The Death Road

La Paz to Coroico Valley, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,670 metres to 1,300 metres

“Out along the edges, Always where I burn to be

The further on the edge, The hotter the intensity…”

DANGER ZONE – Kenny Loggins

The brave three souls that were to embark on the bike ride to the Coroico Valley, were Glenn, Michael and yours truly. We had a brief understanding of what we were in for. Essentially, we would be starting at an insane height of 4,600 metres and riding our bikes down an extremely dangerous road, descending to 1,300 metres in the Coroico Valley over a distance of 64km. The road has deservedly attained notoriety for killing the most number of people (both locals and tourists) annually in Bolivia. Apparently the figures are well into the hundreds. More recently – in 2002 – a GAP Adventure tours mini-bus went over the roads-edge plummeting to the bottom of the valley and killing all occupants on board. Yes, we were absolutely nuts doing this ride!

We were collected at 8am from our hotel, and after paying the Tour Company we were soon on a small bus, packed with adrenaline junkies for the two and a half hour journey to the starting point of the ride. The bike ride company we were using was called Explore Bolivia – Downhill Madness. The latter was aptly named. Although the journey from La Paz to La Cumbre, the starting point of the ride, was probably no more than a hundred or so kilometres. Most of the journey was taken up driving through the labyrinthine streets of La Paz and its sprawling suburbs. Shortly after leaving outer La Paz, our bus pulled over and appeared to be queuing due to a police operated road block. After about twenty minutes, we worked out that the driver had pulled over of his own accord, in order that a Norwegian chap who was running late could catch up with the rest of the group.

Aside from this delay we arrived at the starting point without incident. Michael had brought along his GPS handheld and it recorded our altitude at 4,670 metres, which is just over 14,000 feet. Curiously I had done a sky dive three years earlier from an altitude of 12,000 feet. So this puts the altitude in true perspective. On leaving the bus we all braced ourselves for even less oxygen. Surprisingly, it felt no different to La Paz, although we may have felt differently if we had to do anything strenuous. We were soon issued with our biking gear including gloves, a helmet, a bright orange vest, protective pants (trousers if you’re a Brit) and naturally a mountain bike. Sun-screen was applied in copious amounts before we were finally ready to set off, but not before one final task, the ride briefing! We had three guides with us for the day’s adventure. Martin, a young German guy was our tour leader. There was also a local chap helping him out with urgent bike repairs, and finally the bus driver. Martin gave us the low-down on the downhill route.

We were pleased to learn that the road would be asphalt for the first 25km. While extremely steep, and the potential for maximum velocity was more than credible, it would appear that our only annoyances would be trucks, buses, dogs, a long tunnel, and a cocaine check point. The remaining 39km though would be gravel or worse. The worse included sheer drops of thousands of feet should you fail to negotiate the roadway, which at times would narrow, to only a few metres in width. The 39km stretch was undoubtedly the official start of the Road of Death. Yes we were absolute nut-bags doing this ride.

A short ride to the road-way and then through a gap in the top of the ridge, and the winding descending road opened up before us. It was pure exhilaration. The acceleration gain was incredible. Absolutely effortless! My only disappointment in the first five minutes was that I wasn’t familiar with the gears, and so didn’t achieve terminal velocity. However, after a quick stop to do a brake check, Martin pointed me in the right direction, and we were off again. The pace was that great that at one point I was pushing speeds of 60km/hr and there were people in our group going faster than that. After riding for no more than twenty minutes through some incredibly beautiful mountain scenery we arrived at the long tunnel. Apparently, seven riders were only allowed through at any one time. But given that there were about twenty of us, it was decided that we would bypass the tunnel by negotiating the rough track that detoured to the tunnels opposite side. I made it – just! I would have to say that this was one of the roughest sections of the ride, and I almost lost it when my front wheel nose-dived into a water-filled pothole.

Shaken a little and pondering what the actual Road of Death would be like, we set out again in the only direction we had signed up for – downhill. More electrifying effortless pace before we had to alight for the Cocaine Checkpoint. This is not a joke. It was actually a drug checkpoint. The Bolivian police monitor all traffic heading to and from the Coroico Valley. The reason for this is that coca is harvested in the valley. Given that the hard-narcotic cocaine is extracted from the leaves of this plant, the police are ensuring that no trucks are illegally transporting the plant into La Paz, or that no trucks are bringing in the necessary chemicals to make the drug. Our drugs of choice today were speed and adrenaline only, so we were allowed to pass through on foot without being stopped. The Checkpoint was almost like a small market for all the stalls that were set up there. Given the number of vehicles that are stopped here, there is a reasonable demand for food. All sorts of greasy, deep-fried Bolivian delights wafted through the checkpoint.

Back on the asphalt and plummeting again. The first 20km of the ride had literally flown by, but then we hit a section of the road that Martin had not informed us about. Believe it or not, in a ride called Downhill Madness there was a small climb involved. “FHM!” Despite it being our first hill and so our first serious exertion for the day, the altitude of 3,200 metres was still enough to have us panting and sweating profusely. Many of the riders in our group elected to walk the hill, but silly me wanting to complete the entire ride on the bike stuck it out. It was extremely difficult, but I made it. We were rewarded with a rest at the top and time for a snack.

