El Camino de Muerte -- Mountain Biking "The Road of Death" (And Flying Fox Zipline Ride)

Use to be, this precarious stretch of road leading out of La Paz and over the Cordillera Real portion of the Andes and descending to the western Amazon basin of Bolivia was a necessary segment if you wanted to travel to points east.  No getting around it, really.  It was a risk you had to take.  Three years ago, this impossibly engineered (what bong was that engineer on, the day he chose this route?), toss-the-dice and hold your ankles carve-out from jungle cliffs was understandably replaced by a new road. The replacement “El Camino Nuevo” would still be a “B” road by US standards but is a vast improvement over the Diablo of a road that it has replaced on which we are playing with fate today.  Largely only daredevil mountain bicyclists, support vehicles, and the absolutely desperate taxi trying to take a shortcut now use this old byway.

The approach starts in La Paz, and truly begins at about 45 kilometers distance.  It is officially known as The Road to Coroico.  The altitude tops out at 15,700 feet.  I have previously only been to 14,492 feet, but the altitude has little effect.  A good sign, I think [ One bad sign is that, despite 30 days in South America without any digestion troubles, I have come up with Montezuma's Revenge on the night before the ride.  I am desperately afraid of getting the runs in the middle of our mini-expedition, and sullying our crowded van with unauthorized drippage and fouling vapors .   But I have prepared well with Pepto Bismol and other remedies, like camping on my hostel room's toilet for three hours before the ride.  Throughout the day luck remains on my side ].  The bike trip (99% of which is downhill) usually begins here at the pass.  On this day, it was snowing, and had freezing sleet and rain.  We descended lower on the eastern slope, to begin on our bikes perhaps 1500 feet lower -- around 14,200 feet altitude.  For those reading in Seattle, that is just about the summit of Mt. Rainier !

 Our host -- Madness- Bolivia [ www.madness-bolivia.com ] had issued our equipment at 6:30 in the morning.  It consisted of a crash helmet that would make most demolition derby drivers envious, so-called rain pants, a bright orange visibility vest, and safety gloves.  Now they demonstrate its use.  And how to get the most out of the Canadian, top-of-the-line mountain bikes.  Two types are available: one with minimum suspension for about $70 for the day, and one that could support a Hummer for about $93 for the day.  I chose the latter.  No sense in underestimating on a trip with such a telltale name.  We are also told a few rules (1) Stay with the group (2) Go single file (3) Don't pass your guide, and (4) Watch intently for hand signals.  Such as "Look" and "Slow Down!"  Most people found it a wee bit odd, that a complete rookie mountain biker such as myself, would choose such a destination for an initial run.

We start out in earnest, going perhaps 35 - 50  mph downhill on a very normal paved road.  But the conditions are awful.  The driving rain freezes our hands, penetrates the "rain pants" and soaks everything underneath, and lashes our eyes.  It is miserable.  Now we know why they call this the "Road of Death."  You freeze, long before you tumble.  We assemble regularly, to let the slower riders catch up.  And to thaw out.  Most of the group is British and Aussie.  By the time we are ten minutes into the ride, a 25 year-old London girl has misestimated a rock and fallen, seriously damaging her kneecap.  She is taken by ambulance back to La Paz.  Another has altitude sickness, and returns to the support van.  Some of the group already wish they could join her.  After a couple ten to fifteen minute riding segments, we stop to pay our entrance fee of 25 Bolivars at the entrance to the National Park.  No idea what the name of it was.  My undercothes and jeans were as wet as if I'd gone diving, were shrink wrapping on me, and I could only think simple thoughts.  And we were still on asphalt ...

After paying the park fee, we put the bikes on the top of our supports vans, and  drive for 20 minutes on an extended uphill leg to another area where the road forks.  Pavement to the left, steep dirt track descending to a river too far below to be seen or heard to our right.  We take the right track, and alight from the vehicles once more.  Only now it begins to warm.  The rain becomes a friend.  It begins to thaw us a little.  Other riders from different vendors are now adjacent to us.  They have plastic ponchos and ski goggles.  I ask our primary guide, Hector, why if Madness-Bolivia is supposed to be the best, we don't have the same equipment?  "We are the most established and best of the providers," he said.  "We have learned the hard way.  The goggles fog up and cause visibility problems.  The results of that are tragic.  The plastic whips about and interferes with peddling, and often gets caught in the gears.  Not a good place for that to happen.  It will get warmer, and you will all be fine."  We mount the bikes a second time.  "Now you are on the 'Road of Death' finally," Hector announces.  "That was just a warmup."  We look at each other, our band of 22, with a little bit of incredulity.

No waiting now.  Just get on the bikes, and peel downhill.  You have two sets of brakes, front and back.  If you hit the front brakes first, you fly over the handlebars.  So RIGHT hand first, two fingers of pressure, followed by the left hand, and one finger of pressure.  This happens often.  We whiz past potholes, rock slabs, loose gravel, and occasional tracks.  Confidence is gradually gained, and the differences between a laughable twisty dirt road and asphalt become ingrained.  The cliff is at first to our right.  But it alternates from side to side as we pass successive gullies.  A solemn stop at the edge, reveals a drop of at least 2000 feet and much more in places.  Too steep to survive a fall.  And nothing to grab onto.  If you go over, you are "con los Angeles" (with the Angels).  One member of our group, a Scottish lass, had a friend who braked too late in miscalculating the edge and went clean over within the last six months.  For the edge, does not remain constant.  It dips out, just wide enough for two very careful cars to pass within about an inch of each other going in opposite directions, and not tip over the precipice.  If the shoulder holds, that is.  Then it dips in.  The "safe" vertical mountain side, has boulders and loose trenches filled with rainwater that does not allow too close an approach.  The opposite cliff edge, indents in and narrows the "track" to about four feet at times.  Try it some time at home, at about 25 to 35 miles per hour.  There are constant curves.  They pitch and roll.  Constant changes of surface.  Loose pebbles, slick rock, hard dirt, wet clay, you name it ... much anticipation and braking is needed.  And nobody sticks to the single file rule.  Some near wipeouts, send more than a few chagrined riders to the rear.  I take my turn, following Hector directly, and the experience is very sobering.

