The trail to Titicaca A journey through South America

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The Trail To TiticacaA Journey through South America

Rupert Attlee

SUMMERSDALE

The Trail To Titicaca - insides.pmd 12/13/2004, 5:10 PM3

First published in Great Britain by Hindon Publishing 1997

Second edition published in 1999

This edition published in 2001

Reprinted 2002

Copyright © Rupert Attlee 2001

Maps and sketches copyright © Michael Pask

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior

permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in anyform of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and withouta similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent

purchaser.

Summersdale Publishers Ltd46 West Street

ChichesterWest SussexPO19 1RP

United Kingdom

www.summersdale.com

Printed and Bound in Great Britain

ISBN 1 84024 148 9


To my godchildren Charlie Bergqvist, Evan Morgan,Callum Green, Ben Wells, Clemmie Young and to my

youngest daughter, Florence Mischa Dilly

‘Create a dream and give it everything you have, you could be surprisedjust how much you are capable of achieving.

If you don’t have a dream . . . borrow one! Any which way . . .You must have a dream.’

SARA HENDERSON ‘From Strength to Strength’


CONTENTS

Acknowledgements 10Foreword 131 MUSSEL BOUND 152 SANITY IN QUESTION 253 WORLD’S END 344 RETURN TO THE SADDLE 455 RIDING THROUGH FIRE 556 ALLURE OF TORRES 727 MONSTERS AND GLACIERS 898 BLAZING SADDLES 1009 CARRETERA AUSTRAL 12110 MYSTICAL ISLE 13611 VINO AND VOLCANOES 14812 SADDLE FREE 16813 SHADOW OF ACONCAGUA 17914 OASIS HOPPING 19215 HIGH ROAD TO SALTA 21616 ASCENT TO BOLIVIA 23417 WORLD CUP FEVER 24618 SILVER AND SALT 26019 SOUND OF THE SAMBA 27520 RETURN TO PAN-PIPES 28621 COPACABANA DREAMS 297Epilogue 308Equipment list 311


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THE TRAIL TO TITICACA

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I acknowledge that this book will not be read for its literarystyle or the extent or the value of the information it provides. Ihope, however, it will be remembered for its truthfulness. Itrecords events that actually happened and all I have done is toembellish them slightly. We are certainly no heroes, just threechaps who believed in what they were doing and it is hoped itwill inspire others to do the same.

This expedition is best measured in friends rather than miles.Friends at home and in South America who gave their constantsupport and encouragement and when the memory of the placesstart to fade, the kindness of so many people will always beremembered.

On the road we would like to thank: Juan Carlos Faundezand his family who could not have done more to help us; Geraldand Andy Friedli for their warm hospitality; Thomas and NatalieGoodall for helping us through the mussels; the Sotomayorfamily who had so little but gave so much; Joan and Coco Nautafor taking us in during our hour of need; Efran who taught usSpanish with such patience and restraint; the border guards onthe Andean tunnel between Santiago and Mendoza; John Reesin Puerto Montt; Robin Shackel in La Paz; the British Embassiesin Santiago and La Paz; and the countless other people whoopened their doors and hearts.

At home special thanks are due to the following: SimonHeazell, the ‘Fourth Man’ of the expedition, who kept thefundraising momentum going while we were away; LordOaksey, OBE for putting his reputation on the line by agreeingto be Expedition Patron; our parents for hiding their anxietyand giving their full support; Douglas Osborne, Clare, Susan,


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Fiona and Philippa at the Leukaemia Research Fund for believingin us; Teresa and Antony Bailey who inspired us to keep going;Michael and Jo Johnson whose encouragement gave us strength;the members of the ‘Think Tank’ – Helen Pask, Cathy O’Boyle,Jono Nicholls, John Greenan, Edmund Thompson; SusanHughan for her designs and Simon Barker at Bilko Sportswearfor all the T-shirts; Hallam Murray for his advice and giving usthe idea; Charlie Kemmis-Betty and Bombay Sapphire Gin fortheir generous support; Claire Todd for the vaccinations; WillPatterson for the airline tickets; the children at St George’sSchool, Lambeth for their poems of encouragement; Madisonfor making such superb bicycles; and Michael Nicholls ofLeopard Press for all the expedition printing. Many thanks alsogoes to the following companies and organisations; Shell,Montgomery Watson, International House, Granville Bank,Cotswold Camping, Lloyds Bank, Cadogan Gardens Hotels,British Telecom, International Management Group, and theEmbassies of Chile, Argentina and Bolivia.

