Circle to Circle

by Shirley Hardy-Rix

  The older one says he’ll fix the insurance for US$100. The fatter of the two gets a form from a pile behind him. It’s someone else’s insurance from the UK. He types up a form on his computer, prints off a copy and hands it to me. He then puts a stamp on our Aduana papers and I hand over the money. It all feels wrong but there isn’t a lot I can do when the police have the power to refuse entry to the country.

  Shirley: Brian’s kicking himself. This feels like a scam, but there’s nothing we can do. He makes sure he shakes everyone’s hand as he leaves and asks their names. The younger policeman seems a little nervous and says his name’s Frank. I don’t think so.

  About 10 kilometres down the road we’re stopped by the police and the first thing they ask for is our Seguro — the insurance. Brian hands it over and the drama begins. They say we don’t have insurance. In my broken Spanish and with the aid of the dictionary I explain the national police demanded $100 for it at the border. These police threaten us with a fine which we refuse to pay. The conversation goes on, backwards and forwards. They want money. We won’t pay it because we paid the police at the border. After about 15 minutes, when it becomes clear that we’re not going pay them anything, they wave us on after telling us to buy insurance at the next town, Puno.

  Bugger me, if we don’t get stopped again, another 10 kilometres down the road. I go through the story again, but this time the boss comes over to listen to our story.

  They seem genuinely horrified — either by the fact we were ripped off or that they weren’t a part of it.

  Brian doesn’t need much Spanish to make it clear he’s unhappy and will be reporting the whole sorry saga. They let us go, telling us to buy the insurance in Puno.

  As we ride off the boss is on the mobile phone.

  We need to decide whether we will report them or not. The right thing to do would be to complain, but that could come back and bite us. It’s a dilemma. We don’t want the police to target us or create problems when we go to leave the country. After much discussion we decide to put it down to experience.

  •

  In Puno the parking for the bike is around the corner from the hotel. There’s a dilapidated shack inside the gate. The family that lives here looks after all the cars and our motorcycle. It’s good for us but what an existence for the family.

  Brian: Shirl’s still pretty crook, can’t eat but won’t lie down when there’s a chance to visit the funeral towers of the ancient Colla people at Sillustani. The nobles were mummified, their innards removed, their legs pushed into the empty cavity and buried in a foetal position. They left the earth as they arrived like the Tiwanaku people in Bolivia.

  The funeral towers are at 4,000 metres, looking down on Lago Umayo. It’s peaceful up here and beautiful. We have to walk slowly because of the altitude but this isn’t the sort of place you want to rush around.

  There’s an island in the middle of the lake that’s a sanctuary for the vicuna. Once hunted nearly out of existence they thrive up here, under the watchful eye of a family that lives on the island, their only job, to protect the vicuna.

  Leaving the area, a huge storm hits, with lightning and thunder. We pass sad looking drenched llamas and alpacas tied up outside mud brick houses on the road back to town. We were to meet some of these handsome creatures to see the difference in their wools, but the weather is against us. I feel for the families. This would be one of the few income streams for them.

  ‘Photo? Photo?’ It’s a familiar cry.

  Shirley: This is some bug. I still feel lousy and can’t eat or drink. It caused me to miss a couple of the islands on the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca, but I’m not going to let it stop me visiting the floating reed islands.

  It’s an odd feeling to walk on these islands of compacted reeds, like walking on a huge sponge. It’s very squishy. The man who shows us his home is very proud of the electric lights and the radio he now has, thanks to solar energy. His wife embroiders the traditional stories of these islands on a light woollen fabric and I can’t resist one that features Pachamama, Mother Earth. Another trip to the post office is looming.

  The Isla Taquile people intrigue me. The women weave and the men knit caps, like the old fashioned sleeping caps of characters like Wee Willie Winkie. The single men have to do a good job because a poor hat limits their choice of women to wed. When they ask for a woman’s hand in marriage the father pours water through the hat. If it holds some they’re a show at getting the hand of the young woman, if not they remain single. I don’t know that Brian would make a good knitter.

