When we woke up in La Paz our heads were still buzzing from the 15 hour ordeal from the day before. I know Linda doesn't particularly like it when we are pressed for miles and time but I really enjoy a good ol' knock-down-drag-'em-out ride every once in a while. Once again it's the whole Ying/Yang kind of thing where it takes a really difficult day in the saddle to help you define the really good days. All in all we covered only 440 miles in 15 hours but about 150 miles of it was on some gnarly rock and sand and most all of yesterdays ride was above 12,000 ft in elevation. But what I particularly enjoyed was the last stretch into Chalapata. It was a temporary road that was full of stream crossings and whoop-de-doos, all the while we could see the, as yet unopened, brand spanking new slab of asphalt just to our left. As I negotiated the numerous hazards on the temporary street I already felt sorry for the poor saps who would do this trip on asphalt in the coming months. They would know nothing of the difficulty and exhilaration of the road that I just covered. Que Lastima!
We now had to get busy finding moto stuff, like rear tires and chains and sprockets. So we rolled the bikes out onto the busy street and went to work. We knew nothing of the city so I basically just started riding around until I saw another motorcyclist. I pulled up next to him and asked him if there was a good motorcycle shop nearby. He said, "follow me" and took off down the street at a high rate of speed. He was on a Yamaha 250 dirt bike which was much more nimble in the big city traffic than our 650's but still he was no match for our horsepower. We kept up easily enough. Finally we pulled in front of a strange looking shop that was a cross between a Gap store and bmx shop. Surely, this wasn't the motorcycle shop. Indeed it was as the kid explained to me that there were other shops in town but this one had the best prices. Ok, I guess I'll give it a try. I went inside and asked if they had motorcycle parts for Suzuki and Kawasaki's. The guy behind the desk told us to wait one moment and disappeared upstairs. A few moment later Marcelo came down stairs with a big grin on his face. "Marcelo," I said to myself, "that name sounds familiar." Marcelo spoke very good English and as we were talking about our trip he finally mentioned that he has some American friends who did the same trip that we are doing a couple years ago on KLR's. "The Moonriders" we both said simultaneously. Now I remember where I knew his name. It was a couple years ago when I was reading the Moonrider journals online. They spent about 2 weeks hanging out with Marcelo here in La Paz. Back then, he and, his now ex-partner had a Kawasaki dealership. Times were getting a little tight and, while Marcelo no longer had what I would classify as a motorcycle shop, he apparently still had connections. He said that he could have the chains and sprockets in two days as he had to order them from Santa Cruz. Apparently most of Bolivia's imports come through Santa Cruz. Unfortunately he did not have tires that would fit our bikes. The best he could do was Pirelli MT60's, made in Brazil, but at 140-80-17, was probably too wide for our bikes. Anyway we could still look elsewhere for the tires. Marcelo also told us that he had a mechanic who could put the parts on for us. "Where?" I asked since he did not have a garage. "Right here on the sidewalk" was his reply. Ok not my first choice but at this point I was game for anything. We set everything up and then talked about all the things motorcycle riders talk about, like how hard it is to find a decent hemroidial cream nowadays. We then retreated back to the Hotel. Excited that it was so easy to order the parts we went out for Pizza and a movie to celebrate.
We took our time getting up the next morning and eventually headed out about noonish. Today was the day to hit the mean streets of La Paz to get all those very unexciting chores done, like changing money, washing clothes, getting oriented and buying those obnoxious t-shirts that say "I rode all the way to highest Capital City in the World and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt!" I know that nobody will ever believe me when I say that travelling like we are requires the same skill sets as my profession - Turn-Around-Management Consulting. We have to deal with the "office politics" of border crossings. Deal with the same know-it-alls, cranky clients and unreliable vendors just to get through a typical day. We also have to deal with budgets, unrealistic expectations and correctly identify who the "players" are from the "pretenders". Last, but certainly not least, we have to show up for "work" everyday. Of course you could counter by saying that I'm being melodramatic and that what we're doing is much better than riding a desk all day and... you'd be right. Ok, never mind, traveling down here is nothing like work. Now where was I? Oh yeah, La Paz.
We headed over to the much heralded "witches market" and quickly filled our coffers with all the usual stuff like colorful blankets, painted wooden plates, llama fetuses, leather goods etc. We actually got fitted for the leather goods, Linda found a leather jacket and I opted for some hot leather pants. After putting down a 10% deposit ($7 a piece) we were on our way back to the hotel with our stash of cool stuff. Later that night we took a cab to La Paz's high rent district. We quickly found a staid English pub and quaffed a couple Bolivian beers. It never seems to fail, whenever we go in search of "real beer" and find a promising place, it only serves the same old tired lagers that we've been forced to drink the entire trip. I supposed this means we're in the first stage of "Spoiled Travelers Syndrome" when we start complaining about the beer we're 'forced' to drink. Hopefully we won't get fixated at the dreaded "Stage 5 - Playing of the diggerydoo in any plaza central that will have us" before it's all said and done. After a quick session at the "English pub" we neglected all the locals' advice and headed off on a walking tour of this architecturally stunning section of La Paz. Once again everybody and their brothers rants and raves about how dangerous it is to walk anywhere, especially if you happen to be of the gringo persuasion. We found it to be quite the contrary. All we ran into were outgoing and friendly people wherever we walked in the City. As we strolled the well kept boulevards we were never quite sure where we were but we walked for hours until 1 a.m. Through small parks overlooking the entire city, palatial mansions, intricate churches and numerous bars. La Paz has got to be one of the world's most beautiful cities at night and even during the day it's not too shabby. From there we went to a little music bar that took requests. All in all a thoroughly enjoyable evening.
