A Piece of La Paz

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  La Paz, Bolivia
Monday, October 31, 2005

We left Uyuni for La Paz with a sigh of relief but boarded a frigid bus that deposited us for an hour and a half wait at 2:30 in the morning at Oruro, a large-ish city halfway between Uyuni and La Paz. The only bright side of this, from our perspective, is that we might be more likely to remember - perhaps albeit less than fondly - a city beginning with the letter "O" when the same is requested on the Sunday morning Denver Post geography quiz. Eventually, though, we wended our way through the oddities of Bolivian transport system (this includes our bus driver from Uyuni to Oruro purchasing tickets for us from Oruro onward but failing to communicate same. It also includes shelling out for "departure taxes" from the station, which the locals end-run by boarding half a block away, after the bus leaves the station... the drivers don't seem to object).

Regrettably, onward transport to La Paz was no warmer and perhaps less comfortable because the bus continued to stop, in the middle of the night, to let Bolivian travellers on the bus

A shot of La Paz and El Alto from our hotel

. At first, they were able to find seats, but the later arrivals could only find seats in the aisle and then, after the aisle began to fill, all of these late unfortunates were forced to stand, packed but drowsy. This arrangement was also regrettable for Steve, who maintained an excellent but taxing vigil over our belongings stuffed into overhead compartments. So when we rolled into El Alto, a low end district perched on a cliff overlooking La Paz, Steve had gotten no sleep and Cori had managed only fitfully. (Sooner or later, after we learn our lesson, we may, perhaps, cease to begin our entries in this manner. Then again, the prior sentence itself may represent a triumph of hope over experience).

We awoke to traffic choking main thoroughfares and back alleys alike. Given the type and level of commerce taking place on the street, we would've expected the streets to be blocked by mules, although we didn't spot any. But there may well have been - Bolivian women in their ubiquitous bowler hats hawked fruits and vegetables from stalls constructed of hay and plunked down on the sides of the streets, while others changed babies' diapers pretty much in the middle of the sidewalk. Given the state of the traffic, the bus driver announced that it was impossible to reach the station and abruptly stopped at the side of, as far as we could tell, a completely random street, insisting that everybody disembark

Cori in the lunar landscape of Valley of the Moon

. Accordingly, we were completely disoriented and wandered into a nearby hotel to seek some semblance of shelter and refuge from the chaos of the streets.

After haggling with the hotel owners, we came to the realization that we were fully 30 minutes away from the center of La Paz but centrally located within one of its poorest and least secure barrios. Annoyed with the bus driver, we reluctantly hopped in a nearby cab and instructed him to take us to the center, which ended up being one of our more fortuitous decisions: the view coming over the lip of the cliff was just breathtaking. The city spreads out from the trough of La Paz valley, with its sleek glassy high rises, and creeps up impossibly steep hills immediately surrounding the center. And, from the top of the plateau on which El Alto sits, we could see the city is surrounded on all sides more peripherally by 18,000 foot snowcapped mountains.

As the cab plunged down steep and curving streets, we lost our view but gained a sense for the labrynthine nature of most of La Paz, populated by vendors selling anything and everything on the side of the street or, on occasion, right in the middle of it. There are markets for everything - produce, breads, electronics, random gadgets, and there's even a witches' market, specializing in the sale of various accoutrements (llama fetuses and coca leaves, for example) to perform Quechua ceremonies honoring Pachamama, or mother earth

La Paz infrastructure

.

We arrived at Calle Saganarca, a backpacker hangout and home to a plenitude travel agencies, cheap alpaca goods stores, and laundry-internet shops. We walked hotel to hotel shopping for a good room at a good rate, until we inquired with one as to whether the area was dangerous. Nodding, the hotel employee communicated (and by this I mean through a combination of Spanish and charades) that local thieves had a nasty habit of bonking gringos over the head to arrange a transfer of their belongings. With that, we decided to book a room then and there, which actually turned out to be a good decision: the Diamante Azul, or the Blue Diamond, billed itself as a four star hotel (stars, however, are not necessarily an indicia of quality but rather of the number of amenities, however shabby, a particular facility boasts). In this case, though, we received a newly constructed private room with hot water, cable tv, a firm but comfortable bed, and daily breakfast for twenty dollars. So, for four days, we settled down in this comfortable little cocoon in La Paz.

