And Relaxing at the End of the Road

The town at the end of the World’s Most Dangerous Road came highly recommended, both at home and in Bolivia. Called Coroico, it is as close as Bolivia has to a resort town.

It’s set on a hillside above a beautiful lush Yungas valley. Below you can see a river, lined with coffee, banana, citrus and coca plantations. Compared to the cold of La Paz, it’s the perfect temperature, always around eighty degrees. The square is filled with palm trees, park benches and people selling snacks, making it the perfect place to relax. A short walk along the cobbled streets takes you outside of town and to all sorts of little establishments where you can dine al fresco, overlooking the valley, on all sorts of amazing local and organic food (my favorite being the homemade coffee ice cream).

Coroico was full of Bolivian families on holiday, swimming, playing soccer, chatting and hanging out. There weren’t many other tourists about, so I was left to my own devices. The town boasts hiking, rafting and horseback riding, but I was feeling super lazy, so I spent most of my time relaxing by the pool, reading the last Harry Potter. (Although, to my credit, it is in Spanish). I also got a wicked sunburn and all sorts of itchy insect bites, but such is life.

Coroico was also interesting because it had black people. In this culture, black people are uncommon and a sign of good luck. Apparently, the Afro-Bolivianos are the ancestors of slaves brought over to work the mines. When mining production dropped the slaves were sent to the Yungas to grow coca, where their natural resistance to malaria gave them an advantage. They stayed after slavery was abolished in the 1850s, continuing their farming lifestyle. There are some 35,000 of them in Bolivia, most all of them in the Yungas. While they’ve adopted the Aymara customs and language, they have generally avoided intermarriage with the larger Aymara population. Their subculture also retains distinctly African elements, like plenty of attitude and openness (this family even invited me to take their picture), plus very soulful, rhythmic song and dance. However, not all of the Afro-Bolivianos know of their origins, let alone the existence of the African continent. When I asked one woman if she wanted to visit Africa she asked me where it was!

The World´s Most Dangerous Road

Attention Familiars: This may upset some of you. My apologies. You know me. Anything named the World’s Most Dangerous Something has an unshakeable appeal. Plus, in addition to being the World’s Most Dangerous Road, it’s probably the world’s most beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.

This weekend I went to Coroico, via what has been termed the World’s Most Dangerous Road. The Inter-American Development Bank bestowed the unfortunate name on the road a few years back, when hundreds of people would die enroute each year. In reality, the road is not so dangerous these days. As a result of the title a new $120 million bypass has been built and most of the traffic diverted. Also as a result of the title, there a tourism industry around the road, and most all of the remaining traffic is mountain bikers. All of the towns along the road have been abandoned and there are only a few houses.

I was a little too timid ride a bike down the road, so I talked a taxi driver who lives outside of Coroico into taking me there and back for a small fee. At the start of the road there is a gigantic statue of Jesus, as well as an indigenous rock altar called an Apacheta. Travellers pray for protection before they set off. Some people bless their vehicles with alcohol and feed the dogs that stand like sentinels along the road, in hopes of bringing additional luck. There’s also a sign which directs drivers to honk their horns liberally, which made me laugh.

The road itself is no laughing matter. It’s just a dirt and gravel track. Sheer walls rise above the road and drop-offs fall thousands of feet below. The road twists and turns like a corkscrew, into river valleys and out onto ridges. At points, waterfalls flow over and erode the road. Occasionally, they were so strong it was like being in a car wash. Towards the top of the road the clouds close in, and it’s hard to see the edge and the abyss below. The route is so dangerous that normal road rules don't apply. The downhill traffic always travels on the outside, so that the driver with the best view of their wheels takes the greater risk. The road is so narrow, that when you have to pass, the vehicles lean out precipitously over the edge, leaving you wondering if you’re in a car or an airplane. I felt thankful that I was in a tiny taxi, and not a big tour bus. Even so, on particularly tight turns I would involuntarily scoot towards the inside and my driver would ask me if I was alright.

