Days 28-29 – Bogotá and Crating for Shipment - 5,715 Miles
Oh, yeah…I was had decided to ship my bike home from Bogotá. Surprise! When departing from Phillip in Salta, I was bound and determined to make it the entire trip back…even alone. But the eight-day delay getting through the Andes crossing at Paso de Jama had really made me question this as an option. I had ridden no less than 7 and as many as 12 hours per day for nearly three weeks straight. I’d never spent more than one night in a town. As seen in San Agustin, it wasn’t even fun to visit key sites anymore. I was exhausted. In order to make it to Dallas to start work on time, all the stars would have to align in Central America…border crossings would have to be smooth and quick, the shipment of Silver from Bogotá to Panama City could not take more than three days (very unlikely), and I’d need no delays from mechanical issues or natural obstacles. So the last week I had been nailing down plans to ship the bike via air back to Dallas. I was ready.
So, I detoured north of Bogotá to visit the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá, a massive church 200m underground and carved out of salt mines. Supposedly one of the most amazing sites in Colombia. The scenery northeast was beautiful as I exited the desert valley and into the lush foothills. Ironically, “Maybe Tomorrow” by Stereophonics came on the radio. This song appeared a few times during the “Long Way Round” series, mainly at times of difficulty or deep reflection for the riders. The chorus “…so maybe tomorrow, I’ll find my way home…” is all too fitting and familiar. And it suddenly hit me that this was the end of the journey. It had been so intense and hectic that I needed it to be over…but still, a sad calmness dominated my morning as I replayed key events in my mind: weaving between deserted trucks in Paso de Jama, embracing desolation in Peru’s canyon country, watching 15-foot breakers before the sun came up on the Chilean coast, wandering Ecuadorian streets in search of liquids after a night of food poisoning, having locals pull Silver and me through a mudslide in southern Colombia, grinding the pegs in the most beautiful twisties on earth, and days spent reflecting alone while cruising north.
Well, I got about ¾ of the way to the cathedral and came into a bustling city called Mosquera. Well, it was actually a small town, but the GPS got confused, got me locked up in annoying traffic, and I was fed up. It wasn’t worth it to me anymore. With Bogotá close, I had no motivation to deal with South American highways any longer…even to see such a site. I cursed the traffic, talked to myself in the helmet a bit, and changed course for the Bogotá airport. Good thing I did, as it took me nearly 2 hours to go 15 kilometers. In other cities, the GS could fit between jammed cars. Not here. This place was a mess…especially on the shoulder of rush hour near the airport.
As I neared my hotel, just a few clicks from the airport, I took a wrong turn and wound up caught in a web of interchanges. Knowing the general direction of the inn but annoyed by how many interchanges and u-turns it would take to get there, I simply exploited the GS’s abilities and jumped a curb, plowed through a ditch, and popped into the correct neighborhood. In the rear-view I saw a cop come after me. Great, I’ve come 6,000 miles without getting a ticket or any major annoyances…and this guy was going to get me 500m from my last hotel on my last few seconds of the trip? And I didn’t have insurance. Nope…not gonna let it happen. I disappeared down an alley. He pursued. His light little bike had the advantage on this battlefield, so I took a couple quick turns and immediately slid into a courtyard and behind a short tree. The cop sped by seconds later. Whew. Felt like the good ole days on dirtbikes in high school. I gave it a few minutes, for him to find another way to chase his tail and for my heart rate to slow, and then rode the final block to my hotel.
That evening I repacked the bike, throwing away useless straps and the gas can that had saved me so many times. Taking a backpack with only what would be necessary for travels home, the rest was tightly-fitted in the bike’s panniers. Sleep…for tomorrow Silver would be crated.
Woke early to get packed and to the “LynCargo” office for shipment. The company had come highly-recommended, but I was naturally leery due to the terrible experiences I’d had shipping the bike down. But the experience was actually great. Within an hour, my escort, “Lebardo” had me at a crating facility and we were converting the GS from an adventure bike to a café racer. Pulled off parts to make the bike shorter and deflated the tires a bit. They built the crate around the bike and wrapped it in plastic. The progress slowed considerably during the day, but Lebardo and I entertained ourselves by exposing how little we knew of the other’s language. He also took me to lunch a few blocks away…one of the dodgiest but tastiest restaurants the entire trip—one of those places no tourist would know to drop into. Unfortunately, the crating took way longer than expected. However, Jorge, the manager, took me across the street a couple times to his wife’s little supermarket and treated me to coffee or a Coke. They were so accommodating and tried to give me updates as the wooden crate was being made in another building around the block. Finally, at 4:30pm, there was a wild rush to get the paletted bike to the airport. The bike was just wrapped in plastic and there were no sides on the box. Their forklift was on the fritz, so they rallied six workers to pick the entire thing up to put it in the back of their cargo truck. I filmed it, as I didn’t want to contribute liability if they dropped the crate. All went smoothly, and one of the workers rode in the back of the cargo truck and attempted to put sides on the crate. We arrived at the airport just before close of business, and customs made an initial inspection. Lebardo gave all his customs and shipping buddies high fives at the end of the day, as he was just that kind of guy. The rest would be complete the next morning.