Day 3 in La Paz came in on schedule but we decided to sleep in once again to try and catch up on some much needed sleep. We've decided that as soon as we get the bikes fixed we were off to Cusco, Peru to tackle the Inca Trail and Macchupicchu. Our only chore was to show up at Marcelo's place around 3 p.m. to put the chains and sprockets on. So we checked out the requirements to mail our recent purchases but the immigration office was closed. We'd have to wait 5 days until after the Easter holiday to send it. Bummer. So we just hung out in the room doing website stuff and packing up all the stuff we wanted to mail home. We had heard from other travelers that La Paz was the cheapest and most reliable place to send stuff home in all of South America. (This turned out to be true as all our stuff arrived in perfect condition when we returned to Portland). By the time we showed up at Marcelo's it was 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Alle, the mechanic, pulled up on his Harley Davidson with his wife Monica. He was a very likeable guy and Monica was equally nice. We quickly hit it off. Marcelo brought down the chains and sprockets for Suzi and TGH. At first glance my sprockets looked fine except that I would be moving up from a 14 tooth front sprocket to a 15 tooth. But it was obvious that the rear sprocket for the Suzuki was not the right size. Marcelo immediately went about remedying the situation by calling all his contacts. While he was on the phone Alle broke out a crow bar and hammer and started pounding away on my chain to break it. I told him that I had a chain breaker and press tool back at the hotel that I hadn't had the opportunity to use yet but, by then it was too late, the chain was off. "We'll use it to put the new one on" I said. The rear sprocket was installed in a matter of minutes but the front sprocket was a different story. First we had great difficulty to find the right tool to take off the front sprocket (24mm socket). Since we were working on a sidewalk and not in Alle's shop he didn't bring enough tools with him. He finally scrounged the right size socket and wrench and we were back in business. After removing the stock sprocket it was then that we noticed that the new Brazilian made front sprocket did not have a proper spacer to distance it from the engine casing. It was another lengthy delay until we could manufacture one from a few spare parts lying around. It was now time to put the chain on. I rode Suzi back to the hotel to get my chain tools and returned right as night fell. A 30 minute job was now taking 3 hours to complete. The chain tool worked like a dream and we finally had The Green Hornet all ready to go. Since we had to wait on a new rear sprocket for Suzi we agreed to meet Alle and Monica at their place for lunch the following day.
As we rode back to the hotel I could immediately feel the difference in the new front sprocket. Changing from a 14 tooth to a 15 tooth front sprocket upped the rpm's by about 500 in 5th gear. Great for city riding and off road riding but in highway mode a little bothersome. I was now at 5,000 rpm's at 70 mph instead of 4,500. A big difference in noise and vibration. But I'm sure after several thousand miles I'll get used to it. Marcelo thought that he could have a new sprocket for Suzi by the next day at 4 p.m. If not then it wouldn't arrive until after the Easter holiday, 4 days later. So we decided to stay one more day. If the part came then we would put it on and head to Peru. If it didn't then we would leave Sunday morning for Cusco. We went to sleep that night happy with our new gameplan.
Day 4 in La Paz came with much anticipation. Could we get Suzi finished or did we just wait 'til after Peru. After picking up our leather jacket and pants at the market we packed up our stuff and carried it over to Alle and Monica's place. Alle met us at our hotel on his Ninja and rode over to his garage perched precariously on a rather unstable hillside. We had a wonderful lunch of Bolivian cusine talking about Alle's 6 or so years he spent in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This was after he spent 3 years in the Marines. He said that he had met so many nice people in the US that he wanted to do something nice for us when he had heard that we were from the States. He told me that most Latin Americans do not think US citizens are very nice people but he said it's because they never have met any. For the most part I agreed with him. We do have our fair share of buffoons but for the most part US citizens, despite a distinct lack of worldliness, are a friendly lot. The problem is that not many Americans travel so most people down here think that we're all a bunch of Clint Eastwood's, squinting in the noon day sun and spitting tobacco on a passing scorpion. Ok, not too far from the truth but still not an accurate representation. In any event it was a really nice lunch. We quickly found out that Suzi's sprocket would not arrive today so we immediately made plans to leave early the next morning for Peru. Alle mentioned that there was a soccer game that night pitting the best professional team in Bolivia vs. the best professional team in Ecuador in a sorta UEFA cup for teams from South America. We gave Alle and Monica a fond farewell and quickly retreated to the hotel to get ready for the next day and the game that night.
I was so excited about the game that night I was motivationally challenge for packing up all our stuff. Linda was not too keen about going to the game and it wasn't until I was getting ready to walk out the door that she decided to go. Linda definitely suffers from "what she doesn't know might hurt her." She only likes to do things that she's done before and stay in her comfort zone. The fact that she has gotten this far definitely earns her the title of The World's Bravest Chicken. I've spent a lot of time talking her into doing all sorts of things that, at first glance, might seem stupid, but in reality is just part of the travel experience. She resists at first but then once we emerge from the experience she's really glad she did it. So with my little "pollita" we walked the mile or so to the City Stadium.
There was electricity in the air as we approached the municipal stadium. Vendors were selling everything including, but not limited to, noise makers, banners, llama fetuses and all kinds of team paraphernalia. The ticket lines were a little confusing but we soon found the right place. We bought two tickets in the mid-price range for $7 a piece. A little pricey considering the cheap seats went for $1.50 but I wanted to be on the 50 yard line. There were no assigned seats so we grabbed the best we could find. As the stadium slowly filled to capacity we asked our neighbors who was playing and what the significance of the game was. Apparently, it was a quarterfinal game and that the Bolivian side was literally called "The Strongest", the best professional team in Bolivia with 3 to 4 players from the national team on it. The Ecuadorian squad was called "Nacional" and was supposed to be very good. They went on to say that the Bolivian team usually had a big advantage when other teams came to play in La Paz because the field is situated at 11,500 ft in elevation. But in this case the Ecuadorian team was from Quito which is at 10,000 ft in elevation so it wouldn't affect them as much. The winner of this game would play a Brazilian team, so after this game there was not much hope of moving further on in the tournament. This was for all the marbles because nobody could expect to beat Brazil, in Brazil. When they heard that we were from the States they all eagerly asked me if it was true that soccer was not a big sport over there. When I told them that it was true they all shook their heads in disbelief, unable to comprehend how that could be. I went on to say that, if you were a fan of soccer, living in America can be very difficult. We all agreed that we were lucky to be in Bolivia and here at this game, go "The Strongest!" Just as we bought team scarves the game started. It was a fast pace game and thoroughly enjoyable. The Strongest was clearly the better side but a couple counter attacks produce two goals and the halftime score was 2-1, Nacional. I was marveling over the pace of the game, these guys were going full bore at this elevation. The stadium was alive with the flares burning, music playing and flag waving. The second half started out at the same pace but after a fluke goal by Nacional it seemed to take all the energy out of the stadium and teams. Soon the players were relegated to walking and standing around. It got even uglier when Nacional scored a 4th goal. The fans were leaving in droves and the final 15 minutes of the game was one of the worst exhibitions of soccer I've ever seen. Although we were sad the home team lost, to alleviate some of the grief all I had to do was just think of how excited everybody was in Quito that night. When we arrived back at the hotel, the staff tried to comfort us and we all commiserated together. We told them that we were leaving in the morning for Peru and that we would be back in a week or two. Sadly we finished packing and went to sleep dreaming of the day The Strongest would persevere.
