Tennet's Travels: January 2012

Health and Safety officials haven't found their way to Bolivia yet. As the poorest nation in South America, there probably isn't the budget available to employ them, and any funds should first be diverted to other, more important, issues: fighting the US-dictated 'War on Drugs', for example, or fixing the roads that are currently more pothole than tarmac. I imagine most travellers would actually be happy if safety remained such a low priority; there's something about hurtling down a gravel road with no barriers to prevent certain death over the edge that adds an extra spice to the day's activities, a bite that retains as a memory more vivid and distinct than you'd get if your life was assured all the way down. Bolivia was definitely the country in which I presented fate with more opportunities to extinguish 'mi vida' than anywhere else on the trip: cycling down the 'Death Road' (it's all in the name there, really), crawling through asbestos-filled mines, setting off dynamite, climbing over 6km high in the driving snow and pitch darkness, taking buses with no brakes - more than enough ammunition for the Grim Reaper to make an appearance. But, the good new is, I survived, and this malignant rawness certainly added to the countries lasting impact and appeal - one of my favourite nations so far, for sure.

La Paz plaza

As well as being the regions poorest country, Bolivia is also the highest nation in the Western hemisphere and the wide-ranging environments contained within provide some of the coldest, warmest and windiest spots on the Earth. Poverty permeates deep here, despite the country actually being richer than all other SAm nations in terms of natural resources. This paradox is a result of centuries of, for want of a better word, 'bullying' from the larger, more powerful countries that surround landlocked Bolivia. Over the last 200 years, Bolivia has endured conflicts with Chile, Paraguay and Brazil; all of which left Bolivia with less territory than before, and deepened the dire economic situation. However, con suerte, things are slowly improving and, if managed correctly, tourism can do it's part to help.

La Paz was my first Bolivian port of call. With the knowledge that I'd be returning again soon for the festive season, it was only a brief stopover before heading further south. I did manage to find myself a temporary travelling companion, though, and made tracks to Sucre with Dutch dame Fabienne in tow.

Chicas on the Salt Flats

Sucre is the judicial capital of Bolivia (although the government and treasury are based in La Paz). The white-washed buildings, pleasant wide avenues and tranquil plazas in the centre are home to fiercely proud locals who don't need much prodding to reveal a slightly snobbish contempt towards the city many people assume is the undisputed capital; La Paz. There's not a huge amount to do in town and it's all rather quiet (especially on the alcohol-free election weekend we were clever enough to visit on) but therein lies the charm and a perfect antidote to the madness of La Paz. We did manage to find a cinema (of sorts) that was screening an award-winning documentary about the nearby Potosi mines titled 'The Devil's Miner'. The subject matter was of particular interest as we were heading there the following day.

Potosi is equal parts incredible, surreal, shocking and depressing, and you have to do something pretty special to earn such a varied selection of adjectives. It's a city of extreme altitude - at 4090m, one of the highest permanent settlements in the world - and historical horror. Sitting in the shadow of Cerro Rico (Rich Hill, 4824m) where Spanish conquistadors discovered a surplus of silver deposits in the mid-16th century. Over the next 200 years, 40,000 tons of the precious metal were extracted from the mountain - enough to build a bridge back across the ocean to Spain - reducing the mountains height by several hundred metres in the process and making Potosi the largest and wealthiest Latin American city of the time. The negative human cost far outweighed this financial gain, though; poor indigenous people and imported slaves were forced to labour inside the cerro under appalling conditions. Workers weren't permitted to leave the mines for up to six months at a time - crawling through tiny, unventilated tunnels, toiling in temperatures up to 50°C with medieval tools and in highly-dangerous conditions, exposed to a myriad of noxious elements - asbestos, sulphur, mercury, arsenic - for the duration. Records are incomplete, but it is estimated that as many as 8 million workers perished over those 200 years (2 million more victims than the holocaust). A truly dark and shameful corner of human history, nevertheless largely absent from general collective knowledge.

