D-D-Death Road

I was pretty tired and nervous when I woke up the next morning to take the bus to ride down Death Road. Having spent so much energy just trying to pay for the ticket, I was not sure if I should have read it as a bad omen and chosen to watch the Chuletas (traditionally-dressed women wrestlers) instead. And when the Scooby Doo Dodge van pulled up outside the hostel, I was almost back in bed.

But despite all this, and the knowledge that I was about to ride down a road that at its peak killed over 300 people a year, I jumped in and was soon shivering away with the other four people in my group. Sitting alongside the snow-caps at more than 4800m above sea, our starting off point was nothing more than a flat piece of dirt with a few potholes. It was here, in this bare desolation, that we were handed our gear and I cursed myself for not paying for the extra comfort of knee-pads and wet-weather gear. Eyeing off the other two couples kitted up in their polar fleece and clear plastic, I stuffed my jeans deep into my socks and took a deep breath. But getting onto my bike, I was instantly surprised at the ease with which the doubled-up suspension took care of the bumps and jumps in my path. If only I had known about these bikes in Melbourne, before flattening myself against its gauged tram tracks.

Next up were the instructions for our journey, with one of our two guides, Salamon, speeding through the gears, foot positioning and braking system with a little too much gusto for my liking. A little worried that I might have missed some of the Spanish, I of course got a second run through in English, and it was here that I learned we would be travelling a total distance of 64km, descending a monstrous 3500m to a final resting place of about 1300m. No wonder eight people have died on this trip.

But there wasn’t much time to register this before Salamon was asking us if we were ready, and, not waiting for a real reply, was already peddling off in front of us. Taking a sensible approach, I decided to take last position so that I could travel at my own pace for the first 32km of paved road, closest to our trailing van. And what a pace it was – speeding downhill about more than 45km an hour, I could barely see what was going on around me.

We sped through clouds, past tiny pueblos (towns) that were nothing more than a few roadside shacks selling water, lollies and chocolate. We competed with the many buses and 4WDs on the road, spinning around bends before skirting off the road to use our cameras and enjoy the view. But it wasn’t until we reached the tunnel by-pass that I got my first taste of the rubble road that would continue, and I got completely spooked as my bike took a spin in the dirt.

Quickly regaining my composure, we continued on to meet up with one of the couples and our other guide, who had requested to take a path without cars. Smart people. Here I dared to ask the all-important question of how to control my brakes and avoid the skids, and a new world was suddenly opened up to me. No sooner had I learnt the skill in alternating the back and front tension, than I was forced to put my understanding into practice, with the start of the dirt-laden Death Road.

Seldom used now by cars and trucks, who were luckily given an alternative bitumen road a few years ago, the track has been left for tourists like myself to experience the danger that for many years was the only passage through these areas (and so named after a government report in the 1980s that started the campaign for a new route to be built – this time, not by Paraguayan prisoners-of-war).

Hardly wide enough for a single car, let alone the double lane of traffic that used to frequent its rocky surface, it is no wonder that the chassis of many vehicles can still be seen at points along the bottom, and that the start our journey involved lots of dust. Luckily we stopped several times along the way, with each of the guides taking turns to explain the next part leading us further down. A mixture of winding bends, steep descents, waterfalls, and gravel sections, each section needed a different approach, to avoid a catastrophic end.

Needless to say it was a pretty hairy ride, but I soon got the hang of the corners and rocks and started to ease off on my braking. I passed the two other girls, and headed up to the front where the boys were throwing in a few jumps. Not wanting to be outdone, I of course attempt a couple of these too, but mostly just end up wet or sore bum.

And with the last section (my favourite) a steep 55km an hour cruise into a waiting bar, I suddenly realised that I was not the least bit afraid anymore, rather, was contemplating buying my own bike again when I get back to Australia.