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Published: December 11th 2007
Death Road
Grave of a french girl who fell off the road when cycling 2 years ago... one of many fatalitiesThe moment I had been waiting for arrived! Mountain biking down the world´s most dangerous road in Bolivia is one of the things I have been looking forward to most on this trip. Safe in the knowledge that Kate would keep her promise to her parents not to go, I was released from any possible escorting duties, and I could go at whatever pace I was comfortable at (...fast).
We met up in Cafe La Teraza in La Paz at 7.30am and hopped on the bus for a quick 1 hour trip to the top of the mountain, where we were kitted out with our equiptment and bikes. The reason I chose to go with Gravity tours was the quality of their bikes; I was on a $2,500 Kona full-suspension downhill bike. With six inches of travel front and rear it was incredably forgiving, meaning I didn´t have to concentrate too hard on avoiding big rocks, and could divert my attention to not riding off the cliff.
Kate came along in the van, and took pictures of the incredible scenery which I was not at liberty to enjoy! With pep-talk ringing in our ears, we headed off in very
Death Road
Mark at La Cumbre toasting the Pachamama with 96% alcohol! cold conditions with sleet falling. The first section is wide tarmac road, where we got to get a feel for the bikes. The gears were downsized on all the bikes such that the guests can't go too fast, so this section was all about freewheeling. Myself and another English chap made it towards the front, following the lead guide. We were both crouching down over the handlebars making ourselves as aerodynamic as possible, as the lack of gears and big chunky off-road tyres did their best to slow our progress. With numb hands we passed through a drugs checkpoint where the FELCN (Bolivian police) were keeping an eye out for anything that is used to make cocaine, such as vats of sulphuric acid. The next stop was a town which is infamous as all of its 23 buildings are trout restaurants!
We headed on with trepidation to the off road section, and The World´s Most Dangerous Road began. Since splashing out on a new road from La Paz to Coroico, TWMDR has become alot safer, as practically no traffic uses it anymore. Downhill traffic drives on the outside because should vehicles have to pass, that driver would be able
Death Road
La Cumbre, toasting Pachamama
to lean out his window and see how close his wheels are to the edge. This meant that we also had to ride on the "cliff-side" of the road. It was a real adrenaline rush biking down with 400m drops to my left, sometimes only being 2 feet from oblivion. My pace was just slower than the guide and aforementioned English man, who used to race downhill back in the UK. I was happy to eat their dust as they caught air off rocks and slammed on the rear disc brake, skidding skilfully. We stopped for lunch, and stripped off down to shorts and t-shirts, as it was now really hot. With a full belly, we headed past the crucifixes of the less fortunate. One was in memory of a French girl who stepped off her bike on the wrong side, and fell to her death. A reminder to us all of just what we were doing. There were many similar stories that were fascinatingly morbid; they kept the attention where it needed to be...
The bottom section was less trecherous, still gravelly but wider (with less severe penalties for coming off the road) allowing us to carry a
bit more speed. Despite not having a speedometer on the bike, my personal record of 72 kph was never in danger!
We arrived in Coroico all in one piece, and I was exhilirated. It was one of the best things I have ever done, and it has me lusting after a new mountain bike! We ended up in an animal refuge where our lunch and hot showers were awaiting us. While we sat around enjoying our free beer, a monkey jumped onto the counter and started to drink one of the spare glasses of beer, much to the delight of onlookers and presumably himself.
From there it was on to our hostel in Coroico, La Cafetal, which is run by a French couple. Thankfully it had the best restaurant in town, so there was no need to leave. We had planned to lounge by the pool all the next day, but the weather thwarted our plans. Nonetheless, it was very pleasant surroundings to chill out in. Coroico is a pretty small town, so the most appealing diversion was going horseback riding. After a 30 minute uphill slog to to stables, we found nobody there to help us, so
trudged back on our own 4 feet. With a lack of entertainment we decided to head back to La Paz on Sunday morning, as we had seen a sign in Adventure Brew Hostel for "Cholita Wrestling", and we wanted in!