With no wheels now, I was dependent upon other transpo for the first time in weeks. Lebardo offered me a ride on his bike to a low-end hotel the company had arranged. So, he slid his spare helmet up his arm, I climbed on the back wearing mine, and we dove into the insane Bogotá evening traffic. Honestly, it was a little scary at first. But I’d seen so many motorcyclists weaving through this traffic, sometimes with two or three passengers, and recognized they were probably much better at it than me. Natural selection definitely exists in this ecosystem. And his tiny 125-cc engine was incapable of throwing me off the back. We arrived at the shoddy hotel, where Lyncargo sends its “rough customers” that roll in on bikes. I paid the lady at the desk and dropped my gear. Ten minutes after Lebardo left, an older man who owned the place told me I owed him 40% more for the room. Confused, I paid him to avoid conflict. Then, I soon realized this was BS. I came out and argued with him, stating that I already paid and he had no right to jack up the fee after my translator and delegate from Lyncargo left. He disagreed and wouldn’t budge. I went back to my room, wrote a few sentences on Google Translate, and came out to show him. Basically, I called him a cheat to his face and said Lyncargo would not send him any more customers. He wasn’t happy. Nor was I. Literally yelling at him in my terribly broken Spanish, I retreated to my room, closed the door, and went to bed with the baton and CRKT knife within reach. Who knows what could happen late at night in the slums of Bogotá when you’ve pissed off your landlord. I was sick of it. Time to go home.
Days 26-27 – Mocoa to Girardot, Colombia - 5,595 Miles
The day’s ride would be a mind-numbing four-hour trek north to San Agustin. Mind-numbing because it was so rainy that there was really nothing more to think about than the semi-truck creeping along in front and the incessant rain limiting visibility. Much of the terrain was less spectacular than the day prior, so I didn’t even seem to mind that this was a grind. Nonetheless, there were a few notable sights. The town of Mocoa is ridiculously full of motorcycles. It must be 2.5-3.0 per capita. No joke. They are every where, swarming around like flies, rain or shine. And I saw my first vehicular collision, finally, when an older gentlemen decided to wedge his motorbike under a turning tour bus. He was fine, but a swarm of bikes was buzzing through the scene of the accident while police comforted the old man. I’d forgotten to visit the only other prior motorcycle accident I’d seen. Just after crossing the border into Colombia, I saw guy receiving aid from a couple first-responder victims after he had misjudged a curve and slammed into a rock wall. Didn’t look good for that guy.
A couple hours after leaving Mocoa, I realized that despite the overabundance of police and military in the area, everyday citizens can be upstanding civil servants in time of need. This stretch of road is chock-full of petroleum tankers. No, I mean 95% of the VEHICLES you encounter between Mocoa and San Agustin are tanker trucks. And they constantly drop oil on the road…beautiful for motorcyclists. Well, one decided to drop ALL of his load on the roadway, and there was a mad dash to stop the flow. The nearest village came out to spectate. But as traffic still needed to flow, two teenage girls picked up flags and were waving traffic to stop or go on the ends of the scene. One girl was coordinating traffic while simultaneously braiding her friend’s hair in the middle of the road.
I arrived at San Agustin almost five hours after departure…and at precisely the moment when the rain stopped for the day. The Frenchman-owned “Hostel de Francois” was a combination of tiki hut, tree-house, and farm yard. An unusual mix, but it overlooked the San Agustin valley, the tenant was amazingly friendly, and the sun came out just as I’d arrived. For the first time I understood why so many people come to Colombia “for a week and stay for six months.” Max, a new acquaintance from Austin, Texas, and I played pool all afternoon down in the village and scrounged up some local food before calling it a day. But that evening, I realized how trivial this motorcycle trip is compared to some of the journeys fellow hostel-goers were undertaking. Sitting around a table with two girls from Colorado and Alaska, a fellow from Denmark, Max, and another fella of unknown background, they shared some of the most amazing stories. Bert, from Denmark, had basically traveled a circle around all of South America. The only deviation was taking a month to work on a boat that sailed back and forth from Antarctica to Argentina. No big deal. The girls had hiked four grueling days into “The Lost City” in northern Colombia. They all shared stories of some of the most remote places. Half of them had hiked mountain passes thousands of feet taller than I’d ridden the motorcycle. There was a subtle hint of one-upmanship going on, but more than that, they were offering recommendations on where to make the wind blow one another next. It was humbling and enlightening...and killed my desire to blog.
The next morning, I got up early, packed, and waited once again for the hostel tenant to wake up and take my money. They had also locked my bike into the farm yard with a barbed-wire makeshift gate. I hadn’t seen one of those since growing up on the farm back in Missouri. Of course, it was raining, and Silver left a solid 20-foot-long rut for good measure. Of course, more rain. San Agustin is one of the “Top 10 Must-See” in Colombia. I was no impressed. Yes, dozens of massive stone figures carved as early as 3300BC, serving as guardians for burial grounds and whatnot…meh. Perhaps I’ve been traveling too long or am tired of the discussing the sites in my head. There’s nothing like carrying on a conversation with yourself in a deserted archeological park. Enough of that. The “two-hour self-paced” tour was complete in 45-minutes and I was back on Silver for the day.
This was another day in which I’d simply go as far it comfortably attainable. The morning was rainy and in the 50’s. As we pounded miles away to the north, the temps reached 100+. As mentioned before, this stretch would cut north between the two major mountain ranges of Colombia, and the microclimates in the valley were simply amazing. Nearly 60% of the afternoon miles were covered by a beautiful tree canopy, providing shade and comfort while zooming through twisties. Unfortunately, nearly half the stretch was under construction…generally just muddy roads temporarily abandoned by slow-moving crews. Ah, gotta love the Panamericana…and the fifteen pounds of caked mud it left on my bike.
