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El Choro: Trekking in Bolivia - Boliva

El Choro: Trekking in Bolivia

Bolivia

Unaware of where our stop actually was, my compadre Kenny and I hop out of the giant cargo truck at the first military checkpoint on the "Most dangerous highway in the Americas." We had been riding in the truck since Villa Fatima, La Paz, at least two hours, and El Choro trail head was reportedly outside of La Cumbre, supposedly only forty-five minutes from La Paz. We drop our packs on the side of the dusty road and look for a military official to ask for directions to the trailhead.

After a few minutes, we find a soldier who speaks a little English. He tells us that the trail is dangerous and it is better off that we miss it. We proceed to explain to him that we had heard otherwise and that we would really like to hike it if he could only tell us where the trailhead is located. He shakes his head disapprovingly and tells us it's about an hour or so away as he points back up the long mountain road we just traveled down. Luck would prevail however and within ten minutes of waving our thumbs, a small brown pickup pulls up and offers us a ride.

"Adonde van?" the passenger asks.

"La cumbre, Camino el Choro," I reply.

"Podemos paseo."

"Si," he says, motioning for us to climb into the bed.

We throw our packs in the back of the truck and climb in. Kenny and I ride standing, resting my arms across a piece of the steel frame while the crisp cold air of the Andes rushes to greet my face. The sky darkens around us as our ride crawls slowly upward through the mountains. Clouds morph into phantoms eating up our trail while the giant green mountains become more and more mystic every second.

I look at my watch as our driver pulls off the road. It is 4:23pm. As our vehicle comes to a stop all becomes quiet in the air. I step up to the cab and the passenger points straight into the fog.

"Aqui es el choro," the driver says.

"Si," says the passenger with a smile.

We say thanks to our chauffeur and offer him a few Bolivianos for his help. Visibility clears enough to see the outline of a large lake to the left. Without any cairns and no marked path, we navigate almost aimlessly in the fog. After a few minutes a small building emerges. The sign marking the trailhead is laying face down on the ground next to it. A Bolivian man in a blue jumpsuit stands on the unfinished stone porch out front. As I step onto the porch I notice two men spreading a concrete floor on the inside. They stop working to look at us as I introduce myself and inquire where el Choro is. The man points further into the fog. I sense we are close. I ask him for a map but he says he doesn't have one and instead, offers Kenny and I a very nice four-color glossy brochure with pictures describing in English, the historical, geographical and topographical statistics of the trail for five bucks. After a bit of hesitation Kenny coughs up the dough. We ask our man if he would accompany us to the trailhead.

I can feel the lack of oxygen in my lungs as my feet pound the ground beneath me while I try to keep pace with our guide. Then we really start climbing. I lag back and then stop for a drink of water. My lungs are on fire. I reach to feel the mesh pocket on the side of my day pack making sure my batch of coca leaves are ready and easily accessible. Ten minutes later we stop as small patches of clouds break around us. Our guide tells to continue to walk straight and we will pass two lakes then up and over a ridge and there will be a pass with a giant cairn marking the beginning of el Choro. Also, we need to take a rock from down below and add it to the cairn before we step onto the trail. He leaves us with the advice and a wave and soon disappears into the fog.

View from the trailhead

We continue to hike up the trail, which is mostly loose rock now. As we round a turn I see the lakes. After the lakes the trail leads us into a giant barren meadow. The trail splits into multiple paths. As the clouds begin to break again, little pieces of the surrounding landscape are exposed and re-covered randomly. After a little debate and the flipping of a rock, (great substitute for a coin) it is decided to continue straight up, ascending the ridge before us. Within minutes we break into the stash of coca leaves as breathing becomes difficult.

We continue to ascend the steep incline and are finally awarded by the sight of the giant cairn. As we step out onto the 4900m Chucura pass, a giant white peak is briefly exposed straight across from us. Cracking a few wise words, we toss our rocks into the pile, turn towards the trail and begin our descent. The sky begins to open up more around us as we wind down the stone highway, exposing a view of the ancient stone railings and drainage system along with a multitude of magnificent waterfalls.

We soon descend to the ruins of (according to the brochure we purchased) an old Incan inn. The vibrant green grass surrounding the ruins is thick and short and mooshes when I step on it. Grey stones of all sizes litter the earth around the ruins. Wild Horses graze while the sound of thunder shudders lowly in the background. Taking a seat on one of the crumbled walls, Kenny pops open the brochure and references the ruins.

"Note, no camping is allowed at the ruin sites," he reads.

