Cause Breaking Up is Hard to Do

We woke up refreshed in the Hotel Los Escudos and had hot showers for the first time in a number of days. In the cozy dining room we gorged ourselves on bread, jam, and butter. The look of shock on the poor waiter's face as we asked for more bread (egads) woke us up as fully as the coffee.

As we narrowly avoided eating our fingertips, we watched with remote concern on the television about the crisis at the Japanese Embassy in Lima. We would be there by the end of the day, and didn't know whether to expect a city under siege, or one so used to armed insurrection, no one was really batting an eye. The only impression we received from the redundant and simplistic Peruvian coverage, made even worse by the complete lack of any new activity on the part of the terrorists, was that the lower right corner of the front window of the embassy was of great significance.

Trujillo in the daylight was not a disappointment. Though it looked like it had grown a bit fast for its britches, the streets were clean, the traffic not too crazy, and the people focused yet friendly. As quickly as you can say 'nosotros venemos de los estados unidos' five times to a Peruvian, Trujillo was in our rear view mirrors. And not a moment too soon, as moments earlier at a gas stop, a group of those focused yet friendly Peruvians became pretty intent on us. Their questions were a bit too prying, and their body language a teeny bit threatening as they hungrily eyed our bikes and gear. Granted, it was full daylight and there were plenty of people around, but we weren't sticking around long enough to test the probable safety of our situation. Once our tanks were full, we did the best thing a traveller can do in an uncomfortable situation - we got the hell out of there fast.

The coastal road south was much like the day before - hot, dry, bordered all its length by fascinating earthen shapes, designs, and textures, and in the distance could be seen voluptuous, softly curving, multicolored, over-grown dunes. The road was in superb condition, the traffic was light, and only the strong headwind kept our speed to a respectable 75 mph.

The road began to snake through a field of large rocky mounds and as Gary rounded one bend in the road he saw David sitting high up on one of them. Gary had no time to pull his camera before David skirted down the slippery slope to the road, so he sent him right back up to have his picture taken; photographers forget they too can be subjects. This time going up, David's front tire missed its mark and the bike and rider dumped. Determined, he righted the bike, rode down to the bottom, turned around, and zoomed successfully up to the top.

While Gary and David were having their fun Alex passed them by (did he see them?) and for the next 50 miles, he wasn't to be seen again. At a fork in the road Gary and David stopped to ask a couple police in a patrol car if they had seen which way another biker (Alex) went. They reported seeing three bikers in a group pass much earlier. Could it have been Jim and Jay AND Alex, another amazing coincidence of finding each other on the open road? Did Alex find a couple new friends? Or did Jim and Jay, going slower than we thought, find a friend?

Gary and David drove on, climbing over a massive mountain which descended onto another toll booth. Of course waiting there with a wide grin was Alex. Turns out he had befriended the toll booth cops and cajoled them into radioing the cops back at the fork to see if Gary and David had passed. Probably every cop in the country knew where we were now.

The rest of the day was a succession of small towns, horrible fishmeal factories, and thousands of square miles of moonscapes. As we neared Lima, we realized there was no real reason to go to Lima just for the evening. We wouldn't be able to accomplish anything till morning, and the twinkling lights of Ancon, situated on a small bay, thirty minutes outside of Lima, looked too nice to resist.

We pulled off the highway into what turned out to be a run down, out-of-season, deserted seaside resort, used as a weekend getaway for the well-to-do of Lima. Perfect! Just what we needed before the big city. The hotel recommended by our travel bible was on a boardwalk not accessible to the bikes, so we decided to park in the safest spot in town - the police station. But not by the police station, IN the police station.

But I thought Peru was a non-extradition country!

We walked up, presented our letter from the Peruvian consulate in Quito, and asked if we could park our bikes behind the stone wall enclosing the station. This request began a chain-reaction of raised eyebrows, low chuckles, wrinkled brows, and finally consenting nods as the letter was passed around, up the ladder of command. At one point, the police considered us pulling the bikes directly inside the building, but outside turned out to be best. David even thought about asking if we could sleep inside, either where the officers rest, or in the deserted cells. Nuh-uh, said Gary and Alex. You sleep there, we'll sleep in the hotel. "But it'll be great reading on the web, guys!" David said. Not wanting a night in jail alone David quickly shelved the idea.

