Parque
Nacional Sajama
Domingo 6 –
miercoles 9 de enero.
Sunday I get up at 4:30 to pack and walk to the bus station for a 5:30
bus which actually leaves at 5:45 (amazing!). It is a bus to La Paz but I get off at Patacamaya. Uneventful trip.
Pass through low mountains, mostly sedimentary rock which is highly folded. The
altiplano (high plains) areas have high number s of sheep and llamas grazing.
In Patacamaya, I walk about 1.5 km through town and through the large
Sunday open market to where I can find a servicio (minivan) going to Sajama. I
find one at noon or so, and we wait. Meanwhile I go into the market to buy some
bread and a bit of fruit. Then I wait some more. A man and his young son (about 5) sit down.
The man wants to go buy some snacks and he tells his son to wait. As the van
fills up and 10 minutes have passed by, the son starts to get worried, and sobs
quietly. I and several others try to calm him but he cannot be consoled. After
a couple more minutes, he can’t take it and gets up to find his father. An
older lady holds him back and reassures him but is has little effect. His dad
finally arrives a few minutes before we are ready and all of a sudden the boy
is happy again and works on the frozen treat hi dad has bought him like nothing
happened: the crisis is over. We leave at 1:15 (once full; very full) to arrive
at 4:30. I am dropped off at the Sajama Park entry gate, also the entrance to
the town of Sajama, where I pay a park entry fee of B30 ($4.50) and get
some info about the park.
Sajama S 18o 8.2’ W 68o
58.6’ Elev: 4276 m.
It is high and I can feel the altitude with my breathing. Sajama is a small town of 500-1000
inhabitants which is pretty deserted. It is birthing time (alpaca and llama; no
sheep here), and the half of the population that raises animals is at their
camps (mostly small adobe buildings) out in the fields so that they can help in
birthing and keep away the foxes and, to a lesser extent, condors which will
prey on the newborns. The other half, live from tourism. However, the tourist
season (mostly climbers who come to climb the three volcanoes here over 6000 m) is at its low
ebb. The peaks are closed to climbing except during the winter (May to
September). At other times of the year like now, the weather is warmer, the sun
is hotter and there is more snowfall due to the rainy season. All of this creates unstable conditions and a
number of climbers have died. Warmer is relative as it is cold and very windy,
and I am told that it snowed in town this morning. The absence of climbers
means that mountain guides are not here, and many of the restaurants and
hostals are closed.
I find a man who offers me a couple of accommodation possibilities: a
room without bath for $4.50 which has about 7 beds. When I see the bathroom
next door- no shower, dirt floor, disgusting toilet, hose- I opt for the more expensive option. It is a
little adobe building, beautifully built, with adobe platforms with mattresses
on top for beds and a private bathroom for $7. Only problem is that it has a
mouldy smell. It has clearly been built recently and the adobe is not totally
dry. It really needs to be aired out for a while. I see Marie and Nicolas, the
French couple that I met in Torotoro; Marie hiked an afternoon together there
and we all celebrated the New Year together. There were supposed to be gone by
now. I spend an evening with them and with
a French family (Nicolas and Fanny and their 4 and 7 year olds) who are
traveling South America for a year in a camper van. I admire their courage and
the children seem to be having a great time as well as picking up Spanish.
The main attractions here, beside the absolutely gorgeous scenery, is
climbing the volcanoes and visiting hot springs. There are many hot springs
(they call them geysers, but I would not) in one stream valley between two
peaks, as well as other hot springs in a flatter area where some locals have
built baths for tourists.
Grazing
alpacas in the landscape of Parque Sajama
The volcanoes include Nevado Sajama, which at 6542 m is the highest
mountain in Bolivia. It is located a few km east of town and is wholly within
the park. Its west side facing town is a very steep rock face, the summit and
upper part of which is covered in ice and snow. I am sure that that is not the
side that is climbed or even climbable. To the west, the summits of which are
on the border with Chile, and a Chilean national park, are Nevados Pomarapi
(6222 m) and Parinacota (6132 m), sitting side by side. The word ‘nevado’ is
used for mountain peaks covered with snow, of which these two also have a lot
of for the upper 1500 m or so. Parinacota is a picture perfect volcanic cone.
Both volcanoes have a fairly even distribution of snow falling evenly down the
flanks. It is hard not to take many photos of all three: they are extremely
photogenic.
Sajama scrapes the sky
I am having problems with the skin on the soles of my feet cracking due
to really dry air and walking long distances, especially here in the altiplano
which combines a dry climate with altitude. I have tried many things for this
over the years (common in northern Canadian winters), but I have finally hit on
the best solution. Staying well hydrated is part of it, but the other secret is
adhesive tape: it prevents the two sides of a crack from continually moving
separately when hiking, and keeps the area moist, and the healing is much
faster, and it is less painful in the meanwhile.
