Seven years later, Bolivia still calls…

In a recent conversation over tea, a friend of mine told me she ate at a Bolivian restaurant in San Francisco called "Pachamama" and I nearly shat my pants. Vague memories of a strange, big-lipped idol and my friends Dev and Cakes chanting "Pachamama" on our Bolivia trip during the summer of 2000 begged for me to get to the bottom of the mystery.

I Googled for the meaning: Pachamama is “La Madre Tierra” (Mother Earth), most often revered in Lake Titicaca, where Dev, Cakes, and I rode a private boat and ate “trucha” (fresh water trout) at a local stall. But there was something more to “Pachamama.” Soon, the real memory set in…

Another friend of mine, who is currently touring South America for two months, just two days ago--his 30th birthday--watched the sun rise over Uyuni (Bolivia's famed salt flats). In a birthday email, I ordered him to visit Coroico. I also recommended that he cover his bag with a tarp.

In La Paz, Dev, Cakes and I boarded the back of a bus headed for Coroico, a valley just hours from Bolivia’s high-altitude capital city. Cakes, observing several of the passengers covering their bags in plastic, bought a tarp to cover our bags, which were hastily shoved on top of the 10-person van with the rest of the luggage. It was only after we settled into our cramped seats in the back that we discovered we would be riding down a most infamous road, El Camino de las Yungas or El Camino de la Muerte, which purportedly claimed one life every week. Luckily, our neighbor, apparently a frequent vacationer to Coroico, shared her large bottle of whisky with us.

The precarious journey down the valley was exacerbated by a strange technique of driving on the other side of the road (so the driver could see just how close to the edge he really was). The drive was also punctuated with several crosses indicating previous deaths-by-falling-in. Soon, afternoon became night and Dev had nearly drunk the whole bottle of whisky. Every time the driver backed up (in the dark!) to let a passing car by, Dev would peer over the rear window, squinting at the brake-lit road with a look of horror on his face and yell, "Para! Para! (Stop! Stop!)" We would literally be inches from falling into the valley to our deaths. On three occasions, all of the passengers were asked to disembark and walk ahead because the road was too dangerous with us in it. With only the bus’s headlights as a guide, we would walk across dilapidated road weathered by waterfalls (thus, the need for the tarp).

'Pachamama, Pachamama, Pachamama,' we chanted in unison, praying she would grant us a safe journey to the lush and beautiful valley of Coroico. It was close to midnight when we finally arrived, and we quickly gathered our wet bags (tarps can only keep them so dry) and nestled into our “Casa de la Mula Blanca” (White Mule House—we all attended Colby College whose mascot is a white mule), a house tucked into the hill.

Since recently joining the Matador community and hearing so many tales of Bolivian adventures, I suspected that much has changed since my trip to Pachamama-land. After further Google research, I discovered Bolivian officials have recently closed the dangerous road (now only available for courageous downhill bikers) and opened a new, safer one for cars.

Still, Coroico and our cozy stay at our White Mule House were well worth the death-defying trip there. And if you decide to bike it, wear a poncho and be sure your bike has solid brakes.

Photos of Uyuni courtesy of my newly-turned-30 friend.