Date:          Mon, 19 Jan 2009 (extremely delayed)

To:              touring@phred.org

From:         Michael Ayers <michael@terminalia.org>

Subject:     Gondwana – Planos, Picchu, Pauses, and Parched Places in Peru

 

 

Napaykullayki Phreds,

 

Continuing north through the Andes brought me to Peru, a country larger than many people realize, and one that is packed to the brim with interesting places and things to see.

In general, Peru shares a common historical and cultural heritage to that of Bolivia, so there was not a tremendous change in feel as I entered from the south, which was fine, as I knew that meant I would continue to have a really nice time. Geographically, the two countries have a lot in common as well, with a low, hot, forested zone to the east of the Andes in the Amazon basin, and a high and cold, but beautiful, Altiplano within that range.  However, in contrast to Bolivia, Peru also possess a long coastline on the Pacific, which provides yet another type of environment, as it is one of the most arid regions on Earth. In the immediately pre-conquest times, the Altiplano was where the seat of power resided, thanks to the Incas, while in both more ancient eras, as well as today, the largest Peruvian cities are in the coastal zone. In the mountainous areas the population is still comprised mainly of the indigenous majority, many speaking Quechua, the original language of the region. The sight of ladies in derby-like hats and big flowing skirts is still a very common one, though I did see a lot of regional variation in the choice of hats, which was fun to observe. My favorite type of folk music, played by the traditional Andean flute-based groups was still to be heard all around, though there was another style that I had not heard before. That was often seen on videos in restaurants and was usually performed by a, well, rather stout, colorfully costumed lady, with a name like “Princess of the Tall Mountain” who sang in an almost spoken-word way, but with a high pitch and a fast tempo. She was often accompanied by some musicians with modern instruments and a number of dancers, whose moves included a lot of body shaking. The whole production seemed, rather surprisingly to me, reminiscent of similar groups I saw in Ethiopia, of all places. On the coast, however, the segment of the population with some European, Asian, or African heritage is higher, and dress is almost always in modern styles, as is music, with the Latin-African inspired Crillolo rhythms always popular. With important sites scattered all around the country, and with the imposing obstacles provided by the Andes, trying to plot a Tour route that allows one to visit every place of interest is a challenge indeed. In fact due to the constraints of climate, the coverage and sporadic quality of the road network, and time in general, it really is beyond practical to try to do so. Because of that any tour in Peru will almost certainly skip many interesting places. I would do my best to minimize that circumstance, and attempt to visit all three geographic zones, though for me that meant a period off the bike.

As practical matters go, Peru was similar to Bolivia in most respects, but as it possesses a considerably larger population, most aspects were at a greater scale. Costs were a little higher, food in shops was a somewhat more available, traffic was a bit more common (with a return of the obnoxious habit of horn-honking at a level only slightly less than in Asia), and there were fewer long, isolated sections between major towns. In none of these cases were the differences excessive, however, and the country proved to be an easy place to tour, at least in terms of these factors. Terrain was a whole other story.

To be a little more specific, food was usually quite to my liking, with choices in restaurants being similar to the traditional Andean fare, with the nice variety of soups being my favorite. A couple of regional specialties that I never got around to tasting were, once again, Cuy, the classic roast Guinea Pig—though I had intended to have some, and it was served in many places, but it never seemed to be on the menu at the right place at the right time—and Civiche, the citrus-marinated fresh seafood dish popular on the coast and in countries to the north, which was just not my cup of tea. Most small towns had a serviceable supermarket, though they were usually a little thinly stocked, while large cities had larger, more complete versions, comparable to those on the rest of the continent, though still with a slightly limited selection. Cost for food was never much of a problem, though one could locate an expensive restaurant here or there, if desired. In general Peru was a little more costly than Bolivia, on par with Paraguay, and somewhat less than Argentina, Brazil or Chile. Once again, though I intended to start camping more often, for various reasons I stayed indoors most of the time and fortunately accommodations were still reasonably priced. Had I desired I could have shopped around more intently and found a bargain-basement place in most areas, or splurged out for a luxurious option, which were quite costly, shockingly so in the vicinity of some of the big tourists sites. One money-related item I found unusual occurred in the early days of my visit. The Peruvian currency is the Nueva Sol, and at one point I received a 5 Sol coin (worth about $US 1.60 at the time I had it) in change from some transaction that I couldn’t remember.  When I tried to spend it, by giving it to one of the “guides” who attaches himself to tourists at one of the Inca ruins sites, I was told that it was a “Falso,” also known to gringos as a “counterfeit.” Later I showed it to other merchants and they all picked it out right away as a falso. That didn’t bother me particularly, as it was the only one like that I ever received, but I was baffled as to why anyone would go through all the effort to mint fake coins with such a small denomination.

My route would begin in the extreme southeastern part of the country as I continued to visit the area around Lake Titicaca, and then continue north to the almost obligatory stops in the vicinity of Cusco, the ancient Inca capital. From there I needed to reach Lima, the current capital, and though the two available routes had seemed equally problematic when I originally planned the Tour, today they are not, and, for once, I chose the correct one. The reason I needed to go to Lima, a city much larger than I would normally include on my route, was to depart from there on a side trip to see Iquitos, the only large city in the Peruvian Amazon, and its surroundings. After returning back to the capital, the rest of the route would be a theoretically easier course north along the mild terrain along the coast, though with one less-than-easy detour.

My entry into the country was without difficulty. Copacabana, the Bolivian beach town on Lake Titicaca was only a short distance from the border, and there were no unusual delays at either immigration post.  Shortly thereafter the highway curves into a northwesterly course along terrain that was much milder than it had been on the Bolivian coast of the lake. In this part of the country there were many sections where the road surface was rather narrow and potholed, though repairs were in progress in places.  I could sense almost right away the greater population, relative to Bolivia, due to the increased traffic, and the more frequent homes and other structures along the highway. The latter were basic, but a little more contemporary than their adobe counterparts in Bolivia, but to me their corrugated steel and cinderblock construction made the area less appealing.  Also like Bolivia, many homes and buildings had been painted with campaign slogans of former elections. However, unlike in Bolivia, the candidate’s names were rarely used. Instead, an icon for each party, such as a piece of pottery, a shovel, or a rooster was used to identify who to vote for. At the time I spent many hours wondering which of the many candidates who were then running in the US election would choose a shovel as their symbol. The first real town along the way that day was Juli, and though it was a little early for a big meal, I diverted off the highway anyway to get a snack.  That was fortunate as, for once, my timing was right on, and as I was finishing my soda and little bag of chips, a group of elaborately costumed dancers followed by a marching band came down the otherwise back-street-appearing road I was standing on, which did not seem like a typical place one would encounter a parade. Somewhat taken aback, I followed them, mainly trying to get a good picture, and shortly ended up in the main plaza of the town, where a fiesta for the Virgen de Candelaria was in full swing. There were many other groups circling the plaza, all with dancers in multi-colored attire and their own bands, and a sea of derby-hatted spectators surrounded the route. Almost as interesting to me were the additional snack vendors there that day selling popcorn and other good things. It has usually been my theme during most of my touring to miss such an event by just one or two days and I hoped that seeing this one was a signal that my luck was changing in that regard. Continuing on, the highway left the lakeshore for a little while and just as I reached the shabby junction-town of Llave a huge rain shower opened up. The rainy season was now officially in its early stages and afternoon rain was becoming more common, a situation that I had hoped to avoid, but did not, once again due to my continued lateness. I thought that I would wait out the storm with a hot meal, but to my surprise I couldn’t find one, so instead I had anther mini-market-type snack and, as soon as the skies dried out enough, continued on to my first destination in Peru, the main lake port of Puno.

