California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition: Stage 8

California to Patagonia: A Cycling Expedition
Trip Report

Stage 8 - Northern Perú

19 September - 12 November, 2008

* Photographs from this stage of the journey can be found here.

* Route maps of the journey can be found here.

Total distance cycled: 13,408 km
Total distance in N. Peru: 1,086 km
Days on the road: 357
Maximum speed: 79 km/h (downhill out of Loja to Catamayo)
Maximum altitude: 6,310 mtrs (20,561 ft) - Mt. Chimborazo, Ecuador
Flat tires to date: 28

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The desert is a siren that unleashes its weapons of desire from a distance. It seduces and lures one in and before you know it, the succubus of sand and sun has drawn blood and grasps your body aloft in perfect solitude, with no one else around to share in the ecstacy.

Exiting the Andes in Ecuador, I admit that I longed for the dry deadscapes of the deserts in Northern Perú. Having practiced abstinence from intense heat and lowlands for so long in the Andes, I thought that the desert would be a welcome change. That change came immediately in the form of a headache. Not for me, but for Señor David, my Seattlelite riding partner through most of Southern Ecuador. Our early morning departure from the border post to beat the heat, became for him, a rest day.

Like a restless schoolboy, I stubbornly insisted, and rode off alone to tickle the traces of sand on the other side of the river that separates Perú from Ecuador. And like a schoolboy, it didn´t take long for me to start peeling off clothing and drafting what little water I had vigorously. The mountain canyons opened up to Egyptian sand dunes and when the silence wasn´t di

sturbed by the occasional mototaxi, it was feathered along by desert lizards.
After nearly 9,000 km of riding, one of my tires finally developed an irrepairable gash and as I proudly dismounted my spare tire from my trailer, I realized that life in the back of the trailer had substantially deformed the tire, making it useless! Northern Perú, thus, was once again the bane of flat tires for me, much like the deserts of Baja California. Mounting a fresh $5 tire from the local market, I pushed on towards Piura, the last bustling city before the Sechura desert consumed everything in sight.

It wasn't just the desert, however, that seemed to be in full force that day. Señor David, had apparently recovered from his rest day and in a feat of superhuman prowess, had caught up with me in Piura after having navigated a wild stretch of desert roads. I was humbled, but we both knew that the next few days would prove to be the most challenging.

Bikes loaded with full reserves of water, we exited Piura before the sun had a chance to wake the roosters up. With each pedal stroke, the landscape started devouring everything in sight. First, the small mud huts along the side of the road disappeared... then the brush and scrub eeking out an existence, until finally, fully engrossed in the ecstasy of the desert, Dave and I found ourselves staring at horizons in each direction with nothing more than the thin black pavement cutting across sand.

Where we found a patch of shrub and brush, we made camp, and roared up a campfire that sang blues licks and screamed amber sparks against the dead stillness of the night.

Eventually, we arrived in Lambayeque and the cultural history of the region b

egan to present itself. The whole coastal desert is structured such that human settlements lie along - and ONLY along - the paths of the river valleys that flow down from the Andes. Everything else is painted in an infinite shade of sand. Rain hardly meets the ground, and the intense aridity and dryness of the desert preserve artifacts far beyond their expiry date. This makes conditions in the Sechura almost identical to Egyptian ruins along the Nile River Valley.

I recall a time when I was listening to these descriptions of the North Coast of Perú in Professor Donnan´s archaeology class at UCLA and being fascinated with the incredibly vivid details of the archaeological remains. Where archaeologists elsewhere in the world get excited about pot sherds and coprolite (a fancy word for human faeces), here in the Sechura, researchers commonly dig up mummified tombs where individuals still have their hair and skin clinging to the fabric they were interred in.

'There is probably more wealth under the ground than there is above,' Enrique, a restaurant owner chimed as David and I were making the best of an unapetizing lunch. An unofficial 'huaquero,' he had done his fair share of tomb-raiding in the past, but had now given all that up. From June through August, when the archaeologists of the world descend upon the desert, locals like Enrique seek out work with them to do things 'legally,' because it should be obvious that looting tombs is highly illegal. Still, before we made motion to leave, Enrique made it a point to demonstrate an 800 year old perfectly crafted Moche ceramic vessel with a detail so intricate, it would make Michelangelo seem like a clumsy drunkard.

'Huacas,' or sacred locations (such as tombs, pyramids, immense rocks, etc.) are sprinkled endlessly across the rivers valleys cutting across the Sechura. The majority are remnants of pre-Inca civilizations such as the Moche and the Chimu. I'd like to think that one evening's sublime campsite in a row of ancient crumbling walls must have been the site of some ancient Moche family, also cooking dinner in the fading evening light sharing far flung stories.

