Painting a road in the sky
During the planning stage for our South American trip, the countries Peru, Chile and Colombia were always on our list to explore at length due to their breathtaking landscapes and fascinating cultures.
Bolivia was only mentioned in passing, even when talking to other overlanders, as if it’s a gateway country simply to get to Chile and Peru, and to add another stamp to your passport. Of course, we had read about the Salar de Uyuni; the largest salt lake on Earth, but we had also heard of the higher fuel prices for foreign vehicles, the dash along the Lagunas route, and stopover in La Paz, but not much else.
This piqued our interest and later we discovered what a unique city La Paz is. It nestles between mottled mountain cliffs at an altitude of 3 600 m, making La Paz the highest de facto capital city in the world.
It has a cable car, which is the world’s longest and tallest – a ride famous for the vertigo-inducing views over the city. Even its graveyard is fascinating – a veritable art gallery. People who have been here will mention the steep, cobbled streets, but nobody spoke to us about the Cholita ladies and their dark history.
It was therefore strange to us that during our five years of criss-crossing South America very few overlanders spoke of Bolivia with anything resembling enthusiasm. Since we didn’t expect much of the country, other than tall cableways and women in weird hats, it took us a long time to get there.
The poet Mary Montgomerie Currie once wrote: “All things come to those who wait”. This had been true for us when we rode our bikes through Africa and Europe. Our aim had always been to travel slowly, to really see, smell and taste the places we passed through, and not to chase borders. We’d long before decided that if we end up experiencing just a small part of the world, it would be okay as long as we had a meaningful and deeper understanding of it. Our travels are our mental pension for old age. This is our experience of Bolivia.
We enter Bolivia from Paraguay on the south-eastern border. The crossing starts off well, but things are about to change. Stamping out of Paraguay was a quick affair and we assume the rest of the crossing will be a breeze. Getting into Bolivia, however, is like banging your head against a brick wall.
It’s a tiny border post. The customs building has a tin roof and it looks as though it belongs on a farm. Dogs are the only creatures to acknowledge our arrival, lazily lifting their heads, but not bothering to get up and out of the road. Tumbleweeds literally roll past, like a scene from a spaghetti western, some bouncing off the dogs on their windswept exodus from Bolivia.
We are the only travellers at the border post. The customs official decides there are problems with the visas issued to us in Santiago. She
