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The long Road. Part 3 of 9: Bolivia

The Vertical City In Copacabana I witnessed the 'blessing'. Neither the blessing of a marriage nor the blessing of a newborn baby. The people came from far to the Cathedral of Copacabana to receive the blessing of their recently purchased vehicle. The dangers of the road are big. The hundreds of crosses along the road that I passed every day, were a sad testify to the dangers of the road. The mountainous terrain of the Andean countries is in itself dangerous with its deep ravines and the risks of rubble and snowfall, but much more dangerous are the human factors: bad maintenance, alcohol abuse and high speed. What could be more obvious then let your car be blessed by a capable priest? For a small compensation, as the priest also needs a living. The cars were covered with colorful flowers. Then the young priest appeared on the scene, with a stately brown habit and bright white sneakers. After a short prayer and a few solemn ritual gestures the ceremony was over and the car was blessed. The drivers and their wives were relieved. It feels a lot safer on the road with a consecrated car after all. To celebrate this, impressive amonts of alcoholic drinks were being consumed. After several hours of celebration and merriment the company could speed home in ecstatic mood, drunk but safe, with the blessing from Above. The Andean countries have a fascination for virgins to whom a series of festivals and processions were dedicated. Most girls do not maintain their virgin status a long time though. The population boom is enormous in a city like La Paz. For Pachamama or Mother Earth applied a similar combination of worship and indifference. Deeply spiritual awe did not restrain the people to indiscriminately dump huge amounts of waste along the roads. The pigs and the dogs did well in the large quantities of snacks that were presented to them. I cycled across the plateau to La Paz, the highest capital of the world with the center at 3700 meters altitude. Most of the people were living even higher, over four thousand meters high in the impoverished twin city of El Alto on the Altiplano. The city that did not exist fifteen years ago, was bigger than La Paz now. Accompanied by an orchestra of honks and horns I cycled between the dogs and the pigs and the rubble through the swollen city of El Alto in the direction of the capital. There were few gentlemen in the traffic. Overtaking taxis frequently cut to the right to pick up passengers. At the same time the taxi would pull the brake, which frequently put me in immediate trouble. Sometimes I could only avoid a collision with intersecting cabs by moving to the middle of the road. Usually new cars would approch with devilish speed and roaring horns. The horn was not used as a warning, but as a commandment. The meaning was clear: get off! One of the classic South American bike experience is the 'highway' that leads down from El Alto to La Paz. The capital of Bolivia is perhaps the most beautiful city in the world as viewed from above. Hundreds of thousands of houses seemed to be carved out of the immense mountain slopes. The houses on the flamks of the mountain were painted in the same color as the syrrounding mountains themselves: in ocher brown and terracotta. Only the office buildings of the business center had abnormal, artificial colors. In the background loomed the majestic snow domes of the Illimani mountain high above the cityscape. I rushed down over the highway gainst the breathtaking view of the vertical city and the mountains of the Cordillera Real. I could feel the adrenaline flow through my veins. I had to make sure that I kept watching the road. In addition to the taxis, trucks and stray dogs were several rather unusual road users such as entire families who walked in their best garb on the niddle of the highway or people who found a quiet spot on the highway to defecate. La Paz was not changed much since my visit eight years ago. She was still a feast for the senses. A fun party that may turn in the wink of an eye into a very annoying party, but one that excites anyway. From La Paz an excellent day trip can be made to the top of the Chacaltaya. On the slopes of this mountain is the only ski area of Bolivia. I cycled over the 'Highway' up to El Alto. The traffic was the usual clamp, but on Sunday the roadblocks were even more than usual. It was market and I had tu push my bike through zillions of people in the narrow streets of El Alto. After two hours, I had wriggled myself through the crowds. Suddenly I was standing on the barren plateau. I saw the unpaved road snaking in the direction of the heavily glaciated six thousand meter high mountain peaks of the Cordillera Real. In the middle of the wall of rock and ice walls spotted an insignificant, shapeless and remarkably low mountain with a few pathetic tufts of snow. That must be the Chacaltaya! The first kilometers of the road were of poor quality, but after that the riding was fine. After a few hours I reached the foot of the mountain. Zigzags led the way up over the scree slopes with large boulders. The road ended at the ski area at 5,260 meters altitude. Skiing was not possible. The meager snow fields were icy and there were no working ski lifts. As a ski area the Chacaltaya might not stand the comparison with the European ski areas, but the mountain views were fine. I locked my bike and climbed the final rocks up to the summit at 5400 meters altitude. It was visible how big the agglomeration La Paz-El Alto had become. El Alto seemed to be at least five times larger than La Paz, which is wedged in a valley and cannot grow anymore. The descent went well. I wanted to keep it that way and so I decided not to ride the last, miserable piece of road to El Alto again. Therefore I took an alternative route. That was not such a good idea. The road was just as bad and appeared to head more and more in the wrong direction. I became trapped in the extensive new neighborhoods of El Alto. I was cycling for miles between the newly completed homes, where the future residents had already stationed their dos to watch over the propery. Roads were not present yet and often I had to push my bike through the raw earth. And so it could happen that I was overjoyed to reach the gray center of El Alto. And that I could focus my energy on reassuring things like the everyday quarrels with the taxis. After having fought myself through the suburbs of El Alto, I speeded down the slowest highway of the world to my ramshackle hotel in La Paz. The Green Hell La Paz lies in a wide valley between the Altiplano and the mountain range of the Cordillera Real. Behind the mighty mountains of the Andes the landscape literaaly tumbles down into the vast lowlands of the Amazon. The zone between the mountains and the jungle of the Amazon basin is called the Yungas and is characterized by steep mountain slopes, lush vegetation and huge amounts of rain. Traditionally the major road between La Paz and the Amazon carries over the Cordillera Real and amkes its way down through the Yungas to the Bolivian lowlands. The road has been given the sinister name Death Road. Numerous deadly traffic accidents took place here until a few years ago a new route made the most dangerous road in the world redundant. The Death Road begins at the pass of the Cordillera Real, La Cumbre, at 4,700 meters altitude and ends in Yolosa at 1,200 meters altitude. A few miles further than Yolosa at 1700 meters altitude is the town of Coroico, where, according to the stories of travelers, extraordinarily beautiful views could be seen over the mountains and valleys of the Yungas. When I was in Bolivia during my former South American bicycle journey in 2003, the alternative route had not opened yet and the Death Road was the only option to reach Coroico. I cycled towards the mountains through the streets of La Paz. I spent my days in Bolivia in 2003 at the end of the dry season and after a few days I still did not have any free views over the mountain massif of the Cordillera Real. But a bright morning sun shone towards me on this day. It was the first time that the mountains of the Cordillera Real were not shrouded in mist and that the main mountain range in Bolivia revealed itself in its full glory. It was a nervous affair to find my way up over the steep streets in the ultimate South American traffic chaos of La Paz. As the slowest road user my position in the traffic was vulnerable. All around me the taxis and buses were crawling in all directions. Against the driving direction, at right angles to the direction of travel and in all possible oblique angles and only occasionally a taxi or bus driver would ride in the intended direction for a short time. Cars or buses could pass by frighteningly narrow with the horn continuously pressed. In the cacophony it was impossible to determine who honked, to whom the message was addressed to or what the message implied. The buildings of La Paz stretched up to halfway the climb to La Cumbre, the pass across the Cordillera Real. Suddenly I had left the metropolis and found myself in a world of silence, in a rugged mountain landscape. An hour later I reached the pass of La Cumbre. The views were not too impressive. The pass and the surrounding mountains were covered completely in the clouds. Where did that come from so quickly? The descent was initially surprisingly esay. The road was fine and there was even a solid layer of asphalt. Because the Death Roasd initially followed the valley, there were no awkward corners. As such, nothing revealed the name and fame of the road yet. It started to rain lightly, but I could expect that in a region with an extremely wet climate. After twenty kilometer of the descent the road began to climb unexpectedly. The pavement gave way to a clay road, which led up through dense cloud forests. In the meantime the drizzle had expanded into heavy rains. It took a lot of energy to maneuvre myself through the mud. I wondered whether I was on the right