travellingbennetts

Please excuse the title of this post, sure it covers Ecuador, but it also includes getting out of Peru. Pecuadorable or Perecuadorable were thrown around by the workshop team but didn’t make the cut. Anyway, the Minibus Peoples described in Nada Motos quickly changed chameleon-like back into their more highly evolved form of Adventure Motorcyclists in the sultry atmosphere of Lima. Day 78 was a big day as a result; leaving a city that is usually best avoided for reasons we’d soon discover and can be summarised in two words: insane traffic.

The Lima San Isidro hotel was well placed, virtually no deviation required from the main road through the city and out via the coast road to the north. Sounds easy but wasn’t. It is not so much that the traffic was heavy – we’d seen a lot worse in La Paz – but Peruvian drivers are hyper-aggressive and move very fast with no quarter given. Most of the roads we were travelling on through seemingly endless urban sprawl were 3 lanes, but the slow lane is a mixture of entries, exits, and worst of all random bus stops. Buses start most of the trouble because they block one lane to let people on and off, then merge back in using the proven “I’m just coming in and I don’t care” method. No-one sits behind the bus and thinks “I’ll just wait until it moves off because it is too dangerous to try to get around”. Drivers and riders therefore end up weaving between lanes 2 and 3, especially after the appearance of merging traffic, which causes everyone to avoid smashing into the stopped bus while maintaining speed. The squeeze comes when everyone in lanes 2 and 3 are still travelling fast while traffic in lane 1 is trying to get into lane 2, and lane 2 into lane 3. And vice-versa as some drivers try to get themselves set up for the next exit. David was a victim of the squeeze with a lane 3 truck trying to get past a slow-moving lane 2 bus that was sidling towards lane 3, clipping his handlebar and turning him into the side of the bus, smashing his top box and a few plastic bits but fortunately not him.

Pushing on after David had provided performance feedback to Peruvian drivers both specific and general, we eventually reached slightly less insanity, but way more rubbish. Peru is still part of the Atacama Desert, and nothing makes a desert look its best like piles of rubbish and wind-blown detritus. We’ve been in a lot of third world poverty-stricken countries, but none have the piles of rubbish Peru has accumulated along the roads. Ironically they have a comprehensive rubbish grouping system with separate recycle, general waste and organics bins everywhere, but seem to prefer just dumping it by the side of the road for someone else to sort out.

Going through occasional urban madness with green river valleys followed by open road through the desert, we reached the morning tea stop at a servo to discover that the owner had not yet arrived. None of the staff dared to make coffee or open the shop until he put in an appearance, which he fortunately did 15 minutes later. A large and weird tasting coffee disposed of after rampant speculation as to why a servo had a bedding and mattress shop attached, it was back on the road for the push to lunch which was in a location where apparently only sand would grow, even though we were now within 10° of the equator.

The afternoon was a casual 160km to Chimbote, best described as a sister city to every other town in the Atacama, with no shortage of sand and dust to satisfy even the most greened-out traveller. The hotel had a nice pool though and did a mean Pisco Sour – we only had a few more days of official Piscos for the trip, not a thing in Ecuador according to JC our Ecuadorable Ecuadorian leader. Day 79 was more of the same sort of countryside, not terribly memorable except for an excellent lunch at a beachside restaurant in Trujillo after we’d missed finding the Incan ruins of Chan Chan on the outskirts. The afternoon ride continued up the coast to Chiclayo, pronounced Chick Layover by the Boganised members of the riding group. Somehow Cindy and I and a select few had gotten well behind the main group, so navigated ourselves with little confidence through the urban madness. As always, the entry to the hotel car park was well camouflaged, luckily Gina was standing out the front wildly pointing up the road in the direction we’d just come from. A blocky later we were parked and ready to experience Chick Layover, which was basically pizza.