On Monday morning, after breakfast and a visit to the Park Office for
info, I start out to hike to the base camp of Sajama at about 4850 m. The sun
is out and the temperature is pleasant. But after 15 minutes, I realize that
this is not a good plan. It is a 4 hour hike in and I am not ready for much
additional altitude: my breath is slightly labored on the flats. For almost two
months I have been close to sea level in the Amazon and then up to 2300 m at
Cochabamba. So I turn around and head for the hot springs: about 2 hours across
the plains to the west, and then follow the stream upwards to about 4600 m.
There is actually a dirt road across a small river, across the plains and then
up the stream valley, although only for 4x4s.
As I follow the stream upward on the road, I see steam rising from it at
one point, so I hike downslope to the spot. Sure enough, there is a spot on the
edge of the stream where I can see the telltale bubbles of boiling water. From
there on, I spot more and more spots with steam rising, both in, close to and
far from the stream. The entire hike has been deserted until now where I meet
one Argentinian couple that are leaving the hot pools as I arrive. There are a
number of songbirds foraging on the ground in this area, as well as several
small flocks of geese, a few ducks below in ponds in the flats, a few large
black-headed gulls and a few larger soaring birds.
Me and a hot spring
The springs have formed many pools in a large flat area 80 m in diameter
near the stream as well as many right
beside it. The pools either contain hot (if large) or boiling water (if small)
and many have rivulets running down to the stream. Others overflow into a flat
marshy area. Many of the pools have mineral deposits in and around them and
some have algal scum in them: both create colours varying from white to yellow
to green to reddish. One small pool is boiling so hard that it is throwing
boiling water up into the air. Although I am not really in the mood for a hot
bath, I check the stream temperature in many places. Adjacent to many of the
hot rivulets, the stream temperature is perfect for a soak. In fact, I later
wish I had bathed if only for the experience.
Another hot spring
This one is boiling like crazy
I have lunch on the slopes above the pools before descending. After a
relaxing lunch, I notice my heart is still beating fast. On checking, my heart
rate is around 100 bpm, so I am glad that I chose the easier route for today.
The way back is uneventful other than encounters with many llamas and alpacas
in many shades and patterns of black, brown, tan and white.
That evening I talk to another French couple, a Belgian couple and Fanny
and Nicolas. The French couple are hitch-hiking and have done well at it
through Bolivia, but not so well in Peru. I have already made a reservation at
the same restaurant (when it is this quiet you have to let people know in
advance), but they are all eating at a small store which apparently will make
meals. So I end up eating alone in a large empty restaurant, during which we
lose electricity for a few minutes. The owner tells me that this often happens
and frequently lasts for several days. The power comes from Ururo, the nearest
city about 275 km away by road. I comment on how overgrazed the grass looks. I
am told that the locals count on the rains at this time of year to replenish
the pastures but that the rains so far have been few and far between. With my
usual great sensitivity I describe how droughts over the last number of years
have forced farmers and ranchers in Australia and the US to sell off great
numbers of livestock at very low prices.
The next morning, the French family are off and they had offered me a
ride to La Paz. I stop in at their van on my way out to let them know that I
will definitely stay another day as the weather is holding. I talk to them
through the window beside their bed which they are still in, and wish them well
on their journey.
This morning I will hike to the Sajama base camp. There are clouds and
the weather is cooler than yesterday, but still decent. I hike about 45 minutes
along a road, and then veer off past a small homestead and upslope through a
gravely area with low scattered shrubs. Eventually, I come to a rough, rocky
trail which follows a creek upward into the mountains. At one point the trail meets up with a 4x4
road for a short while which ends: this is as far as you can bring in supplies
by vehicle for an expedition. I have passed through fairly gentle slopes which
are covered with two species of dwarf trees, maybe 4 or 5 m in height. One has
leaves like cedar, the other deciduous leaves but very small. This must be what
info about the park calls the world’s highest forest. Once again, this is a
little bit of an exaggeration to call this a forest as far as I am concerned,
but it is pretty high up to have trees of this height.
The trail and creek continue upward to the northeast and then northwest,
to the north of a smaller peak in front of Sajama and south of a long ridge
emerging from the lower northwest slope of Sajama. Here I encounter my first
vicuñas: a group of three. They are 500 m away. One starts making an alarm
call, a high-pitched warbling cry, and all three run upslope and away from me.
I watch two as they reach the top of a ridge and are skylighted in the
distance.
As I get farther up, I stop to have lunch, read a book, and wait to see
if any more will come by but none do. I then continue upward eventually turning
almost due south and into flatter terrain, with Sajama which is now quite
close, rising straight up to my left. Here, in this isolated area with a fair
bit of good grazing, I encounter more and more small groups of vicuñas: 34 in
all, in 6 groups, none more than 7 in a group. Vicuñas are an Andes antler-less
grazing animal, about the size of a typical white-tailed deer, and closely
related to alpacas and llamas although smaller. While the latter two have been
domesticated and no longer exist in the wild, vicuñas are all wild and found
mostly in the sparsely populated altiplano. Their numbers have dwindled and
they are now strictly protected. When the numbers were greater, they were often
hunted both for meat and their hair, which makes even finer wool yarn than
alpaca.
