Learning to ride a bike on Death Road, Bolivia

With the recent end of the Tour de France, it seems befitting that I post about my own personal cycling challenge.

When we were planning our trip to Bolivia last year, one standout adventure presented itself again and again and refused to be ignored: cycling down “the world’s most dangerous road“, better known as Death Road, Bolivia. It’s a notorious stretch of road, responsible for numerous deaths every single year – a few of which are invariably foreign tourists hurtling over the cliff edges.

I first heard about this road about 8 years ago, when my friend Tim and his family took a trip to the Bolivian Amazon to visit his sister and her new baby. His sister had been travelling through Bolivia when she met and fell in love with a local Bolivian Amazon tour guide. A year later, Tim and his family followed suit, arriving in Bolivia to accompany his sister and her new family’s maiden trip home to Sydney. Unfortunately they’d arrived just at the start of the wet season and a week of solid rain transformed the rudimentary dirt airstrip into a shallow lake so they had to travel via Death Road instead. His harrowing recollection of how their one-eyed van driver swerved along the winding, narrow foggy road was permanently seared onto my brain, especially envisioning Tim and his entire family – all three generations cooped up in that van silently holding hands and praying.

But in the last eight years, road, tour and bicycle standards have improved dramatically and plenty of cyclists have since made the trip descending from icy, barren, mountainous 5000m+ heights down to humid tropical forests; navigating sharp hairpin turns on loose gravel roads with sheer 900m cliff drops… sounds about as safe as bobbing for apples in a razor blade bath.

Oh – did I mention I don’t actually know how to ride a bike?

I should clarify this important point. The Co-pilot asked me – you’ve ridden a bike, right? Well, technically yes, but having ridden a small child’s bike complete with bell and basket when you’re 8 does not make for good Death Road training. I steadfastly refused to entertain the option of cycling down Death Road, but “no” doesn’t simply mean “no” to the Co-pilot. Ever the optimist, the Co-pilot was committed to making this adventure happen and whenever we were in the vicinity of a proper bike, I was put to training on it.

Fast forward a few months and a mere 2 hours of basic bike riding training later, I stood with the Co-pilot at the office of Barro Biking in La Paz. I was a million light years away from feeling confident, but I was feeling an acute sense of partner pressure. The Co-pilot was infallible in his positive encouragement and support, letting him down at this point would have been like kicking a puppy. So with a whimper I signed myself up for Death Road.

The next morning, along with the English boys we met on the Uyuni salt flat tour we were ferried up to the start of the Death Road cycling tour at Cumbre, at 4670m above sea level. We were given a briefing on what to expect and are told to stay behind the guides, not be competitive and never try to overtake dangerously – as that’s when accidents have happened in the past. We put on our safety gear and it’s clear that even though I’d indicated I’d need size small, they provided size ridiculous gear. Dwarfed by my unflattering layers, we saw the return of Bao, the small androgynous Vietnamese child I seem to transform into whenever I don a helmet.

With a quick re-assurance that we’d always have guides flanking the front and rear, and if things ever got too tough or hairy the van trailing the group was always welcome, we set off down Death Road. The first section was 20km long and it was smooth, paved and quick. It made for a perfect start allowing me to calm my nerves, get comfortable with riding my bike whilst taking in the arresting view of the sharp, craggy Andean mountains that loomed around us.

Just when I started to get comfortable riding the bike and negotiating my way around speeding semi-trailers, we reached the start of the Death Road proper at Unduavi. The remaining 45km descent would be un-paved, loose-gravelled, nail-biting joy.

I took a few tentative steps on the gravel and found my handlebars wobbling and my bike sliding. My pre-Death Road training hadn’t included gravel – let alone 3 metre wide gravel roads with 900m cliff drops shared with speeding vans. The Co-pilot was alarmed and changed tack quickly, moving to flank the side of me closest to the cliff edge. His strategic rationale was simple:

“If you start to lose control and stray towards the cliff edge, I’ll ram us both into the cliff wall. We might get hurt, but at least we won’t plunge off the edge.”

Oh, romantic odes of love. It may not sound very romantic to you, but it warmed my timid heart.