track actually. The road was supposed to run down, did not it? I had nothing to orient myself. Both the sun and the peaks were obscured by clouds and rain. In 2003 I had no GPS yet and my compass gave few clues, since the road turned crazily in all directions. I was all alone and there was no one to ask the way. I was unsure about the route, but I had no other choice but to continue. The mud road snaked itself up further and further. I was surrounded by the clouds now and the rain intensity was boosted to Biblical proportions. Suddenly the rain stopped and the clouds gave way. At that moment I reached a narrow pass in the mountain range. A dizzying, vertical, fathomless and intense green world was revealed before me. And literally under me, as the ravines laid straight before, endlessly deep. I saw the fearfully narrow mud road snake itself down endlessly before me over the immense, vertical mountain flanks. Welcome to the Death Road! Within a few minutes the rain turned back. This time the rain came down with merciless quantities. Where and when would this flood end? Everywhere was water. It came from the clouds. Dripped from the trees. Fell with great waterfalls clattering on the road. I was covered under a thick coat of mud. So did my bike and my panniers, wheels and brakes on my bike. The slippery road led continuously down along deep ravines. For safety reasons, I could not descend faster than seven kilometer an hour. Even with this limited speed I could make no steering or brake fault. I dis not want to be immortalized with a new cross along the road. After several hours the rain finally stopped. I was wet to the bone. In a bus stop I met a fellow cyclist. It proved to be Christian, a young man from Switzerland. He wanted to travel back by bus to La Paz. I asked why he did not finish the last kilometers of the descent. Because he had no reason he could think of, he accompanied me on the last kilometers to Yolosa. Christian was a great mystery. He cycled without luggage, without food, with only a minimum of drinking water. Also spiritually Christian seemed without luggage. Without purpose or reason. If he did not feel like cycling no more, he would just stop and hitchhike back again. Christian and I said goodbye in Yolosa. My companion would try to take a bus back to La Paz today. I had no more than an hour of daylight at my disposal to reach Coroico. I had to hurry as I had a mere five hundred meters to climb. Meanwhile, dark clouds had gathered above the mountain village. After fifteen minutes it rained again, with intensities that defied the imagination. The road was transformed into a deep whitewater river. Suddenly the space was filled with an unearthly low growl, which shook the earth on its foundations. For one second my vision was completely white. The lightning had struck only tens of meters nearby. Soaking wet and covered with deep layers of mud I reached the Plaza de Armas of Coroico. I rode inside the first hotel that I encountered. Even inside it was not dry. Everywhere water was pouring through the ceiling. There were large puddles on the floor and the main part of the bed was soaking wet. On the few dry spaces on the bed I laid my passport and paper money to dry. I myself I had to sleep in the wet part of the bed. For my clothes, my tent or sleeping bag there was no dry spot available. But I had achieved to reach Coroico unscathed and that was the main thing. On the Flanks of the Huayna Potosí During my brief visit to Bolivia in 2003, the political situation was tense. Foreign companies were exploiting the mines and there were only few Bolivians that benefited from the riches, particularly senior government officials. Fuel prices were expensive and the resulting crisis in the transport sector caused the economy to collapse. Most Bolivians detested the corrupt government. The explosiveness of the public anger was highlighted during a tourist excursion to the pre-Inca site of Tiahuánuco. The streets of El Alto were filled with hundreds of thousands of protesting people. Some men had stones in the hand, others armed themselves with large wooden sticks. The anger was not only directed against the government, but also against its followers. Anyone on a strike who was trying to make money, fell into this category as well. And so was the bus driver who facilitated our excursion. Within no time our bus was surrounded by the crowd. Stones were thrown at our bus and people were beating against the windows. We could not move forward and we could not move backward. Several men dragged the driver out of the bus. They whipped the poor men with a big belt. Finally, he got the message to show solidarity with the striking crowd. The men asked whether the driver had understood the message that it was unbecoming to make money now. Yes, was the answer, the bus driver had understood the message. The men then asked whether it was clear to the driver that they did not want to see him working during the protests - not today, not tomorrow when more strikes were planned and neither the day after tomorrow. Yes, the driver said, the explanation had been very clear, highly understandable and reasonable as well. After the revealing and instructive discussion we had to return. That was not so easy though. The main street was barricaded, as well as most of the side streets. The driver nevertheless succeeded in turning into a side street. We ended up in a labyrinth with numerous barricades and obstacles. Sometimes we were able to maneuver around the obstacles. Sometimes we drove at full speed towards a barricade and occasionally casual attendees had to save their lives with an emergency sprint. Sometimes the driver stopped to create a way forward with clever diplomacy. Obviously we would not see a glimpse of the pre-Inca site, but I could look back on a fascinating tour. Since almost all roads left La Paz through the main source of the protests in El Alto (With the exception of the Death Road, which I did not want to cycle again), I did not see a possibility to safely leave the capital the coming days. So what to do? I decided to await the developments and meanwhile do something fun. During the failed excursion to Tiahuánuco I had talked with two Spaniards, who wanted to climb the 6,088-meter-high Huayna Potosí with a guide. That seemed a good idea to fill the time. I had a new purpose. I searched an agency for alpine climbs and left the agency with crampons, mountain shoes and a pickel out. The next morning I would climb the mountain with a guide. A taxi took us to the mountain refuge where the expeditions to the Huayna Potosí begun. The weather was excellent. Over large moraine ridges we slugged up towards the base camp. The route was at times slippery because of remnants of snow and ice between the stones. We climbed rapidly and soon we reached the camp at the foot of the glacier. The views over the different peaks of the Cordillera Real were breathtaking. On that moment, I had never been so high in my life. If everything were fine the next day, it would be the first time that I would be above six thousand meter. The oxygen deficit in the base camp already felt extreme, and I could not have a clue how I would feel a thousand meter higher on the top. After pitching the tent and consuming a simple supper, it was social hour between the various climbing groups. The Spaniards were experienced climbers. A young Dutch couple was less familiar with the alpine terrain. They were concerned of what the day of tomorrow might bring. The guide woke me at half past one in the night. That was half an hour later than the other groups that were already on their way. Because of the altitude I could not sleep and I was glad that I was allowed to get up. I peeped through the tent opening to creep outside. I tended to immediately crawl back into my warm sleeping bag though. It was horrifyingly cold to my taste. It was twenty-five degrees below freezing point. Shuddering and shivering I joined the guide. He gave some stiff frozen bread that was as hard as concrete. I knew I had to eat, but I was not able to get the bread through my throat. Dutiful I chewed some pale-white chocolate. More than that I could not eat. Slowly we moved forward across the glacier. My guide was only twenty years old, but he had an excellent physical condition. He walked into a nice, steady pace. I followed. Within two hours we had overtaken all the groups. The climb up the Huayna Potos&$237; was straightforward until a large crevasse on our way. A ladder was lying horizontally over the twenty meter deep crack in the ice. Carefully balancing we overcome the passage across the yawning depth. After the crevasse a twenty meter high ice slope of sixty degrees followed, the first serious test for my crampons. We gained altitude quickly. I saw the nearby peaks sink down into the depths. It was still dark when we reached a large plateau at 5,900 meters altitude. In the distance loomed the top wall of the Huayna Potosí above the flatland. Crossing the plains to the top wall was not so simple. We had to make a track through knee deep snow. The lack of oxygen made the hard labour seriously difficult. I was constantly out of breath. Like an elderly man I hung, bent over my pickel to relieve my legs from my own weight. I was not the only one. I saw that my guide was leaning heavily on his pickel too as he stumbled along across the snow flats. After crossing the endless snow plateau we had to pause for almost an hour. We had walked too fast; without a break we would be at the top more than an hour before sunrise. Fully rested we entered the two hundred meter high top wall. The wall of ice was between fifty and sixty degrees steep and was frozen stiff. Normally, in these conditions, you have to climb with pickel and with ice ax, so that you have four fixation points with the wall: with a pickel for one arm, an ice ax for the other one and the two crampons for both legs. When moving an arm or a leg up, there are three fixed points left. I did not have an ice ax so while moving I had only two