I ascended above the clouds, upwards and onwards to the altiplano, at altitudes of over 5,000m. Here the sky was spectacular, the colour of the sky, the shape of the clouds, everything looked as if it was being viewed from some kind of high definition, polychromatic lens. It was unnaturally beautiful.I left early in the morning and rode up the hill out of the city, and then continued to climb. I ascended above the clouds, upwards and onwards to the altiplano, at altitudes averaging 3,200metre, but reaching over 5,000m in places.

Here the sky was spectacular, the colour of the sky, the shape of the clouds, everything looked as if it was being viewed from some kind of high definition, polychromatic lens. It was unnaturally beautiful.
The air had a different quality to it, a crispness like a sunny English Spring day,only more so , and I rode through the high plains in spirits as high as the road. The sun was shining, the air was crisp and invigorating, and the sky was a constant source of wonder. It was another one of those rides, like the one through the desert in Peru that I just didn’t want to end. Alas a few hours later, it did, as I pulled into the rather non-descript town of Oruro.
There wasn’t much going on in the town, I discovered after I had found a room in a small hotel near the now defunct railway. I found the central market and sat down to a hearty plate of stew of some kind, I think sometimes it’s best just not to ask what the ingredients are, and a tasty fruit smoothie, before wondering back towards the hotel.

I was passing the town square when I spotted a couple of motorbikes parked up in one corner. I walked over to take a closer look, and was amazed to see a parked in between a Honda Shadow and a Suzuki a gorgeous 60’s Triumph chopper, complete with Union Jack Flag emblazoned across the petrol tank.

The bikers were chatting together behind the bikes and I asked who the owner of the triumph was. The owner introduced himself as Sergio, “ but my friends call me Chopper, because of the bike” he explained. Chopper introduced me to the rest of the gang, and as we were all shaking hands , a few more bikes and bikers showed up. Chopper explained that every Friday night, he and his biker friends met at this corner and hung out. When I asked if they were going to go for a ride together, Chopper told me that he’ d be lucky if he’d be able to ride his bike home, let alone around the city. Marco, another one of the bikers, nodded in agreement, he was still working on getting his 50’s Jawa in full working order, and wasn’t up for testing his work just yet.

Marco's Jawa, not quite ready for a road test

The guys asked me about my bike, my trip, and most importantly , what I thought about their country. In the short time that I had been in Bolivia, I had been asked this question more than in any other country. Bolivians were well aware that their country wasn’t as advanced as any of its neighbours, but I think they also knew that many travellers found this refreshing. Bolivia was the last bastion of “old school South America” It wasn’t as westernised as Chile or Argentina, didn’t receive as many visits as Colombia or Peru, but offered an altogether different experience than any other country that I had visited on the trip so far.
The people that I met could only be described as the salt of the earth(excuase the oun)-Bolivia having the largest salt flat on earth is co-incidental!), honest, hard working, and genuinely please to see travellers and tourists visiting their homeland.
Although Bolivia was by far the poorest country in the region, it was so far one of the most friendly and welcoming. True, Colombia had also been extremely welcoming in the rural areas and smaller towns, but Bogotá and Medellin, the biggest cities in the country were cities like anywhere else in the world. People rushing about, mostly too busy to stop and chat, but in La Paz I had people stopping their work to take time to talk, most of them wanting to know the answer that was on everyone’s lips;” what to you think of my country?”
The bikers invited me to go eat Pizza with them and we spent the evening together munching, drinking and talking bikes. I asked again about the Salar de Ayuni, the world’s largest salt flats that I had originally wanted to take my bike up to, and the answer was unanimous, and not the one I wanted. I knew the road was unpaved, and I know it was tough, but when the bikers told me that on top of that the flats were covered in water from the recent rains and that the road was in an even worse state than usual, I realised that I would finally have to accept that Garth and I wouldn’t be riding across the salt flats together after all. I was really gutted about this. It was going to be one of the highlights of the trip, but with all of Chile and Argentina still to come, I couldn’t risk any damage to the bike, plus I was riding alone, so if I got stuck in the mud, I could be stuck there for a while.
We finished our Pizzas and walked back towards the bikes just in time to see a procession of majorettes and a marching band strutting their stuff through the Plaza.

Any Excuse for a Parade, none in Oruro seemed to know what this one was for!

I asked Chopper what the parade was for , but he just shrugged and replied “ we have too many Parades here, I don’t know what this is for, but it means my bike will be stuck here for another hour”
I sat and watched the parade with Chopper and his mates for a while, then said my goodnights and headed home to pack up and prepare for my ride to Chile the next day.
I was excited about another country, and, as much as I had enjoyed Bolivia, I was ready to get back to civilisation. I yearned for a hot shower, for continuous Internet connection, for high octane fuel, and for a return to a more manageable altitude. I was exhausted from the smallest amount of exertion, and was finding it hard to enjoy one of my favourite hobbies, smoking.
My last day’s riding in Bolivia was one of my most memorable to date. I was still high up on the altiplano, enjoying the freshest air I had ever breathed, with the blacktop all to myself, and amazing vistas of distant snow-capped peaks that I could see clearly, even when I was still well over 80 kms away.

Flamingos strut their stuff in a salt lake on the way to Chile.

I passed salt lakes reflecting the beautiful sky as if the surface was a mirror; other lakes had flamingos tip toeing along in the shallow waters. I followed the road for another 200kms until I came to the border.
Again, this border was a very quick and simple affair. A far cry from the sheets and sheets of paperwork and queuing in one portacabin to the next, as had been the case throughout all of Central America. I was in and out in about 30 minutes, and on my way to the beach at Arica.