A journey through the Pan-American highway

Into the wild part IV. Volcano Uturunco – cycling the highest road in the world (Bolivia)

2008-10-04T18:57:00.016+01:00

Day 37 and 38
Rest days in Quetena Chico

“Family" picture with Mrs. Modesta, Mr. Marcelino, their sons, and Didiana and Jeronimo, a couple from São Paulo (traveling with a tour), in front of hostel Condor in Quetena Chico, where we all spent some good times during the 2 days before initiating our climb to the top of Uturunco.

Day 39
From Quetena Chico to the base of volcano Uturunco.
15.3km
Maximum Altitude 4477m
Camp Altitude 4477m

Today was a very hard day. The problems began early in the morning when we visit the “flota” (a bus turned into a mini-market), parked in the dusty main plaza, it had nothing for sale. We were told that it would have vegetables and fruit brought in from Uyuni, but this time the “flota” was empty, the lady in charge didn’t travel to Uyuni on that week. In an action of despair we begin to knock on peoples doors and ask to buy some food from them. We managed to find some vegetables with some canned food that we had bought the previous day. We fill-up the bottles, 11 liters total, from Mrs. Modest well and at 11:45 hours we were set to leave.

Quetena Chico main square
Despite Mr. Marcelino having told us that there was no water beyond an abandoned camp at the base of the volcano we were hopping to find some snow or ice at the top, which we could use for drinking and cooking, but what we didn’t expect was to find all the ice contaminated by sulfur. The directions of Mr. Marcelino that the previous day had hiked with me to the top of a small peak behind the village to explain the best road to take were good enough. Without those indications we would not be able to decipher the myriad of roads that there are at the exit of the village.

The progress was very slow, the road was in some terrible conditions, but we could pedal on some times. In the two days we spent in Quetena Chico we had not eaten well and I felt weak. Despite leaving some of the gear in the village, the water and food added enough weight to my load, probably more than 40 kg. I was constantly following behind; Joana was going at a good rhythm, since her load was considerably lighter.

At one time we stopped to discuss about the weight of the bicycles and my weak performance. We were having a bad start and moral was degrading. At the end of the day we had traveled just 15 km with barely 400m of ascent accumulated. We stopped frequently to recuperate strengths. We had just started the climb and I already begin to question if we could make it all the way to the top, and most importantly, would it be worth the hard effort? The road was simply disastrous with loss rocks and sandy patches where we had to drag our bikes, pushing was not enough.

At 10 km from Quetena Chico we pass the abandoned camp with a small stream nearby. Despite the water tasting like dirt, we filled up all our bottles. The road in disuse begins to move slowly away from the pampa (prairie) and approaches the base of the volcano. We setup camp at 4477 meters. Tomorrow we will try to climb 650m up to 5150m. It may seem an un-ambitious number, but given the conditions of the road, the heavy load we’re caring and the high altitude, it will be a true challenge.

Day 40
From the base of Uturunco to somewhere mid way up.
8.9km
Maximum Altitude 5138m
Camp Altitude 5138m

It was 10:30 in the morning when we left the campsite and we continue on pushing the bicycles up the mountain. We were determined to continue. At km 18.9 from Quetena Chico we reached 4700m altitude. From here on, we initiated a series of switchbacks, with inclinations over 10%. At that altitude our “Burras”(donkeys, name of our bikes) refused to be mounted and the progress was very slow. We slogged along at 2/3 km per hour, stopping every 30 to 40 meters to catch our breath.

For almost a year we’ve been pedaling through the spine of the Andean mountain range, the thousands of kilometers traveled in these mountain roads have convinced me that the higher the road goes the less aggressive the inclination gets, something that had proved to be true when we passed above the 4000 meters in Ecuador and Peru, but here, in the Southwest of the Bolivian plateau, the roads seem to break all rules and at 4500 meters inclinations still go over and above 15%. The road seems to climb slopes thru the same path lines that the rain water opened as if nobody is going to use them.

This torturous road was built about 20 years ago to give access to a sulfur mine at the top of the volcano, with the fall of prices for this mineral the mine closed and the road fell in disuse. Nowadays it’s only used by the few adventurers that are prepared to conquer its top.

We set camp at 5138m with a fantastic view of the volcano and surroundings. We barely made 9 km, all of it by pushing our bikes. We were exhausted, and running out of water, with no idea of how much further to the top, and uncertain of the desired to be there.

I found out about this road, by accident, more then a year ago when I was pedaling thru Central America and the heat lead me to look for higher roads with milder temperatures. While doing an internet search of the highest roads on all the Central American countries that I was planning to pass thru, I stumbled into a site of some Frenchmen that in 2005 did a bicycle expedition to the top of Uturunco with a support vehicle. It was only in La Paz that I finally was able to locate the volcano in my maps.

But is this really the highest road in the world? During many years the Indian government tricked the world to believe that the pass of Khardung La at 5602 meters, was the highest pass in the world, but an expedition recently confirmed that the correct measure is in fact 5359 meters. The top of the road that climbs the slopes of volcano Uturunco was measured with a GPS by the only cyclist, to my knowledge, that went all the way up in total autonomy. He recorded the end of the road to be at 5836 meters of altitude which surpasses Khardum La by 477 meters.

I think that Uturunco does not qualify as the highest road in the world because it’s not tarred or maybe because it’s a dead end road. Whatever are the requirements for this honored title one thing is certain a journey on this road takes you thru some steep inclinations that are simply impossible to pedal, at least with a loaded bicycle. The numbers are the prove of that: the ascent from 4350 meters to 5836 is done in the short distance of only 15 km.

Day 41
From the slopes of Uturunco to near the top.
6.3km
Maximum Altitude 5702m
Camp Altitude 5688m

Joana awakes me up because she had heard the noise of cars passing by. It’s been two days since we’ve seen a living soul; this was the perfect opportunity to ask if we were in the right road and perhaps get some water. When we left our tent they had already passed our campsite. We continued on our cycle-torture up the mountain. At midday the jeeps passed us again on their way back to Quetena Chico, in the two jeeps was a group of climbers: two Englishman, an American and 3 generations of a Mexican family, their guide was from La Paz and they intended to go up to several peaks above 6000m, peak Sajama being the next one.

Baffled with our mission to go up to the top of Uturunco in autonomy with our loaded bicycles they presented us with dry fruits, energy bars, water and fruit. But even more incredible was that we were in the present of Oscar’s grandfather, who at the age of 70 had just finished going up to 6000 meters. They informed us that we only had 5 km left to go, but the climb would get steeper. Disregarding the opinion of someone that travels in a jeep for not having the "eyes" of a cyclist, I thought that it couldn’t be worse than what we already endured and we continued determined to finish our journey to the top. We thought that we could make it by the end of the day but the road got worst with ever more lose rocks and cruel inclinations!

At a given moment the road looked to challenge all laws of gravity and for the next 100 meters or so inclinations were certainly over 25% (the wheels on the bicycle rolled so slowly that I couldn’t gather a correct inclination reading on my computer), and having in account that we were above 5000 m this wasn’t cyclo-tourism but more like cyclo-torturism! We pushed one bicycle at a time until we reached the edge of the volcano. The ground was covered in a yellowish white powder from the sulfur and we passed a few smoking cradles.

At the end of the afternoon a turn reveals to be the last one, we probably had one kilometer left to the end of this road. But we were exhausted and the sun was setting down. We were so near, but yet so far. The only place possible to set our tent without being on a 30 deg slope was to camp right on the road but with 300 meter of steep mountain rocks hovering over us on the side of the road, we didn’t feel safe to camp there so we back tracked about a km to camp nearby the smoking cradles where the slope looked less susceptible to fall down on us during the night.

Inside my sleeping bag I tried to visualize our location in an aerial perspective, a minuscule point in this vast wild landscape with hundreds of kilometers of desert all around us, the smell of sulfur, the coldness and the indescribable sensation of camping in the cone of a sleeping volcano at 5700m of altitude all of these kept me from having a good night of sleep.

Day 42
From the cone of Uturunco to Quetena Chico.
32.5km
Maximum Altitude 5783m (a new record for me, ever!!!)
Camp Altitude 4150m

As the morning sun came up from behind the mountain and a strong wind blew it wasn’t soon before my fingers froze provoking unbearable pain as if I was being stung by thousands of needles. The cheap thermal gloves that I bought in Ecuador months ago were practically useless in fact Joana’s socks fitted in my hands proved to be much more efficient against the cold than my cheap gloves.

2 km afterwards we arrive to the end of the road. According to my altimeter we were at 5783 meters of altitude. A felling of well being came over me. For a few moments I forgot that I just spent 3 long days pushing the bicycle in a sacrifice that almost challenged my own mental sanity. I contemplated the Martian landscape all around us and felt exultant for having made it. However the absence of oxygen and my physical weakness were begging for the descent. Joana, on the other hand was determined to go on foot up to the top of the volcano. Against my will, I joined her at a slow pace, we made the remaining 200 meters up to the top. My altimeter recorded 6006 meters of altitude (readings of GPS indicate 6020) and as I had promised Hervé (Swiss cycle-tourist that we meet in Uyuni), there we enjoyed the Swiss chocolate that he gave us.

The fantastic sights looked like scenes from a science fiction movie, I can see why NASA picked volcano Lincancabur, situated just southwest from here to test their equipment and experiments to be performed on planet Mars. With gravity on our side the descent to Quetena Chico took us only an afternoon to do. We arrived to the village by nightfall. The full moon presented us with a final image of what was without a doubt the biggest mental and physical challenge of all my life.

Day 43
Quetena Chico
Rest day

Joana resting her feet after the crazy climb
Day 44
From Quetena Chico to half way up on a cruel climb.
24.1km
Maximum Altitude 4475m
Camp Altitude 4475m

The climb to Uturunco was hard enough to make us anxious to leave the plateau as soon as possible. We’ve been traveling on this desolated landscape with tortures roads for the pass 44 days (without counting the 15 days we spent on the north of the Plateau where the roads are in fact flat but the landscape less interesting). With the approach of Joana’s anniversary what better then to present her with some nice accommodations and comforts that we are hoping to find in San Pedro de Atacama already in the other side of the border? We changed our plans again and decide not to go to Laguna Colorada and Geiseres 'Sol de La Manana', following directly to Laguna Verde in the border with Chile passing through the salar of Chalviri and the Dali Desert.

We traveled 10 km and arrive at Quetena Grande, a village even smaller than Quentena Chico. In the following kilometers we pedal thru a series of small stone houses, some abandoned others with a few clues of human presence.

It is simply incredible the tenacity o people to live in such hostile places. Here, above 4000m, a Pacha Mama (the Mother Land), is infertile and the few animals that are adapted to these altitudes are the lamas and alpacas. What do these people live from? What do they eat, and why are they so stubborn to live here? I asked myself those and some other questions countless of times while facing the rocky roads of the plateau. Sometimes not even I knew what I was doing here with a heavy loaded bicycle. Could I have something in common with these people? Could it be the immeasurable dimension of the mountains, the vastness, the irrefutable beauty of this raw landscape that attracted us all?

At the bottom of a rocky valley thru which we pedaled a huge mountain interposed on our path, a semi-frozen stream turned left and zigzagged its way towards southwest. Joana sights a road that goes up the slope of the mountain and says to me that we have another obstacle in front of us. Analyzing my compass and maps it didn’t make any sense to go up the mountain when the open valley followed southwest. For my complete perplexity, a few kilometers later we were once again pushing the “burras” up another cruel ascent with ridiculous inclinations. The road went up as if it followed a giant rope thrown at random. I saw an expression of desperation on Joana’s face and, like me, she questioned the sense of this route. We gave up for the day and decided to camp beside the road. Tomorrow we will face the remaining climb.

Day 45
From cruel climb to (just after) Laguna Kolpa.
18.1km
Maximum Altitude 4726m
Camp Altitude 4611m

After another low energizing breakfast, crackers and jelly with, cornstarch made from powdered milk and coffee, at the expense of this diet I have lost weight in the last few weeks, we followed journey pushing the bicycles up the mountain. The inclinations over 15% forced us to push the bicycles one at the time.

We reach the pass at 4726 meters of altitude and we enter another valley at a higher elevation and more desolated than the previous one. The strong wind struck the bicycles laterally and reduced our speed to a mere 8 or 9 kilometers an hour. We passed vary lagoons with white colors of the sun that reflected in the shallow waters with a big saline content. Later the wind intensified. We found a place for camp without much protection from the wind, in the open pampa, 1.5 kilometers after lagoon Kolpa.

Day 46
From Laguna Kolpa to Laguna Verde.
1.5km by bicycle and 60 km by Jeep.
Maximum Altitude 4617m
Camp Altitude 4341m

We were camped at 4600 meters at this altitude the wind doesn’t allow the sun to heat the earth. I carried the saddlebags over to the bicycle and when I turned around it happened, what I most feared, I had left the tent open and without the weight of the saddlebags it just gave up. The wind broke both poles and ripped a lateral tear of about 80 cm long. The forces of the elements have claimed their victory. We were in one of the most inhospitable areas of South America where the supremacy of “Pacha Mama” is unquestionable.

Defeated and incapacitated to continuing without a tent, we went back to a camp of workers that we had seen next to Lagoon Kolpa where we convince the foreman to transport us by jeep to Laguna Verde. The negotiations with the uncooperative boss took us all morning and we only left by midday, after a sumptuous monetary agreement. It was a 60km trip looking at the landscape pass thru a window as if we were watching TV. Upon Arriving to the Green Lagoon, which is named for the unique tones in its waters; we found shelter near the lagoon at some 7 or so kilometers from the border.

Day 47
From Laguna Verde to San Pedro de Atacama (Chile)
61.6km
Maximum Altitude 4612m
Camp Altitude 2527m

After the formalities at the Bolivian customs in Hito Cajon (the Chilean ones are in San Pedro), in the degrading one floor building under the watchful eye of Volcano Lincancabur, we enter Chilean territory. The landscape maintained its spectacular posture, and the only difference that marked the entrance into another country was the asphalted road! A few kilometers after we found not just asphalted roads, but also a fantastic downhill of around 2000m that led us from the cold plateau to the Oasis of moderate temperatures of San Pedro of Atacama. After a month and half of pedaling in the most disastrous roads of the continent, the tar was like a flying carpet. Ah, how good it was to be flying again!

We were anxious for a good warm shower, comfortable bed, washed clothes and food with fresh ingredients. San Pedro of Atacama offered us everything we wanted and much more, but at extravagant prices, at least for ours modest budget. After so many weeks traveling in a desolated plateau, San Pedro of Atacama looked to us as a sophisticated and modern place. But in fact it’s barely a small Oasis in the vast desert of Atacama that embodies barely all the north of Chile. A colorful settlement of homes build from adobe with a plaza that offers lots of shade and fantastic sights of a series of volcano’s that paint the landscape on the east side of the village. It is also the place of passage for many travelers and backpackers that travel the South American Hemisphere, its popularity has grown irrefutably in the last few years; it’s such a tourist village that it doesn’t seem to have any other activity then exploitation of tourism.

Today is Joana’s birthday; we are going to celebrate this date, and also the end of the hardest part of our journey, in style. We went to a restaurant where we eat to most delicious table of cheeses and the juiciest dinner of the last few months watered down by two bottles of the best Chilean wine, after all it’s not every day that we celebrate a 30 year birthday, get to pedal up to 5800 meters and survive to tell the tale. The Bolivian plateau was without a doubt the hardest part of all my touring adventures, and I can only imagine if I would have attempted to do this alone. Without Joana’s encouragement at the most crucial moments, her determination and the combination of our energies to reach goals, it’s very probable that I would have concluded this journey in a much less positive note than I did with her company!

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa

Into the wild part III. El Valle de las Rocas (Bolivia)

2008-08-31T17:12:00.013+01:00

From day 18 to 28, UYUNI.

Between sunny days talking to Antonio Queirós(our newly made friend from Portugal traveling on his motorbike through the American continent) in the main Plaza cafes, cold nights spent in Hotel Avenida where all the water pipes would freeze each night, and walks thru the train cemetery and local market the time flied without notice. We spent 10 days on this cold, simple city of the Altiplano, maybe because our bodies where in need of rest or maybe because the uncertainty of what’s ahead.
Visit Antonio's site here traveling the American continent for an undetermined time and to limitless destinations.

We celebrated the night of Saint John’s with locals and new friends. Which only similarity to the Portuguese Saint John’s night are the bonfires in the streets. It was a fun night with the help of a few shots of "singani" a local alcoholic drink to keep our bodies warm.

Here in the altiplano Saint John’s night warns in the coldest night of the year. Temperatures can reach -30 deg. It was hard to imagine that this city once was the cradle of prosperity and life to a large population of treasure seekers looking for rich minerals, a period well portrayed in the movie "Los Andes no creen em Dios".

Despite human greed this region is still rich in minerals which are now explored by multinational foreigner companies and the population of Uyuni had to look for new wealth: tourism. Dozens of tourism agencies plague the city offering the most diverse adventure packages with walks in the biggest and highest salt plain in the planet or by the red lagoons populated by rare flamingos on the vast and desolated southwest of the Bolivian plateau, a region that we plan to explore next.
It was time to leave; new adventures and difficulties awaited us.

Day 29
From Uyuni to (before) Ramaditas.
48.8km
Maximum Altitude 3695m
Camp Altitude 3680m

Finally we’re "on the road" again!
The road between Uyuni and San Cristobal is in surprisingly good conditions and it’s completely plain and free of traffic. The landscape is very monotonous and uninteresting. We camp in the windy pampas grass where do we had a very cold night with minus15 degrees registered.

Day 30
From (before) Ramaditas até San Cristobal.
48.3km
Maximum Altitude 3821m
Camp Altitude 3790m

This morning was so cold that we couldn’t leave before 11:30. It was another day of monotonous and uninteresting things to see. I began to question if it was worth the effort to endure the cold and probably pushing the bike thru more sandy roads. We arrived at the village of San Cristobal, and decide to not camp and find a hotel. San Cristobal is a village that was transferred from its original place to give rise to a mine of silver and zinc, of which barely all the population subsists. The road upon arriving to the village was in such good conditions that almost appeared to be asphalted, one of the many projects that the Canadian company that explores the mine did for the region.

Day 31
From San Cristobal to Villa Alota.
60.5km
Maximum Altitude 3895m
Camp Altitude 3840m

We had a few salami sandwich and coffee for breakfast in the municipal market and continued on the road. 15 km afterwards we arrive to the village of Kulpina K, one of the four villages in the region chosen and titled by the Canadian mining Company as "authentic pueblos". This company invested in projects of rural tourism with the objective of creating an economic structure for the future when the natural resources for mining runs out 17 years or so from now. This is a form of compensating the local population by the presence of the mine. Without doubt an interesting project and unique in Bolivia, a country with very strong traditions in mining and not always explored the best form. In the colonial times the Bolivian mines were the main sustenance of the Spanish crown at the cost of thousands of lives that worked in it.

Kulpina K

In the small plaza of the village we spoke with a young man who told us a little about the biggest mine of silver and zinc in South America and of the greatest mining project in all of Bolivia for the pass few decades. "When work began the mine employed 6 thousand people, now exist around 1500 workers. The Canadians brought in modern machinery and they don’t need as much hand force" he told us. The heavy machinery turns over 100 thousand tons of earth every day, José works with one of those machines during 16 consecutive days followed by a week of rest.

At the exit of Kulpina K a short but accentuated ascent took us to another desolated valley. We pedal all afternoon against the wind until we arrived to Villa Alota by sunset. It was another day of monotonous landscapes with head winds that did not let us amount a good rhythm, but even so in 3 days we had made 150 km, somewhat unexpected in this part of the altiplano where we were expecting to find the worst roads. The monotonous landscape left much to desire and again I question if it was worth the sacrifice to travel this route recommended by so many other travelers.
Today we decide to alter the route and go up the volcano Uturunco first and follow afterwards to the Laguna Colorada.

Villa Alota

Day 32
From Villa Alota to Valle de las Rocas.
22.7km
Maximum Altitude 4117m
Camp Altitude 4076m

Well, it looks like after 3 days of monotony, the southwest of the Bolivian altiplano began to reveal its beauty. 2.6 km from Vila Alota an old sign worn by the weather announce the road that would take us to Quentena Chico. This is where the road maintenance by the miner company stops and the "nightmare" road begins. After confusing crossroads and rivers, the road begins to go up to a plateau above the 4000m and we found our self’s entering the Valley of the Rocks. We pedaled directly south and the strong northwest wind helped, but the sandy roads made for a slow progress.

We camp in a "forest" of rocks with fantastic formations created by the erosion of the wind that strikes them incessantly. We looked for a place sheltered from the strong wind (which would accompany us for the next few weeks), set-up camp and cooked on an open fire. It was another cold night, registering minus 17 degrees.

Day 33
From Valle de las Rocas to Villa Mar.
31.1km
Maximum Altitude 4083m
Camp Altitude 3998m

Surrounded by this uncommon and fantastic landscape, we had a lazier morning than usual. It was without a doubt one of the nicest places we had ever camped on this journey.

But we weren’t the only ones on these roads. Dozens of jeeps full of backpackers roam the altiplano raising a huge cloud of dust as they pass by and also removing a bit the magic of pedaling thru this area so inhospitable of the planet. We cooked breakfast on bone fire and left camp by lunch time just as the first jeep arrived.

