Bolivia: It's a Gas

No matter who we talked to, or when, they all agreed on one thing: Bolivia was a pain in the ass. The trouble was fuel there was subsidized, but only for the locals. The rumours never changed: outsiders had to pay double or more, and that pleasure was only if the gas station would sell to you. Dealing with foreigners, it was said, involved reams of paperwork that had to be submitted to the government, and most gas attendants didn’t want the extra work. Sometimes a deal could be done under the table but with strategically placed cameras on site, that was often off the table before it ever got on. We met a Colombian biker in Nazca, Peru who had lasted all of three days, and only that long because the first border he tried to exit didn’t have a customs office. While it was generally agreed the entire situation was more of an inconvenience than a life-threatening affair, I had visions of us on a remote plateau, out of gas and out of luck. But Fran, ever the optimist, promised me we’d never leave one Bolivian town without having enough fuel on board to reach the next. And I, ever the pessimist, insisted we go shopping for a spare gas can. This we found in the Puno market after the proprietor hitched up her skirts and climbed a ladder into her stall roof.

It was 150k to the border so we were out of the city by 8:30 AM. The lakeside homes faded away and were replaced by haystacks, sheep and fish farms. We were just settling in when we got stopped by roadworks. An old couple selling snacks at the barricade suggested we go around it like the locals do, but when I asked, we were told no. Time went by and a group of four Brazilians motorcyclists arrived. They’d no intention of waiting and when they went through with nobody stopping them, we followed. Rounding the bend, we found it wasn’t a road at all, more a freshly ploughed field. We followed the lead rider with the others coming up the rear, sometimes slicing through crumbly clay ridges, others bumping along the stony shoulder. After what seemed an age, and a detour into a hamlet, we were back on track. Faster than us and heading to Chile, the Brazilians waved goodbye while we continued on to Bolivia.

We fuelled at the last gas station in Peru, not knowing it was the last. The new can was less than ideal. The cap leaked so we had to use a plastic bag as a gasket. The last town, Desaguadero, spans both countries and was a bit of a pit, as most frontier towns are. At a crossroads Fran turned left to follow the sign to Bolivia. I Immediately felt we should have gone straight, under the sign for CEBAF, whatever that was. Sure enough, on the other side of the international bridge there were lines and lines of trucks, and officials who told us to turn around and check in at the Centro Binacional de Atención en Frontera. Sometimes I hate being right.

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The road to La Paz curved along the shores of Titicaca and across the water a row of snow-covered mountains broke the line of the horizon. Less than 100k in, a distant city spread like a large puddle across the yellow plains: El Alto. Every building on the dreary outskirts was red brick, there was sand instead of sidewalks and not a living shrub in sight. We lost our data signal on a traffic-choked boulevard. Down steep and winding streets, passed the airport where packs of dogs scratched themselves on this side of the runway wall, the potholes did their best to relieve us of the bouncing gas can behind me. Along the train tracks women in hats and cushioned skirts sat on mounds of rubble, and I wondered how on earth we would find our hotel. We didn’t even know if we were in La Paz yet. Checking-in some time later, the bright young thing at reception said: “Good thing you came today. Yesterday was Mother’s Day and the traffic was horrendous!”

La Paz is built in a bowl, and spreads out into several other bowls. There are also unexpected rock formations in the middle of the sprawl that look completely alien. Bolívar needed a new rear tire, and proper mounted gas cans, so we took him over to the Royal Enfield dealer. We got the tire but had to order the cans for pick-up later in Cochabamba. Before we left, the service manager topped up our tank with some of their spare gas. This meant we could leave the city without having to join one of the long lines of cars waiting outside a gas station. It’s not only the foreigners who have trouble filling-up here, due to a shortage of dollars, the locals do too.

