Oh $#*! Quick! What’s the Spanish word for “stuck”?

January 15, 2016

My mind was scrambling but coming up blank. I knew the word for “Foot”: Pie. But I couldn’t come up with a word for “stuck”. 

The kid standing on the ramp to the ferry/barge just looked at me like I was a complete idiot. My eyes big, and all I kept saying was “No! No! No!” 

Quickly!….alternative sentence structures: “wedged”? “lodged”? “Unable to move”? That’s it! Foot no move! “Mi pie no puede mover!” Too late. Nice thought, but about a second delayed. Over I went.

About ten minutes before disaster…

I had left Copacabana, headed for La Paz. There is a short ferry crossing, and about a dozen of these large, rectangular wooden barges with outboard motors to carry vehicles across Lake Titicaca at this small gap in land. The “front” of the barge is open, and is pulled up to the land, where wooden ramps are positioned to load cars, truck, buses, and motorcycles. On the other end, the same “front” end of the barge is pulled up to the ramps, and you have to back off of the barge.

On my barge, they loaded a large truck, an SUV, and last, me. Which meant I was first off, backwards. I felt like my taillight was hanging off the open end of the barge and I was just inches from falling off. I’m sure it wasn’t that close, but I wasn’t going to get off the bike to look…there wasn’t a lot of “floor” on the barge either; just enough to get the four wheels of a truck or car onto the barge. No way for me to make a U-turn and ride off.

On the way across, I asked an elderly gentleman who worked on the barge to take a photo (the one above). We began talking (in Spanish), and he asked how many accidents I had had on this trip, and how many times I had tipped over.

“Nada”. That was a mistake. Never should have said it.

When we docked on the east side, I began to unload, rolling backwards off the barge. About half way down the ramp, while looking to my left at the kid on the ramp that worked with the barges, my right boot got stuck in between two of the wooden boards, and wouldn’t come out. Front wheel locked, the bike kept sliding down the board. Before I could do much more, my leg reached its’ limit, and down I went.

I was very, very lucky. The ramp that we had pulled up to went all the way across the back (front?) of the barge. If it had only been wide enough for the car tires, with a gap between, the bike would have fallen further than 90 degrees, and my ankle, and possibly my lower leg, most assuredly would have snapped. As it was, I was pinned and it required the people from the SUV to lift the front of the bike and free my foot. Embarrassing. And my first tip-over of the trip.

But other than a little twist in the knee and ankle, I am unscathed, and still rolling….

The Bolivian “Death Road”

January 16, 2016

Bicycle staging area at the top of the mountain, several miles before the turn-off to the Bolivian Death Road.

“OMG, you guys, I signed up for this awesome thing. It’s called ‘The Bolivian Death Road’. Have you heard about it? It’s SOOOOO cool! Early in the morning, our driver, Fernando, picks us up at our hotel in a bus with, like, twenty five bicycles or something on top of it. Then we start up the mountain outside of La Paz. OMG you guys, Fernando is cray-cray. He is driving like NASCAR or something, like passing all these other vans with like a bazillion bicycles on top of them. I almost spilled my latte. Then at the top of the mountain they stop and unload the bikes and fed us pastries and stuff. OMG you guys. Biff and I both almost gagged. I mean, really? HEL-LO!!! Haven’t these people ever heard of gluten-free? So then they put this, like, really unflattering helmet on me, and we take off down the mountain on this super-scary road (which I later found out was the paved new super-highway that like totally bypasses the Death Road. But, Whatever!) And then — wait, What? You want me to ride down that?!? Uh-uh. NO. WAY. YOU are cray-cray. Fernando, take me back to the Ritz Carlton. I have a 2pm massage and pedi.”

That’s pretty much today’s Bolivian Death Road as far as I can tell from what I saw. I had read so much about the North Yungas Road over the years and it was high on my list of must do’s. I have absolutely no doubt that back when this was the main road between Coroico and La Paz, this was a dangerous road to travel. Many people died here, and occasionally some still do. It’s not the road’s fault. The road is wide enough to negotiate, so long as you aren’t passing a bus or a truck (which, by the way, no longer use this road as there is a beautiful paved two-lane highway just north of here). Drive responsibly, with some respect for the circumstances, and you’ll be fine. Drive (or ride a motorcycle or bicycle) like an idiot and the consequences here will be severe.

Since around 2006, when the new highway opened, the “Death Road” has become mostly just a tourism venue. Vans and buses haul hundreds of tourists and mountain bikes a day to the top of the mountain, where they can coast down the highway to the turnoff to North Yungas Road, then take the gravel road to near the town of Coroico, where they are picked up and returned to La Paz. In return, like my volcano-boarding experience in Leon, Nicaragua, you get the t-shirt for bragging rights. Nothing says “Adventure Hero” like a t-shirt with a bicycle and the words “Death Road” on it.