Rolled into Girardot that evening and had the most miserable time finding lodging. Something I’d rather forget than blog about. Tomorrow I’d head into Bogotá.
Days 24-25 – Otavalo, Ecuador and Colombia’s “Trampolin de la Muerte” - 5,240 Miles
Wanting to visit the BMW dealership in Quito and catch a glimpse of the historic center, I left Papallacta after an early morning soak in the hot springs. I headed toward town, and as soon as I pulled onto the pavement and into the thick mist, I met 15 other BMW GS riders who were charging down my side of the mountain for adventurous Saturday morning spin. Upon cresting the hill at 4,100m, the mist faded and revealed Quito, beautifully nested between volcanoes and a mountain range. Both addresses for the dealership led me in circles. Knowing I’d need to reach Otavala by mid-day, I eventually gave up. Due to traffic, it also took another 90 minutes just to get out of the northern half of town. I swore off cities for the remainder of the trip.
This was probably the shortest day of riding the entire trip, as I stopped just two hours north in Otavalo. The town was known for its artisan market, and today being a Saturday, the market area swelled from its daily square block into the neighboring streets. It must have been 10 blocks square by the time I arrived at 3pm, and it was already shrinking down for the day. While the market was impressive because the complexity of the stands was insane given that they were there for just a few hours. However, the diversity and awe of in its entirety fell short of that in Cusco. But the people-watching was equally entertaining, as I enjoy watching other tourists fumble around (much like I do), and little old ladies seem to keep my attention. Tired eyes, leathery skin, and abandoned feet, they seem so bored of the market yet come back week after week.
That evening, I planned for my next destination, which would depend upon tired tread, weather, and how long it takes to cross the border.
There are two ways north through Colombia from the main border crossing with Ecuador. From Pasto, the first Colombian city encountered after crossing from Tulcan, Ecuador, you can continue on the Panamericana north to Cali and then turn west to get to Bogota. The big draw to this is Cali, known for its night life and salsa dancing. Alternately, you can head due east, cross through the mountains to Mocoa, and then head north to Bogota, catching a couple unique sites along the way—San Agustine and the Tatacoa Desert. However, this requires one to drive the “Trampolin de la Muerte.” Nicknamed by the FARC, this 125km of mud and gravel one-lane road twists and turns on a mountainside, often with a 400m drop on one side. Locals have begged the government to build a better road for years, as it claims the lives of truck drivers who miss a turn or dodge oncoming traffic and fall off the side. However, it’s gorgeous and adventurous. Cali or Mocoa? Salsa has its appeal…but so does the Trampoline of Death. Phillip and I had planned to ride this route, but I’d discounted it after the joint ride fell through. Now, I wanted to do it.
After inspecting the status of my tires, which had sustained enough brutal gravel roads thus far for a lifetime, setting some time hacks for the day, checking the weather (which means nothing in the highlands during rainy season) and getting an early start, I’d decide in Pasto. The jaunt through the last miles of Ecuador was pleasant, and I rode for a bit with a dozen Sunday riders. But when two nearly collided on a turn, I decided to pass them and make faster, safer time. The Colombian border was so terribly regulated that I accidently went into Colombia without outprocessing Ecuador. But you could definitely tell you were in Colombia by all the money-changers hounding you at the entrance to immigration. Pulled a U-turn, crossed back over, and handled Ecuador immigration and customs in 15 minutes. It was the most smooth, loose exit yet. Colombia had the most efficient, friendly, and organized Aduana (customs), as well. However, the agent warned me to purchase insurance in the next town. Well, I never saw the business, so I didn’t. Then in Pasto, a salesman wanted to charge me for a full year instead of the three-month minimum because it was a Sunday and only the weekday agents could give a fraction of a year. No way. I’d wait (and never purchase any). That makes four of five countries that I traveled without insurance. Oops.
The timeline for the Trampoline of Death matched up when I hit Pasto, so it was on. I’d hoped to crush through the paved 50km leading to the gravel to maximize my daylight on the mountains, but rain prevented that. Drove 30kph through the rain for an hour, and broke out my rain gear for the first time on the trip. Well, needless to say, as soon as I put it on, the sun came out…and stayed out. Soon, the pavement ended. “Here we go, Silver…just one more bout with nasty terrain. I promise.” Well, we tooled up the hill quickly, leaving the last tiny town of Santiago in the rear-view. Within 5km of leaving the pavement, we came upon a line of stalled SUVs and cargo trucks. The road had been completely washed out by a mudslide. A semi was pulling another one out of it. Only knowing I couldn’t afford to wait for hours, I parked the bike and walked directly into the fast flowing mud and water. It was consistently to my knees and at times almost to my hips. I was weighing whether to return to Pasto or try to push Silver through because either destination needed to be reached by sundown, as remnants of the FARC are still slightly active in these parts. At that moment, a little 125cc dirtbike with a father and toddler dove into the mudslide. It got stuck half way, and two men tied a rope to it and pulled it through to the other side. Soon, another followed. Seemed doable. Next in the queue, I waited as a huge cargo truck powered through, teetering on getting stuck. He made it, carved out a nice lane for me (deeper, but solid), and it was GO time. Unfortunately, like an amateur, I forgot to turn off the traction control. Also, I think the spectators expected this big bike to just plow right through it. Well, more weight and drag doesn’t help a bike in this situation. So, I twisted hard on the throttle and got about half-way through. When the rear tire started to spin a bit, the engine cut out and the bike just squatted into the mud as it came to a halt. Realizing my error, I turned off the traction control and fired it back up. At that point, men were already rushing out with the rope and tying it to the front forks. It took all of Silver’s low-end grunt and three guys pulling hard to get through the mud, rocks, and water that had covered both wheels and nearly reached the snorkel. But, we made it. And because cars were still arriving at the other side, I knew this would be the last washed out road. Time to make time.