fixation points. It was important to ensure that I hung firmly in the wall with what I did have at my disposal: the pickel and the crampons. I tried to get my pickel as deep in the ice as possible, but I got the iron no more than half a centimeter deep into the wall. I could not get my crampons any deeper than a few millimeters in the ice as well. Every step again I needed to ram my crampons and ice ax with full force inside the ice to be as stable as possible. At twenty thousand feet that took more oxygen than available. It was important to have confidence that I hung firmly into the wall. The few millimeters that the crampons and pickel were stabbed into the ice, are enough if you believe it to be enough. If you lose faith, gravity wins and you tumble down. My guide had little clue about securing techniques. "Hey dude," I yelled to the guide thirty feet above me, "you are using only one ice screw to secure. Would not you use two ice screws? Securing has no sense this way!" "Yes, but I only have one ice screw," I heard him call from thirty meter above. "You're kidding!?!" "Oh dude, One ice screw is better than zero, is not it?" "You know, let's just climb on. You do not need to secure me no more. " "Whatever you want, guy!" Without fiddling with the senseless secure points we were able to climb significantly faster. We set a solid pace in order to remain in the wall as short as possible. I was breathing like a mad dog when I reached the small top plateau. We were the first climbers to be on the top that day. After a minute the sun came up behind the five- to six thousand meter lower Yungas. The thin layer of clouds began to to swell above the jungle. On the other side of the mountain, we had views across the Altiplano, the vast Bolivian plateau, which was bathing in the first sunbeams now. Two to three hundred kilometers further I spotted the mountains near the western border with Chile. I recognized the highest mountain of Bolivia, the Nevado Sajama and the twin volcanoes Parinacota and Pomerape. On the descent we passed my Spanish friends. They had almost reached the summit. Now the sun was shining, the ice was softer and now the ice wall was suddenly very easy to climb. In retrospect, we had to sleep two hours longer. Then we could have reached the top much more secure. Without further difficulties we descended to the base camp. Even after the ascent of the Huayna Potosí the peace had not returned in La Paz. Again widespread strikes were planned. The situation was fluid and everything was possible. I found that the situation was too dangerous to leave the city in the coming days. Taxis and buses could not drive. I would need to linger more time in La Paz. Once I got the chance, I would go straightforward and as fast as possible to the Chilean border. I had not come to South America for days or weeks sidetracked to be in La Paz. Early in the morning I found out that the protests of the recent days were only minor skirmishes, compared to what was happening right now. This time the riots would not be confined to the upper town. On the highway flowed a mile-long procession from El Alto to downtown La Paz. There was no car on the road. Everybody just walked. On television I saw that there were shootings on the Plaza de los Héroes. Thousands of people gathered on the square, only a few hundred meters from my hostel. With some other travelers we got out to sense the atmosphere. We walked through the crowds on the streets to the square. On the banners I saw the death of the President demanded and even the death of the whole government. Throughout the city there were riots and small firefights. The soldiers were trying to maintain order in the streets. A mission impossible. I noticed that the army responded in a controlled way, even under these difficult circumstances. Later in the afternoon, the mood was grim though. On the television I saw how a politician was beaten by a large crowd. Another politician was being hit with a wooden chair on his head until he lost consciousness. Despite the obvious escalation the president announced that a compromise was reached with the opposition parties. This was denied strongly by these parties, but the goal seemed to be reached for the government. Enough confusion was sown to at least stop the fights today. In the longer term, the future looked precarious for the government. A year later, the unrest would lead to the resignation of the regime and the leader of the resistance Evo Morales would be elected to be the new president. The next day I left La Paz in the early morning. While the population still slept, I cycled through the empty streets of La Paz and El Alto to reach the Altipano. I could get my bike across the many roadblocks of fist-sized stones and in three days I cycled across the Altiplano to Chile. Other tourists would be stuck in La Paz for more than three weeks until the German army would evacuate the tourists. Firefight on the Altiplano In 2011 La Paz was considerably quieter than the revolutionary days of 2003. I cycled across the Altiplano to the west, in the direction of a volcanic region on the border with Chile. After a day of cycling, I reached the town Patacamaya, where I moved into a modern but simple hotel. I sat me down on the bed and started my traditional snack. While I was eating, a pandemonium of noises and cries erupted down below. At first I did not take notice and carried on eating. South America is the continent of noise and I would really be worried if it were silent. Moments later, however, I heard an extremely aggressive cry, followed by a shot. I listened again. There was another shot. And another. The aggressive cries carried on and there were new shootings as well. What could this mean? There mist have been a horrible massacre going on downstairs. What could be the reason for the heavy firefight? My thoughts were with the victims and the horror that the survivors would have to endure. I myself was in a precariou situation. I needed to get out of here. But how? I started thinking about the possibilities. Those were incredibly limited. The only way out were the stairs. But that way would lead me straight to the scene of the massacre. The other way out was the tiny shuttered window with iron bars. In extreme emergencies I would smash the glass with my fist, bend the bars, hang on the bars and jump two and a half storeys down. The chance that to leave the battlefield unscathed, would be virtually zero. Meanwhile the shooting continued with the same intensity. The cries only seemed to be more aggressive. One of the men cried with every shot like a Japanese martial arts film in the style of Seven Samurai. No compassion could I expect from those people. I began to think in strategies. What weapons did I have at my disposal? I only had a small Victorinox pocket knife, which was not in my room but in a pannier in my bike that was down. The best weapon that I did have at my disposal, was an almost empty fuel bottle. So I could possibly hit someone on his head. Or make a moderate fire in my room. All in all it was a meager defense against this heavily armed gang. I barricaded my door with the two beds that were in my room. Then the terrorists would need a minute or so to invade my room. Maybr that would be enough to be able to escape through the window. At least I should not make a sound, that seemed important. Time passed. One shot after another was released and the aggressive cries continued. In retrospect it seemed unlikely that the bandits were here to rob the hotel guests. Hundreds of shots were fired, that would not be worth the looting. Maybe the gang members were chased by the police and sought refuge in the hotel where they could, for example, take hostages. I had agreed with myself that I in any case would not let that happen. I would prefer to try the risky escape through the window of my room. On one of the sporadic moments of silence I heard the five-year old daughter of the owner of the hotel: "Mommy. Mamaaaa." I heard no response from mom and the words died away in the beckoning silence. The silence held on a few seconds. Then the shooting began again. I started to prepare myself for the fact that the hotel in Patacamaya might be the end of the road for the Lonely Cyclist. I thought of my family and my friends. I could comfort myself with the thought that in any case I would finish my life with a splendid journey of a liftime. I regretted that I could not say goodbye to anyone. Silence fell again. This time it remained silent. This is the moment, I thought. It is now or never. Silently I abolished the barricade. I carefully opened the door and peeped out. I did not see anybody. I decided to take a chance. I rushed over to the stairs. With each bend I inspected the surroundings. After I ascertained myself that the passage was safe, I ran down the stairs to the next bend. Every blind corner I took the time to evaluate the security situation before proceeding. Once I arrived downstairs, there was no trace of violence visible. I ran to the exit, where I met the owner of the hotel with her daughter. Both mother and daughter were alive. "What happened ??" I asked excitedly. "Happened? What do you mean?" "The shots in the hotel ..." The owner burst out laughing. "Shots? It's always very quiet here in Patacamaya, you know." The owner was in a state of perpetual laughter. "There is a hall on the first floor and the local youth likes to play a game of volleyball there. I hope that does not scare you too much... " While I walked back to my hotel room, I passed the sports hall. Two new volleyball teams entered for a fierce fight. The sound of the jump services and s mashes and accompanying cries was still overshadowed by the continuing laughter of the owner. To the top of the Parinacota Volcano I continued my route across the plateau of Bolivia. A hundred kilometers before me a chain of snowy volcanoes towered above the Altiplano. The volcanoes marked the border with Chile. The Altiplano was not completely flat. Most of the was undulating and I had to climb