A Chola, or Cholita, is the traditional type of woman we have been posting manys a picture of on this blog so far. You know the type, bowler hat, massive puffy skirt...straight out of National Geographic. The idea of these women wrestling was too good to miss. We hopped on the bus laid on by the hostel, and headed up to El Alto, the suburb of La Paz on the altiplano, where 79% of its inhabitants are indiginous Aymara. In we piled to the shed/arena and took our ringside front-row gringo seats. There were about 5 warm up bouts featuring such megastars of wrestling as Spiderman, El Mask, Mister Atlas, El General.... Some of the combattants were a little old for it, pushing 60 by all appearances. Not wanting to incur the object-throwing wrath of the crowd, they did their best to put on a good show. Then the final tag-team match was worth the wait! We had the
mixed doubles of the wrestling world, beating lumps out of each other! I had my photo with one of the cholitas as she came around the ring at the start of the bout. The other was a complete psycho: on several occasions she grabbed big bottles of soft drinks from people in the crowd, and absolutely soaked any gringo she could get within range! She broke a chair over her male opponent's head, resulting in a face covered in blood (real blood, no WWF fake blood blisters here!) Twice the wrestlers piled into the crowd, much to the displeasure of one female traveller with glacial reflexes; she was the proud owner of a wrestler to the face...With a plastic drinks bottle to the wrestler's back, she had her revenge! It was fair to say complete carnage went on in and out of the ring much to the delight of the bloodthirsty Sunday crowd.
Barely able to believe our eyes, we headed on to Potosi that night on the overnight bus. Despite the bus breaking down and having to be bump-started at 2am by all able bodied males (your correspondent included) the trip went without a hitch. The reason we
were headed to Potosi is that there are famous mines there that have been in operation since the conquistadors, and they are a much loved tourist haunt. Unfortunately for Potosi, the only thing that is grown there is 4 foot Bolivians. No crops, no livestock, no coca. This means that the inhabitants are rather stuck for employment, and the mines are the only source of income for the town. Many mine because it is the only job available, and for most families mining is the tradition.
Tours are conducted by ex-miners who have learnt some English; our guide still works in the mines in low season. Famous for silver in the past, the main output is silver and lead, which is now obtained from ore (as the Spanairds plucked all decent lumps of silver out a long time ago). This means extracting massive amounts of rock for paltry amounts of metal. Forget modern mining methods involving hydraulic boring machines, concrete lined tunnels, ventilation, lighting or even management. The miners are all freelance, they break the rock on their own and then sell what they have to companies outside the mine that extract the minerals. 15,000 men work in 400
mines in the mountain at once. This results in no planning by geologists or engineers of where to dig. Experienced men lead informal groups who buy supplies together. All the miners have to provide their own equipment, including helmets, torches, shovels and dynamite (A group of 20 men will spend €400 a week on dynamite, a serious amount of money in Bolivia). There are 40 men a year killed by accidents, and countless more from the silicosis. It is estimated that 8 million indiginous men have died in the history of the mines, and many African slaves too.
Before the tour started, we passed through the miners market and got to buy presents of coca leaves, fizzy drinks and dynamite for the miners. They were delighted to recieve these token offerings. As they work for 10-12 hours per shift, the coca leaves help with the hunger as the miners do not eat during their shift (eating inside results in diahorrea). The saliva from the coca leaves helps lubricate their throats from the everpresent dust which they have no protection from. Most miners survive 10 working years in the mines, and then promptly die from silicosis of the lungs from
all the dust.
The tunnels are generally 4 foot high and 3 foot wide, just enough to get a cart on rails through. In some places space is more limited as we had to crawl on our hands and knees, fitting through 2 foot high tunnels, which was backbreaking. The mine we entered had 3 levels, and the hardest part was ascending back from the third level, crawling on all fours up a narrow tunnel no more than 2 foot high. The temperature was 30C inside, it was so hard to breathe from the altitude (4,200m), lack of proper ventilation, the air was full of dust, and we were breathing through masks. Our backs were aching, sweat running down our faces as the overalls we wore were roasting us. I can say it was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and I have never been so happy to see daylight at the end of the tunnel! I'm not sure I could do it again. How they do it for 12 hours a day astounds me.
There is also natural asbestos in the mines, and copper sulphate dripping from the rooves which we saw. We also
bought dynamite and ammonium nitrate (to boost the power of the explosion) for ourselves, for €1.70, which was blown up for us at the end of the tour outside the mine by the guides, which was awesome! The force of the blast rattled our lungs and eardrums. After that our guide Efra took us to a mineral processing plant, which resembled Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. There were vast vats and pools of brown chocolate looking liquid churning through machines of all sorts. Many of these processes use dangerous chemicals like mercury and cyanide, but the workers have little or no protection from them. It was really amazing to see how much suffering and hardship goes into getting a little shiny metal, and made me think twice about ever buying it. Would Potosi be better off without mining? Probably not...
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Bob
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What next!
Thought you and Kate were going to move into a less risky phase of the trip, but from the latest blog I see that you survived death by bike, death by boa, death by monkey spit, death from jealous husband of wrestling Cholita, playing with dynamite, rock falls, getting stuck underground, 96% alcohol, asphixiation, asbestos and cyanide. No wonder Dublin seems a bit slow....