Bolivia.

 I used the Yunguyo Border crossing on the southern end of Lake Titicaca. It was my intention to cross the following day, but like all border towns there is not often any reason for staying. It was 3pm, so I decided to continue and tackle the unnecessary rules and invented regulations. Passport stamped no problem, Police inspection no problem, but I was asked for $20.00 for nothing, eventually I negotiated and reduced it to $10.00, still too much for nothing. So, just Customs to deal with now, and back to the subject of engine number, the same issue that I encountered entering the country. There was a heavy hail storm dumping its contents out side, so I was more than happy to wait while the 3 officers debated my destiny. It became a 45 minute lock in, strange it may seem, a physical inspection was not done, must have been the storm !!! out of Peru and in to Bolivia was easy, 20 minutes worth and I made it to backpackers paradise Copacabana. Here I loafed for a few days, the weather was at this moment in time very unpredictable, and the living was cheap and easy.

 Copacabana on the waters edge of Lake Titicaca, busy with pleasure and fishing boats. At 12500 ft above sea level, this is the worlds largest lake at this altitude.

  The streets of Copacabana, quite modern to the mud brick buildings of recent travels through Peru, but I know this is only temporary, this is a town that thrives on tourism, there is much construction of new hotels under way at this moment in time, and coach loads of tourists come and leave each day. With no real reason for staying here too long I was hoping for a break in the weather.

                                                      Sunset  and storm over lake Titicaca.

    Copacabana from the hill of Cerro Calvario, mucho effort to reach the summit,just as well it was cold.

  The weather was very quick to change from perfect to completely miserable, as I was soon to discover.

  Two days was enough, time to move on, the sun was shining on me, but not for long. The road to La Paz takes you to a ferry crossing across the lake. The rain had now turned to freezing hail and snow and there was no sign of any relent. The ferry crossing was a challenge, as there is not a proper loading ramp or dock to allow for easy access to the deck of the ferry. Of all the empty barges lined up at the waters edge, the step up to the deck was at least 12 or more inches. Improvised ramps of broken bricks and rocks is not so much of a problem with four or more wheels, but I had little faith, as a speedy approach up the rocky ramp on to the icy wooden deck would no doubt end in tragedy when I hit the brakes. However,

 there was a compromise, a barge operator a few barges along had a large wooden wedge that looked to be a safer option than a pile of bricks, the only problem being that there were several planks missing from the

 deck of the barge, which meant that I would have to reverse the bike backwards down the slippery ramp at the other side. Going backwards on a slippery ramp is no fun, the front brake is useless as all the weight is transferred to the rear wheel, so you have to use one leg to support the bike, and the other to operate the rear brake while you descend the ramp and deal with the wind and the waves from the lake. Who ever said that a man cannot multi task?

 Pleased to be on terra-firma I shakily captured this photograph. The weather lasted for another 50 freezing miles to La Paz. On the approach to the city the road was blocked by a huge street market, it was a 45 minute battle to pass through.

  Pleased to escape, I parked on the edge of the road and ran the gauntlet to the ATM in La Paz, I did not stop for the city and continued to Oruro, another city lacking in accommodation. I did eventually find something.......err........ fairly disgusting for £3.00. I did have secure parking for the bike and a roof. It was a sleep with all your riding gear on hotel. I got breakfast in the market for 40p, so no reason to complain. heading for Sucre, I was forced to stop at Llallagua for gasoline. The gas station was closed until tomorrow, when a delivery was due, so I called it a day and waited. The road ahead was 325 km of unsurfaced dirt road to Sucre, it was going to be a tough day, as I was unable to get an early start to the day due to the fuel situation. It was a tough day on the dirt road, a diversion around a lake ended in a soaking in what appeared a straight forward water crossing. I watched a vehicle in front of me cross, and he chose the left hand side of the water, it was very deep, about two foot, the right hand side was the best option for me.

 Shallow by comparison, there was a huge hole under the water to which the front wheel fell into, the bottom of the bike frame grounded on the rocks, and I was ejected from the saddle once more !! I hastily removed the tank bag as it contained my documents and computer. The contents did get wet, but all was saved. I summoned assistance from nearby men working on the road, and I was soon on my way again, that saved all the trouble of removing all the luggage so that I can pick up the bike. The intense sun soon dried out my precious possessions, the next hazard was a landslide, that cost an hour or so.

 It was now early afternoon, and I had only covered about 50km, and looking at the map there was little in between in the way of Villages or Towns for accommodation.

 The road followed the course of the the river, where the forever optimistic still pan for precious metal.

                                     Deep gorge, dusty winding road, 13000 ft above sea level.

                                                    Boy racers have a short life here.

                                                              No AA patrol here.

                                                              Hours of empty road.

                                                    Thousands of years of erosion.

                                                      Total silence and tranquillity.

                                                The sun going down, still a long way to go.

 I had to break the rules for safe travel on this occasion, and travelled during the hours of darkness. It was cold, and as usual a storm was catching me up. I was caught up in a convoy of trucks and buses of a road works gang returning to the city. There was no escape from the dust thrown up from the convoy, overtaking was hazardous due to the unpredictable road conditions and not being able to see clearly. I managed a few daring over-takes, or under-take, which ever way you can make it! It was soon to come to an abrupt end, I had just over taken a truck and I am confronted with a tight right hand hairpin bend on a muddy corner. The only problem with a headlamp that is attached to a fairing is that it does not turn with the handle bars, so as I turn the sharp corner the headlight continued to shine straight ahead and not where I was going. Plunged in to darkness I had no choice to keep going and hope for the best, but it was not to be and I hit the deck for the second time in one day. This time not so good, I trap my right foot under the right hand pannier, and find myself pinned to the ground by the weight of the bike. The truck driver and his mate soon came to the rescue, and all was vertical again. Back on the bike again, it still took me 2 hours to make it to Sucre. Muddy sections and river crossings make a memorable journey !!! Free of the dirt road, a special effort is made to clean up my face and boots, in the hope of finding a hotel. Lucky I was, right in the city centre and £7.50 a night,and I was allowed to ride through reception to the central internal courtyard to park my trusty steed.

