The translation in English
(Va a version Espanol.)

The Mother of All Roads

Since our departure from Los Angeles on the 2nd of November we have done nothing but ride on Latin soil, speak the local tongue, share the local customs and above all make tons of friends. Of course, beside our daily work of driving, internetting, etc., we have had the opportunity to learn more and more about the world first hand, without having to crack open a book or sit through a filmed documentary. Latin America confronts us face to face with all it's splendor.

Right now we are in Cuzco, an enchanted city that we consider the rainbow after the storm given that getting here has been an odyssey in itself. It all started in Pisco, a coastal Peruvian city 150 miles or so south of Lima. Upon arrival we learned that there was a natural reserve nearby. Paracas, just 22 km south by road, and the Ballestas Islands by boat, which harbor some of the richest plant and animal marine life in the world.

Too late to board the last vessel for the islands we decided to hole up at a little hotel on the central plaza and then bolt on to Paracas.

On the way there we passed Peru's largest fish canneries, a subject which lent itself to a few jokes about our suffering noses.

Once at the park entrance a gentleman steered us in the right direction...after getting 2 soles from each of us. Inside the park we were enthralled to experience gigantic red sand-dunes. We tested their rideability first by walking onto them and then, like an avalanche, we left the road to create our own path. With the bikes unloaded and the energy of a child this was the first time we would off-road solely for fun.

We couldn't believe it! Everything looked as though we were racing in the Paris-Dakar rally. A total thrill! If you peeked over the cliff edge you could see into infinity, inclines of 45 degrees or more, some fog, and one of the most spectactacular sunsets we have ever seen. We stopped to take some photos for our sponsors in our moment of ecstasy. The scenes seemed magical.

One roll, two, one more and our faces couldn't hide our heart. A sandy slope of 300 meters was our next fear to overcome, but the KLR 650s acted like it was nothing, taking to the dunes like it was just a game. Quick-sand, sharp rocks, and a few buried tires gave the training we would need for the days to come. And god knows we need it!

Euphoric and energized we went back through the fish stench for some well deserved rest.

Plaza de Armas

Miles - 194

The next day the sight of bread and jam opened our eyes. We loaded the monsters with our gear and said our goodbyes to the Dutch folk from the night before. Having consulted with the locals about the route we adjusted the bikes, preparing for the worst. We went over every screw, changed oil and filter and took a deep breath to chase away the bad spirits.

Who would have thought that out of the next 340 km only 9 were paved on the way to Ayacucho, a picturesque little town in the middle of the Andes Mountains and our destiny du jour.

And the odyssey began. A fatal climb that went from sea level to 4600 meters (approx. 15,000 feet) within a scant 160 km, a despicable thing. Add to that the thin air, the cold, the fog, the rain, hail and consequently a road more like a frozen pond than a dirt road...things couldn't be worse...or so we thought. We kept telling ourselves that there was nothing worse than the road from Tikal, Guatemala and that conditions had to improve soon.

The rocks jutting up from the road were cause to fear and like a curse the combination of harsh elements sucked. A rider went down, into the claws of fate. The tail of the bike scooped from left to right and back again leaving no room for recovery. The bike lay sleeping in the mud and rocks, with her pilot nowhere to be found. Dizzy and limping he peeked up from the cold earth beckoning assistance. Without touching their most vicious enemy (the brakes) the other troops showed up for their comrades rescue. By luck or fate we continued on with little incidence. We would diagnose the wounds on safer soil.

At noon we made our usual lunch stop in a little villa where the indiginous told us, to our surprise, that they had fried trout on a bed of rice and that we would never make Ayacucho by nightfall. As usual we took their advice into consideration but figured it would be really be about one third the time, arriving by 6pm. Llamas, alpaca, piglets, dogs that try to run you down, amulets on every wall, adobe houses, straw and leather goods filled our eyes.

Guatemela was child's play compared to this!

Soon thereafter she gave us a little hug, shook us with one last gail, and went away leaving behind her a mess of icy mud for us to clean up.

Harsh work brought us to the finish line... Ayacucho. We penetrated the suburbs with spirits of glory. The battle was hard but the war was yet to come... three more days to Cuzco. With a sour-sweet taste in our mouths we limped into the Plaza de Armas only to encounter a multitude of amateur private investigators. "Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you bring? Where are you from?" The bikers were overwhelmed but the search for a place to stay for themselves and their bikes began. Time stopped. Sounds faded to an incomprehensible rumble and our sight focused on the weather worn faces of our interrogators. At that moment their affront turned to humility, and the curiosity of a pure heart.

In a city where there are more churches than houses the contagious air of trust let our answers flow. Unexpectedly a young girl approached and with sweet innocence she asked what no one had. "Where are you staying tonight?" We didn't yet know. "If you can accept we have an extra room in our house. Hotels here are very expensive."

Her name was Morayma and she was a student at the local university studying tourism. Thus explains her eagerness to host visitors, and to practice her English. Her home was already filled with her family, and in partial disarray due to remodeling, but someone (we're not sure who) gave up their room for us, and we laid out our pads and sleeping bags on the floor. We took her, her father, and a friend out for pizza as a thank you. Red wine and Hawaiian pizza loosened tongues, and dinner was a joyous affair of road stories (on our part) and tales of Ayacucho (from them).

Miles - 215