The Long Way Home
After finally fixing our bikes, our bodies fall apart
Normal expats fly home when they are about to have a baby. My parents, though, drove down the road from where they lived in Potosi until they were merely 2800 metres above sea level and decided that would probably do. I was born in Cochabamba, Bolivia. And now, 23 years later, I was back. And feeling a little tense.
The Adventure Gods have an uncanny way of enforcing a speed limit on the rate at which you can see the world. If you push your luck and break that limit early on, you will pay for it later. We had been paying for a week, ever since we left Santa Cruz, and our debt was not yet settled. As we woke up on Sunday morning, Didier’s bike seized solid as per usual, it was clear to all three of us that at this point our flight back to the UK would interfere with the adventure. In Didier’s mind, this meant preparing for the fact that Alex and I would have to leave him to make it back to Huanuco in time. In my mind, that was never an option. And I never know what’s going on in Alex’s mind.
But the reality was that to make it back to Huanuco we would need to substantially beat our average distance per day every day for the remainder of the trip, which just wasn’t going to happen. We needed a plan that bought us some time back. While I thought it was unacceptable to leave Didier behind, I believed the only way we could honour that is if we kept moving at all costs (i.e. on the backs of trucks); I didn’t like the idea of sitting on our arses, waiting for another Sunday to wash by. I had been pushing this point for a week now, and felt that we could have saved 4 days and 2 breakdowns had we taken a truck to Cochabamba when we first broke down in Samaipata. It was time for a call to Toby, the man who always has a plan. Or three.
Toby reckoned his counterpart in Bolivia, Dani from Bolivia Motors, could sort us out with a mechanic who could actually fix bikes. More importantly, Toby said that if we ran out of time, he could ship the bikes to his place from Cusco. This gave us a much needed safety net. So we decided to give fixing Didier’s bike one last shot on Monday morning. Dani put us in contact with Freddy, a mechanic that runs the local motocross team and has a very non-Bolivian looking workshop with many shiny things. He could see the predicament we were in, and he knew he was our only option. So he charged us $300 to fix Didier bike. This was three times anything we had been charged before and included $150 for labour, which was more like ten times anything we had been charged before. It would take him three days. After a lot of head shaking he said it could be done in two days, and guaranteed that if the bike broke down again before we left Bolivia, he would personally drive his pickup truck to where we were to fix it. A man of confidence. A few minutes later, a rich man of confidence.
It was time for another drink. Mint beer. It was awful, but I pretended it was great because it was my idea.
Two days later, and we picked up Didier’s bike which was now squeaky clean and once again running. The last week had taken a toll on us and even though it would be dark in less than two hours, we wanted to get on the bikes and just do some distance, any distance. In the subsequent hour of riding three things became apparent.
1. FFS, we are riding in the dark again.
2. Didier’s engine is running very well!
3. Didier’s gear shifter has come off.
After some creativity involving superglue and duct tape, and more disbelief from Didier that we were again wielding our tools on his bike, we found what looked like a tourist resort with a garden where we could set up camp. It took some negotiation, though, as for some reason the place is only allowed to be open on weekends. A bit like the inverse of all the other businesses in South America. I guess this must be where they all fuck off to on Sunday.
After a man made us some sandwiches, we crawled into our tents and hoped that tomorrow would be the day the trip got back on track.
There are two roads from Cochabamba to La Paz, one arrow straight along the altiplano, and one similar to the one we took from Santa Cruz to get to Cochabamba a few days earlier. For the first time, we chose the sensible road. Even though Toby had organised us a get out of jail free card and getting to Cusco on time should be easy, I think all three of us just wanted to cover some distance, even if that meant missing the famous Death Road near La Paz.
The relentless having to reset expectations, deal with issues, spend a lot of money, and spend a lot of time not on bikes had gotten to us by this point. We started to argue about where we would spend the night and how hard we should be pushing to cover distance when I think really all of us were just very tired. Rest days (and we’d had far too many recently) don’t really help with this kind of tiredness, especially if you spend most of them trying to rescue the fate of the trip.
