Rockin´ Around the Christmas Tree

My eyes and feet are following our guide´s size seven Saloman´s up the rocky beginnings of Huayna Potosi. Half an hour of walking and we´re at the foot of the mountains glacier section for some ice climbing practise. Our group is made of two girls, one American, one Spanish, then we three boys, from England, England, and Scotland, respectively, but unusually, all most recently having lived in Old Street, Shoreditch and Bethnal Green, respectively.

Ice climbing is cool and ice axes are really cool, so I go at the ice bullishly. I soon find there's more technique to it than I'd anticipated, or that relates to rock climbing. I manage not to embarrass myself entirely, and largely avoid slipping and sliding on my belly or arse down the thirty and forty degree sections. Though, in the more vertical sections, thankfully on a rope, I fall twice in an over-zealous haste.

Photo: Paul Bell

We´re only out for an hour or two, but I´d happily have been out for many more. Ice axes are just the sort of thing I could buy and never use when I get back home. I could put them next to my chessboard, and my Kung Fu outfit, and my flute, and my enormous amplifier. Really cool, though.

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Dear Santa,
 I´ve been mostly pretty good this year, and am I nice enough guy, once you get to know me. This christmas, would you kindly arrange the following:

a KFC Megabucket
a motorcycle helmet - a cool one, with flames on the side
a pair of ice axes
a selection of real ales

Cheers,

Steven

Heat of the Moment

From my investigations of yesterday, the price of The Death Road varies between GBP30 and GBP70. I´ve been advised not to "cheap out", on account of the cheaper operators using unsafe bikes, but I decide to "cheap out".

My group and I are in a open space at the top of first part of the route to get used to the bikes. This first part is paved and non-deadly. My guide tells us that we´ll shortly start the route just around the corner at police narcotics check point. Gingerly circling around the dirt space, testing the bike, everything seems broadly ok, though the breaks are a little soft. A French girl picks out a nervous look on my face. She´s right. After some thought, I decide to hide my nervousness under a nearby rock.

We´re off. I´m behind the guide and a French guy, Antoine. Antoine appears to have ridden a bike before and can do a few nifty tricks. I´m doing my best to recall my recent bike riding experience in Piriapolis. On this downhill section, pedalling does nothing - the gears aren´t setup for downhill. We´re gliding down the road, casually, but building speed. All of a sudden, the guide veers off the left hand side of the road into a dirt drainage ditch, then rides two metres up a forty-five degree hill on the opposite side of the ditch, turns, and comes back through the ditch onto the road. Antoine follows his lead. I use my five seconds behind the Frenchmen to chicken out.

Five minutes later, I´ve lost the guide, but Antoine rides up a two metre raised dirt bank to the right of the road, then down into the roadside ditch and back onto the road. I´m unhappy with having chickened out last time, so I´m holding tight as I roll into this ditch. Even briefly, passing through the stoney ditch, the bike is juddering like it´s going to fall apart, but I come up and out safely.

Coming down a fast section, into a wide u-turn, both the guide and Antoine take another stoney shortcut path across the u-turn. As I follow, once again, my bike feels like it´s juddering to pieces and I´m holding tight to stay on it. Something feels very definitely wrong, and I reluctantly stop and lose the Bolivian and Frenchman. Looking down at my bike, I´ve actually literally juddered it to pieces. I carry it out to the road side and try to put the chain back on, only to find part of the gearing on the back wheel has broken clean off.

With my replacement bike, we´re making our way down the death road. Of course, Andy O was right, the views are as spectacular as the often sheer drop off the left hand side. However, given that drop, I don´t take so much time to enjoy those views. The winding and twisting road surface is uneven and riddled with stones. Even with suspension, the shuddering comes up through the front wheel. It´s painful to hold on tight, but if I´m holding too loosely, my hands will come away entirely. Still, the real element of danger is a more a function of the rider than the road. On two occasions, I briefly lose the back wheel and slide out, but neither incident perilous enough to slow me down.

Everyone rides at a speed they´re satisfied with, based the degree of both pain and peril. It´s not a race, but there´s a start and an end, so I´m riding to win, even if the Frenchman is a far better rider than me - which doesn´t take much.

In the evening, I´m unharmed and in La Paz´s "British Indian Curry house". I´m in the mood for something hot. the menu taunts me with a Vindaloo that specifically threatens to be so hot that finishers get a t-shirt. I´m hungry and good at clearing plates, so I accept the menu´s challenge.

