Day One: Downward Madness

Picked up early than I expected, I was a little flustered after being shoved immediately onto a waiting bike. Particularly when everything was around the wrong way for my comfort – brakes, gears etc – and the rest of the group, I later realised, had been collected by car or had strolled to our meeting point. It didn’t bode to well for the next four days, I thought, where I would be climbing my way through the selpa (high altitude jungle) with thirteen others.

Of course it was the usual false start, and almost an hour before our minivan finally starting moving out of the city, retracing most of yesterday’s steps back to Ollantaytambo. Here we stopped to go to the toilet and get some snacks, and I armed myself with some more essential supplies of moisturiser (the altitude robs your skin of everything). We then got back on the road to climb up into the mountains and and zig-zag our way to our biking spot.

Again, it was not long before the journey left me nauseous - particularly because the driver specialised in speeding up around the corners – and I felt like I was on a slip-shot propulsion ride at the Royal Show. I really couldn’t see the logic in it all, unless he was trying to send us over one of the precipitous edges and force an early retirement.

After much head-bowing and closed-eyed concentration, we got to our starting point for the bike ride and dismounted to be given our wheels (I say that in the most literal of senses because most of our frames were being held together by hose-pipe and gaffer tape). Unlike my previous efficient encounter with the Death Road, we were left to pick an upturned bike and hope that the gloves and helmets fit. I don’t think any of us really got a perfect match – least of all the other Australian girl in our pack, who lucked out on getting something to protect her hands.

Similarly, our descent was started with no real instructions and I was glad to have already conquered Bolivia. I feared though, for the other members of my group, knowing that many of Peru’s roads are rumoured to be worse. And the path we were on was certainly a forerunner with its u-turn bends and snaking blind corners. Add in some speeding cars, trucks and other cyclists, and faulty brakes, gears and handlebars, and you might imagine some of the peril.

Luckily the first part was a bitumen road, in moderate condition, and those of us who either didn’t have brakes or didn’t use them, cruised down easily from 4300m. A few stops later, each one calling for more and more mechanical assistance (I think the idea of maintenance hasn’t reached Peru yet, and so quick fixes are the norm) and we were seated with our packed lunch of cheese rolls, fruit and various sweet and savoury biscuits.

But as soon as we were back on our bikes, the menacing gravel appeared, threatening to send each of us skidding into the watery roadside trench. Again, there were no instructions, and no real guide either, after he (Eder) was forced to swap bikes with Dutch guy Eric, whose brakes and gears had both given up. Needless to say there were a few minor mishaps, some preliminary baths if you like, but we were definitely more fortunate than the other group who had a more serious broken-in-half mishap.

Our ride finished quite early in the afternoon, not taking the five hours we were originally told, and we piled into the minivan, unsure what would fill the rest of the day and night. But like much of the rest of our individual travels throughout South America, it is beer and conversation that warms us up after our freezing cold showers, sending us to bed in anticipation of our first day of hiking.

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.

Braving Bolivia

Having scoffed down a street-side “milanesa” (supposed to be a breaded filet, but it was more like a hamburger) I got on the bus to Sucre and instantly realised that we had been conned into a cama price, despite only having just enough room for my legs (heaven help my travelling partner Alistair who is over six foot).

The bus driver was still outside spruiking our departure, trying to fill the last remaining seats – one of which happens to be next to me. Of course I prayed that he had no luck, but this is Bolivia, and my little white-girl Australian wishes don’t mean anything at all here. (And so starts the worst bus ride in the world).

Never mind the Death Road, this was Death itself. Once we got driving, fluoro lights blinded us throughout the night, and the driver made sure that even the passing cars could hear his horrible Bolivian music. Not only just the seats, but the aisles were crowded with people and their parcels – which had been stuffed into whatever space they could find above and below. The familiar horse blanket smell of my tour returned in full force, and I clamoured to spray enough perfume on my clothes to overpower it.