Day 80 continued the northerly trek. A change to the group occurred this day; Rex and Sally Tasmanians had left us in Cuzco due to altitude and other illness, and rejoined us in Chick Layover, but a relapse unfortunately spelled the end of their tour. Farewells to them, and we headed off after fixing Peter’s broken gear lever with a piece of PVC pipe which may or may not have been important for the hotel plumbing/electrical systems. The exciting part of Day 80 was that at the end of it we’d be back on the original schedule and route plan, not followed since Day 59 when Bus People took over our lives. Also exciting was that we were slowly getting out of the desert, greenery started to coat the landscape even between river valleys. Leaving the city of Sullana which included a section of main street that the Dakar organisers would avoid as too rough, we headed back to the still deserty coast. A sort of pre-border crossing was gone through with exposure of all our paperwork – apparently the coastal route is favoured by naughty people carrying naughty stuff – and we arrived sweat drenched into Punta Sal at a nice resort. Too early to check in, luckily we’d brought our swimmers so could leave the riding gear in a sort of “Chernobyl Firemen’s Clothing” toxic pile and hit the pool. Almost literally, the edge and steps of this pool seemed to have been coated with grease, so crawling into and out of the pool was necessary which always gives a good overall impression of one’s sanity and physical capability. Lunch and having a rest saw out the afternoon before resort-style drinks overlooking the calm Pacific sunset from nearly the most westernmost point of South America.

Day 81 commenced with regret that we couldn’t kick back at the resort for at least one more day, but we had a border to cross and arriving late to these is rarely a great idea. It was bloody hot, the instant one stopped moving the sweat would just start coursing down from the usual places. To the border crossing, and unfortunately we all had to stop. To leave Peru was easy for most of us, Rex’s bike the exception as he wasn’t there so the bike couldn’t leave, which started some discussion about how much it was worth in case it could not be exported back to Australia. The rest of the facility was nearly devoid of people, so we wandered around trying to find someone to help us get into Ecuador. The heat made an ice cream vendor’s day very profitable, and in fact we had so much Peruvian Sols left we just about cleaned him out. He decided I deserved a bonus ride of his ice cream cart, impossibly an even less stable vehicle than a Robin Reliant, and the risk of tipping over while cornering with imaginings of the legal repercussions meant no speed records were broken.

Unsuccessful in any border crossing endeavours, we ended up outside a shop for a few hours, trying to sit near cracks around the door to get the small amount of escaping air-conditioning. Eventually someone returned from lunch or whatever, and we managed to get the forms processed and enter Ecuador. Well most of us did, JC’s BMW 850GS bike didn’t. South American customs is a fickle beast, and because JC is Ecuadorable, and the bike was hired through Compass in Santiago Chile all those months ago, it just didn’t seem kosher to the border officials to let it in. Two bikes down in one crossing. So Cindy volunteered to let JC ride the Tigressa into the border town of Huaquillas while she pillioned behind him and waved his phone in front of his face to simulate navigation, find a friend’s place to store the bike, and meet us at the lunch stop. I was charged with group navigation in his absence, as the Garmin South America map used by everyone didn’t include Ecuador. I’d realised this before the trip started and had downloaded a free Ecuador map, so I knew where we were going. Luckily the road went straight up into the highlands with the humidity and temperature dropping off, and we reached a restaurant with a good view for lunch. The menu of chicken or tongue or lamb’s stomach lining meant the chook population in the district was given a fair old touch-up by most of the riding group, but the tongue and stomach lining was jolly good and appreciated by the old skool diners. A bit of a change of bikes in mid-ride was required after lunch for the trip into Cuenca, I decided that JC had been well-behaved enough to have a go on Storm Boy, while I rode in the support vehicle to see what that was like, never having done it on two major expeditions. This was a decision I’d later regret on many levels.

First level of regret was that the support vehicle couldn’t just zip around trucks and cars, or go flat out enduro style across the rough gravelly roadwork sections. Second level of regret was the seat was made of seasoned hardwood and made Storm Boy’s seat seem very plush. The welcome from Juan, Gabi, and Roisin into their secret world made up for some of the bottom discomfort, although the expected hotbed of steaming gossip was either a myth or much more likely they didn’t want an outsider to hear the riding group deconstructed to their psychological, physical and behavioural basis. It was suspiciously quiet in there. Into Cuenca quite late, we unpacked the luggage and hit the town, the bit we were interested in was luckily only 100m away. It was Mother’s Day, so the ladies got a bit of special treatment in the Golden Prague pub with a red rose each, while the blokes had to make do with lots of beer. Third level of regret from loaning Storm Boy to JC materialised at this point; he had fallen in love with the Triumph Rally Pro package and I felt I might need security for both myself and the bike given his probing questions for costs and where I kept the keys, carnet paperwork, and my medication.