Having admired the deep green valleys, watered, fed and now rested it was time to move on. The road had now levelled out a little so we were no longer being treated to an effortless rush. The road suddenly turned to gravel and then after another short rise we were at the start of the infamous Death Road. From the top of the rise, we could follow the now descending dirt road as it made its winding trail, hugging the valley wall like an interminable white line. In some ways the vista reminded me of Skipper’s Canyon, near Queenstown on the south island of New Zealand. Naturally, we had our photo taken at this point to prove that we had made it at least this far. Martin then gave us another safety briefing. We had only a short distance to go to Chuspipata, which was effectively a truck stop, after which we would face the most hazardous section of the road – the Corners of Death! The corners on the pass were so tight and narrow in parts that Martin volunteered to be our juggernaut for the day. He was required to go on ahead, and then call us through once he had ensured there was no traffic. After we had cleared the Corners of Death, it was relatively plain sailing. Just look out for the trucks, as a misguided turn at velocity may result in you attempting a parasail without a chute.

The precarious road to the Coroico Valley

The short stretch down to Chuspipata was steep and rugged, but manageable. A short stop to gain another perspective of the valley below and then into the Corners of Death. We all made it without incident. It was extremely formidable though. At one point, one of the corners was surely not more than three metres across. How trucks and buses could negotiate this beggared belief. The road after the corners of death, while still offering steep and blind corners was not half as bad, and in some places you were given ample opportunity to work up some speed. It’s funny, although we were riding on a road that was no more than four metres across, and above drops of thousands of feet, the danger didn’t seem to register with me, that is until we met some trucks on the road.

Michael and I had arrived at a blind corner behind two trucks. The trucks were clearly waiting for a vehicle coming the other way, although we couldn’t see it for dust. After waiting several minutes, a couple of other riders decided to carry on, Michael followed shortly after and then stopped just on the bend to wave me on through. He gestured for me to come forward and so off I went. As I was about to turn around the bend, there’s a truck coming straight for me. The only option I had was to quickly manoeuvre my bike and body between the two waiting trucks. I barely had breathing room, but thankfully I still was. I wasn’t going to finish up being mashed between two Bolivian trucks, so as soon as the oncoming truck had passed, I was off and apparently to the disdain of the waiting truck drivers. There was a volley of horn blasts and I’m sure some choice Bolivian words hurled in my direction. I was unfazed though, and was soon going hell for leather along the bumpy dusty surface.

I would like to say that that was the scariest experience I had on the ride, but it wasn’t. It would seem the most innocuous of situations can be perhaps the most precarious. I was cycling through another narrow stretch when an oncoming truck approached. I hopped off my bike and began walking it back up the road to find a spot that I could safely stand in, and so avoid the lorry. I couldn’t find such a spot, so I stood my ground. The truck passed within centimetres of my bike. I flinched a little as it passed and in doing so twisted my body giving me an ample view of the sheer drop below. Another couple of inches to my left and I was a gonna. Life in this case was indeed a veritable game of inches.

After that tickle with death, I carried on, and was a little more cautious around corners. The road became quite steep in parts again and extremely bumpy requiring you to raise your arse off the saddle, or so be jack hammered. This stretch despite being rough was thoroughly exhilarating. After we entered into another set of corners, we were greeted by the magnificent sight of a waterfall spilling over the cliff face to our right and over the road. This was the San Juan waterfall and our lunch stop. The tour bus and the remainder of the riders soon arrived and we then had a well earned rest in the now scorching sun. We had not noticed the sun at the start of the ride, but now that we were approaching 2,000 metres altitude the air had become warmer and the vegetation more akin to rain forest. It was actually very warm all of a sudden, so much so that a few of the riders stripped off and gained some welcome relief under the waterfall.

With lunch finished we were back on the road again. We literally had to ride through the waterfalls, but it was extremely refreshing. The only annoyance was the muddy road, which at times threatened to topple you. Soon after, the kinks in the road become less frequent and I recall long open swathes of road that allowed you to pick up bucket-loads of speed again. I passed Michael who had scored a puncture, so he was having to wait for the support-bus to get it repaired. I carried on as there wasn’t much I could do and I’m a heartless bastard. We could all have been forgiven for expecting the remainder of the ride to be like this, but that was not the case. The next 10km of the ride were extremely uncomfortable and tough. As the road levelled off, the path had become thick with red dust. It was so thick at one point that it was verging on sand and made riding through it difficult. But definitely the worst part of it was when a vehicle passed. A few kilometres into this section and we would loathe when a car, or worse, a truck passed. The passing vehicle left a pall of putrid red dust in its wake, making it impossible to continue, or risk going over the edge of a cliff. There was no respite for your lungs either. You had to cop it. Granted, Michael, Glen and I had booked this tour at the last minute and so were a little unprepared. We should have brought handkerchiefs, but given we did not have such a luxury we had to put up with the thick red dust coating our teeth and throat.

