Meet Chuck. Chuck for various reasons decided on a radical change of lifestyle, quit his job in Washington, sold everything and has embarked on a multi-year round the world motorcycle trip. We met up in Cusco and catching him in La Paz, we both agreed to a challenging route through the infamous `Camino de la muerte` formerly the world`s most dangerous road. In recent years an alternative safer route into Bolivia`s Yungas region, has meant that locals are no longer impelled to use this rather macarbe tourist attraction. It is now the domain of mountain bike tours and the odd un-hinged motorcyclist, although the road is still open for traffic.

The Road of Death in its prime claimed about 100 lives per year, down sharp drop-offs and single track. The road wasn`t designed by engineers but by army sergeants with dynamite needing to create a route to their painful and embarrassing military expedition in the Chaco war. At some stage it was graded and became the access to the painfully poor villages (nowadays) just 2 hours drive from La Paz. Still with some trepidation, Chuck and I ventured towards the top where the driving is on the left-hand side of the road.

To my disappointment the views were obscured by dense mist, presumably the warmth of the jungle clashing with the cold air at the 4700 metre summit (La Cumbre). But once we had lowered our tire pressures and inched our way around some corners this was just another simple Bolivian road. Fairly uniform curves without potholes or mud, the main hazard was overtaking all the nervous girls at the back of mountain bike tours. I suspect some never let go of their brakes.

The most interesting aspect is the abrupt change in climate from altiplano cool, to highlands forest, to tropical savannah within 45 minutes. At 600metres at the bottom, the Road of Death is a giant descent and the fearsome reputation probably lies with a Bolivian reckless attitude to driving. We made camp in the comfortable and relaxed town of Coroico and I tried to find fresh coffee unsuccessfully (market is on Saturday not Friday).

Waking at 1800 metres above Corioico, the morning was fresh but not cold. I have given up trying to patch my thermarest pad and sleep on the ground. The dawn chorus is deafening, big birds here.

We set off for the town of Guanay at a leisurely pace with only 130km to travel in the day. The road is graded and fast with only short single lane sections. I discover abruptly that the rule to drive on the left-hand side of the road is still in force (although not in towns, strangely) and when we leave Caranavi, there is no sign telling me when to switch back! Turning from Caranavi, we leave the road towards Amazonia and instantly the potholes and large rocks appear. Still, the riding is exhilarating as long as you can overtake the dust cloud from marauding taxis cum-rally drivers. I note that the taxis all have 4WD, NOWHERE in South America do the taxis have 4WD and yet here in Bolivia they do? This should be a warning.

About 30 km from Guanay, the soft luggage straps I had repaired at Cusco fail simultaneously. This isn`t good, my spare straps are already held up on my sidebags. Damn that shoe-repair idiot! Chuck lends me some straps and I am good to go. Following the crystal clear river, I look forward to a swim when we reach Guanay but the crystal clear torrent merges with a muddy brown 15 km from town. The weather is also hot for a refreshing change from altitude, about 30 celsius. We make Guanay and quench our thirst with fresh squeezed orange juice cooled with sealed bags of ice at $0.30 per glass. The next day is to be the roughest so we make for an early night.

We wake up to the hotel`s three beautiful tame parrots. `hola, hola` they chirp. We instantly make a wrong turn leaving town and I get directions from a man wearing a Relay for Life t-shirt. Many clothes donations are actually sold by middlemen in developing countries but obviously some charities are reaching out. The best t-shirt I have seen so far was Operation Iraqi Freedom replete with the stars and stripes worn by a middle-aged woman at church in Honduras.

Leaving Guanay at last, we begin to gain altitude and can appreciate the stunning landscape with sheer hills, and sporadic forest. We ford two rivers, the longest crossing of about 30 metres. The main river is perpetually muddy, seemingly a consequence of strip mining up the gorge. Tributaries flow crisp and clear. The road varies from steep switchback hill climbs on red clay to large rocks on the descent. Our goal is the town of Consata but leaving the town of Mapiri, the road traffic stops and the track falls into disrepair. Landslides thankfully have been cleared, but the jungle has begun to reclaim the road. We stop for a break about 4.30 pm. You want a banana juice señor? You’ll have to wait, we don’t have power yet. We split a beer and move on. Riding slowly, Chuck realises he is losing radiator fluid and stops to check out the problem. After a small delay we coast down to Consata, a town of little consequence. I wonder if we should move on and find a spot to camp but yet another strap has broken on my side bag and the fabric has been torn to shreds by my rear tire. Thankfully it didn’t reach the chain.

