Plunge Down Death Road

By the grace of god my eyelids opened at 6:30am with a half hour to make it to El Solario, the company handling our hurdle down Death Road. Our alarm for some reason never went off, but the mere fact that we woke up on time, of our own accord, boded well for our upcoming adventure. Arriving just in time for the breakfast orientation, we scarf down our grilled cheese sandwiches and drown our drowsy eyes in coffee... now we are ready.

Piling into one of two the 12-person vans,  Andrew and I are delighted to find that there are only 5 in our van, and we have room to stretch out while we shake off the coffee jitters left over from one to many cups of coffee. Twisting our way up the mountains that hold La Paz like a fish bowl, we finally reach La Cumbre, our launch point at 4700 meters (15,400ft). Unloading our bikes, the guides give us instructions while i let my eyes wander to the massive, snow dotted peaks that surround us. The valley only partly-shrouded in the mist from the jungles below is lined with sheer rock cliffs colliding at their pinnacle to create the impressive 6000 meter (19,685ft.) mountain range we would ride through. Gearing up in knee pads, elbow pads,      gloves, a helmet and a wind breaker, we begin the first stage of the road.


Speeding our way down the winding, asphalt road and into the valley, I stay in full tuck making sure to stay in front... I'm not here to look at any butts. Instructed not to use our cameras while riding, I of course sneak my camera out of my pocket for video documentation of the breathtaking scene. As I film, Clouds blow over the mammoth peaks, waterfalls creep down the cliff faces like jungle vines and the valley opens below me.  Under me my bike jolts as I lean into a turn and the air whips my face.  After an hour and a half of hurdling ourselves down the twisting paved road, we stop for lunch. Filling our bellies with bananas and ham sandwiches, we pile into the van to be ferried up the hill portion of the road. It's time to start Death Road itself.

According to some estimates some 200-300 visitors are killed here each year, and just a few years ago our guide informed us of a bus that plunged off the cliff lined roadway killing 51 passengers. Unloading from the van once more, we find our selves on a two meter (6ft) wide dirt road that hangs delicately on the edge of a massive cliff. Inlaid with jagged rocks, it becomes instantly clear why this is called Death Road... one slip on the winding, bumpy, cliff-lined roadway and your dead. Now this is more like it.

As we get our instruction, a bus peels around the corner just 15 meters from us, completely unheard just seconds ago. The sheer rock walls had blocked the sound of the engine and the thick jungle had swallowed its echoes.  Our guide instructs us that unlike the rest of Bolivia which drives on the right, we must descend on the left side of the roadway, closest to the cliffs edge, the reason being that drivers sitting on the left are better able to make sure their tires do not plunge over the 90 degree embankment.

Beginning our descent, I again make sure to take the lead behind our guide so that I can enjoy the scenery with the least amount of dust in my eyes.  Smart me, I'm the only one who forgot my sunglasses. Anyway, I figure the guide knows the best tracks to take I can then get more speed. WEEEE!

Occasionally stopping for video and pictures we race down the narrow mountain pass. Jumping and bumping over rocks and skidding around tight turns, I go only slightly faster than comfortable, constantly aware of the fatality a mistake would produce. As we snake down the uneven terrain, my hands grow sore and numb from constant bumping and breaking, and I shake them out whenever I get the chance.  Eager capture some home video of my own, I dare not during the steep, rocky descent. As another bus whips around the corner ahead of me, I hug the cliff edge, which drops 600 meters into oblivion. Avoiding its massive, metal grill I manage to slide over far enough to avoid it from punting me off the roadway. Blinded by the thick cloud of dust it kicks up, I wipe at my eyes and regain my composure. Blazing around turns, jumping rocks and smashing through waterfalls we descend quickly. Adrenaline pumping, you sometimes forget the immediate danger of the roadway, but the occasional crosses lining the roadway act as solemn reminders of the threat and shake you from your complicity. After 2 hours we finally reach the flat portion of the road, where I am able to take some home video.  Oh wait....Shhhhh! It's not allowed.

Riding through a river a local family has set about washing their cars and clothes and bathing in the cool clear water. Andrew and I follow suit, hopping off our bikes and dunking our heads under the waterfall created by the small river. Hopping back on our bikes we begin or way down again. A girl's tire pops, a common occurrence on the road, so a little further down, the guide stops to wait. The place where the guide has stopped he explains, is a very dangerous part of the road. Pointing to the jungle below, he tells us that this is the spot where the bus carrying 51 passengers plunged off the cliff a few years back. Marked by three crosses, I look ever the edge and see nothing but jungle. As the guide talks, he tells us that the bus still remains at the bottom of the valley, the thick jungle swallowing it whole and preventing its recovery.  Finally reaching the bottom of the road in Yolosi which sits at 1200 meters (3937ft) we take a break, watching a local hang her laundry out to dry in the baking sun. Having descended 3,500 meters (11,482ft) in four hours down the most dangerous road in the world, I was finally able to say, "I Survived Death Road!"

