RALPH GREEN
SOUTH AMERICA
Start of Page Six
25/4/96 Thursday Tarija, Bolivia
After spending the weekend wandering from coffee shop to bar to restaurant in Jujuy we collect the rebuilt battery on the Monday. It fires up straight away but the indicators and horn don't come back to life like they did when the old battery was recharged in Tilcara. This makes me concerned that our electrical problems are not yet completely solved. It is suggested that once the bike's charging system has had a few miles to work on the new battery all will be well.
Unconvinced we head again north, retracing our steps, the shadow of electrical failures our phantom companion. I keep trying the horn and indicators but both remain dead to the world. It is not that you really need indicators in South America - the locals like to drive around with their hazard flashers on but wouldn't generally bother to use them for turns and if they occasionally do you certainly wouldn't trust it! The horn would be more useful particularly on blind mountain hairpins.
After 60 km the phantoms presence becomes overpowering and we stop to discuss the situation. What really need to be known is whether the bikes charging system is functioning normally or whether we are heading for another failure. Within the next few days. With reluctance we again return to Jujuy in search of an auto-electrician.
On arrival we question several automotive outlets but none will recommend anybody in Jujuy only persons in Salta further south. After about 30 mins of impasse as a group of local traders gathered on the footpath around the swinehunt grapples ineffectually with our dilemma, I get impatient mount up and ride to the battery shop. At least they have a voltmeter - the only tool necessary for checking the correct charge is getting to the battery. It tests OK (13.8V @ 3,500RPM) which blunts the phantoms presence sufficiently to tip the scales in favour of running for the border.
That night we reach Huamhuaca still without horn, indicators or further drama. This small town has something of the flavour of isolated outback semi-desert Australia. Here we start our climb onto the Altiplano as the Andean Cordillera fans out to its widest - around 160 km - the two highest ranges cradling a bleak cold treeless 4,000 m high plain between them.
The next morning at Huamhuaca (3,000 m Altitude) it is time to alter the setting on the swinehunt for high altitude. This is accomplished by leaning off the mixture to counter the richness induced by low air pressure. No problems dismantling the top of the right Bing carb and setting the needle two notches lower but attempting the same on the left draws a problem. The two phillips head screws on the top defy undoing, only threatening to burr hopelessly round. The local service station on who's forecourt the swinehunt sits, partly dismantled, cannot offer a larger phillips head driver and a hammer driver is a device unheard of in these parts. My best attempt at explanation of this tool in Spanish draws a blank confused gringo loco expression from the breakdown truck driver.
For the second time in a week I find myself directing a stream of obscenities at the purple bastard. God damn, on a Ducati the fixings would be allen bolts, even the Japanese have at last given up on phillips heads.
There is little else that can be done but re-set the right carbs back to its standard setting and forge on and up hoping that the engine won't choke to death as we approach 4,000 m.
Although obviously rich and down on power we reach the border about 5 pm, exhausted. If there is a hell, it will be full of Argentinian border road corrugations and all the sinners will have Marzocchi suspension! I didn't believe it could be this bad. The vibration is so severe that over 20 km/h it is impossible to hang onto the bars, all I can do is step on the rear brake until we return to walking pace. Conscious that the map shows 150 km of the same I become irritated and dejected not for the first time today, with our situation. Sometimes it is possible to escape by diverting onto remnants of the old road or even walking tracks, that run alongside the road but these rejoin or reach deep wash-outs after short distances, forcing a return to the misery and punishment.
For the first time since the resolution of the red tape debacle at the Chilean port some significant cracks begin to form in the South American dream holiday as my mind grapples with the likelihood of facing 2 and a half months of the same. Four hours later it has become as much, or more of, a physical problem - my hands are numb to the feel of the controls, shoulders aching, kidneys suffering also. Then a small miracle occurs - though not shown on our map bitumen appears for the last 25 km to the border, as if the Argoes wanted you to remember the contrast at the border between their bitumen and Bolivian dirt!
The frontier crossing has some interesting observations. The town that straddles the imaginary line running down the centre of the river is divided into two contrasting halves. The southern Argentinian side is called La Quicha - neatly curbed though dry tree-lined streets, everything laid out by the town planners book. Those efforts are however largely unappreciated because all activity is centred over the river in Villazon, the Bolivian half, where everything is a fraction of the cost it is in Argentina. One can observe the ant trade as hundreds of kilograms of illicit imports flow across the bridge into Bolivia past the noses of Bolivian customs and immigration. Local peasants pushing or pulling huge carts and barrows stacked with a variety of goods of the type unavailable or expensive there. Officialdom take some cursory interest occasionally and confiscate something that may catch their eye but mostly the flow continues uninhibited.
