It's like coming back to your hometown and running into an old friend. While times has passed, the conversation, familiarity and common ground makes it seem like yesterday. That is time apart has been scrunched up and the difference between now and then is irrelevant.
I'm talking about The Digital Tavern: For The Sake of Clarity. I've been away and focused on my travel blog. I will continue to focus on the travel blog and encourage all of you who have not visited to take a moment and read some of the exciting stories form my Around The World Journey of Adventure & Discovery on a Motorcycle.
I haven't made it around the world. Yet.
Please continue reading forward here and you'll learn of a bit of a bummer. That is a mishap I had while riding the Bolivian Altiplano. I had to be evacuated back to the United States. I'm here now and you'll read the story.
Meanwhile, I'm going to try to bring more non-travel writing back to The Digital Tavern. I started this blog before most knew what a blog was -- back in early 2002. Today blogs are ubiquitous. That is perhaps except for the Digital Tavern.
Though it was intentional to leave this blog hanging in the balance while I focused on learning a bit about MovableType and developed a blog focused on my around the world motorcycle tour. Yet occasionally I'd post a few duplicate entries from the WorldRider blog here just to keep it somewhat fresh.
Are any of my readers out there? Did you follow the WorldRider blog? Fact is I'm in recovery and the downtime gives me a chance to pick up some of the pieces here on the Digital Tavern. I may move this yet to MovableType. I'm so frustrated with Radio, I'd forgotten how bad it could be. Just posting today's stories on my evacuation out of Bolivia the upstreaming server at Radio Userland took seemingly forever.
Well that's my story for now. Hope all of you are well and will tune in.
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Glorious ocean view private room and the sunset taken from my hospital bed.
Hoag Hospital sits on the bluffs in Newport Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the north end of this Southern California playground that has captured the country's attention through the silly TV program "The O.C.", the hospital is the tallest structure around. Angie pushed me to the nurses' station after checking in. Sitting in a wheel chair with my Bolivian splint in this modern, high-tech and clean hospital, I suddenly felt I was checking into a four-star resort rather than a hospital -- quite the contrast from my last couple days at Daniel Bracamonte in Potosi, Bolivia.
My room wasn't quite ready, so we slowly wheeled down the corridor until the nurse's assistant prepared my bed in my private room with a view of the ocean. Amazing.
Soon I was stripped and put into a hospital robe. And why is it these things never cover your back? When the nurse tried to start my IV she gulped. And I said ouch. A second try yielded the same results. It's the small vein, big heart syndrome, I guess. She wasn't about to put me through another needle in the arm for a third time, so she recruited another nurse. They said maybe I was dehydrated and therefore making it more difficult to locate the vein. I had a nice vein at the end of the elbow. But she explained that it's important to start the IV closer to the hand, because if there are problems the IV must move up the arm. Starting at the elbow would be doom if a problem occurred. The new nurse shook her head and said this is a job for Lydia who was recruited form the 10th floor. A thing and charming redhead in her late 30's showed up and in seconds fluids were flowing into my vein. Morphine was too.
The little button I got to push would send a drizzle of morphine into my body and smooth out the scenery while making the pain take a back-seat.
Reviewing my x-rays and Dr. Chang's plan. Other photo above clinching onto my morphine button.
As I noted before, my favorite and best damn orthopedic doctor in Orange County had fallen ill. Later I learned that he ironically was diagnosed with bone cancer. I felt so bad. But I was nervous as it was clear that my leg was going to require surgery with hardware. I was referred to Dr. Chang. Speaking on the phone I could feel his defensiveness as I interrogated him about his experience and why I was so adamant about Dr. B, my "regular" orthopedist. We agreed we needed to meet each other and during his lunch break from his clinic he stopped by the room. About 5'8" with a very boyish round Asian face and a disarming smile complete with clear braces, he introduced himself, reviewed my x-ray and told me his plan. I was still nervous.
"I'm not sure, Allan," he tried reassuring me, "but you still seem hesitant, maybe you should get a second opinion from another doctor." I thought about this and the timing and the hassle. But he was right.
"Maybe," he jumped in with an off-the-fly idea, "I can get Dr. B to give you a call. He's very sick and I'm 'just not sure, but I'll try to call him."
Several hours later the phone by my med rings. It's Dr. B. "Hi Allan, it's Chuck," i was amazed. It was my friend and my doctor. He explained how he wanted to be there for me but that he was just not well and could not perform the surgery. He reviewed with me the details of my fracture and Dr. Chang's plan. He agreed. And he gave glowing reviews for Dr. Chang. I wished him a
successful recovery and in moments my anxiety and apprehension disappeared.
Chang didn't think they could get an operating room that day, but at 7pm I was wheeled out of my room, down the elevator to the operating room. It was 7pm. Once again the plan was reviewed, I answered the anesthesiologists questions. My girlfriend Angie and good friend Rob stood by the bed as they fitted me with another silly surgical cap and prepped me and my caretakers of the process. Taking all the precautions to make sure surgery would go smooth, they took a black Sharpie to my right (good) leg and scribbled "NO" on my skin. They just want to keep Dr. Chang honest and make sure they don't go after the wrong leg. Surgery would take 1 1/2 to 2 hours. I'd be in recovery for an hour or two. Then I would go back to my room.
(L) Angie and Rob by my side until being wheeled through the O.R. doors; (R) Preparing me for anesthesia. Love my hat?
Dr. Chang assured me things would be okay. "You've got a real tough fracture there," he said referring to the break in my tibia close to my knee." I'm going to put a plate in there. And for the other fracture in the tib, I'll put a rod," he calmly reviewed his plan which sounded like he had to make a stop at Home Depot for some hardware before joining me in the O.R. "We're not going to touch the break in the fibula," he said, because there is a nerve that controls the lateral movement of the heel and foot which was in jeopardy if compromised.
"if you come out of the surgery with a splint below the knee, I'll be very pleased with the surgery. If not, well it's a longer road to recovery and the operation was more complicated. Great words and hope and fear as I closed my eyes.
The anesthesia starting doing it's business. Then I was out.
The only thing I remember when still three quarters out of it and moving from recovery to my room is yelling at the nurse interns to "take that tube out of my dick." I'm sure they were laughing, but it wasn't funny to me. "Take that tube out. I don't like that. Why'd you do that." Angie later told me they pacified me by saying it would only be in there temporarily because coming out of surgery I couldn't go to the bathroom. The nasty catheter would be my urinal drain, I guess. Good god. Turns out it was there for more than two days. Liars!
As for the operation: The splint started below my knee!
A rod and four screws. The only way to put Allan back together again.
Chang told Angie and Rob that he was extremely pleased with the procedure. He had started to use the plate in the upper tibia, but was able to stabilize and secure the fracture with three screws instead -- a much better option. Another screw anchored the rod close to my ankle. When I asked Dr. Chang the next day how he felt about everything, he told me that he was energized coming out of the operating room and it was one of those procedures he felt like telling all his peers about. I could see Chang with his youthful exuberance excited and talking shop with his ortho friends as much as we motorcyclists or macintosh users like sharing new discoveries. I knew I was in good hands and was confident things would work out alright.