some small ridges. On one of these climbs I saw two cyclists before me. Just before the summit I took them over. It were Marten and Karin. It was the third time that I met the Dutch long-distance cyclists. Together we rode on and found a campsite with views of the Nevado Sajama, the highest mountain in Bolivia. We cycled over the broad, undulating plateau between the Nevado Sajama and the twin volcanoes Parinacota and Pomerape to the village Sajama. In Sajama I tried to charter a guide to climb the volcano Parinacota. In no time I arranged a guide, boots, a backpack and a pickel. A few hours later, at twelve o'clock at night, I joined the local teacher of primary school, a French mountain guide in training and the local mountain guide to climb the 6,342 meter high mountain. A van brought us at the foot of the mountain. The guide said that we were lucky and that we were enjoying an unusually warm night. with about twenty degrees below freezing point, I was shivering and I did not share the experience of happiness with the guide. I had a more severe problem as well. My boots were two sizes too small. My size was not available and therefore I entered the mountain with my toes compressed in the small shoes. I was used to being the fastest of the group on occasions like these, but this time I was surrounded by super fit athletes who all had more alpine experience than I. My breathing was increased to an insane frequency. Desperately I gasped for air. My thoughts were empty. Like a month ago at the Chachani I sank deeply into the volcanic dust. The small shoes pressed my toes severely and caused a lot of pain. This could become a tough day, I thought. Presumably the pain would increase during the day rather than decrease. My world was small. I only saw the rhythmic cadence of the feet of my predecessor. Apparently I walked with a similar pace up because an eternity later, my world was still limited to the fluid, rhythmic flow of the feet of my predecessor five feet before me. We took a break at the snow line. According to my GPS we found ourselves at 5,800 meters altitude. That meant that we had to climb many hours more, from now on over ice and snow. For these reasons alone the conditions would only get harder. In addition, the shortage of oxygen would be an ever-increasing problem. Mechanically, I put on the crampons. In a trance I walked up over the endless snow slope. It was still dark and everyone was thrown back in his own little world. I walked second, right behind the guide. The frozen snow slope had the fanciful structure of the penitentes. Because of the bright sun the snow melts in such a way that it creates a kind of bed of nails with ice pillars. These penitentes or nails were between a half and a whole meter high. The ice structures were serious obstacles. If I tried to find a way below, I constantly found myself stuck in the maze. Walking over the top of the penitentes meant that I regularly slumped through a penitente and often I fell a meter down. An experience of pure horror with the folded toes in my small boots. The teacher took me over. A few moments later he took over the guide as well. For hours we struggled our way upwards. We found ourselves almost two thousand meter above the plateau when the sun rose over the Altiplano. Above me I could see the summit in the distance. I saw the teacher as a small black dot on the white slope, halfway between my position and the summit. Painfully slow I moved on over the sloping white plane. Sometimes I managed to walk in a kind of flow. On these moments it looked like I had rhythm. Until I fell through a penitente. Then I had the laborious task to rise up and climb back on another penitente to be able to continue on the way up. The teacher was the first to reach the top. Then the guide and I arrived and a bit later the French guide in training also reached the top. For all but the guide this was the highest point in our lives. For myself, this was the third mountain of more than six thousand meter. It would probably be the last. The usual ecstasy was absent. I was cold and I had pain in my toes, which hurt painfully after being compressed for many hours in the small boots. The climb was annoying, but the descent was a hell. Every step I took, I my toes bumped with brute force against the boots. The worst were the collapsing penitentes. Every time I fell through an ice pillar, I feared that the bones of my toes would snap like matchsticks. A red haze came over me. My perception was limited to the excruciating pain and an all-comprehensive sickness. I had the feeling that I might vomit my guts out. Each ice pillar that broke, brought a new freefall and new sensations of snapping bones. The pain in my toes was unbearable. I heard myself groaning from the pain. All thoughts were dissolved in the red haze. I wanted nothing anymore. The only thing that I wanted was the torture to cease. I did not want to, but after every gruesome step I put another gruesome step. Apparently there was some energy resource, somewhere deep down, which kept me going. We reached the end of the snow. On a slope of badly stacked stones we continued on the way down. My body must have produced loads of narcotic hormones. The sensation of pain had already passed a limit and I could only feel a dull anesthesia. I was no longer able to concentrate. Only when the scree slopes with loose blocks was replaced by a stable stack of volcanic gravel, I felt a bit of life flow back to me. On this terrain, I could descend rapidly by rushing down in full speed and placing my heels forward in the gravel slope for stability. Moreover, in this way I could free my toes from the constant pressure of my shoes. I went down with lightning speed and with all possible risks, only to be able to put off my shoes as soon as possible. I was the first to reach the van that was waiting for us. At the moment that I took off my shoes, the red daze vanished. The pain was suddenly replaced by a deep relaxation. The war was over. After a few minutes, the others trickled in. We congratulated each other with the result. We all had reached the top and we were very fast. But despite the beautiful result, the stunning views and the good atmosphere in the group, I was not able to enjoy the climb. The trip did not cause permanent damage to my toes. Only on moments that I bumped my toes, the pain would return and so would the red haze. I would walk around with toes that would be initially red, then purple and eventually black. My toenails had a complex pattern of cracks and transverse cracks. Eventually I would loose the nails of my big toes within three weeks. But I had not broken any bones and everything still functioned. I could continue my journey without problems. Between Heaven and Earth After my little alpine excursion I could concentrate on cycling again. I headed further in the direction of the Chilean border. Along the way I passed Marten and Karin for the fourth time. This time it was a short affair. They had another destination in mind for today. After a climb to a pass over a small mountain range I reached the Chilean border. From there I wanted to ride on to the village of Putre. I knew the route from my trip in 2003. At that time the road was perfectly paved. That was now no longer the case anymore. I plowed laboriously through deep sand layers. For a distance of forty kilometers there were roadworks. Kilometers long rows of trucks passed me by. Together with the stormy headwind they caused dust clouds, which cut off the breath and produced persistent coughing. Visibility was limited to a few meters. I consoled myself with the thought that I would probably reach the end of the roadworks soon. That hope proved futile. I could bypass the dust storm temporarily by visiting Parinacota, the settlement at the foot of the eponymous volcano. The church is one of the most beautiful churches of the altiplano of the Bolivian-Chilean border area. From Parinacota the gravel road led back to the main road. I found myself in the terrible inferno of wind and dust again. There was no protection against the dust and I cried out from misery. I could not see anything further than a few meters. The worst was the continuous coughing. I had no control at all over my breathing. I gasped desperately for breath, so that new overdoses of sand could pass into my lungs, which immediately produced new coughing. After several hours in the dust bowl I reached the "normal" way and I was able to make speed. In the twilight I finally reached Putre. In the small mountain village I took a break for a day to stock up for the next few days. I was planning to follow a series of trails in the border area with Bolivia, where a chain of National Parks protects the high altitude desert landscapes with volcanoes and salt plains with their particular wildlife. A two hundred kilometer route of hardly maintained dirt roads is linking the National Parks Lauca, Vicuñas and Isluga together. The trail is nowhere below four thousand meter altitude. According to blogs on the internet I had to prepare myself for five to seven days cycling in the inhospitable area. Apart from some ghost towns on the route there would not be any trace of human activity. In the coming days I could not not count on obtaining any water or food so I had to be self-reliant for more than a week. Only in a mountain hut on the salt flat Salar de Surire I could possibly be able to get some fresh drinking water, but I could not count on it. With twenty liters of water and a supply of food for a week I started the route over the Chilean Altiplano. My diet consisted not only of pastas and vegetables, but especially of biscuits and chocolate bars. Petrol Burners can fail and the gas bottle may leak and also in those circumstances I would prefer to reach the civilized world again. Even without functioning stove I possessed a reliable but one-sided food supply with my bag full of cookies. Twenty liters of water should be sufficient, even if I would not be able to obtain additional drinking water in the refuge. I