Southern Bolivia

After three full months of being off the bikes sightseeing in Patagonia, Antarctica and northern Argentina and Chile, it was time to get back in our saddles and ride north to Bolivia. With the bag of goodies Kacia’s parents had brought us, we replaced worn bike tires and tubes, adjusted brakes, and changed the oil in our Rohloff hubs.

We gathered the necessary documents to apply for Bolivian visas. We printed out a dozen pages each of personal documents (photocopies of passports, yellow fever vaccinations, travel itinerary, bank statements, first night hotel reservation), purchased US$320 in crisp, newly minted U.S. bills from a money changer standing on the corner of Salta’s main plaza, grabbed our passports and visa photos, and went to the Bolivian consulate… twice. They didn’t have U.S. visa stickers, so we embarked on the 5-day ride to the border without visas. Note that U.S. citizens have the distinction of having to meet Bolivia’s most stringent visa requirements.

The level of affluence dropped precipitously, and the number of dead dogs on the road increased disturbingly. Our last night in Argentina was in a hotel without potable water (our first such experience in all of Argentina), in a town with mud streets, where we dined on a hot dog (a.k.a. a "Superpancho") and hamburger from a street vendor because the town’s only restaurant had been permanently closed because “people can’t afford to pay what we need to charge.”

 The next day, at a gas station picnic table, we were serendipitously reunited with Slav, a Bulgarian bike tourer who, with his partner Yana, had stayed as Warmshowers guests in our home in San Mateo, California, in 2016 as they biked through the U.S. Slav is a talented baker, and we munched on delicious rolls he had baked over a campfire the night before as we swapped stories, before continuing along our paths in opposite directions.

After a lengthy process at the international border requiring all the paperwork we brought, we succeeded in getting 90-day Bolivian visas. We pedaled across the river that divides the countries into the bustling town of Bermejo, Bolivia.

We quickly discovered Salteñas, delicious Bolivian empanadas served in the mornings, and were joyously reacquainted with cheap, fresh squeezed fruit juices that we had become accustomed to before spending time in Chile and Argentina. In Bolivia, we were delighted to learn, dinnertime starts at 5 or 6 pm (compared to 8:30 pm in Argentina).

When we first rolled into Bermejo, Clark’s Achilles tendon mysteriously and very painfully flared up. A convenience store sold us ice in the form of a frozen, refilled 2-liter plastic soda bottle. We stayed a couple of days in Bermejo to rest and ice the tendon, refreezing the 2-liter bottle every night in the hotel’s refrigerator. 

When Clark's tendon didn’t improve, we decided to keep moving, and hopped a bus from the humid tropical forest of Bermejo to the Mediterranean climate of Tarija in the heart of Bolivia’s wine region, where Clark could keep resting his achilles while we sampled the local products. Contrary to our expectations of another nerve-wracking South American bus ride, the trip was very tranquilo, thanks to a mellow and responsible driver.

Tarija was a comfortable city to spend some time in. We explored it with Luís, who runs the city’s free walking tour.

We took a “trufi” (the mainstay of Bolivian public transportation – a minivan with a designated route that will stop anywhere en route for passengers, and will expertly secure to its roof any cargo, from heavy sacks of potatoes to mattresses to new office furniture) to the lovely neighboring town of San Lorenzo to visit the home of Eustaquio “Moto” Mendez, a Bolivian revolutionary hero. 

With Clark’s tendon feeling better, we embarked an unguided 3-day backpacking trip near Tarija. We took a bus to the altiplano at 3790 m (12,400 ft), got off at a remote intersection in the road, and entered the Cordillera de Sama Biological Reserve. The first day was flat, past a salty lake with flamingoes, surrounded by hills covered in golden grass clumps and some distant sand dunes. We camped in a dry wash that offered some protection from the wind, and filtered water from a silty lake. The next morning we happened upon a deep, clear pool of spring water we wish we'd found the night before and filled up.

