30-odd km of sloppy clay, which had turned to bulldust by the time we came back!
The really steep part of the Yungas Road, the part known as the Death Road, has now been supplanted by a modern asphalt road, including numerous bridges and a tunnel. But heading north, east and down to the savannah and rainforest from Coroico the road is just as it has ever been, and of course is still the only route available to mainly responsible truckies and idiotically speedy bus drivers.
On the way out, it was rocks, mud, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, a landslide, more mud, and once a day rush hour of buses. Just three buses each way, but a proper rush hour. Coming back, rocks, dust, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, more dust, and the buses.
Bolivian bus, driven with typical enthusiasm and respect for road conditions.
Add to this the Bolivian petrol, about as good for the bike as a tankful of fresh orange juice, giving vastly reduced power, and the road was quite a handful. I had fun, mostly, though the road did at times become a chore, but I don't think Emily will ever describe the trip as anything but the latter (actually, I was shit-scared on the way down, and had a sore sore arse on the way back, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world - e).
Credit once again to our trusty, heavily-laden BMW, which just takes in its stride whatever we point it at. Oh yes and very happy with our new Hyperpro shock absorber, the trip was a real test for it too.
We stayed the night at a little town called Caranavi, a place very unused to the presence of gringos (whitefellas/tourists) to judge by the shameless and relentless staring across the breakfast table, street, room or whatever. Annoying as the staring was, it is actually refreshing to be the odd ones out in the world of rural Bolivia. It's another advantage of having our own transport - we are not reliant on public transport or limited to tourist destinations, so often find ourselves in the "outback". We are quite sure that this brings us closer to the people of the lands we are in than most visitors can get, and gives us a real taste of and sometimes understanding of how and why things are as they are.
I am pretty sure that our coming from a land colonised by strangers and immigrants gives us further useful perspective on Latin America. The vast majority of people in rural Bolivia are indigenous, but they seem to struggle under the rules, religion and lifestyle foisted upon them by the colonising Spanish just as the Australian indigenous minority does. Here too, fried chicken and chips are a staple.
Emily and our GDP-buster after a set-menu lunch stop, middle of nowhere but after the mud.
Very often we feel quite conspicuous out here. The bike, about three times the size of all the other ones in the country - along with the colour of our skin and hair, our motorcycling clothes, possibly my beard, and doubtless other factors - makes us quite noticeable. People are often friendly and curious, and of course it is our duty as strangers and usually our pleasure to have a yarn with these folks. The thing is, the subject of conversation invariably turns to money. People are just fascinated, and have to ask how much the bike is worth in our country. Or what jobs we do at home to be able to leave for such a long time, even if we do understate the length of time we have been away. I am quite relieved to be able to honestly say that I earned the money for this trip by good, old fashioned hard work, mainly driving trucks. I have also begun to skirt the question, answering with a laugh that the bike is not for sale, that I have had it for nearly ten years and that it is getting old. If pushed, I tell people more or less the truth, about $5000. But that blows people out too. I can't blame them for being curious - we are in a country where the national GDP per capita in 2006 was far less than half the value of what we are travelling with. And we are in the poorest areas, where I have no doubt that many people would live for a fortnight on what it costs to fill our fuel tank.
One more road story before I post this entry. As does the former Camino de la Muerte, the rest of the Yungas Road includes "Keep Left" sections, the opposite to normal road rules in this continent. Thankfully, these changes of rule are well marked with signs. Around one of the innumerable curves, and on a relatively wide section of road, we came up against a blue Volvo truck. As we had hundreds of times already. So we kept left. And the Volvo kept right. See what I mean? Very soon we were looking very closely at the wide grille of the truck, and it was still steering to its right. You panic, you die, right Andy? Yep, words of truth reportedly often spoken by Emily's dad. So I calmly steered into the ditch, the front of the truck sweeping by just centimetres from the handlebars. No exaggeration. Very blinkin' close.
I'm not that fluent in Spanish swearing, so I had to revert to Italian in my exchange with the driver. As soon as I ascertained that Emily and I were both alright, and that the bike was undamaged, I got off and chased the truck up the road on foot. I was full of energy, to put it mildly, so caught up with him quickly. Gave him both barrels. Something along the lines of... well, I can't remember the content, but nor can I readily remember being so pissed off. Anyway I am sure he understood, and I got my point across that as a professional driver he really ought to know which side of the road to drive on. I also suggested that he might remember what side of the road to keep to before the next time he came up against another big Volvo. I stopped short of dragging him from the cab, but I have to admit to regretting this after the episode was over, and being tempted to go find him. Thankfully, Emily and I each regathered our calm and rode on, back to Caranavi.
The next day, after visiting our favourite monkeys once again, we took the new road back up to La Paz. Even with the bike sputtering on bad fuel, lack of oxygen and the steep climb, and despite difficulties with the throttle mechanism, the ride was infinitely more relaxed than the previous day's.
The old Camino de la Muerte, way down in the valley and seen from the new road.
A half-hour or so to watch the bulldozer sort out a big landslide. The operator had clearly done it all before!
The backside of one of those Volvos, emerging from the bulldust.
Dusty, tired and safe!
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