There is cheap accommodation here - $1.50 for a grey cell and a bed like a rock but for once, it really is the only option in town. We dine on deep fried chicken and after more beers make for bed.

The following day we pack and leave town quickly, thoroughly bored of the place. I take 5 minutes more than Chuck, turn right, up the hill and there is my first river crossing of the day – about knee height. I recognise a hole and swerve to avoid it, putting me in line with some large boulders. There is no dismount but Chuck has the evidence of a less than graceful crossing. Oh well, I`m dry and the bike is safe.

From here, the climb out of Yungas begins, and it doesn`t stop. We climb sharply, climb, climb, climb. We rise from 800 metres to 3500 metres, from lush jungle and banana country to harsh highlands and the Aymarà indigenous people tilling crops and grazing livestock. My bike coughs and splutters with the altitude unlike earlier adjustments to altitude. Chuck suggests my air filter and I realise it must be filthy. Thankfully the road descends and we attack rolling hills on the way to Sorata. With the worst behind us, the riding is fast but honestly, this is the real Camino de la Muerte. Sporadically, overloaded jeeps speed around corners ignorant of what might be around the corners. Going slow seems to be no defence and they don`t return a horn to warn you on blind corners. I seriously considered turning around and fighting one particular macho and if it happened again I probably would. But I keep my temper in check, barely, and we move towards Sorata and the foot of mighty Mt Illampu (6368m) and Ancohuma (6427m) . A picture postcard of a town, it feels like having left the frontier of the jungle we have driven into a small slice of Switzerland. Incidentally we dine on breakfast at the brilliant Café Illampu run by Stephan from Switzerland. Swiss muesli and rye bread is like mana after weeks of a monotonous diet.

The following day we take our time. Only 200 km to La Paz we have an easy day and I need to care for my lagging bike with the altitude. Climbing again to about 4300 metres on a steep gradient I actually worry that I won`t make it but the Rosa the red machine chugs along gamely. Looking back over the mountains north of the altiplano, you really do feel on top of the world and Lake Titicaca spreads out to the west. Hawks soar overhead, the air is crisp and life is good.

Next stop - the great salt flats of Uyuni.

The Road of Death - it doesn`t really turn sideways but I`m too lazy to fix the last photo
More Photos, in the Yungas

The following day I am still exhausted and despite not having touched alcohol in two weeks (on antibiotics for my knee) I feel completely hung over. I refill the radiator, find some fresh juice, and eat another two meals back to back - breakfast and lunch. I am not looking forward to crossing the landslide and decide to take the long road back, apparently 8-10 hours by motorbike. This isn´t going to happen today but we make for Quillabamba, a town we are told is beautiful, at just 1000 metres, in the true beginning of the jungle. There is a pass through the mountains back to the hot springs of Lares at 4300 metres but deeper into the jungle, there is no road. This is where the Amazon begins to claim the land back off of Peru. Thankfully the road is graded and we make Quillabamba in a couple of hours leaving me time to investigate the radiator which turned out to be a faulty fuse thankfully.

Quillabamba is a nice quiet town that has beautiful surroundings and sits on the side of a major river but there is very little to do so I spend the evening eating, my new favourite pastime. The local Peruvians are very proud of their town and overjoyed I get to see it. I don´t really understand their love for the place; I get to sleep early although it is a relatively clean and laid-back town.

The new day rolls around but I still struggle to get out of bed before 8.30. We get on the bike and move after getting directions from the police. ´You start on that road and from there, there´s only one road´. The road is damp but there is enough gravel that there is no mud. Occasionally we ford a river, up to about a foot high. On one of these I ask Teresa to get off as I can´t gauge the depth through the hazy water and want to be sure to stay upright. She crosses by some stacked rocks and hops back on the bike after a chance to drink some water. We start moving but 5 minutes later she taps me on the shoulder. ¨Stop, stop, I´ve lost a glove.¨ We backtrack but the glove is nowhere to be found. I´m pretty upset and explain to her that you can´t just lose these sort of things by leaving them on top of a backpack. I know there is simply no way I can replace a decent set of gloves in Cusco where it´s a struggle getting even decent oil. They´re necessary for the cold of Bolivia also. But they´re gone.

