We left Arequipa in Peru heading for the coast. The mechanic at the Royal Enfield dealership suggested that was the way to go. The stark Atacama Desert views were beautiful and the roads winding. But once we descended towards sea level we spotted a flaw in the plan – it became cold and misty, due to the Pacific Ocean’s Humboldt Current. By sea level it had cleared. The ride along the coast was dramatic and beautiful with plenty of space to stop for photos.
The route to the border near Tacna was an easy ride with paved roads but we were somewhat confused at the crossing as we had got used to the concept of one, or several buildings, at the leaving end before proceeding a kilometre or two to the entry set of buildings. Here, we ended up visiting three windows in one building and all was done. Gid was concerned that all stages weren’t completed but I pointed out the centre window stamped us into Chile and the bikes out of Peru. It seemed to work.
We only had a short distance to go to reach Arica on the Chilean coast where we intended to stop. As it was still very early, or so we thought, we decided to visit the mummies just up the road from the town stopping for lunch on the way. Out came the phones as always but it took us quite a while to notice we had lost two hours. Rather than three o’clock it was five o’clock and our destination shut at six. Tomorrow then.
Undeterred by our one day delay we set off towards the mummies taking a more direct route out of town. Spotting some disruption up ahead we proceeded with caution, right up to the tape across the road which blocked the way just before a major bridge rebuild. A truck had just turned off to the right – obviously there was a route through. Having lost sight of the truck we explored the various options on dusty tracks around the old farm buildings before we gave up and headed back. It was twenty minutes or so retracing our steps to the junction that would take us to the mummies museum with no signage indicating the road block anywhere.
It clearly wasn’t going to be our day as arriving at the museum the gates were shut. We hadn’t checked and it didn’t open on Mondays.
Enough was enough. Riding back bypassing Arica we headed south out into the Atacama Desert. We were so pissed off that we hadn’t consider the distance we would be travelling and the implications on fuel. We must have passed several fuel stations but were in no mood for further delays. It wasn’t until we passed a sign that said no fuel for 250 km that alarm bells began to ring. ‘How much fuel have you got?’ I asked Gid. He always runs low first. ‘Providing we take it easy we will probably be ok.’ Probably. Neither of us wanted to turn back and I did have three litres in my jerrycan. Gid had chastised me back in Colombia when at the first fuel stop after our flight, I’d insisted on filling one of my emergency fuel tanks.
We cruised along tucking in under fifty mph through mile upon mile of barren mountains and valleys. We’d been in the Atacama desert since south Peru first really noticing it around Arequipa and then when we’d been approaching the coast through the mountains. But now in Chile we spent the whole day riding through emptiness with nothing breaking the vast expanse.
We stopped at Huara, the first town since Arica. It offered some accommodation and we hoped fuel. Accommodation yes, fuel no. Given that the hostal owner suggested the content of the available cans could be somewhat questionable we passed on that. The nearest fuel station was still 20-30 km away we were told. Do people in this small town seriously travel 20-30 km to fill the tank. So it would appear!!
The first of our tourist attractions was ten kilometres adjacent to the town. I was keen to see the ancient Gigante de Tarapacá geoglyphs. The largest in the world it was claimed. Gid was reluctant to go on a detour. We crept out to the site stunned at how close 10km looked glancing back with nothing between us and the town.
We made it to Pozo Almonte, creeping all the way but with very little traffic it didn’t matter. With tanks and jerry cans full we sighed with relief as we set off again just over the road to the deserted mining town of Humberstone but fuel had to come first.
Humberstone was fascinating. We whiled away two to three hours peering in the deserted buildings, school house and power station.
It was another day crossing desert before we reached San Pedro de Atacama but here the views took on another dimension. Now the vast emptiness had a backdrop of snow covered mountains. The guanaco (wild llama) the only living thing we saw.
San Pedro de Atacama was a delightful if massively touristy little town surrounded by tourist attractions. We picked the dawn trip to the geysers ‘setting off soon after five and back by eleven’. Sunrise at the geysers was to be the highlight. Our driver, Sergio, had other ideas and did a full tourist trail on our return trip – vicuñas, wild fowl, rhea (Exactly one: “That one’s always there, don’t tell the other guides“, |Sergio said.), flamingos and beautiful views.
Spot the Rhea!
Our own trip to see the flamingos at Parque Los Flamencos was also delightful.
There are two mountain passes into Argentina from San Pedro but one we were told was shut with ice on the road. We’d picked an early northern crossing into Argentina in preference to spending the next several days riding down Highway 5 through the Atacama desert, or Highway 1 along the coast. Argentina had a wealth of things to see up in the north and we’d already maxed out on desert. We’d return to Chile later, planning to explore the Carretera Austral before a final push to Ushuaia.
The Paso de Jama was beautiful with snow lining the grassland, vicuñas grazing and the odd goose wading. Up here we were nearer to the snow topped mountains just off the border with Bolivia – another country we’ve seen from afar but not entered.
Losing height we dropped down through the mountains into lower land in Argentina. The first town was Susques, a small, dusty place where several river valleys met. From a vantage point up at a shrine behind the town we were amused to see four full sized, if dusty, football pitches in a town barely big enough for one – thus reflecting Argentina’s national commitment to the game. These contrasted with one petrol and one diesel pump in the town. Oh, and one ATM – charging a huge amount of fees for a very small maximum payout.