Early the next morning we packed up the bikes, said goodbye to the friendly hotel staff and went to crank up Suzi and The Green Hornet. TGH fired right up but, once again Suzi would have none of it. After numerous attempts the only thing I accomplished was running down the battery. As we were preparing to unpack the bikes so I could jumpstart Suzi I tried one last time, just as the battery was on its last breath somehow Suzi sprang to life. We quickly jumped on and took off for Peru. The Suzuki has been such a problem getting started over the course of the trip. Getting her started is always the most stressful part of every day.
We climbed up and out of La Paz once again astounded by the view. It was Sunday Morning so there was little to no traffic. As we headed toward Peru we once again were surrounded by the 20,000 ft plus mountain peaks all around us. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was absolutely fabulous to be on the road again. We easily navigated our way west. Before long we reached the Southernmost tip of Lake Titicaca. It was here that the paved road ended and we found ourselves on another temporary gravel road. The temporary road zig zagged to and fro in plain view of the freshly paved asphalt superhighway. The new road was full of people, cows, dogs etc., out for their Sunday morning walk. Still it was fun negotiating the creek crossings and numerous other hazards. Even Linda seemed to enjoy it this time. Within a couple hours we approached the extremely busy Peru/Bolivian border. We eventually worked our way through the throngs of people to the Bolivian immigration office. After an inordinate amount of paper work we received our exit stamps and soon we were trying to work our way across the small bridge to Peru and the Inca Trail. Nos vemos pronto Bolivia, Hola tambien Peru.
We left Cusco at around 7 a.m. and arrived at the Bolivian border post around 5:30 p.m. and were uncertain whether we'd have time to get through as the LPOS said that it closed at 6:00 pm. Apparently that wasn't right as the border guys said it was open until 9:00 p.m. Jeff went in to get a couple of stamps and I went in for the obligatory signature and confirmation of identity and we were on our way. By far the easiest border crossing of the whole trip. The border officials said that there was a big festival going on in Copacabana that celebrated the 3rd of May. We weren't, and still aren't, sure exactly why there's a festival on May 3rd but who are we to stand in the way of a good festival. We headed off through the 10k of dirt while the sun set directly behind us. When we hit town we could hear bands playing (of the marching variety) and throngs of people filled the streets. We stopped at the Hotel Ambassador on the edge of town. We got a room with shared bath for 30 bs with secure parking. We quickly unpacked and headed to the main plaza to find some dinner and check out the festivities. We found the festival to be very much like the parades at Mardi Gras. Most of the dancers were wearing elaborate costumes and were performing synchronized dance routines. But the music is what struck me. To me it was just marching band stuff, not anything I would think of as traditional and certainly not as compelling as the music of the Andes. However, I seemed to be alone in my thoughts as everyone was dancing and enjoying themselves-including Jeff. The other thing that I thought was interesting was that the women's costumes all had very short skirts. In and of itself, that's nothing special but this festival was primarily indigenous people whom wear long skirts with numerous underskirts and their hair in two long braids down there backs. Very conservative. I've also never seen them consume alcohol in public but there they were, men and women, throwing back the beer and aguardente. It just all seemed out of place to me but in reality I've never attended a carnival in Bolivia. When in Rome.
We walked around the main square looking for a place to watch the colorful parades and finally found a little bar/restaurant with tables set up outside. We ordered a beer and after the owners huddled up to determine the price we were sure we were given a 'special' gringo price, we asked the other guys what they had paid. One bs less (15 cents), they told us. It turned out that the two guys were Peruvian and they wanted to make that quite clear to us. We wound up hanging out talking with these guys the rest of the night. When the parades ended we headed off for dinner and we talked about what makes Peruvians 'distinto' to Bolivians, a point I failed to understand. It turned out that one of the guys not only spoke Spanish but also Quechua and Aymara, the two most prevalent pre-Inca languages. His wife was Bolivian, he said. All this served to further confuse the differences between Peruvians and Bolivians but I decided not 'to go there'. In the midst of all this conversation, we were interrupted by the Germans. Being the Germans that we had met in Uyuni on the KTM's. We broke off into conversation with them as the last time we had seen them was at the Isla de Pescadores in the Salar de Uyuni. They were finished eating so they said they'd catch up with us later at the site where the bands would be playing.
We finished up our dinner and hit the square where the bands were. By this time our Peruvian friends were 4 sheets to the wind and had become nearly impossible to understand. No problem though as we couldn't talk over the bands anyway. The dirt square was surrounded by grandstands which were filled by the marching bands. It sounded like they were all playing the same tune and everyone was dancing. Bonfires lined the square to warm the hands of those that could get close enough. It was now quite cold so I pushed my way up to the fire. Jeff and the boys found the beer table instead. Later the fireworks started. These were not just your run-of-the-mill fireworks. These fireworks were supported by 30 ft tall bamboo structures with arms, legs and a head. The fireworks started from the feet and finished in a grand finale with the head blowing up. It was all very lively and somewhat surreal for that matter. I still couldn't exactly digest the whole thing, it just was too strange. It seemed like a fourth of July parade in the States. Eventually the bands began to pack up their instruments and I convinced Jeff it was time for us to go home. We had had a long day. When we approached the hotel the place was locked up tight. After 15 minutes of pounding on the door a very tired looking kid opened up the door and wearing pointed to a large sign that said in English: "Curfew - 11 p.m. - no exceptions!" Ooops, we apologized and quickly scurried to our rooms. We would check out the festivities again the next day.
We woke up early the next day as the bands started playing that same tune about 7 a.m. By the time we got ourselves out into the streets we found that we had missed the first round of parades and that we'd have to catch the next one around noon. We took the opportunity to work on the journals. Actually, I took the opportunity to take a nap. By the time the next parade started, I was fast asleep and not keen on rousing myself so Jeff went down to the parade to take some photos. Later that afternoon we decided to walk up to the little hill overlooking town for sunset. It was a beautiful afternoon and we had a nice view overlooking the lake and of Copacabana. We asked the locals when the next parade would start and they informed us that the noon parades were the last ones and that the festival was over. We opted for a tour of the town instead.
