3rd - 14th February (Entry 17)

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Road miles to date: 25,550

Passing into Bolivia was the quickest and most hassle free border crossing to date and despite the questionable demand of a five Soles charge for crossing a rope that everyone else was walking under for free, we breezed through in forty minutes. We were even fortunate enough to exchange the rest of our Soles at a very generous rate for Bolivianos from a lady sitting at a wooden school desk in the middle of the road. Done and dusted, we set off on the road to La Paz across the Bolivian altiplano and alongside even more of Lake Titicaca which had accompanied us all the way from Puno.

The road was paved the whole way but at the same time gave us another big dose of ripples and waves in tarmac which made controlling the bike in the rain a tricky business. Eventually we reached the outskirts of La Paz and battled against more chaotic, smoke churning, kamikaze, city drivers. As we tried to track down a hostel we attempted a u-turn when a policeman whistled us down, indicating to make the turn further down the road. Not wanting to aggravate the local lawmen we did as he said and promptly got whistled over by another policeman. Attempting to explain that we were just doing what his mate had told us to do and that they should put a few signs up if such manoeuvres were a violation, he took a look at our documents then quickly made off with them. It was then that we noticed the police station sitting across the road and realised that we must have ridden straight into the fundraising zone for next year's police Christmas shindig. The guy who pulled us over handed the documents to his mate inside and was soon back out on the street whistling down every other vehicle unlucky enough to drive past him, no doubt inventing all manner of misdemeanours and sending them inside one by one to pay their 'fines'. Eventually Byron agreed to pay the fine or risk losing his well stamped passport into the abyss but quickly thought to ask for a receipt. Slightly taken aback, the officer picked up some scrap paper, scribbled 'u-turn' on it, signed it and stapled it to some more scrap paper, confirming our suspicions that this was indeed a private fundraising scheme.

We eventually found the hostel we were looking for, stopped traffic while we rode up another ramp to park inside the lobby and caught up again with Adam and Mackenzie. Although the latter part of this trip has bred a dislike for cities, we had been told good things of the bargains that could be picked up in La Paz and with the expensive countries of Argentina, Chile and Brazil ahead of us we agreed that we needed to replace the sleeping bags we had given away in the States so we could have the option to camp again without the risk of freezing in the night. La Paz turned out to be a grimy, chaotic, crowded city boasting one massive maze of market stalls in place of shops as we know them, with entire areas dedicated to different goods. One street offered more fancy dress paraphernalia than was necessary in this run down city, another sold more North Face clothing than North Face is likely aware of being on the market and an entire indoor market was mending an incredulous amount of unbelievably ugly leather jackets, skirts and suits. One item not too readily available in most places were bunches of shrivelled llama foetuses sitting in amongst the Bolivia key-rings and Wish You Were Here postcards. Apparently it is tradition that Bolivian builders will not begin construction until a Llama foetus has been sacrificed to be buried in the foundations so they seem to be killed off en mass and conveniently sold at every street corner.

An array of knock-off and fake camping gear was also abundant and we spent a day seeking out and bargaining for the least poorly replicated sleeping bags we could find. Although we ended up purchasing the most expensive bags we came across, they were also the smallest packed and down filled (essential for our overloaded bike) and as we had haggled to as reluctant a price that the seller would go, we considered our quest to have been a success. The next day we entered the indoor leather market and after trying just about every single stall we finally found a man who was willing to take on the challenge of fixing Byron's very worn out, torn bike gloves and Isabel's bag that had been nibbled apart by birds back in Vancouver.

Before we entered Bolivia, we had learnt that an ingenious law had been passed that meant foreign vehicles had to pay three times the price for petrol as national vehicles. Considering that the country is considerably poorer than other South American countries, we did not begrudge the law too much, but did wonder if, from what we had seen so far, the police and presumably the powers above them stopped lining their own pockets and did a bit for the community instead of relying on foreigners to make up the shortfall, that the situation might not be so bad. Anyway, as a result of the law petrol stations are required to have the correct receipts and paperwork when selling petrol to foreign vehicles and, as you might expect, many do not have or want to do the paperwork so simply refuse to serve you. Having been warned of this situation we decided it was about time to travel with a jerry can as back up and so, in the city where you can buy just about anything, we added one to our box of tricks.

Following the successful mission of fixing bits and adding other bits to our load we spent a night in a local English pub with Adam and Mackenzie and another couple, Chris and Stephanie also doing the ride from Alaska, eating Lincolnshire (style) bangers and mash and steak and kidney pie. It turned out all of us knew of or had ridden with the same people on the trip at one time or another and that between us it seemed that the small adventure riding community doing the trip to Ushuaia this season were about one degree of separation apart. Four more riders turned up in the city the next day, all with mechanical bits and pieces to fix or illnesses to sleep off but we were keen to get moving so bid farewell to Adam and Mackenzie again who were staying to do a lot more cultural exploits than we had managed, and set off early in the rain again.