It was a pleasant place to be in, down in the canyon, but I’m not sure I’d be saying the same about the barrios that crept up the surrounding hillsides. We spent a happy morning riding the cable car, enjoying the city without actually being in it. From the roof at sunset, we looked down on leafy plazas and modern apartment buildings, and the ever-present snow-capped Mount Illimani beyond. We met Oscar, from the Pan American Riders Association, who’d provided useful information before our arrival and the best introduction to La Paz after. On Sunday we met at his sports club where he was playing squash with some friends. Afterwards, we’d planned to take him to lunch but he led us to a private room above the courts instead, with a long table and open barbeque piled high with meat. Ten or twelve elderly gentlemen were celebrating a birthday and already almost through a bottle of Grand Old Parr. We were introduced and seated without too much ado and spent the afternoon stumbling through our dreadful Spanish, with Fran’s expressive arm-waving becoming more fluent by the glass. After the karaoke, slightly less-gentlemanly, they staggered out one-by-one until it was just the small, ancient waiter and the die-hards, now joined across the great divide in one final toast. To whom we’ll never know. To this day, the birthday boy’s identity remains a mystery.

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Cochabamba was two days away and there was nowhere to stop but Oruro. What with a steep, unpaved shortcut, followed by a main road with lively markets on either side, leaving the capital took some time. In traffic the Bolivians are an impatient lot. They force themselves into intersections long after the light has turned red and then fail to see the connection between their impossible perpendicular position and the oncoming traffic which cannot advance. Remote and all as it was, it was a relief to get out onto the Altiplano. The emptiness is breathtaking and because of the flatness, it’s hard to comprehend you’re at 3700 meters. Outside Oruro was a roadblock made up of several trucks and tankers. Fran drove around it by coming off the road and skirting the end of one truck. I waited for someone to stop us, but nobody did. Doing the same at another further down, not an eyelid was batted. Our luck continued with a stop at our first gas station. It was a YPFB (Bolivia’s state-owned oil and gas company) and on the second request, we got filled-up.

I’d pictured Oruro in my head, as one often does, but the reality was grim: sand, rocks, trash and nowhere to eat but chicken joints, but the hotel was surprisingly good. Next morning was another market day, one whose tentacles spread into every street we needed to be. There was nothing for it but to drive through, weaving at 5k an hour past girls with babies on their backs, women gossiping at juice stands and stalls selling everything from stuffed toys to shovels. And the roadblocks continued. Pferdi wouldn’t have made it, we barely got through ourselves. Everyone was very nice. The guy patrolling the dirt barrier under the flag cheerfully returned our wave while a truck driver closed his door so we could squeeze between him and his neighbour. It certainly pays to be on a motorcycle.

Cochabamba was pretty with a huge Christ atop the mountain. There we met a distant cousin on Fran’s side which was a treat (Irish memories in the Andean foothills). At Royal Enfield too we were welcomed warmly, being ushered into armchairs for coffee and a chat with the owner before getting down to business. Before leaving we emptied the Peru gas into the tank, but were unable to get gas for the new cans, so we had to leave with just the tankful. The drive to Sucre had everything: cacti, barren mountains, red canyons and a dry riverbed as Bolívar’s near-constant companion. On the approach, it looked more like a white hilltop village than a capital city. While La Paz is the seat of government and legislature, Sucre is the true capital of Bolivia and retains judicial power. Unfortunately, every road leading to the centre was taped off. We were minutes from our hotel, but it took three hours of waiting before we could drive the last two blocks. Fran was in seventh heaven; it was car rally weekend. Everyone was out to watch and with no barricades or safety barriers, spectators could roam the streets until minutes before each car arrived, then a cop blew his whistle and the crowd retreated to the sidewalks. In a blaze of noise and fury, it was all over in seconds. Until the next time. This went on all weekend. Around the plaza the neon-coloured cars were on display and beautiful pit girls teetered in Spandex jumpsuits and platform boots. One man came running after us gasping, where are you from, where are you from? and led us to his racing car son for a photo. What a perfect way to spend a Sunday.