We look around and decide we have no other choice. We scout the two sections of the largest ruin and decide on one after finding a dead dog in the other. We pick a spot and set up tent and soon begin the cooking process. The rain begins to fall, as the sky grows dark. We finish up dinner and sip coca tea from the comforts of the tent. All the while staring in silence at the mystical darkness that surrounds us.

Day 2

Camp site #1

I wake up staring at the ceiling of the tent from the comfort of my wet sleeping bag. The rain has stopped but thin clouds still swarm around us sewing a quilt of fog. I climb out of the tent into the morning light, fire up the stove and we are soon sipping hot coca tea and consuming bananas. Suddenly, the silence is broken by the sound of gunshot. We freeze instantly and search the echo with our ears to find the direction. All of our movements slow as we peer over the wall facing the descending trail. Within minutes we spot them. One by one, camouflaged soldiers drop from out of the clouds as they descend the trail rifles in hand. Our minds race as we stare at each other and then back at the soldiers.

"Is your hat orange on the inside?" Kenny asks me.

We count thirteen soldiers in all. Their uniforms are much different than the soldiers along the highway. Some of them march on past the ruins keeping a safe distance, unaware of our presence. A group of four take a break on a pile of stones about seventy-five feet from us. We seat ourselves on the ground by the tent within the confines of the ruins and contemplate our next move while our anticipation builds. Within a short time we bottle up our reservations, quietly finish packing and proceed to exit our safety net within the ruins. We are soon walking past the resting soldiers and join in single file behind the marching soldiers. We pass through the military without a word. It is apparent by this point that our existence is none to be worried about so we march down the winding rocky trail to the river cut meadow below.

The clouds are still thick around us and mist begins to fall. The rain begins to steady and we stop in front of a farmhouse to waterproof our packs by wrapping them in plastic. Smoke billows out of the chimney of the small stone house into the wispy clouds closing in around it. I am enveloped in mist as I study the scene before me. I turn to look down the trail and watch the meadow disappear into the mist surrounded on both sides by the enormous green mountains. It's here that I realize I have been thrown into a scene from a J.R.R. Tolkien novel.

Village of Chucura

An hour or so later we reach the small village of Chucura. The trail runs through the center and right through a small dirt futbol field. We approach a small building with an open entrance where a man is standing behind the counter. Making it this far without a map and unsure of where we are, I decide it's pointless in asking him. We sign our names on the trail list under the military.

After another two hours of navigating the rocky trail, the mist lets up and we walk out of the clouds into the small village of Challapampa. The sun breaks through a few small holes and the air begins to warm. I wave at two women standing in a coca field to the left of the trail as we stroll into the village. Halfway through the village we are greeted by curious children that we stop and talk with. We purchase water from a family at the edge of the village and continue on. Just outside the village we find the military again, sprawled out and resting in a large grassy area to the left of the trail. We exchange "hola's" and stop at a nice grassy ledge above a creek to eat lunch. I collapse onto the ground and stare out into the valley as a farmer and his pack of llamas round a bend down the trail. We unpack the food and are soon sitting in the grass staring into the valley silently devouring tuna sandwiches with onions, avocado and tomato. The military, finished with their break, march past us single file down the trail.

A few hours later we are descending a fairly steep and intact section of the Incan trail to a small village along the river at the bottom of the valley. The air is thicker here as we are now in the beginning of the yungas, the steamy jungle vegetation of the Andes. We cross a small swinging bridge to the village where the military are resting again in an open grassy area surrounded by a few small huts. A few villagers and children stare at us with curiosity from the confines of their huts as we step into the limelight exhausted. I smile at the soldiers as I drop effortlessly to the ground. We are sitting for a moment before one of the soldier's approaches gesturing that he needs to search through our packs. Another soldier joins his side and they both smile.

One decides to thoroughly search my bag and we begin to unload it's contents onto the grass as other soldiers and villagers watch with open eyes. The whole time I can't help but laugh, as I know we are carrying nothing illegal. I look over to notice that the soldier searching Kenny has stopped and he is making gestures to me accusing the soldier searching my bag of taking things. Now going through my medicine bag, the soldier looks at me suspiciously as he fumbles with a zip lock of unmarked pills.

The military search

"Que es esta?" He asks, pointing to some muscle relaxers.

"Para me knee," I explain, pointing.

"Si, tambien. Yo quierro porfavor."

Without hesitating I hand him a pill. He takes it and then excitedly stands up waving his camera exclaiming that someone needs to take a picture. Another soldier volunteers for the opportunity and takes his place a few feet away from us. He kneels next to me and continues to pull stuff out of my pack while his friend takes a few shots. I reach for my camera and motion to Kenny to grab one as well. Back to the search, the soldier spots another interest among my medicine bag and questions me further.

