Death Road is a pretty scary name, and it led at least one of our group (namely myself) to be more than a little hesitant about taking up the challenge in the first place! Let me just explain the challenge: take a downhill bike all the way down Death Road, without dying. Let’s be honest, it wouldn’t be a successful tourism business if every other person snuffed it on the way down – but there are a fair few crosses along the way, and some hairy stories that the tour guide will ensure the most nervous person gets to hear all the details of!

I am so glad I was persuaded into it though. There is nothing like the feeling of the wind rushing through your hair, sun on your face, taking in the beautiful surroundings (but not too much though! ‘Don’t look at the edge and you won’t go over it...’ is the standard advice) and every so often, you suddenly realise: “Oh my God, I’m on Death Road. In Bolivia. On a bike. Wow.” It’s not a walk in the park though – coping with the temperature change from top to bottom, the narrow road (a scant 3 metres at times – I don’t envy the bus drivers!) and the very bumpy gravelly surface are all challenging factors. You alight at the bottom, arms feeling like they’ve been holding a pneumatic drill for five hours, windblown, bitten by sand flies and with a more than a slightly sore arse but nothing beats the feeling of achievement and elation and having taken on the World’s Most Dangerous Road. In your face Top Gear! And extra credit to our most intrepid cyclist, who may have taken a fairly heavy tumble in a tight turn but who we all have the utmost respect for: after completing the remainder of the journey recovering from concussion in the bus and swathed in various bandages, Gabriel Rachel still didn’t back down from our final challenge, an epic three-part zip wire experience.

Every single member of our group would recommend the trip. It is an absolute thrill and that joyful feeling afterwards is unlike any other.

Our first site of Rurrenabaque was of the small airfield that comprised a collection of huts and an airstrip with cows and pigs grazing on it. The plane journey had been interesting, with the plane being no bigger than a tin can, but offering some amazing views of the Andes Mountains and an aerial view of the rainforest below us. The town itself was gorgeous, slightly too touristy, but this was made up for by the stunning backdrop of the mountains nestling the little town.

We didn’t spend long in the town, as quickly booked ourselves onto a two day tour of the pampas. The eco-lodge was a three hour drive from the town and right on the banks of the River Yacuma. The tour itself was amazing, with animals from capybaras to caimans, from turtles to tiger herons and everything in between. We had the opportunity to fish for piranhas and cooked them for dinner, as well as swimming with the pink river dolphins.

The eco-lodge itself wasn’t for the squeamish. We shared our bedroom with bats, and our showers with every insect imaginable, with some frogs thrown in for good measure too! The food was home cooked and delicious, and the hammocks a very comfortable addition to the beautiful surroundings.

The return journey was wonderfully disorganised, with our flight not being at 2 as we expected, and so in the wait until five, we relaxed on the runway in the sunshine with some wine and then took a short walk in the surrounding rainforest. It was a shame that it was only a short trip, but was definitely worth it.

All four of us are still dog tagged in our wrists – we’re all blue (VIP) members of Crossfest 2011 even though we had left Santa Cruz four days ago, and will still continue to be for months to come until the blue non-biodegradable tag disintegrates by itself, in its own right and time to come.
It sure is slaggish to wear sunglasses at night (re: Corey Hart’s song comes to mind) but in this case it was more a matter of necessity than an accessory. The laser-lights and deluge of fluorescent vomit of rainbows colors from above the DJ stand made it nearly impossible to appreciate neither Christopher Lawrence nor the milky skins of the scantily clad dancers. Even the cages by the perimeters of the stage in which dancers are (impressively pole-dancing to house music, nonetheless) were shielded off from our eyes by much too bright lights.

The opening act consisted of DJs from La Paz (strangely no Santa Cruzian deejays were on the lineup), namely Gonzalo, Marco and Anibal. It was warm-up for the main acts Seb Fontain, Second Sun and the aforementioned Christopher Lawrence.
One Champagne de Andres Rose and Smirnoff later, we were on the dancefloor and away from the VIP area which was smothered with TV presenters and showgirls (one of whom was conducting interviews with a hand-muppet of a llama donning shades). Robbie got to make acquaintances with Lawrence thanks to Ivan’s press pass, but he reckons he looks too much like his father to be actually homies with him. Maeva and I were busy thrashing about. The local trio-act joined us shortly after with a swagger only a Smirnoff bottle can impart. The music was phenomenal to our ears. We didn’t stop to rest, but then again we did not feel tired either. We took swigs, we tripped, we swayed and we did tangos. We also stared at the dancers – they were a sight to behold, not unlike the magnificent peacock wandering about Los Tajibos (the hotel).

Seven hours passed. Did it really? We felt exhausted only after knowing the time, though. Downing just one last (not really) shot at the bar, we followed the last men standing out of the Sonarium (the stadium hosting Crossfest). Into the cab and off we went… to an afterparty at someone’s house (we weren’t sure). Marco handed us beers but we were really just keen on one tall, mesmerizing wooden giraffe ornament. We got out at 9AM, groggily humming and with Seb’s tunes still ringing in our ears.