After tackling the terrible early rush hour traffic to get out of the city we felt the dreaded wobble of the back tyre just as the traffic subsided. Pulling over in a muddy quagmire in the pouring rain on the side of a road that was still under construction we set about fixing the first flat tyre since Costa Rica. After all the tried and tested techniques of the previous three flats, Byron got straight to it taking off the front tyre, securing the centre stand with our luggage straps, taking off the exhaust (a new necessity following the earlier changed suspension on the bike) and finally taking off the rear wheel. Despite the picnic blanket playing a useful part and allowing us a certain amount of security on the increasingly wet and fragile ground, we still managed to get completely caked in mud. After removing the wheel, a half inch clean slice in the inner tube was easy to find and the inch long nail that had caused it quickly showed up, lodged tight inside the tyre. During the time it took from stopping to getting on our way again, Deb on a F650GS from Tasmania pulled up to check on us. Another adventure rider who had been included in the one degree of separation talks the night before. The rain eventually cleared up as Byron began to put the bike back together and to our joy, the new pump we had bought back in Costa Rica worked perfectly - finally cutting out the need to flag down passing cars.

We got back on the road with both bike and riders totally covered in mud and made our way to Ururo, ditching the original plan to ride to Potosi. We were tailing a lorry about an hour later when a little policeman waving what looked like a red lightsaber flagged us over. He came running up to us with speedometer in hand, giving us just enough time to formulate a plan to be overly nice but also unable to understand in a bid to escape whatever he had in store for us. With big smiles on our faces we shook his hand and asked how he was, using all the composure we could muster to resist telling him to f*off. At first he tried to tell us we doing over one hundred kilometres per hour but when we asked why he didn't pull over the lorry we were tailing he decided it was actually ninety kilometres per hour, waving the speedometer at us that showed the speed of the car that had just passed us. Keeping our smiles fixed and making a joke of the fact that our bike is so old it can't do over sixty, his mates had by now joined us and they began to formulate their own plan in what would become a battle of wits. Having become wise to the ways of the Bolivian police after the experience in La Paz, being wet, muddy and already pissed off at the puncture delay, added to the fact that we knew we weren't speeding (mainly due to the lack of signs declaring any actual offical speed limit) we were determined to sit this one out, sure in the knowledge that we would instantly regret handing any money over to these jokers.

In comedic broken Spanish (not really a challenge for us) mixed in with a dodgy attempt at charades, we targeted the guy who had stopped us and basically made him our best friend, asking where he was from, would he be celebrating the carnival, how much we like his country and how we'd just had a terrible puncture and were covered in mud because we nearly crashed. All the while his friends butted in telling us the fine was usually two-hundred Bolivianos but they would give it to us for a bargain basement price of fifty before resorting to telling us they needed to buy petrol for their car and eventually asking if we could just give them money for beer. As they went on we became more and more determined that we would not just be easy-target-gringos and keeping to the dumb act, we stood our ground. No we weren't speeding, this bike can't speed. Sorry we just don't understand you, it's been nice to meet you, can we go now? No we can't buy any petrol for your car, didn't you know they charge us more for it here and you can get it much cheaper than us? No we don't have space to carry beer, we have some water though. Do you want some water? We just had to pay to fix our puncture, we don't have any money on us. We just carry photocopies of our documents, please feel free to take one. Do you mind if we go now? Eventually we wore them down and they took out their frustration with a little jab at Byron for having no hair before giving up and letting the friend we had made out of them wave us on our way. Bribery score: Flying Aga - 1 Bolivian police (in La Paz) - 1

We jumped onto the bike and made a quick getaway before they changed their minds and later passed a few more similar groups of policemen, carrying their red lightsabers and speedometers. Our lesson was learnt though and each time we spotted them before they had chance to clock us and we chugged past each group with a smile and a wave at about ten kilometres per hour. We eventually reached Ururo just as the rain cleared and were welcomed by an army of immigration officers and police. Swearing to turn round and leave the country if they asked us for money, we showed our passports and miraculously they waved us on without another word. We had a pleasant stopover in Ururo despite some torrential rain and Byron ate what he declared to be the best steak of the trip.

