19,000 Feet High

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Volcan Misti is a beast, towering 19,100 feet above sea level. It has been relatively inactive lately, but in earlier times Incans used to sacrifice llamas (then humans when llamas proved ineffective) to dissuade the mountain from erupting (don't know what they did after it still kept erupting). It was a two day journey to the top, and my first high altitude peak. It was a great experience and a ton of hard work.

Snap shots and waves

Day one you start at 11,000 feet near the base of the volcano. It was a 4 hour slog up to Camp 2 at 15,500 feet. We camped there for the night, with a good view of the flatlands below. At about 6:00 we turned in so we could begin our early 2 am ascent to the summit. It was cold and dark, but the lights from Arequipa shown brightly up from below in the valley floor and was quite a cool view.

Camp

We made our way slowly up to the top of the volcano, 5 1/2 hours total from our camp. Toward the top your legs start feeling heavier, the air feels (and is) thinner, and it is a fight just to make a step. Your heart pounds like you are sprinting even though you are making little steps a third of normal size.

Various rest stops

When you hit the summit though you get this amazing rush, stoked to have come the whole way. The view was spectacular. You could see nearby peaks and volcanoes, salt flats, lakes, and even a mountain range whose north western side was a starting point for the Amazon water shed.

The Summit

For all the climbing we did, it took two ours to get down. We ran, no sprinted, down steep faces of loose sand and volcanic ash, the fine rock soft under your feet. Interspersed in the fine sand were larger rocks and boulders requiring avoidance, and dodging them at full sprint while also trying to control your speed down the steep mountain pitch blended fun and near recklessness into the adrenaline packed experiencd. And even though it was downhill, it was still sprinting, and sprinting at 18,000 feet, so it was extremely tiring. We had to stop numerous times on the way down, dropping to our butts and sliding a distance in the loose sand before coming to a stop, sucking in deep breaths of air, trying desperately to put much needed oxygen into our lungs. This explains the heavy breathing in video we did of the descent (I'm filming, Sam is hurtling):

I cannot for the life of me figure out how to turn it, so turn your computer screens or crane your necks! =)

It was a cool feeling to reach the bottom and look up, knowing you had made it all the way up. The four days before (Colca Canyon and now the volcano) had taken its toll on Sam and I though (pretty much exhausted), and we decided that we wouldn't do Volcan Chachani in the next two days. Instead we slept, rested and enjoyed some time off...and ate one of the most massive burgers I have ever eaten, washing it down with a cold beer and topping it off with some chocolate cake.

Into Peru and the Colca Canyon

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Sam and I's first stop in Peru was in Arequipa, launching point to climb the 5800m Volcano Misti and descend into the world's deepest canyons. Getting there was not easy. It was supposed to be a 11 hour bus ride from La Paz with no stops, no changing busses. Three busses and 15 hours later Sam and I had just about had it with misinformation and Peru, and were super bitter when we arrived in Peru. I don't know why they had to lie to us. We had already bought the tickets, we were already on their busses. Even in the middle on one of the bus rides we asked how long until the next town where Sam and I would transfer, and they told us 1 hour. It took 2. I mean seriously, what is the deal with just telling us straight up? I am on your bus. I'm not going anywhere. Just interested in how far away a place is. Thankfully with a good night's sleep and some cool Peruvians aquaintances the next day, we had revised our sour opinion of the night before. We made some plans for the week. With Sam's girlfriend flying into Lima soon, we had 6 days in Arequipa. We decided the best course of action would be two days hiking into the Colca Canyon, 2 days summiting 19,100 foot Volcan Misti, then 2 days summiting 19,900 foot Volcan Chachani. Would we survive? Probably not.