 The following morning I was woken by a painful ankle, a visit to Doctor Google was made, who suggested I should keep moving and take it easy for a while. That I did, and all was good the day after, but it still hurts a little 3 weeks up the road.

  The local market close to the hotel, and like most South American  markets, upstairs there is a restaurant where you can get good food for £1.00 or less. I'm gonna get fat.

                                                 Lovely Colonial buildings of Sucre.

 There has been much debate on travellers chat forums regarding tyres, this mix and miss match set works fine, no chicken strips, tyre used to the edge !!!

                                        Miles of flat Anti-plano, a prominent feature of Bolivia.

                                      The road from Potosi (the worlds highest town) to Uyuni

  Uyuni is a small town on the edge of the Salar de Uyuni (salt flats). A dusty old town with mud brick buildings, it has a war zone appearance, and gas stations with out gasoline. A three day wait was indicated. The Bolivian Government has imposed a Gringo Tax on fuel sales to foreign visitors. The pump price is trebled for the Gringo, but the system is abused by the forecourt staff on most gas stations, as they do not issue the official receipt and try and charge you the halfway price, and pocket the money. As there was no fuel I bought some on the 'black market', it cost a little more at least I had fuel.

When I rolled in to town,  the hotels were asking too much money, just as the Salar is the major attraction here. around the corner I met two Argentinian bikers who directed me to the hotel that they had just booked in to. They too were going to the Salar, so we went together. I grumbled, that if the salt flats were under water, then there was absolutely no way that I was going to go anywhere near the salt, as I have a loathing for the destructive properties of salt and motorbike components.

 With a certain uneasy feeling I and my new found Cavalier Argentinian mates ventured out on the salt flats.

 Without some form of navigation system, it would be easy to loose direction, my mates had a crumpled map, so they depended on my Garmin.

  They had ridden from Buenos Aires two up on a 250 Yamaha trail bike, and were enjoying the freedom of riding without the luggage.

   Miles of nothing. I was re-living the film about the 'worlds fastest Indian' a film starring Sir Anthony Hopkins about Bert Monroe and his unbroken land speed record on a 1920's Indian motorcycle on the Bonneville Salt Flats,Utah,America, 1967.

                                       

                                                  Hotel made from.........blocks of salt.

                                                     Reckless mates in the distance
   Soon the dry salt turned to wet slush, and then to 6 inches deep salt water. I would have turned around at this point, but as my mates were depending on me for navigation I had to continue, after once wet with salt, the bike cannot get any wetter I worried.

                                                     Isla Incahuasi in the salty distance.

 

                                                           looking out from the Island.

                                                                  The light was intense.

Salt can also make you go blind, so I have learned. 

 All hot parts of the bike were caked in dry salt that had turned to rock hard crystals. Not good, how am I gonna clean it off ? The radiator was the biggest worry, so delicate in construction.

 As a town Uyuni had little to offer the stressed traveller, no power washers in town, gas stations with no fuel, and water tap that only dribbled, and above all no bananas or WD 40. I searched every store. Grrr. The garage attendant would not allow me to use the hose pipe, so I had to make do with a bucket and a broken brush from a broom. I toiled until dusk, thankfully the garage owner made the executive decision and allowed me to finish with the near useless hose. Amazingly after 3 hours of washing my trusty steed sparked into instant life, and I retreated to the hotel to dismantle the bike to get to the more delicate and vulnerable parts. Needless to say a good nights sleep was not to be, the salt had taken its toll on my eyes and face, my eyes felt as though sand had been thrown in to them. So with blurred vision I staggered to the Chemist to buy some eye drops, and I worked (honest) for 11 hours non stop that day. I slept that night !!!

                                                   Daniel and Leonardo. good guys.

 Due to recent events, ankle still hurting and now possible problems with the salt, I wimp out and take the surfaced roads to Chile. This means heading North, but that is better than hospital. It would cost me a few days.

 My chosen route to the border appeared on the map as a major highway, after 60 miles it turned to dirt. Despite the surface being dirt, the going was good, very dusty though. A storm on the horizon changed my direction, as the route was going to take me through more salt, so I returned and went for the border the following day at Tambo Quemado, further North than I wanted to be. The storm waited all night, I was lucky and escaped.

 The 120 mile ride to the border was cold, and reached elevations of 15000 ft. This was a major border, I passed many miles of parked trucks at the approach to this most confusing border crossing. At a check point, I had to stop and by a ticket. Next to the ticket office was the Bolivian Migration building and across the road the customs building, but neither were interested in my passport or temporary import documents for the bike. from conversation I was told that the border is further along the road, and so I continued onward.

                                   Up to higher elevations, past many more trucks on the icy road.

 I eventually passed a sign welcoming me to Chile, but no signs of the Border control yet. All very confusing, so after about 7 miles I returned back along the slushy road to the what appeared to be the the Border that I had originally encountered, only to be told the same story once again. So I retraced my tracks and eventually found what I was looking for. I passed many more trucks, they must have been there for days waiting. No wonder there were so many snow men on the road side !!!!

 This was an easy crossing, except that I had my bananas, porage and honey confiscated by Customs. Motorcycle identity all ignored.