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Chuquiago Café,
La Paz, Bolivia, 03-12-09
Plenty of ups and downs
Huanta to Cusco (10 cycle days; 4 rest days; 642km;
11122m)
Huanta to Ayacucho (48km; 706m)
Ayacucho to km 33 (33km; 1164m)
km 33 to 6km after Ocros (82km; 713m)
6km after Ocros to Chincheros (56km; 955m)
Chincheros to Talvavera (83km; 1425m)
Talvavera to 6km after Abra Huayllaccasa (49km; 1288m)
6km after Abra Huayllaccasa to Abancay (96km; 1036m)
Abancay to 5km after Curahuasi (75km; 1547m)
5km after Curahuasi to 9km after Limatambo (50km 1310m)
9km after Limatambo to Cusco (69km; 978m)
Snow-white mud
The uninterrupted climb out of Huanta
lasts for 8 kilometres and 267 altimetres after which
it flattens a little and then starts the up and down
roll past a perfectly white backdrop. Even the mud used
to build the houses in this region is white and such
a contrast from the rich cerise tones of the last few
days.
From turn-off Huamanguilla we drop
down 9 kilometres of beautifully crafted piece of highway
to Huayllapampa and continue on another 18 kilometres
of gradual uphill to reach our destination. Ayacucho
(48km; 706m) is more interesting with
its mixed Spanish colonial and Mestizo architecture
than today's scenery, though the erosion in the cliff
faces produced some pretty interesting shapes. Ali has
still not fully recovered from his stomach problems,
but picks up when he sees Kevin and James again at Hotel
Florida. Our room is excellent (40 Soles including wifi)
and so is the pizza, beer and chats over the recent
cycling encounters.
Kevin and
James leave the day after, but we stay on for two more
in the capital city of the Huamanga Province, famous
for its 33 churches (each one representing a year of
Christ's life) and the quirky tradition of placing a
little ceramic church or building on the roof of each
house. Also, in December 1824 and just a few kilometres
away near the town of Quinua, the victorious Battle
of Ayacucho impacted the beginning of Peruvian independence.
Great Start?
The police haven't heard of it; the guys at the petrol
station where Ali fuels up, have no idea what he is
talking about; and unbeknown to me until halfway through
the day, we don't actually find the valley-river road.
Instead we take the high path towards the 4300 metre
pass. Clear sky, warm sun and a cool breeze are about
as good as it gets for cycling in the mountains, though
the bitumen stops as immediately as the town of Ayacucho
does. We already know that it will be one continuous
dirt journey until 18 kilometres before Abancay.
The Ayacucho to Cusco route is well
documented in cyclists blogs and also known for its
uphill-downhill nature: Five passes of around 4000 altimetres
with spiralling descents back down to 2000 altimetres.
A total of 594 kilometres and 10,416 altimetres with
three of the passes on dirt tracks. Still, firing on
all cylinders we begin the first ascent. It is up all
the way, with only a few minutes when a gear change
to the middle crank is required.
As the day wears on, a large majority
of the land is filled with eucalyptus forests, smelling
like sweet menthol cough drops. A complete contrast
are the disgusting egg-burps that develop within the
turmoil of my stomach. By early afternoon, I also have
debilitating cramps and am feeling completely drained.
Why do I have to get sick on the day I leave a comfortable
hotel room with all the mod-cons? It all seems completely
unfair. Ali is understanding and helpful the whole way,
but by 4.30 in the afternoon and only halfway through
the first climb, we have pull off at kilometre
33 (33km; 1164m) to camp. I have little
left for anything else today.
From A to B via a few Z's
It is freezing when we wake and ever so gradually warms
up, making not only the photo opportunities on the way,
but the ride spectacular. Icy headwinds have me cursing
first thing in the morning though, as we snake our path
slowly up the 11 kilometres and 294 altimetres of hairpin
bends to the Vilcashuaman turnoff (4168m).
A 17½ kilometre roller coaster ride follows taking
us past llamas grazing on grassy slopes imitating golden
lion's fur and up and down the limestone track to the
highest point of the day: El Abra Tocctoccsa (4265m).
There is not much around at these heights: only the
odd die-hard farmer with his herd of sheep and simple
mud brick cottage.
Pedalling up to this altitude is difficult
for me. I don't feel sick, just fatigued and very short
of breath, making the cycling slow and laboured. Eventually
we make the top. From here, the view is quite daunting
really, though certainly impressive as far as road building
is concerned. We can clearly see the little town of
Ocros: only a few kilometres away as far as the crow
flies. The Peruvian roadwork department however, have
other ideas in mind and getting from A to B never took
so long: a 29 kilometre zigzagging plummet to the valley
below follows. The surface worsens a little too.
There are no decent spots for camping.
Even the ledge we find jutting out overlooking Ocros
is strictly for mountain goats. We cycle on and about
6 kilometres out of town, find a ridge just wide and
flat enough to pitch the tent at kilometre
115 (82km; 713m). Only problem is the
lack of water and neither of us feels like cycling back
up the hill a few kilometres to the last waterfall we
saw. We survive with what we have, though it means no
thirst quenching guzzling after the dusty ride. There
is also hardly any traffic on this stretch of road,
which we don't mind a bit. The evening is spent enjoying
a well earned meal and the spectacular thunderstorm
way across the valley in the calm night blackness.
The only thing looking
up is the road
We continue the downhill run this morning taking us
first to the friendly little town of Chumbes where there
is a hostal and a couple of well stocked shops. Also,
plenty of water shooting down the irrigation channels
to filter. Ali is plagued by wattle thorns and a couple
of puncture stops are required. We drop even further
to Puente Pampas, where the river of cut green opal
tones looks cool and inviting. Especially after 25 kilometres
and 1100 altimetres down through desert landscapes of
prickly pear, pink peppercorn trees and kilograms of
dust.
The next 10 kilometres of up and down
take us through similar scenery before entering the
colourful little village of Ahuayro with its neat streets
and brightly painted mud brick houses. As far as supplies
go, they also have a couple of decent sized corner stores
and one rather basic place of lodging.
Callebamba, 5 kilometres down the road,
gets our vote for friendliest village on our tour so
far. Everyone comes out to say hello and wave and only
one dog growls. The dogs in Peru are really a nightmare,
so this is a complete surprise. Exasperatingly, I'm
feeling pretty weak today as well and the only thing
looking up after the steep climb a few kilometres out
of town, is the switchback road winding its path up
the cliff face in front of us.
The 16 kilometre and 700 odd altimetre
climb, in essence is not so bad, but it is stinking
hot and I have nothing left in my legs. They are completely
drained of any energy: l'm constantly thirsty, have
random cramping, get out of breath and dizzy: classic
dehydration symptoms. Aaldrik's patience is lacking
today and complains bitterly about the incessant stopping
and time I need to recuperate. I admit, it must be frustrating
for him, but I'm also completely frazzled that I just
can't get it together to cycle more than a kilometre
at a time for the last 10 kilometres of our journey.
I'm so pleased when we pull into Chincheros
(56km; 955m) and a very decent hotel room
is awaiting us. The piping hot shower and washing all
my clothes completely drains me and I end up crawling
into bed. Ali badgers me to get up and go and find a
doctor, but I just want to lie down and sleep. Rest,
as far as I'm concerned is all the doctor would order;
as well as a 2 litre bottle of coke and some warm soup
and bread. Later in the evening I am a little more perkier.
