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Day 59 - Monday, December 30th Cusco to Copacabana, Bolivia We squeezed the bikes through the narrow entrance corrider of the hotel out onto the street, stopped off for some low-grade gasoline and air for the tires (come on, babies, you can make it), and waved goodbye to Cusco. As Antonio the policeman had said, the road all the way to Sicuani was paved, a distance of about 100 miles. We stopped there for lunch and assessed our progress. It was only 9:30 am, and we'd already covered quite a distance. Maybe going all the way to Bolivia would be possible. Above us, on the wall, a television played old episodes of Popeye the Sailor cartoons dubbed in Spanish. We commented on the overblown stereotypes portrayed in the cartoons of World War II era Germans and Japanese; more than likely these particular episodes hadn't shown in the United States for a while, nor would they again. Did people in Peru see this as prejudism hidden within kid's entertainment? Our earlier encounter of prejudism in Pisco had made us more aware, especially now being in areas heavily populated by indiginous Peruvians. It was an interesting debate considering we were in a country with a president who is the son of Japanese immigrants.
In Puno, the road switched back to pavement but we'd lost more time than we expected. We would just have to see about Bolivia. The towns were now more numerous, but the main road ceased to go directly through them; feeder roads branched off into each town, allowing thru-traffic to continue unimpeded, a useful and unexpected change in the route. The road was in good condition, flat and straight, being always in the altiplano, not winding slowly up and down mountains and valleys. The next few hours went by quickly. Looking out over Lake Titicaca
Out of several possible ways into Bolivia, we chose the Puno-Copacabana route. The guide bible suggested it as the most scenic... and scenery is our middle name. This route would put us onto a peninsula into Lake Titicaca where we would have to cross by water to reach the other side of the lake. The other routes went around either the top or the bottom of the lake through border towns that didn't sound too appealing. Besides, distances were all about the same. We reached the Peruvian border town of Yunguyo about 4:30 in the afternoon, which put is into a quandery. Should we attempt the border crossing and risk getting stuck in between countries if the Bolivian side closed before we got there? What even happens in such a case? Would Peru let us back in or do we camp out in No Man's Land? We decided to take the risk. One mile past town was the border, clearly not heavily used. We were the only vehicles there, and the Peruvian officials were very laid back, assuring us we would make it fully across. Alex went first, and when his paperwork was finished, he dashed off towards Boliva to get things started over there and beg them not to go home early, which is actually common among lesser used border posts. David and Gary soon followed.
The Bolivian side was even more laid back. We
chatted amicably with the sole official as he prepared our customs
forms, and we played with one of the customs official's little girls
enamored with our colorful helmets and gloves. Alex told the others
that the first words out of the officials mouth when he walked in
was "Triptico?" but had quickly backed down under Alex's
practiced skeptical gaze. However, the fee at the end of the process
through us for a loop. It hadn't rained all day, at least in Peru it hadn't, but something strange must have happened on the Bolivian side. Not half a mile from the border, the unpaved Bolivian road tranformed into a gigantic pit of mud. Deep, red, wet, mushy mud. In the darkness, driving in the mud was more difficult than it had ever been. On top of everything, Gary's electric starter had ceased to function, a problem that had manifested earlier in the day and was more than likely caused by his battery leads being rattled loose. This meant that if he stalled, moving ever so slowly and carefully through the mud, his bike would have to be push started. He stalled. A push start is easy enough on hard dirt or pavement, but in the mud, it was a comedy of slipping boots and foul-mouthed curses. Copacabana was as much of a welcome haven as its name suggested. The Residencia Solar had parking for the bikes in the courtyard and not one but two comfortable rooms at a very reasonable price, although being on the third floor had us huffing and puffing as we lugged our gear up the stairs. To our pleasant surprise, the hotel patrons suggested a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away. Directions in hand, we headed off on foot. The dark streets and narrow alleys had us wondering if the large gated house at the end of a stone path was our correct destination. As we stood hesitantly outside, a friendly woman looked out over the second floor balcony and assured us we'd come to the right place. But we hadn't come at the right time. The chef was preparing to leave and there wasn't much food left anyway. The disappointed look in our tired eyes did something to their sense of duty to customers, and we were seated straightaway and served as much food as they could muster up. The food at La Cupula (tele:0862-2029 - calle Michel Perez 1-3) was exquisite and the atmosphere all at once cozy, relaxing and romantic. We stayed long after the food was all tucked away in our tummies, chatting with Amanda and Martin Stratker, the hotel/restaurant/art teacher proprietors, and drinking mate de coca, a popular local tea brewed from the leaves of the coca plant known for its soothing effect on sorroche or altitude-sickness. The beverage certainly worked its wonders on us, and we bounded up the three flights of stairs back at the hotel (not really) for a good night's sleep. Miles - 323
