When I was studying Latin American studies at the U of O I remember reading about provincia in Bolivia, north of La Paz called Las Yungas in the jungle. The thing that stuck out in my mind about this particular place, besides its sub-tropical climate, was that it was a place of
convivencia , where to unique cultures, out of necessity learned to live together in the deep jungle. At the end of the 1700s, there was a slave revolt in the silver mines at Potosi. The Spainards had slaves from Africa shipped to Boliva to work side by side with the native Bolivians that the Spainards had already enslaved. When the slave revolt took place, many of the Indigenous Bolivians returned to their home lands, while others ran and fled as far away as they could, to a place where the Spainards would not be able to find them. The Africans, being oceans from home, fled with the second group of Bolivians deep into the jungle lands north of La Paz, Las Yungas. The Africans adpoted the Indigenous Bolivian culture, while keeping their own African spice.
After I found out 2 years ago that I would be spending 2 years of my life in South America, I thought, Las Yungas is going to be a place that I have to visit. After I did some research, I realized that it would be impossible for two reasons. The first reason being that the only road that reaches to Las Yungas is nicknamed
The Death Road. The second reason being that the other nickname is
The Worlds Most Dangerous Road . Each year an average of 30 buses or trucks fall off the side of the road into the depths of the jungle never to be recovered again. Las Yungas is so deep into the middle of the moutainous terrain of the jungle, that the only road that exists is more like a bike trail meant to be used for two way cargo traffic connecting La Paz with the jungle.
When we arrived to Bolivia 2.5 weeks ago, Scotts brother Brad was reading about a mountain bike adventure that starts at the top of this road and proceeds 24 miles down into the first city in the Las Yungas and from there you take a bus back over the road to get home. Brad seemed pretty stoked about the idea of going on the death road and it was shortly rubbing off on Scott. I protested, for obvious reasons, I dont want to die at 24 in Bolivia. But besides the obvious reason, I am horrible at biking. I am missing a muscle in my butt, I think, because up hill on a bike is the worse thing I can think of doing, and downhill freaks me out because I just feel that at any moment I am going to fly off the bike and crack my head open. In Tiraque Cat and Tyler sorta talked me into the bike ride because they said they heard it wasnt that bad and besides, the landscape that I would witness would be so incredible and that I would be beating myself if I didnt jump at the opportunity to see it all. They had seen pictures of the bike tour and said it looked not that bad.
Once we arrived to La Paz we talked with a tour company that did this excursion, we got all of the details, and really things get cloudy at this point, I dont know why I did it, but I signed my name, for Thursday, to bike 24 miles of Death Road.....to my death.
SO Thursday morning at 8am a tour bus picked us up full of the dare devil type. With the great luck that I have, it was rainy this day and once with arrived to the mountains, guess what it was snowing a little! The bus dropped us off, about 5 miles from the entrance into the Death Road, on a paved road. Lets just cut to the chase. I was scared out of my mind. Never have I ever been so terrified. The 5 miles of asphalt was scary because of the rain and slickness of the road, but that was nothing compared to the Death Road. It really lives up to its name. We had to bike to the LEFT side and leave room for the buses and trucks to pass, so that they wouldnt have to get close to the edge. Lets talk about the edge. It was an 1000 meter drop into nothingness where the brush just swallows you up. The worst part, was the psychological fear. Seeing parts of trucks bellow in the trees and crosses every ten minutes for people, families that are no longer on earth really got to me...all over the edge into the abyss of the jungle. I saw a cross of a French girl who died on a bike and a tombstone for an Israli girl who also died on a bike. Of course the tour company did not mention any of this to me before. I rode 20 of the 24 miles and then I broke down and freaked out. I was trying to enjoy the beautiful scenery and soak it all in, but I couldnt go on. Scott was very patient with me and stayed behind with me, and the tour bus that trotted behind my wheels until I broke into my tears of horror at mile 20.
The bus took me to the town where I met up with the rest of the road raging bikers and we had time to relax, eat, watch toucans hop around, parrots bully dogs and the beautiful people. While relaxing the clouds started rolling in, actually I dont know if rolling is the right word, we were already in the clouds, so basically they just appeared from their given place. My fear of dying in Boliva at 24 came back quickly as we rode back over the death road to La Paz. The fog was SO thick you could only see 10 feet in front of you. Im not going to explain the ride home, it was aweful and I dont want my mom or dad to worry. Lets just say that I had Scott listen to me explain the history of my pet bunnies as a child to keep my mind off death. Alas...I am alive and as I write this I am back in action in Cuzco, Peru, feeling good. Thanks be to God-- and dude, brad did get sick air while he was riding.
