Tuesday morning, while driving La Paz to Potosi Bolivia I had an unfortunate accident.
While driving through town on a relatively nice road I approached an intersection, like so many millions here it is crowded and unmetered... There is a minivan filled with about 16 passengers (normal here, they pay 1 Boliviano (12 cents) to go where ever) waiting to make a u-turn. I make eye contact with the driver - I know he sees me - there is a taxi parked in the right lane just past the intersection. Just as I approach the rear of the taxi the mini-van accelerates hard right into my left side pile driving me broadside into the driver's door of the parked taxi. I become moto-sandwich and catch the mini-van's bumper in the left foot and lower leg. My luggage and crash bars absorb all the impact with the taxi and beat the hell out of it so my right leg is completely protected. Momentum carries the moto forward a few feet where gravity takes over and I come to an abrupt and complete horizontal stop. My sternum takes the forward velocity and I've got bruising on my lower arms but the crash bars and hand protectors completely envelop the front of the bike and I'm wearing gear so have no road rash or cuts. My helmet takes a hard rap. I want to murder the idiot driver in the mini-van but logic prevails and the police are called... Meanwhile, I know my left leg is hurt pretty bad but I feel confident nothing is broken.
The Law shows up and does a pretty good job of getting the facts and then throws my bags in their van and ask me, taxi, and idiot to follow to the police station. Off we go.
There they report findings to a guy who seems to occupy the position of commissioner or magistrate. They re-enact the accident using toy cars and he determines that mini-van is responsible. Now comes some assessment of how to handle damages... This is where we loose touch with reality.
I am asked to prepare a list of damages with value. I do this; about 1,250 dollars in direct costs plus labor. They go into shock. A new tribunal is called...
Below the sign that tells us that corruption will not be tolerated is a doorway; the commissioner takes taxi driver and mini-van driver into this room - I am prohibited from entering and they really don't like it when I try to take a foto. Five minutes later everyone comes out smiling and I know the game is over. It seems that now I have been assigned some small responsibility for the accident and I am reminded that I must respect the magistrate.
I am told to accompany the other two for an assessment of the value of the damages. We drive to the equivalent of a wrecking yard and there a demented and toothless old man looks at the bike and states that he can have it looking like new for about 88 bolivianos - i protest his assessment to no avail...
No statement is prepared - they just accept his gummed utterance and its back to the cop shop.
Back at the police station Mr. Commissioner makes his decision: I am entitled to 88 bolivianos (about 12 dollars). I ask about the crack to my helmet - he looks at the value ($360) claims that this can not be correct, that most of the value must be due to its artistic value, and tells me that ARTE does not have value. I ask about the damaged luggage - same story - this must be art and besides, its not available here. When asked about the lights and other parts that were ripped off when it hit the ground he states that this model of moto is not available in Bolivia and therefore they can not be responsible. This becomes the new theme of the day and then he encourages me to go hire a lawyer.
At this point I know its time to leave but make one last attempt to talk to the man who is the obvious over-boss. He just smiles, raises his hands, rolls his eyes, and goes outside to admire the bike but will not comment. When I follow him out and ask him about justice he does the same shrug and goes back inside... I ask for my documents back, they try to insist I accept 88 bongos - I smile and think about revenge. I limp off to try to put the bike back together as well as I can and get the hell out of town before more daylight is wasted... In case I have problems I really want to try for a larger town before dark and my foot is killing me.
I think about revenge some more but know that in two days I will be in Argentina and Mr. Mini-Van will still be crammed into his mini-van in Ocuri, Bolivia... and six months later I might be in New York or Santa Barbara but mini-van will still be in Bolivia. I decide to let karma work it out and hope everything hangs on until I can make the next town. A lot of luggage brackets were tweaked and my german-made top box was literally ripped off the bike and cracked.
I made it to Potosi as dark. hits and roll into the nicest hotel I can find.
