27.9.8 Sailing, singing and dancing

A weekend jolly away. We bounced along tiny dirt roads on the Altiplano in our 4x4. Eventually, we arrived at a small town (a sign read the water supply was funded by the UK), to find the town’s entire occupants were half-cut and standing around in the road. It was a blockade! Bolivia is beset by blockades—people stop work in order to stop other people from working. A lose-lose situation that is amazingly popular here. Anyway, this was my first.

The country has been covered by politically motivated blockades in recent weeks (sometimes opposing sides blockading the same roads) but this one had a simpler motive. We were on a smugglers’ route to Peru and the locals tax the contrabanders to drive their tankers through the town. Not having any gas or petrol, they hit us for some soft drinks. Clearly, standing around in the sun getting sloshed all day is thirsty work. Mikael mollified them with a few words of Ayamara and we were cheerily sent on our way with waves and £3 lighter. Mugging with a smile. We later learnt that 12 trucks loaded with diesel had passed through the day before.

We were here for a bucolic weekend and were staying in the most thatched place I have ever seen. The roof, floors and walls of our adobe cottage were all covered with dried reed. Outside, donkeys brayed in the sparse farmland under the biting sun and wind. Susi loves donkeys and rode one down to the lake. This was all going very well.

As we were punted out to a small island, endless birds flew overhead and sang. It was an even lovelier scene returning to the land under our bright sails as flamingos flew in front of the Andes.

The evening was equally unforgettable. After an impressively bland meal, we were given an introduction into local music. In came a man, one trouser legged rolled up, a llama-patterned hat on his head with a large Bolivian flag stuck in it, wearing a dead bird around his neck. This was a talented ladies man, who simultaneously sang, played the drum, pan pipes and maracas, and danced.

I left the room and returned to hear the recorder being played staggeringly badly. It was hard to believe a musical instrument could make such a terrible noise. My friends' shoulders were shaking with subdued laughter, Karin was compulsively eating to distract her giggling and everyone studiously avoided each others’ eyes to try to hold it together. Eventually, it finished and we were given an in depth analysis of the tablecloth.

Sadly, I had stomach cramps so left the others learning a new song with its own dance. The lyrics seemed apt: “Why? Oh-why? Oh-why-er?” Indeed. The dance began by snaking around the room in a line and developed into Hokey Cokey-style bumps.

7.9.8 The highest Englishman on earth

This brought new meaning to the phrase ‘early start’. Woken at 1am, we faffed around for an age with porridge, crampons, head torches and Toblerone, until it was time to set out into the darkness. The start was a steady, steep walk in the trail of points of light from earlier groups as they ascended into the stars. To our left was the pretty patchwork of El Alto—during the day, one of the world’s ugliest cities.

As I searched for my water, I quickly developed ethno-tat envy for Nicky’s tourist issue woven bottle holder. Viviana’s knees decided climbing was not for them and she went back down, leaving Nicky, Ola and I with the remaining guide.

The first test was The Wall: a thin ice bridge, over a crevice, leading to a wall of ice. Quite nerve wracking in the dark, but at least we had had some practice of ice climbing unlike other groups that just head straight out there. And so we plodded on until watching the sunrise—a glorious and exhilarating experience.

After further hours of trudging, reaching the peak was a great relief. At that moment I was probably the highest Englishman on earth. I would have loved to lie back, muse on this and have a sleep, but we had to walk back down again. For me, the joyful rush of being at a summit more than 6,000 metres up was rather tempered.

As Nicky pointed out being in Bolivia has ruined our standards of beauty. The gently rolling rolls of the Cotswolds can never compare to the mountains, lakes and planes of the Alti Plano.

Some 12 hours after we had set out we returned to the base camp. My legs were shaking, I was more automated walking machine than man. It was going to be great to return to decent food, beds and loos.

6.9.8 Top buzz

After a couple of hours sleep on a mattress on the floor, (at least it was my own mattress, even if I shared the room) and a carbohydrate-heavy breakfast, we moved on to the high camp. A further 730 metres up, we were now at 5,130 and the view was charming. Unlike the loo. Made up of a three stonewalls and a hole, it looked on to—not the endless, empty mountains but the door of our chalet. It had not been frequented by people with good aim.

I reminded myself that if all I wanted was quality loos I would still be loitering around The Savoy. It was better think about the excited ahead—behind the chalet, Huayna Potosi loomed. We would be there soon.

The news from the real world intruded even here—airports had been seized by the opposition and anti-government protests were speading.

5.9.8 Huayna base camp

This promised to be an interesting weekend, I was going to climb Huayna Potosi with friends. A mountain of more than 6,000m, this was beyond anything I had done before. We excitedly packed into a mini van, hacked through El Alto and into the desolate Alti Plano.

As we climbed along the dirt road, we passed a man in the middle of nowhere bent double carrying an enormous speaker. Where he was between it was impossible to say but somewhere was going to have a good Friday night.

We had left behind news of rising tensions in the east of the country. In Santa Cruz, both pro- and anti-Morales activists were blockading the same roads. They are living out a Bolivian version of mutually assured destruction.

There were frequent stops for passing llamas or group photographs, in which we all took the same photograph as a group. Eventually, we arrived at the base camp—4,400 metres up—the remaining 1,600 metres would be on foot.

Today, we were due to practice ice climbing. Strapped into all our gear and crampons, and carrying our ice picks, we got stuck into the nearest glacier. I loved it—as the guide was busy helping Viviana, I set off up a vertical ice wall. It felt good, solid, comfortable. Here was the sport for me. Then I heard a slightly nervous Bolivian voice: “Be careful, that is dangerous,” said our previously sanguine guide. All of a sudden it felt neither good, solid or comfortable. I slid, the ice pick held and I tried to look relaxed.

30.8.8 Risin' high

As demanding as climbing 5,000m+ peaks could be, Chacaltire must rank among the most embarrassingly simple. It’s a couple of hours’ drive from La Paz and then a steepish walk up the last few hundred yards. The problem is not the ascent so much as the challenge of getting enough oxygen in the bloodstream to power the limbs and brain. Fortunately, as we had all been living at more than 3,600 metres for some months now, we were relatively acclimatised and suffered no more than our retirement-age guide.

At the bottom of the walk is a wooden house perched on and over the mountain edge, it’s across the car park from the Alpine-inspired lodge. This used to be the base of the world’s highest ski run and the chalet’s bar walls are covered with natty old pics of Bolivians in 1980s ski wear.

The old drag lift is still there but global warming has put pay to the snow. The sad remnants of the glacier remain but it is going the way of all the glaciers around La Paz. Within 20 years, it is predicted they will all be gone. As the main supplier of water to the city, the effect of losing them will be catastrophic.

This was a dry run for next week’s expedition up Huayna Potosi. A proper Toblerone bar of a mountain; it’s only a further 600 meters up but without even dodgy road access, it will be real exercise to get there.