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Falling Rocks and Missing Roads
Day 44 - Sunday, December 15thQuito to Riobamba
We were all a bit slow getting out of Frank's house. Martha whipped up some breakfast for us, and we lazily packed up our gear, slowly returning their downstairs to its original condition. We had moved most of the furniture to the walls to make room for our prone bodies the night before. Photo time was next. We all gathered in front of Frank's impressive trophy collection from all the motorcycle races he has won for some group shots. Ironically, we began discussing staying even another day in Quito. Frank and his family had extended the invitiation, and motorcycle races were going on this day a little north of Quito. Plus, we might still get the chance to do some internetting. Alex wanted to stay for the races and Jim thought he'd stay back too, but as we discussed it, it became apparent that some of us were so hot on leaving Panama that it might not be right to hold up now. Although Alex was the pimary driving force to get us out of Panama, David supported Alex in wanting to stay in Quito a bit longer. But as usual we decided to push on, especially after hearing that by the time we got to the race track the races would be over. The day was absolutely gorgeous. Clouds drifted by in small billowy patches, the sun was brilliant and warm in the thin mountain air. The mountains surrounding Quito beckoned us to taste their delicious curves and savor their beautiful vistas. The caravan headed out around 11 am, 7 motorcycles and 1 car, slicing their way out of Quito through the weekend traffic, finally reaching the outskirts of the city where the road opened up and the fun began. Byron's son on the back of the Goldwing filmed the entourage with his video camera the whole way, Byron deftly steering the monstrous bike between us all for some good action shots. Frank dipped his nimble little superbike (compared to our big and beefy dual-sports) in between us all as Genny snapped away with her camera. The Riding to the Moon team shot some film of their own (thank you KODAK!). On the way, we encountered some toll booths which Frank, being in the lead, just blew right through. Luckily the toll booth attendants couldn't see our beaming smiles as we followed suit, otherwise they would have charged us just for having too much of a good time. We wondered why we never tried this tactic in Mexico, then remembered the machine-gun toting guards at each toll booth. We detoured through one of the many quaint little towns along the Panamerican to get a look at life in the Ecuadorian Andes, Byron treated us to some homemade ice cream roadside, then we all stopped for lunch in yet another small city. We've found that parking 5 bikes close enough to a restaurant to keep them in view can sometimes be difficult; now with 7 it was a circus. Some on the curb, some in between cars, some across the street. Fortunately, we ate on the second floor balcony so the bikes were well watched. The meal was delicious though mysterious. The mashed potatoes and corn were easy to discern, but no one would tell us what kind of meat we were eating. We'd watched the women cooking the food downstairs in the open-air kitchen, sticking whole skinned rabbits and guinea pigs on a large multi-speared rotating spit. The smells were rich and smokey but after seeing the frightening expressions and hemorraged eyes and teeth jutting out of these animals skinned faces our Ecuadorian hosts assured us we would be eating something else. Whatever it was, and later it turned out to be the guinea pig, it was terrific, tender and a little spicy. Jason, Byron and Son
After our bellies were nice and plump we rode to the edge of town and said our goodbyes. Everyone was sad. It had been a wonderful weekend with our new friends, riding around, eating together, even sweating together pushing Jay's bike up the volcano. Quito impressed us enough to want to come back, and having friends there guaranteed that one day we would have to return. Distances in the mountains are very deceiving. On the map, the next town seems right down the street. Even the mileage markers, semi-frequent on the Ecuadorian highway, tell a tale of being close to the next town. But ask someone how long to the next town, and the time seems incongruous with the distance. We were hoping to make it all the way to a city called Cuenca for the night, but the curvy roads, filled with sharp sloping grades and hairpin switchbacks forced us to switch to "mountain standard time." Undeniably, we thrilled at the road, smooth and
in good repair, each one of us riding near the limit of our individual
skill levels. The KLRs, burdened with over a hundred pounds of extra
gear, threw themselves confidently into every curve and mightily
heaved us up and down the sizable inclines. Our tires, the Trailmax's
kindly supplied by Dunlop, stuck to the asphalt like sand on ice
cream. We'd already put over 7,000 hard miles on these rubbery wonders,
and though the tread was finally wearing thin, no curve could make