The coastal ride was also characterized by a prodigious amount of wind - more specifically, headwind, the cyclist's worst enemy. I decided to part ways with the coast a while and made a several day detour to visit the pleasant colonial town of Cajamarca, where the fall of the Inca empire began more than 700 years ago when Francisco Pizarro and his ragtag group of adventurers-cum-conquistadors arrived at the town square.

My head still spinning in history and conquest, I rejoined the Panamerican Hig

hway along the coast to make my visit to Trujillo. Armed with a piece of paper scribbled with directions to 'la casa de ciclistas,' I navigated the colorful streets until I met up with the famous Don Lucho Ramirez himself. Lucho is a something of a legend among expedition cyclists around the world. Since he started opening up his home to wandering travelers over 25 years ago, Lucho - at no cost at all - has fed, housed, healed, and inspired more than 1,000 cyclists and is a living example of pure altruism.

As entry #1036 in his stack of traveler logbooks, fondly christened 'libros de oro,' I was deeply humbled and felt the flames of wanderlust spark up with every anecdote, smiling pi

cture, and message of love in the books.

Days hanging out at the Casa are still a blissful memory of friendships kindled with other travelers, all night jam-sessions, and endless tea, beer, stories, hugs, ceviches, and all around good-will.

The mind, however, is often seduced by such demons as dreams, hopes, and curiosity, so after nearly three weeks of recuperating at the Casa de Ciclistas and blessing Bucephalus with a fresh drivetrain, I pedalled off southwards into the unknown with a new riding partner, Seth, an arborist and do-everything Renaissance Man from Colorado. David, my friend and cycling companion, unfortunately, was seduced by other demons, this one taking the form of a Peruana love-interest, and so I bid him farewell with earnest hopes of meeting up further along the road.

The ride out of Trujillo immediately turned inland, and the coastal desert soon

started nudging us along towards the serrated arms of the mighty Andes. Officially mountainbound, I knew I would not see the Pacific for several months and that the road ahead to Cuzco would be a long and difficult one, littered with dirt roads, vicious dogs, Quechua greetings, and breathtaking heights.

Following the Rio Santa all the way to its headwaters, the road to Huaraz and the Cordillera Blanca was an amazing spectacle. As the canyon walls closed up around us, the dirt road often resembled nothing more than a donkey trail, and as donkeys have not a care in the world for pavement, the whacked up engineers who built the road must have also been masochists in making a road that tested the souls of men with surfaces that seemed to be made up of rocks the sizes of fists and footballs.

Along the way, we passed through the Cañon del Pato, a set of impressive tunnels carved straight into the vertiginous rock cliffs to allow for access into the mountains. At some points, the canyon walls are so sheer and so steep that only a trickle of light filters down from a heavenly sky above, casting a thin flame on the walls that challenges the rushing water hundreds of feet below as to which one of the two is more spectacular.

After exiting the last of the tunnels, my rear-end was once again blessed with the smooth buzz of asphalt and pavement. Villages started appearing along the side of the road, and the canyon walls opened up to an immense and fertile valley. Upon reaching Huaraz, I simply checked into the cheapest hostel I could find, laid Bucephalus to recover, and set about practicing other motions than the circular strokes of pushing pedals.

My good friend from college, Pam came to visit me for a few days and we had a

wonderful time wandering around local villages, engaging in local folk dances, and reliving old days. I also managed to trek countless miles into the spectacular Cordillera Blanca. Most importantly, I had chosen this beautiful mountainscape to call home for a while as I worked on graduate school applications hesitantly.

After almost three weeks of staring at snow-capped peaks and flocks of sheep and alpacas, I finally felt ready to tackle the next section of the journey.

The final 1500 kilometers to Cuzco - which will be covered in the next section - promises to be the most difficult section of the whole route. Following the Royal Inca Highway, the collage of dirt ahead involves crossing multiple 4,000 meter passes, with sharp river valleys between each one ensuring that one drops all the way to the bottom before climbing up again.

Fortunately, the sirens of the desert long behind me, a different song lures me towards the Inca Capital of Cuzco. My friend Natalie will be waiting for me in Cuzco, armed with bicycle and coca-leaves, and we plan on riding across the Bolivian Altiplano and Lake Titicaca to the Bolivian capital of La Paz.

Shall we meet there next?