Villazon has that same atmosphere of chaotic frenetic activity that characterises Asian cities and whose absence can result in the sterile boredom of over-planned towns like Canberra. The streets are lined with small individual shops crammed full of electrical goods, cheap clothing, Chinese household accessories etc. their continuity only broken by the money exchange cAmbios. Bags of coca leaves large enough to fill a phone booth are propped on the pavement to tempt your fancy.
Both the Argentinian and Bolivian paperwork are straight forward until it comes to getting the bike into Bolivia. The customs officer just over the bridge, unable to deal with the situation himself directs us to the customs building in the town 3 and a half block and to the left. Here on the 1st floor of an office attached to a larger warehouse the problem bounces from one plain clothed official to another. People come and go. It is difficult to tell official from friend of official or public.
The computers of Argentinian border officials are absent replaced by a tired typewriter placed on one corner of the aging desk. No one seems to have much to do but appear to be sufficiently experienced at doing nothing to give the impression of performing, or at least on the verge of performing some important task.
After a lot of discussion about where we intend to go in Bolivia a dark middle aged bureaucrat with pigmented s----- selects three sheets of customs letterhead paper printed Emorandium and inserts these in the typewriter. After carefully placing carbon between each he begins to type, pausing occasionally to peruse our passports and the bikes registration document. At last with a flourish he gives it his signature, completing the final touch with a stamp and pad.
On receipt we both study the official Spanish. A rough translation is that it permits us to spend only 15 days in Bolivia and to follow a particular route visiting the towns named - not all we intended to visit are specified - although our visas allow 30 days. It is also unlikely that 15 days will be sufficient to cross the country, reaching the Peruvian border given the difficult nature of the terrain.
Our appeal for an extension to 30 days falls on deaf ears, even when accompanied by an offer to pay (Bribe) for more time. We are told we will need a 6 month permanent residents visa obtainable through an Australian Embassy (Closest one in Buenos Aires, Argentina) To qualify for more time. Too exhausted by the days difficulties to argue further we retire to our first taste of Bolivian accommodation. At residencial Panamericano it coasts less than $5.00 for two persons for a night. They are happy for me to ride the bike up the two stairs, down the hallway, through the courtyard and insist that it sleeps indoors in a largish room with suspect floorboards that creak and deflect under the Swinehunt's considerable weight.
Our room is exactly that - 4 walls, a floor and ceiling. Two saggy single beds are pushed into opposite corners with numerous blankets and clean though worn sheets. One set has been patched so many times it looks more like a patchwork quilt. The bottom of the other set is so thin it seems to have been painted onto the mattress using lots of thinners. Ten metres walk to the bogs outside of which are two 44 gal drums full of water with buckets alongside. Inside the cubicles is bare porcelain, the flushing system long since retired - this is what the water in the drums is for, when you emerge you must go back in with the bucket to complete sanitation. Showering is a life and death affair with the 220 volt switch placed on the wall almost under the nose and the suspect wiring tracing a jagged path across the wall to the plumbing where the current heats an element midstream just before the flow exits above your body. There is no lighting.
Next morning it is difficult to tell which road is the highway Route north. They all look like the sort of road you find along the last 50 m to your neighbourhood tip!
Filling up with gasolina especial at the pump I enquire what octane this might be of the attendant. noventa (Ninety) he replies. Whatever it is the swinehunt likes it less than Argentinian 96 octane, burbling on the verge of stuttering richness on a constant throttle. Fortunately the road outside the town is better than the last horror stretch of Argo corrugations. Within the first 20 km we are stopped twice at boom-gates for document checks. My Emorandium does the trick on both occasions. Wonder if they will notice when the 15 days runs out and if they do what will happen?