I soon had the morphine button, a beautiful girl by my side and an ocean view. Things seemed to be going alright for me. I'm very lucky.
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When I woke up from the anesthesia I was back in my hospital room with my roommates. A crowd of visitors had gathered by the elderly man in the corner diagonally from me. Last night my moans of pain didn't bother him as he muttered and spoke in his sleep. But he didn't speak Spanish. Must have been Quechua, the native language of the Incas and other Andes people. A frail frame with boney limbs, every time he had to go to the bathroom he went about a laboriously and seemingly painful process of getting out of bed, then bracing himself with one hand on the side table and the other holding his bedpan. I thought he'd collapse and fall on the floor. His visitors elevated his spirits for before he was just a lump on the bed. Combing his hair and cleansing his face, his visitors brought small gifts and surrounded his bed. His eyes glowed.
The other patients received visitors too. For me, slightly out of it from the anesthesia, I was comforted by the fact that my leg seemed to feel better and instead of a heavy cast, i was splinted very professionally and not too tightly wrapped in gauze. No more cardboard box and ace bandage. Once again, the water splash lady paid a visit to our room and mopped it clean. Later she returned with a plate of food for me -- soup of some sort with chicken, noodles and vegetables -- I ate every drop.
I longed for visitors, a call from MedJetAssist or some sort of sign that I will be making progress to heal and get out of here. Later, two men appeared at the foot of my bed. They inspected my splinted leg, mumbled a bit and then approached me. "En la manana a la seis y media vamos al aeropuerto." Tomorrow at 6:30am we are going to the airport. I was hoping to get out of there today or tonight. But my wish would remain unfulfilled. I'd spend one more night in the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital here in Potosi -- the highest city in the world.
The plan was I'd fly to Santa Cruz from Potosi where I'd catch an American Airlines flight to Miami. From Miami I'd be transferred to a flight to Los Angeles and from there an ambulance would take me to a hospital of my choice in Southern California. I provided MedJetAssist with my doctor's information, hospital, insurance and instructed them to communicate and field calls from my girlfriend Angelique who'd coordinate with them and handle the logistics of insurance and doctors from California and help get me home. Together Angie and MedJet would arrange for me to be admitted and alert my doctor (broken bones were not new to me, and I insisted on an excellent orthopedist who operated on me before). According to plan I'd be in the Hospital in the States by late Tuesday night -- tomorrow.
The hours ticked by slowly as I fielded questions about airplanes and flying to the United States from my roommates. I was the talk of patients and hospital staff. They'd mutter "he's going to fly to the United States". None of my roommates had ever been in a plane. My attention switched to Doc. I tried to contact a noted Honda dealer in La Paz who i hoped would be able to retrieve my motorcycle and store it while I mended stateside. My efforts were futile as I couldn't connect with any of his phone numbers. Oh well. Time for sleep.
The morning didn't come soon enough. But at dawn a police officer and the ambulance driver showed up at my bed. The two of them tried to move me to a rolling stretcher that sat only a few inches off the floor. I pleaded that they get more help -- someone to hold my leg while the others heaved me over. Getting into the ambulance was more of a challenge. Without a gurney the two struggled to lift the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, pushing me into the back at a 45 degree angle. With no straps on the stretcher I started to slide but they somehow managed. Securing just one corner of the wheeled stretcher to the floor of the ambulance, the ride was a challenge as I tried to grab the window frame to keep the other three wheels from sliding and rolling the stretcher in the back.
First ambulance riding cop pulls me through Bracamonte Hospital in Potosi.
Getting ready to be loaded into my Bolivian ambulance
After a quick stop at the emergency room to pick up all of my bags, which included everything i'd been carrying on my bike since July 2005 including the Jesse Bags, BMW top box, tank panniers, dry bags and an extra duffel which contained my riding gear. The streets of Potosi were fairly quiet as we made the 20 minute trip to the airport on the outskirts of the city. When we arrived the gates to the airport were closed and locked. The terminal building sat dormant and vacant a quarter mile past the gate. There wasn't a car or airplane in sight. The cop and the driver hovered outside the gate, periodically blowing their hands to keep warm in the chilling mountain air. Then they joined me back in the ambulance. They said there was no one there and asked if I knew anything. I was in the dark too. So they started honking the horn. Then blasted the siren.
Just as they were about to give up a man on a bicycle heading our way appeared in the distance. Soon he was unlocked the gate and the ambulance sped toward the terminal where my bags and my stretcher were unloaded and moved inside the cavernous terminal building. I laid there just inches above the tiled floor. The building had all the usual hints of an airport with signs pointing to departure gates, arrivals, baggage claim, ticketing. But the building was void of life. Not a light on, no signs of airplanes, passengers or employees. Just an ambulance rider, cop and a bicycle riding airport caretaker. A huge mural of flight related imagery towered above me. Then echoing through the empty building was the sound of a telephone ringing -- a traditional analog ring that's virtually extinct in any office, home or public building in the States. Bicycle man jets up a set of stairs running after the phone.
(L) Caretaker locking the airport gates after granting ambulance entry.
(R) Reflection of Bolivian ambulance through windows of Potosi Airport.
When i asked about the airport, the ambulance driver told me that only one flight a week lands or takes off from here. I asked why such a big and fancy airport for a town of barely 25,000 people. He shook his head in disgust and mumbled something about the government. The airport was built about 10 years ago and my driver was disgusted with how much money the government spent on this project. He lamented that people in Potosi just don't have the money to travel by air. I wondered if drug money was involved in its construction. Plus, if Potosi was the highest city in the Andes, chances are this airport ranked as one of the highest in South America. As such, it was one of the most difficult to fly in and out of due to climate changes.
Something was wrong. Within minutes they were loading me and my bags back in the ambulance. Turns out the airplane coming from La Paz couldn't make a landing because the clouds were hanging too low. Soon I was back at Daniel Bracamonte Hospital with my roommates and the pail splashing squatty lady. So there I waited. And waited. Water lady brought me another bowl of soup and a banana. Several hours passed. Then at 12:30 another cop and elderly ambulance driver appeared at the foot of the bed.
Once again I was wheeled along the ground to the ambulance parked outside the hospital. This crew had an even rougher time getting me into the back of the ambulance. At one point I feared they'd drop me. Before I knew it we were whisked past the hospital gate and on city streets heading toward the airport. None of my bags were in the ambulance. I panicked and screamed, "Donde esta mis cosas?" Confused and showing signs of panic that we were short on time they flipped a u-turn and retrieved my bags.