Pepe, the proprietor of La Posada del Pirata, a historical landmark in which a treaty between Peru and Chile had been signed, proudly welcomed us into his home/hotel. This grand house on the boardwalk directly facing the beach had been in his family for generations, but he had only recently returned to take over the poorly-run family business with his wife and little boy. He had his work cut out for him; the home was in great need of fixing up, but despite its rough condition, he had created a peaceful and comfortable environment for travellers.

Pepe's English was great, so we stayed up late talking on his porch, listening to his stories of past glory as an All-American soccer player in the states. His wife too was a local soccer AND swimming champ, and the rambunctious energy of their little boy heralded him as a future Olympian.

The solitude of Ancon and the soft lapping of the surf on the moored vessels in the bay lulled us to sleep. Even our worst nightmares could not have prepared us for Lima the next day.

Miles - 333

The three of us were borne away, waving, from our little posada by the thick-legged peda-cab driver, who pulled up wheezing and puffing to the police station only minutes away. We gingerly approached the wall behind which should lay our two-wheeled babies. A quick visual survey eased our minds; nothing had been taken by Peru's Finest nor the rif-raf often found hanging around police stations. Of course not, we thought. Nothing in our three days of Peru had indicated at all a lack of safety and security. Despite reports to the contrary, Peru had so far been nothing but pleasant and hospitable.

The thirty minutes into Lima did its best to change our minds. The roadway was clogged with buses, taxis, collectivos (minivans used as taxi/buses), trucks, pedestrians, bicycle peddlers, traffic cops stopping and starting traffic haphazardly, every manner of road detritus imaginable, all belching smoke, all jockeying for position on the four-lane (?) artery into town.

If this was an artery carrying the blood of Lima, we chilled at the thought of Lima's heart. And right we were. We finally pulled off this road (which is still the Panamerican by the way) near the Plaza de Armas, the main tourist center of town. Usually a good place to find cheap lodging, all we found was that inner-city traffic was no better, worse in fact, and compressed into a tighter space.

The streets of Lima
Our first goal for the morning was to meet Jim and Jay at the South American Explorers Club for a powwow. So needing directions, as the map in the travel bible was clearly insuffucient, we wound a few random rights and lefts until going further was pointless. Calling for directions seemed the most prudent thing to do, so Gary dismounted and crossed the street to use the phone, and while waiting, turned around to survey the sea of humanity walking by.

One of those humanity was none other than Jay, our Canadian so far from home. The complete disbelief on his face equaled that on Gary's as the two of them hugged on the street like long-lost war buddies. David and Alex, only yards away, were equally unbelieving. Lima is a city of 2 million, yet the Riding to the Moon karma was strong enough to reach through it all to pull the team together.

It turns out their hotel was right around the corner, and Jay was on a futile search for a lavanderia for some much needed laundry services. Jim had gone alone to the Explorer's Club. Gary finally got through on the phone and received directions. Gary told Jim, who was already there, to sit tight; we would be there tout-de-suite. We left Jay to his search and entered into a desperate struggle for our lives and our sanity to find our way across town.

With huge buses inches to the left, more inches to the right, one's brake lights burning our eye sockets, another breathing down our muffler, we crossed all of Lima. Each rider rode encased in a mobile metal cell, fearing to be crushed at any moment, sprinting through any available crack offering the smallest succor, latching onto any available smaller vehicle we could see over, waving frantically to each other as we careened into then out of sight.

Miraculously, with only one missed turn and one trip down the wrong way of a one-way street, we arrived unscathed at the door of the Explorer's Club. Jim was nowhere to be found and we thought he'd given up on us, especially when the staff at the clubhouse handed us his letter. What he had to say was a bit depressing. He and Jay wanted to get to Ushuaia and fast. No monkeying around with extra days here and there. No debates about stopping for lunch or considering less than a 300 mile day. Jim's clock was ticking; he had to be back in the states for his brother's wedding by the end of January, and his desire to make it all the way was paramount. Jay, who always favored long rides and short stops, was all set to go with him. As soon as we finished reading his directive we looked up to see his pretty face walking back in. He hadn't given us up for traffic fodder after all, just gone to get a bite to eat.

Listening to the bitter truth

No one tried to talk anyone into or out of anything. Jim and Jay were pretty resolved. We spent some time in the clubhouse talking about how we'd handle certain things being split up - internetting, photos, splitting up vital gear. Overall, it would be simpler than we thought to break up, logistically anyway. We would still be the Riding to the Moon team, just A and B. Team A would plow the way, and Team B would daintily traipse behind.