That evening we went to try some traditional Bolivian food in a cute little restaurant I had spotted. It was very cozy indoors and smelled terrific. After ordering we were soon enjoying some nice conversation when the raucous started at the table next to us. The girl was trying to order something that was not on the menu. The waiter tried explaining this to her in Spanish. After being unable to communicate this, he went to the kitchen to see if they could make something close. He returned to tell her that they could make her spaghetti carbonara but not with ham, some other meat. She seemed quite irritated that they didn't have ham but agreed. This whole scene was actually quite lengthy and embarrassing as she was very insistent, didn't speak much Spanish and was on the whole, very rude. Our meal came, as did theirs, and the food was delicious. At least ours was. She started complaining that it was spicy and that's not how spaghetti carbonara is made. She then started whining about how they were out of coca cola. By this point, Jeff had to hold me still to keep me from getting up and giving her a serious tongue lashing. It all ended with her walking out without paying. I was furious with her. Making all tourists look bad. So the clincher is that she was Israeli. If you recall from the last journal, there is a terrible case of Israeli-itis going on amongst the travelers and this miserable scene is a perfect example of why. Jeff tried to explain away the girl's nasty behavior but when we finally left, I felt like I, too, was coming down with a case of Israeli-itis.
The next morning we rose early with plans of getting into La Paz by noon and getting over to the motorcycle shop ASAP to get my sprockets so that we could get the bike fixed. Jeff was also really hoping to be able to take a ride to Coroico, a town a little under a hundred kilometers away and in the jungle. The road to get there is called the 'most dangerous road in the world' and I was having none of it. It seemed like the perfect excursion for him to have to get some 'real riding' out of his system. I would spend the evening getting e-mail and getting pictures and journals uploaded. So we set out from Copacabana about 8:00. It was really cold but very sunny. We went through about 20 miles of very twisty roads to the dock where we needed to catch a ferry boat across. The boat was little more than a single layer of boards latched together with two rows of planks set up for driving a car on. We road aboard with one other car. The guy cranked up his little 125 engine and we plowed our way across Lake Titicaca to the mainland. Let's just say this is not rapid transit. Anyway, we reached the other side safe and sound and road along the shore of the lake towards La Paz. The road stretched before us in long, gentle curves and the temperature was warming nicely. We made good time through the small towns and in short order were on the outskirts of town. We spied a few moto shops and tried inquiring about tires but didn't find anything. We had decided to return to the Hostal Republica so that I would have guaranteed phone access for uploading stuff (despite the difficulties in getting the bikes in and out). Upon arrival we brought our things in and called over to Marcello at the motorcycle shop to find out if he had received everything, seeing as we'd been gone nearly two weeks. Well, apparently he'd never had the sprocket delivered so he said we'd need to come by around 1:00 after he got it.
Upon arrival, Marcello came out with a sprocket that appeared to be identical to mine. After taking a few measurements, it appeared that it would be a good fit. Excellent. We shook hands and thanked him and headed off to Alle (the mechanic) and Monica's house. It was now approaching 3:30 and Jeff was anxious to get on the road to Coroico. We agreed with them that we would leave my bike there for Alle to work on it and that we'd pick it up the next morning when Jeff got back from Coroico. We had also left the package that we planned to mail back home with them so I reclaimed it with plans of going to the post office. I then headed back to the hotel in a taxi and Jeff went to conquer the 'most dangerous road in the world'. The reason of course, is that it loses about 10,000 feet in elevation in about 50 miles and is very narrow, at times only one lane. Couple that with virtually non-existent pavement, frequent fog and heavy rain and you have the perfect recipe. I was perfectly content to miss out on the adventure. Not to mention that it would be the first night that I would have to myself since Jeff's last adventure ride in Guatemala to the drunken cowboy festival. Like that time, I was sure I would spend the evening worrying.
Anyway, I had a busy afternoon planned. I needed to first get something to eat, then get e-mail, change traveler's checks, get the package mailed, buy some silver and eventually get the journals and pictures updated. I had the taxi drop me at the food stands near the market and I got our all time favorite, roast chicken. I scurried back to the hotel to eat lunch and try for e-mail. Daytime internet access in Bolivia is quite a strain as I only have 14.4 kbps modem speed numbers and the phone line quality stinks too. So during heavy traffic periods, I don't get much accomplished. I was desperate to try anyway as we hadn't received in nearly two weeks, since we last left La Paz. After getting about half the messages and swallowing my lunch whole, I set off to the bank and post office. At the post office I had to have the box inspected by customs and sniffed by the narcotics dogs. Clearly for the benefit of international shipping as coca is legal, at least in the leaf form, in Bolivia. After passing the drug test, I had the package wrapped and paid - $46 to have 16 kilos (35 lbs.) shipped. Really not too bad. It was then time to rush off for a silver purchase. Of course, this meant I would be contributing to the miserable life of the miners. I tried to brush the thought aside. A job is better than no job, right??? Mission 4 accomplished, I returned to the hotel to respond to e-mail and try to get everything posted. It was now almost 6:00. I still couldn't get a good connection. I tried and tried all night long and finally at mid-night, I got everything up.
I was really anxious to get on the road because, from all accounts, the road to Coroico was closed to "downhill" traffic from 5 p.m. to 5 a.m. When we first arrived in La Paz this road has certainly captured my attention. First off, the road climbs out of La Paz up to La Cumbre, a desolate place sitting at 4,643 meters or 15,230 ft in elevation. From there its all downhill to Coroico which lies at around 1500 meters or 4,920 ft in elevation. All this happens in less than 40 miles. If that isn't enough to get your attention, the road meanders along a precipitous ridgeline with over a 5,000 ft drop-off on one side and a steep cliff face on the other. Apparently in 1995 some world wide health organization dubbed it the "most dangerous road in the world" due to the number of fatalities that occur on the roadway each year. As per my nature I was immediately skeptical. "I'm sure its not all that bad", I could hear myself saying to Linda as I tried in vain to talk her into going with me. Oh well, I suppose its all for the best that she didn't want to go because now I had no speed limit to contend with. It was just me, my bike, my slightly impaired judgement, my suspect bike-handling skills, my slick rear wheel and the road standing between me and infamy. Coroico, ready or not, here I come.
