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It was some kind of pipe bomb, obviously a warning shot, and I don't need to be told twice. The road ahead is blocked, though. This time by the opposition—the transportistas. These truck drivers want the road opened again. They're shouting, waving fists and no doubt spoiling for a fight. We smile timidly, first being ushered forward then motioned, very aggressively, to stop. The words "rock" and "hard place" spring to mind. It takes a yell from Hugo to stir me into action. Forget the bribes—the detour is on.
The next day we set out again from La Paz. The city is unlike any other in the world, not least because it claims to be the world's highest capital. Built on the most inhospitable of terrains, buildings perch precariously on mountainsides and squeeze into valleys—a spectacular sight. Over one million people inhabit La Paz and over half of them are of Indian origin. Downtown, high-rises dominate the skyline, but evidence of Spanish colonial rule remains: great palaces, beautiful squares and glorious villas.
We head out to El Alto, a suburb of La Paz that counts as a city in itself and houses the airport. In many cities, the higher you climb the streets, the higher you climb the social ladder. In La Paz, it's the opposite; the wealthy live lower down in Zona Sur, while the poorer residents live in the heights of El Alto. From up here, looking back down into the city makes quite a sight. The buildings look like they are spilling out of the natural bowl that's been formed by the land and are now climbing the walls of a canyon that measures nearly five kilometres from rim to rim. On a clear day, the snowcapped triple peak of Illimani towers in the background.
The route that we are taking is paved to begin with, quite lightly trafficked, and progress is swift. It looks like this long way round might not be so long after all. Then, with no warning at all, the tarmac disappears and we find ourselves on a dirt road. I flick the Terrain Response™ into Grass/Gravel/Snow mode for some added reassurance.
At this point, I still have complete confidence in the change of plan. It helps that we are being accompanied in a Defender by Rikard Beckman, competitions manager for the Land Rover G4 Challenge. An experienced adventurer who has been out here reconnoitering the 2006 event that will feature a couple of stages in Bolivia, Beckman's taking time out to show us around. Needless to say, he's enjoying the opportunity to eye up the performance of the Range Rover Sport at the same time.
We soon come to a heavily rutted, muddy section of road where a small white microbus is stranded. Its occupants had clearly resigned themselves to a long wait, judging by the pleased expressions on their faces when we show up. I slip the Sport into Mud and Ruts mode and the suspension automatically rises to its off-road setting. I give the accelerator a gentle prod and we crawl through. Rikard hooks up the Defender to the micro and tugs it out of the mire. It's our good deed for the day, but it's also an insurance policy—next time it could be us in need of assistance.
The road, if you can call it that, takes us over the high plains and then back toward the mountains. It really is breathtaking, and not just because we're almost 4,000 metres up. We wind our way through, clinging to the side of the mountains, not daring to look down. However, soon we have to. A large truck has gone over the side and its occupants are camped out on the side of the road, waiting for help. Amazingly, it's just a few metres off the edge, resting on its side. The drop is several hundred metres. We stop to assess the situation but since, on this occasion, we are unable to shift the truck, we make sure that everyone is OK, call for help on the satellite phone and, once we know that we've done as much as we can, decide to press on.
It's not long before the barren countryside changes to a lush green. We enter the rainforest and the thick vegetation helps to mask the terrifying drops. These roads are very lightly traveled and it would be a long time before anyone would come to help, should anything go wrong.
It's now six o'clock in the evening; we'll lose the light in an hour and Coroico is still a worryingly long way off. Our target for tonight is a town called Chulumani which, depending on whom we speak to, is something between an eight- and 24-hour drive away.
We head on into the dusk, the roof lights of the Defender blazing a trail through the rainforest. I drive slowly and with extreme caution, dodging every sharp-looking rock, with the darkness thankfully disguising the huge drops to the side. Our progress is painfully slow, an average speed of just 10 mph as we continue onward.
At three o'clock in the morning, we arrive in Chulumani and decide that enough is enough. We find a small hotel, liberally apply insect repellent and collapse for a few hours.