Not a town well-spoken of by guidebooks, I nonetheless found Puno to be quite appealing. It was a fairly large city, spectacularly sited on a bay of the lake with mountains behind. Without much in the way of beautiful buildings the town was still friendly and useful, with the first small supermarket I’d seen since Salta, Argentina. It was also the terminus of the railway from Cusco, and I always feel that a railway gives a town a bit of class. My main reason for stopping, however, was that Puno is the base in Peru for day trips onto Lake Titicaca. Since I had not yet had my fill of that attractive body of water, I signed up for one the following day. As it turned out, that would be one of the better value tourist-type excursions that I took while on the continent, costing about $US 15, for full day, including lunch. The boat stopped first at a couple of the Uros Islands. These were not islands in the normal sense of the word, but rather village-sized rafts made from 2-meter thick mats of Totora reeds. Homes and most other structures, as well at the boats the islanders used for fishing, reed harvesting, and transport were made from totora as well.  Though never a very large population, people there have been living this way for centuries, though today a considerable fraction of their time is spent describing the construction of their islands and their way of life to tourists. Few apparently have mush interest in moving onto solid land, and I have to say I did find their homes to be quite peaceful and a little enticing. The second stop of the tour was at Isla Taquile, which is further out in the lake, and an actual island. It is famous in that its residents have abandoned few of their traditional customs. Everyone still dresses in traditional home-made fabrics with the usual colorful enhancements. I had become interested in weaving crafts around the world and was looking forward to seeing it on Taquile, for which it is also famous. However, while the craft is done there, in a profuse way, by the village women, as is usually the case, they prefer to do so out of sight. The men, however, spend their time knitting, and are not ashamed to do that out in plain view, which I suppose, is rather atypical. I was a little suspicious as to whether the traditional costumes came off the moment all the tourist boats left the island. However, down by the dock, the villagers were building a new jetty, and the ladies who were carrying the big rocks out to its end, with which it was being constructed, were still wearing bright red and black dresses on the job, so I suppose that wasn’t the case after all. I completely enjoyed the area around the lake, and could have stayed much longer, but with so many places still left in Peru, there wasn’t time for that.

Leaving Puno, the highway first climbs up the bluffs above the city, and near the top was yet another political protest going on, though a rather small one. This time it was teachers who were the participants, I think, and I received another round of applause as I passed by their location.  Beyond that, the highway runs high above the lake shore for a while, along an area where there were a lot of flamingos, and then reaches a junction where I took a side road 15 kilometers to the southwest to visit another ruins site. This one was called Silustani, and it was thought to be a pre-Inca cemetery. The ruins themselves were a little on the smallish side, and not well understood, but the scenery around the site in general was outstanding. Almost as interesting were the local folk’s homes along the side road from the main highway. Unlike the plain buildings along the main road these were rock-built structures with a very distinctive style. Two or three small stone buildings were placed along the edge of a circular stone fence enclosing a little courtyard, and with an arched gateway facing the road. The stone craft was not quite up to Inca standards, but impressive nonetheless. On top of the arch, all of the doorways, and the roof caps were numerous little terra cotta bulls decorated with green and white paint, known as Torritos, which are placed in these locations for good luck. Back on the main highway things were more uneventful, though the road was progressively in better condition, which is always appreciated. The main town in this area is Juliaca, which seemed like a rather chaotic university town, but did seem to have a nice selection of places to eat.  Due to the detour earlier in the day, I had only time to reach the little village of Pucara in the late afternoon, which gave me just enough time to explore its small Inca ruins site just as sunset was approaching. Without time to find a camping spot I returned to the village and stayed in the very basic hotel there and visited a little shop where I bought my very own Torrito, as I can always use more good luck.

From Pucara to the next major place on the route, Cusco, was nicely spaced out for two full days, and since there were no big towns, and only one site I planned to visit on the way, that distance worked out well for a change.  On the first of those days there were only a couple of small towns with basic places to eat throughout most of the day, so food was a little light there. However, the terrain in this section of Peru was quite cooperative, with most of the ranges running parallel to each other along a north-south axis. The highway, for once, ran gently along the valley floor most of the time with only a few moderate climbs. One of those was the nicely asymmetric La Raya pass, which gained only 340 meters coming from the south, and then dropped 640 meters on the northern side. This was only notable because after its summit, at 4,330 meters, I entered the valley of the Rio Urubamba. That fact is again only notable as it meant that I was now in the Amazon watershed. The Urubamba is one of the main mountain tributaries of the big river, and it seemed amazing that the little streams and ponds I passed would eventually lead to the Atlantic, thousands of kilometers away. The valley on the north side seemed much greener and fertile than the rather barren landscapes I had become used to on the Altiplano, which was a quite welcome change of pace. Midway to Cusco was the small city of Sicuani, and while I only planed to stop there for food and then go off to camp, I stayed in town anyway, as it seemed like a pleasant enough place.

The following day was another nice one, with generally good conditions. In the morning I visited the ruins of Virracocha’s Temple at Ranchi, which were conveniently close to the highway. These were a smallish collection of structures with one impressively tall freestanding temple wall, built to appease a particular deity after a local volcano had erupted during the Inca era. Most Inca ruins, I had already learned, were rather devoid of architectural or artistic stone ornamentations despite their builder’s obvious skill in stone craft. Instead Inca structures contain many niches in the stone walls where once, presumably, beautiful objects of gold once stood proudly. Today it stimulates one’s imagination to think of how these sites must have appeared in their heyday. The remainder of the ride to Cusco was straightforward until the edge of the city, which sprawls considerably along its southern approach. In addition, an earlier thunderstorm had left the main road mostly flooded in places, and trying to avoid the opaque water, I walked off into an open area around the flood which, in reality was not muddy water but actual mud. So when I finally reached the centro I was rather filthy and a little cranky, but eventually I managed to locate a useful mid-range place to stay and appreciated a chance to clean up a little.

