“Where the hell are we? “ I ask.
Our destination is the Bolivian city of La Paz. It’s mid-day and unbelievably hot.
Ancient buses and trucks spew clouds of diesel - polluting what little air there is left to breathe. Irritatingly, a bus veers in front of our bikes and the passengers alight. We stop and start a dozen times - swearing, dodging potholes, mangy dogs and unsuspecting pedestrians.
Exasperated, I complain - “We’re definitely lost.”
El Alto is a manic lively city - 4150 metres above sea level. It is perched on the rim of a canyon where the city of La Paz nestles. Unfortunately, today is market day and the streets are bustling with merchants selling every imaginable commodity - second hand clothes, chickens, an assortment of fruit, fresh vegetables, plastic buckets and pigs on a spit.
We negotiate several crossroads and traffic laden roundabouts before locating the elusive autopista. Ignoring the “no cycling” sign we proceed to cycle cautiously down the bus lane. Our hands never leave the brakes as we sweep down switch back after switch back for an incredible 11 kilometres into the city of La Paz.
We almost overshoot our recommended accommodation - “The Adventure Brew Hostel” is owned by a fellow Kiwi and his wife. Tonight we will be living in luxury - the hostel is immaculately clean, has cable television, a bar, restaurant, free home brew and English speaking travelers.
“I’m not entirely sure I’m up to this ride” I nervously suggest that night over dinner. “I’m definitely too old”.
The “World’s Most Dangerous Road” has earned its reputation because it plunges 3,000 metres. 100 deaths are supposedly reported annually.
“The cost of a tour is well outside of our budget”
“Nonsense, we’ll organise everything ourselves and save heaps” says my money conscious husband.
“Right. I‘ll consider it overnight.”
At dawn we hail a taxi outside our hostel. The driver is ecstatic to secure an early morning fare. He whistles as he loads both bikes on to the roof of his battered Toyota. We climb slowly uphill over La Paz’s steep cobbled narrow streets until we encounter a police blockade. A sombre looking policeman saunters over, gives us a cursory glance and motions to our driver to follow him, whereupon he suggests we pay a “fine“.
“It’s good to see corruption is still alive in Bolivia” mutters Brian as he opens his wallet.
Eventually, sleepy La Paz is barely visible. As we climb towards the wind-swept summit of La Cumbre our mouths become increasingly dry and the landscape rugged. Our adventure begins at 4700 metres in fog and cloud. The plateau is freezing - La Cumbre is surrounded by unclimbed glaciated peaks and icy lakes.
“Man, this is desolate and windswept” I say pulling on another layer of merino wool and a second pair of gloves.
I am feeling just a tiny bit nervous - Brian complains of an altitude induced headache and my nose begins to bleed.
The driver unloads the bikes, shakes our hands and points to a sealed road. Reassuringly, he crosses himself at the statue of Christ. Several tour groups huddle together as they listen to last minute instructions from their guides. All around us Alpacas graze under dramatic snow covered peaks. Brian checks brakes and tire pressure. We watch the taxi depart, and then…. We’re off!
We endure a rapid descend for 15 kilometres - it’s a vista of twisting asphalt, spectacular drops and imposing cliff faces. We take the time to stop - catch our breath, take photographs and admire the majesty of the Andes. Finally, we race through a tunnel, having dropped nearly 1,600 metres in altitude to emerge at the ramshackle “Undauvi” checkpoint.
Here our downhill run is interrupted by a brief undulating 8 kilometre uphill ride. At over 3,000 metres we both struggle for oxygen. There is another 20 kilometre downhill section until the asphalt ends and our tyres skid on the gravel. Vultures circle overhead and our eyes stream. Bleak Andean landscape mellows to become a wide yawning valley clothed in dense lush forest.
At last, we enter the tranquillity of the jungle itself. This is the start of “the World’s Most Dangerous Road” and will be the most challenging part of our ride.
I stare ahead - a narrow dirt road slices precariously into the side of the mountain.
“Hmm, this road is barely wide enough for one vehicle to pass let alone two.”
Surrounded by mist and cloud my aching hands lock both brakes. I glance nervously over 1,000 metre sheer drops to my left as I negotiate cascading waterfalls to my right. The bike slips frequently on wet loose stones. I peer around blind corners anticipating the worst. Focusing on the road I pretend to ignore the reminders of death as I pass several crosses, shrines and memorials.
“I am definitely out of my comfort zone here. Thankfully the majority of traffic uses the new road nowadays.”
Our ride becomes increasingly difficult - the rutted road is dusty and hard work. We smile in sympathy - a professional guide has crashed metres ahead of us. He picks himself up from the rock-strewn road. Thankfully, his injuries are minor - we watch as he limps towards his damaged bike; his pride in tatters.
After some 68 kilometres of cycling through thick jungle we’ve shed most of our clothes to arrive in the Beni lowlands - sunburnt and in short sleeves. Tropical fruits, coffee and coca grow here year round.
Tired, hot, dirty, yet exhilarated, we finally arrive at the shantytown of Yolosa. It’s a hectic little town where we are quickly set upon by locals selling much welcomed cold drinks, bread, fried chips, chocolate and fruit. After stowing the bikes in the hold, we board one of the many buses travelling to La Paz. The journey takes around two hours and we arrive at dusk - it has been a very long day.
Exhausted, we push our cycles up the steep cobblestone back streets of this fascinating city.
That evening over a free beer or two we toast ourselves - Grandma and Granddad survived the “World’s Most Dangerous Road” and boy did we have fun!
