Longest Night, Shortest Sleep
Trip Start
Jan 27, 2008
1
106
114
Trip End
May 12, 2008
Mallku Villamar, Potosí, Bolivia
Monday, May 5, 2008
Having a reputation for being something of a human GPS the whole thing makes for an unusual leg of the journey. In my defence, my normal powers of orientation were still somewhat depleted by the experiences of the last three days. Having said our farewells to the rest of the party Kathy and I were looking forward to being driven to a hostel for a comfortable overnight stop and then onwards for a morning delivery to the Chilean border at Hito Cajones.
Its well after 5pm before we are finally on our way. After performing a number of errands, dropping family members around the town, and sourcing some stomach settling medicine for Kathy, we are striking out to the south west on Ruta 701. The road has a good quality gravel surface and for the most part seems to be as straight as a dye. We are accompanied by tall pylons marching across the, still very dramatic, high altiplano. After what seems like only twenty minutes we stop. There's a small problem with the engine. It might be a loose fan belt but I'm not sure. There is much tinkering and then we're off again. I see a sign telling us we've just crossed the Rio Grande on a impressive new bridge. The waterway could be had under trades descriptions on both counts. Hardly a river and not that big either. It drains unseen to our right, towards the vast Salar de Uyuni. The road begins to climb, hugging the side of the river valley which is now to our left. We have been travelling a total of about three hours when the driver makes a stop at San Cristobal. There's an opportunity to stretch our legs, buy a drink and take a leak. How much further have we got to go? We are starting to envy those staying in the hostel in Uyuni.
As we leave San Cristobal the driver points outs the restored church but we are already starting to lose consciousness. We haven't long left town when we stop in the fading light to assist another Toyota that has broken down. Its getting cold. I think it took about twenty minutes and it may have involved a tyre change.
We are on the move again but not for very long. Its very dark now and our turn to break down again. This time its our tyre that needs changing. We are allowed to stay in the car whilst they jack it up the but on the proviso that we keep very still. It seems to take an age, and when they come to start the engine there's another problem. Even our previously unflappable driver is beginning to get a bit exasperated now.
As we finally move off I can see lights in the distance. I later establish that its the village of Alota, about 130km out of Uyuni, but we're not stopping here either. Kathy and I have started to dig more clothes out of our respective backpacks in an effort to keep warm.
Suddenly we are making a left turn off the main road. The track we are now following weaves its way through undulating scrub and is heavily rutted. It is about now that I recall we started fording large rivers and streams. We are reassured when we pass a huge truck coming the other way. At least we are still on a recognized road.
We plough on through the night, all the time being violently bumped around in the back of the 4x4 as we go. We are both getting delirious. How much further can it be? When I finally trace our route I establish that we had passed the Valle de las Rocas, a popular stop off in the desert but there's nothing to see at night. It must be at least 10pm as we trundle down a V shaped valley and arrive at Mallchu Villamar. I have since calculated that we travelled 50km from the main road to reach this point. Spirits are lifted but the barrier guarding the entrance to the pueblo is not. There are more delays, and more flaffing about. Then I see the problem. Between us and the village, not more than 100 metres away now, there's a fast flowing river to cross. It looks tricky. They've saved the best until last. And frustratingly its within crashing distance of my bed.
There is further discussion and then, gingerly, we ford the river. Its well past ten o'clock but we've finally arrived. I cannot describe how cold and tired I feel by now but after being shown our accommodation we are taken to a small dining room populated by some Dutch or German tourists. By now I really don't care where they come from. Its very late for dinner but I try to eat some of the insipid spaghetti and tomato sauce and start to think maybe the others have eaten all the good bits. I try to swallow some food but I'm just not hungry and want to sleep. The Dutchies are irritatingly full of life, evidently on the first leg of their desert travels or extremely dosed up on mate de coca.
I recall being quite brusque with them on account of advanced sleep deprivation, I think Kathy was the same. We decide to crash out. Its a twin room with a large wooden door leading directly to the main courtyard. Unsurprisingly its rather cold. I'm trying to sleep on a metal framed bed, but this time I don't have a monopoly on irritating creaky beds. Kathy's is perhaps worse than mine. In the dining room, not more than 20 metres, away the local pan pipe band have turned up. The Dutchies are singing, dancing and having a whale of a time. The tossers.
