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I spent a ouple of days in Lima, eating and drinking, in street cafes in the beautiful colonial squares and trying not to think of the days on the Pan Am ahead of me. The city buzzes with activity, streets and squares are full of people sitting and chatting, whilst street artists make a quick buck entertaining the crowds, in the warm sun it difficult to tear yourself away from the city.
In contrast, the Pan Amrican highway north of Lima had little adventure to note, the desert was hot and the nights slept out in the desert were little better.The shanty style buildings continued, entire famiie living in a rough concrete or timber box trying to eek out a living selling fizzy drinks and buiscuits to passing truckers. As I pedalled north I met Lucie and Mike coming toards me, Czech round the world cyclists, (http://www.filabel.cz/lucie+michal/ ) we compared notes on the road ahead. Perversely, they were really enjoying the Pan Am, and told me it was a lot more of this lovely desert, to the north. I resolved to avoid as much as possible, turning off it the following morning with a huge sense of relief.
>From the coast the road climbs back into the mountains, the foot hills are lush and hot, the fields filled with sugar cane, oranges, bananas, bright red chillis and parrots. 4000m of ascent took 2 days, up through tiny villages clung to the steep hills, inhabitants keen to chat and play with the bike whilst I recovered over freshly picked fruit. Arriving at the pass at dusk, the view was masked with cloud, I camped on the grassy moorland.
The skis were clear in the morning, and I was greeted by views along the entire Cordillia Blanca. Imagine a line of sharp, high and snow covered peaks lined up like sharks teeth down onside of the valley, deep blue sky as the backdrop. Breakfast was an unhurrid affair, marvelling at the mountains over cups of tea. Eventually, I packed to leave and cycled 30 mils down the valley to the sleepy climbing mecca of Huaraz. Each new view worth a minute of two stopped to take it in.
Huaraz s nestled in the heart of the Cordillia Blanca, Impregnable white mountains towering ovr the small town. Every shop on the highstreet is a trekking agncy, offering tours, climbs and dodgy gear for rent. Cafes were full of goretex clad gringos, talkng mountains and trekking. My feet itch to get ut in to the mountains, cycing shorts and trainers being unsuitable for anattempt on the glaciated peaks, I retire to Cafe Californa to read mountaineering books and eat rich cake. Hills have contributed much to the towns history, much of it for the worse, destruction of the colonial town and periodic destruction of the modern town is due to regular mudslides triggered by surrounding glacial lakes, the last one, only a couple of decades ago has left scars all down he valley.
After meeting a handful of westerners in months of crossing Russia and China, South America is really very sociable, the gringo trail is particuarly predictable, a handful of towns have strong backpackers scene. I have the choice to spend weeks cycling inthe towns and villages, well off the trail, passed by gringos in buses then head to somewhere like Huaraz and recharge with a good night out and like minded people to chat to. Its after a night like this with all the folk for the hostal, that we meet the hosal owner, Manuil. He sis with us on the roof top terrace while e much beakfast, telling us about about peru, the corrupt politis, the women and about the gold. He points out a plane he laims has come from Canada and is going to the mines, see how it flys fast. it returns an hour later, reputely laden with a moutain of gold, the proof, it is flying slower!
Gold and politics hit me the next day, having stocked up on supplies I decide to leave and head through the mountains, however a stike has been called. I was advised to be out the town early, if I could. The exact cause of the strike was dificult to fathom, however it was fuelled by a general disatissfation with the regional government and the sale of gold to foreigners. It was errie to cycle trough the town, all shuttered up and thosands of people on the streets, having not lived through any major srikes or protests in Britain, the strength of feeling was impressive. The roads were blocked with stones, people and burning tyres and although nobody stopped me leaving, they all eyed me suspiciosly. Out of Huaraz the protest behind me, I was again in the stunning valley along the side of the mountians. As the valley decended the mountains drew closer togther, the valley narrowing to canyon proprtions. Late in the afternoon the paved road ran out and the track ran into a rocky fissure, the river running in a narrow canyon below, the trackcarved into the vertical rock. To get through the tightest part of the valley, the track disappeared through a series of thirty five tunnels hewn out of the solid rock. The sun was setting, the sheer valley bright red, before I found a place big enough for the tent. I was once again, officially off the Gringo trail.