Two down, still three to
go
Feeling a little more refreshed when I wake, I am optimistic
about getting up to the pass. Besides, we had discussed
the idea, that we would go as far as I could. "Shanti,
shanti" were Ali's words. I do pretty good for
the first two thirds of the journey, but the constant
climbing on unpaved roads has its toll on my physical
and mental stance and by the time we are 1000 altimetres
into the trip, I've nothing much left in either department.
The next bend reveals another rise in altitude and any
gusto I have managed to drum up so far wanes completely.
The subsequent 400 altimetres are not
at all pleasant. I have to stop every twenty minutes
or so for a breather; I wish I could grow wings and
reach the top, but I know its impossible and feel further
deflated; I want to camp as soon as possible, but Ali
has different ideas. He even hints that we will need
to keep cycling until 6.30pm, when it gets dark. I don't
know if I can handle that.
The rolling grassy hills countryside
is amazing: serene and desolate; just a few llamas,
condors and a perfect sunny afternoon. Ali has enough
energy to speed off in front, I lag well behind. For
the next 10 kilometres I push the slight gradient by
myself. We reach the Abra Soracchocha (4231m) getting
close on 5pm and I want to set up camp. Ali is adamant
there is no water, though I had spotted two small sources.
He is still insistent that we go down even though there
is only farmland below and we'll never find a suitable
spot to camp. He says we'll then need to cycle 43 kilometres
in an hour and a half on dirt roads to reach the next
town. There is no way we can do that before dark.
I feel so exhausted, I just want to
spend the night here, but Ali makes it clear that I
have no other option than to take off down the slopes
into Pervian suburbia. The sun is setting
and the monster nose-dive through the long line of villages
is cumbersome on unpaved roads. I get a flat tyre, which
holds us up further. It is a beautiful sight as the
sun is setting, watching the women lead their cows,
sows, piglets, goats, donkeys and any other creature
that wants to walk along back home after a leisurely
day of grazing on the mountains. Of course, there is
absolutely nowhere to camp and next thing I know, Ali
is cycling like a madman towards the city below.
Normal road would have been okay maybe,
but there is nothing normal about the series of unbelievably
dusty dirt-road switchbacks dropping into the town of
Talavera (83km; 1425m). I'm
not sure how we make it in one piece, in the dark, with
buses, taxis and trucks ripping round the sandy corners,
sending clouds of dust into the air, making it impossible
to see anything. Ali falls off once, I bang into a large
pothole and land on my cross bar, which has tears in
my eyes for a few minutes, but at 7.30pm we arrive on
the door step of Hotel Emperador. I fall up the stairs
and into the dribble of hot water shower, woof down
my vegetables and rice at the Chifa restaurant underneath
and then crawl silently into bed. I'm asleep within
minutes.
A little patch of green
is all you need
The town has been awake since 5am and is making a hell
of a racket. I don't really want to move from my bed
this morning. I feel dubious about climbing again today.
There's another pass to conquer and I just know its
going to be difficult for me. My knees still ache; my
body is still tired from yesterday's onslaught, but
I'm more anxious about how Ali is going to react towards
my sluggish pedalling. On dirt roads and at high altitude
I need all the strength and encouragement can get.
It's a bit confusing how we should
weave our way out of town and we have to ask in Andahuaylas
and someone kindly points us in the right direction
when we start heading up the wrong street. The 40 kilometres
of continuous uphill is the worst we have encountered
yet, but none more so than at the beginning of the day.
Again the last 400 metres of climbing are difficult.
My breathing is severely hampered as well, but Ali is
exceptionally patient today and allows me to plod along
at my 5km per hour pace. And although, not quite as
scenic as yesterday's ride, it is so much more pleasant.
Later in the day, the golden-brown hues of farmers pastures
make a spectacular jigsaw pattern in the hillside, the
abundance of trucks dies down and serenity returns as
we push on up towards the grassy peaks of Abra Huayllaccasa
(4125m).
We have full view of the spectacular
snow-capped mountain range as we start the descent towards
the farmland below. Luckily, one small patch of green
appears 6km after the top Abra Huayllaccasa
(49km; 1288m) and although we are hardly
hidden from the road, it's all we have seen so far.
The rest of the terrain is sheer drop-offs. There is
little traffic and those who do see us only wave and
toot with welcoming gestures. The south of Peru feels
very safe and with our private vista across the valley
as the sun sets orange on white mountain peaks, its
the perfect place to get some shut-eye.
A Fred Astaire dance course
on bike
The 4 kilometre dive below is on patchy road, but once
we hit the village after the bridge it is obvious that
road workers are doing their best to remedy the situation.
It doesn't last for long though and as we start the
ascent to the highest point (3899m) today,
the road has deteriorated somewhat. Its not impassible,
nor the worst we have seen, but it takes lots of concentration.
Mainly because it is occasionally good in parts, which
leads you into a false sense of security and sends you
toppling when you suddenly round the sandy corners.
I come off in one of these dust holes.
Glorious mountain peaks, patchwork-green
slopes, blue skies, friendly village life and one of
the most stupendous pathways snaking its way around
the Andes you have ever seen, are really worth all the
hard work. The government is actually promising to have
this section of road bitumenised within four years,
but judging on progress so far, I think it will take
them a bit longer than that. And of course there are
two sides to this coin, while it will make the run from
Ayacucho to Abancay a fantastic cycling circuit, it
will also bring more traffic and people to the area.
A region, which at the moment is untouched, wild and
wooly and so incredibly striking.
When we reach the first view of
Abancay (3680m) and peer down over our course,
I am almost certain that the Peruvian roadwork department
got a hold of a Fred Astaire dance routine - one of
those spectacular moments when he pirouetted and toe
tapped his way to the outer extremities of the dance
floor - and laid the pattern on a map of this part of
the Andes and said: "yes this will make a fine
road". Aerial shots of Peruvian roads must
be artwork all to themselves.
Anyway, from this point we further
the bone rattling plummet below: all in all, from the
highest point to the lowest point it is 56 kilometres
of aching hands and numbed feet. We make the halfway
point where winds start to whip up a real bluster. The
shortcut which most people seem to miss is visible below
and we decide to take it after reaching the turn-off
and noticing that the highway continues to wind its
way well away from where we need to go. It's 2 kilometres
of what is more like a riverbed than a track towards
Puente Pachachaca. A further 2 kilometres follows on
rocky roads until the bitumen starts. We figure our
efforts have cut off about 6 kilometres of the normal
path and to be honest, the sooner we can pedal on bitumen
after 6 days of dirt the better. The gale force headwinds
are not something to get excited about and its a sure
blessing that Fred has had his influence on this stretch
of road, because headwinds soon turn into tailwinds
as we mimic one of his twirls. At one stage though,
I'm a little concerned that the roadwork department
are dancing us all the way back into the mountains again.
From the start of the asphalt, the
trip into Abancay is a meandering 14 kilometres and
relentless 629 altimetres. When you see the Abancay
sign, you still have plenty more climbing
to do to get up into the centre of town. By this stage,
I'm ready to rip any dog that hassles me apart limb
by limb; and one such ankle snapper bears the brunt
of my anger. We stop at an internet café to see
where Kevin and James are lodging. They haven't left
a message as they never expected us to arrive today.
