Weld done us!

 

Simon Bolivar, Venezuela's most famous son (sorry Huge Chavez), identified three great fools in history, sticking himself at the top of the rankings along with JC and Don Quixote. However, times move on and records are there to be broken and I'm sure if 'El Libertador' has been keeping up to date with events in his home country from his independent cloud in the sky he'll concede that a worthy attempt to dislodge the big three from the top of the fruit tree has recently been made. This entry will cover the final 'leg' of the journey from Manaus in Brasil to the finishing line - the Caribbean coast of Venezuela. Its was a Simon Jones leg: long and with several painful breaks but ultimately leading to glory; in his case the leading role in the 2009 English Ashes victory, in our's Isla de Margarita and the strange knowledge that we've just cycled all the way across the continent. What an odd thing to do!

Manaus to Boa Vista. 22nd to 28th June. 839 Kms

You might remember we had washed up in Manaus following a very 'crafty' journey down the Amazon. Perhaps we hadn't stressed enough that it became obvious somewhere back around Quito that our timetable was looking a little tight and we thus exhausted all available resources to convince ourselves that the Amazon to the Caribbean could be accomplished in the three weeks we'd left ourselves. These resources amounted to a map whose small scale encompassed most of the continent (letters on it obliterated entire days), a 'blog' written on the same route some years before by an accomplished-sounding US cyclist and the selective highlighting of certain cells on the spreadsheet I'd set up to see how fast we could go. From these sources we derived respectively that we could expect to have to negotiate an enormous letter 'u', would be cycling only on 'flat and quick roads' and could accomplish it all in 22 hours. That sort of selective statistical analysis had been forecasting some pretty spectacular results for Esso for years! It was going to be, in short, a walkover.

The "flat" road out of Manaus. According to some Sepo on his blog. Ok, it's not mountainous, but there wasn't one "flat" 100m of road for days!

Unfortunately it soon appeared that Al was really going to have to 'walk over' as his bike frame snapped in half the second day out of Manuas. Hastily consulting the spreadsheet to see what effect pushing his bike to the Caribbean would have our on our arrival date it seemed we were now projected to finish in 2018. Crikey, Delta Airlines will be bust by then as we'll have won our court case against them (Nicolas Cage will be playing heroic prosecuting lawyer Mike Delaney in the film remake, punching the air as the judge intones gravely: "...to the charge of being a bunch of nobs... guilty on all counts"!). Uhm, anyway, Al's bike had conclusively fallen to bits and we were now 140Km up the jungle from Manaus. After pushing the culprit (the bike, not Al) back to the nearest town it became clear either Col or I would have to accompany Monty Junior back to the city to spend a day trawling industrial estates for a welder, while the other remained sitting by the pool in a hotel we'd found, guarding the other bikes and bags - ie.. drinking mojitos. On this note I should add that our team is a microcosm of how a prefect society should work and the difference between these two tasks meant nothing to either Col or myself. Therefore, after losing the toss of a coin, I cheerfully set off back to Manaus without regretting for one moment that it was that Colin and not I left pool-side. Ho hum. To make matters worse this catastrophic bike failure had happened in the one country where speaking Spanish is no massive advantage (as regards Portuguese... people keep telling me its easy to learn, being 'just like Spanish' but, to me, this just means lets all speak Spanish?) Happily the enormous crack through the bike was eloquent enough in explaining the problem and just listing the events of the next day should suffice to explain both how odd our days were becoming and how tight our logistics were: Got the bike welded in a technical college as an example piece for a class of apprentices, raced to catch a bus back to the scene of the disaster, woke up Col, set off after lunch and sweated 75 Kms north, turned down a lane into the jungle on the off-chance of finding a place to kip, found a fishing lodge where Pedro the chef tried to cook more than we could eat (the final plate of bass did it), Toucans sit on our bikes and Macaws deliberately attempt to defecate on Col's head but sadly just fail. Yes, the Paraiso de Pesca was one of those strange blessings that are sometimes found in unlikely places.

A cheeky Toucan has a look to see what he can make off with at Paraiso de Pesca fishing lodge.

The following day we had an interesting experience as we cycled through an Indigenous Reserve with a somewhat violent history. Road users are asked not to stop during this 120Km stretch and a Ranger of some sort gave us specific instructions that basically amounted to 'don't wind the natives up'. Perhaps he'd heard about Colin's habitual foreign antics (there should be a 'link' on the word 'antics' to Colin being chased around the world by various taxi drivers but sadly no such footage exists). Happily these natives proved more tolerant than Mark Dainty in Andorra and we escaped intact, the enforced stops that cyclists need being accompanied by only imitation whistling arrows and shouts of 'he's weeing on your sacred tree - shoot!!' as we all returned, ahh, remained in primary school mode. I suspect it goes without saying that this was the best preserved tract of jungle we passed through, managed as it is by people who know what they're doing, and so we had the privilege of seeing wild monkeys (that is, not domesticated ones, not ones going berserk), otters, toucans, macaws and a lovely old tortoise. Or maybe it was a young one, its hard to tell. Oh, and I nearly cycled into the back end of a jaguar. This being the jungle the result was not a set-to in the street with a Hooray Henry motorist but rather some quiet thanks that the cat had decided to do a runner, most likely in surprise as I'm the weirdest looking thing in the rainforest since Sting. Anyway, all very exciting.

Some thoughts on cycling through the jungle. I mean, it can get a little tedious I have to confess. You're not really seeing a great deal and, funnily enough, it gets pretty warm and humid in the old rainforest. In short, not one for your next cycling holiday. Also we noted that, quite to the contrary of what our Sepo friend had predicted on his blog, the jungle was pretty hilly. Indeed, I'd suggest there are no flat bits at all for the first 200Km from Manaus, the entire stretch undulating in 'Big Dipper' fashion. You can well imagine we found this 'unwelcome' and our cycling predecessor began to receive the sort of imaginary correspondence we've been penning in our minds to other purveyors of route-note-rhubarb. On further reading of this chap's blog however it became clear that he was one of a common breed: cyclists who catch the bus. Claim to be 'cycling across a continent'? Making very very fast progress? Advice on the road ahead becoming a little flaky? Bike strangely clean...? You bussed half of it! Go back and start again! Hold on, this a self-righteous rant!! Apologies, born of the frustration that comes from wrestling with all the things that go wrong on the tough or boring bits other people sensibly 'miss out' I guess. Talking of which we're now in Boa Vista after four consecutive days over 150Km took us across the Rio Branco, out of deforested grasslands and into more naturally open savanna. Here comes the next string of events that meant our rallying cry from now on was "on to the next disaster".

Boa Vista to Puerto Ordaz (Venezuela). June 30th to July 7th. 878 Km

Things that make you go hmmm. After a rest day in Boa Vista (the only one for these three weeks) to watch Spain overcome their demons and subsequently wind-up the Germans in the sort of way that would make even the tolerant folk of the Waimiri-Atroari go 'Dainty' (conga chaos) we set off. Oh no we didn't because the Venezuelan consul was at a high level meeting all morning and wouldn't be sober enough to sign our tourist cards until the afternoon. Tolerance with this sort of guff was running lower than duct tape (reading our earlier blogs you'd appreciate we thought they were lucky we'd turned up to get our papers stamped in the first place) and we got shirty. Then we got trousery cos they wouldn't let us in the consulate in cycling shorts. Near diplomatic incident now. Our official rubber-stamping jotter-blotter thus set us the unlikely task of 100Km in under four hours to reach somewhere to hang our hammocks. What was unlikely became impossible when 'the Manaus weld' gave way 44Km up the road and we were faced with a hitch back to Boa Vista. Actually, we're not very good at hitching so we walked back to a roadside bar with the patient and called a cab. We're cyclists not hippies.

Awaiting a bus back to Boa Vista after Al's frame breaks for the 2nd time in a week.

Some excitement here as I waited alone for the second taxi when a gang of drunken yahoos appeared out of nowhere and waved machetes about exhausting my reserves of British Phlegm in studious display of disinterest. The next morning weld 2 (now with even more welding stuff was performed) and we were underway again, our progress towards to Caribbean akin to El Del's efforts to get through his bedroom door in college after a big night at Cindy's. The wild back and forth lurching of this day left us marooned by the roadside some 75Km short of the Venezuelan border. A truly grisly affair ensued here; simply recalling it is pretty traumatic. Al has assured me he's going to check in for hypnotherapy on his return so the memory never haunts him again. So, just for the record... we were forced to pitch the tent in a sort of ditch in the absence of any accommodation, the sheer quantity of mosquitos making sleeping in hammocks absolutely out of the question. It wasn't hot in that tent, it was a steam room, a pressure cooker. The lack of space, welcome in the high Andes, proved to be a serious problem. Seriously, after two minutes I was drenched in sweat. Only partly my own. Sometime later it felt like the air beds were starting to float. Sweat poured off the roof and through it all opening the canvas was banned, the mosquitos waiting patiently outside to come to the party. Of course, some got in anyway. Torches, flicked on as searchlights to find and kill the blighters, illuminated the drawn faces of men in a waking nightmare. There was no sleep on July the 1st. July the 2nd would have been a rather beautiful day, up into the mountains that loom up out of the Amazonian plains, but as it was exhaustion made the climbs to the border and the start of the panoramic Gran Sabana particularly draining.

Looks innocuous enough, eh? This, actually, is the very spot where Hell joins up with Brazil. The nightmare camp, just shy of the Venezuelan border.

We got into Santa Elena, Venezuela, just in time to have some cash stolen from our room, go 'off on one' with the hotelier, enjoy a trip to the local Sweeney where Al could complete the set of fingerprints left behind in Latin America (ah, but whose have a comment saying 'suspected of telling pork pies' next to them dear reader eh??!!) and leave under a cloud. That said, the bikes were still in one piece and the next day dawned clear to afford a dramatic passage through the flat-topped mountain scenery of the Gran Sabana which, unlike the jungle, is a really tremendous place to go cycling. Venezuelan army check points were being particularly friendly, one of them run by (another) Newcastle United sympathiser whose English vocab stretched only to the word 'Magpies'. Good lord. We meet a Canadian cyclist touring the Gran Sabana near the end of the day."You guys rock" she tells us. Indeed we do, and it is because our bikes are now held together by wire and hope.

