Oruro to Uyuni

Last night we twigged that the road we’d been pedalling was a main artery to the Chilean border. Suddenly all the buses, vans, and trucks made sense. Unlike Bolivia 1, there was no generous truck-wide shoulder—just us, the tarmac, and traffic.

Most drivers gave us space, drifting across the centre line with ease. But then there were the odd few who skimmed close enough to take the hairs off my legs and make me just about shit my pants.

The morning stretch was flatter than a run-over hedgehog, but the views were anything but dull. Sand, red soils, volcanic rock, and salt stretched in every direction—like someone had tipped a giant painter’s palette across the land.

When we cycled, a cool breeze kept us comfy, but the second we stopped for a break the sun turned us into human toast. We found a low rock wall, sheltered in behind it, and brewed coffee with fruit on the side. Simple pleasures.

By mid-morning we’d turned off the transit road and onto a quieter backroad. Tar-sealed, blessedly smooth, and full of promise. Almost immediately we rolled into alpaca-ville. Everywhere you looked, alpacas.

Farmers had decked them out with colourful baubles, collars, and tags to mark ownership. Some looked downright flamboyant. We cracked up, imagining there must be a few gay alpacas out here living their best lives.

The road stretched out like a giant sandy beach, with tussock and scrub replacing the surf. Our bigger worry was water. We hadn’t seen a refill spot all day. When a shimmer of blue appeared in the distance, we thought we’d struck gold , until the taste test. Salt water. Bloody cruel joke.

Still, we weren’t desperate, just mindful. And the landscapes kept us distracted, rolling from red sand to pink rock to golden soil. For a place so dry, Bolivia has a way of being vibrant and alive.

Late in the day we spotted a crumbling mud brick shack, half-hidden from the road by big toi-toi-like plants. Seemed like the perfect camp. Even better, it had a well. Jackpot! We’d hit water. We were set.

Or so we thought.

Just on dusk, voices rang out. Two elderly women yelling in our direction. Not aggressive, but intense. I walked up to meet them and found a young bloke with them, smiling and friendly. His name was Alexander.

Turns out we weren’t in the clear at all. It wasn’t safe to camp on grazing land here alpaca poaching is common. Farmers shoot poachers, and poachers rob campers. Not a game we wanted to play.

Alexander told us to meet him to the next town, Ardamaca, where he lived. He’d sort us out. So we packed up camp in the dark, hopped back on the bikes, and pedalled the 6km with nerves buzzing.

True to his word, Alexander met us in the village square and took us to a woman named Gladis. A few quiet words between them and suddenly we were ushered into her home, shown to a back room with beds. Of course, we had to pay, but safety isn’t free.

So here we are now, sitting in a saggy spring bed, sipping a wee dram, and laughing about how close we came to being mistaken for alpaca thieves.

We crawled out of bed late, but without the faff of camp chores we were still ahead of the clock. After loading up the bikes, Gladdis waved us toward the other side of the plaza for kai.

A woman was selling Api, a hot, sugary red corn drink, and Buñuelos, fried balls of fermented dough. Sweet, rich, greasy, perfect. Fuel enough to roll the 15km to the next town, where we figured we’d find the next course of breakfast.

Except when we arrived, there was… nothing. Again. Just dust, silence, and another forgotten square. But then, salvation: a señora dishing out rice, spuds, and pork. Hook us up, sister.

From there, the tarmac vanished and the road turned into a mess of red clay ruts, corrugations, and soft sand. We were basically pedalling through a giant, flat sand dune. Alpacas everywhere. Curious, shaggy heads staring us down as if to say: what are you two muppets doing out here? Then, out of nowhere, ostriches. Galloping across the track, gone in a blink, blending perfectly into tussock.

I screeched to a halt for my next joy: a tiny newborn alpaca, still wobbly on its legs, ridiculously cute.

And just when we thought this endless surf-less beach would never change, we rounded a bend and—bang—paradise. A vast wetland spread before us. Flamingos, sheep, birds I couldn’t name, alpacas wading through shallows. The colours, the reflections, like another planet.

We parked up on a bridge, munched lunch, and just sat there in awe.

Back in the sand, later in the afternoon we rolled into another desolate village. Would you believe a lady selling ice blocks. There is a god!!

Then the grind got real. Sand so deep we were pushing as much as pedalling. Rolling into a tiny town, we asked a señora if we could camp. Her answer was blunt: no. Righto then. Back into the dunes we went.

Then trouble rolled in. A red ute. A bloke clearly off his chops. He pulled up, ranting in Spanish, eyes wide, energy twitchy. We tried to ride on, but he followed. If we stopped, he stopped. For two bloody hours he stalked us, crawling along beside, spewing words we didn’t understand. Every nerve in me was screaming: don’t let this guy know where we’re camping.

