Still in Bolivia, we´re at the very precipice of Argentina. A border town is much the same across nations. If I´d ever been to Texas, I´d surmise that the Villazon - La Quiaca relationship, where I am, is a smaller version of El Paso - Ciudad Juarez. There´s even a special bridge where certified carriers, some old women and some teenage boys, tote heavy packages in a binge of free trade. It was tough to watch.
But nevermind that. Getting here was far more intersting.
We alternated days between a heavy 200 km stint or a light one-hundred km day, and nights between cushy accomodations or camping in some of the most unforgiving hinterland I have ever laid eyes on. On the longer days, the thirsty bikes are fed fuel in mid-journey by a untrusting 10-year old armed with a pail and a funnel. This has happened three times already.
In between all this thankless terrain were some hotsprings, except the thing was the size of a pond and the temperature of a hot tub. Diving down upped it to a hot shower. The bottom must have been scalding.
Descending southward, remember, we´re still over 10,000 ft high, the air thickens and the landscape becomes far less forboding. Even intriguing:
Bolivia has been swell and, at times, magical. I once wondered aloud about wanting some ice cream and, sure enough, around the next corner was a little old man dishing my wish out for a nominal pittance. It´s time to change time zones, swap from the poorest South American country into the richest, and continue on into hopes of finding both the world´s best steak and a polo match.
Still in Bolivia, we´re at the very precipice of Argentina. A border town is much the same across nations. If I´d ever been to Texas, I´d surmise that the Villazon - La Quiaca relationship, where I am, is a smaller version of El Paso - Ciudad Juarez. There´s even a special bridge where certified carriers, some old women and some teenage boys, tote heavy packages in a binge of free trade. It was tough to watch.
But nevermind that. Getting here was far more intersting.
We alternated days between a heavy 200 km stint or a light one-hundred km day, and nights between cushy accomodations or camping in some of the most unforgiving hinterland I have ever laid eyes on. On the longer days, the thirsty bikes are fed fuel in mid-journey by a untrusting 10-year old armed with a pail and a funnel. This has happened three times already.
In between all this thankless terrain were some hotsprings, except the thing was the size of a pond and the temperature of a hot tub. Diving down upped it to a hot shower. The bottom must have been scalding.
Descending southward, remember, we´re still over 10,000 ft high, the air thickens and the landscape becomes far less forboding. Even intriguing:
Bolivia has been swell and, at times, magical. I once wondered aloud about wanting some ice cream and, sure enough, around the next corner was a little old man dishing my wish out for a nominal pittance. It´s time to change time zones, swap from the poorest South American country into the richest, and continue on into hopes of finding both the world´s best steak and a polo match.