Day 60 - Tuesday, December 31st Copacabana to La Paz 
David began his last day of 1996 with a 6:00 a.m. icy-cold dip in Lake Titicaca. He thought that once one does this plunge one never has to do it again. And to be so close to this magical lake and not get in, if only for a few minutes, would be a great shame. Stripped down to his skivvies and Timex Ironman watch, he bravely entered the water thinking of the time in Panama when Jim coaxed him into jumping into the cold plunge in the Westin hotels gym (thanks Jim, it was good preparation for this insanity). He instantly felt more alive than the moments before when he had just risen from a comfortable and warm bed. The sun had just risen over the lake, and he stood there being hit by her rays. The contrasting temperatures quickly became too much to bare so he ran out of the waters, threw on his clothing as quickly as he could, and breathlessly jogged back to the hotel for a warm shower. Gary and Alex decided a warm shower was a better way to start the last day of the year, and easier on the heart. Everyone performed a little maintenance on the bikes; Gary reattached his battery leads so the bike would start with the push of a button. David and Alex went to round up a 27mm wrench at a nearby mechanics shop to tighten the bolt on their steering columns which had rattled loose. When we rolled the bikes out of the courtyard, we'd discovered quite a muddy mess left behind on the floor, so wishing to end the year on a positive note, and leave a good impression of motorcyclists, we swept the courtyard clean despite genial protests from the hotel's matron. An important task in La Paz was to get the bikes serviced. Hector Barraza from Kawasaki USA had contacted the Kawasaki dealer in La Paz to set things up and had e-mailed us the contact information. With the holiday coming up, we wanted to get the ball rolling before things closed up for a few days, so we called La Paz from Copacabana and spoke with Marcelo Guardia, business partner with Walter Nosiglia at Top Shop Kawasaki. They were eagerly awaiting our arrival, which would be in just a few hours. We would call again once in La Paz for directions. The road out of Copacabana was a semi-paved, curvy road with exceptional views of Lake Titicaca and many small lakeside communities. The day was bright and warm and the blue sky and puffy white clouds reflected off the lake's surface; the forlorn feeling of the day before was replaced with one of cheerfulness and hope for the coming year. The road ended at the docks at the Straits of Tiquina where an armada of small barges traversed the 1/4-mile stretch of water to the eastern shores of the lake. David and his moto were already aboard one barge
when Gary pulled up. There was still room amongst the half dozen
cows also aboard so he rode on. When Alex's barge pulled up, David went to help him get his bike off, and miraculously Alex had the goggles, scooped out of the cold clutches of Lake Titicaca by his boat's captain. There would be no sacrifices today from the Riding to the Moon team. Alex's ferryman must have felt his rescue services were a little extra, for he tried to charge Alex more than 5 times as much as David and Gary were charged, but fortunately David was there to keep everything in line. The crossing cost a mere 5 bolivianos, or 1 dollar each (with a small tip for rescuing the Scott Goggles).
The final stretch to La Paz was a bizarre patchwork of great pavement and dirt detours. We had been told in Copacabana the road was being redone for political reasons only; someone was making a lot of money to repave already good road. Along this stretch, we saw for the first time the Andes like they are really meant to be seen. A few dozen miles across the altiplano rose a line of the highest, most snow-capped mountains we had yet seen on the trip. Our jaws dropped at the sight, which even made us tremble in expection (fear?) of having to eventually get on the other side. The urban approach to La Paz was a flashback to Lima and we steeled ourselves against another god-awful city of horrendous traffic and dirty streets. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The actual city of La Paz, not the semi-industrial poor outskirts on the altiplano, was nestled in a HUGE valley rimmed by imposing naked canyon walls, multi-colored in hues of brown, red, ochre, even green, depending on the mineral composition. Our descent into the valley took us right into the downtown area, which was modern, clean, and without too much traffic. A quick call to Top Shop for directions had us traversing the entire city to the southern end of the valley and the upscale neighborhood of Calacoto. We found Top Shop without a problem and met Marcelo, an engaging and witty young man who had obviously done very well with his small Kawasaki shop, where he also sold mountain bikes and accessories. We discussed the terms of our service: there would be no cost beyond parts and materials, and we wished to be done and on the road as soon as possible. No problem, said Marcelo, but we will be closed tomorrow and since we don't sell KLR 650s, we have no parts. Anticipating this, Hector back at Kawasaki USA told us to fax him a list of parts we needed which he would Fed-Ex down to us, but the holiday would put off such a process till Thursday.
