Sleep is pretty easy to come by when you manage to get warm while the temperature plunges well below freezing outside. Carlos is roused by a vicuña, banging on the window. A very shy and endangered species looking like a mild-mannered miniature llama, this vicuña is fed by the family who lives here and he is looking for breakfast. Normally the vicuñas are seen at a distance so this is a bit of a morning treat. Someone finds him half an apple and I go to top up the gas tank. No gas at the pump. ¨What do you mean no gas?¨ ¨You`ll have to go back to Uyuni.¨ No thanks.

I search the town for the normally common signs of gasolina for sale. Here they are notable by their absence. I briefly consider a flaw in my plan. If I can not track down fuel just 30 kilometres from Uyuni, how can I rely on the marked `gas stations` in the south of Bolivia. I can not be sure of my fuel range due to issues of altitude and the quality of the road but I know I need gas before reaching Chile. Carlos assures me that we can purchase fuel off the jeep tours and we roll onto the salt lake and the famous Salt Hotel. The hotel has a cute history of an old man finding a slightly raised point on the salt and wishing to build the hotel (higher land as the salt lakes flood in the rainy season). The locals predictably threatened to send him to an asylum however as with most things in life, a little perseverance can get most things done. The salt hotel, constructed out of cut salt rocks and mortared together with even more salt, sits about 15km into the salt flats. A clever tourist attraction, they sell a few chocolate bars, woolly hats and charge to use the bathroom (no running water). I donated them my shredded tire tube which apparently is put to use in clearing septic tanks in a method foreign to me.

So I sat myself on one of the salt picnic tables outside and tried to beg gas off of the drivers passing through but there were few takers. `Sorry señor, we couldn`t find any gas south of the Salar and are running on fumes ourselves. Ask one of the drivers heading from Uyuni.` After batting a few eyelashes, I eventually found Juan, who promised to sell me gas at Isla Intihuasi, a half hour drive from here. Excellent. Carlos gifted me a couple of lettuce and tomato sandwiches and finally I was free and alone on the largest salt flat in the world.

I navigated according to the distant mountains with instructions from the drivers, but really there were well worn tracks and the easiest option was to ride within a kilometre of a parallel line on the established `salt flats` route. A vast flat white, I was riding my motorcycle through an unprepared film set. Completely alone with just a blue sky and no breathe of wind, I am isolated from the world. I had been reflecting on this in previous weeks. What would it feel like to be in a vast oasis without anything to look at, without color or stimulus, without anyone? What would I do? In the end, I followed the lead of hordes of Israeli backpackers for whom getting back to basics on the Salar de Uyuni is a rite of the South American passage. I got naked. The sun was out, but it was still a little fresh.

Back on the bike and fully clothed, I made Isla Intihuasi, a rocky outcropping that climbs about 50 metres above the Salar coated with giant cacti who have resided there for thousands of years. I walked around, chatted to the backpacker tours who all stop for lunch here, added a tin of tuna to my gifted sandwiches and was good to go.

I got information on hotels in the south and shot off in a bee-line south. I wanted to explore an island to the south and left the main route, Bereft of cactus it looked isolated and mysterious but was to stay that way. 500 metres from the island I felt the telltale cracking of the salt as it thinned and gave way to mud. I felt I could probably reach the island but didn`t want to risk mud solo and heavily loaded. I found out later that this island is popular with flamingoes making their nests and is littered with shells.

I felt tired already and knew I had a long way to travel. I found the road out to the salt lakes without issue, but the moment I exited the road was heavily corrugated. Somehow the steering felt light or some adjustment from the salt felt strange. I reached for a large bolt and the top of the handlebars which retains the steering head bearing – it was so loose I could tighten it with my hand. I was warned by one guru of the KLR to tighten this bolt, being so critical as having the bolt loosen off will grind my bearings to paste and allow the front tire play to move from side to side. I didn`t and it has now loosened twice on my trip. I had no tool which would tighten this so I moved on in the loose sand with washboard bottom. The road here was a real mess of tight blind corners around rock formations, continuous rutting and about 6 inches of accumulated loose stuff on the verge if you ran off your line in a corner (or were looking at the scenery).

The sun was beginning to set. I had directions to a hotel but when I slowed to check my position near a military checkpoint, and tighten my steering head bolt again, I found I had overshot it. I vaguely remembered some ramshackle sheds, one of which had `hotel` pasted on the wall and looked as inhabitable as a freezer. That must have been it! I pushed on and the road begin to fork, giving me three or four options of formidable sand. At various stages they would merge and diverge, clearly the road hadn`t been graded since, well perhaps never. As jeeps had ploughed through the soft sand traps they had splayed the tracks and this meant deep sand and having to fight to keep any control over direction. As a wise man once said, `when in doubt, gas it.` I left my fate to the motorcycle gods, leaned back to prevent the front tire from catching and made it through to my relief, a sharp switch back left and I rose up to a graded, level gravel stretch of road reaching back the few hundred metres I could see. I was sure it couldn`t have been there from the salt lake but it didn`t feel that way looking at me. I needed to find a hotel, a meal and someone with a 26mm spanner, and I had a half hour of light. A jeep overtook me while I photographed the entrance to town, San Juan. I followed them to track down their lodging. Sorry señor, no beds here. Actually yes, we have one more. And 5 minutes later I was kicked back on the street but the next hotel had space, thankfully. It was the Bolivian Special, a bed in a cell for $2.50, except electricity wasn`t included. When I pointed this out they informed me to wait 10 minutes and indeed the generator for the town was fired up and I could sit in the light to the grind of an ancient engine the whole town relied on – I noticed they cook with gas.