The Trampoline of Death didn’t seem too bad at first. They had installed guard rails, making it more scenic than scary. Waterfalls on the right, jungle and vistas on the left; the road was rough, but enjoyable. Paused for some pictures, taking my time. Then, the guard rail stopped. I met a family who sent their children scurrying down a ridiculously steep embankment to recover produce and parts from a truck that had recently fallen off the cliff. I took note of the memorials on the mountainside for those whose lives the road had claimed. One curve, though next to a beautiful waterfall, had three memorials from different dates. The distance estimates from readings and Google maps let me down, and the ride was extending longer than expected…but regardless, there was plenty of scenery to motivate me to slow down and take it in. It’s really hard to judge the topography with an undetailed map, and Garmina is no help. But at one point, I started to ascend on the southeastern corner of the mountain range and found a nice police and Colombian Army outpost. Young men, appearing to be in their late teens, had the misfortune of overwatching this remote post. I paused for a picture, as the clouds were rising from below the outpost, and then continued on. The sun was fading fast, and it became a mad dash downhill. I only had one close call, luckily. Finally reaching the bottom of the hill an hour later, I came to another police outpost. This one stopped me, right where the gravel turns to pavement and I was about to reach the upper three gears for the first time in five hours. They love to just ask questions. “Where are you from? Where are you going? How much does this motorcycle cost? (This started in Ecuador) How fast is it? Aren’t you cold?” No, I’m from Boston. After this small talk, I usually interrupt with “Am I good?” before they can ask for papers. They always say yes, so I fire it up and take off before they can ask any more questions.
Finally arrived at my hostel for the night...two hours behind schedule and deep into the darkness. Three beers and a massive bag of chicken-flavored potato chips later, I was camped out under a mosquito net and down for the count. That was one helluva ride. Too bad there won’t be more like it.
Days 22-23 – Catamayo to Papallacta, Ecuador – 4,880 Miles
The scenery was pretty phenomenal. Steep, rolling hills and mountains, checkered with perfectly-kept crop fields and homesteads. Mix in some clouds above, below, and in your path with some intense sunlight and bright blue skies, and it’s quite breathtaking. Then, pristine pavement and curvy roads, and it’s a motorcyclists’ dream. However, I will say that it was 71-degrees when I started, and in a mountain pass, the temps dropped to the mid-40s. I was thinking, “Wait…isn’t this Ecuador?! It’s supposed to be hot here.” And dealing with the dehydration and physical weakness from the night prior made the day probably the most physically grueling and unpleasant of the trip. However, the ride was so enjoyable that I still fell in love with Ecuador.
Once again, though not wanting to compare countries, this has been the best, for a number of reasons. First, the kids and people just seem more content. People walk more with some pep in their step. Kids play and smile more, riding in wheel barrels in the rain and skipping down the street. It also seems there is more familial interaction. The entire landscape is more clean. No trash lining the roads. Even shanty areas seem to be looked after. People are generally more friendly, from gas station attendants to innkeepers. Oh, yeah, and it’s cheap. Just $2 for a gallon of high-grade fuel and less than $25/night for a solid hotel. And since the official currency is the US dollar, mental valuation conversions need not apply. I like it.
I pulled into downtown Riobamba just after darkness fell, physically miserable but emotionally content. Checked in, secured the bike, tried to hold down some solid food, and shivered my way to sleep.
The next morning, I’d take Mozes’ recommendation (the gentleman in Ica, Peru, who knew Ecuador well and bought me beers at his hotel) and detour off the main Panamericana to visit Baños and Puyo. I’d then continue north toward the outskirts of Quito. The trip had been dry for the most part up until this trip. Not so much anymore. Intermittent light drizzle all morning, and legit rain would plague the afternoon.
There was a road that cut roughly 20km out of the route, hugging Tungurahua Volcano and bypassing the town of Ambato. However, Phillip and I had read that volcanic eruptions had closed it on occasion…sounds like adventure. Well, given crappy local directions, a clueless GPS, and terrible Lonely Planet maps, I couldn’t find the silly road. So, back to the Panamericana. Baños is a beautiful town, resting high on river-carved cliffs, waterfalls and thick rainforests lining the valley walls as the Panamericana snakes through the town and toward the river basin. The tunnels doused me more than the weather. With plenty of miles ahead, Silver and I burned through tiny towns, were in an out of Puyo in a flash, and continuing due north. On the edge of the rain forest and closer to sea level, temps skyrocketed to the mid-90s. Then, they plummeted again into the 40s as we ascended the mountains to the west. Then, the real rain began. It was a long, miserable climb out of the river basin, often not able to see more than fifty meters ahead through the fog. Finally, I arrived at my destination, Papallacta. Known for thermal spring baths and gorgeous valley views, only the former was present today. But this could not have come at a better time, as my body was in need of respite after riding 7-12 hours for 10 days straight. Another freezing night outside...but this room had a fireplace. Granted, conditions could have created a miserable day of riding, but life couldn’t be better.