We rode another 20km of deep sand, legs shot, minds fried. Finally, a goat track appeared climbing to a village. We pushed up it, lungs bursting, and somehow, miracle again, we lost him.

By dusk, he was gone. No ute. No shadow. Just silence. We rolled on, glancing over our shoulders until finally we found a sneaky little possie off the road to camp. Hidden, safe.

And the view? One million dollars.

This morning I sat on a rock in the sun, coffee in hand, and felt like I’d wandered straight into The Lion King. You know the scene—old lion standing proud on a cliff, surveying the vast savannah he rules, lifting the cub high into the sky? Yeah, that was me. Except I wasn’t holding up a lion cub. I held up my coffee like it was the holy grail. Queen of the plains, fuelled by caffeine.

Back on the bikes, we had just 5km of sandy slog before hitting a main road. The plan: cycle the 55km to Salinas, roll in early, and call it a cruisy day.

The whole ride, the volcano of Tunupa stared us down. Its dark, hulking shoulders loomed across the horizon, the kind of presence that makes you feel like you’re being watched—by something ancient, something that remembers a time before bikes and roads. The landscape matched its drama. We rode past gaping volcanic craters, black scars in the earth that made us feel tiny. Bolivia doesn’t just do scenery—it smacks you in the face with it, mystery after mystery around every bend. One minute we were slogging through sand, the next gliding over salt flats, endless white stretching under a blue so sharp it hurt your eyes.

By 1:30pm we rolled into Salinas, expecting a bustling little hub. But nope. Dead quiet. We did a lazy lap of the square and found life in the form of one lady dishing up rice, potatoes, and chicken. That’ll do.

Accommodation options? Two hotels. One had no one answering the door, so we went with the other. Basic, but clean. Four walls, a bed, a roof—it felt like sheer luxury after days of wind, sand, and ruins for shelter.

Lying there later, full belly and clean sheets under my back, I thought about that coffee moment in the morning. Out here, you don’t need to hold up a lion cub to feel like a ruler. Sometimes it’s enough to sit on a rock, cup steaming in your hand, and know you’ve conquered another wild, beautiful slice of the world.

Let me tell you who crawled out of bed this morning: Laura. My alter-ego with the sharp tongue and zero tolerance. She was pissed off. Too many long days, too little food.

Yesterday a local told us about a mineral spring just out the back of town, so we detoured to fill our bottles. Only we took the wrong road. Laura was having none of it. “We’re eating when we get there,” she barked. Fair call,yoghurt and coffee don’t cut it for breakfast when you’re cycling through the Andes.

We finally made it, set up the stove, and cooked eggs with a dehydrated rice-and-veg pack. Tasted like maggi noodle soup. Laura vanished after that, leaving us in peace to sip our coffee. Good riddance.

We knew today meant no tar seal, maybe some sand. But what we got was sand, salt, a headwind, and a hill. Our new motto on hills is: “At least it’s not Ecuador.” Trouble is, Ecuador didn’t throw in sand dunes, gale-force winds, and a fat lady who ate all the ice cream (our private joke....its not over till the fat lady sings. Except she won't as she too busy eating all the Bolivian ice creams before we arrive!!)

But Bolivia always gives and takes. Now we are around the other side of Mount Tupuna, This side is dressed in colours so unreal it made Rainbow Mountain in Peru look like a dull watercolour. An absolute stunner. Cycling around her base, legs screaming, we just gawked.

We finally rolled into Tahua, visions of food and hostals dancing in our heads. The reality? No food. No hostals. Nada.

The tiendia señora took pity, made a phone call, and found us a room. though we had to wait until the señora-in-charge returned. So we sprawled in the deserted plaza, sun on our faces, making friends with the village dogs.

Now we’re holed up in our digs, me cooking beans and gluten-free pasta on the porch, supervised by two ostriches. Not bad company, all things considered.

This morning I sat outside at our lodgings, scoffing rice and eggs, sharing it with an ostrich. Nothing unusual about that!

Today was the day, cycling across the Uyuni Salt Flats. The plan was simple: 40k to the island, camp the night, then knock out the other 100k to Uyuni tomorrow.

Bloody hell, what a morning. The flats are just so white and vast you feel like you’re pedalling on another planet. No stressing about navigation either , just follow the tyre marks stretching to the horizon.

By mid-morning we stopped for a break, and with no one around, well… what else do you do but strip off and take a few cheeky nudie shots? First time we’ve been properly naked outdoors this trip , sun on our skin, wind tickling bits that don’t usually see the light of day.