We pedal barely 4 km before approaching a huge rock formation that extends for all the West cost of this valley. We left the bikes and went for few hours hike. The rock formation reminds me of Wadi Rum in Jordan by its similarities.

We arrive in Villa Mar by the end of the afternoon, an Oasis in this vast wild landscape. A small village, with a group of 900 Quechua speakers inhabitants, built from unpainted concrete blocks and crossed by a small frozen river, the village is protected from the winds by a natural wall of rocks, part of the rock formations that we have enjoyed since Villa Alota. We found a place to stay in a small rustic Hotel where a tour group was also lodged which tour guide gave us valuable information for our upcoming route.
arriving in Villa Mar

sunset in Villa Mar

Something that intrigued us in this small Andean community was the origin of its name Villa Mar, village by the sea. We were surrounded by deserts of volcanic rock and sandy pampas at 4000m of altitude and hundreds of kilometers from the sea coast. Originally called Mallku, the name of Vilamar originated from the loss of the Bolivian coastline in the war of the Pacific with Chile and Peru that affected the feelings of the community and they changed the name in honor of the lost sea. That feeling is still present today.

DIA 34
De Villa Mar a algures na pampa
33.8km
Altitude máxima 4129m
Altitude de acampamento 4044m

The nice owner at the hotel sketched in the sand our upcoming route to Quentena, Chico. In her drawings there was a detour and a bridge, but as we soon found out (and we’re already accustomed to) there was a bridge and, several detours! Always follow the road with the most tire tracks, is something we’ve learned in our bike rides thru the Bolivian altiplano, and it has become our number one rule for orientation around here. In the altiplano many roads are not public works but instead roads that were made from the successive tracks of local vehicles, people that know their way. But for us is not always easy and maps are practically useless.

Soon enough we passed the bridge mentioned in her drawings, the landscape became really nice and there are no tours! The road approaches mount Zoniquera with its rocky peak and no snow at an altitude of 6000m. From here on we begin a hilly section of up’s and down’s in sandy and winding roads. We find shelter from the strong winds behind some rocks and setup camp.

After dinner we looked at the maps and for the first time we considered leaving the Bolivian plateau thru the green lagoon and into Chile by San Pedro of Atacama. We had enough of these horrible roads, cold winds and hoping for better food... And Chilean wine! After San Pedro we would follow to Argentina through Paso de Jama, Humahuaca gorge and then return to Bolivia at Villazon. A detour with 600 km more than initially planned, but on asphalted roads!

Day 35
From somewhere in the banks of Lipez Grande river
32.1km
Maximum Altitude 4393m
Camp Altitude 4170m

We had another cold night with the thermometer registering -12 Deg. Besides the disastrous roads it’s the nights what I’m most afraid. A soon as the sun comes down we initiate another journey. The chilled nights in the Bolivian altiplano oblige us to cook inside the tent and take refuge inside our sleeping bags instantly after eating. At night the simple physiological necessities are a true sacrifice. As consolation I have the fantastic views of the night skies and the company of Joana. It would have been very difficult to face the hardness of the Altiplano by myself.

We continue our journey thru this sandy, winding road that with the ascent to a 4393 meters pass becomes a stony road. At the top we found the reward: the first close-up sight of the volcano Uturunco in the horizon.

On the downhill we had to cross a small frozen stream. Another one of dozens of rivers that we had to cross in the few last weeks, bridges are a rarity. Joana went first and in a lapse of imbalance, she barely fell in the water able to hang on to her bike. In a spontaneous reaction, I left my bicycle and tried to help, but I end-up falling and dropping my bicycle in the ground. The fall was such that I scratched my chest, my hands (a finger swelled-up immediately just like ET), and I hit my chin on the rocky ground. What initially looked like just road rashes revealed to be a little more serious… We followed journey and Joana says to me that I have blood dripping from my bear.

We stopped for lunch (just crackers with jelly, we didn’t felt hungry because we spent all morning chewing on coca leaves). Joana disinfected the wound and says that I have a deep cut in my chin up to the bone. It probably needs stitches, but where? The nearest hospital is in Uyuni or Potosi, several days away, or in San Pedro of Atacama in Chile, probably also several days of journey. We continued our trip to Quetena Chico were I would re-think the situation.
The downhill took us to another valley at 4200 meters of altitude. In this narrow valley is "Sol de la Manana", and "Eduardo Avaroa" Natural Park entrance. We were requested to pay 30 Bolivianos each, for park maintenance, they said. The guard at the entrance tells us that there is a doctor in Quentena Chico but Quetena is still 2 hours away. We barely had 1:30h of day light left and the road was getting worst.

Our progress was very slow, we felt weak due to not having a proper lunch. After a hard ascent we arrive to yet another valley and one more river to cross. The sun already had set behind the mountains and it was getting dark. A moments of decision, cross that frozen cold water and continue thru the night, or camp?

We didn’t know the distance that separated us from Quentena Chico and continuing thru the night with our feet freezing could have consequences that could jeopardize our climb to volcano Uturunco. After all, the climb to the highest road in the world was the main reason why were enduring these disastrous roads for days. We decide to camp. Despite all the pain I put my body thru at the end of the day it didn’t hurt maybe due to the coldness, maybe due to the tiredness, perhaps both - I don’t know, but I had a good night in deep sleep.

Day 36
From the banks of Lipez Grande river to Quentena Chico
5.7km
Maximum Altitude 4170m
Camp Altitude 4150m

We knew we had a short day in front of us so we waited for the day to warm up before crossing the river, we stayed late in camp admiring the beauty of the landscape that surrounded us. It was a nice day, full of sun without wind and an absolute silence. At 3:00 in the afternoon when we decided to cross the river and we pedal the remaining 5 km to Quentena Chico.
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Quentena Chico was a huge deception. We expected a town at least of the size of Villa Mar since it is the most important village in the southwest of the plateau, but we encounter ourselves with a small collection of houses sheltered by a mountain with a small and dusty plaza, a school, a military field and a few shops with barely empty shelves.
The only shop that looked to be decently stocked was closed, the owner was in Potosi, and so was the only doctor in town. We got a simple room in the hostel Condor where the pleasant owner informs us that in two days arrives the "flota" that comes from Uyuni and besides carrying passengers it also sells vegetables, fruits and other groceries. The "flota" is the only weekly bus that passes thru the village and the only form that the population has to buy fresh vegetables - the soil of the southwest of the altiplano is not fertile for cultivation. Without food to continue, we don’t have any other alternative but to wait 2 days and hope that the "flota" shows-up.

Joana helps me cut a little off the beard and disinfects the chin again. It will have to stay like that, a souvenir of the altiplano. Traveling thru the Bolivian plateau by bicycle is in fact a marvelous experience, but if things go wrong there is not much where one can look for help. The hostilities of the elements should not be underestimated. But I wasn’t very concerned; the worst it could happen is that I would end up with a scar for the rest of my life as reminder of this adventure. Not that I will easily forget this washboard roads though!

On the next and last blog of this crazy phase of 47 days without seeing tar and pedaling in high altitudes we enter a zone even more inhospitable whose desolation of the landscape resembles planet Mars. Our goal: to take our bike up to 5800m. But will we be able to "conquer" Uturunco with our loaded bikes?

Volcano Uturunco (6020m). Notice the road in the "cone" of the volcano. That road goes up to 5800m and will be the big challenge for the next phase.

INTO THE WILD part II. Cycling the salares of Coipasa and Uyuni (Bolivia)

2008-08-28T22:48:00.001+01:00

DAY 9 43.1
km Highest point 3724m
Overnight camp 3644m
From Sabaya to the "island" of Coipasa.

Finally back on the road and without major obstacles. Yesterday we managed to get a good quantity of food and 14 litres of water, that we think is sufficient for the crossing of the first salar.

It was a pleasure to ride on the washboard roads without having to push the “burras” over sand dunes. We went through several abandoned villages on the way to the entrance of the salar, located shortly after the village of Villa Vitalina (km 27). From there we could see the huge salar that we will cross tomorrow.
From the Villa Vitalina’s “Terraplèn" (access Platforms), until the island of Coipasa were 10 easy km, sometimes cycling on the gravel road, other times over the salt surface. We setup camp on the island of Coipasa with fantastic views over the salt flats.

The landscape was surreal; I had never seen anything like that. The salt flats of Uyuni and coipasa are part of an old sea that was trapped when the tectonic plates of the Pacific shocked with the South American continent creating salt lakes. With the subsequent creation of the Andes, the waters evaporated creating the salt flats. Every year the rainy season floods the salt flats creating a lake 30 to 40 cm deep. The strength of solar radiation in the summer months dries almost all the surface of the lake, creating a vast mantle of white so strong that, in a sunny day, it is difficult to observe without the protection of sunglasses.

DAY 10 47.7 km
Highest point 3678m
Overnight camp 3629m
From the “island” of Coipasa to the middle of the Salar.

Today we finally entering the salar, another dimension of cyclo-tourism, an unrivalled experience that is difficult to describe. It was like pedalling on a flat planet where the only colours that existed are the blue of the sky and the white of the earth.

We left the campsite late, as we always do up here in the altiplano, shortly after we stopped by the small village of Coipasa to buy some more supplies and fill the bottles from the village’s well. The entry of the salar is well signposted and one could easily see the car tyres marked on the surface, but few kilometres after the marks disappear and we found ourselves in the middle of the salar without any traces of them. But orientation didn’t look too difficult, since south of us we could see several peaks to which we made an azimuth.

The salt flats are flat indeed but far from been a smooth ride. Many crusts of salt popped up on the surface and made for a rough cycling. It was like a violent massage to the body. About 10 km further we found again the marks of car tires, and followed them once they continued south. Joana loses her jacket somewhere in the route, but we decided to move forward. Our progress south was halted late afternoon by something unexpected: water!

An elder man back in the village of Coipasa had warned us that some areas of the lake were not completely dry and suggested an alternate route further West and closer to the Chilean border. We didn’t take him seriously partly because his suggestion was a much longer route. And here we were surrounded by water on all sides and not knowing what to do. Joana decides to take off her boots prepared to continue. I watched her in disbelieve. Although the mountains are clearly visible ahead of us, it was impossible to estimate the distance we were from mainland or the depth of water. The sun was about to set behind this strange world and the freezing water and high salt content would certainly be felt on our bodies. The risks of hypothermia were high, we wanted adventure, but not to put our lives at risk. Holding the tip of my foot on a salt crust, I balance the bike and look at the scenery around me. It was of a surreal beauty, but beauty, can also mean danger.

- "Joana, we should go back."
- "I think we should continue, she said, we can’t be that far from the mainland."
-"No, we must return to dry salt, is too risky."
I was feeling uncomfortable with the situation. We decided to cycled several kilometres in the opposite direction to get back on dry salt and setup camp under a magical sunset.

We were completely alone. Us and that infinite world of white. That night the thermometer went well below zero and the cold coming from under the salt flat went straight through the tent and sleeping bags freezing our bodies and minds. We questioned ourselves what would have happened if we decided to move forward. Would we have made it?

DAY 11 18.4 km
Highest point 3697
Overnight camp 3647m
From the middle of the salar of coipasa until after Tres Cruces.

I got up shortly after sunrise, and grabbed my camera and binoculars, and went in search of Joana’s jacket. It was bitterly cold but I felt guilty to have persuaded her to leave it behind, and in the obligation to found it. Despite yesterday we cycled almost always at random, it was not difficult to find a dark blue jacket in the middle of that sea of white. When I got back at the base camp Joana had already cooked half a dozen of delicious pancakes.

Our final crossing of the salt lake that I feared so much yesterday was only 5 km and the water was never more than 20 cm or 25 cm depth, but were the most magical five kilometres of all my bike touring experiences. The sky reflected in the waters of the lake, gave the feeling of being cycling over the clouds, at the centre of a three-dimensional painting of Dali.

I felt privileged to be there and be able to share those moments with Joana.
Back on the mainland we were also back at our biggest altiplano nightmare: sand!
We arrive at Tres Cruces after several kilometres of pushing the “burras” through a sandy path. We ask a few people in the village what’s the best way to Llica.
- "Look at this bike," said a local pointing to the only motor vehicle in the village. "Llica it comes from, just follow the tracks of the tires". Taken by the local advice, sometime later we were again pushing our bicycles through sand.

After pushing and dragging our bikes for several hours we setup camp by the side of the road with only 18 km made. But mileages have little importance in the Bolivian altiplano; the conditions of the roads are so bad that sometimes travelling 20 km can be equivalent to a full and exhausting day of cycling.

Day 12 27.9 km
Highest point 3767m
Overnight camp 3753m
From after Tres Cruces to after Challacollo.

Nothing better to start the day than to push the bicycles though the sand! The road was so sandy that we were making an average of 3 km an hour.

It was obvious that we were lost. We could see some tire marks on the sand, but we were not sure that they were from "our" bike. Maybe the biker had made a short-cut through the sand? Perhaps there was a better road.
- "No! Not again! "I did not want to repeat the sand dunes crossing of Sabaya”, I shouted. I had another one of my “altiplanic” attacks of frustration. Far in the distance, near the salt flats we could see a vehicle moving at good speed.
- "There must be a better road," I said to Joana, "this is crazy! This is not cyclo-tourism, is cyclo-masochism!“
Joana shared the same felling, though she didn’t showed it. We did an azimuth from the sand to the salt flats and one hour later we were pedaling on a path that, despite been sandy, was in an acceptable condition. At the end of the afternoon we arrive at the village of Challacollo, lost in the middle of this vast and windy highland desert.

Joana asks to one of the few residents the way to Llica. "In one kilometre there is an intersection, do NOT go the right," said the resident of that semi-abandoned village. We arrived at the intersection and stopped, opened the maps and compass. Nothing made sense. We decided, once more, to follow the local’s advice and finish the day in another sandy path that seemed to go nowhere!

We decided to camp right there and think what to do the following morning. We were exhausted!

DAY 13 13.6 km
Highest point 3754m
Overnight camp 3711m
From (after) Challacallo to Llica

In the early morning a man and his son passed through the camp on their way to his land plot and told us that we're on the wrong track. Back to the junction we follow the road that was more marked with car tires, and promised ourselves that we would do always that from now on. On the altiplano there are so many tracks and no signposts that’s very easy to get lost.
Llica is located between the salares of Coipasa and Uyuni and its the village of utmost importance in the region where there is enough trade to have several well stocked shops, and even an Internet cafe, the first we saw since we left Oruro 13 days ago. Joana was felling sick and without energy, and both were tired of pushing the bicycles through the sand. We needed a rest, so we spent the rest of the day staring over the hotel window.

DAY 14 59.7 km
Highest point 3711m
Overnight camp 3673m
From Llica to Isla Del Pescado.

Soon after leaving Llica one can set sight to the Salar of Uyuni, the largest salt flat on the planet with an area of 10,500 square kilometres, equivalent to twice the Algarve region. It would take us three days to cross it. We cycled for about 10 km skirting the salt flats until we reach a "terraplén", the access platforms built with gravel mixed with salt, which allow for a safe vehicles access. The margins of the salt flats can be sandy and muddy and it is possible that a vehicle sinks in it if you do not use the appropriate entry points, obviously for our bicycles that would not be a problem.

Far on the horizon we could see Isla Del Pescado, the largest island of the salar. We "sailed" through this endless white lake following the car marks left by the vehicles that cross the salar, and by late afternoon we arrive to Isla Del Pescado,the fish island, named after its shape that resembles a fish.

We landed on the East coast of the island and climbed a small hill where we set up camp. Camping on the East corner of the island allowed for a great sunset and also for the first sun light next morning.

The island is a strange place with fossilised rocks and marine animals reminding us of the time that this immense desert of salt was submerged by the ocean, giant centenary cacti stood still on the horizon as sentinels of time. Here time stopped thousands of years ago.

DAY 15 37.6 km
Highest point 3683m
Overnight camp 3671m
From Isla Del Pescado to somewhere in the middle of the Salar Uyuni.

We continue our cycling through this white sea of salt, enjoying the peace and absolute silence around us, broken only by the sound of the wheels crushing the hexagonal shaped salt crusts that pooped up the surface. A curious process created by cracks in the crust of salt and the strong sunlight. Unlike the salar of coipasa, here we could reach 20 km an hour without major physical effort. The world around us was absolutely flat; in fact it is the flattest surface on the planet. So flat that it’s the place of choice for artificial satellites calibration. By mid-afternoon we saw a black dot on the horizon that we thought it was another jeep full of tourists that cross incessantly this part of the salar. But little by little the black dot began to take the form of a bicycle. Herve is a Swiss cyclist who is travelling through South America for several months and was at the end of his trip.We decided to camp right there on the middle of the salar.

Herve (visit its website here), an experienced touring cyclist, left his homeland one day towards Africa and never returned. After two years cycling the African continent, he found work as a safari guide in Namibia where he took residence, a place from where he finances his bike trips that he makes around the world. Undoubtedly an inspiring and interesting story. Who knows a future trip, around Africa on a bicycle? That night I left by mistake Joana’s hot water rubber container (don’t know the proper name in English, but that thing to warm up your feet!), in the front part of her sleeping bag and she smashed it as she enter the tent. The mattress and everything around was soaked in water. It was just what we needed! We were in the middle of this huge salt flat, where temperatures at this time of year can reach minus 25 degrees at night. We had no choice but to sleep the two of us inside my, already small, sleeping bag, a real test to our relationship!

DAY 16 63.4 km
Highest point 3698m
Overnight camp 3678m
From the middle of the Salar to the salt museum in Colchani.

Yesterday was a very cold night. We couldn’t fit inside the sleeping bag and every movement, for small it was, had to be coordinated simultaneously. Herve left heading north, leaving with us a Swiss chocolate - classic! We promise him to eat it only at the top of the Uturunco Vulcan at 6020 meters, where we expect to push our bicycles to its top, further down the journey. The access road to the volcano is considered (by some) as the highest road in the world and would be the culmination of all our challenges during this long stage of 47 days without seeing the tarmac.

The final part of the salar was the least interesting of the crossing. During the day several jeeps full of backpakers passed through on the way to Inkawasi, a small tourist island in the middle of the salar, where we decided not to stop. We arrived in Colchani late afternoon. We just finished doing a total of 240 km cycling on salt.
Colchani, a small dusty village on the East banks of the salar, whose population lives off the extraction of salt and tourism, has a small museum dedicated to salt that offers accommodation in a house entirely made of salt. We were the only guests at the hotel and the owner decides to hand us the keys and go home leaving us alone.

DAY 17 23.3 km
Highest point 3712m
Overnight camp 3705m
From Colchani to Uyuni.

After 23 km of uneventfully washboard roads we arrive in Uyuni, the big twon in this part of the altiplano. Uyuni is an uninteresting touristy town and the gateway to the salares and the south-western part of the Altiplano, used by hordes of backpackers. It’s a cold place and there isn’t much to see or do in town, but somehow we got stuck and ended up spending over a week there.

In the next blog, we enter the third part of our extensive journey in Bolivian’s altiplano entering an area of higher altitude, more isolated and inhospitable landscapes. Our next destination: Cycle the highest road in the world. But another accident with the bicycle, cyclonic winds, and yet again, difficulties in finding water and food would hinder all our travel plans and even change them.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa

INTO THE WILD PART I. Sahara´s desert or the Bolivian altiplano? (Bolivia)

2008-08-06T22:44:00.004+01:00

DAY 1
52 km
Highest point 3737m
Overnight altitude of 3700m
From Oruro to somewhere in the Pampa, 6km after Toledo.

We left Oruro late, it was 11.45 am. Last night we stayed up till late in the company of the owner’s sons, expiriencing some local delicatessen, ruestro de cordero and learning how to chew Coca leaves.

The leaves were mixed in the mouth with sweet “Lejia”, a mixture of camote (sweet potato) with ashes and God knows what else. The alkaloid effect left the mouth dormant throughout and a feeling of euphoria and well being. Chewing Coca leaves is an Andean habit as old as its history, which we would experience during the coming weeks. It helps to breathe better in altitude, they say!

The paved road out of Oruro skirts the north shore of Lake Uru Uru whose name was the origin of the mining town of Oruro. A beautiful lake with a few flamingos and some domestic animals searching for food in shallow waters of the lake. The paved road ends in Toledo, a small village where we stopped to buy more supplies and 6 liters of water. From today on, and over the coming weeks we must be prepared with water and food for several days.

East of Toledo begins the washboard road or "calaminas", as its known locally, and a real nightmare for touring cyclists.
Ocasionaly we could cycle over the Pampa avoiding the "calaminas".

We setup camp at around 5pm in the middle of the Pampa, or Andean plains. The colors of the sunset gave some beauty to the landscape that was otherwise dull and monotonous. We cooked for the first time in our new MSR stove that we surprisingly found on sale at a shop near Oruro’s market, the same model then my previous one that stop working but that I still carry inside my panniers.

DAY 2
34.6km
Highest point 3816m
Overnight altitude 3781m camp
From (after) Toledo to (after) Jankhokala.

The day today yielded little in terms of cycling for various reasons, the morning’s cold forced us to stay inside the tent until late, and after a prolonged breakfast were on the road well after 11am. In the afternoon Joana’s back rack broke for the second time, which left me worried because it seems that it’s not going to hold the roads of the altiplano. But what occupied much of our day was the landscape around a lake 4 km after Copacabanita, whose reflections of the surrounding mountains in the shallow waters populated by flamingos were the Kodak moment of the day.

