only intensified after Anna left me, to the point that visibility at times was just a few metres. I abandoned the road in the hope of consuming less sand somewhere else and found instead that I lost the road. I struggled on blindly for hours, feeling like a sand timer, dust pouring into every orifice and settling in my lower limbs which got heavier and heavier until pedaling seemed absurdly difficult.

I at long last saw the hazy form of a cyclist coming towards me and I have never been happier to see an Australian as I was just then. Dallas led me to the shelter of a hostel and I spent the rest of the evening scraping dust out of my nasal passages. The storm knocked out power for the area for two days and, surfacing as a snow storm in the areas where we had cycled the previous weeks closed the border to Chile.

The storm raged through the night but by morning all was calm and we set off across the salt flats. Unable to find a road we simply headed towards the volcano far in the distance. It was a surreal day, cycling across a perfectly flat sea of salt with nothing and no-one to be seen. Judging distances becomes impossible with no objects to guide you and our volcano seemed at times to be moving obstinately away from us. We finally arrived at a village as dusk approached, the wrong village it turned out, but we were much to tired to care.

The following morning we headed our separate ways, Dallas going North with his map, his GPS and his various life skills. I headed South with my compass.

I was aiming for an island in the centre of the salt flats that, according to the map, could be found due South of the volcano. So I made my bearing, recalling all those skills learnt in the near completion of my Duke of Edinburgh bronze award and set off at what I will refer to as a cycling gallop.

After an hour I had spotted the island far in the distance. In another hour I had realised that that was definitely not an island, but a mountain over 150kms away. After a further hour I was feeling a little disheartened and comprehensively lost in a sea of salt. I had a sit down, scanning the horizon, and spotted what could well be an island, to the North West of me. So, I wheeled my bike around and set off towards it. Yet another hour later and it had stubbornly refused to come any closer to me. It was at this point that it dawned on me that this might not be the correct island. There are two.

I was quite quickly running out of hours and any sense of where I was. So I abandoned the island, found some jeep tracks leading South East and hoped they would lead somewhere good.

I spent the night camped in the middle of the salt flats and experienced the most beautiful sunset and sunrise either side of what felt like 13 hours in an enormous freezer. Thankfully my tracks took me back to Colchani the following day and I was feeling happy to be off the salt flats and on the road back to Uyuni.

After picking up Anna (a much easier feat after a week on the toilet) we headed off towards Sucre and rest. Standing in our way were a predictable abundance of outrageously large mountains but a beautifully paved road made life infinitely easier. Camping has, at least for the moment, lost all of its charm and so we set out to stay in villages along the way. Each provided a floor or a bed and it was, although never easy, a beautiful few days cycling. In TicaTica Anna's illness returned in the night and so we headed that morning to the newly built hospital down the road. Disappointingly we found only two resident Alpacas and no doctors. Luckily after another day of rest she was good to go and after two more days of mountains we arrived in the mining town of Potosi, one of the highest cities in the world.

This is the worlds richest ever mine and has claimed the deaths of (according to our guide) around 8 million people. We donned the gear and spent two hours crawling around the mines getting just the tiniest taste of how terrible a job it would be.

In two more days we should be in Sucre, enjoying being able to breathe again at a much more sensible altitude. 9 years after an acrimonious end to my school Spanish lessons I will be giving it another go and hopefully our Spanish will become muy bien.




 

Freezing our nipples off in Bolivia

It doesnt have to be fun to be fun. That is one of our friend Dallas' more nonsensicle philosophies. After the last 10 days I have realised that while it doesn't have to be fun, it is probably a lot more fun if it is fun.

Sitting in San Pedro 10 days ago me and Dallas sat and planned the next section of the trip, heading through the remote and inhospitable section of south west Bolivia. This was the plan:

Set off loaded up with 10 days of food and 3 days of water, a day and a half up to 4600 metre Bolivian border. Stash the bikes and climb the nearby volcano standing at over 5900ms. Follow this with 10 days cycling through the lagunas, all above 4300metres. A small celebration in San Juan before toodling over the salt flats, another week or so on to Sucre and Spanish lessons. Easy.

