Dave´s New Adventure
Adventures from the South American Continent 4/2007-5/2007

Nine Days on the Northern Route of Lake Titicaca: Part 2 – The Return to Bolivia

I had just two days left on my peruvian tourist visa, and the border town of Tilali lay out of my reach. I parked my bike next to a post. Surrounding me were the marshlands of the edge of the lake. The overcast day and morning mist covered the marshes with a thin, wispy blanket. It was Sunday, and even if I made it to Tilali, the customs and immigration office, if it did exist, was closed. Llamas grazed in the drier areas of the valley, and they stared at me as I pulled out my camcorder. Occasionally, people on classy, old, chinese made single speed bikes pedaled past. I finished my filming, and pulled out my map. I chuckled after searching it for a minute.

“Great, the town doesn´t even exist.”

Course, I knew this was false, since the townspeople I talked to said there was a town called Tilali, where I could get my exit stamp. It did´nt matter. I just needed to get to Tilali before night fall. I pedaled down the dirt road, along the marsh. The road lay north, and I traced its faint outline back up into the mountains again. I groaned. It was going to be another day of ascents, and given the road conditions and the angle, that meant more pushing and walking. But all of suffering has its rewards.

After several hours of ascent, I rounded a corner, and before me, the lake opened up. I was one hundred meters above the shoreline, and the road wound around the lakeside cliffs. I was walled in on one side by mountain, and on the other, with the hundred meter drop, by glittering, sparkling, aquamarine blue. The mountains on this side were dark with thick forests of planted eucalyptus trees, which were planted in the thousand year old terraces. A breeze touched my face, as it churned and whitened the wave tops on the lake. The air was crystal clear at this altitude, and the lake was a giant, flat, rippling gemstone. The breeze swayed the tops of the totora reeds on the shore, which from a distance, looked like fields of wheat.

I descended into the beautiful placidness of the road, and grinned. This route was rarely traveled, especially by the bicycle traveler, or by any other traveler. I continued to cycle down the rough road, and after one too many vibrations from my front rack, I dismounted and pushed the bike into a village that lined the shores. Crude, wooded boats lay on the beach, while in the waters, square trout farms drifted in the water´s edge, anchored to the bottom. I pushed my bicycle through the town, picked up some fruit, and then pushed down the hill to the police building. One of the police came out. We greeted each other, and then I asked him about the immigration office. He shook his head. Tilali did´nt have an immigration office. He suggested that I take a bus back to Puno, all the way on the other side of the lake on monday. I pointed out the impossibility of this, since buses were´nt available, and that my visa expired tomorrow. It was a 12 hour bus ride, in good conditions, to the other side of the lake, and that´s if there´s a bus available. He shrugged his shoulders, and said there was´nt any other way. I then asked if it was possible they could stamp it. They weren´t equipped or authorized to do that. So, I asked if they could write a letter, something, anything that would show evidence of me exiting Peru.

Finally, his superiors came out, heard my story, and suggested that I ask the custom´s officials in Tilali for a letter. Tilali had a custom´s office, due to inter Andean trade, but no immigration office. I asked him what tourists did, and he said that tourists usually don´t go through the northern route. If they ever tried to, they were turned back from the border to go to either Puno, or Copacabana on the other side for their exit and entry stamps.

¿So what do cycle tourists do?

We´ve never encountered any. You´re the first. He replied.

I smiled upon hearing that. It made everything worth it. The officer saw me smile, grinned back, and said, you really like adventure. Good luck.

I waved goodbye, as I pedaled down the mountain, and stopped to dismount and walk the road along the shoreline. Soon, I pushed my bicycle through a forest of eucalyptus trees in the fading twilight. The 4:30 wind picked up on time, and powerful gusts spread over the lake shore. I continued to push into the night, as an almost moon lit up the dirt road. Well after nightfall, I spotted the shadows of several buildings. Finally, I arrived in Tilali.

I checked into an alojamiento, picked up supplies, cooked dinner, and did an equipment check. I had to repair the rack attachment. The other side now popped off, and there was no way it´d last even half a day in the punishing terrain. After building another jerry rigged rack holder, I changed to sleep, and discovered that my 50¢ sandals had disappeared. I looked up at the ceiling, and said out loud, “So what´s the point of that?!” I couldn´t wait to get out of Peru.