those tires give up the fight. We spent the evening relaxing, goofing around, chatting with a fellow traveler, Charity from Washington State (how appropriate), and doing a little writing on the computer. We cringed at how far behind we were in the journals yet saw no end in sight. These little cities aren't equipped with very good internet connections, and we also needed to pound the miles every day, at least until we got to Lima. We hoped everyone back home was just waiting patiently instead of cursing our laziness, but the truth is after a hard day's ride, sitting in front of the computer to write is not what we want to do, sleeping is, and soon enough that's what we did. Miles - 130
Day 45 - Monday, December 16thRiobamba to Cuenca and Machala
We rolled our bikes out of the hotel at a decent hour of the morning, but the search to change money put us on the road late once again. When we were in Central America, we only had to change small amounts for each country, since we spent only a few days in most of them, and in Panama, American dollars are the established currency. Now, we were constantly running out of money, never changing enough at one time, except Jim of course, who usually got a little extra somehow knowing we wouldn't change enough; he'd become our bank, which was great except for the 5 percent interest he charged us! The day before, we'd tried some ATM's, but they either didn't accept our cards or were out of money. The hotel clerk even loaned David 20,000 sucres (less than it sounds) for dinner, no questions asked, a gesture David was quite blown away by. In the morning, a Casa de Cambio was open and gladly took our green stuff. We chose Machala on the coast as our destination for the end of the day, so with an end point picked, we split up into riding teams to cover the miles quicker. The scenery was fantastic, the mountains higher than the previous day and the road even twistier. At times, the road edged along steep cliffs. Concentration was at all times necessary to judge the tightness of each curve, and to be prepared for some large vehicle coming the other way, sweeping wide to make the turn. Tim Cahill in his uproarious book "Road Fever" called this stretch of road Bus Plunge Follies.
We didn't see any buses plunge off the 1000 foot drops, but we did see the road do it. David went past a barricade to check out a section of road that was closed to see if the bikes could still make it. He came back 15 minutes later to report that only an airplane could make it; a 50 yard section of the road ahead had simply detached itself from the side of the mountain and slid away. We hoped no one had been on it when it went. The alternative was up a steep detour, a one-lane gravel incline. So up the incline we went. We hadn't been on unpaved road since Guatemala, and that had at least been flat. But the KLRs are made for this stuff, and the tires, although losing their tread, clawed at this terrain like an eagle snatching up a bunny. The detour was long, windy and steep, and when it ended, there was a new delay to contend with, one which stopped us all long enough to regroup. A line of stopped vehicles was the first clue something was amiss. Normally, our habit is to ride to the front of the line where sometimes the highway workers let us through, knowing we can wend our way through the construction and avoid the traffic coming the other way. But the gigantic boulders tumbling off the cliff above and smashing into the road weren't as cooperative. Through the hail of rocks we could see cars and buses stopped on the other side. We could also hear a distant low rumble high up the mountainside above us. The culprit ended up being an earth mover clearing land for farming, unaware of his profound and potentially deadly effect on those below. Workers midway up the ridge finally saw the problem
and gave the go ahead to us down below when the bulldozer stopped
for a break. The pavement looked like a war zone. Some of the larger
boulders had managed to remain intact, but most had splintered on
impact into dozens of smaller pieces, some still the size of a large
dog. T We split up again at lunch a few miles later. David, Gary and Alex elected to stop and eat, Jim and Jay wanted to just cruise and cover the miles. It was a bit strange that some of us didn't seem hungry from the hard riding, but this was just the first hint of the impending division to come - David, Gary and Alex riding more slowly with lunch breaks and short roadside breathers, and Jim and Jay riding long, hard, and fast with little to no breaks. But as long as we all made it to the destination at the end of the day, it didn't really matter. Well, we didn't all make it. Jim and Jay rode into Cuenca, gassed up, and continued on the sparsely populated 4 hour stretch down from the mountains to the coast. There they stopped at the edge of Machala to wait for the rest of the guys, but the rest of the guys rode into Cuenca and went no further.
The idea of staying hadn't yet entered their minds, until a young woman strolling by stopped to ask where they were from and a thousand other typical questions. She answered a few questions herself, in very good English. Turns out she had been an exchange student the past year in Pennsylvania. Karina, as was her name, was excited to meet the bikers, and asked if they would be staying in town. After hemming and hawing, Gary noticed that directly
across the street was the Universidad de Cuenca, where she was a
student. She said the computer lab had e-mail and an interent connection,
and that was all that was necessary to convince the guys to stay.
Jim and Jay would hopefully not wait too long nor worry too much
about their missing comrades.
