Uyuni - Salar de Uyuni - Uyuni (1 day, 150miles)

 A lazy start the next morning saw us at the Train Cemetary on the outskirts of Uyuni.  Skeletons of old steam locomotives lie rusting in the salty desert, stripped of all usable or saleable metal...it's really sad to think that all the effort put into building and running the locos (some made in England!) is now wasted...I wonder what the engineers would think?    Photos taken, we rode to Colchani and turned left onto the Salar de Uyuni.  The Salar is a giant salt flat - the biggest in the world (another tick in the book!) - and looks amazing.  Once past the Hotel of Salt - built, predictably, entirely of salt...beds, tables, chairs, the lot - you're into a vast expanse of whiteness...distant (as in 180km distant) mountains ring the desert - but apart from their far, brooding shapes there's nothing else to see apart from blue sky and white desert.  A truly incredible place...probably the most dramatic and fantastic sight we've yet seen.  The weirdest thing is not having to look ahead all the time for cars, junctions, edges of road etc...it's possible to ride in whichever direction you choose for pretty much as long as you want!  Entrance points to the Salar plotted in the GPS, and mindful of limited petrol, we rode in large curving lines and random circles towards Isla de Pescado, a island in the middle of the Salar with tourist (spit) facilities.  50 miles of riding into nothing later, the island shimmered into existence ahead and we pulled up on the shore - very weird feeling, much like circling an island in a boat...except you're on a bike...bizarre.    Curious locals clambered on and off the bikes, snapping photos almost continuously - it's great to see  “local “ tourists as well as the obligatory all-gringo  “adventure tour “ groups - as we packed in a giant hamburger each.  Deciding against camping on the salt flats - apparently coaches hurtle across them during the night - we drove out into the desert for a photo session and got some brilliant photos!    Unfortunately, disaster struck on the way back to the island...Will lost the front wheel on a patch of loose salt, or a lump of salt or something...not sure what...and came off his bike, losing his helmet in the process.  One rapid van ride later, Will was comfortably ensconced in the Uyuni hospital, doctors and nurses fussing over the cuts and abrasions he'd sustained to his hands and face.    Latest news is that Will is fine and is recuperating in a very nice hospital in Cochabamba, probably flying home in the next week or so.  Looks like the bike will need some repair work, and as both of us have constraints on the remaining time we've decided to take a  “commerical break “ to fix Will's bike and improve our Spanish, and come back early next year to finish the ride through Bolivia, into Chile and Argentina.  This is probaby the last update to the blog for a while - so until next time...adios! 

La Paz - Coroico - Pazna (2 days, 300 miles)

