A Million Minutes in Africa

Made it to Argentina. Stay tuned.

The road to Iruya is incredibly curvy and chock-full of scenery.  Before now we didn’t know that parts of Argentina resembled Utah.

More salt flats. This is the Argentine version.

This town is smack dab in the middle of some of the most incredible scenery ever.  It is almost like driving through the Grand Canyon Lite version.

We visited the largest salt flat IN THE WORLD. Dang, it was big.

Salty. This building is supposed to be made out of salt.  Being skeptical, I tried it and found out that some of it was dirt.

Flat.

Uyuni has a train cemetery.

Thank you thank you thank you, Chris, for the best food in Bolivia.  Chris is originally from Amherst, Massachusetts and now makes his home in Uyuni. He runs the only restaurant we came across in Bolivia with real coffee, chocolate chip cookies, bagels and delicious pizza. Get your pizza at Minuteman!

We are heading south tomorrow to Tupiza (last home of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) if the threatened strike does not come off. There are rumors that the road will be blocked and we have no interest in riling up anyone so we will stay put if the protests materialize.

We are in this colonial town which is known for its rich mines. We visited a working mine and brought presents for the miners. Apparently, they appreciate water, coca leaves, and, uh, sticks of dynamite.

Dan is holding dynamite in this photo.

The conditions in the mine are appalling. The miners don’t wear masks and usually only last about 10 years before getting sick. There are frequent accidents, injuries and deaths. Fortunately there weren’t any while we scrambled through the mine.

This miner is 12 years old. No kidding. He wasn’t the only kid his age working there, either.

We went on the mine tour with Mike.  Mike’s a retired firefighter from Missouri. He’s riding his motorcycle the length of South America. And you thought we were crazy!

Say that ten times fast.

In Oruro, we were lucky enough to stay at the home of the family of a friend. They showed us around and took care of us when we got sick. When we were well, Elisa and Monica dressed me up in a classic Oruro carnival outfit.  What hospitality!

We survived “The Most Dangerous Road IN THE WORLD”!

Coroico is a little hillside town three hours from La Paz by way of the Death Road. The who, what, now? Yes, Mom, nice as Coroico is, the real attraction was hopefully living to brag about driving on what is hyped as the most Dangerous Road IN THE WORLD! I couldn’t imagine what a single stretch of byway could do to earn this title. Were there giant boulders dropping randomly from the sky? Were there rhinoceri charging anything with wheels? Were there quagmires of quicksand full of hungry piranhas with guns? I had to find out.

It all started promisingly enough. Just outside of La Paz there was a checkpoint for the road. A very unofficial-looking hombre signaled for us to stop. “Do you have insurance?” he asked. Now, back in the States, of course, it is not a good idea to say “hello” to someone unless you have insurance. Other countries, however, do not have so many lawyers as we do. The evidence includes open pits in sidewalks, electric showerheads with bare wires, group bicycle rides on the World’s Most Dangerous Road, diapers lined with broken glass (only this one is not real), etc. When Mr. Shady asked me about insurance, I guess I got what some peple would say is a frisson. Next he asked me to turn on my headlights, low and then high beams. Huh? Wipers. Check. Turn signals. Holy cow! Then he crawled under the car and told me to turn the steering wheel back and forth. Unbelieveable. He was checking the state of the steering. As we rolled away, he paused and said with great sincerity, “Please, drive carefully.” In some parts of the U.S. and seemingly most countries south of the border, there are no motor vehicle safety inspections. If it rolls, you are good to go. No lights, no exhaust, no tread? No problem. This technical review darkly suggested the road was going to do the dirty work of weeding out the weak vehicles from the pack. I envirioned ancient Datsun sedans mired in the muck, tractor-trailers dangling off precipices, lesser jeeps suffering the angry kicks of their frustrated drivers as coolant and oil gushed from cracked engine blocks, motorcycles being swallowed whole by ravenous alligators. We continued, driving well below a prudent speed.