In my desperation to avoid the Pan Am my plan was to head through the mountains to Cajamarca, the route existed on my map, and just recenty another RTW Brit called Al (www.roundtheworldbybike.com/), had managed to make his way thrugh. It promised a week or so, remote and high in the mountains and villages. A stop at avilage store ended in a evening drinking with the inhabtants, a bed as located inthe neighbouring restaurants vegatable store and from a dusty box a DVD player and subtitld movies were produced. The restaurants main cliental were bus passengers, the place was periodically lively all night, dozens of people puring in to chat and to watch the movie, a surreal atmosphere in the middle of a barren valley. Victor not only sorted me out a huge breakfast the next day, but also put at my disposal, the homes of is friends in the vilages along my route. If I was to make any of them by nightfall I would have to pedal hard.
The road wound uphill for two days, lonely tracks arved into the steep valley sides. The modern world was left behind, Toyota taxis and political graffitii disappeared, the occasional gold propector and one or two passing trucks were all that punctuated the empty valley. The river occasionally roars thrugh rapids, in Huaraz, I was told this river is filled with gold, I am suprised that I only see a couple of people prospecting, their rough timber huts indicting that perhaps there was less than Huaraz-ians believe.
I spend my 26th birthday camped on a ledge high on the hill. The pink sun sets over the mountains, and the silant valley is filled with my parents humour, a Cliff Richard singing birthay card! Party pack of ballons and a big banner are strung about the tent for a party pasta meal and whiskey.
The pony track rises and falls through the hills, I ride throughthe beautiful villages of Pallasca, Mollypata and a host of tiny hamlets. Each sitting on the hil like an italian hill town, at their heart, a colourful colonial style central plaza, people lazing in the shade and sipping cold drinks. Conversations bonc around the hills, distance to the next town and slightly more surreally the last Gingo that passed (English on a bike... Al!) and directions to the nearest Shereton hotel. I am invited to chew Coca leaves with a group of guys, one is dispatched to get a few strawberries, blaring radio slung over his shoulder. He returns later with a hge bag of red and ripe fruit, the erfect energy food for the demading hills. Fortified with this and the pleasant effect of the coca leaves, I bash on up the steep track for lunch in Pallasca.
The nghts are spent camped or bivvied on the ledges by the side of the road, fantastic sunsets and wild mountain biking make it an incedible few days. A sucsession of steep climbs left me searching for a flat campsite as darkness fell, a brief discussion with Paula and I was invited to camp on their lawn. Paula and her family made a living from roof tiles, the whole family proudly shwing me their kilm containing a thousand red pan tiles. They all wanted to have a tour of the tent and equipment, after dubiously eying the stove Paula told me to put it back in my bag, and moments later produced a big bowl of soup. I slept soundly.
The pass to Huamachuco was reputed to be high, lonely and accoding to Paula, would take me at least 3 days. High, exposed and lonely it was, the track wound high over the ridges to a barren summit. The only signs of life were horsemen heading over the hills to drive cattle. I wasted no time in starting to descend, as I did so a horsemen approached me, clad in Poncho and glistening in the rain. A brief conversation revealed that he was also going to Hmachucho, via a shortcut, a shortcut, I followed him. The rain lashe as I hurtled downan trackless mountainside, desperate to keep up with the galloping horse. We forded deep rivers, crossed boggy plains and spd along pony tracks, the grey poncho of my guide, alwys just disappaering ver the horizon. The bike wsin suprb form, flying ove the bumps, an exhilerating rid through some wild country and wilder weather.