The first four or five mouthfuls are fine. I´m feeling good. After that, my mango lassi begins to drain rapidly with every new mouthful. Even with my attempts to ration the yoghurt drink, I find it empty with plenty of curry remaining. I´m rigidly maintaining a false vascade to cover the burning sensation, even though I´m eating alone. The challenge is a cheat, there´s far too much curry sauce for the proportion of meat. I pick out the meat, suffering the burn, but there´s still a complete plate full of curry sauce that´s simply onions and chilli. I pay and leave, without my survivor´s t-shirt

Dr Feelgood

It´s 0100, and we´re five or six in a taxi with seats for four. I think the driver is also a doctor. From what I can remember, unsurprisingly, we´re the only group in costume at the small grimy club, but we are well received for it. Later in the morning, we´re in another taxi where the driver is taking us to another club, Ruta Triente y Seis. At what I´d guess to be 0800, we call an end to the spectacular madness and are walking back through the streets, still in full costume.

After waking up a midday, I´ve wandered across town looking for lunch. I have the crudely drawn Post-It Note picture deeply etched in the front of my mind. I´m very slowly working my way through a soup. The reality of the fifty metres and seventy degrees has dawned on me. My thoughts are very different to those of yesterday. I´m staring at my arm as I angle it to show myself what seventy degrees is. Now I´m imagining a near sheer vertical flat face of ice. I´m thinking this is almost terrifying beyond the capacity for rational thought, but in the slim remaining capacity, in theory, the guide will go first and setup a rope, so I can only die if the whole cold icey face comes off. So, it´s really just a question of whether I have the balls.

I´m walking across town to Alfredo´s office. For the past two hours I have thought absolutely nothing but wary, slow-moving thoughts this ice traverse, but without any inclination towards a yes or no. I remember Jerome´s words - "sometimes you live, sometime you die" - and ask myself what he, or Wolf, or Steve would do. With that, about twenty minutes before I reach the office, I conclude I have to do it. More than anything, I just can´t chicken out. If Alfredo says I can do it without ice climbing experience, then that´s what will happen. I have an odd feeling in my chest. It´s probably the immense terror of this reality.

The office is closed. The climb is already scheduled with a group for the day after tomorrow, but the death road is a full day tomorrow. Whilst I´m waiting, not sure whether to hope that the office opens, I visit another operator, again asking for something for more technical than Huayna Potosi. They show me an ice climbing route, less terrifying than Alfredo´s option, and ask about my experience. They strongly advise that it´s almost reckless for them to take me on their ice climbing route without experience. That´s all I need to be talked out of Alfredo´s plan, and his office remains closed. It´ll be the tourist mountain for me.

Crazy, Crazy Nights

I arrive in La Paz in the morning and, for lack of remembering any other hostel names, I settle down in what transpires to be an infamous party hostel.

The must-do gimmick in La Paz is cycling the death road. There´s scarcely a La Paz tourist that doesn´t do this, and with some noteworthy exceptions, everyone seems to survive, so I´m not hugely excited by the prospect. But, Andy O told me I had to do this, and Andy O has all but total credibility. What I´m actually looking to do is some mountain stuff - climbing, I guess.

After a few stops where I´m described a few climbs, I´m finding that one mountain, Huayna Potosi, is constantly mentioned. I´ve taken this to mean that it´s a tourist mountain, probably no more difficult than Ben Nevis, and certainly beneath my aptitude. That´s despite good memory of my ill-advised and failed attempt to summit Ben Nevis with Nico. Nick and I probably should have done some research before we went up. For a start, I didn´t know the Ben Nevis was there. I had just wanted to go and run around the hills where The Highlander was filmed. Then we should have looked up things like precisely where the mountain is, how high it is, how long it should take to get up, what gear is necessary, and when the sun goes down. Instead, we started our way up at a casual 1300, and my gear list included little more than a bottle of single malt, my ukulele and twelve cigarettes.

I find a climbing operator that I have a good feel about. I´m offered Huaya Potosi, but ask for something more technical. The seasoned Bolivian climber, Alfredo, begins to draw a crude diagram on a Post-It Note. It´s three lumps, one atop another, to show the three stages of the climb. The lowest of the three lumps has a line across it and the numbers fifty and seventy. Alfredo goes on to explain that the first stage is home to the technical part of the climb. It´s a fifty metre lateral traverse across a ice face of seventy degrees. Neither he nor I are too concerned that I don´t have ice climbing experience. I go away to think about it, but already thinking that this is perfect.

Back in the party hostal, after a few pints of White Russian, my new friends and I are looking to hit the town hard. Before we´re out the door, one of the gang leads us to a broom cupboard, and points at a large basket of colourful material. Having had too many White Russians, I agree that we should suit up in fancy dress. I´m in the Grim Reapers cloak and a jester´s hat. Two of the English contingent are now dressed as frogs, head to toe.

