Boogie Nights in Cusco

Merry Christmas!!

All of a sudden, coming around a sharp, downhill curve, there it lay before us - smooth and grey, two lanes wide, yellow dotted lines painted down the middle and on the sides, nary a bache, vado, falla, or tope. Smooth as a babies bottom, creamy as tapioca, warm and inviting as a hawaiian hula dancer, the road was like a mirage, too good to be true. David arrived first, parked, pulled the cameras, and waited for the next rider to enter into the promised land. Gary came next, arms raised in a V when his tires hit the asphalt. Alex arrived a few minutes later, arms similarly raised; as his rubber met the pavement, the joy was too much for him. He quickly dismounted and placed himself prostrate, spread-eagle on the warm black chocolate. Gary leapt on top to share the happiness. David captured it all on nitrate.

Scuse me while I kiss the ground...

A group of campesinos (as the indigenous people are most respectfully called) stood nearby watching. Unsure of what to make of the spectacle, they ran. No matter, we didn´t mind further darkening the disapproval these people must harbor for crazy motorcyclists, we were too happy. The celebration lasted a few minutes more, dancing and whooping, our minds thinking back to that distant place on the western side of the Andes, coming out of Pisco, when our tires first left the pavement, 500 miles ago.

The true heroes of our journey were the tires. Our helmets are off in the deepest respect and gratitude for the Dunlop Trailmax tires. A million thanks go out to Mike Buckley in the Marketing Department for donating these little rubber miracles. 8000 miles, no flats, carrying 350 pound bikes, 160 pound riders, and at least 150 pounds of gear without a single complaint, and the last 500 miles on roads you wouldn´t even want to send your mother-in-law out on on a stormy night (of course we are just using this as an expression). Although the tread was nearly gone, especially on the rear, these tires just wouldn´t, just couldn´t let us down.

We took off blissfully down the paved road, and almost immediately, a few curious things happened. First off, to our enjoyment, we were able to better appreciate the scenery, not having to be so intent on the ground beneath our wheels. Of course we had been aware of how spectacular our ride had been for the past several days, but every sheer drop-off, every distant dark cloud, had tinged the beauty with a hint of mortal peril.

But now the weather was wonderful. The bright sun overpowered the slight chill. The distant snow-capped mountains shouted out their majesty, and the nearby hills and fields burst with all manner of life, from wild trees and shrubs to the neatly terraced farms of the Quechua, from the small wandering herds of llamas, cows, pigs and sheep to the colorfully garbed Quechua themselves. Without a doubt, from a turistic point of view, things go better with pavement.

On the other hand, from an anthropological standpoint, the paved road introduced a measure of modernity that caused the simple lifestyle of these indiginous peoples to suddenly seem miserable and poor. We had driven through scores of small villages on the dirt roads, passing by mere feet their brown mud and brick houses, roofed in leaves, with little to no electricity or running water. We saw them close up as they sat on their stoops or directly on the roadside, cooking, knitting, tending to their families and their animals, and each time, it felt like we were the odd ones, intruding into their rich little corner of the world, made remote by the difficulties of reaching it by road.

Now, however, seeing them living alongside this newly paved road, they were no longer removed from modern civilization, but unwittingly drawn in like flies clinging helplessly on a spider´s web. They still used the road to drive their flocks, but now it was more of a nuisance than a quaint obstruction. The children still played in the road, but their dirty faces and hands against the clean grey asphalt made them look poor and vulnerable. And the houses, once proud and strong against the elements, looked fragile and makeshift.

Was it possible that before construction began these people were told by distant authorities that greater commerce would insue, greater traffic and perhaps more money spent in their little villas? In reality, it seemed the opposite would be true. That on the old dirt road travellers would stop for a meal or a drink to escape the intense and exhausting driving conditions. But now no longer. Pavement had us flying through these villages seeking only the modern comforts of the big city only minutes away instead of hours. It reminded us of the plight of so many small towns in America when the interstates were built.

Only when you looked straight into the eyes of these people could you see the same strength, the same fierce instinct for survival that must have peered back into the eyes of the Spanish invaders hundreds of years ago. We hoped that the inexhorable march of progress would be more respectful to these people than history has shown, and that they would have the ability to adapt while retaining their heritage and identity. It will be interesting to return in a couple of years when even more of the Andean roads will be paved and see how the people have fared.

The road itself was an anomaly, totally out of place and beyond reason. It didn´t begin in a town, and when to our utter dismay it simply ended 40 miles later, it didn´t end in a town. We never saw any road construction equipment, neither in operation continuing the road, nor just sitting at either end waiting for the engineers to come along and start them up. It was as if the road just fell out of the sky, perfect and new, in a random place in the Andes.

Anyway, the pavement did eventually end, and just as rain started to fall. The combination of depression and having gotten used to driving over 50 miles an hour, even in curves, and having to give that up made us want to stop in our tracks and weep. But we perservered, cheered on by an old man on an old Honda, trudging along with bald tires on the dirt road, in the rain, with only a leather cowboy hat, cowboy boots, reading glasses, and a puffy popplin coat. We chatted for a few minutes, and he unwittingly made our day when he said Cusco was only an hour away by paved road. Sure enough, the pavement picked up again only a few miles ahead, a much older stretch of pavement, probably a few years (Andean conditions age a road very rapidly), and took us right into Cusco.

