Hilary Bradt Leading from the front

Drugged-up walkers in a Bolivian brothel: it was a fitting end to my chaotic Andes trek

As I described in my last column three weeks ago, our trek down Bolivia’s rugged Gold Digger’s Way in 1982 comprised a group that presented some challenges to this inexperienced leader. It included five furious feminists, two women lusting after Delectable Douglas the journalist, and Jack, drugged out of his mind by coca leaves. We were accompanied by an arrogant French guide who told me that he hated women and Americans.

Small disasters happened regularly but were barely noticed in the grand scheme of things: a disintegrating boot which I repaired with dental floss, two unfit women who could barely cope with the walk, failure to reach the designated campsites (I woke one night to find myself staring up into the private parts of a mule) and torrential rain.

On the third day, I lost five members of the group. Not just for a few hours but overnight. They had decided to make a dawn start so they could walk at their own pace, but when I and the groaning non-walkers reached the campsite they were not there. Jean Paul was unconcerned: “I called them back but they took no notice. They are stupid.” It was already nearly dark and I set out with a torch and a muleteer, who trotted ahead and returned with a note he’d found impaled on a bush: “We waited here for an hour and are continuing to the next village. Please bring food and our sleeping bags.”

Impossible, they would just have to manage. And they did, thanks to cocachewing Jack who not only had enough Spanish to secure them a school to sleep in, but Valium to provide oblivion. The teacher brought food but retreated in haste when he was met by Jack wearing borrowed women’s clothing.

Jean Paul found the group the next day before I had a chance to tell them how inspiringly brave they had been. Tact was not his forte, though, and by the time I reached them they didn’t trust themselves to speak so handed me a note. It said roughly the same thing as the woman who was sharpening her Swiss Army knife on a stone, spluttering “I’m going to castrate him!”

For the final three days there was very little conversation and even less food because the muleteers, unhappy at their lack of pay, had sold it to the settlements along the way. Then came the iWhat could go wrong? Bolivia’s snow-capped Cordillera Real, where the Gold Digger’s Way begins

We had no food because the muleteers, unhappy at their lack of pay, sold it to the settlements along the way

rain. We squelched into our final destination, the mining town of Unituluni on Independence Day. It resembled the film set of a Western: mud-slicked streets lined with saloon bars, outside which drooped waiting horses while their owners celebrated inside. And no bus to take us to our posh hotel some 20 miles away. There would never be a bus – a general strike had ensured that.

Jean Paul was nowhere to be found, the luggage was still with the mules at our last camp, and the rain continued to pour down. Time to show a bit of leadership. Producing a large wad of pesos, I set out to look for sober, vehicle-owning citizens. They were not plentiful but I eventually secured a deal.

That might have been that, had the ferry service been operating across the river that separated us from civilisation. But the water was too high – we would have to spend the night in a small town even more decadent than Unituluni.

I checked out the two “hotels”. Thinking it wise to withhold the information that they were also whorehouses, I got everyone a bed. In one hotel the only loo was a stinking hole in the ground; the other contained a monkey chained to the seat which wouldn’t allow anyone to enter. I wedged my bedroom door closed, but those in the adjacent room had shown less ingenuity. At intervals through the night I was woken by shouts of “f--- off!” followed by muttered apologies.

We did, eventually, reach our hotel, and were reunited with our luggage and Jean Paul. Unsurprisingly, however, the tour operator later received notice of a lawsuit for mental anguish.

Hilary Bradt is the founder of Bradt Guides; some of the names in this article have been changed.