The right fork 30 km north of the border leads east to Tarija down in a valley at 2,000 m(!). Having loosened the offending phillips head on the left carb with the assistance of a truckie and his toolbox in La Quicha we are leaving the setting change until Tarija. This proves to be a tactical error. At first we are a small mobile dot on the Altiplano, chased by a plume of dust attached to the rear tyre. The west and east horizons are crowded by Andean Peaks the plain a treeless expanse between, studded with tufts of stiff straight native grasses and small thorny bushes between the ever present rocks. Every 5-10 km we pass tiny traditional settlements. 3 to a dozen mud brick huts with thatched grass rooves and usually a stone fence stockyard alongside. We pass small groups of lama, alpaca, donkey, sheep and goats, generally disinterested in our presence unless very close to them. Then the road begins to rise, and rise more, troubling the motor into stumbling, almost constantly. At the frequent hairpins which often have 10 cm of bulldust concealing largish rocks below the surface it is necessary to fan the clutch to prevent stalling. This takes effort (400 kg including pillion!) concentration judgement and luck to prevent plunging over the sheer edge down thousands of metres to the valley below. The reward is some of the most spectacular high altitude scenery yet encountered as we top 4,000 m at the pass, the swinehunt now really gasping in its struggle for combustion. Shimmering shallow blue lakes appear their white crusted salty edges allowing relief from the dominant browns. At this altitude images take on a sharper defined precision the air untainted by the humidity of the lowlands. We plunge down again to follow a winding river bed in a valley past tiny villages scraping a living from plantations of crops squeezed onto any and all few flattish areas available close to the river bed. Rounding a corner a red flag is propped on the edge of the road supported by several rocks. Around the next its meaning unfolds - the road has fallen into the river! A front end loader with drivers cage/rock shelter tears at the rock face forcing material to fall and fill the hole. We wait for 30 mins until the ledge formed is approximately its original width. He then withdraws and beckons me to ride across. After kicking Mary Ann off to walk through I manage to foot and falter over the boulders using the wheel tracks of the loader to the other side.
Up again now to 4,000 m again! I'm starting to worry about possible engine damage now - I can't actually hear any pinking but know from experience with melting Ducati engines that against the wind and rattling of the toolboxes it may not be audible. The peak of the final rise opens suddenly and the vista of Tarija 2,000 m below is memorable - we are so high above that looking down is like the view from a plane. The long climb down to the fertile valley is interrupted by a disaster of a different kind as a crane is retrieving the remains of a vehicle that as plunged over the edge. Today we read 4 dead 6 injured in the local paper.
29/4/96 Monday Uyuni, Bolivia
Tarija is a pleasant leafy city in a valley that receives sufficient rainfall for growing a variety of crops, including the noble grape. The guide books are in general less than complimentary about the wine but our limited tasting suggested otherwise. May be this says more about our appetite for same?
The market is a crash course in local colour, culture and attitude. Huge chunks of deceased cow are pushed past us on a makeshift, bicycle wheeled cart, dogs looking on with enthusiasm as they freely wander about the various buildings. The locals don't mind. Every type shape and colour of bean, legume, chilli and a multitude of coloured spices are vended by (mostly) women in traditional dress - bowler hats etc. We sit down to luncheon at a rickety laminex table and for 50 cents a heaped plate of steaming food is shovelled from pots simmering on a gas stove. It tastes good despite our concerns about the plates having been washed in a bucket of cold water.
That night we find ourselves in a local restaurant coincidentally during the world cup qualified between Bolivia and Argentina for world cup France 1998. Every restaurant in Bolivia so far has had a television and its always on the sound at a high volume. Not surprisingly all attention this night is on the box. This close to the Argo border you might imagine some splitting of allegiance but the crowd is clearly rooting for Bolivia. The ex-world cup holders are too good however and Bolivia is 2-0 down half way through the first half. Then it happens - the ball is ineffectively cleared by the Argo defence and falls to the right foot of a Bolivian midfielder on the edge of the penalty box. It then traces a straight line at a fierce velocity to the right side of the Argo goal net. There is an explosion of noise in the restaurant sufficient even to drown the shrieking of the Bolivian TV commentator. Everyone is on their feet, yelling through arms about. It takes several minutes to die down allowing the calls for vIno, mAs Vino to reach the proprietor who springs toward the shelves of booze to grant their requests.
No such rewards in the second half - the final score 3-1 to Argentina.
Next day is carburettor adjustment time. The motor ran so badly over the Altiplano and 4,000 m pass from Villazon that, at times I was doubtful it would be able to make the climb. Fanning the clutch in first gear out of the bulldust covered hairpins while the motor splutters and misfires goes against my sense of mechanical sympathy ever when the swinehunt is on the punishment end!
Things don't go smoothly, as always. Don't believe for one moment the bullshit you hear that BMW 2 valve twins are easy to work on - they are bloody awful compared to a Ducati!
The two 40 mm Bing carbs on this bike are of a different vintage. When I test rode it pre-purchase the engine ran none too well, so on returning it I suggested they fix it then give me a ring. Fixing it involved replacing the left carburettor. This sounded a bit drastic to me and perhaps says something about the mechanical competence of a certain Melbourne central BMW dealer. Anyhow when I come to adjust the needle height on the left carb I find that unlike the original right carb it's fixed by a circlip that is unreachable without a pair of right angle pliers with this about 10 cm long! Some BMW factory tool no doubt. Shoving screwdrivers etc down the hole in the slide and scratching about can't release it. Even if it were possible to resolve, it would be a similar nightmare to get back in again correctly.