 New cameras stashed safely in pockets, we're on the road towards Coroico, trying to find the  “Most Dangerous Road In The World “.  The only dangerous thing about the road we found was nearly freezing to death, or drowing from the copious amounts of rain being dumped on us.  The road was supiciously wide and new and we realised, as we pulled into Coroico, that we'd missed the dangerous road completely and had cunningly found the new replacement.  Damn.  Still, a hostal with hot water and the hottest pizza in the world (or so Will thought) was sufficient consolation and we resolved to be more successful the next day.    The next morning we selected a different way out of town, located the the  “MDRITW “ (getting fed up of typing all those words!) and prepared to be suitably scared.   “Most Dangerous “?  Hmmm.   I guess you have to ask WHY it's so dangerous. It might be because, for reasons known only to themselves, the Bolivian authorities have reversed the usual drive-on-the-right rule which no doubt complicates matters immensely.  The name probably comes from the death toll on it...which is completely understandable when you realise that it's a dirt track that has acted for many years as the main trunk road, carrying two-way traffic mainly consisting of heavy lorries and buses, neither of which are known for their manoeuvrability.  The road is probably less dangerous than - for example - the road up to Kuelap in the north of Peru - that road had an infinitely worse surface (loose sand) and equally sheer drops.  Still, the misnomer seems to attract plenty of  “extreme “ tourists, rolling bug-eyed down the road on mountain bikes as we clawed our way up, and I guess it does wonders for the economy of an otherwise remote and tiny mountain village.    Remarkably unimpressed with the MDRITW we froze over a pass at 15,300ft, drove through La Paz and out of the other side with an horrendous amount of hassle.  Protests over contrabrand gas (or the lack of it) have brought main roads in the city to a halt, which, combined with the incredible geography of the capital (or it is the capital?  Not sure) makes for very frustrating navigation, especially when directions consist of machine-gun spanish and a randomly-waved arm.  It must be damn obvious that we don't speak Spanish very well yet they show us no mercy at all - just wait till we meet them in the UK.    Eventually out of La Paz, we head south past Oruro as far as we can get before dark.  As the sun dies, we ride along the edges of the salt plains, mountains swept back from the shores like piles of sand by a giant hand.  The dying sun is spectacular, staining the sky red and orange as the temperature drops and we eventually find a tiny hospedaje for the night.    Next day we start early towards Potosi, the end of the paved road south, and then on towards Uyuni, the jumping-off point for the salt flats of the Salar de Uyuni.  We got incredibly lost (again) trying to find the road out of Potosi towards Uyuni - being a dirt track it's not particularly obvious at all where the road goes - eventually, trusting the directions of a man with a theodolyte, we found the track and rode off into the desert.    What incredible riding.  Bikes slipping on the sandy surface, sliding on the gravel marbles and clawing through loose soil - this has to be the best riding yet.  In comparative safety it's possible to maintain speeds of around 60km/h - excellent!  A couple of amusing low-speed drops on sand - it's hard to keep the front wheel straight! and another exhibition of Matt  “DitchFinder General “ Bye's talent later, we dropped off out of the chilly Dartmoor-esque moorland plateau, through a military checkpoint (had to bribe the guys to let us through...cheeky sods) and down towards Uyuni, squatting at the edge of the salt flats.  After being complimented on our Spanish by a local tour guide - she couldn't believe we'd only had eight days of lessons (preen!) we located both a hotel and a superb pub/restaurant - with a real wood fire! - before bed. 

Cusco - Puno - Bolivia border - La Paz (2 days, 403 miles)