The next morning, I cycled down the road ,and spotted two women who tended their sheep. I asked them where the custom´s office was. They pointed out that it was up the road, but it wasn´t open yet, and it wouldn´t open until 9A.M., since the custom´s official didn´t show up yet. So, I sat down to eat a breakfast of bread, cheese, jam, and juice. I then gave them my sugar, flour, salt, and baking soda. I wasn´t taking any chances.

Several boys crowded around me, so I engaged them in a game of hide and seek. After playing with them for a several minutes, one of the ladies alerted me to the custom´s official. I watched as he pushed his yellow mountain bike up the road. He was dressed in a a gray sweater, wore dark sunglasses, sported a graying mustache, and a receding hair line. I greeted him, and explained my situation to him. He said to meet him in thirty minutes at the border station.

Thirty minutes later, he had me remove and open my bags for an inspection, and explained that he wasn´t authorized to write even a letter stating that I was exiting Peru. He suggested that I talk to the border police just across the crude wooden gate. He also added that I was the first cyclist he´d ever seen in forty years.

After waiting in the police station for an hour, the police chief finally arrived, and I explained my situation to him. He explained that they wold get into trouble with the central office for giving me a letter stating that I passed through the border. He suggested that I lie to the bolivian authorities, that I passed through the village of Milalia, and that there was no border station to apply an exit stamp. Regardless, none of the peruvian authorities were going to give me a letter for evidence of exiting the country.

I pushed my bike up to 4100 meters, and after 15 minutes of getting lost due to the multiple vehicle tracks, I finally navigated my way far above the tree line on top of a mountain, where the buildings were constructed of rough stone, roofs were held down against the wind by large rocks, and two border monuments marked the frontiers of Bolivia and Peru. People passed by me with burros laden with cut shrubs, and I pushed higher into the rarefied air. At the barren top, the aymara build stone walls to create wind breaks for their crops and animals, and I rested next to one as I gazed over the entire north eastern section of the lake. A giant expanse of steel blue opened before me. In the distance, clouds lay below my feet. A strong wind stroked my face, and hundreds of mountains dotted the horizon. Far across the lake, I spotted the Island of the Sun and Moon, the fabled birth place of the first Inca, Manco Capac. To the east, I saw the faint glimmer of the Cordillera Real´s snow capped peaks, standing tall above 6000 meters.

I cycled down the mountain, and at the true border, encountered a piece of barbed wire that stretched across two posts. I rode over it, and asked an aymaran if I was in Bolivia. He said yes. I was back. Finally, I was back! After three long years, I came back to Bolivia.

Back in 2001, but back then, I rode through the conventional way, the easy way, on my bicycle through Copacabana, along well built, asphalt roads. I stopped to celebrate with a toast to all the names of the One, and then to thank the peruvian people, families, friends, and everyone who helped me on my journey. I then cycled, pushed, and walked through the difficult terrain to Porto Acosta. The road changed from dirt, to piles of loose stones. In fact, I wasn´t even sure if it really was a road. I passed through water cascades, streams, and enormous expanses of wind swept, high altiplano prairie, that glowed in the setting sun. The occasional bolivian aymara greeted me with warmth, smiles, and encouragement.

I descended through rivers, and water carved cascades to Porto Acosta. I arrived in the central plaza, where I entered the bolivian police office. I explained my situation with the visa to the officer there, and the officer immediately typed a letter stating that I entered the country on the 29th, exactly the day my visa expired from Peru. He then notarized it, signed it, and said that Porto Acosta didn´t have any immigration office, and that I´d have to go to La Paz, to the American Embassy, and then to Immigration to fix my visa. But, he had no problems writing a letter to demonstrate evidence of entry. Then he gave me directions to a nice hostel in town. I grinned as I left the office. I really was back in Bolivia.

As I walked to the hostel, I smelled a scent of soap that I hadn´t smelt in three years. The town´s tranquility, and the kids playing in the square brought flashbacks.

Her black hair flowed down past her shoulders, and our lips caressed each other. Her large, dark, cafe eyes lowered to my lips, as we held each other. Then her face became sad, as I held her, and I looked into her beautiful, bronze face.

I shook my head as I knocked on the hostel door. The owner wasn´t there. I walked to another one, where a brown ornate door was open, and a little girl in a pink dress and coat stared at me.

We´d do this so many times. Her in the doorway, and me at the doorstep. Every time, we tried to kiss good night, it turned into thirty minutes of kisses, where we´d attempt to separate ourselves, and end up in playful farewells.