And so we set off on the new terrain, trailing at the back of the pack whilst I learned how to ride on gravel. Every now and then I’d hear the wondrous exclamations of the Co-pilot, marvelling at the view. I’d give a cursory glance then focus my burning attention on the road immediately before my handlebars, my arms involuntarily locked in a straight and stiff position the entire time – much like in the photo below really.

At iconic points in the descent, we’d take a break and strike poses next to the cliff edges. I’m sure this photo alone would have voided my travel insurance policy.

But that pose wasn’t enough to please our guides. We stopped again where the cliff drop was more leg-shakingly impressive and after the group photo, had us one by one, wheel our bikes as close to the edge as we dared, raise the front handlebars and pretend to launch off the cliff. This is of course went against every sensible sane self-preservation focused cell in my body. I couldn’t trust my limbs, brain and knees to coordinate the pose and not actually accidentally stumble off the cliff.

The Co-pilot was so keen on capturing the depth perspective before us that he runs back to get a better photo across the valley. What he does get is a shot of us all taken by surprise by the speeding 4×4 rocketing around the blind corner – it seemed that like the Co-pilot, our guide was more focused on taking group photos of us and not sufficiently warning us about the vehicles threatening to take us out! But, also like the Co-pilot, he took this in his stride and seemed pretty unfazed by the prospect of having fragile human flesh colliding with speeding metal.

If the breaks for photo sessions, threatening vehicles and narrow roads the dropped off into oblivion weren’t distraction enough – there were of course, the breathtaking views – lofty clouds straddling mountains, sunlight scattering off tumbling waterfalls, multitudes of crosses, flowers and memorials to those that have lost their lives on the track… A morbid and sobering reminder.

Not that I needed it. I was in so much pain I wasn’t in any state to see let alone enjoy these views. We were nearing the end of the 65km ride at this point, but I was still petrified, had a permanent expression of mixed intense concentration and horror on my face and was whimpering not so quietly the entire way. I’d ridden with the front and back brakes on the whole way down and had weeping, broken blisters on my palms as a result; my rear was impossibly raw from 4 hours of bumpy gravel assault; and my arms were so sore from bracing they were begging to be gnawed off.

Holding onto the brakes hurt my blistered hands, so I gave up, stopped holding onto the brakes and just let gravity take over. The Co-pilot mistook my strategy as cycling confidence and prowess and crowed proudly when I flew down the gravelly roads with abandon, whizzing past him at high speed. I was just hoping that when I reached sharp turns and corners, I had enough strength left to squeeze those brakes when it counted.

Finally, after 65 km and 4 hours we arrived in Yolosa. We’d descended a total of 2170m from Cumbre at 4670m down to Yolosa at 2500m.

I cannot properly express the feeling of elation that coursed through me. It was a giddy explosion of endorphins mixed with an intense, almost spiritual relief that I was alive!

It’s definitely the highlight of our South America trip so far and possibly the scariest, most exhiliarating thing I’ll ever do in my life, and in retrospect it is possibly the stupidest thing I’ll ever do too. Especially when I considered that in preparation I’d ridden a bike twice in the last 20 years for about 1 hour each time, had never ridden on gravel, never ridden quickly, and definitely never done mountain biking. So essentially, I learnt to ride a mountain bike on the world’s most dangerous road, with the road being about a maximum of 3m wide with 900m sheer cliff drops. It also didn’t help that the Co-pilot later admitted that he wasn’t convinced I would actually complete Death Road, but still felt compelled to encourage me to continue riding. I’m still not sure whether I class that as blind optimism or sadism.

We bundled into the van and were ferried up steep cobble stoned streets past quaint colourful houses to Coroico. There we showered, lunched, swam in the pool and settled back with a very well-deserved cold beer to admire the view from our high vantage point back onto Death Road.

The late afternoon sun was the cue for ominous clouds to creep over the mountain peaks and fill the valleys with soft, fluffy white peaks. The guides and van driver developed a sense of nervous urgency when they saw this and ushered us all back into the van for the drive back to La Paz.