Perfectly Legal in these Parts (leaf, not refined)
Ruta 40, a notable adventure riding route in Argentina, peeled away south from the northern end of the town. We had expected some sections to be dirt road but had thought that it would be a high quality – wrong! After two hours having covered 16 miles along washboard, powdery sand sections and loose gravel, with 80 odd miles to go to reach the next junction, we turned back.
On Ruta 52 then 9, heading south we saw mobs of bikers going the other way – all it seemed were Brazilians out for a multi week cruise around. Still losing height we stopped to admire the views little knowing this would be the last time we would be at a scenic viewing spot.
The following day we left San Salvador de Jujuy, heading towards the rural weaving villages. One hour down the road we hit the frequent road works. A contraflow in place with bollards down the middle – a steady progression of traffic. Over the dirt section Gid whinged he was slithering a bit. I hadn’t and I didn’t internalise his warning that it had been sprayed to reduce the rising dust but making it slippery. Leaving the dirt section back onto the surfaced highway wet dust was distributed by the cars into positions two and four as their tyres dropped the mud. We were staggered in positions two and four. I was slightly ahead in four and on reflection, didn’t have enough space to clearly see the road ahead. I had a short lived violent fishtail losing control of the rear wheel and down I went.
After all the back-of-beyond places, dirt roads, severe poverty and lacking facilities, it had to happen here. On a main road near cities, in one of the most developed countries we’ve been in. Roadworks management were there in a flash. Traffic didn’t try and drive over us. Someone called an ambulance and the police. Gid, who’d deliberately dropped his bike on the opposite verge, was confused by a lady who knelt to help, and took Clare’s hand. Was she a nurse? No, she was praying – hard.
A bruised knee, chipped rib and broken collarbone. It could have been a lot worse but that is the end of our trip.
We gallantly considered our options for making it down to Ushuaia, our target destination. We’re in the correct – the ultimate – country just at the wrong end. My moments of positive thinking weren’t in touch with reality. Our trip had to end in late November so time was running out, we had to dispose of our bikes in a country where it’s illegal for us to sell them, no mean feat. On top of that it soon became quite clear that I needed recovery time. I wasn’t going to manage being stuffed into a car and joggled for hour upon hour along over endless speed bumps, potholes, road works and metal studs.
We stopped for the best part of two weeks in the perfectly comfortable little hotel Gid had found a block from the hospital in Perico. I was groaning with frustration at staying still and at my general feebleness. Gid was desperately trying to find a safe, bearable for Clare, and not insanely expensive, way of moving the bikes and digging us out. Short of time, he only managed to advertise them for a week or so before concluding that the only reliable option was the fabulously expensive, wasteful, and CO2-emitting route of trucking them to Buenos Aires and shipping them home, while we flew to BA, stopped a week, and then followed. A sad end to our fabulous adventure. Be nice to see the grandchildren again. Will we come back?
Peru, home of the much loved Paddington Bear, was high on my list of places for which I had high expectations. Somehow I felt I already had some affinity with the Andean country.
These expectations were not met. Certainly not initially.
We arrived at Jaen knowing that towns are often hectic with people in a hurry charging left and right. This was no exception but rather than motos pushing into every space it was tuktuks. They seemed to explode out of every imaginable place. Tim, back at Donkey Sunrise in La Union, Colombia, had said that motorbikes out numbered cars by 4-1 but in Jaen the tuktuks must have been 6-1.
Gid was frazzled. He was trying to read his navigation, look up to check road names and get in position on the road to execute his plan. What a laugh – we couldn’t move for shoving tuktuks. The Ecuadorean SIM card that was supposed to work in Peru didn’t, and it took well over an hour to buy a Peruvian one, while I sweated in a busy street astride my bike, worrying if Gid was illegally parked. Almost all ATMs charge a fiver to dispense a measly $100-worth of Soles, in a country where credit cards are often not accepted. It’s not impossible, but Peru is definitely a bit harder to cope with than Colombia and Ecuador.
We didn’t take any photos right in Jaen’s thickets of pushy tuktuks, it was too intense. Here are some in calmer places. Peru’s unique CG125 3×1 tuktuks.
Gradually we got the measure of dealing with the traffic although there does seem to be a consensus in the South America Moto WhatsApp that the drivers in Peru are more aggressive. Maybe it’s only northern Peru. In the south it’s only the long distance taxi drivers (nutters).
Because our time is now tight in terms of making it down to Ushuaia, southern Argentina, and back to home by late November we have made a must do list. Machu Picchu is at the top for Peru but might be difficult as we are arriving in the peak holiday season and the site, in order to limit traffic damage, has limited tickets available. Gid was also keen on some sort of Amazon jungle experience. It seems like to really get immersed in the rain forest some sort of multi day trip is much more worthwhile. With time now a prime commodity multi-days excursions are off.
Searching the internet and the Lonely Planet guide we picked what is fast becoming the Machu Picchu of northern Peru. Kuelap is older and higher than the southern treasure and now with a 25min cable car ride to reach it replacing the 10km hike up the mountain side it is becoming much more popular. The Incas are well known in the UK but their great empire, like Alexander the Great‘s, was very short lived, a century or so. They conquered and built on top of the 800 year older Chachapoyas people’s site.