The next morning it's another six-hour drive to Coroico, where news is that the blockade back at Unduavi has ended. Our lengthy detour and the long haul through the jungle suddenly look rather pointless. But there's little time for frustration to set in as we finally come face to face with Death Road.
The next day we set out again from La Paz. The city is unlike any other in the world, not least because it claims to be the world's highest capital. Built on the most inhospitable of terrains, buildings perch precariously on mountainsides and squeeze into valleys—a spectacular sight. Over one million people inhabit La Paz and over half of them are of Indian origin. Downtown, high-rises dominate the skyline, but evidence of Spanish colonial rule remains: great palaces, beautiful squares and glorious villas.
We head out to El Alto, a suburb of La Paz that counts as a city in itself and houses the airport. In many cities, the higher you climb the streets, the higher you climb the social ladder. In La Paz, it's the opposite; the wealthy live lower down in Zona Sur, while the poorer residents live in the heights of El Alto. From up here, looking back down into the city makes quite a sight. The buildings look like they are spilling out of the natural bowl that's been formed by the land and are now climbing the walls of a canyon that measures nearly five kilometres from rim to rim. On a clear day, the snowcapped triple peak of Illimani towers in the background.
The route that we are taking is paved to begin with, quite lightly trafficked, and progress is swift. It looks like this long way round might not be so long after all. Then, with no warning at all, the tarmac disappears and we find ourselves on a dirt road. I flick the Terrain Response™ into Grass/Gravel/Snow mode for some added reassurance.
At this point, I still have complete confidence in the change of plan. It helps that we are being accompanied in a Defender by Rikard Beckman, competitions manager for the Land Rover G4 Challenge. An experienced adventurer who has been out here reconnoitering the 2006 event that will feature a couple of stages in Bolivia, Beckman's taking time out to show us around. Needless to say, he's enjoying the opportunity to eye up the performance of the Range Rover Sport at the same time.
We soon come to a heavily rutted, muddy section of road where a small white microbus is stranded. Its occupants had clearly resigned themselves to a long wait, judging by the pleased expressions on their faces when we show up. I slip the Sport into Mud and Ruts mode and the suspension automatically rises to its off-road setting. I give the accelerator a gentle prod and we crawl through. Rikard hooks up the Defender to the micro and tugs it out of the mire. It's our good deed for the day, but it's also an insurance policy—next time it could be us in need of assistance.
The road, if you can call it that, takes us over the high plains and then back toward the mountains. It really is breathtaking, and not just because we're almost 4,000 metres up. We wind our way through, clinging to the side of the mountains, not daring to look down. However, soon we have to. A large truck has gone over the side and its occupants are camped out on the side of the road, waiting for help. Amazingly, it's just a few metres off the edge, resting on its side. The drop is several hundred metres. We stop to assess the situation but since, on this occasion, we are unable to shift the truck, we make sure that everyone is OK, call for help on the satellite phone and, once we know that we've done as much as we can, decide to press on.
It's not long before the barren countryside changes to a lush green. We enter the rainforest and the thick vegetation helps to mask the terrifying drops. These roads are very lightly traveled and it would be a long time before anyone would come to help, should anything go wrong.
It's now six o'clock in the evening; we'll lose the light in an hour and Coroico is still a worryingly long way off. Our target for tonight is a town called Chulumani which, depending on whom we speak to, is something between an eight- and 24-hour drive away.
We head on into the dusk, the roof lights of the Defender blazing a trail through the rainforest. I drive slowly and with extreme caution, dodging every sharp-looking rock, with the darkness thankfully disguising the huge drops to the side. Our progress is painfully slow, an average speed of just 10 mph as we continue onward.
At three o'clock in the morning, we arrive in Chulumani and decide that enough is enough. We find a small hotel, liberally apply insect repellent and collapse for a few hours.
The next morning it's another six-hour drive to Coroico, where news is that the blockade back at Unduavi has ended. Our lengthy detour and the long haul through the jungle suddenly look rather pointless. But there's little time for frustration to set in as we finally come face to face with Death Road.
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