Back when this was a heavily driven road, the “Keep Left” rule was instated. This allows the driver to always be on the “cliff side” of the road, so he can better judge where his outside wheels are in relation to the drop-off. The rule continues today.

The first six miles or so of the road are absolutely spectacular. Often in the clouds, the jungle-like setting adds to the spectacular waterfalls that fall onto and over the road in many places. The road is quite narrow, with only a few well-placed guardrails. A mistake here will most certainly prove fatal.

The highway on the way to North Yungas. Cloud formations were pretty phenomenal.


Near the beginning (top) of the “Death Road”


Lots of waterfalls. Some next to the road, some over the road, some onto the road.


Hard to see here, but there is a series of water cascading down onto the road here, landing just about in the middle. You can ride inside or outside of the waterfalls.


Mistakes are most likely fatal here, thus earning the “Death Road” moniker.

Near the top I ran across Barbara Kennedi and her companion Peter, on KTM 1190 Adventure R models. Barbara is a KTM employee in Austria, and she and Peter are riding around the world in stages. They are doing a similar route right now to mine — to Ushuaia then Buenos Aires. But they will ship to Dakar when I ship to Cape Town.

There is virtually no traffic on this road, which of course is good not only for the mountain bikers but for me as well. It doesn’t take long to complete the ride and return to La Paz in the same day. I went from clouds, fog, cold and rain at the top, to sun, hot and dry at the bottom, back through fog and rain across the top and once again into heat as I passed through La Paz to the Colibri Camping spot that I will call home for another night. In my opinion, riding through traffic in La Paz is more dangerous than the “Death Road”. I was a bit underwhelmed at the road and it’s hype. But I would still do it again if I happened to be in La Paz and had access to a motorcycle. At least the first six miles or so. And my advice if you are considering doing this road: be sure you turn off the highway and onto North Yungas before 10am. After that, and you’ll be picking your way through hundreds of mountain bikes.

Which gives me an idea for a new business venture. I’m going to find the road in Austin where the most bicyclists have been killed. Then I’m gonna market the heck out of it as “The World’s Most Dangerous Road on a Mountainbike” (okay, maybe Texas’ most dangerous. Okay, maybe Austin’s most dangerous. Wait, where’d the hype go?). Then I’m gonna charge people a ridiculous amount of money to ride a mountain bike down the road, and give them a t-shirt if/when they survive. Yeah, I know, it’ll never work in the States. Because there’s nobody to sue in Bolivia.


Just before La Paz, I have my first encounter with being refused fuel. Bolivia laws require fuel sellers to complete a ridiculous amount of paperwork when selling fuel to foreigners, including inputting passport number, name and country of residence information, as well as completing a detailed receipt (or two, in some cases). In addition, there is a “Foreigner” price and a “Boliviano” price for fuel. Yesterday, I paid just under five dollars a gallon, where the locals-only price is around $1.99, and got to experience the hassles the attendants encounter when following the rules; by the time my purchase was complete, there was a line of cars out to the street, waiting. No such luck today. The attendant takes one look at my Texas license plate and refuses to sell me fuel. I ask if he will sell me fuel without a receipt (“sin factura”) at the higher rate. Nope. So, off I go in search of fuel. Five hundred feet down the road, I run out of gas. Fortunately, I have fuel in the spare can on the back of the bike, but I still need to find fuel to replace it.

Headed toward Cochabamba and Sucre in the morning…

My Mama Always Told Me…

January 18, 2016

“If you don’t have something good to say, don’t say nuthin.”

So, in keeping with that theme, I will skip Cochabamba and move on to my travels south towards Potosi and Uyuni.

My attitude has been suffering as of late, mostly due to the corruption and my treatment at the border crossing into Bolivia from Peru — which unfortunately pre-shaped my opinion of Bolivia — as well as the ridiculous inability to buy gasoline in Bolivia, which eats up a lot of travel time, as it typically takes three stops before I find someone that will sell me gasoline.

I’ll wait til I’m out of the country (in a couple of days) before I go into details about my border crossing into Bolivia, but when I mentioned it to a volunteer at a campground I stayed at, her response was entertaining, if nothing else: “Bolivia runs on corruption. If there were no corruption, no one in Bolivia would have a job.”

My attitude improved today. I attribute it to staying out of large cities (and the terrible traffic), and getting back to the country and the rural people, who are almost always friendly.

