Title:	The World's Most Dangerous Road
Region:	South America
Countries:	Bolivia
Date:	July 3, 2001
My Rating (out of 100):	60
	(written by Rick Geisenger) In 1995, the Inter-American Development Bank deemed the Yungas Highway, which descends 12,000 feet from the Altiplano (high plains) near La Paz down to a little jungle town called Coroico, the most dangerous route on the planet. 26 vehicles per year go over the side. That’s one every two weeks. It’s 10 feet wide (just enough for one vehicle), constructed of dust and mud, and boasts a 3000-foot sheer drop-off into the abyss below. It’s studded with rock overhangs, waterfalls which plunge from hundreds of feet above smack onto the track, and hairpin turns. So what does a big dopey westerner do when confronted with such a prospect? Mountain bike it. We met our group in La Paz at 8am, which consisted of 2 crazy fresh-out-of-the-army Israelis, an Australian couple (such a romantic trip), Jon and I (no romance - fyi). The guide picked us up in a little minibus with a bunch of $89 Wal-Mart-special mountain bikes on the top. We knew we were in for an experience when we realized that the guide didn’t speak a word of English, and one of the group pointed out that some of the bikes bore decals of some name-brand bikes, but were obviously made of scrap iron welded together in somebody’s garage. We tested the brakes thoroughly before starting out! We were driven to the start of the ride, a place called La Cumbre, which is the high point at 17,500ft. This happens to also be the beginning of a trek which brings you through another pass down to the same town. We may do that trek next week, though we’ve heard there are gun-toting bandits at the top of that pass robbing trekkers blind. After donning helmets, bright yellow vests (so you will show up in the photos if you decide not to turn when Darwin says you should) and every stitch of clothing we happened to bring along (it was below freezing up there) we set off on the slightly wet pavement. The first 10 miles or so were paved, which meant extreme acceleration and loss of feeling in the extremities from the cold. One of the Israelis had asked for a fast ride, and the non-English speaking guide, who seemed to understand the word ´fast´ very well, didn’t hold back. We were soon passing cars, jeeps, and local busses. But the smooth ride didn’t last long. Just as we entered the clouds which had been below us to this point, the pavement ended with a great ´splash!´ You know those little droplets of water that slide across your window when your plane flies through the clouds? On a dirt road, those made mud. Deep, sticky, gritty, slippery mud. For the first minute or so we tried to keep out of the puddles and steer along the little ridges between them. But even if you went very slowly to keep your own splashing to a minimum, the guy in front of you was kicking up a terra-shower which would later overcome the hotel shower. Good times are made from not caring how dirty you are. Eventually we came out of the clouds, the road dried up, and we had the most incredible view of the forest canopy. Far, far below. If you went over the edge, there was no steep escarpment to roll down, no vines to Tarzan yourself around, it was straight down for thousands of feet. At several hairpin turns, there were literally vultures circling. The road dried up as did we, and we were soon peeling off crunchy layers of insulation since the temperature had become sub-tropical. Here the road was dusty and rough, and we kicked up a massive dust cloud as we flew ever downward. The road was rough and our ´suspension´ seemed just for show; soon our forearms were screaming at us to stop. Our eyes were caked with grit and we were chewing on grime. Riding through several waterfalls was refreshing, but turned the dust, which covered us back into slimy mud. We passed a number of ´Bolivian Caution Signs´, small crosses which line the route and mark the places where people had turned too early or too late. Or sometimes a vehicle had just slid right off the side while trying to pass an oncoming vehicle. The worst incident was in 1983, when a bus driver drove over the edge with more than 100 passengers. We stopped for lunch at a small monument recently erected by a local hostel for an Israeli girl who rode her mountain bike over the edge last April. The rest of the ride passed swiftly, with only 3 flat tires (the same guy .. bad luck or just plain fat?) Our group reached the end of the road about 2 hours before the groups led by the more popular (and twice as expensive) westerner operated ´Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking´ group. Perhaps the word ´Fast´ has a better meaning in Spanish? Cheers from the land of coca, Rick