David realized that we, being Team B, now had the opportunity to return to the original route of the trip, which was to go from Peru into the interior, into the Amazon rainforest, boat down the Amazon, and take the Atlantic coasts of Brazil and Argentina down to Ushuaia. Mainly out of respect for Jim's schedule, we had all mentally altered the route to not go through Brasil, but straight down from Peru into Chile, zigzagging the Andes into Patagonia and ultimately Ushuaia, which is what Jim and Jay would still do, but at warp speed.

Lima had always seemed the perfect place to decide on the two routes anyway, being so close to the source, and with the clubhouse having lots of first-hand information and maps available. Some things you just can't know in the comfort of your home 7000 miles north.

The Lima clubhouse was a bit different from that of Quito, occupying a second-floor apartment in a long building of apartments. Overall, much less space than Quito, but smartly laid out. The administrators had their room, which doubled as a bookstore. The library served as the common area. The topo maps, triplogs, and e-mail computer shared the same room, and there was a kitchen for all to use as allowed. The small bathroom had a sign identical to one in Quito reminding travellers that in South America, used toilet paper goes in the provided receptacle, not into the toilet where it could clog the delicate plumbing systems. No shit!

Chris was the newly installed chief of the Lima clubhouse, ably assisted by Jeff and Ophelia. They took an interest in our charity ride and helped Gary sort through the available resources on crossing the Andes and into the rainforest. The options were formidable. Even just getting to Cusco presented several routes, all of which were suspect, but some heartily discouraged over others. Nazca to Cusco was rated the worst, and via Arequipa in the south being the longest but best. After that, do we go north to Pucallpa then Iquitos? Do we go east to Puerto Muldonado deep in the jungle? Or do we go south into Bolivia, then up into Brasil?

The road from Pisco, on the coast a few hours south of Lima, to Cusco was selected as our path across the Andes, a good compromise. From Cusco, we'd go into Bolivia and then up into the rainforest. The Bolivian rainforest sounded the easiest to reach and had the most rivers to choose from to get up to the Amazon. All of this was researched by Gary, the groups info-hog (with David as his loyal assistant), in a harried quest for answers in the few hours of the afternoon before the clubhouse closed up for the weekend.

Could someone bring me a cafe con leche, por favor?

Also during this time, Gary made a phone call to the United States to learn that the tires so desperately needed would not make it to Lima; there was an embargo due to too high demand on commercial shipping to Peru. Looked like the Andes would lay claim to the last of our rubber. We also replenished our supply of dinero with hefty cash advances at a nearby bank. Oh, and we ate some chinese food, too. It was a busy afternoon.

The ride back to the hotel was as hellish as our morning ride. David, cruelly separated from Gary and Alex, made it back first by cleverly finding his way to their first stop in the morning where they had happened upon Jay and recreating Jay's explanation of where the hotel was. Gary and Alex, who had the map, nearly lost their minds trying to make a really important left turn, missing it, u-turning, then trying to make a right turn coming back the other way, but each side street was blocked off by a sea of vendors. There was no way to get through, and the subsequent long way around took forever. When they finally arrived they burned their pathetic little map in effigy of all the city planners ever to hold office in Lima

The Hotel Espana was International Central. Americans, Canadians, Germans, Brits, Danes, Aussies, Latin Americans and more, all blissfully coexisting in the eclectic interior of the hotel. Jim and Jay were comfortably installed on the first floor; the rest of us were relegated to the roof, accessed by a long rickety flight of stairs to the second floor, then a narrow wooden spiral staircase to the top.

The previous evening, Jim and Jason had pulled their bikes through the front door and into the hotel's foyer, but there was only room for one more bike and just barely at that. David and Gary drew the short straws and so went off to search for parking. They tried their luck at the police station around the corner, and felt close to victory several times, but the stalwart captain (overseeing some sort of IMPORTANT mission at the Japanese Embassy no doubt) stood his ground against our relentless onslought about charity and international cooperation. An enclosed public lot seven blocks away was our last chance and won the honor of housing our baby beefers for the night.

The evening was pretty mellow. Everyone was a little glum knowing it was our last night together. We didn't go out and party hard, we didn't even stay in and party hard. Surprisingly, we all did our own thing. Jay worked on his bike and turned in early. Jim went out with some off-duty cops he'd met earlier in the day. Alex worked on a plan to lighten his load by stripping off his Pelican cases. Afterwards he and David went for some drinks with other travellers they met at the hotel. Gary spent some time alone on the rooftop, thinking how the Riding to the Moon International Motorcycle Benefit Expedition would not be the same. Better maybe, more streamlined and efficient? But different for sure. Then he went to bed.

Miles - 28