The Death Road

So, I, today 13 July 2004, survived the Death Road. The "world's most dangerous road" is not just a tourist moniker for the route which drops from La Cumbre, above La Paz at an icy 4900m, to Coroico, in the lush subtropical valley 3000m below. It's been officially applied by the U.S. Department of Transportation in virtue of this road having the highest average casualties per annum anywhere in the known world.

Most people are well aware that this is due more to the approach of drunk and/or crazy Bolivian truck and bus drivers - periodically sending a busload of people off the precipitous edge - than to the intrinsically terrifying nature of the road. Nevertheless, it has great notoriety, and tourists flock to take tours down the road on mountain bikes and boast afterwards of their brush with oblivion. Of course, it's relatively safe for cyclists and their stats are a lot better - just six tourists have plunged to their deaths in the last five years. Still enough to put a shiver down your spine, though. I was nervous when I woke up this morning; I didn´t actually expect to die, but I did expect some adrenaline - a life afirming experience, in fact, from a glimpse into the abyss. I'd promised my friends in Arequipa I'd be careful, and avoided telling you about it, Mum and Dad, to avoid the paroxysms of worry.

In the end? Well, it was more endorphins than adrenaline, more sport than daredevil adventure. We covered the 64 km from La Cumbre to Coroico in about 2 1/2 hours, hitting speeds of 60-70 km/h on the first stage, a beautiful stretch of ashphalt lined with fresh snow, allowing us the chance to appreciate the gorgeous rock-and-ice towers plunging into deep canyons. The next two bits along the dirt road to Corocio - a narrow 10km stretch known as the core "Camino de Muerte", followed by a wider but still precipitous 32 km - involved some rough mountain biking, and sore hands from gripping the brakes, but one hardly felt the breath of the grim reaper. I suppose there were some sheer drops - keeping your eyes on the road you didn't really see them - but the road was wide enough for a cyclist to pick their spot, and with four guides and two 4WDs all hooked up with radios, there was ample warning of any oncoming uphill or downhill traffic, so we could easily stop and get out of the way. The only time I was truly scared was during the extended safety briefing prior to the start of the 10 km "real death road" stretch - if anything was going to make me fall off my bike it was the nerves engendered by the way that bit was talked up...

I'd promised myself that I'd be conservative; I wanted to make it back to Arequipa; if there was going to be a fast group and a slow group I was going in the slow group. Of course, that's not how it turned out - it turned into a bit of a race, and I had to be in the fastest of the three groups. The others in the tour were a typical cross-section of South American tourists - three Dutch girls, two Israeli guys, two Swiss girls, a Quebecois couple, an English girl, a Norwegian guy, an English guy and an Irish girl. On the ashphalt stretch from La Cumbre, I was the first rider behind the lead guide; on the 8km uphill ashphalt/gravel bit which followed, only the Norwegian guy finished ahead of me. As we hit the dirt downhill parts the three 6-ft Dutch girls took off at breakneck speed, along with the Quebecois guy; I and the Norwegian guy lost them on the wildest bits. It wasn't until three quarters of the way down that I got the confidence to really lean into the left-hand turns (towards the cliff side). In the end we all finished together, the second group was about a minute behind, and the third five minutes behind them.

As we dropped in altitude the vegetation got thicker and lusher, the sun got stronger, and about two-thirds of the way down we could feel warm, humid air rushing up from the valley floor. Apart from the sheer enjoyment of the ride, the real highlight was the incredible vistas - jagged snowy mountaintops still visible, canyon walls plunging into the rich jungly valley. We went through a couple of waterfalls and, lower down, a couple of streams; by the time we were finished we were filthy with dust and mud. In Coproico we adjourned to the Hotel Esmeralda for a buffet lunch and fnatastic hot showers, appreciating the stunning views back across the valley and mountains framed by tropical flowers in the hotel patio.

Riding back up in the tour company's 4WDs with our "I survived the death road" t-shirts, I couldn't help feeling we were frauds. That's not to say that the road is toothless - quite the opposite. In a truck or bus, it's truly a nightmare. The truly crazy-headed angelic heroes are the drivers of the heavy vehicles which frequent the route - and the passengers packed into them. On the way down we stopped for an upcoming truck and saw it come head-to-head with a minivan which had just passed us. On the Death Road, the rules are the opposite of everywhere else on the continent - traffic must keep to the left, meaning that uphill vehicles get to hug the mountainside, while downhill traffic has to pass by flirting with the precipitous cliff face. On this occasion the two vehicles met a really narrow bit, and the minivan had to reverse quite some way before giving a chance for the truck to pass - as it did so, we could see the left wheels of the van clinging to the very edge of the fragile shoulder.