The Colca Canyon is the second deepest canyon in the world, second only to its nearby neighbor by about 150m, roughly 500 ft. Sam and I ventured into the Colca to explore its depths, spending two days trekking on its trails clinging tightly to the steep mountain sides. Condors soared in the air and sleepy little villages of mud and brick buildings perched themselves on the steep faces. Pre-Incan civilizations onced dwelled in this canyon, but the modern towns exist mainly for tourism nowadays. There was a pre-Incan terraced ampitheater used for crop experimentation, according to our guidebook, to Sam and I's disappointment. Plant experimentation? Why not epic gladiator battles, the terraces filled with shouting spectators? Nope. Let's see how tomatoes grow here and how tomatoes grow there. Lively bunch, those pre-Incans.

We spent the night in the canyon floor in a place called Oasis. Waterfalls fell out of the mountain side unexpectedly, not rivers draining from above, just a fountain of water out of the steep mountain face. Down by the river three campsites with cabins and turquois pools called our names as we stared from the dry, hot ridge above. Once we finally got down the pool was all I dreamed it would be. The campsite was full of tour groups, some who had paid around $190 for an all inclusive three day tour of the canyon and surrounding cities. Sam and I paid $10 to get to the canyon and back, $12 to get in because there is this stupid tourist ticket just to walk on the paths, and then$3 for a room that night. We saw more of the canyon for $25 than these tour groups did. Amazing what a tourist industry can do for you.

The climb up the next morning before the sun came up, making it a cool but steep and long hike out. With a couple days rest our legs would recover though...except that due to time constraints we were scheduled to climb a 19,100 foot peak the next day. Oh boy, we couldn't wait for that.

Going to Prison

So I wasn't going to be looking for any pity if this little adventure didn't work out right. Let me set this up for a second so we are all on the same page. San Pedro Prison is located in La Paz, Bolivia and is the only prisoner run prison in the world. And I mean entirely prisoner run. The only guards are on the outside controlling the gates, that is it. All life inside the prison walls is left entirely to the prisoners. Seeing that this was such a unique opportunity to see this sort of institution, Sam, Amanda, Becky and I all decided on trying to get a tour of the prison. Thing is, all tours have been shut down and it is technically illegal to get a tour. But we were in Bolivia, so what that really means is pay a bribe to the gaurds and you can get in. So here is why I wasn't expecting any pity if this adventure went wrong: I was walking into a prisoner run prison, with no guards on the inside, to get an illegal tour of the grounds...by prisoners...in a real prison...see where I am going?

Waiting in the plaza outside the prison.

Now to be fair, the prisoners were awesome guys and we were treated well. In fact, every presuppostion you have right now of prison and how it works you might as well throw out. This is like no other prison on the planet, and I was surprised by what I found. That didn't matter going in though; we were nervous, sick to our stomachs in anticipation. What lay on the inside was unkown territory to us, and every presupposition we had of prison, mostly all negative, were bouncing around through our heads.

What had been arranged with the guards is that people would go in two by two every hour. We arranged all the details over the phone, which was quite an experience. The first time I called I couldn't really believe that I had just called a prison and spoke to an inmate. Anyway, Sam and Becky went first, so Amanda and I passed the hour by eating chicken at a restraunt (Despite the nerves, I was still famished). Two hours later we were still waiting for Sam and Becky to come out. I was starting to get worried and about to call when one of our phones rang and Sam and Becky said to come in. Apparently it was an all day tour.

Sam and Becky, about to go in.

So Amanda and I went to the entrance. Another condition of coming in was that we were visiting family, not friends, and we said we were cousins of one of the inmates. We had talked to two guys over the phone, Stuart and Kenneth, two South Africans. Sam and Becky had said they were family to Stuart so Amanda and I said we were visiting our cousin Kenneth. Now, Amanda is as British as they come, me a typical white American, and it turned out Kenneth was a black South African. Cousins? Not likely. Actually, not even not likely. No chance in a million years. Apparently these details aren't important in Bolivia, as long as the payment comes through.

