A three-day stroll through the Cordillera Real range of the Bolivian Andes is marked by raging rivers, mudslides and rain, rain, rain
"Crazy gringos."
You could see it in their eyes as the bus full of Bolivian locals deposited us in the swirling mist at La Cumbre. We could not see a thing but were so glad just to be there.
Most of the day had been spent glumly staring at the rain teeming down the bus windows in La Paz, hoping for a break in the truck drivers' strike that was blocking the road – a true Bolivian experience.
Cheerfully we waved our fellow passengers off, Lonely Planet bible clutched firmly in hand, as the bus lumbered off down the road to Coroico – comparatively a far more dangerous feat, having been dubbed by the Inter American Bank as "the most dangerous road in the world."
Our decision to walk the 40-plus kilometre route to Coroico via the mountain pass was inspired by its reputation as "the premier hike in Bolivia," at least according to the Lonely Planet. However, the rainy season brought on definite "out of text" experiences.
The first challenge presented itself early on: Where was the trail? The labyrinth of possible tracks was solved by local schoolchildren, who appeared out of the mist and pointed skyward to our intended direction.
This section proved to be my one forte on the trip, as I bounded up the 4,860 metre pass at Apacheta Chucura. My Zambezi whitewater raft guide friend, Jane Dicey, was obviously used to more oxygen than this mountain could provide, but we made it. Our reward was a pile of rocks, a patch of snow and the ever-present mist. Bueno!
Too soon our triumph turned to chills as the cheery fog turned into sleet and we scurried down the mountain in search of flat ground. Half way down a break in the clouds revealed a wealth of cascading waterfalls and, on the valley floor, the sight of an Inca-time wayside inn or "tambo". Unfortunately it had shut up shop some 500 years ago, but it did look cool, as well as offer grassy tenting sites.
Morning sounds are always the first thing to alert your subconscious mind that you are not at home. Chattering shapes that were half human and half giant loads trudged past our tent on the way back up the mountain, unaware of the shadowy figure of a llama in their wake. Half an hour later two were back, chasing the lonesome llama back down the valley.
The rain stopped long enough for us to admire this dramatic volcanic wonderland before closing in again. Walking the ancient paths left by the pre-Hispanic Incas over practically all of South America is a testament to that empire's incredible skills with stone and the paths’ architectural durability.
However, those who praise the beauty of Bolivia's Inca trails have missed one vital point. Come the rainy season, these stone highways are greased ankle-breakers. We opted for the more secure footholds provided by ankle-deep mud alongside the track.
As the kilometres unfolded, our surroundings changed from towering granite peaks to lush steamy jungle, bursting with butterflies, hummingbirds and ferns. The rain continued but our feet thawed. Things were looking up.
Then we met the llama alarm bells. A group of them standing stubbornly on the opposite side of a river, looking disdainfully at what was once a bridge. What followed was an amusing half hour tussle of locals forcing the beasts to get their hooves wet. It was a taste of what was to come.
The continuous rain had swollen streams into raging rivers and swept away bridges – lots of them. At least a third of the bridges were gone, leaving maybe a log or cable as a final calling card.
Unlike Jane, I am not blessed with good balance, especially when poised on a slippery log over whitewater. However, on day three I discovered a solution to my phobia: ants. Try perhaps 100 large red biting ants down your socks and you will be surprised at how fast you can move.
Ants aside, we knew the confluence of these rivers near the town of Choro could be hairy, especially if the bridges were washed out. Sure enough, at Choro we were greeted by an expanse of raging water and a toothy old señor .
"Bridge very dangerous, very dangerous," he said, waving a cable at us.
With the remanents of the bridge being battered by the churning Rio Phajchiri, his homemade cable car contraption began to look attractive. With a flourish he whipped out the "no worries" flour-bag harness, fastened it to the cable, helped us one by one into the bag-harness and safely zipped us across the river.
To celebrate the occasion, the sun finally made an appearance, warming us nicely as we puffed back up the steep gorge.
Parrots, more ants and steamy sweet smelling jungle joined us on that last 20 km or so hike to Chairo – the end of the trail. With thoughts of ice cold beers dangling in front of us like the proverbial mental carrot, we pushed relentlessly ahead. Our only stop was to sign the visitor's book at Casa Sandillani, a strangely out-of-place oriental garden owned by a Japanese man who had come to visit the area 40 years ago and never left.
Perhaps this is the way of the mountain. A final downpour to mark our departure turned into further flooding and the sad news at Chairo that part of the exit road was now rather a large hole.
To add further excitement, Coroico was sealed off by those same road blocking protesters – no gringos allowed. Undeterred, after squelching through several villages we found a lift and slipped quietly through the barricades, under the cover of darkness and our Jeep's sack clothes.
Who says South America isn't exciting? Salud!
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