Just google it. Wikipedia it. One of those racing shows (I think Top Gear) even filmed an episode there.

From La Paz, Bolivia, you can book a bicycle trip down the World’s Most Dangerous Road, aka the “Death Road”.

First thing in the morning, we were picked up from a small cafe by our guides.

Our guide’s name? Allister.
Sanity level? Debatable.

While in the bus, he talked to us about the day’s ride. He warned us off the dangers but quickly reassured the group that it wasn’t really all that bad.

“Just don’t fall off the edge.”

The bus dropped us off on a mountain top where we were all given our equipment (trousers, jacket, gloves, helmet and goggles).

We were then given our bikes.

After cycling around for a few minutes to get used to our bikes, we all gathered around Allister as he gave us our final instructions and tips.

A bottle of some dubious alcohol (tasted like burning) was passed around, we each took a swig and poured some onto our front wheel, as a gift to Pacha Mama (South American Earth Deity).

And off we were.

The first part of the course was both easy and exhilarating. It was a 20 km downhill race on asphalt. We were passing cars and trucks as they honked at us (in salute to our bravery? in mockery to our stupidity?).

Then we stopped.

“This is it” says Allister.

“From now on, you will be on the Death Road. Remember, the most common cause of accident is…?

Testosterone exceeding ability” we all chanted back at him (he repeated it often enough, it had become a sort of mantra in our fear and adrenaline addled minds).

“That’s right. If you ever feel comfortable and confident, slow down. It means you are two to three turns away from crashing.”

We all grinned sheepishly at each other. Allister, at that point, was just repeating himself and trying to instill a healthy dose of fear in us.

“Remember, we have 150m of rope with us, should you choose to go for the Optional Parachuting Activity. Why only 150m? Because we figure if that rope doesn’t reach you, then we would probably need a shovel to scrape you off and pick you back up. So don’t fall off the edge.”

And off we were.

Holy fuck balls.

That drop is steep.

Don’t look over the edge.

I said, Don’t look over the edge!

Alright, that’s better.

Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel.
Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel.
Yeah we’re going to the Roadhouse,
We goin’ to have a real
Good Time.

That song played on and on again in my head as I obstinately ignored the over 200m drop to my left (only 150m of rope, remember?).

Eventually, I started to release the death grip I had on my brakes. I was hugging turns, speeding down a road that only a month ago claimed the life of an Israeli girl, the latest victim to a very aptly named road.

Before I knew it, I had a huge smile on my face (close lipped though, too many bugs, too eager to land right against the back of your throat).

I even glanced to the side every now and then.

We started off in freezing cold, with patches of snow still clinging to the rock on either side of the road. We then went through a little cloudy patch. By our third planned stop we were shedding our trousers and jackets, the weather having turned hot and humid. To one side of the road were the majestic Andes, to the other, the jungle.

The view was breathtaking.

I slipped. I used the brakes too late on a turn, hit gravel and slipped. I almost lost control of the bike but barely managed (through sheer will power and a terrifying moment of self preservation) to throw my entire (quite impressive) body weight to the side, stopping just in time. Another few centimeters and I would have gone on that Optional Parachuting Activity Allister had mentioned.

We stopped again. The guy behind me – who shall henceforth be referred to as Near Victim – asked if I was ok, and told everyone in the group the story about how I almost took a plunge.

“This is it, people. This is where Top Gear (?) filmed their episode. This part of the road is called Devil’s Collarbone. And no, it has nothing to do with the Devil’s collarbone. This is just the part of the road where people tend to shatter their own collarbones. So remember, if you are feeling confident, slow down.”

Near Victim grinned at me.

We went off again. Ahead of me were two Frenchmen, who were going way too fast for me. Behind me, Near Victim and his three friends. Then came the rest of the group.

Near Victim passed me.

He almost lost control, slowed down, I passed him.

Near Victim passed me again.

He almost lost control (again!!), I passed him.

“Relax man, I said, this isn’t a race!”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say.

He passed me again, just before the road twisted right.

I saw his bike slide out from under him and go right off the edge.

I saw him follow his bike.

Time slowed down. I hunched over my own bike, gathered speed and got to the corner. I jumped off my bike and ran to where I had last seen Near Victim.

He had been caught by a tree. He was hanging on to the edge of the cliff. I leaned over to grab his hand, called out to him to take a hold of me.

Someone stepped up behind me, grabbed my other hand so that I could lean forwards enough.

He reached up, eyes wide with disbelief and terror, took hold of my arm and we pulled him back up.

We did the same for his bike, lying a few meters away.

“That was terrifying. What the fuck. That was terrifying. I am never telling my mother this story. Ever. That was terrifying”. He jabbered on and on.

I still stood on the cliff edge, looking down into the abyss.

Near Victim almost died.

Had it not been for the other guy holding me back, I might have plunged right after Near Victim.

Holy fucknuts.

We got back on our bikes. Near Victim was still a bit shaky and so decided to take it slowly. I shrugged the incident off and got back into my rhythm.

I eventually caught up to the two Frenchmen. I had just stared Death in the eyes twice, but the adrenaline would not let me think about it.

Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel.
Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel.
Yeah we’re going to the Roadhouse
We’re gonna have a real

Good Time.

Keep Following.

Those of you out there who know me personally know that I have never done cocaine. It’s just not my thing. I have seen enough people go down the dark rabbit whole to know better.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not preaching. If you like snorting a plant processed in giant acid vats, be my guest!

However. Yes, there is a However: Coca, the plant. Chew it, brew it, drink it. It is fantastic. Upset tummy? Coca tea. Altitude sickness? Chew on about 20 small leaves (don’t forget the catalyst!).