  Brian: Sightseeing over, I have to organise the insurance so we don’t get caught up in the police scam again. There’s an office just near the hotel where I only have to show the original registration papers from Australia and hand over 70 sols, about $25. It makes the $100 paid to the corrupt police even more galling. If only I’d have found the seller at the border.

  Finally we’re legal and on the road again. The best petrol I can get is 90 RON, much lower in quality than is best for the bike. It struggles on this, and I notice the difference in power and the bike’s responsiveness.

  On the way to Cusco we ride through small, poor communities where the elderly and the young children are tending goats and pigs. The fitter are toiling in the small fields. It seems like a very gruelling existence.

  •

  Nothing can prepare you for Machu Picchu. No matter how many times you see pictures of it or film on TV we’re not ready for what we see when we walk through the gate and look down on the ruins.

  Locals kept the secret of Machu Picchu from the plundering Spanish and let the jungle reclaim it until 1911 when a couple of farmers showed the American Hiram Bingham the rocky buildings around the terraces they were farming. This lost city of the Incas was a place of learning and study. Here the Incas tested different crops — experimenting on what would work best at altitude. They followed the sun and the stars from the astronomers’ houses. They worshipped their gods and passed on their secrets to the next generation.

  We have to pinch ourselves to make sure it’s real — yes, we’re at Machu Picchu.

  We’re doubly blessed with the weather. We get to see this amazing piece of history in bright sunshine and even get a couple of photos free of tourists. It’s a massive day with some of the most incredible sites we’ll ever see — just brilliant.

  Cusco was the heart of the Inca empire. They say it took 20,000 people to build Machu Picchu and other Inca villages in the Sacred Valley around Cusco, and maybe 100 years to complete. Those villages offer more insight into how developed the Inca people were, making their demise at the hands of the Spanish quite staggering.

  •

  It’s 645 kilometres from Cusco to Nazca but I reckon we can get there in a day. As we climb into the Andes we pass through little villages with the constant threat of dogs rushing at the bike, herds of goats, llamas, cows and the odd stray pig to worry about.

  The road twists and turns, climbs up one side of a valley, then down into the next. At first this is engaging for the motorcyclist in me, but it’s slow going, and I can see that nearly 650 kilometres at this pace is going to make for a long day. The winding road goes on and on.

  There’s a dip with fast flowing water racing across the road. At least the underside of the bike and the bottom of my riding gear gets a clean. We pull up at a service station which has a ‘restaurant’ to stretch the legs. The fridge only has a few bottles of coke and water. It looks really grotty. I go to the toilet — my job before Shirl at these sorts of places. It’s a squat toilet, filthy and stinking. I go, Shirl hangs on.

  Next, we’re in the clouds; the temperature drops and keeps on dropping. My hands are freezing, despite my heated handgrips, there’s snow falling and gathering on the front of the bike. I can’t see and have to open my visor to stop fogging up and the sleeting snow stings my face. The ice warning flashes up on the bike’s instrument panel, the outside air temperature is down to 0.5°C.

 
; A lone black dog trots along the side of the road, his matted fur covered in snow. He doesn’t seem to notice. My left hand is so cold I can’t feel my fingers. The right one is constantly on and off the throttle so the blood’s still circulating. It stays like this for a good 50 kilometres and there’s nowhere to stop under shelter, so we push on.

  The front of the bike slides out on an oil patch on the slippery road. I save it, but strain my back. I guess a strained back is better than sliding down the road.

  A bit further on I dodge a pothole big enough to do some real damage to the front wheel by crossing onto the wrong side of the road in a hurry and we slip again. One thing about the riding here, there’s never a dull moment.

  Shirley: This is hard going. I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold on the bike. The drips on my helmet are freezing into icicles. At least we didn’t take our liners out when it was warmer. Brian keeps leaning forward and putting his hands on the bikes cylinders to warm them up. I feel like I’m on the bike on my own when he does this. Finally we ride out of the clouds and it starts to warm up.

