Out of the Saddle!

As the Leukemia Research Fund Home Page is reporting, Worth Old boy ('90 Chapman) and "London solicitor Nicholas Lobb is nearing the end of an epic 10 month, 6,000 mile cycling odyssey along the spine of the Andes from Tierra del Fuego , the ‘Land of Fire’ to Lake Titicaca, the ‘Sacred Lake of the Incas’ to raise funds for people with Leukaemia."

We featured Nick's 4th Letter, 15 Feb 2002 back in March. If you missed it click here to read it in full.

6th LETTER FROM SOUTH AMERICA - Bolivia 17.06.02

Total distance: 5,638.14 miles
Money raised: £3,603.50
Aim: To raise £1 for every mile ridden

Landlocked Bolivia is the highest and most isolated of all the countries in South America and its population remains one of the most indigenous on the continent. Whilst Catholicism is Bolivia’s official religion it’s isolation has ensured that Bolivian traditions, culture, beliefs and superstitions have remained largely unchanged for some 3,000 years. And so, witches markets still exist in towns and cities such as La Paz and ancient practices, such as burying a llama’s fetus under the foundations of a new home for good luck, still continue.

Whilst this has made Bolivia a fascinating experience, it has helped ensure it remains one of the poorest countries on the continent, with 70% of its population living under the poverty line. This expedition has taken me to some of the poorest parts of the country, some of which are rarely, if ever, visited by tourists, cannot be reached by road and at times are not marked on any of my maps. Many homes and villages have no electricity, running water, proper drainage or sanitation. So it is perhaps not surprising that after arriving in Oruro, where I am now, I was seeking help from a doctor. After hearing where I had been and feeling the small storm rumbling in my stomach he suspected I might have typhoid. But the blood test results were negative, so I still might survive to the end of the expedition!

“Never, never again!...”

…was the reaction I received from Hallam Murray, once South American cyclist now lecturer on far flung travel destinations, when I told him about my days on the railway line soon after arriving in Bolivia. From Tupiza both the road and railway lead to my next destination, the Salar de Uyuni. Only around 5 % of Bolivia’s roads are laid, the other 95% being notoriously bad. So I sought the advice of the “Instituto Militar Geografico,”, whose officials were in unanimous accord in recommending that I take the railway line which was apparently more direct, flatter and a smoother ride than the road. The first doubtful station master agreed, also confirming there were no trains running the next day. However, he added, I should still listen out for anything on the tracks when I was inside the tunnels.

“I really should have taken the road!”

My estimated two day trip to Uyuni took me four days. No one had mentioned the boulder strewn embankments or the countless bridges on the way. With one eye on my front wheel the other on where next to step in order not to fall through the gaps in the sleepers, I balanced the bike on one rail and painstakingly inched my way across. It was from one of these bridges which some weeks before my friend Paul, whom I had met in Chile, had fallen off. His wife, Ros, said that as she watched him and his bike fall from the bridge to the ground below, all their shared plans for the future flashed before her. After two operations on Paul’s shoulder they have had return home to England.

“Oro Genio,” shouted Juan triumphantly as we herded his donkeys, which he had rounded up earlier, into the village. I had met Juan and his older brother Luis a couple of miles before as they rode home from school. The village shop was opened up for me and from its three or so small shelves I found some tuna fish for my dinner. While Oro boasted its own tap with running water I still wasn’t altogether happy. It was my first day on the tracks and I had traveled less than 24 miles; there would be trains running tomorrow and worse there were three tunnels to pass through. “How long is the longest?” I asked. “Vveeeery long,” replied Juan.

On the second night I reached Escoriani (4,056.43m / 13,308.50ft above sea level). As I settled down for the night, the full moon shining into my tent, a bowler-hatted woman wrapped in a thick shawl against the cold peered into my tent. I had camped in the shelter of the station and she was waiting for the northbound 9pm train.