Life on Mars

At the end of the line, the Europeans are getting off and heading to Chile, whilst my substitute grandmother and I are heading back on the better part of a day´s drive back to Uyuni. As we´re switching cars, substitute nana goes quite mad. She insists that she won´t go anywhere in the new car unless the window is fractionally open for airflow. For a reason that includes words beyond my vocabulary, the Bolivian driver doesn´t want the window open. I try to interpret and explain to her that there´s no other option to return to Uyuni from this desert border outpost, but she won´t have it. The Bolivian driver and I take off, leaving her in the dust. She´s not my grandmother.

The terrain on the drive back varies dramatically. As we´re passing tall volcanoes, it´s the same sight as the pictures that came back from the Mars Rover in ´93. Later, green bushes start to appear on the martian terrain. Later still, the red rocks disappear, replaced by wide flats of yellow desert and distant mountains. I miss my Baja like this place misses the rain.

In the late evening, between the bus and road surface from Uyuni upto La Paz, four hours of fierce and relentless shaking and shuddering is so intense that I´m holding my groin just to keep everything in place.

Desert Rose

Back in the Land Cruiser, driving across a sandy desert, the electic soundtrack touches both Dexy´s Midnight Runners and Paul Simon.

We finally arrive at the reality of the picture I´d been looking forward to. The Arbol de Piedra - a rock shaped like a tree. It´s smaller than I was expecting, but I don´t hesitate to hop out of the car and pull out my bag of chalk and rock boots. I´m not best pleased to be greeted with a sign ahead of the rock: "NO ESCALADA" - NO CLIMBING. A few minutes later, I´m caught, rock-handed, by our guide half way up the tree, and reluctantly jump off. Pah, it wasn´t a challenging climb in any case.

Despite missing the pièce de résistance, I get a good go at various lumps of red grippy sandstone, some still in the shape of the overhanging waves that they once were when they poured down from the nearby volcanoes.  


In the early afternoon we´re at another basic hostal by the flamingo populated red lagoon. Once again, the Europeans favour cards rather than a hike up a distant rocky hill. Again, whilst I don´t really want them, I´m badly bothered by their total lack of inclination towards an hour of action off the tourist trail. Cards are shit.

High & Dry

I´m in one of a well spaced convoy of Toyota Land Cruisers in the middle of a desert, seemingly devoid of anything but salt. The terrain is almost perfectly flat and white in all directions, as far as the eye can see. I´m in the company of a pair of Portuguese, another pair of Germans, and an Indian woman of fifty-something years, on holiday from Australia, who reminds me greatly of my dearest grandmother. Our Bolivian driver has let us loose with the auxiliary input on the stereo. This is a good thing, because three days of Bolivian pan pipe music is three days more than I have the appetite for. My selection from the German iPod is AC/DC, so as to recreate an opening scene of Iron Man.

The main stop is a isolated rocky island of many, many cactus, upto ten metres tall and a thousand years old. The rock is almost like coral, and whilst my shoes grip perfectly, it´s quite capable of shredding my hands, so climbing is a no-go. This is where tourists insist to take tens and tens of largely unoriginal and poorly focused photos, amateurishly taking advantage of the natural "green screen" effect. I´ve no such interest.

In the afternoon, we arrive at a basic hostel. The hostel is in the shadow of a red mountain in the middle of this salty desert. The floors are covered small stones of salt, which I´m using to extract the moisture from my watch. I suspect much of the building is made of some kind of salt rock. There´s a couple of hours of sunlight left and I invite the Europeans to join me for a walk. Their preference is to play some game of cards. Their choice is entirely perplexing, but in reality, I´m happier to explore without them.

Despite being too mature for the earlier nonsense, on this rocky mountain, I have the mind of a seven year old boy. And so I being a game of Kevin Bacon´s Tremors. The game essentially involves leaping from rock to rock without touching the ground. Half an hour later, I´ve conceded that I can´t get to the top of the mountain without being eaten by the subterranean Graboids. Another half an hour later, I´m still scrambling up and have found a another type of rock. It´s red, smooth, and strong - probably a sandstone - so perfect for bouldering. From a few hundred metres up, the sun sets behind me and casts a shadow over distant salt flats. That motivates a new game of Let´s Get Off this Rock Before the Sun Goes Down. As I´m jogging and bounding down a path of switchbacks that I´d ignored on the way up, something goes awry in or around my right foot. Thankfully, I´m able to protect my sunglasses as I crash to ground and roll. With just a few small cuts, I rejoin my party and we set about emptying a bottle of rum.