El Camino de la Muerte

Death Road, more formally known as Yungas Road, was built during Bolivia’s war with Paraguay between 1932-35 and for many years it was the only route linking northern Bolivia to La Paz, the capital. It got its name because in 1994 alone, 26 vehicles went over the edge.

The dirt road is narrow and although vehicles come from both directions, there are only a few parts wide enough for them pass. If you get caught in a narrow spot, well one of the drivers has to reverse until they reach a part of the road that is wide enough for one vehicle to edge closer to the cliff wall and other closer to the drop off, roughly 600m straight down. With a total of 61km in length, descending more than 3596m from the Andean mountains into the Amazonian jungle, this means that many of the drivers simply drive off the edge.

Apparently, before setting off, drivers pour libations of beer onto the road as an offering to Pachamama (mother earth), and feed the stray dogs, supposedly the souls of dead drivers. Although there is a new road, it is clear that drivers still use the old dirt track to cut time. An estimate of 200-300 travellers die along the road each year. The new road is yet to be completed though and it’s apparently costing quite a mint. It's hard to believe that the Bolivian government can afford such an extravagant project, what with the bridges, drainage system and guardrails.

Today, the old road is mostly used by tourists who have ironically made it quite a popular tourist destination. Herds of travel agencies flock the streets of La Paz claiming to be to the best company to "Mountain-bike the most dangerous road in the world", a title awarded to the Yungas road in 1995 by the Inter-American Development Bank. In the end, the travel agencies are all pretty much the same and the prices really depend on what kind of bicycle you feel safe using.

When we first arrived from La Paz in our fluoro bike shirts, elbow/shin guards and helmets, the flog lay heavy over the mountains and not much of the view could be seen. The beginning of the journey meant following the new tarmac camino until it broke away and the old camino lay awaiting. We were lucky it wasn’t rainy season and mud wasn't an issue for us.

The group travelled fast and anyone left too far behind would be scooped up in the van following us. It was hard to take note of the dramatically changing scenery for the mind had to be tense with concentration. This was dangerous stuff. One bad move and I too could go over the edge. Every now and then, the guide would stop and check on the group. We would inhale the spectacular beauty and set off again, through the waterfalls cascading onto the road and past the dormant crosses where someone had fallen to their peril.

“Remember, left hand is your front brake and right hand is your back brake. Be careful now. The rocks in this section are very loose.”

I knew it was going to happen before it happened. It kind of flashed before my eyes; the big rock mockingly in my way. I tried to brake softly but it was too sudden, too much on the front brake and I kind just somersaulted over it, landing hard on my left side. I screamed in agony. Perhaps a little too dramatically but at the time, I thought it seemed appropriate. My elbow guard had come loose and blood oozed from my skin. I could feel purple and yellow bruises having field day down from my hip to my knee.

I was fine, eventually. I was told to rest in the van for the next leg. I watched the rich green mountains pass me by and I felt envious of the others with tears flooding their eyes from the wind, bugs flying into their noses and mouths, and panting from the hard slog of the uphill parts. As soon as I could, I was back on the bike, slogging away with them as we twisted and turned, ascended and descended finally to the bottom. We throw off our shoes and vests in the damp heat. We had made it. It was like a whole different country down there. My lungs felt heavy after only just one day of altitude denying them of oxygen.

Driving back, we were held up by indigenous protestors. Having travelled from their village in the Amazon, they were slowly progressing towards to capital to rally against the plans to build a huge highway straight through the middle of the jungle, a venture to be paid by Brazil so that their cargo trucks could swiftly journey from one side of the continent to the other. In the end, the indigenous won.