In writing this book, I would like to thank: Simon Heazell,Helen Bussell and Julie Attlee for their editing and patientcorrecting of my interesting spelling; Matthew Hancock whogave his advice as a reader and then sent his fee to the LRF;Susan Brown of Element Books for all her technical advice; andPort Regis for giving me the opportunity to write and all thepupils for their infectious enthusiasm. Thank you also to theauthors and publishers who have given their kind permissionto be quoted in this book. Every effort has been made to tracecopyright owners. If any right has been omitted, the publishersoffer their apologies and will rectify this in subsequent editions,following notification.

Without the support and encouragement from all thesepeople, there would have been no journey – just a dream.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


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FOREWORD

BY DOUGLAS OSBORNE

Executive Director, Leukaemia Research Fund

In the summer of 1993, I received an unusual visit from threeyoung men; Rupert Attlee, David Nicholls and Michael Pask.They had what at the time seemed the crazy idea of cycling6,500 miles along the spine of the Andes from Tierra del Fuegoto Lake Titicaca in order to raise money for the LeukaemiaResearch Fund. A quick look at the map made me realise thatmy first thoughts were right on the mark. I told them, tactfullyI hope, that there are easier ways of raising money. How aboutfollowing the footsteps of Ian Botham from John o’ Groats toLand’s End? Better still cycle it! ‘No,’ they told me, ‘it just hadto be South America and the Andes.’

I have become hardened to such proposals. Many‘adventurers’ have crossed our threshold over the years seekingcharity association to get their expeditions off the ground. Thisis fine as far as it goes, but at the Leukaemia Research Fund wefirmly believe that our involvement must be more thanincidental. My mind was soon put at ease on this score becausethey told me they would fund the whole venture from privatemeans. Even so, I was still concerned. ‘How much cycling haveyou done?’ was my next question, expecting a catalogue ofjourneys and cyclists’ tales. ‘None,’ was the answer and theyproudly added, ‘we don’t even have one bike between us – yet!’

Not a good start you might think, I certainly did! However, itwas not long before the infectious enthusiasm and will of thesethree exceptional young men captured the hearts and minds ofme and my colleagues. We soon realised that raising a substantial


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sum for the Leukaemia Research Fund was just as much part oftheir vision as the formidable journey itself.

And so this incredible journey got underway. Monthly reportswinged their way to us relating extraordinary experiences, saddlesores and great kindness from the people all along the route.Slowly and surely we realised they might even do it. They foughtthrough the winds and deserts of Patagonia. If we needed anymore convincing about their commitment, it came with the newsthat they were turning away offers of lifts and ignored sometunnels through the Andes. Onwards they pedalled towards thedarkly shaded topography of Bolivia and here progress sloweddramatically as they climbed . . . and climbed. For months nowthe word ‘Titicaca’ had been echoing down the corridors of ouroffice in Great Ormond Street and then suddenly one day on16 August, 1994, we heard the news that they had made it!

So far this remarkable expedition has raised £50,000 for theFund. For this, I wish to record our profound thanks to themany friends, relatives and well-wishers who responded sogenerously to our intrepid travellers. On top of all the money,people in remote parts of South America were reassured to hearthat somewhere, someone was addressing leukaemia and itsrelated blood cancers. This message of awareness andreassurance reached a further 10,000 people here in Britainthrough the post-expedition lecture tour with a highlight eveningat the Royal Geographical Society which I was privileged toattend.

This book represents the culmination of an extraordinaryadventure and association spanning eight years. I am sure youwill find it a fascinating and absorbing read. Who knows? – Rupert,David and Mike may yet ride again. Whatever they decide ourgreat thanks and best wishes go with them all the way.


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—1—MUSSEL BOUND

‘The more you knew of South America, the more you would understand that anything was possible – anything.’

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE ‘The Lost World’

Before us stood an Argentine gaucho. Shading his weather-beaten face, he wore a black felt hat splattered with blood andcoated in dust. Across his broad shoulders hung a red ponchoedged with blue tassels. Strong gusts of wind caught the redcloth and sent it fluttering like wings. Nestled below his bulgingstomach was a thick leather belt, studded with coins and heldby a buckle decorated with the emblem of a spread eagle. To theright protruded the bone handle of a knife – a prized possessionin a life of skinning, castrating and, at times, self-defence. Darkpleated trousers covered his bowed legs and disappeared intothe black leather of his pointed boots. The only thing missingwas his horse.