Days 20-21 - Lima, Peru to Catamayo, Ecuador – 4,280 Miles
This morning I would take Silver to the shop. He was due for an oil change, and I wanted to get everything inspected, some computer diagnostics checked, etc. I’d coordinated with BMW Motorrad Peru for weeks now to have it done. Jiro had told me that it would take me roughly 45 minutes to get there, just across the city, a trek of roughly 10km. I thought, “No way…even in bad traffic, that’s ridiculous.” Boy, was I wrong. At 7:30am, the city was already in near grid-lock. Have I mentioned how much I hate Peru’s traffic? Well, Jiro was right on the money. It took 45 minutes.
The service folk had no idea I was coming, though the lead for the BMW moto section of the joint BMW/Mini establishment had told me to drop in. Well, they bumped Silver ahead of probably 30 bikes waiting in line for a winter service (all GS models, geared up for adventure riding), and started taking care of business. An hour later, Silver was washed, prepped, and ready to go. Added another sticker to the bags, and I was charged 10% less than quoted. Out the door by 11:00, and on the open road north. Success.
The Panamericana climbed out of Lima into the desert, alternating between fog and a tad of sunlight. Mostly, it was just sand dunes, trash lining the road and smothered in fog. To be honest, though I’ve not wanted to talk badly about any places visited thus far, this was a forsaken place in Peru. A whole lot of nothingness. I made the routine stop at a gas station to refuel and have a snack for lunch, conversing with friendly kids and brushing away those peddling goods. Coke and Ritz crackers, a well-rounded meal. I’d mentioned to Jiro that Trujillo was about seven hours of riding, and I didn’t want to go that far, as the days had already been long, so I’d planned to stay in Chimbote, roughly 100km south of historic Trujillo. He mentioned that the fish smell might bother me there, as it is an old fish-processing town. Yep, he was right. Could smell it miles away. I’d endure another hour of riding to find something better.
Upon arriving in Trujillo, I zeroed in on a hotel recommended online and secured the bike around 7pm. Having driven through the extremely busy city center and wanting to avoid that for lodging, it was a little remote and I walked around for half an hour trying to find an open establishment for dinner. The only place I could find was a Chinese restaurant. I should have known better…but it tasted good. More to follow. Crashed for the night, wondering if I could make the border of Ecuador tomorrow.
Didn’t sleep all night, and finally started packing at 5:30am. I’d set a new record for the cheapest hotel at $18. But they definitely should have charged me twice that, as I got to enjoy the non-stop beats of DJ Jazzy Trujillo spinning until 3am at the bar next door. Charging north out of Trujillo, I’d decided that if I could make Tambo Grande, the last town in Peru by 2:30, then I would push on to Ecuador. That would give me an hour to make the border, an hour to get through customs formalities, and two hours to get to the first town with lodging. If not, I’d backtrack to Piura for the night. Did the routine lunch stop at a gas station…this time a can of tuna and bread.
The scenery changed a bit when nearing Tambo. The desert flattened and small trees overtook the desert landscape, making it reminiscent of an African landscape. And then it slowly transitioned to winding roads and agrarian towns. I made Tambo Grande an hour ahead of the deadline and pushed on. It was at this time that I truly appreciated the freedom of riding in SA. Over the last two weeks, I’ve become very appreciative of the general lawlessness when it comes to riding. Passing zones are marked, but they don’t matter. Speed limits exist, but most people do twice the posted speed. Small motorcycles pass on the shoulder on curvy roads. So, basically, I can fly down the Panamerica, pass on the left when it seems reasonable, pass on the right when I want to be a small motorcycle, and make amazing time. It’s really a blast. Between all the scenic destinations, cheap living, and freedom on the roadway, it’s an adventure motorcyclist’s playground.
Upon reaching the border, I was stamped out of Peru in ten minutes. When entering Peru, the customs agent thought I was crazy for planning to drive the length of the country in 30 days. I said I’d do it in 10. It took me seven. Checking into Ecuador took an hour. The Ecuador customs agent was chatty on the phone, delaying me by 45 minutes, so I made small talk with a policeman to pass the time. Phillip and I had chosen this crossing because the one in Tumbay was known for being hectic and dangerous, and the third option to the east was very remote. It was possible that the bike would have to be ferried across a river. Adventurous, but not enticing. Upon departing the border town, Maracas, Ecuador, the terrain and scenery instantaneously changed. No more deserts…only lush highlands, beautifully paved switchbacks, and happy farmers. It was amazing…and the shift could not have come at a better time, as I was growing tired of Peru’s landscape.
Though trying to enjoy the ride, my stomach became unsettled half way to my destination. Dehydration was the first thing to come to mind, as I started getting shivers and feeling nauseous. Small towns of roughly 100 people were scattered every 20 miles or so, offering no services. Finally stopping at a closet-sized merchant, I picked up a Gatorade, visited the boys room, and sat outside for a bit, trying to figure out what was wrong. Then, it happened. I made a mad dash, scattering the chickens pecking furiously between me and the toilet, and lost my lunch. It was quite a scene, I’m sure, to all the locals, as my feet stuck out below the stall door and I heaved for five minutes straight. Perhaps they thought twice about drinking the Orange Gatorade. Feeling better, ten minutes later I jumped on the bike and continued toward Loja. Had to make another stop, losing it a bit in my helmet while rushing to pull over. This was not good. Darkness fell. Vision started to blur. Stomach cramped. Strength disappeared. A small town 40km from Loja came into sight. Silver coasted down the hill into town, and I slumped over like a cowboy on his steed returning home after losing a dual. It’s not like I could just pull over and sleep, or ask someone else to drive me. Memories get a little patchy at this point, but I bought a bottle of water at a gas station and found myself laying on the sidewalk like a rag doll. People stared, and I realized that if I didn’t get somewhere for the night, I don’t know what would happen, and I’d definitely not be able to move the bike off the gas station’s patio. Climbing on the bike, I saw a lit hosteria sign but no lights on at the inn. But it was all I could do.
