Bob's Blog

The Vagabond

The Salar Bandit

14th November 2016

Woke the morning in hospital, don't worry, nothing wrong! It was just the only place in town that was open. I went to the school - professor had already gone home, and didn't live in town (all doors locked). The two churches, nobody had the keys for, and probably were never used. So off to the small village hospital, and after some convincing they gave me a storage room, and the lovely on-site lady brought me coffee and dinner (I was half way through eating what I had just cooked, but waste not want not, I'm sure my body appreciated the extra calories!).

Anyhoo, so off to cycle the salt lake, first was a short stretch to the island of Copasa, and it's town, where I met Antonia from Germany and Nuno from Switzerland (though originally Portuguese) and after a quick coffee break, we all set off to cycle the 50km of the Salar together.

This Salar was known for being a little wet sometimes, making it difficult to cycle and with the storms of the last few days, I was a little apprehensive but the salt was dry and solid, good for fast riding.

It was rather surreal cycling, with distant islands looking as though they were floating, and the brightness of the reflection from the salt was blinding. I didn't have a pair of sunglasses, and hadn't thought to get some, and after two thirds of the way through I felt my eyes getting sore, the reflection was burning and my eyes were reddening. A little worried, I had to resort to covering my face with a bandana, I could just see out, but needed to follow Antonia most of the rest of the way. On the list - sunglasses, before I cycle the next Salar, which is twice as long!

We reached the other side and I said goodbye to the other two and rode along a very sandy path. The wind kicked in and it became really tough. I had expected a decent road, according to the report I had but it was terrible. I had to push most of it and even pushing felt like I was just hauling, i.e lifting the bike along the route. Frustrating would be putting it mildly. I screamed into the wind, several times, it may not have helped, but made me feel better.

I reached an abandoned town around 5.30pm and couldn't bear the thought of continuing, the wind was usually less in the morning, I'd still have the sand but it would be better. So I found the church and to my luck, it was unlocked - perfect.

The Storm Run

18th Novemner 2016

I spent the whole day with storms chasing my tail. We woke, in the classroom, in the town at the bottom of Volcano Acotango. We had to be out by 8, when class started. We knew that the forecast was not good today, with snow predicted, with our accent of Acotango being rather fortuitous timing. However, the day started rather fine, if with clouds firmly building in the mountains

I said goodbye to Thomas and Tina, the German couple, plus the Brit, Campbell. The road was tough, flat, but the choice was either washboard or sand, neither much joy. Progress was slow, stop, bumpy, slow.

The line of mountains which line the Chilean/Bolivian border were slowly attracting big storm clouds. I was hoping, as I was heading away, I'd keep clear, no luck - I was soon surrounded. I began cycling as fast as I could to a small village, within sight. As I was arriving, the rain was nipping at my heels, and I gladly took refuge in the village shop. Thunder growled and I thought I may be hemmed in for the day, yet after an hour or so, it looked like my passage had cleared, only the border mountains still had blackened clouds. I took a chance and left.

Bad choice, perhaps. My route forward still looked clear, I cycled on. But the storm behind me grew and grew. I was trying to outrun this storm, cycling 10km an hour on sandy washboard. The next village was 24km away, I was surrounded by nothing but scrub, I was the tallest thing for miles. Fretting, I powered the pedals as fast as I could. The route ahead then blackened, but on the horizon, I could make out a white building, it must be the village.

Whenl arrived, lightening started to flash in front of me. So just in time! It was only 3pm but there was no way I wanted to continue with this threat. I asked to sleep in the school, and was given a small office building. Tent weather this wasn't. Up early in the morning, will have to rise and before the storms do.

When the Vagabond is calling your name

12th November 2016

I remember thinking recently, how much I enjoy sitting in a street in a developing country, the world at my feet, not caring what the world thinks of me. I sit as a bum, on the pavement, watching the world go by, with layers of dust and dirt usually covering my clothes, crumbs of the food I'm eating dropping into my lap. I get the 'shocked' stares of the locals, to see a gringo in this fashion. But rather than be ashamed, I enjoy, enjoy for the fact that I'm not ashamed, I'm beyond their condescension. I'm free. The conventions of society have been ripped, the cords cut.

However, back in the 'West' things are perhaps slightly different. In the 'global south' I am an alien, an outsider, I roll as I please, yet here I cannot extract myself from the shame so easily.

I can hear him (the vagabond) calling my name. I struggle within myself to avoid the association, I'm too close to the boundary. He knows I can see him, it's like the grim reaper calling, he knows I'm in his mist and he can drag me under. I tally this in my mind, and no, he's not the grim reaper, I look over, make eye contact and accept my part in the world, on its extremities, living life in this world, a free spirit.

Then I move, back towards the city. I take a bus and the oder of my shoes gives offence. I won't be allowed back to this civilisation yet - wash your feet sir! I have to comply to live amongst them. Yet, now do so knowing that I am always free.