Although the genocidal acts at Potosi are seen as a horror confined to the past, the mines are still in use today. There may be no silver left, but thousands of workers still descend into the bowels of the earth every day looking for what little minerals are left in the mountain. Working practices are still ancient, conditions remain unfathomably, oppressively severe and, for long-term miners, death still usually comes before their 40th birthday. But there's more money to be made from the mines than elsewhere in town, so many local men make this mortal sacrifice for the sake of their families.

In recent years a new career path has opened up for some workers - popular 'mine tours' are operated by ex-miners and the co-operative business models mean that current miners benefit from the money and gifts supplied by tourists (these regalos tend to consist of dynamite, 96% proof alcohol and coca leaves - the source ingredient for cocaine, chewed to stave off hunger and tiredness - definitely one of the strangest shopping trips of my life, and a questionable combination of products to be used simultaneously, especially at the bottom of a mine). We only spent two hours exploring the underground shafts and tunnels - nothing when compared to the 24 hour shifts worked by today's miners, but more than enough time to have a real impact.

Crawling on all fours through seemingly-impassable passageways, alternately covering our mouths in a futile attempt to keep out the thick dust, before uncovering them again in an equally futile attempt to breathe in the stifling atmosphere, it was far from enjoyable. We made a quick stop at the 'Tio' - a devil-like idol worshipped by the miners who are devout catholics above ground but realise that the hell below is outside of God's realm and it's a necessary evil to switch allegiances when entering the mines . After asking for the Tio's protection, we lit two sticks of dynamite before scarpering back down the tunnel for shelter. The explosions were as loud as you'd imagine, but my lasting memory will be of the instantaneous shockwave that flew towards us and shot into my solar plexus - enough to take your breath away. Then it was down, down, down to the fourth and final level. With an almost total lack of oxygen, heat topping 45°C and the walls shimmering with asbestos, we were all incredibly glad when the time came to surface again. I am more glad to have been down there in the first place, though - such a personal, visceral experience helps to fully understand the chilling abhorrence that is the hellish hole below Cerro Rico.

Bidding farewell to Fabienne, I made my way to Uyuni, a few hours west of Potosi and launchpad for the popular 'Salt Flats' tours. I'd arranged to meet some other amigos from earlier in the travels - the three Irish girls who turned up at the end of my Colombia blog (see here) along with English threesome; David, Lauren and Hannah - and they'd kindly included me in their tour booking. Joining the seven of us in our two hired jeeps were another three English chaps and a couple more chicas.

One Jeepful

Otherworldly is an understatement when describing the 'Salar de Uyuni' salt flats. Formed when a vast prehistoric salt lake dried up and left an area over 12,000 sq km covered with a stark white salt layer. Not only the world's largest salt plains, but also the highest at 3600m above sea level. Finding yourself in the middle of this expansive landscape - hexagonal tiles of pure white spread as far as the eye can see - the scales involved really hit home. It's a mesmerising part of the planet, unlike anywhere else on Earth. Driving along the endless, perfectly smooth surface as the sun goes down; each tiny granule twinkling in the fading sun until you reach a section still water-covered from recent rains and everything above the horizon line is reflected in a perfect mirror image below - anyone not left breathless and awed by this spectacle is missing something fundamentally human.

Cactus Island

Over the course of our three day tour the constant driving was punctuated by a series of equally astounding natural attractions: Isla del Pescado - a random, rocky hill that suddenly looms out from the otherwise uniformly flat surroundings and is peppered with thousands of giant cactuses - an eerie 'train cemetary' - filled with the rusting carcasses of a previous governments rail network folly - Laguna Verde - a beautiful aquamarine lake at a breathtaking altitude of 5000m - Laguna Colorada - another lake, but this time permeated with a reddish hue and home to scores of bright pink flamingos - Sol de Manana - a basin full of bubbling, steaming, sulphurous geysers - and, finally, Termas de Polques - 30°C natural hot springs with a beguiling backdrop featuring another lake, distant volcanoes and close-up llamas.

All rather remarkable, really. I can't recall another three consecutive days spent with such a stupefied grin fixed beneath wide eyes. An astonishing place that I was lucky enough to explore in such great company.

