A Million Minutes in Africa

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.

So what is it like to drive south of the border? Mad times, crazy, man. Let´s just say this is sort of freestyle driving. Sure, you could follow all the traffic rules, but what fun is there in that? I think that would just show a lack of creativity. Actually, Mexico compared to some countries we have driven in is quite calm and safe. The drivers here usually show a lot of restraint, even when stuck behind the infamous Doble Remolque which is a ridiculously long tractor-trailer. Yes, we have them in the US, especially the western states, but in Mexico the double trailers and even the triple trailers go almost everywhere a scooter will try to go. Also, there are many mountainous two-laned roads around here that are a challenge for a new Porsche. There is a stretch of road called El Espinoza del Diablo (the Devil´s Spine!) that lives up to its name. The big rigs on these roads sometimes clip along at a donkey pace- no exaggeration. And that´s not a donkey in any hurry either. I tried going at a dog´s pace, but Giselle started to get a little green, so I slowed back down to hobbling goat.

Another very exciting aspect of driving here is the “tope.” Otherwise known as a speed bump, topes can catch you by surprise because they are the most common form of speed control on every road except the toll roads. The roads here are usually in excellent condition, often better than in the US (remember we live in DC), but the topes knock driveability down a few notches. A tope can be anything from a gentle lump of asphalt stretching across the road. These topes say, “Excuse me kind driver, perhaps you might consider reducing your velocity. Remember, there are children about. Thank you, and have a nice day.” There are other topes with bad attitudes. These topes are like the waiters who spit in your food if you ask them for more water. When you drive over these topes, even at the aforementioned donkey pace, the tope says, “Look here mo-fo, I am going to rip your transmission a new hole, and there is not a dang thing you are going to do about it. By the way, I hope you have a terrible day. Now get out of here and don´t come back…ever… or else.” Another interesting aspect of topology is that often, when you slow down for these lumps people on the side of the road come up to your car to sell things. Many things. We have seen all varieties of fruit, clothing, unrecognizable things, big things, small things- you get the idea. Never let it be said that the people of Mexico are not industrious. It seems like all market niches have been covered; at least on the side of the road.

Concentration is the name of the game. On Eisenhower´s interstate highways back home you can often take catnaps with little consequence. (Dear Insurance Company, please disregard last comment). Here, I blink with my right eye and then my left eye. I have hit a few topes at over 25 mph and it is not a happy feeling for passengers or vehicles. In addition to topes there are animals of every variety using the highway as a barnyard. No kidding, we have seen every one of Old MacDonald´s menagerie out there on the pavement. Note: cow big.

There is also a lack of sidewalks outside of cities. People who live in the villages along the roads have no choice of how to get around. Most of them are not hopping in their Camrys, so they have to walk along the roadside. There is usually not a lot of space for such activity. There is the center line, your lane, the line on the edge of your lane and then about three and a half inches for a person to walk. Going to school kid? Hit the highway. Going to market? Highway. Going to wherever. Highway.

The mix of huge trucks, roaming animals, hapless pedestrians, killer topes, and vomit-inducing curves keeps a driver on his or her toes. My favorite passenger clutches the sides of her seat, stares straight ahead, lets out the occasional scream and tries to avoid puking into her Sudoku puzzle. I think she has finished one in 5,000 miles.