A Night on the Beach

The feeling they rode away with stayed with them all through the mountain journey to the coast, enhancing every curve, every beautiful mountain pass, beautifying the face of everyone they passed - Ecuador was a wonderful country filled with incredible people, whether in the big city or small towns, ready to open their homes and their hearts to strangers. We still had a few hours left in Ecuador but had began to miss it, already thinking of the day when we would return to see our friends. We also hoped to return the favor to all of them in our own homes back in the States.

A high Andean vantage point
The road down to the coast traversed a wide variety of changing landscapes. From the lush agricultural valleys at high altitude to the denuded earthen mountains of the mid-range to the tropical landscapes of sea-level, the terrain was always a stunning display of the earth's awesome splendor.

At noon, about 30 minutes from the border, while cruising between sugarcane and banana fields, David, Gary and Alex drove passed two other motorcylists on KLRs entering the main road from a side road. It was Jay and Jim, of course. They knew there was no reason to get to the border early, since the other riders were beginning their day hours away. The random meeting on the road stunned and delighted us all, and we rode together into the madness of Huaquillas.

Upon entering this very border-ish of bordertowns, our progress slowed to a crawl. The streets were awash with vendors plying their wares from makeshift stalls and wooden-wheeled rolling carts, and the sea of pedestrian shoppers forced us to practically walk the bikes. Although the border was easy to find straight ahead, we were immediately deluged with an army of young Ecuadorians on bicycles intent on showing us the way.

Gary braked abruptly to avoid hitting a vendor peddling his little bicycle-cum-store causing one of the young escorts on bicycle to slam into the back of Gary's motorcycle. No damage was caused, except to the young man's ego, and Gary was secretly pleased to have put these scallywags on the defensive. They turned out to be okay guys, helping us to park the bikes in the crowded streets and quaff our thirsts with refreshing glasses of fresh squeezed O.J.

Our initial discomfort was due to always having to deal with huge crowds of people, either curious about us and the bikes or offering their unsolicited 'help' to accomplish even the most banal tasks. As we grew more relaxed in the chaotic environment, Jim talked and laughed with several of our helpers while sharing a pineapple. Alex went inside with all our paperwork and got the required stamps and forms. In no time, we mounted up to ride across to the Peruvian side.

The Peruvian side of Huaquillas was just as frenzied. Throngs of people were constantly passing from one side of the border to the other. Large carts loaded with goods of all kinds, from housewares to vegetables, were pulled across by heavily weathered farmers and hardened merchants. Huge semi-trucks and buses also fought their way through the throng, honking incessantly to clear the way, leaving acrid clouds of thick exhaust in their wake.

In the midst of all this, we patiently suffered through our eighth land border crossing. The temperature was unbearably hot and before all was done, we'd removed most of our clothing and gone through five gallons of water, two watermelons, and several coconuts.

Jay and Gary also got taken for chumps by the slick money changers. Using fixed calculators, they can turn any rate you think you're getting, which in our case was a heavily-bargained for 2.65 to 1, into the low border rate of 2.05 to 1. The heat and confusion of all the surrounding activity clouded our heads, making us unable to even do simple math in our heads to realize the amount we were getting was nowhere near what it should have been. To add insult to injury, Jay was not only short-exchanged but short-changed as well. In total, Gary was out about $5 and Jay about $15.

The border crossing procedure was pretty straightforward, though not necessarily on the level. One inspector flat out told Alex that he could spend hours looking through our bikes or with the discreet payment of $10, we could pass inspection immediately. Jim, always the consummate voice of justice, was incensed, but sacrificed his principals and coughed up his $2 share anyway so we could all get out of the heat sooner. The Peruvian customs officials contemplated our letter from the consulate in Quito and agreed to cut their lunch short to do our paperwork. Sweat dripping from our noses we were very appreciative of their generosity.

We waved goodbye to our Peruvian admirers who had suffered through the waiting and the heat with us, and rode out of the dusty town onto the dry open road. The sweat quickly evaporated from our bodies thanks to the cooling effect of the wind, even though the temperature was well near 100 degrees fahrenheit.

We stopped for a futile ATM attempt in Tumbes and to get gas. The price of gas sent us into shock. Nearly $3 for a gallon. We chastised ourselves for not filling up back in Ecuador where gas is just over $1 per gallon, but we thought Peru would be just as cheap. Our meager supply of soles became even more meager as we topped off the tanks.

The road angled towards the coast, and for the first time since Mexico and a tiny stretch of downtown Panama City, we rode directly along the water's edge, with narrow beachheads as the only separation between us and the great Pacific Ocean.

Our hearts soared at the sight, the afternoon sun reflecting upon the expanse of water all the way to the horizon. The wind was strong and brisk, and each little poor, adobe-bricked town along the road was filled with happy beachgoers and little seafood restaurants.