 Leaving Cuso, we headed out south towards Puno, our final stop in Peru before crossing into Bolivia.  Bleary-eyed from the 5am start, we miscalculated the temperatures and were getting seriously cold at 60mph as the sun hadn't bothered to warm the air up yet.  Thankfully, Will located a nail that kindly deflated his tyre - coincidentally within a few hundred metres of a  “llantera “ (tyre repair guy) who, for a couple of dollars, removed the nail he'd probably thrown into the road himself and fixed the hole.  After breakfast (served by the dimmest woman in the world - I know our spanish is bad but it's not THAT bad!) we were back on the road again and climbing up to around 4300m - at which point it became VERY COLD INDEED as we cruised across the die-straight roads of the altiplano - the bleak, wind-blasted high plateau on which (somehow) people manage to live and farm the ubiquitous llama and alpaca (they're quite different....have a look on Google!) that peer suspiciously at us from the side of the road as we sweep past.    A few hours later we pulled into Puno, a small town that sits on the shores of Lake Titicaca, the world's highest, biggest navigable lake.  It's...well...very...umm...big?  And blue, too.  A suitable hotel was rapidly located - these places are great - you ask for bike parking at a hotel that's obviously in the middle of a pedestrian precinct and in the middle of a terrace and they point at the inner courtyard...into which you ride through reception, taking great care not to tear chunks out of the beautifully polished  wooden desk with your mucky panniers.  Excellent!  We had a look at an old ship, moored by another hotel and now restored by PeruRail (cynical mode on -  “publicity stunt “).  Apparently the ship was built in  England in the mid 1800s, sailed across to Peru, and then shipped (no pun) in pieces by train and mule - MULE! - up to Lake Titicaca (the journey took six years).   Imagine the  “phonecall “ -  “Hi, British Ship Builders? “ -  “Yes, I'd like one of your ships please “ -  “Certainly sir - is that pre-built or in our more popular 'kit form'? “  Mad.    We had intended to check out the Uros - people who live on floating reed islands on the lake.  On arrival at the terminal, we discovered that it was horrendously touristy.  Disgusting.  We want to see indigenous people going about their daily buisness, not some canned, pre-prepared tourist attraction which is solely geared to take money of idiot spectators.  Argh.  We rapidly discarded this idea and walked back to the hotel via the market...resisting the urge to buy & eat guinea pig, a local delicacy, from the many stalls.  After a late lunch of hamburgers (another erm...local delicacy) we headed for a hotel room and crashed out for about 15 hours...tired? Us?  Never.    Next day was Border Day.  Looking forward to another country, we set off south, along the shores of the lake towards Desaguadero, after a final fill of scarily expensive Peruvian fuel - how do locals afford to run their cars??!.  Lake Titicaca shimmered turquoise on our left as we cruised towards the border, the bikes running beautifully despite the 3800m altitude.     The border crossing in Bolivia was superb.  Although a bustling half-market half-border place, no-one hassled us apart from a half-hearted attempt by a local chap to flog us 'mandatory' tickets for the bridge across to Bolivia.  Great!  Bolivian customs initially appeared to be slightly more complex, as we'd been told that we HAD to have a Carnet de Passage - this turned out to be rubbish, the customs guys even looking up pictures of the Salar de Uyuni and printing off maps for us - superb service - easiest crossing yet!    Two hours and many handshakes later we were riding for La Paz,  which we made in a couple of hours.  Using the cunning 'hire a taxi and follow it to the address we want' method, we eventually arrived at the bike shop where we were going to have the bikes serviced - but not until the cheating taxi driver tried to charge us double the fare we'd agreed - we made up for the increased fare by paying him in three separate currencies...serve him right :-)    Bikes now in the capable hands of the bike shop for new tyres and oil change, we found a central hotel and went out for dinner.  On our return to the hotel room we discovered that some kindly soul had lightened our panniers to the tune of two cameras, sunglasses, pocket PC and other stuff courtesy of a duplicate key.  What a lovely chap.  Desperately trying to restrain thoughts of extreme physical violence, we spent the next four hours explaining to the extremely shifty hotel manager - who tried to tell us we must have lost them at the border -  and porter that we needed the stuff back - all to no avail.      Next day saw us Spanishing our problems to a series of Bolivian policemen - until thankfully we met a English-speaking policeman called Elvis (yes, he's alive in Bolivia) who not only sorted out the police report in record time but also came with us to find a new camera - really nice chap who wouldn't stop apologising for the problems we'd had in his country.    Ah well - we live and learn.  Next stop - Coroico (World's Most Dangerous Road).  Nice!

Cusco - i.e. Machu Picchu [1 day, about 100 miles by train, bus and taxi - grrr]

 Vague plans for visiting Machu Picchu floating around, we headed for the market the next morning to pick up some random cleaning stuff for the bike chains.  We decided to try to get to Agua Caliente (the village below Machu Picchu) that evening in order to get an early start (6am) at the site the next day and avoid the mid-morning tourist crush - a very good plan.  An opportunistic tourist rep booked us a "bus" (read 'ubiquitous shed of a Toyota Corolla') to a halfway point (Ollantaytambo) to cut down on the astronomical train ticket cost - "Can you come back at 2pm?" - "Yes" - "Actually could you come back in half an hour, you'll get there much earlier?" - "Yes" - "Actually, how about back here in twenty minutes?" -  a mad scramble for cameras and spare batteries and we were in a taxi driven by The Human Altimeter - "This is so-and-so village, 3450m" - "That's Lake Whatsit, 3700m".  One quick robbery later (see below) and we were on the train to Agua Caliente...means "hot water" in Spanish, most ironic as that commodity was conspicuous by absence at the hotel that evening.    Now...Machu Picchu.  The short version is that it's utterly incredible but a tad expensive.   The long version...well, it's below.     It's still utterly incredible.  Neither of us had seen anything remotely like it - it's superb.  Climbing the highest mountain we could see provided gobsmacking views out across the "lost city" and the soaring mountains that surround it - and no tourists, who arrived in brash swarms at about 10.30, just as we were smugly leaving the site, cameras red-hot and amazed by the relics of a civilisation that could construct such a fantastic city.  Makes our efforts of Milton Keynes look pretty lacking.   The only slight downside to the visit - which is wholly recommended and a definte must-see - was the extortionate and convoluted system for getting there.  Designed to extract the absolute maximum from the tourists - which is fair enough, seeing as they're contributing to erosion and so on - the entire charade is both annoying and expensive.  It is possible to get from Cusco to Agua Caliente wholly by train - but that will cost $100 ONE WAY for the privilege.  Getting a $30 taxi (between two) to the halfway point (any further isn't possible) reduces the one-way ticket cost to only - 'ONLY!' - $30 per person.  Then there's the $6 ONE WAY bus fare from Agua C to the entrance AND the $24 per person admission fee.  Total cost to us - $250 for two.  That's ridiculous - but the fact that we'd still recommend going should say something.  Probably better to do the 3/4 day Inca Trail trek that includes admission for $125 - but we're too lazy to walk and they won't let motorbikes on the trail :-(    Leaving Agua Caliente, we rendevouzed with our taxi driver again (holding a sign for "Sr Matt and Will" - brilliant!) at the train station.  The drive home was rapid and dark...forest fires redly digesting the hillsides as they blazed above us...a monster burger at the Norton Rats' Tavern prepared us for bed, completely exhausted.    In the next couple of days we leave for Lake Titicaca and Bolivia...it'll be nice to escape the tourist trap of Cusco at last...bring on the Salt Plains and 'The World's Most Dangerous Road'.

