The Gringo Trail

If somebody told me that they mountain biked down the “most dangerous road in the world,” I might scoff at them. Surely there are more dangerous roads. And surely people don’t mountain bike down them. Little did I know that I would meet two adventurers in Buenos Aires, Argentina, spend a month backpacking through Bolivia and Peru, and indeed live to tell the tale of when I tore down “Death Road,” my heart in my throat, on two wheels.

I had no intention of traveling after my semester studying in the “Paris” of South America. Buenos Aires was a large, crowded, dirty, noisy, and downright dangerous metropolis. My semester would wear me out, I was sure. I would be broke. I would have to change my flights. Then I met Adam, an adventurer and an expert on traveling on a budget.

Adam, a business major from Madison, Wisconsin had spent roughly a month before our program began backpacking through southern Argentina and Chile. He spent freezing cold nights camped out in a small personal tent in Tierra del Fuego where, during the summer, frigid Antarctic winds never cease. He was a capable, experienced traveler, who could coax even the most timid on any adventure.

Adam had post-study plans to conquer the “Gringo Trail,” the famous tourist route that starts in Buenos Aires and ends at the ruins of Machu Picchu. We traveled several times together during the semester; to Iguazu to see the world’s most magnificent waterfall, and Cabo Polonio, Uruguay an isolated, electricity-free, hippy beach commune, where we arrived a night earlier than planned. Stranded and without a hostel we crashed in the sand dunes, built a small fire, drank cheap whiskey and coke, and strummed a guitar until the fire died out and the sounds of crashing waves lulled us to sleep.

Adam had planned to attempt the “gringo trail” on his own but after tasting my fish bouillabaisse in Cabo Polonio, decided he could use the company and especially my skills as a hostel chef. At first I was hesitant but decided that if I didn’t go, I would forever regret it.

During the final few weeks of classes in Buenos Aires, we scrambled to acquire the necessary visa documents, a nightmare of bureaucratic paperwork, and reschedule our flights. We would leave in early July from Buenos Aires and would complete the trail by mid August. I was worried about my funds, being robbed, and dying in a bus accident, but was elated at the prospect of such an adventure.

Bolivia, the poorest country in South America, was the first stop. We met up with Joe, another American student from San Francisco who would round out our travel trio with his self-deprecating humor and impeccable soccer skills. We boarded a crowded 4AM bus to Bolivia. The bus attendant implored us to refrain from spitting on the floor, suggested that men sit down when they pee, and forbid us from removing our shoes. I knew that the 28-hour ordeal would be just the beginning of a month of severe culture shock.

The bus rolled to a stop at the Bolivian border town of Villazón as dawn broke. Heavily armed police officers boarded the bus and prodded our luggage with their assault rifles. At roughly 11,000 ft above sea level, Villazón is a village of stray dogs and fowl, dusty unpaved roads, rough cinder block buildings, and women dressed in beautiful colored skirts and bowler hats who peddle their goods on gravel sidewalks. When compared to the United States, Argentina is a relatively poor country, but the transition to Bolivia was like being transported to another world, the abject poverty was unavoidable and sobering.

We hopped on a late morning train to Tupiza, the base for our highly anticipated jeep tour of the Bolivian salt flats. After hours of breathing in dust in the lurching cabin of the local train we arrived. Tupiza turned out to be another depressing, hardscrabble town that survives on an infusion of tourist dollars. After a few negotiations and skilled bargaining, we secured a four-day jeep tour with a local tour guide company. Santos, a handsome, middle aged, short, and very cheerful Bolivian, would be our guide. A silent fourteen-year-old girl would tag along as our cook. Much to our surprise, she churned out filling lunches and impressive three-course meals each night.

Santos guided us through four days of breathtaking monochromatic desert vistas, terrifying blown tires, mechanical problems, wrong turns, and freezing nights in mountain villages that lacked electricity, heat, or running water. The trip concluded with a sunrise trip to the Uyuni salt flats. Located 12,000 ft above sea level, the Uyuni flats are dry prehistoric lake beds that consist of 4,000 square miles of perfectly flat, several meter thick white salt. When the sun peeked over the horizon that morning, our bodies cast mile long shadows across the seemingly endless flats. It was perhaps the most surreal experience of my life.