Its off the edge of the Gran Sabana and down into three big days of hot hot heat though gold mining country. A meeting with a young Australian gold explorer in the town of Tumeremo is most instructive into the mayhem surrounding this 'industry'. I don't think I've ever met anyone more Australian, and that's including Big Aussie Joe. He's clearly upset at people shouting "Gringo" at him in the street (we sympathise with him on this point) and he's taken matters into his own hands. "Aw, mate, I've had to get hold of a few and tell em, I'm not a ****ing Sepo, I'm a ****ing Aussie mate"!!! Of that, there truly was no doubt. However, given he speaks no Spanish I can't imagine any of the locals are any wiser, though doubtless a few have been mildly terrified. Tumeremo was the scene of the latest mechanical delay as it turned out my rear rack had cracked in three places. Given Col had beaten me by a few days to this sort of show-stopper, and had thus already bagged the big-bolt-bodge of Calingasta, the delay was the length of time it took us to repair it with; 6 rusty nails, 6 cable ties, a bit of wire. Two days and some careful speed bump negotiations later we were down on the bank of the River Orinoco in Ciudad Guayana / Puerto Ordaz. Bikes, nails, welds, big bolts, fools sitting on top - all still where they should be. Preparing for one last 'big push' in this 'new town' we visited a shopping centre and, in the confusion caused by being amongst the sort of vulgar consumer hell that blights parts of Venezuela, I lost my treasured cycling cap.  Dismay. I then fall victim to a dress code and get thrown out of a bar. A bar in a shopping centre. Rage. A replacement hat is obligatory as the sun is scorching so I'm now wearing the remains of a pillow case on my fingers, wrists and head and can no longer really complain about people staring at me in the street. We're all catching the sun now and Al is having to mimic my 'finger puppets' while Col is wearing a thermal shirt. In the jungle. In addition to the pillow casing I've got long johns rolled up to protect my knees and so, looking like a Monty Python sketch its 'Tally-ho!' and off to the coast!

Ciudad Guayana / Puerto Ordaz - Chacopata. 8th - 10th July. 433 Km

On the way out of Puerto Ordaz a fellow cyclist gives me a mango to eat. Its something to do while Al replaces a broken chain. We cross the Orinoco by ferry which is mighty fine, weave through some drunks on the far bank, and lay into the hottest day to date as we cycle 200Km across the edge of the river delta to Maturin which stakes a late claim for most chaotic town yet visited (Peruvian coastal towns filling the top ten up till now). Its a bit of an epic and one Al has labelled a 'make or break day'. Strangely we both make it and end up broke as the ATM's are not on the pay and Venezuela is the most expensive country we've passed through by some margin. It Al's birthday so we celebrate by finding a place that takes Visa and getting, uhm, Al to pay for it. Congratulations! This day was the sort of cycling performance that would have had the doping testers lining up round our team hotel with plastic beakers if they weren't all at the Tour de France, looking at Ricardo Ricco  suspiciously. Accordingly we start late the next day (after nine) which works in our favour. We are cycling into the coastal range of mountains north of Maturin, around the pretty town of Caripe and have a big climb called 'La Campaña' to finish the day. It is hard to imagine tackling it successfully in anything other than evening cool. It is worth it to reach fresher air and great mountain surrounds; an ideal spot to spend our last night on the road and savour the downhill to the Caribbean the following day.

The start of the climb called 'La Campaña', north of Maturin, Venezuela.

Of course, that is not what happens. What happens is that we decide to visit Venezuela's biggest cave, 6 Km on the way from our overnight stop, on the worthy scientific basis that it might have a cafe where we can get a coffee and cake. It doesn't but we go in the cave anyway which turns out to be a bit of a nightmare for idiots in cycling shoes as its the slipiest surface since Pat Sharp closed his Fun House. On leaving it has started to tank it down and our descent to the coast is carried out in a monsoon. Hold on, we haven't reached the coast. We are going back up again, quite steeply. Hmm. P'twang: Colin's chain breaks for the fourth time this morning and he looks like he's about to go over the mental edge he's been teetering on since his tyre blew out on the Maturin ring road. Only the weight of the bike prevents him what David Millar recently did when struck by the same problem in the closing stages of a Giro d'Italia stage. Throw it!! Good grief, the Caribbean looms into sight out of a cloud at last. We are running later than we expected and so we go quick, so quick that we manage to break through two road blocks (social unrest of some sort, but as I'm dressed like Michael Palin's village idiot and carrying expensive gadgetry I deem it unwise to hang around to find out if its the 'battering a ginger Teessider' sort) set up on the track out onto the Peninsula de Araya before anyone can collar us. Here one last range of hills is breached and its down a barren and ragged seafront for the 20 Km to the place we chose for journeys end: the village of Chacopata. Here there is no hotel or hostal, indeed there are no visitors at all, and all is rough and ready. We didn't miss the boat to the Isla de Margarita (where we will relax for four days before the flight home) because no boats left today at all. The wet weather we cycled through in the mountains was the tail end of a storm that passed through today. This is the information we hear from the Harbour Master who has let us sleep in his office overlooking the little bay and a sardine canning factory. A power cut meant it was hard work tracking down a cold beer, but our new pal the harbour master runs the show in this place and he was still shaking his head in disbelief at our arrival when he reappeared with cans. We cooked our last pasta meal on the floor of the 'capitania' which may seem an unlikely place for journey's end, but one which, as only we can judge, was appropriate enough. The weld done us, so well done us.

Midd

Pura bici - a cycling update

 

Apologies for giving up blog writing back in Argentina. So, please find below an update on where we’ve been, and how, in an extremely boring, pure cycling format. Everything is still very beautiful!

In summary… 22nd March – 28th June. La Quiaca (Arg) to Boa Vista (Brasil)

6,219 Km. 63 days cycling. Average distance on days cycled: 112 Km. Longest day: 223 Km. Route: Bolivian Altiplano - Bolivian central highlands – back to the altiplano and La Paz – cross to Peru at Lake Titicaca – south shore to Cusco and Machu Picchu – long crossing of the Andes to the Peruvian Coast – up said coast for 1500 Km through deserts – back into the Andes as we cross into Ecuador – down into the Amazon basin and over the equator twice to Coca on the Rio Napo - Down the Amazon to Manaus - Through the jungle to Boa Vista. General conditions: uhm, hilly!

Bikes

The frames made it to Coca. There will be a future blog about what has been going on in Brasil I’m sure but... Don’t get aluminium mountain bikes for a steel touring bike job! Support from Merlin Bikes very good indeed. The bits attached to the frames have generally been replaced or welded back together. Our tyres have proved to have a design fault – side wall splits mean a couple of cheaper replacements are now rotating. Continental ‘Travel Contact’ are the culprits to avoid. Dave Leslie’s (official team support coordinator) parcel of drivetrain spares arrived in La Paz but the parcel of pannier parts has already done Bristol – Mendoza – Bristol – Lima, and we think it might now be heading back over the Atlantic for the fourth time. It’s clocked up so many air miles it's becoming a serious factor in climate change.

La Quiaca (Argentina) to Potosí (Bolivia). 22nd to 30th March

Distance: 735 Km. 1 rest day. Av dist on cycling days: 92 Km. Very wild, scenic and seriously demanding cycling.

Cross the Bolivian border at 3443m above sea level and finish at 4070m up in Potosí. In between we climb to levels where no person has had the breath to carry an altitude marker. No tarmac at all. Dirt deteriorates to deep gravel before the town of Tupiza. Sand coming out of it improves to bedrock as we take a route that isn’t marked on road maps. Vast panoramas are wildly impressive. Camping with the Llamas, cycling up a river to the mining town of Atocha and sliding through sand dunes until we reach the Salar de Uyuni. 160 Km there and back to spend the night on an island in the salt flat. Best surface of entire section. Tupiza to Uyuni was difficult but Uyuni to Potosí was gruelling. Our map of Bolivia is great as it was a gift from the fantastic ‘Boon’ but really awful as it has clearly been drawn by infants. Ones who are really bad at geography. I’m sighting this as the reason for our traumatically late finish in Potosí. ‘Road’ appalling. Lots of sand, water and mud, some snow, but hardly any air. We see no other bikes in the city of Potosí. There is a good reason: many hills and they all only go up. 3 days off: visit the world’s most important mountain and see Evo Morales after much searching. A very memorable time.

Potosí to La Paz. 3rd – 14th April

Distance: 1074 Km. 2 rest days. Av dist: 107 Km's per day. Bit more air, Amazon tributaries, cobbles and long climbs

Potosí to Sucre over 2 days continues our anti-clockwise loop started in Uyuni. We drop down on tarmac through heavy rain to the more comfortable and pretty colonial city of Sucre (2790m) sitting above deep-cut, lush green valleys through which we travel over the next 4 days to the city of Cochabamba. Tarmac runs out on this stretch. Road made of debris for half a day then cobbles for 75 Km. Cobblers. Scenery wonderful, lots of dramatic drops and long climbs make for good cycling. Rivers are now Amazon feeders and surrounds suitably 'baby jungle'. Interesting accommodation in the town of Epizana: confusion is caused by a herd of pigs trying to break into our ‘room’ during the night. On to Cochabamba in landscape identical to Weardale. Leaving Cochabamba ( 2560m) we are now carrying sawn-off pick axe handles - see future blog from Al on how to avert potential urban ‘situations’. ‘Tarmac’ all the way to Ecuador now. We climb back up to the altiplano reaching 4500m and in doing so pass to a more barren, harsher landscape near Oruro. The run in to La Paz is marked by numerous inner tube explosions as I’ve fitted the wrong size valves in Cochabamba. Col and Al are having chain snapping problems instead. Entering La Paz (3660m) actually requires a steep drop off the plain into the canyon filled by this fantastic city. The descent is done is our trademark urban style – down a motorway kicking troublesome taxis and buses. It rains, we get drenched and freeze to the handlebars. 3 days off here to enjoy what is a really tremendous place. Go to La Paz!

La Paz – Cusco (Perú).18th to 24th April

Distance: 723 Km. No rest days so 103 Km's per day. All high level stuff so relatively flat around Lake Titicaca, which is, indeed, ‘very nice’

You can see it’s not really so far from the capital of Bolivia to Cusco (and Machu Picchu) and the first four days take us up to and around Lake Titicaca. Due to crafty logistics we manage a night on the Isla del Sol, birthplace of the Incas (in short). Col spends time on another planet as he’s suffering from the latest bout of bad guts that will, uhm, rumble on to Ecuador. Cross into Peru and travel along the fertile south shore of the lake before rising through a bit of austere splendour to a 4300m pass and so back into the Andes proper. Pretty chilly. It is worth noting that on crossing the border into Perú, until passing into Ecuador a few of days ago, the standard of driving descended to something so poor there is no comparison. The only instrument Peruvians seem capable of locating on the dash is the horn, cycling militancy was provoked and many drivers ‘had to be told’. Everyone’s glad that’s all over. We drop into the valley of the Rio Vilcanota (later to flow through the ‘sacred valey’), the temperatures increase and the scenery becomes more pastoral. Inca terracing everywhere – well, mainly on the hillsides. Into Cusco where we take 4 days off and discover some deserted houses on top of a big hill which is alright…

Cusco – Lima. 29th April – 9th May

Distance: 1169 Km. 1 rest day. 117 Km av per day. Through the Andes at the really wide purple bit on your atlas. Not for kids.

