I leave Iscayachi early in the morning and travel all day through winding mountainous roads, my average speed at about 20 mph. Fine weather. I arrive at Potosí, a small, very historic mining town with interesting buildings and steep cobbled streets. The altitude here is the highest so far, at 13,000 feet. It’s sunset, so I book into the first residencia hotel. The hotel is at the bottom of town; a beer and a meal is up the hill. What a climb! I’m gasping for breath as well as beer.
Milage for the day is 200 miles. It’s been 4,938 miles from the start at Punta Arenas, 34 days ago.
In the morning I check out the bike. There’s no chance of a new rear tyre until La Paz, unfortunately. The spark plugs are sooting up, so it’s time to reduce the main jet size from 230 to 210, which I carry in my tool kit. I must change this back when I get to the lower altitude, where there’s more air fuel. The switch is a very quick and simple operation on this single carb motor.
I’m off to a good start on a fairly smooth metal road, but, gradually, the further I get from Potosi the worse it gets, with corrugations, large stones, and thick, fine dust.
My destination is Challapata, on the shores of Lago Poopó. It’s less than 128 miles away, but they go by slowly. I arrive in town late in the day. The town is small, with one main street and no signs of life or shops. I stop at the end of the main street and pause for a minute, and a man with a poncho, a sombrero, blue eyes, and a red beard walks around from the back of the only two-story building.
He walks down the main street, and I look at the slight grin on his face and say to him, “You gotta be a gringo, man.”
He stops and replies, in English with a North American accent, “Ah sure am.”
His name is Kim Phelps, an American Peace Corps volunteer worker. He shows me his room and gives me a cup of tea and a cookie out of an empty-looking fridge and cupboards.
“Bit short on supplies. We’ll eat out across the road,” he says.
So off we go, to a simple adobe building with a few tables and lamp lights—no electrical power here. We each get a bowl of soup with big black bits in it.
“It tastes like potatoes,” I say.
“It is,” he says.
This is the home of the original potato. They’re about the size of your thumb, and at this altitude, they freeze-dry them in the backyard. Some pom called Francis Drake took them back to England and got knighted for it—I think.
The job for these Peace Corps workers is to introduce the European potato back to its origin here. They’ve had some success, but they have no tractors or machinery. I volunteer a day’s labor hand-harvesting their first big potatoes.
We then take a short trip—76 miles—to Oruro, a small town with a sealed main street. I stay here with more Peace Corps workers, eating, drinking, and meeting locals with them. Then I’m on to La Paz and the Hotel Torino, where the Peace Corps workers meet monthly for their pay and to stock up on supplies. I meet some motocross riders, and then stay with a local family, where I do some toy-making with baked flour and water.
The local police insist on cleaning my carburetor and plugs back at their barracks, and I watch the Bolivian Air Force do a fly-by with their three World War II American Mustang Fighters. This is all very exciting, as are the wet cobbled streets.
I manage to get a rear tyre that fits, but it’s definitely not the profile required, so I think it best to carry a spare until I can get to Lima, where I can swap it. The new tyre, a 150 B, costs $15. I also get a tourist visa for Peru from the Peruvian Embassy for $2.
From La Quiaca, at the border, to here in La Paz: 650 miles and 10 days.