The road has worsened a little continuing with its washboard style and with little, but dusty traffic. We went through Copacabanita, a village of road workers with a small "shop" where we buy some more water. 3 km after Jankhokala, another abandoned village and sign of the people’s desertion of the altiplano to the cities. We find a camping spot between the stones on top of a hill and spent another very cold night.

DAY 3
46.5 km
Highest point 3882m
Overnight altitude 3742m
From (after) Jankhokala (after) Opoqueri.

Today a pleasant surprise awaited us.
Ancaravi is a small village with a "peaje" (road toll) surrounded by half a dozen tin shacks, selling to the little traffic that passes by, pique macho, a local dish made of sausage and potato chips, soaked in abundant tomato sauce, mayonnaise and spicy sauce.

Here ended the washboard road and began the asphalt (or cement rather). None of our 4Bolivians maps showed the road as paved. The new road also coincided with the change of scenery that was now much harsher. Semi-desert and corrugated plains where hundreds of Lamas and alpacas grazed on the vegetation, occasionally we could see some vicuñas, the wild relatives of the Lamas.
That afternoon I reached the 30.000 km cycled since I left Inuvik in Canada.

After our lunch the wind stepped up coming directly from the West, Chile and the Pacific. We cycle with some difficulty with our bicycles next to each another to save energy. By late afternoon we arrive in Opequeri, another desolated village on this route. Each day that passes the greater the desolation of the landscape and also of the small villages that that exists on it.

In an adobe house by the simple dirt main square, a kind and very surprised lady by the presence of the foreign visitors, sells us the little she had on offer: 6 eggs, powder milk, 1 kg of potatoes and a bag of Coca leaves and "lejia", there was not much more on sale. We loaded our bikes and left into the vast Pampa. Far on the horizon, one could see several mountains, probably part of the western cordillera that forms the natural barrier between Bolivia and Chile. We camped in the middle of the Pampa where we spent a very cold night.

DAY 4
51.5 kms
Highest point 3783m
Overnight altitude 3740m
From (after) Opoqueri to (after) Huachacalla.

We wake up with our tent frozen. It had been the coldest night that I ever camped, minus16 degrees, and condensation during the night was high. My sleeping bag has a comfort limit of minus 7 degrees and even with all my clothes on, and the hot water bottle (we bought it in La Paz for less than a Euro and has been a great piece of equipment for the freezing nights of the Altiplano), I felt the cold throughout my body. After our already lengthy traditional breakfast (we are lazy cyclists), we got on our bike by 11am. The intense cold doesn’t invite to leave the tent before 8am, even if the sun sires before 7am. A few kilometers later we arrive at “Parinacota" viewpoint with fantastic views to a lake full of flamingos and with several mountains reflecting in the shallow waters crowned by Sajama volcano, at 6542m is the highest peak in Bolivia. Lamas and some Vicuñas grazed close by. The beauty of the landscape was simply fantastic; it seemed like a surreal painting. It would have been the perfect place for camping. We walked for some time by the shores of the lake whose salted waters had a strong sulfur smell.

On the road again we headed to Huachacalla where we hoped to find food supplies, water and gasoline. The excellent road cut through the arid plains in endless straight lines, we could see two mountains in the distance which protected the village from the strong winds coming from Chile.

Forbiden to do what??

It was 52km on an endless road to the foothills of the mountains and to the village. On the way we could spot some wildlife: eagles, vicuñas, Nandùs (American ostriches) and other animals, one of them, an eagle hanging dead in a mast with several empty bottles around it on the side of the road, a sign of some sort of witchcraft.

In the village of Huachacalla with about 2 thousand inhabitants, one of the largest on this first stretch between Oruro and Uyuni, we find food and water but not gasoline. We buy one liter of diesel in the hope that our stoves worked with it. The asphalt road ended here. We would not see more of it over the next 47 days! We continued our journey through the washboard roads to Escara, Chipaya, and later the Coipasa salt flats, at least that was the planned route. 8 km after Huachacalla, and shortly after passing through yet another abandoned village, we setup camp in the Pampa protected from the wind by a small mountain. The diesel, very oily, did not work in our stoves. We make a bonfire and we put the pots on the fire. Joana prepares a delicious chicken meal.

We never imagined that when traveling by bicycle in Bolivia, we would have so many difficulties in finding gasoline. It seems that despite the government of Evo Morales doesn’t want to admit, Bolivia has entered in a fuel crisis, and this was the second time that we could not find gasoline for our stoves. Tomorrow we will have to decide what to do: either stick with our route without gasoline, or go back to Huachacallas and then hitchhike to Pisiga, next to the Chilean border and found some gasoline there.

We are increasingly travelling in the middle of nowhere, where the villages marked on our maps are no more than mere clusters of houses with very limited supplies. The landscape is increasingly inhospitable and wild. In Huachacallas, we raised our average water stock to 10 litters. Another sunny day and freezing cold night with minus 7 degrees.

DAY 5
33 km
Highest point 3780m
Overnight altitude 3692m
From (after) Huachacalla to Chipaya.

We made a bonfire with shrubs roots and branches, cooked breakfast on fire and left by 11am determined to find gasoline in Escara or Chipaya. Not far from our campsite some old structures that after a closer look, we found out they were tombs, some with human skulls and bones exposed on the ground. We assume that they belong to the Uru Chipaya civilization, one of the oldest in the Americas which date to 2500 BC.

In Escara (km 15), we didn’t found any petrol. 10 km after we arrive at the river Lauca whose freezing waters we have to cross barefoot and also helped some pastors cross their flocks of sheep.

Some will die because of the icy water, one said. The government is building a bridge over the river Lauca and the project’s engineers gave us a liter of petrol.

40 km south of Huachacalla is located the picturesque village of Santa Ana de Chipaya, the center of what’s left of the Chipaya’s culture and whose residents are direct descendants of the Uru-Chipaya. A village lost in the vast altiplano and near the north shores of the salar de Coipasa that still holds strongly to its roots. When asked by us about accommodation, one of the residents takes us to the Alcaide’s house, the local leader, who offered us shelter in his meeting room decorated with posters of several indigenous leaders, a small altar with several strange objects like animal horns, coca leaves and the floors covered with fur from Lama and Alpaca.
We slept on the floor. Tomorrow we hope to reach the salt flat shores.

DAY 6
8 km
Highest point 3728m
Overnight altitude 3679m
From Chipaya a Lama’s shelter.

Today was a surreal day. We woke up with a grey, cold and cloudy sky. We spent the entire morning searching for food and water in the village, but after visiting all the shops and knocking at the doors of a handful of private houses, everything we could find were: 5 eggs, biscuits, toilet paper and cans of sardines. There was no bottled water and once again, gasoline. Taken by some locals’ advice we decided to change the route and ride until Sabaya, 40 km to the north, in search of food. They indicate us that we have to cross the river Lauca and that once on the other side; we would find a path that leads us to Sabaya. An elderly man pointed us a place where the river was less deep. Once on the other side of the river we found ourselves not with one, but several paths.

We follow the one that seemed to go to the mountains ahead of us. Shortly after the paths disappear and we found ourselves in the middle of the Pampa surrounded by strange old houses where no one lived.

The ground was flat and not too rough so we decided to make an azimuth to the mountains in whose slopes the old man said Sabaya was situated. The ground got swampier and muddier and we had little streams to cross sometimes a pannier each time.

Progress was very slow. We did only 8 km all day, pushing our bikes most of it. The landscape around us was surreal. Strange old houses all around us and no soul in sight apart from some Lamas, far in the horizon a hurricane raised a huge cloud of dust and behind us the sky was dark and gloomy.

Anticipating a storm, we decided not to ride anymore and seek refuge. It was 4pm, close by we found a Lama’s shelter that seemed in disuse and where we could protected ourselves from the strong wind. We setup camp.

The landscape was desolated but fascinating, despite the many homes, there were no soul around us. We don’t have much more food left and tomorrow we must arrive in Sabaya and find sufficient supplies for the crossing of the desert salt flats.

DAY 7
20.9 km
Highest point 3738m
Overnight camp 3692m
From the Lama’s shelter to the sand dunes.

What a day, the saga continues!
After another cold night that probably reached the minus 20 degrees, we continued our cycling through the Pampa. Yesterday evening we saw a motorcycle passing by in the distance and thought it would an indicative of a trail. We looked for the trail for a couple of hours without success. This Pampa, surrounding the northern part of the salar of Coipasa has an absolutely flat ground and allowed us to ride at random by brief moments. We follow our azimuth to the mountains ahead of us where Sabaya was situated. At noon we began to cycle in a scrub land area that little by little was becoming very sandy. Today we did little cycling, and except for small sections, it was always pushing and dragging our loaded bike. We stop for a break and a coffee and continue push the bikes through the sandy trails. Suddenly I feel strong dizziness, fainted and collapsed on the ground. I woke up instants later in Joana’s arms. A few dozen meters later I felt another tension breakdown. Perhaps cigarettes, coffee, altitude, the excessive physical effort or all together, I do not know!
The land around us becomes increasingly sandier and the landscape looks rough and lonely. By mid-afternoon we found several cars tracks marked on the sand.

We follow the ones that were more deep. Shortly after Joana stops her bicycle and turning up to me says:
- Carinho do you see the same as I do?
- Where, I replied.
- Over there in front of us, that sand dune, she exclaimed!

A few hundred meters ahead of us a huge dune obstructed the way. In Chipaya the locals had spoken of a sandy path not of enormous dunes to cross!

We dragged a bicycle each time through the dune, and continuing pushing the bikes through the sandy trail. We were now surrounded by vast plains of sand and low shrubs without a soul around. Behind us the village of Chipaya had disappeared. Sometime later to our complete astonishment another sand dune, this one of several meters high and with hundreds of meters in length. We could not believe it. But what is this? We are cycling in the Bolivian altiplano or in the Sahara’s desert?

We came closer and walked up the dune. I could not believe in what my eyes were seeing. It was not just a dune but many, there where dunes everywhere. It was 5pm and we could already see the village of Sabaya blurred in the slope of the mountain. It could take us hours, maybe more one day going through all these dunes. With the strong wind would be very difficult to continue and temperatures drop to zero degrees shortly after the sun sets. We decided to setup camp right there, next to the dunes and in the middle of the trail.

We cook the remains of food that we had. We had 2 liters of water left. We were both exhausted from pushing (and pull) the bikes through sand all day and I had had a miserable day, weak, without energy and concerned by the reactions of my body this afternoon.

During the evening a man and his child pass by on their bikes. Joana talks to them and confirms that we are on the right track to Sabaya. If this is the right way, then why the people with whom we talk about it in Chipayas didn’t speak about all those sand dunes, but only of sandy trails? Did they think that we could ride our bikes with 50 kg of load through dunes?
Another very cold night, minus 12 degrees.

DAY 8
10.8 km
Highest point 3728m
Overnight altitude 3732m
From the sand dune to Sabaya.

The fact that we could see Sabaya on the horizon and that we have spoken with the father and son the night before gave us enough motivation to tackle the sand dunes and finish this surreal stretch of 40 km in 3 days just to find food, water and gasoline. For breakfast the remains of last night’s dinner and a tea for two. We kept the equivalent of another cup of tea for the road. That was all the water that remained. Decided to follow the bicycles tracks of last night’s father and son that resulted in a good tactic, because even though we have to push all the time we didn’t have to cross the bigger dunes.

It was yet another 8 km of sand to reach Sabaya that took us all the morning to do. When we arrived near the village and the sandy ground begins to give way to a trail where we could step on the bicycles and ride, we thought that we were near the end of our adventure. But no! Shortly after came a river to cross (bridges in the Bolivian highlands are a mirage) and shortly after another, this one still half-frozen whose freezing waters I left me with frost bites on my feet and ankles for many weeks.

3 days and 40 km after we finally arrived at the village of Sabaya.

My definition of touring cycling had changed forever. The difficulties are not just horrible washboard roads, strong winds or a steep climb, cycling without roads is perhaps the greatest of them! But other difficulties are waiting for us over the coming weeks. We devote the rest of the day shopping for sufficient groceries for the crossing of the salar de Coipasa. We increase our water stock to 12 liters, 2 liters of gasoline and food in autonomy for 4 days. Tomorrow we will get on the road again, this time, we hope, without sand.

On the next blog I will describe the amazing crossing of the desert salt flats of Coipasa and Uyuni, where not only we spend many more hours pushing our bikes through the sand, but also ride over the shallow waters of Lake Coipasa in a total of 240 km cycled over salt.

Follow my trip also through the eyes of Joana in here.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Uyuni, Bolivia.

El Alto, the new Bolivian metropolis (Bolivia)

2008-06-30T02:52:00.005+01:00

Our cycling plans in Bolivia are very ambitious, with big physical and mental efforts including the crossing of the salares of Coipasa and Uyuni, the largest and highest " salt lakes" on the planet, the southwestern Altiplano including laguna Colorada, cycling to the top of volcano Uturunco (6020m), ride the "highway of death" named by the Bolivian tourism department as "the most dangerous road in the world" and at the end of the 3 months we plan to ride in Bolivia, leave the country by the Mamoré river in a propose-built boat with our adapted bicycles entering Brazil by "the back door" through the state of Rondonia.

But before we adventure in these stages of adrenaline cycling we have to comply with customs formalities and find someone to stamp our passports.
At the border of Janko Janko that we just crossed there was no soul in sight. We start our first cycling strokes in the country through a winding gravel road that resembled more an animal trail than a border road.

11 km later we arrived at the quiet village of Puerto Acosta. We presented ourselves immediately at the police station to announce our entry in the country. An official tells us that the next post of emigration is located in La Paz to 190 km away, and in an old typing machine writes the following statement:

We exchanged our remaining Peruvian pesos to Bolivianos in the village´s grocery store and took a room at the simple hotel 5 Noviembro, in which were also staying 2 military personnel indulging themselves in copious amounts of beer. I joined them for a drink and a Geo-politic introduction of the country. We just entered Bolivia at a time of great political instability. Reforms of nationalization of Bolivian industry applied by Evo Morales, the "presidente Cocalero ", as he is known for his support to Coca farmers, is dividing the country between the majority indigenous population that lives in the Altiplano provinces, and the richer and more productive provinces of the lowlands that recently proclaimed autonomy through various referendums.

Daily manifestations with road blocks across the country that make difficult the distribution of basic goods, with the consequent rise in prices, and fuel shortages are just some of the problems that people face and that would in some way affect our travel plans in the coming weeks.
We continued towards La Paz...

El Alto

We tried in vain to assert our presence among the thousands of people, mini-buses and cars that filled all of the available spaces of the avenue. Maintaining the balance was difficult and pedalling simply impossible. The deafening sounds of car horns, the street vendors, the micro-buses assistants shouting "La Perez, La Perez, one Bolivian, sube,(climb up) sube, sube, sube !!!". I look at the terrified face of Joana. We take a good 20 minutes to cross the avenue and push our bikes through the maze of street markets. I note a boy with his head covered by a black hooded lying on the path shinning shoes, his face hidden by the status of his work, alongside a "cholita" (Bolivian Andean women) sold hot quinoa. The sun had just gone behind the massive cluster of unfinished houses and the Altiplano´s biter cold was felt immediately.

We looked for a good couple of hours for a "alojamiento", lodging, The city had dozens of them, but none appeared to meet our requirements: shower of hot water. We had just completed another cycling stage, and since Puno in Peru that we didn't have a shower with hot water. The consensus was unanimous, this massive "rural village" of over one million inhabitants had only one hotel worth of the name, the hotel Alexander. For the first time in our travels we booked in a luxury hotel, with a porter to bring the luggage to the room, porter to take the bicycles to a garage, a doorman escorting me to the ATM nearby, and even a porter to show us the way to the bus station to La Paz (does that exists?), Sauna, nightclub with complementary drinks offered by the management and a suite on the sixth floor with views to the chaotic city.

All this for only $ 10 a person, the same price that many backpackers paid for a simple hotel in downtown La Paz just 30 minutes way. In the comfort of our suite we observe the human chaos in the streets below us.

During the 3 days it took us from Puerto Acosta to La Paz, we cycled the Bolivian Altiplano through many villages where one could see many abandoned houses like if they were part of some sort of contemporary Inca ruins. The human desertion of the cold and harsh Altiplano to the cities is a recent phenomenon and for thousands of people the destination is El Alto.

The city with the fastest growing rate in South America, whose population already exceeds that of the capital, La Paz. The reason why we choose to stay in El Alto and not in nearby La Paz as all tourists do, was simple: We didn't want to descend with our bikes the 500m that separates the two cities and climb it up again later, and also because we had a contact of a "casa de ciclistas in El Alto. On the following morning (accompanied by the doorman!) we face the human chaos and look for a micro-bus to La Paz and went to emigration announcing our presence in the country. We obtained without any objection a 3 months visa.

La Paz lies on a canyon sandwiched between the Altiplano to the East and the cordillera real to the west, at 3600 meters of altitude, is the highest capital in the world and also a "world" part from the satellite city of El Alto clinging 500 meters above on its northwest slope and exposed to the Altiplano cold winds. The contrasts between the two cities are enormous. El Alto is reminiscent of a giant Andean farmers village that "protect" themselves from the difficult and harsh life of the Altiplano behind the city`s markets, unfinished adobe houses, piles of garbage and chaotic traffic . La Paz was indeed a disappointment. Unlike what I imagined, the city centre of the highest capital in the world is 'very sophisticated and modern, and despite the constant backdrop of the white covered peaks of cordillera Real, the city did not reveal much character.

Walking the avenue del Prado, reminded me sometimes of the streets of Lisbon, and the only "old" part of town around the cathedral of San Francisco was so full of souvenirs stores and tourists with a dizzy look from high altitude, that one could think of it like another big souvenir market found in any other city of Latin America.

Casa de ciclistas of La Paz

Vilma and Jesus, a couple of professional veteran cyclists, already receive touring cyclists in their house for over 20 years, and are part of a wide network of free accommodation for touring cyclists that exists across Latin America. Their kind and loving hospitality led us to stay at their place for almost a week. Days passed exploring the chaotic city of El Alto, some visits to La Paz, or just enjoy the company of our kind hosts. One day before our departure towards Oruro, my new odometer arrives. The previous one had broke long ago and I`ve been anticipating a new one for quite some time A big thanks to Lynn Pilgrim and Chivas Coffee Rosters in Santa Fe, United States that have been so kind to send me a new altimeter and other delicious delicatessens, and that over the months have been an unmatched support in this journey.

Oruro

It was 3 days of easy and monotonous cycling from La Paz to Oruro through the Altiplano above 3500 meters altitude.

On the second day`s riding we ended the day with 3 digits on the odometer, the first time for Joana, and camped 25 kms from Oruro in an abandoned mine where we experience for the first time the cold nights of the Altiplano. That night the minus 5 degrees forced us to cook inside the mine in a rather surreal atmosphere.

Welcoming us in Oruro, by the side of the road, a billboard with Sherlock Holmes, a huge helmet of a miner who seemed more like a spacecraft and various sculptures in copper that showed evidence of the strong mining and carnival traditions of the city.

Oruro is a pleasant but uninteresting mining town where we spent several days preparing for our first major cycling stage in Bolivia: the crossing of salares of Coipasa and Uyuni. A stage that promises loads of adventure and breathtaking scenery and will be published on the next chronic.

You can follow my adventures also through the eyes of Joana on her site here

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Oruro, Bolivia.

Machu Picchu, Cusco and Lake Titicaca (Peru)

2008-06-04T23:41:00.005+01:00

Machu Picchu

It was a short and arduous climb. The early morning fog did not allow us to have the notion of the size of the massive landscape around us and our vision was limited to a few meters. But there was no margin for error, the trail once created by the Incas on the way to their terraced fields in the slopes of Waynapicchu were now used by thousands of visitors each year that climbed breathless to its top to get the best views of the sumptuous ruins of the Inca citadel of Machu Picchu.

Driven to escape the crowds or perhaps by our excellent physical shape, we were amogst the first to reach the top of Waynapicchu. We waited in the chilly and damp morning that the curtains of fog opened up and observed the spectacular nature around us. Machu Picchu was the last of the 7 new wonders of the world that I haven't visit yet, and as opposed to Chichén Itzá in Mexico or to Cristo Redentor in Rio de Janeiro, Machu Picchu deserves its honorific title without hesitation, not only by the ruins itself, but mainly because of their location.

The Urubamba River over the millennia carved the land creating a deep canyon, zigzagging between steep mountains. In the sunny slopes of one of them the Incas built another of theirs many Andean city, Machu Picchu. Constructions in stone carved to perfection, complicated irrigation systems and a society with ideologies that are similar to modern socialism. A perfect harmony between the coexistence of man and nature. This Andean "Shangri-La" was so well located in the "ceja de la selva", elbow of the jungle, that the Spaniards during their long colonization never found it despite knowing about that lost city of the Incas.

We spent another night in what must be the least Peruvian city of Peru, Aguas Calientes, built with the only function of catering for the thousands of tourists who visit the ruins, then was back to Cusco the same way which we had came: walking the railway tracks to the hydroelectric power station (10 km) and then several bus trips to Cusco, via Santa Teresa and Santa Maria.

This is the cheapest way to get to Machu Picchu (60 Soles round trip) and we also broke the arrogant monopoly of Peru-rail, the Chilean company that operates the only contract of passenger trains between Cusco and Aguas Calientes and who charge prohibitive prices for train tickets- 73 dollars !