There are people who do this every day. You see the mandarins being sold by the old indigenous woman on the street in La Paz at the bargain rate of 5 for 1 Boliviano (20c)? Most probably they've been brought up from the warm valley round Coroico by one of the heavily-laden lorries that chug up the winding route. Or perhaps the woman herself carried them up in one of the ancient and jam-packed passenger vehicles making the daily trip.

Unlike a fighter pilot or someone who taps burning oil wells, though, these drivers don't receive rewards commensurate with their risks. What does a minivan driver on the Death Road get paid? Probably the same pittance that Bolivian bus drivers get everywhere. The only extra reward for him and his passengers is an existential one, from frequently and calmly facing oblivion. How much that is worth when them and their children depend on this livelihood, I don't know. It's not quite The Wages of Fear.

For a tourist, it's the perfect product - we get the glory and the thrill of association with danger, without the reality. But that's on the backs of the hundred or thousands of local people who have tragically plunged to their deaths. When you look at it that way, it's perhaps a little ghoulish...

Notes from the Altiplano

Ok, in brief...

I got into Puno yesterday afternoon and straight away hooked up a trip to Lake Titicaca and a ticket to La Paz for the day after - I'm on a mission on this trip...

I fully intended to go to bed early and get plenty of rest, only it didn't work out that way. Will it surprise you to learn that I ended up winning a T-shirt in a drinking contest? How did this come to pass? Well, I wasn't going to miss the Peru vs Venezuela football game (heartening 3-1 triumph for the home team). Then a couple of Australians in the bar I was watching the game decided that a gringo couldn't possibly sit by himself with only Peruvians for company, and invited me over; later we were joined by a couple of Canadian guys. The bar guy had earlier mentioned that there was going to be a big party put on by Cusqueña at a place called Megadisco. Cusqueña is a much nicer beer than Arequipeña, and even people in Arequipa generally agree - but in a fashion that rather typifies Peru, it's virtually impossible to find Cusqueña in Arequipa - and of course Arequipeña is not sold in Cusco or Puno (though is very popular in Arica, go figure...)

I ended up going with the Canadian guys (who were complete dumbasses, in the most pleasant sense) to Megadisco. There was a huge party in full swing, and we were absolutely the only gringos there. It came to pass that a drinking contest was announced - three audience volunteers had to scull a litre pitcher of Cusqueña, a competition for girls followed by one for boys. When the male volunteers were requested, I made a dash for the stage, and although I didn't quite get there in time, the compere was keen to have a gringo in the contest, and dragged me up. I knew I was going to win; as far as I can recall, I've never been beaten in a drinking race. As it turned out I came a comfortable first; my prizes were a Cusqueña t-shirt and another pitcher of beer to share with my friends...

It goes without saying that I had already ingested a quantity of Cusqueña before the contest, and continued to do so afterwards. I'm not really sure what time I got back to my hotel, but it certainly wasn't long before I was being woken up to go to the lake...after bolting some breakfast I found myself in a launch with about 20 other tourists, feeling as my eyes had been painted on and wanting nothing more than to simply spread myself out on the floor of the boat.

The trip took in a visit to two of the floating Uros islands, which are entirely constructed out of the totora reeds that grow in the shallow part of the lake. Families live on the islands in reed huts, get about on reed boats, and make reed souvenirs to sell to tourists. I'm afraid this wasn't my favourite part of the trip. Apart from the intrinsic interest in islands constructed from the bottom up (and my level of intrinsic interest was rather lower than usual at that point), I found the whole experience rather cloying - each tourist being personally welcomed off the boat and onto the island, and the five or six kids forming themselves into a little group and "spontanteously" bursting into song (including a version of "Frere Jacques"). We were later taken to another floating island in a reed boat; each tourist was charged 3 soles. With over 20 people on board, those guys make a killing. It would take a taxi driver in Arequipa more than twenty trips to make that kind of money. Plus, Hugo says that on the islands regularly visited by tourists, the families don't live there at all - they live in Puno and head out early in the morning in time for the tourists. I don't blame them - I wouldn't live on a bloody reed island either.

