51. Over the Ecuador

A couple of days out of Cuenca and Klaus' leg infection was troubling him again, so after packing up our tents at the back of a petrol station I headed on while Klaus scored a lift to Riobamba and got a bus to Quito, in time for his flight home. Klaus had spent the previous couple of days managing to continue cycling by truck surfing up to the top of the big climbs as we wound our way through Ecuador's central highland region. Hanging on to the back of these slow moving diesel trucks was tough on the arms though, with the ascents so steep that the bike and rider were being effectively dragged upwards and on our last climb out of Alausi, Klaus caught onto the back of a truck that I had been hanging on to but had to let go of. Klaus was caught by a piece of metal jutting out from the truck and sent into the ditch a couple of kilometres up the road. So we revised our strategy of truck surfing and it was back to the traditional method of pedalling to get up these steep hills.

 Mulalo village

The importance of a good map was emphasised when I met Joe, an American cyclist, in Latacunga a few days back. Suddenly new options opened up before me and I was able to detour off the increasingly busy Pan-American highway and pedal via the Cotopaxi national park and avoid the traffic congested roads around Quito. After a night on the park ranger's floor I crossed back into the northern hemisphere yesterday, stopping at the monument that Quisato, an interesting research project, has built to mark the equator. The south didn't let me go too easily though, for when I went to pick my bike up off the equator after posing for an obligatory shot I found a nail in my rear tyre.

 Cotopaxi volcano

After another day's ride on a busy road to Cayambe, it was back on the friendly cobblestone backroads to Ibarra, where I took today off and had breakfast. Then another breakfast. Then a trip to the bustling market for an almuerzo of beef soup and beef, lentils and rice. Bought some papaya and bananas for tomorrow's breakfast and went online while more unseasonal rain fell. Finished reading The Gangs of New York and then walked a couple of kilometres to the supermarket. The friendly hostal owner pointed out a number of interesting nearby attractions that are worth cycling too, but as is often the case on a day off, I wasn't able to get beyond the essentials of food, books and some internet and shudder slightly at the thought of cycling anywhere. Tomorrow I leave for the day's ride to the Colombia post border at Tulcan. As with Peru there's a lot more of Ecuador left to explore but I'll have to wait until the next lap. I have a flight booked from Medellin in Colombia at the end of July to make a visit back to Ireland for a couple of months, whilst Rocinante is put out to pasture on coffee and coca leaves.

The equator

Ibarra, Ecuador

Pedalled: 35,650 km

50. Going bananas in Ecuador

Heinz Stucke's entry in the guestbook at Casa Amistad, Trujillo, Peru. Heinz left Germany in 1962 and has been pedaling ever since. Between 1962 and 2006 he rode 539,000 kilometres in 192 countries. He's still cycling...

The Casa Amistad (friendship house), the original Casa del Ciclistas in Latin America, has been providing a refuge for cyclists since the mid-80s when an Italian biking enthusiast living in Trujillo, northern Peru, began hosting passing cyclists. Already five guestbooks have been filled and I was guest number 1333. Lucho and his family have been managing the house for the past twenty years or so and as a former professional cyclist and a bicycle mechanic he provides invaluble support to those passing north or south along the Pan-American highway. I brought him the first ever Shimano chainring he had encountered that didn't fit the Shimano cranks I have but after much filing and reminiscing over the 2000 Tour de France and more filing, Rocinante had a new chainring. I spent two days wandering about Trujillo and making regular forays to the nearby market for plates of ceviche, a local dish of raw fish marinated in lemon or bitter orange juice.

Two Colombians, an Argentinian and an Irishman outside Casa Amistad... 

leaving Trujillo, Peru 17th June

As I left Trujillo, Lucho warned me about one town, Paijan (pronounced pie-han), 50 km to the north along the Pan-Am highway whose young moto-taxi rogues appear to have developed a fondness for relieving passing cyclists of their belongings. Warnings become so frequent that one tends to dismiss them in order to maintain sanity and I had previously thought that Paijan was only a problem in the distant past, but recent entries in the guestbook at Casa Amistad proved this was not the case. Most problems have occured when cyclists have stopped in the town and then given time for a posse of young moto-taxi drivers to organise themselves and rob the cyclist on the outskirts of town. Lucho's advise was pretty simple. Don't stop. Ride very fast. To give more protection he called his friend there and arranged that I would phone him from the previous town and he would cycle with me through the town. The final strategy, which some cyclists have used with some success, was to have the police escort me out of town past the stretch where most of the robberies have taken place.