Cusco, the capital of the Inca Empire, though having been completely rebuilt by the Spanish after the conquest, is still, deservedly, one of South America’s most compelling cities. Of course, that also means it has been visited by a stream of tourists for decades, with all the higher prices and artificial culture which that entails. Overall, though, it is a great place to spend a couple of days. There are plenty of typical markets and neighborhoods, and if the city was one’s only stop in the Andes they would be worth a visit, though I prefer the even more authentic versions I saw in many of the more out of the way places. The Spanish era cathedrals and other buildings are also quite nice though not that different from many other cities on the continent. What I thought was unique about Cusco was the way that Inca stone walls still form the foundations for many of the city’s colonial era buildings. I can’t think of another example where one culture has so overtly planted itself right on top of the remains of its predecessor. The town has had a reputation for being a haven for scam artists in the past, though that seems to have been mostly stopped these days. The street vendors can still be rather pesty, but today it is the restaurateurs who are the biggest pain. It is not possible to walk around the Plaza Mayor without having two dozen menus shoved in one’s face.  Despite that, I spent three mostly relaxing days taking in the sights, doing some arts and crafts shopping, and then posting the results back home.

Of course, many people come to the Cusco solely to visit the area’s top site, the Inca sanctuary at Machu Picchu, probably the epitome of a must-see destination for this part of the world. Of course, I would go there as well, though I was a little uncertain if the weather would favor my visit, or not. The ruins are quite a distance from Cusco, and there is no road access to the area around the site. Visiting requires a five-day, porter-assisted hike along the famous Inca trail, or a trip by train. Being a train lover, and not really in need of any additional exercise, I chose the train of course. However, I first rode out to the town of Ollantaytambo which is the last train stop before reaching Machu Picchu, and is itself a worthy place to visit. The ride out of Cusco begins with a small climb of 370 meters passing a few small ruins sites, then a descent of 720 into the famous Sacred Valley at the small town of Pisaq. That town has another great crafts market, and high above lies another Inca sanctuary. I decided to climb up to see that one, though I had not yet fully appreciated the Inca’s propensity for building their temples literally at the summit of the most steep mountains in the surrounding area, and so that little visit took a lot more time and effort than I expected. With that short delay, the rest of the ride was a little rushed but I had just enough time to reach the town after an extremely enjoyable ride. It is rather obvious why that green and productive valley had been given the name “Sacred” in the first place.  Ollantaytambo is a pleasant little town, though reaching its hilltop location requires a slow ride up a severely cobblestoned road. The town possesses its own ruins on the adjacent hillside, which are in many ways as impressive as the more famous ones in the region, I chose to see them on my return since darkness had already arrived. I had heard that there was a decent hotel right on the train platform, and I slowly found my way there as it was on the far side of town, I thought that it would make sense to stay there since the train left early the next morning.

There are several trains that run from Cusco to Machu Picchu, with the main difference being schedule and price (with a corresponding level of luxury.) There is the Backpacker train, the least expensive and most crowded, and the Hiram Bingham Special, the most luxurious. However, I chose the intermediate level of service, specifically because it ran early in the morning, so I wouldn’t have to waste a day for the transfer. The fellow that ran the hotel on the platform was a former American, and he said that I could leave my bike there until I returned, but I wanted to take it along, with the idea that it would be fun to ride up the mountain to the ruins. I was told by the railroad staff that it would be ok to bring the bike on the train as long as it was not crowded, which turned out to be the case that day. The train ride was as spectacular as it is advertised to be, and though there are places along the way where there isn’t much room between the tracks and the river, I thought that if someone would find a way to locate a path along side the track it would certainly become one of the World’s great mountain bike rides. I had two days planned for the visit, in case the weather was not perfect, and I at one point entertained the thought of splurging and staying at the luxury hotel that is located right at the ruins site. However, when I learned that rooms there ran around $US 700.00 per night I lost my enthusiasm for that particular plan. In fact, nothing about visiting Machu Picchu is cheap, and certainly exorbitant by Peruvian standards, with the round trip on the train running $US 70.00, and daily entrance to the ruins at about $US 40.00. However, that is reasonable considering the need for conservation and preservation of the site and its surroundings. The “town” of Machu Picchu Pueblo is a place that exists solely for the benefit of people going to see the ruins, and is just a collection of hotels, restaurants, and souvenir markets along the Rio Urubamba below the sanctuary. However, with its only access by train or foot it is a rather pleasing car-, and even motor-free, place, with the exception of the fleet of shuttle busses that take people up the mountain. When I arrived I discovered that the reasonably priced place I had picked out in advance was closed for renovations, and not wanting to waste too much more time shopping around I went directly to the next nice-looking place I came across, which, of course, was quite a bit more spendy than I had hoped.

In any case I was there and ready to go. The weather was typically cloudy that morning, and since it was already well into morning I decided to put off a ride up the 400-m climb until the next day, if necessary, and go up on the bus. Of course the site was even more entrancing than one normally imagines before seeing it in person. The ruins, while nice, are not really the most impressive part of the experience, instead it is the location itself, atop steep-sided peaks encircled by a 300-degree curve of the Urubamba below. After a while the clouds moved away enough to allow for some nice photos, which was a big relief, though I would have enjoyed the visit in any case. As the day wore on, it seemed that I would be able to take in the whole site that day and thus avoid a second entrance fee the following day (there is no discount for multi-day visits.) There was even enough time for me to do the climb up to Huayna Picchu, the small, but even more precariously perched, sanctuary on the adjacent peak. Getting there requires a steep 360 meter climb up a trail which is often more like a ladder than a footpath. It is supposed to take an hour each way, but with my recent level of efforts I was fit enough to bypass many rest breaks and even with a nice spell sitting at the top, admiring the vista of Machu Picchu in the distance, I was back down after 90 minutes. That left a couple of hours to wander around the ruins some more. During that time a rather curious behavior became apparent. There were a fair number of students, probably of high-school age, around the site in the afternoon. For some reason, on maybe 10 separate occasions, one or two of them stopped me and asked to have their picture taken with me, in the process touching me in one way or another, and often using more than one camera to do so. All I could think of was that it was some sort of school requirement, such as, “Go to Machu Picchu and prove you were there by touching a real, live International Tourist.” That was all fine, of course, but I didn’t see anyone else getting their images snapped, and I was a little baffled, since I was certainly not the best-looking Gringo on the hill that day.

The next day began with and absolute downpour which lasted about three hours, but then the afternoon became bright and sunny for a while. So taking a pass on a second visit was fine, since I wouldn’t have had a full day at the site in any case. After lazing around and doing a little more crafts shopping, I decided to go on a flora and fauna-viewing ride to make use of having the bike with me, and set out up the gravel road that runs up to the ruins, The eastern slopes of the Andes, where the ruins a located, are covered with beautiful rainforest, and though I didn’t see any mammals, there were a few nice birds and many pretty flowers on the hill. I made it about 2/3 of the way up before running short on time, so I can say that I almost rode to Machu Picchu, which is good enough, I suppose. Returning back to Ollantaytambo the following morning gave me enough time to visit the ruins there and set off for half a day’s start to the next section of the ride, which would include the most intense terrain I’d seen in recent months.