I didn’t think it was possible, but the van ride back up Death Road was almost more blood-drainingly terrifying. I felt the road wasn’t wide enough for a bike let alone a mini bus. Our driver raced around sharp corners so quickly we’d all gasp involuntarily and simultaneously pray there wasn’t another van racing around the same corner in the opposite direction. All the while our van driver was disturbingly jovial and calm about racing along that road – conveniently ignoring the fact that at points our van wheels were right at the cliff edge and that we could see straight down into the valley. The most nauseating parts were when we had to negotiate those narrow roads to pass other vehicles – Death Road is definitely not wide enough to be a 2 way road!

We ascended the last section of road shrouded in mist and fog so thick the driver couldn’t see more than 2m in front, but still felt compelled to overtake slower vehicles. The English lads and the other cyclists on our tour didn’t seem daunted about heading down Death Road, but faced with a lack of control over their own safety and destiny in that van – silence descended and enveloped us all like the mist around us.

Thankfully, despite my pessimistic fears, we arrived back in La Paz in one piece. We were all utterly spent and exhausted but found enough strength to meet up with the English boys for dinner. They’d seen an Indian restaurant claiming to serve British Indian food and having been away from home for a month already were desperate to satisfy their cravings for good Indian fare. So off to The Star of India we went. Once there we spotted a sign claiming the restaurant had “the world’s hottest vindaloo”. What happened next was like watching a scene of male specimens on National Geographic – three of the English boys decided to dare the fourth, Tom, to order the dish. A few jibes and thinly veiled suggestions later, predictably, he resolutely ordered it. The Co-pilot followed suit on the theory that South American food isn’t particularly spicy, so what Bolivians consider spicy should be fairly mild for us.

We were so wrong. A spoonful rendered both Tom and the Co-pilot red and speechless, pulling faces, sucking in sharp mouthfuls of cool air, and reaching for the relief of their milky lassis.  The other English boys were in fits of laughter and egged them on. Over the painful course of the meal, the Co-pilot demolished most of the vindaloo whereas Tom threw in his towel early and admitted defeat, claiming that if he’d finished the dish, death was the inevitable outcome. The Co-pilot reached his limit with a few spoonfuls to share and hid the remainder in the hollowed out naan, beneath the rice and beneath everybody’s leftovers. All that effort just for male pride and an ill-fitting t-shirt.

We later find out from the highly amused restaurant staff that each vindaloo contains 40 long red Bolivian Carajo chillis from the foothills of the Cordillera Real – seeds and all, and 2 tablespoons each of red and black chilli powder.

The rest of the meal was fairly bog-standard Indian diner fare – nothing special but no complaints either – and since for the six of us, it cost a mere 455 Bs in total or $70AUD, $12 pp it seemed fair.

With surprisingly high spirits after our big adventure and our bellies full of rich, oily, spicy protein we decided to visit the local bar/club, Mongo’s for a few drinks. A few unintended bottles of vodka later we stumbled home in the early hours of the morning.

The next day, not morning, but day, I nursed a devastating hangover and I painfully discovered another side effect of the high altitude – it enhances the effect of alcohol and the hangover thereafter. Although I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed, we were determined to get out and not waste the day. I am not exaggerating when I say it took me an eternity to make it up those steep cobble stoned streets in La Paz. It was an ironic sign when I slowly crawled past the Alcoholicos Anonimos clinic to get to Al Amir for a Middle Eastern lunch.

Even in my severely hungover state, the spread that we ordered looked delicious. Unfortunately it was hit-and-miss. The tabouleh was fresh, the dressing tangy, salty and the perfect thing for my tender stomach. The shish kebab was also tasty with a powerful hit of lemony yoghurt and tahini sauce. But the falafel were rock hard and stone cold; the babaganoush lacked smokiness; and the hommus was sweet and unappetising. Though I didn’t stomach much of it, it was 60 Bs or about $9AUD, so made for a nice cheap change from the usual flavours of the South American fare we’d been experiencing.

Our original plan was to catch the last plane of the day to Rurrenabaque to start our tour of the Amazon, but after a frustrating hour long delay at the airport and watching the ground crew load then unload our luggage from the plane, our flight was cancelled as it was too hot. It was only 18 degrees C. La Paz is already at such a high altitude and the runway so short that a few degrees of heat affects the thin air and the air molecules within enough to create the difference between flying or being grounded. But this is South America, and travellers take delays and cancellations in their stride. We met a couple that had their flight cancelled 3 days in a row. With this knowledge, we headed back to the city in the hope the next day’s flight would be more successful.