The horseman left me at the track to Humachucho, with little more than a Hasta Luego, the skies clered and in the evening sun I pedalled the few kilometres nto the tiny markt town. As the houses started, the road became paved, freewheling Ibegan to lookabout for signs of accomodtion. Dogs languish in virtually every house in the Andes, the more ferocious are usually dispatched with a kick in the hops or a squirt of water from the water bottle. The dog that lives in the tiny grcers shop at thetop of town, howver, has a real killer instinct, no barking and a lightning strike from accross the road. Before the gingo realises he is there, his teeth are clamped round his ankles.
If the people of that suburb didnt know any english before, I regret to say that they probably do no, vicious abuse spilled from my lips as I slammed to a halt. The owner trotted out to assist, as did most of the inhabitnts within hearing. Before long I was being tended to with jars of pink solution and a roll of masking tape whilst a couple of dozen passers by plied me with questions abut the trip and my life in Britain. Patched up, I checked into a hostal and dined at the only restaurant open, on the only dish availible, fried chicken.
Next morning, I queued in the chaotic local hospital, for a consultaion and hopefully a rabies jb. Disfigured and injred people generally beg for money, these people congregate in hospials and a gringo is seen as a rich target for obtaining a few coins. Needless to say by the time I ws called in I had a queue of hidiously injured people longer than that for the doctors. I asked for a rabies jab, the nurse muttered something in Spanish, persising, I was finaly led out of the hospital to a small shed. The shed contianed a guy, an empty filing cabinat and a poster on how to recognise a rabid dog. As the guy walked out of the hospital wth me, it became apparent that we were going to find the dog. An American style, face your fears experience i wondered? The dog was asleep in the sun, we didnt wake it. Instead we interviewed the owner, the dog was called Yogi and was 2 years old, he has never btten a gingo before. The conversation moves quickly and before I realise I am being reprimanded, why were you wearing shorts? of course the dog will bite gringos in shorts. The case is closed, I do not get a jab. I do get a lot more questions and offers to hitch me up with the owners daughters. Maness, total madness!
Humachucho is not finished with me yet, The chicken gets its revenge and I am struck with stomach bug, totally knocked out for 2 days. I can hobble no further than the shop next door before returning to bed. I decide to take time out to recover, I spend 5 dys in the town altogether, pottering around the centre and sitting in the sun watching folk. The hats in this area have grown to wide staw coloured stetsons worn by all. Locals and peruvin tourists mill about te central plaza, sitting in the shade and chatting, photographers with papier mache donkeys patrol the central space, offering photos of the authentic Andean expirence.
By day five people are beginging to say recognise me in the street and sit and chat. Im fit and rcovered and decide the time has come to move on. The dusty road to Cajamarca beckons. Three days I toil along the road through Cajabama to Cajamarca. My map optimistically predicting tarmac, I find dirt tracks and plenty of sharp thorns. Puncture stops are frequent, giving me time to take in the wide mountain views. In Cajabamba I am caught up in a wild wedding pary, the whole town is invited, dancing and drinking till the small hours.
Cajamarca is a breath of fresh air, sizable, bustling and home to many creature comforts, a hot shower followed by Pizza and beer to celebrate my crossing and to fortify me for the ride out of the hills and into the desert.
My reward for the hills is a effortless run out of Cajamarca to the desert, all dowhill, at speed. I camp near the edge of the mountains overlooking a small lake, fisherman bade me good evening as dinner bubbles in the pinkish light of sunset. It was great to be back at sea level, breathing thick, oxygen rich air.
The desert, barren, hot and very bright. It was over 200 miles to the Ecuadorian border, the only feasible route being the dreaded Pan Am. I plug in the minidisc and bash my way north, deary truckstops and cheap hotels punctuate my ride through this fetureless place. Even though the desrt borders the Pacific, it claims the honour of the driest desert n the world. Its rough rocky composition is not pretty, and slightly dirty. Vulture circle as I cycle during the heat of the day, we watch each other nervously. The houses along its edge are shanty, ricketty constructions, providing barely more than a bit of shade. Its souless and again, I am chuffed whenthe turn off to Ecuador appears on the horizon. I cross out of the desert and checkout of Peru.
