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.

Fútbol, flea markets and fiestas

We didn't stop with the steak when it came to classic BA pastimes - next came the fútbol. We picked a match between local teams, Independiente and Racing, whose stadiums are right next to each other in the same neighbourhood.

A rivalry doesn't get bigger than this; to say they hate each other would be the year's biggest understatement.

Tourists are advised to go with an organised tour to guarantee entry, safety and making it out alive - so this was one organised trip we were happy to give our money to.

We were picked up early, and dropped in a swarm of Independiente fans, chanting, hollering and swigging from beer bottles. Med was relieved he didn't listen to the stupid guy at our hostel who had told him to wear the OTHER team's blue and white colours - we were definitely in a red sea of fans and stood out like fat people in Hollywood.

We had to hustle our way through the crowds with the help of Paula, our guide. In Argentina, there are no wealthy bosses swooping in to run the teams and make their millions. Here, the fans are in charge and some of the money we pay goes to the so-called 'hooligans' to help us get through the police barricades and throngs of fans.

Two half-cut characters turned up to help us through.

At first, we didn't fancy our chances with these two in charge, but the women were quickly ushered past the police with their riot gear while the men had to wait in the crush. After police pat downs (you can't even take a lip balm inside as it could be used as a missile), a few confused minutes when it looked like Med wouldn't get past the police and a bit of argie bargie, we were into the 50,000-seat stadium.

The place was electric and the noise unreal! Everywhere you looked there were banners waving, fans screaming and drums booming. Our guide ushered us up to the top corner of the stand. It took me a while to realise why, but I soon spotted - and heard - the caged fans of the opposition above our heads

. They looked like wild animals up there, hanging off the wired fences, spitting and yelling obscenities at the people below. Only the razor wire kept them from jumping over the top, but I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them sacrificed their skin to get at their nemeses below.

The start of the game was like nothing I've ever seen before. Fireworks, red flares, paper streamers, thunderous feet banging on the stands and people of all ages singing at the top of their lungs, dancing and crudely gesturing at the opposition fans. Even the stray dogs who had somehow got past the police barriers were going crazy for the arrival of the teams, and arch enemies.

The match was the world's greatest circus: sprays of water, urine and blue ink from balloons hurled by Racing fans above; goals from both teams causing the fans to roar and get even wilder; obscene chants in Spanish; obscener dances and gestures; drumming and flares filling the stadium; red cards causing glass bottles and firecrackers to come crashing down near us (we quickly ran forward and right to the front for safety); a penalty and two last minute goals by Independiente to secure a win. I have never witnessed, and probably never will again, anything quite like that in my life.

We all enjoyed post-match beers and choripan (big sausages in baguette bread) in stunned amazement.

The next day was a more chilled out affair wandering the San Telmo market. The whole area is packed with stalls selling antiques and other curiosa, and a huge variety of street performers, including the tango dancers I had been waiting for. It was an amazing multi-sensory experience, quite different from the one we witnessed the day before. Buenos Aires was now exceeding my expectations.

And then BOOM, that night while enjoying some local wine with friends in the hostel courtyard, a block of ice came hurtling from the apartment next door, bounced off the table in front of me and crashing into my head. Some people come round to make a noise complaint, others shout down from their flat, some call the police. In Argentina, they throw missiles and don't care who they hit, and we weren't even being that noisy.

A cut head produces a horrifying amount of blood, but I lived and didn't need stitches. It could have been a lot worse.

For our last day in the city, we walked around the exclusive neighbourhood of Recoleta and Polemo – full of designer boutiques, sculptures, sprawling parks and grand old house. The highlight was getting lost in the cemetario - a casual wander reveals the crypts of Buenos Aires’s most elite families including the much loved Eva (Evita) Peron.

Some are old and uncared for – doors squeaking open to reveal cracked tiles, smashed dome windows and stacks of weathered or broken coffins. Some are brand new, built from the finest granite and fitted with heavy steel doors that will never bang in the breeze. The best are a mix of the two – old and cut out of white stone but as grand as any church with their wrought-iron doors, stained-glass windows and guardian angel statues.

Although visitors are in good company it is hard not to be mildly terrified when a door suddenly swings open, a glimpse through a window reveals a morbid pile of boxes or something rustles a little too loudly nearby. Still, the sheer size and unusual nature of the place is inspiring - my favourite was a huge sculpture surrounded by a garden full of real-life butterflies. Coming so close to death the night before (I jest!) I told Med I would settle with one of those.

In one day we went from death to more life and soul than you can shake a stick at! La Bomba de Tiempo - or The Time Bomb - had arrived. It was 8pm on a Monday night in Buenos Aires and night was slowly beginning to fall. The seventeen percussionists that make up La Bomba de Tiempo were preparing to go on stage and the beer and wine was being served in litre cups. As they took to their drums, the crowd went wild.

These hugely talented musicians – and their weekly guest artists – play a different show every week: unrehearsed, and carried out through “directed improvisation”. The communication within the band is held together through the slightest of hand signals and some highly gymnastic leaps on the part of the director. They had guest singers and drummers to keep the pace fresh and exciting.

As the night moved on, the collective dancing of the huge crowd grew more wild and spontaneous and I was grateful for my well-worn flipflops and leggings combo. We danced, we whooped, we sweated buckets and applauded until our hands were numb. I didn't want the night to end, but what a way to end our stay in BA!

Buenos Aires was just like that: a 'time bomb'. It rushed by in a blur of steak, good wine, tango dancing in the streets, a nightlife that never seems to stop, fútbol and flares, bustling markets, and music, art and inspiration around ever corner. Buenos Aires is all that and a bag of chips.