Perched on the shoulder of Cerro Uchumachi, Coroico, with a population of 3 500 and at an elevation of 1 500 metres, is a little Bolivian Eden. Flanked by epic scenery and punctuated with waterfalls, the 80km La Paz-Coroico road plunges over 3000 metres. Because it sees the most fatalities annually, the road, which is extremely narrow, muddy and slippery, is called the ‘the world’s most dangerous road’.
Lonely Planet – South America on a shoestring
Sheez! I get sweaty all over thinking about this one. To brief you in from the last update, where Nikki and I were about to head off to the Salt Flats; our excursion became a logistical nightmare, with overbooked trains and dodgy public transport and half an hour before setting off to Uyuni, we found ourselves travelling along the world’s most dangerous road instead.
Both of us had been diagnosed with a case of worms, so in the end, a few days of rest and recovery from the nasty parasites having a big bash in our stomachs, was better for us anyway. Full of reckless abandon and desperate to get out of La Paz, Nikki and I chose Coroico. Three hours out of Bolivia’s capital, it is a magnificent little spot, nestled in amongst the mountains with beautiful scenery, gorgeous weather and zero pollution.
Boarding a mini-bus taxi, for a two hour journey that cost the equivalent of R15, we set off on the steep and windy road to Coroico. Our driver, who had one leg shorter than the other and a wicked sense of humour, was, despite his scant regard for taking over on white lines and in dark tunnels, actually a good driver. Minus a few near misses with other mini-vans and trucks, the trip to Coroico wasn’t too hair raising.
After three days of absolute calm and tranquillity, with hours spent lazing in hammocks, reading and resting at a hostel called Sol y Luna, for $10 per person per night, I felt fabulous and ready to take on 2007.
Meet driver number two - the treadless tyres should have been an indication of the trip to come, however, after being assured that all was in order and that the mini-van was in fact roadworthy, we boarded the beat-up vehicle to head back to La Paz.
A mere thirty minutes into the trip, the van started to overheat and eventually, spluttered to a stop. To spice things up, we realised, after close inspection of our surroundings, that our driver had taken an entirely different, more windy and treacherous route, from the one we had taken three days previously.
With the passengers collectively praying and the driver’s assistant feeding water into the van’s engine, which cut out every 20 minutes, we slowly made our way up the world’s most dangerous road.
Our driver, who at no point during our rollercoaster ride (minus the safety net and straps), offered an explanation or apology, dumped us in La Paz (five hours later) and we were sent off on our separate ways as if our lives had not been dangling 3000 metres from almost certain death.
Nerves frayed and feeling a lot less relaxed than a few hours previously, we booked ourselves into our hostel with hot showers and cable TV and watched reruns of ER and CSI until I had to leave early the next morning for Buenos Aires - the land of summer, sunshine and shopping.