If you want to emulate the cycling climbing feats of Virenque, Chiappucci, Roche et al, and see lots of Alpacas at the same time, this is route. Six high mountain passes at or above 4000m, highest 4390, in the six days out of Cusco. Climbs of up to 65 Km in length finishing in wild hairpin, D’huez-style stuff. Snow-capped jagged peaks abound around. Very little air. Again. This route was shut by the activities of ‘The Shining Path’ through the eighties and nineties – perhaps that’s why our latest mapmaker didn’t get round to finding all the towns and took to making some up instead. It is deeply exciting scenery. Six mind bending days end up with a 2 and a bit hour descent down a 99Km 3800m drop to Nasca racing against nightfall. Fast and bumpy. I stare so hard through my sunglasses they snap in half. We take a day off in Nasca to look at the mysterious Nasca Lines from a light airplane. Discovered in the 1900s - I’d like to see the minutes from the Nasca council tourism brainstorming session a couple of years earlier. The next day we pass some suspicious looking workmen as we cycle through the same desert. We think they’re drawing a mouse. From Nasca we rack up some longish days through deserts punctuated by the odd irrigated valley and out-of-season seaside resorts and reach the snobby suburb of Miraflores in Lima thanks to the map drawing skills of Maria in a Repsol in Chorillos. 3 days off in Lima.

Lima to Macara (Ecuador). 13th to 22nd May

Distance: 1234 Km. 2 rest days. Av per day: 154 Km. Long fast days through a desert notable for fog and drizzle. Escape to beauty in Ecuador

We cycle straight through Lima and it is a seriously lively route. We followed the directions of what seemed to be a reliable voice and rocked-up in some tasty neighbourhoods where we only survive due to: our deeply weird appearance, our don’t stop for anything, anything at all and cycle as fast as possible at all times approach and a police escort out of a particularly ‘we’re all about to get battered’ sort of place. We were delighted to find the motorway which we sprinted along for about 20 Km before it downscaled to a dual carriageway down the fast lane of which a naked man came running at us. Frankly after all of this excitement not a great deal happened for 800 Km or so until Colin fell down the hole in Chiclayo. This is mainly because the northern Peruvian coast is a desert punctuated every 100 Km or so by depressed and depressing towns. People were very keen to impress on us how dangerous it would all be but we encountered no trouble whatsoever. Thus thrills were thin on the ground. The first four days out of Lima we actually covered more ground than the peloton will over the first four days of Le Tour his year. Ok, so their fourth day is only a 30Km time trial, but then they’re not avoiding naked madmen on the route. We manage the 223 Km crossing of the Desert of Sechura in one leap, which is a good job as there is not a great deal in it and it means we can watch the European Cup Final. If I’d have known odious Chelsea would lose it in such hilarious fashion I’d have walked over that desert to watch it. On my hands! Still chuckling we avoid ‘South America’s worst border crossing’ (the main route on the coast) by finding a route inland to the Ecuadorian border town of Macara.

Macara to Coca. 23rd May to 8th June

Distance 1284 Km. 3 rest days. Av per day: 92 Km. Very, very hilly. When it ended, which at points seemed unlikely, we were on the banks of the wide River Napo ready for a boat adventure east (and south a bit - pedants take note)

We climb through cloud forests to reach the spine of the Andes at Loja. It is a beautiful but difficult road. Loja to Cuenca is wet and difficult and might have beautiful if the cloud had lifted. Cuenca is very attractive but we have no time to stay as we cycle on to Riobamba, a route which is beautiful, wet and difficult all at the same time. In the last 8 days we have crossed the Pacific / Amazon watershed 5 times (lets just say 'The Andes') and the cycling is consistently demanding. Things level out a bit through the 'Avenue of volcanoes' on the 2 days to Quito and the rain eases off a little. The clouds only lift high enough to reveal the dome of Chimborazo on the day out of Quito, heading east to complete our last high altitude pass at 4100m, dropping down the eastern slopes of the Andes, past Volcano El Reventador, through the oil town of Lago Agrio and down to the Rio Napo.

Coca to Manaus. 9th to 21st June

River trip. No Kms cycled but some 'lost' as we move east and a bit south. Conditions generally flat and wet - it is a river.

Ready? Rio Napo: Canoe launch from Coca to Nuevo Rocafuerte: 10 hours. Smaller canoe launch over the border to Pantoja in Peru: 2 hours. Peke-peke (dug out canoe) with Nono the journo (¡q nos vemos en La Latina gaditano!) to Santa Clotilde: 2 days. 1 day wait. Rapido (fast launch) to Mazán: 4 hours. Cycle 4 Km over land bridge to Indiana on the Amazon. Amazon: Hilariously packed launch from Indiana to Iquitos: 50 mins. Cargo ship 'Manual Iquitos' to Santa Rosa: 2 days. Launch from Santa Rosa to Tabatinga in Brasil: 15 mins. 2 day wait. M. Monteiro (Cargo / cruise ship) to Manaus with ace Mary-Lou: 3 days. Shipbroker for journey: Middlemiss-Montgomery Lines who manage a 63% saving on quoted prices. Hey, Dr Pace; arrival in Manaus ahead of laycan (cos that's shipping coordination 'de puta madre' señor!).

Manaus to Boa Vista. 22nd to 29th June

Distance 839 Km. 1 welding day. Av per day: 140 Km. Hot and very humid, powerful sun. Should not have been a surprise; we were in the jungle. First 200Km very undulating (think the A68 to Corbridge) then flat, crossing the Rio Branco to this city close to the Venezuelan border.

Sluggish start with boat-life and heat induced lethargy in legs. Col's rear rack snaps on day one which we rectify with the 'big-bolt-bodge' from Calingasta (see Argentinean blogs). Second morning out of Manaus Al's bike frame snaps. More serious. Return to Manaus and get it fixed in the Technical College Pro-Menor Dom Bosco as a demonstration piece for a class of apprentice aluminium welders. Oh it is a result! Resolve to go even quicker before anything else falls apart. Improbably superb place to sleep found at Paraiso de Pesca; erm, 'muite obrigado' Pedro e Marco. 120 Km through the Waimiri Atroari indigenous reserve. I disturb a Jaguar (huge cat, not Morse's car) by roadside but don't get eaten. Toucans, Macaws, monkeys and tortoises are less worrying nature spotted here. Exit reserve - please feel free to chop down trees and graze your cattle. Long and hot days. Powerful sun and anti-malarial drugs combine to cause weird sunburn. Wrist bone has come up like a polished cricket ball. Final day to Boa Vista more open and interesting as various mountain ranges loom up in advance of the Gran Sabana which awaits over the border in Venezuela.

Meanwhile The Wolves did not go up. What, one wonders, is the point?!!

D Middlemiss

Ecuador, how hilly can it be...

 

Ok, so like Col's post, this is a little out of date but here it is anyway.

 

Upon arriving in the border town of Macara we promptly checked in to a nice hotel, I fixed the puncture I'd gotten 200 metres from said hotel and we headed out for dinner. As Col alluded to, we first had to sort out our cash situation, which due to our usual forward planning and research (or rather lack of) meant we had no actual idea what the currency of Ecuador was. No problem we thought, we'll head to the ATM and pick up whatever the local currency happens to be. Dave steps up to the cash point and after some messing about with cards being rejected he gets out 300. The problem was it turned out to be $300 US dollars and this left us a little confused but nonetheless we headed of to a decent restaurant to get fed. After eating our food we asked for the bill and sheepishly handed over some dollars to see if they would be accepted. Waiter brings back dollars and we then realise that Ecuador uses US dollars as it's currency. Having learnt our first thing about Ecuador (lack of a travel guide or a map had ensured this) we head back to the hotel for a bit of kip.

 

Day 168 - Macara to Catacochha - 94 KM

Very abruptly we realise cycling in Ecuador wasn't going to be the relaxing experience we had been thinking about. A very steep climb out of town in hot, humid conditions ensure our first experiences of Ecuador are pretty brutal. Col and I catch up with Dave as he's taking a breather by the side of the road after having entered a cloud/fog patch. He seems quite content sitting on the little wall by the side of the road, to one of us points out the numerous huge spiders clinging to their webs behind him. Those who know Dave will know that this didn't please him at all, as much like myself he has no love of the arachnid family.

The day continues with more sharp climbs and they're quite possibly some of the steepest climbs we've encountered so far on the entire trip. If I wasn't enjoying the Ecuadorian experience I had to feel sorry for Col as he was having a "mare" as you would say. Numerous weeks of having the shits and his enforced diet of soda crackers meant he was pretty much running on empty. We descend to a bridge where we know we have yet another climb to finish the day. The climb is slow for everyone but especially Col, who looks like the Grim Reaper may be looking to have a word with him in the very near future. We finish in the pitch dark after about two hours of ill advised cycling along the white line as it was the only thing we could see.

NOTE TO OURSELVES: Buy batteries for Dave's bike light.

 

Day 169 - Catacocha to Loja - 100 KM

Day starts well with a nice spot for breakfast but deteriorates rapidly when the old "biddy" running the joint starts messing up the order. Several corrections later we are fed and set off.

Terrain is similar to yesterday, unfortunately, with very steep climbs up to a ridge where we unfortunately have a 25 KM downhill into Catamayo. I say unfortunately as after a spot of lunch in Catamayo we are off again on another climb - this time 20 KM. After this beast we have a short downhill into Loja where we spend almost an hour searching for somewhere to eat that isn't a fast food joint.

 

Day 170 - Loja

Alarm goes off at 7 am and after Col emerges from the shower a short debate ends in the decision that today is a rest day.....so back to bed it was.

Day 171 - Loja - Saraguro - 82 KM

Day starts poorly with Midds pannier clip finally breaking (initially damaged when he crashed 8000 KM ago) and us taking a wrong turn which costs us 8 KM. Progress is reasonable despite yet another chain breakage (not my chain for a change) but it then starts to piss down and we realise we don't have enough time to make it to Ona so we pull stumps in Saraguro where we find an excellent hostal with great showers.