There are two routes from Cusco to Lima via road. Both of those were marked on the maps that I had used for route planning before the Tour as unpaved roads for much of the way. One set out heading more or lest due west straight to the coast, and then turned north on the Panamerican Highway to Lima. The other wound through the mountains in a more northwesterly direction, passing though a few towns and cities of consequence, and then descended out of the Andes directly into Lima. As the distances were comparable, I had originally chosen the mountainous route, with the idea being that it would generally be more interesting and would avoid what I imagined to be the heavy traffic of the coastal highway. However, a few weeks earlier some additional research on the Web revealed the pleasant surprise that the route from Cusco to the coast had recently been upgraded to a surfaced road with the work being completed only a year or two earlier. That made the choice an easy one and I went on the new road, which allowed the added bonus of a visit to the town of Nasca to see the famous geoglyphs there. I knew that the westerly course of the first part of the road would now mean an actual crossing of the Andes, instead of the valley-following meander that I had recently become accustomed to. However, as I am apt to do, I underestimated the total amount of climbing that lay before me. As Cusco was up at 3,500 meters and the only summit marked on my map was given to be 4,300 meters, I expected some small climbs, a little plateau riding and then one big pass, similar to what I experienced on the Tibetan plateau. In reality, with the main range of the Andes so close to the Pacific, time and water have cut several impressively deep canyons into the region’s topography, a few of which would cross the path of the new road. In spite of that, this road proved to be one of my favorites of the Tour, with its new smooth surface, surprisingly light traffic, and impressive scenery.  It is 710 kilometers from Ollantaytambo to Nasca (though my map indicated a little less, of course,) including the big descent to sea level, and I wasn’t really sure how much time would be needed to get there. I had an already-planned side trip scheduled to depart from Lima in a couple of weeks, and while I didn’t feel the need to kill myself to cross the range, I also didn’t want to have to reschedule that. As it turned out, it took me 5½ days to reach Nasca which I suppose wasn’t too bad, but, as it also turned out, I eventually arrived in Lima early in any case, due to other circumstances.

After a quite late departure from Ollantaytambo, I avoided a lengthy return to Cusco, by employing the turn-off to the west at the town of Urubamba, which included a 655 meter   climb, and then an additional short-cut along a reasonable gravel road to the junction with the main highway at Anta. Despite the shorter route, I only managed to get 66 kilometers completed that evening, as far as the little settlement of Zurite, where I camped for the first time in along while, though finding a good spot was not the easiest task there. The second day things really got rolling. A 385-meter climb started things off rather gently, but then I was surprised by the first big descent, a rollicking-fun monster of 1,735 meters. Of course, since I knew I would have to regain all the altitude I was loosing, I kept thinking that it might be nice if it would please stop descending now. The cause of the canyon into which I was now plunging was the Rio Apurimac, still a part of the Amazon watershed, and a powerful river it was indeed. There was a restaurant near the river, and though it was still rather early at that point I was able to get a meal there, which was fortunate, since, while the next big town did not appear too far away on the map, it turned out to be impractically far away. That was due to the 1,990-meter climb which started off straight away after crossing the river. It was an enjoyable climb, with perfect weather and great scenery, and without knowing the height of the summit, I still held out the possibility that I would descend down to the next town before nightfall. That was not to be, and as the chill of darkness crept over the mountain, I stopped 150 meters shy of the summit and camped in the woods. Those woods were not as private a place as I usually would like, as a few local girls occasionally wandered around the vicinity looking for mushrooms. With a recently atypical early start the next morning I felt that a good day was in store, though with the chilly temperatures, and the exertion of the previous day, that last 150 meters took quite a long time. Though once finally up at Sawite Pass, there were some splendid views of nearby snowy peaks.

The following descent was the type I really enjoy and must have been one of my all-time favorites. A smooth road, continuous switchbacks, green forests all around, no traffic, and numerous spectacular vistas of the gorges and the highway snaking its way further below, were constant along the 1,550 meters down to the fairly large town of Abancay. With the speed of the descent it was still very early when I arrived, and though it might have made an interesting place to spend an evening, I couldn’t spare a day just for that. Instead my aim was to find some food to take along for the rest of the day, as the map showed no other towns ahead. I had no luck locating a supermarket, and after wandering around for a while I settled on a restaurant which was serving typical morning fare of chicken and potato soup, and then picked up some chocolates and a few other snacks at the municipal market. However, after starting out again, I soon discovered that Abancay wasn’t at the bottom of the canyon, as I had assumed, and an additional 500 meters of decline (for 2,050 meters total) brought me to the real base at the Rio Pacacocha. To my surprise there was a small restaurant there where most of the long-distance buses stopped, and I took advantage of that and had one of the better lunches of recent days. Several kilometers beyond was where the alternate route to Lima branched of, and indeed it looked like a terrible road, narrow and bumpy, climbing straight back up the side of the western ridge. Some days earlier, I met a British couple who had just started their tour in Lima, and had come that way, so I knew that the route was doable, but at that point my tolerance for bad roads was long gone and I was certainly glad that I didn’t have to use that one. Instead, my route was immensely more pleasant, with the Pacacocha canyon only very gradually gaining back the altitude I had just lost and continuing to pass though pretty green mountains. I was beginning to notice a continued thinning out of the forest in that area, now more of a short, green deciduous forest as opposed to the conifer forest of the previous day, and the rainforest, or at least rainforest remnants, before that. I also continued to be amazed by the light traffic on that highway, which was mainly a luster of busses that passed by in either direction during the mornings. It seemed surprising as that road is most direct of only two paved roads connecting the heavily populated southeast of the country with the capital and the rest of Peru. Though it was an enjoyable day, I did not get as far as I would have liked, partly due to a rain shower that started about an hour before subset. I had hoped to ride the rest of the evening and camp again, but as it was cold at that altitude, I stopped in a tiny settlement under a partly sheltered bus stop to wait for the rain to stop. Well, it didn’t stop, but intensified, and it was my good fortune to learn that the building behind me was probably the only rural guesthouse along that entire highway. It was a basic place, to be sure, run by a grandmotherly woman who spoke only Quechua, and with just a few cots spread out in an attic room. I was fortunate indeed, as the storm that night was a real drencher, and poured solidly from 6 PM until midnight.