"Vitaminas," I explain.

"Si, tambien," he says as I hand him a zannex.

We rest for a few minutes longer. I ask one of the soldiers if they have a map of the trail and he laughs. He points to another soldier who is unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket. From a glance at their map it looks as if there might be a few places to camp between here and the next village, which is supposedly a day away. In need of sugar, I purchase a coca-cola from one of the villagers.

We decide to leave before the pills kick in and continue wandering down the trail for a half an hour or so before stopping for a rest. The sun is setting and dusk is approaching. A cool breeze begins to tear at my sweat drenched clothes and goose bumps form on my body as I wander down the valley. Half an hour later we stop at a clearing next to the trail exposing what seems to be a few small farm buildings perched on the mountainside.

We descend to the clearing where the vacant buildings sit and both scour the ground for a nice spot to camp. Unfortunately, the ground is pretty uneven and large rocks expose themselves in scattered locations. It is very close to dark now and we have been hiking for nine hours. I propose the idea of continuing, in argument that there might be something near the river and the trail appears to be descending to it shortly. Tired and hungry we half-heartedly agree. Almost to the river and no decent camping spot in sight, we decide to turn around and head back up the hill to the farm buildings. As I turn to follow, my legs begin to shake uncontrollably and each step becomes more and more difficult as fatigue takes over my body. Our movements our slow and animated, yet greatly rewarded upon summit. We wander over to one of the abandoned buildings where a pig is tied up and begin to yell "hola" in hopes that there is someone home around here. Within a few minutes I see two faces and arms waving at us from above.

"Es possible campiemento aqui?" I shout up to the two men above.

"Si, Si aqui, aqui" one of the men shouts down.

I follow Kenny up the trail and as I reach the top, one of the men gives me his hand for aid. "Allí para usted," He says pointing to a flat grassy spot at the edge of the terrace giving way to an incredible view down the valley.

Kenny and camp site #2 at Victor's

The terrace is about forty feet across and protrudes from the mountainside a good thirty feet. There is a crude one-room log cabin with a grass roof standing near the mountainside at the back of the terrace that I can see a fire in through large holes in the walls. We let our wet clothes and rain fly dry on their clothesline. One of the men comes out of the house with what looks like a parka in his arms. I extend my hand and greet him.

"Me llamo Chris,"

"Victor," he says with a giant grin.

"Esta para tu," he says, gesturing to my wet rain fly hanging on his clothesline. He unfolds his green rain fly onto my tent. I smile with gratitude and thank him before he walks back into his home. Night rolls in and the stars appear one by one. We sit back and sip on some coca tea while our ramen boils on the stove, all the while gazing silently into the peaceful night sky.

Day 3

I pull myself away from my sleeping bag and wipe the sweat from my forehead as I climb out of the tent into the morning light. The clouds from the night have broken and there is a clear view down the valley. In the daylight I notice that rows of crops run in almost every direction up the mountain and around us. These guys have quite a farm.

Suspension bridge over the Chucura River

After a few cups of coca tea and a breakfast of ramen noodles, the gear is packed and we say our goodbyes to Victor and his friends. We descend the trail to the river and follow the shoreline to the small village where the military greets us again. They are resting in a large grassy area on the riverbank amongst three small huts. Soon, we are off again, this time accompanying the military. Kenny and I file into the back of the line as we march out of the village. After about fifty feet we come to swinging bridge and as our line proceeds to cross, the last soldier turns and looks at us and says, "Muchos turistas mueren aquí." "Si," he ensures us as he points into the hills around us. Kenny and I look up at the hills around us and agree with him, unsure of how to respond to that. He turns to walk across the bridge and we wait to let the soldiers get ahead of us.

After we cross the bridge the trail changes to steep, tight switchbacks. The sun and humidity are intense as we battle our way up through the mountain jungle. After a half an hour we arrive at a turn in the trail where the soldiers rest. We continue on despite their nagging us to stop and rest with them. Soon after the trail starts to even out and we can see it running far down the valley now as it hugs the sides of the mountains, waterfalls dot each side of the valley.

Eventually we come to another village, this one consisting of about four huts, a small pallapa and many steeply angled fields running up and down the mountainside. We stop for shelter under the pallapa. I drop my pack and look at my watch. It's 12:30. We have already been hiking for four hours. Kenny buys some powdered soup from one of the villagers and I heat up some water on the stove. A few minutes later the military come wandering through. They smile and nod at us as they stroll by. Our two friends at the end stop and talk with a few of the village children. We watch their conversation from the shade of the pavilion when the two soldiers drop their packs and guns and hand them over to the children. Kenny and I laugh at the two slackers as they walk slowly down the trail behind the children carrying their gear.