Day 172 - Saraguro - La Paz - 75 KM

A brief downhill is quickly followed by about a 30 KM climb to Ona where we have lunch before pushing on. We then meet a very nice Austrian couple cycling towards us and stop for a chat and swap some stories and route info. They reckon we could make it to Cuenca today but that it'll be very difficult. They're right. On the climb before Cuenca we stop at a small village called La Paz where the locals tell us there is nowhere to stay but we're welcome to pitch the tent at the roadside in front of a building that's for sale. Tent goes up with a reasonable audience in attendance and we head to a small restaurant where we again have chicken and rice for dinner and get to watch the first leg of the Copa de Libertadores (South American champions league) which features La Liga from Ecuador against America of Mexico. The restaurant seems to close around half time but thankfully they don't kick us out.

Day 173 - La Paz - Cuenca - 73 KM

An early start and a long downhill into Cuenca sees us arrive there in the afternoon with just enough time to get the bikes washed and also get some much needed laundry done. Unfortunately we don't have any real time to see the city as it seems quite nice but we need to press on.

Day 174 - Cuenca - Canar - 72 KM

An early start is thwarted by our inability to find somewhere open for breakfast and Col finally deciding he needs to see a pharmacist again. This one is also a doctor and doesn't agree with his previous treatment and duly dishes out more drugs. Road out of town is uneventful until Midd very nearly puts himself in the huge, nasty, concrete drainage ditch after watching a large group of road cyclists wave at us - truly a close call. It starts bucketing down on our next climb and when we reach the top we take shelter in a barn full of shit - literally. Another few K's sees us sheltering in a roadside restaurant where the long fingered gloves and waterproofs are put on but after the descent into Canar we've had enough and call time.

Day 175 - Canar - Alausi

Our alarm may have went off at 6 am but trust me the fireworks in the middle of the night and the church bells ringing incessantly at 5 am have me awake already and I'm not overly amused by the whole thing. Breakfast is the various flavours of instant porridge we've been saving for an emergency breakfast and mine is dispatched to the bin pretty sharpish. The first cycling incident of the day sees Midds chain break and Col very helpfully fit the new one. Well you could say helpful but Midd and I were pretty sure the chain should actually go through the derailleur and not around it - nice work Col. After yet another Ecuadorian deluge the day's second incident occurs in the shape of Col's rear tyre exploding on a pretty fast downhill. It was only a matter of time really due to our tyre supplier (Continental) being a very unhelpful bunch and refusing to stand by their products which we have found out are pretty poor. They refused to accept their tyres were of a very poor quality and were only prepared to replace one of the eight that had fallen apart under warranty. If you're looking for a tyre to use cycle touring look no further than Schwalbe about whom we have heard so many good reports from other cyclists - unlike Continental whose tyres have let down other cyclists we have spoken with. The rest of the day is occupied by a ridiculous climb on a mud/gravel/sand surface which eventually gets us into the town of Alausi.

Day 176 - Alausi - Riobamba - 99 KM

First incident is my chain breaking, again, and I'm not finding it amusing anymore. Second is much more amusing when Col pulls the rear wheel out of its dropouts and can't unclip his feet from the pedals in time. He does end up in the ditch still clipped in to his pedals but much to my disgust I miss the sight.

Day 177 - Riobamba - Latacunga - 107 KM

A 6.30 am wake up is ordered to take full advantage of the all you can eat breakfast and we assault the mass of food with some gusto. Eventually get on the bikes at 8 am and hit the road. Some uneventful cycling takes us to Ambato where Col and I combine to lose Midd. Unknown to us he has followed the sign for Quito (why didn't we think of that...) and is off on the new bypass. Col and I wait around for a hour on the outskirts to see if Dave will appear but we give up and make our own way to Latacunga where we arrive to see Dave sitting at a cafe in the square. He's been there 2 hours after cycling really fast to try and catch up with us as the road he chose (that would be the correct one) was pretty steep and he figured we must be ahead of him - we weren't.

Day 178 - Latacunga - Quito - 92 KM

A suprisingly flat day sees Quito arrive quite quickly and we make our usual city entrance - cycle fast, don't stop for anything and give shit to all drivers who cut you up. We rather by chance find our accommodation of Hostal La Posada Colonial quite easily and are greeted by the very friendly owners.

 

Quito

Two days isn't a lot to take in Quito and our 2 was pretty much spent shopping. No, it wasn't shopping for the pleasure of the shopping experience but for essentials like hammocks, mosquito nets etc for our upcoming river/jungle experience. We did manage to fit in a trip on the cable car to take in the views of Quito and do some other essential admin before our next leg. Bad news we did have is that upon getting bikes back from a service and clean is that all 3 have cracks in the frames (on the chain stays near the dropouts). Not good news at all and we're just hoping they'll hang together for the remainder of the trip.

 

Day 181 - Quito - Papallacta - 74 KM

Some arguing, and looks of disgust from us, persuades a transit cop to allow us to pass through a tunnel on our exit from Quito. Good job to as the alternative route obviously would have involved a big hill. The descent from Quito is soon followed by the inevitable climb which we know will be our last serious climb (this one takes us to 4100 metres) for the entire trip. We reach the top in cold, wet conditions and put on extra layers and waterproofs for the descent ahead. Good job, too, as it's bloody freezing and the miserable conditions and fading light see us stopping in the little village of Papallacata.

Day 182 - Papallacat - El Reventador - 117 KM

A long fast downhill is the perfect way to start any day and this one goes for quite a bit. A stop in Baeza sees us scoff a proper breakfast (unlike the brekkie from the hotel in the morning) and also sees Midd get some more route info. The info results in a change of plan for us and we take a different road from that which we had planned to take towards Coca. We push on until it starts pissing down again and a nice resort with pool appears by the side of the road. Cycling boots come off and it's into the pool for a mess about with attempted overhead kicks and diving headers with the ball we find. Dave isn't feeling too well so Col does the decent thing and scoffs his dinner for him.

Day 183 - El Reventador - Lago Agrio - 102 KM

First 45 kms go quite quickly and we stop for a drink and for Col to change the tube in his rear tyre due to a faulty valve. We stop again 2 kms down the road when Col realises the rear tyre is partly off the rim. Whilst touching Cols rear tyre the tube explodes and I, as we would say back home, near shat myself. Lago Agrio is reached just before a torrential downpour and we check into a nice hotel as it seems to be the only place in town where we won't get our stuff pinched or get beaten up (Lago Agrio doesn't have a great reputation). It's a little expensive and it's my turn for the camp mat on the floor but we didn't get a beating or our gear nicked so we call it a success.

Day 184 - Lago Agrio - Coca - 91 KM

Not the most memorable cycle but we get to Coca and book ourselves onto the first of our many boat trips to come in the next 2 weeks. I say 2 weeks but that is a bit of optimistic estimation as it could well be 3. If it turns into 3 then we could be in a bit of trouble on the final leg of Manaus to the Caribbean coast as it will leave 2500 kms in just over 2 weeks. Interesting.....

 

AL

Paddington Bear was from... Peru!

 

Ok, so this is well out of date as we left Peru, moving into Ecuador, on the 22nd of May - but at least we've gotten around to it eventually. I'm going to cover the entire trip through Peru in this one post in order to get it done. That means it covers 32 days and a lot of kms, and as a result I can't bare to face writing about every day individually, just like I'm sure you couldn't bare to read it...  I'll include distances and place names at the bottom of each section. I'm sure you'll thank me for my attempt at brevity as it's long enough as it is.

I'm writing this while hanging in a hammock on the deck of a slow boat down the Amazon to Manaus in Brazil, and it couldn't be more different than the month of tough cycling alluded to below! I've got a bit of a hangover from polishing off two bottles of Colombian rum last night (not alone, obviously...) while enduring a huge rainstorm on the boat. Still, mustn't grumble.

Anyway, on with the show. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Peru...

Isla del Sol/Copacabana, Bolivia, to Cuzco, Peru
Days 135 to 139, April 20th to 24th

Once back on dry land we were quickly over the border, doing the necessary documents etc, and into Peru without incident. Amazingly, things instantly became flat as a pancake - an incredible contrast to the previous month in Bolivia. This was expected, however, as we were on the banks of Lago Titicaca for the first couple of days and most lakes are flat, I'm told.

On our first morning in Peru we were delighted to have sheep's head soup for brekkie, down at the market. As Dave's and mine were served up it was amusing to hear Al beg Dave to ask the lady for no sheep's head in his! In a new take on playing with one's food, I was able to play a tune on it's teeth with my spoon. This day was full of bad drivers. One bus actually pulled in closer to Al and I as it roared past inches away, and the teenage hoon acting as a conductor actually opened the door, leant out and shouted some abuse at us! A short distance ahead, Dave was no better off, as a passenger in a lorry threw a load of water over him on it's way past. Welcome to Peru, fellas!

The next day in Juliata was only noted for a cheap chicken restaurant serving up such a mammoth plate that neither Dave nor I could finish it (following the amateur error of having 5 plates of salad from the free salad bar while waiting...). Beating the Middlemiss-Montgomery eating machine is not an easy task, and we both feel somewhat shameful of the incident.

Riding into Cuzco was another interesting experience as we exchanged abuse with the drivers of the multitude of 'colectivo' mini-buses who liked nothing better than cutting us up. It's become our MO for riding into larger towns and cities: ride together, ride fast, stop for nothing and give as much shit as possible! So far the beating sticks haven't had to be used, but they're always to hand if needed...

Day 135, Isla Del Sol to Juli (65km)
Day 136, Juli to Juliata (132km)
Day 137, Juliata to Ayavirí (102km)
Day 138, Ayavirí to Tinta (142km)
Day 139, Tinta to Cuzco (121km)

Cuzco
Days 140 to 143, April 28th

Cuzco's a nice, pretty city, it has to be said. But it's just so touristy and expensive it makes you sick. Everybody and everything in the entire city centre seem to be there purely for the purpose of grinding money out of the masses of gringos who constantly pour through. It's the base for trips to Machu Picchu and some other Inca sites and as a result it's just jammed full of tourists of all ages and budgets. Virtually everyone is trying to figure out how they can get to Machu Picchu without paying the exorbitant prices for buses, trains, organised tours, entry fees etc. We, having bikes, had it in our heads that we might cycle up there within a few hundred metres or so and walk the rest. In reality we just gave in, paid our money and joined the masses trying to be among the first people of the day to get there so the photos didn't include hundreds of Sepos* wearing raincoats and huge SLR cameras. Hold on, that was us, never mind the Sepos!

We visited some museums, seen some cool Incan stuff, and I finally took Dr Spark's advice and went to the pharmacist to sort my guts out after 5 weeks solid of, well, no solids... We found what could be the best restaurant in South America - Cicciolina's Bread and Breakfast. It was even more expensive than the rest of the muck we seen in town, but it really was worth it. If you're heading there, take note - just spend the extra money and don't bother with any of the other crap and you'll be constantly impressed.

