We topped the ridge on the dirt road and began dropping quickly on our mountain bikes into the valley. Each of us knew that it’d continue to get warmer and greener as we descended from the Bolivian highlands, but our thoughts were mostly focused on what awaited us at the end of the ride. The anticipated post-ride rewards were different for each person- a warm bath, cold beer, hot coffee, or a dry room. And so, we thought of those things, and little else, as the town of Sorata came increasingly into view.
Slowly, our group split up, or perhaps it was more like “fell into disarray.” What actually happened was more a matter of reality than perspective. Some in the group just liked to go fast, while others were more cautious and went more slowly. So, for various reasons, we became more spread out and separated as time wore on.
Undoubtedly, given the Andean rainy season fog, the number of potholes, and the uncertainty about the road details in general, it was destined to be an especially challenging ride for whoever the lead rider was, regardless of their speed. And somehow, I ended up being the one in that position. And, I must say that riding fast downhill on a mountain bike was never really my ‘thing.”
Within moments of starting down, there was no more group. We were just five individuals, decked out in the newest mountain bike gear, heading down a dirt road in the fog toward our various rewards. I savored the first few minutes of simple and comfortable riding as the downhill began. The road was all down, and when you’re tired, going downhill is a welcome thing. Simple gravity did its work from the get-go. As physics and human nature would have it, my speed kept increasing as I rode, and so did my confidence.
I kept hoping that there’d be nothing coming up the road toward me and on the wrong (left) side, because I certainly couldn’t see very far ahead. I ultimately decided that only a fool would drive on the wrong side of the road but then realized that a person herding goats or llamas could easily be doing so, at the wrong time and place for me. I began speculating about various negative possibilities regarding such a thing, including just swerving to avoid them and hitting a mudhole or deep rut. Finally, to add to my worry, I began wondering whether people in that part of the Andes just drove on the left side of the road, as in England?
The fog seemed to deaden all sound, and I could hear very little. Visibility was about 75 feet, and I saw only the occasional bright skirt of a local woman, a smattering of cows, and kids running off to the side, as I zipped along. Even though I couldn’t see or hear them, I knew the other riders were behind, more than likely each pushing their own pace, and hopefully staying vigilant about potential hazards. In retrospect, I know I was going faster than I should have been, driven by an intrinsic human need to avoid getting caught.
Even with my senses heightened, it happened unexpectedly. Thankfully, I had slowed just a bit to avoid hitting a cow when two figures appeared out of the fog. They were just off to the side of the road amid a long sweeping turn. It lasted for only an instant, but I’ll remember it for eternity. I can only guess what was going through their minds when they saw me. I was a strangely clad entity of some sort. I had appeared abruptly and silently out of the fog, riding down the road on a bicycle toward Sorata. Perhaps, in their minds, I was a spirit of some sort. Conversely, I know what I first saw at that instant, and it was obstacles to avoid.
But, as it turns out, there was more to our passing than just that. While I was just trying to stay upright and on the actual road, our eyes met for a fleeting moment. Undoubtedly, each of us saw the same events, but our interpretations were different. I’ve never been able to come up with a single word that really does justice to the episode. For a moment, our two worlds almost literally collided. Even though it lasted for only a second or so, what I saw in their eyes was not fright, bewilderment, or confusion, but instead- I saw pure, unfettered wonder.
In that brief moment, I made several observations and ultimately reached a conclusion about the incident that has stuck with me for years. Right off the bat, I decided the couple were shepherds, and I can’t say just why. I specifically noted that they were wearing traditional, colorful clothing and compared that with the blue bike jersey covered with logos and red lightning bolts I was wearing. I swore I could smell the sickening stench of their wet wool ponchos, and I realized they undoubtedly smelled the body odor I had accumulated from days of mountain biking. They were probably worried about where I would go to get out of the cold and damp and sleep that night. I know for a fact that I didn’t even think about where they would.
And so, I speculate:
The couple had been hardened by their years at high altitude, had likely never driven a car, and probably lived in a rock house in the middle of nowhere, with only a fireplace to temper the Andean chill. They were proud of the path their lives were on. Their herd of lamas was getting larger all the time, they had a good field for growing Quinoa and potatoes, and both sets of parents lived only a short walk away. And, to literally top it all off, their house was near the top of the ridge, and when the clouds left, they could see the lights of Sorata down in the valley below and the summits of Ancohuma and Huayna Potosi rising above the Altiplano to the east.
After our passing, I was quickly soaked back into the fog and rounded a big turn. I disappeared as suddenly as I had appeared. Without a doubt, the three of us each wondered what had just happened. Whatever the case, we’d briefly but intensely looked into each other’s eyes. It was something that would never occur again. I would keep riding toward Sorata and the comforts of our hotel. The couple would not be thinking about hotel accommodation but would be busy gathering firewood to warm their house for the coming cold, damp night. I wasn’t all that sure about the coming night, but I was confident of the inevitable fact that the night would come, and we’d all hopefully be content in our own worlds.
Eventually, our group made it down into the town. We checked into a hotel, and after hot showers, we all sat together in big chairs in one of the hotel’s lounges and drank an interesting combination of cheap wine and coffee. We all recounted our day and the big descent. It’d been the same day for all of us, but we each had a different way to describe it. I began describing how I almost ran over a couple of locals and how the three of us had looked into each other’s eyes as it happened. As soon as I began telling the story of my encounter, I realized I would never be able to do it justice. So, I just ended it with that simple statement. Perhaps it was just an insignificant interlude, but at least for me, it was one with profound meaning, in an otherwise busy day of adventuring in the Bolivian Highlands.
And I speculate again:
The young couple gathered wet firewood that afternoon and found a stash of dry kindling under an old tub the old man had left. Soon, they had a roaring fire going in their old house, and the kids from the next farm came over and joined them inside, mostly because it was something different to do. Soon, the children were joined by their grandmother, who’d waited for things to warm up before inviting herself in. The young couple talked about what they’d seen that day on their way up to the greener pasture, and they speculated about it. The kids and the grandmother stared at the fire as they listened. And each of them deeply wondered why the wood smoked so much.
