Yeah so I bought a brand new Chinese made 150CC motorcycle in Bolivia for US$930. Chinese made parts assembled in Bolivia. Two hallmarks of quality and reliability. The plans of the guy I was sort of travelling with to cycle from Bolivia to Patagonia fell through, and we met this Canadian guy who had been looking into buying a motorcycle. I was planning on going down to Patagonia and doing heaps of trekking, and I heard you miss out on lots of great places if you are limited to public transport. Somehow, without a couple of days, a crazy idea we discussed over beers at a hostel had become a reality. I was handing over a wad of cash to buy a motorbike, despite having never ridden one.
After only a 5 minute crash course and about 1 1/2 cruising around town to familiarize myself the vehicle, we were heading off on the highway with our backpacks strapped onto the back. We wanted to go somewhere for a week until we had to return to the same city to collect our license plates for our new bikes. A few people from the hostel tried to leave that day, but were unable because the truckers union had organized another blockade of the road to protest something. It is hard to keep track of what they are protesting, because there seems to be another blockade with another reason every few days. However, on the bikes, we were able to go though the blockade, zigzagging and squeezing between all the trucks parked across the highway. For some reason the blockade did not apply to motorbikes, because the truckers smiled and waved us through. This made for perfect learning conditions, because the road was almost deserted.
It was a totally surreal experience riding off in the Andes in Bolivia on a bike I had just purchased, with all my possessions strapped to the back, despite having almost no motorcycle experience. But it was so much fun! Intermittently I would cry out in joy and laugh with disbelief. It was incredible scenery cruising amongst the mountains and small villages, and you notice so much more on a bike than in a bus because it is all windows and you have to constantly pay attention, otherwise you will be dead. We also got a lot more positive reactions from locals. Rather than the usual cold shoulder they give Gringos who they think are are Americans, kids would wave and chase us on the roads, and at the petrol station a few people came over to talk to us about our bikes and our trip. Apparently South Americans love motorcycles.
We literally rode off into the sunset towards the highest city in the world (4100m). The brand new engines struggled with the lack of oxygen at high altitude, and spluttered up some ridiculously steep mountains, sometimes in second gear. After about 200km (my bike had only done 216km ever) we arrived in the city of Potosi (4100m), and navigated the chaotic Bolivian streets to find a hostel. When we were wheeling the bikes into the courtyard I left the big tarp we had with us on the footpath. When we returned a couple of minutes later, it was gone. This is Bolivia.
The following morning we left our bikes behind and went on a tour of the famous Potosi mines. They have been in operation for over 460 years, have claimed the lives of over 8 million people (mostly slaves in colonial times) and have exported a metric butt-load of silver over its life, mostly to the Spanish coffers. About 10,000 people still work there now, although within 10 years the reserves will be depleted and Potosi will likely become a ghost town. I didn´t like the tour mentality, but it was pretty cool walking for hundreds of meters into a mountain, then descending down tiny cracks on ropes to lower levels. We also gave a dynamite stick we purchased earlier to this lone miner on the third level down hammering a stake into the rock for three hours in which to insert the dynamite. It was really hot and stuffy on the lower levels, and I actually got a little bit costraphobic when I took a wrong turn and got separated from the group down this narrow crevasse. The miners are all self-employed working in cooperatives, and sometimes work double shifts when they need extra money, involving working 20 out of 24 hours of the day. We also met a 15 year old kid who had already been working in the mine for several years. What a hard life. I prefer my bike.
That night we went to a soccer game between the local B-grade team and a B-grade from another Bolivian city. It was pretty low standards, but then again it was the highest professional soccer stadium in the world, and I struggled even to walk up the stairs to my seat at this altitude. Sometimes they looked like they were almost competent, but they one of them would made a hopeless shot at goals that resulted in a throw in rather than a kick in. However, the goalie and another playing from the away team getting knocked down by a firework launched from the crowd redeemed the night. No investigations or repercussions resulted; the game just went on as if such sabotage was commonplace.