The hills of southern Ecuador are lush, steamy and teaming with life.The contrast to the desert could not be more stark. Ecuador is a volcanic country, the hills and ridgs are sharp and uncomromising. Dead Iguanas, over a metre long, out number dogs in the road kill stakes. Frequent rest and rehdration stops involve me in cheering on football teams and chatting to some crazy locals. The road ahead is maped out by Marc and Mattieu, French RTW cyclists, over a year on the road already, we swapped tales and adventures. The nights draw in and I take shelter one evening in a remote bus stop, my presance startling the folk that arrived for the first bus in the morning. My breakfast stop, that damp morning was made in the company of a Parrot called Lolita who enjoyed cheese crackers.
Loja is a beautiful market town in the southern hills of Ecuador, Narrow bustling streets and colonial architecture made it a great place to recharge. The road to Quito was reputedly increadibly hilly and I wanted to be at full strength or the assult.
The rough track north out of Loja wound up over high ridges, each time just a little higher than before. As the road turned to tarmac I endevoured to reduce the effort by indulging in a little truck surfing, where a truck is going at the right pace for you to hang on the back and get a tow up the hill. Its not without its difficulties, a delicate sense of balance is decisive, with the weght of me and the 50kgs of bike being excrusiatingly painful o the arm after perhaps a minute or so. Still resting you legs is wonderful. Whilst hualing my way up one hill, I realise a suitable truck is about to overtake, it has some kind of wire mesh on the back, perfect for hanging on to. As it overtakes I put my head down to get to the some speed then look up to grab the mesh. Two big eyes stare back at me, the mesh is a cage, the eyes, that of a tiger, he has tow friends with him, all of them are looking at me. I withdraw my hand and and the truck slides past. I didnt truck surf for a long time after that!
Camping is very plesant in this green land, sometimes on a farm, once under the shelter of a farmers shed, but always with romatic views over the surrounding valleys. As I cycle into Cuenca the wealth strikes me, taxies are replaced by posh chevvies and 4x4's the buildings are wll constructed and it seems like people actually care about the town. The town itself is yet another fantastic example of colonial architecture, compact and low rise, it is domintd by the twin domes of a beautifully ornate cathedral. I stay in a backpackers hostel in Cuenca, conecting with the Gringo trail and chatting in the bar. I have a chance meeting with some Colombian artisans, my thoughts have been on the Colombian question far too much in the recent weeks and I relish the oportunity to get a firsthand view on weather to go and what about cycling. They tell me in no uncertain terms about the country, encouraging me to go but only a fool would cycle. Colombia doesnt leave my mind as I head north into the famous Volcano alley. The geography here is quite simple, two straight ridges of volcanos with a valley inbetween, as the vocanos have pushe up sharp ridges have formed accross the valley, giving ladder of hills. In every dip is a town. Two dips a day an I would be in Quito early. The hills begn to lessen and under the clear skies I could see the glaciated Chimborazo, once assumed to be the highest peak in the world, and today holds the record for being the furthest point from the centre of the earth (due to the ecuatorial bulge), The erupting Volcan Tungurahua Sends a picturesque plume of smoke into the skies to the East of the road, whilst to the west the twin peaks of extinct Volcan Illiniza rise into the cloud. The most famous peak, Cotopaxi was however totally swathed in cloud.
In sight of the Welcome to Quito sign, my back tyre wore through and exploded. I reckoned I was at my destination and the temptation to push it to the hotel nearly overwhelmed me. New tyre in place and I freewheeled into town. To locate the hostal I stopped at a bus stop and asked the dozen or so fok assembled there, for directions. Te response was amazing, each and everyone told me it was too far for a bike, soooo far. No actual directions were given, I wodered where they thogh I had come from, it was hardly as if I dressed up like this for a short ride round town. A mere 3km ater and a fair amout of misdirection and I was ensconsed in hostal in the middle of Quito Gringo village. I had decided to fly over Colombia, and that evening I celebrated the end of South America.
Clare arrived the next morning, the sun shone an for the first time in a while, I had clean clothes. We had three weeks to see this country,and not a bicycle involved!
Cheers
Matt
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