BOLIVIA JOURNALS
Photography by Steve Wallstrom
Journals by James Mallory
Everything about this country is high. The record books are filled with such adjectives of this landlocked Andean country. Highest capital, airport, golf course, ski run and just about anything a desperate tourism board can conjure up. With the bikes wheezing and our lungs doing little better we struggled into the valley of La Paz at over 11,000 ft. A fitting place to switch out the new frame sent from Kawasaki. Though after a day of crawling through the worst traffic of our trip the thrill of such heights quickly wore thin.
Fortunately the bike shop holding the frame was tucked away just south of town in the upper class neighborhood. Feeling a bit guilty at enjoying rather unlatin surroundings, I quietly marveled at the Mercedes and BMW's parked amid the chic, modern coffee shops. Feels just like Seattle. Sipping a latte in such scenery, it took a conscious effort to remember this is one of the poorest countries in South America.
Though when it comes to motorcycle shops in Latin America money equals expertise, no matter what people tell you. Yes, I read all the stories of Mexican ingenuity and shade tree mechanics. It's all fine and rosy until its your bike under the torch of a drunk Bolivian. Though, rolling the KLR into the spacious shop of the local bike shop I knew something was different. For the first time in nearly a dozen countries I would actually trust my bike to these mechanics without a keeping watchful eye.
When the owner of the shop rolled up in a Jaguar a sigh of relief escaped into the thin air. Within a few hours of beginning the project I made it thoroughly clear whose intelligence was lacking. And it certainly wasn't the natives. Propping the new frame beside the disassembled bike my joy turned to despair as I realized Kawasaki had inadvertently sent the wrong frame.
Once again too shocked for anger, laugher instead welled up from the sheer absurdity of the situation. Unbelievable. After 10 minutes or so of contemplations and imagining the phone call to Kawasaki, I hollered over to the shop owner to take a look. Three or four chin scratching minutes later Walter came to a startling and profound conclusion. With a quick spin of metal he flipped the new frame upside down, leaving nothing but utter embarrassment as the shiny steel chassis suddenly fit perfectly. Bizarre. The only consolation provided was the fact it took a national champion a couple minutes to dismiss my foolishness. I shutter at the thought of having called Kawasaki.
After three days of blood, sweat and toil the bike was somehow restored to its former glory. Besides fabricating a custom new bearing race for the suspension, the process went off without a hitch. Almost too easily, as we sparked the engine and warily drove off, praying that every bolt found its place once again. Of course this city of altitude had unfinished business to settle and less than an hour out of the shop Steve's clutch blew a hole, dumping its blood red contents among the crevasses of the engine case. How much more, we pondered, a whisper of defeat growing like storm clouds in the distance. A month to go and the problems fail to cease.
During our last evening in La Paz we found an orphanage that once again raised our spirits. Clean, inviting and well disciplined the project is part of a large organization based out of Spain currently operating in 50 countries. Sipping tea to ward off the biting cold, a Bolivian worker passionately laid before us his vision and plans. Though most of us would feel quite comfortable in our charitable efforts to simply volunteer occasionally, this young Bolivian has dedicated his entire life.
The organization also uses a unique method to encourage a self-sustaining cycle. New orphanages initially receive 100% of the necessary funds to jump start the project. Thereafter, as the location becomes established, the local community steadily covers more and more costs, in 10% increments each year. The final stage involves complete financial independence with extra funds supporting new orphanages starting elsewhere.
Hearing about the common factors that bring kids to the orphanage was a painful experience. Physical and sexual abuse rank high among the list, in large part a result of broken families. The typical scenario involves a young man producing several kids, then moving on to another woman, leaving many mothers with numerous kids from different fathers. In many occasions the father has very little concern or respect for the children produced by the previous men. Thus abuse runs rampant as the fathers justify the actions through the belief that kids are not their own.
 