Sunday night, it rained about four inches in Cochabamba and much of Southwestern Bolivia. After leaving Cochabamba Monday morning (a feat in itself; it took me four hours and 50 miles before I made any real forward progress), I rode about thirty miles before I came upon stopped traffic. I rode to the front of the line (another reason to ride a motorcycle), and found that there had been a huge rock- and mud-slide, and men with large dozers and graders were working to clear the highway. While sitting there waiting, a Bolivian family approached me. The father spoke no English, but his son and daughter did. So we went back and forth; the daughter would translate if I didn’t understand something, and I would answer in Spanish where possible. We were all having a fun time while waiting for the road to open. (Side note: he saw my license plate and thought Texas was in Canada. No kidding.)

Once the road opened we all took off for Oruro. Again, I was refused fuel, but the attendant told me where I could buy fuel in town. And sure enough, that station had no problem selling me fuel. I still don’t comprehend the benefit of this system to the nation and its’ people. (Side note: the gas station attendant saw my license plate and thought Texas was in Mexico. No kidding.)

Near Challapata, between Oruro and Potosi. The Dakar race came through here about nine days ago. I just barely missed it.

It wasn’t long before it started raining again. Then it got really dark. Then the lightning started. Then the sleet. And of course this is all at around 13,000 feet elevation, so yes, it was quite cold. It was getting late, and becoming clear that I was not going to make it to Potosi before dark. I began scanning the roadside for possible places to camp. Due to the large amount of rain the night before, and the rain now falling, most everything was muddy and there were a lot of standing puddles.

Just before dark, the rain let up briefly and I spotted a dirt and gravel road going off to the east. I turned and headed down a couple hundred yards and found an old rock wall out of sight of the highway. The tent went up quickly, just before the rain resumed.

The rain stopped in the middle of the night, and in the morning it was a damp but beautiful sight.

13,200 feet elevation. At least it quit raining. Beautiful morning.

After coffee and allowing the sun to dry the tent, I packed up and headed south.

Hundreds of these guys along the road to Potosi and Uyuni. Some of them will suddenly run across the road.


In a contest between Llama and Llamaha, nobody wins.

At a gas station in Potosi (the second one I tried — I was refused at the first), I met a couple from Colombia on a BMW F800 headed north. They had been to Ushuaia and were moving very quickly home.

Potosi claims to be one of the world’s highest cities at 13,420 feet, and was home to the Spanish colonial mint. It’s not very large, and I passed through it quickly headed to my destination: Uyuni.

The road looked like this for about 90 miles. With virtually no traffic. I later found out why. But it was fun while it lasted.

The highway climbs and dips in the mountains, but mostly stays around 12,000 feet for the 130 miles between Potosi and Uyuni. Suddenly as you round a bend, the Salar de Uyuni comes into view.

The city of Uyuni sits at the edge of the Salar, and from high above, the city looks like something from Burning Man. As I descended towards Uyuni, I came upon another line of stopped traffic. I worked my way to the front, and this time it was clear that it wasn’t a rock-slide, although there were plenty of rocks in the road.

Unhappy, but non-threatening, at least to me. They smiled, rolled a big rock out of the way, and waved me through.


Looking back at the traffic blocked by the protesters.

I’m not sure what they were protesting, but they let me through. As I continued the last mile and a half or so to Uyuni, I passed dozens of tourists headed the other way on foot– up the mountain, with their backpacks and roller bags. They were all trying to get to their bus, which was waiting, stuck on the other side of the blockade.

I arrived in Uyuni mid-afternoon, and checked into the Hotel Inti, which has a garage for motorcycles. There is a Honda Transalp here also, with Swiss plates, though the hotel owner told me they were from Canada. I’m thinking they may have ridden from Canada, but are probably Swiss. Perhaps I will find out later.

Tomorrow I will visit the Salar, and perhaps work my way a little further south, setting up for my crossing into Chile.

Salar de Uyuni

January 20, 2016

This has to be my highlight of Bolivia. It’s an odd little town on the edge of the world’s largest salar (salt flat: over 4,000 square miles), and as I said earlier, the initial appearance as you descend into the town from the mountains (or from an airplane I would imagine), is that it looks a bit like the temporary city of Burning Man: a small community surrounded by vast nothingness.

Aside from tourism, there isn’t a lot going on in Uyuni. But the town has definitely capitalized on the tourism. For such a small place, it is amazing how many US, South American, Asian and European tourists are present. The Salar attracts the tourists, but there is a lot going on here as well. Just ten days earlier, the Dakar race came through here. I wish I had been present for that, but timing just didn’t work — this year.