Later the launch chugged on another 1 1/2 hours into the lake to visit the (permanent, 8 sq km) island of Traquile. This I did like. Although the top of the island, at 3900 metres, is significantly higher than Puno, the climate is much balmier, owing to its exposure to air originating from the hot jungle on the north side of the lake. It has an almost Mediterranean aspect, with lots of eucalyptus trees and wildflowers, agricultural terraces separated by carefully maintained stone walls. An Incan stone road runs from the jetty to the plaza de armas and steeply down to the main port on the south side of the island, passing through stone arches and offering stunning 360 views of the lake and the jagged, snow-covered Bolivian cordillera to the east. Like the villages and orchards of the Colca Canyon (story still coming), it reminded me more than anything of some New Age imagining of a medieval idyll.

I liberated myself of a couple of soles on the 2km road to the plaza, giving tips to a couple of the series of kids who were offering themselves as photo subjects as an alternative to selling their uninteresting woven braids. You'll see why when I get the photos developed. I'm not normally a sucker for the whole "cute children" thing, but I could already see the whole scene on glossy prints, and there's something about innocent-looking kids against a bucolic landscape and soaring mountaind which is a pretty universal heart-melter. Something to do with the collective aspirations of humanity, I think, though Stephen Pinker would no doubt pinpoint the response in a specific biological module which was adaptive at some time in our evolutionary past...

In the plaza we had lunch, while handsome dark-skinned men stood around furiously knitting. Apparently there are distinct traditional costumes for single men, single women, married men and married women. One's woolly hat is also an important part of one's identity, and boys start to learn to make their own at an early age. The casually rapid and elaborate stitching that I witnessed would have put many a maiden aunt to shame.

We got back on the boat for the more than three hour trip back to Puno. Everyone went back to their hotels while the Israelis went to complain; they claimed they had been promised that lunch had been included in the tour price...

I've just been to eat, so here I am now. This time I really and truly am going home to bed; tomorow I'm off to La Paz.

The Imbeciles manage a draw...

The Copa America got under way on Tuesday amidst fairly low-key festivities - at least in Arequipa - and near disaster for the home team. While all the local radio stations and newspapers speculate about the possible boost to tourism, the evidence of a major football tournament taking place here is currently limited to garlands being hung along the arcades around the plaza, plus a few Chileans and the odd Brazilian mooching around the bars and restaurants in the centre (Arequipa is home to the group containing Brail, Chile, Paraguay and Costa Rica).

Meanwhile in Lima, the tournament opened with Peru vs Bolivia. As I was eating dinner in the centre of town, my friends Cintia and Jackie came by to inform me that they were going out drinking to celebrate the fact that "Peru's going to win the championship", cheerily disregarding the fact that at half time an unconvincing Peru was 0-1 behind a Bolivian side hanging back but dangerous on the counter attack.

10 minutes into the second half, there was despair at my house as Bolivia went 2-0 into the lead, managing a bizarre goal when the Peruvian keeper Oscar Ibanez strolled out to collect a ball rolling towards the goaline, only to see the chasing Bolivian left back nudge the ball past him and shoot into the unguarded net from an oblique angle. While Hugo sat resigned and impassive, Lisbet hurled threats and curses at the television - "Imbéciles!; Inútiles!; don't you have any strength?; can't you take a shot?" - demanded the substitution of the entire Peruvian forward line and midfield, and announced that it was all typical as no Peruvian would ever amount to anything...

As the half wore on, Peru poured forward, as the entire Bolivian team seemed to have decided to defend from their penalty area; eventually a penalty was won and converted - 2-1. Before and after this moment Peru managed to squander about a dozen clear-cut chances, leading to much hand-wringing and gnashing of teeth from the audience in front of the TV, waking and upsetting 3 year-old Gerardo and the kitten. Finally, all manner of shots from six yards having been blasted over, midfielder Roberto Palacios twisted on the edge of the area and fired in a stunning volley to level the score. There was still eight minutes or so for Peru to miss several more opportunities to win and for the terrifying prospect to hover that Bolivia would break away and notch a third goal - but in the end it stayed at 2-2.

