The altitude

Surveying the scene on top of a church in Potosí, I reflected on a few monster days of climbing culminating in the 4238m climb around Cerro Rico.

Cerro Rico and Central Potosí

 

We'd had the wind in Southern Argentina, the rain and cold in Chile, and the wine in Mendoza. In northern Argentina, we entered an environment that bit closer to the rays of the sun and that bit further from the sweet moisture of the oceans. An environment that tested our physiology more than the permeability of our skin.

Leaving Tafí del Valle we climbed our first real climb, up to 3000m and our first real experience of breathlessness. Insidious and draining we used coca leaves as our crutch, hoping the advice of a fascinating Argentinian was valid, "It helps with acclimatisation and if you add bicarbonate of soda there is a alkali-acid reaction that.......". Well, he was an interesting bloke.

The first real climb and the last sign verifying our accomplishments

Moving through Northern Argentina was like a gentle transition into Bolivian life and culture. Food, skin colour and the amount of available textile changed as we climbed from Jujuy. Once we crossed the border we were suddenly surrounded by old Bolivian ladies covered in textiles with a skirt, smart sandles, a bag of coca in their hands, few teeth, weathered faces and the essential bowler hat.

Standard Bolivian Lady taken with a covert camera

 

Settling into life above 3000m we pulled into a town Cotaigata for a place to stay. We strolled into a courtyard and unknowingly interrupted a Mother's Day celebration. Our lycra'd legs and great conversationalist spanish quickly enamoured us with the Mothers. We were fed, given wine and the local eau de vie, Singani. 5 hours later after some celebratory snaps and some Bolivian folk music, we excused ourselves, knowing that booze doesn't mix with exercise at altitude.

The mothers

The entertainment/the sons

 

It was now 5 days since we had left Jujuy, having climbed more than 1200m a day and at most 2000m. On the way Dave had left his passport behind, his 'maintenance free' Rohloff hub had oozed most of its special mineral oil under the atmospheric pressure, I had lost yet another shoe and my wheel had needed some tender loving care.

Patched up and eager to finish the climbing, we entered the last day from a height of 2500m, an ominous number knowing the height of Potosí. Setting off early we were buoyant, confidently thinking we just 'had what it took'. Joking as we left, we were efficient and business like. Soon the realisation that there were descents mixed in with the climbing sucked up our humour like a 'fun sponge' and a Trappist silence descended on us. 38km left after lunch was almost continuous climbing, with a falling percentage of oxygen and a falling sun.

Exercise at 4000m is like having a band placed around your chest. Every breath you take not quite fulfilling your needs, every exertion measured and rhythmic for fear of straining too much. So fine the line between managing and needing to stop, our water consumption dropped as we were too breathless to have a drink whilst riding. It was so profound that Dave had to take a short break on one of the climbs for fear of blacking out.

Note the climb in the background. Heartbreaking.

The barren wasteland at 4000m

As the sun began to set we finally reached the peak around the back of Cerro Rico, surrounded by a now tin mining industry and descended into the colonial Potosí.

 

Back to Potosí and after a rest day we started the 5 day 545km road to La Paz. Research was cut to a simple map that just had names of towns, confident that Potosí's trials were the beginning of an easier stretch and surely much descending.

More barren high altitude

 

We set off and after a morning of up and down, we realised we hadn't lost much altitude. The all too familiar concern entered our conversations during breaks and the afternoon consisted of a 3 hour climb at a heavy altitude. We spent the whole afternoon in our easiest gear, fighting with a headwind a road that seemed to wind around the mountains like a helta-skelta, never showing it's end. Time ticked on by and we only began the approach to Ventilla at 7 with heavy legs and empty stomachs.

The helta-skelta road somewhere between 3600 and 4000m

 

With only a headtorch to guide us, our sight was poor, but a rather large, strange grey object passed us, "Was that a big rock in the road?"

"No I think it was just a pothole"

We dodged a further grey object, "that was definitely a rock", "Look, there's another..... and another."

Our speed slowed as we began to pedal past parked lorries. 10, 20, 30, 50, on and on we followed the lorries interspersed with boulder sized rocks in the road. "What's occurring?".

Suddenly a mass of people appeared in the darkness next to a blockade of rocks. Indigenous Bolivians standing in the middle of the road, Indian feathers in their hair, coca leaves coating their mouths and the aroma of Singani filling the air.

"No pase!" Our bikes were slowly surrounded by people in the darkness, reminding me of a zombie movie. Their eyes squinting against our torchlight as they ambled toward our shivering flesh.

"No pase! Nunca, nadie."

"My Spanish isn't great but I'm pretty sure that's not good!", Dave muttered over their ramblings. "We need water can we not pass?!" I asked them.

"No pase!"

We stared through them to the dim lights of Ventilla, 'so close.'

A few minutes of pensive, exasperated faces later and a collection of the wiser, less inebriated locals and some truck drivers thankfully secured our safe passage through the zombie mob.

At last we entered Ventilla and treated ourselves to two fried chicken and rice dinners. Never had so fragrantly decreasing our life expectancy felt so rightous. 'Umm, so that's what the Lady in Potosí was talking about when she mentioned blockade.'

Now, just a short 4 days to La Paz.

 

Kyle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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