La Paz is notorious for its party presence on the South American backpacker track. I have met many a person who in passing of the place ended up being engulfed by the scene of festivities and not escaping for weeks...or months. This was not the case for Jameson and myself, we opted to take the high road, avoiding the Irish hostels and touristy cocaine bar (Ruta 36) where your less focused travelers flock. Our only goal for the visit was to partake in the wholesome activity of biking down the worlds deadliest road, ¨Camino de la Muertë," so named because in the 90´s it was averaging about 300 kills a year. This is due to a combo of its lack of guardrails, straight drops off cliffs, narrow curves, and crazed Bolivian bus drivers.
The actual bike ride is the ultimate in Bolivian enjoyment. They load you up with all the pads and helmetry one could desire and then you just speed downhill for three hours. It begins with a segment of super smooth asphalt and then a second part on a gravel road. It was on this latter section of the ride when, in a pursuit of getting sick air off of little rocks that Jamey utilized all of his downhill momentum to flip his bike and slam himself on the ground. I unfortunately missed the wreckage, but waiting at a river crossing a few hundred yards down the road an Aussie road up and told me; "Man, your mate just ate it hard....I found him blacked out in a bush and his bike was nowhere to be seen." In the end, ´twas only a mild blackout and he made it out with just some badass looking scrapes on his cheeks and chin. He rode in the company van the rest of the trip down the road.