The road is not so dangerous for its quality, which can be safely navigated by a sensible driver, but for the quantity of traffic it received. It used to be the main link between the Northern Yungas and La Paz, and the Brazilian Amazon and the Pacific Ocean. Each year dozens of downhill passing vehicles would fall off the edge and into the abyss, taking their passengers to their deaths. In 1983 more than a hundred passengers in a single camion plunged over the precipice and met their ends.

The road was dotted with constant reminders of the deaths. Crosses, big and small, singular and in clusters of ten to twenty lined the road. There were even a few memorials in other languages. Most poignant was a man with a little red flag, who would stand at a particularly dangerous corner signalling traffic when it was safe. His entire family, wife, children, parents and in-laws, died there in an accident over ten years ago. He lived where they died, surviving on food donations from passing travellers. The Bolivian government, for their part, took far more extreme safety measures, putting yellow caution tape along precarious stretches.

I am often cavalier, and have spoken fondly, of the Latin American safety ethic. Driving the World’s Most Dangerous Road was a reminder of how unacceptable it actually is. In the late nineties they made the road one-way on alternating days, which saved hundreds of lives, but generated so much opposition that it was scrapped. A bit before I left, the Bolivian BBC correspondent was killed in a car crash in La Paz. It’s insane that people drive drunk, without seatbelts, at night, in overcrowded camions over these sorts of roads. I was glad for my driver, who actually snapped at me for sitting with my feet out the passenger-side window, in classic Ally style.

Santa, All I Want for Christmas is Better Spanish

Unlike many Latin American nations, Bolivia celebrates Christmas in a big way. The malls are full of wealthy people, while the plazas are filled with makeshift market stalls selling every imaginable bit of Christmas kitsch. Tinny music, tons of blinking lights, tiny nativities, and Western-style Christmas trees are everywhere. Christmas centers on the Nochebuena, or Christmas Eve. Families stay up until midnight to attend mass, toast the birth of Christ, eat dinner and exchange gifts.

My family didn’t attend mass, but there is the Misa del Gallo, so-named because a rooster was supposedly one of the first creatures to witness baby Jesus' birth. In some towns, especially Sucre, baby Jesus is carried around town, with everyone dancing, carolling and generally adoring him.

For dinner Bolivians have picana, a special holiday soup with a spicy white wine broth and hunks of corn on the cob, whole potatoes, and chunks of lamb, chicken and beef. We also had encholata, a stomach churning solution of beer and coca cola. With the food, the alcohol and the hour I ended up falling asleep before either of the kids.

Gift giving here is straightforward. Adults give children gifts, but don’t really exchange among themselves. While they’re opened at midnight and all the squealing is in Spanish, the flurry of excitement and flying paper is exactly the same as at home. I made my family a basket of wine, chocolate, nuts and cheese, including some swiss cheese, which confused my abuelita to no end.

Christmas day is a more subdued affair. Some families attend mass a second time, but we were having none of that. Instead, we slept late, ate leftover picana for lunch, and then relaxed around the house. Because we live in Zona Sur we’re at a significantly lower altitude than La Paz proper and we had wonderful weather today. It was about eighty degrees outside, and we sat in the garden and talked politics and economics while the kids rode their new bikes around us.

Festivities continue through New Years and until the 8th, El Dia de los Tres Reyes Magos, when the wise men come and it’s time to put away the tree and nativity and start making good on those resolutions.

Feliz navidad, próspero año y felicidad a todos. I miss and love you all and I hope you’re having a merry Christmas. Know that I’m happy and healthy and all the rest.

Into the Yungas and Onto the Aqueduct

We woke early on the second day of the trek, anxious for and early start, food and clean water. We had reached the edge of the yungas the night before, but today the trail plunged downwards and into the steamy swale below.

As we descended it got warmer and more humid by the minute. The vegetation grew taller and more verdant and the wildlife more abundant. The air had a sweet floral scent, with eucalyptus trees abounding. Bird and cicada sounds competed with the roaring river below us. The Precolombian paving disappeared, overgrown by the flourishing foliage.