Palpa - Nazca Lines - Cusco [2 days, 427 miles]

A rather nippy start into the desert got us to the observation tower for the Nazca Lines - massive drawings and geometric shapes drawn into the desert sand - nice and early the next day.  Bar the ticket guy, we were the only two people there as we climbed the rusty iron tower...which obviously explains why ticket guy climbed the tower five minutes later and minutely scrutinised our admission slips...jobsworth!  Realising that it's very hard to see drawings that are hundreds of meters across from a tower ten metres high, we bailed for Nazca proper to book a flight over the plateau.  $90 for us both and thirty minutes later, having watched half of a pirated Discovery Channel documentary about the Lines, we were crammed into a Cessna and roaring out across the desert.  The pilot was superb, making near-vertical turns over each picture etched nearly 3000ft below on the desert floor so that we could get decent photos - fifty quid well spent.  Theories abound as to the origin of the lines, one fruitloop professor claiming that they're the result of extra-terrestrial spaceships landing and taking off - a "theory awaiting evidence", as it was politely dismissed by one of the blurred experts on the video.  More plausible is the suggestion that shamen from the Nazca tribe would consume hallucinogenic drugs and 'fly' vast distances to fight battles and ensure water would appear for the villagers - thus the drawings were made to be visible from the air and portray animals whose characteristics the shamen would adopt in his battles...the cunning of the monkey, the aggression of the spider and so on.  They are incredible, especially when one considers that they were made maybe six hundred years ago and have not been restored...apparently the complete lack of rainfall in the areas minimises erosion.  Very impressive.    Heading out of Nazca past the world's largest sand dune - it's very tall (2000m) and made from lots of sand... - we climbed up into the desert, pulling over with amazement when we spotted another overland bike by the side of the road...it was Roland and Thea - a couple from Austria and Norway travelling on an old BMW RS100.  Swapping bike stories and cruising through the mountain roads occupied a few hours - it's great to meet other people on bikes - it turns into a massive geek session as we question each other about fuel consumption, luggage capacity, routes, equipment....you get the picture.  Parting company after exchanging email addresses, we headed up into the highest areas yet - we finally topping out at 15,000ft - the bikes were most unhappy, but the scenery was incredible, blue skies above endless sparse grass stretching out across the massive plains to the snow-capped Andes beyond.  Fingers rapidly numbing and feeling the effects of the altitude we made good progress across the thankfully excellent roads, hoping that we'd drop off the edge of the plateau before dark or rain started falling.  Fortunately temperatures improved as we descended (well, they couldn't get much colder) and we swung through superbly smooth roads into Chalhuanca for the night, grateful for hot water (after Will complained about false advertising) and more lomo saltado before bed.    Cusco beckoned the next day...jumping off point for Machu Picchu and also a large town to grab a few days rest after the last few marathon rides.  Pelting past backpacker buses on the twisting canyon roads, we were going well until Will "Dog Magnet" Solomon struck again - this time coming off slightly better as the dog bounced off the heavy aluminium bashplate and up into doggie heaven - Will vs. Dogs score now sitting at 1:1.     Glorious sunshine accompanied us as we eventually learnt how to stop the bikes feeling sick at altitude - turn the fuel taps half off - brilliant!  Despite the efforts of local kids to stop Will leaving (hanging onto his panniers after a photo stop) we made Cusco in good time, bullied taxi drivers out of the way and found a hostel about mid-afternoon...it was very, very nice to arrive somewhere in daylight! 