Trying to stay off the Pan American Hwy has had us on some awesome mountain roads. The views across puna landscapes have been fabulous with livestock farming of sheep, cattle and llamas highly evident. Spotting the smaller wild relative of alpacas, vicunas, was also great to see. And countless little tiny terraced fields, many still clearly worked by hand, with all manner of arable farming, especially potatoes.
A disappointing thing has been the amount of trash along the way. Crossing the puna landscape was on a well surfaced road which had lay-bys every few hundred metres. There aren’t that many viewing spots on the central and south American roads so it should have been pleasant to see them except for the fly tipping. We’re not talking about the occasional can or wrapper thrown out of car windows, which we’ve frequently seen since Mexico, this was bags of rubbish piled high. Perhaps it is villages off the main roads where a municipal rubbish collection isn’t possible but it’s a shame to see so much rubbish along the roads. Especially, apparently in the middle of nowhere.
At times our attempts to stay off the major highways has been torturous. We’ve passed many run down villages and plenty of beautiful ones too but a recurring trend has been the lack of shops to stock up on food supplies and, at times, the distances between available accommodation. Part of the problem with the shops is that in a village, all the locals know where it is, so, it doesn’t need a sign, does it? Gid remembers from his childhood near Bristol, Mrs Luton’s shop. It was exactly the same: tiny, served about 20 households, stocked bugger-all, and you had to know it was there. It isn’t now.
Occasionally accommodation listed in the apps doesn’t exist or is closed or we find an unexpected place along the way. A difficulty is the need to get the bikes off the road into some sort of secure area. While on some of the minor roads we had the choice of stopping early as we passed somewhere or pressing on to an alleged, on this occasion, hospedaje I had found. Gid was sceptical that it would exist but on we went. When we arrived at the village I saw a sign at the end corner of the street and thought that would be it. Gid recognised the place from the picture in Google – “hospedaje” barely visible on a colourful but very busy banner. It looked doubtful but in Gid went to enquire. Bingo – it was accommodation and our bikes could go in the shop over night. Sorted. After a friendly dismissal of the registration process we were shown up to our room. Boy band posters were still on the door and whilst it had an on-suite bathroom the bed itself was barely wider than a single. Our hosts – Elisabeth, Epifanio and Jasmine were delightful and invited us down for supper where we shared conversation care of Google Translate and Gid’s limited Español.
One particularly torturous day had us riding for ten hours and we’d only covered 150mi. The first half of that grandly titled “Ruta 3S” was along a definite dirt road, narrow at times, with trucks using it too. The river at the bottom of the valley to our right was coursing along frequently visible way down below. A sheer drop. On one section that had a chalky cliff face to the left and sheer drop of one hundred metres or so to the right I had a close escape. The narrow road surface was chalky with a slight rise on the left cliff face side. I probably wasn’t happy on the slight slope and tried to cross the small central ridge. As to be expected really the back wheel shot sideways, sliding downwards, about one foot Gid tells me. Far too near to the sheer drop. As a result of that the front wheel was now facing the cliff. Some how I managed to correct this without coming off. But shortly after that I stopped and undid my Helite airbag leash that had me securely attached to the bike. If the bike was going over that edge I wanted a fighting chance of not being dragged down with it. The hospedaje in the railway terminus village of Mariscal Caceres was basic, but a great relief after such an arduous road.
Entertainment available
Leading on from this section we joined a surfaced road. Or that’s what the map recorded. Really! Gid was furious. The language coming through the intercom was blue. ‘How can this be classed as surfaced!’ he stormed down the device. After a while we spotted a small section of tarmac. Ok, so in the long distant past it was surfaced but certainly not any more. Unfortunately an ex-surfaced road tends to be bumpier and less predictable than a plain gravel road. The potholes are sharp edged causing us and four wheelers to dodge all over the place.
In amongst some nightmarish riding moments have been the most stunning views. We’ve covered two kilometres vertically on a couple of occasions as we make our way up and down the ’foothills’. Sometimes this is on immaculate tarmac that our home councils would envy. At other times, there’s potholes or gravel lurking round half the bends. Our brake pads that were going to be good for another X,000 miles are taking a hammering.
Machu Picchu is the most popular tourist destination in South America but with that comes the difficulty of getting tickets. August being the peak of the northern hemisphere tourist season means that on-line tickets were sold-out months ago. On arriving at our accommodation at the nearby town of Ollantaytambo, itself an interesting tourist destination on the edge of the sacred valley and the site of the Inca -Spaniard battle back in 1537, our hotelier was most vociferous that in August there was no way we would get tickets. Gid explained that we were going to catch the train to Machu Picchu and buy a ticket, at the Ministry of Culture, for the following day. We weren’t entirely certain this would work, as the online information about it is drowned out by all the agencies and touts trying to hard-sell the tickets they’d block-booked months earlier, and smug online travel gurus who’d also known their arrival day in advance.