Hector works seven days a week.  He has no family as a result.  Starts at 6 AM, and often gets through cleaning equipment back at Madness' location on Sagarnada street (near the church of San Francisco) past midnight.  He is joined by two other guides.  But Hector loves his work.  And he loves to ride.  Plus he knows this track.  He tears through at great speed, even on the steepest portions.  On one occasion, he points to the right at seven crosses, then whips into a hard left hand turn around a hairpin turn.  He utilizes the perfect banked path.  Often times, he comes within six to eight inches of the cliff edge.  His gliding turns, are a confident marvel.  When I attempt to replicate him at a safe distance, my wheels wobble.  I am not use to the changes in surface, the presence of rocks and ruts, the potholes, the change from hardtrack to muddy clay, and the correcct lean to accomplish his perfect execution.  I slide.  I kick high and bounce.  I take the wrong arc and must overcorrect.  Only to necessarily overcorrect again.  And again.  I don't feel the same centrifugal force he does.  The edge glares at me.  I brake furiously.  I come close to the edge and consequently foreswear anything but the middle path thereafter.  No matter how slow, or ugly the curve, or how much braking is necessary.  Somebody else can follow right behind Hector.  I've had my shot at the ring ...

Our descent is continuous.  There are planned stops, of course, to allow the slower riders to catch up, and get a briefing on what is yet to come.  The weather warms.  Off comes some of the layers.  We do some early woofing and celebrating.  We begin to see multiple waterfalls.  We must slice totally through several of them, as there is NO detour -- waterfalls blanket the road.  It looks like Kauai out there!  The mist closes in, and we can't see the road 100 feet ahead.  It opens up again five minutes later, and we see switchbacks descending for thousands of feet below.  Every so often, we examine the cliff edge, and are continuously impressed by both the drop and steepness of the slope.  And if the steepness doesn't impress you enough, more crosses by the side of the road do.  There are hundreds of them.  That is a fraction, of what they represent.  Big crosses, represent multiple fatalities -- say, a busload of 40 that has gone over the edge.  Buses, taxis, cars, and bicycles.  There are clusters of single crosses, at particularly nasty turns.  You hardly have time to contemplate them, as every inch of the road demands intense concentration.  But crosses on the mountain side of the ... uh, road ... remain preserved or fall over and can be seen laying in mud puddles.  Occasionally they are restored to a vertical, memorial position.  Those crosses on the cliff side, rarely survive.  They get swept along by mud, by rain, by avalanche, by road movement (yes, road movement) and other forces and fall down the cliffside to join their intended honorees.

We finally reach a flat section.  Even though we have descended over 10,000 feet to close to 5000 feet in perhaps 54 kilometers (1 mile equals .62 kilometers), you still feel the altitude.  Breathing is difficult, with this kind of exertion.  The protective mask in front of you, does not help.  It blocks taking in enough air for rapid peddling.  My legs feel like rubber, and my lungs like blowtorches.  But the road is wider, firmer, and safer now.  One last descent and then a final dash through a swollen stream (nobody makes it all the way without having to use feet), and we are the village of Yolosa.  Time for Chino's Beer Shack -- home of some of the world's most welcome beer, and some of the worst toilets.  One of our lighthearted moments following is spent wondering what the postal address might be,  for the handful of occupants that have maintained residences along this stretch of hell ?  But we have survived the Road of Death !

A dozen of us (me being the oldest), elect to move on to a excursion option known as "The Flying Fox."  We are told it is "only 15 minutes further.  That there are hot showers.  And a pool."  You get told a lot of things like that, in South America.  At 500 meters downhill, and then 500 meters back, it is the longest jungle zipline ride in Bolivia.  Perhaps in South America. And certainly one of the longest in the world.  (Will make this short, the Road of Death has exhausted me).  A late lunch follows, and we are offered the opportunity to swim in the Lodge Pool.  It is very green.  And the showers are cold to lukewarm.  But it is an awesome ride! Across the jungle canopy, across the road, and across the face of a waterfall to our right.  Photo ops abound.  The equipment is top drawer, the instruction very careful, and nothing goes amiss.  Our return trip, follows the same torturous road we had spent an hour extra from Yalosa using to get to the Lodge.  Only now, it is at night.  The underpowered Toyota extended van, holds 15 people -- three of which are guides.  We get to follow the inside edge, or mountain side, this time.  When vehicles must pass, there is often backing to do.  Track is simply too narrow most of the time for a speedy progression by one vehicle, let alone two.  The cliff edge continues to instill shock and awe.  Occasional mushiness in the cliff shoulder, the observance of yet more crosses (even though we are past The Road of Death) and the angle of the slope continue to impress us.  Many fingers are crossed as we negotiate turn after turn.  Bladders begin to arrive at in nuclear terms is called "the point of critical mass."  Each bump, is an uncalculated bit of sadism.  But finally, we hit the New Road.  There are steady interruptions in the asphalt.  It takes four hours to climb 8000 feet to return to La Paz.  We should -- but do not, due to our fatigue -- contemplate the wisdom of riding at night in an overloaded ascending van, on some of the worst roads on earth, with drivers doubling as guides who are working a 7-day week and operating on only five to six hours of regular sleep nightly.  We arrive back at our hotels about 11 PM, exhausted, filthy, hungry, desperate for a shower, but exhilarated.

Next: Lima, Peru