Claire’s video of our ride through Canyon del Pato and the Rio Santos:
Zippy Making Friends Along the Way
Bob:
Canyon del Pato is Hell on a tandem, pretty much two days of Hell. It was the best way north in the Andes from Huaraz without backtracking to a road lined with illegal coca plantations and bandits; not our favorite type of cultural interaction.
The pista (pavement) ended a few clicks north of Caraz, a pleasant day’s ride from Huaraz. The dirt road was a combination of pale gray dust, loose sharp rocks up to fist size and babies’-heads, both could be either imbedded or loose. Basically it was medium double track mountain bike riding on a loaded tandem; a struggle for both Captain and Stoker. Thirty seven tunnels skirted the upper steeper part of the canyon, and a dozen or so more fortified the longer section below the village of Huallanca, where we spent a night.
The tunnels were long enough to be dark in the middle and our light was too weak to make out the rocks, or even the edge of the ruts. The dust was so thick and fine after trucks went through, that the light at the end was often completely obscured. We went down once in deep dust, and once in unseen mud from a ceiling leak. We just hung on hard, me to both brakes, Claire to the drum brake, and hoped for the best until the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel began to cast some light on the subject. Behind us, the light at the tunnel entrance cast our shadows ahead on the track and made things worse, obliterating my view of the rocks. Claire of course, always rides in the dark. I don’t know how she does it. Sometimes she even takes videos with one hand! One of these days she’s going to bounce off. Much of the route was within bouncing distance of cliffs into the river. Once a car driver forced us toward the edge and a rock bounced us closer; we had to come off the bike to avoid disaster. Parts of it were beautiful, with huge mountains on all sides and always the roaring Rio Santa.
Claire:
So, I’m still not sure what Pato means, fiend perhaps? I had seen other cyclists’ videos of this route and mistakenly thought it didn’t look too bad. It was a bone rattling two days, at the end of which we had to piece Zippy back together. The front pannier racks and mounting hooks shook loose, the drum brake cable pulled itself into the rear tire’s clearance from overuse and we lost a vital two liters of drink that we had to backtrack for, enduring an extra kilometer or two for the pleasure. At least the tent and front panniers didn’t fall off, as they did in China. Someday, back in Tucson, Bob will clean dust out of Zippy’s headset and remember Canyon del Pato.
Several days later my tennis elbow is reminding me of those two days!
Look for a video in the next post.
Cactus and Tunnel in Canyon del Pato
Huascaran and Iglesia in Caraz
By Bob and Claire Rogers
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 hope 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.
Dogs are not an issue in most of Asia. They eat them.
by Bob and Claire Rogers
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.