We rode until the town of Mancora, just before the road would angle away from the coast and cut through the desert. Deciding to pitch camp on the beach, we rode to the far side of town in search of a good spot. Jim and Jay had a change of heart, having liked the look of Mancora and wanting to be nearer to the action. Alex gave up a little while later as the continuing search took one sandy path after another that didn't lead anywhere good; he turned back to find the others in town.

Gary and David persisted, and as the sun lay dangerously close to the horizon, their efforts finally paid off; they found the perfect road that led to the perfect beach closed in by perfect sand dunes with a perfect view of the ocean in a perfectly deserted stretch of beach. Even the small mechanized oil rig twenty yards away couldn't deter from the picturesque spot. The sun was setting, so David went back into town for takeout seafood and beer and a banana for the morning; Gary stayed to build camp.

In town, the other guys installed themselves in the Sol y Mar Hotel and had already met another intercontinental biker, Chris, from Australia. Chris was on a slightly more flexible schedule than us, and had been in Mancora now for 5 months. It seems indeed that we had found the perfect little town.

Alex, Jim, and Jay enjoyed the end of daylight swimming in the ocean and playing frisbee on the beach. Gary, back out at the campsite, was similarly enjoying the water and the dunes. When David returned with the buen comida y cervezas, struggling to find his way to the campsite through the maze of sandy roads in the now dark night, Gary was running blithely across the dunes in his black silk underwear carrying a large bamboo staff he'd uncovered and shrieking like a happy mad fool. It was a very cathartic experience, and David eagerly joined in.

Dinner was enjoyed al fresco sitting on a sand dune looking out over the moonlit sea as the cool breeze blew away any remaining stress. The beer helped too.

Later, the North Face tent and bags provided a comfortable mosquito-free environment for a blissful sleep accompanied by the soft sounds of the tide... and the nearby oil pump.

Miles - 288

David and Gary woke up early with the sun and spent the morning swimming in the ocean, eating their bananas and taking pictures.

They were waiting for the others to show up at 7:30 am with breakfast. David had drawn them a map the night before, but it was still a question whether they would find their way through the dunes.

David and Gary decided to pack up and go back to the main road to wait. Halfway there, they came upon Jay and Jim, who had indeed gotten a little confused by the many small sand roads. Alex was up waiting by the main road. On the way out, Gary and his bike slipped on a deep patch of sand and went tumbling.

Not all sands are alike. There are different techniques for different types of sand and we have yet to experience them all. This thick, soft spot was like stepping unexpectedly into knee deep snow. Sand doesn't cause any damage to bike or rider, so the only thing hurt was Gary's pride. Even David, second only to Jay in off-road ability, took a 1 MPH spill at the campsite the night before when trying to kick his back end around, plus he had gotten stuck in the sand earlier when trying to find a route out to the beach.

Gary dusted himself off and we sped into the desert like hyenas.

Dry, flat, hot and dusty with straight roads, good pavement, mild but constant wind with oil rigs sprinkled amongst the cacti, we tried to overtax our watercooled monsters with high speeds but they just wouldn't fail us.

We ducked the wind and zoomed into Piura to gas up. Jim's and Jay's wings must have been a bit more streamlined today because they had re-fuled with gas and Pepsi and crackers well before the others had found the Mobile station. Satisfied with their little snack but still hungry for the road, Jim and Jay were eager to move on and tackle the blistering hot 3 hour passage through the Desierto del Sechero. David, Gary, and Alex couldn't do anything without getting some real food in their stomach tanks.

Without even much of a discussion, we decided to split again. The fundamental differences in our travel styles were never more apparent. Horses whinnied, birds became silent, clouds formed directly over head and chickens bolted around in circles, but as we are unaccustomed to recognizing when bad omens head our way, Gary, Alex and David cooly went on to have a fantastic but long lunch. It would be a few days and several hundred miles later before we saw our speed-minded comrades again, and the next time would be the last.

Directions out of town were vague so we stopped to ask a couple of biker cops for the way. The cops proceeded to give us the 5th degree, pouring over all our documents with a careful eye. Finally the mood lightened up and their interrogation became regular biker talk, like the number and size of our cylinders. Not suprisingly, we then got a police escort to the edge of town towards Chiclayo, the next city on the way to Trujillo.

Confidence got the best of us again as we waved goodby to the cops and headed straight down the dusty two lane highway. David in the lead, the threesome rounded every pig-laden corner, eyes alert for the sign to Chiclayo. Two towns passed us by and the road deteriorated into nothing more than a narrow single-lane dirt track until David decided to stop, saying, "I have this feeling we are headed in the wrong direction. I mean I have nothing to base it on, and I know that cop back there said to keep going down this road, but it feels totally wrong." Alex replied, "Hey, why you stopping? Let's keep going?" Gary noncommitaly shrugged his shoulders. We turned around and went back through every pig-laden corner...over 30 miles of them! When we reached the place we'd split from the cops, there it was, big as a signpost, the signpost for Chiclayo. We could have sworn it wasn't there an hour ago.