A little boy with a camouflage, soldier´s fabric hat greeted me, and helped me bring in the bicycle. I spoke with his grandfather, and we moved my things into the first floor room. I washed my hands, and looked at a poster of a Magnifica, holding a beer, on the wall. The beautiful model was dressed in a red bikini, and smiling in the harsh light of the Uyuni desert.

-Relationships aren´t just about sex. She said.

-No, they´re about communication. ¿Why do you always shut the door in my face every time I ask you what´s wrong, or what´s going on?

I spread out my mess kit, and cooked my meal. The little boy came in my room with his little sister. We started drawing pictures with my colored pencils, and then I played chess with the little boy. He played well for his age. Afterwards, I checked the shower. The electric water heater didn´t work. Three days without a shower wasn´t bad. At least the bolivians made an effort to install an electric shower. I then lay down to sleep.

Her skin always felt cool to my finger tips, and I would feel her temperature, as I slid my fingers on her soft skin, from her long, slender legs, up over the curve of her hips, down the valley of her slim waist, and then up again over her shoulders.

I drifted between fitful slumber and intense dreams. Dreams of deliciously warm skin, long, soft, dark hair, dim visions of sensuous kisses, and a slender, curving body. When I woke up, I looked at the poster of the Magnifica. Was it the poster? Bolivian women were among the most beautiful women I ever met.

I washed up and made breakfast, and prepared to leave. As I exited, I noticed how several buildings were unlocked. This was small town Bolivia. During the rough ride, the rack bolts that I rigged up snapped. The terrain was too much for the thin steel. I spent an hour lashing everything together with rope, before heading down the road. The road to Escoma was blockaded by the aymara during the weekend to protest President Evo Morales. They reopened the road the day I arrived in Porto Acosta. They didn´t completely reopen the road though. Large boulders were left there, and I watched a bus make the deft moves to maneuver around them on the dirt road. As it passed by, a wake of dust settled low in the air.

I climbed back up to 4000 meters again, this time, through rocky dirt, stones, and river beds. In the evening, a full moon sat above the hamlet of Escoma. I stopped on a bridge to look at it. The mountains sat behind the small town, and the moon hung over the mountain and over the cathedral, which was the center of the town.

We met in the plaza, as we always did, in front of the cathedral. It was a full moon again, which meant one thing.

I checked into a newly built hostel in town, and I was their very first customer. I then followed the owner to her home, where she let me access her shower. Fire works exploded into the air as I left her house. There was a festival in town, and many of the aymara women were dressed in their best cholita dresses, with elegant bowler hats. All the women had on dresses that shimmered in the dim light, as they danced with their men in a drunken revelry. I ate fried cheese, empañadas, and rice at the festival food grounds. Afterwards, I passed by children playing in motorized go carts, carnival rides, and shooting games, before going to sleep.

Next morning, I washed and lubed the bike before leaving. The front rack was in bad shape, and I hoped that I´d last until La Paz. Except for a few sections of flat, packed dirt, the road was asphalt, and at the end of the day, I rode past 60 kilometers. I camped out along the shores of the lake, and watched the sun set over the placid waters. A light breeze touched my lips. The next morning, I watched as flocks of water fowl flew and swam along the lake shore. After packing up, I decided to do something I wanted to do ever since I first saw the lake in 2001.

I stripped down do my bike shorts, and in a furious dash, ran into the lake. The icy cold water shocked and numbed my toes. As I waded in further, stringy, tough, and smooth aquatic plants caught my feet, toes, and brushed my sides. Then I plunged in, and the shock was complete. I got up, and sprinted back to shore. My skin was numb as I walked into the thin air, and let the sun warm me back up again.

After drying out, I mounted the bike, and cycled past the giant, snow capped peaks of Illimani, and the Cordillera Real. By nightfall, I reached Huayna Potosi, and stayed in an alojamiento. After cooking dinner, I went to call an old friend, Chyang and his wife, Claudia, a bolivian couple I met in 2001. It´d been too long.

¡Hey Chyang!

!David! ¿Are you here?

Almost, I´ll arrive tomorrow.

¿Where are you?

In the town of Huayna Potosi.

¡Good! I´m glad you´re safe. When you get to La Paz, call me on my cell phone. I´ll pick you up.

Great. ¿Oh, Chyang, are you ready for a chess match?

Yes. ¿Why?

Because I´ve been practicing to beat you this time.

I could feel him smiling over the phone.

You´re obsessed. I´ll see you soon. Take care.