After a small hill climb to the Hostel Don Lucho for lunch, I strip down and dive head first into the cool water of the swimming pool.  There in the swimming pool, set in the valley of a rich, colorful jungle and surrounded by mountains thickly blanketed in green, I relax. After a delicious, home-cooked, buffet lunch. I grab a Duff beer from the fridge and relax in the hammock, finding my own personal heaven in the sound of the breeze through the trees and the exotic bird calls echoing from the canopy.

Time is Fleeting and Bolivia Knows It

O.k. I'll admit, its a corny title. But as I sit here with just a month left to travel before I settle into a new home here in South America, it's the only thing that describes my current sentiment. With my blog seemingly months behind, I cant believe I sit here in La Paz and have only just written about Rosario which I left 20 days ago.

It saddens me to think that each city gets only a day or two recognition and I have but a few days to a week for each city, when in reality, each city seems to be worthy of a lifetime. After hiking with a stray dog for 5 hours to shower under a waterfall and bask in the sun in Cordoba, dancing the night away in a boliche for halloween in Salta, visiting dear friends in Tucuman, going to 16,250 ft to see geysers and lakes of brilliant reds, greens and blues in Uynuni and finally now, tomorrow hanging on the precipice of taking a bike down the most dangerous road in the entire world, where 6 feet of gravel are your only savior from the hundred meter plunge off a cliff, and where cars and buses can whip around the sharp mountain corners at any second... it certainly seems that time is indeed fleeting. With Lake Titticaca still on the agenda here in Bolivia, with Machu Pichu, and sand boarding in Peru, beaches, friends, the lost city and job interviews in Columbia, wine tours in Mendoza and Interviews in BsAs and potentially Panama now...  I do wonder if there is enough time to see it all. And do I have the will power to leave a city that I love every few days only to fall in love again when I arrive at some place new.

Even here in La Paz, where some might be less apt to go, the city can take your breath away. Surrounded by 22,000 ft peaks, with the city laid into the steep hillsides, domiciles take breaks from their climb up the rocky mountainsides only to make way for jagged cliffs where nothing could be built. Beautiful old churches dominate the landscape at the center of the massive city and at night they light up with a million little lights dotting the surrounding mountain range as their backdrop.  Albeit not 5 minutes ago, as I wrote this, I heard gunfire and sirens, the city itself is a beautiful place, the people are friendly, except for obviously the shooters, and culture bubbles on every corner. Bright colors adorn most locals. Seniors carry bags on their back, big enough to fit three or four people, as they make their way up the steep roads, and beautiful handwoven and handcrafted artifacts from the rich indigenous past are everywhere to be seen. You can eat a dinner for the equivalent of about 70 cents American, with salad, soup and a main course, and guards with shotguns sit outside every bank, giving you both a sense a security and danger at the same time.

As I sit here, gunshots and sirens again echo through the valley of the city, but in the security of my hostel, I sit anxiously awaiting my first night out in weeks. This is La Paz, and La Paz is Bolivia and the juxtaposition of ideals seems to adequately describe this part of the world. Where indigenous culture raves against modernization, and coca leaves are sold on every corner while cocaine is prohibited. Where a coca farmer is now the President, Evo Morales, and is well loved by the people as the first indigenous president of Bolivia and the first indigenous sovereign leader of the territory since Tupac Amaru in Incan times, some 500 years ago.  Where one taxi is safe and another is an invitation for a kidnapping. Where Flamingos rest at 15,000 feet on a red lake at the foot of a volcano, and coral reefs provide a home for cacti in the middle of an arid salt flat at 12,000 feet. La Paz and indeed Bolivia seem to thrive in this crossing of the old and the new, and the pure curiosity of it all is something special to witness. What the future will bring I cannot tell you, but as I sit here, awaiting my trip down death road and listening to gunfire, one thing is certain... Time is Fleeting and Bolivia Knows It.

Futbol, Beaches and Grand Theft Autobus

I have to begin by apologizing for skipping many of my favorite memories of the trip. I simply cannot keep up day to day on my blog, so for those of you I don't mention that are reading, know that I have everything written down and I will revisit these stories as my travels slow and I find work here in South America. On that note, I am skipping the rest of my adventures from Buenos Aires for now including: The Twelve Hour Parade, My Solo Ride on the Midnight Train, My Nights of Tango, Sunsets on the Balcony and many others, so that I can share my love of Rosario with everyone at home. (Given that I am already three cities behind I find this to be my only option.)

So without further adieu. Vamos! On to Rosario!

Given the choice of places to live, here in Argentina, Rosario may take the cake: parks, beaches, camping, architecture, history, beautiful young people, and kindness at every turn. I welcome you to read and fall in love with the city alongside me, and as always, I hope you enjoy.

