The Most Dangerous Road In The Wold

It’s been called the most dangerous road in the world, or “Death Road”. Maybe it’s a marketing gimmick, or maybe it serves as a deterrent, urging people to take a different route. Yungas Road connects La Paz with the Yungas region in Bolivia via a vertical drop of 3,600 meters over 60 kilometers. From the Andes to the Amazon basin.

Nowadays is mainly a mountain biking tourism destination, but over the years the road has claimed hundreds of victims. Not because of the high speeds, reckless driving, or animals on the road or falling objects, but because of its narrow paths with no guardrails to prevent you from falling off the cliff to a certain death.

Top Gear – the original cast with Jeremy Clarkson and co – went down this road by car. It was entertainment, undoubtedly with added dramatic effect, but it didn’t eliminate the risk. Things could have gone bad, and for many it has. So why not try it myself? On a bicycle.

There’s no shortage of tour agencies of various quality and reputation in South America. This is one tour where you do not want to go cheap though; one where the quality of guides and equipment can actually make a difference between life and death. I chose a company with a good reputation, solid experience, and professional staff. The company was aptly named Gravity; you’ll get down one way or another.

The daredevil group met early morning at a coffee shop in central La Paz. For me, living in Amsterdam at the time, the idea of meeting in a coffee shop early morning before rushing headlong down the Death Road on two wheels with only a helmet to protect you seemed somewhat amusing.

Our guides for the day, Ben and Steve, looked tired, most probably hungover. But they’d done this hundreds of times before and could do it in their sleep. Which they kind of also did. Us first (and possibly only) time riders were, however, very much awake and excited. Maybe there was also a tinge of nervousness in the group, everyone well aware that people – tourists – just like us had had terrible – even fatal – accidents doing the exact same thing we were about to do. Statistically one of us could face a dreadful ending of their South American journey in only a few hours.

A bus took us from La Paz to the starting point La Cumbre at an altitude of 4,700 meters. If you’ve never been at an altitude that high…well, it’s high. You will notice it. The air is cold and thin, and you have to choose your movements wisely, or you’ll run out of breath in a heartbeat. In a few hours though, according to plan, we should be in the Bolivian jungle at the foot of the mountain. We get our gear and bikes and a short introduction to mountain biking. We made a tribute to Pachamama – Mother Earth – in the form of a tiny sip of some obscure Bolivian hard liquor. A bit tacky, perhaps, but what the hell. It was part of the ritual, so who was I to argue? Saddle up, and we’re off.

The first third of the journey took us down tarmac roads, smooth and wide, and with virtually no traffic. I let gravity and the bike go to work. Darting down the road, before I knew it, I was speeding at, what, 60 km/h? 70 km/h? 80 km/h? Faster? I had no way of knowing, but it was definitely faster than I’ve ever travelled on a bike before. Only a minute into the ride I knew this might very well be the coolest thing I’d ever done.

Our guides made frequent stops along the way to gather the troops, let us catch a moment of breath, and to allow us – we’re tourists after all – to snap pictures. Our first stop was only a couple of minutes down from where we started. The road isn’t straight-forward in the geometrical sense of the word, but it seemed like a fairly safe stretch of the road. We’re told that a few years ago, at this very spot, a group of bikers, just like us, witnessed a terrible accident. A packed bus went just a little too fast around the corner and continued over the edge, helplessly falling down the mountain. Surely a scary, disturbing, and traumatic sight. Reality check times a million. Point taken. Stay on the road.

We got to the point where the comfortable tarmac road turned into a more unpredictable gravel road. From here on, it was a completely different game. A tiny moment of lost attention, hitting a small rock or a pothole, or a split second of panic could easily throw your bike off course and off the cliff. This was also where we were offered a last chance to bail out, with assurances that it most certainly wouldn’t be a cowardly thing to do. But no thanks. A quitter I’m not. I was going down that road, one way or another.

This mountain road was surrounded by lush, green mountains. The mist gently caressing the mountainside. Birds hovering above the valleys. To our right we had the steep mountain walls towering above us. On the other side we had a drop of hundreds of meters down the canyons. In-between all we have is a narrow road of varying conditions. The scenery is spectacular, breathtaking, magical. Unfortunately, we couldn’t afford to fully enjoy it. Racing down the most dangerous road in the world on a bike, we kind of had to choose between the rush or the scenery. And we were in it for the ride.

This is biking at its very best. Except for a small – but at this altitude extremely strenuous – uphill stretch, it’s all downhill. Not a whole lot of pedaling required. The weather was beautiful. Chilly at the start, but the sun was shining, the temperatures getting warmer and warmer as we distanced ourselves from the top of the mountain and descended towards the jungle.

There were no – maybe oddly enough – requirements in terms of fitness and biking skills. The bikes were top quality vehicles, well maintained, imported from the US (trying to go down this road with a regular bike would be ill-advised). As a seasoned biker, getting comfortable with the awesome bike only takes a few moments. Having basically grown up on a bike, I was confident enough in my skills to enjoy the speed and not have to worry about only getting to the next meeting point alive.

There’s a difference between biking and biking. Cruising a flat countryside on a Sunday afternoon in sunny weather can be fun, cozy, harmonious. Speeding down a mountain where a split second of diverted attention or sheer bad luck can send you off to the bottom of the mountain in freefall style is a kick, an adrenaline rush, a heightening of all your senses. Both provide a sense of freedom: one the freedom to choose between going left or right at a crossroad; the other the freedom knowing that you’re cheating death, and you’re getting away with it.

This was the one ride I wish would never end. But, sadly, after some 60 km of riding, it did. The road officially ended with a speed bump. It’s not clear why there was a speed bump (and only one) here. Regardless of the rationale, it marked the end of the most dangerous road in the world for us. We had reached our destination; La Senda Verde. Sweaty, exhausted, happy, hungry, thirsty, glad to be alive, and with a story to tell people back home.

Remember at the top when I had a feeling at the beginning of the ride was that this would be the coolest thing I had ever done? It was, and to date still is. Museums, beaches, city walks, pub crawls in all their glory, but this is something else. This is action. This is life when life is good.