La Paz is not a city that was thought through. It is certifiably insane. The city is nestled in a valley at the foot of the altiplano, with a beautiful view over the mountains in the distance. So nestled, in fact, that it can’t really grow. So all the people, buildings, streets and shops are crammed into an impossibly claustrophobic area for a capital city, until even that becomes too much and the city starts to grow up the cliff and spills onto the altiplano. Up there, all the access roads to Bolivia’s capital are plagued by road blocks made up of people, markets, stones and burning tyres that last days at a time. We would not have seen La Paz had we not been on motorbikes that could skirt around the makeshift blockades and navigate down the impossibly steep alleyways into the centre, and even so my bike was eating clutch plates at a worrying rate with every hill start. After the Google woman misled me multiple times we finally arrived at Wild Rovers Hostel, which was full. A few clutch plates later though, we made it to Full Hostel. Which was empty.
Being able to ride a full day had finally given us some much needed hope that the bikes would hang on until the Peruvian border. It was crucial that they did, because until we personally brought the bikes into Peru, there was nothing even Toby could do to help. So the next morning, we were ready for an important day.
The first half of it was spend dodging all the roadblocks out of La Paz, and left us wondering how people were upset enough to spend their day sitting on the road, yet not upset enough to prevent them from pointing out the way around the various blockades. I have to admit I was a little nervous about all the people standing around burning tyres. Surely if they care this much, they won’t appreciate us just off-roading our way through their demonstration and leaving La Paz anyway? Turns out nobody really cares about three Gringos on shit Chinese bikes…
As we did another hundred altiplano kilometres, the horizon became shiny. Lake Titicaca, a sea at 4500 metres. If there’s one thing I didn’t expect to do on top of the Andes, it’s cruise along a beautiful twisting coastal road alongside a never-ending expanse of water. But so it was, another race track on the roof of Andes, and this one led us to a wooden ferry (read raft) powered by a comically undersized outboard motor to take us across the narrowest part of the Lake. On the other side, Peru.
This was the one border that couldn’t go wrong. The bikes are Peruvian, we’ve got insurance; this one was going to be a formality. And it was. Until a man informed us that there was a problemito with the bikes. He sat us down and carefully outlined to us that as we had left Peru into Chile, we didn’t have the right papers to bring the bikes back through Bolivia. The only solution was going to be riding back to Arica (remember Arica?), at least three days away.
One of the things I like about many third world countries is that when there is a problem like this (admittedly there are many), at least everybody is eventually reasonable enough to find a solution in the end. We were really hoping that would be the case here, but it wasn’t looking like it.
“If we let you through, we will lose our jobs. You see, this is the problem. So you have to go back around and cross at Arica.”
“Yes, I understand that, I don’t want to cause a problem for you. But for us, we do not have an extra 3 days. We need to be in Cusco the day after tomorrow.”
“You cannot cross at this border, you have to cross at Chile, this is the problem.”
“I understand the problem, but let’s think about a solution for both of us. Can we make the right papers here, or is there a fine we can pay?”
This is usually where their eyes would light up if they were looking for a bribe. But they were having none of it. We were worried. I was considering just running to the bikes and gunning it across the border. It’s probably a good thing Alex and Didier shot that one down pretty quick.
A few phone calls were made to the border with Chile, after which the officer gestured to Didier. Didier disappeared into his office and to my relief I heard a hushed discussion that seemed to include amounts of money. The bribe was on. I wonder why they always pick Didier for this kind of thing. Oh wait, no I don’t. He’s a shifty bastard and everyone seems to know it.
300 soles later (30 dollars per bike), we were in Peru. We rode along Titicaca and into Puno as the sun set, happy that at least if something were to go horribly wrong with the bikes now, Toby could probably sort us out.
But while the bikes were finally holding on (Didier’s exhaust came off again, but that’s routine at this point), our bodies were about to throw us a curve ball. Didier had already bailed out of fixing his exhaust earlier (which meant I actually had to do some manual labour, it was awful) and was starting to look a bit broken. We were quite happy with the last two days of progress though, so didn’t pay too much attention to it as we enjoyed our first Lomo Saltado in a while. I should clarify, we only enjoyed it because it was cooked by a French chef and it was nothing like a Lomo Saltado.
The next morning, Didier was feeling worse. So Alex and I left him to go take care of some paperwork that would allow us to sell the bikes back to Toby, only to find ourselves in the middle of a town festival. The entire young population of Puno was dancing in the streets; it went on for actual miles. You could see that one end of the parade had been at it much longer than the other because while the start of the parade was full of enthusiasm and energetic dancing, the people at the end were just flailing their arms around while grunting a bit and looking seriously out of breath.