Our plan worked. Swallowing our outrage at the extortionate cost of the rail ticket we arrived at Machu Picchu mid morning still in time for some choice in visiting times tomorrow. An aged fellow traveller didn’t like the buy a ticket for tomorrow system but wasn’t getting anywhere with his same day arguments. Midday was our time. It couldn’t have been better. We had all morning to clamber up the very steep path from town to ruins, as Gid was too mean to pay $12 each for the bus. Too late to catch the early morning softer light for our photographs but not quite peak of the day heat either. As it happened it was overcast and could barely have been better for photography and comfort.
What a sight! The beautiful mountain setting and the expanse of the ruins spreading up the slope is awesome. The restoration has been sensitively done with the occasional reconstructed building and one area lower down that is still rubble. But most of the site has outlines of the buildings with the walkways and community areas in between. I had thought that the ruins overlooking Ollantaytambo were impressive but Machu Picchu is on another level.
Ollantaytambo ain’t so bad a place, either:
The second treat in the area was visiting Patacancha- a weaving village. I’d had this on the map since the UK and was keen to learn about Peruvian weaving. Before Machu Pichu we’d visited the village, 20km north of Ollantaytambo up a twisting dirt road to try to arrange it. The welcoming villagers at the bus stop directed us to Maria, Suzannah and Oleanda for tuition, Mariano for accommodation and gave us Annabella to take back into town. Returning a few days later we did some dye making, dying and weaving – a variation of back-strap, fun, but the available time was probably far to short to learn anything particularly useful. The homestay with our chatty host, Mariano, was a real bonus on the trip. Frost on our bikes in the morning was quite a surprise. They were tucked behind a bush up a footpath onto our hosts land. Gid wiggled both bikes up and down the footpath, across a makeshift bridge with a couple of alarming slides along the wet, grassy, way.
Patacancha Bus Stop
Preparing Cochineal dye
Vegetable dyes
Dawn in Patacancha
Leaving the area and setting off again on surfaced roads was quite a treat. It wasn’t long before we entered historic Cusco and were once again joggling about down steep roads on cobblestones. Having been very focused on planning to cover the ground it seemed a little disconcerting to hit the tourist scene again. My bike needed some attention and Cusco, where we arranged to met up with fellow biker travellers Damian, Alli and Yann, seemed the obvious choice. I’d had new steering bearings at the service in Medellin but when braking once again there seemed to be some travel in the headset. Demon Damian, a wandering motorcycle racer, overland biker and bike mechanic, suggested that the new bearings could have bedded in and just need tightening which did seem to do the trick. Equally, my back brake needed some adjustment but the alarming squealing noise my bike had made on two occasions when first moving in the morning was more concerning. We’d had a few suggestions as to what it might be but Damian was quite shocked when I said I didn’t warm the bike up before riding. I’ve got a fast idle lever but rarely bother to use it. It’s only now that we’re in a colder climate that it seems to be necessary. Unlike other bikers I can’t leave the cold bike ticking over as it just cuts out but have now rigged up a choke stay to hold it in position.
Lake Titicaca was our next tourist target. To get there, the road crossed a wide, flat, plain: the northern tip of the Altiplano. At 3,800m it’s quite high, but still populated. Scattered buildings line the road, and the grassland is used for low density livestock. After the bucking, twisting, mountain roads, the midwestern-style straight and flat blacktop was a fast-progress relief, if dull from a technical motorcycling perspective.
Gid read about Lake Titicaca’s floating islands and was intrigued. The Capachica peninsula was supposed to offer a similar experience, in terms of off the beaten track and rural village with a few ruins to explore, as the real islands in Lake Titicaca. Plus there was no worrying about bike parking and ferries. The peninsula was delightful. We stopped in the village square where the church was being renovated and one shop was open with a couple chatting away. In the corner there seemed to be a restaurant. Despite it’s cooking smells it wasn’t ready to serve at nearly 12:30 and ‘No’ they didn’t have a toilet. We explored a possible route onwards and decided quite quickly that it was degenerating into a dusty/sandy track. We turned back heading for the square noting an old lady’s bare feet as she turned off up the hill. It didn’t take long for the artesana (crafts) shop to open but the locked toilets stayed firmly shut.
Despite Gid loosing some interest in the floating islands, concerned that it was just a tourist hype, we took the boat trip out to see one. It was delightful. A man in his thirties, who had lived on handmade floating islands all his life, gave us a detailed presentation on how the islands are constructed, how long they last, the maintenance required and how four families lived on this floating island less than the area of two tennis courts. It was fourteen years old, approximately half its life expectancy. The small reed houses, into one of which we were allowed to peer, were raised to keep out the damp. Two reed boats were used to catch fish, a rifle to shoot birds flying overhead and nearby nesting birds provided eggs. What more could you want? Well, us to buy a cushion cover and model boat, obviously. Useful on a moto trip.
Mindful of how time was passing we were unsure of whether to go to Arequipa but were persuaded by the location of a Royal Enfield dealer, tales of frozen mummies and snow capped mountains. To get there would also take in the Valle del Colca and, maybe, Andean condors. Sold, we were on our way. Reaching our night stop in Chivay took us over 4800 metres high on sinuous smooth asphalt. In the slightly lower areas (a grassy terrain called puna) we saw lots of vicunas, but towards the top vegetation was pretty sparse and so was wildlife. Right at the top, though, Gid on a pee break saw a couple of mountain viscachas. Setting off from Chivay, we took the tourist road, occasionally peering down into the depths of the Colca Canyon. Looking up though, we were delighted to see at least a couple of condors. We were keen to continue the loop round to Arequipa despite knowing the tourist cars turn back to Chivay. Gid was confident of our route. An orange road should be hard surfaced, we weren’t going to take any nadgery dirt road. We should have known better – just because it’s orange on the maps (=”primary” – about 4 out of 7 levels), doesn’t mean it’s surfaced or easy.