Day 82 suggestion was a hop-on hop-off (HOHO) bus tour of the highlights of Cuenca. Sounded good, so a taxi into the city later we were wandering aimlessly about the standard Spanish Plaza with its cathedral. The HOHO turned up, so off we went. Strangely the bus didn’t seem to ever stop at any of the Cuenca sights to allow anyone to HO, but eventually we arrived at the Homero Ortega Panama Hat factory where became clear that we weren’t actually on a HOHO bus, but a tour bus so no choice but to HO. Just to clear up more confusion; Panama hats were never made in Panama, but that was where they were sold into the world market so poor old Ecuador missed out on the name. They are hand woven and naturally the price reflects the time taken to weave them which reflects how tight the weave is. The basic hat can be woven anywhere, the factory is about finishing them into the required shape and colour and selling them at a considerable mark-up to people who have HO’d the bus. An unfortunate rumour circulating around the riding group since about Day 5 was that all genuine Panama hats can be rolled up and stuffed into luggage, and upon discovery that only very few of the hat designs can be stuffed, riding group orders were cancelled en masse.

All stuffed back into the bus, we cruised around the narrow streets and went to a lookout to see the whole town, which has a population of about half a million people. Called Cuenca because it sits around the meeting place of four small rivers, it is a very picturesque and pleasant place especially for those who have just come from the sweaty coastal strip. It has first-world feel with consumers like ourselves easily finding big shops to satisfy our repressed purchasing urges. The influx of retirees and immigrants from the USA seeking a pleasant and cheaper existence seems to have driven the economy of the town onward and upward, for a mere $25,000 investment they can buy citizenship.

Leaving Cuenca on Day 84, JC had still not been able to get hold of a bike so was relegated to leading from the back in the support vehicle. Most had the Ecuador Garmin map now, but given my demonstrated skill in only sometimes getting unrecoverably lost, I was tasked with leading the troops out to confirm the mapping was correct. Traffic was better than most South American cities so no dramas, and soon we were heading up into the mountains where it got even cooler than cold, then misty and a bit rainy. Not bothering to stop as the Parc Nacional Cajas scenery was basically thick cloud, we reached the top at 4165 m and scooted down the other side before gasping became necessary.

We stopped at a convenient lookout over what we’d soon discover to be the steepest road of the trip, bypassing a major landslide. We all made it down and then first gear and terror of burning the clutch out or stalling if stuck behind a truck heading up, we survived OK and continued the overall descent along relentless winding roads with little traffic other than the odd truck.

With Garmin trying it on to take shortcuts across impossibly steep terrain, easily ignored because it was obviously impossible even on the Rally Pro package, we eventually ran out of descent and hit the coastal plain below the impressive sounding hamlet of Corona de Oro. Humidity and temperature ruling out any comfortable wearing of a crown of gold, we coffee’d and fuelled up before the sweaty push into Guayaquil. We’d been worded up about getting to the hotel, had forgotten everything that was said, but fortunately were at the back so saw David and Peter go into the tunnel we’d been told not to go into at any cost, and managed to spear across 3 lanes of traffic to get to the hotel exit. Telling everyone that David and Peter were no longer with us, luckily we hadn’t officially started the auction for their luggage when they miraculously appeared having done some illegal turning. Once again too early to check in, we parked the bikes in the secure facility across the road, left the mountain of bags in the hotel secure room, and went off for lunch.

Checked in and with air conditioning set to 18°C for de-sweatification purposes, once de-sweatified we went for a wander down the riverbank. Things were quiet as it was a Tuesday, but most attractions were open including the La Perla Ferris Wheel, so with our Ecuadorian US dollars handed over, up and around we went. The height was impressive and we got an aerial view of the city which is about 50 km upstream from the Pacific, and therefore well within coastal mozzie flight paths. Back to the hotel where the buffet dinner was close to the most expensive of the trip, we discovered it can be very disturbing to make the conversion from USD to AUD in Ecuador. Mentally scarred by that experience, we were back into the room to jam all motorcycling and non-tropical gear into one bag which would be staying at the hotel while we jetted off to the Galapagos Islands on Day 85.

