Catherine Price

by 101 Places Not to See Before You Die

  I would also not recommend seeing a column of driver ants from the perspective of a sausage fly.

  Chapter 70

  The Road of Death

  I try to avoid traveling on any road that requires a prayer ceremony, which means that I’m probably never going to drive the North Yungas Road in Bolivia. Running only about forty miles from Coroico in the Amazon rain forest to La Paz, Bolivia’s capital, its unofficial nickname is El Camino de la Muerte—the Road of Death.

  Its official nickname is no more reassuring: in 1995, the Inter-American Development Bank declared Yungas the World’s Most Dangerous Road. It’s been known to kill between two hundred and three hundred people a year; during one particularly bad stretch, twenty-five vehicles went over the edge in one twelve-month period—an average of about one every two weeks. The road is so dreaded that locals stop to present an offering to the goddess Pachamama—Bolivian for “Mother Earth”—before they drive it. Pachamama apparently enjoys beer; unfortunately, so do many Yungas drivers.

  Look at a photograph of the road and it’s obvious why death is a concern. Despite being used for two-way traffic, there are spots where it is no more than ten feet across. The road is carved into a mountainside, which means that on one side is a rock wall; on the other is a drop of anywhere from twenty to three thousand feet. It is unpaved. There are no guardrails. In rainy season, it turns to mud; landslides frequently wipe out entire sections. It also used to be the main route between La Paz and Coroico, which means it was crowded with buses and trucks driven by men chewing coca leaves to calm their nerves. Unsurprisingly, the road is dotted with crosses and memorials to people who have lost their lives.

  In an effort to improve safety, Yungas has its own rules. Descending traffic always yields to ascending. When passing, cars drive on the left side of the road instead of Bolivia’s usual right—that way, the driver on the outside will be better able to tell if his wheels are about to go over the edge. For a brief period, the road was closed to two-way traffic—a life-saving move that was reversed when truck drivers complained that they were losing too much revenue.

  Here’s hoping that there’s not a truck around the corner.

  Warren H/Wikipedia Commons

  The biggest improvement came in 2006, when a long-awaited new road—paved and far less precipitous—opened after twenty years of construction. Most people choose it instead, but that doesn’t mean Yungas Road is empty. Truck drivers still occasionally use it, and it’s begun to attract a new group of thrill-seekers: mountain bikers. With a near-continuous descent that takes between five and six hours to ride, it’s got breathtaking (and occasionally life-taking) views—and now that there’s less traffic, it’s safer than it’s ever been. Though then again, that’s not really saying much.

  ERIC SIMONS

  Adventure of the Beagle, the Musical

  There’s a ton of stuff worth doing in Tierra del Fuego, should you find yourself there. Beautiful glaciers, for one. Also: rugged history, scenic sheep, and epic trout.

  On the other side of things, there’s the Adventure of the Beagle, the musical. You might not be able to die a happy person without having seen Tierra del Fuego’s wildlife, but I promise, you’ll do just fine without La Aventura del Beagle.

  Based loosely—by which I mean, essentially, not really at all—on the 1830s voyage of the young Charles Darwin and his mates through South America, el espactaculo del fin del mundo—the “show at the end of the earth”—is the sort of production aimed primarily at cruise ship passengers. (Better options: Go to the onboard karaoke night! Dress up in a tux and try to learn Dutch from the captain! Jump overboard and try to swim to Antarctica!)

  The Beagle musical takes one of the highlights of the voyage, the amazing scenery, and renders it in jagged bedsheet glaciers. It features a swarm of indigenous people played by grunting Muppets on sticks, and a group of sailors dressed in what can only be described as Parisian pastry-chef hats.

  Yes, all this is bad. But what truly elevates the Adventure of the Beagle, the musical, into lunacy, is the singing, dancing, twenty-foot-tall fossilized giant sloth-like thing. The sloth-like thing chides Darwin in a wonderful basso profundo. It cavorts around the stage on puppet strings and appears to be made in part of NERF. It is also fluorescent green.

  Naturally, the fluorescent green fossilized giant sloth-like thing is given a starring role.

  We should back up a bit.