I smiled as I hung up. I looked at the phone in the booth.

My hands shook the phone as I listened to her crying.-¡I don´t deserve you! ¡I don´t deserve you!- I heard her scream. The scream chilled my body, and I shook as I listened to her.

Memories.

Dave´s New Adventure: Adventures from the South American Continent 4/2007-5/2007

Nine Days on the Northern Route of Lake Titicaca: Part 1 – Smashed on the Rocks

On the red, dirt road, which was cut into a bare mountain in the shape of triangular saw teeth, a herd of sheep bleated as the trotted by me and my camcorder. Two aymara men, with dark brown fedora hats that matched their tanned red skin, followed the sheep with their walking sticks. I stopped recording for a moment to look at the surroundings. My mud encrusted bicycle and bags leaned on a rock, as a lamb sniffed it. I looked across the overcast sky at the near horizon, and at the range of mountains. They, like all mountains that lined the northern shores of Lake Titicaca, were filled with thousand year old terraces. The terraces were strips of gray and black stones set into walls that held up long, winding platforms of green. Unlike the quechua of Peru, the Aymara maintained their millennial old culture, and they maintained many of the ancient terraces. The mountain I was on was bare of vegetation, but it also had the remains of terracing. Below me, was verdant green valley, filled with marshes and streams, coursing through clumps of thick, tough, high altiplano grass. Altiplano ducks, wrens, and fishers milled about in the sky, and swam in thew water, hunting for pejerrey and minnows.

I turned off my camcorder and sighed. I´d just finished ranting into my video journal, about how I discovered, to my dismay, the recent disappearance of my bicycle pump, yet again. It was day two of the difficult journey to La Paz, Bolivia along the northern route of Lake Titicaca.

The northern tier of Lake Titicaca was rough, and the asphalt section of road ended the moment I left Hauncane. I was still in Peru, and the border with Bolivia was four and a half days away. In Huancane, I rested in the only hostel in town, and ate out at a vegetarian café run by two seventh day adventists. While there, I had a conversation with the owner, who was the pastor about religions. As a buddhist, it was my habit to never bring judgment on other faiths. That´s just something that I did’nt do. So, when I told the pastor that I was a buddhist who also studied the bible, he went into a long lecture about how the devil created the other religions of the world, and how an apocalypse was impending with a confrontation between the forces of the devil, ie. The other religions and faiths, and the armies of the 2nd coming of Christ. He asked me which side I was on. I smiled, and replied that what was most important, was that he had his appropriate faith.

I think that threw him off. He stopped talking about religion after that. When he asked me about my name, and my last name, which in vietnamese means “judge” or “judgment”, he said that´s a sign. I moved the conversation to how I really loved 7th day adventists, because meeting the adventists meant there was vegetarian food nearby.

I stopped in the café the next morning to have breakfast with his family. We took pictures, joked, and bid each other farewell with blessings. I was off, into the bright altiplano sunshine, and due to the night´s heavy thunderstorm, a half day full of mud. Ahead of me lay the muddy road through a valley, which ascended up the mountain. I pushed my bike through the thick mud past an army fort, and the mud coated my brakes and fork. I had to stop every ten minutes to cut the mud away with my hands. When I finally reached the top of the mountain, I exited the mud zone, and in front of me lay the north western, rugged shores of the lake. The lake sparkled like a gem of brilliant aquamarine blue in the thin air. Waves lapped the shore, where islands of green and yellow totora reeds grew. A few cotton puffs of cumulus clouds lazed about in the sky.

The road went down the mountain, alongside a small village, and then along a road cut into the mountainous sides of the lake. Terraces were also cut into the mountain sides. The village was silent, and except for a minivan full of people that bumped and droved down the dirt road.

I rested and inspected the road. It descended at a steep angle, and many rocks jutted out. I knew I´d have to be careful. I put on my muddy goggles and helmet, mounted the bike, and took off. In five meters at such a steep angle, I developed a dangerous speed, and I immediately applied the brakes, but it was too late. My front wheel hit one of the rocky protrusions, and both the bike and I flew. The bike hit the ground, and I catapulted far to the front, and landed hard on my hands and knees.

