Bolivia: WMD-R

Ah Bolivia...

Land of over 100 revolutions since your independence...

Land where the presidential palace is called the burned palace, (palacio quemado) due to the number of revolutions that burned it to the ground.

Land of the worlds highest international airport, highest ski run and highest golf course.

Land where Che Guevarra was gunned down by CIA trained assassins and buried under a military runway.

Land where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their maker in a hail of gunfire...

Land of the infamous Bolivian marching powder, making up nearly 40% of the GDP, and, of course, home to the world´s most dangerous road according to the Inter American development Bank. This 40 mile stretch is between La Paz in the frozen mountains and the tropical jungle coca growing region of the Yungas toward the Amazon Basin. Some years see up to 300 deaths, from cliff plunges over fogged out and unpaved muddy passes, a sheer drop of over half a mile in some places. And the world´s most dangerous road which we bicycled down yesterday, trying to get as stupid and irresponsible as possible.

The first delay was when the road TO the road was too iced over to even let trucks or buses on, and we sat and waited by a sign warning caution and 13 deaths so far this month. Two hours later, we reached the top of the Worlds Most Dangerous Road, and prepped our mountain bikes for the descent, quadruple checking our brakes and the quadruple checking them again. We began in snow capped mountains, down a slightly icey and mostly paved stretch downwards, past some beautiful passes, a few old incan stone ruins and downward into a narcotics checkpoint. We were waved through, as were most of the busses and trucks travelling to and from the coca region. (the DEA must have had the day off from trying to convince the police to enforce the gringos law.)

The road got a little more sketchy, and though the ice cleared up it replaced by patches of cobblestone in a few spots and stomach churning glimpses of sheer cliffs to the left of us. Cars and vehicles, ourselves included are required to go on the cliffside of the road due so that its easier to see how much space you have. Yikes. We even had to pass a few trucks, and I was quite literally white knuckling it with my hands on the brakes as the fog rolled in, obscuring visibility to about 30 feet or less. Good thing the thrifty bolivian drivers like to save gas by not turning on their headlights. Finally, after a brief uphill, we reached the end of the ¨paved¨ section of the road, leaving us with only gravel and mud. The fog of the mountains gradually gave way to the steam of the jungle, equally impenetrable. Thankfully, we were getting lower in elevation and no longer needed our winter hats and jackets, so changed, snacked, and steeled ourselves for the next section, which we were then informed was the real dangerous part. Only a few minutes into the mud, the road shrunk to about eight feet wide in a few places, the gravel slipping hundreds, no thousands of feet down into the whiteness. The road wound constantly, every turn seemed blind, sudden and 180 degrees.

We paused occasionally for a snack, or to view one of the roadside memorials, or look at the wreckage of a bus where dozens had perished in one bad skid. And its no wonder when you look at the bald tires on the busses and trucks either, not to mention the places where the road is crumbling away. We paused to see a marker where the first bicyclist died, an israeli in 1999, and the most recent bike death, just a few months ago another israeli went over the side only about 100 feet later. It was understandable given that it was essentially a 180 degree turn that went under a waterfall. From time to time there would be a small shack, or an Indian trudging up the hill carrying sticks- coming from god knows where and going to god knows where. It was a hell of an adrenaline rush, the whole thing from start to finish. Not only that though, it was through some of the most beautiful landscape I´d ever seen. From rocky outcroppings and snow at the top to jungle covered steaming mountains toward the bottom as we rolled through coffee, banana and coca plantations and on into the town of Coroico, trendy vacation spot for wealthy narcotraficantes and mine owners.

(Pictures do not show bottom of cliff.)

Bus was sold out, so after many frantic attempts to get on another, we got the night bus tickets for tonight and spent another day in La Paz and visited the ruins of Tiwanaku, a pre incan civilization outside the city. Drove again through El Alto and on into the Altiplano, some of the highest plains in the world, with little but a few mud huts on the prairie and the Cordillera REal mountains gleaming in the background. The ruin were fairly impressive, though only partially excavated at this point. There were some enormous carved figures that looked like tiki dolls, and the architecture was overall very different from the Incan architecture, and dates back to BC times. Overall though, I was glad that we had gone here before Machhu Picchu or we would have likely been quite disappointed. Part of the problem could be seen in the town, where the beautiful church and many buildings had been constructed out of rock that the Spanish removed from the ¨¨heathen¨¨ temples. Stone was also apparently used to lay the bed of the railroad. And its one last meal at La Paz´s best cuban restaurant, where we´ve eaten nearly all our meals (besides the lunch at the fake Hard Rock Cafe) and onto a 10 hour overnight bus to Potosi. The saga continues...