We are soon winding our way up what would be a few hours of steep uphill switchbacks on the ancient Incan stone trail. The trail is very much intact until we reach the top. There is an amazingly grand viewpoint adjacent to the trail overlooking the valley. From here we can see our day's route winding back into the horizon. With every step emits an ache from my right knee and my shoulders. In no time the drunken, one-foot in front of the other, mind over matter method takes over and within twenty minutes I stumble into the next village to be greeted by an old man and our military friends. There is a small pallapa that most of the soldiers are resting under. I take a seat on a ledge between them and one of the three village huts. Like all villages along the trail, this one is built on a terrace as well. Upon dinnertime Kenny unpacks the stove and a few of the soldiers and villagers gather round to admire the small size of our stove. One of the village women is cooking just a few feet away from us on an open fire. Kenny goes to take a peek at what she is preparing and she offers some to us. The soup and yucca make an excellent and filling dinner.

Day 4

Kenny at camp site #3

I wake up to the hardened footsteps of the military filing past our tent on their way out of the village. I pop my head out of the tent and catch a blinding ray of light just as a few of them walk by and bid me a "Buenos dias". Half an hour later we bid farewell to the villagers and hit the trail with two of them who are on their way to the market in Chairo, the village at the end of the trail. They carry large heavy sacks over their shoulders. So heavy, that they walk hunched over. We walk with them for a while until they stop for lunch and we press on. An hour later we reach the next village. One of the biggest so far, this one contains at least eight inhabitants. It's a beautiful village and interesting too, as Japanese hermits inhabit it.

Further down the trail we can see the city of Corioco shining on the green horizon. The vegetation around the trail becomes more and more jungle-like as we descend further into the valley. It's not long before we start to notice crumbling ruins to the right side of the trail peaking out from beneath their jungle covering. Around 3pm we spot Chairo below us as our marker to the end of the trail. As I spiral down the switchbacks with the grand valley lying before me, I occasionally look backwards, reminiscing on the beauty and mysticism I witnessed over the past four days. The lush vegetation, ancient undisturbed architecture, countless waterfalls and extreme physical challenge have made el choro stick in my mind as the most rewarding hiking experience I have ever had. We slowly descend into the small village and are greeted by a few of the villagers. Upon inquiring, we find out Yolosa is about another 3-hour walk or thirty minutes in a truck. When asking the local about the truck he smiles and says "Viente dollars". I turn to look at Kenny. Neither one of us is willing to spend twenty dollars for the ride.

"Diez Dolars," I counter offer.

We debate with him for a bit longer and then decide to start hoofing it. After about half an hour of walking down the road, our prospective driver turns up in his truck alongside of us. He stops the truck and looks at us from his perch in the driver's seat.

"Cinco dollars?" I ask.

"Diez," he replies.

"I'm not walking anymore." Kenny says as he pulls a ten from his pocket and hands it to our now smiling driver. We throw our packs in the back and climb over the tailgate. The wind in my hair and face has never felt as good as when our driver stepped on the gas and proceeded to speed down the pothole fused one lane gravel road, dust blowing behind us covering everything in its path.

Twenty minutes later we arrive in the small town of Yolosa at the bottom of "the most dangerous highway in the Americas". Our truck pulls into the one intersection and we jump out with our packs. We take to some shade in front of a café and quickly devour the last of our tuna and bread. There are two European looking lads sitting at a table next to us.

"You guys know when there is a bus to Corioco, by any chance?" I ask.

"No, but there is one to Rurrenabaque soon," one of them replies.

"Really? That's where we want to go too," I say.

"Eventually," slips Kenny.

"Where did you come from?" one of them asks.

"La Paz," I reply, "We just hiked from there�took four days."
"No kidding?"

"Yep."

More Information

Difficulty: Moderate to Difficult

El Choro is approximately 64 km long. Its elevation varies; technically the trail is a constant descent, starting out at 4900m and descending to around 3000m, however there are many steep uphill switchbacks on the sometimes slippery stone trail. There are about six small villages that hikers can camp in for free as well as a few small farms along the way. It's a long three-day hike if you start in the morning. There is water and food available for sale from villagers. Take a stove. The hike can be done all year round. Kenny and I hiked it in December. Reportedly, the trail can be dangerous at times. Check in La Paz or Coroico on conditions before attempting it.

Access:

Supposedly, there is a mini bus from Villa Fatima in La Paz. Never saw one, but you can also catch a ride in a cargo truck, they leave frequently from Villa Fatima. Just give the families a hand in loading their supplies. Make sure to keep an eye out for the trailhead or the town of La Cumbre.