  In real life, the twenty-three-year-old Charles Darwin arrived in middle Patagonia, somewhere near modern-day Bahia Blanca, in 1832. Bored out of his mind with watching the coastal sand hillocks go by (“I never knew before, what a horrid ugly object a sand hillock is,” he wrote in a letter home), and seasick from tossing about in a small boat in the fierce Patagonian wind, Darwin rejoiced at the chance to go ashore to do some fossil-hunting. One of the fossils they turned up was a giant sloth jawbone, and Darwin went on over the next few years to find several more fossilized Megatherium bits scattered around the Patagonian plains. If he was not the first to discover it, the fossils he sent home were at least useful in advancing Megatherium science, and hey, everyone loves a good giant sloth tale. Oh, and fossils—those have to do with Darwin, right?

  So in the musical, the extinct sloth appears at the crucial apex of the drama, the beginning of the second act, just after the section titled “FitzRoy’s Rage” in which the narrow-minded captain bellows at Darwin for believing in fossils. (In real life, FitzRoy wrote in his own journal about his “friend” discovering the “interesting and valuable remains of extinct animals.”)

  The sloth, though, makes it clear it isn’t standing for any creationist captains on this voyage.

  “You can try to deny what your eyes meet / With some pastimes or a trip off to sea,” the sloth sings. “Go hunting, or some bingo, chess, perhaps football / Or maybe a sudden step out to the music hall. / But the more you try and try / You’ll just have to change your mind / ’Cause after all you really know / I am as real as these bones.”

  And then: dancing! The sloth jerks across the back of the stage, in a kind of hip-bone-connected-to-the-leg-bone kind of way. Once finished, it toddles off and the play wears on.

  Many of the great stories of history are just as great on the stage: Les Misérables, say, or Monty Python’s Spamalot. But when it comes to Tierra del Fuego and La Aventura del Beagle, it’s best to stick to the original source material. Or just go for the scenic sheep.

  ERIC SIMONS is the author of Darwin Slept Here: Discovery, Adventure, and Swimming Iguanas in Charles Darwin’s South America.

  Chapter 71

  Cusco, If You Are Albino

  Since Cusco is the capital city of the ancient Inca Empire and a jumping off point for Machu Picchu, you may well find yourself there before you die. But don’t forget your sunblock. As befits the former home of a sun-worshipping civilization, it has the highest levels of UV radiation in the world.

  To identify the world’s worst spot, researchers examined UV data from NASA’s Total Ozone Mapping Spectrometer between 1997 and 2003. They decided that despite the fact that Australia and New Zealand have the world’s highest rates of skin cancer, the highest UV levels were in the Peruvian Andes. With a UV index score of 25, Cusco came in at the top of the list.

  To give you a sense of how high 25 is, consider that much like the stereo in This Is Spinal Tap, the scale usually only goes up to 11. The Environmental Protection Agency issues UV Alerts for anything over 6. At 11 or higher, exposed skin can burn in minutes, and the EPA and World Health Organization recommend staying inside as much as possible, which is fine for normal workdays, but not a feasible option when hiking the Inca Trail.

  Chapter 72

  Manneken Pis

  Considering its name, any tourists who make a special trip to Brussels to see Manneken Pis have only themselves to blame. Yes, it’s weird that one of Brussels’ most famous attractions is a bronze sculpture of a naked boy urinating into a basin. But its name means “litt
le pee man.” What exactly did you expect to see?

  There’s nothing diminutive, however, about the statue’s popu-larity—it’s spawned an entire industry of Manneken-themed T-shirts and coffee mugs (I have a pencil sharpener), and has become an unofficial emblem of the city. It even has a fan club, the Friends of Manneken Pis, and a wardrobe: FOMP members have created more than eight hundred costumes for the boy. Depending on what day you show up, he might be dressed as anyone from Napoléon to Nelson Mandela; on truly special days, the Friends of Manneken Pis make the statue pee beer.

