Devour. FOOD & FROLICKS

My most memorable travel discoveries are special places, journey’s, or experiences outside my realm. Occasionally, it’s all three. The cycle down El camino de la muerte (Death Road) in Bolivia from an altitude of 4700m, where the immense mountains unite with the sky in ethereal glory, is the ultimate travel trifecta. Death Road’s actual name is the Yungas and stretches 64km from LaCumbre to Coroico; one of the three main coca-growing regions in Bolivia.Despite an innate fear of heights, hypoxia and death, I was enticed by an ad on a dilapidated shopfront window in LaPaz and asked the guide what my chances were of making it down alive? He laughed, “its not myth, many people have died on the Yungas but if you’re careful you’ll be ok”. The following dawn we drove from LaPaz to LaCumbre with bikes far from the ones I envisaged tearing around the contours of the tour de France, but that to my relief had gears, suspension and importantly dual brakes. I was cautioned, “try not to hit any large rocks as it could turn the handlebars and when you are going fast you could..” his unfinished sentence was explicitly understood. Helmets strapped and gloves tightened we set off with gusto amidst further warnings to grip the handlebars tightly, stay on the inside of the road and remain in single file. After a gradual incline through ghostly clouds an omnipresent view crystallised of infinite mountains and dramatic drops down into the tree-lined ravine. Ready for momentum we began our beguiling descent of the unsealed road around the under bite of the mountain’s face. The road was the narrow width of a car nevertheless stopping bays permitted two-way traffic. We braked to await a standoff between a car and a lorry until the car was outmuscled and reversed terrifyingly around a blind corner back to a bay. There are no barriers to protect cars or cyclists; just a callous vertical drop into the abyss. I focused ahead, squinting through the golden plume of Andean dust that preceded me. Rocks were expelled as my tyres pounded the indeterminate surface. Unlike the first uphill test of physical strength, the subsequent 55km was an exercise in control of handlebars, speed and gross trepidation. It’s a treacherous 5hr ride, but white fisted and exhilarated we finally reached the colourfully quaint village of Coroico. A short stocky woman with long dark plats graciously brought us some coca-leaf tea to numb the pain in our cuellos and prepare us for the bus ride back up Death Road.