Cusco

The 8 days I spent in Cusco were days of rest and relaxation. We were not interested in collecting tickets of museums or other attractions. Our last cycling stage had been extremely hard, so we just let ourselves soak up in the city`s atmosphere and the Western comforts it offered. In spite of been one of the most touristic cities in all of South America, Cusco is still able to retain some of its charm. It is a pleasure to wander through the narrow and slopy cobbled streets and observe the architectural fusion between Spanish colonialism and Inca buildings, many of them foundations for colonial buildings.

Me and Joseph from austria at pension estrellita, cusco.

From Cusco to Puno

It was time to leave again, this time alone. Joana would met up with me in Puno by bus. We were anxious to get out of Peru and Joana had decided that the Altiplano and the roads with heavy traffic did not deserve the labor of her legs. Leaving Cusco through highway 3 was very easy. A gentle downhill of 35 km to Huacarpay continuing in soft ups and downs almost always near the Vilcanota River. After our last leg between Ayacucho and Cusco, riding on this road, which despite being above 3500 meters has soft grades, was like a "ride in the park".

I finished the day in Sicuani with 141 kms cycled. I lodge myself in the simple hospedaje of Mr. Huaca where I later met another 2 cyclists, Kiby and Dasa, 2 experienced bike travellers from Slovakia, with many thousands of kilometres in theirs legs from several bike trips. This time a 3 months journey in Peru, Bolivia and northern Chile. I spent a very pleasant evening in their company, watered with Cusqueña beer and some shots of homemade firewater (69 degrees) that Kiby had brought from Slovakia and was carrying on his panniers. I would met them again in Puno a few days later.

Next morning I return to the asphalt determined to reach Puno in two days (260 km). The road rises gently to the pass Abra la Raya -another bump on the road!- at 4312 meters of altitude is the highest point on the road between Cusco and Puno and the entry point to the vast Andean Altiplano that stretch for hundreds of miles, beyond the Peruvian border ending only in Southwestern Bolivia. Joana and I would be riding through that cold and desolate Altiplano, located between 3700 and 4000 meters in altitude, over the coming weeks.

Cycling alone in the cold and barren landscape, with long straight and flat roads and monotonous scenery, the days become long and endless, my bum numb and my mind dormant. I passed by the city of Juliaca, it looked like a giant Lego of red bricks of unfinished buildings, chaotic and dirty, in the middle of the desolate Altiplano. Juliaca was probably the most chaotic, ugly and unorganized Peruvian city I came across. It was like a city of post-holocaust, full of life but without character, meaning or order, and with an unusual number of bicycle-taxis.

On the third day, and with 400 km cycled, I arrive in Puno, on the west shores of Lake Titicaca. Puno is just a bit more pleasant than Juliaca. Another chaotic, dirty and disorganised Peruvian city, where the construction of the building are made as one`s pleases (or can), without any urban planning, something so typical in the cities of Peru.

Peruvian hotels

I arrived in Puno late at night, I had cycled 147 km and was exhausted. I climb up the stairs of the hotel Jesus, and the receptionist informed me that he had no rooms available, but moments later said he had a spare room that only needed to be cleaned and could rent for 15 Soles (3.5 euros). The incredible speed with which he "cleaned" the room left me suspicious. I raised the blankets and to my bewildered eyes saw a wet spot in the middle of the sheets . It seemed a "proof of the crime" of some recent sexual act. I question the employee why he didn't change the sheets. "The washing machine is damaged", he said with a disinterested expression. I asked him to change the sheets while I carried my bike and bags up the stairs. When I noticed that had changed only the lower sheet I asked him to change the other one or I would not stay in the hotel. Resigned, he changes the second sheet. I was so exhausted that had no desire to look for another hotel. I slept in my sleeping bag and on the following morning change hotel.

The next chosen hotel, whose name I can not remember was a family guesthouse, clean and with some character. The friendly owner showed me the room whose electric shower did not work. I ask the woman to resolve the situation as I was going to pick up Joana from the bus station. We return to the hotel in the afternoon and to our surprise it was closed! We knock on the door, insisting several times. After some time, we noticed through the glass window, a man completely drunk walking down the corridor. He was so drunk that he could not open the door, and without saying a word disappears down the dark corridor leaving us there sitting at the hotel entrance. I knock on the door once again and the man came back trying to open the door without success and disappears again. We were about to despair. At the third attempt, with the help of my instructions, he manage to open the door and once again disappears without saying a word walking between the walls of the corridor. I collect my luggage and bicycle and left in search of another hotel. This time the hotel Inti, with 25 Soles per night (3 euros each) offered a decent room and hot shower. What we have not been informed is that the 24 hours hot water offered by the entrance sign and by the receptionist, were subject to the solar moods (it was operated by solar energy) and having been an afternoon of rain, the much desired shower had to wait another day.
It's time to get out of Peru!

In the 108 nights that we spent in the country, 26 were wild camping in our tent without any problems, 22 in private family`s houses who welcomed us, and the remaining 60 in hotels. Cheap "hotels", in the most varying states of existence, clean hotels and dirty hotels, hotels with character and noisy hotels, hotels without electricity or running water, hotels with showers that gave electric shocks, hotels where the reception were creatively covered with packs of toilet paper "suave", the Peruvian version of Scottex. and once even a hotel room without a door!
The concept of a (cheap) Peruvian hotel seems to be summed up to a space between four walls (painted or paint), a roof and a bed, whose only function is to protect the client of the elements.

The East shores of Lake Titicaca

We planned to enter Bolivia by the remote border of Puerto Acosta, cycling around the North shores of Lake Titicaca on the Peruvian side and then Southeast through Taraco, Huancanè, Moho and Tilali. A route completely off the beaten track avoiding the backpackers ghettos of Copacabana isla del sol and isla de la luna. We had little information about this route. According to our guide, there was no immigration post at this frontier, so we had to stamp the passports in Puno (stamp out of Peru) and God knows where on the Bolivian side, perhaps only in the capital La Paz, 420km from Puno.

The young girl at the tourist information in Puno discourage us to use that border crossing because of smugglers activity and their clashes with the police. However the department of immigration in Puno did not put any objection to our itinerary and -at our request- stamped our passports with 4 days in advance, the time we thought we needed to reach the border.

We left Puno in the morning under a blue sky and strong sun cycling north on the road to Juliaca. Out of town the road was blocked with broken glasses and large stones. There was a "Paro", strike, in the city and the roads out of town were blocked to traffic. Local people claimed the big hikes in prices of basic foodstuff. The rice alone, as a trader told us, had risen about 60% in the last 3 months. Around here (and particularly in Bolivia) the most common form of protest is blocking the roads, something that touring cyclists embrace with enthusiasm. It was a joy that morning to ride without a single car or its noises.

By late afternoon we come to the peninsula of Capachica and Lake Titicaca shores, where we camped with excellent views of the sacred lake of the Incas. Lake Titicaca at 3812 meters in altitude is the highest navigable lake in the world and, according to legend, the birth place of the Inca civilization. With 204 km in length and 65 km wide, this massive body of turquoise blue gives life to the vast and dry Altiplano. On the banks of the lake Quechua and Aymara cultures are still well alive whose customs and traditions have changed little over the centuries.

Village of Moho

With the approaching of the border the traffic was decreasing and in fact after Moho, not a single vehicle bypassed me. By the fourth day we reached the border village of Tilali, found a simple hospedaje and spent our last night in Peru.

Cerro Janko Janko

South of Tilali, 2 km on a dirt road is the Peruvian border post. A small house occupied by 2 officers and a piece of wood over the road obstructed the way. We stop to show our passports and some friendly conversation with the border guards, which told us that the only movement that seems to exist in that border was Wednesday and Sunday, the day of smugglers market an Cerro Janko Janko 2 kms away where the real border is located. The rest of the week there is hardly a soul in sight, they told us. The market is mostly of smuggled cheap Bolivian goods, including gasoline of which Peru has the highest prices in all South America.

2 kms of a steep climb through no man land and we arrived at cerro Janko Janko. An obelisk marked the division between the two countries and a cluster of empty stone houses nearby confirmed the existence of that bi-weekly market. To the west the immense blue of Lake Titicaca. There was no soul around. We stop a long time to contemplate the beauty of the landscape and the absolute silence. This was the most calm and peaceful (legal) border crossing I have made in all of my travels. We just had finished our bike tour of Peru and were eager to unravel other country on this journey.

Hasta la vista Peru!

Peru had been the most difficult country of the journey so far. It is a country of strong contrasts, intense and very challenging. It offered the most beautiful natural landscapes of the trip, especially its impressive canyons, deep valleys and snow covered mountain ranges. The Peruvian Andean Cordillera provided great physical challenges for bicycle. But it was the human factor that offered the greatest challenges.

The Peruvian cities - except for the Plaza de Armas and historical centres - are chaotic, dirty and authentic architectural aberrations, insults to the beautiful landscape that surrounds them. The encounters on the road, mainly in rural areas, were intense sometimes exhausting and communication very limited. The "Buenos dias" on the street or the "buen provecho" in restaurants were often unanswered, young people were often intrusive and their curiosity invaded our privacy more than seemed to be acceptable by common sense, and the verbal harassment to Joana were a constant even when I cycled beside her.

We also met a lot of wonderful people, some of them welcomed us into their homes and shared their gracious and sincere hospitality . Moments we remember with great affection. But I still feel that the human landscape in Peru is as its morphological landscape with highs were you can see things that make you feel privileged and lows, where you feel tired and where nothing of what you observe attracts you. And as opposed to Cuba or Colombia, where the human factor was the driving force of my cycling energy, in Peru was the landscape that paid off for all the tough physical and human efforts.

To choose the bicycle as a means of transport, I am by choice, more exposed and it also brings me closer to the beings that populate the landscape that I am traveling through. But in Peru the human contrasts which I was exposed to, reminded me how high can be the social and cultural barriers and how these factors influence how one enjoys the country. With one more exit stamp in the passport, I just have to say:
Aste la vista Peru!

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
La Paz, Bolivia

From Ayacucho to Cuzco (Peru)

2008-05-28T00:02:00.007+01:00

"Por la verdad e la justicia"

At the corner of Avenida Agustin Gamana with the avenue extension Jr Liberdad, in the northern outskirts of the city of Ayacucho is the "Parque de la Memoria" in which centre stands a metal sculpture with three sides representing the past present and future of Ayacucheños, or inhabitants of the department of Ayacucho.

The past: The covered face of a person shouting, sickle and a hoe, a grenade of the Sendero Luminoso and a rifle of the army and police forces.
The present: A reclined judicial scale, skulls and bones of victims of the violence and an open book which states: "the truth is still been written."
And the future: a broken rifle in which center rises a plant, a dove flying and two hands together in sign of reconciliation.

The department of Ayacucho was one of the areas most affected by the internal armed conflict which affected Peru from 1980 to 2000 between the pro-Marxist guerrilla group Sendero Luminoso and the security forces of the Peruvian government, this conflict has left a balance of about 60,000 dead and many thousands missing, abused, tortured, raped, in the list of violations of human rights.

Inca roads?

We cycled up and down the mountains, in one of the most remote regions of the country where the asphalt has not yet arrived and the main road is only a bunch of rural roads not well marked on our maps and in such a state of deterioration that I question myself whether those stone and gavel back roads would not be the remains of the Inca trails, after all we were heading to Cuzco and Machu Picchu, the center of this vast South American empire.

In this part of Peru the Andean mountains are cut by numerous canyons, creating deep valleys and obstructing the construction of roads. Day after day for nearly two weeks we cycled through these deep valleys and cold and desolate passes, up and down the mountains mercilessly, leading us almost to the limit of our mental and physical affords.

We just had finished to arrive at yet another pass over 4000 meters. I remembered my happiness when I reached the 2500 meters in the slope of a crater in the Yellowstone national park, in the United States, almost 2 years ago. Now, I have lost count to the amount of times I cycled above 4000 meters.

We anticipated the downhill, the reward after a hard climbed and the ecstasy of reaching the pass. But surprisingly, the downhill of 50 kms would take us 2 days to do. The road was in such poor conditions that forced us to descend at similar speeds then the uphill . Joana at some point dismounts and pushes her "Marina" downhill in order to relieve the pain in the hands from breaking and from the discomfort of the saddle, caused by the "jumping" of her bike trying to divert from the rocks, holes, gravel, sand and other obstacles, and also to remove the eyes of the road and admire the Andean landscape. I note the physical and mental suffering on her face.

We were far from idyllic plains and the bike trip we had done together last year when Joana joined me for two weeks in Yucatan, Mexico, where we cycled through absolutely flat landscapes. That was her first bike touring trip and the source of inspiration to bicycle in the Andes. But here in the heart of the continent's highest mountains the reality was different. I felt like shouting her and ask forgiveness on behalf of the mountains and promise that soon would be easier. But I knew it wouldn't. "The next trip we will be riding in the Portuguese Alentejo plains, I promise!", I thought.

After the windy descent we reached the bottom of the valley and then came another climb, more 45 km of loose gravel roads that took us another 2 days to make. The sweat created by the physical effort added to the heat that was felt at the bottom of the valleys, drained the repellent down, exposing the skin to the tiny enemies that followed us all the time, the mosquitoes.
Each day ended in complete exhaustion.

Mira, Gringo ... Gringo!

In the dirt and stone roads between Ayacucho and Abancay through this remote area of Peru forgotten by the central government, few foreigners venture, and the ones who do are a source of great curiosity by the local indigenous population. Sometimes the encounters were so surreal that we felt like two Martians on bicycles.

The approach of our bikes into a village whose adobe houses seemed like extensions of "Pachamama", mother Earth, shaped into rectangular forms, whose inhabitants, many of them still live without electricity or drinking water, was an event watched by many. The hand on the brake and foot on the floor in front of the only "tienda" of the village, meant the confrontation with a crowd of curious children and adults. Before our arrival, with the approach the "burras", the word "Gringo" would fill the air coming from everywhere, as if it was the call for a social event in the Plaza de Armas of the village. Then came the silence and disbelieving eyes of the children. We would buy food and water for the night and leave in search of a place to camp. With the departure of the bicycles the word "gringo" was once again heard, stronger and stronger as we leave the village

On one occasion a child who looked no more than 2 years old sitting on her mother's lap by the side of the road, shouts with her full lungs: "gringo! Gringo." Probably she didn't spoke Spanish yet, but already knew the word "gringo". On another occasion a group of farmers working the land shouted as we passed by: Gringo! Gringo! while various chunks of dirt flew above my head. The sound of the word gringo was becoming so difficult to overcome as a good pass. How does this word has spread so much here in the Peruvian Andean mountains so far its place of origin?

A Mexican friend in Puerto Escondido told me once that the word "Gringo" comes from the Mexican-American war of 1846-1848, when American troops arrived in Mexico City in their green uniforms and were faced with protests from the local community that screamed: "Green go home", "Green go." Since then the word "gringo" is a popular way to identify Americans throughout Latin America, later generalized to any foreigner.

This expression has accompanied me over the months, but in no other part of Latin America Ive herded it so often and with such a strong intonation as in this leg between Ayacucho and Abancay. Though normally no apparent malice exist in the context of the word, around here, it reflects somewhat the resentment that still exists because of the exploitation of the natural resources (gold and others) by foreign multinationals. Bicycle travelers are more exposed to local reality and as a consequence the most vulnerable to the irritation that that word can cause. I have known backpackers travelling in the country who travel by bus from city to city and staying only in hotels recommended by Lonely Planet, that hardly heard the word "Gringo", lucky them!

The "revenge of Atahualpa" - Peruvian version invented by Joanna for her diarrhea and fever, obliges us to stop an extra day in the village of Chincheros, the first village with accommodation after 6 days of cycling. It was time also to relax from the tough climbs, and to change from baby wipes to a real shower!
There were still 5 more days of ups and downs and 180kms until we reached the tarmac 18 kms south of Abancay, where we arrived late through the night.

To be back on the asphalt was a great relief to our mind but not the end of climbs. After Abancay the road climbs 1500 meters without mercy during 35 kms in a continuous switchback turns that ends only in the pass of Abra Sorllaca at 4000m of altitude, where we camp on an abandoned roads with excellent views to the Nevados of Salcantay. And with one more drop to Apurimac canyon and another climb, will finally arrive at the very anticipated city of Cuzco. This stage of 600 kms with more than 10,000 meters of accumulated climb, with 7 passes, 4 of them over 4000m, was without doubt the toughest of the trip so far.

Casa Hogar the Gorriones

I still had a fresh memory of the smiles of the special children's at Casa Hogar los Gorriones, of Ebersom, Luis, Fermin and so many other children of the orphanage of Ayacucho where Joana worked as volunteer for 3 weeks. The sorrow and pain in the eyes of Gil, responsible for the orphanage, at the time of our departure caused by the suffering of knowing that soon his wife, "mother" of the 35 children of the orphanage, would leave them with a cancer in the liver. We came to learn of her death days later by an e-mail.

Gil and Chantal are a Franco-Belgian couple who dedicate their lives to 35 children from the orphanage Hogar Gorriones created by them in 2001. A story whose heroic protagonists transformed the lives of these children by giving them a home, a family and a reason to live. Many of the children are special children with cerebral palsy and other neurological deficiencies, rejected by parents, some were found in boxes of garbage on the street or at some families homes living with dogs, as was the case of Fermin. Those are real and sad histories of many Peruvian children but also stories of hope. Those children marked my passage by Ayacucho. To help them all, a team of volunteers from around the world in which Joana participated feeling much more closely the reality of these children. You can learn more about these realities in her next chronic on her site at constant movements.

Before our farewell, Joana organized a afternoon snack and a slides show of our journey, in which I participate showing parts of our equipment to the fascinated children. A different reality from theirs that we decided to share. The brief moments that I spent there refreshed my spirit and the enriched my soul. Travelling by bicycle is not only about climb mountains, cycle though the unknown or see idyllic scenery, it is also to felt in a more intimate way the reality of the lives of people with whom we cross.

Tomorrow we will visit the ruins of the citadel of Machu Picchu, one of the major tourist attractions not only in Peru but also throughout Latin America and the highlight for many people`s journeys. For me one of the highlights of this difficult stage was the stamped smile in the face of these children.

I remind you that this trip is not only mine, but also of all the special children in particular those of the APPC Leiria with which I give solidarity strokes. If you want to participate in this journey and help the special children can do so by contacting the APPC-Leiria or through this site, details of the charity link.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Cuzco, Peru.

From Trujillo To Ayacucho throught the Cordillera Blanca (Peru)

2008-04-09T17:26:00.013+01:00

Jeff in Huascaran national park

Sechura desert

After a 3 week break in Trujillo, it was a pleasure to be on the road again. To feel the asphalt underneath the pedals, the hot and dry air, the boring landscape of the desert all around us and the grayish blue sky defused by the violent mid day sun.
Lucho followed us in his bicycle until the exit of the city. When we said goodbye to him we were already surrounded by the vast dune mass that forms the desert of Sechura south of Trujillo. The empty world around us was of an almost suffocating yellow. Km after Km of sand dunes, with the horizon to lose sight.

The Pan-American highway south of Trujillo

But in this apparent barren and deserted land, there is also life. Life created By Man in his continued and irrevocable lewdness to dominate the nature. Some times far in the horizon, like if it was a mirage, we could sight oasis of an intense green. The green of the nature submission. The colourful fields of sugar cane, asparagus and artichokes, were opposed strongly to the dry tones of the desert land. These plantations belong to foreign corporations and are irrigated with the waters of the river Santa through the government`s mega-project, that slowly is conquering the desert.

According to Lucho`s indications at the km 487 of the Pan-American highway, a private road would take us in a short cut to the River Santa, preventing us to cycle south until the its estuary and saving us about 100 km.
The private dirt road was one of the access roads to the hydroelectric-power installations of Chavimochic. A vast multi-project of electricity production and irrigation of the desert using the waters of the river Santa.

Joana and me travelled alone again, at our won rhythm and pace. Jeff left ahead of us. "We see ourselves later, perhaps in Huaraz", we said.
The traffic on this road was almost nonexistent. Without the noise and the smoke of the Pan-American`s trucks, we could now contemplate the desert in its absolute beauty. We arrive at the river Santa shores, an interruption of green in this vast barren landscape, one of the many rivers that came down the Andes and gives life to this coastal desert.

Callejón de Huaylas

In the days that followed we cycled about 250 km always along this river, since near its estuary, until Huaraz, 80 km from its spring in the lake of Conacocha, at 4113m of altitude.

We camp one last night in the desert. The silence was absolute, almost painful. After 50 km on the private road, we arrive at the main road, whose tarmac finishes in the village of Chuquicara.
During the following 5 days, we cycled along the river Santa on a road that despite the soft inclinations, was of such a bad conditions that made progress very slow. But the road was not the only factor for our slow moving pace, the landscape was of such a splendor that compelled us to stop frequently in order to contemplate it. We cycled during days "inside" a enormous canyon.

In the first part, also the prettiest, the road followed the riverbed with the imposing walls of the canyon on both sides. In the upper part of canyon, known as Canyon del Pato, the road climbs up the west side of the canyon, breaking away from the river. In this part of the Canyon del Pato the cordillera Blanca and Cordillera Negra are so close to each other that the only way to built the road was by perforating the mountain. We had to cross no less then 35 tunnels. Despite the natural light, these tunnels presented some times, challenges for our bicycles.

