Bolivian Altiplano, Lagunas.

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Chile. Been here now for a few weeks, and it’s been a bit of an adjustment. To being in a wealthy country, around people and family like me. There’s this idea of beauty being found in extremes, from scorching deserts to freezing arctic tundra, and in that, Bolivia does not disappoint.

Press on further and further into the desert. Vegetation disappears entirely in places, llamas and their companions roam in larger and larger circles looking for food. When the winds come, they kick up mini-sandstorms. Duck behind the mini-dunes to hide, pull up the hood of your raincoat. Wait it out. Empty your pockets later and you’ll find you’ve since been carting around a few extra grams of dirt.

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Bolivian Altiplano, Southbound.

Bike and body washed clean of salt, leave Uyuni heading south. Washboard roads give way to faint tracks etched across the desert, road heads for the provincial capitol but that’s not to say it’s a highly trafficked destination. Aiming for the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve, home to distinctly colored mineral lakes, and on the other side of that, Chile.

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Skirting the edge of the altiplano, from pancake flat roads re-enter the mountainous border and once again start planning daily distances by how many passes are in the way. En route to the first pass, start to take breaks huddled against roadside rock walls, the only windbreaks around. Would have been a good day to set up camp early instead of fighting the daily late-afternoon winds, but lacking water to cook press on over the pass to the next village. Sleep there at the local hospital, am offered a bed in a room where a patient is sleeping but that seems a little questionable. Instead they put a mattress out in the entrance room and I’ll pass out there.

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Bolivian Altiplano, Sajama to Sabaya.

Switch to Bolivia.

Desolate and windswept, welcome to the country of sandy, corrugated roads. Route outlined to cycle the length of the country through the altiplano, that high altitude desert claiming the west. Solo. No other dirt riders here right now. In La Paz at the Casa de Ciclistas, the nine- nine!– other cyclists plan a parallel path on better roads. Consulting schedules upon leaving, there’s a possibility of all of us converging on the same spot on the same day, but ultimately I’ll be a half day ahead of one group and a half day behind another and will only catch up to some of them in the next town south.

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