Out along the edge

Riding along the hot and dusty road was like riding the path to the gates of Hades itself. About three quarters of the way through it, my chain came off and I was thinking I would have to walk for a good while before the bus caught up with me. Fortunately for me, Vinnie, an Irish guy on our bike-ride, was a bit more mechanically minded than I. He had the chain back on within a couple of minutes and I was off again. I felt a bit stupid, having not paid attention to my dad as a kid. Thinking it was never going to end, we arrived at the Red Mountain Balcony, marking the end of the dusty stretch, but more importantly it gave a fantastic view of the Coroico Valley, with the town of Coroico in the distance beautifully nestled on the side of a mountain.

We waited here for the rest of the group and the bus. We were that parched that our tongues felt and resembled that of our shoes. After twenty minutes the bus arrived and so I was able to quench what seemed an unquenchable thirst. Martin informed us that it was about another 8km to the end of the road. Having heard this news, we were all eager to set off, and thankfully we did. The road began to wind in a welcome descent leaving the putrid dust flats for a more manageable meandering trail. I negotiated a couple of fords, drenching my boots in the process, before approaching the last hill. Buoyed by the approaching finish line, I put some extra effort into my riding. Going quite quickly down the hill, I passed a chap on the side of the road with a bike at his feet. He was imploring me to stop. Visions of being mugged, or worse, by a Bolivian cyclist feigning to need assistance, I hurtled headlong down the path ignoring the shouts of “AMIGOOOH! STOP!”

Before long, I had arrived in the town of Yolosa. Riding through Yolosa was like walking into a saloon in the American old west. The locals all stared at me, and despite the presence of some gringos this did not reassure me. But perhaps what was more peculiar was the lack of fellow bike-riders. Where could they all have possibly gone? I certainly wasn’t in the lead, and there were other riders who weren’t too far behind me. Some British tourists in the town told me that this was where the ride finished, but I was in disbelief for none of my group were anywhere to be seen. Racing thoughts and retracing my steps. “What if the crooked Bolivian cyclist was actually Martin’s assistant? OOPS!” I turned on my heels and began walking my bike back up the hill.

Envisioning a long bike ride back to La Paz, it wasn’t too long before the bus greeted me. Who should be accompanying him but the sinister Bolivian cyclist. For the next five minutes, I apologised profusely to the man as he lead me back down through Yolosa and then down a driveway to where the remaining bikes were. As it turned out, I had missed out on the last 100m metres of the ride. The last 100 metres involved hurtling down a goat-track, through a field, and then to a resort at the bottom. I had bypassed this, and literally had done a loop to the other side. So, it wasn’t as bad a gaff as what I thought it might have been. I entered the resort and rejoined Glenn, Michael and the rest of our Coroico Comrades. After recounting my tale, they all had a good chuckle. My face was caked in a layer of dust and dirt, my eyes were irritated to a red, rheumy pulp and my thirst was insatiable. I was so thirsty that I couldn’t bear to even look at the meal of spaghetti bolognaise that was set before me, much to the chagrin of the proprietor.

After admiring a couple of macaws and subsequently cleaning myself up as best I could, we boarded the bus, for perhaps the most frightening part of the day’s adventure. There was only one way in and out of Coroico, and that was back up the Death Road. As dusk approached, this was a little disconcerting. It was one thing to negotiate the road in the light… but in the dark was another proposition altogether. The worst part of it all was that your lives were in the hands of another. If the bus driver decided to go over the edge then as they say back home “you were a gonna”. At least when on your bike, if you went over the edge chances are, to some degree, it was your fault, but at least you were in control. The only saving grace as darkness took hold was that we could not see over the edge of the road. Our driver navigated the Death Road successfully, and the start of the sealed section was met with an enormous cheer. We arrived back in La Paz shortly after.

The three of us were absolutely shattered, but we quickly showered and set off to meet the rest of our Tucan Team to relay our adventure and catch up on the events of their La Paz orientation tour. Dinner was at the Marbella restaurant in downtown La Paz. We arrived to the applause of the group. Jane had requested of us the previous night, “Please don’t die!” Such was the faith of the rest of our group. An excited meal recounting our day and so too we learned about the relaxing orientation tour the rest of the group had done. I made the mistake of asking Margaret what she had done, and then a Helen piped up and said. She had her hair done, didn’t you notice. Doomed from the start! Perhaps I should have gone over a cliff after all. I certainly had gone over head first with that question. Our Friday night in La Paz was an early one and a little sad, for we had to say our goodbyes to Fiona and Paul. Two members of the Cusco Crew were gone. After our farewells we headed to the hotel to allow the old body some time to recover from the day’s physical exertions. Tomorrow would be another action packed day. We had an excursion arranged to La Paz’ Valle de la Luna and also to the peak of Mt Chacaltaya which stands at a gasping altitude of 5,400 metres. (16,200 feet)