As I finally started my ascent out of La Paz around 4:30 I found myself trying to beat this mysterious 5 p.m. deadline. When I rolled up to the toll booth I asked a couple of the attendants if I still had time to make it to Coroico before the road was closed to downhill traffic. They just gave me this blank look and said "Sure, no problem. On a motorcycle you'll be there in 45 minutes." So I quickly paid my $1 toll and zipped up the hill. I could tell already that I was horribly underdressed for the occasion as the thin warm air of La Paz became down right frigid at higher elevation. By the time I reached La Cumbre I was shivering uncontrollably. It was a fabulous, paved canyon road that snaked down to Sacramento. At Sacramento there was a military checkpoint and numerous foodstands. As the military guys checked my license and paperwork I ordered a chicken and choclo (best tasting corn-on-the-cob in the world) to go. I had forgotten that in all the excitement that I had forgotten to eat anything. The thin mountain air combined with my dangerously low blood sugar levels were causing me to screw up on a couple high speed turns. I asked the military guys if the road to Coroico was still open to downhill traffic. They looked confused and said "why wouldn't it be?" I took that to mean yes and with rising blood sugar I took off with intentions of taming this dubious highway to hell. Just outside of Sacramento the pavement ended and the real road began. I made the right-hand turn downhill just past a "last-chance" gas station. I wondered secretly if it was the last-chance for gas or the last-chance to turn around. After checking directions I started my descent. The road was actually in good shape except for some large rocks scattered to and fro. Once again I happened upon a little settlement and a "Y" in the road. I asked locals which way to Coroico, they smiled enthusiastically and said to the left. When I asked them how long it would take to get there they said, "in a bus 2 hours but on a motorcycle that big, 20 minutes, no problem!" I thanked them and for theatrical effect I quickly accelerated leaving rock and gravel flying in my wake. The speed lasted for only a moment though as I quickly entered a fog-shrouded, muddy and very steep lane. I was doing my best to ride aggressively and take in the sights all at the same time. Just about that time I was thinking that it was really nice to have this road all to myself I heard a truck-like rumbling noise. "What could that be?", I said to myself, "this road is supposed to be closed to uphill traffic." NOT! Before I knew it I was careening towards a very large, slow-moving truck hugging the inside line and chugging uphill. I didn't even have time to grab the clutch. As quick as I could I locked up the brakes and came to a sliding stop inches away from the front bumper of this massive truck. As I looked up at him he was motioning me to get the hell out of the way. It took me about 15 minutes to get the bike out of the trucks path. Because of the slippery wet conditions and the fact that it was so steep I had a hard time getting the bike turned around. Finally the truck continued on. What was this truck doing? Not only was it heading uphill, it was also hugging the inside line making it impossible for me to sneak by. Wow! That was a close one. A little jittery I continued down hill. On a short straight away I encountered another uphill truck who made me pass him on the left-hand side. Very strange. Fortunately I didn't meet him on some of the more narrow hairpin turns. A little while later, right when I was starting to get back into the groove, I almost collided with a van carrying an array of mountain bikes on its roof. Once again I was as far over to the right-hand side of the road as I could get. This van was also hugging the cliff line. When we met at the apex of the curve the van swerved violently to the right and we just avoided a head on collision. If I was just another foot to the left...not a pretty thought. By now I was really jittery and extremely pissed off. Why were these cars trying to kill me? Eventually I happened upon a relatively straight stretch of road that was wide enough for two-way traffic. I could see a minivan full of passengers and the driver was heading straight towards me. That was it! I'd had enough there was no way that I was going to let this idiot move me out of my lane. It became a game of chicken until we both had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting each other. As I stared at the bus driver I gave him the one fingered salute. He just waved his finger at me as if I was the one in the wrong. Ok now I was going ballistic. I pulled over to the passenger side of the car and was going to grab this twit and throw him under my front wheel and run over him just to see how he likes it. That's when one of his passengers starting telling me in broken English "that if I wanted to live I needed to drive on the other side of the road". He went on to say that on this road, and this road only, the rules change. Uphill traffic drives on the cliff wall or in the left lane. Like in England. Another passenger on the bus, of obvious gringo persuasion, could see how pissed off I was and had this big shit-eating grin on his face and said, "Dude, don't fight it, that's just the way it is, this is Bolivia, just go with it man." As these guys were talking it all started to make sense to me. This was why I had those near fatal collisions earlier up the road. The logic of it all took all the wind out of my sails and I went from being blind with rage to almost sheepishly apologetic within a matter of seconds. I didn't really know how to respond. So I did what any self-respecting guy would do, I peeled off without saying a word, leaving the bus in a cloud of dust. From that point on I stayed on the left side of the road and made it down to the steamy environs of the Yungas without further incident. I arrived in the village of Volosa, thankfully in one piece. This was to be the lowest point on the route at about 1,000 meters or 3,280 ft in elevation. All in all, The Green Hornet and I had descended 12,000 feet in elevation in less than 40 miles. Up in La Cumbre there were no trees and it was about 40 degrees F. Down here it was about 90 degrees, enveloped in thick jungle foliage. It was absolutely incredible to see the transformation from the upper elevations to the lush jungle. I pushed on to Coroico and arrived in the town square about one and a half hours after leaving La Paz. I have to say that it was one of the most action packed 90 minutes in my life.
The town of Coroico was pleasant enough, situated on a small hilltop at 1,500 meters (4,900 ft) of elevation. The town center was a palm tree lined park reminiscent of Sucre but obviously much more quaint. I was soon hot on the trail of finding lodging that would do surviving the world's most dangerous road justice. Somehow no stinkin' Hostal full of unkempt backpackers would do. No I needed to find something a little more dignified. After checking out the local options I spied this fabulous looking structure on the downhill side of the city, perched on a rocky precipice. It was obviously way out of my price range. I rode by it anyway and was about ready to head up to the stinkin' Hostal when a couple guys in a van pulled up and asked if I was looking for a room. I told them yes and they said why don't you stay at our hotel just down the road. "The expensive looking one with the pool and mini sports facility?" I asked. "The very same", they responded. Just out of curiosity I asked how much. They said because it was off-season they could give me a good rate of $8 for a king-size bed with private bath and hot water. Sold. It was by far the best hotel deal of the entire trip. The room - awesome, the shower - hot, the view - stupendous, the beer - warm. Oh well 3 out of 4 ain't bad. I dutifully took a tour of the city looking for some grub. It was a beautiful hillside town with solidly built homes and stores. I finally settled on a nondescript restaurant and had an equally nondescript meal. As I conversed with the customers at the restaurant bar I told them of my ride from La Paz earlier in the day. They couldn't believe that the people at the toll booths or military checkpoint didn't tell me about the change in the traffic flow. We all agreed that this little oversight was why it was the most dangerous road in the world. When I returned to the hotel there was a large group of Israelis checking in. I quickly retreated to my room hoping the boisterous group wouldn't be my neighbors that night. Happy to be alive I quickly fell into a sound sleep.