When we returned to the airport the gates were open, but the airport was void and vacant as before. The bicycle-riding caretaker was no where to be found. There was no plane and the doors to the terminal were locked. I could hear an airplane. Or at least that's what I thought I heard. The clouds were still low. Looking the same as the morning. I feared another night in Potosi. Craning my neck from the back of the ambulance trying to get a view through the windows. I didn't see a plane. But I heard one. Then in the distance I saw a truck heaving itself up a steep incline just outside the airport. Was it the truck? Then from the direction of the airport control tower I saw a bicycle riding our way. It was the caretaker. I guess he serves as the air traffic controller too. They drove the ambulance around to the runway where an orange tiny 6-seater Cessna 337 was parked.
Looking at the small and aging plane I wondered if I could sit in it with my leg extended and slightly elevated with all my bags. But I kept my spirits up and remained confident that we'd be out of there soon. However, due to the weather delay early this morning I missed my connecting flight bound for Miami from Santa Cruz, Bolivia. MedJetAssist was scrambling to find another flight where they could get a first class ticket to get me, my splinted leg and earthly belongings back to the States.
My view from the floor Inside the vacant and eerie Potosi airport terminal building.
My MediVac plane sitting on the Potosi runway while the clouds hang low and rain pelts the runway.
Getting loaded into the tiny Cessna 337. (click photos for bigger images)
Bicycle riding airport caretaker rides to control tower to give my plane clearance for take-off.
The cop asked for my passport while the pilot and caretaker exchanged paper work. With his documentation demands satisfied the caretaker hopped back on his bike and rode back to the airport control tower. Minutes later the Cessna was fired up and we prepared for take-off. The pilot told me he took his chances landing here this afternoon. Per the book, he shouldn't have landed. But he knew I needed to get to Santa Cruz, so he went for it. I dreaded a turbulence ridden bouncy flight. But I was gratified that the hour long flight to Santa Cruz hovering above the Andes was magnificently scenic and incredibly smooth.
Vacant and bizarre Potosi airport from the air. (big parking lot, no cars; no people)
Glorious Andes from my MediVac plane on way to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.
When I landed in Santa Cruz I was met on the runway by a stretcher, an ambulance and Shane West, an Atlanta-area native, firemen and EMT medic sent by MedJetAssist. With a bag full of painkillers and medicine and instructions to get me back to the States safely and comfortably he calmly coordinated getting all my baggage cleared through customs and checked on a flight that would depart Santa Cruz for Sao Paulo, Brazil on Varig Airlines. We would connect in Sao Paulo for another Varig flight bound for Los Angeles. But there was one slight problem. Even thought MedJet Assist had purchased first-class tickets, this afternoon flight to Sao Paulo was not equipped with first or business class seating. It would be impossible for me to sit in a standard coach class seat. My leg was splinted in an extended position, and to keep swelling and pain controlled I had to keep it slightly elevated.
But Shane and the Varig managers worked wonders and eventually accommodated my challenging predicament by securing three seats in the bulkhead in the front of the plane. My medic Shane with his bag of tricks would sit behind me. All during the flight he monitored my vital signs, and did his best staving my pain with Toridol injections. While not perfect, I managed to remain somewhat comfortable by spreading out across the three coach seats. In Sao Paulo we were met with a wheel chair and ushered quickly to the first class VIP lounge while we waited a couple hours for our connecting flight.
Landed in Santa Cruz, Bolivia being transported to the terminal.
Missed my first connection and first class seats. Bulkhead gets me to
Sao Paulo where I get comfort of first class seats to Los Angeles.
In Sao Paulo I learned that while that my chosen orthopedic, Dr. Belleti had gone through the motions of admitting me and arranging for a bed at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach, it was cancelled because I didn't show up last night. Even worse, Dr. Belleti was hit by his own medical emergency and all his patient appointments for the next week or two were cancelled or referred to another doctor. Angie and I exchanged numerous text messages keeping me abreast of her challenges trying to get me admitted into the hospital with a new doctor referred by Belleti. But I had to board my flight and simply had to cross my fingers and hope that Angie, MedJet and the hospital were all in sync by the time I landed.
Thanks to the first class seats and my growing weariness, I slept most the entire 11 hour flight from Sao Paulo to Los Angeles where my only real challenge was figuring out how to go to the bathroom. Since leaving Santa Cruz I've been whisked around airports on wheel chairs. Sans crutches it takes two or three people to lift me and my leg to get me in and out of the airline seat or wheelchair. My medic handed me an empty water bottle which failed to work after I attempted to discreetly do my business under the big airline blanket. The flight attendant took the bottle and cut off the top. This worked.
Once in Los Angeles Shane retrieved my bags and we were through customs, immigration and into a stretch limousine heading down the freeway to the hospital. Getting in and out of this monster car proved challenging, I think an ambulance would've made an easier journey. Plus it seemed apropos to be riding down the 12 lane freeway in this oversized vehicle while passing masses of SUVs, luxury cars and all the other trappings of excessive consumerism -- big box stores, massive retail centers, malls -- quite the contrast to where I've been over the last 4 months. Am I ready for this? I guess my leg is.
In less than an hour at 9am on Wednesday I was admitted into the hospital and my things checked in with hospital security.
Home. But a long road ahead.
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I wake up to the sound of water splashing on the floor of my hospital room. A squatty lady in a smock holding a bucket of water hanging on her arm flicks water over the floor with her other hand. She leaves and quickly returns with a mop which she pushes through the room, under the beds and out the door.
What do you expect from a hospital in the middle of nowhere? The place is clean, the bed is comfortable and the only annoyance is whenever I ask for my urinal jar to be emptied, they never bring it back. I guess I have to ask permission to take a piss. My roommates get breakfast. I don't. Haven't eaten or drunken a thing since that last Vicadin. The doctor says they'll put me under anaesthesia so the trauma doctor can reduce the fractures and re-splint the leg for my long journey back to the States.
(continued below the photographs that follow)
* * * * *
More shots from WorldRider's last day in the saddle on the road from Potosí to Uyuni.
Rocky cliffs and canyons. (photo by Miah)
Dynamic Duo hours before muddy bike dump (photo by Miah)
Spectacular ride through sand, dirt, clay and desert scapes. (photo by Miah).
* * * * *
Around 9:30 Doctor Rolando appears. He looks disappointed and tells me the trauma doctor is here but won't be able to attend to me until after he does his morning rounds. It might be 11:30 or noon until I can lose this cardboard box and get a real splint. Meanwhile, calls to MedJetAssist assure me that they are working on finding flights back to the United States. Last night they had asked for general information about the airport in Potosi, such as the length of the runway. I didn't have a chance to measure it while in town, and the hospital personnel shook their heads and said not very long. They were considering another ambulance ride, but it would take 2-3 hours to get to Sucre and even longer to Santa Cruz where larger airports with commercial flights could be used to evacuate me.
Last night, Doctor Sylvia stayed with her parents who live in Potosi. Today she and Jeremiah were to take a bus back to Tica Tica where Sylvia could attend to other patients and Jeremiah would arrange to have Doc, my motorcycle, trucked back to Potosi. I suggested he get it back to the hotel we spent a couple nights before taking off on that fateful morning. They had underground parking and it seems would be open to storing the bike for a few days until I could figure out what to do with it.
