This was not something anyone had ever said to me before and, frankly, it’s a bit silly. Anyway, off Robin and I went, down “the most dangerous road in the world” (™UN 2004). It’s a 40km ride down 3,100m from rock and ice to sultry jungle. In fact, now there’s no traffic on it, it’s considerably safer than Hyde Park Corner—as long as you avoid the precipice perpetually to your left. The days of 100s of deaths each year are over. However, we were overtaken by another group, at the back was a man old enough to be indifferent to another birthday. Trying to keep up, he screamed past us; dangerously out of control, he dragged his right climbing boot as he tried to pull himself around the bend and away from the sheer drop—nothing but air for hundreds of feet.
Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.
There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.
Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.
Showing posts with label road of death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road of death. Show all posts
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Saturday, 26 April 2008
25.04.08: 24 bizarre Bolivian hours
It may appear a peculiar notion for some Swedes to remake The Karate Kid, transferring the action to table football and Bolivia, and, indeed, it didn’t make any more sense as one of the actors. However, I found myself as the arch villain Senor Costas (the real name of a Santa Cruz politician), and my accent swinging wildly between received pronunciation, war-time German and dojo-master Japanese. Great fun to do but I fear it would be utterly excruciating to see again.
Leaving the Swedes, I went on to the ambassador’s residence. Rather than a jolly, this was a coming together of all the Brits in the city in advance of next week’s referendum. In preparation for evacuation being required, we had been split into geographical groups, each co-ordinated by a character from Dad’s Army. The pill was sweetened by the usual trays of alcoholic and foodie delights, and the mood was light, but there is real danger here. My Spanish teacher thinks that if the vote goes Evo Morales’ way, he will be assassinated. As a thrusting, ambitious journalist, I will be safely ensconced in Jamaica as the events are played out (this will turn out to be either very wise or very foolish).
And so on again, this time to “the most colonial road in La Paz” for a pena—a night’s traditional entertainment. We started with an Andean band, complete with five-foot long panpipes; next were dancers who performed racy and masked routines from the Gran Poder carnival, and a very odd simulated fight; the last act was a fabulous Bolivian/Las Vegas style act, a virtuoso on the charango (12-string ukulele) who effortlessly sang songs, told jokes and chatted with the audience.
In the morning I received a call from the Daily Telegraph correspondent in Los Angeles. The “Road of Death” had claimed more victims: eight Bolivians had died when their vehicle plunged off the side, after it had ploughed into three British cyclists, killing one. She wanted me to speak to the consul and, crucially, interview the survivors. The story was on the radio as I took a cab to the hospital, the list of the dead slowly read out (one was a six-day-old baby). At the door of the cyclists’ room I met Tom Austin’s (the dead man’s) girlfriend, she was understandably distraught but she and other two agreed to talk. While, the two survivors were remarkably composed, no one was ready to discuss their dead friend. It was difficult not to feel like a crass intruder.
Leaving the Swedes, I went on to the ambassador’s residence. Rather than a jolly, this was a coming together of all the Brits in the city in advance of next week’s referendum. In preparation for evacuation being required, we had been split into geographical groups, each co-ordinated by a character from Dad’s Army. The pill was sweetened by the usual trays of alcoholic and foodie delights, and the mood was light, but there is real danger here. My Spanish teacher thinks that if the vote goes Evo Morales’ way, he will be assassinated. As a thrusting, ambitious journalist, I will be safely ensconced in Jamaica as the events are played out (this will turn out to be either very wise or very foolish).
And so on again, this time to “the most colonial road in La Paz” for a pena—a night’s traditional entertainment. We started with an Andean band, complete with five-foot long panpipes; next were dancers who performed racy and masked routines from the Gran Poder carnival, and a very odd simulated fight; the last act was a fabulous Bolivian/Las Vegas style act, a virtuoso on the charango (12-string ukulele) who effortlessly sang songs, told jokes and chatted with the audience.
In the morning I received a call from the Daily Telegraph correspondent in Los Angeles. The “Road of Death” had claimed more victims: eight Bolivians had died when their vehicle plunged off the side, after it had ploughed into three British cyclists, killing one. She wanted me to speak to the consul and, crucially, interview the survivors. The story was on the radio as I took a cab to the hospital, the list of the dead slowly read out (one was a six-day-old baby). At the door of the cyclists’ room I met Tom Austin’s (the dead man’s) girlfriend, she was understandably distraught but she and other two agreed to talk. While, the two survivors were remarkably composed, no one was ready to discuss their dead friend. It was difficult not to feel like a crass intruder.
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