The Salar is definitely huge. It’s amazing to ride across something and see nothing at the horizon but more vast salt flat. Forever, it seems.

International flags on the Salar de Uyuni


The Road Goes On Forever…there are definitive roads across the Salar. Besides the tourist jeeps, I saw local buses transporting people across this way as well.


Salar Selfie


In tribute to my late former father-in-law, Lloyd. This would definitely have been his kind of place. I can see him standing out here, looking around, saying, “Golly. Big place.”

On the edge of the Salar is the Palacio del Sal, the world’s first salt hotel. Much of it is made from salt.


Probably a difficult place to stay if you’re on a low sodium diet.

The other big draw in Uyuni is the train graveyard. Personally, I found it a bit ironic. In the late 1800’s, British engineers, invited by British-sponsored Antofogasta and Bolivia Railway Companies, were invited to build a railway to transport minerals from here. The local indigenous people felt it was an intrusion into their lives, and constantly sabotaged it. In the 1940s the mining industry collapsed and the trains were abandoned. Pieces of the railway and trains can be seen scattered throughout the streets of Uyuni as memorials and pieces of art. So in the end, the thing that the local people despised and wanted to rid their lives of, provides a good part of their livelihood in tourism, and they celebrate it. Still, the train cemetery is pretty cool.

Leaving Uyuni, I topped off my fuel (took two tries to get someone to sell me gas), as the next leg was 275 miles across high desert dirt roads which (allegedly) had no fuel purchase options in between. The first ninety miles from Uyuni to Alota is a fairly well maintained dirt road used by buses and 18-wheelers (it’s the main highway), and it was common to have them pass me going the other way at 60 to 70 mph on the dirt.

In Alota, I rode through the very small village until I found a guy who looked like he might be able to help me. I rode up to him and asked, “Donde puedo comprar gasolina?” (Where can I buy gasoline?). He just looked at me and smiled, pointed to his chest and said, “Yo”. Amazing. In a place that doesn’t sell gas, I find the one guy in town that will sell me five liters from a plastic Jerry can. Now I was assured I could go the distance. 

The next 150 miles or so are definitely not highway. From Alota to the border with Chile, through the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve, the road is mostly sand, rocks, and gravel. This, I found out later, is apparently known as the “Laguna Route” as it passes several high elevation lakes. Definitely no buses. No trucks. An occasional four wheel drive SUV. 

Behind me, blue skies…


While ahead looks more ominous. In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the omens.


This is one of the most desolate roads I have ever ridden. In well over 100 miles, I rarely saw another vehicle or person. Lots of Llamas though.

Coming into Laguna Colorada late in the day.


Much of the road is between 14,000 and 16,000 feet elevation. Here it is just over 16,000 feet, and not a soul to be found. The GPS says 3:40pm, but that’s Texas time. It’s either 5:40 or 6:40pm here, depending on how close to the border I am, I think.


The definition of stark beauty.

You definitely have to keep your attention on the road here. As soon as you think you are on a hard surface and can speed up, you suddenly hit a one- to two-foot-deep section of “fesh fesh” (talcum powder-like dust) or gravel. 

And that’s what happened next.

To be continued….


Limping Out of the Bolivian Desert

January 21, 2016

It was getting late in the day. I was still an hour or so from the border with Chile, and it would be dark before then. I began looking for a place to camp.

There is nothing out here. Nothing to hide behind from the wind. Most of the ground is rocks. Not exactly good tent space. I came alongside the Laguna Verde. It’s deceiving how a piece of land can look green in the distance and when you get there it is just shards of rock.

For much of the past 100 miles or so I had been on my toes, literally and figuratively. The road constantly went from fairly hard-packed to dangerously loose in the blink of an eye. Ruts from four-wheel vehicles dug through the deep, loose gravel, making the bike squirm uncomfortably at speed as I attempted to either power through the shorter stretches, or gently back off the throttle and maintain enough momentum but at a slower speed to make it through the longer ones. I kept thinking how miserable this would be on the Super Tenere or any large beast of a bike.

Finding some firmer footing, I rode along at about 40 miles per hour alongside Laguna Verde. Suddenly I hit one of those deep “pits” of gravel in the road. The front end dug in, and the back end began to come around. Before I could react, the rear swapped the other direction, and off I went, face first into the sharp gravel. My Shoei and Klim gear did a good job of protecting me, although the face shield of the helmet flew off on impact with the gravel. Unfortunately, my left ankle got caught up somewhere, somehow and I immediately knew when I hit the ground that it wasn’t good.

I sat there for a minute or two assessing the situation. No hurry to get up since there would be no cars coming. The only hurry was that it was going to get dark and I needed to find a camp spot.