Thankfully I found a mechanic who for a donation let me borrow his tools and admired my bike. I found the most expensive beer in Bolivia. Room temperature was icy-fresh by New Zealand standards. And I found Ana, a New Zealand doctor travelling with a couple of Canadian friends. We had a glass of thin wine and tried not to think about the cold.

I returned to my cell early, exhausted from a long day. I slept in most of my riding gear with a sleeping bag and was warm, but somehow felt cold. Although famous for the plunging night temperatures here, it had clouded over and rather than teeth-chatteringly fatal cold, was merely fresh yet I was a basketcase. I realised I was falling ill. Where`s that doctor?
I woke before dawn with a ball of acid in my stomach and ran for the bathroom. My head ached, my body ached and most concerningly for the motorcycle I felt a little dizzy and my senses felt dulled. I returned to bed and tried to sleep things off. When I awoke I had passed a few bad dreams but the head felt a little better. I brewed up some strong coffee that tasted a little like wood, and made myself eat muesli. My headache became worse but it struck me to chew coca leaf, which I had a bag of from the market. This world-famous export of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Brasil and Bolivia is a much-demonised product in the developed world but the leaf is widely chewed here as part of the cultural and religious history of indigeneous people. Chewing the leaf, with an alkali activates the `drug`of the leaf producing a mild anaesthetic effect famed for assisting with altitude or allowing the body to adapt to strenuous activity, such as workng a mine shaft 13 hours a day on little more than bread. In my case, my head stopped throbbing and made me feel finally ready for the road.

Most of the tourist jeeps had set off earlier but I had my map and compass. There was only one road. I confirmed there would be gas in San Agustin, and confirmed that I was on the road for it. Leaving town, the harsh washboard only lasted another 10 minutes and I was soon on a vast mud flat flanked by several mountains over 5000 metres. At some stage I overtook a jeep, and then was overtaken as I took a few photos. I followed them for navigation through the mud flats and asked directions for gas and San Agustin. They urged me not to go on this `boring` route and to follow them. If you need gas, we can sell it to you they informed me. Hmmm. And I can get this tonight at your camp? Yeah, no problem. Tranquilo. I had a choice, company and the relative safety of this or the security of being self-reliant.

I followed the jeeps, over jagged rocks and into coarse sand fields as we traversed the Bolivian desert. Things got technical as we began to rise the additional 500 metres towards Laguna Colorada and once up the landscape became surreal and the famous horizons became rich in colour. I say famous because they were a major inspiration for the Spaniard, Salvador Dali and the `Rock Tree` feautures in one of his most famous paintings. And surreal is really the best way to describe this country, ancient rocks eroded into strange sculptures. Riding across vast deserts of sand guided only by the tracks of other jeeps. The climate is inhospitable and the wind is fresh, yet it is inhabited by beautiful pink flamingoes and some highland birds.

I was about to reach the lagoon with flamingoes when my footpeg fell off. The threads had been stripped and the vibration off road had expelled the new bolts I had replaced. I had more bolts but they wouldn`t hold. Hmmm, riding on one footpeg isn`t an option, particularly off-road (the pegs allowing you to balance or adjust your weight. The boys in the jeeps looked and assured me that it was indeed `jodido` which translates to something like stuffed but much less pleasant. There was one construction. One house. I begged and they had wire. As an aside to the story, it really helps to speak spanish when you are riding a motorcycle solo in Bolivia at 4000 metres with pieces falling off. Not only did they have wire, they gifted me wire, and then shouted comments of approval about the tourist girls through a megaphone they had somewhere. None of the girls understood. I strung the wire through the thread and wound it tight and managed a `fix`that should support my weight if I sat down and only stood up in those `oh shit` moments that I knew were coming. With roads like this, there are always some nasty surprises.

At some stage I pulled too far ahead of the jeeps and evidently took a different road to them as I had the remaining 60 km stretch of landscape to myself. I was feeling good on the bike, but as the day wore on, my stomach bug took hold a little more violently. I was holding on but was close to the line. I pulled up to Dali`s famous rock and yes, it was very impressive. I was briefly snowed on for the first and I hope last time this trip. And I fought the cold from getting in or up any vents. As the sun sank lower, the chill really began.

Pulling into Laguna Colorada near sunset, the drivers were starting to become concerned about me. Someone rustled me up a bed I was lucky to get and I was able to share dinner with the backpackers as restaurants here don`t exist – the tours arrange bring their own food and cooks. So I was lucky to find a bed, it was a clear night and the drivers reckoned on -15 celcius overnight. I was lucky to eat, soup and spagetti, some wine and the company of three pretty Israeli girls, three Brasilians who needed a hot-water-bottle and were trying very hard for the most convenient substitute and a table from France who were very interested in the trip. I kept my fluids up, tried to stay awake and then put in for an early night. Only then did my friendly jeep driver ask if I was coming with them tomorrow. ´Well, I need to you are carrying the gas,´ and they weren`t selling it in the rapidly freezing dark. ´Okay. We leave at 5.30am. Will your bike start?´

´I don`t know.´

`I will wake you at 5.`

Posted on Monday, August 13th, 2007 at 2:06 pm in Josh's Journal.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.