The following day was also a slow one, though I wasn’t really sure why as the terrain was still not that severe (though the altitude near the end was.) The gentle climb of the previous day gained 700 meters, and that morning added another gradual 900 meters, followed by a steeper climb of 765 meters. Just before midday I passed through the only town of the day, Chalhuanca, which had some small shops, a couple of useable restaurants and even a decent-looking hotel. At the summit of the last climb I was atop the Abra Huashuaccasa, the first of two passes marked at about 4,300 meters on my map. I would have liked to cover a little more distance, but I stopped early as a wind and chilly fog had settled in and it had become rather unpleasant. The treeless plains in that area were more like soggy bogs, which made finding a decent spot to tent out of the wind rather difficult, and a cold night followed. I had assumed that the area between the two passes was mostly a plateau, which, I suppose it was, though not an especially flat one. There were still about 140 kilometers until the next town, Puquio, and as it was December 24th, the thought of spending the night before Navidad there, warm and dry was quiet appealing. However, for most of the day I was not exactly confident that I would. There was a cluster of several adobe buildings along the road several kilometers beyond the pass, and I was able to obtain a basic snack there, and without much food left in bags that was certainly needed. I expected the rest of the day to be easy, but with a series of small climbs and descents, in the neighborhood of 300 meters each, combined with the altitude, I was feeling exhausted. Somewhere in this section, among the alpine bogs, was the South American continental divide. Once again it seemed amazing to me that with the Pacific a mere 140 kilometers away, along a straight line, much of the water around me would eventually find its way to the Atlantic, more than 3,000 kilometers distant (of course, a much longer distance when following the actual river courses.) Also in this area, at the top of one of the annoying small climbs, was the highest point of the Stage, at 4,550 meters, which was a little higher than I expected, but seemed a little anticlimactic, with no big descent immediately follow. In the early afternoon, a tiny village appeared, which is known as Negro Mayo. Feeling rather famished, I really wasn’t too optimistic about finding a good meal there, especially after sampling the rather sparse offerings at one of the tiny shops. At the far end of the place, there was a basic restaurant, and that seemed the best, or rather the only, choice. While there I had one of those encounters that make touring fun. As I was filling up on the local specialty, Trucha Frita, or fried trout, (not my favorite, but the only item on the menu), a couple of young boys came bouncing in excitedly holding a cd of Christmas music. They placed it in the player, probably the only one in town, and began to listen, with most of the selections consisting of children singing “Feliz Navidad,” or similar songs. However, they kept skipping quickly between tracks, and rapidly adjusting the volume way up and then way down, which was actually rather bothersome. This continued for several minutes until they found what they found what they had obviously been looking for, specifically that holiday classic; “Dogs Singing Jingle Bells,” (yes, the one you have all heard before.) That particular piece caused them to burst out with laughter, which they continued to do as they played it over and over. The whole scene cracked me up as well, and I could only wonder if the people who made that recording decades ago would ever have dreamt that it would still be a global hit four decades later!

After my small, but amusing meal, I continued on, but became progressively pessimistic about reaching Puquio that day. My doubts were caused in part by an incredibly threatening thundercloud that began chasing me from the north side of the highway. It looked like it was dumping a huge amount of water, and, even worse, quickly changed the color of a nearby hillside from brow to white, a sure sign of hail. Somehow, fortunately, I managed to outrun it without getting wet at all, in spite of the strong crosswinds it created. Nevertheless, there was still a long way to go to reach Puquio with only a couple of hours of daylight remaining. Then, much to my surprise, the road began a small descent, which shortly was broken by another small climb, which almost seemed to be enough to end my day. However, as there wasn’t any good place to stop in the immediate vicinity, I kept going, which turned out to be a wise choice, as the descent then really kicked in, eventually dropping a total of 1,000 meters. With that pleasant surprise, I zoomed into town after all, with enough daylight left to navigate the confusing, and largely ripped-up-for-repair streets of the town. After a while I located the centro, and found a satisfactory place to stay. The restaurant downstairs was one of the ubiquitous roast chicken places, and I grabbed a tasty bird for my holiday eve dinner. I was curious to see if there would be any special festivities in town that night, but mostly it was the typical scene of people milling about the streets having fun with their friends. Maybe just a little more so than normal, and with a few more firecrackers.

On the morning of Navidad, Puquio seemed to be open for business as usual, and I looked forward to what I expected to be my holiday gift to myself; a really great ride to Nasca. Apparently, I had not really been a good boy the past year, as the day did to turn out to be quite as great as I had wished for. For one thing, the actual distance to town turned out to be 163 kilometers instead of the 145 that my map had indicated. Though that shouldn’t have been a problem, as I would be dropping out of the mountains down to the coastal plain. However, the expected big climb up to the next summit was preceded by a 300 meter smaller climb and a 410 meter descent, so once the final, 1,000 meter climb did begin, several kilometers past the smaller town of Lucanas, I had already lost whatever freshness I had that morning and was creeping up quite slowly. A little while before the actual summit I came upon a small restaurant which was just enough to get me through, as the only other choices for quite a distance were a few Trucha Frita stands right at the official summit of Abra Condorcenca at 4,225 meters. Despite a slow start to the day, I was ready for what was expected to be one of the longest and most thrilling descents of the Tour, as Nasca lies at an elevation of around 700 meters. As it turned out, it would be one of the most frustrating instead. After the summit the highway rolled around for a little while, frittering away 200 meters of altitude in the process. The redeeming feature of this area was the presence of a reserve for Vicunas, the rarer of the two species of South American camels. Similar to the guanacos I enjoyed seeing in Patagonia, vicunas are a little smaller with finer hair, formerly prized as a textile fiber, and run more swiftly and with less bounce than their southern cousins. One the final descent actually began, the road couldn’t seem to make up its mind to really begin going downhill, instead hanging along a ridgeline and only slowly dropping for what seemed an eternity. More problematic than that was the lousy road surface, which consisted of a uniformly bumpy texture which prevented achieving much velocity at all. The landscapes during this descent continued the trend of the past several days towards increasing aridity in an extreme way. In fact this region is one of the driest in the world, and with the exception of one or two pitiful looking little bushes, most of the area seemed as is nothing had been alive there for thousands of years. While many desert areas are often speciously described as a “moonscape” the rounded, featureless, grey hills along the way seemed to aptly fit that label about as well as anywhere could. I had long known of the reputation for dryness that the west coast of the continent possessed, but never really comprehended the particulars of the local climate well enough to understand why, as it seemed odd that an area so close to the ocean could be so arid. After several weeks traveling though the region, where the prevailing winds are the easterly tradewinds, it was now clear. With that almost invariable wind pattern in force at those latitudes the west coast is distinctly in the rain shadow produced by the Andes, and an intense shadow it is indeed. Once the road began its real descent the poor condition of the road persisted, and continued to prevent any rapid progress. I had read somewhere that this section of the road was the first to be built, in 01929, by the residents of Puqio themselves, in order to provide access to the coast, and it appeared that little maintenance had been performed in subsequent years. Thus being limited to just over 20 km/h most of the way down, the 70 kilometers between the summit and Nasca took a depressingly long 3 hours, bringing me into the center of town just as the Sun was beginning to set. With the long, tiring, but exhilarating crossing complete I decided to give my self a break and chose one of the more comfortable places in town in which to stay. At least that would be a Holiday gift to myself.

