On the highway to hell!

Death Road (El Camino de la Muerte in Spanish) near La Paz, Bolivia is described as the most dangerous road in the world. Prior to 2007, an average of 28 vehicles a year would fall off the cliff edges of this road, with drops of over 600m and the road as narrow as 3.2m.

Gearing up

A replacement has now been built, which has left the old road open for tourists to cycle down as well as a few local cars.

All this gear made me more nervous!

With around 15 cyclists have died doing this route (the most recent in May 2011 - a British guy), you'd think you'd have to be stark raving mad to pay money to live on the edge, quite literally.

This thought only sunk in whilst I was flying downhill on a mountain bike, slamming on both brakes while negotiating hair-pin bends and oncoming traffic. Panic struck when I realised that this was the easy tarmac section and we hadn’t even reached the "death" road.

Ready to go!

We started the day trip at 4700 m above sea level overlooking a crystal clear lake mirroring the snow-capped mountains. We watched as a group of locals made offerings to a Pachamama (Mother Earth) statue to guide them on their journey. I wondered if we should have brought something...

Our Bolivian guides at Vertigo Biking handed us our comprehensive protective gear including elbow and knee-pads, a full-head helmet and heavy-duty trousers and luminous orange jacket. Once geared up, I could hardly move as we each grabbed a double suspension mountain bike.

The first 63 km of cycling downhill on the tarmac road made me feel like a kid again. The icy-fresh air splashed my face while I stole glimpses of the snow-capped mountains and valley ahead.

After a snack break, dealing with permit formalities and a short drive, we hit the actual world's most dangerous road. And talk about timing, that's when the clouds hit; we had ten metres visibility and it was very wet!

The mist comes in at the top

My stomach flipped as our guide, Oscar, gave a second run down of riding protocol, most notable of which was the rule whereby if you´re cycling downhill and meet a vehicle on it´s way up, then you pass cliff-side, not mountainside (this happened to me!).

To ease us in, Oscar got me to do the "llama dance" with him, making our hands in the shape of llama heads and busting some moves. It made me feel calm, for about two minutes.

My entire body shuddered as we tackled the rough terrain, weary of the proximity between my tyres and the cliff’s edge.

This doesn't do the danger justice!

As I cycled past moss-covered wooden crosses and shrines, I had told myself that I was there to complete this and not for an adrenaline rush.

So, along with a few others I remained firmly at the back of the pack with the brakes applied 99% of the time! It was rocky, slippery and my left wrist (from an old injury) and hands were in agony before we'd even reached halfway. I was determined to finish it, though.

We cycled through rivers and under waterfalls, stopping at various intervals to check everyone was still with us. The view occasionally opened up to reveal the lush green, sheer drops that had taken so many people's lives.

The vigorous cycle route ends in the small village of Yolosa where we shed our protective layers, bid farewell to our mountain bikes and toasted each other with a local beer.

Oscar filled us in on the beer-fuelled bus journey back to La Paz on the recent incidents where tourists have fallen to their death. It made me realise that sometimes the cliché ’ignorance is bliss’ is best.

So the next time I wear my free T-shirt that says: ‘I’ve got what it takes to ride down the world’s most dangerous road’ I will take a moment to think of those who didn't make it, and value the incredible and gruelling experience of cycling through Bolivia’s rough yet beautiful landscape.

Border crossings and bicycle bottoms

Being British in Argentina just a few days after the 30 year anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas war made us nervous.

Seeing images on the BBC News website of your national flag reduced to a smouldering heap on the main street of Buenos Aires is certainly a little irksome, as was the stony face of the man sat behind the customs desk at the border crossing as he read slowly, and sternly: "Ingleterra." Everyone else got a smile.

So if pressed on the matter, we're Australian from here on in.

Our border crossing to Argentina, while spectacular (the customs office is at the foot of Volcan Lanin), has set a precedent for future border crossing in South America.

After our little fracas with the man at the border, I was just nodding my sleep-heavy head when our bus, freshly on Argentinian soil, screeched its breaks to a standstill. People on the bus started walking to the front and stepping outside, all speaking in fast Chileno Spanish that went way over my head, despite the lessons.


There was a protest, for what, I am still not sure. The road had been barricaded with a truck parked horizontally across the bridge and a group of roguish-looking men camping out behind it.

Everyone has heard a South American horror story, and I've listened to more than my fair share. But today we were lucky: the protest was peaceful (less the monster truck parked crudely in the middle of the road) and we were able to walk with all our bags to another bus on the opposite side of the bridge. The protesters even smiled and said "hola" as we passed them - not quite the hysteria I had anticipated.


It was striking to see the contrasts in the west and east sides of the Andes. While lush and green on the Chileno side, it was quite dry on the Argentina side - both tied together by mountains and stunning 'Monkey Puzzle' trees.

As we moved closer to our destination, the landscape changed from arid mountain plains to pine forests, golf courses, a ski resort and holiday homes. This was a playground for wealthy Argentinians, and not what I had imagined at all.

San Martin de los Andes is on the shore of a big and beautiful lake; houses are made of stone and wood; and the streets are lined with hundreds of trees. However, I was relieved to see the tell tale signs that this was still very much South American: stray dogs strutting around everywhere - they are the kings of these streets, but so friendly too.

Having started to feel the effects of meat and cheese, we bit the bullet and rented bikes for a day, up through the mountains and to the shores of Lago Lácar.

It was tough going as a lot of it was uphill up dirt tracks, mostly trodden by goats and cows. We had to pull into the side to let by two huge bulls being led by a local Mapache man, his children and a trail of puppies - it was good to see a slice of authenticity in this European-style town.

Our efforts were rewarded when we arrived at the mirador (viewing point) of the lake and surrounding mountains. It was good to get a bit of a sweat up but it was more fun on the way back, downhill and with the sun on our backs - we stopped only for lunch by the lake and to see the decorative shrines on the side of the road.

The next day I woke up with a very painful, bruised bottom; I should have taken the bull, not the bike, up the rocky, steep path.