We wound up and down the mountain sides, in and out of the river valleys. When we crossed the Rio Takesi for the last time, over a dam, we began hiking along this aqueduct. We had beautiful vistas out over the lush subtropical landscape, down the river and into town.

We hiked though a gold mining camp called Chojilla. It was astounding to see the rape of the landscape; the bright green turned a dingy brown, a sulphur smell permeating everything and dirty water draining into the river. Look for another entry on the effects of mining sometime soon.

After Mina Chojilla we continued on to the tranquil little town of Yanacachi. In Yanacachi, everyone was out and about in their Sunday best. There weren't any busses running from Yanacachi but some of the local kids offered to show us a shortcut the highway. They lead us down a footpath out of town, through their families’ banana, coffee and coca fields, peppering me with questions about the States, Santa Claus, and my sunburn, which made me look somewhat like Rudolph myself.

When we reached the highway, we flagged down a bus headed for La Paz. The drive back felt like an extension of the hike, an exposed dirt track, winding around the mountains, with cliffs and gorges extending thousands of feet above and below us. An extension of the hike, except that we were speeding down the hill at 100kph, able to smell the brakes. Imagine my surprise when I learned that we weren’t on the world’s most dangerous road. That’s next weekend’s adventure.

Trekking Takesi

This weekend I was determined to get out and explore Bolivia. As it is Christmastime there aren’t a lot of other tourists around. It’s a blessing, since you get the sights to yourself, but it’s also a curse, since there aren’t any organized tours. I ended up hiring a private guide to take on the Takesi trek. The two-day trek links the highland altiplano with the lowland yungas through a low pass in the majestic Cordillera Real mountain range.

The owner of the trekking company drove us up to the trailhead on Saturday morning. We got stopped on the way there, outside of the town of Ventilla. I know this sounds silly, but I was really excited to see my first Bolivian roadblock. However, in reality, it was road construction. There was one fellow standing in a ditch, chucking stones into a wheelbarrow, while another one laid them up on the road, using the same strategy the Inca had hundreds of years before.

We began trekking off of an access road for Mina San Francisco, where wolfram and tin are extracted. The rocky trail climbed steeply, and at altitude, I was quickly exhausted. The only respite was the short distance to the summit. As we rounded the last switchback to the 4600m Apachetas Pass a gigantic ornate iron cross came into view. It was so ironic, because all I felt like doing was falling to my knees and begging for more oxygen. We stopped so I could leave a stone I carried all the way from Seattle. In the Aymara tradition it's good luck to bring stones from lower elevations and leave them at higher elevations, in piles called Apachetas.

Unfortunately, there was no reprieve after the pass. Instead, there was an absolute whiteout on the other side. So instead of resting, we began running. Eventually the snow turned to rain, and then to sunny skies, and we slowed down. I found myself in some of the most breathtaking countryside I have ever seen. We were in a valley with steep, smooth, stone walls on either side. Waterfalls ran down the rock faces and into a little river that wound down the basin the basin. Everything was a bright emerald green, accented with splashes of gold groundcover, and it was amazingly lush for the altitude.

Equally as amazing as the surrounds was the road. We were walking along a Precolombian paving, constructed by the Incas. The trail was a vital economic and political link between the altiplano and Yungas. It’s one of a number of such trails, which archaeologists believe may have been linked La Paz and the Beni at one time. Indigenous highlanders still use the trail for everyday transport, and we passed a number of them on their way to La Paz for the holiday. The road was perfectly paved, often accompanied by culverts and low stone walls. It was awe inspiring to see such engineering and effort, and the way it has lasted. However, the Inca were not so concerned with ADA accessibility. The cobbles were super slippery and I did a lot of falling down.

