Breathless in Bolivia
An experience of a lifetime in Bolivia (Review)
When you land in a country whose airport is at 4000m and whose
landscapes are among the most dramatic in the world, you can't
help but be struck breathless...breathless in Bolivia!
Bolivia, who the heck knows where Bolivia is? And what's in
Bolivia other than llamas and iguanas? That was my initial
reaction when my friend Rich called from Germany and told me
that that's where we were going for our month-long climbing
trip. My biological clock had been ticking for some time for me
to give birth to one of those life-altering big trips into the
wild world yonder; but Bolivia?! Having been there two years
before, Rich reassured me that it was the place to be for
unbounded adventure in spectacular locations while still
enjoying great food and even better wine and beer. So together
with Birgit and Fred, Rich's German climbing buddies, we each
packed ice-climbing gear, gore-tex clothing and spare undies and
boarded our separate planes. We met in Miami for the final leg
of the trip to La Paz.
Bowler Hats and Brain Busters
We landed in La Paz, a city with just a tiny wealthy center but
endless sprawling markets covering most of the downtown area
where you're guaranteed to pick up a bargain - and some coca
leaves to help with acclimatizing to the altitude. You see at
4000m La Paz is only 800m lower than the highest mountain in
Europe and the rarified air means that from the moment you land
you are a full blown asthmatic, gasping for every breath of air.
Improper acclimatization can result in anything from nausea and
vomiting to pulmonary or cerebral odema so it's wise to take it
easy for a few days to adapt to the altitude. We didn't and I
paid the price with mountain sickness rendering me incapable of
walking more than 10 paces a day for the first week I was there!
High mountains surround La Paz. Apart from relieving the
drudgery of the city, they are a brilliant playground for
adventure addicts. On our second day we trekked out to the
foothills around the city and completed some excellent training
rock climbs in brilliant sunshine. Day three had us bundled into
a jeep for a drive out to the mula station from where we loaded
our mountain and camping gear onto the flea-ridden beasts of
burden for a four hour trek up the foothills of the Condoriri,
at 5648m a mere taster of bigger things to come. We camped at
4600m by a melt water lake in the lap of the range. While my
alpinist friends took it in turns to conquer the 5000m peaks
around, I nursed my blinding headaches and insufficient lungs,
wondering why such a wonderful landscape should hurt so bad. At
least I had company - the llamas and vicunas hung around our
campsite chewing the course grass, while gazing quizzically at
my pathetic, panting body. Rich would leave every morning at
02.00 and return victorious by early afternoon having dragged
one or other of our teammates up the glaciers in the distance.
Bugibba in Bolivia
Our descent from Condoriri was the medicine I needed to cure my
altitude sickness. Returning to a mere 4000m gave my spleen time
to produce the red-blood cells I needed to stay alive, and our
next excursion to Copacabana (no not the Cuban one in the song)
meant we could spend a couple of days canoeing along lake
Titicaca, a Mediterranean sized body of water at 3800m! We
discovered beaches that looked like they'd never been trodden on
and explored the ancient center of worship of the Incas, Isla
del Sol. Sleeping out under the stars with no tent in a place
without the glow of urban lights means that you can see every
star as though it were shining just for you. The sky in the
southern hemisphere is populated by different stars than in the
north and the Bolivian Chardonnay we drank that night had me
making many new celestial friends in the heavens above us.
Copacabana is populated more by displaced westerners trying to
discover themselves by smoking cheap weed and selling trinkets
on the roadside than by locals. But it is a subdued town and as
the few locals walk by you, their heads down, quietly going
about their business, you get a distinct feeling of expectation,
almost as if they are defeated Inca warriors awaiting the return
of their Montesuma to throw off their yolk and poverty and rise
again into the great nation they once were...
Each morning I would trek to the summit of one of the 4000 m
mountains around the lake before breakfast - I had to prepare
for the ominous rumblings about sky scraping altitudes from the
restless Rich. You see Rich had been here before and he had an
unrequited goal. He had attempted Jankho Uma, the third highest
in Bolivia, at 6427m a mountain of Himalayan proportions, but
had had to turn back at 6300m, with the summit in sight, due to
frostbite and winds that threatened to tear him from the summit
ridge. This time it was personal!
Mountaineering Marathon
We bussed it to Sorata next, an old trading town nestled in the
lap of the highest range in western Bolivia but also overlooking
the deepest jungle. Our hostal was the old trade exchange
building, built in typical colonial style and still reeking of
the semi-grandiose history of centuries past. In this building
fortunes were made and lost, gold and silver panned and dug out
of the surrounding rivers and mountains were traded for rubber
harvested from the jungles further down the valley. Today the
mines are worked out and rubber is produced from synthetics so
the town must rely on visiting tourists to keep it alive.
Access to Sorata is via a 5 hr bus ride along a dirt road cut
into the hillsides of the typical Andean landscapes. The drop on
the left side of the narrow road is precipitous and there are no
crash barriers. One mistake and the bus and contents take a
bungee jump without the rope, yet the drivers casually fling
their massive VW buses round hairpin bends like kids at the
bumping cars!
After sampling the fruity wines produced from grapes grown on
the surrounding slopes, we booked our mula man, packed only what
we needed for a week on the mountainside, and headed up the
foothills - this was gonna be the big one. A day's trek through
fields clinging precipitously to the steep banks of ancient
river valleys brought us to the campsite by a stream of melt
water coming off the glaciers perched above us. We climbed from
2700m to 4700m that day. The mountains above were deceptively
beautiful, their tantalizing ice-cream summits framed by crisp
blue skies inviting us into their welcoming arms. Nothing we
could see from the campsite could have hinted at the hardships
we would have to endure before getting anywhere near those
distant summits.