Nasca is a smallish city, and, like most of the cites along the coast, has a character strongly influenced by its desert environs, but with a faded, cosmopolitan feel more like its counterparts on the coast of Brazil than the ones I had recently seen in the mountains. Most everything seemed to be up and running on Navidad, but I was wiped out and explored only long enough to find a meal, and make sure I could make my intended sightseeing plans for the next day. Those, of course, involved seeing the famous, Nasca Lines, more appropriately called geoglyphs. The geoglyphs are the completely mysterious drawings of animals, objects, and geometric shapes, made on a grand scale across the otherwise dry, featureless plains nearby. Created simply by pushing aside the layer of small rocks that uniformly covers the ground, there have been so few erosive processes here that the drawings have survived for millennia. Due to their extreme scale they can only be appreciated from the air, and tourists are shuttled around the best glyphs in a rather large squadron of 4-person light aircraft (a hot-air balloon would seem to me to be ideal, but no one has set up such a service yet.) Though not really excited about using another aircraft, I went up anyway, and the view was actually quite a bit better than I thought it might have been, so it was worth the effort for me. After that day off I had just about the right amount of time to reach Lima comfortably and in time for my side trip, with one stop along the way, and I expected an easier time of things thanks to the coastal terrain and the assurance of no rain.

With that frame of mind in force, I set out the following day, but soon was struck by another change of fortune. After about 100 kilometers, having reached partway across a particularly lonely and sandy plain, one of my rear hub bearing cartridges gave out. Not to make too long a story of it, the Phil Wood hubs that I use have four bearing cartridges in the rear and two in the front. I had, over time, replaced five of the six several months earlier without any incidents (each being replaced after 50-60 thousand kilometers.) However, there is one additional cartridge buried deep within the freehub body, and when that one goes it almost always means trouble.  The first time I dealt with that was on approach to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, at 36 thousand kilometers into the tour. Interestingly, I had just completed and equivalent distance on the replacement before it went. When one of these bearings goes, it is liable to cause considerable damage to the inside of the hub, eventually making the bike unrideable. So the recommended course of action is to stop riding right away upon the first sign of a problem. Of course when you are smack in the middle of one of the world’s driest deserts, and alone, that sort of advice is rather hard to take to heart.  My subsequent attempts to clean the hub out and ride to the next big town, of course met with the aforementioned considerable damage to the innards of the hub. I had an extra cartridge left at that time, but though Phil Wood claims that the one in the freehub body can be replaced, I am convinced that it is impossible to do so. Without an appropriate shop full of tools, even more so. The result was three or four hours of walking along the hot, lonely highway. Though there was actually not much traffic at all, I had hoped to flag down one of the passing buses. However, the few that came along escaped my notice until it was too late, a testament to my nonexistent hitching skills. Later, almost an hour after dark, a couple of nice guys who were delivering propane cylinders, pulled their truck over, without me asking, and offered a lift to Ica, the next city I had been trying to reach. I gratefully accepted, and was even able to converse with them a little on the way, surprising to me, given my poor Espanol. Though it seemed a lot farther than I expected they dropped my off close to Ica centro later that evening, for which I gave them a nice Propina.

In Ica, I confirmed my suspicions that I would need replacement parts to get going again. Instead of waiting there to receive them, I fortunately was able to have them sent to Lima, and since I would be returning there 13 days later, after my side trip, they should be there waiting for me at that time. With that in mind, if I was destined to have such a breakdown, that might have been the best time for it, certainly better than if it had occurred only a few days earlier when I was still in the mountains.  However, that was not the only mechanical issue on my mind. The other one actually did begin when I was still in the mountains, but was, fortunately not severe enough to slow me down. Just as had occurred to my rear wheel on the 10th day of the Tour, way back in Tasmania, I had finally worn through the breaking surface of my front rim. I couldn’t let myself complain about that in any serious way, as that rim by then had 90,000 kilometers of travel on it, a significant portion of which was through wet, gritty conditions. Unfortunately, all my spare rims had already been used, and the only remaining source I knew of for 48-hole RhynoLites was closed for the Holidays, and would not be able to ship one to Lima in time.  However, I learned after the first such occurrence, during Stage 1, that I could reasonably assume to be able to ride a considerable distance with that type of problem without worrying too much. So, in Lima I would be able to, more or less, get the bike back in form again. The down side was that now I needed to make a disturbingly frustrating bus transfer to get there, skipping a distance of 330 kilometers.

There are dozens of busses running up the Panamericana highway every day, so arranging that wasn’t a problem. However, since I now had a little extra time, I decided to make the planned stop along the way that I would have made had I continued riding. That was at the little town of Pisco, right on the Pacific coast. It is now notable for two reasons. One, the basis for my desire to stop there, is that it is a staging point for boat tours to the nearby Islas Ballestas, a marine wildlife reserve. Actually the boats leave from the nearby town of Paracas, but Pisco has, or rather had, more options as a base to visit the area. The actual tour to the islands was pretty nice, though the boats were packed with too many people for my liking. Once out there, there were a good number of pinnipeds and a huge number of sea birds, including Humbolt Penguins, my fourth species from that family seen on the Tour, so it was worth the stop for me. The other reason that Pisco is notable was less pleasant. Four and a half months earlier the town was near the epicenter of a tremendous earthquake, which shook for an incredible three minutes with a magnitude of 8.2R. Wow. At the time I was there, much of the town was still in shambles, with many abandoned buildings, including the completely collapsed cathedral, and huge piles of bricks and rubble still blocked the streets. Over 500 persons from the area lost their lives in the event, and many more were injured or left homeless, a situation exacerbated by the brick or adobe construction of many buildings in the town. I noticed a number of wooden temporary homes built by aid groups that were small, but sturdy, which must have helped somewhat, but the most impressive thing was the way that the townspeople seemed to be trying their best to get on with some resemblance of a normal life. I took advantage of that and got a haircut (my 14th of the Tour) in a chair set up outside under a blue plastic tarp near the plaza. At that point I was running four or five months behind the plan that I had made in Buenos Aires, and if I had kept to my original schedule, it is conceivable that I might have been in the vicinity during the tremor. Sometimes being late isn’t such a bad thing.