The craggy mountains looked down on the road, perhaps silently mocking us. Perhaps the altitude is getting to me. The twisting road smoothly curved downward. Not so dangerous. Quite relaxing actually.

Another checkpoint this time for drugs or any other prohibited substances. A sign next to the road informed us it was not legal to transport sulfuric acid, hexachloro phosphate something, blah, blah. We were descending into the Yungas Valley, a major center for coca production in the jungle and these chemicals transform the innocent coca leaf of ancient tradition into the white powder of U.S. intervention and imperialist neo-colonialism. At least, that is now the coca museum in La Paz frames it more or less. Actuaslly we have both enjoyed the widely available coca tea (maté de coca). It is really quite pleasant albeit a little uncomfortable snorting the hot liquid up your nose. (I kid.) After the drug/chemicals inspection, the nice man sent us on our way with a sincere warning, “Please, drive carefully.” Then he gave us each a calendar. Really.

The road glided downhill from this last outpost. Bring on the white knuckles! Curve, dip, crest, curve. Ok. Guardrail? What the heck is a guardrail doing here? You can’t have vehicles bursting into flames mid-air à la Hollywood if they scrape to a stop along a guardrail. This was not looking good. There weren’t even potholes. So far, the only real danger was that parts of the road were narrowed to a single lane where one lane was being paved. No reflective cones or blinking arrow barricades for traffic control here. Just jagged rocks the size of watermelons ready to rip open your gas tank if you foolishly tried to ignore them. This game of chicken was interesting as we swung around blind curves, but I just couldn’t get past how artificial it felt. Especially since there was no oncoming traffic. Most Dangerous Road my eye. This continued for a while as the refrain from Public Enemy echoed inmy bitter head, “Don’t believe the hype!”

Without warning, the construction zone ended. The road narrowed and got dusty as heck. I slowed our little truck. The curves got tighter. The shoulder gave way to a drop-off of certain death on the left. To the right was a vertical rock wall that tried to arch over the excuse of a road. The width between granite and oblivion was the equivalent of one lane on a U.S. highway.

In the rearview mirror I noticed another SUV gaining on us as it scrambled over the loose road surface. Go ahead, buddy, it’s your life. The road curved down and to the right. He was going to pass us on the curve. Now I was starting to get a sense of the road’s name. Was this driver sent by the tourism office? Whoever he was, I slowed just a little, because I didn’t want his fiery death on my conscience. I always drive with worst case scenarios in mind, so I pictured a large truck coming the other way and this nut job squeezing back into my lane.

Only half of my vision proved accurate. Yes, there was a large truck coming around the curve the other way. It was one of those very solid ten-wheelers with a front end that was a colorful wall of steel and glass. However, instead of squeezing to our left, he was heading straight for us. The other SUV that was passing us skipped around to the left of the big truck. I hit the brakes and steered right, hoping to find a place to squeeze between rocks and diesel-stained steel on the left. Our Ford’s anti-lock brakes kicked in and the front of the truck grumbled to the right before it stopped in a crunchy cloud of dust. There in front of us were letters about 3 feet high. V-O-L-V-O. How ironic, almost killed by a Volvo.

Half a heartbeat later, I threw our truck into reverse to go around this menace. I had a good mind to catch the lunatic in the other SUV and inform him in my best Spanish that he was a loser. First, we had to get around Volvo. He would not budge to his side of the road. He just blew his air horn at us and waved wildly for us to go to his left. OK, tough guy, you and your 20 tons win. Sheesh.

On the next blind curve to the right, I hugged the wall closer, adrenaline still coursing. I didn’t want to repeat that encounter. The driver of an oncoming SUV had a different idea. We were both hugging the same wall, but thanks to my newfound religion, we were cruising at slug speed. This lunatic also honked at us and waved wildly for us to go to the left, or his right. As we rolled past, his passenger rolled down his window to wave hello with his middle finger.