I motor on, and make a wrong turn in a village costing us an hour and a half. Ironically, the jungle is very nice and gets dense very quickly away from regular traffic. Leafy trees overhang the muddy track that winds up into the last hills before the jungle proper. Again, another adventure that will have to wait in preference of making ground. Motoring back, I stop for a sandwich and coffee. We´re running out of time but I would like to make it off the gravel before dark.

I don`t ride too hard but make good time, thankfully there is little heavy traffic to negotiate. But my error in navigating and a couple of stops have added up and I`m racing the clock to hit tarmac by nightfall. We discuss the possibility of loading the bike in a truck just to make Cusco. We reach Colca 15 minutes after sunset, ironically the ashphalt begins several hours down the road at a town called Calca. Some friendly Cusqueños are waiting for the bus and laugh good-naturedly as I explain to them our route and the various estimates of the road from 6 hours by moto to 18 hours. ¨One guy told me it was paved the whole way,¨ brings the house down but it`s true. Really, you can not trust any directions not on a map here.

I approach a truck and we negotiate a passage to Cusco. ¨Well you have to make Cusco tonight because there`s a strike tomorrow.¨ This strengthens the truck driver`s negotiating power somewhat. 50 soles is about $17 and will save me gas and give me a chance to sleep. A good deal. They have no rope and my two ratchet straps are not long enough to tether the bike to the ground so I check it will be okay to ratchet the handlebars to the roof to hold the bike if it tips. Yes? Great. I climb into the cab behind the driver and close my eyes. I`m exhausted and getting to Cusco will be a chance to recharge before Bolivia. A good decision- for once!

This good decision like many things in life, and most things on my trip, doesn`t work to plan. We stop for dinner and check the moto. The ratchet straps have bent the iron roof support and the side stand has fallen through the floor of the truck. The driver and his friend decide that I will be riding the rest of the way but seem to expect me to pay all the same. Sorry guys, I was paying to arrive in Cusco, not an hour down the road. I have no option but to drive. I don`t know what the temperature is, but it`s below 10 degrees and the road rises at least a further thousand metres to 4500 metres. I have no cold weather gear, but am obliged to ride. I settle with the truck driver who will have to pay for the damage, although I still feel I asked him and the error is his. They will carry Theresa to Cusco leaving me the bike unloaded to make it home. I`m assured that paved road is only half an hour ahead and Cusco is two hours. I`ve heard this before.

I rug up as best I`m able but am wearing my summer gloves that let the wind pass through my hands. At 100km/hr they are suitable for about 22 celcius. The mercury will fall below zero tonight, and having lost the suitable gloves really rubs salt in my tired wounds.

Motoring into the darkness, I also realise that my rear suspension is too hard. Set up for a load or two people, my weight doesn`t load the spring enough and I bounce over every bump while I lose traction every time I accelerate. The constant vibration passes through to my kidneys feeling a lot like a `stitch`when you exercise harder than your body can handle. After 10 minutes the pain subsides and I start to climb sliding and bouncing over the washboard of the gravel swithbacks torn up by previous trucks. I climb, I climb, and I climb further. The oncoming trucks are ruthless, blinding me with their high-beam and forcing me to the edge of an invisible precipice. The buses are worse, not even slowing. Every time I meet another vehicle, dust blinds me and I must hold my breath and look for any opportunity to pass.

I reach the summit, hands frozen but the rest of my body is holding heat. I have gotten cold often enough to know when I need to stop but manage to keep moving here. The air is thin over 4000 metres and I vaguely notice the effects of the altitude but I will be descending before the soroche can really affect me.