  I realise how dangerous this road is when we come around a corner and there are people lying on the side of the road. A bus has gone over the side. There are plenty of people helping the injured so, assured everything is under control, we press on.

  The sun is setting when we ride down to the warmth of the desert and a hotel that serves a good cold beer and has a pool.

  I’m in awe of Brian’s ability to keep us upright. I really felt that we’d end up going down the road sideways when we hit the oil. Brian saved us — no doubt about that. I know the trip is risky but I’d rather we got home without having a major spill — or a minor one for that matter.

  •

  To get the best view of the Nazca lines, the drawings in the desert sands believed to have been created around 400 AD, we take to the air in a six-seater plane. Waiting for our plane I watch a woman get off a flight, very wobbly on her feet. An attendant retrieves a white bag from the plane that looks suspiciously like a sick bag.

  A young French couple join us for the flight. Up in the air the pilot banks hard, first left, then to the right so we all see each site. Some of the lines are incredibly clear — the humming bird, the monkey, the astronaut and the human hands. We really enjoy it. The young Frenchman only gets to see a couple before he’s throwing up. Luckily the co-pilot has some pure alcohol in a small bottle to cover the smell coming from the back seats.

  Brian: We’re drawn to the town of Paracas, further up the coast, by the sand and the sea. There’s a huge sea lion colony just off the coast at Isla Ballestas, billed as the poor man’s Galapagos. We’ll be able to judge that for ourselves in a few weeks, when we head out to Galapagos. There are hundreds of sea lions basking on a beach. It’s very pleasant sitting in a bobbing boat on a smooth sea with a cool breeze watching the pups frolic in the water and the males sprawling about in the sand.

  And there are some amazing sand dunes that were part of the gruelling Dakar Rally in January. You can ride the massive dunes in VW powered sand buggies and we can’t resist. Strapped in and wearing goggles to protect our eyes we head off into the desert. Some of these dunes are 500 metres high. Our driver could compete in the Dakar. We head up and over, dash along the top and then drop off the edge down into a basin and then back up the top. There are three buggies up here and we zigzag across each others’ paths. It’s all part of the excitement, but you have to hope the three drivers know where their colleagues are so we don’t encounter them at the top of a dune.

  It’s masses of fun. There are plenty of ‘oh shit’ moments and rushes of adrenalin as we roar through the sand.

  Shirley: As the sun sets we head to some gentler, longer slopes for a bit of sandboarding. Brian cruises smoothly to the bottom and is waiting for me to join him. I’m not a natural athlete and despite the fact I’m incredibly uncoordinated I want have a go at this. The board is waxed, I sit on it, grab the strap and get a gentle push in the back. I’m doing pretty well, for a moment. About 10 feet from the bottom one foot slips off the edge of the board and I fall off. How embarrassing.

  My second run is going a lot better until I realise I’m heading straight towards a girl from one of the other buggies. Bloody hell! Luckily she realises we’re on a collision course and jumps out of the way. I could get to really enjoy this but the sun is just about below the horizon and it’s time to head back.

  There’s sand everywhere — shoes, shorts, stuck to the skin. It’s been the best fun you can have and we’ve loved every second of it.

  Brian: A capital city is a capital city. Rather than heading into the heart of Lima we’re going to stay at Miraflores, a suburb by the ocean. Checking out the hotels online we opt for the Soul Mate. The name should have been a hint, but rather than paying attention to that, we check out location, parking and price. Soul Mate is cheap, has a lock up garage and is a short walk to the beach. It’s a pity we didn’t realise it is also a ‘by the hour’ hotel! We’re not the only ones paying the day rate though, there’s a group of grown men in town for a remote control car competition. They’re like big kids tinkering with their cars while they have a beer in the foyer.

  Shirl’s feeling homesick. There’s no doubt this trip has had its moments. The constant threat of traffic on our side of the road, crossing over double lines around the corners is draining. The dust and dirt are constant companions but that’s what you get in a desert that’s so dry not even scrub as we know it in Australia can get a toehold. But it’s the rubbish littering the roadside and the constant stench of rotting garbage and dead animals that really gets to her. Street dogs, horses, goats, chickens all lie where they die, rotting on the roadside.