I put in for the night and the innkeepers can see I'm in a bad way so he assigns his 12 year-old kid (Carlos) to give me a hand. We get my luggage in the room and the bike parked/garaged and I send him on his way to try to find me some drugs. He came back 30 minutes later with water, aspirin and a package of oreos. I take a hot shower, lots of aspirin and a sleeping pill and lay down to recover.
The next morning before school Carlos shows up with a package of Tylenol and I give him money for something stronger. I try to get dressed but my foot is huge and I can't walk. I hobble down the hall and convince the maid to make me some breakfast and go back to bed. Carlos shows up some time later with more water and some Rx strength Aleve (600 mg pills). I risk stomach/liver cancer and being bored to death watching reruns of CSI Miami all day.
The next day walking is still a significant challenge but I'm not going to spend another day in Bolivia so Carlos helps me load up the bike. I put my foot in two socks, a garbage bag, another sock to hold it all together and a tennis shoe without laces. Carlos finds me a piece of string to tie to the shifter so I don't have to use my foot (doesn't work) and I'm off to the border... Or so I think.
The map indicates that there is one unpaved road and one paved road south to the Argentine border. About 30 minutes south of town I hit a fork and follow the theoretical route with pavement - that quickly runs out. I endure this for 30 more minutes thinking its just construction - then turn back and try the other road... Same story: 30 minutes of dirt, turn back to talk to the locals.
A truck driver informs me that they're both long and dirt all the way to the frontera and says he prefers my first route. 10 minutes later a cop tells me the same thing so I top off with gas, buy some extra water just in case and head out...
If you were able to look at the properties page of the images file (above) of the dry road and the wet road you would see that 14 minutes separate the two. One minute it is dry - the next is a river flowing where the road was...
By now it is mid-day and I'm still confident I can make Argentina by nightfall; my foot is killing me.
A couple hours later I roll into a little town as it starts to sprinkle; its not bad so I press on. 15 minutes later it becomes Noah's revenge and I'm forced to high tail it back to town where I wait it out under the protection of a dead gas station overhang.
As the water tapers off I head south again. About 10 km south of town I come to a low point in the road that suddenly becomes a flash-flood plane and the water is raging out of the mountains to fill the low spot - I literally could not turn around fast enough to beat the river that was chasing me. Those are little current eddys.
The surrounding countryside is filled with these psuedo-trees. They are really thorn bushes that would make an early christian shudder and the flash-flood is washing tons of these discarded thorn bush limbs my way. I run over one, or some, and am now hemorrhage air. When I get back into town the guy that runs the tire repair shop just gives me the doe-in-the-headlights look so I pop the valve stem and dump a bottle of slime in the front time. I aired up the rear, waited for the flood to subside and headed out yet again.
Now there is mud deeper than the rim and thorn limbs interwoven everywhere but I have no choice and ride hard south. I stop several times to add air to the rear but the front is holding and self healing.
The conditions change fast and it becomes high altitude desert again within an hour so I race as fast as possible. Now the big rigs and monster busses seem to have hit a schedule and every 30 minutes I face a caravan of these monsters spewing dust and rocks at 100 miles an hour. After hours of running hard I'm getting nervous - the GPS says I'm approaching a town, and it's right, sort of.
I had hoped that Iwould encounter pavement and the ability to get repairs as needed and then run for the border - NOT.
Another 180 km of dirt rock and mud roads to go and the sun is starting to set. I press on and just when I think I'm almost there I hit a pretty substantial river without a bridge. I wait for a semi-truck to point the way and watch carefully as he slowly crosses; I make to duplicate his route. About 3/4 of the way across I hit a slick spot, slide sideways and bury the bike up to my thighs in water. I immediately kill the engine and fight to keep it upright in the current. There are literally three men and a boy standing by the side of the river snickering at me... I give them the international symbol to help and they eventually wade in and help me push it to the shore. Why there are three men and a boy watching the river in the middle of nowhere is beyond me but I'm happy they were there.
My garbage bag is now full of muddy water, the pain meds are worn off, it's getting cold and dark and I'm feeling a little defeated. Problem is, as before, I've got no options and fortunately she starts right up and I race south. At this point I know the border is near and I roll in just as night is falling only to find a line from hell...