I pulled in, parked the bike, and stumbled up to the owner who was sitting outside smoking and enjoying dessert. This place was more of a summer camp for kids. There were no other patrons. It was basically closed. I asked for a room. $18. Wow, almost broke the record. I threw money at her, told her I was very tired, grabbed the key, and followed her pointing finger to the room. Then commenced the worst six hours of my life. There must have been a demon inside me. Food poisoning from either the Chinese food or can of tuna caused me to vomit at least a dozen times. And the lovely hosteria, being out of season, didn’t have toilet paper stocked. Ah, the irony. Alternating between sweating in the bathroom and freezing in bed, I found myself putting on and shedding my riding gear over and over to find comfort. Cipro wouldn’t stay down, but rather came back up and taunted me with the taste of medicine for hours to follow. It was miserable. Welcome to Ecuador.
With very little to see or do in Camana, I was up early and on the road before 8am. This stretch of Panamericana was supposed to be the worst. Luke had mentioned that from Nazca (300km ahead) to Arequipa (100km behind me) was terrible, as sand and wind had blown him all over the road for hours. However, once again, being on a bike that weighs twice as much and has six times the engine has its advantages. In fact, I found this to be one of the most enjoyable legs thus far. The highway hugged the mountainside, cliffs and oceans to the left. Once again, a throwback to California Route 1, as I’d seen in the darkness in Chile. The constant twisties were only interrupted by the occasional diversion inland and around a village, tucked away between two mountain points, serving as an agricultural hub in a river basin. Throw on some trance music, drop the suspension into sport mode, and enjoy.
Roughly 60km before Nazca, the road turned inland for good, returning to desert and blowing sand. Nazca, famous for the “Nazca Lines” has little else going for it. You can take private flights up to see the ancient sand artistry from a bird’s eye view for almost $100. But the industry was plagued with crashes and deaths five years ago. Recent reforms make it more safe, but while passing by the airport and seeing the aggressive approach of landing planes and seeing dilapidated signs for the services really turned me off. I’d settle for the 10-m high platform for 2-Soles ($.75). This was hardly even worth it, as only one sand figure was visible and only from an oblong view. The Panamerican highway ran straight through one of them. However, what was amazing is that the preservation of the shallow lines in the sand.
I passed up another scenic opportunity, Cerro Blanco, the world’s largest sand done, which stretches 2,070 meters from base to summit. Just 14km out of the way from the Nazca, it seemed close, thought just out of sight. However, I’d seen enough sand, and all dunes seemed to look the same at this point. Furthermore, time was running out to catch the sunset at my destination for the day. Oh, yes, and it was during this leg that my hatred for Peruvian traffic was strengthened. I was forced off the road three times by semis and Toyota trucks, as they jumped into my lane to pass. Sure, they did it with 400-600m between us, but despite my flashing lights and honking horn, they refused to yield to this oncoming behemoth of a motorcycle. And even in tiny towns, if I was not planted in the middle of the lane, taxi drivers and trucks would wedge themselves between me and the center or outer lane, trying to pass me simultaneously or force me off the road. Sure, I’d yield, but at the next opportunity blow past them and stare them down. Probably useless, but I felt better.
I pulled into Huacachina, Peru, 30 minutes before the sun gave up for the day. This desert oasis is a tiny town with half a dozen hotels, just as many restaurants, and a small lake in the middle surrounded by palm trees. It lies deep in a bowl of sand dunes, and locals and tourists alike use the town as home base for sandboarding. Giant dune buggies deliver customers to the top of the dunes, and they board down, just like snowboarding. But, there’s no lodges or hot chocolate waiting at the base. There’s plenty of sand to end up in your face, mouth, and pants, though. Not quite the same experience. I ate so much sand just climbing the dune to catch the sunset that sandboarding, which I’d planned to do early the next morning, lost all of its appeal. But, climbing the hill was worth it, as this was one of the most scenic parts of the trip thus far.
My hotel for the night, chosen for price and the 98% approval rating on TripAdvisor was just a few clicks away. However… “Garmina” hasn’t kept up roads that have become casualties to urban sprawl. I followed her a bit down some really rough roads and neighborhoods. I caught a few flashbacks of venturing around Baghdad after dark. Then, when she took me down a road that completely stopped at someone’s make-shift home, it was clear…don’t trust the GPS anymore. Turning around and dashing back to the main avenue to regroup, I managed to drive into an open sewage drainage ditch. A dog simultaneously ambushed me from the right. Yep, complete PTSD in Ica, Peru. I remember… “This is what happens when you use your GPS instead of doing a map recon, LT.” Heard that before my platoon sergeant. I fumbled through some more neighborhoods and found the beautiful villa I’d aimed for. When he cursing was over, it was all worth it.
Returning to the lobby to order dinner, the Caucasian man behind the counter said, “John, you’re coming through…from Chile…and Argentina. You’re riding fast. You’re on that motorbike. 1200. Big bike. From the US. You booked this morning.” This guy already knew too much about me. Turns out, the hotel owner, Moses, was a huge motorcycle fan and used to have a BMW before family life set in. He bought me a few beers and we talked for a couple hours about the trip, the travel industry in northern SA, where I should go on the journey north. He would put me in contact with people close to the border crossing with Ecuador, and he recommended a small detour into the Rain Forest. Really a fantastic guy, and he knows how to run a hotel. I probably talked his ear off, as I’d not had a conversation with anyone for four days.