They had taken 7 days to do the trip: slight pang of
envy on my behalf.
It was easy enough to find them though:
Abancay (96km; 1036m) is not
that big and they always head towards the most affordable
place where they can wheel the bikes straight into their
room. Including wifi and conti-breakfast, Hotel Imperial
is quite a posh place. We park our bikes, shower and
work out that the best pizza restaurant is quite conveniently
two doors down. Perfect; as is the pizza; as is seeing
the boys again.
Behind closed doors
Kevin and James leave the next day and even though we
would like to follow suit, I am just too tired to think
about a 1500 altimetre climb. Besides, I need to wash
and clean some of our gear and we also have to stock
up on supplies for the next three days of cycling to
Cusco. Unfortunately, protests in Abancay have the whole
town bolted up for the entire day; at least from an
outsider's point of view. I enquire at our hotel as
to what is going on and when I'm told that there will
be no shops open today, the look of horror on my face
probably sparked the following compassionate act.
The lady owner beckons me to follow
her. We walk down the street and stand by a closed door.
Protesters march by and she tells me we have to wait
until they are well out of range. They move out of sight
and she knocks on the barred metal door. A crack appears
and she pleads with the girl behind it to let me in.
I'm shuffled behind closed doors.
To my surprise, I find myself inside
a supermarket with about 20 other people, all doing
the same thing: purchasing their daily supplies. It
is really well stocked and I am easily able to buy up
for the next leg of our trip. After paying, I join the
queue of locals also waiting to leave. Like entering,
we have to linger around until demonstrators have disappeared.
I remain there for nearly an hour, before I am released
onto the street again.
We pile outside together clutching
our plastic bags, obviously full of groceries: quite
ludicrous really. And it is now apparent to me that
this is occurring the whole way down the main street
in various businesses. I had no idea before. Why would
I think otherwise of someone slinking behind closed
doors, other than that they were going home?
We have hardly any money left, only
just enough for a bit more food and to pay for our hotel
room. Ali leaves the confines of our hotel only to discover
that all the cash machines are behind bars. We stay
inside for the rest of the day as the atmosphere outside
gets a little more hostile than we would like. Behind
the closed doors of our hotel, we feel quite safe, but
not quite protected enough to avoid the watery eyes
and stinging noses from the teargas set off to control
the demonstrators.
Enough hairpins for a grand
coiffeur
The climb out of Abancay is pretty steep and just as
relentless as the climb in, though today's journey is
smoothed over by immaculate tarmac. It makes pedalling
so much easier. Still, its going to be a long climb
and will probably take us most of the day. We realise
by the time we are a third of the way up that we have
to sit put zigzagging our way on this one mountain for
the full 36 kilometre and 1496 altimetre duration. I
didn't count the hairpins, but I wouldn't mind betting
there were enough to create a mighty fine beehive coiffeur.
The last couple of kilometres are the
most difficult, but as we pass the 810 kilometre marker
there are only a few more metres to Abra Saywite
(4047m) and before the spiralling descent to the
Saywrite archeological site. We had intended to camp
here, but as it wasn't that much to look at, we decide
to move on down as far as we can for the evening. Its
a smooth ride below past some great contrasting red
rock against blue skies.
Due to the protests in Abancay, we
were unable to withdraw money for the next leg of our
trip, but it was rumoured to us that the little village
of Curahuasi has an ATM. Unfortunately, this is not
true and so we push on out of town to find a decent
campspot. The first available site comes 5kms
after Curahuasi (75km; 1547m). A beautifully
green patch with a stream running past. We wait until
it is quiet on the road before carefully descending
down the wattle thorn loaded track.
Sleeping on a hairpin
It rains all night long, so the hour spent trying
to fix the flat tyre in the morning gives the tent a
little more sun to dry out. We don't get on the road
until 9.30am and by the time I have fallen the 6 kilometres
to the first bridge, I have had another flat. Puente
Huaynarimac (2082m) follows immediately after the village
full of delicious looking fruit and avocados and the
out-of-place, but welcoming Hospedaje Quinta. Five kilometres
later and we are crossing Puente Cunyac (1990m) and
five minutes down the track I have another flat. Sand-flies
are atrocious in these parts and it is definitely not
the place to camp, though the river runs wildly past
us and there are a few spots more than suitable to set
up the tent.
The canyon is still cool with cloud
cover as we enter, but the skies clear and it becomes
unbearably hot. The climbing continues and the energy
drains, but not anywhere near as much as during the
last 2 kilometre climb into Limatambo. It is steep.
There is plenty of accommodation in and around this
town and it is also obviously a permanent route stop
for the tour buses. Prices are quite a bit higher for
normal produce than elsewhere in Peru and stores are
poorly stocked: especially on the fresh fruit and vegetable
front. I manage to scrounge a few mangy looking carrots,
two apples and a couple of bananas, before finding a
lady with some decent tomatoes. Appears we'll be digging
into the chuño [freeze-dried potatoes]
and hongos [dried mushroom] stores for tonight's
dinner.
Moving out of town, looking for a place
to camp is quite unsuccessful. Its potato country like
you have never seen before and every bit of land is
used for crops. Ali has an another untimely flat tyre
today but this time, I pull out thirteen thorns from
his back wheel with my tweezers. We keep climbing and
as dusk is morphing into dark, we resort to pitching
smack bang in the middle of a raised piece of land on
a hairpin bend 9kms after Limatambo (50km;
1310m).
We set up as quickly as possible, not
without me perching my dumpsack a little too close to
the edge which sends it hurtling towards the highway
below. Ali finds my scramble after it most amusing.
I'm not so sure I needed the added exercise. An inquisitive
woman from the house a few hundred metres away comes
over to say hello. She approves of the tent and wishes
us a good night's rest, though it's a rather slopey,
noisy and stormy night's sleep. Next morning thank goodness,
the skies are clear.
It is roughly 17 kilometres of constant
uphill pedalling to Abra Huillque (3768m) from
where we camped. There are so many little farms and
villages in between, full of curiously friendly people,
before the landscape quietens close to the top. Gravel
mines take what they can from the sheer white cliff
faces in this barren area. From here 27 kilometres of
pretty well flat travel take you as far as Izcuchaca:
also known as Anta. We are excited about the chance
of the fast and smooth cycling, but the black thunder
cloud that waylays us for nearly an hour under a pine
tree has other ideas. It not only drops bucket loads
of water but hail stones as well. Temperature drops
dramatically under 10 Celcius. Brrrr!
The sun comes out again: enough to
get us up and past the turn-off to Urubamba and even
higher to our top climb (3750m) today. It even
stays with us while we begin the 8 kilometre descend
along the highway overlooking the suburban sprawl of
Cusco. It doesn't however stay with us until we reach
Hospedaje Estrellita. Stuck in a downpour for another
half an hour is quite frustrating when you are so close
to your destination: Cusco (69km; 978m).