During our stay, we awoke late, relaxed, attended to a few errands, and did a little sightseeing. We strolled the main avenue, 16 de Julio (why do so many countries name major thoroughfares after important dates, and why did a similar custom never catch on in the states?), or the "El Prado," which is the heart of business and commerce in La Paz - how could it fail to be since, after all, it is the site of both a United Colors of Benneton and a Burger King, both of which we really never expected to find anywhere in Bolivia? We bought a new wedding ring for Steven out of Bolivian silver, his original ring having eluded his finger somewhere in the thin and frosty air of the high Bolivian Altiplano (he is getting so skinny), and we even had it inscribed

One of the busy market streets in La Paz

. (As yet another digression, we should mention that while we failed to visit the silver mines of Potosi, Bolivia, we did learn that at the height of silver production under the Spanish, around 1650, more than 80,000 indigenous workers were enslaved, that Potosi had a larger population than Paris at that time, and that, under the Spanish, enough silver was mined to construct a bridge from La Paz to Madrid made entirely of silver. Our consciences were more or less assuaged with the purchase of the ring, however, when we learned the silver is now mined in a cooperative, although working conditions reputedly have not markedly improved since the departure of the Spanish.)

We also indulged in a tourist-saturated but entirely worthwhile and affordable bus tour of Laz Paz, a four hour voyage around most of the city's main landmarks. It included an English recorded explanation for each of the sites we drove past and a complimentary set of headphones, which we were free to take with us at the conclusion of the tour. Not having read up on Bolivian history, the recording, which spent some time describing the vicissitudes of Bolivian politics, shed some light on why the country might not be as advanced as its neighbors to the east and south.

Bolivia has been a country for not longer than 200 years, yet it has been governed by no fewer than 150 men during this time. Its first and most acclaimed president, Simon Bolivar, ruled for only 6 months before he was dismissed. One president ruled only for six hours. Moreover, military coups have dominated Bolivian political history, and democracy as a concept was introduced late (only for literate, landowning men) in the 1940's. At that point, the military junta called for free elections but, as the election day approached, the elite realized that its rule was threatened by all four opposition candidates

The amazing basin conurbation of La Paz

. So, concluding that free elections weren't really all that they were cracked up to be, the government took these men to a cliff several hours away from La Paz and pushed them off (more about this cliff later). Workers finally revolted from the quasi-fuedal system that kept them basically enslaved to the men who owned the land on which they lived in the 1950s, nationalizing mines, railways, and other industries largely owned by foreign investors. But this new socialist system didn't seem to stabilize the system much, if any; in the 50+ years since, the government has changed about as many times, and very few of these transfers of power have been bloodless. Truth be told, not knowing any of this history beforehand, we were reluctant to visit Bolivia just based on recent developments - the US state department had, for a time, warned travelers of spending time in Bolivia due to political instability caused by roadblocks set up by poor workers protesting one or another of the government's policies. And, in fact, while on the bus driving through some of the more affluent parts of La Paz, we noticed lines of people sitting on tanks of propane set up in the middle of streets. There is an election scheduled for December of this year - we doubt that even then La Paz will then see the peace its name would indicate it enjoys.

The bus trip around the city was enlightening for other reasons: without the chauffeur, we never would have wandered so far afield in the city and therefore never would have seen the striking contrast between the barrio of El Alto and the blinding wealth of some of the communities south of the city center. Several houses we spied rivaled mansions we had seen in Aspen or Santa Barbara, and they were surrounded by lushly manicured lawns of tennis, golf and soccer clubs and within striking distance of several spas. Even more interesting still, not more than 500 meters away from the periphery of some of these privileged enclaves were shacks with tin roofs and pigs rooting out front, and women doing their laundry in a nearby waterway.