We set off in the rain again the next morning, joining a huge queue for petrol just outside town. After waiting for a good twenty minutes, we rolled up for our turn at the pump only to be told by the attendant that he had no receipts for a foreign sale. Despite our new tactic of waiting the problem out until the person telling us 'no' gets bored and gives in, he replied to our persistent pleas that we had no fuel to continue to another station by telling us to get a room in the hotel behind him before turning his back on us. This didn't go down too well and it went down equally as well when a policeman showed up and told us the same. Undeterred we took the pleading to the manager in the nearby office who told us we would have to pay more than everyone else. After telling him we expected no less in this great country of his, he sold us a tankfull, charged the inflated rate and gave us no paperwork and no receipt. Just pleased to be on our way we set off once again, looking out eagerly for police along the road. Despite being pumped up and ready to fend off another effort at lining the police coffers we were left alone and barely even saw another vehicle. The road was long, straight, well paved and cut right through the altiplano and directly into Potosi. As many a cheesy advert on TV declared, complete with singing and dancing construction workers, Bolivia has invested a fair bit of money in its roads over the past few years and this was clearly one of them. It was refreshing to avoid the ripples and waves in the tarmac and the mud and gravel diversions to enjoy a fairly uneventful ride, although it did see the return of Isabel's viscious toothache and this time the painkillers proved to be poor competition.

It was carnival weekend across South America and whereas in Britain, we see in Lent by clearing out the cupboards and making pancakes, they spend four days getting obliterated, throwing water bombs at anyone and everyone, setting off bangers and flares in the street and the roads, marching and dancing to brass bands, decorating everything with balloons, confetti and ribbon, squirting foam at innocent passers by and performing in parades while little kids roam the streets and hang out of buildings and cars with enormous, fully loaded super soakers. This is what we encountered as we rode into Potosi. Luckily our bike gear provided ample protection from the carnage and after parking up in a hostel, Isabel was ready to pull out her own tooth so we sought out the nearest dentist.

Surprisingly the dentist proved to be better equipped and more efficient than our previous dentist in London and with the help of a mini camera she was soon explaining the problem. After a bit of drilling and an offer of root canal work Isabel just asked her to take the tooth out. So the next day Isabel was short a back molar and walking round with half a face like a hamster but the pain was gone and it only cost five pounds sterling. We stayed in Potosi a few more days, exploring the produce market where, for the first time in about two months we bought decent fresh produce to make our own lunch, we sought out a cinema, avoided no end of water bombs and foam, jumped out of our skin a few times as people set off bangers that are louder than any bangers you can get in Europe and Byron endured the Rasputin nickname given to him by the hostel owners on account of him cultivating an ever increasing, ginger beard.

We set off from Potosi on Shrove Tuesday or Mardi Gras, as it is known in this part of the world, a day that turned out to be the biggest day of the long carnival weekend and one in which no-one works in order to drink. We found this out at the first petrol station when the attendant explained that they were out of petrol because all the tanker drivers were drinking. Despite our now official tactic of waiting her out and pleading it did seem they genuinely had empty pumps. It was the same story at the next station and with a tiny bit of fuel left in our tank we brazenly decided to see how far we could get before resorting to our new and full jerry can. Upon reaching the very edge of the beginning of nowhere we spotted a moped with a bottle hanging off its side, half full with petrol. Taking a chance we sought out the owner and asked to buy the contents of the bottle from him. He agreed and after a bit of haggling, due to the foreigner petrol law we bought it for less than we would have got it at the petrol station but more than he would have bought it for and so everyone was happy. About twenty miles down the road we came across another station which at first told us they had no fuel and then, realising we would be paying more than everyone else and not asking for a receipt they suddenly agreed to fill our whole tank. A result that had us cruising all the way to the Argentine border, riding out of the cold, wet mountains, dropping about five-hundred meters and into terrain that reminded us of both Colorado and the Mexican Baja with hot, dry, red rock mountains covered in cacti sitting under huge blue skies. It turned out to be the first day for weeks that we hadn't been rained or hailed on.

We arrived at the Bolivia - Argentina border (Villazon - La Quiaca), just 3182 miles from our target destination of Ushuaia. Since it was a big festival day there was hardly anyone else there and we stamped the bike and ourselves out of Bolivia then ourselves into Argentina in about half an hour. A record and all would have been well were it not for the officials who wouldn't stamp the bike into Argentina without us buying road insurance. We were told the office to buy the insurance was in La Quiaca town and they weren't sure if it was open that day. A great help since now we had officially left Bolivia and had our passport stamps for Argentina, a necessity before they will stamp the bike paperwork, but couldn't go on into Argentina without the bike. After a lot of attempts to sort the problem out we ended up with little choice but to go back into Bolivia illegally and stay in the border town which was in the full throws of its festival. Although the atmosphere was fun we spent most of the evening dodging trucks full of kids lobbing water bombs and foam at everyone and the foul breath of many a drunken reveller. At one point Isabel turned a can of foam back on a very tiny boy, filling his entire face and mouth before getting an attack of guilt and so let him get her back.

