Christmas Eve, and No One to Call

(okay, its a bit of a stretch)

The reason he was stirring was that he hadn´t actually slept well all night, plagued by the pain in his left hip and right lower leg from his spill the day before (yes, it was Gary who underwent the poetically sounding munch the previous day). Although there seemed to be no permanent damage, just some cuts and bruises, everyone was concerned how mobile Gary would be. By the end of the previous day he had had much difficulty walking and it was especially tough for him to swing a leg high enough to mount his bike.

But when he arose from his sleeping bag, nestled in tightly between his comrades on the cold cement floor, buffered only by the rugged as all-get-out Artiach self-inflatable sleeping pads, he felt surprisingly better and the anticipated stiffness was nearly absent, all of this in large part thanks to the expert medical care he received from his fellow riders the night before - gobs of neosporin, a plethora of bandages, ginseng tea, and a stopper full of echinacea/goldenseal.

Morayma tried desperately to convince us to stay for Christmas; we would never make Cusco by the end of today, which is where we had originally hoped to be by Christmas, so why not stay with our new friends? It was tough saying no to those huge brown eyes, but the bane of the traveller is always having to move on, whether holiday or high water. We thanked her and her family for their hospitality, promised to write, took pictures with everyone, and rode off into the growing day.

The weather had held the previous night, and today was clear and sunny. We hoped this meant that the roads would be predominantly dry, but the weather patterns in the Andes are not subject to any predictions or preferences. Though the ride to Andahuaylas, our hopeful destination for the evening, was shorter in miles, the guide book said the trip by bus can take as much as 18 hours, longer in the rainy season, which was just beginning. We knew we could shave quite a few hours off the bus´s time, but would that leave us with an 8, 10, maybe 12 hour ride?

The first part of the ride was a long gradual ascent up to the altiplano, the flat plains that stretch all along the top of the Andes at an altitude of around 12,000 feet. These green plains are the grazing grounds for the hearty flocks of the Quechua Indians - cows, llamas, pigs, sheep and goats. Small huts dot the landscape, constructed of mud, straw, and rocks. These high plains are frequently enshrouded in clouds, thus provided with a constant mist without the presence of real rain, though sometimes this mist was just as wet as any rain would be.

As the scattered clouds drifted across the altiplano, the ground and roads soaked up the moisture so without warning the flat, hard-packed dirt road would suddenly turn into a long mud pit, then just as suddenly turn back into a good solid surface. This variation kept us on our toes, but we were getting better at driving on this variable terrain, especially Gary and Alex (David was already doing just fine), and overall we made good time.

When the road descended from the altiplano to intersect towns along the way, which are nestled in the valleys, the road surface would improve. But the downward ascent was also very twisty and slow-going. Still, we appreciated the hard packed dirt. The lower altitudes also tended to be warmer, offering a respite from the cold heights for at least a short while until the road zig-zagged back up to the altiplano for the long stretches between towns.

The end of the day was nearing and we still weren´t sure how far we were from Andahuaylas. The map was useless for figuring distances, and the answers from the locals were clearly not based on two wheel travel, more like four-hooved travel. As dusk fell, one gentlemen who looked more or less like he knew what he was talking about, told us Andahuaylas was only 12 kilometers (7.2 miles) ahead, but ONE HOUR away. Now we´d had some stretches where our speed had averaged around 15 miles per hour, but not even buses took an hour to go 8 miles.

As is turned out, he was way off on the mileage, but not too off on the time. Andahuaylas was actually 15 miles away and took us 45 minutes to reach. By the time we got there, darkness had fallen and our serpentine descent from the mountain into the well-lit town was like dropping down into a silent starry night sky.

Being Christmas Eve, we decided to treat ourselves to the nicest hotel in town, the Hotel Turistas, which was surprisingly on par with a Motel 6, though undergoing major construction. The main boss was out when we got there, so we made our pitch for a discount to the aloof deskman, who took our letter from the consulate to give to the boss later. As we downloaded the bikes outside, a sizable crowd gathered to stare even though the hotel was on the edge of town on a quiet street and everyone should have been home cooking turkey or something for Christmas. It was eerie in these small towns how people came out of nowhere to gawk at us. The little kids are always brave enough to come up and poke at our bags and llama seatcovers; the older people just get as close as they can and stare mutely.