The entry way consisted of a defunct metal detector, two gaurds to sign you in, and a locked barred door opened by key. The gate was crowded with other travelers there to do the tour, and had broken the tow by two rule about coming in. Officially, every prisoner is allowed two family visitors at a time, and even if the family rule could be bent, the two visitor rule could not. So there was this awkward wait while 8 gringos stood waiting to get in and the head guard was saying to the prisoner guides that they couldn't come in. Luckily our man, Stuart, was able to get us in. He handed me a letter that said I was a cousin to some dude inside and my name was Andrew. Fair enough, except I had just signed in seconds ago with my passport under my name. But agian, details are unimportant apparently. Amanda and I managed to be let in but the other six were turned away.

Prison tour.

We walked through the barred gate into a courtyard with tables, stair benches, and some small snack stands offering food and drinks. Again, we were now in another world. Only prisoners, their guests, and their families were inside the prison walls. They ran everything, from the snack stands to the gym to settling disputes. Everything. A barbeque was lit and some meat slow cooked on a grill, as the prisoners/family/guests sat and talked, paced the courtyard, and children ran playing across the grounds.

We were lead up a narrow ladder into an inmate's cell by the name of "Johnny Walker," as he introduced himself. We met up with Sam, Becky, and some other travelers who had come in. The "cell" consisted of a small kitchen, space for a dining table, a bedroom, and a bathroom. You could even flush toilette paper down the toilette, a luxury you don't have in any South American country. We spent most of our time in that room, but not all. We were shown a tour of the grounds, but not before ordering from the prison menu. We were offered food, soda, water, beer, pot, and cocaine. What's more, is the one beer I ordered cost me 25 bolivianos, compared to the 10 Bs it was for a joint and the 20 it cost for four lines of cocain. Welcome to prison.

Beer in prison.

On the tour, we were shown the area called La Posta, the upper class area mostly full of gringos apart from the general prison population. We never went into general population as Stuart told us our safety could not be garunteed. (I just took his word that my safety was currently garunteed in their section). La Posta consisted of the courtyard, various cells, a rec room, complete with pool table, dice table, and poker table, a bathroom/wash area built by traveler's donation that had been on the tour before, a gym, and even a therapy room at one point. It was later converted into a cell as space became limited. Stuart's cell consisted of a bedroom and bathroom, with a stove and oven he had built to do some of his own cooking. We were also shown the penthouse of the place, a two story cell owned by a Columbian drug lord, at a going rate of US$14,000 to be bought. Unbelievable, considering this was a prison. The guy who owned it apparently was caught with two planes, as in 737 size, full of cocaine. There was the pilots seat, the copilots seat, then the rest was cocaine. That is a lot of cocaine. From the upstairs' window it was 25 feet out and 45 feet down to the prison wall, or freedom as Stuart put it. He had measured the dimensions. Apparently at one point he had an escape plan, but word got out and additons to the complex put in by the guards thwarted his attempt. Stuart himself has been in out of prison all his life, serving 20 years altogether. He was even sentenced to death in Pakistan, but was the first white christian to ever be set free. He said that was the only time he was every truly scared in prison. Most of the other inmates had served less time, and didn't want to do a day more. They don't know how Stuart had managed. I don't either.

After the tour of the grounds we went back to Johnny's cell. There we talked with the inmates, ate food and drank refreshments, looked at pictures of past groups, listened to stories about the groups as well as some of Johnny's travels, and just passed the time sitting around and talking. None of the guys would admit any guilt but one, who had taken a sentencing, and no one was supposed to talk about anyone else's history. You couldn't get much out of them about their histories or what they had done. They were eager to show us they were just people though, not any better or worse than the people outside. I think that is important, to think of inmates as people, not the sometimes over villanized people society makes them out to be. I didn't agree however with their claims to innocence. Through talking to them it became clear quite a few of them had been picked up with drugs on them, and was the reason why they were there. Whether or not they agreed with the law they had broken, fact is, they broke that law, and were therefore guilty of breaking that law. But admitting to breaking any law or using the word criminal were definitely not welcomed by any of them. It was a very interesting, educating experience to be with them though. That is for sure.