On the 5th day the mountain ranges start to open up giving place to the fertile valley of the river Santa, already above 2000 meters of altitude. 25 km before Caraz, the asphalt starts again, so does the houses and villages. Men, women, old and new, all seem to work the fertile lands of the valley. The hostile climate of the mountains and the impious sun leave its marks in the faces of the farmers, its faces are burnt by the sun and the arsh weather.

Huaraz

Huaraz is the Andean capital of the adventure sports. The terraces of the disorganized and ugly city disclose the panoramic views that dominate it: the Cordillera Blanca, one of more impressive mountain ranges on the planet, with its 22peaks above 6000 meters. The city was almost total destroyed by the 1970`s earthquake, but it reappeared from the rubble rapidity, to become the "metropolis" of adrenalin sports that is today.
Huaraz may be just another ugly Peruvian town, but for me its also an excellent place to look for that spare part of outdoor equipment so difficult to found in many other south American towns, and for us, the place to decide about the next cycling route.

Joana finished her cycling here, at least for now. I went with her to the capital, Lima, on a long 8 hour bus journey. In the glance of a short day we had a quick look at Centro historico and finished our 24 hour visit to the capital at one of the city`s main park, where we attend the fantastic fountain and light show "passage de agua".

We both leave the city on that same night. Joana to Ayacucho, on another long trip of 10 hours by bus, the place where she would go to work as voluntary for 3 weeks in an institution that it deals with special children abandoned by their parents.
I returned to Huaraz, and after a night`s rest, left with Jeff to Huanuco, Huancayo and later Ayacucho. A stage of 960 km with half dozen passes above 4000m, that we hoped to make in less than 2 weeks.

Cordillera Blanca

We cycled the first 38 km following the River Santa, that now is no more than a small stream in the narrow valley. The landscape was very pleasant, with small forests of eucalyptus that offered some shelter from the wind. It existed a certain harmony in the land: the green plantations in the hillsides of the Cordillera Negra to the West, the eucalyptus and the adobe houses along the highway, and to the East, like a stage curtain, the granite towers covered by white powder completed the mosaic of the landscape.

In Catac (3600m) we stop in a restaurant for a small pause and one mate de Coca- coca leaves tea. There, a dirt road moved away from the main road and went up slowly the Cordillera Blanca. We cycle now above 4000 meters of altitude and could already feel the consequences of rarefied air.
The only information that we had of this dirt road, apart from coming on my map as "camino carrozable", had come from a Mountain Bike guide that I meet in Huaraz and that described the road as "abandoned". This dirt road that bounds Catac with the pass of Abra Yamashallah (4720m), through the Huascaran national park, was not only a short cut on our itinerary, but also a trip through the unknown.

With the inclinations more accentuated the cardiac rhythm increases. Some times our progress was incredible slow, with stops to catch our breath each 100 meters or so. We had bought food for several days and my panniers where loaded with roughly 40 or 50 Kg, Jeff`s load, as usual, was even bigger with probably 60 or 70 Kg.

My decision in cycling for these remote parts of the planet, does not come without spirit of sacrifice, its physical and mental challenges, and it consequences: thus is the life of a cycling vagabond! Decisions, circumstances and consequences. I have to accept the inconveniences of these challenges as the price to pay for my decisions.

We camp at 4229 meters of altitude near the source of natural gasified water spring(Boca de Puma), where I had a bad night sleep with strong headaches and shivering, symptoms of a fast ascent caused by my trip by bus to Lima, where in less than 48 hours I went down to sea level and returned to 3100 meters of altitude (Huaraz), and only with a night`s rest cycled above 4000 meters.

Close to the camping spot a small forest of Puya Raimondi, native plants of the Andes that are found only between 3200 and 4800 meters of altitude, and that supposedly can live up to 100 years.

At dawn the clarity awakes us disclosing plus another day of blue sky and and high white clouds. Since we left Trujillo that it rained only in the days that we spent in Huaraz. The raining season seemed to have finished at last.
I felt happy.
Since Chiapas in Mexico in May last year that I have been travelling always under the several raining seasons of the continent. We continue our journey.

We can see far ahead the road that follows its way through the wild valley. At the end of this valley, the road zigzags up the hillside until we loose sight of it somewhere on the top of the mountain. It takes us several hours to reach the pass. On the other side the revelation! A gigantic valley covered by a mantle of lime-green and encircled by white peaks. It seemed that all the production of Coca in the country was spilled on those cathedrals of granite and ice. Each curve seemed to disclose a new painting of irrefutable beauty.

After a small descending of 200 meters one curve discloses the continuation of the road far in the horizon. The road continued to go up but of our right side we observe what seemed to be an arm of the mountain that extended until the deeps of the valley. Its top offered 360 degrees views of the valleys and peaks around us, some of them above of 6000m. A perfect place to camp.

It was only 2pm and we had made only 28 km, but the place was too pretty to be ignored. We filled our bottles with water from the roadside and pushed the bicycles (Jeff cycled his) through the mountain crest until we reached its higher point with the steep valley at the bottom, and all the white peaks around us.
We were in the center of three-dimensional puzzle in a vertical world, that is impossible to me to describe. Perhaps the photos will make it some justice:

At 4830m I had reached not only the highest pass and camping spot on this trip, but also one of the prettiest places where I ever camped. I remembered Joana and how much I would have liked that she was there with me. Next morning we wake up with a fine layer of snow over the tents and bicycles.
We follow our journey.
Our road continues to climb very softly until reaching its highest point at 4876 meters, according to indications of Jeff`s GPS, my altimeter stop working since a heavy rainy day in southern Ecuador. From here gravity was on our side and we initiate the descend until the asphalt road, in the north side of the Abra Yamashallah pass (4720m) and then further until Huallanca.

In Huallanca the asphalt finishes again and we cycle 4 more days through bad dirt roads until Huanuco. Some times the gravel and rocky road was in very very bad state, as was the case of the 35 km of downhill, between the pass Corona del Inca (3979m) and the city of Huanuco (1910m), that required some skills and technique, and loads of patience not fall on the loss gravel.
Corona del Inca

Semana Santa of Huanuco

"YOU, that says to be son of God, why don't you save yourself?", The bad thief said to Christ crucified on the cross, with its face and body covered with blood and his head fallen immovable between the shoulders. Maria and her friends cried close to the cross, and the soldiers of Cesar with its rude activities, completed the surrealistic atmosphere.
Hours before a multitude of thousand of people, had followed the long and treacherous walk of Jesus from the center of Huanuco until the place of Crucifixion on the top of a mount in the periphery of the city. The leather straps of the guards of Cesar slashed Jesus and the two thieves`backs over and over again. I felt my skin shivering with the realism of the act of the several dozen of actors, and also by the comments from some of the participants: "crucify them", "crucify them".

We had arrive in the city of Huanuco at the end of Semana Santa, the Easter weekend. The most celebrated religious festival of the Peruvian calendar. I am Lusitano, and have a Cristian education, and I`ve watched this type of celebrations throughout my child and adult life, but in no another part I attended a Christian religious event with such realism and fervor like at the Semana Santa of Huanuco. Here in the heart of the Andean mountain range, the Cristian faith mixed with Inca and pagan influences has another dimensions. These festivities are lived with a very strong passion, belief and religious faith, and are the expression of people who live a arduous life day today. A refuge to the hostilities that their lives provide to them.

The Altiplano

The national highway 3 that crosses the city center, goes northeast to Tingo Maria and the amazon jungle, or south and the high plateau of Junin and later Huancayo. We continue south. It takes us more then a day to reach a pass of 4387 meters of altitude, near Cerro de Pasco. The flat road, now a asphalt road in great shape, crosses the monotonous and cold landscape of the Altiplano of Junin, without going down the 4000 meters mark, during more than 100 km.

Unlike the Cordillera Blanca, here the landscape is desolated, cold and monotonous. The cold wind of the high plateau does not invite for many stops, so we decided to add up kms and move on at full speed. We spend a cold night in the village of Junin, a historical place and center of battles between Incas and Spaniards, and in the following day we cycle all the way until Jauja, already in the valley of Mantaro, finishing the day with 142 km cycled.

The reencounter

It was time for me and Jeff to say good bye once again. We had different plans for the weeks ahead, but who knows, we will met up once again somewhere on the road. Jeff continued to Huncavelica and to the Pacific coast, and I followed the Andean spine route to Ayacucho and met up with Joana again. In Izuchaca finishes the asphalt one more time. Ahead of me, over 200 km of gravel roads that I hoped to do in 3 very long days. A remote, dusty and irregular road, territory of zancudos (mosquitoes) and tarantulas, but also with some parts of great natural beauty, especially around Mayocc, with the beautiful Canyon of ooo. The Canyon presents a desert-like landscape but full of cactus that reminded me the desert of Baja in Mexico.

Its not a river...but my road!

960 km and 15 days later, as promised, Joana and I where together once again. We are going to leave in a couple of days for another cycling stage in the Andean mountains. This time, about 500 km until Aguas Calientes. The mountain landscape is so "wrinkled" in this part of Andes, that we probably have in front of us one of the most difficult stages of our cycling trip in Peru.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Ayacucho, Peru.

Sechura Desert and Trujillo (Peru)

2008-03-31T01:43:00.003+01:00

With the arrival at Peruvian border we were back to "tierras calientes", the lowlands. The border of Macará, situated at 600 meters of altitude, is one of the 4 border crossings between the two nations, and contrary of that it is common in Latin America`s borders, there is an easy and relaxed atmosphere.
Less relaxed were the waters of the river Calvas, that run underneath the bridge who bound the two countries, and a stage for the main activity that seemed to liven up that easy going border crossing: contraband!
Some youngsters, taking advantage of the indifferent look of the officers, swim across gasoline barrels, defying the strong current of the river and probably their lives too. I question myself if the wages do compensate the risk, but as it is common in these countries, probably not.

The visa of 3 months is free for European Union citizens and is also valid for other countries of the Andean community like Bolivia. After all the paperwork done and the passports stamped we were ready to brave the roads of the new country.
While Jeff fixed the first of a series of punctures that he would have in the next few days, caused by his "new" 10 dollars wheel bought the previous day in Macará, Joana and me had our first introduction to Peruvian "latinidad": In what it seemed to be the only available bank, we try to change some dollars for the new currency - the sole, but with a some what funny excuse, our dollars were refused by the bank`s smiling employee. However, his friend who happened to be there "by chance", had his pocket well stuffed of Peruvian soles and offered to change us some money. We grabbed our poorly exchanged soles and followed our trip.

I touch with my fingers on the dirt to fell the land, as I always make when crossing a border. Peru was an incognito land, where for certain there would be many adventures waiting, at least by the looks of histories told by other fellow touring cyclists, that were not always positive.
We follow through what`s officially the Pan-American highway in Peru.. The traffic was scarce and the temperatures high. The dry air and impious midday sun made for a lazy cycling. We cycled with all our senses on alert, anxious to observe the differences of the country who we just entered, and the differences were well obvious!
Peru is much poorer then its northern neighbour. And for brief instants, the smells and the chaos of the villages reminded me of India.

In our first night of free camping in Peru, underneath a big tree, in some scrub land away from the road, Joana received her welcome to the country through the sting of a scorpion, infuriated by our invasion of its territory. We applied some cream and a garrote and continued our journey.

Chulucanas

Days later we arrive in Chulucanas, situated between the end of the Sechura desert and the beginning of Andean slopes. We only had an idea in mind; find a hotel with a good shower, have a good meal and move on the following day. At the entrance of relatively clean and organized city, a lady with a young man on a motorcycle, questions us through the chaotic traffic noise, our destination.
- We are looking for a hotel, I answered.
- My husband is a archaeologist.
- Que buenno, I answered disinterested. In a country where there are no shortage of archaeological sites, I first though that it would be plus another humbug to delude the tourist to an undesirable hotel.
- He would love to met you. I invite you to my house, she insisted with a genuine and smiling sincerity.
We decide to follow the motorcycle through the labyrinth of streets, stopping in front of a house adjacent to a school. In this permanently-under-construction-looking-kind-of-house, that looked like thousand others in the country, lived the Salazar family. One of the most hospitable families on my trip so far.

Mario Salazar is an archaeologist who works for the national institute of culture in the city of Chulucanas, and in partnership with the municipality, he promotes the tourism of the region. In a country where tourism is concentrate in axle Lima-Arequipa-Cuzco-Machu Pichu, its work is far from easy. Very few tourists make it to this northeastern corner of the Piura province. There is not much to see.
Mario received us with open arms in his humble house. We mount the tents in the yard of Santa Catarina`s school. A private school that belonged to Rosa, Mario`s wife.

In the 4 days that we stayed there, Mario showed us around, on his motor-taxi, the "touristic attractions" of the region.
Piura Vieja, the first village established by the Spaniards in Peru, but that today are no more than some rocks scattered around a mount, and kept by an old man living in a nearby house, that kept complain about the neighbors stealing stones for the constructions of houses and bridges.
La Encantada, a village where most citizens seemed to live out of pottery made with some Moche influences. The village was surrounded by mounts, that according to Mario were tombs of the ancestors of the Moche, a pre-Inca society, but that to my eyes they seemed only pastures for goats.
- There, he said pointing to an empty mount.
- There, where?, I asked.
- There, cant you see it? That it is a tomb of some important feudal Moche!
- Haaaa we gasped, pretending to be surprised.

Despite the "guided tours" with Mario in his motor-taxi being of an irrelevance and modesty that was almost comical, we could not deny him the credit for its effort in promoting the tourism of the region and its passion for archaeology.
La Encantada

Piura Vieja!

Water salesman

Mario`s motor-taxi

What Mario didn't know was that the highlights of our visits was his company, and the kind hospitality of his wife and children who made us feel like at home. The long hours chatting, the playing with the children in the school`s yard, the 3 meals a day, that Rosa cooked with so much affection, it all had transformed our idea of Peru.
Where in another part of the world an archaeologist transformed into tourism promoter offers its house, shares its food, show us around on his motorcycle and shares his life experiences, without asking for a single cent in exchange?
We say farewell to the Salazar family with sadness but grateful. Its families like Salazar`s that make it all worth!

We leave happy and motivated to face our next experience in this country not always portrayed as it deserves.
In the following days, we cycling through the province of Piura and watched the landscape slowly changing from dry forest, scrub land and dusty villages to the sand dune and garbage infested desert along the Pacific coast. A zone with little cycling interest unless you like to share the highway and the vast emptiness of the desert with a bunch of loaded and hooking trucks. But eve been a dull ride, there was a lot to keep ours eyes fascinated.

Chiclayo

Chiclayo was our first introduction to a good size Peruvian city, and like Barranquilla in Colombia, was marked as one of the most chaotic cities I`ve cycled on this trip. An error in our planed route. The only reason to put the ironically self-proclaimed "ciudad de la amistad", in ones itinerary, is the fascinating museum Tumbas reales de Sipan, situated 11 km north of the city. In the modern museum is displayed the vast and fascinating collection of artifacts of "señor de Sipan", found recently in a tomb, 20 km East of Chiclayo. Some sort of Tutankhamen of the region. The road followed south near the coast, but it was only around Pacasmayo that we had the first glimpses of the Pacific Ocean. We spent the night in the pleasant city-beach, where we were interviewed by a local radio.

Paijan

We leave Pacasmayo very early in the morning with the intention of making the remaining 90 km to Trujillo in two days. In our itinerary was the village of Paijan. Yet another dusty road side town that the Pan-American highway crosses on its way through Sechura desert. We had been warned by other cyclists we met in Ecuador, that its a place to avoid, where some cyclists been robed recently.
We were determined to cycle through Paijan, but a police check point at the exit of the city just increases our concerns and advises us not to cycle through there.
-Yesterday 5 tourists had their car tires blown off at gun shots and robed of all their possessions, they said.
We gave away to the police advices, when we noticed that it was referred not only to us tourist, but to the locals as well. They stop a pick-up and "order" the drivers to take us and all the bike to Trujillo.

It was very strange to see the vast desert landscape passing through my eyes so fast. Excluding some boat trips (La Paz-Mazatlan in Mexico and the crossing from Panama to Colombia) it was the first time, since a small part of the Cassiar highway in Canada, that me and my "Burra" travelled south in a motorized transport.

Trujillo

-Bienvenidos a mi casa, es un plazer terlos aqui, said that man of dark skin, tired eyes, sincere and firm voice.
I noticed sincerity in his affirmations.
-You can stay as long as you like, he continued point out that we were the first Portuguese he hosted in his vast and impressive list of cyclo-travellers that he welcomed over the years.

The first time that I heard of "Lucho" was in California over a year ago, when another touring cyclist referred to me the "casa de la amistad" in Trujillo. Since then a few other touring cyclists have spoken about this emblematic reference in Peru.
Lucho already received nearly 1000 touring cyclists from around the world over the last 20 years. References to his great hospitality can be observed in the registers of the several guest books, with comments and photos of others cyclists, or through the innumerable books about bike travel published in several languages and autographed by the authors, who fill the bookshelf of the simple room where he lodged us. Between many others, a book of Heinz Stucke, the charismatic and mythical German cyclists that had been cycling on the roads of this planet for more than 40 consecutive years.

Our supposed stay of few days was dragged for almost 3 weeks. It was the ideal place to wait for the torrential rains in the mountains to diminished.

The news papers in the country published systematically the damage caused by the strong rains, attributed this year to "La Niña". It was a little difficult to believe when in Trujillo it was a sweltering heat and burning sun. The days passed by, among dinners at "casa of la amistad", music jam sessions (the second passion of the Lucho after cycling), and visits to the region archaeological places, like Chan Chan.

Chan Chan was the biggest adobe city of the world and capital of the Chimu empire, before the Incas and later the Spaniards sacked the city. When the dry heat hindered the imagination to contemplate these vestiges of the great Peruvian past, we headed to the beach of Huanchaco, where on the shade of the "cabalitos of Totora" (traditional reed boats), we had a more contemporary interpretation of the sun worshipping.

Trujillo founded by Pizarro is situated in the north coast of the country, and is one of the many city-oases that give life to that it would be otherwise, a vast desert that covers all the coast of Peruvian Pacific Ocean, from the Ecuador border all the way into northern Chile.

The time to leave has arrived. With or without rain we would head to the mountains.
The next leg of the trip: Cycle for a few more days through the Sechura desert and then up to the Cordillera Blanca, following the river Santa to Huaraz. If the weather is on our side, it will be a fantastic journey through deserts, canyons and river valleys, and some great cycling along craggy white peaks with over 6000m altitude. If the weather remains like in the few weeks, it can be a miserable, rainy and cold journey and without any views of the second highest mountain range in the world.

We say goodbye to Lucho and his family, and to this oases of color planted by the pacific ocean and follow trip for the Pan American highway through the desert of Sechura.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Ayacucho, Peru

Amazon basin (Ecuador)

2008-02-29T01:07:00.000Z

With over 10.000 km still to cycle, and with the climate window closing further south, the austral winter was something that was worrying me for several months. During the last weeks, I`ve been cycling at an average speed of 30/40m km a day, and reaching Ushuaia before the first snows and freezing temperatures, was becoming an almost mission impossible.

I had to make a decision: either leave Joana and move on at full speed through the shortest route, or delay my arrival to Tierra del Fuego for after the austral winter. I make several phone calls to Europe to assure that it would be financially possible to travel for an additional 6 months. I also called my parents:"once again I will postpone my arrival. I only will arrive in Autumn, maybe just before Christmas, I don't know yet". They were apprehensive.

In adventures like this, there can not be time compromises. The feeling of been stuck-tied with time, is in itself a paradox that removes the pleasures of bike touring. For the first time in several months, I felt completely free again. Although I wasn't in any rush any more, and even if I was enjoying the city, I was starting to get itchy feet. Cuenca offered too many western comforts, and I felt the urge to leave and get off the beaten track.

The plan was simple: Joana had to wait in Cuenca for her new bank cards, and I would continue to cycle to Loja, further south, where she would met me up later. "I will see you in 5 days", I said, feeling her body in a strong hug. The night before, in the room of the hogar Cuencano, I had shown her the map and said how it would be an easy route. The road apparently followed a river`s valley passing through Paute, Sevilla d´oro and Amaluza, before descending the oriental Andes and enter the amazon basin.

The map indicated a road interruption between Amazula and Mendez, but Marta, the owner of the hostal, guaranteed me that the road existed. The map also indicated a deep depression between the cordillera oriental and cordillera del condor, where the road followed south to Zamora. Once in Zamora I would start the climb back to the Andes and to Loja.

A 5 day side trip through roads relatively flat. At least that was the idea that I had of the amazon basin. The fact of been able to know a bit more or the "oriente", the Ecuadorian amazon, and the Shuar culture, was very appealing to me. Specially after I`ve visited the excellent Pumapungo museum in Cuenca, that recalls the fascinating culture of those indigenous people. what I did not know, was that I had ahead of me, not only the hardest stretch of road in Ecuador, but since I set foot in south America with my faithful "Burra".

I left Cuenca late in the morning and followed the pan-American highway 15 km north until the junction to Paute. The paved road to Paute was relatively flat, the traffic intense and the landscape uninteresting. Paute is the last city between Cuenca and Mendez with good food supplies. After Paute the road, despite good, started to alternate between asphalt and gravel, specially near the water lines, the so called "zonas geologicamente instaveis", so comon in the Andes, where sometimes, after heavy rain fall, entire pieces of road just vanish.