There was an amusing incident involving me being fingerprinted while on a 'on a visit' to the police station, but it's probably best I don't reveal the details here...  We managed to contact Delta Airlines and get our return flights changed back to their original date without charge, which was a huge relief. However, Delta are still proving a huge problem for us as we attempt to get a refund for their forcing us to move our return flights when we flew from Gatwick all those months ago. In short: DON'T FLY WITH DELTA AIRLINES and DON'T FLY VIA THE USA.

Actually getting to Machu Picchu is somewhat complicated as there are a few options, and a few factors which make it difficult. We decided to take a load of non-tourist buses to Pisaq, Urubamba and Ollantaytambo as it gave us the option of checking each place out, including he Inca ruins at the latter, and it was dirt cheap. Unfortunately once we were bored of the ruins we had to sit outside a cafe on the main square and be subjected to live local music for 3 and a half hours.

That may not sound so bad to you guys, but if you imagine listening to the same bouncy synthesised tune, with vocals switching between a young girl screeching in a high, monotone, out-of-tune voice and some twat talking or shouting about God-knows-what, you'll start to get the picture. Honestly, we know we should take in the wonderful diversity of culture we're experiencing on our trip, but this style of music, popular in Bolivia, Peru and to a lesser extent, Ecuador, is utter crap. It's been driving us mad and we simply can't understand how anyone can possibly like it. There is a name for the genre, but I don't dare remember it in case it triggers memories of the actual music in my dreams...

We caught the train from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes and stayed the night in a cheap hostal - not much point in paying a lot when you've got to be up at 4am to catch the bus. This place is "Machu Picchu village" and it can supposedly only be reached by train. We reckon the train company are making sure the authorities never finish off the road so they can continue to monopolise and charge ridiculous prices. The whole Machu Picchu experience is amazing, but you do leave it wondering if all the cash you've just spent is worth it for walking around a load of stone walls etc that could easily be many parts of Britain! That's just the stonework though - the location is absolutely stunning. We left mid-afternoon, with hundreds of photos, got the bus down to Aguas Calientes and jumped on the train all the way back to Cuzco. Virtually everyone gets off at the stop before and gets taxis to Cuzco as the train takes an age to make it's way up and over the mountain. It actually changes direction (i.e. forwards to backwards) many times as it zig zags it's way up and down the steep slopes, switching the tracks at each change in direction.

* Sepo - comical, uncomplimentary, rhyming slang for an American. American > Yank > Septic Tank > Sepo.

Cuzco to Nazca
Days 144 to 149, April 29th to May 4th

This section was to be our last in the Andes proper for some time, as we traversed them at their widest point and headed West towards the Pacific coast. There were numerous passes over 4000m in altitude and unfortunately there tended be be huge valleys in between to make the climbs much longer.

On the climb out of Cuzco we seen a postman being attacked by 3 huge dogs. He then picked up a huge rock, ran after them and hurled it at them, resulting in loud yelping. Postie fights back. A touch further on we came across a man having a shit by the side of the road, which was a nice touch. The day finished with a 25km downhill, which continued the next morning taking us down to about 1900m, leaving the small matter of a 2100m climb. As you can imagine, that size of climb takes virtually all day but it was rewarded with another huge downhill (30km, 2000m this time) into Abancay.

While looking for some early morning breakfast in Puquio, we were privileged to witness two men having a fight. The previous day was the town festival, so they were obviously just finishing their celebrations in style. It appears that the local way of fighting is to take one's belt off and whip your opponent and this was made all the more amusing when the young lad discovered why he wore a belt in the first place and his trousers fell down. The older guy took advantage by whipping him violently until a copper arrived to drag the young guy off to the cop shop with his trousers still around his ankles and a significant crowd watching. We doubt we'll see that again soon.

Our good friends Del and Susannah were getting married on this day in her native Slovakia, so Dave and I were frantically trying to find a phone to speak to Banty, the Best Man. We got our message across but all sounded very somber and we were left wondering what was going on. We later found out it was a very 'interesting' wedding, which is probably all I should say... Oh, and congratulations once again guys!

We climbed to the top of the last pass, at 4390m, did a good few kms of flat and started the 100km downhill all the way to Nazca (590m). At the top it was freezing but things soon warmed up as we descended. We were really struggling to get to Nazca before dark, and there was nothing in between, so we were going as fast as we could on the most potholed road in the world, carving up the sharp turns on this amazing downhill. We later found Al's front brake pads had fused to the cylinder with the heat! The scenery on the downhill was amazing - you could see for miles and miles, across the tops of several ranges of mountains and huge sand dunes, as the sun was setting in the distance. Oh, and we were given the thumbs up and a big smile by a guy shitting right on the verge of the road. They love a bit of shitting beside the road, around here...

Day 144, Cuzco to Limatambo (83km)
Day 145, Limatambo to Abancay (120km)
Day 146, Abancay to Chalhuanca (127km)
Day 147, Chalhuanca to unknown village... (58km)
Day 148, Unknown village to Puquio (137km)
Day 149, Puquio to Nazca (166km)

Nazca to Lima
Days 150 to 154, May 5th to May 9th

You may not have heard of the Nazca Lines, but they're well worth a look. They're huge (football pitch and bigger) figures drawn in the desert hundreds of years ago by the indigenous Nazca people. Many theories exist as to why, but most are ridiculous. The most believable, in our minds, is that they are depictions of the gods they worshipped and marked sites for ceremonies etc. You can't really see them from the ground, so we took a flight in a light aircraft over them, where our pilot, Jorge, pointed out each figure and did some minor acrobatics in an effort to make us sick. A touch expensive, but well worth it, we reckoned.

Ica had a bad rep: everyone told us not to go there or to be very careful if we did. We stormed into town and found that the hostal recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook had been flattened. We decided to check into the flashiest hotel in town, mainly because they claimed an inclusive, all-you-can-eat breakfast. We also found a nice restaurant and had some decent wine, so our experience of the famed Ica was a somewhat middle class one! Still, a copper did recommend we move back to the main plaza in case we got mugged when we were trying to get out of town...

On the way to Cerro Azul we came across the ocean - which we hadn't seen in months. This whole section of the coast is all desert - the beach just continues on into the distance. Strangely it was very humid and misty, reducing vision and meaning we didn't see much of anything for days. San Bartolo is like a British seaside town and provided our last stop before heading into Lima, the biggest city on our trip.

Day 150, Nazca
Day 151, Nazca to Ica (156km)
Day 152, Ica to Cerro Azul (182km)
Day 153, Cerro Azul to San Bartolo (91km)
Day 154, San Bartolo to Lima (54km)

Lima
Days 155 to 157, May 10th to May 12th

We stayed in the uber-flash district of Miraflores, so didn't see much of the dangers that we'd heard about. We didn't do much sightseeing in Lima, mainly because everything we tried to go to see was shut for some reason.

We found Delta Airlines' office, which is the first one on our entire route so we were well prepared to read them the riot act about their treatment of us. Unfortunately the only person we could see was the receptionist so we made do with writing out a sharp letter, and had her type it up as we waited and fax it to their customer care departments in both London and Santiago.

We went to the central post office to pick up a parcel which had already been from Bristol to Mendoza, Argentina, back to Bristol, and hopefully to Lima. They're as hopeless as Royal Mail though so they were of no help and we accepted that we're not going to get these spare parts for our panniers until they are returned to Bristol once more and we pick them up in person! Thanks for all the effort though, Scowtie - we owe you big time.

Unfortunately my guts took another turn for the worse and I was feeling really bad. This was to prove very bad news for me as we cycled on through the desert...

Lima to Macara, Ecuador
Days 158 to 167, May 13th to May 22nd

Getting out of Lima was looking difficult - we basically had to go through the city centre which we'd been warned was very dangerous. The first spoke-breakage of the trip means we had to call into a bike shop to get it replaced on the way out of town, and the owner turned out to have just recently won the South American Mountain Biking event and been given the shop to run by Trek. He was a nice guy, didn't charge us anything for the work and advised us of a safer route out of town. His advice, or route, turned out to be a bit ropey, but we made it out safely thanks to an impromptu police motorcycle escort. Somehow I missed the spectacle of a naked madman running down the fast lane of a 4-lane motorway the wrong way...

We broke our daily distance record into Trujillo, hitting 196km. The next day we declared a rest day and while in a juice bar, a friendly old woman asked if I was Al's dad. I told her no, I was his brother and have just had a tough life.

On the way to Pacasmayo we were stopped by a couple of cops who told us the next 10km is known bandit country so we'd better ride fast! They radioed ahead to their colleagues on the far side and told them to look out for us. As predicted, we didn't even see anyone.

In Chiclayo I was feeling really bad and the shits had become a real issue. Leaving the hotel in search of a restaurant for dinner I fell down a manhole, which amused even me. By this stage I wasn't eating anything in an effort to sort my guts out, but with such long cycling days and no fat to burn I was really struggling for energy. Unfortunately the next day was a huge one across the desert to Piura, with nowhere to stop in between. Despite frequent shit stops for me, including one at a roadside cafe which had an outdoor toilet with a vulture sitting on the top of it, we made it to Piura as it was getting dark and we'd done a whopping 223km.

The next day entailed a trip to Clinica San Miguel for me, where the doc put me on a diet of soda crackers, rice and chicken for a week, along with some severe looking tablets. We'd only got about 40km to do this day to Sullana, so decided to watch the Champions League Final in a bar before leaving. Extra time and then penalties made us panic as it left us with less than two hours before dark, but it all proved worthwhile when the imminently likeable John Terry, of Chelsea, slipped and fell when taking his penalty which would have won the game for them. They went on to lose. Ha ha.

The next day seen a huge change in scenery as we were into the jungle and heading towards Macara on the Ecuadorian border. We crossed the border not only with no Ecuadorian currency, but with no idea what the actual currency was...