During dinner, more friends stopped by, and we also met Sandy, Marcelo's wife, who ran an imported clothing store in the mall, and Erica, her sister. (David conscripted Sandy to make a fantastic top grade leather version of his Levi's button-down shirt for a third of the price anywhere else in the world.) Before the meal was out, we knew we would be seeing everyone again before getting out of town, even as soon as that evening at a New Year's Eve Party they invited us to. First, though, we had to get to Carmen's house, a longtime friend of Yolanda, David's girlfriend. Marcelo gave us a ride back to Miraflores, a nice neighborhood just outside of downtown, since we had left the bikes in the shop. It would be nice to not ride or even see the bikes for a day or so. Besides, La Paz was a confusing city with those bizarre rules-of-the-road that leave an American's head spinning. Carmen, her aunt Miriam and her grandmother Blanca welcomed us with open arms and showed us to a small room in their small but pretty home where we would spread out our sleeping pads and bags and call home. Carmen and friend, champagne at the ready
Marcelo and family picked up Gary and Alex thirty minutes later and took them to their party, a huge semi-formal affair at the Bolivian Auto Club. At least 400 hundred revellers were in attendance. Sure enough, all the motorcyclists they'd met earlier and more were there with wives and girlfriends, clustered around a huge table in one corner of the big ballroom, drinking large quantities of rum and coke and eating enormous plates of food. Gary and Alex strenuously declined the food, having been fed earlier by Miriam (their second dinner of the day already). But drink they did, and danced to the live band playing all the classic Latin hits. At 5:00 am on January 1st, 1997, they tip-toed into their room where David was already bundled up, laid down in their sleeping bags, closed their eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, having made it safely to another year, and promptly passed out. Miles - 102
Happy New Year to everyone out there keeping up with our travels. We hope you had a fun and safe New Year celebration and that you succeed in keeping all of your New Year's resolutions. Here is a short list of our resolutions on the ride:
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The next 50 miles went
a bit slower. Dirt replaced pavement, construction detours sent
us onto slow spurs, and increased traffic in both directions curtailed
our customary passing. One route through a small town sent us across
a rickety bridge of dubious reliability. We drove across slowly
one at a time, just in case our combined weight was too much for
the low-grade 2x6's. The pedacabs and pedestrians crossing simultaneously
didn't seem concerned, which gave little comfort. Inwardly, we cursed
the locals who directed us to this bridge instead of the one bigger
vehicles must use, but once across, with a couple good photos in
the camera, we chalked it up to one more nutty experience.
Gary
dove for the guide book, which warned of unofficial charges being
levied. But the official held his ground, insisting the payment
was in lieu of a triptico. David bargained him down to $5 American
dollars for the three of us, instead of the $20 per person he initially
wanted. The sun was setting, Copacabana was still 10 miles up the
road, and we were tickled pink to have made it all the way to Bolivia.
Five bucks was a small price to pay. (Boy, add up all those "small
prices to pay" and we'd paid a hefty price up to now!)
Alex pulled up only moments later, but despite David's and
Gary's pleas for the barge captain to wait a few minutes longer,
he pulled off shore and Alex missed the boat. No worry, another
soon scooped him up for the ten minute trip across. Gary was taking
a picture mid-journey when an unexpected wave caused the barge to
pitch to the side, sending his unattended bike over onto David and
his bike. David's bike fell against the side of the barge and his
helmet and goggles, perched atop his side mirrors, were flung overboard.
Pinched between the bikes, David couldn't move, so Gary did all
but dive overboard, putting his body completely over the water,
hanging on by one arm to the side of the vessel, and nabbed the
floating helmet still barely within reach.. The goggles seemed to
be a loss however, sacrificed to the Incan gods of Lake Titicaca.
As we ate a quick lakeside
lunch of fish and rice, we marvelled at the strength of the barges,
which took far heavier cargo than two motorcycles and six cows.
Minivans, small buses, even dump trucks were summarily rolled on
and off at the docks. Passengers were usually ferried across more
quickly and comfortably on motorboats, but the drivers went with
their vehicles.
So that's what color
these bikes are!
Midnight was fast approaching.
We showered and changed, and joined