Half an hours frustration later I give up, resigned to the possibility that the next 2 months high altitude riding could be on the rocks and disconsolately examine the right carb. Comparing the two needle positions shows they don't match! By a stroke of luck it is the (Able to be adjusted) right side that needs to come down to both equal the adjustment and importantly lean off the mixture.
I bolt it back together and so far a ride locally (2,000 m altitude only). It seems OK but riding back up to over 4,000 m will be the test next day.
That day dawns wet and foggy. The Chen Shing knobby that transformed the front in the dirt shows its inadequacy on wet bitumen in the town but we are soon back on the gravel and climbing up the mountainside in the fog. Luckily there hasn't been enough rain yet to cause deep wheel ruts everywhere, only in a very few places. It gets increasingly cold as we climb through the clouds but the bike is running much better - no misfiring even on low octane Bolivian petrol.
A cool sun breaks through at the top of the pass as clouds scuttle to surmount the rise. We retrace our steps toward Villazon passing isolated mud brick houses and small herds of lama across the treeless Altiplano then turn north to new territory. Soon after we turn off the corrugated rough highway onto a Easonal Track that leads to Tupiza. Roads marked such on our map are recommended for 4WD only and generally impassable in the west season. It's the dry season now so we give it a go. Soon the going gets tough. Not so much deep sand or bulldust but rather boulders. In some places the road consists of rocks of varying sizes up to half a metre in diameter. Mary Ann has to get off and push on several occasions when the swinehunt gets trapped with the front wheel up on a ledge and the rear refusing to follow. A low clearance 4WD like a Subaru wagon would be defeated by this terrain. After about 50
km of grunting footing, clutch slipping and flailing of the Swinehunt's bars side to side, another climb begins, the twister road being slightly smoother.
On arrival at Tupiza I calculate that it has taken 8 hrs to travel 200 km. That's an average of 25k m/h! And we're both completely rooted!
The town of Tupiza itself is a dive but the surrounding red rock hills are worth a look. In this area the worlds oldest dinosaur bones are found. Speaking of dinosaurs I must to be fair and, admittedly with some reluctance, give credit to the purple swinehunt. I don't believe I could have conquered that road 2 up on any road bike without falling off and/or damaging it. Also there isn't any other off-roader that will carry two people comfortably and all this luggage. Its ability to pull from 2,000RPM/20 km/h in second gear smoothly enough to find traction out of turns is perhaps its greatest asset. Credit to the bike that we haven't fallen off yet.
It threatens to rain again overnight at Tupiza but the country is already so dry it makes little difference as we set out next morning for the central Altiplano. More climbing, this time to between 4 and 5,000 m - the highest so far. The road is flatter if more sandy at times as we pass spectacular and unusual rock formations following a wide almost dry river bed. The rise proper begins then, not so much hairpins but rather vertical assaults along ridges. Power drops off noticeably as both ourselves and the swinehunt are sucking in the thin air trying to gain enough oxygen. Thankfully no misfiring of spluttering now so it must have been the right richer carb at fault.
The purpose of going to Uyuni is to fulfil a fantasy I have had for about 3 years ago. North west of the town is a giant salar - A salt lake covering 1200 sq km - crossing this by motorcycle has taken on the urgency of a holy pilgrimage in my twisted subconscious. Fulfilling this dream first requires getting to Uyuni which is again trying. The bleak central Altiplano is relatively flat, the air holds little warmth, moisture or oxygen only sustaining a few stunted grasses and mountain mosses. and the wind often blows without relent or sympathy.
We come to a river crossing. The wheel marks go in two directions. To the left to an isolated petrol storage facility on the opposite bank with a lone bowser and dusty forecourt. To the right they disappear into the moist gravel but don't appear on the other side. We go and fill up the bikes 3 tanks and ask the lone attendant where the road goes.
A man is not an island
A river bed is not a road
Only in Bolivia
This is not always true.
Through the sand and gravel we go, trying to pick a path that has been firmly compressed by other wheels to avoid bogging the purple fiend ... sorry friend! The railway follows on our left having the luxury of being cut into the valley wall seven metres above the river. Around a bend the town of Atocha appears, an extraordinary sight camped on the riverbank. Earthy hues of colour blend with the thatched and tiled rooves giving a rustic sense of the far away and untouched, the definition of an isolated rural village untainted by modernity, in a spectacular setting.
We turn off the river into town. They are obviously not used to gringo visits as the first two inquiries at eating establishments draw an icy silence and a pretence at not being able to understand our request.
On the third attempt we strike - good food, warm hospitality, in a restaurant opposite the central plaza. After we eat they start packing up to close for lunch! - I kid you not, siesta is a powerful enough force to close anything in Latin America - then the whole family comes out to look at the bike and wave us off.