The post-match mood was one of relief and reflection - a feeling that Peru had got out of jail combined with the sense that they really should have won by four or five. At least, in the easiest of groups, their hopes are still well alive, and there's the example of Portugal - who lost their opening game as hosts and still made the final. Hope springs eternal...

Matrimony, long-lost cousins and penis-shaped ballons

Man, it just gets weirder. A little over two weeks ago, I was invited, along with my Israeli friend Itzik, to the "despedida de soltera" of Ana, respectively the sister and cousin of my friends Lenny and Mariela. The functional translation of that is "hen's night", although it sounds much more dignified in Spanish. Ana was to get married to Frank, a French guy she had met three years ago; they had decided to make it permanent after he had visited her for a month in each of the succeeding years.

Yes, I know that boys don't normally get invited to such events - Itzik and I were there in the capacity of, ahem, strippers...but before anybody finds themselves beset with disturbing mental images, don't worry, we didn't have to take (many) clothes off...

It was certainly an eye-opening experience that I don't expect to repeat - there were about eight of Ana's friends gathered in her living room, together with her aunt Miriam, who I suppose was there in some kind of technical chaperone capacity. The room was festooned with helium ballons decorated with drawings from the Kama Sutra, plus liberal quantities of penis-shaped ballons; everyone being required to wear one on their head or round their neck. It befell Ana to wear an apron which flipped up to reveal male genitalia, drink from a penis-shaped cup, and speak into a carved wooden penis "microphone"...certainly there was a quite disturbing abundance of false phalluses, mock members, or what have you...

After, and during, the consumption of a bewildering variety of impromptu cocktails concocted from rum, champagne, cream, honey and god knows what else, everyone was required to choose a ballon from the ceiling and act out the scene from the Kama Sutra depicted on it. Playact, that is. I have to mention that aunt Miriam was among the most enthusiastic in this respect.


Two weeks later (the weekend just gone) I found myself in Ilo, a town on the coast about six hours from Arequipa in the department of Morquegua. A port and summer vacation town of fog, fishing boats, dust and jacarandas, Ilo is where Ana's parents live and was the venue for the wedding. By this time Itzik had left for Cusco, but Mariela and Lenny absolutely insisted that I come. I reluctantly agreed to hire a suit and, surprising myself, found that I actually looked pretty good...

After a tiring journey on the Saturday morning we arrived in Ilo and I was introduced to the parents and to Frank. One of the reasons that Mariela and Lenny had insisted I come was that poor Frank had come by himself from France, without family and friends. It was necessary, therefore, that I be the "amigo del novio". Lenny explained this to her parents, having pointed out unabashedly that I had attended the despedida in the role of stripper (her father then introduced me to one of his friends as "el estripper"). In the course of discussing all this, there was a change of plans - I was to be the *cousin* of the groom - since Frank couldn't possibly without at least some family. I don't think anyone had asked Frank if he needed a friend, let alone a cousin, but there it was.

I should mention that Frank turned out to be a thin, rather pale guy with his hair in a bob - kind looking but clearly nervous. Ana is pretty and gregarious, but far more chilled than her certifiably crazy sister. Both around 27. The ceremony was a civil one, in a local club; the room was decked out in almost surreal "wedding cake" style was lacy tablecloths, thick white curtain and huge aquamarine sashes. I was introduced to all and sundry as "Frank's cousin", including to the compere; so it was that after the exchange of vows, when the speeches and photos began, it was announced that "Frank, too, is not alone tonight - his cousin has come". There were photos with the parents, photos with the siblings, and then, when it was time for cousins, aunts and uncle, I was dragged up with Mariela and aunt Miriam. I made sure the offical photographer took one with my camera as well - I had to record the moment, feeling rather like the unknown guy who pops up in the Manchester Utd team photo.

After that it went downhill a little - I managed to lose Mariela's ring from her 15-years party when I put her into a turn and the ring flew off her little finger, to elude much searching of the dance floor and surrounds. Nevertheless, we finished off the rest of the beer (oblivious to the internal curdling with the previously consumed champagne, strawberry rum, pisco sour, piña colada etc) and stumbled back to crash at Ana's place at 5:30 in the morning.

The next day, unsurprisingly, I suffered a substantial hangover. It was a looong bus ride back to Arequipa, the slightly splattered suit hung up in the window. I expect to get the photos developed shortly.