It was clear right from Huambo – the end of the tour bus route – that Ruta 109 was now dirt road but it was wide and well surfaced. 111km to go caused a slight hesitation but potentially the alternative road was smaller. Off we went. Not long into the route we passed a small village and saw a condor soaring above. This was going to be delightful. Initially the surface fluctuated between reasonable hard packed gravel and washboard but as the kilometres passed and we wound our way round the mountain road we were beside sheer drops and on looser stuff. Gid squirmed losing the back wheel on fine sand. I managed to hold the bike up with a slide left then right but it felt like treacherous stuff. Trucks ahead seemed reassuring until we caught them up and couldn’t see a damn thing with the dust they threw up. We managed to pass one just round a corner as the wind took the dust-cloud away clearing the view. We comfortably pulled ahead until we again hit deeper sand. Gid got through calling back that I’d need to go slowly and put my feet down for extra stability. That worked until my back wheel caught on a large buried rock. I rocked backwards and forwards trying to ride over it but with feet sliding in the loose sand I was concerned about tipping over. With the truck approaching from behind and me stuck in the middle of the road Gid, now clear of the sand, parked his bike and rushed back. At 4000m that’s no mean feat. He pulled the child’s head sized rock from under my back wheel and off I went but he couldn’t make it back to his bike before the truck passed.
We were managing ok, the bleak scenery was worth a photo stop, but probably we averaged only 20-25mph, which makes 100km/60 miles quite a long ride – we don’t have the skills to drift and slide the bikes for higher speeds on loose stuff, and maybe the loaded down and modest Himalayans wouldn’t shrug off the hammering that would involve, even if RE show it in their (unloaded, day trip) publicity photos.
Then the road works began. Each one left the road in a very precarious state for two wheelers – loose fine sand, thick wet mud and other vehicles close behind. The road is too narrow to close only one side, and the terrain (and little traffic) doesn’t lend itself to constructing diversions. So the road is closed for a phase of work, then opened for traffic to clear. One such stretch took 40 mins to pass. Once through we thought that was it but hit a second major road ‘building’ disruption. Again we were stopped for 45 mins or so watching as the water lorry sprayed water across the road followed by the grader going backwards and forwards many times. We saw a roller arrive at the top of the road works and were quite relieved to think that the wet mud was at least going to be compressed. Wrong! Down came the approaching traffic. That was all the compression the wet mud got. We set off at the front of a ‘long’ line of trucks. The one immediately behind me thought it was a good idea to try to overtake. I blocked its way, not keen on being forced near the edge of a mountain road on wet mud. We made it! Pleased to have that ordeal behind us on we sped. Well, briefly. The last hour or more of our trip was blighted by awful quality deep dust road with an inaccessible new highway alongside us and copious amounts of fine sand. As we reached the unexpectedly sprawling town of Majes it was getting dark and we couldn’t see the diversion signs stuck up high on posts but were still faced with large quantities of this horrible fine sand. It must have taken 30 minutes – by then truly dark – to pick our way through the small town of Majes/El Pedregal. Our nightmare trip ended at seven pm having had one condor viewing stop since we set off at 10am that morning. Several days later when I look back I can barely raise a smile at what some would call an adventure!
In Arequipa we decided to go for an early bike service. The last service’s semi-synthetic oil might not be good for a full 6,000 miles of thrashing up and down many miles of mountain dirt roads. Equally, my clutch noise, whilst much reduced in these warmer climes and with a concerted effort to run/warm the engine before riding, is still occasionally discernible albeit much reduced. The original plan had been to service at the Royal Enfield dealer in Santiago, Chile, where the service schedule would be a bit late and more expensive than Peru. Better to be safe than sorry, although it might leave us hunting for more oil in Ushuaia.
The city itself is like many other ancient Latin cities. Its inner centre has the ancient square on this occasion the cathedral, a combination of museum, main church and chapels spans one complete side built in the local white rock and is then surrounded by large municipal buildings and perhaps a few tourist shops.
Our lodging as is our preferred option for city breaks is an AirB&B apartment which gives secured parking, some room to spread out in and often some sort of gym. We’re looking out over a park which is a nice touch on this occasion.
Having seen the cathedral we headed in the opposite direction to visit the Unesco listed convent. It’s an ancient self contained unit with numerous kitchens, chapels, prayer rooms, accommodations etc. each connected by narrow streets. Twenty sliced in half large earthenware pots creating a laundry system in one corner. The second floor, in the main, no longer exists as a result of many earthquakes but rambling through the expanse gave a feel of the tranquillity that must have existed.
Returning to our accommodation at around five took us through the rougher end of town. The traffic was dense and so was the foot fodder. The pavements were heaving as we wound our way past street vendors selling everything from single cigarettes to pop to gadgets to fried convenience food. These edged the pavements while small booths for shops lined the inner streets occasionally leading back through small accesses to rows of similar booths generally selling all the same stuff. One lady sat on steps leading to the first floor with shelves lined with pop and snacks on either side of her. Every space was crammed!