As we hit the road with the possibility of arriving in Cusco before dusk, it was weird to think the trip might actually be over soon. But before I could get stuck into some good old melancholy, Didier pulled over and collapsed on the side of the road. After taking the camera off his bike to take some pictures, I went to check if he was OK. And frankly, it wasn’t good. He was shivering and making noises that people make when they have nightmares. But he was awake. I think. We covered him with a sleeping bag and starting looking through Alex’s First Aid book. Could it be malaria? Didier had been a bit nonchalant with his pills but we barely passed through malaria country and had been careful with insect repellent. Probably not.
It became clear Didier was in no state to ride a bike after stomach conjured up a sample from each of our last 3 meals. We started asking if anyone could take him and his bike to the next town where there might be a bed. I will never forget trying wave down truck to no avail, only to realize a few seconds later that Didier was redecorating the altiplano with his pants down right behind me in full view. An hour later, we realized the drivers were having none of it; Didier would have to ride to the next town. We let him go ahead (his rebuilt bike was a lot faster than mine) and met him in the village of Santa Rosa, where we were going to have to spend the night.
We were really in the middle of Peruvian nowhere. The hostel owner (who also owned a small adult DVD store) seemed ecstatic when I asked to stay in the hostel. Three private rooms cost us 10 dollars in total. And when he forgot to tell me that I must not lock my room’s door because there is no key, the entire family crowded around to use a plastic bottle to (somehow) open the door. Three generations! Alex and I joined the local policemen eating some mayonnaise and sausages off a woman’s BBQ on side of the road. Meanwhile, Didier was in bed still shivering.
It was pretty clear the next morning that the trip was going to end in Cusco. Getting to Huanuco was technically possible, but only if we did five mammoth days. If anything were to go wrong with us or the bikes, making the flight would be impossible. Didier was feeling better, but still looked very fragile.
This of course meant that with only 260km to go, this was the last day of riding on the trip. I remember seeing Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman ending the Long Way Round (huh, that name kind of sounds like ours…weird), and you really got a sense of occasion that it was the final day (mostly because 200 other motorcyclists had joined them for that day). The real world isn’t like that though, and unless you were in Star Wars, even if it’s the last day of a big adventure, you’re still just a dude riding a bike. So you end up telling yourself on that last day that this is it, this is the end, but it really just feels like another day of riding.
Fifty times we’d rolled into a town or camping spot, unpacked the bikes, and headed to dinner, but this time would be the last. With 4km to go, I was a little frustrated at how normal it felt. Where are the bloody fireworks?
Ah, there they are. Oh no wait, those are police sirens. You have got to be kidding me.
3.8km to go and we were sitting on the side of the road with two policemen asking us questions. Before long though, it was clear that they just wanted to take us to a hotel they knew would accommodate the bikes.
Under police escort, the three amigos rolled into the Cusco main square, 51 days after setting off. It wasn’t fireworks, but it was pretty good.
That evening, we celebrated at a fantastic Asian restaurant, before heading to our Police-endorsed hotel. And as I was on the phone with my girlfriend, I was suddenly very, very cold. I knew what was coming.
It turns out Didier was not being a drama queen. I spent the next 3 days sicker than I have been in a very long time. I was lucky enough to have it hit me after the arrival so at least I wasn’t at the side of the road, but it was clear that this trip had taken a lot out of us. While most people would jam pack 3 days in Cusco, we said goodbye to our trusty Cross Tritons and did very little else. It seemed wrong to join the tourist train this late on. Also I was puking my guts out.
I have to admit I’m writing this post almost two months after coming back from South America. The moment I got back, I was swallowed up by seeing family, house hunting and IKEA shopping and if I’m honest I welcomed it. This trip was at times difficult to enjoy in the moment, and I’m still not sure why. I was thankful for the experience, but also just happy to be back.
Two months later, though, and it’s already happening. As it is happening, you cannot appreciate a two month long adventure, it’s too big. But as time passes and the details sink away, you start to be able to grasp the trip in a single thought, as a whole.
And two days ago, as I finally got around to washing my overwhelmingly pungent motorcycle gear, I had my first strong pang of nostalgia. It won’t be the last.