Later, Jeremiah appeared at my bedside slightly panicked. "I can't find her." Referring to Sylvia who had told us that she would take the 7:30am bus. Jeremiah had been wandering the streets of Potosi this morning in search of an internet cafe, Doctor Sylvia and a bank that would take his ATM. Ever since arriving in Bolivia the ATM card issued by his local Colorado bank had given him problems. After three attempts in La Paz he finally succeeded in getting cash. In two days in Potosi no ATM machine worked.
Later the intern who masterfully managed to set up my IV checked in with me and in rapid fire Spanish with a difficult accent asked me for money. Geeez. Not a beggar in the hospital? No. But I couldn't understand him as he pointed to one of the other patients in my room and talked about medicine from last night. Later Dr. Rolando explained that the local anaesthesia that he shot in my leg last night had been paid for and belonged to the other patient. In the early hours of the morning, when my groans, moans and severe pain were alleviated with the help of scissors and the shot, the pharmacy was closed. Accommodating my need for relief they used this patient's medicine. It was up to me to provide the funds for reimbursement so it could be replaced. I also learned that the IV and pain medicine I received after my x-ray were borrowed from the intensive care unit. It amazed me how they kept track of all this. I was also happy that they were resourceful enough to accommodate this patient given the bizarre requirement of payment up front for goods and services.
Just before lunch my squatty lady appeared once again splashing water over the floor from the bucket hanging on her arm. Gotta keep that floor clean. Dr. Rolando showed up again, this time with a more positive look on his face. "They are preparing to take you to the casting room," he said assuredly. "We must buy the anaesthesia and pay for the operating room. And you need another IV," he asserted looking at the depleting sack of IV fluid hanging above my bed. I pulled a handful of Bolivianos from my neck pouch wallet and he shuffled off to the pharmacy only to return moments later with a bagful of goodies which he placed next to my bed.
another view of the two breaks near my knee
A couple more hours pass. Still no word from MedJetAssist nor had I visited the casting/operating room. It was pushing 3 o'clock. And I was still waiting. Jeremiah and Sylvia showed up. I thought they were long gone, though in the back of my mind I couldn't imagine him leaving without saying goodbye. At one point he said he'd stay until he was confident that MedJetAssist had a definitive evacuation plan. "She needs her blanket," Jeremiah quipped as they stood bedside, "it belongs to the clinic." Great. And I thought they came back to check in on me and say good bye. The blanket that they threw on me in Tica Tica had kept me warm and comfortable all night. But today I'd have to kiss it good bye. With the help of a nurse, Jeremiah and Doctor Sylvia wrested the blanked from under my frame and tucked it under their arms. Then they were off.
Now I was truly and officially alone in Bolivia. In the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital. Still no sign of the trauma doctor, but my bedside table was loaded with anesthesia and I had a receipt form the casting/operating room. Things couldn't be better. Or could they?
Dr. Rolando appeared an hour later. "There's a young boy who hasn't eaten in two days. He must go first," he apologized but stemmed my impatience and building anger from waiting with a bit of guilt. A young boy hasn't eaten in two days. But I'm next in line. An hour later my water splashing lady came by my bed and handed me a cap that I needed to wear when in the operating room.
When they wheeled me into the operating/casting room sometime after 6pm I was greeted by an army of people dressed in blue scrubs. An elderly man sat on a bench in the corner. His mouth covered by a blue mask and beads of perspiration speckled his wrinkled brow. His eyes looked tired as he sat with his palms pressed deep into the cushion. Our eyes locked for a brief moment, then I swung my gaze to a women in a similar mask holding a syringe above her head. There was no sign of Doctor Rolando. I suddenly felt scared. Alone. This wasn't the last thing I wanted to see should I never wake from a dose of Bolivian anesthesia.
"Esperar", I cried. "Tengo que saber lo que usted va a hacer."
Silently I wondered what were all these people doing in here. I counted 7 or 8. The lady with the syringe assured me she was the anesthesiologist. Just then Doctor Rolando blasted through the swinging doors. I heaved a sigh of relief when I spotted a familiar face. He assured me this was light anesthesia and that I'd only be under for 10 minutes while they splinted my leg.
"Are you sure," my voice slightly trembling.
"Claro!"
They injected the anaesthesia into my IV and put an oxygen mask over my face.
I'm in Bolivia and I'm going under anaesthesia. And the last connection to my homeland was well on his way on a bus to Tica Tica. The unknown killed me. Then I was out.
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In a state somewhere between awake and sleep three hours had passed. The rain, thunder and lightning added dramatic effect to my sprawled body with my left leg in a cardboard box splint as I laid in the Tica Tica medical clinic. Still no ambulance. In a town with one telephone, one restaurant and no motel I wondered if I'd ever get out of Tica Tica. Doctor Sylvia and her assistant Jacoba checked in on me periodically while Jeremiah braved the rain, secured our bikes, and worked wonders getting my gear consolidated and ready to join me on the trip home.
Waiting in the Tica Tica medical clinic for a plane or ambulance. My leg splinted in a cardboard box.
Doctor Sylvia studied medicine in Sucre for six years. Now she was the only doctor for miles and tended to a primitive impoverished population base of more than 2,000 people. Many of them in villages accessible by only dirt trails. When I saw her running down the road to the muddy mess where my bike and I laid desperately, I wondered; why not drive? I guess she would have if she had a car -- or a motorcycle. Serving hundreds of patients with many too sick to get to the clinic, on foot Doctor Sylvia hikes hours, crosses rivers and braves inclement weather carrying her medical bag to treat sick people, deliver babies and bring medicine to villagers.
I learn later that her father and brother are miners working in the horrible conditions of the cooperative mines in Potosí. Her mother is dying of kidney failure. There's a transplant available, but they cannot afford it. Suddenly my broken leg and my sullen let down of an interrupted journey around the world on my motorcycle seems petty and miniscule in the scope of things. I'm happy I'm in her care and with Jeremiah's cool demeanor, professionalism and somewhat calm if not frantic at times handling of things. It's expected. I'm in good hands. And as long as I lie in this bed and don't move my leg, I feel no pain. No drugs either.
Four hours passed since the ambulance was called. Sylvia and Jeremiah grab my umbrella and brave the rain once more to hike to the only phone in town. When they return the concerned look on their faces distresses me -- slightly. The ambulance should be here. The rains have made the road very difficult and very slow. And it was getting dark. Did the ambulance get into an accident? Just as we were falling deeply into a fit of doom a Toyota Land Cruiser wagon pulls up to the clinic. Three young men hop out and cart a low slung wheeled stretcher into my room. Not quite a gurney, but with all hands they slide me onto the it and wheel me to the front of the building. As the group carries me my leg swings back and forth sending bolts of pain messages to my brain. Ouch. They don't have any straps to secure me to the stretcher. Nothing. Thinking fast I guide Jeremiah through my bags and direct him to my stash of tie-down straps. Working as best as he can, he straps and secures me and my leg to the stretcher hoping to prevent much movement as we make the four-hour ride in the pouring rain over rough dirt roads, through rivers, scaling switchbacks to Potosi -- where I had left just 12 hours earlier.