The logistics for getting the parts to Arequipa proved a bit on the sluggish side – nearly a week. As we waited for our bikes to undergo their services we spent a lot of time asleep, idling, or working on the computer. Gid had a cold, which he gave to me, and both our spines appreciated the idling. Seems we needed a rest. The parts finally arrived in the middle of Friday, and we picked them up last thing, back to our apartment. Saturday morning we rushed back to the taller, Clare’s bike seemed to have an oil leak – actually it turned out to just be a rather messy oil drain that hadn’t been cleaned – the Hims have a bash plate, and it does need some care, or a post-drain scrub-out, to not end up with oil caught in it and dripping everywhere. Cleaned up (and the clutch cover bolts tightened), we trundled off to the nearby gas station: Which led to another return, Gid’s tank was super-pressurised after sitting in the sun, which typically means the tank expansion hose was pinched when the tank went back on – how Clare’s fuel leak happened in Colombia. Freed up. Finally we set off. A bit hastily, it turned out, the next days were long old rides, it took Gid several days to notice that the rear axles were crooked, Clare’s so much that a lot of whacking was needed to free it! Asking around, this isn’t untypical, a lot of expert bikers always do their own work on quality grounds.
The Arequipa delay has also given us more time to contemplate the end of the trip. We have always known that our end-of-November deadline – actually the end of our 18-month travel insurance – means we’ll be heading into the chilly, windy, south at the end of spring, not summer. But getting out again may take a significant chunk of time too. The problem is the motorcycles. South American nations really don’t like private imports of vehicles, which means we can’t “just sell them”. Whereas shipping them home will cost more than a well-used Himalayan is worth, and these sturdy, versatile, but rather slow bikes aren’t what we want to ride in the UK. We always knew this, but the many different solutions discussed online, and used by fellow travellers need a bit more consideration.
Our last days in Peru were curious, we thought we’d check out the hot, sunny, sea level Pacific coast, since we’ve not seen the Pacific since Panama. How wrong. Thanks to the Humboldt Current, it was cool, foggy, damp. Not Marbella in summer, more like Minehead in March. Still, the mining works at Ilo were impressive. We headed back up the hill, back to the daytime warmth of the Atacama desert – and the Chilean border.
Bogotá was heaving! The capital Bogotá itself has a population equal to the whole of Panama. Step outside our AirBnB and it felt like it! Latin American cities always feel hectic. Streets swarm with vehicles, often motos. Pavements are busy, more so than in much of Europe, and shed loads more than we’d seen in the USA where the sidewalks are really just vacant spacers between the traffic and the buildings, populated by a few weirdos like us.
Bogota – View from the gym
We spent nearly three weeks in Bogotá as I hurt my back slumping around the transit terminals waiting for motorbike paperwork and our flights. Maybe we should have used sea freight after all? A physio finally fixed me but the whole event did mar our start in South America. Thankfully our lodgings were near the city centre which had a pedestrian precinct for quite a stretch leading into the city centre creating lots of space to walk albeit weaving between the street vendors.
Gid seemed to think we should restart our trip south from the Caribbean coast. It wasn’t the Darien region (advised against by UK government, as is the whole Pacific coast) and I couldn’t see the connection but I was perfectly happy to take a trip to the flamingo lagoon. Ciudad Perdida, The Lost City, my original northern mission, was out of the question with my dodgy back. There was no way I would manage a four day trek in sweltering heat, sleeping in hammocks overnight. The flamingos as our most north-eastern point would be fine.
We’d got so used to, in Central America, the relatively small amount of traffic and short distances between places. We’d been pottering about going from one place to another in a day or so that it was a bit of a shock to find it would take several days to reach our next destination. In fact, to start with we didn’t comprehend that at all. Colombia is about twice the size of all of Central America excluding Mexico and has taken some readjustment. Equally, after 4-wheeled Costa Rica and Panama, in Colombia motos are back with a vengeance. In some villages the swarming motos have equalled the numbers at Sturgis on a full-on day at the rally. The roads are generally ok but there some very holey patches with the locals doing leg pointers as they progress – leg/hole to the left, leg/hole to the right. The double legs out was a new one on us which clearly means – speed bump across the road.
After crossing the isthmus of Panama we were now crossing dried out oceans in Colombia as we headed north – possibly a part of the same tectonic movements in the region which took place millions of years ago. At Villa de Leyva there are an extraordinary number of fossils dating back to when the region was a part of the sea. Amongst many other fossils, three different sorts of ammonites at the lower end of the food chain and a giant Kronosaurus as an apex predator were all found in the area. The Kronosaurus lies, uncovered but still embedded, exactly where it was found and it is one of very few exhibits in the world where a museum has been built in situ.
