Canyon road beside the Rio Santa in Peru

A pale gray dusts hides loose rocks on the road through the Rio Santa canyon in Northern Peru. A cliff into the river and a nearly vertical desert rock wall are it’s boundaries. Only a one lane tunnel allows passage in thirty-seven places.

One bad rock, one slip, and...

Our narrow tandem tires cut into the dust and bounce and slide from one auto-tire slickened rock to another. We  hope to avoid the shattered and sharpened hidden ones, capable of ruining our day, and one of our tires. We have one spare, and wonder if we should not have brought two. A few times a particularly vile rock (by the second day I was attributing evil intent to certain rocks) would throw the front wheel toward the abyss, necessitating a dual bail out.

After a day on the Rio Santa Road

All this is more than a little stressful. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for Claire on the back of the tandem, not being able to see what is causing the bumping and swerving (and not a little cursing).

Road cutting through the desert Andes above the Rio Santa

The two days along this road were among the most physically demanding of 40,000 miles of touring, and yet I am beginning to let go of memories of aching shoulders and hands, and the mental exhaustion. Claire said I would. And she said I would probably get us into something just as bad in the future. She’s usually right. But maybe not this time. Maybe I’ve learned it’s possible to have an adventure without such a high degree of physical punishment. I think so.

I call on my friends to remind me to come back and read this post, if I seem to be hankering for something absurdly difficult, and not hearing Claire’s subtle hints that it might be over the top. That’s what friends are for.

Stark Beauty of the Andes and the Rio Santa

I won’t forget the stark beauty of the desert Andes and the Rio Santa, our star lit bush camp, the Southern Cross sinking behind a knife edge ridge, leaving us with a cool restful sleep.

Stay tuned for more posts we didn’t have time or internet for in South America.

Claire on the Savannah in northern Brazil

We finally had a great day on the bike, from Boa Vista to Bom Fin on the border with Guyana. I’d always thought all of Amazonian Brazil was jungle, or rather cut down jungle, second growth, but the north is wet savannah, much like the Gulf Country of Queensland, Australia. We saw more birds in one day of 130 kilometers here than we have seen in the entire trip so far, all but one or two new to our “life list.” There were stops every 30 to 40 kilometers with roadhouses, also much like Australia but closer, where we got much needed cold drinks to add to our load of water. It is very hot and humid here just north of the Equator, and we were soaking wet most of the time. Our final stop was nearly an hour so we could cool down to a reasonable level before going on.

The border town in Brazil, Bom Fin had minimal services, but very friendly helpful people. The morning of the border crossing we were escorted to the border by two young people on one bike.

At the Brazilian border the police insisted on taking pictures with us and Zippy. They were trying to make us sad to leave Brazil!

We leave Huaraz northbound eventually to Cajamarca, in hopefully less than two weeks, probably our next usable Internet. We hope to catch a large agricultural fair there. The route will stay high in the Andes, but we don’t see any passes as high as we had in Tibet. Beyond Cajamarca we will look for more pre-Inca ruins on the edge of Amazonia.

Claire is over her cold, and I think I am getting over my respiratory thing that knocked me for several days. We had two full days of acclimatizing in Huaraz at 3,000 meters elevation, and don’t expect to over much more than 4,000 meters. If Zippy has enough gears, and the Captain has enough shoulder strength to wrestle his long wheelbase, it could be more fun than work. We’ll see.

We expected it to be much easier to manage in Spanish than in the Asian languages. Claire says she thinks she is getting through to people here in her limited, and growing, Spanish, but she seldom understands what they say back to her. They seem to just talk louder and more incessantly no matter how many times you say “no entiendo.” I could help some in Asia with pantomime, but they don’t seem to have a similar body language basis, or just look at me like I’m un loco gringo. Often we think we have understood someone, only to find what we thought they said doesn’t match what we see. They are particularly bad at judging, or communicating distances. We asked several people the kilometers to the next village, by name, and got answers from five to 22 kilometers. Eleven was the correct answer.

We found the same for elevations. Maybe it is because we use muscle power so much, but we and most of our friends, know the elevations of where they live in Tucson and all the surrounds. Most people here don’t seem to know, or have incorrect information. Our map is also not very clear, again. Claire spends lots of time gathering information, or trying to, about the road ahead, and it is difficult. We often get the time it would take by bus, which varies wildly depending on the size and power of the vehicle, and people’s personal concept of time.