The bus also took us out of the Valle de la Luna, or the Valley of the Moon, an interesting lunar-like (as the name might suggest) landscape on the outskirts of La Paz. We climbed over and around this smallish outcropping of crumbly stalagmites created by erosion of wind and water and admired the view of La Paz, sprawled out in the valley and bordered on all sides by verigated massifs rising up around it.

After a substantial amount of thought, we also chose to supplement our La Paz experience with a mountain bike ride down the 64 km of the World's Most Dangerous Road, aka the Road of Death, so christened because, as the name would imply, it has the highest death to kilometer ratio of any stretch of road in the world. In one year alone, 360 people met their destiny in a journey on this road. Not ones to tempt fate, we initially concluded this was not a trip for us, but after conferring with several couples about their experiences, we decided to give it a try with a reputable and safety-oriented company with English speaking guides.

The road runs from La Cumbre, a town a few dozen kilometers outside of La Paz with an elevation of 4700 meters, to a little hamlet on the outskirts of Coroico (pronounced co-royko), at an elevation of 1100 meters. Because there is such a dramatic descent in elevation (more than 10,000 feet!), novice bikers could attempt the journey - for the majority of the trek, all you have to do is steer and operate the breaks. And, because there is such a dramatic descent, bikers are intended to hang on for dear life as the road maunders through numerous climates - above treeline alpine scree, alpine forests, cloudforest, rainforest, and then a more tropical but drier clime - something that reminded us of the coffee plantations of Tanzania.

Our descent began on tarmac, giving us about 25 kms to get used to the bikes and to the speed. We chose bikes with full front and rear suspension, a decision we initially regretted during the one "arduous" 7km uphill climb because the technology made the bikes so heavy, but one that later our posteriors thanked us for once we transferred to very rocky roads. After this brief descent, we pulled off to the side of the road for a "safety briefing" - basically a summary of the dangers that would accost us from all sides during the remainder of the ride.

The true Death Road (the tarmac doesnŽt officially count, apparently), is a one-lane, unpaved (read extremely rocky) lane with hundreds of blind curves that hugs the face of a cliff. Immediately above, there is often a wall of granite towering overhead and... straight below, there are drop offs of several hundred feet at often more than 180 degrees (this is where the 1940Žs presidential candidates were brought to meet their maker - a swift push over meant certain death). To add bad to worse, any number of cars, tour busses, and huge trucks carrying who knows what traverse this road every day, which means that bikers and smaller cars must pull over to the side of the road each time a larger vehicle passes, either uphill or downhill, because there is often not enough room to squeeze in both. The ride is further complicated by a fair amount of water on the road. We passed through a series of waterfalls that fell directly onto the road, making the track wet and slippery. Under the best of circumstances, this would be a tricky descent, but there are a few more catches: on the Death Road, traffic lanes switch, so that downhill traffic takes the left side of the road - the side closest to the cliff - while the uphill traffic hugs the inside. Apparently, this change affords downhill drivers a better view of where their tires are (or, for that matter, where their bodies are) in relation to the nearby precipice so they can better maneuver the blind curves and switchbacks of the path. In practice, this switch doesnŽt always matter, since there generally is just enough room for one vehicle, anyway. What this means for downhill bikers, though, is that anytime a vehicle approaches from either ahead or behind is that the biker is required to seek a pull-out, a small niche overlooking the cliffs, to get out of the way of oncoming traffic. Generally, if one keeps an eye on the road ahead, it is easy enough to anticipate when a vehicle is approaching. But every once in a while, a truck or car rounds a blind curve unexpectedly and bikers are forced to beat a hasty retreat to the side of the road. We mention this because we were told of a French student who, not to long ago, made this same trek. She realized that sheŽd be passed by a truck and dismounted from her bicycle on the left hand side, placing her bike between her and the oncoming vehicle. The vehicle passed much too close for comfort and she took just one step backward, but that step was one too much - she stepped off into the abyss and plunged to her death. After we heard her story, we decided weŽd take our chances with the trucks if it came to that.