I already posted about the Argentine governments position of expediting Bolivians into their country on a friday night; fortunately I found a guy in the tax office who was sympathetic and helped me get my passport stamped and expedited the customs process - it still took two hours and when I got done I didn't think to check the bike which was parked under lights and the shelter of the border so I just hopped on and drove off. The acceleration and a slight turn was enough to separate the rear wheel from the rim and thus prevent me the possibility of simply airing it up.
By now I'm pretty bummed, hurt, it's dark, I've left the sanctuary of the border but not entered town and lets not forget the altitude is still about 3,600 meters - cold, and I'm cranky; not a good combination.
Enter the wonderfultake-charge Peruvian I wrote about before; he saved me because I was ready to either commit murder or suicide.
I think I'll just copy notes from before to here.
Now you have a better idea of why I raced from central Bolivia to Buenos Aires as fast as I could.
Ya' I spent a little nice time in Salta but that was mainly to try to recover and get my bearings.
I enjoyed the time spent with friend in Cordoba but I was still in significant pain and not looking forward to spending a week of lazy driving to the capital. And lets not forget the rain; EVERY DAY, THE RAIN.
The bike is going to stay here so I figure I can always do weekend trips from Buenos Aires to the countryside.
My first day in Buenos Aires was with a friend accompanying me to a private hospital where they took 4 x-rays ($28), and a trauma doctor proclaimed me a lucky idiot while repeatedly chastizing me for not getting treatment earlier, and gave me meds for the pain and the infection that was developing.
It's now pushing two weeks since the accident and the ankle and foot are still super-sized. I'm wearing a leg brace and have spent the majority of my time forced to lay down with my foot elevated and on ice.
I had a follow-up appointment with a spedialized trauma surgeon on Saturday ($50) who pronounced everything healing well and told me to expect the swelling to last another week.
I'm still very happy to be here - it is not likely that I will be using my multi-entry visa for Bolivia any time soon.
While driving through town on a relatively nice road I approached an intersection, like so many millions here it is crowded and unmetered... There is a minivan filled with about 16 passengers (normal here, they pay 1 Boliviano (12 cents) to go where ever) waiting to make a u-turn. I make eye contact with the driver - I know he sees me - there is a taxi parked in the right lane just past the intersection. Just as I approach the rear of the taxi the mini-van accelerates hard right into my left side pile driving me broadside into the driver's door of the parked taxi. I become moto-sandwich and catch the mini-van's bumper in the left foot and lower leg. My luggage and crash bars absorb all the impact with the taxi and beat the hell out of it so my right leg is completely protected. Momentum carries the moto forward a few feet where gravity takes over and I come to an abrupt and complete horizontal stop. My sternum takes the forward velocity and I've got bruising on my lower arms but the crash bars and hand protectors completely envelop the front of the bike and I'm wearing gear so have no road rash or cuts. My helmet takes a hard rap. I want to murder the idiot driver in the mini-van but logic prevails and the police are called... Meanwhile, I know my left leg is hurt pretty bad but I feel confident nothing is broken.
The Law shows up and does a pretty good job of getting the facts and then throws my bags in their van and ask me, taxi, and idiot to follow to the police station. Off we go.
There they report findings to a guy who seems to occupy the position of commissioner or magistrate. They re-enact the accident using toy cars and he determines that mini-van is responsible. Now comes some assessment of how to handle damages... This is where we loose touch with reality.
I am asked to prepare a list of damages with value. I do this; about 1,250 dollars in direct costs plus labor. They go into shock. A new tribunal is called...
Below the sign that tells us that corruption will not be tolerated is a doorway; the commissioner takes taxi driver and mini-van driver into this room - I am prohibited from entering and they really don't like it when I try to take a foto. Five minutes later everyone comes out smiling and I know the game is over. It seems that now I have been assigned some small responsibility for the accident and I am reminded that I must respect the magistrate.