  Accounts of the sculpture’s inspiration vary. Perhaps it is in honor of a two-year-old duke who, in 1142, was hung in a basket from a tree by his troops and then urinated on his army’s opponents. Perhaps it is a tribute to Juliaanske, a small boy from Brussels who is said to have saved the city walls from dynamite by peeing on a burning fuse. Or perhaps it’s simply in memory of a small boy gone missing, later found relieving himself in a garden. No one really knows.

  Manneken Pis will likely fulfill most tourists’ quota for urinating statues. But if you still want more, check out his sister—her name is Jeanneke Pis, and she lives just up the street. Created in the mid-1980s by Denis-Adrien Debouvrie, the pig-tailed Jeanneke is cuter than her brother but no less naughty. Naked and smiling, she squats on top of a limestone pedestal and gazes blissfully toward the sky, as water drips from between her legs in a realistic tinkle.

  Manneken Pis

  Walter Vermeir/Wikipedia Commons

  Jeanneke Pis

  Wikipedia Commons

  Chapter 73

  An Old Firm Derby While Wearing the Wrong Color T-Shirt

  In the contentious world of international football, one of the oldest and most passionate rivalries is that between Scotland’s Celtic and Rangers football clubs. When the teams faced off in the first Old Firm derby—a game where the two teams go head-to-head—the press described the match as a “friendly encounter.” That hospitality, however, didn’t last long.

  Part of the problem is the deep differences between Celtic and Rangers fans. Both teams are Scottish, but Celtic was founded in 1887 by a Catholic monk whose specific goal was to create a charity to help alleviate poverty in Glasgow’s Irish community. Rangers were the preferred team of the relatively comfortable Scottish Protestant majority; they didn’t even allow Catholics on the team till 1989. Adding to the conflict, Celtic fans tend to be Irish nationalists, whereas Rangers are unionists.

  These differences can be explosive. On Old Firm weekends, admission rates for local hospitals increase ninefold, and the cumulative total for arrests at Old Firm derbies is the highest of any game in the world. After Celtic beat the Rangers 1–0 in the Scottish Cup Final at Hampden in 1980, more than nine thousand angry fans stormed the field in one of the largest on-field battles ever reported.

  Which brings me to my point. Celtic’s color is green. Rangers’ is blue. If you don’t feel passionately about either side, you’d be wise to pick an outfit in a more neutral hue.

  Chapter 74

  The Annual Poison Oak Show

  If evil were a plant, it would be poison oak. Prevalent up and down the United States’ Pacific coast, poison oak produces an oil called urushiol that causes a dermatologic version of hell—a weeping, itchy rash that can last for more than a month. About 85 percent of people are susceptible to urushiol, and as little as a billionth of a gram can cause a reaction, which means that a quarter of an ounce, judiciously applied, could cause a rash on every person on earth.

  Given urushiol’s power, the idea of hosting a poison oak festival sounds stupid, if not sadistic. And yet every September for the past twenty-five years, the town of Columbia, California, has done exactly that. With categories based on a traditional flower show, it encourages people to bring in their finest specimens of poison oak to be judged in contests like Best Arrangement of Poison Oak, Best Poison Oak Accessory or Jewelry, and Most Potent Looking Red Leaves. There’s even a competition for the Best Photo of Poison Oak Rash and—I shudder to even mention this—the Most Original Poison Oak Dish.

  Before you rush to enter, keep in mind that urushiol, being oil, doesn’t evaporate, so it can stay on your shoes or gloves or bouquet-making tools for years. If you accidentally burn the stuff, you can get a reaction in your lungs. Think you’re too smart to make that kind of mistake? Consider this: poison oak changes appearance depending on whether it’s in sun or shade—it can be a dense shrub or a climbing vine—so it’s not always easy to identify. Even worse, the plant doesn’t need its leaves to give you a rash: it has urushiol in its roots. If you’re unlucky enough to come in contact with any part of poison oak, your only hope is to slather yourself in Tecnu, a special cleanser whose original purpose gives a sense of how insidious urushiol is—Tecnu was originally designed to remove radiation fallout dust from skin.