The next morning, after supply shopping at the markets, we were back on our bikes. Epic landscapes again, and the bikes struggled with the high altitude. We stopped us our petrol in some tiny village where the fuel was scooped out of a bucket. After a while more we stopped in the Wild West canyon landscape on a huge spire for lunch. As we were about to leave, Tom noticed that the bolts holding his rear suspension on were absent. With supposedly the best Spanish of us, I rode back to the nearest village to see if they had replacements. After being given multiple conflicting accounts, I was directed to the next village along a muddy dirt road. I got bogged once, and nearly had an incident with a big mining truck, but eventually made it. After every shopkeeper telling me there were bolts in the shop next door, or in the central market, I eventually concluded that there were no bolts. Despite the help of a bunch of local children that escorted me around, I had failed in my mission and returned 2 1/2 hours later with my head hung low. In my absence, Tom had decided that cable-tying the suspension on would be fine to get us to the next city.
So we were back on the road in clichéd Bolivian style, dodging llamas on the road in our bikes held together with cable-ties. We continued down from the canyons into this huge grassy prairie dotted with llamas - The Field of 1000 Llamas, as we called it. We also saw this guy with one leg on crutches 10´s of kms from anything resembling civilization, hobbling his way to god-knows where. There was an insane cross-wind down in the plains, and we had to get a huge lean going just to keep straight. We then returned the protection of the mountains, and decided the camp there, where our tents would not be blown away. We originally hoped to make it to the next city that night, but due to my attempts to find replacement bolts, we were just out of time. We found a canyon just off the highway and managed to get out bikes out of sight of the road, and set up our tents right beside them. We then walked about a km back up the road to where we had seen a trucker’s restaurant for dinner. We then sat on or around our bikes listening to iPod speakers and watching the stars.
The following morning we were on the road by 9am. Before long we encountered a huge stretch of serious roadwork. In Australia you would be diverted completely around even the most miner roadwork, but here in Bolivia we rode through the uncompressed layers of dirt (I got bogged a couple of times) and between the heavy machines. A big truck that sprayed water over the road stopped for a moment to let us pass, but I was too slow off the blocks and got drenched in water just as I was almost past. Tom got a flat tire on a rocky section, but one of the road workers told us that it was only 4 km to the next town, so he rolled down the hill with a flat. There we were able to locate a place that could fix punctured tires, and after we helped push start a truck he got to work. Apparently the tube was peppered with holes and was unrepairable. So we changed our engine oil, and Nic and I set off to the next town that was supposedly only an hour away and would have replacements, leaving Tom to sit in some random town.
Awesome plains with mini-dust tornadoes, where I put my feet up on the grills under the handlebars and leaned back into my new lifestyle. Went through this random abandoned mining village on a shitty dirt road, and went through a police checkpoint without trouble (despite not having license plates for the bikes yet nor a valid Bolivian driver’s license not a motorbike license of any form).
Within a few minutes of checking, I notice that a bag strapped to the back of the bike had fallen off. I was not that concerned, and returned to find it. But within a few minutes someone driving past in the opposite direction had taken it. Now I no longer had a tent or any change of clothes. This is Bolivia.
We arrived in Uyuni 2 1/2 hours later, and were able to find replacement bike tires after receiving only a few conflicting explanations of where the shop was. Nic ate a piece of bread and turned straight around, heading all the way back with the replacement. I parked myself in a Plaza beside my bike and read my book or listened to music, watching life go by. I befriended a street dog which rested its head in my lap, and some snotty nosed children who I played soccer with using a bottle cap.
Five or six hours later they guys cruised in. We found ourselves a cheap hole-in-the-wall room and got a big feed of greasy delicious fried chicken.
The following morning we set out for a day trip into the biggest salt flat in the world (over 12,000km2). We had originally planned on camping out there a night, but since I had been relieved of my tent plans had to change. Bolivia, an extremely poor but mineral rich country, has 80% of the words lithium reserves, and the salt flats contain the largest reserve. The government was able to amass a pathetic $2M towards a new mine, while refusing any foreign investment. In the meantime, the Bolivian President recently purchased a $45M private jet which he allegedly uses to traffic cocaine. This is Bolivia.