I am told to accompany the other two for an assessment of the value of the damages. We drive to the equivalent of a wrecking yard and there a demented and toothless old man looks at the bike and states that he can have it looking like new for about 88 bolivianos - i protest his assessment to no avail...
No statement is prepared - they just accept his gummed utterance and its back to the cop shop.
Back at the police station Mr. Commissioner makes his decision: I am entitled to 88 bolivianos (about 12 dollars). I ask about the crack to my helmet - he looks at the value ($360) claims that this can not be correct, that most of the value must be due to its artistic value, and tells me that ARTE does not have value. I ask about the damaged luggage - same story - this must be art and besides, its not available here. When asked about the lights and other parts that were ripped off when it hit the ground he states that this model of moto is not available in Bolivia and therefore they can not be responsible. This becomes the new theme of the day and then he encourages me to go hire a lawyer.
At this point I know its time to leave but make one last attempt to talk to the man who is the obvious over-boss. He just smiles, raises his hands, rolls his eyes, and goes outside to admire the bike but will not comment. When I follow him out and ask him about justice he does the same shrug and goes back inside... I ask for my documents back, they try to insist I accept 88 bongos - I smile and think about revenge. I limp off to try to put the bike back together as well as I can and get the hell out of town before more daylight is wasted... In case I have problems I really want to try for a larger town before dark and my foot is killing me.
I think about revenge some more but know that in two days I will be in Argentina and Mr. Mini-Van will still be crammed into his mini-van in Ocuri, Bolivia... and six months later I might be in New York or Santa Barbara but mini-van will still be in Bolivia. I decide to let karma work it out and hope everything hangs on until I can make the next town. A lot of luggage brackets were tweaked and my german-made top box was literally ripped off the bike and cracked.
I made it to Potosi as dark. hits and roll into the nicest hotel I can find.
I put in for the night and the innkeepers can see I'm in a bad way so he assigns his 12 year-old kid (Carlos) to give me a hand. We get my luggage in the room and the bike parked/garaged and I send him on his way to try to find me some drugs. He came back 30 minutes later with water, aspirin and a package of oreos. I take a hot shower, lots of aspirin and a sleeping pill and lay down to recover.
The next morning before school Carlos shows up with a package of Tylenol and I give him money for something stronger. I try to get dressed but my foot is huge and I can't walk. I hobble down the hall and convince the maid to make me some breakfast and go back to bed. Carlos shows up some time later with more water and some Rx strength Aleve (600 mg pills). I risk stomach/liver cancer and being bored to death watching reruns of CSI Miami all day.
The next day walking is still a significant challenge but I'm not going to spend another day in Bolivia so Carlos helps me load up the bike. I put my foot in two socks, a garbage bag, another sock to hold it all together and a tennis shoe without laces. Carlos finds me a piece of string to tie to the shifter so I don't have to use my foot (doesn't work) and I'm off to the border... Or so I think.
The map indicates that there is one unpaved road and one paved road south to the Argentine border. About 30 minutes south of town I hit a fork and follow the theoretical route with pavement - that quickly runs out. I endure this for 30 more minutes thinking its just construction - then turn back and try the other road... Same story: 30 minutes of dirt, turn back to talk to the locals.
A truck driver informs me that they're both long and dirt all the way to the frontera and says he prefers my first route. 10 minutes later a cop tells me the same thing so I top off with gas, buy some extra water just in case and head out...
If you were able to look at the properties page of the images file (above) of the dry road and the wet road you would see that 14 minutes separate the two. One minute it is dry - the next is a river flowing where the road was...
By now it is mid-day and I'm still confident I can make Argentina by nightfall; my foot is killing me.
A couple hours later I roll into a little town as it starts to sprinkle; its not bad so I press on. 15 minutes later it becomes Noah's revenge and I'm forced to high tail it back to town where I wait it out under the protection of a dead gas station overhang.
As the water tapers off I head south again. About 10 km south of town I come to a low point in the road that suddenly becomes a flash-flood plane and the water is raging out of the mountains to fill the low spot - I literally could not turn around fast enough to beat the river that was chasing me. Those are little current eddys.