Cajamarca - Palpa [2 days, 798 miles]

 Having soiled the hotel garage floor with oil and muck as we cleaned the dusty chains, we loaded up with a buffet breakfast (silly hotel) and headed out of Cajamarca on a decent tarmac road - HOORAY!  Progress was swift, roads good and scenery amazing - especially the very welcome surprise of a picturesque green lake at the perfect swimming/posing for photos temperature.  Our preconceptions of Peru were so far off - rather than consisting solely of mountains and llamas, Peru has everything from blasted Anden plateau to scorching, arid desert...completely different from how we'd imagined it to be!    Arriving at Trujillo proved more eventful than expected as Matt's rear tyre deflated, necessitating a trip to a local "llantera" to have the puncture fixed.  The mechanic was incredibly rapid and very deft - presumably from  fixing countless lorry tubes - unfortunately his assistants weren't quite as practiced as they "helped" us wrestle the fixed wheel back into place.  Total puncture repair cost - 55p.  Incredible.    The fixed innertube stood up well to the beautifully-tarmacced PanAmerican highway as we sped along, aiming for Lima. Unfortunately we failed to realise that the beautifully arid desert scenery and associated sidewind meant a vastly reduced fuel economy...the latter fact becoming evident when Matt's bike conked through both "reserve" stages and into the "completely and utterly devoid of fuel" stage in the middle of the nowhere and the pitch-black Peruvian night.  Oops.  Probably due to extreme tiredness and annoyance, we proceeded with one of our dimmest ideas so far.    We carry about ten metres of high-tensile nylon cord for general use (lassooing cattle, restraining prisoners, etc) - which at the time seemed to be ideal for towing Matt's bike.  Struggling to hold onto the rope with one hand whilst balancing the bike with the other, Matt weaved from side to side behind Will as we resumed unsteady wobbling progress along the road and, to their great amusement, past two Peruvian traffic police who caught us up - just as Will had succeed in towing Matt off his bike and twenty yards down the road as Matt's carefully engineered quick-release rope mechanism proved to be everything but.  Expecting a good and proper dressing down, we were dumbstruck as the police laughed at us, told us they liked Elton John (also from England) and told us to follow them to the next village, where they woke up four families asking them for petrol.  A local taxi driver, equipped with an old cooking oil barrel, sped off to bring back some fuel - we chatted to the policemen until he returned, filled the bikes up and eventually found a hotel for the night in Huarmey, the next town along the PanAmerican.  What a day.    6am the next morning found us on the road towards Lima, probably the epicentre of everything truly manic about South American driving.  Once one realises that being one of the swerving crazies is actually safer, progess is much swifter - welding a thumb to the horn button works wonders for the observation skills of other drivers.  Our experience of Lima was rapid, distilled to the essence of terrible driving and a petrol station...we were spat out of the other side into more desert - still seems very strange to find that in Peru! - with some gigantic sand dunes marching alongside the highway.  Will's eagle eyes picked out motocross bike tracks across the dunes...so a quick right turn off the tarmac and we were racing the fully-laden XTs up sand dunes, straining to keep the fishtailing bikes in a straight line as they struggled for traction on the soft sand and steep slopes.  Inevitable crashes proved hilarious as forward motion ceased and the bikes toppled sideways into the sand...great fun.    Civilisation deserted us as we continued towards Nazca into the desert, and as the sun set behind us, the sky took on a beautiful red-to-blue gradient, sweeping seamlessly from one to the other all around as the huge expanse of flat sand dominated the horizon...truly incredible.  The sun had completely vanished as we descended from the desert plateau  through tight canyon walls into Palpa, 30km short of the Nazca Lines - the next tick in the tourist attraction book. 