climbed to the exit for the route through the National Parks. I felt excitement at the start of the desolate route. I might be a week alone, without encountering a living soul. Only Marten and Karin I expected to see again. They would be on the route for one or two days now. I wanted freedom and I had found her. I led a life without daily rhythm and without a regular circle of people around me and without income. Alone in my own world. Freedom is releasing contact with the Earth. I had the wheel of my life entirely in my own hands, but how strong were those hands? The romantic dream that I lived was not without danger. I entered the prettiest places of our Earth, but those places were not life-supporting. On the plateaus and in the deserts of Chile was no water and no food and the nights were horribly cold. Freed from earthly worries I floated like a bird in the sky. I ventured into the eerie heights of the mountains and I ventured into the eerie heights of the human spirit. Whoever is flying too high, will surely fall down. Or permanently lose contact with the Earth and will be caught up like a leaf in the raging storm that rages forth across the barren landscape. The road led through a great desert plain surrounded by volcanoes and mountain ranges. Initially I was not alone on the road. At times an occasional truck passed. At the end of the first day I reached the ghost village Guallatire. The atmospheric, white-washed, Romanesque church contrasted sharply against the intense blue sky and yellow ocher puna vegetation. On the background dominated the snowy volcano Guallatire. At various places clouds of smoke rose up from the deeper layers of Mother Earth. I had the feeling that I entered a spiritual world of exceptional depth and intensity. The thin air, the alpine desert, the eternal snows of the high peaks, the rumbling volcano and the sublime beauty of the Romanesque church, all elements contributed to the mystique. Guallatire seemed completely deserted. On one of the houses was a barely readable sign with the word "hotel" attached. The house seemed just as deserted as the other houses, but still I knocked on the door. I scared up of surprise, when the door opened unexpectedly. I stood in front of a friendly looking woman with a face full of burns. Behind her was another woman, also with burns on her face. Against all expectations, I had a place to stay in a hotel room. The ladies offered simple, nutritious meals as well. So I did not need to use my limited food supplies. Savings now could later on the route come in handy. I dined along with a Chilean truck driver. My table companion was a big, burly man with bushy eyebrows. Hours he told me about his life "on the road". The man loved his work and he was firmly convinced that Chile is the most beautiful country of the world. In a beautiful morning light I cycled through a wide, panoramic landscape. There were hundreds of vicuñas and flamingos on the open plains and salt lakes. A highlight was the Salar de Surire, a hallucinatory white salt plain surrounded by mountains in ethereal blue and purple colors. After the salt lake followed a climb to nearly five thousand meters. Then I went down to a wide plain surrounded by the majestic mountains of the Chilean Andes. I put up my tent somewhere in the middle of the immense plain. While I cooked my supper, the sun sank behind the horizon and threw the mountains for a short time in an all-pervasive orange glow. A mystical moment that took forever and was also passed away in the wink of an eyebrow. The next day I was already on the road with the rising of the sun. The endless sandy road was leading to the horizon. The sun threw the earth in an intense white light. I had to push my bike for miles through the deep sand. I had to push a few hours through the sand until the road got stonier and I could continue my way through the easier, firmer terrain. Even more help was given by an increasingly powerful tailwind. The conditions were so favorable that I was suddenly progressing very fast. Around noon I reached the ghost village of Isluga and a bit later later I found myself on the main, asphalted road to Colchane. I had done the remote stretch from Putre to Colchane much faster than I thought beforehand. The route had cost me less than three days, where I expected at least six days. Now I had to cover only a few kilometers to the inhabited world. The wind was incredibly fierce now and all around me sand and salt storms arose. I had the wind in he back and without pedaling I reached speeds of forty kilometers per hour. Where I am normally delighted after completing a difficult and beautiful route, I should now have been in a state of permanent ecstasy, but above all I was concerned. I had seen no track from Marten and Karin. Since I had made very long days and all conditions were very favorable, I should must have overtaken my compatanions somewhere down the road. After the Salar de Surire the route comsisted largely of sand so that I easily must have recognized the two bike tracks. But I had seen only one And that one bike track seemed at least a week old. So that could not be Marten and Karin. In Colchane I searched contact and I sent an email whether they were still alive. A few days later I got an answer. It turned out that they had passed the Salar de Surire in anti-clockwise fashion, while I just cycled the sakt lake clockwise. At that time I had just passed my friends. The Hard Road and the Easy Road I continued on my way in Bolivia to visit the the colonial cities Sucre and Potosí. I crossed the Bolivian border and crossed the Bolivian Altiplano once again. In two long days I reached Oruro on the other side of the Altiplano. The road of life has many intersections. Sometimes it was clear which road I had to choose, at other times there was no single "right" way. There were two possibilities to reach Sucre and Potosí. On the one hand there was the main route along the edge of the plateau to Potosí and further to Sucre. On the other hand there was a possibility to get to Sucre over a mountainous direct route. The paved trail on the plateau would be five hundred kilometers. The direct route over sand and stone roads three hundred kilometers. The first twenty-five kilometers to the intersection I got a taster of the paved road on the plateau. The wind made me slow down to less than twelve kilometers per hour. I crept over the endless plain. And it was just the beginning of the morning. Usually it began to blow really hard on the Altiplano later in the afternoon. I reached the crossroads. All road users had to wait before the intersection. There was a cycling race going on. All traffic had to wait until all participating riders had passed. A small police delegation had to organize the situation at the crossroads. I had a discussion about the possible roads to Sucre with an interested agent. The left road led the way into the mountains. The right one remained on the plateau, west of the mountains. Left was the hard road, right was the easy road. The principal agent was clear: "There is only one way to Sucre and Potosí." "No," I objected, "just look at the map, there are two roads and the other road is shorter." "But then you have to climb." "That would be fun." "Yes, but the road is unpaved ..." "Interesting..." The principal agent shook his head in desperation. Despondently, he looked at his colleagues. I saw him thinking: "What a pighead is that... Well, if tghe guy does not want to listen, let him take care of his own business." Whatever choice I would make, it was important to keep supporting my choice and to accept the expected and unexpected consequences. So much energy can be spoiled by thinking how things could have been, if I would have made other choices. It is important to focus on the things that you do and not on the things that you don't. After the cyclists had passed, the road was free. I took the left turn, and so I eneterd the difficult route. In disbelief the agents looked at me, their heads shaking. At first, the road was not that difficult actually. The first seventy kilometers to the mining town of Llallagua were paved. Llallagua was an unpolished South American city. Fifty thousand people were living on a few hectares in a remote corner of a valley. The unprecedented hustle and bustle were even for South American standards uncommon. I had the sensation like I found myself in a gigantic anthill. A pleasant anthill, as the atmosphere was fine in the city that never sees any tourists. I checked on the Internet the condition of the road that laid before me. Better late than nevr, but now I could still return. I searched on the keywords Cycling, Oruro and Sucre. Google Bolivia returned with only three relevant search results. The top entry had the headline "Worst Road of the World". Clicking on the entry brought me to a site with photos of a red dirt road with tire tracks of twenty to thirty centimeters deep. The author had the unequal battle against the elements and after a hundred kilometers he had given up cycling in favour of hitchhiking the rest of the route. A second entry was the story of a couple that needed no less than three weeks to bridge the three hundred kilometers, an average of only fifteen kilometers a day. The third entry handled about a cyclist who doubted whether he would take the difficult road or the paved route and concluded with the statement that he was very happy to have taken the paved route. The available information did not give me the desired feeling that I had made the right choice. I decided to continue on the difficult road anyway. Even if I were not going faster than five kilometers per hour on the arduous climbs, I would still be faster than returning for the paved route Potosí. With four kilometers an hour I struggled my way up. The road was unusually steep. I was very, very slow, but I passed beautiful mountain landscapes and villages where the people welcomed me warmly. Locals shared their food with me and everyone had time for a chat. So far, the route was still not that