The city of Rosario is located along the Parana River and the coast of the river is lined with lush, green parks giving you a vantage of the river below until the grassy bluffs descend to meet the river bank. As you stroll the parks along the bluff, there is a peacefulness to the city, that as loud Americans we try not to disrupt, a sometimes difficult task for Andrew and I.  People laze in the parks, some bathing in the sun, and some finding refuge in the shadowy protection given by the trees. As we make our way through the city we pass Che Guavera's old childhood home and are reminded of the history present in the city. Rosario, the 3rd largest city in Argentina, boasting 1.3 million people sometimes lets you forget this fact, as you enjoy the more peaceful parts of the city. It has a small town feel that reminds me of my hometown in Seattle, Washington allowing me to sink in to the feel of the city.

As we make our way to the beach, I again find myself reminded of my hometown. Boats float on the peaceful flowing river, and jet skis buzz by as they splash through the cool water in jubilation. Encountering friends, the passengers park on the beach to share Yerba Mate or a beer with their friends. Windsurfers, and Sailboats catch the cool breeze in their sales as they wisk along the surface of the water, and tanned bodies paddle their canoes along the shore. Ok... so not exactly like Seattle, people are tan here, and the swim wear is a little more to the liking of a young twenty-six-year-old. But hey, close enough.

As you survey the sandy, fresh-water beach it is dotted with the beautiful people of Rosario. (Rosario is well reputed to have the most beautiful women in all of Argentina thanks to the six universities totaling over 80,000 students... and in my opinion the beach and warm weather that accompanies the history-rich city doesn't hurt.) As I dig my feet into the warm sand and sip from my Mate, I lean back and close my eyes, soaking in the rays from the sun.

Looking south to the city center, the backdrop to my seat on the sand seems out of a painting. Tall, white buildings reach into the cloudless, blue sky providing a stark contrast to the greenery of the island that sits across the bay. A buoy floats in the distance marking off the swimming area, and as I take a dip into the cool, sediment filled river, I take in the view, not wanting to forget the moment. After a few laps along the buoy line I return to my friends on the beach. Lazing about for another hour before the sun begins to wain, we prepare to make our departure. Andrew and I pack up our belongings. Cleaning my silver, hand engraved Mate, which glistens brightly in the afternoon sun, we make our way to the bus stop.

Where's the driver?

Hopping on the bus with inappropriate change, the bus driver lets us board without paying.  Soon after, we learn that we are headed in the wrong direction and into one of the shadier parts of town. Horse drawn carts packed full of cardboard pass us, and refuse blocks off some of the streets. As passengers enter they stare at the two gringos knowing full well that we are as lost as we appear to be. Reaching the end of the line, the bus driver kicks the last passenger off the bus leaving only Andrew and I, and as he pulls into the gas station he too gets off. Andrew and I are now the only ones on the still running bus. Laughing we look at each other and wonder... do we drive ourselves home? Did we just get a free party bus? hehe. Deciding against jail time, we opt for a photo shoot instead. Five minutes later the bus driver hops back on to continue our 40 minute tour through the ghetto. Passing ice cream shops with security guards, and gun-wielding teenagers that snap my vision from the window to the front of the bus, we return to center of the city, our bellies full of adventure.

Fun at the museum. hehe.

Returning to the hostel we take a walk to the art museum with our Swiss and Swedish friends. Expecting a Salvador Dali exhibit we find ourselves a day late. Instead we wander around taking ridiculous pictures, we listen to our friend play the grand piano in the center of the museum, and we snap a quick photo of the good times at the museum. Why Dali why? Why did you forsake us? Leaving laughing, we grab some six peso steaks at the local supermercado and return to our hostel to feast... and then out come two Argentines, two Israelis and an Australian with a pelota (soccer ball for those at home). Guess I gotta go play some futbol now, dinner must wait.

Our futbol field under the lights of the monument.

Passing the ball around as we walk, we head to the park... who needs hands. Along the way, a talented 12-year-old, selling roses, shows off his skills with our pelota. As we pass through the monument of the flag, justifiably lit up like the Argentine Flag, Lucas and Lucaas, my Argentine brothers, explain that it commemerates the designing of the Argentine flag by General Manuel Belgrano, an important forefather of the country now buried in the crypt below the monument, and that Rosario is rich with history as it was the first place that the flag was raised in all of Argentina. As we make our way to the park, our youthful rose vendor joins us for a game under the lights of the 70 meter monument that we had climbed for a view just a day before.

Our professional futbol team

We played for three hours under the lights of one of the most important monuments in all of Argentina and at the end, tired, our feet hurting from playing barefoot, we take a minute to relax and take a photo of our makeshift futbol team. Two days later, we would find ourself camping, Andrew, Lucas, Lucaas and I just 50 meters from our futbol field, with a view of the monument visible from the door of our tent, and a bottle of rum to keep us warm. Returning home, we kick the ball around with local street cleaners and passers-by, having an open contest to see who can be first to chip it into the circular trash cans that are on each block of the pedestrian street that lead us home. Finally making it back, we cooked our well priced steaks and laughed and drank into the night with our newfound friends. What a city. What a life...

What an Adventure.