Gid claimed, as we rode north, that with towns on the road signage being over 300km away the area we were riding through was sparsely populated but when we arrived on the outskirts of Cartagena that all changed. We still had 12km to reach our accommodation on the city beach. 12km of rush hour traffic frantically dashing about to cut ahead of the car, bus, truck etc in front. Shoulder checks are essential – a life saver – advanced rider trainers will tell you but I wouldn’t risk doing one. In the moment it takes to glance back checking for a clear space and look forwards again half a dozen bikes will have flooded in. Equally, it was totally counter productive to slow down to gain some space between you and the vehicle ahead as this just provided space for streams of 150cc bikes to swarm in. It was a very dangerous manoeuvre to change course to miss a hole in the road as that would place you immediately into the path of the next stream of 150s cramming by. That’s not counting the occasional obvious kid (boys only), riding like an absolute maniac. We were stunned that we only saw one biker on the ground; he looked a bit stunned, too.
The 12km of nerve racking stuff ended in further dismay. Our accommodation had been booked but not paid for in advance. There’s no reception to pay at, only a key box and an ominous email. That’ll be no entry then. The email gave a number of ways to pay that I’m sure would all be great if you’re Colombian but none of our PayPal payment, credit cards etc. were acceptable. After a period of dismay it all worked out – most things do. The cleaning lady and local ‘landlord’ arrived. After some mis-communication we scraped together enough cash. Worryingly she kept saying ‘cancellado’ – we presumed she was about to cancel our booking – but it means “paid” in Spanish. All was sorted. Note to the admin dept (Gid): Don’t use Booking.com to book apartments one hour before arrival.
On reaching the Carribbean we realised how comfortable Bogota had been. Cartagena and Santa Marta are on the coast where the heat and humidity was oppressive. The former was a major tourist spot, reminding Gid of St Malo in Brittany, with it’s UNESCO listed city wall, while Santa Marta was more relaxed and the base of our bird watching tour in the nearby Sierra Nevada National Park (nice and cool, over 1500m high). Finally, we got some photos of hummingbirds, albeit at a feeder.
Further east along the Caribbean coast the flamingos live in a saline lagoon near the village of Camarones. We passed through the main village, heading for the end of the peninsula where there was a sort of sub village with a few buildings, boats dragged up on the beach. The paved road petered out deteriorating into sand. Hard packed thankfully. We had arrived at lunch time and were pounced upon by two ‘likely-lads’. One sold us a highly over priced meal while the other was a boatman/guide who seemed far more genuine. Lonely Planet states the best time of year to see flamingos and of course we’d missed that. I asked the young boatman if the birds were still here or had they, per LP, flown away. He replied that they were still around, at least a couple of thousand of them were.
Having eaten, neither of us felt keen to extend our stay beyond one night as the village seemed fairly run down and we stood out as tourists, so we arrange our flamingo trip for that afternoon, with little break after our hot ride and lunch. It was fabulous. Well worth venturing out to see them. Them and a couple of scarlet ibis amongst many egrets, herons, white ibis, vultures, frigate birds, terns, pelicans and cormorants. The sailing canoe was impressive, too, we recalled our own attempts to sail canoes back home. It probably does help if it weighs… more than a Himalayan, instead of 25Kg like the typical Royalex lightweight canoes we used to use.
Having ticked the box of the Caribbean we headed back south.
Medellin was our next destination where the bikes could be serviced and checked over by a Royal Enfield main dealer. We hadn’t got any problems but it seemed foolish to miss the opportunity and an oil change was due. Rather than our previous experiences of arriving in cities late in the day and mixing it with the locals during rush hour we decided to stop in a small town – Yasumal, a little way short of Medellin. The theory was great. It was going to be less stressful. Yasumal wasn’t big, and the mapping just showed the usual LatAm grid of streets. There’s a few hotels from which we needed to find one with decent parking getting the bikes off the road and into safety. A good plan.
The navigation’s first ‘left here’ had us both saying, ‘You’ve got to be joking’. We craned our heads up and saw the narrow road disappear skywards. Up the next road you could see a flatten out a bit at the top but we were too late to take it. We had to take one of them! The next one it was then. I was leading and up I went very focused on not stalling as I steadily ground my way up the narrow lumpy road in the rain. I was going the wrong way! The arrows and the on-coming traffic gave it away. Gid had stopped at the first crossroads but I wasn’t stopping on an incline like this. At the second crossroads it flattened out a bit and as I stopped a couple of people came to help. Hand waving wasn’t working too well but Gid finally arrived at my crossroads taking over the conversation with the locals, but with no more success. We weren’t lost. We knew exactly where we were and where the hotel was. The one-way system and road blocks were the problem. Nothing corresponded to our mapping. One of the men decided to lead us there by foot. Gid wasn’t happy. ‘Clutch’ll burn out, can’t go this slow, let’s just get out of here!’ was streaming down the intercom. I put my faith in the man and followed him up the next road with Gid shrieking that he’d done this route before. ‘It only leads to where you were, the road is blocked!’. Still I followed the man. At the road block our man spoke to the policia who agreed we could go the wrong way up the next bit. Our man led on. He was soon beckoning us down a dark, steep entrance way under a building. Down I went. Gid still wasn’t happy. It turned out to be an underground motorcycle parking lot manned by an attendant. Once that was established things brightened up. Our man, once the bikes were parked out of the way in a corner thanks to the attendant, took us on to the hotel we had mentioned, which, it turned out, was only accessible on foot. Later, Gid, his good humour returning, pointed out that the church in the pretty, tiered, busy central plaza was the largest flat area we’d seen in the whole town! A coffee on a balcony helped too!