We headed off on random trails that we found, past the salt mining village, for some reasons avoiding the more major paths. After a round-about way, we made it out onto the salt flats proper. It was all flat compressed salt (hence ´salt flat´) so was all like paved road and was perfect for hooning around on our bikes as we pleased. Tom and I then rode around naked, posing for photos. We didn´t know what we were looking for so we just headed off towards the centre. At full speed (only about 80km p/h) the landscape did not change much from minute to minute, and it didn´t feel like we even moving. After a while of riding, when the mountain the front was only slightly larger, we stopped in the middle of absolute nowhere for a very surreal picnic. We then had a little siesta lying on our bikes, and then headed back.
Once we got off the salt flats, instead of taking the horribly bumpy dirt road back to town, we took these narrow dirt paths alongside the highway. Incredibly fun, dirt biking, but I almost wiped out a couple of times trying to control the bike through deep dirt for the first time. Back in town we got the bikes washed because they were absolutely plastered with salt.
The next day we left at 10am and were determined to get all the way back to Sucre (where we began) in one day (we no longer had a tent to camp). The first petrol station we tried to fill up at had no petrol, and the second refused to serve us because our bikes did not have plates. But after a bit of pleading we were back on the road with full tanks of petrol. At the police checkpoint, this time my entry card and bike ownership papers were inspected, but I´m not sure they officers could read very well. Epic scenery again, but this with huge downhill curvy sections where I could really lean into the turns. At one point I going along a particularly curvy part with llamas to my right, the biggest mini-tornado I have ever seen on my right, and eagle soaring overhead.
When we got back to Potosi (which had taken us two days in the other direction), I was exhausted and wanted to stop. But the others were determined to make it back so that we could collect our bike paperwork first thing Monday morning and start the next step of the process to get our license plates. However, the first, second and third petrol station refused to serve us without license plates. Apparently, while we were away on the trip a law had come into effect that required this. We explained that we needed petrol to return to Sucre and collect our license plates, but they would not have a bar of. While Bolivia is lax about most things (safety, hygiene, health and other such trivial matters), they are sometimes surprisingly particular about certain administrative rules. So we were legally able to buy dynamite and charges in Bolivia (for only about $1.5) but not fuel for our motobikes. They guys were so keen to get back, so we considered buying dynamite to strap onto the back of our bikes. Instead, and only somewhat more sensibly, we set off without much fuel, hoping to find a random village with petrol which would not be concerned about things like government laws. We had enough fuel to get into the middle of nowhere, but not enough to get back.
After my malfunctioning fuel gauge was on empty for over 50kms, we found a highway petrol station which barely even knew about the license plate requirement. So we sped off into the sunset towards these ginormous mushroom clouds down 1.5 kms into a canyon, Black Sabbath bearing into my ears. It was the first time I had ridden with music, but I needed the energy and I thought this was the best biking music I had. However, such pumping music makes you ride really aggressively. I would overtake trucks on sharp corners beside epic cliffs, really leaning into the turns. At the bottom I handed over my iPod to Tom, saying ¨take it away from me.¨
The next section was my first night driving, heading towards the clouds that now contained occasional flashes of lightening. The road was really good and had reflectors in the middle and on the edges of the road, so it was actually really good. I felt like I was in some Japanese motorcycle gang.
After a bit of light rain and a few more hours of riding, we were back in Sucre. We did 8-9 hours of riding and we were all exhausted but elated. What an experience, a learning experience, it had been for me: coming from a complete novice to a semi-decent motorcycle rider in a few days. And all in Bolivia!
There are going to be a lot more adventures to come riding from Bolivia to the Southern Tip of Argentina, and I can´t wait.
Now we just need to wait for the Bolivian bureaucracy to get its act together.
Our new group Blog ´The Naked Motos´ coming soon...
