The weather is okay today, but won’t be for the next few days, so I get on the bike and hit the road just before 8:00 a.m. I have to cross the Abra Huayraccasa, a narrow mountain pass at 14,098 feet. Some of the peaks around it are over 21,000 feet.
Early in the day, I round a corner in a very narrow gorge with steep cliffs up one side and a river on the other. A tree crashes in front of me—not that there are many around—and two locals with glinting machetes stand nearby. They keep their distance and let me push some rocks against the cut trunk for me to ride over. It isn’t a holdup, so it must be the tree they want, although they have no transport and are miles from a town. No conversation, smiles, or assistance, so I carry on.
The road is rough, with very large potholes and, as I get higher into the mist, damp conditions, a bit of lightning, snow, and slippery riverstones. At the summit or near to it, with poor visibility, I encounter a road construction crew and vehicles. A smile, a wave, and then I carry on up out of the mist. The road becomes dry and there’s visibility right out to the Pacific Ocean. Fantastic! There are no other vehicles traveling and no vegetation.
After ten hours of the longest and toughest ride I’ve had, I finally get to Puquio for a meal and a bed.
After a good rest and breakfast, I gas up the bike and head for Nazca, out on the coast. I’m on the road about one hour before I get a puncture. I’m glad this didn’t happen the day before! I put in my spare tube, and my pump fails. Fortunately, like most Kiwis, I have a bit of wire in the tool kit and get it working. The usual 400 strokes later, I’m back on the road.
This is mountainous desert country, and someone told me that it never rains here. Finally, I drop down to the lowlands, with fertile valleys and sand dunes. I hit the sealed highway at Nazca and finish my day in Ica, where a friendly policeman bunks me down at a local police station—not, however, in one of the cells! The next day, he drives me downtown and shouts me a meal and a beer. As for his police car, I’ve seen better stock cars.
I cash a traveler’s cheque at the bank, repair the tube, and prepare to travel to Lima.
The friendly policeman warns me before I leave, “Do not stop or break down on the outskirts of Lima.”
I see why, so I don’t. I ride into Lima and am befriended by a young chap, Alfredo, a car salesperson. He takes me to his family home and entertains me for eight days.
I am finally able to replace my cracked-up rear tyre, and swap the emergency one for a Dunlop K70. I also buy a new chain and service the bike.
I’m 6,900 miles and 62 days travel away from Punta Arenas.