 
A Bad Day
Ever since the trip entered its final half, Bolivia reared its icy boundaries as the final challenge laid before us. A high altitude gauntlet of sorts, after which the civilized pavement of Chile and Argentina beckoned our wearied bodies. But first, the blinding white expanse of the Salar de Uyuni must be crossed. While it could definitely be completed unaided, the prospect of 3 days riding without luggage proved too strong and thus, we teamed up with a Land Cruiser tour group, proving immeasurably valuable in the days to come.
Rocketing across a dead flat expanse of salt is an experienced only cheapened by words. Every direction stretches out for dozens of miles with the same unending sea of white. Which of course inevitably leads to experiments in new motorcycling techniques that are difficult to perfect under normal circumstances. Like riding with your eyes closed for example. Starting with several 10 second sessions, the confidence slowly worked up to a count of 40. Though the brain reasons quite logically that nothing but cold air awaits your foolish ambitions, it is still an extremely unnerving experience. Every fiber in the body screams its protest at the sensation of doing 80 mph without the benefit of sight. Most amusing though is realizing the profound difficulty of holding a straight line under such conditions. Attempts to break the 40 second barrier quickly dropped off when upon opening my eyes I found myself heading the completely wrong direction cutting a high speed path between a pair of trucks. Satisfied with our foray into the world of driving by brail we moved into more prudent arenas. No hands, no feet, etc. Quite ridiculous but pragmatism is discarded at the salty shores when presented with such a rare opportunity.
But nothing lasts forever and sure enough a price would soon be extracted for our foolish antics. Dark storm clouds presented their ominous message, reassuring us that we're still amid the grip of Bolivia. The following day passed uneventful, the blood thickening temperatures of a 7 am departure the only reminder of our harsh surroundings. Though merely a practice run for the 6 o'clock start our guide calls for the next morning. And to top it off, my supply of migraine medications ran out, leaving some rather entertaining effects from the withdrawls.
SALAR DE UYUNI MOTORCYCLE VIDEO FOOTAGE -- coming soon...
 
 
Dusting off the layer of frost from the bike, we saddle up for the coldest ride of our lives, the sunlight struggling mightily to push aside the frigid hours of early morning. Ten minutes into the excursion the bikes ease to a stop, trading worried looks through 13 layers of fleece and nylon, our nose and forehead the only exposed skin. Ten more minutes, the hands assume a wooden consistency, the feet become a lost cause as I thank the years of skiing that has left few nerves to protest the inhumane treatment. The usual distraction of belting out country music only saps precious strength as movements are reduced to an absolute minimum.
Oddly the temperature gauge crept steadily higher despite the thermometer dropping far below freezing. Oh Lord, don't let the radiator be frozen I plead to no one in particular, knowing God himself left this place long ago. Yep solid as ice, our new friend from Holland points out. Quietly I mutter something about failing to mix enough antifreeze after rebuilding the bike. With no one to blame but myself, we pull the camping stove out and torch the radiator hoping to return the system to its liquid state. Successful, joy turns to disappointment as the prospect of continuing the ride surfaces among our thoughts.
Finally the sun lives up to its bargain and movement almost becomes bearable. Now it gets interesting. Snow. Fortunately the previous 100 miles or so of sand have prepared us quite nicely for the slippery conditions underfoot. With the first couple shudders and swings of the tires you maintain a death grip on the squirming handlebars. Several hours later though, the undulations become more bearable and you begin to understand where the limits of control lie. Finally the motions become so expected that the bike ebbs and flows on its own accord, the rider providing just enough input to keep the rubber side down.
As expected though, confidence turns to arrogance and the specter of a crash follows close behind. With only 1 minor skip yet on the snow, the speed crept higher and focus lost its edge. Therein lies the problem with the white fluffy stuff, it provides absolutely no warning of disaster. Sand is constantly slapping the bike around, while icy conditions are quite mellow until it's too late. With that knowledge tucked comfortably out of reach, I continued.
Amidst a flurry of exploding white and skidding metal all control was lost and I found myself writhing in pain on the icy road. No, no, Oh God, not the bad ankle. Pulling off my helmet the stabbing pain mounted to a surprising level as memories of a dislocated and fractured ankle mixed among the cursing. Well, I can move the joint, which is a definite upgrade from 2 years ago.
I picked the perfect group to bother with my misfortune. Helping me to the truck the Brits and Danish folks graciously offered their assistance. But the problem loomed of how to transport the despondent Kawasaki without me at the helm. European hospitality saved the day and our Danish friend decided this was a good time to refresh his motorcycling skills. Of course, after learning of the twenty years hiatus since the last ride, I knew his fiancé would have my head if anything went wrong. At least the snow blanketing the road would provide a slight cushion.
With the pain subsiding I began to soak up the comforts of traveling on four wheels. You mean you don't have to wear 7 layers when traveling? Scenery takes on a whole new perspective when its not accompanied by fearful lunges of two wheels. Though I suspect the passengers in the truck began to doubt the sincerity of my injury after observing the delight I held for their luxurious facilities.
Several hours later our ragtag group successfully pulled up to the Chilean border. A couple more miles of sand then precious concrete awaited our tired expedition. Tine, the courageous Dutchman who piloted my KLR was headed back to Bolivia, leaving the lonely bike without a driver. Strapping on my boots I sent up a quick prayer that I would keep my injured ankle firmly on the foot peg. The pain subsided to manageable levels, leaving the joint feeling similar to the first day out of a cast. Weak and unstable, but ok if standing still.
--JM--
 
 
 
 
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