Despite the danger, we had a fantastic time on the descent. We were fortunate to be travelling the day before the observation of All Saints Day, so there was a slowdown in traffic. There was no rain or bad weather on the way down, and the scenery, when we could concentrate on it, was absolutely stunning. We stopped for lunch at a large pull-out where we could gaze up and down a heavily jungled valley and up at two enormous waterfalls trickling down the face of the huge cliff looming overhead.

After a good four hours of bumpy, wet riding, we arrived at our destination. We were rewarded with beverages and a free buffet. To our surprise, the buffet had only attracted a few flies, so we decided to indulge in full. We spent an hour or so eating, filling out surveys, and trying to persuade the guide that we should begin the long trip back to La Paz. By about 5 PM our efforts succeeded, and the guide decided to announce our departure. Some of the members of our group decided to stay the night, so about 5 riders, two guides, and one driver piled back in to the bus for the trip up the road of death.

Although the bike ride down the hill was dangerous, the part we were most scared of was the ride back up the road in the bus. We had been assured by our guide that the driver we had been given was the safest on the mountain and that he was not given to erratic swerves and rapid speeds. This re-assured us slightly, but we remained cognizant of the dangers that were largely unavoidable.

The first 45 minutes or so were not a problem. Our driver did indeed seem to be the most responsible and cautious one on the road. The bus was overtaken not less than five times in the first hour, and despite the fact that some passers decided to overtake us using the inside lane, we felt lucky to have put our fate in the hands of a reasonably sound minded driver. Unfortunately, as the sunlight faded and the road grew more curvy, a light drizzle began to fall. Clearly, this made matters worse.

I suppose the constant physical and mental activity required to get ourselves down the mountain distracted us from some of the details on the death road. Now, as our bus creeped around blind corners and came within inches of several sheer cliffs, we started to notice the grave markers. At one point, when we were involved in a road of death traffic jam - which basically consisted of several vehicles coming up and down the hill had to pass a large slow truck - we looked over to the cliff-side of the hill and saw about 12 crosses marking the spot where other people had lost their lives. Needless to say, this did not help us relax. All told, we probably saw 60 grave stones on the way back to La Paz.

Oddly, our fellow passengers did not seem the least bit fazed by these dangers. In fact, several of the members of our party had taken advantage of the slow speeds and dark conditions to catch some shut eye! Most of the sleepers were people who had been up this road many times, so we suspected it was some sort of psychological defense mechanism kicking in to help them cope with what they must have knows was a life threatening experience. I guess ignorance, even if at the subconscious level, is bliss.

Midway up the hill, as our bus was forced to pass a particularly large truck using the outside lane, we looked at each other and knew we were both thinking the same thing. We immediately agreed that as wonderful as our decent had been, there was no way we would ever consider the experience worth the risk. Admittedly, our nerves probably made the endeavor seem much worse than it was, but even in the most rational state we acknowledged that there was a chance we would never make it back to La Paz alive. We resolved to never again knowingly embark on such a life threatening activity.

Fortunately, as you must have figured out by now, we did make it back to La Paz that night. Despite a few more grey hairs and some well chewed nails, we suffered no consequences. Our bus took us to our hotel and the guide gave us our much deserved road of death survivor t-shirts. She also informed us that a CD of our trials would be mailed to our US address, but given the quality of the Bolivian postal system, we aren't holding our breath.

Owing largely the to fact that we had very few clean clothes left, we have both over-worn our road of death t-shirts. Several travelers have therefore asked us about the road of death and unlike every person we had spoken to prior to our ride, our advice to them is to either avoid it completely or continue on from Corioco to Rurrenebarque and skip the dangerous assent back to La Paz. Surely our cautionary words fall on mostly deaf ears, but if any of the people reading this find themselves in La Paz, please remember our advice - it just isn't worth it.

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