Group of vicuñas: it is easy to
spot the lookout although he(?) has already decided that I am not a threat
As I make my way up toward the base camp, I pass the groups of vicuñas
and by keeping my head down, my arms close to my body, and ensuring that I
never walk directly toward them, I am able to approach within 40 m. I finally
arrive at the base camp in the large flats below the main part of Sajama, which
turns out to be a cooking area surrounded by a round rock fence 2 m high to act
as a wind break, and a large flat area where tents are pitched. There is some
garbage here but not a lot, strikingly different from Misti in Peru. I have a
short break, and since it is only 1:30 and I am not tired, I think about
following up further, up to the snowline: the trail continues to the south to
where I am sure there must be a better route up the mountain. However, at this
point, the thunder which I have been hearing for a half an hour, is followed up
by ice pellets, and I decide that the time to begin my descent is now.
Retracing my steps, the vicuñas are still there and I am able to get
closer. I notice that each group has one that stands guard while the others
graze, and gives the alarm call when alarmed. However, there are many fewer of
these calls as I descend, and I am able to get much closer: 20 m from some
animals. As I continue to descend, the thunder is frequent and loud, the ice pellets
soon turn to rain, and I finish the hike in the rain.
I arrive back in town and visit the Park Office again, deciding that I
will climb as high as possible on one more volcano tomorrow if the weather
improves. There is a woman there who only speaks Aymara, the local indigenous
language, almost as widespread as Quechua. Fortunately, her teenage daughter is
there so I can get a bit of info. However, the rain continues into the evening
and I decide to move on in the morning.
I meet up with a German couple, Kiki and Marcus, both engineers, who are
cycling through a large part of South America. We talk for quite a while and
they show me their bikes and equipment. Their plan makes sense and Marcus is on
his third bicycle trip in the Americas, and this one pretty much will finish it
off from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego.
They tell me that Bolivia is so quiet after Peru. I know what they mean:
Bolivians in general are very reserved; Peruvians are much more open and
vocal. We agree to meet for supper. I visit the older couple who own the cabin
where I am staying. From them I purchase some knitted and woven alpaca wool
items for presents. This couple seems to own quite a few homes in town, and
their son owns the restaurant where I have been having supper. While my purchases are fine, it strikes me
once again that buying stuff, whether gifts or for myself, is one of my least
favourite tasks. And unless it is something similar to something that I have
made myself (leather and leather goods, basic furniture and carpentry, baskets,
food, for example), I cannot tell quality when I see it. I try but often my
eyes will glaze over, my mind will shut down, and I cannot figure out even the
most basic assessments of quality, price, or the reliability of the sales
person in front of me. Why is that?? I do not know.
By evening when it is still raining on and off, I decide to move on in
the morning. There is more rain these days and I am running out of time, so I
am tending to let the weather help me decide when to stay and when to go.
I was told at the Park Office that the bus to Patacamaya leaves at 5 AM,
and then that actually I should be there at 5 AM. I write until 12:30 and then
I am concerned that I will sleep through my alarm as I did in Torotoro, so I
barely sleep. In the morning I get up at 4:20, pack, and am at the Town Square
where the bus leaves from at 4:55 AM in the dark. The sky is partly clear and
it is calm and I wonder whether I should
not stay another day, but I decide that it is time to go anyway. No bus and not
a soul is there. At 5:10, the first person arrives, at 5:20 the bus which turns
out to be a servicio (a mini-van) arrives, and we are full by 6 and off (B25=$3.50). The trip out is fascinating for
its rock formations. I must have slept through a lot of this on the way in, and
wish I could stop on the way to have a look. Many outcroppings of eroded
sedimentary rock forming many interesting shapes. Three hours later we are in
Patacamaya and I quickly find another servicio to La Paz (B10=$1.50), arriving
around 12:30. I decide to take a local TRUFI (mini-van) which will go by the
main plaza so I am told, which it does (B2.50= $0.40). On my second try, I find
a hostal with space. Cheap (B40) but very basic, and I go to sleep for a few
hours.
After supper, at the hostal, I read til late as I cannot put my book
down. I pick up most of my books at Book Exchanges at some hostals, or bars
which cater to tourists, or tourist organizations. But this book, I picked up
from a street used book seller in Cochabamba. It is called Borderliners, by
Peter Hoeg, and is translated from Danish. It is beautifully written from the
point of view of a 14 year old boy, with fascinating insights into life, and is
clearly at least partly autobiographical. It reminds me of Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance. Finally I sleep.
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