Rocinante outside the Casa de Ciclista in Chiclayo, Peru

So I said goodbye to Lucho and the other guests at Casa Amistad, passport and valubles buried deep in the four corners of Rocinante's panniers, apprehensive but confident that enough fail-safes had been put in place. At the first toll-booth on the Pan-Am, north of Trujillo, three smiling police officers motioned me to pull over and asked where I was from, where I was going and had Ireland made it to South Africa. Everyone with a passing interest in football seems to have heard of the France-Ireland qualifier and Henry's mano de dios and there was much sympathy. Without prompting they told me not to worry about the road ahead, everything was tranquillo and they would radio ahead to each of the police controls, which occured every few kilometres to let them know I was coming. In the town before Paijan, I called Lucho's friend but I was later than had anticipated and his friend was already in work. I told him not to worry, that the police seemed to be helpful and everything would be alright. I pedaled on towards Paijan, using my new mirror to watch the moves of moto-taxis and past a couple of more friendly police controls. The town of Paijan itself only lasts for about three kilometres along the highway and had it not been for Lucho's warnings would have appeared like any  other Peruvian highway town, dusty and ramshackled but overall fairly friendly. Instead the whistles from groups of young mototaxi drivers lounging about on the roadside became aggressive and threatening in my mind. With a slight downhill and strong tailwind I cruised along at over 30 kph, overtaking mototaxis and weaving between buses. No smiles, no waves, just get me back in the desert please. On the outskirts a  police car loomed into view ahead, the last police control. I pulled over and began the idle chat before asking the police to escort me out of town, as Lucho had told me to do. The chief of police had also told Lucho that cyclists should do this. The officers agreed it was a dangerous stretch of road but said they needed money for petrol if they were going to escort me. The one who was looking for petrol money began asking me about what I was carrying on the bike. Since there was evidence that in previous robberies, the police may have been acting together with the robbers, I was vague on details and again tried to drop names like Lucho's and the chief of police. Eventually they agreed they'd follow me out of town to make sure I wasn't followed by the mototaxis. As I rode on though, the jeep sat stationary and never followed me. A few kilometres out of town, I began to relax as Lucho had assured me that it was only on the immediate outskirts that the robberies had taken place. Ten, fifteen, twenty kilometres. On we rolled. Fifty kilometres later we pulled up at the nice surfing town of Pacasmayo.

Crossing the Sechura desert in northern Peru

While the rest of the world sat down and became engrossed in the World Cup I pedaled north towards Ecuador. From Chiclayo to Piura, lay a barren 220 km across the Sechura desert. This was luxury desert though, with restaurants every 20 or 30 km, serving filling almuerzos for about a euro and fridges stocked with an endless variety of cold drinks. On my final night in Peru I pulled up outside a police station that was sited on the beach about 65 km before the border crossing. I asked if I could pitch my tent. I was initially told this wasn't a hotel but after a few minutes of watching world cup highlights and asking about the trip, I was given a seat. Later I sat and watched as the three officers on duty set up a checkpoint outside the station and appeared to pull people at random off buses and taxis to check their IDs. Over a bowl of delicious fish soup that one of the officers had cooked that morning, I was told that things were much better in Fujimori's time, a sentiment I have often heard along the Pan-American about the former president's decade in office during the turbulent 1990s. He is currently serving a 32-year prison sentence for human rights abuses and embezzlement charges.

Things get green and sweaty in Ecuador

I crossed into Ecuador over the new Puente de la Paz and eventually found the poorly signposted migration office. Apparently bananas need passports too because as soon as the sandy, barren terrain of Peru ends, a tropical garden of Eden begins in Ecuador, with banana plantations lined up at the borderline like an invading army in wait. Klaus and his bicycle were standing outside the migration office and since we were both heading for Quito, we agreed to cycle together for the next few days. After a night in Santa Rosa we passed through the banana plantations around Pasaje. Del Monte. Dole. Household names at home and this is where it all starts. The surrounding villages and towns were pretty grim places really and I wonder what pay a worker on a banana plantation here receives. In the market Klaus bought ten bananas for 50 US cent, the US dollar being legal tender here in Ecuador since the collapse of the sucre. We began the climb out of the sweltering coastal lowlands as we turned east and headed for Cuenca and the Andean highlands. Halfway to Santa Isabel, however, and we had to load Klaus and his bike onto the back of a pickup truck as an infection in his leg was spreading and a nurse at a village clinic said he should go to the hospital in Santa Isabel. I continued climbing and by nightfall was just a few kilometres from Santa Isabel. I asked in a house on the roadside if I could set up home in their front yard. The friendly lady showed me to a place behind some trucks and offered me use of the outdoor shower and toilet, which was very much appreciated after the dodgy rice and chicken lunch that I had earlier in the day. The guard dogs were fairly sensitive to any movement, however, and were repeatedly breaking into hysterics during the night at any roll of the sleeping bag. I was sent off in the morning with a wave and a bunch of bananas.