The true color of friendship shines under the worse circumstances. Unable to fend for myself Jeremiah took control of the situation and handled requests barked from me without hesitation. We are both on our separate journeys. Meeting in October in Creel, Mexico we rode together for a couple weeks before bidding farewell In Oaxaca. We reunited just over a week ago in Peru. Today he was putting his trip on hold while helping me. He asked if I wanted him to ride the ambulance with me. Sylvia offered to come too. I wanted the company and until MedJetAssist was fully commissioned, I wanted strength in numbers.
The ride from Tica Tica back to Potosí could have been a nightmare. With a bag of coca leaves sitting on the dash of the ambulance, my driver and his two buddies kept stuffing the natural stimulant into their mouths giving them the energy to make the four hour ride. They'd have to turn around once in Potosi and ride 6 or more hours back to Uyuni. With every rut, rock, bump and groove in the dirt road my leg bounced, rocked and pulled from side to side and end to end. Jeremiah, the legend, hunched over my leg with one hand above my knee and one hand below did his best to brace my leg and reduce the shock and jolt of the bumpy ride. He did this for the entire three hours of the journey. His back ached as he writhed and wiggled trying to remain somewhat comfortable. The ambulance rolled on as these boys made good time. They obviously made this trip before. With windshield wipers flapping and the suspension working overtime, we passed the gray walls of a canyon where I noticed the reflection of the emergency lights flashing. I didn't even notice that the ambulance actually had such gear. But no straps nor gurney. Hmmmm.
As the hours clicked by and the miles added up my foot became numb. Miah would rub and kneed it trying to stimulate circulation. The ambulance seemed to jump off a couple drop-offs sending my leg in the air and crashing down. I'd scream. "Ouch!" Jesus, that hurt! But Jeremiah like a statue, steadfast and secure just held onto my leg, minimizing its movement and my pain. Sylvia spoke of her clinic, background and patients. The driver and his buddies pulled another handful of coca leaves and stuffed them in their mouths. I finally pulled a couple vicadin from my pocket and sucked them down. This is one long ambulance ride. Bounce. Jolt. And shake.
When we finally pulled into the hospital at 10pm Sunday night the ambulance team wanted their stretcher, pillows and payment. And they wanted to get out of there. My things were unloaded and stashed in a hospital office while a crew of people rushed around looking for a bed they could move me to. I simply I laid on my stretcher in the middle of the lobby of the "emergency room" of the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital in Potosi, Bolivia -- the highest city in the world. That's when I noticed the short thin doctor with glasses, dark hair and dressed in a casual windbreaker carrying a messenger bag walk out the door of the emergency room. I thought he was leaving for the night. i was wrong. This was my doctor.
Before I was moved from the lobby I had to pay for my x-ray and my hospital bed. Coughing up the equivalent of about $8 in Bolivian currency I was then wheeled through the dark and quiet hospital corridors toward radiology while Jeremiah and Sylvia dealt with my things and the coca leaf-chewing ambulance crew. As I was ushered into the x-ray room an intern who had the demeanor and look of a janitor and the x-ray technician started pulling and tugging me onto the x-ray table. I screamed as they tried to lift my 155lb mass up six inches from the bed onto the table. Any slight move of my leg sent zings of pain through my leg. They ignored my screaming and please in Spanish to stop and wait for more help. Someone HAD to hold my leg stable and level. My vicadin was wearing off. Actually, I'm not sure if it ever did any good. Just as they were flopping my limbs onto the table Jeremiah showed up and provided better late than never help.
My be-speckled and windbreaker donning Doctor -- Doctor. Rosando -- had a good command of the english language. He reviewed the x-ray. So efficient and fiscally prudent was the radiologist, he got two views of my tibia and fibula on one piece of film. The doctor confirmed what I already knew. "Your leg is broken." Then he added the new information. "In three places." We looked at the x-ray. Sure enough the tibia and fibula were both broken close to the knee with a third break in the tibula halfway between my knee and ankle. Damn heavy motorcycle. Would have stronger boots prevented the fractures? The what ifs didn't matter. My leg was broken, my trip interrupted and I needed to get back to the States for proper medical care. Meanwhile the rest of my clothing is cut from my body. My BMW ComforTemp long underwear and my Patagonia capilene underwear. All victims to my fateful muddy bike dump.
Fortunately my cell phone had service in Bolivia. I was on the phone to MedJetAssist as they wheeled me into a room with three other patients. I sent text messages to my girlfriend in California. Jeremiah got clearance from the hospital to sleep there. But he couldn't have a bed. I directed him to my sleeping bag and mattress in my things and he set up camp on the floor in the hall just outside my room. It was getting close to midnight. My Doctor Rolando wanted to set me up with an IV and pain medicine. But first they needed to be purchased from the hospital pharmacy. Apparently nobody gets credit at the pharmacy. I stuffed a handful of Bolivianos into Doc Roladno's hand and he served as my medicine messenger and trucked over to the pharmacy. I wanted to know more about the pain medicine and was worried about syringes and needles in my arm. Dutifully questioning every move, I'm sure they thought I was the biggest pain in the ass. But it's my life. My leg. And I'm in a place that is arguably the poorest city in the poorest country in South America. I'd better watch out. Meanwhile Miah drifted about the hospital and when he returned to my side he said "this place is scary," and offered other words of encouragement regarding the patients and conditions he witnessed. But it was all I had. I was simply turning back -- and this was a momentary pit stop.
I hadn't even begun to think about Doc, my bike.
My intern prepares my IV at the hospital in Potosí.
MedJetAssist quickly took the information necessary to start the research and process of evacuating me out of Bolivia and getting me to a hospital in the United States. I put my girlfriend Angie in touch with them so together they could communicate and coordinate. MedJet connected me with a doctor in the States who informed me the pain medicine Dr. Rolando had purchased was a high-grade of ibuprofen (Motrin/Advil). I asked if they had something stronger like morphine. "Oh no. We don't have anything like that. It's controlled by the government." Great. The third largest cocaine producing country in the world and I'm getting Advil for a leg broken in three places. I sucked down another Vicadin under the orders of the MedJetAssist doctor while the janitor looking intern gracefully and in one easy step found a vein in my left arm and started the IV. My doctor said that a trauma doctor would be in the hospital in the morning and he would look to further stabilize my leg, reduce the fracture and prepare it for the long journey back to the United States. Until then, I'd try to get some sleep and ignore the pain.
The lights went out in my room at just after 1am. It's been a long day and the peaceful serenity of the solitude of riding the wide expanse of the Bolivian altiplano seemed so distant. Yet here I lay with my leg inside a cardboard box, wrapped in gauze and an ace bandage. I slowly closed my eyes.