We climbed past a few, tiny adobe villages and wandering llama herds. At the top of a pass we came to an intact section of Inca Trail, on which we walked for more than 20km as it descended back down to Tarija’s elevation. The second night we camped behind a stone wall, and Clark walked a km across a dry river bed to the opposite side of the valley to find a trickle of spring water. Again, we were close to a spring-fed pool that we didn't find until the the next morning.

We rejoined the Inca trail in a river gorge, followed it up to another pass and then down again. The trail was a treasure -- still in great condition, paved with large flat stones, and engineered by the Incas with switchbacks to maintain a gentle grade that enabled swift communication, distant trade, and transport of the Inca royalty.

In Tupiza, we found the town celebrating its anniversary with a parade of workers (labor unions, merchants, and municipal employees) accompanied by school marching bands. The streets were closed and filled with people playing foosball, kids on trampolines and in bouncy-houses, and snack food vendors cooking skewers of meat and whipping up cotton candy. 

Anselmo, our jeep driver and guide, proved also to be a decent mechanic when an engine hose busted within the first hour of the first day. The jeep tour took us along the Bolivian side of the border with Chile, very near where we had previously traveled with Kacia’s parents. The terrain was therefore familiar, but the sights were unique and the trip worthwhile. 

We visited eroded sandstone and towering mudstone rock formations, green and red desert lakes with flamingos and other waterfowl, hot springs, geysers, a deep river gorge, and a ghost mining town. 

Anselmo ensured our trip’s safety by opening his door to drop coca leaves as an offering to Pachamama (Mother Earth)at the top of every pass. He proudly prepared us a cocktail in the colors of the Bolivian flag (red for blood spilled in wars, yellow for the country’s mineral wealth, and green for its fertile land). Julia, our well-educated, feminist cook and assistant guide, quickly prepared hot meals in the hostels, where we spent frigid nights warmly tucked under a mountain of heavy wool blankets.

The third night’s hostel, on the edge of Bolivia’s giant salt flat, Salar de Uyuni, was constructed of salt bricks and the floor was crushed rock salt. 

Before dawn, we drove across the dry, flat, salt surface of the Salar, seeing in the distance the lights of a facility mining lithium from the Salar. We watched the sunrise from Isla Incahausi, one of several islands in the salt flat. It’s a mound of volcanic rock formed under an ancient giant lake, now covered in fossilized algae and tall, thriving cactus. 

The jeep trip ended in Uyuni, at the town’s strangely compelling “train cemetery.”

We lunched at Isla Incahuasi at a salt picnic table, and were welcomed by Alfredo, the island’s hardy resident caretaker since 1982, who maintains a guestbook of bike tourers from all over the world. 

We then turned north and crossed the Salar to the flanks of Volcán Tunupa, where the salty soil is apparently perfect for quinoa farming. Surrounding a few small but active communities, the hillside was covered in abandoned adobe homes and fallow fields enclosed by stone walls — signs of what must have been a large population that once thrived on the shores of the Salar.

We hiked to Coqueza’s two natural treasures: a cave containing seven well-preserved mummies still in their original location, and the stunningly colorful crater of Volcán Tunupa with views across the Salar. This town was a highlight or our travels through Bolivia.

We continued cycling around the volcano, along the shore of the Salar, occasionally pushing our bikes through sandy sections of the dirt road, to the town of Salinas de Garci Mendoza with its striking blue church. We then pedaled three more days across the windy high altiplano, past dry, salty lake beds, quinoa farms, and a couple of large, round volcanic crater-like depressions. 

We camped both nights – the second night for lack of lodging where we expected it. That night we filled our Tupperware with a hot chicken stew from a street vendor, filled our water bags, and pitched our tent on a sandy soccer field. A loud, thunderous sandstorm kicked up suddenly, filling our tent and covering our sleeping bags with sand. We dove into the tent just before the rain started, and gratefully ate our hot meal as the storm briefly, but powerfully, pounded outside.