Day 158, Lima to Chancay (102km)
Day 159, Chancay to Barranca (121km)
Day 160, Barranca to Casma (187km)
Day 161, Casma to Trujillo (196km)
Day 162, a well earned rest day in Trujillo
Day 163, Trujillo to Pacasmayo (113km)
Day 164, Pacasmayo to Chiclayo (113km)
Day 165, Chiclayo to Piura (223km - yup, you read that correctly...)
Day 166, Piura to Sullana (42km)
Day 167, Sullana to Macara, Ecuador (137km)

 

Our thoughts on Peru

If we heard one more shout of "Gringo!" we may well have battered a Peruvian! They're very "in your face" compared to the much more polite, friendly and reserved Bolivians, Argentineans and Chileans we've met. That's a huge generalisation, of course, and we met many very friendly people who were very helpful. Ok, they don't have a clue what a kilometre is, much like the Bolivians, but once you know not to bother asking how far somewhere is, this becomes less of an annoyance!
Another annoyance is that the vast majority of Peruvians seem to be out to try to eke money from you. Everything costs money, and frequently we were asked to pay much more than the normal price just because we were tourists. A Dutch cycling couple, whom we met on a few occasions, even told us that once, when taking a picture of 2 flamingoes on the beach, some dude rocked up and asked them to pay him as the flamingoes were his! On the face of it, Peru seems to be quite cheap, but we found our money didn't go that far in reality.
We also felt much more "on edge" than we had done, and there seems to be some sort of macho pride in existence where everyone beams when they tell you that their town is the most dangerous in all of Peru!
Having said all that, we loved Peru. There's so much to see, the scenery is magnificent, and cycling through it was incredibly interesting. Would I go back? Yes, but it's not at the top of my list. There are a few things in Peru that you simply should not miss, such as Machu Picchu and the Nazca Lines, and there's enough to keep you busy for months of travelling around.

Col

The Bolivian Labyrinth

 

You might have noticed I've stolen half the title from Gerald Brennan so you may fear a half serious travel piece. I wouldn't get too worried on that count given that any attempt to mix the themes of 'cycling' and 'Bolivia' can only result in the absurd. Absurd physical demands did approach the serious, but more 'seriously ridiculous' than anything else. Ridiculous as some of the routes we cycled were improbable, and improbable is a good word to use in relation to many things Bolivian: the outrageous scenery, the exhausting routes, the sorry history and the fascinating state of current affairs. What is probable is that if you were to go to Bolivia you would have a very enjoyable and interesting time as it is very beautiful and friendly, and things have a tendency to happen in a a country that is the geopolitical embodiment of the 'Latin American question'. So you should go, though I wouldn't take a bike; it really is a seriously ridiculous and absurd thing to do.

In Bolivia it's like historical things are always afoot. There lots of history to time available, most of it unfortunate and little of it making much sense. It is as labyrinthine as the roads and as hard to follow as the maps on which things tend not to join or add up. We can make the road map join up: our route was from Villazón on the Argentinean border, through Tupiza to the Salar de Uyuni. From here we curved anti-clockwise through Potosí, Sucre, Cochabamba and on to La Paz; respectively a large colonial silver mine town, the pretty colonial period capital, a modern, busy and warm city and the world's highest capital, stunningly situated and very attractive. On the 'incident' front, during our journey four of the nine provinces that make up Bolivia became no-go areas for the president as they tried to claim independence, major sectors of the economy went on strike, blocked roads and staged city centre punch-ups and the man trying to keep the whole show running turned out for a ninety minute ding-dong affair at the miners cooperative stadium in Potosí, during which he slotted one home from the penalty spot and dribbled round a large dog that had wandered on to the pitch. If it is hard to imagine what being Head of State actually involves on a day to day basis it is even harder to think what one would do in the face of seeming national meltdown. The normal response in Bolivia has been 'get booted out by the military' so the fact that to this day Evo Morales survives in power is testament to his alternative course of action: play footy. Obviously, I like his style.

Of Big Evo more later. While the transport  lobby were kicking off in Santa Cruz state and the president's eleven were kicking off on the pitch we were kicking off with 317Km from Villazón to the world's largest salt flat at 3700m above sea level on the altiplano at Uyuni. The route we took was staggering both scenically and bodily. Al noted that this remote spot, the very wide purple bit on your Times World Atlases, while certainly 'alti' is not very 'plano'. The change from the panoramic country in north western Argentina to here was that now we climbed into the mountain scenery itself, still through gorges of bright coloured, folded and fluted rock but also up on to ridges and shoulders of green mountains up to 4300m, overlooked by the volcano Cholorque. We looked across vast distances westwards to the snow peaks on the Chilean border and eastwards to the Cordillera de Chichas. The 'road' surface was bare rock which deteriorated to sand in the dunes before Uyuni and for a period of time in the middle was water - we arrived in the town of Atocha by way of a wide river. 'Improbably'. There must have been another way into town judging by the looks of wonder as we emerged from the valley but then Atocha doesn't get many visitors, although its houses, that seem chiseled out of the yellow craggy surrounds, and an active pithead are more instructive as to a working Bolivian mining community than the city centre of Potosi. It is a poor place but the communities on the mining strip of the Bolivian altiplano, historically one of the worlds richest and most varied, do not reflect the enormous riches underneath (zinc in this case). The majority of settlements here owe their existence to a mine, shops full of miners kit and the odd mini-bus full of knackered miners being above ground indications of subterranean activity. Leaving Atocha a remote, crowded and ramshackle miners cemetery was another. Large ghost towns also exist up on mountain sides so, dead or alive (and the era of vast silver and tin production is gone), the mine leaves its mark on Bolivia.

Contrary to what might be expected the Salar de Uyuni would be the best surface we enjoyed in the first week and a half in Bolivia. It might be salt but at least it is packed down. Of course, it provides other challenges: navigating is odd given that everything is white, and the sun starts to attack from new angles. I burnt my bottom lip in a nasty way that would not heal until Cusco and the misery was compounded by the prominence of soup in the Bolivian menu. Nonetheless, the crossing of this dry sea was memorable and waking to see dawn after camping on a rock 'island' surrounded by distant volcanoes was a glorious experience. Cycling on to Potosí was more gruelling than glorious. We managed it in two days but really should have taken three as we finished the second well into the dark. The only other cycle tourists we met during our time in Bolivia managed to hospitalise themselves on this stretch so maybe we really should have taken the bus. This would have denied us some epic ascents and we would have avoided the misery, oh absolute misery, of the final turn around the base of the Cerro Rico which overlooks the city. Some sort of ghoulish struggle on these slopes seems to me an entirely appropriate way to meet this hill, one could be labelled the world's most important mountain. Yes, more important than Roseberry Topping. It was so dark and wet on our way round I thought Al (leading the sorry procession by virtue of having a working torch) had taken a wrong turn and we'd started the mine tour early. Why this ravaged and lowered cone is so important can be found in the famous works of Eduardo Galleano so I won't bore you by repeating it all here as if I'd just thought it up. So we can just note that over 8 million people died here in the worlds largest silver mine down which 10,000 people still work (silver is not exhausted as Galleano thought, though second in importance to tin) in conditions which can reduce life expectancy to two years for operators of heavy machinery. I would recommend a visit down the shafts, although the industry that has sprung up around it is pretty macabre, the attitude of many visitors depressing, and the conditions themselves pretty nasty. I think the shock of being below ground in such confined conditions (tunnels are hand dug and require crawling) can render objective commentary difficult and it would be more interesting to hear the impressions of a European miner (for example) than someone with my soft background. Talking of which I was gutted to find I managed to smack my head on every plank and strut down there and then get lost, which begs the question; what are bandy legs good for if not for getting about down 'pit?! 'Rock all' I guess.

Back above ground there were fireworks in the main square of Potosí to celebrate anniversary of the founding of the city and fireworks in our toilet to mark the 12th hour anniversary of the consumption of an iffy quinoa soup. The inhabitants of both were kept up all night by the rumblings. I spent a good couple of days trying to track down Evo who was in town for the celebrations, Potosí being a 'loyal' province for Bolivia's first indigenous leader. This support is no surprise as exploitation of its massive subsoil wealth has left little but poverty despite over 400 years of production and it is thus home to a large number of disgruntled people who would support any attempt to retain the proceeds 'in house', which would be the basic principle of the current regime. But Potosí is now really the emblem of the Bolivian riddle (huge natural resources - South America's poorest country). The present day wealth comes from different subsoil reserves in the area known as the 'media-Luna; four provinces in the north-eastern jungle and chaco zones from which Brasil and Argentina buy their natural gas requirements. Big business and now appropriated by the state. The prefects of these provinces have claimed independence, pretty much prohibited Morales from entering and rejected the Bolivian nation. Of course they would be making the same worthy appeal for autonomy if the gas reserves were in the other half of the country and they were living in a shed on twenty quid a month. Ho hum. Anyway, in a bizarre reversal of roles I attended all the civic functions in town while Evo avoided me by playing football until our paths crossed in the street and I was able to deliver my personal message: "Evo, get the Uyuni - Potosí highway tarmaced"! He's a big lad and certainly the sort of bloke you would pass to and expect to get the ball back from. Incidentally I've now seen him take two penalties (he managed a game in Lima when we were there) and he always sticks them the same way. I'm not going to reveal which way in case the CIA are reading this and send a goalkeeper to stop one in a bid to undermine his authority (as per the plot to shave off Castro's beard). As it is I've now seen a bit of Bolivian professional football and there is no goalkeeper in the country capable of stopping anything. Any country performing worse than the Bolivian national team should be utterly ashamed of themselves: Perú take a bow!

Back on the road and the cycling became substantially easier as the route to Sucre was paved (220Km). This is a very charming city and, whereas we were the only cyclists of any sort in Potosí (no air and comically hilly), we entered town in the company of friendly local racing cyclist, Guido. White colonial arcades and charming plazas here. We scored a pirate copy of windows and could upload photos again! The road from here to Cochabamba (441Km) illustrates the wild variety of the countryside in Bolivia. We had arrived from austere mountain tops and now descended hairpin roads to lush tropical valleys of Amazon tributaries, the paved section ending as we tackled 40Km-long climbs on cobbles (Paris - Roubaix anyone?!) and coped with lows of 1500m to highs of near 3800m, finishing with a day of limestone / pennine scenery that made it seem more likely that Bakewell would be found on the other side of the hill and not the amazon rainforest. The night before Cochabamba (2560m) we stayed in interesting accommodation in the truck-stop town of Epizana where the delights of the 'Epizana Hilton' were rejected (no shower, floor of mud) for the now infamous 'Hotel Tunari' in which I'm not sure if we were more scared of entering or leaving the 'room'. During the night a herd of pigs caused a row by trying to break in and we thus decided upon a crack-of-dawn escape, which was thwarted by the evil owner press-ganging us into moving a fridge through a muddy sea into her back room. To no thanks. Pah!