We took the bikes into town for Christmas dinner, which was almost Chinese until we decided to try the Plaza de Armas (of course) for a classier joint. Our Christmas turkey, stuffing and eggnog was pollo frito con papas fritas y cervezas all around. What made the meal really special, though, was the music playing - great hits of the seventies and eighties, including the Bee Gees, Air Supply, and Leo Sayer.

Outside, a gathering crowd of curious young men looking at our bikes cut short the meal. Alex went out first to bust up the crowd, quickly followed by David and Gary, but the Christmas spirit overcame everyone. In no time, David was giving his keys over to a young Peruvian jet pilot from the Aero Fuerza for a spin around the block . Of course he left his own trashed Ninja as collateral, though its poor condition made it far less than an equal trade.

We waited for his return in a pleasant little coffee-house/pastry shop drinking hot chocolate and gnawing on delicious mil hojas (Napoleons). And we waited, and we waited. We saw the young man blow by on the KLR once, and it looked like he had picked up a passenger. And we waited some more, and some more.

The nervous look on David´s face was out of place on such a festive evening, and it was clear he wasn´t having fun any more. We went outside to wait, hoping to see or at least hear the KLR dash down some nearby side street. Alex was getting pretty pissed off and took off on his bike to find the errant pilot. Across the street, another local motorcyclist was giving friends rides on his little Rebel cruiser, and he came and went several times, while there was still no sight of David´s bike.

The irony of losing a bike on Christmas Eve was on the tips of everyone´s tongues when suddenly the KLR roared around the corner, and the young Peruano pulled up to the curb, hair blown back and grinning ear to ear. Although we wanted to give him a piece of our minds, the look of utter joy on his face, coupled with the fact that he claimed to have put some gas in the tank for David, quickly quelled our anger. We declined going out to a bar or club with him, preferring to just turn in for the night.

David took a walk to try and find a telephone to call the U.S., but the local phone office didn´t have the ability to call AT&T. He walked a few more blocks searching but by 10pm on this holiday everything was closed. The phone back at the hotel, locked in a box so that guests couldn't make ANY outgoing calls, should be able to connect, if the night-guard would bend the rules, which he did. Unfortunately the amount of international phone traffic on Christmas Eve was too great, and David waited for half an hour for an operator to pick up. When one finally answered, they wouldn´t patch through a collect call because of the holidays. Majorly bummed he gave up, washed his tired, stinky feet in the sink, and joined Alex and Gary in dreamland.

Miles - 170

When David went in to pay up, the owner was present with our Peruvian embassy letter in hand. "How much for the night"? David asked. "Feliz Navidad, Senor... Pero me gusto tus firmas en este carta". The owner was taken by our efforts and all he wanted was our signature on the embassy letter to put up on his wall. David walked the letter out to Alex and Gary who stood astounded at the owners generosity as they signed. The obligatory crowd had begun to gather around us, and after a few polite Feliz Navidads, we drove off into the grey morning, the modern antithesis to the three wise men that also travelled on this same day two millenium ago.

Despite being Christmas Day, the gas station on the way out of town was open to our good fortune, though they only had 84 octane. For quite some time, we hadn´t seen anything higher, but then again, at these prices, 84 was just fine. We got a little lost on the way out of town; a friendly Peruano on a runty little Honda 125 showed us the right way. It was surprising the number of people travelling on this day, as the roads were just as full as buses and trucks as any other day.

The road ascended from Andahuaylas, curving through small communities of Quechua. The children were out in force today, and we rode more often with one hand on the handlebars than two, the other waving to their little delighted faces. The road finally reached the altiplano, where it leveled off; the weather too leveled off, the rain turning into the typical light mist from the dark clouds at such high altitudes, the sun gloriously peeking through in streams.

At one point, we were making good time, the road was flat and gently curving through the high plains, when we came around a bend into not only the thickest fog but also the deepest mud. Our speed dropped immediately to zero to keep from careening out of control off the left side of the road and down a cliff whose bottom was obscured by the cloudbank. We threw a rock over the cliff and into the fog and listened for it to hit bottom. We didn´t hear anything!

