a life in words: life in la paz and the world´s most dangerous road

11th May 2012

La Paz, Bolivia

They say that people make places. For me that clichéd yet valid saying has played a fundamental part in the way this trip has worked out, as travelling solo has forced me to become a lot more outgoing in order to avoid the loneliness which can and does strike when travelling for an extended period. In saying that, I don´t think I would have gone away by myself if I didn´t enjoy my own company - as everyone does from time to time I guess - but the truth about travelling alone is that you are, in fact, very rarely alone. It´s been astounding really as the remarkable people I´ve come across have all been chance encounters that I could never have planned on before going away yet in the same vein were inevitable encounters. From the like-minded people I have sat next to on buses to initial strangers that slept in the same dorm room as me, these encounters now and again turn into valuable, if fleeting, friendships that help me pin memories, like badges, to the chests of the many places I have visited during the past eight months. Upon reflection, the main thing that strikes me is that I would probably not have met half of these people, that I now call good but distant friends, had I not been travelling by myself and it´s been those chance encounters that have led to some amazing memories that will stay me long after I return home to England. Now the reason for that self-indulgent introduction is that in La Paz I met a fantastic group of people who were the latest additions to a long list of travel companions I have had the pleasure of meeting since India and in the fractured three weeks (an intermediary trip to Machu Pichu split the group and our time together in two halves) that I knew them, they - as the saying goes - made La Paz for me. The La Paz crew were as follows: there was James, an instantly likeable Irishman that wore his heart as a big smile on his face whenever a guitar was around and who would reel off endless war facts while professing his love for Rory Gallagher (quite a good Irish guitarist by all accounts) whenever a few beers went his way, the beautiful Finnish Laura whose sharp wit did not suffer fools gladly and finally one of the most honest and genuine couples I´ve come across during this trip, the English Rachel and Dixon. There were others who came and went during the two weeks (on and off) that I spent in La Paz such as Australian Matt with his legendary post-night antics, quiet and reserved American Joe, quiz-cheat Christine from London, German "mental Mel" and "sick Nick" with Calum and the rest of the likely lads, but it was that initial crew that stuck together and survived the suitably named La Paz hostel, The Wild Rover. For those who have been you will already understand where I´m coming from here but that hostel is both an absolute madhouse and black hole in equal measures and stopping there led me to prolong my stay in La Paz on more than one occasion. With a party raging every night, our group became regulars at the bar before frequently venturing out to Blue House, Hard Rock, Guru and beyond which led to a chaotic lifestyle that in many ways drew parallels to the anarchy I came across on the "Fire Island" of Koh Phangan in Thailand back in March. Partying aside though, La Paz is an insanely alluring city, set within a spectacular bowl-like canyon that on a clear day gives amazing views of the magnificent icebound peak of Mount Illimani that rises imperiously to the South-East. Frequent violent protests (experienced first hand while having lunch one afternoon), strange witches´ markets, curiously cobbled alleyways, juggling street artists, animated locals, buzzing street scenes, hectic traffic jams, scorching days and freezing nights all come together to boil in the natural cauldron that is La Paz. Meet the gang:

The La Paz crew. From left to right: James, Rachel, Dixon, Laura, Me, Christine and Matt.

James hitting me with some Neil Young.

The Wild Rover bar. Chaos. Every. Night.

Location of La Paz within Bolivia.

There was more to La Paz though than mere twilight excesses, and it came in the form of one of the most exciting and exhilarating days I have experienced on this trip so far. The day I am referring to is the morning we rode down the North Yungas Road or as it more dramatically known, "The World´s Most Dangerous Road". After being scared by the 750 Bolivianos (10 to the Pound) quote someone had found on the internet, we spent one morning in town looking around for a more reasonable price and after walking into a tour operator that could do it for 380bs with all the same equipment, the deal was done and the date was set for Friday the 11th May. Getting to bed early on the Thursday, we rose at half six in the morning, fresh and ready to tackle a road which has taken many lives since it was first hacked out of the mountainside that stretches from La Paz to the sleepy jungle town of Coroico. Getting up to the office for half seven, we tucked into breakfast before getting into the bright orange and green riding gear that would single us out from the numerous other riding tours that line that infamous route everyday. After piling into two minivans with a motley crew consisting of four Israelis, one Irishman, an English trio, one Finnish girl, one Canadian girl and a young German lad, we headed up to the ridge of the La Paz bowl before trundling along for an hour towards the lofty peaks of La Cumbre which sits 4700m up in the desolate, windswept plains of the Bolivian Andes.