From Epizana we would be on tarmac until, well, Boa Vista in Brasil! (On that note some people have expressed admiration for our cycling about on all sorts of rubbish up to this point and I have to say, thanks, but I took no pleasure from it. I'd tarmac the lot!) Before La Paz (413 Km from Cochabamba) we entered the land of the long climbs, dragging up steep pulls for two days to La Cumbre at 4496m above sea level which will be our highest point of the trip. We made a slight descent to the bleak altiplano around Oruro, passing through grey truckers towns before the excitement of La Paz. When you have to go down a steep hill to enter the world's highest capital city you know you've been monkeying about at silly heights. Nonetheless it is a true plummet from the featureless plain into the canyon that houses the long and thin city, a drop that we accomplished in a freezing hailstorm. The setting is really dramatic and we added our own theatre by arriving in the main square shattered, cramped up and frozen to the handlebars. There is something truly comical in a state of desperate physical exhaustion amidst urban civilization. Comical for everyone else. What is appropriate to an arrival on a mountain top is ludicrous in a city centre where everyone else is ambling about and drinking coffees in street side cafes, but such was our condition on our arrival in La Paz. To thaw-out required the 'shower for an hour' project. So, anyway, everything about La Paz surprised and pleased me and I think it would be an excellent place to visit - without a bike of course. I want to thank Maria Isabel for showing me round and helping me be trendy in cool Sopocachi (!!!) - ¡Isha, q eres una estrella tía! There is great theatre, excellent galleries and a very beautiful post office. No, really. While I was knocking about here the Montgomery boys were proving they had gone from cycling zeros to heroes by tackling the worlds most dangerous road on an excursion from town. I adopted the 'I don't go to the office on a weekend' approach instead and missed out on trashing someone else's bike for a change. La Paz is fascinating.

I can honestly say that the climb back out of La Paz to the mayhem of the 'Aymara' city of El Alto was preferable to the descent - a reflection of the horrors of the latter rather than any joy had in a 90 minute haul up a motorway. The views were tremendous; what a strange place to stick a city. Now it was only one day to the shores of Lake Titicaca, or more accurately the off-shoot called Lago Huiñaymarca, where we stayed in a hostal owned by a local reed boat builder. Blue, blue, light blue in the middle of the bleak and ancient altiplano. How very improbable! It was a straight forward day for myself and Montgomery junior but Burns was suffering with faintness caused by a stomach bug (finally defeated in Ecuador, yes, miles away) that made progress of any sort quite heroic. There is a photo in the Bolivian albums showing what an effort this was, truly admirable, as there are photos which should link to most of the places mentioned in this blog. Apologies for the delay in the posting of it but I think you should go and look at the place for yourself. Take some oxygen. Don't take a bike. Evo Morales might still be at the helm - ask him if he's got that road tarmaced yet.

Midd

Cyclists without frontiers

 

First, a big apology to all of you who have been asking us what's happening with the blog.  To answer your question - well, actually, it answers itself: nothing's been happening.  We blame some technical problems but mainly it's just been that we've been on the bikes so much of late, and that we're generally lazy gits when it comes to anything that could be deemed admin...  Anyway, have no fear, there will soon be a flood of posts up for you to read, should you so wish.  I'm actually finishing writing this from Loja, Ecuador, so as we've yet to post anything on either Bolivia or Peru, you get some idea of just how behind we've got with the blog!

Additionally, this particular blog post is about five months out of date, but there is good reason!  It involves an unofficial border crossing from Chile to Argentina, and we certainly weren't going to write ourselves into the history books as the guys who posted details of their 'crime' on the Internet, only to get arrested for it before they got out of the country safely!

We spent Christmas in Torres del Paine national park, in Chile, and the next place we wanted to visit was the Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina.  To get there you have to cover 400km on a boring, notoriously windy road, as this is the only official border crossing.  Or you do what we did.

Christmas day involved a four hour hike to see the famous Torres, where we cooked up some ropey tasting rice for our Christmas dinner.  On returning to our campsite we found our friends Christian and Olga had found our tent and pitched theirs next door.  We cooked some more ropey food and 30 seconds later, after we had finished it, we invited them over to share our vodka.  Strangely, we decided against opening the cheap bottle as well and had a reasonably early night.  We had big plans for our Boxing Day.

Our plan was relatively simple: cross the border via an unofficial crossing which would take us up a mountain track which may or may not exist.  It would save us at least 350km and certainly be more exciting.  We had been unable to find details of anyone actually doing this route before, but there were rumours floating about regarding possible alternative routes.  This was all made possible by the laziness of the customs guys back in San Sebastian.  They simply didn't stamp our passports to say we'd entered Chile, so as far as our documents were concerned, we were still in Argentina.  This meant that we may actually have had problems if we crossed back into Argentina using the official crossing, as they would have wanted to know how we had gotten into Chile without a stamp!

We left early on Boxing Day morning and rode the 15km or so to the customs point, where we carefully chose a minibus driver to ask if there was, indeed, a road or track towards the border.  Affirmative was the reply, but it was quickly followed by what we feared: there was no way to cross the border. Ignoring this advice, we set off past Lago Azul and after some time decided to cook some food up by the side of the road.  Here was our big mistake: we called in at a house to ask for some water to cook with, and it turned out to be the park rangers place...  Water was given in exchange for our names, which were written down, and Mr Ranger also found it prudent to ask some searching questions about our plans.  Simply a bit of exploration off the beaten track - in search of a bit of solitude, you could say - was the answer we gave.  He replied that we were fine to do that but we must check in with him again on our way back. Of course we will...

A bit further on we came to a gate across the track and, at the same time, a man in a four wheel drive coming the other way, down out of the trees.  He gave the same advice about it not being possible to cross the border (though we hadn't mentioned our intentions), but told us that if we were in search of solitude, yonder was where it was at, and advised us to keep to the left track when it forked.  Good advice, as it turned out, as without it we would have taken the right-hand track and it would have started to go all wrong.  Not that it all went 'right' after this...

After some pretty serious climbing up the rough track, we came on another 4x4, driven by a young Swiss guy, whom we'd meet a few times later, called Cyril.  He was on to our game immediately and, indeed, had been trying to accomplish the same trick as we were attempting.  He had been scuppered by the track being out with no way for a car, even a 4x4, to get past.  Couldn't stop us, surely?!

A few km further we managed to navigate the break in the track which, we reckon, had been put there as a deterrent to taking this route to the border. After this things got seriously rough: streams to cross, incredibly steep sections strewn with boulders, and sections which had been totally destroyed by cattle crossing it while it was wet.  This was not easy, but it was nothing compared to what was lurking at the bottom of the hill!

Ah, the Rio Zamora, what fond memories I have of thee!  We had come upon the river crossing we had been expecting from our hugely inadequate map.  About 20m wide and full of bright blue glacial run off water, which was waist deep, fast running, and obviously close to freezing, the Zamora scared the bejesus out of us.  We had come so far, and across such awful terrain, that we couldn't bare the thought of turning back - and taking that 400km road to Perito Moreno. Neither was an attractive, even plausible seeming, proposition, but we decided to go for it and cross the beast.

We have some very amusing photos of this river crossing, but unfortunately the only uncorrupted copies we have of them are currently on a DVD in Durham! We'll add them here when we get home and get hold of them.

Each bag had to be ferried across separately, and we had 5 each, plus our bikes.  That meant 18 trips across and back.  We stripped to our under crackers and started to ford the raging current.  Uneven, large, slippery, sharp rocks on the bottom meant progress was slow and hazardous and required some form of footwear to be worn.  Which is where we came a cropper.  5 metres into my first crossing, about to hand over a bag to Al at the middle point, I stopped.  Immediately Al recognised what was wrong: one of my Reef sandals/thongs had broken!  Looking behind me it quickly popped to the surface and charged off down the river at a rate of knots.  I immediately grabbed the one from my other foot and chucked it into the river after it -  one wasn't much good!  Dave's Fitness First sandals lasted only a couple of crossings before  being rendered useless.  Now only Al had the necessary footwear to ferry stuff across, so Dave and I took up our positions on the opposite banks and began to, erm, manage the situation, while Al crossed back and forth time and time again in the freezing water.  Awful thing to happen, that.

With the last bike finally across, I ventured across on my own, looking like something from Monty Python's Ministry of Funny Walks as the rocks cut my feet.  Oh how I laughed...

All 3 of us, but especially Al, were freezing; the tent went up in record time on the far bank and we cooked up a quick meal before sailing off to the land of nod.

While the usual porridge brekkie was being cooked up, and the tent taken down, yours truly was sent on a recce mission up the ridiculously steep hill out of the valley to make sure it was feasible to continue.  With no bags on the bike it was possible - just - to cycle up it.  Covered in rocks from various landslides, on a loose sandy base, and necessitating first gear even unloaded, this wasn't going to be easy with fully loaded bikes.  Nevertheless with the river blocking our retreat I declared it possible and descended recklessly to the valley floor again with the, strangely good, news.

No-speed falls were the order of the morning as our bikes were frequently stopped dead by sand or huge rocks while climbing the steep slopes, but we made it to the top and the cycling became very enjoyable.  Part of this was the feeling that very few people had been here before, and we were feeling good to be away from the tourist masses and doing something fairly unique.

We had been expecting the border to be a mountain pass, and we had spied the mountain range we'd thought was the likely candidate hours before.  Out of nowhere we came across a hut which seemed to have been lived in fairly recently, possibly even currently, so we went into stealth mode and rode around the back of it.  It suddenly became evident that this was actually the Chilean border post, and the mountain range in the background was firmly in Argentina.  Our pulses raced as we realised that it was quite likely for someone to be manning the post, even though it wasn't an official border crossing.  We cycled onwards, climbed over some gates and fences, until we seen an Argentinean flag flying from a mast at the end of a large fence.  This was it: we either went as fast as we could and made it into Argentina, or we got caught by the Chilean or Argentinean border patrol and forced to go back!  Bags were thrown over the five foot fence, bikes were passed over after them, and we legged it.  Unfortunately we only got 10 yards before having to go backwards to get around a huge ditch!  Panic!  We were now in a huge field which was very rough, wet and soft - cycling was barely possible.  We stuck to the tree-line to avoid capture (!) and after a terrified half-hour we declared ourselves safe.  Ish.  And in Argentina!  While certainly relieved, we were still on edge as we had no good reason to be where we were, unless we'd just crossed the border.

All we had to do now was stick to the incredibly feint line on our map which seemed to indicate a track and we would soon reach the main road.  Hmm, sounds easy, right?  It wasn't.

This "track" turned out to be nothing more than a track made by the cattle, and it made it's way through the huge field and various forests, over unbelievably rough terrain, fallen trees, through bogs, up and down 45 degree plus hills.  Very little was ride-able - this was almost all pushing.  We pushed and pulled the bikes through kilometre and kilometre of this for hours until it started to get dark.  Tent goes up, dinner cooked with the minimal water we had left, and the land of nod came all too easily again to us all.