Ever so carefully, we began moving again, feet slightly above the ground to help balance in the mud. The rule of thumb is to keep moving, keep the front wheel pointed forward (or in the direction you want to go), give it some gas when you feel the back wheel cutting out, and, as David reminded the others, never attempt to cross over from one rut or wheeltrack into another... ever!

Well, our resident off-road expert who had been in a rut for some time and was freaking out about it, broke the third rule. He tried to go from one deep rut onto higher ground, and as the worn Trailmax front wheel hit the wall of the ridge, the bike just dumped sideways, losing all traction, as if someone had pulled the carpet out from under him. Over David went into the mud. Shaking his head from his stupidity, he heaved the 500-or-so pound bike upright and vowed to not make the same mistake again, EVER. After a few miles, the cloud receded from the road, the surface firmed up a little, and we picked up the pace again.

We had hoped to make Cusco by the end of the day, but more muddy sections kept us going slow enough to change our minds to Abancay. Due to the topography, Abancay first became visible about 50 miles away by road, but only a few miles as the condor flies. The road that descended into the valley was so filled with switchbacks and long traverses we wondered if we would ever get there. It was like Zeno´s Paradox; we could count the miles ticking away but the city just wasn´t getting any closer.

Our consolation to such Andean trickery was the condition of the road itself. Clearly, the authorities were getting ready to do something. The road was very smooth, graded, and nearly wide enough for two buses to pass each other. We had speculated over the past few days what it would take to eventually pave these mountain roads. Before anything, they would have to be widened. If they weren´t, the higher speeds that asphalt invite would make head-on collisions predictable, unavoidable and disastrous.

We wondered why all of these roads hadn´t ever been paved. The roads within the limits of the many cities were paved, though not the small towns, so obviously the equipment was available. Gary wondered if the guerilla activity that infested the whole region over the past decade had been a factor, if the government didn´t want to give the revolutionaries the advantages of good roads to avoid the military. Also the increased traffic would mean more bus robberies and thus more money and resources to the 'wrong side'. Now, however, with the Peruvian president having made the Sendero Luminoso a virtual thing of the past, and soon to do the same to the Tupac Amaru, it was time to modernize.

During the long descent into Abancay, we stopped roadside for a little target practice. Down the embankment sat a scraggly little cactus plant. For no other reason than to blow off some tension from the hair-raising mud of the altiplano, we obsessedly threw rock after rock until a good portion of the plant had been demolished. What are cactus doing in the wet climbs of the Andean mountains anyway? Any local Indians observing our antics would certainly have wondered what happened to the Christmas spirit.

Abancay finally stopped retreating from our relentless advance and loomed large around the next few bends, and our tires were soon rolling on its smooth pavement. Still feeling the desire to pamper ouselves for the holidays, we went straight to the nicest hotel in town, curiously also called the Hotel Turistas, but no formal relation to last night's hotel. Still, hoping for a repeat performance, we strode in confidently, consulate letter in hand and were instantly wowed by the fine quality of the hotel. Soft carpet covered the hallways, comfortable furniture and a large color television graced the reception area, and a new computer sat proudly at the check-in desk. Judit, the lovely woman behind the counter took our letter to her bosses, who offered us a 50% discount. Though that was still a bit of money, we accepted instantly.

We turned down the offer of lunch in their dining room, fearing similar high prices, and walked a few blocks down the street to a very small family-run restaurant serving chicken, french fries, and a curious pasta dish garnished with mustard that was surprisingly good, so good we had two large plates each. Mmmm, Grease! High on the wall, a television was showing the movie "Home Alone." Even dubbed in Spanish, the insipid stupidity and insidious malevolence masquerading as humor was clearly evident. We took heart that the small children in the restaurant hardly glanced up to watch.

David and Gary washed some of the mud off their bikes back at the hotel with some 10 cent brushes they bought from a street vendor. A cute little deer kept as a pet by the hotel curiously sniffed us up and down. Upstairs in our very comfortable room complete with private shower and hot water, Alex stretched and relaxed and went to bed early. Still with a little energy left, David and Gary set up the computer downstairs in a vacant dining room (where were the other guests?) and hammered away at the keys until late into the night.

Miles - 91