Passing glistening lakes and snow capped peaks, we finally arrived at the starting point of the trail where we all disembarked the vans to get acquainted with the bikes we had chosen for the daunting task that lay ahead. There had been three options when picking the bikes: the full suspension top model, a single back suspension bike or the base model which was probably dodgy as all hell. We had all opted for the middle-ground bike and as soon as they had been lifted from the roof racks of our vans, we spent a few minutes getting used to them before listening in amusement as our guide explained to us How. To. Ride. A. Bike... With everyone ready, we set off over the ridge and plunged into the first 28km section of road which was tarmaced and served as a practice session before entering the loose gravel and vertical drops that the danger road offered later on. Fairly predictably, male egotism took over and those first 28km flashed by in top gear as all the lads including myself turned the sweeping, sun-glazed tarmac road into a racetrack; tucking our bodies in to become more streamline as we raced through a biting wind that whipped our eyes, overtaking each other and slower trucks, while a vast cloud blanket spread over the surrounding peaks in our peripheral vision. As an amusing aside (and as I´m now far enough away from them that they can´t kick me), Rachel and Laura took things at a rather more leisurely pace than the foolhardy testosterone vessels which charged ahead, so leisurely in fact that apparently it got to the point where they were asked by Victor, the back-of-the-pack guide, to hop in the van to catch up with us. Although obvious taunts followed it was all in good faith and I guess you do these things at the pace you are happy with. Here is La Cumbre to the Unduavi checkpoint, a dramatic descent of 1600m:

Climbing to La Cumbre in the vans.

The barren, windswept plains stretched on as far as the eye could see before crashing into ice capped mountains.

Getting the extensive bike lecture. YES, I KNOW HOW TO RIDE A BIKE.

The cloud blanket.

The smooth tarmac road curled it´s way down into the valley of clouds.

Descending La Cumbre.

First police checkpoint.

Biggles! Dussing!

Once again reunited at the first checkpoint, we all piled back into the vans as the actual death road lay a few kilometres further on and part of the way was uphill. Now I am a big fan of downhill riding but utterly loathe the uphill variety so getting back in the van was all good with me. Careering round a final corner after a bumpy ten minutes, we came across the infamous and deadly death road; climbing out to observe the dramatic change in scenery which had morphed from the barren bleakness of the higher passages to the lower, richly dense cloud forest that spread across the vast ridges of hills before us. The unsurfaced road stretched menacingly around the first corner, barely a few metres in width and wandering tentatively over to the edge I looked down to the valley floor that lay several hundred metres below. Unloading the bikes once again from the roof racks, a quick summary of the do´s and don´ts followed which basically ran as thus: "Don´t fall off the edge" and what seemed like madness in " Do overtake on the left"..... right next to the 300 metre drop. Yeah, well that was jolly well not going to happen eh! I was going to be hugging the safety of the right hand side if any truck dared get in my way! Setting off at a slow pace to get used to the radically different surface - as too much braking would cause my back wheel to skid wildly beneath me on the loose stones - I focused entirely on the road ahead paying little attention to the majestic scenery that graced the outskirts of my concentrated vision. As the kilometres flashed by, I felt my confidence grow and once accustomed and desensitized to the steep drops that lurked around every corner, I started to really enjoy myself; bunny-hopping over the loose rocks that littered the way, carving for speed and occasionally allowing the back tire to skid around some of the wider corners.

The further we descended, the warmer it got and at the halfway stage we dumped our larger jackets - which had been essential during the higher passes - into the van which followed us. Proceeding onwards, I had to keep my growing confidence in check as I didn´t want to enter the dangerous mentality of being over-confident as on that road one slight lapse in concentration would result in a superman-style free fall into an early grave. Taking certain passages at speed, I would occasionally slow things down to take a calmer look at what was going on around me and as soon as I did I started to appreciate the magnificent scenery that spread out from the "balconies" we passed over. In one section a huge gash had been carved in one of the opposite hill sides; revealing the vibrantly red rock which lay beneath the skin-like layer of trees that covered it. Looking down into the valley would also reveal the narrow brown trail which skirted on for miles, meandering through the hill tops before plunging ever-deeper into the clouds which were starting to dissipate with every descended metre. The trail was busy that day and I was frequently passed by numerous other tour groups that whizzed past and a very amusing moment presented itself that reckless speed-demons should take note of. Halfway down the route, I was casually peddling along, minding my own business and enjoying the scenery when my ears were struck by the yell of, "TO YOUR LEFT!!!!" as a group of lads from the Altitude tour group overtook me with hair-raising speed. Instantly thinking to myself, "Idiots", I was soon proved right in my assumption as turning the next corner, I came across three of the numb-nuts sprawled across the narrow way in a contorted tangle of limbs and bike frames. Gliding past, I nonchalantly uttered "TO YOUR LEFT!!!!" to the dazed and confused dusty faces that looked mightily worried about how close they had just come to meeting their maker. As we descended further, we cruised past cascading waterfalls - and even through one when the guides blocked the dry passage with a wall of bikes! - and stopped to take a few pictures on the infamous bend where many local drivers have careeered off in the past until we finally reached the sleepy town of Coroico having plunged almost 3600 metres from our starting point up in the snow covered mountains. It was an exhausting day and by the end my wrists hurt from gripping so tightly to the endlessly rattling handlebars that shook with every vibration but it was also an exhilirating and action-packed day that makes me want to hop on my "Toon Hog" - for those in the know - as soon as I get back to Blighty. It was with a certain degree of quiet pride then that I picked up my novelty t-shirt a few days later which proudly read, "I Survived The World´s Most Dangerous Road!" It was a crazy few weeks that I spent in the palm of La Paz though, so in hindsight , I should probably have a t-shirt printed that reads, "I Stayed In La Paz For Two Weeks and I´m Still Alive!"

Later Bolivia, the sacred city of Machu Picchu beckons.

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