We meandered our way north, stopping in dilapidated Potosí, one of the highest cities in the world, to tour the silver mines. At the mines’ entrance, we had to sign a legal waiver protecting the tour company from lawsuits should a cave in occur. The small print told of the hundreds of thousands, or perhaps millions, of people who had died in the mines since their founding in the 1500s. Led by a retired miner, we went four levels and several hundred feet deep into the mines. Along the way we met some miners, fourteen-year-old boys in filthy clothing, who worked twelve-hour shifts for a few dollars a day. The miners subsisted on chewed coca leaves, soda, 200-proof grain alcohol, and cigarettes. Food was forbidden. Between the tight spaces, toxic dust, and 15,000 foot altitude, I nearly collapsed from breathing difficulties. The experience was truly a nightmare. There is no better way to put my own privileged life into perspective than to chat with children who break their backs in the bowels of the earth while praying to statues of Tio, the devil who looks over them. God, we were told, never enters the mines.

The large, modern capital, La Paz, was our jumping off point for mountain biking. Vertigo tours, a well-respected tour group, would be our guide for the twelve thousand foot plunge down the most dangerous road in the world. We started our descent next to a frozen lake in a mountain pass. Within three hours we had descended into tropical rainforest; the temperature changing from below freezing to a balmy 85 degrees. The winding unpaved road was ominously titled “Death Road,” due to the estimated 200-300 people that annually slide off to their death. Constructed by Peruvian prisoners in the early 1930s, the road is a mere 15 feet wide, has drop offs of up to a mile on the left side, lacks guard rails, and still supports two way traffic. Heavy fog, reckless drivers, slippery conditions, and road collapses result in many vehicles plunging off the edge. Not a single person has ever survived the fall. While a bypass was built in 2006, and mountain bikers now dominate the road, it is still not safe from danger. Many tourists lose control of their bikes and disappear over the side. I arrived safely at the bottom, after a three-hour white-knuckle descent. We were informed afterwards that an Israeli girl lost control of her bike and disappeared into the abyss just the week before. They were unable to recover her body.

Cuzco, a beautiful old Incan town that tourist dollars have well maintained, was our base for the trek to Machu Picchu. After a brief rest, we booked a tour and started off. Winding our way through the Peruvian countryside, we passed through small villages, coffee growing operations, and coca plantations. We sampled locally brewed, delicious, and refreshing chicha, a lightly fermented corn beer and picked passion fruit from the trees. On day two we climbed our way up and through the snow-covered Salkantay pass, 15,500 ft above sea level, and then began our two-day descent to the ruins. On the fourth day, we crashed at an overpriced hostel in Aguas Calientes, the base town for Machu Picchu. We awoke at 2:45 AM and rushed to the famous Incan staircase. Hundreds were already waiting for the gate to open, eager to be among the first 400 to arrive at the summit entrance to the ruins. Those lucky few would gain entrance to Wayna Picchu, the guard station that towers behind the traditional ruins and provides a clear view into the valleys on either side of the stunning site. After an exhausting race, we were among the first ten to reach the top of the staircase. Once in the ruins, we slowly and carefully climbed the narrow footpath up Wayna Picchu, knowing that if we lost our footing, we would plummet to our death. The risk was worth it. As the sun rose it burned off the clouds and early morning haze, casting long beams of light across the ancient city. I sat down on a large rock, looking out over Machu Picchu as an Incan guard had likely done nearly 600 years before, protecting the Incan government from attack. I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and stared, transfixed, at the immaculate stone structures and into the lush green valleys below.

I was so glad I hadn’t flown home in July. I would have been pulling espresso shots for tourists or fishing for mackerel and, in vain, for striped bass. Had it not been for Adam’s insistence, I would have missed the most terrifying, the most exhilarating, and indeed the most enlightening travel experience of my life. I wouldn’t have seen how Bolivians survive in their ubiquitous poverty. I wouldn’t have learned about the terrible and difficult life of the child miners in the Potosi mines. I wouldn’t have risked my own life bombing down a nearly suicidal road in search of the ultimate thrill. My semester in Buenos Aires was indeed rewarding. But after spending a month wandering through some of the harshest, and certainly highest altitude terrain in South America, to stand on top of what was once, to many, the top of the world, was an experience that opened my eyes to an existence truly foreign to my own and to the harsh and cruel beauty of the world around me.