After that was just another 2-hour bus ride to the capital. Though I didn’t pay complete attention to the condition of the highway, it didn’t seem like it would have been too bad a ride, at least until the edge of the city (Lima is a megacity with a population of 8 million.) I stayed in the tourist-friendly neighborhood of Miraflores, and arriving three days earlier than I intended left me a little time to kill. In reality I didn’t make too much good use of that, but I was there for New Year’s so that was kind of nice. I thought perhaps there would be some kind of giant celebration for the event, but mostly it was just a big crowd of people out late in the plazas, many with the requisite firecrackers. In most cases, I would have made every effort to avoid a city as large as Lima while on Tour (though in this instance, there really isn’t a very good option for doing that.) However, I needed to be there in order to transfer to the Amazon jungle city of Iquitos, a town with no road connections to anywhere. That particular side trip was one that had been in my Tour plans since the very earliest versions, and though I probably should have skipped going there, as I was behind on both time and money, I was reluctant to do so. I had known in advance that it was, or at least once had been, possible to hire basic wooden longboats from somewhere in the vicinity of Cusco, which would take one down the Urubamba, and later rivers, over six days, all the way to the city, which is located in far eastern Peru, near the start of the Amazon proper. Of course, that would only be possible in one direction as the upstream trip would be impractically long. So, I assumed that any boat trips to the town would be impossible. Only later did I learn that it was possible to go by boat upriver from Iquitos to the more northerly town of Yurimaguas, which does have road connections to the rest of Peru, though probably poor ones. Had I know about that in advance, I more than likely would have tried to go via those two boat trips, but instead I was left with the only other option, the flight from Lima (Boooo!)  My motives for visiting Iquitos were two: simply to see the town itself, which is a fading rubber boomtown and due to its lack of road access has relatively few automobiles; and also, of course, to visit the Amazon rainforest and see the river itself. Though there was only one short road out of town and the streets of the city itself available, I probably would have liked to bring the bike along, if only to say that I cycled along the Amazon. However, in its dysfunctional condition, I obviously chose to leave it in Lima.

To get a really good view of the area’s forest and its fauna, it is necessary to go rather far away from the human influence around the city.  That necessitates staying in one of the, predictably costly, Jungle lodges spread out around the region. I chose the Yarapa River Lodge, because it is located a fairly long way up river in a good-sized parcel of protected forest, has been designed with green principles in mind, and has an ongoing research partnership with Cornell University, which seemed to me to be a nice thing for some reason. The early morning flight had me in the city by 8:00AM, and I was met at the airport by the staff from the Lodge, which let me avoid the usual crush of tour agents, who normally swarm arriving tourists. Shortly thereafter, we were shuttled upriver (via a fairly new road, still the only one in the area, which would have been an interesting ride,) to the much smaller river town of Nauta, where riverboats where waiting to take me, and the other guests, a family of five from Toronto, the rest of the way. That is only mentioned because a rather funny incident occurred on the trip. At some point later on, when the boat had reached a pretty, though deserted, part of the Yarapa River, its motor decided to stop functioning. Repeated attempts to revive our propulsion were unsuccessful.  The next step was to call the lodge (yes, they even use cell phones in the middle of the Amazon) to have another boat sent. Of course, the phone was not able to pick up a signal on the forest floor, so one of the staff, a man named Balsa, was told to climb up a tall tree to see if a connection could be made there. In a few seconds, as only a jungle-born person could do, he was 15 meters up in the canopy at the river’s edge. The humorous part came next, when it was realized that Balsa had never before, in his 24 years of life, used a telephone, cell- or otherwise. Instructions for which buttons to push, and how to hold the handset were shouted up, and eventually the call was successful. Of course, when the rescue boat neared the scene, the noise of its motor completely drowned out our shouts from the riverbank, and its pilot simply sailed on by. After a while longer, we all arrived safe and sound, though somewhat later than planned.

I was at the lodge for a total of three days, and the visit was quite enjoyable. Accommodations were typical for a remote lodge, and very comfortable, and when relaxing there, entertainment was provided by a number of local animals who had adopted the lodge as their new home, macaws, a peccary, a curious aracari (small toucan), and a troublemaking baby giant otter. The bulk of the time, however, was taken up by various boat tours and hikes around the area. I saw a nice variety of wildlife, including three-toed sloths (a creature that has been on my need-to-see list for many years,) a few types of gregarious monkeys, and a great variety of birds, such as the ancient-looking hoatzin. My favorite activity was taking a canoe ride through the flooded forest, which necessitated my ducking under a continuous tangle of tree limbs and thick vines. After a pleasant stay, we were returned to Iquitos without incident unless you count the torrential downpour, and I spent another three days there seeing the sights of the city and its immediate surroundings. Not surprisingly, Iquitos is the epitome of a modern jungle town, looking more than a little past its prime, in need of a few coats of paint, but otherwise lively and friendly.  While I was there it was the local holiday for the 149th anniversary of the city’s founding, and, as I had come to realize was the custom in Peru, celebrations seemed to involve everyone hanging out in the plaza a little longer than normal. I visited a nearby forest reserve and an interesting animal rehabilitation center, though the highlights were the Amazon itself, and the traditional neighborhood of Puerto Belen on its banks. The sight of oceangoing vessels moored nearby underscored the scale of the big river, still thousands of kilometers away from its mouth at the Atlantic. A dramatic counterpoint was made by the pink river dolphins which would periodically surface for air in the vicinity of the big riverboats. Belen is a charismatic collection of wooden-stilted houses and buildings inhabited mostly by people who had migrated to the city from the surrounding countryside. Depending on the season, and therefore the height of the river, its streets are either sand, or actual waterways, similar to Venice, but without all the renaissance architecture. In fact, the crowded, rather shabby looks of the place probably frightens off many visitors, but I walked around for quite a while and found everyone to be perfectly friendly. One of the original reasons that I had a desire to see Iquitos was its status as a largely car-free city. However, the three-wheeled moto-taxis, common in many cities around the world, of which there are 25,000 in Iquitos, produced enough noise, fumes and traffic, to largely negate the absence of cars. Oh well. After all that, it was just about time to fly back to Lima, but I wavered for a while wondering if I should try to stay a couple of days longer. In the end I decided against changing my plans, which turned out to be a mistake.

That became clear as soon as I returned to the capital. The box of hub parts that I was expecting wasn’t there, and when I checked on it I learned that when it was shipped, one of the customs forms was missing, so it didn’t go out until several days later. So one extra week of waiting ensued, which was frustrating enough, not to mention the steep cost of the parts to begin with, and the additional 50% duties levied by Peruvian Customs. Completely aggravating.  Nevertheless, I tried to make the best of the extra time, and took in the sights in the historic city center, which was not one of the more impressive of its type that I’d seen, did a little more crafts shopping, and visited a few of the city’s museums. The best of the latter was the Larco Museum, which captivated my attention with its vaults, some open to visitors, which contained a huge cache of over 40,000 pieces of Moche ceramics (a pre-Inca civilization from the coastal region.) When I eventually repaired the bike and was ready to go again, I still had the whole northern coast of the country left to complete, and had fallen further behind. Of course, the long three-week layoff left me feeling a little sluggish, compounded by the sea-level heat, but I did my best to stay on pace, to little avail. I had asked a number of people which route out of the city would be best, and, not surprisingly, most directed me onto the busy highway through the sprawl around the airport. I had already seen that choice, and rejected it. The route that seemed best on the map was through the port of Callao, the main container terminal for Peru, though everyone warned me against that as it was supposed to be a rough place, and I would certainly fall the victim of some nefarious crime (I was told that two British cyclists had their bike stolen there “in the past”) As I have ridden in or out of a number of ports on the Tour, I was a little less frightened by tales of doom, and did not think that I would have much to worry about passing through at 8:00 AM on a Friday. In fact that was the case, and after a total of about 35 kilometers of urban/suburban riding that was not really too hectic, I was free and clear of the city. The conditions in that area should have allowed me to continue at my normal pace, but I stopped early the first two days, once because of tiredness, and once at to spend the evening at a pleasant little beach town.