This didn't quite happen.

We left San Pedro late due to a combination of bike problems, poor preparation and laziness and wobbled off towards Bolivia with both bike and body creaking under the weight of our provisions, far more than we have ever had to carry before. Progress was slower than planned and it wasn't until the third morning of cycling that we reached the top of the climb, left the paved roads of Chile and descended gently to the Bolivian border.
From here on we would be battling freezing temperatures, high winds and terrible roads.

We camped in some ruins beside two lakes and at a little under 4300 metres, this would be the lowest and warmest night of the next week. We woke at dawn realizing that there was nothing we would like to do less than attempt to climb the neighbouring volcano. As winter closes in, temperatures at these altitudes get bitterly cold.

The following day took us over another pass at around 4700metres, leading us to the beautiful Laguna Chalvari and its thermal baths. After enjoying a soak before the sun descended we buried ourselves in every layer we could find and crawled into our sleeping bags inside a half built house. This night we were told dropped to -15 degrees celcius. At that temperature everything freezes; water, sleeping bags, mats, clothes, food, tent and any skin that exposes itself even for a second. In the morning, boiling water freezes in a minute and as Dallas found, blowing your nose results in a handful of frozen snot. As Anna pointed out - this is not just horrible, this is stupid.

The days themselves were warm enough, fingers defrosting by lunch time but feet remaining immovably icy until much later.

The next day was the highest pass of the trip, it took us the entire day to climb 21kms to 4926metres. The altitude, wind and road condition combining to make the going painfully slow. We descended just a little way to the Sol de Manana, the location of some geysers. This would be our highest campsite and actually not the coldest, the geysers offering some natural underfloor heating.

After exploring the bubbling, sulphur emitting craters we pushed and pedaled our bikes towards the safety of a hostel. The terrain each day offers a single, mostly unridable road and then a multitude of jeep tracks that map out short cuts, long cuts and completely the wrong direction cuts and it is never easy to tell which is which. After tired arguments and debates we ended up camping 7kms short of warmth beside the incredible Lake Colorado, a red and white expanse inhabited by hundreds of flamingos and supporting what looks like an iceberg in its midst. This night was the coldest so far, despite descending back to 4300metres, it was unbelievable. We couldn't bring ourselves to leave the tent until the sun was high in the sky the following day when we crept out timidly to explore the frozen edges of the lake.

We only made it the short distance to a hostel of sorts and a warm bed for the night. This was the most comfortable 12 hours of sleep anyone has ever had.

The next day was one of the worst, the road surface entirely uncyclable. We each picked a track and hauled our heavily laden bikes through sand for most of the day. It was exhausting and frustrating work but we eventually arrived at the famous Arbol de Piedra. Here we basked in our celebrity status with the other tourists and spent some time clambering around the rocks that lie inexplicably in the middle of the desert.

Then came 10 more kilometers and shelter in the form of some more ruins. This was the night that I cracked, and Anna shattered. Being too cold for anything after dinner, we are usually asleep by 7 and awake shivering well before light. This night we barely slept at all. The ground being so icy beneath us we attempted to both lie on top of the other, a predictably impossible feat. In the end most of the night was spent sitting, rocking and shivering like two insane people. It was a night that seemed to drag on forever, and as I eventually attempted to make coffee I found our stove frozen. I hope I never have to spend a night that cold again, I don't know the temperature but it must have dropped as low as minus 20.

After that night Anna was unsurprisingly adamant that she never wanted to camp out in these kind of temperatures again, and I, however reluctantly, was inclined to agree with her. We made the 19 kms to a hotel and managed to bargain a lift to Uyuni, a town beside the salt flats. We had just 3 days left of cycling on our original plan to the next town but we were beaten.

We had spent hours at a time pushing, the wind had made things hard but it was the temperature that finished us. From here plans will change, we still want to tackle the salt flats but are looking at how to have as few nights camping as possible. While we have descended to around 3600metres the nights still drop to -10.