Part of your face might go numb for a while. You will probably get a small 20 minute energy boost.

But your tummy ache will disappear.

Your nausea will vanish.

Now all I need to do is figure out a way to LEGALLY import these coca leaves into Lebanon

Suggestions?

Keep Following.

I have been in La Paz for over a week now and as much fun as the protests might be, it’s time for me to move on.

The next logical destination would be Uyuni and a 4 day tour of the Salt Flats, all the way to San Pedro de Atacama (Chile). However the Gods of traveling have something else in mind. For the past few days, Uyuni has been blocked off and shut down due to protests. All the roads have been barricaded, no one is allowed in or out.

On the bright side, at least I am not stuck in Uyuni, unlike many other tourists.

On the crappy side, I really don’t feel like waiting around in La Paz for whatever the situation is to calm down.

So, if by tomorrow the roads have not cleared, then I will fly out of La Paz and into Buenos Aires.

Keep Following.

We in Lebanon are very proud of the protests we have had in the past few years. People like to throw numbers out there “there were over a million of us!”.

Sure, that is impressive. But here in La Paz, people have taken protests to a whole new level. A professional level.

Every other day there is a protest. They march down the streets by the thousands, brandishing different banners (today’s banners claimed that Evo Morales, the president, is a traitor).

My favourite protest yet? A few days ago some ten thousand people gathered and marched down the street. Why? Because they want looser custom restrictions. What were they asking for specifically? To legalize contraband… ‘Nuff said.

Some of you may have heard of Route 36, an underground club in La Paz which changes location every few weeks. When you get there, you might think you are in the middle of nowhere and are about to get raped.

Then somebody (in my case, it was a kid in his teens) comes out, grabs you, pushes you in through a dark and scary alleyway.

You walk in, and there you go. A proper club. An overrated club. If you enjoy snorting coke, go there. If you don’t… don’t. I tried having a conversation with a few of the club goers there. I might as well have been talking to schizophrenic, epileptic zombies.

No gracias, Route 36 is not for me. Might be for you though. Definitely worth checking out. If only to tell your friends that you have been there.

Keep Following.

Lake Titicaca lies on the border between Peru and Bolivia.

We had a picnic. What is there to say about the lake? Touristy, tacky, beautiful, gorgeous. Definitely a stop on any traveller’s journey between Peru and Bolivia.

Not much to say, actually. But I will say this. Should you go there, stay off The Road (you will know what I mean). Instead, walk around, go to the market, buy some cheese, some bread, a few avocados and tomatoes. Find yourself a pretty girl (I came equipped), go for a walk along the lake, sit down, ask her (very gently and nicely) to make you a sandwich.

There you go, the perfect afternoon picnic.

Keep Following.

Virgins. Some people’s fetish, other people’s phobia.

But in Peru, Virgins are revered with a feverish obsession that borders on the insane. I am (obviously) not talking about your everyday “I am saving myself” virgin. Rather, I am talking about different Virgins, who, at some point in their lives, performed some miracle or some amazing feat which earned them a place in the local pantheon. That’s right, Virgins. The religious type.

Rebel Eyebrow, being the Tour Leader that she is, had heard talk about a festival in a small town called Paucartambo. The Festival of the Virgin de la Carmen.

After a death defying bus ride through mountains and canyons, we made it to Paucartambo with the intent of spending the night there.

Wow were we wrong and delusional. People by the thousands, packed into a small town known for its Virgin celebrations. People from all over Peru head there, once a year, to celebrate this fabled Virgin.

What did she do? Why is she so famous? I can’t remember. Sorry.

What was so cool about the festival?

The Dances, the parades, the masks. It seems that Peruvians get a kick out of making fun of the Spanish. They wear masks which have the typical looking Spanish moustache drawn on them. They walk around snapping their whips against the ground, a clear and obvious mockery of the Spanish caballero.

We walked around for a few hours, drank, watched all sorts of dances and parades and got some fantastic pizza (typical Peruvian dish, it is a flattened dough with tomato sauce, cheese and whatever other topping you would like to add to it).

Eventually, it was time for us to go home. Did we ride on another 3 hour long death defying bus? No. We took a taxi. Which actually turned out to be the same price (?!).

Keep Following.

Machu Picchu. The Lost City? Not quite. Capital of the Inca Empire? Not even close.

So what was Macchu Picchu? Nothing more than an agricultural city. When it was “rediscovered”, it was found out that a local man had been using it to grow his own produce which he later sold at the local markets. I can only imagine the conversation that must have taken place.

“We found it! the Lost City!

Que? This is my land, fuck off.

No way! I found it! I am going to be rich and famous!

Whatever. Get off my corn field.”

Anyways. There are many ways to get to Machu Picchu. There is the famous Inca Trail. There is the Jungle Trail. There are a million other trails, treks and ways.

I did none of the above. We (Rebel Eyebrow and I) took the train to Aguas Calientes (oversized tourist shop) and then a bus up to the ruins. Why? Because, truth be told, I couldn’t be bothered.

We went up to the ruins in the afternoon, when there are less tourists milling around.

At first sight, I was blown away.

Don’t get me wrong. The ruin itself is pretty cool, but I have seen much more impressive ones (Baalbeck!!).

What really made me gasp in wonder was the setting. Simply majestic. Surrounded by green mountains, once can’t help but wonder “how the fuck did they get here and build this?!”.

This is one of those times where it really sucks that my laptop died. All of my Machu Picchu pictures were saved, thank the Hippo. But they are on a hard disk and for some reason the computer at the hostel won’t let me retrieve them (damn you Mac/PC incompatibility!).

So you will have to be patient and take my word for it.

Machu Picchu, a must see. Truly a fantastic sight.

Keep Following.