Day of the Dead

After several hours, our road descended from some low hills and ended at a last dusty checkpoint. The pavement, such as it was, ended here and we looked out over a dirt road stretching straight across a bone-dry floodplain.

This day was Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, when Bolivians pay homage to the departed. An elderly Cholo in a nearby adobe hut invited us to join his family. We entered his one-room home, stooping under the low ceiling. One end of the room was occupied by a beautifully made shrine, a table laden with chickens, fruits, wreaths, loaves of bread, packs of cigarettes, and coca leaves all carefully arranged around the candles which provided the room's only light. Several old men sat on rough benches against the other three walls, dignified but friendly. Our host offered us beer and explained, through gestures, that we were honoring his departed wife.

We reluctantly said our thanks and farewells, and soon we were out on the great flat floodplain. A deep blue sky towering over us, filled with dramatic cloudscapes. The land, improbably, became even drier. We saw no more agriculture, passing only an occasional herd of sheep, alpacas, or llamas. We saw not a single tree, only a scattering of low brush on the red dust. Occasionally we passed a single Indian afoot or on bicycle, incongruous in the vastness.

The road soon became a pair of ruts in the red dust. And when we crossed a dry watercourse or salt flat, the ruts disappeared entirely. Occasionally we would ford a small stream, but only after the drivers threw stones into the water to gauge the depth. Occasionally we followed the wrong ruts and had to backtrack to find the actual road.

Our driver became worried about our location. He had been trying to contact his agency in La Paz by radio. Our schedule was tight, for we had to reach Challacota by sundown. We were hungry, and our guide promised that an advance group awaited us in Challacota with T-bone steaks.

Occasionally we passed dusty adobe villages, each with a church, a blue-painted school, and, surprisingly, a basketball court. Many of the buildings were abandoned and in ruin. We stopped near one such village so the driver could ask a solitary bicyclist for directions. His advice did not agree with the radioed instructions from La Paz. Our guides debated among themselves, consulting several different maps. We drove on, nervously scanning the horizon and watching the sun's steady descent. We were lost.