In a month or so we shall be visiting the school that we are doing a pretty terrible job of raising money for. So if anyone fancies giving some money, that would by lovely. Click here to comfirm your status as a fantastic person

Getting really really high

Looking back on my descriptions of our last pass over the Andes I feel I might have overplayed its difficulties a little. Our crossing this time has taken us 11 days, taking us over three mountains more than 4500metres high and been the hardest 11 days of the trip. Anna has displayed her extensive repertoire of emotions and I have found several that I didn't even know I had.

We set off for four days of undulating dirt road which was terrible in patches, particularly after our weeks of paved luxury. The road wound its way through dozens of obscure little villages, each comprising of half built mud houses and always a beautifully maintained church. For me I would buy myself a door before furnishing my church with an enormous spire, but each to their own.

The fourth morning brought dust storms, which were exciting for around 30 seconds. After that they were just very upsetting as we choked our way blindly across the first open plain in the week. We soon developed the tortoise technique, spotting the approaching dust clouds and retreating into our shells. It was this morning that I did one of the least intelligent things of the week as I attempted to take a picture of the absolutely nothing that we could see. The camera immediately broke (again) and I had an extensive sulk about it for the rest of the morning. We managed to escape to the safety of the mountains by lunch but it felt like we had spent the morning licking bookshelves rather than cycling.

The climb began in earnest the following day, and it was unnerving to notice that it started at the same altitude that we had submitted the previous pass. The road climbed through the valley, and soon we came across our first river crossing. Being the chivalrous man that I am, I decided to get my feet wet. I crossed with each bike, returning for a third time to carry Anna and her bags. I wobbled into the middle of the stream before losing balance, dropping Anna, a bag and losing my shoe. For the rest of the crossings Anna made her own way. We found some ruins to camp inside at a little under 4000metres and donned every item of clothing we could get our hands on.

The next morning I turned the corner to see one of the more unusual sights of the week. Anna's bike lay abandoned in the middle of the road, Anna was in tears hiding behind a laughing goat herder while an Alpaca, towering over both of them tried valiantly to mount my girlfriend. It was only after 10 minutes of attempted escapes that the lady could corner the main offender while we made a hasty retreat, still pursued by some of his more persistent of his friends.

The days climb was painfully slow, the higher we got the more frequent our stops until we were creeping 50 metres at a time before having to stop to catch our breath. We were encouraged upwards by each passing vehicle who stopped to ask the same three questions – Are you ok? Are you crazy? Do you want a lift? To which I thought- not really, possibly and no; just as my mouth uttered the opposite.

We managed to reach the top at 4, the views were spectacular but we had only a few minutes to enjoy them with 45 kilometers to go before nightfall. Unsurprisingly this didn't happen and we made it in to San Antonio de las Cobres well after dark.


I tend not to plan the routes too extensively and it was over the next few days that this became a slight problem. We left town late, feeling sluggish after the previous days exertions. The road started instantly up and it wasn't until around 4 that we realised we weren't going to make it over the mountain before dark so we found some more ruins and huddled up for a freezing evening. The next day never warmed up again, the icy winds springing leaks from our faces as our eyes and noses streamed and our mouths lay open, dribbling constantly with neither of us remotely bothered. We reached the summit of this mountain by the afternoon, having climbed to over 4500metres again, this time without any prior warning.

That night we camped in an outhouse of a police station that protected us from the worst of the cold, temperatures plummet the second the sun goes down. Thawing our waterbottles is the first call of each day. A huge mountain dog began following us as we left in the morning and despite all my efforts I couldn't persuade him to return. With almost no options for food and water out here it doesn't feel great when you accidentally adopt a dog bigger than Anna.

From here we had just one more pass to do but we found that after doing two, its incredibly difficult to get any motivation whatsoever for the third. We chose Paso Sico, the slightly lower and more remote pass that would take us back to Chile. We again managed to get out of the cold as the Argentinian border guards put us up for the night, we each got a bed with our dog sleeping between us.