The Incan City of Gold

Similar to approaching any major city, the scattered settlements grew more dense. A few small towns, larger than anything since Abancay, heralded our entrance into Cusco. The city itself appeared below us as we rounded a curve, its concentrated colonial and gothic architecture giving it the feel of an Alpine European city. We stopped on a high overlook for some photos then descended into the City of Gold.

Traffic, noise, pollution, poorly marked one-way streets, aggressive taxis, and six-armed traffic cops routing everyone every which way couldn´t wipe the smile off our faces nor diminish our relief at having reached this milestone of the trip. It was early in the afternoon, and we wanted to get a few things done before we fell into the comfortable clutches of a hotel room and did something stupid like go right to sleep.

First on the agenda was the Holiday Inn Cusco. A few Holiday Inns and Crowne Plazas, the sister chain, were sponsoring us along the ride, so we attempted to get an on the spot sponsorship from the Cusco franchise. The manager was receptive to our request and showed a genuine interest in our expedition, but the best he could offer was 50% off. At a regular rate of $160 a night, even half off was out of our range. We tried to offer them a special web site and other little compensations, but the holiday season gave them no reason to jump on it. Oh well, it wasn´t like we'd been roughing it too bad since Lima. Besides, Cusco had many hostals where we would be comfortable enough and have the opportunity to meet some cool travellers. The Holiday Inn probably just housed a stuffy crowd who got to Cusco the easy way - by plane. No offense to them, but they probably didn´t want to be around us either.

Outside the hotel, we bumped into a traveller we´d met in Lima. To our utter surprise, he told us Jim and Jay had just left that morning. It seems they did want to get some of the sights in after all, not just blaze straight down to Ushuaia. Of course, if that was the case, why couldn´t they have waited an extra day for us? As it turns out, they had taken a route highly discouraged by people back in Lima and had suffered the consequences; Jay broke his sub-frame which had to be welded and Jim had a run-in with a big boulder. Against Jim´s wishes, the guy also told us about Jim´s little run in with the law in Cusco (but since Jim has himself told all in these journals, it wasn´t really such a breach of confidence). We all had a good laugh, but the proximity of our fellow Riding to the Mooners made us feel a little nostalgic for the good old days.

In the next few hours, we got our laundry done, ate some lunch, and did some uploading at UNSAAC, the engineering university in Cusco. At first, the security guards at the entrance didn´t want to acknowledge our desire to come in, much less hear us out. But the consulate letter softened them up a bit. Hey, maybe these dirty smelly Americans with grimy loud bikes weren´t so bad after all. What a concept! They let Alex go in alone, and he came back with a confident grin only minutes later having spoken to the chief administrator of the campus, who was enthusiastic about us using the computer center. The guards, a little put in their places, quickly let us in. One of them remained next to our bikes, keeping guard the whole while we were upstairs. We were grateful for this personal attention; all of our gear was still on the bikes since we hadn´t found a place to stay yet.

When we were finished with our e-mailing and uploading, we went back to the Plaza de Armas (of course) to pick up our laundry and begin the search for a hotel. The sky chose that moment to open up wide and release a torrent of granisos, or hail, many as large as marbles. Luckily, we had already parked on a covered promenade, so the bikes were protected from the onslaught. The city was soon white with the little balls of ice, and when the rain came next, the cobble-stoned streets turned into small rivers.

While waiting out the deluge, reclining peacefully beside the motos (short for motocicletas), it became very obvious how much of a tourist attraction Cusco was. Groups of Germans, Australians, Dutch, Americans, all stopped by to ask what we were doing and wish us a happy journey. Though not as annoying as the crowds of locals that we had endured the past few days, we just wanted to rest in quiet and admire the beauty of Cusco.

The most welcome intrusion was a young Latino couple, Andres from Columbia, and Karin, his girlfriend from Argentina. They spoke no English, so Alex did most of the talking, but their youthful energy and unbridled enthusiasm instantly attracted us to them. It turns out we were brethren of the two-wheeled vehicle, though these kids definitely take the cake for cojones. They had ridden down from Columbia and would continue all over South America on a Vespa scooter. Andres had created a custom rack for all their gear, including a place for their cats, who had unfortunately leapt off en route somewhere in Ecuador. We made plans to get together later.

We found a little hostal, Hostal Santa Maria, just off the Plaza de Armas (of course) that could accomodate the motorcycles in the inner courtyard. The room was small but nice, and one of those little electrical heating elements attached to the showerhead provided hot water. These are very common in South America, and the water usually gets hot enough, but at a lower pressure than we prefer. We have yet to get our booties shocked mid-shower, but it is wise to inspect the wiring before getting in. Alex claims to have been shocked while showering at one point in Cusco, but he must have been rewiring it for a higher output; neither David nor Gary ever had any problems.