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Acknowledgments

* Señora Elisa - for being an angel in the middle of the Sechura desert and gifting road hungry cyclists with fresh juice and sandwiches.
* Julio - thanks for letting us camp at San Jose de Moro and for your endless stories and good will.
* Javier - my time at Chiclayo could not have been more pleasant. Thanks for your hospitality and kindness!
* Felix and the rest of the firemen crew in Cajamarca - for all the good times had in the fire station and for your infinite kindness.
* Beto Carabanal - thanks for living the Couchsurfing philosophy to the max!
* Brent, Soren, and Sven - thanks for your friendship, and all the beers and gato negros shared in Trujillo and Huaraz! Above all, thanks for your inspiration for me to take up drawing and sketching!
* Lucho Ramirez - your hospitality is beyond leagues. Thanks for your warmth and making me feel like family at the casa.
* Araceli, Angela, and Lance - thanks for the cakes, the birthday celebrations, and all of the good times at the casa de ciclistas.
* Pam Tuttle - for bringing back a rush of good memories and for being the amazing inspiration you are by pursuing your passions!
* Berndt - the concept of breakfasts and burgers have forever been altered in my scale - thanks for your kindness at Cafe Aleman!
* Francizka - for the warm hugs and birthday greetings in Huaraz! Best of luck on your own travels!
* Nils and Janne - for your company throughout the Santa Cruz trek and for helping Dave and I sneak into the National Park for free.
* Pablo - for the ultimate ride out of the National Park and helping us save lots of money!
* The Baker Family - for all the music and memories shared in Huaraz.
* Mo Washburn - for your healthy dose of affection and poetic inspiration along the Santa Cruz trek.
* Isabelle and José - for the insider´s info to Huaraz and for your warm spirits!
* Olga, Cristian, Andi, Daniel, and Ryan - for all the amazing travel stories shared at the Casa de Ciclistas.
* Seth and Kirsten - your company on the roads and at camp were incredible! Thanks for keeping the spirit alive!
* Dave Breheny - thanks for all the jokes and good times had in Huaraz bro!
* Toyoda Family - for your strength, determination, and bottomless smiles!
* Segundo - for the humbling lesson you taught us and for sharing stories of mine-life.
* Policarpius - for the welcome bread in Yuramarca!
* Don Theo, Anita, Caroline, Rex, Pepe, and Alvaro - for making my stay in Huaraz very pleasant and comfortable!
* Ally Riggs - for all the engaging conversations on that balcony overlooking Huascarán.
* Dylan - for all the meals and conversations shared at Caroline´s.
* The crew of the S.Y. Drifter and the S.Y. Galathe - you are truly an inspiration -- keep on sailing!
* Dave Liddell - I share my deepest gratitude with you, friend and brother of the roads! Thanks for helping me out in my weakest moments on the trip and helping me get back on my feet!

Friday, November 15, 1532.

168 Spanish conquistadors arrive in the holy city of Cajamarca at the heart of the Inca Empire in Perú after weeks of difficult marching.

They are exhausted, outnumbered and terrified – ahead of them are camped 80,000 Inca troops and the entourage of the Emperor Atahualpa Inca himself.

Yet, within just 24 hours, more than 7,000 Inca warriors lie slaughtered in the square; Atahualpa is held captive and enchained; and the victorious Europeans begin a reign of colonial terror which will sweep through the entire American continent.

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World history thus took a sharp turn when the Spaniards collided with what was perhaps the most numerous and powerful empire on the planet in the 16th century, the Incas.

The history of the Conquest of Perú is one that is wrought with tragedy, violence, deception, and espionage.

And it all began right here, in the town square of Cajamarca.

The city today is a peaceful and tranquil place, a charming red-roofed Spanish town with fine colonial architecture and an impressive cathedral. The broad valley embracing the city is a pleasant sight: cows grazing beneath broad eucalyptus groves, a giant chocolate factory, and an elaborately developed hot-springs which boasts magical healing properties.

All of these are imported and unusual sights, especially imagining the city before the arrival of the Spaniards.

I have now spent almost a week here in Cajamarca, learning about the Conquest and its modern consequences as I stroll through the shady plazas and observe indigenous Quechua speaking women quietly spinning yarns of wool as they hurry along the uncluttered streets. Little remains of the original Inca architecture, but remnants can still be seen, especially in the 'cuarto de rescate,' where Atahualpa was held captive.

In his famous ransom, Atahualpa offered to fill the room over with gold, and twice over with silver to secure his release. Pizarro and his men promised to let him go if he could provide the ransom amount, and over the next few weeks, llama trains from all over the Incan empire arrived with vast hordes of gold and silver, eventually fulfilling the ransom amount.

One can imagine Atahualpa´s shock when the Spaniards responded to his good will by strangling and burning Atahualpa, leaving his body in the square so that everyone could learn of his death.