Klaus

Failing to find Klaus the following morning in Santa Isabel but receiving his email that he had been treated and would be heading for Cuenca, I headed on for the last 80 km up to the highland metropolis. The third largest city in Ecuador and the suspected site of the mystical city of gold, El Dorado, Cuenca lies amid verdant green pastures full of milking cows at a pleasant altitude of 2500 metres. Getting here involved climbing some steep hills up past the mountain towns of Santa Isabel and Giron but 25 km before the city, the road leveled out and I was able to make it by nightfall yesterday.

Village in Ecuador, near Pasaje

Back into the Andes - climbing to Cuenca

Near Cuenca, Ecuador

Cuenca, Ecuador

Pedalled: 34,945 kilometres

49. Blowin' in the wind

Six hundred and eighty-six days since leaving home and I awoke on my thirtieth birthday to a tent being buffetted by what I confidently presumed was the prevailing southerly that is blowing me up to Ecuador. Well almost blowing me up. With Rocinante loaded, I pushed us back through the sand to the tarmac, trucks and kamikazi taxi drivers already plying the highway in the dull morning dawn, thick clouds only allowing a hint of sunlight through. Ten kilometres on a couple of eating houses stood in a ramshackle pile around a junction. Plastic bags fluttered by and to paraphrase Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore, "there's nothing like the smell of piss in the morning". Breakfast was tea and a small hill of spaghetti and lomo saltado. Fortunately for the happy pedalist, portion control has yet to arrive in Peru. A friendly truck driver insisted I have half of his fish, and unbeknownst to him I received my one and only birthday present. It tasted delicious.

The following day I left Nazca early and headed north on the Pan-Americana. Deeming a flight over the lines a luxury I couldn't afford, I settled for the small viewing tower 25 km north of the town. Only two of the famous geoglyphs are visible from the viewing tower and the ten-minute experience was frankly rather underwhelming. A bellowing North American voice summed up my more reserved first impression, "Is that it?". The lines were created by the Nazca culture between 200 BCE and 700 CE by removing the reddish coloured stones and uncovering the paler ground beneath. Theories as to the purpose of the lines has varied from a combination of astronomical and religious practices to runways that served another highly advanced culture and their flying machines, the former gaining more widespread support but the question is still contentious. In any case, I think a flight is probably necessary to gain a better appreciation of the site. I plugged the music back in and continued north.

Nazca lines

On the outskirts of Ica a group of women were gathering around a taxi after a day labouring in the fields. I was asking the taxi driver directions and the women started asking questions about the trip. How long? How old? When they found out it was my birthday the day before they searched for a present and pooled a pile of the pecan nuts that they had been collecting and poured them into my pannier. They had spent hours harvesting fairly meagre piles of their own and here they were giving me a substantial portion of them. They passed by in the taxi further down the road shouting whoop whoops out the window and offering one of their daughters.

Melville, near Ica

Six o'clock Sunday morning and I rode through Ica with people still stumbling out of the nightclubs. A stall on the street corner was serving chicken and spaghetti soup with egg and coriander. A few kilometres of town and Melville, an off-duty policeman, pulled up alongside me and kept me going at a slightly too brisk clip at this hour of the morning. He told me the areas to ride through swiftly, the parts of the road ahead with no shoulder and wished me luck as he turned around to head back to Ica. Later on after riding past the outskirts of Pisco, I got my first puncture in the 6000-odd kilometres since Mendoza (where I had replaced my worn-out Marathon XRs with a new set). I pulled off the busy highway to a shack where a father was playing with his two young children. The kids stared at the show while the father carefully supervised my puncture repair techniques, pointing out when I was doing something he didn't like. Somewhat worringly it wasn't anything that had punctured the tyre, but some of the beading that was starting to poke through very slightly in one place. The kids gave me sugar-coated peanuts they were eating and I thanked them with a pile of fruit that had been maturing on the back of the bike.

I wasn't particularly enamoured by the thought of traversing Lima, capital of Peru and with eight million souls, one of the largest cities encountered in the past two years on the bike. I left Canete as dawn tried to break through the fine drizzle and made good time on the 140 km towards the city centre. First came the playgrounds of the rich, the gambling town of Asia and its luxury resorts. Then a gradual deterioration as I neared Lima. Shacks lay precariously pinned to the sides of colossal sand dunes. Many inhabitants of Lima's poorer districts having come from the mountains, displaced by the violent uprisings during the 1980s that repeatedly threatened to topple the government. On into central Lima and soon I found myself along palm-lined avenues, homes and businesses protected from the dune people by steel fencing and armed guards. Every possible North American fast food outlet lined the main drag, Avenue Bemvides, in the genteel suburb of San Antonio. I arrived at a hostel and was dumbfounded at the price of a dorm bed but too tired to move on. I took one day off in Lima and failing to connect with a couple of contacts I had there, I skipped anything of historical or touristic importance and settled for patroling the aisles of a luxurious Chinese supermarket and heading back to the kitchen hostel for some non-fried delicasies.