  She feels better after a long natter on Skype with our dear friend Phil in Melbourne. I feel better too after chatting with my eldest son, Stephen, and his wife, Alana. It’s the fillip we need today.

  •

  Back on the road we negotiate Lima with a minimum of fuss and hit the open road. The only mishap is a close encounter with a bottle thrown out of the window of a bus. Well, you don’t want to litter your bus, do you?

  And then there are the pay stations. Motorcycles don’t have to pay the tolls but we do need to ride from our side of the road to the opposite side to get through the tollgate. Crossing three or four lanes of traffic and dodging the oncoming cars as I dart back to our side of the road is a feat.

  At last, a road without cars, trucks, motor taxis and animals — bliss. Until the police pull me up for speeding. I dispute his claim. He has no radar. It looks like we’re heading for a ‘fine’, a little cash payment to supplement his income, no doubt. When I tell him I was a police officer in Australia, the mood changes to smiles all round. A quick check of our paperwork, including the insurance papers, and we’re on our way to Trujillo and the ancient ruins of the Moche people.

  At a fuel stop we meet Bob from Colorado riding a BMW 650 GS single. Bob’s an inspiration. He’s in his mid-sixties, a cancer survivor with kidney problems. He’s climbed mountains and has been travelling around South America on his own. He could show a few sedentary people half his age a thing or two.

  Shirley: The Temples of the Sun and Moon date back to 400 AD and are still being excavated. What looks like a huge pile of sand is actually the Sun Temple.

  The Moon Temple was a place of religion and sacrifice. The museum has a morbid collection of bones and killing implements. Gladiators who lost their battle were ‘selected’ for sacrifice to the gods. They were given a drink made from the San Pedro cactus that’s a hallucinogenic. Then they were decapitated. Bones found in the temple show the striations from the knives used. The gladiators were also beaten about the head. A wooden mace found in the temple has tested positive for human blood.

  This temple was also covered by sand when the archaeologists began their work. Tons of sand has been removed to reveal intricate friezes depicting the god of the mountain and a decapitated spider monster. There are desig
ns of the winning gladiators and the vanquished, led along by ropes around their necks. It’s fascinating.

  In between the two temples was once a thriving town. Today the archaeologists are working on the dig. They’ve uncovered the burial chambers that were robbed of their treasures by the Spanish, who encouraged people to come and see what they could get out of the tombs.

  Next stop Palacio Nik An, a massive palatial home to kings and their families. In the centre of the desert area is an artesian bore, a small lake inside a courtyard. It disappeared along with the farmers when the Chimu people were overrun by the Incas. When the farmers returned so did this little oasis.

  We meet the unluckiest English tourist here. He missed out on Machu Picchu because of a landslide over the road. Today his camera, with all the photos of his South American adventure, is stolen.

  In the town of Chiclayo we see some of the treasures found in the death chamber of the Lord of Sipan. It takes about two hours to see all the gold, silver, ceramics and woven cloths found in just one tomb. The amount that must have been plundered by the Spanish is unfathomable.

  •

  After weeks of riding through the desert and dealing with the dirt and the poverty we find our own little oasis on the coast at Zorritos, just south of the Ecuadorian border. At Los Balcones there’s a pool, tropical palms and the ocean. The sea breeze and the noise of the ocean make for a very pleasant place to end our month in Peru.

  There’s more to see here but we must move on. We’re meeting our friend Keith Moor’s brother in Ecuador in a couple of days. And the clock is ticking down for our arrival in Texas on May 1.

  Ecuador and Galapagos Islands

  8 – 21 March 2012

  Brian: What a difference a country makes. We get to the Ecuador border, get stamped in and then are sent to the SOAT counter to buy our insurance. It takes a few minutes and costs just $3 for a month. No chance for corrupt officials to rip us off, just modern efficiency.