The Lie of the Land

---

My head snapped forwards as my front wheel was shoved sideways by the resistance of the long metal chain spanning the width of the road. With the fiercely bright morning sun full in my face, and my mind fully occupied deciphering the scenes around me, attempting to establish what, if any, exit procedures I should follow, I had failed to spot that my way ahead, the border-crossing between La Quiaca in Argentina and Villazon in Bolivia, had been crudely blocked off.

To my surprise, the broken chain crashing onto the tarmac didn't provoke so much as a raised voice or a peeved expression from the watching border guard. Instead, he seemed to recognise it for what it was: another of those "Mr Bean on holiday" moments that had become a well established tradition on each of my travels.
Pointing at my sunglasses and gesturing for me to take them off, he watched calmly as I untangled the chain from my brake cable and pushed my bike to the side of the road. I thought myself lucky: in some countries, they might have shot me.

Famous for smuggling, and with a reputation for underhandedness at its frontier with Argentina, I had no desire to linger in Villazon and I was keen to make a start on the journey North to the town of Tupiza, 92km away.
For the previous week I had been steadily making my way along Route 9, the Pan-American highway, beginning at the attractive, colonial city of Salta, then winding through subtropical mountain forests to San Salvador de Jujuy before gradually ascending through the beautiful Quebrada de Humahuaca, with its vivid rock colours and cacti-studded hills, onto the highland plateau of "La Puna" and La Quiaca.

Although the towns had become increasingly remote and less well-off as I progressed Northwards, the pavement had remained firm and reliable throughout. This abruptly ended at the border, however, and the road on the Bolivian side suddenly degenerated by several orders of magnitude.
Smooth, well-maintained tarmac was replaced by a difficult track with a surface that had been shaped into a corrugated washboard of hard-packed hillocks, some peaking as high as six inches. Their parallel grooves and rounded ridges panned out from the road's raised centre of loose, unsteady rubble to form a length of spine that curved around the contours of the empty plains.

As I bounced along this undulating bed of miniature peaks and troughs, my bike shuddered as each lurch forward forced my weighty panniers to jump up and then drop back heavily into position. Although my bike had the best components available to withstand these tough conditions, my body was less able and the repetitive, jarring impacts began to take their toll on my backside whilst the constant braking and pulling on the handlebars, that were essential if I wanted to remian upright, strained my hands and wrists. The occasional heavy duty trucks and pickups that roared effortlessly past had no such problems, and their speed was such that they often left me choking in thick clouds of white sandy dust, forcing me to stop as my visibility was reduced to almost zero.

This was demanding, rough-and-tumble cycling. My average speed, which until now had been a modest 20kph, had been halved. Throughout Argentina, with the weather favourable and the altitudes generally modest, my daily distance had been limited only by the onset of fatigued legs as I pedalled through the uncomplicated terrain. Now, the dramatic change in conditions and the increased elevation had created a whole new set of restrictions that were beyond my control, and I realised that cycling in Bolivia would require a change of approach. I had to slow down and respect my new environment. I had to adapt to the lie of the land.

For the next week, I followed the dried-up riverbeds, secluded trails and steep, rocky paths that formed the "back route" from Tupiza to the city of Potosi. In the wet summer season much of it would be impassable, and even now, in parched, rainless mid-winter, there were places where I struggled to push my bike through foot-high water and patches of deep stinking mud.

The final approach to Potosi, although paved, undulated progressively higher, with the final elevation rolling up to a breathless 4350m and the famous "Cerro Rico" hill that towers over the city. It is inside this hill that Potosi's raison d'etre, the silver mines whose exploitation established the city as the economic engine room of the Spanish Empire and its mighty Armada some 450 years ago, can be found, and where now, despite the passing of the centuries and the complete excavation of the most valuable metals, hundreds of young men still work in appalling, colonial conditions.

Sometimes starting their working lives at the age of just eight, the miners work in small teams formed by self-funded collectives, each leasing their own small section of the mine. Modern equipment such as electric drills, although available, are an expensive luxury that few can afford and the bulk of the labour is brutally manual. The miners supply their own picks and shovels to scrape up the fragments of rock, blasted out of the craggy walls by charges of dynamite, before the debris is piled high into ancient rail hoppers that are pushed along the broken tracks that make their way through the warren of narrow tunnels.

