Calle de la Muerte

Monday June 21, 2010

At 7:30AM Jaime and I left the house in Valencia that I'd spent the weekend at and headed into La Paz to make a few quick stops before heading to Caranavi. By 8:45 we were on the road, heading up, up, up towards the summit of the ring of mountains that had contained me since Friday. I'm starting to realize that nothing happens quickly in Bolivia: before summiting the mountains we made no less than half a dozen stops to pick up this and that...fruit, toilet paper, air pressure for the tires, fish, paper towels, coca leaves, water, a freshly handmade straw mattress....you know, the usual. Up we went, past the treeline where the dry, grassy groundcover rendered the sharp peaks almost dune-like against the impossibly blue sky. Up we went, past beautiful shimmering reservoirs and snow-filled ravines. Up, up we went, and the crisp brown of winter grass gradually gave way to dark rocky cliffs as we neared the cumbre. A smattering of woolly sheep and long-necked llamas clamored over boulders and breakfasted on sprays of dwarf grasses that poked through the rocky soil on either side of the road. The day looked good.

 

We pulled into a highway checkpoint around 11 AM as we neared the summit; both sides of the road were lined with vendors selling all manner of sugary edible delights, newspapers, and toiletries. They walked from vehicle to vehicle, shoving hands full of goodies into open windows to entice travelers to purchase their wares; “Jugos frescos, yogur, helados, dos Bolivianos, DOS Bolivianos!” Jaime flagged down a vendor and bought a newspaper, a Red Bull and a small, unmarked plastic bottle of moonshine while I took photos of the kids running around the bed of the pickup in front of us. Slowly we worked our way through the line and up to the summit, where Jaime superstitiously sprayed the cumbre with drops of moonshine before taking a swig himself.

 



Thus began our journey towards Calle de la Muerte....Jaime alternating swigs of moonshine and Red Bull and me politely trying not to notice. 

Onward we went, now heading down, down, down, as the sharp peaks of La Paz began to soften under a blanket of mossy green forest, giving the mountains a decidedly romantic character as they emerged from the low-lying clouds of early morning. The first half (65 kilometers or so) of the highway is in great shape—paved for the most part, guard rails here and there, and center lines painted (even if they're not heeded). Our hunter green Kia Sportage 4 x 4 zoomed onward like a champ, despite a speedometer that didn't move and a low fuel light that constantly blinked due to a fuel gauge that always hovered just above E (not to worry though, the speed limit is in all cases “as fast as possible,” and we had a 10 gallon container full of gasoline in the back seat just in case. And if all else failed, there was always the faded silver and pink decal of Christ that donned the center of the windshield, his outstretched arms raising a good six or seven inches from the wipers...that had to count for something, right?).

We stopped briefly around noon at what I would call a Bolivian mountain strip mall (read: a small collection of rather rickety buildings in the middle of nowhere, clinging to the side of the cliff) to eat Trucha, a traditional meal for the area. Trucha consists of a whole fish, butterflied and fried, on rice with a peeled, boiled potato, minced onions cooked with an array of spices, and something I could not identify, which may or may not have been a potato that had been buried under the ice for several months as it went through some sort of curing process (I think that's what Jaime was trying to tell me...?). I tried to ignore the strong smell of rancid fry oil that hit my nostrils as we entered the cramped establishment; I tried not to notice the flies buzzing around the single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling; I did my best to put from my mind the image I had in my head of the fish Jaime had purchased from the outdoor market earlier that morning (read: whole, raw fish laid out on a small, unfinished wooden table in full sun, under the watchful eye of a woman who sat ungracefully on a dirty plastic stool. With perfunctory rhythm she worked through the stack of fish on her left and added them to the pile on her right, swiftly dropping the cleaver in her left hand to each carcass as her right hand tossed the body to the right and returned for the head, her fingers eagerly plucking it up and bringing it to her lips for consumption. Flies circled as fish goo oozed onto the stained wooden table. Ice...? What ice?); and I tried not to think about hugging the toilet all night long in a place that may or may not have any sort of plumbing. I ate. Delicious!