Now hardened "criminals"

Around 5 that afternoon we left the prison. It was good to be on the outside again, in the free world. I think that was something I would never understand about their situation, the fact that they couldn't just walk out those prison doors anytime they wanted. It was a very surreal experience to be inside that prison, and one I will not soon forget, although I may be analyzing all the events of that day for many days to come.

Lake Titicaca

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Sitting at 12,500 feet, Lake Titicaca is the largest lake in South America and a sight to behold. Glaciar clad mountains tower off of one shore, islands dot the massive expanse of blue, some holding ruins of Incan structures built long ago. It is called the Holy or Sacred Lake by the people of Bolivia and Peru, whose shores are shared by the two countries. Copacabana was our launching point to the Isla del Sol, or Island of the Sun. Three communities live on the island, and an Incan fortress and holy places can be found there as well.

Sam, Becky, Amanda, and I spent a couple days exploring the Island. The ruins were a bit of a disappointment, but the lake was stunning in its natural beauty. Tourism is why the island communities survive, and the port town of Copacabana thrives off of it as well. We spent all our time between these two places, hiking the island, wandering Copacabana's streets, and hanging out in restraunts before heading back to La Paz.

The Ghost Ride

After flirting with death on The Death Ride, Sam and I decided we hadn't had enough and to do another mountain bike ride named the Ghost Ride. I don't know what ghosts had to do with it. Something about a haunted castle that seemed pleasant enough to me. It was a more technical and challenging ride, and we hit speeds higher than on The Death Road, probably around 50 kmh down its dirt tracks. It even had some steep, technial single track options to offer. It was a lot more fun to ride down than The Death Road, although nothing can beat the feeling of riding your bike down within literal inches of a 1000 foot drop.

There was only one real fall on The Death Road (For us. You may have heard lately that about 4 people have died in the last two weeks. That wasn't us. We just had a guy get scraped up). Everyone managed some sort of crash on The Ghost Ride. I pulled off two, Sam at least three brilliant falls. On one, when all were at the bottom waiting as Sam was the last to come down, he flew straight over the handle bars in a spectacular flight. He was fine, and we were impressed. Another fall I witnessed was by and Aussie on the trip, who came down off a single track onto the main road, then straight off the edge on the otherside, dropping about 12 feet into a river gully while pulling off a flip to land on his feet. He was unhurt as well, though we couldn't figure how. I wish we each had a helmet cam to witness all these falls, because it would have made for some unbelievable video at the end. So would have the close encounters with traffic as we came around corners as well; I'll tell ya, suddenly staring at a big grill of a big truck as it blares its horn at you is a bit unnerving. But close calls were all they were, and we survived our games of chicken with the traffic, as well as our unseatings from our bikes. We all arrived at the bottom a bit battered with the aches and pains of bruised muscles and scraped skin. You would never have known it though seeing us race down the hill, pedaling until no resistance was offered, tucking to limit air drag, and sticking out feet to corner tighter and faster on the hairpin turns. It was one of the best mountain bike rides of my life.

How I Ever Ended Up in the Back of a Bolivian Police Jeep

Sometimes travel just throws you some unexpected curves. In La Paz it came in the form of riding in the back of a Bolivian police cruisers with my friend Becky. I swear, we were innocent. =)

Becky had met up with Sam, Amanda, and I in La Paz and was another volunteer from Santa Cruz. One morning, after having locked some belongings in her locker the night before, Becky went to her locked locker located in a continually staffed office and found that her camera and all her money in her locker had been stolen. Peculiar, considering it was a locked locker in a continually staffed office, with a lock bought from the hostel itself. Needless to say the implications were obvious, though we didn't say as much, but the staff became very unhelpful in the whole process.

We went to the Tourist Police office in La Paz to file a report. They sent two detectives to investigate. The staff was so helpful in showing them how the locker couldn't have been forced into, and basically made their own implications that our story was a bunch of rubbish. Yet they seemed to be missing our main point: Becky's camera and money were missing (gone, vanished, i.e. not there anymore) from a locked locker in a continually staffed office. Somehow this didn't seemed to register with them.

