Today is Good Friday. One road-rail bridge is the border between the two towns, and in the morning the stationmaster’s son negotiates with the border guards to allow me to cross into Villazón, Bolivia for the holiday fee of $1. The altitude here is 11,311 feet, and it is very busy and crowded, with steam engines hissing and smoking, complete with their classic old carriages. I have a three hour delay getting the carnet for the bike stamped—no trouble with my visa, though. Luckily, a friend in San Miguel de Tucumán had given me the name of an official, which helps with the processing.
With all of my paperwork in order I step out into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd and, while putting my papers away, notice at my feet a roll of money—not mine. I give up the thought of finding the rightful owner in this crowd and carry on. It’s only a couple of dollars, but it’s a lot for the person that lost it.
Upon leaving town I give way to about five or six armed horsemen crossing the road. They’re all wearing sombreros, ponchos, and bullet belts over the shoulders, just like in the old westerns. I look for the movie cameras, but there aren’t any—these are the real thing! I hope that I won’t run into them in the hills, as they look a bit mean.
It’s 2:00 p.m. and I’ve just had a meal. This is siesta time for the locals, but I’m on the road. I have a great feeling about being in Bolivia, even with the bad roads and very desolate mountainous landscape. I have fine weather.
There is little, if anything, in the way of trees, vegetation, traffic, people, or dwellings. There are few bridges, and a couple of rivers have me worried, as they have to be forded and the riverbed has a crazy paving of stone. I cross the first one carefully, and I make it okay up the other side. The second, larger one has two crazy paved crossings and two exits, but I can’t see up over the steep bank, and if I choose the wrong one I will have to return to cross the other. There’s nothing on the map to help me, as no real maps are available for this area, only stick maps. There are no signs either, and both exits show the same amount of usage. The crazy paving has gaps I could easily drop a wheel into, sending me into the drink—big trouble, as it could be hours before another vehicle comes along. It’s decision time. The water is clear, so I pick the best looking paving and off I go, exhaust pipes blowing bubbles along the way. With a bit of luck, I avoid some large gaps in the paving. Out and up the other side, there are still no signs, so I carry on, hoping I’ve chosen the correct road. I pass over a couple of rises and—hello!—we join the other road again. I say a few swear words out loud and laugh to myself.
Travel is slow—only 90 miles today. I stay in a small hotel, Cruce Iscayachi, at a junction, altitude 11,475 feet. I get a room with four bunks in it; I think the room is just for myself, but in the morning the bunks are all full.
There’s an interesting toilet set-up outside: a bench with four holes cut in it, a divider, then four more on the other side for the ladies. There’s a roof, but no front or doors, so it’s open to the weather. It seems to have a “self-composting system.”
Meal and beer cost 300 pesos (75 cents); bed and supper cost 500 bolivianos (45 cents).
Fuel comes from a drum at the local store. I notice my rear tyre is breaking up, so it’s time to look for a new one.