Everyone except myself and English Rob headed to Chile at the end of the tour. Once, we'd dropped them at the 'border' (really just a man, a building, and a gate) we drove all the way back to Uyuni, from where I jumped straight on a bus and endured a horrific overnight journey back up to La Paz.

Chilean border post

Bolivia's governmental capital is the sort of city that leaves many first-time visitors short of breath; initially due to the enchanting vista down over town from the entry road across the valley tops - packed streets and ramshackle houses spilling off the hillsides - and then once again when the altitude (3600m) of the world's highest capital city kicks in. There's something about this place that holds travellers attention and makes them stay for much longer than they first intended. I managed to clock up 17 nights in total by the time I finally made my exit. Maybe it's the unique conditions here - the sheer altitude, the 6km+ high mountains that frame the edges of town, the sharp contrast between poverty and wealth, old and new, traditional values under pressure from the unrelenting march of capitalism, globalisation and modernity. There's not many other cities in the world where you can watch coca-chewing mujeres sporting long plaited hair under traditional felt hats, wearing brightly-coloured highland dress and carrying a basket of llama foetuses to market walking past a well-suited man jabbering importantly into a blackberry and en route to work in a nearby skyscraper. Or, maybe it's just the remarkably cheap booze, proliferance of even-cheaper cocaine and excess of 'party hostels' in which to meet like-minded travellers and consume both products in great quantities. I hope it was more the former, but suspect maybe not for the majority of visitors.

Whatever the reason, I too was sucked into the La Paz vortex and the city became my home for the festive season. Loki hostel was my chosen house - described with the simple following sentence in the latest version of Lonely Planet: "If you don't already know about it, you probably shouldn't stay here". This is a serious warning, but I decided that muchas fiestas and a lack of dormiendo wouldn't be too much of an issue over xmas and new year. I did feel substantially closer to death by the time I finally left, 2 1/2 weeks later, though.

Merry Christmas!

Xmas day itself was a blast: I began proceedings with a pint of Gin & Tonic at 11am, and your day can only get better if you start it in such a manner. A full xmas dinner was provided, and enjoyed in the company of 130 other displaced diners. Then, as I'd already befriended the staff, a second xmas dinner was provided just for me, washed down with champers and a bottle of wine. Suitably stuffed and woozy, the whole hostel went for a nap to prepare for the evening's frivolity..... of which I probably shouldn't relate too much here. In fact, I won't relate any of it - safe to say it was highly civilised, good, clean fun. New Years Eve went much the same way, albeit with less turkey and more booze instead. Again, the night's events are probably best left confined solely to the tainted memories of those involved.

I didn't spend every day in La Paz in a drunken stupor (as many people choose to do) and my sober times were put to productive use. Those who've been following my blog since the start will be aware that I'm no longer able to visit somewhere near a big mountain without wanting to stand on top of it. Before my eyes turned skyward again, though, I first decided to check my mortality further with a little bike ride. This was no ordinary bicicleta trip, it was cycling down 'El Camino de la Muerte', otherwise known as 'Death Road' or 'The World's Most Dangerous Road'. Quite a selection of monikers. Remember what I was saying about Bolivia's non-existent safety standards? Such a fact becomes more disconcerting when you're about to bomb down a 64km long, 3600m vertical descent on two wheels. This 3 metre wide stretch of gravel earnt it's intimidating title with an average of 26 vehicles each year flying off the cliff-like edges and falling up to 600 metres down into the valley below. Things have improved in recent years with the opening of a safer, alternate highway nearby - the majority of petrol-powered traffic has moved with it, leaving the original route almost exclusively for pedal-powered tourists. Over-confident gringos still regularly take unscheduled flights over the edge, though, with one fatality in 2011. A bus driver also recently took the unfathomable choice of driving down the Death Road instead of the new, safer route, and that trip ended like this. The dangers are still very real and cycling down the Death Road is not an activity to be taken lightly.