I laid their for a minute, and felt the pain register through my body, before I picked myself up. I dusted my dirty bike pants and wind breaker. My gloves were shredded, and my pants were full of shredded holes. I pulled up my left pants leg and bike short. Blood seeped out of the wound, and a dull, powerful ache throbbed in my knee and skin. At least nothing was broken. I limped to the bike, and picked it up. The front rack bent to one side, and the right came off the fork completely, but the bottom attachments still held. I determined that it would hold, but not without reinforcement. I remounted the bike, and slowly cruised down the road to the lake´s shores, where I repaired the damage with some rope. I lashed the rack to the fork while two peruvian aymarans curiously watched. Then I rode to the edge of the lake to clean the wound.

The road led around a small section of shoreline, and then inland away from the lake. Back in the surrounding mountains, I rested and helped an aymara family harvest their fava bean crop. The father ran a business in Juliaca. He came to visit his family and help them with the harvest. They gave me a bunch of beans as a going away gift. At 4:30 PM, a regular, and powerful gust of wind picked up, and I dismounted to push against the wind´s resistance. At 5, the mountains and the setting sun created an early twilight. I passed a farmer earlier who recommended that I ask the school master, name Alex, who lived in the center of town, for a place to stay.

The town was like all the other villages along the shore. The bricks were hand made adobe, of red mud and straw. Roofs were made of corrugated tin or aluminum, and timber was cut from local groves of eucalyptus trees. Water was piped in from a spring that flowed from a nearby mountain, while wastes were funneled into totora lined creeks that led into the lake. The village was like many others, except for the solar panel, radio antennae, and satellite dish that poked out of one home, which I presumed was the mayor´s house.

I walked my bike up the village road into the school grounds, where a crowd of youngsters looked at me. I asked them where Alex was, and they pointed me to a neatly trimmed, white painted building surrounded by small flower gardens. I looked in the door, to see a short, red man sitting in front of a computer.

¿Hello, are you Alex? I asked.

Alex came out, and I introduced myself. Then a middle aged woman came out from the school house. She was one of the teachers. We talked for a while, and they first decided to let me sleep in the school house. Then the conversation led to teaching science and technology. They told me about how backwards the peruvian government was regarding education. I drew up several basic science projects they could do with the students, which included a telescope made from newspaper and spare magnifying glasses. After the teacher left, Alex decided it was safer to let me sleep in his home, the director´s quarters, which was next to the school.

As we moved my bicycle in, his wife arrived on her single speed bike, carrying a basket of food from their chacra, which is the peruvian word for a farm. Since the money from the peruvian government was meager, teachers in the city ran a small business, while teachers in the countryside often depended on their own crops for food. Alex and his wife were no exception. Trade and supplies were infrequent, due to the difficult terrain. Consequently, Alex and his wife, who were childless, developed unique strategies to get all of their food from one acre of land, and to have enough during the winter to live. Part of their strategy relied on small scale crop rotation, yearly calendars for planting, and the use of cow manure and fava beans to maintain the soil´s fertility. Since Alex and his wife were also 7th day adventists, they were also vegetarian, and we ate a hot soup of potatoes, carrots, and fava beans which I supplied, cheese, and apples, as well as a sweet, boiled apple drink.

Due to the impotence of the peruvian government, small villages like Alex´s worked on a communitarian basis. Next door to the director´s house was a newly built teacher´s quarters, funded and built by the village. Alex showed me around the rough, adobe brick walls. Almost all of the village communal structures were build based on a village council vote, where everyone pools funds, supplies, and labor to build what the community needs. That included the water pipeline, school grounds, school, director´s quarters, teacher´s quarters, and the radio station.

The director´s quarters, Alex´s home, was a two story building; a crude log ladder served as a stairway to the 2nd floor, which was made of unpolished, split timbers. The 1st floor was a storage area for brass musical instruments, drums, and other equipment, while Alex and his wife lived on the 2nd floor. The 2nd floor was just one small room. The building did’nt have running water, hot water, or water sterilization. Almost everyone took a shower or bath once a week, due to the extreme temperatures of the altiplano. According to Alex´s wife, they also bathed in a communal pool, which was unsanitary and prone to disease.

I drew up plans for a community, solar thermal shower business for Alex and his wife. I put the shower business idea that I saw in Juliaca, which was about 60 cents for a hot shower, in combination with the solar shower I saw in Pucara, and added a simple biological wetlands to filter the waste water before entering the lake. They had most of the materials laying around, so it would be a minimal investment.

They also cooked on a gas stove, and energy was expensive. Electricity was pricey, and one tank of gas ate half a month´s salary. So, I drew up plans for a basic biogas generator. The plans were my way of giving back something of value in exchange for their hospitality. After talking and learning more about their farming methods, I did my equipment check, and then went to sleep with the sound of the howling altiplano wind against the window.

