37th Parallel South, Bolivian Badlands, and Gremlin Bells

And why Huckleberry Finn is always on my side

Filling up my tank in a tiny, dusty gas station on the outskirts of Uyuni, Bolivia, I kept glancing at the map. The magnificent salt flats and the legends of ancient llama caravans carrying salt all the way to Brazil were behind me; Uyuni itself was a grey and grimy frontier town bracing against the cold winds of the Altiplano, somewhat unsure of itself, and I was itching to leave.

I had two choices. Turn right and head for San Pedro de Atacama in Chile; or turn left, and aim for the Argentinean border. I’d decided on Argentina, which was entirely the fault of one Jules Verne: in In Search of the Castaways, my favorite childhood book, Captain Grant’s children set sail to Argentina aboard Duncan, the mighty sailing yacht. The 37^th Parallel South! In my head, that sounded like the most daredevil destination ever conceived, only I wasn’t sure I knew the way.

I’d just ridden from La Paz to Uyuni and discovered that out here, roads were often mere dirt tracks shooting across the dry, desolate high desert of the Bolivian Andes. I’d never ridden dirt before – in fact, my entire motorcycling experience at that point amounted to about two months – and sand, to put it mildly, wasn’t my friend.

But we were talking about the Duncan expedition here, and besides, I’d chosen the road to Villazon, and on Google Maps, that road had a number, and if it had a number, I reasoned, it must be at least partially paved, and anyway, the distance wasn’t even 300 kilometers. How hard could it be?

As I was securing my backpack on the back of the bike, a group of Chilean riders rolled into the gas station. Covered in dust and grime and looking Thoroughly and Awesomely Adventurous, they came over to say hi; when I told them where I was headed, they looked at each other like I was nuts.

“Man, we just came from Villazon. Don’t do it, you’ll never make it to the Argentinean border this way. It’s hell. It’s washboard all the way, and sand, and rocks”, one of them told me.

“You’d be better off turning around, going to Potosi first, then taking the road south, and from Tupiza, it’s all good”.

I nodded, unsure; these guys were on humongous and rugged motorcycles, and they seemed like they had Much Experience and Wisdom, and they had each other, too. I was on my own, and my little bike was…well. Little. And unsteady on sand, and probably on washboard, too, whatever washboard meant.

“Here, at least take a gremlin bell," the man said, giving me a little silvery skull-shaped charm. “It’ll ward off the spirits of the desert”.

What the heck?

As the Chilean riders sped off, I stood there like a slowly deflating balloon, my confidence and my vision of the 37^th Parallel South suddenly shaky.

If these tough dudes barely made it, and if I needed something called a gremlin bell to increase my chances of survival, what fresh hell awaited me on the road to Tupiza?

I stared at the map some more.

The Potosi route idea was tempting, but the one thing I never did was turn back, and I wasn’t about to turn back now, either.

And I didn’t need a gremlin whatchacallit (although, just in case, I did attach it to my bike).

What I needed was Jacques Paganel, the intrepid geographer on Duncan.