After a week in Cuenca, I was happy to be on the road again. I felt the bike like an extension of my body, together we rolled up and down the mountains, through a road that from farway, looked like a giant rope thrown along the mountain. The valley shown on my map, existed after all, but it was no more then a deep gorge carved on earth during millions of years, from the cordillera ridges all the way to the amazon basin, with over 100 km extension, and getting deeper and narrower as I cycled down.

On both side of the mountains, red roofing tile houses surrounded by cacao and banana trees gave a somehow, colonial feeling to the landscape. Domestic animals roam freely everywhere. They obstruct the road like if they have the right of way. Dogs bark demarcating their territory fiercely pursuing the bicycle. Something that I am already accustomed, but in this road they were particularly aggressive.

At the end of the day I start looking for a place to camp. Finding 15m2 of land to pitch my tent, normally is not a problem, but the hillsides were so inclined that I couldn't find a flat spot, and after cycling through the night I gave up and set up my hammock between two trees. My Henessy hammock has been one of the most valuable pieces of equipment, allowing me a night of comfortable sleep and shelter. even in the most difficult situations.

On the following day I begin the descend to the amazon basin. Starting the day at 2470m of altitude and finishing at 590m, one could think that it would be an easy day of downhill. In fact it was a very hard one. The landscape was so rugged that I accumulated 1690 meters of altitude, although I have gone down 2000m.

The landscape was of the most exotic and luxuriant of the last weeks. The eastern mountain range, in contrast with the Pacific mountain range, is very green, with rain and cloudy forests and innumerable waterfalls. In fact, that day, I think I saw more waterfalls per km cycled then in any another part on this trip. Surely that if the German explorer Alexander Von Humbolot had passed here during his expeditions through the Andes, he would have titled this road as the "avenue of the waterfalls".

At the end of the day I arrive in Mendez, a small town lost in the deeps of the jungle, hot and humid, with wooden houses and cheerful indigenous Shuar inhabitants. Mendes does not have much tourist infrastructures, is only a cross road town between the Andes and the Amazon basin. This part of the Ecuador is the least visited in the country, and a tourist (specially on two wheels) is always an attraction.

Samuel, one of the residents, invites me for a refreshment in his house and introduces me to his family. "the good road finishes here", he said continuing "from here south the road is very bad. And there is a lot o road works, but on your bicycle you should not have any problems".
In the following morning, actually, in the three following days, I would get to witness really close what Samuel was referring to.

The "troncal amazónico", as the road is known, skirts the eastern feet of Andes from the Colombian border all the way to the city of Zamora, in the southern part of the country. An exterior artery of the biggest lung on the planet. To the east the almost impenetrable amazon forest, to the west the imposing Andean mountains range.
After Mendes, the troncal of Amazon penetrates inside dense vegetation, camouflaged in the intense green, with sections of the road made of polished rock collected from the rivers that cross the road. The road makes very little effort to skirt the hills, creating cruel inclinations. A nightmare for any loaded cyclist, but the only economical way of keeping the road passable year round.

The muddy and rock road obliged me to cycle very slow on both up and downhills, in part due to the completely bald tires that I travel with. Both Shwalbe Marathon plus. The back one placed in the Yucatan (Mexico) and already with 12.848 km, and the front one, an authentic relic of equipment, already rolls on the roads of the continent since Smithers (Canada) with an impressive 24,253 km.
Despite the tires been so old and already improper for the Andean roads, in last the 12,000 km I had only two punctures on the road (plus 2 valves broken). No doubt, great touring tires!!

It was another 3 hard days to cover just 150 km until the city of Gualaquiza where where the asphalt starts again. With averages of 6 and 7km/h, roads cut by fallen trees, landslides, areas with mud where I had to push the Burra and some areas of road construction that implied hours of wait.
Those road works are slowly transforming the troncal amazónico into a super-jungle-highway. At least that's the Ecuadorian government´s goal, that intends to create infrastructures for petrol exploration. Vast amounts of "Oro Preto" had been found recently in the region, in special in the subsoil of the national park of Limoncocha.

After 3 days of "cyclo-torture", the arrival in Gualaquiza and on the tarmac was received with strong enthusiasm, was as if I put the Burra in a flying carpet.
Days later I arrive the Zamora where I receive news from Joana that she was still in Cuenca waiting of her bank cards. I decide to take a day off and visit the nearby Podocarpus national park, recently acclaimed UNESCO´s heritage site. A Particularly interesting visit for the enormous amount of birds and butterflies.

In the following day I begin the climb back to the Andean mountain range. The road goes up without interruption until 2800m, following one downhill of 700m until the city of Loja.
Joana arrived one week later... and still without her bank cards, (the soap opera of her bank cards lost for nearly a month in the labyrinth of the English Royal mail is not worth of being told).

Although we still have more than 200 km to the border, the next stokes will define all of our itinerary in the north of Peru. We either follow directly south passing through Vilcabanba and Zumba using the most remote border between the two countries, and entering in Peru through the eastern Andes, or we cycle southwest using the calm and quiet border of Macara entering in Peru through the dry plains of Piura province and then to the coastal desert of Sechura.
We opt for the second. Main reason: the severity of the elements. At the moment the Peruvian Andes are going through the heaviest months of the rainy season, and many roads are impassable. The desert-like coast will offer a more easy, flat and "dry" cycling.

Near San Pedro la Bendita, we pull off the road in search for a place to spend the night. We followed a dirt road that lead us down a narrow valley and finishes in front a small concrete house without electricity. We ask the owners if they allowed us to camp somewhere in their land. We notice the amount of red dots in the faces of the children. There was an epidemic of measles in the family, But we were not bother by that.

Mr Torres, hunchback and with a contagious smile, was very intrigued and surprised by the sudden intrusion of 2 ciclo-tourists in his routine life. He shows us a piece of land near the the pig pit. We did´nt argue. In fact, the ground was pretty flat and was sheltered by the house. "podem dejar las motos ahya, no pasa nada", he said. Although I insisted that we had bicycles,not motorcycles, I think that in the following morning we left without convincing him that we did not have "engines" in the bicycles. We cook in the yard at candle light on a dark and overcast sky, in the company of the children, fascinated with our presence.

The uncertainty of the unknown must be one of the must motivating and fascinating feelings of bike touring. Many times during the day I try to imagine where I will end up that night. In a noisy hotel? With a hospitable family? In the tent on the side of the road in a cold and rainy night? In the hammock underneath two trees? Or near a lake with some amazing views of the Andes?
The lack of comfort and not having the security of the routine, stimulates other senses and compels me to see and feel what´s around me in a more discerning form, a more present one.

We wake up with the noise of the pig digging in the mud just a few meters from the tent. After breakfast,we thanked the Torres family, grab our "motors" and continue our journey. It rained all day. Although we really enjoying Ecuador, we already start to anticipate the border crossing to Peru. The bad weather of the last few weeks has been very demoralizing and we start to anticipate our next rides in the hot and dry desert of northern Peru.

At midday we stop on the side of the road to eat something and to have a nap. We sight one other cyclist that approaches us slowly. He was Jeff, that had cycle from Loja until here (200 kms) in just over a day and half, to catch up with us. It was a pleasure to see him again. still overloaded as usual. Jeff left Inuvik (Canada) 2 days after me, I met him the first time in Mexico and again months later in Guatemala. We then travel together until Granada in Nicaragua. I did not see him since then.

Macara is a ugly border town, with an wild west atmosphere, with clear evidence of prostitution, gambling houses and delinquency. The border of Peru is only a few km to the south. Tomorrow we will face together what it is considered by many touring cyclists as "the more difficult" country of Latin America. At least those are the comments that we had been listening from other cyclists that we met along the way. But in fact, on the other side of the border, in our next stage through the desert until Trujillo, we had some really pleasant surprises....

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Trujillo, Peru.

The new year of La Moya (Ecuador)

2008-01-23T19:25:00.001Z

Without losing my concentration on the holes in the road, I noticed, through a fence of vegetation surrounding a modern, unpainted concrete house, the slaughter of a pig. At the front door of the house was a scarecrow with a face mask. At a table, someone with a knife opened the pig and extracted the viscera. I could hear children shouting, music, laughter and groups of unconnected words.

I searched for a bakery in this village of 20 or 30 houses lying between the road and the mountainside. Joana was near the stream at the village entrance, preparing a picnic in the company of two curious children. One woman left her group and approached me on the road.
"Where are you going?", she asked.
"There, to the church," I answered, gesturing towards the hilltop chapel surrounded by houses, which seemed to represent the center of the village.
"You're from London?"
"From Portugal, but I lived in London."
"You know Torres?"
"Torres? Of course!", I exclaimed, surprised.
"Hey, it's him, it's him," she cried out to the group of people with the pig.
"We've been waiting for you. Come in!"

About 18 months prior, in the bar of The Caprice restaurant in London, my co-worker, after many glasses of farewell champagne, drew me a map of Ecuador and detailed the Pan Americana between Alausí and Cuenca. "You must visit my family in Ecuador. You'll be well received." This map travelled in the burra's panniers until today. "When you get to La Moya, ask for the Torres family."
But the family found me first.

"Chancho" (oven-baked pig), served with "mote" (steamed white corn) and bread baked in the wood-fired oven, were some of the main dishes that Anita Gullien was preparing for New Year's Eve. Family members from Quito were visiting and anticipating a great party. The entire population of La Moya (which doesn't appear on my map) was coming over too.

And around here, a party's not a party without some evidence of Spanish heritage, in this case a running of bulls, mixed with local influences, such as the consumption of enormous amounts of "canela", a mix of aguardiente of sugarcane, lime juice and hot water.

This afternoon in the village bullfighting ring, some lean cows were provided for the many "matadors" who were getting braver as more "canela" flowed.
In the ring, on a stage enveloped in the intense fog settling into the valley, a live band of trumpets and guitars entertained the masses with the (repetitive) sound of Ecuadorian traditional music.

After our inhospitable Christmas night, when we had to camp at the roadside after a frustrating ride in arduous mountains near the villages of Punin and Tselaron in search of the idyllic Lake Colta, and when a tipsy local aboriginal accused us of being thieves and threatened to set our tent on fire, this running of the bulls was not like in Pamplona... it was better!

It was a "different" Christmas. As consolation, we had an excellent bottle of Chilean wine and the comfort of knowing that in this damp fog, the old drunk would not only be unable to burn our tent, he wouldn't even be able to find it! Later, on the other side of the enormous valley and behind the mountains, the full moon rose, illuminating the valley and clearing the fog.

Christmas is not about gifts and luxuries. As someone once told me, "the important thing is to remember others." The full moon was something we could share with the entire world. The next morning we continued our trip, finishing the day in Palmira, a small village 20km north of Alausí.

The village priest's helper offered us an empty room in the convent of St. John the Evangelist, where we brought the bikes inside and slept on the floor. We shared the unused building with an extensive ecuadorian family that recived us in the true christmas spirit. It was our christmas gift.

The bullfight finishes and we return to the house. On the way we could see some modern houses in cement that contrasted strongly with the simple wooden houses with Iberian roofing tile. "they belong to emigrants in London", told us Júlio. Ecuador thus Mexico, El Salvador and many other countries of Latin America, is a country of strong migratory traditions. The majority of them to the United States and Spain, but in La Moya they all seem to have gone to London. Júlio has 3 brothers there and its sister Anita, 5 children.

Enrique (that we would met a few days later) told us the story beyond that trend. Luis Torres was the first person of La Moya to make it to London, after a lot of hardship and country hoping. Later it was the bothers turn, and nephews and friends. Nowadays, there is not a resident of La Moya, who does not have family member or a neighbor living in London. The Torres family is a history of success. But not all had the same luck.

While I cycle up and down the Andes, or you in front of the computer somewhere in the "global village", there is not a week that goes by without the news of a tragic history of a full boat of clandestine emigrants been shipwrecked in the pacific sea or some coyotero`s ( human trafficker) truck full of people travelling in inhuman conditions been caught somewhere near the Mexican border...

Many were in their final phase of the arduous and long trip across the American continent in search of "land of freedom". In the list: always one or two Ecuadorians. Histories that have followed me along my journey on the Pan American highway.

It is news year eve and the pig that spent the previous night soaked in spices came out of the oven and is ready to be consumed.
In this simple and healthful atmosphere of the Ecuadorian countryside, a tourist from north Europe could be having a strong experience, even a cultural shock. For me and Joana was like a trip to our infancy. Everything was very familiar. The baked pig, the firewood oven at one corner and the fireplace to another, clad-oven baked hot bread with butter, and a warm family where the costumes and habits are preserved as they always been.

We danced on the road in front of the house. All participated. The blasting sound of Andean typical music attracted some neighbors that joined in the party.
Anita kept the spirits high with copious amounts of "canela", served from a plastic jar into a single cup that circulated between everyone. The countdown to midnight was announced by me through the bicycle computer .

At midnight the music stops, hugs and kisses are exchanged and the "testament" left by the "año Viejo" is read out loud. The old year was the straw puppet that I saw on my arrival in front of the house and that would be burnt next, symbol of all the events of the year that finishes. Its testament, a parody concerning the life of each member of the family, who did not exclude the visiting cyclists. The puppet is burnt in the middle of the road obstructing the evening traffic. One of the many thousands burnt that night on the country`s roads.

The following morning, slightly hangover, we say farewell to the Torres and Gullien families and continued our journey.

We had a very ambitious plan to make a "normal" day of cycling, but there was more surprises on the road. We had made only 4,5 km when we pass by the small hamlet of Zunar. A young girl comes closer to the road and says: " La patrona los esta invitando a parar ". I exchange looks with Joana. To be invited to stop and to enter in someones house is some relatively common in ciclo-tourism in Latin America, but we had made only 4,5 km and we wanted to continue. " gracias, but we have to continue".

Moments later a middle age lady runs along side our bikes and trying to keep her breath, cries out:"Pare, soy hermana de Torres" Sister of Torres,I thought, how many family members does he have along this valley?
We stop for a little chat and a beer. It was only midday. We did not leave.

I just finished making the shortest day of the entire trip. At this pace when will I arrive in Patagonia? Christmas 2008?
Enrique shows us the place where we would have to keep the bicycles, in the hen house. But it was not any hen house, as we would come to know later. More than 20 race cocks in separate compartments, protested the intrusion of our bicycles, some with marks of recent fights. Later Enrique showed us, with proud his collection of trophies won in fights of this cruel sport that still common in Ecuador. One more time we were well treated by the Torres family.

In the following morning we leave finally decided to make some cycling. It was still 5 more days to cover the 160 km until Cuenca, due to strong rain and foggy weather.

We stop in Cañar, a city with an unusual number of lawyer`s offices, where we visit some Incas ruins situated at Ingapirca 15 km East of town..

We finally arrive in Cuenca, one of the biggest urban centers in the south of Ecuador and part of UNESCO patrimony, just on time to attend the celebrations of the "day of the innocents". Street parades with loads of music and color. Some sort of hybrid festival between Carnival and American Halloween .

Cuenca represents a vast human mosaic where one can witness the alchemy of the mestization, and is (for a good reason) also a touristic city. Some of them come to visit and stay for ever. A consequence of this resident foreign community is the many restaurants of international gastronomy. It is a good place to linger around and forget the realities of the Ecuadorian countryside and to let oneself be soaked in certain occidental comforts.

We lodge ourselves in a neighborhood with some presence of the foreign community, where we got to know some of them. Amount them Guilermo. A Frenchman of Normandy doing voluntary work. Guilermo is voluntary in one project of the Orden de Malta, a french institution that helps, among others things, the integration of special children in the platform of the education.

Guilermo invites me to visit the center where he shows me his work: To make supports for prótesis for special children. One articulated prótesis bought to a foreign company costs about 2.500 dollars. Guilermo makes it by a mere 20 or 30 dollars, the cost of the material. Dr Francisco Ochoa, responsible for project, is very pleased to have him there, he told me, as he showed the installations of the dispensary and with who I change impressions, leaving some information of the APPC-Leiria.

One week in Cuenca and already was to start to feel itchy feet. Although it is an interesting city, I was missing the road and the saddle of my bike. Joana bank cards (lost in Quito) never arrived (the reason of our prolonged stay in the city), so we decided to opt for the "plan B". I would continue by bike through the Orient via Mendes and Zamora, taking advantage to know a little more of that little visited part of the country. Joana would join me by bus in Loja in 4 or 5 days.
We though it would be simple.

What I still didn't know was that in front of me , was the hardest stretches of roads since I set foot on south American soil.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Loja, Ecuador

Latitude 0... (Ecuador)

2007-12-23T21:25:00.000Z

Peak of Chimborazo Vulcan, the highest mountain in Ecuador.
Viewed from our camping spot.

It filled me with comfort to pass the passport trough the small glass window and to hear the sound of the stamp. I was back to the legal border formalities. "Welcome to Ecuador", I expected to hear from the costumes officer. But of its mouth came only the sound of something incomprehensible that it seemed to reflect the many years behind the secretary stamping passports.
It did not matter. The 3 months visa was free.

I continue my journey.
I don't have a map or a guide for Ecuador (Joana has them in Quito), and although I fell a little naked without them, it was irrelevant. After all there was only one main road between the border and the capital, the pan-American highway.
I`ve been cycling for 10 days without a day rest, trying to arrive in Quito on time to receive Joana at the airport.

In Manizales I even thought of jumping on a bus, but after the efficiency of Dr. Fernando, and my inefficiency in making distance calculations, I convinced myself that I would arrive in Quito before the 4th of December. I enter in Ecuador on the 6th and still have something between 200 and 300 km ahead before I reach the capital. Numbers that vary in accordance with the local information and my abstract calculations, because the signalling on the roads is little and erratic.

The Ipiales-Tulcan border is about 3000 meters of altitude. Quito is 2850m. Good signal. But as I am starting to discover in my Andean cycling strokes, the road can climb up to 4000m or drop to 2000m without much warning. I penetrate into Ecuador finishing the day in the pleasant city of San Gabriel, where I spent my first night in the country.

Ecuador. The name alone is inspiring. An imaginary line to whom an entire nation dedicates the name to. Many times I thought about this moment, of as how it would be.... And here I am in the Equator with the bike computer nearing the 25,000 mark. But wasn't I supposed to be already in Patagonia?

I fell asleep with the sounds of the church bell and with my mind floating thought imaginary lines.Day 5, Dempster highway Canada, Arctic circle. Day 171, Mazatlan Mexico, Tropic Cancer, tomorrow Day 498, somewhere on the Pan American highway: Equator line.

I leave San Gabriel early in the morning and manage to have a short glimpse at the majestic Vulcan cayambe to my right, the road undulates amongst rolling hills, climbing slowly to 3350m. Then it falls deep into a canyon, zigzags thought the Valle de Chotra, at 1600 metres of altitude - a very poor area of the country, where inhabits a good part of the 4% Afro-Ecuadorian. After some good 20 kms the road starts to climb steadily on the other side of the canyon until the city of Otovalo (2540m), where I finished the day exhausted with 114 kms and almost 2000 meters of accumulated climb.

I was only a day away from Quito, but took the following day off to visit the Saturday market and to rest my legs from the over 1000km cycled without a days rest. The handcrafts market at Otovalo may be very colorful and interesting, but because buying "recuerdos" is not a priority to me, I found it a bit of a touristic circus, with dozens of tourists, half buying souvenirs and other half shooting away with their digital cameras. After 3 months of "rest" in Colombia, I was back on the Gringo trail.

At 2850 meters of altitude, Quito is the second highest capital in south America after La Paz in Bolivia, situated in a high valley and encircled by volcanoes, it extends for miles like a gigantic rectangular Lego of cement. The Pan-American highway enters trough its northern side, crossing the city through 23 long kms until its historical heart, where I look for a hotel to stay.

Yet another Spanish colonial city. A colonial labyrinth of architectural splendor with pretty churches and buildings. Except for its historical center, a UNESCO heritage site, Quito is just another big Latin metropolis, polluted and with a very chaotic traffic, where the smoke from the urban buses involves the cyclist in a black cloud and makes it difficult to breath.

In fact, the highlight of Quito was meeting up with Joana Oliveira from Leiria (my home town). Friend, and travel companion in different parts of the globe, including on the pan-American (see blogs of march 2007). Together we will cycle south for an indeterminate time.

I spent 4 days in the capital, more to found new spare parts for my bike, then to explore the city. It was time to give up the "quick repairs" and to give a new look to my old travel companion. In 2 days I managed to obtain the necessary parts (imported from Colombia!). Peddler Shimano Alivio (second on the trip, the first one was changed in km 13,610, Cancun). Chain and cassette Shimano 11-30, with 2 teeth less than the previous one, that it will be felt in the ascents (third on the trip. The first one changed in km 4167 and second in the km 13.610). Two pairs of V-Brakes Shimano Deore. The springs of the previous ones already only functioned with Zip-Ties and wire, and finally, two new supports.

The ones that I had (both with 25.000 kms) after innumerable welds, were fixed with loads of Zip-ties, tape, chain pieces, tent pegs and everything what my imagination, or of the local mechanics, managed to fix. Joana brought a new back support, and for the front panniers, I placed a Tubus, offered by Bruno Huber, my cycling companion in Canada ( see blogs of August and September 2006), and that I had the pleasure of seen again in Quito.