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In the past we avoided cities as much as possible but now we can’t seem to get away from them. It’s because there’s nothing much in between. Our travel days were long and the landscapes remote. They made a day on Pferdi look like a Sunday spin. I’d imagined snowy peaks but it was the opposite. The bleached plains of the Altiplano are already at high altitudes, making the rounded mountains appear less dramatic. Near small towns and villages, we passed workers in the fields, steering cattle, or carrying heavy loads, and they were nearly always women. We slowed down frequently for llama, alpaca or vicuna crossings. They grazed in herds but galloped across the road in twos or threes. The goats, who knew the rules of the road, took care of themselves. There were also a lot of dogs between towns, not something we’d noticed anywhere else. No matter what part of the country we were in, there they were, sitting silently on the roadside, usually not far from a trash pile. I always hoped we’d never have to stop near them in an emergency.

At 4090 meters Potosí is one of the highest cities in the world but still we came to it from above. Passing under a great red arch and we made our way down where cars and pick-up trucks breathed impatiently down Bolívar’s neck. Every time we cross a border poor Fran has to learn a new style of driving. It usually takes a couple of days to get the hang of what’s acceptable and what’s not. What’s acceptable here is a little more aggression than we’re used to. Bolivians are honking the horn for you to get a move-on several seconds before any light turns green so it’s important to remain “tranquilo”. Looming over the city is a red mountain called Cerro Rico, described as “the richest source of silver in the history of mankind”, and below it the most beautifully preserved, historical centre. It was so busy I thought maybe it was a holiday. Crowds gathered in small groups on the plaza, but the festivities under the green banner were an anniversary party for Potosina beer while the men and women in the far corner of the park were simply protesting. It was also some saint’s Feast Day. And there were schoolkids everywhere, regardless of the time of day, or night. Strings of toddlers in puffy jackets held hands at dusk and later, their older siblings marched with brass bands, their golden instruments glinting in the dark as they caught the beam of a streetlight.

It's hard to be eloquent about the town on the edge of the salt flats. Every intersection had at least one upturned trash bin with a pair of scruffy legs protruding. No doubt about it, it’s a dog’s life in Uyuni. Our lodgings looked like a bomb site, the upper floor was missing, but inside was surprisingly clean and well run. Our beds were made of salt blocks, as were the bedside tables and lamps. Breakfast was served a bit late though, at 8:30 AM. (We did attempt to beat the system by going down at 8:00 but got reprimanded while still in the corridor and told to return to our room to wait.) But one doesn’t go there for urban grandeur; the splendour is all outside. We were on the flats by 10:00 AM and drove as far as the first island, 70k in. It was invigorating and more than a little disconcerting. It took a while to really believe we were not riding on ice. The cacti on the island helped, though there was always a corner of your mind that asked: where’s the Christmas trees?

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In Tupiza we washed Uyuni’s salt off Bolívar and bought our last litres of Bolivian gas. I have to say, for us the difficulties of fuelling in Bolivia never materialized. I admit in the beginning I worried and wondered, like an addict after every shot, when and where my next fix was coming from. But the more miles we put behind us, the less I thought about it. I never really cared what it cost, as long as we could get it, and not once did I have to beg or cajole with declarations of “Efectivo! No factura!” (Cash! No invoice!). We kept a piece of paper with Fran’s name, nationality and passport number in the wallet and these were easily entered into computers at the pump. (The fact that Fran was now a “Colombian” driver was beside the point.) It also didn’t seem to matter if we bought at YPFB stations, or others, though we used YPFBs when we could. Whether we just got lucky or the government has simplified the reporting of foreign sales, I don’t know but the horror stories we’ve been hearing since 2018 remained just that, horror stories. Another reason not to believe everything you hear, even when everyone seems to be saying it.

The day we left, the canyons were still in semi-darkness but the red mountains were already ablaze. Crossing a dry river bed a mother and three children stumbled over round grey stones. A dog danced behind them. All along that country road, little kids walked, alone or with their Mamas. They all wore their floppy sunhats and carried drawing pads, some had backpacks too, Spiderman and Princess Elsa frozen in time in the Andes. Ninety kilometres later we reached the end. Though we’d visited only a small section of Bolivia, we’d gone everywhere we wanted, and climbed every mountain it took to get there. Friends had doubted Bolívar’s stamina at such heights, but his name hadn’t been chosen lightly. To paraphrase one review, long after the BMW has reached the top of the mountain, the Himalayan will show up. A lot slower certainly, but also for a lot less money.

The Boy Bolívar