Back on the bikes, we smashed out the 40k in two hours, flying. The island had a little café, so we grabbed some food, a couple of beers, and cracked into our stash of boiled eggs. It was only 11am though, way too early to set up camp.

So we looked at each other and said: “Bugger it, let’s do the other 100k today.”

The riding was pure bliss smooth salt, tailwind at our backs, sun blazing down. Nothing to see but endless white, yet it was one of the most beautiful rides of our lives.

Then came the dumb decision. Instead of sticking to the main track, we tried a shortcut across the flats. Big mistake. The salt turned mushy, the wheels sank, and suddenly we were pushing bikes through slush for over an hour. Legs burning, brains swearing. Finally we spotted a road in the distance and slogged our way towards it, absolutely wrecked.

When we finally hit solid tar, we were only 10k from Uyuni. Maree muttered about camping, but there was no way in hell I was waking up in a tent after that. “Bed. Now.”

We rolled into Uyuni crusted in salt, looking like a couple of scarecrows, and collapsed into a hostel. Dumped our bags, pulled on warm clothes, then dragged our weary legs downtown.

And there it was, the smoky haze of roadside barbecues. Llama, beef, chicken, sausages sizzling over coals. Heaven. I inhaled llama and chicken; Maree smashed a sausage and more llama. The fat, salty juices hit the bloodstream like liquid gold.

After 140k across the salt flats, it was the perfect ending to a solid bloody day.

There’s nothing like waking up in a hostel that actually has breakfast included that I can eat. Glorious. Roll out of bed, straight into the food trough, no cooking faff required.

Word on the street was that tomorrow the whole town was having a power cut from 7am–2pm, so today’s plan was errands + Wi-Fi (first time in 9 days!). Tomorrow we’d do the washing and life admin when the Wi-Fi was cactus.

First job: laundromat. Drop the stinky clothes. Second job: bikes. We took them to the local car wash, thinking we’d just hire a hose. Nope. Here you hand over the bikes and they wash them for you. Bloody brilliant. The guy did an amazing job too, even towel-dried them. I snuck in to give the chain an extra scrub while he wasn’t looking, but otherwise he was a legend.

And then… disaster. As I pedalled away, something dropped. I thought the chain had popped off. Nope. My derailleur had snapped clean in half. Shit balls!!

In a town like this? No chance of finding a bike shop with the part I needed. Back at the hostel I hit the Wi-Fi, searched nothing. One place popped up: Nomada Experiences, a motorbike and bike outfit. I flicked them a WhatsApp, more in hope than anything.

An hour later: “Bring your bike around. We’ll take a look.”

That’s when I met Robin. An English bloke who’s been in Bolivia nearly 20 years. My kind of guy, solution-focused. He didn’t have a derailleur, but what he did have was a welder. He whipped mine off, had Maree bring her bike around so he could use her derailleur as a template, then spent the arvo welding mine back to life. Genius.

While he worked, he yarned. Stories about Bolivia, life, adventures. One of those good bastards who just wants to help. By the end of the day my derailleur was solid, my bike was rideable, and Robin wouldn’t even take much money. “Just want to see you keep going on the adventure,” he said. Bloody legend.

By the time we said our goodbyes it was getting late, so we parked the bikes at the hostel, threw on warm clothes, and went out hunting food. Found a cosy wee restaurant and went to town, first time since La Paz we’d had the luxury of choice. Piles of good food. My body needs it too, I reckon I’ve lost at least 10kgs in Bolivia. No joke.

Today was meant to be a rest day. Turned into a bike-fixing day instead. So tomorrow? Tomorrow is a real rest day.

Today was a rest day, and my body knew it. It wasn’t having a bar of anything. I barely made it out of bed for breakie, then crawled straight back under the covers, plugged into a podcast, and lay there like a sack of spuds for a good couple of hours.

We’ve racked up some serious k’s smashing through Bolivia, and truth is, I still haven’t fully shaken that cold. I knew it for sure every time I hopped on the bike—snot just streaming down my face, leaving the front of my black vest looking like a snail disco.

Meanwhile, my honey Maree—what a keeper—hauled all her bags upstairs, scrubbed the salt crust off them, and hung everything out to dry, while I continued impersonating a haggard sack of potatoes in bed.

The bonus of a rest day? Most of the hostel cleared out, so we had the place nice and quiet. Not that I’m being antisocial—I just reckon we’ve earned a break. Bolivia’s deserts and endless k’s have smashed us, and our bodies are reminding us loud and clear.

For dinner, Maree whipped up a gigantic pot of nacho mix. I couldn’t do it justice though—reckon my guts are still sulking after weeks of being starved in the Bolivian desert.

More rest, methinks!