After this last encounter it seemed the real danger was not the road, but the drivers. Were there a colony of rogue Brits or Aussies living in the jungle, trying to impose their drive-to-the-left tradition on hapless gringos and Bolivian drivers?

I pulled my eyes away from the path in front of us to scan for oncoming traffic. A dusty plume signaled a bus was approaching through the curves ahead at breakneck speed. Try Googling “bus crash” “South America” for kicks. I found a wide spot in the road and stopped our truck just about in the center. As the bus pounded closer, sure enough, it passed to our right. No horn, no middle digit. He didn’t even look British. Each vehicle we encountered squeezed by our right side without a fuss. We continued this way until we finally made it to our destination of Coroico.

At dinner our waiter explained that uphill traffic has the right of way. Well, yeah, that is pretty standard, but it doesn’t explain driving on the wrong side. The nearest we can figure is that when you are squeezing two vehicles through a one-and-a-half lane section, it is easier to judge where your wheels are and where the road gives way to nothing when you can look out of the side window to see what is going on. I am still not sure that this unannounced driving custom qualifies the road as the World’s Most Dangerous, but it sure keeps it interesting.

cross_danger_road_2

Originally uploaded by Bibliobiker.

Hey, George! WMD found! Actually, that would be World´s Most Dangerous road. On the way back from Coroico to La Paz we found the old route. It was as advertised as you can see from the lousy pictures. It was truly treacherous and the road got our full attention.

Coca fields in Coroico.

We crossed the border from Peru to Bolivia and reached the town of Copacabana while it was in the midst of a festival, the Fiesta de la Virgen de Candelaria.

There were many groups of different dancers. Each group had its own type of costume.

To get from Copacabana to La Paz, you have to cross a river. There’s no bridge there. There’s no ferry either. They do, however, have these rickety boats for you to drive aboard. Oh sure, they probably have insurance. (not!)

La Paz is not exactly as peaceful as the name suggests. A frenetic city with lots of good walking. However, we have put in some time at the internet cafe and have posted a bunch of new pictures. Check them out, they are fresh.

Tomorrow we head a little downhill to Coroico.

The Uros islands in Lake Titicaca are manmade. They consist of tortora reeds. People live on them, give tours and sell trinkets. The bottom layer of reeds rots, so the residents must continously add layers of reeds to the top.

Amantani island is a natural island on Lake Titicaca. This is the temple of Pachamama (mother earth), on top of the highest hill on the island. Nowadays the people attend Catholic church every Sunday, but they also worship Pachamama once a year, on June 21, their winter solstice.

On Amantani island, we stayed with a family: Eugenio, Wilma, Kevin, Kelly and Jocelyn. In the evening, Wilma dressed us up, and Eugenio took us to a dance with all the other dressed up foreigners.

The traditional activity for men and boys on Taquile Island is knitting. (The women are weavers.) Here’s a boy knitting a hat with 5 needles. I tried chatting with several knitting men, but they didn’t seem too impressed that I knit, too.

This boat was brought in pieces to Lake Titicaca via mule train from Arica, Chile, in the late 19th century! It took 6 years for the boat to get there from England, where the it was manufactured. It has been restored and is now a museum in Puno.

We’re heading to Copacabana, Bolivia tomorrow.

Arequipa’s cathedral is made of white volcanic stone called sillar.

Our hotel’s terrace has a view of the cathedral and main plaza. We checked it out in the evening with our friend, Christos.

A special gastronomic treat in Peru is cuy, or guinea pig. We didn’t have any, but we saw some of the critters destined for someone’s tabletop.

As Christos and his ex-girlfriend would say as their mouths water, “Schmuckelputz!” (Yum in German.)

Here I am at Cruz del Condor, a scenic overlook between Chivay and Cabanaconde, waiting for condors to show up.

One finally appeared.

Irene and Luz had been selling handicrafts at the overlook and needed a ride. We gave them a lift. Their bundle of sticks wouldn’t fit inside, so Dan loaded it on the roof.

The road from Cabanaconde to Arequipa was dusty and sinuous.