Bellies full and sun shining down overhead we continued onward, down, down, down, as the heat, humidity, and vegetation grew with every bend in the road. Raaaaaadio Morrrrrrrrena blasted over the open windows while Jaime sped onward, unhesitatingly swerving around every car we approached with a honk and a wave. The road was a free-for-all, and though double yellow lines, speed limit postings, and signs that read “No Adelantar” (“No Passing”) were all present, neither the cars nor the trucks, nor the buses that sped down the mountain payed them any mind.

The smooth road transitioned slowly to dirt; we passed through several unfinished sections including a couple that had at one time been finished but had fallen victim to landslides during the rainy season at the start of the year. Men covered in dust worked unsettlingly close to the precipice to repair the damaged road without so much as a hard hat for safety as cars swerved by, kicking up rocks and thick clouds of dust. I had been foolish to think that we would leave the dust behind us as we descended into more humid regions. Around kilometer 65 the rocky dirt road narrowed and Jaime told me the paved portion was now behind us. Calle de la Muerte underfoot, Jaime zoomed on as fast as possible and the radio turned to static. Signs read “Conserva la Izquierda,” directing cars to drive on the left side of the road; I can only assume this was so the driver had a better view of how close the vehicle was to the edge of the road. Every time we approached a vehicle the dust was so thick you couldn't see ten feet in front of the car. Despite the lack of visibility, Jaime never let up on the accelerator as he swerved to dodge large rocks, potholes, and other vehicles, but he never led us astray. It was useless to try to talk above the noise of the car as we raced onward, and to tell the truth I didn't think Jaime needed any distractions as we traveled inches from the barren edge of cliffs that dropped hundreds of feet to certain death. Every time a vehicle came from the other direction, Jaime maintained his speed and waited until the very last minute to swerve to a skidding halt in one of the pull-offs that was barely large enough to fit a single car, somehow managing to downshift into neutral, roll up both of our windows to keep out the dust, and fiddle with the radio all at the same time as the front of the Sportage missed the oncoming vehicle (the driver of which had at no point even considered the possibility of slowing down to avoid a collision) literally by inches. No sooner had the back of the passing vehicle cleared the front tires of the Sportage than Jaime floored the accelerator sending us careening blindly into the thick cloud of dust left by the passing vehicle.

Even more fun was coming upon a vehicle traveling in the same direction that was moving slower than Jaime wanted to go (or for that matter, any vehicle coming upon any other vehicle that was traveling at a slower speed, as everyone has the same driving habits). Jaime would honk several times to announce our presence to the car in front of us, at which point the other car was expected to pull over to the side to let us pass. If this didn't happen quickly enough, Jaime would swerve to the right several times, looking for any opportunity where the road might be just wide enough for two cars, at which point he would floor it in an attempt to accelerate ahead of the car. This might seem like a fairly normal passing maneuver until you consider the fact that the dust being kicked up by the car in front of you was so thick you could barely see the glow of its taillights even though they were less than ten feet in front of you, which meant you also couldn't see the edges of the road, nor the bumps and rocks in your way, nor any oncoming traffic that might have been just around the bend, traveling, of course, as fast as possible. Side note: I actually saw a public service announcement on TV regarding Bolivians' tendency to pass with near complete disregard for oncoming traffic. Though I couldn't hear the dialogue of the announcement, the text that appeared below the speaker at the end of the announcement read “We need help,” as if it were an announcement for drug addiction or alcoholism. I thought it was pretty hilarious.

Thus we sped onward, swerving from side to side, bouncing up and down as the car rumbled over the rocky, uneven terrain, and periodically jerking to a halt and rolling up the windows to avoid the ever-present dust. The Sportage took the beating like a champ (or so I thought...), and despite our proximity to danger (see cliff, left), the smile never left my face. The views were spectacular—lush, beautiful mountains as far as the eye could see, the deep valleys and ravines that separated them providing space for a plethora of agricultural establishments—bananas, tomatoes, coca, citrus trees, and other unidentifiable crops planted neatly in rows along the valley floor or on terraces cut into the sides of steep mountains. We passed tiny homes and even smaller stores with sagging brick walls that somehow stood despite their lack of mortar, their corrugated tin roofs barely covering the small rectangular footprint of the building. We passed through small pueblos that lasted no more than fifty meters and consisted only of a handful of homes on either side of the road, a number of small stores, and one brightly painted cement building with plastic tables and chairs and a hand-painted sign out front with the menu (everything con carne). Women in bright,often metallic skirts with long black braids sat outside their stores on plastic chairs or sacks of grain, fanning themselves against the heat, squinting against the sun and the dust as they watched our car go by. Children in dust-stained clothes peeked their heads out of front doors and looked up from their games as we rumbled by. Everything, everywhere within 20 feet of the road was always dulled by a thick coat of dust.