The mulas couldn't go any higher because the terrain above
consisted of moraines, entire hillsides formed of the stones
dragged by glaciers from the summits of their mountain then
discharged at the point where the glacier melts into bubbling
streams. From here on it was either carry it up yourself, or
leave it behind. Packing for high summits is serious business.
At altitude, you are breathless all the time. The amount of
oxygen in the air drops exponentially as you go higher, so your
lungs suffering rises exponentially. And even when you're
acclimatized, as we all were by then, the oxygen deficit is
still acute. Another thing to consider is the weather up there.
If the sun shines it's warm but if a cloud moves in temperatures
plummet below zero in seconds and you have to be prepared.
So for the high camp at 5500m you can't afford to take anything
extra and you can't afford to leave anything essential behind.
We left with about 15 kg each in our bags. Rich encouragingly
stated that the higher camp was "just there, just round that
bluff" - and boy was that ever a bluff. We laboured all day,
slipping and sliding, panting and cursing. I literally could not
take another step when I crawled over the last rise and saw the
campsite. I must have panted there for a half hour before
finding the last ounces of energy to drag myself to the supper
that the others had already got brewing on the stove.
The most amazing thing about the mountains is that after
squeezing every scrap of willpower from us the day before, we
awoke with renewed energy and drive the next day. Perhaps it's
the majestic, inspiring scenery, or the crisp, fresh air that
does it, but we got up ready to make it to the high camp at
6000m. It took another half day to get up the 500 vertical
metres to the glacier. Despite having to jump from boulder to
boulder, climbing inexorably upwards, stopping every few paces
to claw what oxygen we could out of the rarified air, we arrived
at the glacier bubbling with enthusiasm, at the prospect of
sleeping on the ice, getting up at 01.30 in minus 250
temperatures to head up the ice fields and ice cliffs above
before the summit ridge. We must have really been suffering
altitude madness, never mind sickness!
We got up as planned. Putting on our five layers of
high-altitude clothing left us drained and breathless. We brewed
a few pots of tea and a powdered breakfast before setting off in
pitch darkness, roped together in case one of us fell into a
crevasse, ice crunching under our crampons, emergency food and
drink in our backpacks. As we walked, head down, my fingers and
toes began to freeze despite my body being warm from the
exertion. My mind began to rebel against the strain of keeping
the pace at that altitude. I began to hallucinate and thought I
might have to back off. Encouragement from the others saw me
through and I soldiered on.
We got to the ice cliffs as the sun began to rise and toiled up
these with ice axes and crampons front-pointing in vertical ice.
Once over these we were on the summit ridge and all that
remained was a mind numbing slog to the top. Giddyness and
exhaustion beyond my experience clawed at my willpower but we
all looked to Rich's boundless energy to lead us to the top.
Only as we fell together on the summit dome and the breathtaking
vistas of the Cordillera Real fell away in every direction did
we realise what we had just achieved. We were higher than
anything in sight, we were at the summit of the third highest
mountain in Bolivia.
Our toils were not over. Exhausted as we were, we set off on our
descent. The sun hit us as we down climbed the ice cliffs and
from freezing a few minutes earlier we were suddenly irradiated
with merciless burning sunrays. I clawed at my clothing in a
panic as I instantly overheated. Further down Birgit probably
saved my life. She found me sitting on my rucksack, my head bare
and burning in the sun, totally dehydrated, just staring into
space. I knew I had to pull my cap out of my rucksack and drink
from my water bottle but for a full 15mins I just sat there
trying to focus my addled brain. The rest of the way down the
glacier felt like I was a cowboy abandoned in the desert in one
of those spaghetti westerns, rather than a mountaineer at the
top of the world.
Rain Forests and Raging Torrents
The descent to our camp at 4600m was incredibly completed that
day, late in the night. We had had enough of living rough so we
staggered over moraines and boulders until we got to the
relative comfort of the main camp. From there it was a run down
to Sorata the next day and a quick bus ride back to La Paz. We
were fast running out of time but were not going to leave
without sampling some of the other breathtaking adventures
Bolivia had to offer.
We got hooked up with Explore Bolivia, a brilliant organizer of
crazy adventures in the outback of Boli. We were taken up to
4700m in a bus, then given a mountain bike and released down a
death-defying road for a full day of navigating "the world's
most dangerous road". The road is a narrow pass down the side of
a mountain with precipitous drops on one side and massive trucks
pushing you towards the drop on the other side. We rode through
rainforests, waterfalls, mud tracks and desert-like passes. Then
after sleeping in a ranch hidden in the forest we took the
challenge of whitewater rafting down the torrents of the Coroico
River.
Much like a scene from Apocalypse Now, the rain forest was
complete with Tarzan creepers dangling from the trees, clouds
clinging to the steep forested riverbanks and a constant warm
rain. We navigated 4 and 5 grade sections of the river and
stopped on the way to swim in a secret waterfall belonging to
the owner of Explore Bolivia.
Return to Madness
It's all very well getting away from work for a month but the
things you need to do don't just disappear. My soldiers in
Malta, Theresa and Nicky, gallantly kept the show going at MEDIA
CONSULTA in my absence. Via e-mail they kept me informed of all
the tragedies happening and how they managed to handle them
without me. The temptation to stay lost in the jungle was strong
but I had to face reality at some point…and to this day I have
still not been able to make it up to the ladies for having
abandoned them so utterly. In every respect, it was a trip that
left me breathless in Bolivia!
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