We began climbing yet again early the following morning, with the dog trailing behind. The scenery was unbelievable, everything at over 4000 metres looks like its on another world. Salt flats, lakes, mountains and just one type of yellow plant that manages to exist in the harsh climate all create a surreal and beautiful landscape. The isolation of these few days was huge, with only one car passing per day we were as far away from people as we have been on the trip.

We made it to the Chilean border post at just below this final pass after battling 3 days of headwinds. Anna was done, and I was done. And so it seems was Benji the dog who, after 90kms following us had arrive home. We didn't have enough food, motivation or time left and we managed to get a lift for around 90kms with some workers heading home. They seemed distinctly uninterested by what is probably the most spectacular commute of all time.

One more night of camping at the comparatively cosy height of 3500 metres and one more day of cycling brought us into San Pedro de Atacama on the border of Bolivia.




We will be tackling South West Bolivia with Dallas for the next three weeks, cycling several more 4000metre peaks as well as the famous salt flats. After that we intend to go to bed for several weeks.

Sweating through the deserts of Northern Argentina

In the last two weeks we have travelled further than we did in the first month of the trip. ( I have no idea if this is true but it does feel that way). We have been cycling through deserts, inhabited for the most part by ants, snakes and spiders as big as your head.

We enjoyed our time in wine country, swilling, gurgling and swallowing our way through all sorts of fine wines and liquors. We dutifully pretended to differentiate between the various flora and fungi that each proprietor insisted was hidden in the depths of every sip. Ultimately though, they all tasted like wine.

We were soon on our way and found ourselves travelling through a cross between Holland (incredibly flat) and Wales (not at all worth visiting). The road stretched on for four days, with nothing much to see at all.
The road changed in time, leading us through cacti covered, John Wayne sort of country. The roads were open and empty and we would see just a handful of motorbikes each day. The monotony was broken up as we finally arrived at a hill. Despite being warned that the road was closed ahead we tactfully ignored the road block and continued upwards, only to find that the road was in the process of being rebuilt. We were stuck for over 3 hours on the very cold mountain side with a worker whose name we never quite got the hang of. He shared with us his fire as well as many of his scientific insights; coca leaves make your legs strong and wearing a wooly hat prevents altitude sickness. He stretched our Spanish well beyond its limits but it was an interesting afternoon, and with 30kms of downhill through the valley, not a completely unproductive one.

We both pride ourselves on being people that do not suffer greatly from that terrible, ineradicable affliction of body odour. Many people we have met have a lingering cloud of stink enveloping them yet despite many days without showering we generally manage to keep things together. Until now. Cycling for 2 weeks through the desert without so much as a rinse off would test anyone. Each day sweat built upon sweat to create a crusty outer layer of skin, the sock cycle had been completed more times than ever before and the sleeping bags were releasing fumes similar to those inhaled back during Anna's 'problem period.' Wearing the same shorts each day, and without that protective layer of underwear..... in short, we weren't particularly nice to be around.

That made it all the more surprising when we were chosen to complete our first television interview. Now I am not unfamiliar with the big screen having once been chosen for the tricky role of 'a Danish scientist' in one of Vietnam's most popular fertilizer commercials. This however, was the first time for both of us portraying ourselves, in a language we really aren't particularly good at speaking. We inexpertly explained our trip and how much we loved the town Santa Maria, despite the fact we only stopped to use the internet. The man at least pretended to understand us but we shall never know if we made it onto the news at 9.

All in all it has been a good couple weeks, we have enjoyed the hospitality of the Northern Argentinians, everyone has shown interest in our trip and plenty have packed us off with food. We have also seen an entirely new side of Argentina. As we rode North away from the wealthy vineyards of Mendoza (owned almost exclusively by foreigners) we saw regions of real poverty marked by mud houses and decrepit motorbikes carrying entire families. It was as if we had popped into Asia for a week. Most countries have a similar divide between rich and poor but being on the bikes has let us see clearly the invisible lines of wealth that divide this country.