My favorite image of the trip was on the outskirts of one of these towns; the buildings now behind us, the view to my right had once again returned to the dingy brown of dust-covered jungle foliage on the mountainside. As we sped on, for a split second the dust broke as we passed a small child in tiny pink shorts, head raised to the sky as a gush of crystal clear water poured over her, redirected from a hidden mountain stream. Her jet black hair streamed in meandering rivers down her face and from her huge grin escaped shrieks of glee as she waved her tiny arms and stomped her tiny feet in delight. The leaves around her glistened deep emerald green, the pinks and reds of wild azaleas burned at her feet, even the soil of the mountainside behind her, the same dusty soil that dulled everything else in sight, had a deep, fertile hue at the touch of water. The whole scene had a vivacity that was startling after mile upon mile, hour upon hour of dust. The car moved on, and the split second of reprieve, the glorious feast for the eyes of color and life, was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

At 3 pm we finally hit the valley floor as we crossed the river into Caranavi (left). Here we stopped so Jaime could pick up a handful of odds and ends and drop off the straw mattress we had tied to the roof of the Sportage back in La Paz. Legs well-stretched and our vehicle a little lighter, we tore out of town as Jaime announced it would be another hour and a half drive to our destination. “Una hora y media?” I asked, trying not to sound surprised as I recalled Jorge's words earlier that morning, telling me that I would be 30 minutes from town. “Sí.” Nowhere to go but up, we left town on a dirt road that snaked around the mountains through the jungle. The road was similar to Calle de la Muerte, except that it had larger rocks, deeper potholes, creeks running across it here and there, it was narrower, and it was more certain to have drop-offs that sent chills up your spine around every bend. Excellent.

We passed through a checkpoint and drove on for a few minutes, at which point Jaime pulled to the side of the road and stopped briefly to look for something in the car. Satisfied with whatever it was he was looking for, he once again brought his foot down hard on the accelerator; the car shook violently from side to side. He stopped, we looked at each other. He again tried the accelerator, and again the car jerked back and forth, clearly not drivable. Jaime let out a frustrated sigh and got out of the car; I followed and watched as he did a once-over of the passenger side front wheel. He grabbed the floormat from the driver's side and laid it in the dust under the car before sliding underneath the front of the vehicle on his back. He fiddled with something for several minutes before deciding that the wheel had to come off; he grabbed a jack and a wrench from the trunk and I helped him remove the wheel (and by “helped,” I mean I held the lug nuts so they wouldn't get lost in the dust (see right)....clearly this man needed no help). Wheel out of the way, he showed me the reason our trusty Sportage had the shakes: the threads on the stub axle had been completely stripped, causing it to break loose from the suspension knuckle; our front passenger wheel was no longer connected to the axle. I nodded and asked if he wanted me to walk back to the checkpoint to get help...though I hadn't the foggiest idea of what sort of “help” would even be available here in the middle of nowhere. I smiled and almost laughed out loud as I thought of how many times over the years I'd taken for granted the fact that AAA was always just a phone call away from bailing me out of whatever flat tire or blown-out belt my old Buick Regal had thrown my way. Jaime shook his head as he went back to the trunk to grab a length of blue and white nylon rope no more than 1 centimeter in diameter. I stood in the dust, holding the lug nuts and watched as he tied one end of the rope to the axle, tightly wrapped it around a few times and then swung the wheel hub into place, fitting the stripped end of the stub axle into the suspension knuckle. Not satisfied with the fit, he walked across the road to find a large rock, which he used as a sledge hammer to bang the two pieces together before continuing to wrap the rope around. As he wrapped, he turned to me and said this quick-fix should make the car drivable but that we'd have to turn around and go back to Caranavi to get it fixed. I nodded and smiled before counting the lug nuts in my hands to make sure I hadn't lost any, suddenly paranoid that I would somehow screw up the only task I'd been competent enough to help with. Five. Phew. As he tied off the ends of the rope, Jaime's quick-fix was actually looking more sturdy than I ever would have thought possible. Apparently Jaime thought so too, because as he lifted the wheel to put it back on the car he said that rather than return to Caranavi, the best thing to do would be to move on ahead “as quickly as possible.” I laughed, thinking it was a joke, and handed him the lug nuts one by one.