Flying to the Galapagos is a bit like heading to another country. Permits must be purchased, passports scrutinised, and baggage inspected before boarding. Then the 900 km across which would take 1½ days by motorcycle if they could travel at normal speed and go on water, a rather pointless non-fact there, and landing on Baltra Island which was the US base from the 1930’s to protect the approaches to the Panama Canal. Into the terminal building and it was still like heading to another country – passports, inspection of permits, and a US$100 entry fee. In cash. Shouldn’t we have been told about that or paid it back on the mainland? asked the many unfortunates who didn’t have $US100 cash, but fortunately for us JC was all over it and we were able to look condescendingly at them as we headed to the bus.

The entry fee system followed through the entire transport chain to get to the main town of Puerto Ayora on Santa Cruz Island. First a bus ticket to the ferry terminal had to be paid for, then a ferry ticket had to be purchased to get across the strait. This type of system common in South America confuses westerners – I’m getting on a bus which literally only goes to the ferry. There is only one road and you can’t stay on Baltra Island. And it’s not like there are 18 bus and ferry companies, there is one. So given the utter lack of options, surely when you buy a bus ticket you are also buying a ferry ticket? No. No, you’re not. We looked less condescendingly at those who would have thought it made sense to include the Galapagos entry fee on the airline ticket after that. Luggage into a school bus complete with a school group, we headed south to the Galapagos Garde Hotel.

During check in, a cleaning lady was standing next to Cindy at the desk and thrusting her chin toward a particular room key while making grunting noises, so Cindy took it and up we went. Odd. The room was nice, the air-conditioner worked fine, and all was good. We had arrived at about lunchtime, so went to the restaurant where we were served a meat stew with rice from a Bain-marie that appeared to have been salvaged from a Russian Gulag. Red flags weren’t up yet, but they were certainly being taken out of the flag locker. As the hotel was 6km out of town, we asked what was available to buy. Nothing, must go into town to purchase drinking water, beer, wine, and snacks. Started unfolding the red flags at this point. After lunch was a tour to the Charles Darwin scientific station down in the main town, so off we went with the school kids who we now realised were our travel buddies. Checking the flagpole hoist mechanism commenced.

The scientific station was pretty good, the Galapagos are practically on the equator but the cold Humboldt current from the south makes them quite desert-like. Cactus is a common large plant, and the abundant prickly pear cactus provides food for the truly famous giant tortoise. Unlike many of the Galapagos’ wild inhabitants, giant tortoise are no longer cruising around outside captivity and breeding facilities, which is probably a good thing for small car insurance premiums.

Then a wander into town, amongst more wildlife including seals who just hang about in relaxed positions near the waterfront. Marine iguanas are everywhere, and care must be taken not to step on them as they park up in warm places to recover from trips into the cold sea.

Stocked up with beer, wine, and snacks, it was back to the hotel and into the very nice pool. Dinner was something not terribly impressive, but good enough to ask for seconds using the Oliver Twist technique which fortunately played out better than Oliver’s crude attempt. Up into the room and preparing for bed, a message came through from our group who were down in the town at a craft beer establishment. Oh alright, dressed and back down for a taxi to town, maybe one drink and then back and off to bed.

Day 86 started with the red flags fluttering at full mast height and a mutiny. It had turned out that the cleaning lady chin pointing and grunting at our room key was because for whatever reason she felt Cindy and I deserved the very best on offer. Everyone else was in a room that smelled of sewerage or was assailed by loud air conditioner or mozzie whine all night, tough after one drink and then karaoke and freestyle dancing. An emergency meeting was called, and unanimously the decision was made to move, luckily JC had only had one drink so was well up to sorting this out. Meanwhile, we had a boat tour planned with our school group so headed off in the bus. Down to the port, we loitered about then got on a boat, then sailed around in circles for some unknown reason, then headed off to see Galapagos wildlife. Blue footed boobies get a lot of airplay for schoolboy humour reasons, but otherwise the big names are turtles and the world’s most northerly penguins. We did a walk which was mainly to look at lava and a beach with more marine iguana, and then some snorkeling, then back in the boat and back to the port to hang around for ages waiting for our school group to join us back on the bus. Up to the hotel, the mutinous had taken over so we were moving down to a hotel in the town. With luggage and struggling one-drink karaoke victims packed, off we went. Halle-freakin-lujah.

