The White Peaks of the Andes Courtesy of Ralph Junghanns

An acquaintance n Bolivia offers downhill trips, but Kiwis simply don't just bike DOWN! One has to climb significantly first. So we decided we would cross the Atacama Desert (the driest desert in the world) from the beach of Arica in the north of Chile, ride up to the Bolivian border at 4,610 meters, which would then lead us to the Altiplano basin and, ultimately, La Paz (4,000 meters).

Twelve Kiwis, two Poms, two Germans and an Aussie, the latter a little depressed after the All Blacks had beaten the Wallabies overnight, assembled our bikes and set off across the Baritt desert. Only 31 degrees Celsius in the shade. (Who said a maximum of 15?) We could only see a piste of gravel and sand—nothing else but sand. Water consumption soars. The altimeter climbs remorselessly. During our lunch on the "moon" we tried a game of pétanque with some stones that were lying around. It had to be the biggest field of pétanque in the world. But we didn't have a rake with us.

At about 5 pm we set up camp in the desert. Despite five to seven liters of water per person, we are all dried out and completely bushed. It was quite a significant first day, with 2,500 meters of altitude gained over 90 kilometers. Thankfully, our Bolivian cooking team spoiled us with a very good meal.

"We climbed again to a no-man's-land full of mines between Chile and Bolivia. It was so cold that the lake on the border was half-frozen..."

We decided to shorten the second day and after 60 kilometers we arrived at a small oasis (3,160 meters). However, the desire for a well-known sugar drink made us continue for another 3 kilometers to a nearby farming village. We knocked on María's wooden door. "Buenos días, Coca Cola por favor?" But, María only had pineapple juice and some fresh bread. The bottle of pineapple juice soon circles around dirty, thirsty and colorful mountain bikers sitting in María's kitchen.

The air grew progressively thinner and the breathing heavier as each day passed. Colors ranged from clay to pink to blue. We saw llamas, goats, donkeys and horses as the journey took us through ancient pre-Inca terraces, remote villages, and past borax and sulphur mines. The area was beyond belief. Absolutely fabulous.

After another night in the tent, we reach the historical village of Parinacota (4,130 meters), with its prominent church and thatched roofs, sitting beneath the perfect icy and snowy peak of the Parinacota volcano (6,342 meters). After consulting with the villagers, we refrain from camping and rent beds in the village instead. The previous week it had been minus 30 degrees! At this altitude, sleep is patchy.

After riding up to 4,500 meters the next day, we made our descent to the Chilean border. Chris, the relaxed broker who worked in New York, had sat in the van a lot each day, but had tears in his eyes after being the first to the border. Afterwards, we climbed again to a no-man's-land full of mines between Chile and Bolivia. It was so cold that the lake on the border was half-frozen, sadly trapping flamingos in the ice.

A steep downhill ride with a top speed of 96 kilometers per hour lead us to the Bolivian border. The customs officers weren't quite able to believe the strange sight before their eyes. The Andes had been traversed. We had reached the Altiplano.

We spent the evening at the foot of a 6,180 meter high volcano, Sagaina, warmed in the hot springs. Some of us made the mistake of hanging our wet gear on the line. Within five minutes everything is stiff. We had to cut the wire lines with a Leatherman to avoid damaging our clothes. We chose to spend another night in cabins.