Traveling the roads in Bolivia is like playing Russian roulette with your life and sanity. We calmly pack ourselves in the back of overcrowded busses, taxis, micro-busses and jeeps, trying to get to the next town or the next attraction. We pay very little for the adventure and gleefully stare out the window as the world passes by. Signs of life are everywhere along the dusty roads - from food stalls and families to home auto mechanics and fruit stands; the country is abuzz with excitement and verve.

Many travelers have noted that getting from one place to another in Bolivia is part of the journey and should not be missed or taken for granted. Be it the salt flats in the south, the trains through the central corridor or the mountainous town of La Paz, each journey bring new challenges and new adventures. But with each adventure comes a little bit of danger. The dangers lie in the little things like washed out roads, indigenous protestors, rock slides, narrow mountain passes and broken-down busses.

As many of the roads in Bolivia are still unpaved (96% of them) we´ve found that weather can have as much of an effect on travel time as anything. Most short trips are at least 8 hours, with many of them running 19 or more. From town to town, there is typically only one route, unless you can fly (which is another safety issue in its own right).

The other day we decided to escape the altitude and cold of the city and head to a small town about 3.5 hours away. We took a taxi to the edge of town where we met our mini-bus that would take us on our journey down the World´s Most Dangerous Road or as the locals call it, El Camino de Muertos. In English, The Road of Death. Based on world-wide data collected on the various roads across the planet, this one sees the most deaths per year, by a wide margin. The reason for the status is because it´s barely more than a single track cut from the side of the mountain, with ravines that plunge so deep that you can´t see the bottom. When two cars meet on the road, the driver coming down the mountain is forced to the cliff side of the road, so he can better judge the matter of inches he has before the tires slip in the gravel and add to the statistical significance of the road.

I sat behind the driver and had the best view of the road, or rather, no view of the road below us. We passed trucks loaded with market goods, busses filled to maximum capacity, tankers filled with fuel and mountain bikers taking part in the ultimate adrenaline rush of riding down all 70 kilometers of the road. There were times when we faced oncoming traffic head-to-head and it was our duty to reverse up the mountain to a spot with a few more inches of room to pass within a breath of each other.

This day we would make it to Corioco and have plenty of time to sit by the pool and wander the cobblestone streets of this mountain town.

While most people tempt fate only once in their life by traveling down the death road, many do it on a daily basis. And in our case, we would be forced to take the road one more time in order for us to reach the remote northern outpost of Rurrenabaque, within the Amazon basin. Due to overbooking and flight delays by both airlines that make the short trip over the mountains, we had to look at other transportation options. The first and most economical option was to pile in the back of a bus and spend the next 19 hours of our lives wishing we had flown. The only other option, and it was a hard one to negotiate, was to hire a private 4x4 vehicle to take us down the same road and into the darkness of the mountainous night.

We had wanted to leave early in the morning, knowing that even our jeep could not make the trip in less than 12 hours on a good day. Today we would not be so lucky; we would leave late - putting a lot of the danger of our trip in the middle of the black night. We had two drivers that split the driving duties, which gave us some comfort. They drank Coca-Cola and chewed on cocoa leaves for most of the trip. The drivers laughed and shared stories like a classic road trip movie, including a period of about an hour where they sorted through about 50 unlabeled cassette tapes in order to set the soundtrack for our journey. Alas, that soundtrack consisted of Spanish ballads and traditional Bolivian music - played at a very high volume.

We made great time for the first part of our journey, including shaving an hour off the 3 hour trip down the main portion of the death road. We blared our horn and passed trucks that seemed to big to be on the road, much less to be passed at the same time. We stopped at several police (and DEA checkpoints) along the way. Watching our drivers trying to explain that they were transporting only 2 crazy gringos to Rurre was a sight worth the price of admission. In many ways this is how all early explorers had to travel; greasing the wheels and paying expensive fees for the privilege of being the first person to visit a destination. In my case, I´m the first guy to charter a 4x4 through the mountains for only 2 people.

Our courageous journey was interrupted almost as it was starting. Just a few hours into our trip, we watched out the windows at the passing mountain sides, noting the various crosses and make-shift ceremonial alters set up by the families of those taken by the road. They were a poignant reminder to the risk we were taking with our own lives, but at the time felt more like an adrenaline boost to our weary systems rather than their true symbolic meaning. Our jeep would come to a stop this time. Not to let a larger vehicle overtake us, but rather to check on a situation that was developing on the side of the cliff.

A police and rescue unit was blocking traffic in both directions. A line of about 10 people stood starring down the side of the mountain at what we assumed was just another simple accident. The young men in the side of the roadway assisted the rescue unit by pulling ropes and lending a hand where they could - others stood by in bemusement at what was below. Our driver told us to get out and I eagerly grabbed my camera thinking I would be able to snap a few shots of a mangled truck below.

What I didn´t know is that the accident was fresh and instead of a truck being pulled from the cliff, I would see the limp driver hoisted out of the ravine and onto the roadway. His body lay wilted on the steel rescue sled, with a long line of dried blood coming from the corner of his mouth. His shoeless feet dangled behind him and his arms crossed on his chest as they workers drug his lifeless body past us just a few feet from where we were standing and positioned him directly in front of our truck. Everyone´s heads and faces turned down and it was clear from the looks of those around us that there were no survivors.

Today was a sad day in my travels.

The child-like glee I had at the beginning of the journey was overtaken by introspective thoughts about life and death and the families of those left behind. These thoughts would continue for the rest of the trip. And in many ways I hope they will never leave me.

We would stop several more times along the way, including a two hour stop for construction workers to dynamite the road and clear potential rockslides. A makeshift community developed along the side of the road, including vendors, busses, trucks, cars and various other unfortunate souls that had to wait with us. We ate 12 cent rice empanadas, shared our snacks and talked. It lifted our spirits for the expedition ahead.

As we drove towards sunset and into the Amazon basin I forced myself to stay awakes as if I would somehow our secret lookout and keep us from danger. I propped myself up in the middle seat while my sleepy companion made a makeshift bead in the third row. The night set upon us, but the road would not get any smoother and the ravines would not get any shallower. The only difference is that I could no longer tell which side was imminent death and which side was tangled jungle.

The one thing that somehow gave me a sense of comfort and safety were the fireflies that dotted the side of the road - shining their angelic warning beacons of safety. They were there throughout the night, including the moments when we would come bumper-to-bumper with white-light spewing trucks and even when we blew a tire at two o´clock in the morning.

We rolled into Rurre at three o´clock in the morning; tired and dusty. We had made the trip on safely, but had seen more than our share of life and death on the Bolivian roadway.