We were four hours or so up the “World’s Most Dangerous Road” when we pulled up upon a manger scene of rescue workers, law enforcement and barefoot locals hovered at the trail’s edge.

Having been “warned” by every tourism-hustler in La Paz who rakes in big bucks sending European tourists quivering down the road on mountain bikes, we were well aware of the road’s statistical claim to the highest number of annual fatalities. 

Climbing out of our dated 4 by 4 to join the quiet crowd, we passed a line of Bolivian men, working hand over hand on a rope slowly crawling back up the side of the canyon.  A lean over the edge confirmed the traffic accident we suspected and the typically lethal outcome. At the belly of a canyon that falls at least a dozen sharp stories under our narrow dirt road lay a semi truck, mangled and flattened like scrap tin. Locals or emergency workers milled like insects through the cargo that spilled from the trucks entrails into the tropical foilage.

Back topside, the locals reeled in their catch.  Harnessed police officers appeared first, followed by the ironic resurrection of a waxy body tied securely to a narrow plastic sled:  The driver.

Grim but surely accustomed to such duties, the police captain turned the corpse over to barefoot locals who dragged him clear to the bumper of our truck and promptly forgot him, returning to investigate the carnage below.

I stared with the unintentional rudeness of the horrified at the body sliding by — the rubbery pallor of the driver’s skin, the way his heel limped in the dirt an inch or two behind the rest of the foot, severed by the accident or the rescue.

And in my virgin introduction to real world, untidy death, all I could think was — This man is a father. This man is a husband. Does his family even know he’s lying at my feet, face covered in dust and old blood. Is he expected home yet?  Is he missed? 

With a little embarrassment, I tucked away the camera I had eagerly grabbed in anticipation of drug busts or indigenous uprisings and watched from a few paces back the bizarre and complex scene – Bolivians both somber for the unknown victim and nearly festive with a sense of purpose or thrill of incident. 

This was not our tragedy to understand.  We moved on.

*        *        *

Happily marinated in the urban stew of La Paz for several days and having lounged poolside in the jungle heaven of Corioco until well-sunburned, we set our sights on escaping to the remote Amazon basin.

We had no reservations for the small and highly coveted flights that traverse the La Paz to Amazon basin route daily.  And we’d opted against the 20 hour masochistically slow bus ride over a tiny dirt road etched into the muddy edge of Andean Peaks – a single track that forced commercial trucks, mini buses stuffed with locals and goods and massive full-grown buses to weave around each other through dangerous days and perilous nights.

With slightly more sense for once, we instead coerced a city boy to sock us in the back of his ancient Land Cruiser, crank his Bolivian pop music and attempt to deliver us to Rurrenabaque, Bolivia for a reasonable price in less time and safer conditions than the local buses.  

*        *        *
Our road trip rolled on – quiet at first but gaining speed and a renewed spirit as my travel partner and I nodded along to our driver’s favorite songs and winced at near misses with superior vehicles.  The afternoon featured a carnival like traffic jam as a dynamite crew induced and cleared imminent landslides from a half mile stretch of the road.  Music was played, gossip was passed, beautiful rice and meat empanadas were consumed with a spicy peanut sauce and closed eyes.

  
The evening found us breaking for fried chicken and bananas at roadside stands in the dark night of backwater towns.  Proving I can in fact sleep anywhere, I slumbered and bounced in the far back of the truck while the driver, his companion and my companion squinted at black roads, watching for ruts and the too-late warning of approaching headlights from around blind curves.  After hours of intermittent sleep peppered with flat tires, star watching, roadside bathroom breaks and the glow of jungle fire flies, we rolled into Rurre – gateway to our next adventure – at about 3 in the morning.
*        *        *

Our pampas tour was long, rustic and full of mythical looking animals.  We met a delightful Aussie couple, played with an Anaconda, shined for crocs in night canoe rides, suffered a thousand mosquito bites and tried in vain to keep the determined rain from completely water logging us.
Returning to civilization afterwards, we learned a workers strike had crippled transportation in and out of Rurrenabaque indefinitely. Uniform support for those who were demanding a rise in government-set wages had spread a commercial paralysis to every worker in town.  No restaurants, no sales of water or food, no motor taxi rides, no buses, no flights. No work, period. 
Though our flight out was canceled as a result and we had to walk a couple of miles in the unforgivingly humid heat to wait all day for a military plane protested by locals, it was an amazing experience we were fortunate to play a tiny role in.  I have to admit I felt a bit the scab for crossing the proverbial picket line, but Machu Picchu awaited. Which may or may not justify our choice.
All told, the trip to the Amazonian pampas was besieged with challenges and tribulations, alternately poignant and hilarious, and still represents some of my favorite recollections of Bolivia.
Maybe our best memories only come at such high a price.