Trying to conserve some energy was probably a good idea, since next I had planned a turn away from the coast and back into the mountains, in order to visit the ancient ruins at Chavin de Huantar, and Huascaran National Park, both World Heritage Sites in the cold, lofty Cordillera Blanca range. Of course that meant a climb from sea level to 4,100 meters, another of which I didn’t exactly need at that point. While the road condition was good (the only time that proved to be the case on any of the four 3-4,000 meter climbs/descents I did in the region), the section near the base was sweltering and the area near the top was cool and thin, making the climb a definite two day affair. At the summit was a tiny village with a very basic place to stay and a few minimal restaurants, and when I arrived late in the day it was cold enough that I chose to stay there for the night. Beyond, the road descends about 500 meters into a valley of the Rio Santa, and rolls around for a while until a junction takes one east towards Chavin.  After that turn is another 925-meter climb through Huascaran Park, which was pretty, but didn’t have many sights, trails, or resting places near the road, crossing through the Cordillera Blanca at 4,485 meters via the Cahuish Tunnel. Past the tunnel, the road descended 1,210 meters to the town of Chavin de Huantar, though its condition gradually deteriorated and it was not an especially swift ride. The town, a rather pleasant, small traditional town shares its name with an important ruins site, dating back around 3,000 years, making it one of the oldest in South America. It is famous for its underground temples, and as the potential originator of all of the designs of fearsome zoomorphic creatures artistically applied to temples throughout the region. Many of the best artifacts had previously been removed to museums elsewhere, but the site itself was interesting in its own right. To continue north, I was required to double back over the Cahuish Pass, climbing and descending again, which felt a little easier the second time, and then make a fairly easy ride to the muddy, haphazard city of Huaraz, the regional capital, where I took a day off to rest.

There were two nearby routes from Huaraz back to the coast, both of which were on gravel roads, and I chose the wrong one. The route further north seemed too out of the way and with a longer distance on gravel, so I went on the road that ran due west from Huaraz. With only 100 kilometers back to the coastal highway, and a return to sea level, even if the conditions were poor, I didn’t expect too much trouble. The climb back up to altitude started immediately upon leaving town, as did the sloppy, muddy conditions of the road surface. The latter degraded even further when I reached a long construction zone where improvements to the road we just getting underway.  Those had yet to actually improve the road, and as far as I was concerned made it more difficult for me. Finally, after a gain of 1,210 meters, I topped the summit, anticipating an end to the difficult conditions. I was soon disappointed as the surface actually became even worse. There were rocky sections, muddy sections, wet sections, and a few sections were the road and a rather swiftly moving river shared the same space for over 50 meters, all of which kept me from proceeding faster than a crawl. I suspected that unless the road improved dramatically, and quickly, I would not be able to reach the highway that day. That, in fact, turned out to be the case, and I was lucky that a small crossroads housed a basic restaurant. I ate as much as I could there while sharing a table with three locals, the female of the group laughing incessantly at the presence of a Gringo in their little community.

The next morning there were still 11 kilometers of horrible road to deal with before the pavement returned, and by then most of the descent was over. That short distance still took forever, and more problematic was that all the wet rocky conditions caused the bulged-out of my front rim to expand to a larger, more worrisome gap, damaging my tire’s sidewall somewhat in the process. At the base of the descent was a little known but interesting archeological site, called Sechin, which is decorated with large stone bas-reliefs depicting fierce-looking soldiers surrounded by various free-floating body parts. After I took a look at that, I shored up my front tire with some epoxy and plastic strips and smoothed out the gash in the rim a bit, which all held together until I received the replacement rim 11 days later. At the time I wasn’t 100% sure that the detour back into the mountains was really worth it, but in the end I suppose that it was a good move.

The final section in the country was fairly straightforward, traveling north along the coast, most of the time on the Panamerciana Highway, and passing through most of the important towns in the region. Days off were taken in Trujillo, Peru’s “second city” with its attractive colonial city center, and Mancora, a beach resort further north that was pleasant enough, though too crowded for my tastes and with little in the way of decent accommodating available. Important sites visited included the Moche pyramids near Trujillo, Huaca del Sol and Huaca del Luna, the latter with its fascinating, colorful, and until recently, buried, frescoes; Chan Chan, the ruins of a large adobe city, also near Trujillo, only a portion of which has been uncovered; the museum of El Senor del Sipan in Lambayeque, with its vast collection of gold artifacts that is comparable in scale, if not in the exquisiteness of its craftsmanship, to the King Tut collection; and another collection of highly eroded pyramids at Tacume. The conditions on the highway were somewhat better than I expected, with a reasonable, though variable surface, and not nearly as much traffic as I thought there could have been. That aspect was, of course, worse near the cities, however. There was only one place that necessitated any decision about routing along the way, specifically, the section where the Panamericana crosses the flat Sechura desert. The main highway cuts straight across, with not one marked town or potential service stop over 220 kilometers.  What was probably the original route of the highway takes a curving course to the east, somewhat more inland. That road, which I used, was somewhat longer, but had a number of small towns and villages, and ran through an area that was at least relatively fertile. I can’t say for sure, of course, but I a fairly sure that road was a much better choice.

As I expected Peru turned out to be full of things that I was happy to visit, and with an interesting and mostly pleasant culture for touring. All of that took a long time, obviously, and quite a bit longer than I had expected. All that was left was to cross the border into Ecuador, and I was not really sure just how long that would take. At the immigration station at the Zaurmilla-Huaquillas border post, there is apparently only 1 officer available to stamp people through. As I rolled up he had just returned from his 2-hour lunch break, during which time the line of folks waiting to get through had expanded to a tedious proportion. I waited for what seemed an eternity, and I was worried as, expecting a typical process taking only a few minutes, I had left the bike in an exposed location among the crowd milling about outside. I was reluctant to give up my place in line to run out and move it however, but fortunately when I finally emerged from the lengthy queue, everything was still there and I was on my way to Ecuador.

That one is for next time.

 

Yuspargaransunki,

Mike

 

 

The Tour of Gondwana

May 5, 02005-August 22, 02008

http://www.terminalia.org/tour