That night, with Andres and Karin, we had a delicious pizza dinner and then in a succession of two clubs, danced our lungs out, literally. Although we´d been at high altitudes for a few days, and exerting ourselves on the motos, the non-stop dancing had us gasping for air and taking frequent rests. Something came over us, too, that night, for we went way beyond our normal dancing style. It was free-form all the way, arms flailing, heads shaking, tongues wagging, making guttural tribal sounds, and leaping into the air in wild abandon. The energy in the clubs was fantastic; everyone seemed happy to be alive, like they had all just had a wonderful religious experience in Macchu Picchu, and we were certainly no exception.

As we hugged Andres and Karin goodnight in the cool night air, the magic of Cusco was already working its way deep into our bones.

Miles - 127

For David and Alex, they saw Cusco as a big photo opportunity, so they went out to comb the streets for willing (and unwilling) subjects. Gary had enjoyed getting back to writing in Abancay, and wanted to get some more done by the afternoon, when they would return to the university to try and upload again.

Now that is a hard-core off-road rig!


Andres and Karin came over to show off their moped before they were to head out. Our plan was to go to Macchu Picchu the next day, and since Andres and Karin hadn´t been yet, we asked if they would stay one more day and go with us. For them, it was a money issue, so we bikers had a little private conference and offered to treat them to the famous Incan city. With gushing gratitude, they accepted. With all the free and discounted hotels we´d been getting, it was nice to be on the giving side of charity.

David had his own run in with the local police, but with a special David twist. He was leaving the Holiday Inn after one more unsuccessful attempt at getting sponsorship when he saw a motorcycle cop and asked him where we might be able to buy 17 inch rear tires. The cops verbal directions were totally lost on David, so going one better than drawing a map, he told David to get on the back of the police bike and they would go together. We had seen the friendliness of the Peruvian police, but this was well beyond the call of duty. David asked if his not having a helmet was illegal. What do I look like, choclo (a type of corn)? asked the cop. Off they went.

The first tire store had only 17 inch'ers for mopeds. The cop felt bad that his primary source was a let down so off they went across town to another. This store, too, had none, but it would only take a couple of days to get them. No thanks, said David. The price was a bit high, the quality a bit low, and the road to La Paz was not supposed to be that bad. Our nearly pooped tires would have to make it.

David directed the cop back to the hotel to show him our beefers, quite a bit larger than the cop´s bike. To Gary´s point of view, writing alone in the hotel room, when David walked in with the cop, it was like Managua all over again. He wondered how much of a bribe the cop wanted this time and what had David done anyway. The truth was a bit hard to swallow, but Gary swallowed it nonetheless as the officer extended his happy hand in greeting. Before leaving, the officer answered a few more detailed questions about the road to La Paz, alleviated all doubt that it would be a tough ride.

The university was not as successful for David and Gary this time. Their contact with the computer capable of uploading to the internet never showed up like he said he would. The woman who ran the computer lab with e-mail was a little stand-offish, so the time was spent mainly just getting more writing done.

The artist at work in his atelier
We all got together with Andres and Karin again that night. We met them at their hostal, which was more like a legitimate place for squatters. The building was without electricity, the walls held up by beams leaned against them, and their room, although quite large, had nothing but bare walls and a dirt floor. The kids had set up their tent in the middle of the room for sleeping. When we arrived, Andres was finishing up some personalized address cards for us; we all got our own card with a beautiful color design by Andres on one side abstractly depicting Cusco and our motorcycles. On the other side were their addresses and phone numbers back home. It was a precious gift we accepted with a warm hug.

Dinner was, for once, vegetarian. Not just a meat plate without the meat, but a real vegetarian meal in a real vegetarian restaurant. Antonio, the proprietor and chef, was visibly proud of his little restaurant. The food was delicious - cream of mushroom soup followed by an Andean-style vegetable risotto. We wish him great success with his business.

Did anyone say vegetales?

Gary wolfed down his food, loving every hurried bite, in order to get to the Plaza de Armas (of course) and rendezvous with Helle and Anne, the Danish girls they had met in Lima. They were arriving at some point that day after a 36 hour bus ride, oy vey, and would appreciate seeing a friendly face. At 8:00 pm sharp, just as they had planned back in Lima, Gary met the two girls right in the middle of the square. Helle had lost her credit card somewhere on the bus ride from hell, and it was Anne´s birthday, so both girls were in the mood to go out and just enjoy themselves.

David was quickly growing tired, as were Karin and Andres. Besides, we were all meeting at our hotel at 5:00 am the next day in order to get to the train station in time to get seats on the first train to Macchu Picchu. Alex and Gary accompanied Helle and Anne to dinner, and then to one of the dance clubs from the night before. The same strange Cusco energy infused the girls with the spirit to just go wild and dance the night away, and it did another number on Gary and Alex. Even when the electricity went out in the club, and candles were lit, hardly anyone left, patiently waiting for the music to come back up, some people singing in groups, others gently swaying to music in their heads. Inexplicably, the power in the DJ booth came up before the lights, so for a while, everyone danced to the flickering candlelight.

The same magical cool night air escorted the pooped travellers back to their hotels at a truly obscene hour of the night. Gary and Alex prayed they would reach REM sleep before the alarm went off in the morning.

Miles - 0 (but many if you count the dancing!)