I am heading north for the first big town, Puno, on the western shore of Titicaca, when with only a few miles to go I encounter my first and only major mishap. The road is heavily metaled, and a student on a bicycle is riding in the same direction as me, but on the wrong side of the road. I give him a wide berth and proceed to pass. He hears me coming and, without looking, crosses to my side on my left. I brake in the metal with no road left and slide into him with a gentle bump, and we both fall off our bikes together, teetering on the edge. The bank is just large jagged rocks all the way down to the lake edge, but, fortunately, the only bit of grass is where we go down.
I get a large rock in my left knee and he cuts a couple of fingertips. He can ride his bike okay, so I escort him the rest of the way to his college, and a tutor who speaks English sorts out a solution. I take him into town on the back of my bike to the local hospital, where they stitch up his fingers, my left knee, and also my trousers. We then go on to the local bank. I cash a traveler’s cheque and it’s agreed that I pay him the equivalent of $7.50 for the damage to his bike. Everyone is happy.
I meet an American couple with the Peace Corps who put me up for the night in a modern timber frame house. I sleep on the floor, because they have no furniture.
I have to rest up a day in Puno, get my passport stamped, and fit a padlock as a steering lock—while I was in hospital, someone bumped my parked bike and rendered the lock useless.