Clemente, owner of La Balsa restaurant, km 347 Pan Am Norte

Northbound from central Lima the city dragged out. Roadworks on the Pan-Americana norte thankfully slowed down the vehicles on the highway out of the city, unaccustomed as it was to bicycle traffic. I stopped at a petrol station after Chancay later in the day and pitched up beside the trucks that had pulled over for the night. I continued north, days interspersed with desert and then green cultivated valleys. Sugar cane being cut by hand and loaded onto rickety old trucks. In Huarmey I pulled into town one afternoon and discovered as I doodled in the internet cafe that the parents of a Peruvian fellow I had met in Chile lived there. So I called around and was put up for the night. Further north and I pulled into a restaurant at kilometre marker 347 and instantly Clemente had asked his wife to prepare fresh fish and chips as he showed me the guestbooks from all of the cyclists they had put up and fed over the 43 years he had been living there. Familiar names in the lore of bicycle touring and long distance walking popped out from the pages, including old messages from Karl Bushby and Jean Beliveau, both walking around the world. I sat reading the books and catching up on my journal and an hour after I had been fed fish and chips the restaurant was busy with Saturday afternoon traffic. Seventy-one year old Clemente kept popping by, however, and asking if I wanted lunch. Wasn't that it? A couple more cups of tea and I headed into Casma to try my luck at the firestation to see if all the rumours of Peruvian bomberos hospitality were true. Within moments, my proposal of pitching my tent on the floor between the tenders was waved aside and I was to be given a bed. Marvellous. Unfortunately I don't see a pole to slide down in the morning. That would have been fun.

Casma, Peru

Trip distance: 33,726 km

48. The twilight zone

Cristian celebrates towel day, 25th May, La Paz

Leaving La Paz requires cycling up to El Alto, the satellite city that sits 400 metres higher on the edge of the antiplano. I followed Cristian's directions on the back of a tea bag but still found myself on the main autopista up. A less demanding but longer climb that winds its way up out of the concrete. Weaving through the taxis and out into the open country, heading west for Peru. I reached the border in the evening and the military police at one of the roadblocks performed the laying of the hands on my panniers. "What's this?", the policeman asked as he gently molested my front right pannier. "Clothes", I replied, and preempted his strikes by describing the contents of the other panniers, hoping I wasn't going to have to open them. "Buen viaje"... and I was into Peru.

On the Peruvian antiplano

From the borderpost at Desaguadero I cut across the antiplano towards the coast and the Pan-American Highway. The last days of harvesting were underway before the cold sets in. On Day 2 in Peru I woke up to falling snow and a blanket of white on the surrounding mountains. The mining engineers in the hostel reckoned that the pass, Abra Huaytire (4800 metres), that I had to get over would have snow on it but rather than spend a day in ghost village of MazoCruz, I decided to hit the road and hope for the best, optimism outwinning logic. The first 50 kilometres were fine, but then the clouds came down and I found myself stuffing a peanut butter sandwich down and donning the wet gear. I was soon drenched and frozen but as I passed a bend in the mountains a house came into view and I sheltered for a couple of hours, whilst gingerly drinking a cup of mate that looked like it was made with the same water they washed the dog with. I also noticed the big rip in my waterproof trousers which would account for all the water getting inside. The fat-bellied owner of the little shop kept an eye out for passing trucks and every so often one would pull up, goods would be exchanged in an illict fashion. The most worrisome transaction concerned a small truck and its two occupants who bought two cases of beer for the road.

3000 metre, 85 kilometre descent from the antiplano to the desert

A crack of sunlight and I was back on the road. Hoping to make the settlement of Huaytire before nightfall. I arrived at sunset and asked for a place to sleep. I was brought to the friendly mayor of the hamlet and he showed me a spot on his office floor, between two motorbikes, that was mine for the same price as the hostel room last night. Ah well, at least it was indoors. He asked about Ireland and the trip and then his assistant, Luz, who had been condemned to serve the government for the winter months from her warmer hometown of Tacna, brought me to the only cafe in town where alpaca soup was the one and only plate on offer. It was very good.