The next morning involved more of the same for a couple of hours until we finally found a track which we could ride down - and it was down, thankfully. We flew past some bemused gauchos on their horses and made it to the main road where we tried, in vain, to make it look to the passing motorists as if we'd just stopped for a bite to eat...

Postscript...
As soon as we got to civilisation Dave called the Chilean Parks Office and asked them to tell the appropriate ranger that we had passed back safely but as we did so early in the morning we didn't want to wake him. Just one more little lie.
The next time we crossed the border, back into Chile, was at Lago Deseierto before the Carretera Austral, and everything went like clockwork.  Looked like we'd gotten away with our little adventure.
When crossing back into Argentina, however, before Bariloche, we had a scare. Having done the usual border post stuff with our passports, on the Chilean side, and in a rush to catch a ferry which left from the far side of a huge mountain, we met a jeep full of coppers who instructed us to call in with their cabin, just before the big climb started. Why, we weren't sure, but we did as asked without thinking too much about it. While casually thumbing through Dave's passport, the officer asked "So you guys haven't been to Torres del Paine, then?". What?! Erm, no, of course not!  He didn't pursue it any further, but it certainly made us go quicker up that 8km climb as the Argentinean border was right at the top!  We still don't know if there was anything in his question, or if it was completely innocent, but we suspect there was something in it and consider ourselves a touch lucky.

 

Col

A Salt Overdose: Salta to the Bolivian border

 

We're tired of Salta, despite it being a really nice city.  When 'Empanada making night' in the hostal comes around for the second time, we can't even bare to watch everyone else make them and then scoff them ourselves, without paying, as we did last week.  It's Sunday again and it feels like we're about to start a working week as we arrange chores to be done in the morning, thinking we're getting out of town.  Of course Monday comes and goes - not without the odd argument with customs - and we're still stuck here waiting.  Tuesday comes, though, and we're leaving, regardless - 9 nights in one place is far too long for this type of trip.  Waiters already  recognise us from previous visits where we have succeeded in eating shared platters for a multitude of people  between just the three, or even two, of us.  Our persistently dodgy guts mean the toilet in Cafe New Time has become our home away from home and they turn the rugby or football on as soon as we enter.

Leaving Salta, we are excited to be on the open road again, and genuinely glad to have left the city.  Before we left, we were the not-so-proud, and not-so-confident, owners of battered rear racks held together with string, wire, welds, rivets, a cable tie and a large bolt and plate arrangement.  We'd been patiently awaiting for these since our first breakages, almost 8 weeks previously, on the Caraterra Austral, Chile.  In fairness to Old Man Mountain, the manufacturers of the racks, they had sent replacements to us immediately, destined for Puerto Montt in Chile as requested.  It wasn't their fault that the Chilean postal service had decided to attempt to deliver them to a bike shop during siesta time and then promptly lost them (or sold them to one of their mates who ran a mobile ice-cream business from the back of his bike).  We waited until Mendoza to appeal for more - this time three racks as Dave's had finally given up - and OMM sent them, no questions asked.  Actually getting the package from the postal service in Salta was a completely different kettle of fish.

Oh, and we managed to get absolutely smashed for the first time on the entire trip!  At least twice!  Unfortunately for yours truly the last of these nights nearly ended in tears as, in search of some local ladies on the dance floor, I instead found a couple of large hairy men who forced some heinous drinks down my neck and then grabbed my ass as I was making my getaway. Definitely time to get out of town!

Anyway, the bikes are ready again so the show must go on...

 

Day 102, Salta to Jujuy (99km)

We get up early and Dave and I ride to the post office, and customs office, noticing that the guys from the bicicleteria across the road have thoroughly unfixed our gears and greased up our brakes.  Thanks, guys.  We leave Al to pay the remaining bill in the hostal, but they're of the opinion that we don't owe them anything.  Al agrees, por supuesto!

Nothing happening at the post/aduana office until midday, we're told, so we go and pick up the laptop - with replacement hard disk fitted and filled to the brim with pirate software.  The abundance of free wireless Internet connections available around the Plaza 9 de Julio make it easy to complete the vast piracy operation, and we haven't lost much from the hard disk failure 36 hours previously.

Ah, I have fond memories of this bike rack!  Here, posing in a little cable-tie number which is holding the entire ensemble together...

After some hours, as described by Dave in his previous post, we get our new racks.  As my old one is currently held together by a large cable tie, I decide to fit the new one immediately, to the bewilderment of our neighbouring coffee drinkers, outside Cafe Monaco.   The old one goes in the bin across the street with a satisfying clank - another breakage, probably, but this time I can laugh about it.  We do some speed-ordering and speed-eating (nothing new there) and hit the road again, for the first time in 9 days.  Cue more bemusement from the locals as we roll out of town with 2 new racks mounted on top of 2 old ones.  The thinking is that we'll ride the old ones into the ground before changing them.  This only takes a couple of days, obviously...

We leave town late, about 2:30pm, along a cycle track surely devised by the writers of the film Deathrace 2000, and make it into the rolling hills.  It's gently uphill for 40km or so, with the scenery getting ever more lush with every passing km.  As we reach the top and start descending it's positively jungle-like, with deep gorges completely covered in deep green vegetation and the road winding through them, constantly revealing a new part of the valley or a further part of the terrain ahead for tens of kilometres.  The local wildlife are out in force to watch us fly by at high-speed: cows, pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, parrots, random-rodent-things-with-bushy-tails and the like.

Hmm, please let us past...  Just two (look closely) of the many spectators on the road as we leave Salta.

Having left Salta so late in the day, and having about 100km to go, we're not surprised when it's dark five minutes after we ride up to the the first outdoor bar seats on the plaza in Jujuy.  This isn't Tierra del Fuego mid-summer, now, and it's too dark to cycle at 7:45pm.  What this means for us, effectively, is a) getting up and on the road earlier, and b) more enforced time in the bar at the end of the day.  A nearby hotel is splashed out on and we fight over the single towel in the triple room, head out for some food, and have a good night's kip (yet another sin mosquito, thankfully).

 

Day 103, Jujuy to Uquia (121km)

A decent hotel breakfast buffet is properly taken  advantage of and we get out of town quickly to avoid the backlash from the remainder of the hungry guests.  A welcome tailwind helps us along a fast road filled with drivers hell-bent on putting us in the crash barrier.  Al has yet another hairy moment as a bus driver proves his is bigger.

The tailwind has really whipped up and we're really flying as we go down the other side of the mountain.  We stop by some rough sheds by the side of the road, which seem to constitute the pueblito of Tumbaya, and try to find some food.  Each, erm, establishment, has different food on offer and as we make our necessity for huge quantities of meat clear, we're forwarded on in succession until we find one, a tiny old woman of about 90, who declares that she's up to the challenge.  Lamb asado with corn on the cob, cheese, bread and potatoes filled with protein-rich maggots are all eaten with mucho gusto and we hit the road again.

35km further down the road, with a 400m gain in altitude, we reach Tilcara and stop at the local service station.  We plan to make it to Humahuaca this evening, but it's still 42km away, with a 500m altitude gain, and time is marching ever onwards - only 2.5hrs of light left.  We attempt to leave but are postponed by an onrush of fans and pose for some pictures with a young Paraguayan girl and her father who had seen us in Salta two days previously.

Reaching the quaint village of Uquia, 8km from our intended destination, with twilight upon us, we decide to stay here rather than go on.  It's more off the beaten track and we reckon on cheaper accommodation and food.  We turn out to be wrong on both counts but both are very nice!

 

Day 104, Uquia to Abra Pampa (104km)

Yesterday's intended destination, Humahuaca, is reached before 10am, and it proves to be a very interesting, if uber-touristy town.  BTW, if you want to dispose of a computer hard-drive with some confidential information on it, I can recommend the bin at the North-West corner of the Plaza in Humahuaca.

Today's a big day for altitude gain and after 72km of rolling roads we climb into the village of Tres Cruces.  At 3780m above sea level, this is the highest any of us has been, on land, and we're not surprised that every little hill has had us struggling for breath much more than usual.  We're now firmly on the altoplano, though we don't see much evidence of the plano part of this...

Spurred on by an Exocet dog, which thankfully gets it's calculations wrong and buries it's head in the ground when climbing the bank towards the road, and me, we make the last 28km in a touch over 50 minutes.  The shorts live another day, which is actually a bad thing.

Finding food in Abra Pampa proves difficult and we're almost tempted to stay in the empanada-making-facility (two ladies in a tiny kitchen) on the corner of the plaza to see just how many we can put away.  We make do with a mere 16 and walk about town for a long time before finding someone willing to feed us.

 

Day 105, Abra Pampa to La Quiaca (75k)

Brekkie's not up to much but you get what you pay for, I guess.  We make up for it's shortcomings in our usual way: find a bakery and eat everything in sight.

This local lady seems to realise the railway doesn't run on this side of the border!  Puesto del Marques, Jujuy Province, Argentina

Some incredibly boring, straight road follows, through the tiny pueblitos of Puesto del Marques, La Intermedia and Pumahuasi, and after a good few hours I find Dave deep in discussions with the lady at the tourist information office in La Quiaca.  This place is the border town with Bolivia: Argentinean border post on this side of the bridge; the Bolivian post on the other side as the town becomes Villazon.  Our Lonely Planet guide has informed us it's much better to stay on the Argie side of the border, if one has to, so that's our plan.

Squeezing our bikes through the entrance to Residenciale Merced, we find the place already overtaken by cyclists.  There's a group of 8 Argentineans here to start their two-week tour down to Salta.  We take smug pleasure in telling them that we have come all the way from Ushuaia and that it took us only 4 days to get from Salta to here.  In fairness they're taking a much longer route, and they're all nice guys and girls, so we swap some stories before heading our separate ways for the evening.  If you're reading guys - hope it's all going well/went well!

Deciding to pass up the apparent certainty of a good meal in the soulless Hotel Turismo we try an unknown restaurant on the corner of the plaza.  Manuel from Faulty Towers makes an appearance as our waiter and it's instantly apparent we've made a mistake, though we persevere.  Unfortunately.

The next day we're attempting to cross the border into Bolivia.  Why do I say attempt?!  You'll find out in another blog post, soon, so watch this space!  We're pretty excited about the prospect of a new country for the first time in over 3 months, but the reports of the road conditions and the constant altitude are weighing on our minds also.  Be sure to tune in next time as we're either going to be cycling in Bolivia, sitting on a sofa somewhere in the UK, or somewhere much, much more scary...

Col