First on David's priority list was laundry and
a shower. Karina scurried around the house for a towel and soap
and shampoo and laundry detergent like he was some visiting dignitary.
She seemed to treat everyone with this amount of respect and care.
He had to calm her down and gently explain how uncomfortable it
was to be so doted upon, that he wasn't used to it. He got his clothes
into the washing machine and then realized that there was no dryer.
With the exception of what he had on all would be sopping wet for
the next day's ride. But the shower was mighty hot. The Beefer's were rearranged to make room for the young Ecuadorian hosts, and Vladimir and Karina showed the bikers around their fair little city. At night, illuminated only by the streetlights, Cuenca was indeed a magical place. The thin cobblestone streets and rock-hewn churches and buildings, shining from the rain that had been lightly falling all evening, filled the bikers with strong emotions, bordering on romantic if it wasn't for the lack of female companionship. Still, Karina and Wladimir were wonderful company and guided everyone to a restaurant for veritable meat-fest, and then to a little pub where they all played Jenga and watched Jurassic Park in Spanish on la caja idiota. Back on the coast in Machala, Jim and Jay waited at the traffic circle which must be passed in order to enter the city. They waited for four hours to be exact, playing frisbee and warding off rougher and rougher looking characters as the night grew darker. They even contemplated riding back along the road to Cuenca to see if any harm had befallen their camrades. Eventually, they assumed everything was fine, and if not, that with three of them together, they could take of whatever problem they were having. Tuckered out from their long ride, Jim and Jay found a small hostal, rode around town a little to find food, then turned in early. Tomorrow was the border crossing into Peru, and for sure everyone would meet up on the Ecuadorian side before attempting the cross... right? Miles - 182 (for David, Gary and Alex)
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For the first part
of the ride, we'd have company - Frank and Genny on his Honda 900RR,
Byron and his son on Byron's full-dress Goldwing, and Byron's wife
and other son in her flashy little red convertible sportscar. Flashiness
was Byron's style, his bike was bright blue and he had leather shoes
to match!
Mid meal, we heard a
loud thud. Without looking or even moving from his seat, Alex said
calmly and with a grin, "That's my bike." Someone from
the street called up to say one of the bikes had fallen over. With
cool reserve, Alex glided downstairs and righted his Beefer alone.
Clearly, a passerby had disturbed the bike; except in extreme parking
situations, the bikes don't fall over any more on their own like
they did at the beginning of the trip. Jeez, it only took us some
6000-odd miles to get it right.
We had to be very careful on these roads though. While riding
like valiant knights there was an occasional dragon. Children in
Ecuador, children of the poorest families, attempt to supplement
the family income by tying scrap cloth together to form a rope then
tying themselves to one end of the rope, stretching the rope across
the highway and tying the other end to a rock or branch. With this
gimmick they strive to stop traffic and beg for coins. If the car,
truck or motorcycle doesn't appear to be stopping the child lowers
the rope just in time not to have his or her arm yanked off. If
an arm IS yanked off we have heard that it is customary to leave
a hundred bucks or so for the damages... an exchange that these
poor families seem willing to take.
We pulled into Riobamba, a bustling town of 150,000 people.
We found lodging in the cavernous Hostal Nuca Huasi downtown, pulling
the bikes through the delicate glass-framed front door and parking
them in the slick marble-floored lobby. Gary and Alex had to each
remove one of their cases to fit through the door, Jim and David
cleared it with a millimeter to spare as their custom racks were
a tad slimmer. Our room was about 25 feet by 25 feet with a 16 foot
ceiling and 7 beds. Clearly, the building had been a grand place
in times past; now it was a dilapidated hulk, but still with loads
of character. And unbelievably cheap, 2 dollars for each of us.
Now that is a good deal.
Gee, Jason
could probably make it. Hmmm...
he boulders had also brought
with them plenty of small rocks. We carefully but quickly worked
our way through the debris while people from the buses scrambled
about clearing a path for those vehicles less nimble than ours.
From then on, we were a little more cautious when passing a Falling
Rocks sign.
It all happened very spontaneously. While
stopped alongside a cute little river that cuts through town, David,
Gary and Alex began to like this mountain city. Across the river,
colonial style houses stretched their backsides down the steep embankment
towards the creeping river where indiginous women and their children
were doing battle with their soiled laundry. Above them could be
seen the hand-cut stone towers of several churches. It was all very
reminiscent of Europe, particularly Trastevere in Rome where Alex
lived as a child.
Now
I remember what's so great about school!