Gid adds: Although some elements of that hotel hunt were awful, one thing that wasn’t was the weather. With the rain it was lovely and cool. Normally, the worst thing about in-town hotel searches is the combination of baking heat and moto gear. Often, when we’re just travelling rather than aiming for a specific stop for that night, we don’t do more than eyeball Google in the morning or at lunch, to spot an area with some places to stay. Online rarely clearly states that a place has secure parking – our difficult criteria – so it’s simplest to go there and trawl the streets. This usually works ok except for:
The heat. We’re usually looking for a hostal or hotel by 3:30pm. About peak heat time. So we’re crawling along the baking streets, in full motorcycling kit (ATGATT), or stopped staring at navigators or asking locals. Then Gid (why me?) has to dismount and wander the streets (still ATGATT). We’re both liquid, usually, by the time we find somewhere. Only a few recepcionistas let us into the parking to undress before doing all their documents and paying. Ugh!
Helpful locals. It’s churlish to say it, but usually it ends up taking longer, and finding a worse hotel, than we would have on our own. Do I know a suitable hotel in my home town (Worthing) for someone with X special requirement, and not expensive? No, haven’t a clue. Maybe it worked out in Yasumal, as the guy took us to secure parking first.
The two occasions on this trip where a town was totally booked out because of some event. Move on. Except once, decades ago, I arrived in Yellowknife, by airline, no tent. Wedding. Full. Nowhere to move on to. Pre-Internet. Oh sht. The mozzies feasted that night.*
With our hotel hunting we are learning another new skill. That of riding the bikes up steps into the hotel lobby. I’d seen this in central Asia on our bicycle trip. It was easy enough to lift our 2016-18 pedal bikes into the lobby but in the morning the only way those motos alongside our bicycles got there was up the steps. Now it was our turn, well Gid’s. So far I’ve wimped out. Our second attempt was crowded with on-lookers just to add to the drama, and glass doors on either side. Gid: The actual manoeuvre isn’t too difficult, the problem is that if the bike was to stop on the way up the plank, the rider’s feet are in mid-air, so a topple is inevitable. In the video, that’s why the helper is there. The other problem is a slippy tiled floor inside, and possibly needing to stop dead abruptly, one could easily climb the plank then fall over a locked front wheel. It’s much easier on my own bike, as I’m dialled into it. On Clare’s, as I’m unused to it, the 2022 is much more prone to stalling or cutting out.
Medellin itself seemed pretty ordinary until you looked beneath the surface at it’s history. Wow, what a history! Firstly we wandered over to the city museum and its music exhibition. It displayed a few record covers and details of a few musicians but a common theme quickly emerged. That of the part that music and art played in transforming the city in the early 2000s from its hard core criminality into the thriving and prosperous place that it is today. With our interest aroused we went on to the Pablo Escobar museum. He was a Colombian drug lord who started his life of crime at the tender age of 12. He flourished in his chosen career progressing from selling stolen tomb stones, that he recycled, through a number of other more minor forms of criminality until he become the leader of the Medellin drugs cartel in his early twenties. He opened up and then monopolised the route for sales of cocaine into the US market and was arguably one of the richest drug lords ever. Having served a short term in prison for drugs possession and escaped numerous attempts at capture he was shot dead in the late nineties during a police raid by a bullet through his head. Some say it was suicide claiming he said, ‘It’s better to be buried on Colombian soil than live in a cell in the US.’
The third part of this story was in Comuna 13. This is the area of Medellin where fighting factions were rife at the end of the last century and the beginning of this which played out with fierce battles on the streets. The problems were all around the local residents who hid in their homes to avoid the gun fire. The military, police and local residents were all involved in what was all but a war zone for many years. In the early noughties this was turned around in part by engaging the teens, the next gun fodder, in what became a new future through art and music – as well as the application of overwhelming force by the military. Today the residents, many of whom would now be dead should the problems have continued, make a living showing tourists around. Marta, our guide, grew up in the region and vividly remembers the troubles that drove her mother away. She still lives high up in the community together with her father and the rest of her family.
The other notable presence in Medellin for us are the sculptures of Botero the renowned local Colombian artist and sculptor. To get there we trapsed through the streets with evidence of a number of locals indulging in Escobar’s legacy. They were either preparing a fix sprinkling white powder from their mini packet of local produce or crashed out on the street. Almost without exception male, not old, and thin. These fellows really did look rough. Unlike Bogata where the streets near the centre of the capital were lined with stalls of anything portable that could be reused neatly laid out before running into a long line of tourist stalls, here it was one step up from squalor. There were local stalls – socks, phone cases, t-shirts etc and a local band but the biggest impact on us was the feeling of poverty. Piles of ‘junk’, piles of refuse, piles of debris lined the street, and a persistent whiff of various body products. Metres away from clean, tiled, modern eateries were street dwellers rummaging through piles of rubbish grabbing discarded wrappings in a hope of finding something to eat.
Botero’s sculptures were a short distance away set around a pristine square in front of a museum where tourists pose for pictures. The famous original ‘The Bird’ sculpture bombed in 1995 during a fair killing 27 people and injuring many others is a short distance away set in a another spacious square. It’s replacement The Bird sculpture set along side as another reminder of recent troubles.
This blog only describes our first two thirds of Colombia. Stay tuned for the last bit.
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