Though Moses had offered for me to stick around as long as I wanted the next morning to enjoy the pool, overcast skies and THICK fog motivated me to push on by 9am. However, while pulling out of the courtyard, the sun busted through the clouds and was relentless for another four hours. On the way north toward Lima, Silver and I detoured into the Paracas National Reserve near Pisco. Beautiful lagoons, packed with wildlife and birds…so it was touted. I didn’t see any, but the hard clay hills overlooking ocean cliffs offered a good romping ground for an hour of off-roading. But, I needed to push on to beat rush-hour traffic in Lima. Have I mentioned how much I hate Peru traffic?
Up until this point, my documentation had only been shown at borders. But there are checkpoints every 15 miles or so, where they randomly stop cars to check documents. I’d made it through Agentina and Chile, and much of Peru simply being waved through. And lucky for me, as I didn’t have insurance. Supposedly one could bribe their way out of it…or end up in jail with the bike confiscated. So, everytime I pass a checkpoint, I slow enough to respect them but not enough to give them enough time to think about pulling me over. Well, finally, I got pulled over. Three times in one day. Still riding, and I have all the cash in my pocket.
The remaining 250km to Lima was brutal. Foggy, sandy, and cold, with inconsiderate traffic slowly increasing while nearing the city. After arriving in Lima and securing the bike, I had a great dinner with my friend, Jiro, and we discussed Peruvian traffic, his restaurants, and much more. It was a good close to a long day.
Spent the morning strolling around Arequipa, admiring the colonial architecture, a fantastic skyline of spires intermingled with peaks of volcanoes. Then packed up the bike and was ready to move. I’d enjoyed this hotel staff more than any I’d had so far…very helpful and friendly. Luke, the chap from the UK who had ridden a 200cc dirtbike around Arequipa for a few days mentioned a gravel road that cut between the two large volcanoes just north of the city. When I asked Michael, the host, about it, he recommended against it, as it would be hard to get to Chivay by dark if I’d take that route. He was right. And after a long conversation with Laydy during checkout, she wished me farewell with “Have a fun ride. I hope you don’t die.” Thanks. Today I’d be riding to a small town that is the gateway to Colca Canyon, the second deepest canyon in the world, just 15m more shallow than the world’s largest, but still twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.
Over breakfast, the hostel owner explained that he wished he was on a motorcycle trip. He used to have a big Kawasaki but traded in for a truck…and now he has a tiny car. I didn’t understand all of it until I saw his frowny face, followed by laughter. I paid the man and his son opened the courtyard gate so I could start the day’s journey. Unfortunately, I found the key to my room in my pocket hours later.
The destinations for the day would be “Cruz del Condor” and eventually Camana, an oceanside town. It was 42km from Chivay to the condor’s flight location. Five km into it, pavement was replaced by a rough, rocky road. Fortunately, amazing views of the deepening canyon made up for it. While passing a tour bus on a one-lane road, I managed to clip a massive pile of packed mud and rock. The impact occurred on my kickstand, which was tucked under the belly of the bike. With the handlebars securely pointing forward at roughly 50mph, the rear-end of the bike rocketed up and toward the bus to my right. Picture a bucking bronco kicking it’s ass up and to the side violently. Yep, it was quite a show for the sleepy passengers on that bus. But, Silver recovered and we continued down the path. Later I would find that the impact took one of the two springs off the kickstand. Still functional, but not 100%.
After 35km of mountainous gravel, two tunnels, and countless scenic observation points, I reached “Cruz del Condor.” A large family of Andean Condors wakes up, like clockwork at 8am, and soars effortlessly, 1,200m above the canyon floor. Opposite the valley, Nevado Mismi reaches over 3,000m from base to summit. A large crowd gathers each morning to watch the condors, quietly observing, snapping pictures, and offering the occasional “ooohs and aaaaahs” when one swoops near. While fumbling with my camera, a condor nearly dive-bombed me and I looked up to see it peel off and away no more than 15 feet away from me. Quite an experience.
The flocks of tourists could hang out all day (as long as their bus drivers would allow), but I had to keep moving. Google maps said it would take another five hours to get to Camana, so it was time to move. But, Google maps let me down. And so did my pocket map. The road was supposed to be pavement. Nope. It was 160km of gravel and sand, winding back and forth, up and down mountains, and through deserted valleys. One inhabited town was in the middle of the trek, though it had nothing more than farm animals and a few residents, and three villages that were on the map no longer existed. I literally did not see another human being for the first 100km. And this wasn’t like my last trek away from asphalt in Argentina. This time, it was on the edge of a mountain, winding back and forth with no rails or signs. “Garmina” kept recalculating and telling me to “Please continue to the high-lighted route.” Well, that route didn’t exist. I could see Luke laughing at me…haha…who needs a GPS. This was probably the most miserable part of the journey thus far. The unending series of “washboard” bumps nearly rattled me to death. In search for the smoothest part of road, I often had to venture to the outside, where cars don’t travel. Unfortunately, that’s also close to the edge…with not much between the bike and a long fall. But, after five hours of intense, draining navigation down this road, I found some tarmac and sped the final 100km down to Camana.
