There are some places in the world so remote and beautiful that it´s best that they be kept secret lest the world descends upon it to despoil its essence. This wandering heart feels a tinge of guilt by barely mentioning their whereabouts; but for the pleasure of those willing to venture afar in search of true paradise, I shall spin a rough portrait.
2 days ago, I took a microbus headed for Coroico… the 3rd time on the ¨Death Road¨. The scenery is even more spectacular than when I flew down on a mountain bike two weeks ago as the flowers have started blooming. The last portion of the trip was literally death-defying as the driver races up the mountain towards Coroico at insane speeds on a unpaved road barely wide enough to fit a single car. The ledge drops a few hundred feet on the right as oncoming traffic in the form of people, cars, buses tractors and such head at us from total blind curves ahead. On several occasions, we almost collided. In the end, we survived enough to emerge midway atop a hill in the small town. After searching a bit, we settled on a ¨hotel¨with the most amazing view (no exaggeration) of the Yungas valley, complete with swimming pool and excellent coffee at a more than reasonable $7 per night. The remainder of the evening I spent on the balcony spying over the distant valley overlooking the Death Road watching the clouds slowly drift by to the sound of town life.
Life is very slow here. People are exceedingly friendly and nothing much happens; mostly minor commerce and old citizens lazing around to watch the younger children at play. It is the essence of unspoiled and unfettered human existence. The few tourist that trickle in marvel at the simplicity, some even opting to stay permanently.
The second day was spent hiking to the chapel behind the town atop the hill, and then following an old trail that traced the mountainside. Slowly I wounded the paths under the searing sun, turn after turn to marvel at the unfolding hills and scenery. Here and there, a coca field appeared along the path tended by an old woman or some young boy. Eventually, the trail dipped into ravines with a few minor waterfalls from which the town receives its water supply. After returning, I spent the night again perched on the balcony star gazing with other travelers well into the night.
Today, along with two others, we hired a taxi and drove to a quaint town of Afro-Bolivians, descendants of former slaves brought by the Spanish to farm the fields here. The town is so small (250 people at most) that it is almost forgotten and inconsequential. The people here are faced with a severe identity crises as they have no idea of their origins, do not inter-marry with indigenous Bolivians, and sadly up until very recently, not even counted on the national census. Yet, they seemed happy and content on this lazy afternoon playing drums of their distant ancestors on this lazy Sunday – perhaps a small solace of their lost identity.
Tomorrow I leave this paradise for unknown destinations. Who knows where the wending way will lead.