Sidestepping the toll booths
Did we mention it was well into the afternoon already? Finally, we were back on the right track. The road into the desert opened up before us like the maw of a sand anaconda, its entire length stretched out to bask in the rays of the hot sun, mouth wide to accept all creatures that would foolishly enter its unforgiving gullet. The fangs were a small tollbooth, set up to extract the small coins like a tithe of the damned. Having learned a better way in Ecuador, we deftly circumvented the toll, going freely through the Vehiculos Exonerados lane (at subsequent tolls, sometimes we would go entirely around the tollbooth, in the dirt, at the request of the attendants too lazy to move the gate). Thus not giving our modest tithe, we entered unblessed into the desolation.

The desierto was without a doubt the most desolate stretch of road yet on the trip, much more so than the northern deserts of Mexico. The road was inviolately flat, the landscape devoid of life, either plant or animal. The wind was strong, forcing the riders to hunker down behind their small fairings. The only enjoyment was marvelling at the incredible variation of terrain - completely flat and smooth or rippled like a lake surface on a windy day, covered with thousands of small rocks and stones or bedecked with large rolling sand dunes - but overall, the ride was long and boring.

Giant steps are what we take, walking on the moon...

Finally the desert road ended in the city of Chiclayo and cut back towards the coast, where it began to parallel the ocean again at Chimbote. It was in this city that we first experienced the gut-wrenching stench of the Peruvian fishmeal industry. Unless you've smelled it before, you cannot imagine the assault on the nose. Immediately, you have to start breathing from your mouth to lessen the potency. Even so, the air feels thicker and the eyes begin to water. If you make the mistake of taking a deep breath, have smelling salts handy to bring you around to consciousness. We passed several fishmeal factories over the next several hours, cringing with discomfort until well beyond.

Although we weren't technically in the desert anymore, the entire coastline of Peru is also very dry and desolate. The road swept and curved with the landscape, which exhibited the same and even more varieties of terrain than the desert. Sometimes the road bordered the water, other times it turned away by a few kilometers behind large hills.

A brief rest from the long ride

Hours ahead of David, Gary and Alex, waiting by the roadside outside of Trujillo were Jim and Jason. They had agreed to wait for half an hour in a very visible spot outside of town, then continue on if the others didn't show up. Because lunch had been long and the detour had eaten another hour, the others didn't show up, so Jim and Jay saddled up and went into and then out of Trujillo. They drove for a few hours more, watching the sun set into the Pacific still on the bikes, and finally settled into a small oceanside town called Barranca. By day's end, they had covered more than 500 miles, a distance sure to hold as the record for the entire trip. (Who would even want to beat that, we asked at the time, unless its Jim and Jay again? But oh, read on, our trusted cyber-traveller.)

David, Gary and Alex approached Trujillo as the sun was setting, weary and hungry, with no desire whatsoever to drive further. David was also a bit bummed out after hitting a dog thirty minutes out of town. This was the first occurence of Riding to the Moon roadkill, an astonishing feat considering not only the abundance of roadside animal-life, but the tendency for such life, especially dogs, really really stupid dogs, to just wander blindly out into the roadway, oblivious to the juggernaut of metal and rubber bearing down on them. Hitting an animal on a motorcycle, even small ones, can be equally as disasterous for the motorcyclist. Fortunately, David managed to maintain the bike; the dog was the only casualty this day.

Even in the dark (or maybe especially in the dark), Trujillo was a pleasant city. The riders headed straight for the Plaza de Armas in the center of town to get their bearings and find a hotel. The Hotel Los Escudos just around the corner discounted the regular rate after reading some of our ride literature and threw in a continental breakfast to boot. A couple friendly Peruanas who had introduced themselves at the Plaza de Armas, showed up at the hotel and took us out (though we paid) for a pizza dinner.

While returning to the hotel, a television news broadcast in a nearby bar window caught our eye. The Tupac Amaru guerilla group had taken control of the Japanese Embassy in Lima earlier that day. For the past decade, President Alberto Fujimori of Peru had been waging a successful and popular fight against the Tupac Amaru and their more well-known cousins, the Sendero Luminoso or Shining Path. The terrorist groups had found themselves largely without the wide public appeal they had worn previously as a badge of validation, and their dwindling numbers and military supplies heralded an end to the bloody battles of the past.

In this bold move against the government, the Tupac Amaru surged to life in a desperate attempt to gain back some of their political influence. The timing of their action was perfect and the implementation of their plan swift and merciless. The Japanese Ambassador was hosting a huge party, with the most powerful and influential private and public figures of Peru in attendance, including the President's brother, but not the President himself. Within minutes, the guerillas had invaded and sealed off the compound and taken over 400 hostages. Now, as we watched on the television, the police and military had surrounded the embassy and hunkered down with enough firepower to take over a small city. Apart from the initial demand that Fujimori release several hundred imprisoned Tupac Amaru members, the whole situation was at a standstill.

We wondered how this would effect our travel for the next few days, as we were heading directly for Lima tomorrow.

Miles - 408 (for David, Gary and Alex, a personal record, hopefully not to be beat)