As the clock ticked on my foot grew numb and hot. I couldn't move my leg. I started to moan. First silently to myself. Then more vocally. Soon i was unleashing at regular intervals strings of profanity. "Shit!" The list goes on. After a while one of my roommates starts repeating and mimicking my English words. It makes me laugh hearing the swear words with his Spanish accent and I wonder if he knows what he's saying. I'm sorry I'm keeping them awake with my groans and moans. But the pain just got stronger and stronger. My foot felt like it was on fire. But the pain wasn't coming from the broken bones. Or at least I thought so. Perhaps my makeshift splint was too tight. Circulation felt cut off. I finally can't handle it and I raise my voice trying to awake Jeremiah from his resting place in the hallway outside my room. One of my roommates reaches for his buzzer to call the nurse.
Jeremiah's hospital hallway bed in Potosi.
Jeremiah inspects my leg and sure enough there are problems down there. Seems the cardboard box had slowly slid down my leg and now was digging into the top of my foot which by now was beet red as the edge of the cardboard had dug a canyon sized gouge in it. Soon the intern and an assistant nurse are in the room wiping the sleep from their eyes. Jeremiah quickly gets them scrambling for a pair of scissors pointing to my circulation deprived foot. A small pair shows up but can't get through the cardboard. The intern says he's going to get some local anaesthesia to help reduce the pain. Finally a sturdy pair of scissors cuts through the cardboard and in seconds I feel relief. Wow. It was that easy. The doctor still injects a dose of local anaesthesia which comforts me as he assures me that I can now get some sleep.
Thankfully within minutes I'm in dreamland. And my roommates get their well deserved sleep.
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Some shots of my last day riding before breaking my leg in three places!
Letting air out of the tires for the rocky dirt ride to Uyuni.
Changing gear, earplugs and hanging with llamas. Note the pools of water.
(l) Self portrait of yours truly and legendary Jeremiah. (r) Miah shoots me while checking the scenery.
9:23:53 AM permalink | | trackback disabled due to spam
What can you say about the unexpected? Sometimes such events bring joy. Other times pain. The unexpected. Whether good or bad, smart or stupid, ugly or beautiful or even happy or sad, unexpected events evoke undeniable emotion. Today, little did I know that after embarking on a early start under blue skies and bidding Potisi a fond farewell that today's events would dramatically change the course of my journey.
Miah and I prepared for the worst weather. We layered our clothing, fitted our rain gear, and pulled out our warmest and heaviest gloves. The chilling air of the highest city of the world at 6:30am was one reason. Rain was the other. Despite the blue skies littered with few puffy white clouds we knew the chance of rain was 100%. Then Doc started acting up again. Over the past few weeks riding the high altitude plains (altiplano) of the Andes, Doc's been a bit temperamental. Seems my bike just doesn't like to start without a little coaching or attention. Even pulling over to take pictures Doc would stall and give me trouble starting up again. Jeremiah had some bit of trouble with his Dakar, exactly the same bike as mine, but not to the degree of my starting hassles. Obstinate as Doc could be I'd eventually get the bike started.
Often when traveling through Latin America people would inevitably want to know the cost of my motorcycle. I'd beat around the issue as best I could because the cost of this motorcycle is more than many of the curious make in a year. Sometimes I'd simply reply, "Oh, I'm sorry, you want to buy it? It's not for sale." But when I did divulge the approximate cost of Doc, I'd footnote my answer with some basic facts:
"Mi moto es mi casa," I'd say explaining that this motorcycle is my home.
"Mi moto es mi cama," I'd further explain that this bike and my things are my bed.
And finally, I'd explain "mi moto es mi mujer", that is my motorcycle is my woman -- my wife.
This of course would follow with much laughter and after explaining some of the problems and joys the bike gives me our conversation transcended from one of a monetary discussion, to one of a more common ground -- women. And these mornings my woman had a bit of issue with the cold weather and high altitude. But she'd always give in after some needed attention.
A blissful ride through one of the best roads in Bolivia.
Here I take one of several water crossing as we head to Uyuni in Southwestern Bolivia.
Llamas scurried off the road when the motorcycles came roaring around the corner.
The ride to the tiny town of Uyuni which lies on the fringe of the Salar de Uyuni would take 5 or 6 hours. We winded past the Potosí hospital and up a dirt road to a guard shack and a road block. Hanging on the walls inside the shack were pictures of scantily clad and even bare breasted women. I asked if I would find these women in Uyuni and was simply told "buenas suerte" (good luck). The gravel and dirt road climbed over brown rocky hills with very little vegetation. The scenery brought back memories of eastern California and western Arizona as we followed a river and up and over lime and sandstone hills. There were barely any cars as the dirt road carved and curved along cliffs and dropped into small valleys.
We stopped and greeted a llama herder who wouldn't stop reaching his hand out to shake ours. And never once did he ask for money. He allowed us to take his picture and of his llamas. Later we ran into other smaller herds of llamas. And always sitting nearby were a few men and women just staring at the road and watching their herds. They seemed happy and content in their simpler life and eagerly returned friendly waves as our two odd-looking motorcycles swept by their view
Soon we dropped into a valley and through a grove of cacti and tiny trees - almost shrubs. Doc was running exquisitely and as the heat turned up we pulled over to shed some of our layers. While there was plenty of evidence of the rainy season -- we passed through several muddy patches, crossed a few rivers and saw pools of water on the road -- the sky remained blue with no evidence of impending rains. Yet rounding one corner we encountered a bus that had slid in the dirt and mud off the road.
Mud and loose dirt proved a bit tough for this bus.
Jeremiah rounding the cliff hanging corner as we make our way to Uyuni.
Beautiful desert scapes and amazing cacti.
Serenity and bliss. Riding to Uyuni.
But for the next two or three hours we didn't pass through a single town, see another car or truck. Instead we were treated with the blissful scene of herding llamas, geological wonders and the living desert and rushing waters. After cruising through the cactus grove we came upon the first village. We slowed and rode through exchanging waves with the local people sitting or standing about. Leaving town and winding around a series of hills with sheer hundred or more foot drops and a few switchbacks we soon seemed to be in redrock country with eroded sandstone gorges. The riding was phenomenal. I felt secure and meditative in the vast emptiness of the desert. My bike felt comfortable, I was dressed perfectly and the weather was giving us much needed relief. Even so, I couldn't imagine riding this road in the rain or just after a heavy rainfall. Today under the sun the rocks, dirt and occasional sand and mud meant an average speed of 40 mph or below. But this was no problem. The journey isn't about speed. The faster you go the more you miss and your reaction time is cut exponentially if something were to happen.