An hour and a half later, I descend into a valley, some 1000 metres below the pass. Calca. Excellent. But I know the road is still dangerous. In Peru livestock roam freely as in the rest of the continent and I am worried of any that haven`t decided to sleep. I find the road to Cusco and ride as fast as the chill allows - about 80km/h. Passing through the towns of 3 days ago, I realise I am not far from home but am not there yet. Sporadically the road is strewn with boulders and rocks forcing me to brake sharply, reduce speed and weave my way through. The strike hhas started early. A four wheel drive overtakes me and I shadow him, to give me warning about coming hazards as the bike`s headlights are weak at long distance. I am feeling the effects of fatigue but keep going. Stopping isn`t an option looking at the state of these road-blocks.

I reach Pisac at 2800metres and face the last hills before Cusco. I know it will be cold, and I can not be sure of the state of the road so I ride slow again. It is a wise move, road blocks of huge boulders appear without warning. Failure to register one of these will surely throw me off the bike. Around one blind corner, a tree has been cut down and lies across the road. I push on, knowing I am within 20 minutes of Cusco. I consider finding an expensive hotel room, one with reliable hot water and heavy blankets on the bed. I think of how good a warm bed will feel. I finally reach the lights of Cusco overlooking the city at about 3800 metres. My hands are numb and I allow myself to stop at a lookout before entering the city. I stand next to an illuminated white Jesus Redentor, a miniature version of Rio de Janiero`s brilliant original. Reflecting on what I`ve done, I`m very happy with myself but annoyed at again riding through the night. Even the relaxed timeframes I am setting seem to compel me to put myself in these situations. I ride slowly into Cusco and to my hotel (the cold original as it is at least 1 in the morning).

The night has a silver lining. A Peruvian man runs out of the Irish bar opposite. Here we go, another drunk, I think to myself but Wilson is simply excited to see my bike. He pulls me into the bar and makes me a cup of warming tea, talks to me while I warm up and then lets me check into my room ready to collapse.

Back in Cusco.

At 6am the owners of the hostal decided that they needed to rearrange some furniture. Having fallen into a moderate coma after my night-shift on the bike I don´t appreciate it but this seems to be the norm throughout South America. Regardless of how much the room cost, there is a free-for-all of noise come dawn.

After half an hour I can peel myself up and thankfully the promised hot water is more than the standard trickle. I clean and bandage my knee and we hop into a coillective taxi-van to catch a ride the half hour to a hydroelectric station which marks the end of the road. I was going to take the bike but unsure of the security situation for a lone motorcycle I leave it in the hostel. From the hydroelectric station I can catch the half hour ride for $8 or walk up to the town of Aguas Calientes along the railway track. We make for the railway tracks and a simple track through the forest. There is one benefit of this route, one train track in low use means the jungle is relatively untouched and meandering along the river is very nice. The foliage is a strange mix of semi-jungle with some tall trees and very green shrubs but also some altiplano style tussocks and cacti.

Two and a half hours later I make it to Aguas Calientes. I don´t like the place. The simple means of existence here is tourism, signs are in english and restaurants charge service which is a misnomer indeed in Peru. From here the site is a half-hour climb by bus or presumably a walk of several hours. I cave and fork out $6.50 for the bus. Air-conditioned, modern Mercedes Benz machinery, these buses need to be transported in to Aguas Calientes by the train. It´s a reminder that I am heading to one of the premiere sites of world tourism.

I always find anticipated tourist zones a bit of an anti-climax. Well-publicised, with all the best photos on ready display, it seems you can read about the best parts. I must give Macchu Picchu its due however- it is genuinely a marvel of the ancient world. The quality of construction, ability of the Incas to incorporate drainage, use of terracing to make cultivation possible and ability to place large rocks with precision is impressive, but I was most struck by the surrounding countryside. The jewel of the Inca empire, this great city has been perched on top of a mountain flanked by a gorge at least 600 metres below with treacherous access through Inca trails. The surrounding mountains are simply incredible, giant rocks that continue climbing into the clouds. The very inaccessability of the site and the grandeur of the construction just goes to show what men will do to demonstrate their superiority.

By mid day I´m tired and listen to a few passing guides´ explanations of the archeological significance to the city. I don´t find the tours particularly interesting but do wish I had read up on the site before coming here. By 3pm we are ready to leave and start walking down the hill. About 3.30pm it rains heavily. There´s no shelter and the buses won´t stop to give us a lift down the hill so we get wet. It is not cold, being so close to the equator, but nor is it warm and I am worried about getting back to the hydroelectric station before nighfall. Already tired, having walked all day, I now just want to get food and some rest. The descent takes a full hour before we are back at the train track and we have a race to make it to the station. Teresa´s sand shoes aren´t up to the job and she hurts her foot about an hour from the station. Darkness falls just as we reach the end of the line, cold and hungry.