I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5 a.m. Wrongly assuming that it would be daylight by 6 a.m. Turns out that the sun doesn't rise until 7:30 a.m. I was taking the scenic route back to La Paz via Puente Villa. I was on the road by 5:30 and it was still pitch black outside. To call the route a road would be extremely generous. It was really nothing more than a goat trail with some big time rocks thrown in for good measure. Riding offroad in the dark was a blast. It was a lot like night skiing, out of bounds, under a half moon. You have to rely on different senses to negotiate the hazards. As I drifted through the hillside, almost as if it were a dream, the sun started to rise and wake up the forest. The beautiful thing about riding off road is that it takes all of your concentration. At first I worry about whether the bike will hold up to the abuse. Whether I'm in the right gear at the proper rpm's. Eventually all the thoughts and concerns melt away as the bike and I become one, instinctively picking our way through the turns, rivers and hazards. Hours can go by before I'm pulled back to reality by a small village or a single file line of school children on their way to school. I try to stop and talk with as many people as possible but more often than not I'm just riding as fast as I can go to get back in the zone. The road to Puente Villa was as spectacular a road as I've ridden. It followed along a ridge line and at times was no wider than a couple feet. It crossed numerous streams, passed through out-of-the-way mountain towns and was as challenging as any off road experience that I've encountered on this trip. After a couple hours I pulled into the tiny village of Puente Villa. After a high spirited conversation with the locals I had to get back on the road if we were to leave for Cochabamba later on that day. From there it was a gravel road to Sacramento that followed along a raging river. I'd now been hammering for over 3 hours straight. The Green Hornet seems as comfortable at 6,500 rpms as it does at 3,000. Incredible bikes. It was a steep climb back up to Sacramento and before long I was back in La Paz, dirty, tired and grinning from ear to ear. As Linda was telling me about the problems she had connecting, my mind was reeling from the memories of the last two days. As if it were an out of body experience I could hear myself saying "Yes dear", "Really?" "You don't say!".
Around 10:30 Jeff arrived filthy and exhausted. We had concocted an ambitious plan so that we could get on the road to Cochabamba, only 250 miles away. But like all well-laid plans, they never seem to work out. We hurried over to Alle and Monica's to pick up my bike and were greeted by glum faces. Uh oh, what now? Alle came over and told us that he got everything apart and then the chain didn't fit. Apparently Marcelo ordered a "525" instead of a "520" so he had to put it back together with the old stuff again. Argh! Well, that meant we were going to have to return the chain to Marcelo and see if he could get us another. That blew our plans for leaving so we hung out with our friends for awhile before heading back to Marcelo's shop.
Back at Marcelo's, his assistant called around for a different size chain but there were none to be found. Marcelo was on his way to Cochabamba so we called him up on the cell phone. He said that we could meet him in Cochabamba the next day where he would get a new chain from one of the dealers there. Sounded good. We headed back to the hotel for some R&R and packing for the next day. Although its a wonderful City we couldn't wait to get out of La Paz and back on the road again!
The next morning we got on the road by 7:30 and headed out of La Paz through the Altiplano. It was incredibly cold at this hour and with just my Fox gloves on, my hands began to burn and ache so badly that it brought tears to my eyes. We eventually found a gas station and pulled in for a pit stop. More 75 octane, leaded gas and our warm gloves with liners and we were on our way. About 100 miles down the road we stopped again for snacks and caffeinated beverages. It was starting to warm up too. We were making good time and figured we'd make excellent time all the way there. We didn't know we had to go through a major mountain pass. I was getting low on gas too but we decided to continue on. Surely there would be a gas station in between.
We left our snack break through a twisty valley and began climbing through sparsely populated and sparsely vegetated terrain. The road had very long straight stretches in between tight, 90-degree or greater blind turns. It was quite pretty, in an eerie sort of way. Jeff said that if the road to Coroico was the 'world's most dangerous road' than this was the 'world's most fun to ride road'. Can't say that I thought that riding all those twisty turns was my ideal of having fun but the scenery was unbelievable. I was beginning to become preoccupied with my lack of gas. Seeing as I had gone on reserve at about 145 miles, my calculations according to the distance signs meant that I might not make the next little town. We were now at nearly 4,200 meters. Running out of gas here seemed highly unappealing. We stopped at every little pocket of dwellings and inquired but nobody had gas. Finally, we found a real Mecca of about 250 people that had gas. We bought 4 liters and a 12 year old kid went and dipped a plastic jug into a bucket of gas and brought it over. Hmm... that's probably pretty clean. So Jeff pulled out a t-shirt to use as a filter and dumped the crappy stuff into Suzi. Apparently we had reached the peak as we started making a fantastic descent. The road became more gentle as did the temperature. The curves were smooth with good visibility and the red clay canyon walls rose high above us. Wow, greenery! We were very excited. After reaching Cochabamba's altitude of 2,600 meters we stopped road-side to shed some clothes and took off in search of good gas. After filling up with the 92 high octane stuff we headed into town to get a hotel.
We found the LPOS's recommended Hostal Colonial and Jeff went in to take a look. They wanted 70 bs, or about $11 bucks and had secure parking. We found a big courtyard in the center with a big, wide tiled porch ringing the interior and a matching balcony on the second floor. I was pleasantly surprised when I opened the door to our 'suite'. We had a huge suite with two bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen. It surely was an old colonial house. It was a bit musty but I felt like royalty padding around in my bare feet through the rooms. Ah well, time to get something to eat and call Marcelo. It was about 4:00 and we were starving. We tried calling Marcelo first but had to leave a message. We tried again after eating and still no answer. I was beginning to feel skeptical. But, when we walked back to the hotel, Marcelo was waiting on the corner for us. He said he would take us to the mechanic and then run get the chain from the bus station. Whew.
At the mechanic's, Jeff and the mechanic took the bike apart and I went down the road to inquire about tires. I found some, but not of very good quality and not in the most desirable size. I came back to report my findings and Marcelo had not yet returned so I took Jeff to look at the tires. When we returned the chain was there and the mechanic was nearly finished. Jeff was very agitated because the chain was way too tight. We paid the guy 30 bs ($6) and went back to the hotel. Jeff didn't like the chain length but I was just happy to have new parts. I spent the evening typing in the hotel while Jeff went out to the local internet cafe to get caught up with Grant Johnson's Horizon Unlimited website (www.horizonsunlimited.com) to read up on other motor cycle travelers' stories.
