Motorcycle Explorer February 2015 Issue 4 | Page 166

S
ucre, just a scant 100 miles northeast of Potosi saw us savour some sugar at Café Florin; a
three-course meal for an economico 35 Bolivianos would be less than £3.50. It was
mouthwatering to boot. A first-floor apartment catering to all the needs of a modern motorcycle
traveler also had us blinking in shock when we rocked up a few blocks down the road at Hostel
Wasi Masi. Arrr, the moment when your faith is restored in budget travel through South
America’s most impoverished country. It was altogether sublime. The sky turned from midnight
blue to charcoal, and the light from the streetlamps glowed gold in the fine evening mist.
R
eturning to Potosi, we rode under a leaden sky that was bleak and raw. A torrent of
monsoon rain forced us to don the ‘super-suits’: an all-in-one, super-sized, non-breathable black
number with ample room leftover for another me. I could quite possibly have been mistaken for
someone the size of Belgium. Fashion kudos aside for one moment, surely it’d be in the running
to win drysuit-of-the-year for keeping every drop of water, wind and cold at bay. It saved our
skins and allowed me to ride with that snug-as-a-bug feeling outside – come rain and hail
without shine – somehow reveling in it all.
On arrival, a fierce gale tore through the streets, along the alleyways and across the open spaces
of the city; ripping newspapers from unwary hands, seeking out ill-fitting doors and loose
window frames, whipping litter to head height and bearing it across the plaza. Outside was the
hooting traffic, the cacophony of the street but once through the doors a hush fell, as if the
hostel created its own silence. I peered out my window and the place looked eerie at night,
bathed in a sodium light.