Xmas day at Loki

This was something I forgot within about 5 minutes of mounting my fancy new mountain bike and deciding to see if I could race the fastest guide. After all, these activities are only really fun if done at inadvisable speed and in a slightly reckless manner; you've only officially 'done' the Death Road if you've added that extra element of real mortal danger to proceedings. Fortunately, I was sensible enough to slow down during the most dangerous parts and take time to admire the sweeping panorama across a sea of green treetops bursting up from the valley bottom. A lovely day out... and we all survived, which was a bonus.

Back in La Paz, and with the drunken obligations of xmas out of the way, I could now focus on my new-found climbing obsession again. After conquering Cotopaxi (5900m) in Ecuador five weeks previously and coming so tantalisingly close to the 6km altitude mark, I had no choice but to make an attempt at summiting Huayna Potosi (6088m) just outside La Paz. As before, I was determined that if I was going to try it, I was going to make it. As such, I took my preparations seriously: No drinking for a week, and plenty of time at altitude beforehand, including a cheeky little pre-climb climb two days before HP.

Climbing Chacaltaya

Mt. Chacaltaya (5421m) is another tall peak just outside town, but one that requires very little skill, time or effort to reach the summit. First, we juddered along a (barely) drivable road up to 5200m, from where it was only an hour of walking to the snow-covered summit. This proved to be just as easy as it sounds and I experienced no negative effects from the altitude, which was a very good omen for HP. However, as has become routine, I still conspired to do myself an injury. My latest pair of 'Ray Bans' (only $1 from a La Paz market!) had fallen victim to the Death Road a couple of days previously and I'd not had time to buy a new pair. As such, I found myself surrounded by blindingly, pure white snow reflecting the powerful midday sun (that was now 5 1/2 kilometres closer than usual) without any eye protection. I was aware that this was a slightly foolish position in which to put myself but assumed that the short time of exposure wouldn't be sufficient to do any real damage.

Waking up at 3am the next morning; my eyes sealed shut, radiating heat, streaming liquid and sending shockwaves of pain into my skull, I realised, as I felt my way towards the bathroom, that perhaps some damage had been done.... Joking aside, this was quite a scary moment - worse than speeding down the Death Road or falling into a pile of asbestos at Potosi - I was certain that I'd gone blind, or at least suffered some serious optical injury. Worse still, I couldn't find anyone to help and spent an hour rinsing my face and lying on the bathroom floor in the dark until the pain began to subside. With a lack of other options, I covered my eyelids with damp tissue and crawled back to bed. Being able to very tentatively open them, without daggers of pain into my retina, the next morning was a very happy moment. The next concern however was whether I'd still be able to climb HP, with my trek scheduled to begin the following day. Fortunately, after consulting the very helpful lady at my chosen travel agency and purchasing some extra-obscura sunglasses, I felt confident that my eyes could cope and it was time to attempt my first peak over 6km high.

Nearing the summit of Chacaltaya

The first day required a two hour drive up to Base Camp (4700m) where we packed up all our gear and spent a further two hours lugging it all the way to Higher Camp (5100m) from where our summit attempt would begin early the next morning. Same as Chacaltaya, I had no problems with the altitude, but it was still surprisingly tough trekking 400 vertical metres with a full backpack - heavy boots, crampons, helmet, harness, ice pick, warm clothing and 8 litres of fluid - one of the guys with us was so exhausted by this that he never even left the final camp to go for the summit. The terrible weather conditions - impenetrable fog and incessant snow - didn't help matters either and it was deeply disheartening to learn that the descending group we passed had been unable to reach la cima that morning as the snow 200m below the top had been waist-deep and impassable. With no real sun and only more snow since, our prospects didn't look good either and my heart sank further when I saw the grave look on our guides face. After all this time and preparation, were we about to be defeated by the weather conditions!?