We passed through one town of muddy streets. A new central plaza and church were under construction. The town was rather empty, vacant. We passed other groupings of adobe buildings with thatched roofs. We'd been on the road for nearly 5 hours. But frequent breaks for photography or just taking in the expansive scenery meant the ride would be slightly longer today. Yet as long as the weather held up, we didn't mind. After all, today was perhaps one of the best days riding in several weeks. it packed in all of the elements that define adventure motorcycling: dirt roads, desolate wilderness, water crossings, canyons, gorges, and the wonderful feeling of solitude -- nobody had passed us from behind and only a few cars passed us from the other direction. Riding bliss.
Miah rolling into the tiny town of Tica Tica, Bolivia
Rolling into the town of Tica Tica I was immediately taken by the scenic narrow street lined with brownish red adobe buildings with the ubiquitous thatched roofs. A beautiful Bolivian girl locked her eyes on me as we slowed into the outskirts of town. I pulled out my camera to capture Miah as he rode into Tica Tica. I noticed the road ahead deteriorate into a muddy mess. I put the camera away and pressed on.
At one point the entire middle of the road was a pool of water and mud. Jeremiah pulled to the right. If there was such thing as a sidewalk, he was riding it. I decided to go to the left. My tires swished and slid a bit as I gripped the bars with apprehension and continued moving slowly. Then in a matter of seconds without warning my bike slid out from under me. As I fell I watched my left leg in slow motion as the Jesse bag lands on top of it and I flop into the mud. Everything is still. My leg was caught under the bag -- I was worried. Something felt funny. I gently pulled my leg out from under the bike. My senses started reeling. Funny alright. I knew it immediately. It's broken.
Jeremiah pulls over on the other side of the road. "My leg is broken," I yell to him. "It got caught under the Jesse bag," I explain. "Get your camera!" He idles his pace makes a U and grabs the camera. "My leg is broken, I know it," I explain to him. "Take a picture." He grabs a quick snap and leans over me. By now a small group has gathered around. I'm lying face up in the mud.
"Allan, we are in Bolivia. We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. We've got to figure out how to get you out of here," Jeremiah whispers to me while verifying that I'm okay, conscious and in control of pain. Pain. Hah! What pain?
"My trip is over, J.J.," I say to him using the nickname he has kindly requested I avoid. "I'm so pissed."
This shouldn't and couldn't happen, I thought. I've fallen off this bike in sand, mud and dry pavement before. Never has my boot or leg been trapped. As I laid there with the sun beating down on my face with my left lower leg most certainly broken, my mind spins trying to understand what happened.
Even though I was lying in a muddy mess of bad luck, two things were going right for me. The first was having Jeremiah as my riding partner here in Bolivia. Before starting his clothing business in Colorado Jeremiah (Miah) served several years as a ranger for the National Park service. Trained in EMT he exudes a calm sense of control and action when speaking to the local people. He knows what he's doing. Soon his patience is taxed as more and more locals ask how they can help. In Spanish he simply responds we're fine, we've got it taken care of.
The second thing that was going right for me was to land in the mud in Tica Tica. By some twist of fate the town where I took this muddy dump happened to be the only town between Uyuni and Potosi that has a medical clinic. Staffed by a 27-year old doctor, two medical assistants and a janitor, locals direct Jeremiah to the clinic. The crowd thickens around me. A young boy about ten years old appears at my side with an umbrella shielding my eyes and face from the beating sun. Acting swiftly and determined, Jeremiah moves my motorcycle and tosses me my Camelback hydration backpack and my camera which was sitting in the open on my bike. "Drink lots of water, Allan. Keep drinking. I'm going to secure your bike and make sure nothing disappears and go find medical help." it's hot. And I'm in the mud.
The crowd is deeper now. And another young boy pops open an umbrella and shields the rest of my body from the beating sun. It's 1pm.
Just minutes after I crashed a local tends to me.
The crowd gathered while I told jokes and waited for Miah to return with medical assistance.
My umbrella boys keeping the sun from my fair skin.
With Jeremiah on his mission I start talking to the crowd in Spanish. To know me is to know that I rarely let anything lower my spirit. This was no different. Broken leg or not, I started making jokes. People move in for a closer look and to hear this crazy gringo talking. I keep saying "gracias" to the boys holding the umbrellas. I follow Miah's advice and keep sucking the water. As for the crowd, I'm amazed at how quickly they appeared and reacted. Fully aware of the affect of the high altitude sun at midday they were quick to protect me from further harm. More people offered their help. I simply said Jeremiah was taking care of things.
The clock was clicking. I was running out of jokes and starting to feel tired. Where was Jeremiah? Was the clinic in another town? I was worried. But then again -- I wasn't Before I embarked on this trip people would often ask me what are you going to do if something happens to you in the middle of nowhere? I'd reply that things always work themselves out and that wasn't a concern.
Here I was in the middle of nowhere. With a broken leg. And we were working things out.
Self portrait while lying in the mud.
I sense come commotion so I craned my neck up only to see a woman in a white smock running down the road. In one hand was an orthopedic boot, in the other a 3 foot long cardboard rectangle tube. She appears at my feet and asks me how I'm doing. I'm worried about Jeremiah and ask his whereabouts. In minutes he shows up and takes charge. He tells me that he just took a dump on his bike on rough terrain near the clinic. Two women helped him get up.
Miah and the female doctor confer. My boot must come off. I dreaded this. Worried about swelling, pain and what's next, but working together the three of us successfully remove it. Then comes the scissors and soon the pants of my Rallye II suit have a slit and my swelling appendage is exposed for all to see.
The ortho boot the doctor brought from the clinic will be useless but the cardboard tube becomes my splint with the help of gauze and an ace bandage. Miah, Doctor Sylvia and nurse Jacoba carefully splint my leg. The boys still hold up the umbrellas while Sylvia, the local doctor and jeremiah discuss evacuation options. There is a place to land an airplane just a few miles down the road. Or we can summon an ambulance from Uyuni to take me back to Potosi. Sylvia explains that the plane could take me to Santa Cruz where a more modern hospital may be better equipped to handle my injury. We decide to get the plane. Sylvia disappears and then returns and says the plane is busy now but we are awaiting to hear. Meanwhile a local good samaritan has retrieved the stretcher from the clinic and is offers his truck to take me to to the clinic where I can rest in a bed while waiting for the plane.
Miah, Doctor Syliva and Nurse Jacoba tend to me and splint my leg with a cardboard box.
Preparing to be loaded into the back of a truck for a short ride to the medical clinic.
I kept thinking. My mind playing tricks. How did this happen? Perhaps I was going to slow and with the sudden stop in the heavy mud there was no forward motion to throw me further from the bike. Or perhaps I should have been standing up. I'm sure I was sitting and moving slowly. I've never been caught under my bike before. How did this happen?
Clouds started to move in and daylight slowly dimmed under the black billowing beasts. We worried that the plane might not be able to land due to the weather. Should we consider the ambulance?
At the three room medical clinic which I must have passed on my way into town the evacuation plan is discussed further. More calls to the medical plane aren't encouraging. I could be here awhile. Sylvia explains there is an ambulance. But it would take several hours to get here and then another 4 hours to get to Potosí. Jeremiah retrieved the Vicadin's I had my doctor prescribe in the event of an emergency, but he suggested that I hold off until medics were able to evaluate my injury and understand my pain. I obliged.