Full moon in the morning

The next morning I was off into the cold at 6am, hoping to reach Moquegua that evening. I climbed the first 10km and waited for the descent from the summit of the pass to begin but discovered that it was more of a roller-coaster ride along the top of the mountains that would leave me climbing and descending for the next 40km. The camera batteries refused to come to life in the cold at the top of the pass. Finally by 10.30 am I reached the top of the last climb and then began a 3000 metre, 85 kilometer descent from the frozen antiplano to the desert that lines Peru's coast.

Northbound on the Pan-American highway

I arrived into Moquegua by lunchtime and after more alpaca I was searching for an interent cafe when I met Victor on the street. He said I could use the computer at his house and so I went back, met his family, sent some emails, and ate Victor's birthday cake. As I left he loaded me up with avocados, apples, water and a fluffy wooly thing that he said is for good luck. With an hour of light left I headed past one of the ubiquitous police checkpoints and out of town onto the Pan-American Highway that I plan to follow up to Ecuador and Colombia. Signs of life didn't disappear fast enough though, there was a string of shacks along the side of the highway and I thought it might be difficult to find a camping spot, but finally I climbed over some mountains and was back in the desert on the other side. I pitched the tent up, ate the avocado and boiled some pot noodles before falling asleep at 8pm.

This could really ruin a nice day in the desert...

Days begin at 5am now. Sunrise is just after 6am and then there is eleven and a half hours of daylight before I'm confined to the tent again. From May to October the Pacific coast of Peru is regularly shrouded over in fog and visibility is reduced to a few meters. I decided it wasn't ipod country when some trucks emerged out of the mist and swept a little close for comfort as I climbed out of El Fiscal yesterday. It can clear quickly though and then the snow-capped volcanic peaks to the east appear out of the cloud. The colours of the sand vary from grey to red and with the settling fog it's quite a surreal landscape to pass through. After nine hours in the saddle and 150km I stopped at the first sign of civilisation, a petrol station, at sunset and after confirming with Jesus (the petrol attendent) that it was ok to pitch up, I was soon back in my favourite spot behind the toilets. Dinner was served by the friendly lady manning a kiosk - cheese pastries, crisps and lemon water. 990 kilometres to go to Lima.

I-have-no-idea-what-this-village-is-called, Peru
Trip distance: 32,442 km

42. To the Pacific and the Atacama

 Storm approaches Refuge No.2 on the way to San Francisco pass

My final two-point-something Argentinian pesos refilled my petrol bottle and earned me a few sweets that were gone before I had left town. One kilometre out of Fiambala and it was back to the stony, bald and sun -beaten landscape. Gone were the irrigation channels that bring water from the high mountains and provide a life support system for what would otherwise be a patch of gravel but can now harbour trees, vineyards and small vegetable patches and grazing ground. Gone too are the fridges, the shelves of food, the ability to decide on a whim that you need something and that you can go and buy that item. A packet of biscuits, an ice cream, a cold beer. Things that normally don't have any importance but seem to assume gigantic importance in the empty vastness. Upon emergence from this sand-filled, fructose-free environment , 480 kilometres hence, all three will be consumed almost simultaneously beside a bemused old man on a shady bench, who I can see wondering whether melting chocolates and a bottle of cold beer really go well together. Indeed they don't but at least they kept my mind focused for forty hours in the saddle.

Flamingo at Cortaderas

The Catamarca provincial government had the exceptional foresight a couple of years back to build six refugios along the 200 km stretch between Fiambala, Argentina's last settlement and the top of the San Francisco pass - the frontier with Chile - and these provided shelter from inundation, tempests and below zero temperatures. Leaving Fiambala (approx. 1500 m.a.s.l.), the road climbs steadily to the southeast before veering north on a more level trajectory after 60 km. I reached Refuge No.1 shortly before 6pm but decided to continue on to the second refuge (approximately 20 kilometres further up). With a young rattling Bono and humming Edge urging me on, the refuge came into view across a large plain. Lightning was poking the ground through the dense clouds on the high ground beyond and by the time I covered the remaining few kilometres the storm had reached the refuge. A night in an exposed tent, with little chance of finding shelter would have been rather unpleasant and I was quickly learning the value of the refuges and waxing lyrical in  my stillborn Spanish in the comment book, encouraging other provinces and nations of the world to adopt such humane practices. Presently a motorbike appeared through the storm and a fellow entered,  carrying several parcels wrapped in plastic. Friendly smiles all round and it turned out that he was from Fiambala but grazed his sheep and cows up here. His family come to visit him for one month a year and they have a cottage a few kilometres up the road, on the other side of the small river. He then said something about milk and tea, which I initially assumed was a self invitation to breakfast the following morning but on reflection I am not so sure. I said si a couple of times in any case. He departed once the storm cleared amidst the last dramatic rays of sunshine shining through the clouds, as I piled up his plastic parcels on the petrol tank. He nodded and smiled in agreement about the beauty around him. A couple of hours later, just as a carrot, onion, potato and scoop of soya granules was reaching near perfection, a car pulled up in the cold darkness outside. Having successfully colonised the small shelter I wasn't particularly excited about the prospect of having to share the refuge for the night but the two men and two young sons who were up on a weekend fishing trip soon had a fire going with the wood they brought and I didn't mind sending Rocinante outside for the night. A 5 a.m. sharp the telephone alarm of the father had us all clambering around in the cold and dark and a couple of hours later,  full of warm porridge and with the sun beginning to make an appearance, I headed north.