We leave Quito and start our first cycling strokes on the southern hemisphere. Leaving Quito was as chaotic as entering, with intense and disordered traffic. The pan-American highway zigzags amongst the two mountain ranges crossing enormous valleys on its way south. Its probably on of the busiest stretches of road in Ecuador. Locals call this high mountain region just by the simple name of "la sierra". But tourists and travellers prefer to call it by a more romantic name: The avenue of the volcanoes. A name given by the German explorer Alexander Von Humbeldt when he travelled in the central valleys of the Andes in 1802.

It would have been a very nice ride if it was not for the intense traffic (and hair-raising conduction of the drivers) and for the sky constantly cloudy that did not allow the anticipated sights of the volcanoes. We arrive in Ambato on time to visit the weekly Monday market, one of the biggest in the region.

The Andean markets, like the markets of Chiapas and Guatemala, are a event full of life and color. "El dia del mercado" is part of the cultural manifesto of the Andean traditions. Neighboring people of mountain hamlets and nearby villages, came down to the city in its traditional costumes to sell, exchange, buy something, anything, keeping its identity and ancestral culture.

South of Ambato , the Pan-American is no longer the only alternative route, and the choice of options increases, also increasing route indecisions. Directly south, the pan-Americana takes most of the traffic with it. Heading east another road drops down to the more temperate lands around Baños, one of the most touristic spots in the country. A third road climbs up above 4000 metres, skirting the Chimborazo Vulcan before dropping down to the coastal flat lands. At the top of the pass, a secondary road continues to Riobamba, our next destination.

The hardest option but also the more appealing, and also the first Andean challenge for Joana. The initial 10 kms were the hardest, with grades well above 10%. After Santa Rosa (3000m) the grades diminish to 5%-7% with some easier parts at 3%-4%. We climb up to 3500 meters and call it a day by mid afternoon. We camped on top of a mountain with views to a gorge with culture fields clinging at impossible angles, and already near the Pàramo.

The Pàramo is a high mountain ecosystem, extremely specialized, characterized by a hostile climate, high levels of ultraviolet light and very low vegetation. Small plants and grass that have adapted to the hostile environment. the following morning we continued our climb, entering the Pàramo, and making a short day of 32 kms, and setting up camp at 4040 meters on the western side of Chimborazo Vulcan.
Here at 4000m, encircled by the vast landscape, I feel myself reduced to my insignificance. Just another animal at the mercy of the elements of this powerful and inhospitable landscape. Its moments like this on the trip, that sublime all the pleasures of bicycle travel.
I can not imagine another way of travel where one has such a close contact with the land and the people who live in this hostile environment. Each stoke is expressed in an immediate consciencialization.Here in the Andes, distances between destinations are reduced to more human proportions. 50 km is not half an hour by car. 50 km are 50 kms! Its hours. It can even be a day or two. Time has a different definition and importance, and the bicycle promotes a series of physical and mental emotions that are evolved slowly in sensual experiences.
The Chimborazo awakes at dawn, moving away the clouds, and disclosing for brief moments, all its splendor, to became shortly afterwards involved in a mantle of fog. at 6310 meters above sea level, its peak is the highest in Ecuador. And for the disillusion of the K2 aficionados, and due to its equatorial localization, its also the peak furthest away from the center of the earth and closer to the sun.

We continue our journey. The chicken legs of last night supper, bought to an ambulant pickup seller, had not supplied enough hydrates, and despite the soft inclination of the road, the altitude compelled with more gasping stokes. At 4250m a junction with an abandoned house, indicated the highest point of the highway 50.

In the pass, another road heading east surrounds Chimborazo volcano before going down to San Juan and later to Riobamba. We took that road, and anticipated a downhill. But the road refused to go down, and continues climbing for another 8 kms heading to another pass.

On this side of the Vulcan, the landscape is more like scrub land. Volcanic sand dunes with some grass and low vegetation, and the occasional flock of "Vicuñas". Distant cousins of the sheep with a long and elegant neck, and that make strange noises similar to a falcon.
At 4200 meters we entered the snow line and just before the junction to the Chimborazo base camp we reached the highest point on this beautiful stretch of road, at 4390 meters of altitude. Then, it was the deserved 50 kms downhill to Riobamba.

We will continue cycling through the holiday season through unknown roads, following the south, pursuing the sun.
A big Andean hug to all of you, wishing you a Merry Christmas and a prosperous new year. Thank you for all your support on this trip, and also to the Special children of the APPC-Leiria.

From now on, and through an indefinite time, you can follow my journey also on Joana`s website at constant movements

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa.
In Riobamba, Equador.

"À la orden...." (Colombia)

2007-12-08T22:56:00.000Z

Manizales

It seems unjust to leave this country that I enjoyed so much, without one last blog. I`m in ipiales, an uninspiring border town, that lives up to its existence due to the commerce and traffic with the neighboring country. Perhaps the only reason that places Ipiales in the tourist route, is the fantastic sanctuary of Las Lajas, 7 km to the south.

The Sanctuary in neo-Gothic style is dedicated to the virgin Mary and was constructed over a stone bridge that crosses a narrow ravine. Its a strange but spectacular sight that reminds me a little the medieval castles of East Europe.
The Ecuadorean border is just 3 km away, but it has been a while that I already feel in Ecuador.

This last leg of 775 km in Colombia was - even if a bit rushed - quite diverse. Not only in natural landscape but also in human landscape. But lets go back to Manizales.
Manizales is the capital of Caldas department and one of the 3 cities of the so called "Coffee Axle". In this mountain region is produced the best coffee in Colombia - and amongst the best in the world. An economy that employs around 2 million people. It is said that an identical number works in the coca production.

Manizales is a modern and sophisticated city of 400.000 inhabitants, but with very few attractions for the visitor. In the 11 days that I spent there the best "attraction" I got to know, was the chair of Dr Fernando Rodriguez Gomez. But it was not by chance, or by the excess of candies and sweets that I have consumed along the trip (by necessity), or for having broken a tooth shewing sugar cane in Honduras, months ago.

A visit to a dentist in Colombia was part of the plans of the pan American since the sketch of the trip. Years ago in London, the then Colombian girlfriend (that I now visit) convinced me that, if there was something the Colombian doctors were good at, was plastic surgeries and mouth reconstructions.

Dr Fernando recognising my urgency, or perhaps the chance of a lucrative work, assures me that in one week he would place a "new smile". 8 days later, and many hours in the chair, Dr Fernando fulfilled to his promise with an excellent work that included among other things, 10 new crowns.

In between the visits to the doctor, I enjoy Andrea`s company and her adorable daughter Mariapaz, and take advantage of the free time to repair my camera, extend my visa and give some adjustments to the bicycle (courtesy of the specialized shop in Manizales - Gracias! Amazingly, the 4 times that I had to take the bicycle to a shop in Colombia, I only had to pay for the repairs once! With time to kill, I leave the bicycle in Manizales, and go on a "buseta" to Medellin for the weekend.

Medellin

Waiting for me in the modern bus station was Marcela Pimiento, an old friend from the time I lived in London and now the marketing director of the museum of Antioquia. One of the best museums in the country, with an extensive collection of contemporary art were 2 local artist stand out: Fernando Botero and Juan Camilo Uribe, some sort of Colombian Andy Warhol.

Not long ago, Medellin was considered one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Death, in the hands of the "sicarios", was worth not many pesos. Rivalries between drugs cartels filled the streets with blood and the town of Pablo Escobar was a place to avoid. But forget all about what you have heard about Medellin. Its probably old new by now.

Medellin today is one of the safest big metropolis of Latin America, with an excellent transport system, and a modern and sophisticated city center.
Flávio and Catalina, friends of Marcela, invite me on a car ride thought the "circuito de oriente". An area of luxurious haciendas and pretty "pueblos Paisas". A playground for the more fortunate of Medellin dwellers, with pretty landscapes, leisure areas and secured with a strong military presence.

We follow a secondary road that goes up the mountain on the east part of the city. "this road was in times one of the private roads of access to lands of Pablo Escobar", told me Flávio. "Over there, on the other side of the mountain it was the luxurious prison-farm where Pablo was imprisoned before the escape", he continued.

"The escape" was marked in the history of the Colombian drug trafficking as the biggest police operation in the country. During 500 days, about 2000 special agents of the Colombian police forces with the aid of agents of FBI, CIA, DEA, contracted assassins from the rival cartels of Cali, Colombian military ,among others agents, had teamed up and had incessantly searched one of the richest drugs dealers the world has ever seen. The details of the "hunting of the man" can be seen in detail in the museum of the police in Bogota.

We continued the ride through what is now a "condominium campestre " where Flávio and his wife are building a "simple" house of half billion pesos (170,000 euros) an astronomical amount of money in a country where 57% of the population lives below the poverty line.

I finish my 24-hour flash- visit to Medellin and return to Manizales.

In the days that I spent in Manizales I met Lina, a great person with a big heart, that for brief moments left me questioning all the plans of the trip.

The Special Children

Lina works as coordinator for the NGO "Girasol" of Pereira. An association of health and education professionals that deals with special children , young and adults with learning difficulties. I leave with them Cd`s, brochures and other small things of the APPC that travels in my panniers since the beginning of the trip.

I would like to take this opportunity, to remind you that this trip is not only mine, but also of the special children of the APPC-Leiria (Portuguese association of cerebral paralysis) and would like to thank all of you that, until now, have collaborated with the APPC through this trip. You also can help the special children by supporting them with a donation for the APPC-LEIRIA (details in the page of the charity on this site).

I would to extend a special thanks to Lynn Pilgrim and "las Chivas Coffee roasters" in the US. That besides sponsoring this trip with a generous donation for the APPC for each kilometer that I cycle, recently launched a campaign of fundraising for the special children of the APPC-Portugal, in her native town of Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the United States.

The Cauca Valley

I leave Manizales late. It was 11.30 Am. Andrea escorts me by car to the exit of town. An accentuated downhill takes me to the bottom of the valley where I find myself - for the first time in Colombia - cycling on the Pan American highway, the EN25. After 11 days rest, and perhaps because of the many bottles of wine consumed in a way of farewell, the previous night, with Andrea, Lina and Andrès, I felt weak and without energies, and make a short day of 59 km until Pereira.

I arrive already by night, and look for a place to sleep, cycling around the city center looking at the entrance of several hotels. All with stairs. Certain type of travellers looks certain type of hotels. Cyclists look for hotels without stairs. Nothing more painful after a hard day`s cycling, then to go up one or two floors (3 are out of question) making 2 trips with the 4 bags, tent and sleeping bag, plus another trip for the bicycle. After some cycling around, I found the ground floor Tucan hotel for 15.000 pesos a night

The 2 days that followed through the valley of Cauca, known only as "el valle", provided a absolutely flat ride. The valley (1000 meters of altitude) is "sandwiched" between the central and occidental mountain ranges . It is the most fertile zone in Colombia where sugar cane predominates. I pass through some black communities, descending of the slaves who where brought here to work in the sugar cane, and that centuries later still do that hard work job. In the excellent 2 lane road, I`m overtaken with frequency by "trens cañeros ". A Colombian mini-version of the Australian road trains , or by the occasional "chiva", a typical old Colombian public transport.

Cali

I was undecided if I should bypass Cali or not. Cali is the third biggest Colombian city with 2.3 million inhabitants, and someone had informed me that the traffic was in an absolute chaos due to the constructions of the new meter-bus.
After the success of the Transmilenio of Bogota, a bus system masqueraded as metro, with self contained stations, and their own lanes, some Colombian cities including Cali, had opted the same system.

A comment in my travel guide helps me to decide, and I enter in the city: "Cali remains sulty 12 months of the year, and that`s why the third largest Colombia City wears less and parties more. In Juancito district you can dance until dawn seven night week, no questions asked ".

Besides of the best "rumba" in the country, Cali is also known as the Colombian capital of plastic surgeries. A stroll through the "salsatecas" of the sixth avenue was enough for me to see the result of the medical surgeons. The breasts may not be real, but they are certainty big. I enter in a "salsoteca" and ask for one Club Colombia. For moments I thought that I had entered in some sort miss universe contest.
After several club Colombia, I question myself if I also should not ask for help of the "Dr lookgood". After almost 25.000 km with the my bottom on the saddle. my beyond kind of got the prolonged form of the saddle of the bicycle. But after the blow in the trip`s budget with the money spent on the new smile, I decide to move on..

Leaving Colombia
"El valle" finishes in Santander de Quilichao about 40 km south of Cali, and the Pan American initiates its up and downs among rolling hill, part of the two mountain ranges that are joint together around Popayan. I spend a night in the white city of Popayan, with its pretty colonial architecture and inhabitants of Andean descendants. The first traces of a culture that I will follow in the next few months.

From popayan until the border of Ecuador the Pan American highway presented me with the prettiest landscapes since the rocky mountains in Canada. A nature`s show, particularly spectacular between El Bordo and Ipiales.

A farewell to Colombia as great as the entrance, in a country so full of contrasts but at the same time united by the warm hospitality of the Colombian people.

The 3145 km cycled in the in almost 3 months, have earned Colombia as one of the favourite countries of the Pan American journey. Tomorrow I will enter in Ecuador and continue my cycle-deambulation through the continent, and leave with only one certainty: I want to came back. As any proud Colombian would say, using a popular expression heard constantly all over the place: "Here we are....À la order"

Nuno Brilhante
In Ipiales, Colombia

Bogota, "2600 meters closer to the stars" (Colombia)

2007-11-24T01:30:00.000Z

Manuel Marulanda. Leader of the FARC, also known as "tiro Fijo" (sure shot)
Work by Colombian artist Fernando Botero and in displayed at Colecion Botero museum in Bogota.

Villa de Leyva

After the daily ritual of packing everything up and load the "Burra", I leave the city of Barbosa covered in the morning fog, and cycle through the road that will take me to the Colombia capital. I leave the "Lusitania" hotel, where in the previous night I tried in vain to explain to the owner that I also came from a country called "lusitania". "its 5000 pesos", she replied showing no interest in my enthusiasm.

I start the day with a accentuated climb, as to digest breakfast of "caldo de pollo" and "bandeja de carne sudada" (chicken broth and meat dish) that I had in a small "comedor", on the way out of town. The clouds deprived the earth from the morning heat and insisted in hiding the sun. The cool air and the dark green of the fields created by the grey sky, remembered me of certain European landscapes. It has been over a week that I cycle in the highlands, and despite the altitudes not exceeding the 3000 meters, it makes me reach for the deeps of my panniers in search of warmer cloths.

I travel now in a very different Colombia. Villages and towns with a lot of colonial heritage and populated mainly by European descendants, and with a higher standard of living then in the Caribbean coast. The traffic was heavy and the shoulders non-existent, what kept me in a state of constant alert. A price to pay for following the rule of traveling safely in Colombia: Cycle in the main highways.

Everyone seems to agree that its safer to cycle in heavy traffic roads subject to be run over by a truck, then in back roads with no traffic deep in the country side, where encounters with followers of "Tiro Fijo" are more likely. But I travel now in the province of Santander, the Colombian heart, and the place where Simon Bolivar defied the Spanish crown for the independence of an united America, and considered a "safe zone" to travel, where such encounters are not a concern.

Near Arcabuco I leave the heavy traffic road and follow a partially paved road heading to the colonial town of Villa de Leyva. In mid afternoon the sun wins the fight against the clouds and illuminates the "valle de los dinosauros", in whose northern hillside sits the beautiful villa de leyva.

In villa de leyva time stands still. Declared a national monument in the same year Fidel invaded Cuba, the town is completely deprived of modern architecture, and the result is a colonial village par excellence of cobbled streets white washed houses and Iberian red roofing tiles. Its proximity to Bogota also means that it is a place of leisure for rich city dwellers, and the atmosphere, although pretty, has a certain artificial air.

I lodge myself in a guesthouse whose owner tells me that there are other cyclists in the house. They are Colombians who had come to town to participate in 4ª international cycling race of the Valle de los Dinossauros. One of their colleagues couldn't participate and they invited me to take his place.
In Colombia, cycling is king. Is the second sport modality with more fans, surpassed only by (of course) soccer. Since I left the flat lands and climbed the mountains, almost everyday I see lycra-cyclists on their well equipped bicycles. Many of them of Superior quality them my "burra".

The following morning the sky was dark and grey so I decide not to participate in the race and give myself a day rest. The last few days have been very hard on my legs and besides, I didn't feel like making myself look silly in the middle of so much Lycra guys. In mid morning the sun opened up the sky and I go for a small 40 k ride in the valley visiting the astronomical Muisca station, some sort of Stonehenge of the Muisca Indians with its monolithic rocks. A place where they predicted the harvests and one of the few places of their culture the Spaniards hadn't grounded on their destructive conquering.

2 days latter I continue my journey to Tunja, the highest department capital of Colombia at 2800 metres of altitude. In the ascent I make my first pass above 3000 meters in south American soil through a pretty barren landscape. I spend a cold night in Tunja and take the next day off to buy warmer cloths, preparing for the colder climate of the Andes.

Before reaching Bogota I stop for a couple of days in Zipaquira known in all Colombia for its salt mines. I visited one of them, in whose corridors, deep in the heart of the mountain, a cathedral entirely made of salt was built. Capable of accommodate 4500 people, it is considered by the department of Colombian tourism as one of the 7 wonders of the country. It was an interesting visit that was marked by a fall in the darkness, over a rock of salt, when trying to photograph an angel in certain angle and that resulted in my camera been broken. (I travel now with a simple digital camera, hence the photos of inferior quality)

Bogota

Seen from far, the disordered constructions, sprout of the land like a gigantic eruption of red bricks. They are hundreds, thousands. Houses constructed in free time with the aid of neighbors and family. Doors and windows out of symmetry are covered with iron bars, and the chaises of the foundations pop above concrete celling like television antennas. Many hold hanging cloths that dry in the polluted air of the great metropolis.

The jeep Willys of 1954 from Herman, a biologist of the national university of Bogota, climbs with difficulty one of innumerable mounts where Ciudad Bolivar is constructed, the poorest neighborhood of the Colombian capital. Dayra Galvis, an old friend, and my host in Bogota, had asked her uncle to take us there. She didn't dare to come alone. Its dangerous, she said. I have asked her to show me around. I wanted to see where nearly 2 million of 7 millions of inhabitants of the Colombian capital lived.

But the slums of Ciudad Bolivar are not the ghettos of Cape town or the favelas of Rio de Janeiro. Despite the violence and delinquents, one feels some dignity on those slums, with commerce, restaurants and even Internet cafes.
On top of the hill we got to see central Bogota, just a few kilometers north, with La Cadelaria as historical heart of the city, a zone with innumerable cafes, churches, museums and colonial buildings.

The contrasts with the slums around me where abysmal and become even more dramatic as one travels further to the north of the city. Here, north of carrera 93the "rolos", residents of Bogota, have turned their back to history and embraced capitalism and modern values. Shopping centers Uncle Sam style, international gastronomy and neighborhoods with sophisticated atmospheres, that seem to differ little from many European cities (including in the prices) contrast violently with ciudad bolivar just a few kilometers south.

During the 4 days I spent in Bogota, the Galvis family treated my with a great hospitality. visits to nice restaurants ( Mini-Mal, recommended), familiar suppers and guided tours, with Luis, the family taxi driver, at my disposal in the days when the "peak and plate" system did not allow the use of the family`s car. A warm hospitality, characteristic of this fantastic people and very appreciated, by someone that is accustomed to the saddle (already ragged) of the bike, to the (dis)comfort of the tent, and the dust of the roads.
I wish I could known better the capital with its vibrant atmosphere, and to spend more time with my friends, but I have to continue my trip.

Changing cordilleras

Before I leave, Herman offers me an excellent Colombian road map together with detailed information of my next stage on this journey: the change of cordilleras. Bogota, 2600 meters closer to the stars (a Colombian saying) sit on the eastern mountain range. My foreseen route to Ecuador follows the Cauca valley between the central mountain range and the western mountain range.swapping mountain range means that I have to go down to the bottom of Magdalena river valley (350 meters of altitude) climb up the central mountain range up to almost 4000 meters, and then go down to Manizales (at 2100m), one of the so called "coffee axle" towns, and my next destination.

Herman tells me of a alternative route that is (supposedly) downhill all the way to Cambao, on the banks of Magdalena river. From there I could follow a asphalt road along the river to Honda, where I would begin the climb to Las Letras pass.

I say farewell to the Galvis family (and Nancy Sanchez) and leave the capital with the same easiness that I had entered. For a metropolis of more than 7 million inhabitants, one could think that it would be difficult and even dangerous to cycle through it. But in fact it was very easy. Bogota is one of the most cyclist-friendly capitals in the world. There is about 300 km (yes, 300) of bike route spread all over the city, including many main highways that on Sundays are closed to the motorized traffic. The city council offers concessions the small "tiendas" that sell food and drinks in the ciclovias and even bike repairing shops. It is a pleasure to see the congested traffic, while hundreds of "rolos" and their families enjoy the tranquility of the streets on their "ciclas".

I cross the Savannah of Bogota and cycle west on the main highway until Alban, then leave the heavy traffic road and start a nice and accentuated downhill. Just before Viani (1200 meters) the road refuses to go down any further and inverts the inclination, starting to climb up to 1800 meters. A recent landslide obstructed the road and cuts off the traffic completely between Alban and Cambao, and I have the road to myself for about 50 km.
Vivan los derubes!

