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.

Posted on Wednesday, July 18th, 2007 at 12:28 am in Josh's Journal.
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