One hour early, she settled down right by the entrance to my tent. Marina was on her way to Oruro to buy some new clothes. We spoke until I had exhausted my Spanish vocabulary when I said goodnight, zipped up the tent and fell asleep. At 9pm I woke as the train arrived. Amidst the noise of the passengers getting on and off the train I felt as if I had pitched my tent in the middle of Waterloo. But within fifteen minutes, as the noise of the last of the cars and trucks taking people to surrounding villages faded away, all was quite again and with any luck Marina was safely on her way to Oruro.

The Salar de Uyuni

At an altitude of 3,653m / 11,970ft the giant saltpan of the Salar de Uyuni covers 4,680 sq miles. It took me two full days to cycle from one side to the other, spending the night on the small cacti covered Fish Island. More than 60 miles across the Salar from Uyuni town, is home to Alfredo and his family. I had heard stories of people getting lost on the Salar and of a cyclist who, venturing on to it without sunglasses, temporarily lost his sight and was found cycling round in circles. On the first day a motorcyclist, who had driven down from New York and who I had met the previous night in Uyuni, traveling in opposite direction to me stopped an asked: “Is this the way to San Juan?” (a town to the south of the Salar). “No”, I said, “that is the way back to Uyuni”. “Exactly where you came from this morning”, I was thinking.

On the second day I was feeling a lot less smug as the tracks from the various tours, which had passed me at intervals during the previous day, disappeared, and I looked around me at the vast expanse of the Salar stretching for miles in every direction. By late afternoon, with the help of my map and compass, I arrived on the western edge of the Salar and found the beginning of the dirt road. I passed a man from Llica on his motorbike, who confirmed I was on the right road. He was the first person I had seen since leaving Fish Island.

In the municipal hostel in Llica I optimistically asked around for a hot shower and for a small extra charge was provided with a bucket of hot water. With no electricity in the town I ventured out to find some dinner, narrowly missing trampling on the children running around in the pitch dark. I followed the dim light of a gas lamp into a small shop where on a table made of crates and a plank of wood were laid various cuts of meat and ate one of Bolivia’s staple dishes; beef, potatoes and rice. Back at my hostel I slept surprisingly well above a room full of drunk men who were still singing when I left the next morning.

Life on the Altiplano

Some of the roads over the next seven days were the worst I had seen, sometimes branching off in all directions, leaving me to take whichever appeared the most used. Small villages were usually empty, most people apparently working in the fields, leaving only a few old ladies and mothers with children from whom to ask directions.

One evening I was offered a place to sleep in the village school and spent the night under the blackboard surrounded by pictures of Bolivia’s history makers such as Sucre and Simon de Bolivar. On 3rd May, after dark I was accompanied for the last half a mile into Sanctuario de Quillacas by a young woman, her baby strapped to her back, who had been working in the fields. She showed me to a “pension” which was being run by the seven dwarfs; seven young brothers. There was no room in the main building but I was shown through stable doors into a shed next door, pointed to a straw mattress on the stone floor and handed a candle. “Where is the owner?” I asked, hoping for an upgrade. “He’s drunk,” answered the boy. Fortunately the boys could manage a fairly decent plate of beef and rice.

The next morning saw various members of the town wondering around bleary eyed with hangovers. It was only a few days later when I read that 3rd May is an important festival on the Altiplano. People gather in local villages, the women sing traditional songs and the men fight. This ancient tradition stems from the Inca belief that having spent the year taking crops from “pacha mama” (mother earth), fighting and more importantly the shedding of blood is a means of putting something back. It I also an effective way of settling scores or disputes. Men with bleeding faces stumble around the streets, some of them crying, it’s uncertain whether with pain or with pride at having made their sacrifice. It was probably fortunate I missed this because tourists apparently are seen as excellent fighting fodder.

The Rain Forest

...or at least the nearest I was going to get to it, was my next stop as I descended from the Altiplano cities of Potosi and Sucre into the hot and humid forests of Santa Cruz, thick with the sound of screeching parakeets and insects. Yet again evening found me on the road. As dusk fell two men passed me, one with a machete the other with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Apart from wandering locals, I had seen four snakes since the north of Argentina, and even if I could have found a patch of ground among the thick vegetation, was going off the idea of camping. So I wandered on.