We walked through huge herds of llama and sheep. I was extremely excited for the animals, and insisted on stopping to take pictures of every last baby llama. This irked my guide to no end. The livestock belonged to the residents of Estancia Takesi. The town consisted of a dozen or so small stone huts with thatched roofs and stone enclosures for the llamas and sheep. Most of the buildings had been co-opted from the original construction, by the Incas, if not earlier. It certainly created a sense of history to see structures inhabited continuously for the last half-century.

We hiked out of the highlands, and down into the yungas. (More on that in the next entry.) The trail traversed around the Loma Pali Pali, high above a river gorge. We stopped to camp in Estancia Kakapi. Normally, there are a number of basic alojomientos in the village, but it being Christmastime, the town was closed. Everyone had gone to La Paz for the holiday and there was not a soul in sight. Just vicious dogs that we fended off with sticks and a sad little donkey. We found a level spot, set up our tents and got out the stove to make supper.

It was at this point that my guide realized that he had forgotten matches. We had no way to light the stoves, cook dinner, or breakfast, or, most importantly, purify water. Instead, we had the crusty bread that I had been carrying, and water from the Rio Takesi below. And while drinking out of the river was beautiful and picturesque, I’m not as excited for the giardia that I probably got. Check back soon for an update on the state of my stomach!

Mercado de Misterio

For this afternoon's adventure, I went to the Mercado de Hechiceria, or Witches’ Market. Innocuously tucked into a couple of back calles, you would never guess the mysteries that abound. It’s an absolute cornocopia of magical items. Tiny stalls and shops overflow with herbs, sweets, incense, candles, liquor, talismans, tiny colourful trinkets and all manner of animal products and parts.

Traditional healers called Yatiris put assorted items and animal parts appropriate for each situation into packages called pagos. They bless the package and then burn or bury it as offering to one of the many spirits and ancestors in the Aymara cosmology. Pachamama, the earth mother, and Ekeko, the household god of abundance, are particularly popular patrons. You can ask for luck, protection or a cure for any sort of ailment, physical or spiritual. The lama fetuses pictured here are usually buried under new construction to bless the house.

The Yatiris also tell fortunes by through coca leaves. While the fellow I met would not tell my fortune, he explained a little bit about what he was doing for a few Bolivianos. The Yatiri spreads a handful of leaves out on a sheet, and divides them into four quadrants. They represent the past, the future, the world above and the world below. Based on their position and distribution, the Yatiri divines your fate in all sorts of aspects of your life.

There is plenty of real medicine mixed in with the magic, and the line between the two blurs. The stall keeper I was chatting with offered all sorts of herbal remedies for everything from headaches to getting pregnant. I eventually settled for a tiny bottle of charms, which are supposed to keep me safe from automobile accidents.

Coca, the Bolivian Cure-All

This afternoon, I ventured over to the Museo de Coca, a hole-in-the-wall exhibit expounding the wonders of the leaf, to learn a little bit more about all the mate de coca I've been drinking. Mate de coca is a tea, drunk by all ilk of Bolivians, which does wonders for altitude sickness. According to the museum coca also increases tolerance for exertion, dilating bronchial passages, acting as an anti-coagulant, regulating insulin levels in the body and providing more nutrition than most cereals. It's a little acidic and bitter, but it creates a warm, tingly feeling in my tummy.

Mate de coca is a less intense alternative than chewing coca leaves. When you chew the leaves you place a wad of destemed leaves in your cheek and allow them to soften up. After ten to fifteen minutes, you add a catalyst like lime (the mineral), and sometimes some banana peel. Then you masticate the whole mess to a pulp. The juices anesthetize your mouth, and give you a mildly euphoric feeling.

Chewing coca has been a part of indigenous Andean culture for centuries, at least since 2500BCE. Coca was the first domesticated plant in the area. As such, chewing coca is an essential part of the indigenous identity. According to the museum approximately 90% of rural and indigenous Guatemalans chew coca. Coca is a medium to see sacred and the deceased. It's used as an offering to Pachmama, to insure fertility and ward off curses. When farming families start their homes, coca is often the first thing they plant. It's also a social lubricant, chewed after meals and at special events, much like alcohol in the states.

