Motorcycle Explorer February 2015 Issue 4 | Page 162
Good time to inch the last of the Ketchup out of the bottle over these bad boy corrugations…
O
ur tyres eventually hit a surface recognizable as roadway, the humming of Pearl’s tyres
back on the asphalt lulled me into relaxation. With over 15,000 miles clocked on South American
soil, we eased our way back into Bolivia. The land where they give their buses names like Alison
and Jesus, a land so high the air escapes you. It’s home to the multicoloured back-wrap, the
bowler hat framing long black braids on women as well as riots and street parades erupting
without warning. It’s a place of contrast, curiosity and for us, a constant headwind.
After four inefficient hours, we inched our way over Argentina’s La Quiaca border into the
bustling southern city of Villazon. If our first encounter of Bolivian traffic was anything to go by, I
didn’t hesitate to put Pearl back into survival mode and her most aggressive gear. You won’t faze
me this time, road-razzing Bolivian crazies. I ignored the best course through the apex and stuck
to the outside white line like glue, cornering every curve like I was on rails. Slower and cautious
was preferable to oblivious and unconscious. Jase put me in front to cut down on the ‘dawdling’
to which he’d sardonically refer, hang on, dawdling is one of my favourite pastimes.
On the edge of the country’s altiplano, we found ourselves at over 4,000 metres – occasionally
dropping to the oxygen-rich 2,500 metres. The air was thinner, the drivers less than considerate
and the llamas unperturbed by our motorcycles’ roar. I was growing re-accustomed to the new
daily grind, the rise and fall of this unpredictable country. I wondered if this time round, we’d
find its hidden depths.
Deep in the bowels of Potosi: The silver city that once was. Founded in 1545, soon after the
Spanish stumbled across the Cerro Rico – Rich Hill – looming over the city. This mountain
harvested enough silver to bankroll the mines. As our bikes rattled down cobblestones and
through the crowded streets of a late afternoon, local drivers must have pipped at me more
times than I’d had hot dinners. Horns hooted constantly at me in that city-based passionless
way – nothing personal, just a reflex action. It was simply the way of it here; if you don’t push
your way into traffic with purpose, no one will let you in.
Our second sojourn in the city left me seeing the same – Potosi was riddled with filth, the
destitute weathered by hardship, scraped a living amidst the traffic and the slums clustered
around firearm-guarded banks. An unmistakable undertone of its sad stories, past and present.
Seeing the odd toddler wrapped up in llama wool to keep in their little body’s worth of warmth,
jangling key rings gone 10pm at night plucked at something very deep in me.