An hour later a man stopped in his pick-up. At first I refused his offer of a lift, but when he mentioned the possible danger I was in I had to agree with him. One hour later we arrived in Monteagudo. Carlos Bejarano Martinez was traveling for his business, promoting Andean products and after showing me to a decent hotel we went out for some dinner and some wine, which had been in short supply since Argentina. The next day I got a taxi back to where he had picked me up and carried on.

Children on their way home from school

Che Guevara

Like me, the Argentine born revolutionary Che Guevara once rode through the north of Argentina on a bicycle (although powered by a small motor). He later declared that Bolivia was the heart of South America and spent his last days here trying to raise support among unenthusiastic local farmers in the Santa Cruz region before being captured and executed by the Bolivian army and the CIA on 9th October 1967.

One evening in Lagunillas, I took up the offer of a drink with life long residents Fernando, Jaime and Juan. Accompanied by his guitar Fernando gave us a rendition of a song he had composed in honour of his town and Juan reminisced about how he had met Guevara as a boy and given him a cup of milk from the cow he was milking. Jaime then offered to drive me to the spot, only 20km away, where Che had been shot. But looking at Jaime and the table full of empty bottles if front of him and his friends, I made my excuses and went to look for some dinner.

As I waited for my dinner, at the back of the restaurant a group of men crowded round the dying moments of a cock fight. As the cocks, both covered in blood, stumbled around the ring the judge declared a winner before the loser finally collapsed.

Back on the Altiplano

In Pongo, during the long climb back up to the Altiplano, I found an Italian mission and a bed for the night. Girls from surrounding villages who would otherwise receive little education were on a two week course part funded by the government and the mission. In the evening I watched them play football as, dressed in traditional hats, full skirts and shawls they screamed and laughed their way around the pitch, pummeling each other and a deflated ball as it and stray sandels flew in all directions.

The next night in Laque Palca, I received an unusually cold reception from the woman in Restaurant San Miquel. As she looked at the floor she deflected my questions with a definate “no,” or “don’t know” and I left none the wiser as to where I might possibly be able to stay. After several similarly unsuccessful requests for help, I knocked at the gates of the local road building company compound where equipment was stored and workers slept. While at first I was refused, on asking to see the boss I persuaded him to let me in. Once inside his attitude softened. He shook my hand and explained that because of the connection made between foreigners, drug smuggling and the related problems it bought to the area, the women were naturally wary.

He also warned me to be careful of the Doberman. I had just made it into my room for the first time when he jumped up and pushed the door open. As I slammed it shut he retreated with a whimper as I trapped one of his pores.

Buoyed by my success (at getting a room) I ventured back to San Miquel to look for some dinner. The same lady said there was nothing to eat. I spoke to the ladies cooking in the kitchen who were a little bit more friendly and one managed a smile. So, together with a number of workers who had arrived after me I sat, wrapped up against the cold as they were, and waited hopefully for some food; you can guess what, which was eventually placed silently in front of me.

Back in he security guard’s room he recounted the incidences when he had had to use his gun, which he had no qualms about since he had been given a license to kill from the local police. Then he showed me the dynamite he kept in reserve, just in case.

I made it back to my room without incident and wedged the door shut with a chair.

The last leg

So, one way or another, I have made it to Oruro and am preparing for the last 370 odd miles to my final destination, Lake Titicaca and Peru.

Nick Lobb (Chapman 1985-90)

NB: Nick is still looking for sponsors, if you would like to help him raise money please contact him at nlobb@hotmail.com, or call his brother Jonathan on 020 8399 2298 or make a donation by sending a cheque, payable to LRF, to Nicholas Lobb Andes Odyssey, LRF, 43 Great Ormond Street, London, WC1N 3JJ.