We arrive but there are no transports available for Santa Teresa. There are no phones either. This is not good. We ask the security guard at the gate to the power station. ¨No, there is no one here after 3.30pm. On Sundays there is a night train at 10.30pm, sometimes the vans come then, but it is not certain.¨ Hmmm, not good. This cheap route to Macchu Picchu looks to have some serious drawbacks. With the sun gone, it is cold and I have no more than my jacket and a tshirt, not enough. We ask around the sparse stores and ascertain that yes, there is a night train and there are always transports back to Santa Teresa. We will just have to wait 3 and a half hours. The walk is 2 hours but Teresa isn´t able to walk that far, having pulled up lame some half hour ago. There are two restaurants and we go to the friendliest. They lend Teresa a blanket and cook us up a meal of thin steak, with typical rice, french fries and a token slice of tomato. It´s delicious and I demolish it in no time. How much was that señora? 4 soles, or $1.30. So we order a second each and are entertained by the couple´s young daughter who likes to sit and stare at us. The television is on and I watch Peru get eliminated from the Copa de America (the Americas Cup that most of America cares about) by Argentina. I can´t sleep on the plastic seats and am cold and, moderately miserable. Still, not bad considering our circumstances.

Eventually the vans come, and we get to Santa Teresa about 11.30. Exhausted we knock on the door but the owners live elsewhere we discover. Thankfully a traveller is up and opens the door. Unfortunately our beds have been let out in our absence. At this point I am about ready to cry. Thankfully there are some Italian backpackers who have a spare bed in their room and I collapse into it and don´t move until my next 6am wake-up committee.

Well, I recieved some interesting medical advice today (from a real doctor) that goes something like below…
It seemed as good a point as any to start on.

¨the important thing is it seems the infection is outside the knee joint. That is very important since if inside a joint the bacteria will destroy the cartilage in no time and that requires major surgery to flush the knee out. I guess no where along the way has anyone cultured the pus and determined sensitivity or resistance to the particular antibiotic that your are taking. Remember to protect the scab which is natures way of keep the cells in a liquid environment so that they can stay alive. Iodine/povodone should only be used once initially to clean a wound and not thereafter since it kills the cells. I triple antibiotic ointment like bacitracin-neosporin will keep the wound moist and speed healing. try to keep your knee straighter while riding to decrease tension and sex is o.k. if the girl is on top-none of that kneeling or missionary stuff. recomment pg 17 thru 46 of the Kama Sutra.¨

Well that`s a relief.

Anyway, confident that my knee doesn`t need to be amputated, I set off for Macchu Picchu from Cusco. Now getting to Macchu Picchu isn`t as easy as simply getting on a train. Well it is, if you don`t mind paying exorbitant international tourism prices. Due to it`s geography, the only road into Aguas Calientes is along a railway track. The train has been privatised and the prices are segregated between Peruvians and locals. So, having been living on $20 daily and less, the $80 for a return 2 hour train ride from the last town of Ollantaytambo seemed an affront.

There is a backpackers`route taking time and effort to circle around Macchu Picchu to the small town of Santa Teresa so that is what I did.

I met Teresa in Cusco and offered her a ride to Santa Teresa. As a Peruvian she gets free entry to the site on a Sunday so it seemed like a fun chance to have some company and a couple of days cruising. As luck and this trip would have it, it wasn`t to be. There was a landslide that had closed the road and it was significant. But an alternative pedestrian route had been established and I figured if people could walk it, I could probably bike it.

So after a big breakfast in Cusco, we hopped onto the bike with a backpack and a change of clothes ready to see what the deal with this slip was. The road leads through the `Sacred Valley` of the Inca people, rich in archaeological ruins. Although very sacred, geographically the valley seems to be more of a floodplain wedged between the mountains of Cusco and the Lares region where the tallest peak tops 6300 metres. I notice that the modern towns sit on the plain whereas the Inca villages tend to be some 50-100 metres above any rivers. Perhaps irrigation has tamed the flow through the valley. The hills are a sunbaked bronze - the UV levels in this area are among the highest in the world.