Feeling like you are coming down with the flu doesn't
help either. We roll our bikes into our lodgings, as
do most overland travellers who get to Cusco: this place
is known well in the biker's world. Kevin and James
had only arrived today as well, so they are surprised
to see us so soon. And in keeping with tradition of
when we meet up with these boys, we trundle out in search
of one massive sized pizza fit for four hungry cyclists.
Huevos Amigos
When we first arrive at Hospedaje
Estrellita, we aren't too impressed with the bare basic
accommodation and share bathroom situation in a rather
ramshackle building for 15 Soles per person, but after
spending a few days in Cusco and seeing what a million
plus tourists per year can do to a city, our lodgings
become a bit of a sanctuary. This feeling we can owe
mostly to the owner and his brother, who pleasantly
potter around at old men's paces all day long, cleaning,
working or serving in the well stocked shop next door.
Breakfast, also included in the price, is the best part
of the day: most of the time, we laze in the courtyard
in the morning sun, enjoying eggs done any way we want,
fresh bread, jam, butter and limitless tea and coffee.
The atmosphere is great and the way the owner delivers
breakfast with a quiet "Huevos Amigo? [eggs
friend?] " sticks fondly in our minds.
A little too much
Cusco itself, declared a World Heritage site in 1983,
is the historic capital of the Inca Empire. Saqsayhuamán,
a precision stonework complex within walking distance
of the city is also on UNESCO's list. And then there
is Machu Picchu, with the same prestigious status and
probably the most desirable Inca ruins on a travellers
"to do" list. Unlike Saqsayhuamán,
where the Spanish removed large quantities of rocks
to build churches in Cusco, Machu Picchu's remote positioning
meant it was never discovered during the evasion and
hence never ransacked either.
Everything about these three places
spells spending money; and lots of it. Cusco is great
for eating out: everything you could possibly want from
all walks of cuisine. It also has some beautiful old
buildings and churches and a great market for souvenirs.
Though, touts and street sellers are quite bothersome
throughout the city and so is the US$12 entry fee into
Saqsayhuamán. While I'm certainly impressed by
the mystery surrounding how on earth the Inca's managed
to build such walls - many of the polished round cornered
blocks interlock with meticulous correctness that you
can't even slip a piece of paper between them - the
site is patchy. You can't walk in many places due to
current excavations which are messy, non atmospheric
and take up a large portion of the walled area. Furthermore,
the repair work is so remotely different from the original
that it looks totally out of place.
But the most disappointing news of
all is we don't go to Machu Picchu. We have been deliberating
for months over whether to do it or not. Many long term
travellers have the same dilemma and are striking this
tourist attraction from their itinerary. It is solely
due to the outrageous costs involved with getting there
and while there are ways around this, it takes firm
commitment and determination to find local buses and
walk considerable kilometres along rail tracks and up
mountains to get there. Personally, after our cycling
efforts to date, I'm not really prepared to pack breakfast,
lunch and dinner along with the waterbag just to join
the other 4000 daily visitors for a few hours of entertainment.
And just in case you are wondering
what sort of cash we are talking about: in 2009, the
government monopolised the train journey from Cusco,
and it will cost you US$32 one way to Agua Calientes.
From here a bus ride to the entrance is US$7. So, double
these fees and add it to the US$44 entrance fee and
you have the grand sum of US$122 per person for a round
trip. For us the entire outing would be equivalent to
almost two full weeks on the road, all expenses included.
Instead, we spend quite a bit of time
with Kevin and James, cooking, eating out and planning
the next leg of the journey together. Ali and James
manage to live through a very speckled hangover from
one two many pints of Old Speckled Hen in the English
pub on the corner of the main plaza. Kevin recovers
slowly from a weak stomach and I try to rid myself of
the flu. And after an amazing 23,000 kilometres on my
existing bike components, its time to find a new 7-speed
cassette, chain and crank set. I would also liked to
have changed my completely shot rapid-fire gearing and
back derailleur as well, but finding these parts is
almost impossible and I am better off sticking with
what I've got for now.
Team Bike is just down from our hostal,
but Russo Bike on Avenida Tacna seems the better choice
of the two shops. Parts are not top of the range and
it pays to check everything you buy with a fine tooth
comb, but at least they have a selection to choose from.
Labour is also very cheap but not particularly experienced.
The young mechanic tells me it is impossible to reach
all seven of my gears and sets it with just six. He
also has no idea about how the screw system works on
my front derailleur. I spend quite a while readjusting
my bike when I get it back to the hostal.
And after four days of rest; of copious
food consumption; of meeting other cyclists; of general
bike maintenance; and a game of darts (Ali-5: James-0),
we are all prepared to pack the loaded bikes and set
off into the real Peru once again.
Nearly all the way
with a couple of easy going lads
Cusco - Peru to La Paz - Bolivia (9 cycle days; 2 rest
days; 679km; 4641m)
Cuzco to 6 km. after Cusipata (87km; 80m)
6 km. after Cusipata to Aguas Calientes (81km; 827m)
Aguas Calientes to Ayavirí (81km; 429m)
Ayavirí to Juliaca (96km; 266m)
Juliaca to Puno (43km; 252m)
Puno to Juli (81km; 368m)
Juli to Copacabana - Bolivia (62km; 465m)
Copacabana to Batallas (91km; 877m)
Batallas to La Paz (57km; 356m)
The beauty of camping wild
Bikes are packed and the four of us are
ready to leave when one of my tubes blows in the sun.
Still, better at the hospedaje than on the road. There
are plenty of overland travellers around to keep everyone
occupied in conversation while I fix it. The trip out
is easy enough and to be expected for a virtual 30 kilometre
downhill run, though the highway is really bad around
San Jeronimo. We stop in the bustling village of Urcos
at the market for lunch and continue on towards a dubious
horizon. Somehow, we miss the full brunt of the storm,
though Kevin and James, quite a distance in front, get
a bit wetter than we do.
Our roadmaps and road signs do not
correspond at all and it is always a surprise as to
when a village will appear. We pass Quiquijana quite
sooner than expected with its lone hospedaje. The following
town of Cusipata also has one very basic lodging that
we see, but we would all prefer to camp or try and make
it to the next big town. A blue gum plantation with
terraces, perfect for camping on, comes into view 6
kms after Cusipata (87km; 801m) and we
decide to grab the opportunity while it is there. There's
one ledge perfect for all the tents and right in between
some of the most colourful mountain sides. The stunning
panoramic view only adds to the beauty of camping wild.
A dream come true
We all agree it was one of the best nights
sleep in a while: flat terrain, peaceful environment,
well away from the highway and snuggly warm in the tent.
Blue skies, warm sun and a cool breeze begin the day:
perfect cycling weather and the grassy plateau, just
slightly going up means we really zap along for the
first 30 kilometres. Kevin needs some bike adjustments
and we stop at a mechanics in Sicuani after 59 kilometres.
Takes a few tries to find a place with the correct tool,
but when we do, Kevin quite expertly shows us how to
remove and tighten his bottom bracket in just 30 minutes.
We also stop for lunch and while Kevin and James are
dining on a set meal for 2.50 Soles each, Ali and I
are picnicking on the sidewalk and watching the clear
sky turn very black indeed.
