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Published: March 24th 2005
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Cool painting
I have to resist buying art here If Buenos Aires was the party, La Paz was the morning after.
I wasn’t doing myself any favours coming off a massive night like that and not sleeping before my flights (BsAs - Santa Cruz, Santa Cruz - La Paz). The second leg was a bit surreal as I fought sleep and elderly Bolivian Hugo tried to give me advice in his broken English (“You will come back and I will buy you”).
Still, despite the nervous energy and the bitter cold on top of the mountain where the airport sits, I was able to appreciate the spectacle of descending from a dizzying height into the valley city of La Paz. I sat in the back of the battered taxi feeling like a marble that had just rolled over the lip of the hill. The city is an amazing sight after dark and we rolled around and around and down into the centre.
I woke up in my hostel confused at the bright light outside and the 21:30 readout on my watch. Had I slept for 24 hours? I could easily believe that. It was a bit embarrassing having to ask the hotel dude whether it was day
Bolivians are grouchy!
OK. I realise that I need to learn more before I make stupid sweeping statements. or night when it was so obviously day. With that resolved and a day “gained”, I fixed my watch and headed out into La Paz.
I have been fighting this feeling since those first moments, but I took an immediate dislike to the city. I think it is just that we don’t understand each other yet and it doesn’t help that I was spoiled rotten by the amazing warmth of the Porteños.
The people here could not be more of a contrast. Admittedly, there are many good reasons for them to hide their smiles. The crushing poverty, the struggle up and down amazingly steep streets, the fact that you disappear in a cloud of smoke like a crappy magician when a car goes past, people competing with roving dogs to go through the garbage at night, the incessant beeping of horns for no apparent reason, people urinating anywhere and everywhere, the speed-shouting touts from the windows of minivan taxis, did I mention the crushing poverty?
This country has been raped and pillaged by it’s neighbours. Amid a series of lost wars they have had their coastline “stolen”, massive tracts of potentially valuable rainforest snatched away and more
Ed the corruptor
Will hopefully see you in Cusco for more of the same mate. government changes than any other place on earth.
So who am I to call them grouchy? I am sure that I will see the real Bolivia and start to understand it before I depart.
After hearing horror stories about altitude sickness from travellers in Buenos Aires (three days sick in bed for some that I met), I was prepared for the worst and was very cautious on my first day. However, apart from puffing heavily after climbing even the smallest flight of stairs, I escaped any ill effects with another dose of that luck that is following me everywhere.
A crazy Australian appeared in my hostel and it was off to lunch for a fascinating lesson on boomerangs (he is a professional instructor) and a one-way discussion about his plans to go and buy some coke later.
Getting lost in the city later that night (on my way to dinner with a sound British fellow by the name of Ed) was a chance to meet another little travel angel. Little Bolivian Barbara overheard me asking yet another taxi if they knew where the restaurant was and she plucked me from the crowd to give me
Splish Splash BZZZT!
You have to be kidding me. Electrical hot water heating. a personal escort to my well-hidden destination. We had a good discussion about why everyone seemed so hard-faced in the city and I was glad to see that it wasn´t just me that thought so. (Thanks for your help Balicita! :-)
All of the literature recommends sedate activity and avoiding alcohol for the first 48hrs. I had really good intentions until I met up with Ed for a steak dinner and he quickly corrupted me, convincing me away from small cautious beers and onto the local stuff. Several large beers later I announced to him that I thought I could “smell the absence of smell”.
OK Alex, time for bed.
This aversion to the city and that odd lingering smell pushed me towards the well worn and scary path that is: (fanfare) “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”. I signed my life away (plus some additional insurance policies) and was bundled off at an ungodly hour of the morning to the very top of La Cumbre in a bus with flames down the side and mountain bikes racked up on top.
After the briefest of safety talks we made an alcohol offering to Pachamama (Mother Earth) which
Street level
The city sprawls out on all sides and gradually gets higher and poorer. was poured over the front tyre of each bike and then swigged (Ouch! Ooo…It burns). Then we were off. Freezing, layered in thermals and bombing down an almost empty ashphalt road through clouds clinging to the top of the mountains.
After this frozen descent and a few stops to shed layers and check the bikes, we reached the dangerous part (a few of us were surprised as we thought that we were already on it).
The road evaporates into an incredibly bumpy goat track wide enough for one truck. In parts it is just barely wide enough for two but, for the most part, it is reeeally narrow. The “road” clings to the side of the mountain and we were all interested to hear that we were required to stay as far left as possible (on the edge) for the descent. We paused for a snack and a chat about the number of people that have died doing exactly what we were about to do and then it was off down the road, bouncing and swearing and wondering aloud why we were there.
A lead pack of German nutters quickly established itself and we all spent the next
Death Bus
It´s all in the attitude. few hours (you descend 10,000 feet) trying to keep up with their cracking, suicidal pace. In retrospect, I love the fact that they were going so fast. I pushed myself much harder than I would have otherwise and had an amazing, scary, ride. I actually expected that the whole concept would be a fair bit of hype but it was every bit as dangerous as they had promised.
After an hour or so we were invincible, overtaking trucks on the inside at 60kmph through tiny, stupid gaps and whooping with pure fear and adrenaline when we skidded and managed to avoid the looming void on the other side.
It was pure madness. Now that I look back, I really feel like I got away with something and I would never, ever, do it again.
Another bonus delivered by the flying vanguard of Germans (we later found out that they ride a lot and they were horrified and amazed that they had been up there sharing that road with “beginners”) was that I was continually cut off from both the front and rear group and did a lot of the day on my own. I felt a strange,
Me in the clouds
Was about to get serious.. empty and peaceful sort of feeling after repeatedly missing the edge and being missed by trucks for hours. As I levelled out on a lonely stretch, a condor drifted up over the lip and floated above me for a while. That was pretty cool.
It was also a pretty good indication of how high up I was.
By the time we reached the bottom of the valley, we were filthy, exhausted, and grinning stupidly. The air was warm and tropical and it was time for beers and a swim at the hotel/resort in Coroico.
More photos here: (not many of me but good views of the group in action).
http://www.shutterfly.com/pro/GravityBolivia/March2005/20050323 (Password: Photos)
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