  Chapter 75

  The Inside of a Chinese Coal Mine

  There are two classes of coal mines in China—the large, state-run mines, which have suffocating bureaucracies and often don’t pay their workers, and the smaller, private ones, which put profit before safety and also often don’t pay their workers. Neither is good, especially since mining in China often requires working for up to seven days a week in sweltering tunnels that are constantly at risk of explosions, floods, or collapses. Unsurprisingly, accidents happen: according to the Washington Post, Chinese coal miners die at the rate of approximately one per hour, with more than seventeen miners killed for every million tons of coal produced—considerably higher than the American average of .05.

  As an example of how bad things can get, consider the No. 5 Coal Mine in Gangzi. On July 22, 2001, during the tenth hour of their shift, ninety-two miners died when gases ignited in a poorly ventilated shaft. Why was it poorly ventilated? Because it didn’t have a ventilation system. Or, for that matter, a way to filter the coal dust from the air. It also had only one entrance, and its managers didn’t routinely check for dangerous gases (mines in the United States do so every twenty minutes).

  A banner outside of the No. 5 Coal Mine proclaimed that SAFETY IS HEAVEN—but it’s unclear whether they meant that figuratively or literally. In either case, if you visit it or any of China’s other mines, be sure to pack a canary.

  Chapter 76

  The Seattle Gum Wall

  Upon finishing a piece of chewing gum, the polite thing to do is to throw it out; not toss it on the ground or stick it on the bottom of a chair, but find a garbage can. In extreme situations, it is acceptable to swallow. But under no circumstances should you be allowed to take the moist, warm wad out of your mouth, stick it on a public wall, and call it art.

  Think I’m being too strict? Check out Seattle’s gum wall. Tucked into an alley next to the Market Theater in Pike’s Place, it’s a brick wall covered with thousands upon thousands of wads of gum left there by people waiting in line. When the first masticated pieces arrived in the mid-1990s, the theater twice tried to remove them. But it was no use—the custom, as it were, stuck. The theater stopped fighting, and today, there are those who consider the wall an object of beauty.

  I consider it disgusting. Some of the gum was originally used to affix coins to the wall—sort of a bastardized version of a wishing well—but this being Seattle, the money didn’t last long. Now there’s just gum, pounds of it, coating the wall in a layer so thick that in some places, you can no longer see any brick. There are sculptures of faces and dogs, initials surrounded by hearts, peace signs, and a multicolored American flag. One window drips with “gumsicles”; nearby, in a self-referential gesture, carefully shaped pieces of Wrigley’s spell out GUM.

  The wall’s colorful, textured surface has made it popular with photographers. But even if you can’t see it, the wall is hard to miss—covered in more than a decade’s worth of Juicy Fruit, you can smell it from several feet away.

  Kathleen Mikulis

  Chapter 77

  Varrigan City*

  It can be fun to escape
real-world stress by jumping into a video game, but if you’re going to do so literally, make sure it’s not MadWorld, the ultraviolent adventure from Sega.

  The game takes place in Varrigan City, a stylized, gritty dystopia where anyone you meet on the street is guaranteed to try to kill you. That’s because three days before the game begins, Varrigan City was targeted by a terrorist group called the Organizers, who cut off the city’s transportation and communication lines and unleashed a deadly virus that knocks out its victims in less than twenty-four hours after they catch it. The only way to survive is to kill another person—the Organizers promise a vaccine to anyone who commits murder.

  In the true American spirit, the city’s reaction to the outbreak is not to notify the CDC, but instead to transform Varrigan City into the set for a recurring game show called Death Watch, in which characters fight for the ultimate prize—their lives. Occasionally these matches are supplemented by special Blood Bath Challenges, where contestants complete tasks not usually associated with vacation travel, like knocking people onto a dartboard with a giant bat or trapping them in front of oncoming trains.

  If you go, keep in mind that you’ll be visiting as Jack Cayman, a character with a retractable chainsaw built into one arm. It’s a lucky accessory, given the context, but be sure to use it wisely—players are awarded points not just for kills, but for style. “The amount of points for killing foes increases by increasing the foe’s pain or using more unusual methods of killing,” explains one description of the game. “For example, while the player could impale an enemy on a wall of spikes, the player will earn significantly more points if they had previously forced a tire around the enemy or stuffed the enemy in a garbage can before impaling him.”