Near an oddly placed and inexplicably abandoned  new hotel complex at Cortaderas,  three men were standing by the back of the pickup truck having breakfast. Also up for a day's fishing from Tinogasta,  they shared their coffee and bread and invited me to lunch if I should happen to time it right, later in the day. As we parted, the driver, decked out in Levi´s and large leather gaucho boots, was stuffing some coca leaves into his mouth and then offered me a few. A renowned remedy for high altitude ailments in the Andes, dried coca leaves are legal in many South American countries, with Bolivia being one of the primary producers. Hardly a performance enhancer, but the combination of caffine, sugar and a slightly numbed mouth from the chewed leaf,  had me covering the 94km to Refuge No.5 at 4000 metres by 6 o'clock. A platter of barbequed chorizo's lay left like entrails on the grill but when I gingerly explained that I was moreorless-a-nonmeateater these days to the three very friendly but uncomprehending Argentine carnivores, an enormous bag of grapes was produced instead. The wind picked up as the sun fell and once more I was thankful to the refuge gods.

10km before the Argentina customs post at Las Grutas (4000m)

On the morning of the third day from Fiambala, I reached the Argentine customs post, 21km shy of the pass. I got stamped out whilst explaining to the young Gendarme from Jujuy that William Wallace was in fact Scottish, not Irish. A quick historical sketch of Irish political history, the Las Malvinas war and British imperialism with the customs man, and another friendly chat with the road maintenance guys who filled all my water bottles, and I continued west towards the pass and into the wind. The 800 metre ascent and fierce headwind though had me once again back to a crawling pace. A few hundred metres would be attempted before the little available oxygen would deflate me and then another rest. Sometimes a push. Another few hundred metres. And so forth. Five and a half hours later I had covered the 21km to the top of the pass, consumed all my not-so-fresh bread and cheese,  and decided to stay at the final refuge, No.6, just beside the top of the pass. A shiny new GS1200 appeared and the owner was from Copiapo in Chile. He was tucking his large stash of coca leaves deep into his jacket pocket, explaining that Chilean customs could give him problems if he left them in the panniers. Handing me a small bottle of warm coke he roared off into Chile, while I went back to gathering scraps of wood that had been left by others for fuel.

San Francisco pass, Chile/Argentina (4726 metres)

Some cardboard sheets provided additional warmth and I kept a fire going most of the night and was up at 5am reigniting it, although I didn't intend to ride until the sun came up. I headed off at 8am with most of my clothes on but even then the temperature hadn't risen sufficiently for my hands not to become painfully cold after a 3km descent and  I wasn't able to brake. So instead I wrapped a couple of pairs of shorts around my fingerless gloves and headed down to Laguna Verde looking like a pedaling clothes line. Down at the cobalt blue lake I filtered some water from a stream, although I was later told it has a high mineral content and its not advised that you drink it. An attempt to gain the attention of a policeman at the carabineros post by the lake proved fruitless so I just pedaled past. At the turn-off to the thermal springs the road began climbing steeply again, to the second high point that I had only discovered the day before whilst browsing through a route description I had. Yet again there was a 21km climb, this time to just under 4600 metres and with a stiff headwind the day's intended target of the Chilean customs post, 110km from the top of the pass, looked very ambitious. It didn't look any more likely by 3pm, when after another five hours of pushing and pedaling four kilometres per hour, I reached the high point (4598m) and then the road began to descend slightly through a zone of very steep badenes (dips in the road for drainage). As I passed a site where earth-movers were sculpting the gravel landscape in preparation for a new tarred road due in three years time,  a minibus came out after me. Ismael was from southern Chile and asked me where I was going and where I intended to spend the night, as it looked like I wouldn't make the descent to the customs post this evening. He offered me a bed and dinner in the workers compound, 55km ahead, beside the customs post and the prospect of another frozen, windy night above 4000 metres had me accepting the offer reluctantly and so Rocinante was unpacked and then loaded into the back of the minibus.