Our first stop was after only a few hours for a “baño” (toilet) break, but we ended up staying much longer than the usual 15 minutes, with the drivers sitting down to eat dinner and chat with their other driver friends. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all between Uyuni and Potosi and when we arrived at the highest city in the world – 4060m above sea – it was not only my heart that was agitated. Here we were told to get off with everyone else, who were staying in town to make the passage down the infamous silver mines, despite paying for an onward ticket to Sucre. Of course I questioned the driver further, as to the location of our next bus, and he mumbled something about it being around the corner. But was 130am, pitch black and my lungs could hardly breathe from the altitude and the diesel fumes that were being pumped out of our bus. I was in no mood for being fobbed off.

So I stood my ground and asked him again firmly, proving that my Spanish was not as bad as he thought it was, to which I was told to get back on the bus. Still not sure what was happening, Alistair and I were taken around the corner, where the bus stopped again. It is here that I asked the only other person with us, a young Bolivian guy, where he was going and what was happening. He politely told me he lives in Sucre and that a bus will come along eventually, but that it might take a few hours. I then probed further and asked how much he had paid to get there, to which he gave me a figure more than half ours.

I am livid at this stage, having been lied to about the price and the timing of our journey, and instantly thump on the driver’s door to demand some answers. I still don’t get any, but when bus passes a half an hour later, we are pushed through to the front, probably given someone else’s seats.

Aboard, we are greeted with an even more potent stench than before – matured over several hours no doubt – but fortunately no lights or music. I slowly drift in and out of consciousness, each time praying for the two hours to pass quickly, but it is almost 5am before we reach the terminal in Sucre, and my hopes of getting an early connection to Santa Cruz are immediately dashed when I find the terminal all closed-up except for the many waiting passengers. And I am further crushed when I see that no buses will leave until the afternoon.

So stumbling up the hill and around the corner with Alistair, I go to the closest hostel, and check in for a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Waking up a short while later, I go to buy my bus ticket out and join Alistair for a walk into town. But there’s really not much to see here – in a town of only 200,000 – bar a few closed museums and churches. And with Sunday siesta in full swing, sampling some chocolate is all that I have to fill in my time.

It is then that I call my friend in Santa Cruz to explain I won’t be arriving for her party that night, to which she tells me about the cheap flights here. And it is with this glimmer of light, that I jump online to book a ticket. But this doesn’t work, with only international flights appearing, so I head to the office in town to purchase one there. But they are closed too, any given Sunday, and I am told that I must go out to the airport itself - which I do with much urgency.

Once there, I am told there is one available in an hour or so, if I don’t mind going via La Paz rather than direct, and that they will reserve my ticket while I collect my bag and passport. So I haul my arse into a taxi, paying the high tariff just to get out of here, but when I return it seems things aren’t so easy after all. The group of French in front of me are politely informed that there are no phone lines out of the airport at the moment, and that the credit card machine won’t work. Of course nothing changes in the time it takes them to scrape together enough cash – there being no ATMs here either – and I am left with only one option. Suddenly it seems there is another seat on the direct plane, and I am told to take another expensive taxi to the their office in a downtown supermarket to pay there.

I quickly do this, but it is the same story there - there is no line out, and I must pay in cash. But time and money has gotten the better of me, having already missed the bus I tentatively booked, and being a low cash position for the next week, I cannot afford to pay in Bolivanos. And so I must return to the airport again, just to collect my bags and tell them that I can’t fly.

Once there, I try to arrange a payment in Santa Cruz, but it won’t work, and it seems I am stuck here until tomorrow, when hopefully, I will find a machine that works. Completely crestfallen, and not wanting to get back on the dreaded Death Bus, I walk back out the front of the airport where a sign stares back at me: “Sonrisa – estas in Sucre!”…Smile – you are in Sucre!

I think not.

(The next day I did of course get on a flight...but no, I wasn't game enough to eat the pork-laced empanada on board)