I did nearly nothing today.

Awoke to an open window full of green mountains, had fresh papaya for breakfast outside, wandered down a steep cobbled street to a tiny town square where I had coffee and watched the locals watch me watch them. I lumbered back up the hill, pretending to stop for photo ops when the altitude got stingy with my breath, leisurely observed the way the ornate wooden doors and metal hinges rusted into something unintentionally lovely.

I sat too long by a small cold pool overlooking an incredible valley and the hulking jungle mountains that overlap each other like a line of staggered soldiers on either side. I drank a pisco sour. I lazily bantered with my funny partner in crime. I read. I day dreamed. In the afternoon, I watched the fog muster thick as a crowd, veiling all but the nearest peaks.

Now, it is nearly evening.

And I sit watching this salmon light faint in one far corner of the valley. And I try to memorize how it waltzes with the leftover clouds and haze, weaving a sky of glow and inky shadow.

On the shins of the mountain, tiny house lights are coming on and you can only just make out the frame of palm arms and banana trees that flank crimped tin roofs in the encroaching dark.

Somewhere behind me, I hear music I don´t recognize coming from a little hostel that perches on the shoulders of a shangrila-like town called Coroico.

It was a good day.

Two flights, one overnight 18 hour bus trip and a series of increasingly shabby bus rides brought us to the edge of the Chilean world - the lovely desert village of San Pedro.

Twenty four hours were spent enjoying San Pedro - showering, trying to sleep through the muted sounds of the fiesta next door, lazing about the sun dappled plaza with local dogs, wandering dusty back lanes to the corners of town and drinking “vino tinto” over dinner in a bonfire lit cafe.

And then we were right back at it.

We crossed the Chilean border into the quiet and desolate Bolivian high desert early Saturday morning. For three days we folded ourselves into the far back of a 20 year old Land Cruiser. Conversation precluded by the roar and rumble of the truck flying through rocky ruts in parched soil and then bumping over unmarked Andean mountain passes, we stared contendedly out the window for hours on end - day dreaming and contemplating a landscape sometimes beautiful, always fascinating. I firmly believe having nothing required of you but thinking and witnessing - and occassionally holding on to your seat - is an unmatchable luxury.

We spent our nights in cold concrete structures and a home built entirely of salt rising out of the vast, unpopulated Antiplano. We climbed bizarre rock formations, marveled at gurgling mud filled geysers, sat at the edge of lakes stained red and green by untranslatable minerals and ate our dinners by candlelight beside animated middle aged Argentines who gave us enthusiastic Spanish lessons.

On the final morning of the trip, we were up at 4:30 am and barreling over the salt flats before dawn broke. It’s impossible to describe how vast and how odd the salt flats are - like an endless snowy dance floor where shadows stretch for miles in the light of the sunrise.

By 6 am, we had hiked to the top of a rock “island” covered in thousands of giant cacti and sat confused and thrilled at the top. I can’t begin to do justice to the light - the way it stained the salt pastel and backlit the mountains on the horizon and drew blue shadows behind every cactus.

There’s something about finding yourself in a place like this that feels like a victory - like you’ve journeyed to a secret spot in a mystical hour and you shouldn’t be allowed to be soaking it all in and photographing it to remember forever… like you’re getting away with something rare and undeserved. Suffice it to say I feel fortunate.

In the final hours of the overland trip into southern Bolivia, we passed through a few salt mining towns, played with local children on deserted streets, ate delicious chopped llama on a bed of potatoes purchased for 50 cents and crawled through an amazing train graveyard more somber and beautiful than a real cemetary.

Finally deposited in Uyuni - the first real frontier town you reach after days in the desert and salt flats - we relaxed and watched the locals buy and sell, play and gossip, before waking at 1 am to catch a great old train that rolled and swayed us back up to La Paz at a leisurely pace.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Today we sit in La Paz, where the old women are festooned in woven skirts and bowler hats and their men stroll through the street in formal suits and tattered shoes fresh with polish. The people are kind and gentle, the markets are labryinths of intricate textiles and witchcraft amulets. The city lies in the palm of a steep valley, the walls of which are stitched with spanish homes and colonial churches. At the lip of the valley, snowy Andean peaks rise like a Hollywood backdrop. The city is bustling, dirty and perfect - and for today at least, it is ours.

This year, I hope everyone of you has as much to be thankful for as I do at this very moment.

 

Last night, round about 10 pm, my partner in crime and I took a bleary eyed break from organizing and obsessively weighing our backpacks and made a run for the border.

What more reverent way to christen today’s departure to South America than drive- thru, soggy pseudo-Spanish goodness? Ole!