Dogs have been more of a problem here, but so far we find that if we stop and pick up rocks, the dogs will falter. However, getting a heavily loaded tandem stopped and safely off the road while a pack of dogs is gaining on you is a little intimidating. From past experience, we know to be more concerned about the hounding dogs that are not barking than those that are. Lacking a wrist-rocket, Claire’s been practicing her aim with an oversized rubber band (an item which, while packing, she couldn’t justify but felt she might need “for something”).  Our other problem with dogs happened when a scraggly cur lingered too close while we were talking to someone and all his fleas jumped onto us, mainly Bob. Fortunately, they abandoned us soon after, but we still, days later, have red marks and we hope those don’t get infected.

It sounded like a parade, a particularly raucous parade. It seemed to be on the same alley as hospedaje Nana, in Huaraz. We love a parade. This parade, this band, was very special, from Jardin de Ninos No. 122.

As we neared a cross street, before us, goose stepping in languid unison, were squads of meter tall little people, each led by an adult woman. The children, thick black hair and angelic faces, wore the bright clothing preferred by Peruvians and painted the small street bright under a rain threatened black sky. Evenly spaced, except when one became distracted and rear ended another, they kept irregular time to the music coming from just around the corner.

And then we saw the band. Tiny like the others, they stood in two straight lines facing the marchers, fronted by an adult male who directed them with a serious professionalism far exceeding the abilities of his charges. Undaunted, he flung his baton about vigorously, pointing at the less than enthusiastic snare drummer, the distracted tambourine section, the cymbal player who missed his cue.

Both music and marching were so spirited they set off the loud alarm, and flashing headlights, of a parked SUV. It seemed not to detract, but complement the general enthusiasm of the occasion.
Rather than carry a melody, the dreamy-eyed xylophone section maintained a random din, chiming in when the mood hit them and testing the opposite end of their mallets otherwise. Enchanted by the marchers, they marched in place with more accuracy than their first order of business.

Once the tambourine section figured out that their instruments made great crowns, they were soon testing the style out on their neighbors. Though the drum section was dominant and carried the rhythm well, sooner or later, it seemed, someone was going to get poked with a stick.

Proud room mothers haphazardly tried to keep the marchers enthused, but after 30 minutes the parade was straggling. Just in time a few well placed rain drops signaled the end of the exercises. Traffic cones closing the street were removed and the assembly scattered back towards No. 122, mothers patrolling the main street, shooing errants back to the broken sidewalk.

We left reluctantly, smiles pasted to our faces, unfathomable warmth in our hearts in the gloaming rain. The best travel gifts are surprises, and free.

When we arrived in Lima, Zippy’s cardboard box, a good one, looked bad. We had to tear it off to get him in a taxi, and the pallet wrap seemed intact. That spent the afternoon building him up in Kaminu, a backpacker hotel in Barranca; several supervisors and a huge farting dog made it interesting, that and the comments on my skill or lack thereof, in Spanish. After two days in Barranca, south end of Lima metro area, we were ready to leave. We stopped at the South American Explorers Club for info, and got a little bit. It mostly seems to be pushing discounts at hotels and tourist services.

The traffic in mid-town Lima seems a bit better than most large Asian cities, but still a challenge. Claire claims I get a little macho in city traffic, and she might be right. It does take a bit of aggression to get anywhere, always with a bail-out in mind; she doesn’t always see that from the back seat. She’s the brave one, and I listen when she says “enough.”

Lunch was pollo, frijoles, rice, carne sopa and a sweet tea we didn’t recognize. $2. We were exhausted with city riding after 11k, it seemed more tiring than 100k, and we were both coughing up diesel black. We found the Hotel Europa across from an iglesia, $12 with a huge room and bright lights to write and read by. We showered and snuggle-napped. Nothing like a snuggle and a nap to make me feel at home. I much prefer the local low-end business hotel to backpackers, where you pay more for less space, no in-room shower/toilet, and have to suffer 20 year-olds and their pop music.

We both looked at Zippy, all set up for touring leaning against the room wall. I understood why people are so attracted to him; he is so perfectly balanced. Claire opined, “Your eye just is drawn back and forward, forward and back.” We sound like parents. Sort of. Familiarity, family breeds love = beauty.

We walked to dinner late and discovered the beautifully lit old buildings of the Plaza de Armas, photographed a bride being photographed, found another great cheap meal and rooted for the Peruvians as they beat Mexico on the television. We told our new amigos we were happy because Mexico beat U.S.A. in football.