bad. The next day, the road was considerably worse, however. The road consisted of large bouncing stones and deep layers of sand. I mostly had to do with washboard, a wavy pattern of about ten centimeters long and two centimeters high. The undulating road pattern guarantees that you are not able to exert power and that you will be completely shaken: a wild ride on a psychedelic llama. Even on the descents I could not move forward faster than five kilometers per hour. I had to keep the speed low to protect my bike and protect myself a bit. A whole day of hard work would bring me fifty kilometers further. The road was bad, but I did not cycle through completely uninhabited areas. In the valleys were pastures and every thirty to sixty kilometers I found a village with very limited facilities. "Sometimes I do not know where this dirty road is taking me," sings Townes van Zandt. One after the other anonymous ridge was on my way. The route was a concatenation of impossibly steep climbs and steep descents impossible. On the climbs I needed all the strength in my legs to just keep going and on the descents I needed all the strength in my fingers to brake hard enough. The road was in a miserable state. Large sharp stones protruded out of the road. My stomach and intestines were subject to a jackhammer massage and on the descents the bike was shaking so fiercely that I was afraid that my wrists would break like matchsticks. The bike creaked under the heavy pressures that were exerted. I was anxious that my carrier would break again because of the extreme vibrations. The route from Oruro to Sucre seemed endless but six days after my departure from Oruro I bounced into the city of Sucre. A large plate showed that I entered the constitutional capital of Bolivia. The other capital, La Paz, however, is the city from which Bolivia is actually governed. The resurrection of Che Guevara In a tent in Sucre I met Suzie. It was her first day at the continent. She wanted to make a living in South America, a region where she had never been before. She wanted to take Spanish lessons in Sucre andsubsequently travel through South America while giving English lessons. She had the dream to travel to Colombia to work there at a language school. Suzie and I visited an orphanage, a school for disabled children and a shelter house where adolescents from dysfunctional families could stay. We were shown around by Linda, a Dutch owner of a cafe in the center of Sucre. She had a foundation that launched projects to maintain and improve the high standard of these institutions. I was surprised by the professional quality. I saw happy children and throughout our stay there were always a few kids hanging on our arms and legs. In a poor country like Bolivia it is a good sign when children are enthusiastic and feel free. Almost all of my South American cycling buddies trickled one by one in my hostal in Sucre, sometimes planned, sometimes purely coincidentally. I met the German rider Uwe for the third time on this trip and in an Internet I met José again, my Ecuadorian friend with whom I cycled over a week together in Northern Peru. I had the necessary arrangements with José, who was staying with his friend Javier Sucre. When our roads in Chachapoyas divorced, I had my doubts whether it was a good idea to ride together. I loved his carefree way of life, but I was unsure whether he was ready for long distances without facilities in remote mountain areas. The fact that he was here, showed that my doubts were unfounded. José had been able to adapt, and in the meantime he was an experienced long distance cyclist. We immediately had a click again and we started to make plans to travel together again. A few days cycling of Sucre lies Uyuni, where the legendary Salar and Laguna Route to San Pedro de Atacama begins. José doubted whether he was experienced enough to cycle the difficult route. We philosophized together about the risks: the loneliness, the cold, the wind, the state of the tracks, the orientation difficulties and the absence of villages, people, water and food. José and I looked each other deep in the eyes. I knew that I was ready to make it on my own and I was convinced that we could also do it together. Because José wanted to stay a bit longer with his friend Javier, we agreed to go three weeks from now. During a week I followed Spanish classes at a language school in Sucre. Ximena was my teacher, a woman who became a widow already when she was twenty second years old. Her husband and their two year old daughter Laura were on a bridge when a bus rammed the two. They both fell many meters into the ravine. Ximena had seen it all happen. She found the lifeless body of her husband with little Laura folded in his arms. She had to fear for the life of Laura as well, but with an operation she could eventually be saved. She was a lively child of seven years old now. Ximena had a tough life as a young widow. Frequently the tears rolled down her cheeks. Her resilience was not broken despite the heart-breaking history. In addition to raising her daughter and work at the school she attended a university study to be able to acquire a better paying job and rise up out of poverty and misery. In the week of my Spanish class the crew of a Dutch television programme was in Sucre at the school. The popular presenter wanted to shoot an English lesson for Bolivians and so Suzie was starring as the teacher. Then the program makers wanted to film Spanish classes for foreigners. Because the team came in the evening, the Spanish classes were finished and so a class had be improvised. The director of the school asked Yashira as a teacher and she asked Marco and me, the only Dutch, to serve as a class. The third appointed volunteer was the Japanese Yoshi. With his hairstyle and beard, beret and army equipment he was a one hundred percent replica of Che Guevara. Yoshi was fully styled to this mythical Latin American icon and he also called himself Che. So the Dutch television showed how Marco, Che Guevara and the Lonely Cyclist attended Spanish classes given by the language institute Fenix. The presenter asked us to tell about the possibilities of volunteering. He asked whether a Dutch person would be well prepared to travel independently through South America after two weeks of Spanish lessons. I answered confidently: "Certainly." Che gave his approval. Japanese Yoshi traveled on a motorbike through South America, just like Che Guevara did fifty years ago. The legendary motorcycle tours of Che Guevara were described and filmed as The Motorcycle Diaries. My camino crossed the tracks of Che Guevara many times. In that sense I had my own Bicycle Diaries. Many discussion I held with the Japanese comandante about the future of the pueblo, the future of the village. In the communist propaganda the pueblo was symbol for a society where the people found salvation in working for the commune. In this ideal society the whole village trusted the comandante and the residents worked hard, because they knew that everyone would benefit from the personal sacrifices. The reality proved more resilient though. In all communist societies the already limited revenues of the sacrifices that the pueblo was making mainly benefited the comandante. The villagers who were less confident were prosecuted by the comandante and ended in prison camps. Everything for the glory of the pueblo, but after almost a hundred years of communism in different locations in the world we are still waiting for progress of the pueblo. After a stay of two weeks in Sucre I traveled with Suzie, Zia and Gaeme to southern Bolivia by bus. Through the wine region of Tarija we traveled to Tupiza, a Wild West semi-desert landscape with bizarre red rock formations and giant cacti. Tupiza is the equestrian capital of South America so Suzie and I had to go for it. Zia and Graeme had a very large riding experience and they would do a long tour while the beginners Suzie and I and an Australian couple would do a short tour. Luckily we got some instructions in advance from Zia. The guides were drunk teenagers who did not give any indication of how and where to ride. In fact they did not speak whatsoever. Dutifully the Australian couple and Suzie and i trudged behind the guides. I thought that the guides were deaf and dumb because the first hour, not a single word came over the lips of these people and they did not respond non-verbally either to any input from the outside world. After a few kilometers the teenagers got lost and we were isolated. While horse riding we discussed what to do. We decided to let the horses turn around to look for the guides. After the guides were finally found, we had a second incident. One of the guides took a different turn with Suzie than the other guide with the Australian riders. I asked to the one guide where the other guide was haeding with Suzie. "They are going in the wrong direction." "Then we have to pick up Suzie." "Just wait, they will come back again." Eventually, the other guide came back without Suzie. "Which way do we go?" I asked annoyed. One guide pointed in one direction, the other guide in the other. I lost my patience. "Again, which way will we go?" Again one guide pointed one way and the other guide the other way. I could not hold back my anger no longer. I asked for the last time whether we go the one way or the other. The last attempt was also in vain, as I saw the guides pointing in different directions. I put my horse in movement and one of the guides hobbled uniterested behind me. I reached Suzie. We continued with one of the guides over a route (the right or the wrong?) over a steep prairie landscape. The other guide had gone the other way with the Australian couple. Luckily Graeme and Zia had given us the instruction to bow forward on steep climbing sections and to hang backwards on steep descending sections. The guide was completely silent. In the middle of the desert, he left us. A woman would accompany us back to the stables on foot. But the stables were five kilometers away. Suzie and I dis