We are happy to be off the bikes for a couple of days in Cafayate, another wine region of Argentina. We are doing absolutely nothing with our time, simply relaxing before the coming week that will provide our biggest challenge yet. We will be saying goodbye to Argentina for the final time and over 6 days climbing up to a dizzying 4950 metres, a prospect that makes me out of breath just thinking about it.

"For every mountain there are two thighs" The Dalai Lama

This week has taken us from a sofa in Santiago to a 3185 metre Andes pass and back down to a vineyard in Mendoza. It has brought the most challenging day, and definitely the most rewarding two.

We were stuck in Santiago for longer than expected, waiting for our camera to be repaired. Our boulder like muscles seemed to deflate visibly with each passing day and our confidence in tackling the big pass wilted simultaneously.

It was not a wasted week though. We moved house, bunking up with Andres, our new couchsurfing host. Anna strode gracefully into her mid to late twenties on the 30th of March and we celebrated with something a bit different - a cycle ride around the city. With the streets closed for bikers each Sunday morning we took in the sites without fearing for our lives. In the same afternoon Andres drove us up to the nearest mountains giving us a taste of what was to come in the following week.

We finally got the call to say our camera was good to go and we said our goodbyes to Andres and wobbled off slowly with the strong suspicion that our bikes had doubled in weight in the last week. It was a predictably stressful day leaving the city, with my proposed route becoming slightly too life threatening we took the backroads and pavements and it wasn't until the evening that we escaped the clutches of the city.

 The following day took us North towards Los Andes and onwards towards the pass. Feeling the heat of the sun and possibly underestimating what lay ahead we camped just 10 kms into the 55km climb. We were on our bikes early and began the ascent, with the road gradually steepening as we forged further into the mountains.



The first 12 switchbacks

We cycled upwards all morning, anticipating the famous switchbacks for long before we reached them. With every passing kilometer uphill we lost confidence, knowing that the real ascent had not yet begun.
Finally we pulled up to the bottom of 30 switchbacks that snake up the mountainside. After 10 we felt good, 20 we slowed a little and as the final 10 lengthened and steepened we struggled. As we slowly gained height the mountains seemed to rise with us, growing to such formidable dimensions that I felt like I was 2 inches tall riding an incredibly intricate toy bicycle.

On reaching curve 30 I felt fantastic, a feeling that lasted for a good 10 minutes until we crept up on a sign signaling a further 8 kms to climb. The incline was unrelenting, with the wind blowing stronger and the temperature dropping. That 8 kms alone took us around 2 hours. Out of nowhere we reached the summit having climbed over 2000 metres in altitude since the morning. The summit; rather than the panoramic, flag placing kind, consisted instead of a less than glamorous tunnel that entered out into Argentina.

Not being allowed to cycle through it, we were given a lift and we appeared on the other side of the mountain, looking downwards for the first time in 2 days. The day hadn't quite finished, with 16 kms of downhill to take us to border control. Darkness hard fallen by the time we pitched tent, it had been a 12 hour day and we were feeling a little sore.

I had envisioned the easiest of days following the climb, a sort of bobsleigh run descending the 200 kms to Mendoza. But it wasn't to be. With the wind gusting up the valley our tired limbs were forced to work for every metre. It was the most spectacular days riding of the trip, 70 kms of immense mountains on all sides, a 200metre wide river bed, inca ruins, tunnels. It was unforgettable.

We camped beside a river beneath the backdrop of the Andes, a spectacular sight to wake up to. The second day of descent took us from red to brown to green as we left the mountains behind us and approached the vineyards of Mendoza.

Just 30kms the following morning and we have arrived in wine country where we're staying for a couple days in Maipu, which is much nicer than the name suggests.

It has been a challenging few days but it sort of feels like dipping your toe in the lake before taking the plunge. With most of Bolivia lying above 3000metres and at least one much bigger pass to come, we aren't getting ahead of ourselves.