The weather can change everything and
it does today big time. It turns bitterly cold; headwinds
hit us and it starts to drizzle. The terrain begins
its ascent and it is the commencement of one horrible
journey. Eleven kilometres after Sicuani, we pass under
a bridge that says Agua Calientes is only eleven kilometres
away. Signposting proves to be wrong yet again, as it
is actually 17 kilometres. I really wouldn't have made
the distance if it weren't for my two shielders: Kevin
and Ali. Shunted in behind them, I can just manage against
the wind, though it is still hard work. I also can't
let the moment pass without thanking David Bowie, Muse,
Joe Jackson, Weezer, Weezer and Weezer for almost a
third time - until my iPod Shuffle totally crashes in
the rain - for the motivationally merry music that kept
my legs turning for what we all thought were the last
4 kilometres of our trip.
Wet and miserable under the shelter
of a tiled overhang, we decide to brave the subsequent
6 kilometres. Like some bad joke, they are even steeper;
even wetter; even colder and a flat tyre just before
Aguas Calientes (81km; 827m)
even more wearisome than I can explain. What I can tell
you though is, it was like a dream come true, when we
dipped our exhausted, cold bodies into the warmth of
our private thermal bath for the first time. Even though
the place is very badly run and you could fault quite
a lot, the few hours of steaming ourselves and floating
in warmth were about the best thing that could have
happened all day.
Weird but wonderful
We had been greeted at the entrance by a man who claimed
to be an organiser and Kevin, James and I sort out our
very makeshift accommodation. Only seven soles each
with free use of all the thermal activities, so we could
hardly complain. For five soles each we could have camped
on a slope, but decided instead that Ali and I would
take the massage room with one bed in it, while Kevin
and James didn't mind laying out their mattresses on
the concrete floor around their private thermal bath.
The boys also organise dinner in the restaurant for
7.00pm, which when it comes time to eat was locked up
and clearly not going to provide them with anything
nutritious at all. They arrive on our doorstep, cookers
and food in hand. Huddled together on the floor of our
massage room we couldn't have got any cosier if we tried.
Like I said before, Agua Calientes
has many flaws, but it would have to be the most unusual
place we have ever visited before, adding to the long
list of charms Peru has on offer. If this place were
in Ecuador, or worse still Costa Rica, it would cost
you at least $US25 to get in the door. While you might
get a bit more standard and the possibility of clean
toilets, you really have to admire the appeal of this
unkempt place. Steam rising up from the surging water
channels; bubbles oozing their way out of the earth
by your feet; the salty mineral smell following your
every move as you pan the mist covered mountains and
grasslands surrounding you; pools of different size
and temperature at your full disposal as well as a eucalyptus
steam room which they call a sauna. Quite wierd, but
certainly wonderful at the same time.
We don't however think it is particularly
wonderful when they try and kick us out of our room
at 7.30am stating that they need to clean the area.
Kevin has a few strong words with the maintenance man
and we buy ourselves an extra hour.
Pollo sin pollo, por favor:
[Chicken without chicken, please]
The boys take a dip and a steam bath in
the morning, but I'm still feeling the effects of the
flu and prefer to keep my hair dry. Although it might
be deliciously warm in the water, outside it is bitterly
cold. We start the 10 kilometre and 275 altimetre climb
to Abra La Raya (4369m) around 9.30am. It is
quite the open-air shopping spot for tourist produce
and venders are out in force today, since the train
which runs three times a week from Puno to Cusco is
expected in an hour or so. After a few photographs,
we roll down the other side and slide into Santa Rosa
for lunch.
The weather turns on us again as we
head out of town and this time the thunder and lightning
are right above us. Winds smash us from the side and
icy rain whips our cheeks, which is about as much fun
as it sounds. The guys shield me again, but somehow
I just can't keep up. Ali pushes me from behind and
then we discover the slow leak in my back tyre. I don't
know what it is about storms, me and flat tyres, but
here we are again roadside fixing the damned thing.
Truth is, my tyres are completely worn
and wattle thorns have worked their way into the rubber
and are almost impossible to find. Problem is, there
have been no decent tyres to be found anywhere in Peru.
All way too knobbly or too cheap and nasty looking:
they probably wouldn't even last a few hundred kilometres
We are hoping a bike shop in La Paz will have something
to offer.
An hour later and the clouds are white
and fluffy instead of black and heavy and we are flying
down the flat stretch of highway towards Ayavirí
(81km; 429m). Now we really are on the
Altiplano, where the Andes are at their widest and home
to the native ethnic Aymaran people. Tibet aside, this
is the most extensive area of high-altitude plateau
in the world and averages around 3,750 metres for its
entire length. Bright pink flamingos wade in the green
swampy waters, brown grassy plains meet rolling hills
that disappear into vibrant cloud formations many miles
away. And as an entourage of four we pedal happily into
a surprisingly large metropolis in the middle of nowhere.
Around the plaza there are a few hotels
to choose from. Hotel Lumonsa looks good from the outside,
but the 45 soles pricetag is a little steep for a double
room with share shower. Especially seeing as this part
of the deal is really grotty, smelly and not hot at
all. On the other hand, we have a wifi connection and
a neat and clean room. Everyone fancies Chinese today,
so the fact that the vegetarian restaurant is closed
proves no problem at all. The woman in the Chifa though
has a hard time getting her head around fried rice without
meat.
James: Can we have two lomo saltado
dishes? as he chooses from the long menu list hanging
by the door.
Lady: No, we only have fried rice today.
James: Okay then, can we have two fried rice...
Lady: Yes
James:... and two vegetarian fried rice?
Lady: No, we don't have vegetarian fried rice.
James: Can you make fried rice without meat then?
Lady: Chicken fried rice?
Me: No. No chicken or fish either. Without any animal
in it. We are vegetarians.
Lady: No, we don't have fried rice without chicken.
Kevin: How come you can't make fried rice without chicken?
Lady: We don't have it.
Kevin: What do you mean you don't have it? It's just
the same thing, but without chicken
Lady: No, it is not possible.
We all look at each other for a while
and discuss what we are going to do. Meanwhile, others
come and go taking their little polystyrene containers
away. For a place only serving fried rice its doing
a roaring trade. The woman has obviously had some time
to think about our situation and after about ten minutes
addresses us with:
Lady: How about fried rice
with egg?
Me: Sure, that's okay, So long as there is NO animal
in it.
James: Okay. Two normal fried rice and two egg fried
rice please.
A few minutes later...
Lady: is onion okay?
Ali: Yes, onion is okay; almost laughing.
A couple of other tables fill up in
the restaurant and our rather bland tasting rice dishes
come out.
James: Do you have some soya sauce?
Lady: No, we don't have soya sauce.
James: Do you have any sauce at all?
Lady: No we don't have any sauce.
As we are eating, the table next to
us is served. To our bewilderment they are dished up
with four servings of lomo saltado: the dish
that James had initially asked for. What more can I
say?
With a little help from
my friend
Apart from tripping over the pavement
and falling flat on my face just outside our hotel,
not much else happens in the town of Ayavirí.
Well, I suppose the couple of ladies at the market who
try and make a few extra soles out of me with their
bad adding up and subtraction skills and the shop owner
who directs us to a café selling bread and pastries
saying "you won't much like it there, though",
are worth a mention. We leave at 9.30am again and have
a sailing time riding the 32 dead-horizontal kilometres
into Pucará. A short shower has us sheltering
under the roof of the local botica [pharmacy].