As we push through the Sacred Valley, the highway leads up into the mountains and begins to climb sharply. The ashphalt is coated with windblown dust so I must be careful on the switchback corners where local taxis simply cut the centreline to get around. We climb from the valley of about 2000 metres to over 4000 metres and the air thins further. The wind is chill and the houses are small, squat and isolated reminding me of the Lord of the Rings. Children roam the hills, rugged up in alpaca jerseys searching for entertainment. I reach the summit of the highway, which looks across to an enormous peak named Veronica.

Eventually we come to a work site, having passed 20 minutes of roadworks. A policeman flags me down and it is the end of the road. ¨No hay paso¨ and this time I think I may be beaten. I walk up to the landslide to survey the road. Loose scree is everywhere and the highway has simply disappeared. No, there`s no way through here. The other option is to backtrack to the town of Ollantaytambo and catch the night train. Although expensive, it will keep the bike safe and get us to Macchu Picchu. The pedestrian pass is a hard climb up about 70 metres but some enterprising locals are offering portering services. They assure me they can get the moto through. And how much for this service? 10 soles, a little over 3 dollars per man. Will I be able to get the bike back? The safe and probably smart option is to backtrack.

Fuck it, lets go.

I recruit 3 of the men and we start pushing the bike up. Without a knobby back tire, the engine isn`t much help as the wheel spins helplessly and we resort to lugging the weight up the hill with the help of a rope. With the altitude, I am exhausted but we reach the top. The descent is steeper, large rocks dotting the path. Perfect for a mountain bike, I have 180 kgs of weight to control but am confident of riding down. I don my helmet, jacket, but where are my gloves. Uh oh. I look at my helpers but they`re good people. Who was holding my helmet? We find the boy who had been wearing it and no he doesn`t have my gloves. A little persuasion from my friends and the gloves are `found`in his pockets. Thank goodness for some honesty in this world.

So, I kit up and fire up the engine but my helpers attach a rope to the back so they can help stay the weight if I start to slide. Actually the descent is a lot of fun, like any bike starting and stopping are the hardest parts. My helpers run ahead and point out the hazards and I find the smoothest lines and lean on the rear brake as much as possible. At times, I cut the engine and let out the clutch to shore up the rear brakes as I slide immediately and locking the rear wheel seems to cut through the gravel when you `just have to stop`. I make it to the bottom in front of a bus loading passengers/appreciative spectators and I`m through! Now how will I get back…

The sun is setting, crossing the landslide had taken several hours. I ride hard for Santa Teresa but night falls. I ask a local how far to the town. ¨Oh, with a bike like that 15 minutes to Santa Maria, 15 minutes to Santa Teresa.¨ I look at him dubiously. Locals` estimates are rarely accurate and often require you to ride at the speed of a helicopter to achieve. The fact is on single lane dirt tracks I need to look out for overloaded vans, homicidal buses and contend with sprays of dust billowing behind them. But I make for Santa Teresa.

Having reached Santa Maria, locals assure us we aren`t far. I am nervous, it`s a pretty simple rule not to ride a motorcycle at night but one I`ve been breaking too often. I set off and the road heads straight up a huge hill, perhaps 500 metres. I notice I am overheating. Damn, something must have happened while lugging the bike. I stop and let the bike cool down and a girl walks past. How far to the town? ¨Well by moto I don`t know but by car an hour and a half. Shit.

With no option I plow on, riding fast to keep air running through the radiator. I`m exhausted but have no other option. There is no accomodation on the road, not even any lights of houses. Finally, an illuminated cross appears. While common near towns, I am confused. There is no other light to be seen. We round a ridge and there is the rest of the town, a sleepy village called Santa Teresa. I collapse into bed, unsure how I will get up at 6 the following morning.

Pictures

So I made it to Cuzco.

Some of you may have heard I had a crash (correctly) and I`m taking a few days to recuperate. I am basically okay, I just have a cut that got a little infected and am enjoying being able to sleep in.

It has been a long couple of weeks since my last update. I`m trying to get it all down on paper.

Until then, please check out the photos. Peru would have the most stunning landscapes I have seen, anywhere.