When the Spaniards came, they decried coca as an instrument of the devil. That was, until they realized saw how in increased hacienda and mining production. Then they encouraged and required its production, bringing large areas under cultivation and taxation. They commodified coca, to the point that it was and sometimes still is used as currency.

Coca continues to be demonized today. When chewed coca is a mild stimulant, more akin to a cup of coffee of a cigarette than cocaine. Coca is still an ingredient in Coca Cola. It's also been used successfully as an anesthetic and as a substitute for methadone. Still, coca is first ingredient in cocaine. As such, its eradication has been a central strategy in the US's War on Drugs.

I'll leave that discussion, of the economic and political effects of coca production and the War on Drugs, for another day, when I’ve visted more of the coca growing reigons. I snapped this photo of a butterfly sunning itself among drying coca leaves this weekend outside of the town of Yanacachi.

La Ciudad de Nuestra Senora de La Paz

La Paz is a breathtaking city, both figuratively and literally. The drive into town from the airport is amazing. The autopista winds down the hillside from El Alto to La Paz. There are houses built into hillsides so steep that you wouldn’t even think weeds could grow there. But slums do. Sprawling slums of tiny red roofed houses stuffed to the ceilings with big Bolivian families.

The autopisa quickly ends at the edge of the city, and traffic slows to a creep along narrow, one-way cobblestone streets, honking all the way. The city has such a quirky beauty. The steps of beautiful colonial churches and regal plazas and parks overflow with markets and street stalls, children selling chicle and shoeshine boys jostling with well-heeled business people. It is an absolute sensory assault of sights, smells and sounds.

The city is nestled in a valley which centers on the Rio Choqueyapu. More aptly called the Rio Choke, it apparently receives 132,000 gallons of urine, 200,000 tons of excretement and millions of tons of garbage each year. Fortunately, the river runs underground for most of the length of the city. Above the river is an avenue called the Prado. The Prado divides the city into two. To the north is the traditional Aymara area, which centers on the Plaza and Cathedral San Francisco. To the south is the colonial and criollo city. The Prado also connects the autopista to El Alto, the central city, and the wealthier Sopocachi and Zona Sur neighborhoods. El Alto and Zona Sur also represent extreme opposites. El Alto is a sprawling Aymara slum, situated over 1000m over Zona Sur, a well manicured suburb. The only link between the two is that every day thousands of domestic workers descend from El Alto to work in Zona Sur.

The weather is also quirky. During the day it either drizzles or it's blindingly sunny. I swear that since we're closer to the sky, it's a brighter blue. Still, it's smoggy all of the time, indoors and out, with tons of diesel exhaust trapped in the valley and cigarette smoke trapped in the cafes. At night it's always freezing cold.

At 3660m La Paz is also really intense oxygen wise. I've actually been in bed the last two days with soroche, or altitude sickness. Its only today that I’ve been up and exploring the city. I'm finally starting to acclimate, with the help of some mate de coca. I found a Spanish school, El Instituto Exclusivo. I also bought a Bolivian cellphone. My number is 591-7-658-1636. (I think. If not, say hi to some random Bolivian for me.) Plus, I climbed up to the roof of the cathedral.

American Airlines, How I Hate You

After more than forty eight hours of traveling, I've finally arrived, safe and sound.

It was a stressful leaving the States, with a misplaced passport and visa, a flight out of Chicago delayed for lack of flight attendents, a flight out of Miami missed by all of five minutes, luggage checked through without me and spending the night in a smoky, suburban casino.

Then it was downright scary entering Bolivia. The plane actually had to climb before the knuckle-whitening descent into El Alto. Apparently, planes have to be going twice as fast as at sea level to take off and land, so they are equipped with special tires and brakes and the runways are twice as long. As we landed, most all of the Bolivians were crossing themselves, the women next to me crossed me too!