 Laguna Verde, Chile

An hour later, at the end of the working day, the twelve workers from the site boarded the bus and we bounced for an hour down to the customs post and the workers compound. Ismael had been in the Chilean military for a few years before deciding to supervise on construction projects and earn more money. Shifts are 12 hours long, for twenty continuous days, followed by ten days off where the workers return to all of the various parts of Chile that they're from. A bed in the prefabs wasn't possible after a discussion with his boss, but Ismael invited me back for food after I sorted out my passport and a space to lie down for the night with the customs post. The post closes at 7pm but I was offered three old, worn and comfortable chairs by the x-ray machine by a detective who looked like a cross between a surfer and an extra from Starsky and Hutch, with bermuda shorts, long hair and droopy moustache. Grateful to be indoors, as the customs post was still at over 3700 metres,  I headed back for a dinner of banana, courgettes and rice with a hundred road workers, served up by guys wearing surgical face masks.

 Contamination from El Salvador copper mine tailings on the Pacific coast at Chanaral

Breakfast the following morning looked like something you would leave out for the birds as I put all my remaining seeds and honey into a bowl of porridge, before the Chilean customs officer stripped me of all prohibited foodstuffs. After Rocinante was given a full cavity search, the friendly Mauricio brought me over to the staff house for a second breakfast of eggs and coffee. Approximately 280 kilometres remained to Diego de Almagro, where chocolates and a cold beer could be found, amongst other non-essential items like water, fruit and vegetables. Yet again though the wind gods cursed me and progress was slow by the Pedernales slat flats but the views were fantastic. Side tracks in the gravel led off  to small  invisible mining camps. The largest mine in the area, at El Salvador, is one of the most important copper mines in Chile.

El Salado

Six days after leaving Fiambala, I forced my way into Diego de Almagro against a stiff wind and while initially considering heading back out to camp, a night in the hotel on the main plaza for $10 was conceded to. The old lady running the place asked was I very dirty, apparently an obvious question to pose to new arrivals, and expressed concern about me carting my gear into the room. After assuring her though that I wouldn't sleep with my panniers and they would stay on the floor, I headed out to find some pizza, my craving for sugar and fat not yet abated. A little pub with pictures of the former President Salvador Allende (overthrown in 1973 during a coup led by General Pinochet, among others), Che and other mineworker heros graced the walls. My vegetarian pizza arrived with three different species of domesticated animals on it.

Truckstop on the Pan American highway in the Atacama

The following morning I headed for the Pacific coast at Chanaral. Again the westerly picked up so that I was forcing my way downhill but the Pacific came into view along with a big smile at what felt like another important milestone. An inaugural dip in the Pacific would have to wait, however, as the copper mine tailings that were dumped into the bay during the 1970s and 80s have provided enough contaminants to kill off the bay's aquatic life and keep swimmers away. I loaded up with supplies for the ride north to Antofagasta, through the Atacama (well it's all the Atacama) and then headed out to camp on the beach near the entrance to the Pan de Azucar national park. A quick visit to the park the following morning and then I continued on through the park, heading inland, to join the Pan American highway northbound. The 400km to Antofagasta was interspersed with a couple of posadas or truckstops where water could be stocked up on. Four days later, the large cement factory on the southern outskirts of Antofagasta came into view.

Mano del desierto

 Prior to 1879 I would have been in Bolivia already, but the city that was originally part of Bolivia was taken over by Chilean troops in an event that marked the beginning of the War of the Pacific over mineral rights in the region, with Chile against Peru and Bolivia. Landlocked Bolivia has maintained a navy and its aspiration that it will one day recover the coastline and recent social conflicts in Bolivia over resource exploitation, especially natural gas, stem in part from the theory that the loss of the coastline has stymied Bolivia's economy. All contributing factors that led to the election of Bolivia's current president, Evo Morales, in 2005.

Arriving at La Negra, southern outskirts of Antofagasta

Antofagasta, Chile

Trip distance: 29,751 km

40. The lentil smuggler

"So how often do you get lost when you're cycling, you know, take the wrong road or something?", asked the smiling, bright-eyed Argentinian girl in the hostel.

"Well, I actually can't think of a time when that has happened...", replied the smug geographer the night before he left Mendoza.

Leaving Argentina

The irony of the conversation's timing struck me as I realised that I had gone 25 kilometres down a dead-end road and now had to retrace my tracks against the headwind and into the hot sun as I tried to find myself on the right road out of Mendoza. In my defence, the map I possess appears to show my cul-de-sac joining up with the main route from Mendoza to the frontier with Chile. But I never asked anyone, and therefore broke an unwritten rule about finding my way. Don't trust the map. Don't trust the people. Don't trust the signs. Ask and question all of them and perhaps you'll get lucky.