I slowly got to my feet, and realized that only one foot was going to be useful in picking the bike up. It was a struggle, but I managed to eventually get the bike back on its’ wheels, and me on it. No damage to the bike, that I could see. I very cautiously started off again.

Ahead several miles, at the southern edge of the lake, I could see what looked to be a building. I decided I would see if someone was there. If so I would ask to camp next to their house. If not, perhaps I could camp in their house.

As I approached I saw two buildings, one on each side of the road, with the road blocked between. Two men sat outside the building on the right, wearing uniforms. I rode up and said “Buenas tardes”. They were in a good mood, as their day was about to be over. This was the Bolivian Aduana checkpoint, several miles from the border. I could go no further today even if I wanted to. I told them I had injured my ankle, and asked if I could camp next to their building. They agreed, and one of the men went inside and returned with a pole that I could use as a cane. At this point, I was having trouble just walking, so I gladly accepted it and set about pitching my tent.

It was a cold night at 15,000 feet elevation, but I was surprisingly comfortable in my tent. I was able to get my ankle out of my boot (not without some pain), and it had swollen to look like a baseball. I took one of the two painkillers I had in my kit, along with two ibuprofen, and wrapped my ankle with the ACE bandage from my first aid kit. All in all, it could be much worse. I slept fairly well, in between propping up my ankle again and contemplating how I was going to get out of there.

The next morning my ankle was considerably larger than normal, and I still couldn’t put any weight on it. I very painfully forced it back into my boot, slowly packed up, checked my bike out of Bolivia, and climbed onto the bike to head for Chile. The guards thought I was nuts for continuing on, but how long could I camp next to their guard shack in the desert?

I immediately realized I couldn’t bend my ankle to upshift, so I had to put my foot in front of the shift pedal and use the heel of my boot to kick the shifter up. For the most part, I remained in second and third gear, not wanting to take chances with the gravel.

As soon as I crossed the actual border, the road turned to pavement and I headed down the hill to San Pedro de Atacama, a Chilean town in the middle of the Atacama desert. I had planned to camp here, but in my current state, climbing in and out of the tent was difficult. I found a hotel and checked in, then headed to the local hospital.

San Pedro de Atacama is a quaint village with a large tourist population, and the center of town is pedestrian only. The bank (ATM — I needed Chilean Pesos) and the hospital are both within this pedestrian area. Which meant I had to walk/hobble to the bank and the hospital. Ouch. After getting some money, I went to the hospital only to find that they don’t have an x-ray machine. The nearest one is in Calama, about an hour away. The nurse looked at my ankle, felt fairly certain that it was just a bad sprain, and gave me an anti-inflammatory injection. Back on with the boot one more time, and I returned to the hotel intent on a few days rest with an elevated foot.

The hotel owner offered to have her husband or son drive me to Calama for another examination and an x-ray, but I declined, telling her that if it didn’t look and feel better in a few days maybe I’d take her up on the offer. She sent her son to the pharmacy to get some ibuprofen and a coke for me. I propped myself up and started searching for wi-fi.

This morning the swelling is going down, although I can still barely walk on it. But I’m headed in the right direction, I hope. Perhaps in another couple of days I’ll be headed east, into Argentina, and south again.

A couple of random observations:

  1. All of the previous border crossings I have done go like this: Arrive at border, check bike out of country (Aduana), check self out of country (Immigration), cross border (usually a river, or a bridge, or a line, or a gate), check self into country, check bike into country, ride into next country. This one is different. Miles before the actual border, you pass Bolivian Aduana in the middle of nowhere. You have to stop and check the bike out here. Then you continue for several miles in Bolivia until you arrive at the actual border, where there is Bolivian Immigration. You check yourself out here. There are no Chilean facilities here. You have to ride another 30 or more miles to the town of San Pedro de Atacama where the Chilean Immigration and Aduana are housed in the same building in town. Makes it pretty easy to miss a step if you aren’t paying attention. It also says to me that even the Chileans don’t care about the land nearest to Bolivia, and I can’t really blame them.
  2. My first experience in a rural foreign hospital left me with a sense of what Mexican and Latin American nationals must feel like in a hospital in the US. You have to trust that the language skills and interpretations are good enough to get what you want and need without getting something you don’t want or need. It can be a somewhat frightening experience, and at some point you have to put your trust in the system, and hope there is a system. At the end of the day, for an emergency room examination and a shot, I paid $21. My insurance co-pay would have been more than that in the US, and then I probably would have received another bill for another couple of hundred dollars later. Far more simple than trying to use the insurance I paid for, although perhaps I will consider applying for reimbursement yet.