‘Nostros vamos,’ (we are going) I said, grappling with theunfamiliar Spanish words. ‘Gracias por te hospitalidad.’ PabloMartinez, the gaucho, had been our host at his remote farm onthe shores of the island of Tierra del Fuego, situated at the tip ofSouth America. Huddled around a wood-burning stove andsleeping on a hard dusty floor in a small grain store was whereMike, David and I had spent the first night of our cycling


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expedition. A journey that we hoped would finally take us some6,500 miles north to Lake Titicaca in Bolivia. It seemed a distantdream for after only the first day we were stiff, exhausted andsomewhat tender in the buttocks region. We were having qualmsabout facing just another day, let alone many, many months!

The disposal of the bag of rubbish in my hand, stuffed withdiscarded tins and sea shells from supper and breakfast, wasbeyond my severely limited Spanish. All I could do was pointand Pablo took it with a nod of understanding. I turned to facemy bicycle and walked slowly towards it, hoping to delay theagony of straddling the saddle. A hand on my shoulder stoppedme.

Pablo was a changed man. The smile had gone and the twinklein his steel-blue eyes had disappeared. Lines of anguish chasedacross his forehead and his clipped moustache twitched abovehis trembling lips.

‘Marea Rojo,’ he muttered. ‘Marea Rojo!’We looked at him with surprise. After hasty consultations

using our collectively-limited Spanish, we arrived at the literaltranslation of ‘Red Maria!’

‘Marea Rojo,’ he stammered again. He started to pace up anddown and with each step the spurs of his boots kicked up plumesof dust. I noticed the calloused fingers of his right hand slowlyclenching and releasing as he walked.

‘Red Maria’ had made Pablo very nervous. Who the hell wasshe? Could she be a local lusty wench or perhaps more sinister,a notorious brigand or fiery political activist. My mind preferredto conjure up an image of a promiscuous Maria and a faint smilecame to my lips. This only increased Pablo’s exasperation. Witha cry of anguish, he pointed a trembling finger towards the sea.The Beagle Channel was certainly in an angry mood. The gustingcold wind had whipped the water up into a frenzy of white crests


17

and was sending waves thundering down on to the frail shingleshore. With Cape Horn just around the corner, I thought it wasa day to batten down the hatches rather than attempt such anotorious sailing gauntlet. In the distance I could just pick outthe weather-board houses of the Chilean naval outpost of PuertoWilliams huddled against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains.So did this ‘Red Maria’ live in the sea as some mythical mermaidor did she live across the water in Chile? We were confused andPablo sensed it.

Pablo withdrew his outstretched hand from the direction ofthe sea. One by one, he gave us a stare of burning intensity. Inhis eyes, I saw fear and anger and for the first time a chill randown my spine. He lifted his head to expose his neck. I noticedhis Adam’s apple was trembling under some wispy strands ofblack hair. His hand rose again and with a flattened palm, hedrew it dramatically across his throat. A hiss escaped his lips.We could not fail to recognise this universal gesture of death.

I had read about the throat-cutting exploits of the Argentinegauchos. I recalled the words of the naturalist W. H. Hudson,‘the people of the plains [the gauchos] had developed an amazing ferocity.They loved to kill a man not with a bullet but they revel in cutting histhroat. This method made them know and feel that they were really andtruly killing.’ But these were stories of the 1850s, not of the 1990s.Then again, I had heard Patagonia was a place lost in time.Perhaps the graffiti we had seen sprayed on the back of a roadsign just outside the nearby town of Ushuaia had been no idlethreat.

‘Los Malvinas por Argentina. Muerte por los Britanicos!’(The Falkland Islands for Argentina. Death to the British!)Pablo, however, did not look the murderous type.His right hand was moving again. It was dropping slowly and

deliberately downwards; dropping all the time towards the

MUSSEL BOUND


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handle of the long curved knife. Pablo stretched and flexed hisfingers. They lightly brushed the bone handle and seemed tolinger. Suddenly they dived for the pocket of his pleated trousersand he produced in his shaking and outstretched hand an emptyshell. From its mottled black exterior and smooth mother ofpearl inside, we all knew it was a mussel shell.

‘Marea, Marea Rojo,’ Pablo said emphatically.Mussels mixed with rice and sprinkled with pepper had made

up our first breakfast of the expedition. David had found themon the wind-lashed beach while he was answering a call ofnature. I remembered we had congratulated ourselves on ourself-sufficiency and our ability to live off the land. Now, itappeared commiserations were more in order. But how couldmussels be as deadly as Pablo had suggested? Confined to thelavatory for a few days maybe, but surely not fatal! I could notand did not want to believe it.

