El camino de la muerte
BOLIVIA: An old road with a reputation as the most dangerous in the world still attracts thrill seekers keen to test their mettle, or their madness, on a death defying descent on two wheels.
In thin Andean air, where circling condors block the sun momentarily, there stretches a thin vertiginous track called "El Camino de la Muerte" - the Death Road. It connects La Paz in Bolivia, the highest capital in the world, with Coroico, about 70 kilometres or 43 miles away. Forget asphalt and guardrails or any sort of safety barriers. This gravel scar was etched onto the mountainside by Paraguayan prisoners of war in the 1930s using picks and sweat.
The area is prone to landslides. Waterfalls appear out of the dense undergrowth above. Shallow streams cut across the single-lane road making it wet and greasy at times. Fog can be like a blindfold. Sheer cliffs of 1,000 metres and more covered in thick vegetation fall abruptly away from the road’s edge. The more perilous bends bear spikes of ghostly crosses, testaments to past fatalities.
When it was open to the public, an average 26 vehicles would go over the edge annually. In one tragic incident, a flatbed truck with over 100 Bolivianos crammed on board came to grief in 1983. The government built a replacement road, which opened in 2007. But El Camino de la Muerte remains to this day, and tour operators, sensing an opportunity, have devised mountain bike adventures of an unused 50 km, one-way, downhill section.
Naturally I signed up for the long day trip from La Paz. And signed away any indemnity for misadventure. As did a bunch of young French, Belgium, Norwegian, German, Costa Rican and Bosnian adults; most in their 20s and mostly male. (3 out of 15 were female.) Many were wondering why a bearded older Australian man travelling solo would be along for such a ride. I think what they were most concerned about was that I’d hold up this group of intrepid young adventurers on the assumption of me being a slow and cautious rider.
The day starts with a dawn pickup at your La Paz lodgings. The minibus then crawls and screams as it ascends from the city’s chaotic sprawl. It eventually pulls over to a large clearing beside a lake, where a van and trailer full of mountain bikes and jumpsuits, like an aviator might wear, awaits. This marks the starting point of the ride. We were high on the altiplano now; the fierce wind stings your skin.
You find a suit and helmet and gloves and bike to fit. A Frenchman asks: “Does my bum look big in this?” You go for a quick test ride on a road off to the side. If something’s not quite right, get it seen to now. I swapped bikes; wasn’t happy with the brakes, which I assumed needed to be in fine working order given the hazardous descent that lay ahead.
Initially, we’re on bitumen for a bit. You’re meant to get a feel for the bike and the terrain and a sense of the ability of your fellow riders. There are tour leaders front and back, who dictate speed and stops, and tending to any mechanical or clothing adjustments. The mini bus that transported us, tails the group.
It was full speed from the get-go for most. Not sure what the hurry was. I did my best to keep up, leaning and tucking into the winding curves. In time though, it turns out I left quite a few of them in my wake, once I’d got confident with the bike and terrain.
As soon as we hit the dirt section, with its potholes and loose gravel, there was a stop for a group photo. I remember thinking at the time: “I hope the same number will be there for another group photo at the end of El Camino de la Muerte.”
I’m not a daredevil by nature, but I give most things ‘a go’. Bungee jumping, canyoning, flying into Lukla airport (Nepal, years before its upgrade), skiing the Vallee Blanche, eating fried tarantulas in Cambodia. And the rest.
None of those experiences come close to the thrill, exhilaration, fear, and adrenaline rush of that downhill dogfight on two wheels. We were racing. WTF? Arms jarred; knees creaked; thighs burned. And we’d only just begun.
About 20 minutes in, I stopped to make a seat adjustment. It needed to be higher. Then, on the few longer, straighter sections, I could rest in a tucked position and tear past others without pedalling. More control; more stability too. I guess those many late nights watching and learning about cycling aerodynamics from the Tour de France had taught me a thing or two.
After that, most other riders did the same at our next photo stop. They thanked me with high-5s at the end of the ride, and beers back in La Paz later that night. Sebastian from Belgium even shook my hand when I bid farewell, saying, “I’d like to think I’m still doing crazy shit at your age.”
Back at my hotel, some 18 hours later after being picked up at dawn, I got to thinking about that Death Road, and the thought occurred to me that it's not just a one-way thoroughfare for tourists to tick off their bucket list, but something else. It’s a stark reminder of human folly, of the thin line between civic courage and the engineering recklessness that went into its construction.
It’s also a stark reminder of the thin line between life and death, and high in the Andes mountains, that’s as thin as the air you breathe.