not feel like riding back so slow. Luckily the woman had much better communication skills than the male guides. After some discussion she was confident that Suzie and I had the capacities to find our way back independently. In a swift trotting pace Suzie and I headed back to the stables. Twenty minutes later we delivered the horses. I said goodbye to Suzie, Graeme and Zia. Whether and when we would meet again, was uncertain. Whether I would see José again was also uncertain. I got a very nasty text message on internet. Jos&$233; and Javier had a serious bus accident on a weekend trip to La Paz. José needed surgery in La Paz to release a glass splinter from his eye and Javier as well had to be treated for serious injuries. Whether José could travel again sooner or later, and whether he would get his sight back at all, was very uncertain. The operation at least was successful, but whether José would be able to travel again, however, was very uncertain. I got pictures from just after the accident. They were pure horror. His face was covered with thick layers of blood, which covered most of his face, including one of his eyes. After four weeks of walking tours, horseback riding, wine tours, fun at the pool and swinging in hammocks, it was time to pick up the journey again. All kinds of challenges that I might have missed the last weeks, could be offset very soon. I cycled to Potosí, the Bolivian mining town where significant quantities of gold and silver were extracted in the past. The rich colonial center still testified of the revenues from the distant past. The drab, shabby houses of the surrounding city witnessed the revenues of the recent past. Yet some hundred forty thousand men entered the dark shafts of the Cerro Rico on a daily basis, hoping to find a new gold or silver vein. For most, the hope would prove futile, but occasionally someone was lucky. An independent miner could become wealthy if he would find a gold or silver vein and keep it hidden long enough for his hundredforty thousand competitors. The last miner who did the trick, owned several colonial buildings in the center of the city. Various tour operators offered a tour in the mines. With an ex-miner I trudged the narrow, dark shafts. The experience was a Dante's Inferno for dummies. After a day of cycling in the mountains I could sometimes look a bit drawn out, but that was nothing compared to the miners. On average, a miner would be inside the shafts some fourteen hours a day. The men (I did not meet any women) were crawling like ants in the claustrophobic small corridors. The shafts were eighty centimeters high and fifty centimeters wide. In the Netherlands we worry sometimes about particulate dust concentrations, but the mines of Potosí saw blue of dust. Miners which were longer than eight hours in the mines, looked blank and exhausted, with eyes dull and lifeless. To numb the pain the miners chewed coca laves all day long. In addition, they drank ceibo, a drink that consists of almost pure alcohol. A drop was enough to scorch your mouth. If you did not have cough attacks from the dust in the air, this drink could help you out for sure. There was little organization in the mines. Nobody had an overview of the shafts which were drilled in the past. The top three hundred meters of the mountain were forbidden to enter therefore, but below the situatuins gets worse and worse every day. One day the inevitable will happen and the mountain will collapse. There were no security measures whatsoever in the mines. Tourists decreased unsecured in the vertical shafts with long, carelessly hung down, ropes. Climbs in vertical shafts were made possible by twenty to thirty meter high ladders. At the end of the tour by way of a farewell stunt a piece of dynamite was blown up. The Salar and the Lagunas From Potosí I cycled in two days to Uyuni through Uyuni is the starting point of perhaps the toughest cycling route from the American continent. The route to San Pedro de Atacama carries over the largest salt flat of the world and across uninhabited high mountain deserts without facilities and without potable water. Two hundred kilometers of salt flats and four hundred kilometers of jeep tracks at high altitude separated me from the desert city in Chile. According to the stories on the internet the route would take two weeks. Because the area is not only nearly inaccessible but also very beautiful, there are jeep tours through the area. Therefore there are some huts where possibly chocolate and biscuits could be available. The supply is primarily intended for the jeep tours though. It was unsure if I could make use of the supplies in the refuges and whether I could sleep in the refuges. There are no real roads but there are jeep tracks. According to the blogs on the internet, half of the time it is not possible to ride on the tracks and I must be perpared to push my bike through loose sand or large stones. Further I could be ensured of the infamous daily southwesterly storms, which cause an almost permanent headwind. The route runs continuously through high areas and also in terms of orientation the route is challenging with jeep tracks that split, but not always join. Armed with fourteen liters of water and seven kilograms of food - spaghetti, canned vegetables, cans of tuna, powdered soups and dozens of biscuits and chocolate - I left the inhabited world. After twenty kilometers I reached the Salar de Uyuni, a salt plain of two hundred kilometers long and two hundred kilometers wide. The salt basin lies at an altitude of 3,650 meters, surrounded by still higher realms. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the dazzling white light that reflected on the plain. The sensory experiences were limited to the blue of the sky and the white of the plain. At a great distance some mountain ranges rose above the white sea of salt. All scale was vanished on the endless plain. Everyone takes his own way on the salar. The Salar de Uyuni can therefore be considered as the broadest road in the world, albeit a road that goes from nothing to nothing. Nobody lives on the salt flat and also in the surrounding areas is virtually no habitation. I pointed my GPS to the Isla de los Pescadores. I had a hundred kilometers to cross to reach the island in the middle of the Salt Flat. It was relevant to reach the Isla de los Pescadores today. It would be difficult to pitch my tent on the hard salt. It was even more important not to get lost. As long as the batteries in my GPS continued to function, the route was simple and I just had to carry straight on. If, however, the GPS would not function, I would only have the sun at my disposal to orient. The crossing of the salt flats was accompanied by the pleasant sound of crackling salt under the wheels. All across the salt flats was a pattern of about three meter wide hexagons. The edges of the hexagons were about an centimeter high and caused quite some friction. Much more than the friction of the hexagons, the wind was able to slow me down effectively. I got a little foretaste of what was waiting on the subsequent Laguna part of the route, where the wind is usually even stronger. At the end of the day I made a preciesion landing on the Isla de los Pescadores, the small island in the middle of the Salar with giant cacti. The first day of the route was done. Day two was similar to day one. In five to six hours I cycled across the salt flats until I reached the mainland. On day three, I reached San Juan de Rosario, the only village on the route to San Pedro de Atacama. There were a few small hotels and there were some shops where I could complement my food and water supplies. I was not the only gringo in San Juan. I met Nathan, a young Jewish-American scientist who studied the history of residents around the Salar de Uyuni. There was little known about their background and their history. Nathan cycled from one to another settlement to interview the people. He was a special and intelligent young man. It seemed fun to travel together for some time, so I asked him if he wanted to ride with me to San Pedro de Atacama. Despite a strong urge, he refused my request. That would not be correct to the people who finance the research. Part one of the route, the crossing of the Salar was completed. Now I was about to continue on the much heavier part two of the route, along the Lagunas, the lakes of Southwest Bolivia. According to the most widely used Internet resources, I would have to rely on myself for ten days. With twenty-five liters of water, and with food supplies for ten days I left the last settlement of the inhabited world. The first fifty kilometers from San Juan de Rosario the road quality was surprisingly good. I cycled over large white plains of salt and clay, where the tires had a good grip. In the distance, purple volcanoes rose up to six thousand meters high in the sky. After crossing the final plain followed the first long climb. The road deteriorated dramatically. Through a mixture of loose sand with large stones I pushed my bike up. The pushing through the loose sand was more romantic in the imagination beforehand than it turned out to be in reality. My bike was sixty kilograms heavy, due to the massive water and food supplies that I had to carry with me. Sometimes I was able to make a little bike ride with tremendous effort, but anytime my vehicle could suddenly get stuck. After many hours the climb ended. I entered an undulating landscape between four and four and a half thousand meters. The road improved and most of the route I could cycle again in ten to twelve centimeter deep jeep tracks. It was important not to hit the side walls of the track with the bags. Centimeter work that was doomed to fail on the sandy surface. It had to go wrong sooner or later and it went wrong. After a minor steering error I maneuvered one of the panniers against the wall of one of the tracks. For the umpteenth time broke a mounting nut of the carrier and I was forced to carry out the necessary repair work. Moments later the night fell. On a large, lonely