I spent a night in San Juan de Rioseco and in the following morning make the final downhill (also without traffic) until Cambao. I had returned to "tierras calientes", the lowlands, with temperatures reaching the 35 degrees and high levels of humidity. I follow a supposedly asphalted road parallel to the enigmatic Magdalena river. Stage of the final trip of Simon bolivar, described in Gabriel Garcia Marques book "the general and his labyrinth".

After a few km the road deteriorates fast and became, at times, no more then a mud track. I have to push the bike and stop several times to remove the mud accumulated in the mudguards and breaks.

I arrive in Honda in mid afternoon and with 87 km made, I call it a day and look for a hotel. I have a 3400 meters climb ahead of me and decided to spilt it in 2 days. Honda is a pleasant town. The old fluvial port of Bogota in the times that the river Magdalena (navigable for 990 km from Honda to Barranquilla in the Caribbean sea) served as the main transport artery of the country.

The following morning I start what was the biggest ascend of the trip so far. The road only starts to climb in Mariquita, about 35 km west of Honda. I spent all day climbing accumulating 2116 meters in only 66 km. Spent in the night in Padua and the following morning make the remaining climb to the pass of Las Letras at 3750 meters of altitude. Close to the pass the temperatures drop drastically, making me dig deep in the panniers in search of warmer cloths. I didn't have such cold cycling, since the rocky mountains in the US. Unfortunately the constant fog hide the landscape, allowing me only brief moments of splendid views of the valleys of central cordillera.

I cycle trough Manizales already after dark. Waiting for me was Andrea Molina, an old friend and fellow traveller in northern Argentina and Uruguay in 2005.
Manizales has little to offer to the visitor, but I will stop here for a while. Perhaps one week or two. I intend to visit the dentist an do a mouth reconstruction (for a fraction of the European prices)
After that I will be cycling rushing trough the Cauca valley. I hope to arrive in Quito at the beginning of December. Just on time for the Thames mermaid return to the pan-American.

Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa
In Manizales, Colombia

From the Caribbean to the Andes.(Colombia)

2007-10-31T21:48:00.000Z

Guerillas and narco-traffickers, Pablo Escobar and the FARC, the violence and kidnappings, and more recently Shakira, are probably the best Colombian “exports”. But beyond this image imposed to the world by the media, there is a country with an amazing human diversity and enough biodiversity to satisfy the most avid nature lover. Its true that problematic areas exist, but as long as one excludes them from the itinerary, the few fortunate that visit the country, wonder why all those headlines when traveling in Colombia is simply so….normal!

The trek to the lost city although pretty, took its tool on our legs. Veronica complained from knee pain and we decided to spent 2 days rest in the Tayrona national park, just a days cycling from Santa Marta. The park is another oasis of peace in this troubled country. Its also one of the most visited in Colombia, and for good reasons. It encloses an area of 15.000 hectares of coastal tropical forest. Idyllic beaches backed by the green slopes of sierra de Santa Marta.

Due to its protected status, human presence and development is limited to controlled tourism and to some Kogui aboriginals and fisherman who make their living from the sea. The access to many of the beaches, like Arrecifes and Cabo de San Juan, is only possible on foot or horseback, and the lodging in these bays are limited to hammock dormitories, camping and some more upscale ecological huts. I haven’t been in such organized national park since the united sates.

Unfortunately not all the Colombian national parks are managed this way, and national park Tayrona is more the exception then the rule. Quite often, the cocaine croppers use the national parks to cultivate the plant, taking advantage of its remote locations and to the status of natural reserve that will guarantee them that their crops will not be air sprayed with chemicals. A method used in other parts of the country under the so called “Plan Colombia” heavily financed by the united states.

The transparent waters of the Caribbean and the shade of the coconuts invited for a few more days doing just nothing. But with less then a week for veronica’s return to Spain, we had to continue.

In only 2 days of cycling, the coastal road took us from the hilly and lush costal forest around Santa Marta, to almost the opposite. The forest and the cultivated areas slowly started to give away to acacias and cactus. We just have entered the barren plains of La Guarija peninsula. The differences of landscape in such a short distance were surprising. An absolutely plain road cut through the barren and hot landscape. The ample blue sky filled the air and hugged the land, in all directions with a suffocating vehemence increased by the burning heat.

But here, in this inhospitable land of the north of Colombia, inhabited by the Wayuù aboriginals, it also rains during a short period of the year. At that time, the vast scrub and dry plains give away to marshy land of submerged acacias and cactus, and something strange happens. The flooded desert opens canals for the fish that "run away" from the rivers, the sea and "cienagas" and the Wayuù aboriginals take advantage to launch the nets into the flooded desert.

Rioacha, the capital of the province of La Guajira, was the end of trip for Veronica. It was not a happy end. Both of us suffer from intestinal disarrangement with something that we eat (I think it was from a soup of chibo, offered by a very welcoming lady Wayuù, in the village of Mayapo, somewhere in the deserted coast).

Whatever the reason, I spent 3 or 4 days with diarrhea, vomits and in recovery, followed of more 3 or 4 days to try to fight back the cycling laziness that possessed me.

But before these solitary days of convalescence, I return Cartagena with Veronica, covering by bus, the 500 km or so that we had cycled along the coast. I take her to the airport and return Rioacha and to the company of my “Burra” and my stomach discomfort.
Once again I had that nostalgic felling from the separation of plus another excellent fellow traveler in the Pan-American. Over the months, meeting other cyclists and friends have created an effect of assortment energy and given me a unquestioned fulfilling to my soul. Without those encounters, probably it would not be possible to endure the almost two years of this solitary trip.

I can not explain why I spent one week in this uninteresting city-beach. I planned to follow the desert until Cabo de la Vela, in the northern tip of the peninsula, and spend a few more days cycling trough Wayuù villages, trying to understand a bit more of their culture.

But I changed my plans!
It’s enough of sea, uncomfortable heat, flat roads, mosquitoes and noisy hotel fans. Its time to head to the mountains.

I woke up before sunrise (very unusual!) had breakfast, and at 5.45 was on the road. I cycled to the waterfront to farewell the sea. I would not see the Atlantic again until my return to Portugal. Turn around and start cycling directly south. Destination: The Andes!
It was time to face the giant...
I gave a challenge to myself of reaching the mountains in 5 days.

By following the coast since I disembark in Colombia, I moved away from the pan American highway more then 800 km. Now I cycle directly south for the first time in many weeks, following the Venezuelan border just 80 km to the east, along the eastern cordillera both to my left. To the west, the vast plains of northern Colombia. The road was plain and very monotonous, crossing farm lands and small country villages and towns. I turn on my MP3, head down, foot on the pedals, and add on kilometers.

I added more then 650 km in 5 days between the coast and the mountains, that is, between Rioacha and Bucaramanga. Making on the first day 139 km, followed by 146 km, 136 km, and on the fifth day – already in the mountains – only 90 km, but with an accumulated climb of 2042 meters.
As I came closer to the foot of the Andes, the flat land gave way to rolling hills, gaining elevation with each valley crossed. The plains have disappeared completely and I cycle now on high mountain terrain.

Bucaramanga is a pleasant, modern, and sophisticated mountain city. With innumerable parks and green areas, and soft temperatures. Its also a doubly important landmark on my trip on the pan American highway. Not only I’ve entered the Andean mountain range, but also marked the “middle point” of my journey. Even if I’ve covered two thirds of the kilometers already. Confusing? I explain:
Inuvik (the beginning of the trip) is at latitude 68.36243°N, while Ushuaia, the final goal, is at latitude 54.79156°S. The middle point between the two – according to GPS indications sent by email by Jeff Kruys - is 6.785435°N. That is, about 40 km to the south of Bucaramanga.

But while the variation of longitude in the northern section of the continent was about 65 degrees, between the most Western point, Dawson City, Canada (139.4166667°W), and the most Eastern point, Baracoa, Cuba(74.4958333°W), in South America the longitude variation will be only of 13 or 14 degrees. With the point more the West being probably Sullana or Negritos in Peru, and the more Eastern point that will coincide with the final goal, that is Ushuaia. This means that from now on I will cycle more "straight” south covering "more" longitude in less kilometers.

I spent one day in Bucaramanga and in the following morning I hit the mountains. In the first 40 km the road oscillated between the 700 meters and 1300 meters of altitude, later "falling" vertiginously into a canyon descending deep into the valley at about 550 meters of altitude. After crossing an enormous river I start the long climb on the south slope of the Canyon of Chicamocha going up near to the 2000 meters mark. I spent some good four hours on that climb. In the ascent I pass through that "middle point" of the trip. The landscape that surrounded me was the prettiest in a very long time.

On the other side of the pass the road drops down to 1100 meters through another valley, this one narrower, greener and populated, dotted with small colonial villages and towns. I’m in one of them now, San Gil, known in all Colombia as the "capital" of radical sports. Rappel, rafting, paragliding are only some of the adrenalin packages offered by the many tour agencies found around this pleasant mountain town. San Gil is the first colonial town in a circuit that I have planed on my way to Bogotá. I’ve finally arrived in the Andes. From today on - and during the next few months - I will be cycling “on top of the mountains”- few exceptions aside!

Nuno Brilhante
In san Gil, Colombia.

The lost city of the Tayrona (Colombia)

2007-10-22T18:01:00.000+01:00

Cartagena

The aircraft arrived with an unexpected punctuality, at the same time that I finished reading the book of Jose Agualusa, “A stranger in Goa”. I met Veronica in that part of the world, years back, on a bus journey from Delhi to Manali. We met briefly again in London and promised to see each other sometime, somewhere in the blue planet. And here she was, 4 years later on the opposite side of the subcontinent. I knew her little but admired her courage to choose Colombia for her very first bike touring.

We assemble her BH mountain bike, and give a general revision to my Kona fire Mountain, that has been “complaining” for some time now. I change the brake chocks and a rear spoke that has been broken since I landed in South America. For incredible it seems, it was the first broken spoke since I left Inuvik ,22.000 kms ago. I reinforce the front rack (or what remains of it) with zip-ties. I counted 29. Together with a piece of my old chain, a tent peg and loads of duck tape, I thought it would hold for some more time, until I have a new one delivered in Ecuador.

We analyze the maps and trace a route for the next 3 weeks. The plan was to follow the coast to Santa Marta, leave the bikes aside, and do the 6 day trek to the lost city of the Tayronas. Then, continue with our “ciclas”, as they are known here in Colombia, along the coast to the desert-like peninsula of La Guarija. We where ready to leave. I just had to deal with one more thing: my clandestine status. The situation has been dragging for a few days now.

I didn’t have time to go to emigration before Veronica’s arrival, and to be honest, I thought the process would be simple and straightforward. How deceptive I was! I thought it would be better to omit the true and say that I entered the country on a more conventional way, on board of a sailing boat of American tourists. When I presented myself at the DAS office of Cartagena and after arguing with the front security because he didn’t wanted to let me in with shorts and flippers, I was bombarded by the emigration official with questions for which I did not had answers. The name of the boat, of the owners, in which docks I landed…but more importantly, where was the exit stamp from panama Seeing clearly that I was lying, he refused to stamp my passport . He gave me 2 options: found the captain who brought me or his Colombian agent, so they could be responsible for my emigration, or face the fine that applies for entering illegal in the country. The equivalent to the national minimum wage, or 215 dollars.

Determined not to pay the fine, I left in search of an imaginary captain. After many phone calls, web searches, visits to gringo hotels and nautical clubs of the city, I met David, “the agent”, introduced to me over the phone by a Spanish captain. It was a long process in the good South American fashion that dragged for 4 long days. I noticed the impatience of Veronica with the desire to start cycling. And I think that she even questioned my ability with dealing with the situation. Specially when I gave my passport to a stranger that I met in front of the city’s nautical club. With every phone call I got the same reply :”Ahorita”, that is soon, so they say.

During the waiting time we visited and revisited the city’s highlights. The castle of Filipe de Barajas, with great views of the walled city, the gold museum (not as rich as the one in Bogotá, but with a great gold collection pre-Colombian), the plaza de la inquisicion, the night spots of casco viejo , and so on..Cartagena de Indias can be the crown in then jewel of the South American Spanish architecture, but the sweltering heat and humidity made no desire to stay longer in the city, and we wanted to get on the saddle. 10 days after have entered the country on board of the contraband boat, I received my passport with a 2 month visa on it. Probably it will not be sufficient for the planed cycling route in Colombia, but that was something to worry about latter.

We finally started our trip following the coastal road with an excellent tarmac, good shoulders and completely flat. An excellent introduction for veronica’s cycling tour. We finished the day on the 62 km mark and with a deserved bath in the warm mud of Totumo Vulcan. A very unusual geothermal formation, and probably the smallest Vulcan in the world. About 30 meters height and with a small round crater full of puffing mud.

This time of the year is probably not the best for touring the Colombian coast. Mornings are characterized by sweltering temperatures and humidity, and afternoons by tropical thunderstorms and rain. Although I’ve been cycling in this kind of weather in the last few months in Central America, in no other place I could observe the effect of the rain as close as in the Colombian coast. Almost all of the coastal cities I’ve passed through in Colombia seem to suffer from serious problems of sewage due to the flooding rains. In almost a daily occurrence, the liquid garbage overflows from the sewage system into the streets and together with the water from the rain creates rubbish Rivers.

Barraquilla, the fourth biggest city in Colombia with around 2 million inhabitants, was the worse example. We arrived in the city by nightfall. The rain intensified with our arrival. We cycled trough flooded street (locals call them arroyos), chaotic traffic, quarters with not so friendly atmospheres, and vibrant- if half flooded – street markets that extended for several blocks. Barranquilla s an industrial city, chaotic and seemed a bit insecure at night. Probably the worse city I cycled through since I left Inuvik. The city center around Paseo Bolivar looked like a gigantic wild market out of some sort of Latin holocaust. An error on our trip plans.

In the following morning, at day light, the city didn’t seem so degraded, however, without losing much time, we left our “deluxe” hotel in Paseo Bolivar and left the city crossing the Rio Magdalena and following the coast once more.

2 days latter we where in Santa Marta where we leave the bikes aside and join a trekking tour to the lost city.

The cocaine paste producer

Last night, Wilson (our guide) introduced to us a man that called himself cocaine producer and invited us to visit his laboratory – for a price, of course. 25.000 pesos each, non negotiable. We could take pictures as long we promised not to photograph him and remove the chip before the military control at the end of the trek on the way out of the mountains.

We where already on our first day of the trek to the lost city and a world away from the bustling cities of Barranquilla and Santa Marta. I was feeling at peace with myself for been surrounded by nature once again. It would be about 5o km trek in 5 days through the sumptuous mountains of sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. The highest coastal mountain range in the world, going from sea level to 5775 meters (peak Cristobál Colon) in only 42 kms as the crow flies.

The next morning the CPP ( as I prefer to call him) was waiting for us to show us the way to his laboratory on a short 15 minutes walk through dense jungle.

The vegetation was so thick that some times one could not see the trail. We arrive at the “laboratory” hidden amongst lush vegetation and near a small stream. To be honest it was a bit disappointing. His working place consisted of a few tables improvised with wooden boards and some bottles and jars of chemicals products. “I have to keep this place as discrete as possible”, he said.

Then the CPP explained to us the detailed process of the production of this drug that according to the majority of Colombians is the cause of most problems of the country. The CPP has one hectare of coca plants in the hillside over us on the other side of the stream, and camouflaged with trees and vegetation. One hectare produces 3 tons of leaves, 4 times a year. The CPP contracts 5 people who take about a month “plucking” the plants by hand, collecting about 100 kg per day. The leaves are smashed with a small machine and mixed with gasoline. For each ton of leaves he uses 120 liters of gasoline. On is daily production of 100 kg of leaves mixed with gasoline, the CPP adds 20 kg of salt and 10 kg of whitewash (some people use cement). The mix is smashed with the feet for several hours.

To the result of the dance (as CPP called it) the next chemical product is added: Acid sulfuric. In a container with 20 liters of water, he adds 50 cubical cm of pure acid sulfuric. After mixed for some time, 3 layers are formed. One of leaves, other of gasoline, and a third one of water with the necessary particles for the final product. With a hose the water is extracted to another container. Then to that “water” the next chemical is added: Permanganate of potassium, in perfect amount.

According to the CPP this is the most important phase of the production. Too much, or too little potassium, doesn’t produce the characteristic white color, ruining all the production. This dark and slightly viscous purple liquid is then drained several times in a thick cloth.

The result is a transparent liquid, which to the naked eye, differs little from water.

Finally the last chemical is added: Caustic soda.

The caustic soda annuls all the residues of the previous chemical and, in the result of the effervescent reaction, appears small white particles, that after drained reveal the final product.

From one hectare of coca plants, the CPP produces 12 kg of pure coca paste per year. He sells it for 6 million pesos a kg. a high price in this region of Colombia, he says. In the los Llanos region, where production is made at a larger scale by the guerrilla the price drops considerable. The coca paste is ready to be sold but not ready for consumption. The caustic soda is harmful for the body and is necessary to remove it. This process is made by the next person in the chain of the illicit trade. The “Mafiosi” (many times guerrillas or the paramilitary) buy the product, and then away from the jungle, somewhere in a village or town, adds the final chemical: Acetone.
The acetone removes the caustic soda, and from each kilogram of coca pastes results 900 grams of pure cocaine, to which is added about 30% of flour to increase even more the profits. The product is finally ready to be exported and consumed in the world market.

The CPP when he is not busy in the production of coca paste, he “dedicates” the time cultivating Yucca, Maiz and bananas….and to show his laboratory to the few interested trekkers on their way to the lost city – it’s also lucrative! His laboratory has been destroyed several times by the military, but he retakes his work somewhere else. He works in the coca business for 15 years, but only in the last few years that he has his own hectare of plants.

The lost city

On that very same day, we would meet another group of people that uses coca leaves in a very different way. The Kogui are one of the 3 aboriginal groups that inhabit the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta and are the direct descendants of the Tayronas, the founders of the lost city. There are about 12000 families of Kogui (an approximated number, because majority leave in inaccessible zones where one can only arrive by foot or mule). Many do not speak Spanish and have little contact with the modern world. They are easily identifiable by their long vestments of dirty white (identical in both sexes) and for the feminine aspect of the men with long and smooth black hair, dark and soft skin.

Still today they follow many of the Tayrona´s traditions. Men live together in a common house and women live with the children in a separate house. They practice polygamy where the young girls after puberty, are initiated to the sexual experiences with a Shaman or educator. The youngsters, in turn, spent some time living with a older and married woman before the marriage in order to acquiring the experiences of the life. They have a subsistence life with a simple diet very. yucca, maize, rice, banana and cocaine leaves.. The chewed leaves of dry coca work as a stimulant and some times as food substitute.

On the second day we leave the agriculture zone and penetrate in the dense jungle, climbing up to 1200 meters. The vegetation was lush and thick, cut only by the wild rivers, cascades and streams. The track followed many times those river beds, which we had to cross frequently with water by the waist. The Buritaca River alone we had to cross 18 times during the entire trek.

The lost city is not the Tikal or the Chichen Itza of great pyramids and stone temples. In fact, there is little to see in terms of standing structures. Its its location deep in the jungle of the sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, away from any signs of civilization, and set on top of a hillside with great views, that make it so special.

The houses and temples of the lost city were constructed in wood and straw, and have been eaten by the elements long ago. What remains today are only circular terraces made of rocks (there are more then 1000 of them scattered around the jungle), they were the foundations of the houses. There is also a labyrinth of paths that extends all over the mountains. In this magnificent mountains of virgin forest and away from any vestige of civilization, its easy to look at those encircled terraces and imagine the splendor of the Tayrona civilization. The city was constructed circa 600 years before Machu Pichu in Peru, and it was never found by the Spanish conquerors, that in the sec XV had made several expeditions in the region in search of the already legendary El Dorado.

Despite the Kogui affirming that along the centuries, they had always made religious visits to the lost city, they had kept secret, and the city was not discovered until 1972 by treasure hunters. They called it “the green hell” for the difficulties that the jungle presented. In 1975 archaeological excavations began, but it stopped due to strong guerrilla activity in the area, and also by the kogui´s request, infuriated with the continuous profanation of the tombs of their ancestors.

In September 2003 8 tourists have been kidnapped in the area, and in 2004 also an Israeli and a Spaniard. Last year, the main leader of the paramilitary was arrested by authorities, and although they are still high in the mountains of Santa Marta, it’s possible, once again, to visit the lost city in safety. The TURCOL (tourism of Colombia), the agency that organizes the treks, told me that a slim share of the profits goes to the paramilitaries to guarantee the tourists safety.

We start the walk back, descending in 2 hard days, what it took us 3 days to do on the way up. In Mamey a jeep took us, once again, on a hellish 2 hour journey trough the mountains and back to the civilized city of Santa Marta. After the hard trek a deserved rest in the beautiful beaches of the Tayrona´s national park, before we continue on to the next stage of the trip: the desert-like peninsula of “la Guarija”. In the panniers of my memory, I carry one of the prettiest treks made in American soil. The ruins of the Tayrona are not only a lost city but a lost world.

"... the world doesn't have you end; it could go on; but unless we stop violating the earth and nature, depleting The Great Mother of to her material energy, to her organs, to her vitality; unless people stop working against the great to mother, the world will not last "

Message of appeal to the world emitted by the Kogui aboriginals in 1990 through an archaeologist of the Lampeter University, concerned with the destruction of their habitat in Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta.

Nuno Brilhante
In Rioacha, Colombia