About to freefall into Chile

Almost two hundred years ago, on 19th January 1817, General Jose de San Martin set off with his merry band of Argentinian soldiers and Chilean exiles to liberate Chile from Spanish rule. The four-thousand troops crossed the 500 kilometre wide mountain range in 21 days and subsequently defeated the royalist Spanish troops at the battle of Chacabuco, despite losing over one-third of the expedition's members to the high mountains enroute. I was hoping to do it in considerably quicker time and with a lot less bloodshed.

Three days took me from Mendoza to Las Cuevas, the last settlement before the frontier, which most vehicles cross using the Christo Redento tunnel on the main road, the Pan-American highway. An alternative track, however, climbs a farther 600 metres up in altitude to the top of the Bermejo pass, that is lorded over by a four-ton Jesus. The statue marks the frontier and was erected in 1904 to mark the peaceful agreement that was reached by the Argentine and Chilean governments over a border dispute.

Switchbacks down into Chile

An international group of scouts were scattered along the 9 kilometer route to the top of the pass. In the afternoon they would bury a time capsule at the top of the pass and continue their ten-day walking pilgrimmage to Viña del Mar on the Pacific coast as a testament to the solidarity between Chile and Argentina, a relationship that has often been tested over the past couple of centuries as a result of sharing the world's third longest border of any two nations. I chatted with one of the leaders at the top and he appeared surprised that I hadn't heard the recent news about scouts in Chile, where a young scout was hospitalised as a result of a beating received during an initiation ceremony. While the incident was no doubt brutal, it did momentarily cross my mind on the windy summit that if this is the news making national headlines here, it appears to bode better than many other countries on the continent. The scout leader lamented the damage that had been done to image of scouting in Chile and he envisaged a lot of media interest in their current project, which he hoped would cast the association in a better light.

Into Chile

After a slow descent on the less stable surface of the Chilean side of the pass, I reached the Pan-Am highway once more and continued down the road to customs and migration. Officials appeared uncertain at first as whether to put me in the BUS or the AUTO queue, but thankfully chose the latter with far fewer people hovering about. More uncertainty when a loaded Rocinante appeared at customs, do I take the car lane and get the sniffer dogs or do I have to unload all the bags and put them through the x-ray machine like the bus passengers. Thankfully a friendly customs officer gave Rocinante a personal cavity search without requiring me to remove the bags. "What are those?", the officer queried as he squinted into the muddled depths of my panniers. "Lentils", I replied, with a guilty grin. Shaking his head ruefully he pocketed my supper in a large trash bag. Porridge oats are apparently not catagorised as Class A substances and with a wave and smile I was motioned into Chile, breakfast in tow.

Over the past week I have struck north on the only other viable option that avoids the congested urban centres of Santiago, Valparaiso, and Viña del Mar and the busy Pan-American highway (Route 5). The route has passed along quiet tar roads and abysmal dirt tracks through the small towns of Cabildo, Illapel, and Combarbala to Ovalle. Cycling against the grain of the Andean foothills in the summer heat has encouraged a higher incidence of swearing aloud at the occasional American kestral that spectates from a perch on the telephone wires, but the rewards, as always, make up for the extra exertion involved in getting off the main routes. Invitations to a family lunch, beautiful camping spots, and huasos running me off dirt trails on decidedly energetic beasts have provided memorable moments.

One of the vanquished in recent presidential elections

One evening I camped up in what appeared to be a deserted village, at least 15 kilometres from any sign of recent habitation in each direction along the valley in which I was traveling. The several stone-built houses in the narrow valley were all roofless and appeared to have been abadoned either in favour of following dreams of urban salvation or under threat from nearby mining interests. A warm wind required the aid of tent pegs to secure mi casa. As I removed the panniers from the bike, I noticed that both of the plastic fittings that secure the panniers to the rear rack had snapped. The following morning divine intervention and duct tape would make a temporary fix, so for the moment I decided not to lament over the broken plastic. After a vegetable stew cooked amid the ruins that were reminiscent for me of similar shipwrecked homesteads along the west coast of Ireland, I retreated to the tent. In the darkness I could hear a squeak being carried on the wind and eventually it drew nearer, the owner of a bicycle apparently pushing his way through the deserted valley, down a track that quickly dead-ended. My tent encroached on the path and for a moment the person stopped and was obviously considering the spectacle and Rocinante chained up to a tree, but shortly after moved on up the valley. Hills, daytime heat and broken rails, however, soon had me sleeping deeply and the following morning I could see the tracks of the bicycle and its owner continuing to the end of the valley, but all the houses were as empty as the evening before.

On the streets, Ovalle

Ovalle, Chile

Peddled: 27,851 km