It isn't such a dilemma though, as we have found some
excellent cheesy bread, bananas and are quite content
on watching the local running race taking place in the
village while we refuel.
From Pucará to Calapuja (40
kms), the road worsens and unfortunately, halfway along
this stretch, so does the weather. Though the rain is
minimal, the side-winds atone for the hardship of the
ride. Even the boys have a hard time in the bluster
and we push on down the highway in a tight diamond formation;
me of course having the prime position to the right
of Kevin and tucked in behind James who is alongside
Ali. The tarmac returns to its immaculate condition
after Calapuja and a few kilometres later we make that
right turn that has my dear friend: the wind, thrusting
us towards Juliaca (96km; 266m).
Twenty-four kilometres have never seemed so easy.
What's going on in their
heads for pete's sake?
Juliaca is another massive township, a city really;
and it takes a while to navigate our way into the heart
and find Hostal Luquini where we can just roll the bikes
in. Ground floor accommodation is always a draw-card
for bike travellers: engine or no engine. And although
the 60 soles room rate is a little more than we usually
pay, none of us are excited about the prospect of further
searching for an alternative. Three Dutch motorcyclists
have also chosen these lodgings for the night:
Auke
and Marieke
and
Jan
Gerben
. Jan Gerben's 1943 Harley Davidson really steals the
show and it's also nice to hear their perspectives as
motorised bike travellers.
We have a room opposite Kevin and James
and just our luck that Ali and I pick the one with the
hot water system that takes more than an hour to heat
up; and then it is barely luke warm. The boys have instant
hot water, so I'm not impressed: not so much about having
to wait, but the fact that the owner just conveniently
forgot to tell us this detail. Had I known, I wouldn't
have been standing naked with the cold water running,
waiting for it to turn hot. Had I known, I wouldn't
have had to jump into bed fully clothed to warm back
up again: remember we are at 3838 altimetres here. Had
I known, I would have simply demanded another room.
Pizza is not great at the
chain restaurant down the road, but it is hot and filling
and we totally woof down three large ones between the
four of us in no time at all. Beer is outrageously expensive,
so we opt to buy a couple of bottles on the way back
to consume in the garden of the hotel. We walk into
a liquor store and yet another surreal conversation
is launched.
Kevin: Do you have big bottles
of beer?
Young boy shopkeeper: No, only small ones.
Kevin: Okay, how much are they?
Young boy shopkeeper: 18 Soles for the six pack.
We umm and ahh about what we need.
I don't like the standard beer, only dark beer and that
would mean someone else would have to drink them with
me. James doesn't mind. As we are about to hand over
the money, I spy large bottles of beer at the back of
the room.
Me: Are they large bottles of beer?
Young boy shopkeeper: Yes.
Me: So, can be buy them instead
Young boy shopkeeper:Yes.
He goes and gets the 6 bottles we want
and we hand over the money. He hesitates.
Young boy shopkeeper: There
is a one soles deposit on each bottle.
Me: Okay, no problem. We are quite used to this
by now. So, when are you open in the morning?
Old Man Shopkeeper: 11 am
Kevin: That late: 11 am?
Old Man Shopkeeper: Yes, we are open until midnight,
so we don't open until 11.00 in the morning.
Ali: It's okay, I'll will bring them back tonight then.
At 10.15pm, Ali returns with the empty
bottles, but the shop is shut. The next morning, at
10.00am, on a chance, Ali goes back, but they are still
not open. Nor are they at 11.05am either...
Floating theme park
I have another flat tyre when we wake,
so Kevin generously gives me his spare-used Schwalbe
Marathon XR to get me puncture-free to La Paz. Since
it is only a short ride to get to Puno today, we gave
James, who loves his sleep, the pick the time we should
depart. Eleven was his hour of choice. Leaving Juliaca
is easy, though not if you were to obey the road rules.
The highway leading out of town has "no bicycles"
signs clearly displayed on the roadside. We are not
the only ones to violate convention and it is no wonder
when the alternative side path looks like a recently
excavated rock quarry.
The 30 odd kilometres of road up until
the turnoff to Sillustani are excellent and we make
good mileage along this stretch. The climbing and the
roadworks begin here, both of which slow me down at
least. Kevin and James are in flying form and complete
the 240 something altimetres to reach the top climb
(4022m) of the day, well before I get there. From
the top we can see across the concrete jungle of Puno
and the famous Lake Titicaca, home to the indigenous
Uros tribes and their floating reed islands. It is a
very quick 4 kilometre plummet to the train station
and Hostal Qoñi Wasi right in the centre of Puno
(43km; 252m). For an extremely touristy
town, the lodgings are very reasonably priced at 30
soles for a clean double room with private bathroom;
wifi connection and use of a communal kitchen as well,
but the part that wins my heart, especially after yesterday's
showering disaster, is the piping hot water with perfect
pressure.
Spreading viruses
I don't sleep at all well: awoken in the middle of the
night with cyclic cramps. The ghastly eggy burps are
back, I have no appetite and diarrhea starts in the
early afternoon. Tell tale signs of giardiasis. I have
been plagued with this problem for the last few weeks
and it just doesn't want to go away. The ingestion of
infected cysts is transmitted in three main ways. Although
the most common form of transmission is from person
to person and commonly due to poor hygiene, I believe
brushing my teeth with contaminated tap water in a few
dubious places is the cause. I think I can rule out
the third mode: venereal. In any case, I feel dreadfully
sick. Ali purchases a 2 gram course of Secnidazol (like
Tinidazole), to be taken in one go: that's a lot of
drugs at once and they do the trick. I feel miraculously
better the next day.
The other virus that plagues all of
us, except for Kevin because he has a Linux Operating
System on his computer, is the dreaded Recycler virus.
It starts with James giving Ali an infected USB stick
and Ali detecting it in Cusco. We later discover that
all of James' electronic apparatus are infected. Ali
also has it on his computer, USB stick and it is possible
it is on two of his hard drives as well. This in in
turn gives me the scare that I may have introduced it
to my computer as well. Luckily, I discover that I didn't
used any of the external drives after the infection.
The boys spend the best part of the day downloading
disinfectant and unlocker programs and manage - fingers
crossed - to rectify the problem without either of them
loosing any photographs or vital information. It is
quite an anxious time and James has learned that you
can't do anything unprotected these days!
Floating theme park
The virus issue had prevented us from
visiting the biggest attraction in Puno: Islas de
los Uros also commonly known as The Floating
Uros Islands. We are all still quite keen to go,
so decide to visit early the next morning and then start
cycling towards Juli around 12.00pm. James and Ali are
riding the cyling taxi's down to the port, which in
hindsight is probably one of the main highlights of
the day.
The Uros date back to pre-Incan times
and are famous for their ingenious use of the totora
plant. Not only do they sculpture beautifully ornate
boats with this reed, but it is the main construction
material for the islands that they live on. The plant
generates such a dense root system that they naturally
entwine and create a one to two metre thick layer, known
locally as khili. This is the only ground
support and naturally the islands are continually rotting
away. New surface reeds are therefore added on a quarterly
basis to ensure longevity of the island. Each island
has about a 20 to 25 year life span and before that
is up, 8 months of construction begins to fashion a
replacement island.