Pablo beckoned us towards his hut. Dominating the far cornerwas an old-fashioned radio transmitter. He fiddled with the dialand spoke rapidly into the hand-set, before passing it to Mike.A lady’s voice speaking in English crackled across the airwaves:

‘Whatever you do, do not eat the mussels! Over.’‘We already have. Over.’ Mike replied apologetically.There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh my God, how many?’

she said despairingly.Mike hesitated, calculating in his mind the potentially fatal

number, ‘About twenty-one, I think we had seven each.’There was an urgent discussion in the background and then

the voice said, ‘My father, Tommy Goodall, will be over for youstraightaway, but in the meantime, vomit!’

‘But why? What’s all this panic about?’ There was no reply. Ahollow hiss echoed down the line.


19

We had heard of Tommy Goodall. He lived at EstanciaHarberton, the remote farm founded by the first white settlerson the island of Tierra del Fuego. Tommy, we had been told,was ‘a tough nut, probably the toughest to crack in Patagonia’.He was known as a man of few words and little humour, whowould run a mile at the mere sight and sound of strangers. Buthere we were, three strangers, and Tommy Goodall was takingthe trouble of driving fourteen miles to meet us. All because wehad eaten some mussels. Had the world gone stark raving mador were we the crazy ones? What was lurking in the grey yellowflesh? Who or what was the deadly Red Maria?

‘Vomit,’ the voice had commanded. Getting rid of the musselswas not as straightforward as eating them. Tentatively, I stuck afinger down my throat, but felt nothing but a tickle. I then triedtwo, jammed to the back of the throat and pushing down mytongue. I retched and felt my stomach turn over. Bile filled mymouth, but the mussels and rice stubbornly refused to defygravity. I turned to more unconventional methods. We stood ina circle and took it in turns to stuff one of David’s soiled socksfrom the previous day up our nostrils. I breathed deeply andinhaled. The pungent odour chased up through my nose andfilled my mouth. No vomiting, but it certainly made my headspin.

Was this really the end which fate had destined? It was a ratherpathetic death devoid of heroism, drama or romance. I wouldhave chosen to have been maimed by a puma, caught in a shoot-out with drug barons, experienced brake failure coming downthe Andes or fallen victim to unrequited love rather than thisend. Struck down by half a dozen mussels with a dirty sock upmy nose. Not a fitting finale to our dream; and all those monthsof planning and preparation gone to waste. The mussels hadabsolutely no saving grace – they had not even tasted good!

MUSSEL BOUND


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My thoughts were broken by the screech of brakes announcingthe arrival of Tommy Goodall. Tommy clambered out of a rustywhite pick-up wearing blue denim dungarees and a brown fadedshirt. He was a tall man, with a physique and fitness which beliedhis 70 years. He sported a full head of hair and a distinguishedgrey beard. His face had a healthy, ruddy glow and was dominatedby dark kindly eyes. As his eyes played over us, a wry smileappeared on his face. I felt sure that he was thinking, ‘Thesedamned stupid naive tourists, fancy eating mussels’.

Tommy was not one for formalities.‘Good to see you are still alive!’ he said encouragingly. ‘Get in

the back.’Our source had been right, he was a man of few words.

Quickly and without ceremony the bikes were thrown into theback of the open truck and we clung on for dear life as Tommydrove at break-neck speed down the rutted track to Harberton.

The prospect of impending death affected us in different ways.

DAY 2 HARBERTON 11 A.M.‘I feel I must write now. I am afraid. I wait for changes in my heart-beat, pulseand breathing. My fear is tinged with guilt. Guilt at the stupidity of it all andhaunted by the possibility of not saying goodbye to my family and friends. Somany people had believed in us and all for what? M is pacing up and down theroom – quiet and thoughtful. D is still talking, immersed in a one-wayconversation. He has not drawn a breath since getting in the truck. “Be careful ofthe gears. Make sure they do not bang against the floor! Hold on tight, there’s abig pot-hole coming up! What are you writing, Rupes?” I am sorry D, but Ireally do wish you would be quiet.’

At Harberton we found out the reasons for the panic. Tommytold us that the Beagle Channel was currently experiencing theworst marea rojo poisoning the world had ever seen.

There were those two words again!


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The trail to Titicaca A journey through South America

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Transcript of The trail to Titicaca A journey through South America