The next morning we got on the road about 9:00. We were headed for our final destination in Bolivia, Santa Cruz. We had about 350 miles to go but it was paved and we would be coming down to nearly sea level so we expected flat, fast roads. We started off on nice, country roads that were not too windy, that passed through typical Bolivian farmland (plotted out into small squares of different crops). It was warm and sunny and we just knew it was gonna be a good day. We wound around a lake and the freezing wind blew through our jackets and gave us a chill. As we rounded the back side, trails of mist started passing through, temporarily blocking our visibility. We passed through a spectacular narrow canyon with stone walls oozing with rain-water rivulets and green moss. The canyon led to another descent into what was now dense fog. I assumed super-granny speed as I tried my best to see where I was going. Jeff was waiting by the side of the road and we discussed the fact that we were experiencing the collision of the cold mountain air and the warm jungle air below. We continued on and met up again at the front of a very long line caused by a very formal looking military checkpoint. By the time I had arrived Jeff had already won over the officer in charge and other soldiers. No doubt telling them all about his, by now, embellished tales of testosterone deeds when he was in the army. He excitedly told me that the officer had US jump wings and soon they were back at the story telling thing. I was more concerned about the state of the roads. The officer said to be really careful because the next 18 kms were pretty nasty, especially for motorcycles. Yippee. Soupy, muddy, downhill roads on bald tires. My favorite. Time to grin and bear it. The troops all bid us a fond farewell and down we went. There was a smallish motorcycle clearing the checkpoint about the same time we did and he and Jeff were soon out of sight as they went racing down the mud slick road. I just tried to keep Suzy upright. Soon I saw Jeff waiting further down the road with a big grin on his face. I'll never understand it but he seems to get such a big kick when the conditions are the worst. Just after we were reunited we ran into a traffic jam. The fog was now lifting and the temperature was rising greatly. A big semi had gotten stuck going up hill and there was a huge pile of trucks waiting to get through. We squirreled our way through them and continued on. Sometimes it truly is great to be on a motorcycle. Anyway, we had accomplished the hardest part of the road and it got drier, more compact and straighter as we completed our descent. We were now in the jungle and it was really exciting. The sun was clearly peering through and the skies became bluer and bluer. My spirits started to soar. It wasn't long before we hit pavement and the little town of Villa Tunari. We decided to pull over for lunch. We stopped in a little open air restaurant for fish, rice and fried plantains. Yeah, that's more like it! It felt like Central America again. As we finished up our lunch, we were blissfully unaware of the road to come...
It was about 12:30 and we only had about 150 miles to go. Should be in by 3:30. We dashed off down the paved road with periodic interruptions by small stretches of dirt. We were in high spirits... big change of scenery and we were almost in Brazil. As we continued down the road, potholes began to appear, at first in small sections. In short order, the traffic increased dramatically and the road could only be considered pot-hole hell. The little buggers were actually caverns, up to a foot in depth and sometimes wider than your arm span. We dodged and weaved the holes and oncoming traffic while also trying to pass the cars in front of us. I tried desperately to stay right behind Jeff but to no avail. In fact, it was a ruthless endeavor as my increased speed meant less time to decipher the maze and before I knew it, bam!, I would nail a pothole and the front shocks would slam into the hole, rocketing shock waves into me and Suzi. I was getting frustrated by our slow progress and lack of pullover points. I'm not sure exactly where the road improved but it seems like maybe 50 miles from Santa Cruz the pavement became one piece and we had smooth sailing into town. We stopped briefly for gas and then headed towards town to find a room. Just as we were on the outskirts of town (and this is a big city) all the cars in front of me stopped. Oh, just waiting for a local cow to move itself on out of the highway. After 7 months I still find it greatly entertaining to see farm animals roaming the streets of big cities.
We reached the center just as the sun faded away and began the ever-elusive hotel search. It seemed that parking and price went hand and hand. Actually, we couldn't find any parking except for a few $40 jobs which is really spendy for Bolivia. Jeff was beginning to consider the options of riding up the stairs at the cheapies and I suggested one more loop. We had been at it nearly two hours by that point. We got a little lost and wound up at the bus station. I saw two side-by-side hotels that appeared to have parking. I went in to both and found that they were both 70bs for rooms with double bed, tv, hot water, private bath and secure parking. They actually were jointly owned. I opted for the much sunnier Virgen de Cocota. We pulled in and wearily unpacked. The day had turned out to be much, much longer than expected and we were both dog-tired.
We headed out for our third death march of the day... finding a restaurant. We hadn't eaten in about 8 hours and the blood sugar was running low but we just couldn't bear to go into the dingy little pollo and papas fritas places. We trudged on and after about 45 minutes of walking, found the main square. We had Italian in mind and wound up with some very marginal pasta with some average Chilean wine. Oh well. We went for a walk around the central plaza and stopped in for an ice cream on the other side of the square. The local movie theatre was right next door and started in a half hour so we took a seat in the park and then went in for a melodramatic American movie (American Beauty). We walked home through the dark, quiet streets with thoughts of our upcoming trip on the 'death train' to Brazil.
The next morning we went over to the train station to inquire about what we would need to do to send the bikes on the train and what it would cost. We found out that there would be a train going the next day and that we needed to put the bikes on that afternoon. The passenger tickets were sold at three price levels. The 'Pullman' price was a plush train with videos, reclining chairs and gourmet meals. Price $20. The next level was reserved seating, in a cramped dingy section for $6. Of course Jeff can never pass up an opportunity to make me miserable all in the guise of saving money so we quickly bought the two tickets on the cheap seats. Both bikes cost 180 bs ($30). They told us to be back around 4:00 p.m. to ensure that we could catch the train the next morning. We left and headed off in search of tires for the motos. Marcelo had recommended a shop and we stopped in. All they had were Pirelli's 140-80-17 probably could fit on Jeff's bike but nothing that would really work for me. We had seen a Bridgestone store on our way into town so we went out there but only to find car tires. They told us about a tire market. The market was lined with little stalls with all sorts of tires. The first guy we asked said that he thought that he had a motorcycle tire. He told his helper bee to go into the back of the stall. This guy climbed on top of all the tires and started digging. Out he came with a Bridgestone 120-90-17! We couldn't believe it. It was perfect for Suzy. Jeff said that he was prepared to pay $60 for it, he wanted $45, Jeff grimaced and he said ok, $40, deal! We went back to the shop to see if they would install it for us. Jeff's tire cost $55 and included installation and they said they'd install mine for free. By this time it was nearing their two hour lunch break so we left the KLR to be done and went over to the bank to cash checks. We then returned to the hotel to get our stuff packed and after the break, took Suzi over. Jeff also had the oil changed. We took the bikes over to the train station about 10 minutes before we were supposed to be there. Just two blocks from the station Jeff ran out of gas. He sped off to fill up my handlebar spare tank and once back, we went over to the station.
We rode the bikes up into the weighing room and the usual swarm of people wanting a tip from us surrounded us and smiled. This is to let you know that they are going to be minimally helpful for a maximum price. As the manager worked on the paperwork, the 'agents' helped us to find the proper spot to park the bikes for loading. These guys would be the ones that would load the bikes onto the train the next morning. It seemed that the bikes were ready and we just needed to finish the paperwork so we asked what they thought they're tip would be and they told us 100 bs, or about $14. Still, it was nearly half what we were paying to ship the bikes. They were clearly angry when we told them that we couldn't pay that much. They proceeded to tell us that they didn't work for the train station and that they were independent agents and didn't get a salary. Jeff tried to offer them about 40 bs but they wouldn't take it. They were mad and one went so far as to say that if we didn't pay them 100bs our bikes just wouldn't make it on to the train. Then Jeff got mad. He told them to follow and we all stormed back to the shipping manager's office. He confirmed that in fact they were independent but that 100bs was a little steep. One other problem is that we had very little cash on us and were really hoping not to have to change another traveler's check. Well, in the end Jeff settled on 50 bs but it seemed like no one was happy with the whole situation.
We took a cab back to the hotel and then headed out for some dinner at the Irish pub and restaurant that we had spied on the central plaza the day before, which had been Sunday. It had been closed. The restaurant appeared to be brand new and had a banner outside with a Leprechaun holding a pint of Guinness. We couldn't wait for a draft pint. Upon arrival we found that they had no Guinness, no Harp, no Bass, no Irish beer. What a bummer. Well we tried some Irish specialties off of the menu which were about like the Italian food we'd had the night before. Foiled again! We spent the evening walking around a little and then headed back early for some sleep.
The next morning we needed to get some laundry done, change money and get packed. We killed the morning doing all of the above and had to check out at noon. We watched TV in the lobby until 2:45 and took a cab to the train station. We got onto the train and wondered if we ought to buy some food and drink for our 18 hour ride. I ran down and bought a bottle of water, a bottle of coke, peanuts, fruit and some sugary thing that I thought was cake. I went back to our bench seat where Jeff had carefully strapped down our backpacks above us on the luggage rack. Every seat was full and the air was a-buzz with conversation. The rickety train rolled off into the sunny afternoon and a nice, cool breeze blew through the train. Well, as soon as we started moving, the vendors peddling their (food) wares began to course the isles. Every two seconds someone walked by selling all sorts of stuff - sodas, snacks, lemonade, coffee, bread. The train made stops every two hours or so and in each small town, where packs of women and kids would board the train with plates of hot-cooked food and sell as much as they could before the train rolled off again. We had already bought some chicken and rice so Jeff was really bummed out when he saw all the good stuff going by. We read some books until the lights dimmed, all the while the train rocked to and fro on the tracks. When the lights were turned down, the isles filled with sleeping bodies which made it nearly impossible to go to the restroom. We spent the night dozing on and off on each others shoulders, awakened frequently by numb or aching body parts or the periodic violent rocking of the train. I still wasn't sure exactly why it was called the death train but I'm sure the excessive rocking motion of the train has something to do with it. Hopefully I wouldn't have to find out. Finally the sun's rays began to shine through the window as we approached some small towns. Everyone was beginning to awaken and stretch their achy body parts. About this time, the police came through to make random baggage checks. We were the only gringos in the cheap seats so picking my bag was a certainty. We chit-chatted with the soldier as he dug around in my pack. As he neared the giant zip-lock bag full of tampons, I tried desperately to conceal a grin. Jeff was already nudging me. Sure that he had found our concealed narcotics, he held up the bag (in front of all the others on the train too) and asked what they were. I mumbled that they were for feminine hygiene. "Como?" I repeated myself. Looking horrified, he shoved them back in my pack, zipped it halfway and scurried along. Quite comical, to say the least.
Within about a half hour, we had pulled into the station. We grabbed our packs and went to see how the bikes fared. We spoke with various train station employees and were told we would have to wait about an hour for them to move the appropriate car into position. After watching them standing around doing nothing and moving the car with the bikes further away from us, we became very frustrated. Jeff finally got someone to commit to getting the bikes off. First they had to get a car off - which was a very unusual maneuvering adventure. We overheard the man tip the attendants 40 bolivianos. It was then our turn. But no, they moved the train car further away. Jeff was pretty hoppin' mad by this point. Especially when about 15 people tried to "get a piece of the action" in unloading the bikes. I'm not sure exactly how many claimed to have helped but Jeff thinks as many as eight. Anyway, I started inspecting the bikes and noticed that Jeff's turn signal switch had been broken off. My clutch assembly was very loose. I then took a look at my precious boxes and one had a strip of metal peeled back, exposing the styrofoam interior. I was certain that those knuckleheads that wanted the big tip on the other side had gotten the last word. As I was thinking this, Jeff was negotiating a tip. The "guys" wanted 50 bolivianos. No way. After they took a CAR (lifted it) off for 40, they weren't getting 50 from us. In an anger-filled voice he finally told them that they could have 25 or they could have nothing, and like it. They took it. We packed on the boxes in the baking sun and went over to complain at the office which was, of course, closed. What good would it do anyway. So we left in a huff to go to the gas station and start the border crossing process.
We pulled up to the border post and went in to get our exit stamps. We were nervous because our book said that we needed proof of our yellow fever vaccination. We had had all of our shots before leaving home but the clinic had forgotten to stamp Jeff's with the most recent date. Fortunately for us the Bolivian border officials didn't really care if we had yellow fever vaccinations they only asked because they were required in Brazil. So we smoothly got through the process without any further problems and as far as the yellow fever requirement we just figured we'd take our chances in Brazil. I changed a little money and we were finally off to Brazil, the last country of the trip! Ciao Bolivia otra vez. Besos y abrazos.
NOTE:We haven't posted any trip miles or accumulated mileage because we lost our book of details.