Day 87 will long be remembered as a day when we all wished for a shipwreck but weren’t granted one. Up early, we were down to the port, and into a small boat for the ride out to our vessel, the interestingly named Blue Fantasy. The Blue Fantasy was one of a large number of boats taking day tours across to Isla Isabela, the largest and most volcanically active island which was about 85 km away. The Blue Fantasy is not what you would describe as luxurious, and once in you couldn’t move for the entire 3 hour crossing because there was nowhere to go and it was so rough. Those who suffered from seasickness and had forgotten the Kwells were in for a world of hurt.

Arriving onto dry land at Isla Isabela like Titanic survivors, we went on a tour of the giant tortoise farm where all they seemed to be doing was trying to make more giant tortoises. A walk through the bush, then into a bus to go and check out some flamingos, then a nice lunch for those who’d already forgotten about the Blue Fantasy. After lunch was the real excitement – a walk amongst the lava fields and finishing the day snorkeling potentially with all the big Galapagos draw-cards.

Unfortunately it was very rough for the snorkeling, so all the seals, turtles and rare marine fish were just out of vision in the murk. Our guide decided we were all world champion free divers so led us up a very narrow channel in the sharp and rough lava rocks while the sea crashed over and pushed us into the walls, which we couldn’t see but could definitely feel. Arriving back to the boat with only several of the group emotionally injured and unlikely to ever snorkel again, we sailed back to the island and girded our loins in preparation for the return voyage. Getting back into the Blue Fantasy with all the enthusiasm of an hysterical child getting into the dentist’s chair, we could only switch off the five senses and several others such as inner-ear fluid swirling and sudden hate vocalising and put up with it. Another disadvantage of the Fantasy was confirmed on the way back, it was easily the slowest in the fleet and the advertised 2 hours return with the following sea was still 3, fortunately we’d all given up hope by the time we arrived back at the dock. The day was finished off with a nice calming drink and dinner on the waterfront with some light souvenir purchase – the Galapagos is a place one is probably unlikely to return to.

Day Ocho Ocho (88 for the non-Spanished) was the flight back to Guayaquil, a casual transit day. Checking in our baggage went well for me with my tag going onto Cindy’s bag and vice-versa, so it was Cindy who was dragged out of the line getting onto the plane and being asked to explain the rock samples. All from Patagonia was her answer, which the authorities luckily bought, not that any were from the Galapagos which is basically 500 billion tonnes of boring basalt. Into Guayaquil it was mainly a free day for wandering about, repacking, and finding a supermarket for purchase of a cheaper dinner than the waterfront restaurants could offer.

Day 89 was back on the road, with the humidity talking a toll getting out of the city as we headed north-east to our target for the day; Toilet. At least that’s what I thought the translated town name was as it was Baños, which I thought meant toilet given that almost all facilities in South America have that sign. Turns out baños means bathroom, so Baños is the Ecuadorian equivalent of Bath in England, with people flocking to take the waters. Once up off the coastal plains the temperature started to improve as once again I led a select few through the navigationally tricky bits because JC still hadn’t managed to get a hire bike to re-take the leader’s role and I’d hidden my keys. The scenery and road then became awesome up in the steep mountains as we rushed to the Baños.

Yet again into the destination too early to check in, we were across the road into a small restaurant for a chicken and chips lunch. Baños on a Sunday was absolutely chokkas with tourists and people taking the waters, so we decided to have a wander in town and then a calming bed-based relax rather than go to the baños just across the road. Roisin and David then suggested a trip to the lookout, so we jammed into a taxi with them for a ride up to the edge of the steep valley.

