Most of the road is one winding dirt lane (mud in the rainy season), carved or blasted out of the sheer mountain slopes. As it descends, the tropics encroach: weeds, branches, and flowers grope for the roadside; waterfalls drench traffic from above. Coca fields and orange groves in respectable squares control lonely outposts of land in the distance, and high above, towering over the highest hills and even poking through a few of the clouds, stand the peaks of the Andes, like a spiked fence around a tropical garden. To one side of the road is the lush mountain face; to the other, a sheer drop of often hundreds of feet into the topical river valley below. The road’s one lane is barely wide enough for a single descending minibus of weekenders from La Paz, or a single eight-wheel cargo truck dragging a full load of citrus fruit (or human fruit pickers) driving up from the valley. And yet the traffic is two-way. We took a corner, and a fruit truck was roaring in our windshield like a dragon.
