by Kylie Smyth - Winner of the 2007 ASTW Young Travel Writer Award

We started out at 4500 meters. By the end of the day we would be at just two thousand. Our adventure playground? “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”. Realistically, just how dangerous could it be? They wouldn’t take tourists down it if it was too dangerous. Would they?

The road had earned its reputation because it has the highest death toll per annum of any road in the world. At least one bus load of people goes over the edge a month. I hadn’t heard anything about pushbike riders though.

We flew into La Paz, Bolivia, on Saturday. I was due to fly home to Melbourne on Monday, so what better way to spend my last day in South America?

We set out amongst snow-capped mountains on a relatively easy ride. The road was bitumen and smooth but the best part was that it was all down hill. I even managed to keep up with the rest of the group of 15 or so. As the altitude dropped, the vegetation changed from barren mountains to rainforest to scrub. I was enjoying this ride.

After about three hours we stopped for lunch on a cliff overlooking a deep, lush, green valley. On the other side of the valley you could see “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”, a winding golden snake clinging precariously to the edge of the cliff face. There were a number of trucks on the road but it looked wide enough from where we sat to cater for a truck and a small narrow mountain bike. The guides handed out facemasks to protect us from the dust and gave us a run down of the safety rules.

1. Stick to the left. (Yes, the cliff side.)

2. Anything coming up has right of way so move as far to the left as possible.

3. Don’t look over the edge. Your bike will go wherever you are looking.

4. Take is easy. Most accidents have occurred because people were being silly.

5. When giving way, put the bike between yourself and the cliff. An Irish lady died because she accidentally stepped over the edge.

By this stage I was nervous. Actually, “terrified” is more the term that describes it. “Don’t worry, we’ve never had problems with nervous girls. Only show off boys,” the guide reassured me.

Yeah, well there’s a first time for everything.

Our bikes were checked to ensure our brakes were sound and away we went. It was at this stage I realised I had made a terrible mistake. It was at this stage I realised the road was called “The World’s Most Dangerous Road” for a reason. It was at this stage I realised I might die today. Oh well, what the heck. May as well die having fun.

But that was the problem. I wasn’t having fun. The road was unbelievably dusty. The dust masks didn’t seem to help, just caused my sunglasses to fog up, so not only was I having trouble breathing, I couldn’t see. I was applying constant pressure to my brakes and my tyres were sliding in the loose gravel. As their bikes slid out from under them, two ladies fell off in front of me. I was trying desperately to hang onto mine because right there to my left, waiting to gobble me up, was the cliff. This was no ordinary cliff. The road and cliff face were at right angles. A few ferns hung on for dear life to the side of the cliff and the cold hard fact of it was that if you went over the edge, you were a goner. Goodbye, Adios, Ciao. Gone. At the bottom of the cliff were the remains of buses that had gone over the edge, left to rust because there was no way of getting them back up.

I was riding along, terrified, tense and beginning to feel sore all over. The rest of the group was miles in front so there was just another girl, a guide and myself at the back of the pack. Then the support bus. Now, although I was having a horrible time, I didn’t want to weaken and get off my bike to get on that bus. I was tougher, stronger and bigger than that. At least I was until a dirty big truck came up the hill.

‘Oh, my gosh, I have to give way,’ I thought, ‘rules, rules, what were they?’ That’s right, stand on the left. This I did, right on the bend. I looked down at the cliff edge about 6 inches from my feet. ‘Rules, rules. Oh no, the bike is supposed to be between me and the cliff, not between me and the road’. It was too late. The truck was upon me, going like a bat out of hell up the hill. Its back tyres almost hit me and knocked me over the edge. I took a step back, my feet somehow remembering I was close to the cliff edge. I shut my eyes and waited to die. The truck passed and I thought my heart would beat itself right out of my chest. I felt a lump well up in my throat.

Then came the backwash. What the hell was I doing? I had trekked the Inca Trail. I had hiked into the Colca Canyon. I had learnt to Salsa. My Spanish had improved. What the hell was I doing on this stupid bike, on this stupid road the day before I was due to fly home? I wasn’t having fun; in fact I was hating every second. I picked up the bike, took off my helmet and got on the bus.

The rest of the day was wonderful. I could look over the edge of the cliff. I could breathe. I could see. And most of all, my chances of survival had increased dramatically. I sat back in my seat, relaxed, and enjoyed the rest of the ride.