Joining one of the many guided tours that lead groups of wide-eyed tourists on a subterranean expedition through the mines' dank bowels, it was easy to see why Cerro Rico is nicknamed "The Mountain That Eats Men". As we trudged past miners working their wretched ten-hour shifts, one cheek always fat with a ball of appetite-suppressing cocoa leaves, eliminating the need for a time-consuming midday meal, I wondered if any of us could last even an hour doing this work.

In colonial times, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of indigenous Indians and imported slaves perished here on an appalling human conveyor belt of forced-labour that supplied their Spanish masters with the manpower required to extract their riches. Even today, unable to wear face masks due to the stifling heat, the choking metallic dust that permeates the damp tunnels guarantees the miners silicosis and an early death, and few see much beyond their fortieth birthday.

Faced with this sombre fate, it's easy to understand the miners' strong adherance to their twin faiths: strict Catholicism governs their lives above ground, whilst below it they worship effigies of "El Tio" (the Uncle), God of the underworld, making offerings of tobacco and alcohol in the hope that he might protect them from harm.

We had given gifts of cigarettes, cocoa leaves and dynamite bought from the local market, which, we were told, make a real contribution to improving the miners' quality of life, but, at the end of the tour, as our bus drove us away and past a group of women - wives, mothers and daughters of the men undergound - stooped low, sifting through piles of recently-exctracted ore, scratching out a subsistence living, it was difficult not to feel uneasy about the morning's events.

We had seen child labour and human exploitation of a kind that should shame us all, and, although we had now removed our dirty overalls and muddy boots, a grubby feeling somehow remained.

Two days later I commenced the next leg of my journey that would take me to the place that promised the visual highlight of my trip - the Salar de Uyuni, the largest salt flat in the world.
Still feeling weak from the sickness that had confined me to my bed the day before, I had ridden barely 20km when I met Pablo, an Argentinian solo cyclist, who was also headed for Uyuni, and for the next four days we rode together through a breathtaking, barren landscape.

Neither of us could disguise our emotion upon reaching the astonishing sight of the Salar, a vast, ethereal expanse of pristine white desert that glared fiercely back at the emphatic morning sun. Its enigma was overpowering, and as we cycled across, the salt crackling under our wheels, there was nowhere else I would rather have been.
Managing to pick a track that seemed to be avoided by the numerous Land Cruisers that ferry across the day-trippers from Uyuni, we had the place to ourselves. 140km of empty, flat, white nothingness, a cyclist's paradise, lay ahead.

Leaving Pablo to continue his jounrey North to Oruro, I continued mine West, slowly advancing across this remote part of Bolivia before crossing the border to enter Chile and its National Parks.
The ferocious North-Westerly wind too strong for me to to pitch my tent, I was relieved when I passed through a village with an alojamiento. These were places that provided primitive accommodation, sometimes without running water or electricity, and, until now, had always seemed to be owned and run by a large surly woman with rough manners and no time for the likes of me.

This place was much more welcoming, and as I spoke with the kindly woman who greeted me as I approached, her family gathered round, all of them wearing big, easy smiles. Concerned about the conditions, I asked her if the day's weather was normal for the area.

"Yes, very windy. Always windy !", she chuckled.

This was not the news I wanted to hear, but I quickly forgot about it as I was invited to use their kitchen to cook my dinner: a great relief as it meant I could avoid using my foul-smelling petrol-fuelled stove.
The kitchen turned out to be a two ring gas stove in the corner of a room that also functioned as the living and sleeping place for the entire family. There were eight of them, of three generations, and the room seemed no bigger than my bedroom back home.

The owner, a good-hearted man who was clearly devoted to his large family, announced to me that he and his family were about to attend mass in the village church, a slightly bedraggled-looking white building that looked so tiny, I found it difficult to see how they could all fit inside.

They left me alone in their house, inviting me to help myself to the still-warm homemade doughnuts that were piled high next to the cooker. After they had gone, I wondered what they made of me, and why I had come to this place. If asked, I knew I would struggle to find an answer.

Was it credible to say I was simply on an adventure, seduced by the gentle tug of the unknown and invigorated by the physical challenge of high-altitude cycling ? Or was I just another desperately-seeking-something travel cliche, frantically grasping at these new experiences in the vain hope that they might add some new perspective to the all-too-familiar narrative of modern life ?

It seemed to me, sitting there, that although cold, hard and unrelenting, their life had a dignity which the high-tech, modernisitc experience of home could never provide. We had briefly shared food and conversation which had engendered an affectionate spirit of shared, common humanity between us, but to me, these people were cut from a different cloth; they were authentic people in my largely inauthentic world.

---