To treat ourselves, we decided to head to dinner at La Comedie, a quirky up-market cafe and art gallery. The clientele are mostly foreigners – either tourists or expats, but it was a cosy, buzzing atmosphere inside. The Salad La Comedie hit where the Dali salad missed. Poached pheasant’s eggs were soft and fluffy like buffalo mozzarella, the smoked duck breast so rich, oily, smoky and savoury.  It was an unusual combination of ingredients – but very enjoyable.

For our mains I ordered the pork ribs and the Co-pilot ordered the duck legs in 3 pepper sauce. Both were so salty they were bordering on inedible. My pork ribs were also overcooked and mouth-sappingly dry and the evidence of “3 peppers” in the Co-pilot’s duck legs was a mystery as it was neither peppery nor spicy. It perhaps should have been called duck legs in cream sauce. We also ordered the potato gratin as a side and it was, predictably now, too salty, rich and heavy. The potato drowned under a layer of cream and almost plastic-like cheese.

A shame about the saltiness because the dishes held promise and were very generous. All up our meal and drinks cost us 197 Bs or $30AUD. The other downside was that patrons are allowed to smoke inside the restaurant, and smoke they did. The chimney stacks on either side of our table were so productive I was surprised I couldn’t taste cigarettes in my dishes!

At this point, we were starting to really doubt whether we could find and enjoy a single good meal whilst we were in Bolivia.

On our last day in La Paz we had just enough time to fit in lunch before we headed off for the airport for take 2 of our attempt to get to the Amazon. We chose to go to Restaurant Cebichon, a small non-descript place specialising in ceviche.

And we finally found a place in Bolivia that served us a meal we were satisfied with. Despite being in a landlocked country far from the sea, we watched locals chowing down healthily into large plates of ceviche. It looked so enviably delicious that we took a risk and both ordered the cebiche de la case or house ceviche containing fish, octopus, mussels and prawns in a slightly spicy lime drenched sauce, served with a side of cooked yuca root and pumpkin. It wasn’t the best ceviche we’ve ever had (that was in Panama), but it was fantastic!

I also ordered the supa marinada, the marinara soup, and we were so glad for it. The soup had a brilliant orange colour and it was obvious there had been lots of crustacean shells in the making of this glorious soup. It was crammed with diced octopus, langoustines, oysters, onions, yuca and herbs. The flavour was fantastically good, the seafood flavour so rich, creamy, and I so wished we’d found this place sooner. But better late than never, and we left La Paz with our bellies full and lazy smiles on our faces.

Luck was on our side and the conditions were in our favour. We were off to the Amazon!

In the next South American post – the animals of the Amazon, swimming with cayman and fishing for piranhas…

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Addresses:

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Barro Biking

Sagarnaga Street, No. 288 galeria las brujas local 10, La Paz, Bolivia

Tel: 2315526; mobile phone: 73510270; email: barr...@gmail.com

Package: We paid 520 Bs each (about $80AUD) for the Death Road tour – included in the price is hire of a new Trek 4500 double suspension bike; all safety gear, gloves and helmet; snacks; drinks; lunch at Coroico and return transport to La Paz. Have an extra 25 Bs per person handy for the toll fee which isn’t included in the tour price.

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The Star of India

Calle Cochabamba, No. 170, La Paz

Tel: 2-2114409

Foodie in the know: one of the few places that offer delivery to hostels. The World’s Hottest Vindaloo dish cost 40 Bs and those who finish it get a free “survivor’s” t-shirt.

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Mongo’s

Calle Manchego, No, 2444

Open 6pm – 3:30am

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Al Amir

Calle Murillo, No. 824, La Paz

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La Comedie

Pasaje Medinacelli, No. 2234, Sopocachi, La Paz

Open for lunch and dinner from Mon- Fri; dinner on Saturday.

Tel: 2423561

www.lacomedie-lapaz.com

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Restaurant Cebichon

Calle Murillo near Calle Sagarnaga

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Tagged as: bike, Bolivia, cycling, Death Road, La Paz, South America