These settlements were formed in the
1500's as strategic self-protection against the advancement
of the Incas. Initially, they lived on boats and with
necessary expansion started tying them together. The
woven reeds decayed which lead to the discovery that
the totora plant soil floats at a particular point in
its life cycle and by removing blocks of soil and sawing
them to size, they could easily create large floating
wedges. In the event of a defensive, they could detach
the rope anchors staked to the bottom of the lake with
sticks and float to safety.
Nowadays, most of the Uros descendants
live on the mainland and the few hundred remaining on
the islands make a living from tourism. While the whole
idea of a floating island is bizarre; the history of
this indigenous group interesting; and the bouncy feel
when you walk on the totora reeds for the first time,
unique: the set up at Islas de los Uros is
painfully like entering a warped Disneyland theme park.
We had decided, due to our time scale, to fork out the
120 soles plus 20 soles tax (not mentioned) for a private
boat. On the normal boat it costs only 15 soles per
person, but we would have to wait until one filled up
and then you have no say about where you go. Apparently,
we have a full scope and can dictate our route.
Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell
the skipper of our boat that. He found it impossible
to deviate from the structured tourist course: Isla
Uros Manco Papac; the Restaurant Island; followed by
another with a hotel or something akin. We have had
enough after the first stop-off; where we are greeted
by barefoot locals in brightly coloured costumes and
sat down for Pablo's Spanish rendition of how the island
came into being and what sort of souvenirs the island
group has on offer. Grandma, who according to James,
sat in the same position six years ago, is grinding
seeds with a curved rock and demands money from me when
I take a picture of her actions. We simply ask our boatman
to steer us around the islands and possibly take us
to someplace, where the other tourists don't go. I mean
there are about fifty of these floating homelands and
the vast amount of water between them to choose from.
Well, I tell you the guy must have
turned hot and cold all over, because he just couldn't
bring himself to do something other than the norm and
after the outlandish excuse that he doesn't have enough
petrol, he starts taking us back down the channel, returning
to port. We are having none of this and demand he turn
around, go back and steer us around the islands. The
next lame excuse for not meeting our wishes, is there
are too many boats and he might crash into them. I'm
beginning to wonder if this guy has ever gone any further
than a few hundred metres into the island group.
He does take us back, but just floats
in the same spot for a while, not daring to venture
any further. So much for having full license to do what
we want; obviously that doesn't come with the private
boat package. You need to pay even more for the "extra
special service", though no matter what you pay,
I doubt you'd get much more than the well trodden totora
tourist trail.
House with no street-name
Twelve midday and we are navigating our
way out of Puno. The roads are atrocious, but no confusion
about the route. Roadworks hold us up a couple of times
before the road improves and we stop for a bite to eat
in Acora. The highway returns to its former dishevelled
state, but there is no stopping Kevin. He is way off
in the distance, his adrenalin pumping owing to tomorrow's
exciting return to his homeland Bolivia, after residing
in Germany for the last thirteen years.
Traffic is mighty aggressive today
and pushes us from the roads a few times. More annoying
though, is the incessant horn honking. Peruvians are
world class experts at this. The landscape is pretty
well flat grassy farmland connecting with ochre dirt
and blue skies. Plenty of scruffy, shaggy donkeys for
me to appreciate and heavily fleeced llamas to laugh
at too. The unusual grooves in the red rock formations
also capture my attention for a brief moment, as I am
amazed at the mud brick homes with shiny corrugated
roofs randomly dotting the vista. Most unusual, as there
are no streets and yet this is a community of a decent
size.
A town can be spied off in the distance,
but is still ten odd kilometres away. I'm pretty well
exhausted by the time we reach the turnoff to
Juli (81km; 368m). I have been trying
to keep up with the boys' speed all day and that always
has it's toll on my energy. Halfway up, I resort to
pushing the steep slopes past the interesting local
market and up to the plaza. Here, we book our reasonable
rooms at Hostal Los Angeles, though how they price structure
is quite a mystery to us all. The boys pay 5 soles more
for a double with share toilet and shower facilities
than our 25 soles rate for a double bed with private
bathroom.
So much has happened in the last 24
hours that I completely forget about my earlier sickness
and the fact I still have a large dose of active drugs
whirling around inside. I actually feel great albeit
a little fatigued and foolishly order one beer when
James goes out for the evening nightcap. Unfortunately
the result is me spending the rest of the evening and
wee hours of the morning hugging the toilet bowl heaving
my heart out. Even my mother's wonderful remedy of emptying
your stomach completely and rinsing it with Eno [effervescent
salts] doesn't stop the pain and dry reaching. I haven't
felt so bad for years.
I later investigate and ascertain that
Tinidazole (Fasigyn) has similar effects as Metronidazole
(Flagyl) also used to treat giardias. You need, as I
stupidly found out, to avoid alcohol at all costs as
it can cause severe vomiting, headache, and gastrointestinal
discomfort by inhibiting aldehyde dehydrogenase, which
is essential in breaking down alcohol. Boy, did I do
the wrong thing!
Kevin's big day at the
COH-pah...coh-PAH-cah- BAAAAH-naaah...
Rather tenderly, I set off up the hill
out of Juli. Kevin asks me if I'm not feeling weak.
I am, but according to him, I don't look it. Nonetheless,
it's a burdened plod up the 2 kilometres and 98 altimetres
required to reach the top climb (3964m) of
the day. The boys are way out in front. I mainly have
my head down and am concentrating on the pedals going
round for much of the first half of the day. We pass
the turnoff to Desaguadero mid morning and reach Yunguyo
around lunchtime, where we take a break to put some
nutrition back into our bodies. The boys head down a
side street for a set meal and we picnic in the plaza
in the sun. The town is bustling and quite a bit bigger
than we had expected. In fact all the major towns on
the Altiplano have been surprisingly large. I spend
our last coins on eight small blocks of Sublime, one
of those Peruvian delights I will never forget: chocolate
almost as creamy as Cadbury's Dairy Milk with the added
crunch of crushed peanuts. I think I may have just got
my appetite back.
Kevin will be crossing back into Bolivia today after
not living in his homeland for 13 years and he is excited
about it, that is for sure. Copacabana is where we all
go our own separate ways as well. Cristian and a few
other friends of Kevin's will be meeting him after a
days rest to cycle the last lengths of his 11 month
journey from Mexico City to La Paz and James has decided
to stop-over for just one night, meaning Ali and I will
be back to our early starts again. Its only 3 kilometres
from our lunch spot to Kasani and the Bolivian border
crossing. All runs very smoothly and the officials are
not quite as bureaucratically concerned as the toe-tapping,
stamp-flamboyant men we met on our entry into Peru.
Getting out takes a few minutes. Kevin's Dad arrives
as the boys are going through the paperwork motions
and we make sure we cement the occasion with our cameras.
Getting in is also no problem, except the first official
is hesitant with our 60 day visa request. His boss overrules
and we get the time we need.