After the tourist police came we had to go to the main police office to file a report. A long few hours later we saw a detective who wanted to go see the locker as well. So Becky and I jumped in the back of the Bolivian Police's cruiser and went back to the hostel. The staff wasn't so happy to see us again, bringing with us a new set of police detectives. It basically went the same. Try to discredit us despite the fact that it was clear things were gone. The police didn't really listen to them, though there wasn't much they could do to get anything back. They were just there to file a report anyway. They did demonstrate the fact though that the locks we had could be opened with any other set of keys with the same brand...quite easily in fact. That was a jaw dropper. I had the same kind of lock. That basically settled how the locker was broken into.

So after a bit more questioning the police left and we stayed a few more awkward days at our hostel. Becky got her police report and all that taken care of, but lost all her photos of her travels down here. She was a trooper through the whole ordeal though, very calm and not letting her emotions get the best of her, which I thought was impressive. She bought a new lock the next day, although I am pretty sure she didn't put anything of value into that locked locker in a continually staffed office.

The Death Road

The name alone inspires fear. The stomach churns, the legs start to fail, dizziness makes the room spin. It is a warning. Don't come down or else. That, or it makes the heart pump with anticipation of the challenge as it encourages you, nay, begs you to plunge down it, to defy its hefty title as you grip your bike's handle bars and point your bike downhill. Most can guess, to my mother's dismay, that "The World's Most Dangerous Road," or "The Death Road," had the second effect on me.

(more pictures)

What's in a name?
The name is not entirely underserved. It is narrow and strewn with loose gravel, whose right shoulder is a steep mountain face and whose left side is a sheer cliff of an average of two to three hundred meters. It ain't no cake walk, and it has claimed the most lives of any road on record. That said, there are far more dangerous roads still in use in Bolivia and Peru, and because of the new installation of a paved and safer alternative route, The Death Road sees far less traffic than it used too. Still, more than 13 tourists have died on it since 2001, a couple in the last couple weeks, but this has not deterred the hundreds if not thousands of tourists every year that brave its winding curves as it plunges into the Bolvian low country in one of the most stunning settings imaginable. It is one of the primary tourists attractions of La Paz.

So is it really that dangerous? I would say no. What it really comes down to is potential. We have all fallen off our bikes (some more spectacularly than others; point and case to the right). We knew there might be pain or tears or blood, but despite this we still got on to take ride. Our parents still sent us out to pedal down the road. The only difference between a normal day out on the bike and going down the "World's Most Dangerous Road" is this: a normal day on the bike usually does not contain, within all its many possibilities of disaster, the potential outcome of falling off your bike and then plummeting over a 1ooo foot cliff, all the while enjoying what will probably be one of the most amazing views you will witness in your life (especially given that it only has a few seconds left to be carried out). So that is what it comes down to. Potential.

Title: "Potential"

Title: "Your Last View"

The (Death) Ride

I went hurtling down the Death Road with some friends I met in Santa Cruz. Sam, another typical guy, was all for the danger and adventure. Amanda, however, was not. At one point tears were falling, and though she admitted later she was glad she did it, in the same breath stated she was also glad it was over. But she was a trooper and made it down in one piece, even smiling a bit at the end.

The group, all of which survived

A little encouragement from the guide

The ride starts above 4000m on tarmac and covers about 64 km in total. The tarmac section is fun because the cliff-side drops are less intense and you can really lean into the curves when you get your speed up. The next section is the gravel road with the spectacular drops, with the loose terrain adding to that potential for disaster I was talking about. At first the clouds obscured our view of the drop, making it not too bad. Out of sight, out of mind. But after dropping down below the clouds we had an open view of that 300m plunge, and you felt the heart sink in your chest and prayed your pants weren't going to get wet when you chanced a glance over the side.

"Look, Mom, I got this close to the edge!"

Needless to say, it was a day full of adrenaline, aprhensive excitement, and joyous fear. I survived The Death Road, and even got a t-shirt to prove it.