At 5:30 AM, I woke up to the stirring of Alex and his wife. Then I heard him say,

¿Why were you dreaming about David?

¿What do you mean?

You know what I mean. I heard you cry out his name.

¿What?

I heard you say, “¿David, David, where are you?”

“Uh oh”, I thought. A jealous man will always create problems. I feigned sleep for another half hour, before quietly stirring awake. I opened my eyes to see the both of them making the bed, and the wife left to tend to the farm, while Alex and I had breakfast, which was leftovers and boiled apples. I gathered my things, and Alex accompanied me and the bike outside. I did’nt remember to do my equipment check. As I stood outside, I thanked Alex for the hospitality, and then asked if I could quickly take a picture of the school. Not once did he crack a smile.

He said no, and that I had to leave immediately, since school was starting, but I could take a picture if I decided to comeback. He then went back inside the director´s quarters. I walked alone out of the school yard. At first, I thought it was a little strange at how brusque he was, but then I shrugged it off. Maybe he was busy.

I walked through the village, and filmed a few sequences along the marshes of the lake. Then I biked through another village where a crowd of kids immediately jumped around me. They grabbed my bike and bags, and I scolded them, saying, you don´t touch things that don´t belong to you. How would you like it if I went in your house, taking your things? They laughed until a teacher told them to back off. 30 minutes later, up the mountain road, I discovered that my bike pump was missing.

So there I was, on the road, annoyed and upset at Peru, for being full of thieves. I´d been to Bolivia three times, and I´d never been robbed. But every time I came to Peru, which was twice, I was robbed. What´s worse was that I was traveling on difficult terrain, which made me prone to a flat, and a pump was the difference between a bad situation, and a worse one. I took a deep breath, and reminded myself that there were many small villages along the northern tier. I also reminded myself that whoever took it probably needed it more than I did, and that I was going to arrive in Bolivia soon. I was getting sick of the sheer ignorance and thievery I kept running into in Peru.

I calmed down and continued along the spectacular cliff side bluffs that overlooked the edge of the lake. As I climbed, I watched the edge of the lake disappear, and then after climbing for several hours into an enormous rock outcropping filled with ancient carvings, and small chacras growing potatoes, I reemerged at 4000 meters to see the enormous lake glitter in the vast horizon. Off in the distance, mountains dotted her southwestern edge. Puffs of clouds floated over her, while a thunderstorm gathered in the mountains I´d just exited. I pushed on. A peruvian motorcycle taxi driver who passed me earlier stopped again to beg me for money. He grimaced when I gave him some cheese and bread, and drove off.

After a long downhill, I finally reached the bottom, and cycled between the mountains to enter the city of Moho. Moho sat on the peak of a mountain, so as I pushed my bike up, two teenagers came out to push my bike with me. Then we were surrounded by grinning school children. I cracked jokes to make them laugh, as we pushed up to the town plaza. There was only one hostel in town, Hotel Municipal. It was a well built hotel with modern architecture, and no hot showers. It was freezing cold, and a heavy rain came down as I wandered the town looking for a hardware store. I needed parts to repair the front rack. If it came apart, I´d be in worst shape, trying to carry the entire front weight of my bicycle. I finally found a shop with parts strewn haphazardly across several shelves, and as I searched for the parts, I got into an argument with the cholita. She insisted that she did’nt have the parts I was looking fro, and I admonished her for being a lousy business woman, especially when I finally found them. I asked her how could she ever hope to be successful and feed her family if she maintained such a lousy attitude to the customer who persisted to find what he needed in her shop?

Later that night, after a meal of fried cheese, rice, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes, I gave an extra tip to the waiter for his good service. Then I had a cold bath before sleeping. The next morning, I repaired the rack mount with a jerry rigged solution, with two pieces of metal held by two large bolts. They squeezed the rack and the fork together. I gave the hotel doorman, a hunchback, some money to purchase a hacksaw blade for me, and then I cut off the protruding bolt, tipped the doorman, remounted my bags, and cycled out early the next morning.

I was just a day away from the border of Bolivia, or so I hoped. I checked my passport, and noticed that I had just two more days left in Peru on my tourist visa, and I had to cover many kilometers of dirt track and rough conditions. Would I get there on time? I did’nt know. I just knew I had to keep going.