The surrounding countryside is filled with these psuedo-trees. They are really thorn bushes that would make an early christian shudder and the flash-flood is washing tons of these discarded thorn bush limbs my way. I run over one, or some, and am now hemorrhage air. When I get back into town the guy that runs the tire repair shop just gives me the doe-in-the-headlights look so I pop the valve stem and dump a bottle of slime in the front time. I aired up the rear, waited for the flood to subside and headed out yet again.
Now there is mud deeper than the rim and thorn limbs interwoven everywhere but I have no choice and ride hard south. I stop several times to add air to the rear but the front is holding and self healing.
The conditions change fast and it becomes high altitude desert again within an hour so I race as fast as possible. Now the big rigs and monster busses seem to have hit a schedule and every 30 minutes I face a caravan of these monsters spewing dust and rocks at 100 miles an hour. After hours of running hard I'm getting nervous - the GPS says I'm approaching a town, and it's right, sort of.
I had hoped that Iwould encounter pavement and the ability to get repairs as needed and then run for the border - NOT.
Another 180 km of dirt rock and mud roads to go and the sun is starting to set. I press on and just when I think I'm almost there I hit a pretty substantial river without a bridge. I wait for a semi-truck to point the way and watch carefully as he slowly crosses; I make to duplicate his route. About 3/4 of the way across I hit a slick spot, slide sideways and bury the bike up to my thighs in water. I immediately kill the engine and fight to keep it upright in the current. There are literally three men and a boy standing by the side of the river snickering at me... I give them the international symbol to help and they eventually wade in and help me push it to the shore. Why there are three men and a boy watching the river in the middle of nowhere is beyond me but I'm happy they were there.
My garbage bag is now full of muddy water, the pain meds are worn off, it's getting cold and dark and I'm feeling a little defeated. Problem is, as before, I've got no options and fortunately she starts right up and I race south. At this point I know the border is near and I roll in just as night is falling only to find a line from hell...
I already posted about the Argentine governments position of expediting Bolivians into their country on a friday night; fortunately I found a guy in the tax office who was sympathetic and helped me get my passport stamped and expedited the customs process - it still took two hours and when I got done I didn't think to check the bike which was parked under lights and the shelter of the border so I just hopped on and drove off. The acceleration and a slight turn was enough to separate the rear wheel from the rim and thus prevent me the possibility of simply airing it up.
By now I'm pretty bummed, hurt, it's dark, I've left the sanctuary of the border but not entered town and lets not forget the altitude is still about 3,600 meters - cold, and I'm cranky; not a good combination.
Enter the wonderfultake-charge Peruvian I wrote about before; he saved me because I was ready to either commit murder or suicide.
I think I'll just copy notes from before to here.
Now you have a better idea of why I raced from central Bolivia to Buenos Aires as fast as I could.
Ya' I spent a little nice time in Salta but that was mainly to try to recover and get my bearings.
I enjoyed the time spent with friend in Cordoba but I was still in significant pain and not looking forward to spending a week of lazy driving to the capital. And lets not forget the rain; EVERY DAY, THE RAIN.
The bike is going to stay here so I figure I can always do weekend trips from Buenos Aires to the countryside.
My first day in Buenos Aires was with a friend accompanying me to a private hospital where they took 4 x-rays ($28), and a trauma doctor proclaimed me a lucky idiot while repeatedly chastizing me for not getting treatment earlier, and gave me meds for the pain and the infection that was developing.
It's now pushing two weeks since the accident and the ankle and foot are still super-sized. I'm wearing a leg brace and have spent the majority of my time forced to lay down with my foot elevated and on ice.
I had a follow-up appointment with a spedialized trauma surgeon on Saturday ($50) who pronounced everything healing well and told me to expect the swelling to last another week.
I'm still very happy to be here - it is not likely that I will be using my multi-entry visa for Bolivia any time soon.
Nick
PS. It's raining as I type this.