Chachapoyas - Cajamarca [2 days, 180 miles]

 Feeling obliged to take in at least one of the many Incan ruins in the surrounding area, we headed out on dirt roads to Kuelap, a walled city perched precariously on one of the towering granite crags 'nearby'.  We were very pleased with ourselves when we spotted a sign saying 'Kuelap -  9.8km' - slightly less so when, two hours later, we realised that the information ommitted would have continued along the lines of ' - but that's actually as the crow flies and but in reality it's more like 40km cos of the REALLY BENDY ROADS and they're only gravel roads so you'll be much slower than normal'.  Hmph.  The ride there hugged what was presumeably one of the old cart tracks, skirting the mountain feet and gradually climbing...for the next 40km.  A deserted car park was music to our...eyes?.., the $3 entrance fee a pittance and the fortress itself a work of engineering genius, the sandy yellow walls standing almost six metres above us atop a sheer 75m drop to the cliff base.  Views were predictably stunning, thunderstorms rolling in the distance in one direction - thankfully not ours - and the patterned folds in the rock from ancient volcanic action very prominent from our vantage point.  Two hours of looking at roofless houses later we slogged back down the track and resumed our (very slow) progress towards Tingo...after half an hour, dusk falling and Matt's badly-adjusted headlight perfectly illuminating the treetops, we happened upon a tourist (argh!) lodge.  After bargaining with the owner -  “How much for a room for tonight “ -  “How much do you want to pay “ -  “Errr...nothing? “ -  “Errr...no “ -  “How about $10 “ -  “Bueno! “ - we were introduced to lomo saltado, surprisingly a local dish rather than a Peruvian pop group, consisting of fried beef and onions with rice - probably the first local food we've genuinely really really liked.  A group of english tourists being shepherded round the Authentic Peru Experience provided entertaining dinnertime listening (must...not...mock...) before piling into bed, determined to make better progress the following day.    6am and we were on the road, heading for Cajamarca.  What should have been a straightforward day rapidly turned into probably the hardest day of riding yet as the road wound ever upwards into the mountains looming above us, deteriorating into rough, rocky cart tracks coiling interminably across the precipitous faces of the Andes.  Concern about a distinct lack of petrol - even in places where they apparently sold the stuff - grew with every mile, leading to us coasting down into the valley under Gravity Power alone in an attempt to conserve fuel.  Across the river, through a tiny village - where kids poked curiously at our armoured jackets and panniers - and we began the steep climb up the far mountain through white, dusty desert, reminiscent of Baja California.   What was most disheartening was the fact that despite odometers registering nearly one hundred miles, we'd probably moved only three or four miles as the crow files...we could see the track twisting down the face of the distant mountains - in fact, we'd ridden up, down and across pretty much every damn mountain in view.  Roads didn't improve, much like the fuel situation, until after a long traversing grind across a two-mile long cliff face we crested a final pass and dropped into Celedin, a fantastic sight - mainly because it had a petrol station.  Skipping lunch in favour of more progress we headed west again, back onto dirt roads (admittedly of slightly better quality) and back up into thin air of the Andes.  Peruvian road engineers seem to have a mortal fear of a gradient greater than anything just slightly above a dead flat road - the tracks wind around hills in endless skeins of hairpins BUT DON'T GAIN ANY DECENT HEIGHT!  Maybe some pages were missing from their copy of the Mountain Road Builder's Manual.  Grrrr.  Dusk and rain started to fall, we got colder and increasingly annoyed with the roads as the bikes skated around in the dark on the wet marbles that made up the surface - until at LAST, cold and very tired, the lights of Cajamarca revealed themselves around a final hillside, we dropped into the town and found probably the best hotel in the world -  i.e. it had hot water and a safe garage for the girls.   Anticipating a quiet and well-deserved meal we headed out to find a restaurant.  Four gallons of coke later we were feeling much happier about the state of affairs...until an earthquake tremor decided to rock the restaurant, glasses clinking and lights swaying as we made a hasty exit to the street whilst hoping that the cathedral towering above us wasn't going to spontaeneously dismantle itself.  Thankfully  “this is normal for the area “ and nothing actually fell over - shame, cos it would have made a great photo.