Back down into town, it was a wander around town again then dinner, the Baños baños was still a bit packed for getting in for a swim so we gave up on that and called it a day. The next, No.90, started at about 5:30am, a loud rumble woke us and drew a big motel crowd to outside our room. To our annoyance the chatter wasn’t going away, so we got up and readied for breakfast. The breakfast news was that there had been a landslide into the Baños baños, but amazingly the dawn bathers had generally decided that as they’d paid to get in, they weren’t leaving and would have a mud treatment instead, until emergency services threw them out.

We didn’t really need to leave early because we only had 183 km to get to the destination of Quito, but a small landslide has the effect of making one ask whether there will be a larger landslide soon afterward. The road around our hotel was blocked off, so we decided getting the hell out via the footpath was the better part of valour. Through the town with its nasty blind intersections, and back to the highway from Ambato to Quito which was the famous Pan Americana and thus easy riding on the dual lanes.

Gathering into a group before the Quito traffic madness, we made it into the hotel, again before we could check in, so after a lunch and mucking about organising a wash of the bikes across the road, it was laundry time. After the $134 Lima laundry disaster described by Cindy in Nada Motos, we didn’t consider using the hotel, so slogged down the hill to a lavandero. And then back up. Quito is at 2,850 m, so nothing much for hardened death zone people like ourselves, but up the brutal stairs seemed like we were coming from sea level.

91 was a free day in Quito, at least for those who didn’t want to see an important landmark/theme park – the equator. Off we went north, or at least most did, Peter’s V-Strom 650 bike stopped about ½ a kilometre up the road without completing any change management forms or giving any warning, and then refused to restart. So I rode back to the hotel to drop my bike off, then walked back and we pushed it to the hotel so he could stare at it while I rode on to get hopelessly lost in the city. Miraculously finding the correct road, I made it to the equator well behind the crowd.

Checking out all the stuff and the shops at the Mitad del Mundo village, there was some lunch and mild souvenir shopping, then back to Quito to collect the lavandero from the Lavandero, then slog back up the hill creating yet more dirty lavandero in the process. The afternoon highlight was a visit to a coffee and cigar bar under the hotel, which had a walk-in humidor full of Cuba’s finest. JC was also up for it so a couple of Romeo Y Julieta No.3’s and reds later, he was still going on about what a fantastic motorcycle I had, it would be a shame if it couldn’t leave Ecuador, and how much was it worth by the way? Our last night in Ecuador was a Compass dinner, so dressed in our finest pre-lavandero, off we went to a very pleasant restaurant up the road for the usual laughs, hi-jinks, and shenanigans.

The normal routine was adhered to for our last day in Ecuador – up 2 hours before departure, breakfast, pack, check wardrobe and then re-open bag and pack all the laundry that had been left in there for very important reasons no longer remembered, and lug everything down to leave it in a pile in reception. We wandered to the carpark and mounted up to head off, before discovering that once again Peter’s bike would start but only run briefly before giving up. The main 30 amp fuse was blowing which is never good, so some minor delay while up it went on the truck. On the plus side, JC had managed to get a hire bike in Quito, also a V-Strom 650 which unfortunately didn’t have the charisma to stop him leering at Storm Boy. The day was 250km to Ipiales just inside Colombia, so quite a big one for a border crossing day. The main excitement was once or twice again crossing the equator as we drifted north-east, the first time it was marked by a bus stop, and the second time by a proper facility.

We reached the Museo Solar Quitsato for our final crossing, and with a bit of staff greasing we were allowed to take the bikes one at a time through a back track to park them next to the official post in the middle of the giant sundial. My JC alarms were still going off at this point, he insisted that only my motorcycle could provide the right atmosphere for his turn for photos, the hire V-Strom simply wasn’t right for such a big occasion.

A tour through the museum which bizarrely had a huge map with Brisbane at the top, giving us bragging rights, and it was into the northern hemisphere, the second time riding across the 14 m wide line with Nanyuki in Kenya the first heading south in 2017. The northern hemisphere roads were relentlessly winding as we stayed up in the hills, eventually finding our way through the border town of Tulcan for the usual experience of wandering about trying to find someone interested enough to process our paperwork and let us out.

The end was definitely in sight now, with only Colombia to go. Surely it would be easy from here, but you’ll have to wait until the final South American instalment to find out.