#60 The Day that was Worse than the Worst Day Ever

After surviving the mud to reach San Ignacio de Moxos we were both under the impression we could conquer anything, a conviction we came to rely on sooner than expected.

If you look closely you can see the cork.

As I have mentioned once or twice on this blog, Bolivian cuisine leaves much to be desired. In small towns across the country we have faced the difficult choice between dry, fried chicken and dry, chewy beef schnitzel. San Ignacio was no exception. This was not something I could stomach two nights in a row so the evening before leaving we sought out the town's only 'nice' restaurant (only restaurant if you don't include street stalls in the definition). From memory it was actually quite tasty, excusing the garnish of bugs perpetually blown down from the fan above us. We had to keep napkins over our wine glasses for protection from their invasion, probably a waste of time given it had been poured from a corked bottle. The floater bobbed up and down while the waiter wondered what was preventing a smooth pour - didn't stop us drinking it of course.

We certainly had plenty of protein in our system as we headed out on the next leg of the journey, pleased to find at all times at least a section of the road dry and passable, although the damage caused by recent rains was evident on the remainder. So confident were we of its continuing good condition we stopped at a biological reserve offering horse rides to a laguna known for its rare reptiles (you can probably see where this post is going). Not twenty minutes into the ride the heavens opened, though I'm not sure that adage is really adequate as to us it felt more like hell on earth to us. Although we were provided with full body covering ponchos not one inch of us was spared from the drenching. Up to their shins in water the horses, or more particularly my horse, refused to go any further and to be honest I didn't blame him (or her) as I certainly didn't feel like continuing but we had to return from the lagoon somehow. Suffice to say no reptiles were spotted - the lake itself was barely visible through the downpour.

But mostly the outing was ruined by the thoughts of what this weather must be doing to the roads and the 50 kilometres we still had to cover to reach the nearest town. Lonely Planet had mentioned the possibility of camping in the reserve but after a quick scan of the facilities, and a highly awkward, although very hospitable, lunch with the family running the place, I was pressing for us to continue. After all it had stopped raining by this stage. When we couldn't even make it out of the driveway without taking a tumble I perhaps should have reconsidered. That said, even at a measly 15 kilometres an hour I calculated we would still make it with plenty of daylight to spare.

Somehow 10 kilometres passed during which we were constantly forced to decide whether the adjacent grassy quagmire was an improvement on the 'road' itself. A lot of this I walked all the while unsympathetic 4WD's passed us never stopping to assist or offer words of encouragement.  Miraculously we were able to gain some speed (I'd say about 30 kilometres an hour) over the next 15 kilometres as beneath the road-cum-marsh there was a least a smattering of gravel for our near-treadless, road tyres to grip on to. (Oh how I wished we had replaced them with off-roads in Santa Cruz as had been recommended to us, rather than dining out on repeats of Greys Anatomy). But we had another problem: the rain had returned and was steadily worsening.

Views during happier times - before the rains came.

We knew the improved road condition couldn't last, and with still 20 kilometres to go the back wheel again slipped from under us, this time trapping Reece's ankle beneath it. No matter how hard I tried I was unable to lift the weight of the bike from his foot - definately one of my lowest moments of the trip. But he managed to wriggle free and heroically continued on despite now sporting a limp. We were back to the bad stuff and it to make matters even worse it once again started bucketing down and the entire road became slushy mud. By the time, the long, long time, we saw the sign indicating San Borja in the fading light Reece was knackered and covered in sweat from his fight with the mud. It wasn't relief we felt just yet as it seemed unlikely this town of only a few houses would gain the distinction of a spot on our map. Our instincts were correct. Locals told us it was still another 5 kilometres to San Borja. Nearly distraught at the thought we continued as best we could arriving at a police checkpoint on the cusp of darkness. Surely that meant we were there, we thought. We could see a bridge in the distance following which the road curved to the left. It seemed San Borja was just around the corner.

In jubilation I told Reece to go ahead - I would walk the remainder as I was so fearful by this stage of another fall (we had now clocked over five). But as I crossed the bridge I didn't see any bright lights in the distance. Hoping that perhaps it was just a really, really small town I continued on. Things were looking really bad when I, on foot, over took Reece and the bike, who by this stage only able to go one metre at a time given the mud. Still we inched on. We saw a light in the distance and prayed it was pavement. By the time I caught up with him again, still no town in sight, it was getting dark. We were 50 metres away from the light and pavement when the bike stopped moving - it had broken down. We were not going anywhere and it was now pitch black.

We hoped it was just mud clogging the chain. I was sent ahead to determine exactly where the pavement began to see if it was possible to push the bike to that point. I'm not sure what the plan was for afterwards, I think we were counting on the miraculous healing powers of asphalt!

One of the few photos taken that day - photography not our highest priority.

During my short absence Reece had come up with a plan: to send me into town in search of a taxi. With no idea where this apparent town was, nor even certain of its existence, I walked off in the darkness close to tears carrying with me half the road on my boots which felt like bricks on my feet. I knew I couldn't return with nothing so if I was unable to locate a taxi I would have to ask a stranger, probably a man as its unusual for women to drive in Bolivia, for assistance. Fortunately it didn't come to such a frightening proposition. Not too far up the road I found someone who gave me directions to the town. On the way I was picked up by a mototaxi who drove me to the centre where after much persistence I convinced an actual taxi to take me just outside of town to meet Reece.

As we approached I saw that for the umpteenth time that day the bike was on its side. Reece had tried to push it only for it to fall and he was all out of strength to lift it alone. Even with our bags removed we could barely push the thing, even with the reluctant taxi drivers assistance. Towing it worked slightly better and soon we were on pavement. After removing some of the mud we were able to gain momentum and shortly the bike was reaching a velocity of 40 kilometres per hour - its top speed in more than 5 hours! The taxi led us to a hotel where, to avoid a repeat of the 'wash down' in San Ignacio I left my muddy gear outside avoiding the gaze of the hotelier as I creeped to my room in only undies and a t-shirt - it was no time for modesty.

That night over pizza, physically and mentally exhausted, we considered the challenges of the last few days. Yes, travelling is not always a holiday, and the idea is to be challenged in ways you least expect. Bla bla bla...After those past two days I was ready to give up, plotting ways to never get on the V-Strom again.

Damage visible the following day.