Only 10 kilometres more from the border
till we reach Copacabana - Bolivia (62km;
465m), but there is a hill to navigate
before sailing down into the port. Kevin cycles to the
beachfront to stay with his Dad. With James, we find
rooms at Hostal Sonia and its a great place to stay,
away from the touristy part of town. All the mod cons
and a bright sunny room for just 50 Bolivianos (7 Bolivianos
= 1 US Dollar) for the both of us. We cruise along the
beachfront in the afternoon, before resting at a cafe
stall to soak up the glorious sun and watch the boat
activity in the water. This is so different from anything
we have experienced in the last few weeks. Besides being
swarmed with tourists, the place has quite a pleasant
Mediterranean feel about it. And that is fine for a
day or so. We couldn't last much longer anyway: Copacabana
doesn't have an ATM. Quite ludicrous considering the
town thrives off its sightseer population.
So, Ali and I have made it into country
39, without too many dramas and normally, I would write
something about country 38 in reflection. It would probably
take up this spot on the page, but unfortunately I'm
not quite up to it yet: I'm not talking physically here,
but mentally. So much has passed by my eyes in Peru:
landscape of every form possible; people with hearts
and smiles as wide as all our oceans put together; beauty
to make you want to sit down and stop for a week to
contemplate; wild ruggedness like I never expected to
see; and an overall friendliness that was second to
none. All this along with the 30,000 odd altimetre and
2,600 kilometre achievement in basically two months
of travel has left me astounded; touched; and gob-smacked
that I don't quite know what to say about this profound
country. While Colombia still remains number one for
cycling, Peru has toppled Pakistan off its post and
is firmly planted in second position. You'll be hearing
more about it later, that is for sure.
Our
cycling trip through Peru: click HERE to view larger
map and more details
Dodging storms in a small
world
The climb out of Copacabana is not difficult,
it is just very long. A lot longer than you first think.
When you have reached the top climb (4251m)
of the day, you will have only completed 11 km and 375
altimetres of your journey and the road, after a petite
fall, continues to wind its way up and over another
hill. This goes on for 100 altimetres worth of ascent,
though a couple of short downhills are thrown in for
variation. The wonderful free-fall to the ferry crossing
at San Pedro de Tiquina is a wonderful end to the first
leg of a journey, where one moment Lake Titicaca is
to your left, next to your right and on the odd occasion
you find yourself driving through the middle of this
massive expanse of water. It is more like an ocean than
the highest navigable lake in the world - you can thank
Ali for that last piece of trivia. The road is unbelievably
excellent and we fortunately dodge the rain storms for
the first half of the day.
The ferry ride costs five soles each
including the bikes and takes no more than five minutes
to get to the other side. And just to reiterate how
small our world is: Cristian's wife, Luisa and her daughter
just happen to drive onto our ferry as well. She had
just left Cristian with Kevin about an hour ago in Copacabana.
The climb, on a much lesser quality road, from the ferry
goes on quite a distance. By the time you are making
the drop into the next small village and flying along
the flats you have done close to 700 altimetres for
the day.
Rolling terrain will take you all the
way through a touristy looking, but contrastingly dead
Huatajata and then the corresponding ghost-town of Huarina
where the local alojamiento [lodgings] looks
like it's seen better days. We promptly decide to pedal
a further 10 kilometres into Batallas (91km;
877m). Unfortunately, our assessment in
the town prior was a little hasty, because the hospedaje
- for want of a better word - is really dismal. The
30 Bolivianos compared to 50 for the fabulous room in
Copacabana, is a total rip off: no shower, a makeshift
toilet arrangement that would turn most people's stomachs,
two sagging hammock-like metal beds. At least we have
a light and it would be nice to think that the woman
was going to put the money towards improvements, but
on inspection of the area, it appears that little has
been done to fix the place up in years. Its a pigsty!
Come back little white
line, come back
The rain is pelting down this morning
and neither of us feel much like cycling along a highway
into a one-an-a-half million plus population city. But
then again, neither of us much feel like staying in
this grot box any longer than we actually have to. Around
9am, we pedal out onto the highway. There's a slight
gradient in parts and a slight headwind nearly all the
time. There's nothing particularly slight about the
rain though, but it is better to keep pedalling than
stop. It is too cold to stand still. As to be expected
enroute into a big city, the traffic is thick, fast
and has little respect for two wet souls slowly pushing
along the same path. A little white line, where roadworkers
once marked the shoulder with string, comes and goes
at random. Strangely enough, when its with us, I get
an automatic sense of safety. A little barrier to stick
behind. Mind you, I'm not exactly sure the vehicles
can really see it. When it disappears, I hear myself
whispering: "come back little white line, come
back".
Entering the outskirts of the world's
highest capital is a concentrated effort, but not the
most difficult cycle dodging we have ever done. The
unkempt surroundings on the other hand are tougher to
comprehend. The roadside is just one big dumping ground
for anything Bolivians wish to discard: from wine bottles
to babies nappies; food scraps to car parts; unwanted
bricks; cement; gravel piles; newspapers; plastic. You
name it.
We reach El Alto (the top) at around
lunchtime after a pretty solid innings of cycling. Enclosed
in a basin, La Paz sprawls its way up the sides of the
mountain towards the surrounding and higher altiplano.
It is one of the most accessible panoramas of an entire
city I have witnessed. We catch just a glimpse of the
permanently snow-covered peaks of Illimani too: the
highest mountain in the Cordillera Real. Pretty good
viewing after such a miserable weather day. From this
vantage point we plot our course into the city and while
it takes some time to swirl down through the concrete
jungle, we seem to be heading in the right direction.
James tells us later that he took the highway and it
plonked him right out near
Chuquiago
Café
, owned by Cristian and Luisa. A possible choice for
the way out. Yes, in order to continue our journey through
Bolivia, we have to climb back up the 500 odd metres
that we have just plummeted down.
La Paz (57km; 356m)
has some of the steepest streets imaginable and often
badly cobbled as well. You do not want to get lost here.
Finding ourselves close to a market area, we ask a couple
of obvious travellers with a Bolivian guidebook in hand
where the Plaza de San Francisco is. We are apparently
not too far, but need to walk down a crowded footpath
before shunting out on a highway that leads us directly
to the square. I peer up the street we need to climb.
It is monstrous and I opt to push. Ali makes it halfway
before doing the same. By the time I've heaved everything
over the footpath a couple of times, navigated the deep
cobbled potholes and puffed my loaded bike up the steps
of Hotel Fuentes, I'm ready for a massage and a nap.
We are a little out of our league in this hotel: its
posh and had James not been staying here, we probably
wouldn't have gone anywhere near it. But here we are
standing on parquet wood flooring with horizontally
perfect beds covered in clean linen and fresh snuggly
doonas, hot water spurting out of nice fixtures, an
almost flat screen tellie with all the channels an English
speaking foreigner could possible wish for.
Good enough reason?
So we have made it to La Paz: another milestone and
the start of the next big leg of the journey. From here
to the Chilean border is going to be one of the most
challenging stretches of cycling we have embarked on
so far. Long expanses of deep sand and washboard surfaces
with limited options for obtaining water and food supplies.
So, if you are wondering why anyone would want to compel
themselves to long periods of loaded-bike pushing and
only achieving 30 kilometres a day: its because we'll
probably experience perfect starry nights too; encounter
incredible landscapes with silly rock formations; soak
in thermal bathes and capture some of the pinkest flamingoes
in the world on camera. Good enough reason?
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