Among the dozens of mountaineering peaks in the central Andes, hides a little-known ski run on the east face of Chacaltaya. For any avid skier, this is a "must do" run if you ever find yourself in Bolivia or Southern Peru. It goes by many names, all of them superlatives: the world's highest lift-serviced run, the only ski area in Bolivia, the first tow in South America, the closest ski slope to the equator, the only South American run not in Chile or Argentina, the only run in the southern hemisphere with a season corresponding to North America, and without a doubt, the world's most difficult-to-use lift.
The great challenge of Chacaltaya is not the ski run itself, which is actually a short, mostly intermediate face, with two alternate chutes. The challenge and risk is getting there, up the lift, and back to your hotel in one piece. It's only 90 minutes by car from the Bolivian capital of La Paz, but the mountain road is unpaved and treacherous. Getting a ride to take you all the way, wait while you ski, and return you to town will require the bargaining skills of a black marketeer, and the trust of a saint. Then, there's the rusted equipment you'll be rented, the death-machine lift apparatus, and the altitude, which at 17, 785 feet, will make you wish you had brought an oxygen bottle every time you plant and turn.
If you can make it though, the experience of this "been there" place is worth all the effort. Bolivia, first off, is a unique country, and its people genuine. Dominating the harsh landscape are two mountain ranges, the Cordillera Occidental in the west, and the Cordillera Oriental, the wider eastern ridge. Between the two, is the Altiplano, or high plain, an enormous oval-shaped expanse of desert plateau. To the north is Lake Titicaca, so tremendous it's an ocean in the sky. From this hard earth, the Quechua and Aymara people have carved a rough existence and spirituality that hasn't changed much since their Incan ancestors ruled the land 700 years ago.
Secondly, Chacaltaya is like no other ski run anywhere in the world. You'll be challenged by its harsh environment, renewed by its mysticism, dumbfounded by the sheer improbability of its existence, and rewarded with a pristine snow field on a mountainside lost to time and modernity, somewhere in the Bolivian Andes.
As most taxi or van owners won't drive the hair-raising road without sufficient fare, I hooked up with some Aussies, a Brit, two Danish women, and a Frenchman who had heard the slope's caretaker would start the lift if at least five people were ready to pay. After making the arrangements the night before with Tapia, a van owner who seemed eager and bright during our negotiations, I went off to one of La Paz's many markets to put together a lunch for tomorrows sojourn.
Set in a great valley gorge that drops hundreds of feet down from the floor of the Altiplano, the city's financial district is dominated by high-rises, plazas, restaurants, and discos - the workspace and playground of the country's wealthy. Farther up the valley walls, poorer the settlements cling to the near-vertical cliffs high above the city in a sprawling shanty-town -- cardboard, corrugated tin, and indigenous people who have drifted to the city from the hinterlands.
With one of the freewheeling Aussies, I headed to the neighborhood of El Alto, a town in its own right. Not only could we buy the tastiest and cheapest food from its Quechuan inhabitants, but they have the best coca leaves at the market on Avenida Alfonso Ugarte. Among the weavings, sweaters, plastic sandals, Andean instruments, and llama fetuses for sale, we picked up bananas, oranges, green beans, breads, alpaca cheese, and "salteiras," a hearty beef, olive, egg, potato, and pea stew wrapped in dough. The earth-faced women and men, both with shining black hair straight down their backs or tied in braids, struck me as some of the most beautiful people I had ever seen.
The coca leaves are essential for any physical activity in the Andes. The chemists and czars of Columbia may make it into cocaine to sell to Americans and Europeans who are unsatisfied with their lives, but here coca is revered for its medicinal and religious value. A leaf can be placed in front of the ear to cure sea-sickness. Chewing it eases stomach pains, hunger, and nausea. The best leaves are regularly burned and offered to the gods to safeguard a journey through the mountains. A tea called "matte de coca" can prevent altitude sickness. I picked up a ziplock filled with round, healthy leaves for a few Bolivars and stuffed it in my pack next to the other required provisions for tomorrow's adventure.
Early the next morning, Tapia drove us up the jagged valley out of the city until the red of the roofs blended with the red of the earth. The massive, snow-capped peak of Illimani seemed like a protective mother, watching over her children. An hour later, beyond the many outpost towns and llama farmers, past the okra fields and farming communities, we started to climb the winding road up Chacaltaya.
Supposedly, when the road was being constructed in the 1930's, the engineer was killed in an avalanche, which locals believed was a vengeful act of the mountain god. Because of this fear of reprisal, no other ski runs have been developed in Bolivia. As the road petered out, ice and snow replaced pavement, and soon we were rumbling along a pot-holed dirt road. After getting out twice to push, Tapia would take us no further. We argued, but this being Bolivia, we couldn't convince him to take us further, and we didn't force the issue as we would have to trust him to wait and return us to civilization. We walked the last two miles up the mountainside.
If ever there was a place to "shout your barbaric yawp across the rooftop of the world," as Whitman put it, this was it. Up the snow-covered slope, we trudged to the ridge in single file. A weather station, mountain outpost, observatory, and ski lodge, the large compound turned out to have high ceilings and huge windows for viewing in all directions. We had the place to ourselves, including the small kitchen, alpaca wool rugs, and stone fireplace.
After finally locating the caretaker, nothing short of a bribe could get him to fire up the tow engine. With wrinkled hands, he threw on a kit cap and trudged out to the red engine house perched on a cliff. Soon enough, smoke belched, the Volvo truck engine protested, and finally it rumbled. Slowly at first, then at a tremendous speed, a giant turbine circulated an inch-thick metal wire around a triangular course: out of the power shed, down to the base of the slope, up to the top, and back again. We thought for sure if the house didn't explode, it surely would fall off its perch.
The old man soon returned and showed us a room of rental gear so old I figured it was left over from the 1960 Chilean Olympic training squad. The rusted edges on the K2's he gave me (different lengths) were just one thing to worry about, not to mention the bolt-action bindings and nameless boots that dug a hole in my ankle. Glen Plake doesn't have the guts to ski on this stuff, I thought.
The other worry was the lift, and how to avoid getting killing by it. The speeding metal cable was so frayed that if you grabbed it with your hand, you'd risk losing a digit or two. Then there's the Draconian hauling apparatus, a length of rebar attached to an old length of rope about a yard long that you strap around your waist. The far end of the iron bar is hooked, so you can rest the speeding cable in the bend. With a prayer, you push down on the bar so it catches the cable with friction, and you're yanked clean out of your bindings.
My first eight tries ended in flying poles, lost skis, snow down my shirt, and never once getting further than a few yards before being dragged up the snowfield. No way the caretaker would stop the engine for anything short of another bribe. He was probably napping somewhere, or buying chicha with our money. The altitude was exhausting, and eventually I just turned around and sat down to chew a few coca leaves.
With the earthy flavor, everything relaxed. Even the view of the Altiplano below seemed to sharpen. The wide plateau extended like a desert flatland to the base of Ilimani, looming low on the horizon. A wide crack in the distance was all I could make out of La Paz. |