plain I made camp. I cooked my first pasta meal with soup powder sauce. It was not a feast for the senses, but the energy level was replenished. The next morning I reached the first of the Lagunas, the high mountain lakes that are surrounded by lonely mountain ranges and almost vegetation-free high mountain desert. Snowy volcanoes reflected in the unrippled water. It was early in the morning and the wind was not raging yet. The water of the lakes was due to high salt and metal concentrations not potable, but the flamingos were doing fine in the toxic water. I passed one after the other laguna. Depending on the minerals, the algae and the light circumstances the Lagunas were navy blue, green, white, brown, yellow ocher, orange, wine red and deep turquoise. At sunrise and sunset the lakes could also turn into bright yellow, purple and pink colors. Most days started windless, but usually I could not enjoy the favorable wind conditions a long time. The highlands of southwestern Bolivia are plagued by daily storms. These usually come around noon started to die down around six o'clock as the sun goes down. The first day the daily storm had a day off though, but the second day she surprised with an early visit. At half past nine I was already fighting the stormy wind. There was a huge favourable condition as well. The long climb to the pass would be a long, arduous, pushing affair according to the description on internet. Hundred meters of pushing a sixty kilogram heavy bike through loose sand is a big effort, but ten kilomters pushing a bike up to 4,700 meters altitude would be a massive effort. The bulk of the climb I could keep on cycling, although with the greatest difficulty. Against the evening of day two of the Laguna Route I reached a resort where the more luxury jeep tours stayed for overnight. I did not feel like sleeping in a tent sleep with the raging wind and the cold night of around twenty degrees below freezing point. The resort was strikingly beautiful. I feared that the price level would be strikingly expensive as well and that I would eventually end up in my tent anyway. But I gave it a shot and knocked on the door. Owner Maria said that I could sleep for a hundred dollars. I had to laugh when I heard the amount. "What amount do you think about?" "Well, I was thinking of ten dollars." "That is okay. But then you have to sleep in a dorm between drivers of the jeep tours. " That was a really good deal. Because the storm was still raging after I had washed myself in the resort and the temperature had sunken well below zero, I decided not to cook spaghetti with powder soup spaghetti outside in the dark, but to go inside to eat with the tour groups. The sumptuous meal was significantly better than the spaghetti with soup powder sauce yesterday and better than what the best restaurants in the major cities of Bolivia had to offer. Most guests could not appreciate the culinary excellence though. Almost all travelers were ash white from altitude sickness and dripped off one by one to the sleeping quarters. I was left alone with massive amounts of luxury food that was untouched by the altitude sickness stricken tourists. After finishing the meal I asked for the bill. Maria, the owner of the complex, smiled grandly. I asked why she laughed. "We all find you a very nice guy and we are extremely honored that you ride with your bike through our beautiful country and therefore you receive this meal from the hotel." Day three started with crossing a large plain. My bike sank a decimeter deep into the sand and stones. Cycling was impossible. Laboriously I pushed my bike through the loose stones. The hour of pushing yesterday and the hour of pushing the day before yesterday left me with muscle pain in my arms. The sleep between these gigantic efforts proved barely adequate to remove all waste material out of my system. Consequently, my arms were almost too tired to keep my handlebars, let alone to push the vehicle through the deep sand. Over two hours, I pushed my bike through until I found a track that was rideable. I had bad luck that I did not find the track earlier, but I was lucky that I had found the track anyway, otherwise I would be pushing my bike through the endless plain still. I had not seen a tree for more than a week now. The landscape did not even allow dry bushes. The only tree in the landscape was the Árbol Piedra, a wind-carved stone in the shape of a tree. "Is every moment forever?" That is the question that singer Robert Wyatt akss himself in the song "Unmasked". The shimmering white light of the sun burst into thousands of white crystals on the bare landscape. The sunlight penetrated into the last capillaries and pores of the country without shade. On the immense plains of Southwest Bolivia all contradictions were solved in the seemingly infinite space of the landscape. In a trance I carried on over fields of sand and stones. Everything is cyclical and everything returns. And so did the wind which raged familiarly against my face on the long descent to the Laguna Colorada. On the shores of the red wine colored lake I found a simple cabin, so I again escaped a cold night. Inside I cooked spaghetti with soup powder sauce, this time with a different flavor. At least it was a different package with another name. For the luxury I added a can of peas as a miserably sweet counterpart to the ultra-salt slurry of the soup powder. After a breakfast of spaghetti with soup powder and canned artificial mushrooms I had enough energy for the sixteen kilometers mulle sand tracks along the Laguna Colorada. Luckily I was able to cycle most of the time, and so I started relatively crisp on the big climb to the Sol de Mañana, a pass at 4,950 meters altitude. The wind was early today and from the start of the climb I could exercise my daily unequal struggle against the raging storm. After a week on the Altiplano I did not look too fresh anymore. Because drinking had more priority over personal hygiene, the last week I had used at most one liter of my water resources to wash me. After a week without shaving, I looked like a rough variant of Nicolas Cage. I had a skin of leather due to the bright sunlight. And there were the altitude-induced continuous coughings. My eyes looked squint of the extreme effort. My lips and fingers were ruptured by dehydration and my clothes were whitewashed from my own sweat on the one hand and from the wind that carried salt and sand on the other hand. My body did have a weapon in the physical battle against the wind and the altitude. Massive amounts of adrenaline were pumping through my veins and majestic shoots of endorphin caused a permanent feeling of euphoria. Wind nor height could get me out of the state of ecstasy. From childhood I had dreamed of distant lands and high mountains and my camino on the South American continent made all my dreams come true. I found myself very cool with my sunburned skin, my pink jersey of the Giro d'Italia and my red bicycle Gringo Starr. More than other days I had contact with the many tour groups. Where the jeeps usually spread across the many parallel tracks, all traffic was concentrated on one track on the climb to the Sol de Mañana. I drew a lot of attention the last few days and the hard work of the Lonely Cyclist was recorded a lot on the cameras and videos that peeped out of the jeeps. My at theis time not too modest persona got loads of compliments and all the pretty girls wanted with me on a picture. I was convinced that I deserved it. I reached the highest pass on the route. Nearly five thousand meter high was a large geyser field, whose sulfur aromas vied with the foul smells of sweat from the Lonely Cyclist. A long descent brought me to a new laguna with hot springs and a restaurant. I was the only "customer" and I had the hot springs to myself. For the first time in a week I could wash myself. When the sun went down the Altiplano was drenched in the freezing cold, but I found myself paddling and enjoying the steaming hot water of the springs. In the nearby restaurant I could find a place to sleep on the ground. That saved me again from a cold night outside. I did not have to cook, as the pasta was cooked by the owners. They did not have a sauce, but I was allowed to use the ketchup. I wanted to say that I still had enough soup powder in stock, but I rethought just in time. With the two young men who worked in the restaurant, we climbed to a viewpoint where we experienced the dark yellow, orange and violet sunset over the lake. The last four days I had progressed much more than expected. Only two mountain passes separated me from the Chilean border and civilization. I was cycling through the Desierto de Dalí, a wilderness of bizarre rock formations from thar rose from the plain. The plain ended at the foot of a mountain range. A relatively easy climb brought me to the pass. In the descent unfolded a hallucinatory beautiful panorama before my eyes. Far away I saw the Laguna Verde and Laguna Blanca, separated by a narrow isthmus. Behind the turquoise Laguna Verde and the white Laguna Blanca towered the volcano Licancabur like a tower of Mordor, marking the border with Chile. One last climb awaited me, behind the volcano. The headwind started late and only in the last kilometers of the otherwise relatively comfortable climb the daily storm burst loose. Nothing could happen to me anymore. I passed the Chilean border and reached the asphalt road that carried me down two thousand meters from the freezer of the Altiplano to the oven of the Atacama Desert. I felt the shaking and banging on the stone surface stopped when reaching the asphalt on the main road from Argentina to San Pedro de Atacama. Only a long descent on asphalt separated me from civilization and the luxuries that civilization has brought us. Like a stone, I let myself go down. I left Bolivia behind me, on the way to new adventures, but especially to a shower. And a good bed. And a nutritious meal that does not have to be spiced up with the horrible soup powder. Map of my route in Bolivia