The next day was our worst in a while. Out of central Lima, we took a parallel road to the Pan American northbound, jostling with busses of all sizes in rush hour. There were bus stops every ½ kilometer and we had to wend our way through the mess without getting pinned. It was fun for a little while, but got old very quickly with all the stopping and starting. We missed the turnoff to the Pan American and it took an hour to find our way back. The pollution and stress had us both out of sorts and ready to quit by 28 kilometers. We had fish by the sea at Ancon, tourist prices, then backtracked to Santa Rosa for a hospedaje. The freaky thing about the place was you had to ring a bell to be let in through an iron door with a huge lock. Securidad, we were told. And, this is the freaky part, you had to ring the bell to get OUT! I felt trapped. We made plans for a fire, none of them good, for getting down from our second floor room. The food in the restaurant was good, and the owner friendly, but we wonder about the excessive, it seems to us, emphasis on security. Every bank is guarded by several police, some with automatic weapons, all public squares and quite a few normal businesses. The armored trucks look like tanks on wheels.

South America seems to us so far to have a very different feel than Asia. The people are friendly, but they are very fearful. We hope it is a cultural thing, unfounded.

Claire:

That’s funny, I thought it felt a lot like Asia. I still don’t know where I am, where we’re going, or what people are saying. That and we are suddenly tall again. There are lots of horns beeping all around and they mostly are indicating “I’m here.” Our little ding bell seems not to have made the flight, I pawed through the discarded pallet wrap, but didn’t find it. My thumb twitches every time I try to respond to a beep.

So I knew we were in for it when we stopped to ask a soft-spoken gentleman for directions to the Panamericana: he blessed us when he finished. Next, a school teacher crossed the road to warn us to be careful on the Panamericana: Cuidado, muy peligroso. At our lockup hotel, the matron, who had been up answering the doorbell for most of the night waved goodbye with a concerned look on her face. The highway was not too bad, though one section without many police seemed a little more like the Wild West. We’ll be glad to get off of it anyway. Though it’s going to be cold where we’re going.

We detoured off the highway for a night of camping in a fog forest (Reserva Nacional Lomas de Lachay). We snuggled in the sleeping bag to the soft patter of a fine mist. The gloom was quite eerie because we could hear voices nearby.

Caral is an archaeological site that has been dated to 3000 BC. According to our guide, it is second only to Mesopotamia as the most ancient civilization known. We splurged on a tour and on seeing the route in, we both felt sure we could not possibly have found it coming in by bike. We probably would have turned around at the one lane track and definitely would have had second thoughts at the low water river crossing. That’s correct, there is no bridge to pyramids that are older than those in Egypt; though there is not much point if the site only gets six visitors a day, as was the case the day we visited. Ruth Shady is the archaeologist who developed this site starting in 1994; early on she was attacked by bandits on the access road (she survived). Today, a hand painted sign along the road says “Ruth Shady, No Te Quieres”. The surrounding Supe Valley, lush with irrigated agriculture, is set among 20 known settlements that were contemporaneous with Caral.

There’s a story here.

Claire found this quote In World Wide Travelers, Birds of a Feather group newsletter, of the Escapees recreational vehicle club. The editor, Kathy Howe puts together a great monthly newsletter from Escapees who travel abroad.

My take: We live our lives not in our homes, spectacular or humble, not in our careers, renowned or unheeded; comely or homely, wealthy or underprivileged, we experience life through our emotions. To a great degree we determine, by our choices, the emotions we experience. Travel, markedly independent travel, lifts us from our daily milieu, out of our comfort zone, stretches us in untold ways, and surges us with unfamiliar emotions.

Often, due to The New Bohemians’ penchant for bicycle travel in the developing world, we are confronted with discomfort, sometimes a modicum of danger, fear, unknown foods, and disagreeable hygienic conditions. We meet those challenges to our normal way of living with a fresh eye to new learning, and a relinquishing of preconceptions of how thing “ought” to be. Humor is a tool to be kept close at hand, at least in retrospect.

The rewards are innumerable, the memories priceless.

.

But, I do have a method that is safer and you can do yourself:

Before you shower, fill one ear with vegetable oil and let it soak by lying on your side for five minutes, or more if you can stand it. Absorb the oil with a paper towel when you stand. Shower with a moderately strong stream of warm water into that ear. After a couple of minutes, turn your ear to the bottom of the shower,  jump on your right leg and bang your head on the opposite side, gently. I’m not kidding. It might not work the first time, but will by the second.

Now, since you got something free from this site, how about looking at the rest of it? You will find it interesting if you like exotic locations and adventure travel.