The hotel staff was rude. Local cuisine mediocre. Luckily, the breathtaking views and soaring condors made the day worthwhile. Once again beaten by wind and terrain, I fell asleep by 8 o’clock.
The desert was cold, and while the temps yo-yoed from 45 to 60, the cold didn’t shake easily. Did the warming hands-in-the-pants dance again on the side of the road after an hour or so. Riding through the Atacama Desert, considered the driest desert in the world, isn’t the most exciting experience. Every 80 miles or so, a straightaway is interrupted by a long set of curves that wind into and around the walls of a basin or gorge, breaking the monotony. Then, you climb out and are welcome by another straight-shot as far as the eye can see. Rivers, wiggling through the bottom of the canyons, provide distractions of greens and blues as one dodges road crews and coughs after inhaling black truck exhaust.
Finally, after about four hours of riding and waiting at construction sites, I reached the Chile-Peru border between Arica and Tacna. I had skipped breakfast and poked into Arica for lunch, but parking, chaotic traffic, and my inability to identify something fast and easy booted me out of the city. I am learning to hate cities. I try to avoid them.
The border crossing was definitely more arduous this time. Both Chileans and Peruvians gave me some guidance, but not enough to prevent me from wondering around and scratching my head. In Chile, before getting my passport stamped out, I had to get a vehicle reconciliation form…from a janitor who was sweeping the floors while simultaneously cooking up hamburgers in the breezeway that overlooks the border crossing. It cost me $.50…. “what was the point of that?” I thought, “So unofficial.” And…this same document, it turns out, was the most critical thing I needed to get my bike signed into Peru. Given that the lunch lady had sold it to me for less than a Snickers bar, it was wadded up in my pocket after the Chile gate agent let me through. Won’t make that mistake again. Both country’s agents were friendly, and somewhat helpful, but because this was only my second crossing, it was still uncomfortable. The Peruvian immigration agent only gave me 30 days in the country. I asked for 90, but he asked if 30 would work. Yeah, I guess. So, he gave me that. When the customs agent filled out my bike’s paperwork, he said, “You know you only have 30 days here. You are gonna drive all the way to Ecuador in 30 days?...on a motorbike?” I didn’t think it was so far-fetched. “If you run out of time, they will take your bike from you.” I didn’t feel like dealing with immigration anymore, so I said, “I’ll be gone in ten days, my friend.” Actually, it would be nine. He looked at me like I was an idiot and said something in Spanish, and another customer laughed at me.
Got lost in the first town I came to, Tacna. Once again, dropped in for food and realized it was a bad idea. Apparently, my Garmin has no clue what’s going on in Peru. No clue. Compound that with the chaotic, inconsiderate traffic in Peru…and a big bike with massive bags…which no one seems to realize are much bigger than those of scooters running around…and you’ve got a big mess. Let me make my first comparison here. Peruvian drivers are terrible. Argentina was busy, yes, but everyone was considerate, moved fluidly, and offered a bit of space. Bikers weaved between cars, but cars didn’t do the same. There was some predictability to it. In Chile, traffic is busy, but much more civilized than Argentina. Almost equivalent to chaotic cities in the US. Peru…forget it. This place is terrible. I consistently get edged out of my lane or cut off abruptly. I’ve started pulling up my goggles just to stare people down.
So, I managed to escape Tacna with no food but intact. Along the way, I passed what appeared to be another adventure rider on the side of the road. He made the effort to wave as I rode by, something not common in SA. I thought, “either he’s friendly or needs help…I’ll take either.” Turned out, Luke from the UK was riding around Chile, Argentina, Bolivia, and Peru for four months. He’d quit his job as a programmer, ridden the Himalayas on a rented Royal-Enfield, and then flown to SA, where he bought a 200cc dirtbike locally and tooled around finding adventure. His second helmet, he said, was “for the chicas.” We chatted for almost an hour on the side of the road as semis and cars sped by. He gave me a map of my next destination and gave me fits for using a GPS. We sized up bikes, naturally. Mine bigger, faster, and more comfortable. His smaller (1/6th the engine), more nimble, easier to repair, and much cheaper. I was slightly jealous (until the next set of twisties came). It was a great connection. And the only conversation I’d had for days.
Dropped into a third town for gas and food. Struck out on the latter. On the way to Arequipa as the sun came down, I realized I’d not eaten or drank anything for nearly 24 hours. I stopped at a “kioska” in the middle of the desert and had a nice time chatting with children and sucking down a Coke. The kids were intrigued by my bike and pointed out the fact that they knew all the countries on my bumper sticker. That’s become my new favorite thing to do…stop by tiny roadside stores instead of trying to deal with towns and cities.
Arrived in Arequipa, a colonial city wedged between a handful of 19k-foot volcanoes. Beautiful town, but I had no idea where I was or where I was going. Completely dark. S-curves and cliffs one each side to get into the town. Goggles and shield covered in a film from sea humidity mixing with sand. Oh yeah, and Peruvian traffic. Have I told you how much I hate Peruvian drivers. Found some wifi, reserved the first hotel room I saw, and crashed for the night after inhaling some Peruvian Chinese food.
This was the second straight day of 12 hours on the bike, covering nearly 600 miles each day, and crossing a border. The urge to pound through miles and get ahead of schedule is completely gone. Replaced by an aching back and exhaustion.
AdvRider note: Arequipa is hectic. Street signs terribly marked. GPS doesn’t recognize one-ways. Reserve a place beforehand. “Dream Boutique” was great. Top notch staff. They have a back courtyard that will fit 3-4 bikes securely.
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