Back in the car, Jaime tested the strength of his emergency roadside fix before flooring it on up the mountain. A trail of dust behind us as we sped away, Jaime gave me a big smile and said, “I never remain stranded in the road....” Sweat dripped from his sideburns and soaked the baseball cap he wore sideways on his head, a smear of dust stretched across his cheek. I clapped and sang his praises the best I could in Spanish. We drove on this road for another fifteen minutes or so before turning off onto an even narrower, less well-maintained road with deeply worn tire grooves and dips in the road deep enough to get stuck in, but thankfully few drop-offs. The jungle closed in around us, its cool, humid air a welcome respite from the oppressive heat we had encountered in Caranavi and the highway beyond. Butterflies of every shape, size, and color fluttered amongst the (still dust-covered) vines, fruit trees, ferns, and undergrowth. Chickens meandered in and out of the road, appearing from and disappearing into the dust-laden weeds that lined either side of the road. Strange, colorful birds with strange, beautiful songs swooped down over the road as they traveled from side to side sounding the alarm as we disrupted their world.

We continued on as fast as possible; I cringed and bit my dry, dust-covered lip with each dip in the road, painfully aware of every creak and moan of the tire underneath me. Each time we hit a big rock or bottomed out on this bump or that dip, Jaime would get out and check the wheel; each time he gave me a big thumbs up as he stood up to get back in the car.

We pressed deeper and deeper into the jungle and for a moment I began to panic. Though there were clearings here and there along the road that contained two or three small ramshackle buildings with palm-leaf roofs, the poles and wires that carried electricity and phone communication were now long behind us, and the fact that Jaime had, for the first time all day, stopped checking his cell phone every five minutes indicated to me that cell phone coverage was also gone. I checked my watch; according to Jaime's estimate we still had at least another thirty minutes to go. I took a deep breath, smiled, and reminded myself that this was exactly what I had signed up for; the panic faded as a rush of excitement swelled, thinking of the challenges I would face in the next two weeks. 

The jungle around us began to open up as we ascended, affording incredible vistas of the surrounding mountains which absolutely glowed in the orange tinge of the setting sun. At 6:00 PM, nine hours after leaving Jorge's house in La Paz, we finally pulled into the driveway of Casa del Cafe, the community center of the ProAgro coffee cooperative that I would be working with for the next two weeks. We pulled up to a fairly large white cement building with ceramic tiled roof. Jaime honked the horn and from one of the closed doors along the hallway that ran through the center of the building emerged a small, sinewy man in a flimsy cowboy-style hat. He had no idea who I was, nor that I was supposed to be staying the night, but he knelt down on the tiled floor with a piece of stucco to draw us a map to the house of a man named Evaristo who apparently knew more than he did, and sent us on our way up the mountain. We collected Evaristo and headed back down the mountain so he could explain to the sinewy man named Teodoro that I would be staying in one of the rooms there. 

Teodoro immediately set to work cleaning out the room while Jaime reinforced the Sportage's bum wheel with a length of wire and a piece of rubber he cut from a tire inner tube, both acquired from Teodoro. I beamed my headlamp on the axle for Jaime so he could see in the growing darkness and politely averted my eyes while Teodoro meandered in and of my future room with a small artillery of insect-killing paraphernalia. I tried not to think about whatever it was he was having so much trouble eliminating in there as I repeatedly heard the muffled bangs of the broom I'd seen him enter with, followed by the psshhht pssshhhhhhht of the large aerosol can of insecticide he'd run to grab from another room. After a couple minutes of silence Teodoro quietly emerged, non-nonchalantly sliding his sandaled foot across the tiled floor towards the grass at the edge of the porch, hoping he would get there before the American girl noticed the huge (now dead) black spider with legs as thick as pipe cleaners that he pushed along with his toe. I, for my part, pretended I didn't see it and instead turned my eyes to the pink and orange glow that was subsiding behind the incredible string of mountains in the distance....