The dire situation only deteriorated further when we arrived at Higher Camp and I was introduced to my climbing partner. Just like the scaling of Cotopaxi in Ecuador, peaks of Huanya Potosi's stature require climbing in separate teams; usually two clients and one guide all roped together. The problem is, the three of you are now a single unit and must stay as such for the duration. You can only ascend as fast as the slowest team member and if one of the clients is unable to continue, you all have to turn back. What this really means is that no matter how well prepared, motivated and equipped you are, if your climbing partner hasn't put the same effort into proceedings, you're.... well.... you're fucked. For this reason, I was rather concerned to find, when arriving at our final camp, one gentleman, pale as a sheet, wrapped up in a sleeping bag and shivering in the corner of the room. "James, meet your climbing partner, Alex". Alex, the half-dead guy in the sleeping bag, was a rather overweight Englishman who hadn't eaten for three days thanks to a particular heavy bout of diarreah. Despite my protestations to our guide (in Spanish - Alex didn't speak the lingo, so I was able to moan about him openly and frequently without his knowledge) and several enquiries to the man himself as to whether he was sure he really wanted to attempt the climb, I found myself at 1am, fully kitted out, feeling good, pumped up and ready to ascend, but roped to, quite frankly, a liability. Seeing him pull out an inhaler just before we began climbing, I nearly threw in the towel there and then.

Silvo, the guide

It may seem like I'm being needlessly and overly mean to Alex, but I'd worked so hard for this and the fact that everything could be sabotaged by a third party was almost too much to bear. My concerns weren't unfounded either - being roped to this guy was a nightmare; myself and Silvo (the guide) literally had to pull him up the mountainside. It was awful. Frustratingly slow progress was made; walking behind Silvo, the two of us would find a good rhythm - slow steps, crampons crunching in unison, steady breathing - only to feel the rope behind me tighten and turn to find Alex stopped and slumped forward over his icepick once again. At one point, he suggested that the only way he'd be able to successfully reach the summit would be if we took a break every 10 steps. Funny, right? No, wait, he's actually serious! He'd obviously failed to recognise how time really is of the essence here - just like Cotopaxi, you have to reach the top before, or just after, sunrise in order to allow enough time to descend safely as well; before the sun begins to melt the snow and greatly increase the chance of avalanches. Anyone could reach the top if we had unlimited time; climbing at speed is kind of the whole point and what makes these activities so challenging. Alex, however, seemed to have missed this fairly important fact. One thing I know for sure - he wouldn't have reached half as far as he did if it wasn't for the determination and desire of the two guys he was lucky enough to be roped to.

Climbing Huayna Potosi

One small positive became apparent during our numbingly slow ascent - Silvo informed me that the absolute freezing conditions meant that the impassable section from the previous day should be solid enough to walk over. Good news, but boy was it cold! The weather conditions on the whole were still pretty dreadful - the thick mist and driving snow from the previous day remained and accompanied us all the way to the summit. But, the main thing is.... we actually made it! Dragging the barely breathing deadweight behind me over the last 100 metres, the primary emotion I felt on arrival at la cumbre was relief rather than elation; relief that all my foresight and training hadn't been for nothing, relief that despite so many elements working against me - the awful conditions, the sunburnt retinas, the stumbling human obstacle attached to my harness - we had made it. You couldn't see further than two metres through the fog, my toes had frozen in my boots, my fingers followed suit in the few seconds it took to remove my gloves and take a blurry photo, and we were only allowed ten minutes before beginning the descent. But, I had made it.

I've always hated going down (I'm mature enough to ignore the double entendre there.... actually, I'm not, but you should be) - the high of reaching the summit has passed, exhaustion is kicking in, and there's nothing to aim for anymore but you still have the same distance to cover again. To increase the suffering on this particular descent, the thick snow had already started to thaw and each step left us knee-deep. A near vertical climbing section halfway down nearly finished me off; legs had past jelly and turned to useless mush.

But, I had made it. It was done. I'd successfully achieved what had become my main goal (or obsession) since entering SAm - conquering a peak over 6000 metres above sea level. Once I'd recovered from the extreme exertion, this realisation began to properly sink in and I felt like I could finally leave La Paz, and Bolivia as a whole. Tired, but ecstatically happy, it was time to head south and across the border into Argentina, but that's for the next blog.....

More photos down below.... go on, have a look: