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Dirt Rag Articles
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The thick salt crust is dry and hardened on my legs. I ponder scraping some off to add a bit of flavor to my simmering pot of pasta but pause and with a sarcastic laugh, ask myself, "How low can I go?" Salt is everywhere! The white crystals are coating not only my legs, but also my arms, clothing, panniers, and bike, baked on by the intense high-altitude sun.
Earlier today I swallowed my doubts and biked across the Salar De Coipasa, the second largest salt lake in Bolivia's Altiplano. It is a vast, wild and remote expanse of salt, water, and mineral-rich mud. It is all that remains from an ancient lake which existed here thousands of years earlier. When approaching the Salar days earlier the locals and salt mine truckers had given sketchy reports of the conditions; "Mucho agua" was common, as was "No, no es possible." Neither of these observations did much to raise my confidence. The thought of pushing my loaded bike through knee-deep saltwater for 30 miles made a 24-hour solo race seem like a joyride and let the doubts seep into my head: I am alone, this is the Altiplano, I am over 150 miles from the nearest town of any size. I certainly felt entitled to have my doubts.
The Altiplano (meaning "high-plain") is a vast region higher than 12,000ft. in elevation stretching from southeast Peru along Lake Titicaca, dominating western Bolivia and tapering off into the deserts of northern Chile and Argentina. If asked to pick one word to best describe the area, I would choose "surreal." Volcanoes up to 20,000ft. high pepper the landscape surrounded by vast pampas of mineral-rich pumice and sand. Blend the Mohave Desert with the pampas of Patagonia, elevate to 12,000ft. and you'll begin to have something similar to the Altiplano. The hearty Ayramaya native people scratch out a subsistence livelihood based on llama meat and what little quinoa they can grow. The Altiplano is often nicknamed "Little Tibet," and I couldn't agree more.
I had been biking solo through some of the most remote parts of Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia for several months prior to coming to terms with the unworldly expanse now set before me. My beard was full, my face sunburnt, muscles taut, knees sore. I had learned several important things for surviving on the Altiplano: I needed to carry a three-day supply of water and top off whenever I could, my 30-year-old military issued maps were not to be trusted, but most importantly, lightning usually comes in the afternoon—don't get caught standing in salt water.
Cycling across the Salar de Coipasa would turn out to be a lesson in confidence. At the end of the road, where tracks into the Salar branched off, I encountered a truck stop. Several salt truckers starting their day looked at me with glancing looks that read, "Who the heck are you?" Like truckers in any other part of the world, however, they easily warmed up with a few dirty jokes in Spanish and I finally got the info on the real conditions. The water was only a few inches deep at the most and I could ride in the track left by trucks for much of the way. Feeling better about my route, I pedaled off into the brine on a southbound course paralleling the Chilean border. Churning my cranks through the reflective abyss, I headed towards the distant edge of the ancient lake, obscured in a mirage some 30 miles away.
The spraying of saltwater around me slowly dissolved my doubts and I truly began to enjoy myself. My pace was good; beneath a few inches of water the salt was relatively hard and smooth. I focused on how unique the experience was, and how few outsiders had been through this place. Before I knew it I was in shallower water, just a thin sheen covering the surface, which had become softer, more mud-like. I knocked down a few gears and grinded along through the reflective surface that looked to be plucked straight out of a Salvador Dali painting. Soon I was off the salt, off the mud and up on solid ground again. The doubts of the prior week had passed with an afternoon of pedaling.
That night in my tent I studied my dated, pieced-together maps. In two days I would be camped on the western edge of the Salar de Uyuni, the largest salt flat in the world. The Salar is so flat that elevation only changes 18 inches on average across its entire surface of over 4,000 square miles. I was feeling good about getting across the Coipasa; however, being about five times larger, the Salar de Uyuni was a different beast entirely. My plan was to cross west to east, ending at the town of Uyuni some 120 miles away. I figured I could split the distance by camping on one of the island-like outcrops of land, which are the only landmarks rising up from the endless expanse of salt.
I spent two days traveling on sandy tracks that led me to the village of Llica. A quiet town which serves as a hub for many of the tiny nearby villages, Llica is perched on the very western edge of the Salar de Uyuni. I rolled down the main street just as school was letting out and was greeted by the hundreds of stares and questionable looks that only a foreigner in a very foreign place knows. I've discovered that both a bicycle and a smile are very effective at turning those same questionable looks into grins no matter how crusty you may appear. Humility is the cyclist's best foreign policy.
Eventually I found someone to help me fill up my water supply, over 17 liters in total. Enough for a few days out, I figured. I could almost hear the strain in my bike's racks as I loaded it all up. Questioning truck drivers about the Salar conditions gave me similar results as before. "Si hay mucho agua," said one man as he gestured with his hand at about knee level. "Great, same old story," I thought to myself. I was at the point however where I didn't really care anymore, I was gunning for it regardless. The locals gage the water from high up in trucks, not from the level of a bike. A simple adjustment in perception was needed to view what was otherwise impossible as being possible. I would have to see it for my own eyes. What good is an adventure if you know the outcome beforehand?
I awake before sunrise and gobble down a huge breakfast of oatmeal and fresh eggs from the village. I say to myself, "This is the big day, make or break time." It's a crisp 40° out as I finish loading up my bike. This is what I've been waiting for. The sun begins to gleam through directly ahead of me on the horizon, instantly altering my perception of distance as the mirage grows. I ride off the end of the dirt road and into the seemingly endless expanse of salt and water ahead of me. Sky and ground become one as the horizon merges into a trippy mirror of reflectivity against the water I pedal through. I check my compass bearing for the fourth time. My doubts are slowly shed once again as the salt polygons tick by and I focus on the moment. Alone on my bike, in the most surreal landscape imaginable, there is no place else I'd rather be.
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| Comment from wayne from irela on 2008-05-28 |
| Very cool. I've wanted to go there for the longest time. I'd love to know what the bike is and the set up........... |
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| Comment from JOHNNY on 2008-05-25 |
| INCREDIBLE! |
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| Comment from tuercas on 2008-05-19 |
| I´m just imagining doing that and not getting to one of the islands before nightfall or being totaly wasted and collapsing into the water... sounds kinda make or breaky |
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