The next morning we hit the border again and Isabel waited with the bike while Byron ventured into La Quiaca in search of insurance. Four hours later after getting a taxi without money to pay the driver who ended up leaving without taking a fare because the only ATM in town had a queue of about fifty people and he didn't want to wait, trekking all over town to eight different shops before queuing for two hours in a bank where he had been told they sold insurance, but not foreign motorbike insurance as it turned out, Byron came back to the border to try his luck with another official. While we waited, a Romanian couple on bikes coming up from Argentina showed up. They had also been at the border the day before when they were told they had to pay three-hundred US dollars each to enter Bolivia or wait until the next day. They had waited and spent the night on the other side of the border to us and had just crossed without the odd, inflated fee, however they were now faced with the same predicament as us and were being denied entry to Bolivia without insurance. Eventually they succeeded with the Bolivian official by adopting the same technique that had usually worked for us; waiting them out. However, the Argentines were a tougher nut to crack and were simply refusing to stamp our bike in despite it becoming clear that they knew full well that there was nowhere that we could buy insurance around this area.

About half an hour later the official had called his friend who was promising to be able to get us the correct insurance. By this time a few Ecuadorian guys who we had also seen the day before and were also having the same problem with a car, had shown up. So the friend promising to get the correct insurance took Byron and Andreas from Ecuador, back into Villazon while Isabel continued to sit with the bike. Six hours later they had still not returned.

Isabel spent what we thought would be two hours maximum sat by the bike writing this blog entry in searing heat accompanied by a farting stray dog who wouldn't leave her side. She watched as the Argentine border guards pulled apart every vehicle leaving Bolivia and entering Argentina, sending in the sniffer dogs, checking with mirrors under the chassis, loading backpacks through an x-ray machine and basically taking no chances with anyone - a sight we had not seen at a border crossing since the US. She watched as all the carnival revellers made their way back across to their respective countries, saw wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow piled high with sacks of grain file into Bolivia and witnessed more vehicles encounter the same problem we were facing but breeze through the opposite direction from Argentina into Bolivia without a second glance.

As time went on she met a Canadian on a F800GS riding up from Ushuaia who warned her of no petrol in Argentina further South. As they spoke for a while it turned out he had also filled the space we had missed on the Staahlratte sailing from Panama to Colombia back in November due to the broken wheel in Honduras. Later Francisco and Sebastian from Ecuador began chatting and after finding out how long we had been waiting at the border (including our arrival there the day before it was now over twenty-four hours) without food, they supplied her with cookies and a tin of olives before making their way north.

During this time Byron and Andreas were running all over town looking for photocopy shops that didn't claim to have no paper or ink, and fax machines that actually faxed. It turned out the friend of the border official was a lawyer who knew another lawyer in Argentina who was buying our bike and the Ecuadorian car insurance and faxing it over. However, buying the insurance required intricate passport, vehicle and travel details all of which had to be faxed on machines that wouldn't fax and kept crashing in the storm.

While the heavens had opened and thunder shook everything, Isabel had no idea what was going on. Due to travelling on the same bike and rarely splitting up we only have one phone between us and there was no way of contacting each other to explain what was happening. When the border guards started commenting that there was nowhere to buy insurance for Argentina in Bolivia and between them they couldn't work out why this woman had taken the guys back there, Isabel realised it had been over ten hours since they arrived at the border and decided it was probably time to panic. Offering to watch the bike, one of the guards leant her some money to go and check her emails in case they had been taken to another city to buy the insurance. She set off into town, in the dark and rain and couldn't find the Internet cafe. Pretty clueless as to what to do next she spotted the hotel we'd stayed at the night before and remembered telling the Romanians that it was a good place to stay. Also remembering that they had spoken to the official's friend who had taken the boys, there was a good chance they might know more details.

It turned out they had gone to the hotel but they couldn't remember the friend. They did know where the internet was though and so they all went off together and with the whole town shut up and rain keeping everyone inside, they were totally clueless as to what could have happened to Byron.

Just as they sat down to log on, Byron walked in, over six hours after he had left. It turned out just as Isabel had left the border he had run down there to check on her but the guards told him she had left and gone into town. After a crazy run about we finally managed to swap stories, join the other Ecuadorians to pick up the insurance that had just come through, pick up the bike and return to the hostel with the Romanians for a well earned beer.

The next morning we hit the border again and after waiting for a good hour while the officer asked a driver taking a car into Bolivia the brand and pressure of each of his tyres we eventually got stamped through, forty-three hours after first arriving. A record if ever there was one. To top it off, the official on this day didn't even ask for the insurance certificate! Luck of the draw would be a good way to describe the bureaucracy there but to be on the safe side, we would definitely advise against taking a vehicle into Argentina from this border crossing if you have any sanity to retain. We only hope it is not a sign of things to come as we venture on into Argentina.

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