Sylvia returned and said the plane might not be able to make it until tomorrow morning. What did I want to do? Jeremiah was lost for a decision. Did we want to spend a night in Tica Tica? He was stuck here with me. I could tell he didn't want to go back to Potosi, but he wouldn't leave until he was confident I was in good hands. I asked him to pull my Medivac information from my bike. Every traveler should carrying some sort of medical evacuation insurance. I signed up with MedJetAssist before departing in July. Little did I know that I'd have to call on them 7 months later.
Just then a huge bang of thunder shook the building. Then another. It was just after 2pm on Sunday afternoon when Sylvia came back from one more call over the radio telephone in the clinic. The reception was getting worse due to the weather and communication extremely difficult. But it appeared that the medical plane wouldn't be available until Wednesday. I decided that we better call the ambulance. With the radio phone practically useless I asked Jeremiah to go with Sylvia to the only "true" telephone in town to call the ambulance and to also call MedJetAssist and put them on alert that I'd need to be evacuated out of Potosi tomorrow. I asked him to call my girlfriend Angelique in Southern California with the news and that I was alright.
The rain started pouring buckets. Had I not slipped in the nasty mud of Tica Tica we might have pulled into Uyuni before the rain. At least that is what I thought until I learned that a river just a few miles down the road was running high -- over 4 or 5 feet -- making a crossing difficult or impossible. A few days later Jeremiah would encounter this river and be forced to return to Potosi on his bike. We would have turned around and got caught in this rain.
The rain pounded on the roof of the Tica Tica medical clinic while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Uyuni was just over an hour away, we expected the ambulance in a couple hours. Meanwhile, Jeremiah pulled all my gear off Doc and started consolidating my things. The two spare fuel cans would be added to his tank. And as he sifted through my stuff a few other items caught his eye. I'm not going to need that for a while, referring to a small dry bag I used to carry my pocket digital camera. He added this to his pile. I offered him some of the food we bought in Potosi in preparing for camping on our long journey to Uyuni, Laguna Verde and south to desolate northern Argentina -- places I'd have to wait to visit when I continue my journey sometime in the future.
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Note: clicking any image brings up a larger image in a new window.
9:22:19 AM permalink | | trackback disabled due to spam
I'm getting tired of the rain. I know just a days ride away is perhaps the driest place on the planet - the Atacama Desert in Chile. Though I imagine the scenery will be much like northern Peru - flat, uninteresting and fast. But to the south volcanoes, salt flats, flamingoes, hot springs await for me, my bike and my camera to experience and capture. Even further south I look forward to Mendoza, Argentina - where the best wines in South America are crafted. And even further south my mind spins in wonder and desires the long summer days and the glacial wonderland of Patagonia.
But for now, I'm in Potosi - the highest "city" in the world. And at one time the richest. For it was here that the Spaniards mined enough silver, as legend has it, to build a bridge of silver that could span from South America to Spain. Generations ago the indigenous people of the Altiplano named the mountain where the silver was mined "beautiful mountain" or in the Spanish translation "rich mountain". Today the mountain is neither beautiful or rich. It's sad to see the community that was once the richest and most prosperous in Latin America now one of the most impoverished. It is still trying to hang on to what little of its legacy is left. There's no commerce here other than tourism and mining. The mines are depleted and it's only a matter of time that the mountain caves in after more than 500 years of pilfering and plundering. Potosi claims not only the highest city in the world and its history as once the world's richest, it also must list high in the ranks as the city with the most churches. For with all the wealth the Spanish built churches. Many of the old houses of worship are schools or other places of business today.
(l to r) Miah climbing deep in the Potosi cooperative mines; local miners working the mines; Allan climbing deep down
The conditions workers must perform their jobs in the mines are depressing. Once owned by three individuals the mines were liberated and controlled by the state after a "revolution" of sorts in the 1950's. But as the price of tin plummeted as the world moved from tin and metal containers to plastic, riots, strikes and conditions in the mines grew worse. The state eventually had to close down its mines. Today the mines are owned by a handful of cooperatives in which the minors participate. If by some stroke of luck a rich vein is uncovered everyone shares the wealth.
Watching these minors use primitive hand tools in dusty, dark and claustrophobic tunnels deep in the mountain weighed heavy on my head and heart. Especially since the life expectancy of these miners is 15 or 20 years. Chewing on coca leaves to staid off their hunger while working 12 hours or more deep in the mines. It takes too long to get out, so they rarely eat anything but coca leaves. Generations of Bolivians have worked in the mines for centuries. Sons join their fathers in the mines at 10 years old in some cases. They grow up in the mines. They die in the mines. The mines are life. And this is Potosi - once the richest city in the world.
Joining a tour group with a bunch of Argentinean college students and befriending several as we made our way to the mines, I finally was rubbed in the face with a hard fact that I knew and always tried to overcome. That is the double standard for cost of goods and services. Miah wasn't clued in when the tour operator asked for our payment of the tour - 30 Bolvianos (about $3.20), we had negotiated at the hotel a price of 60 Bolivianos after being told that the normal price was 90 Bs. The girl trying to collect figured we were with the Argentinean group and in seconds one of the other employees came over to correct the price, with Jeremiah in agreement. I guess Miah thought I was trying to negotiate again. Oh well. But it does grate hard when the locals apply this double standard. We do our best in speaking the language. Respect the culture. We shouldn't pay more just because of our nationality.
Fitted with hardhats, tall rubber boots, headlamps and coveralls over our clothing, we traipsed through muddy passageways with low ceilings while breathing a potpourri of dust and chemicals -- I'm afraid to ask. We started our tour at the miner's market where we bought offerings to give to the miners as we intruded on their space. I stuffed a bag of coca leaves, a couple packs of cigarettes and crackers in my pockets. Others bought dynamite. Still others bought 97% proof alcohol (pura). On the last Friday of the month the miners engage in a fiesta of drunkenness where they down what is the equivalent of rubbing alcohol until they can't walk. My tour was on a Saturday and one miner must've breached the last Friday ritual as he grabbed me and stuffed his face up against mine with a dirty hand held out.
Courtyard at Casa Real de Moneda, Potisi, Bolvia
Minting machine on second level, gears turned and coins minted by horses pulling pulleys in room below.
At least at the Casa Real de Moneda (house of money), the former Spanish mint that was in operation from 1753 until the 1950's and takes up an entire block in the center of Potosi, a sign posted fixed prices regardless of gender or nationality. This building is packed with history as it was one of 3 or 4 mints in Latin America that minted coins for the Crown and Spain. The building is quite the fortress with walls more than 3 feet thick. At one time it served as a prison and a base for the Bolivian Army. But walking through the maze of rooms and guided through the fully restored building we see and experience the equipment used to mint coins by hand, by horse drawn pulleys do modern machines shipped here from Ohio and New Jersey.
