Sierra Norte, Peru

Since entering the northern highlands, we´ve been able to quantitatively measure Peruvian generosity in kilograms. Our methods are far from scientific, but the amount of bananas we´re given acts as a relatively accurate scale. No matter how impoverished a village may seem, the people give with an openness rarely seen in affluent neighborhoods, exhibiting another paradoxical relationship that refreshes our perception of people as people, no less. If only our stomachs could handle the generosity as well as our hearts.

We found one such experience on a shortcut through a few small villages along a beaten dirt track that bypassed a sizeable city. Cruising through the seemingly deserted streets, we caught a glimpse of an immaculately manicured soccer field that drew us in for lunch. Before long, we were brought watermelons and oranges from the groundscrew, and then, with sufficiently full tanks, we were challenged to a barefoot match, gringos versus Peruanos. Gringos humbly triumphed. After this anti-siesta, we were escorted out of town through a maze of stone roads that led to a giant river with no bridge in sight. Thankfully, the boatmen were working full-time and came to the rescue.

A week earlier, while riding the dirt track that connected Ecuador with Peru, we saw faint traces of what looked to be German tire tread. Hours of uphill at 4 kmph allowed plenty of time to study the nuances of the tread pattern. Our suspicions were confirmed at the border when we talked some folks that had indeed seen two German cyclists the day before. Shortly after the bicycle-boat ride, with a cyclo-magnetic impulse, we stumbled into the very hotel of the rumored German cyclists. Since then, we´ve joined forces and riden through the growing landscape of the northern highlands, but not without our fair share of roadblocks.

Symbolism aside, a literal roadblock closed our route for all but two-hours-a-day, which led us to take a side-trip to Gocta, home of the third largest waterfall in the world. The amphitheater created by the landscape made the falls sound like a pulsating jet-engine from 6 km away. The near-freezing temperature wasn´t enough to deter us from diving into the strangely orange-colored water, an act that rejuvinated us by a few years, as the locals said that after a swim in the falls you´re back to being twenty years old again. Not much savings for us. Later that night, our second roadblock came, this time on a plate of rice, potatoes, and eggs, served with love by a family that lived near the soccer field in the center of town where we made our campsite. Too bad that their kindness didn´t offset the nastiness hidden within the food.

In order to make the two-hour window of passage through the construction zone, we had to ready our rigs before sunrise, but the reprecussions from the night before made preparations miserably difficult. Conditions worsened throughout the day, unaided by the mid-afternoon hold-up on the side of a dusty road while the construction crew detonated explosives. The point came at which we were in need of medical amenities, so after hours of negotiating, we piled into a miniature white truck that took us to Chachapoyas where we found the necessary accommodations. All the gory symptoms of wretched stomach viruses accompanied us for the following few days, leaving us as feeble as unrefridgerated Jello. The bright side of things is that we had the means to dig ourselves out of that trench, a fortune that can´t be ignored, even when assuming the fetal position for 36 hours. The road to recovery is underway with a diet of oral rehydration solutions, and depending on the solidity of our stool, we´ll continue making a trail of ten German tire treads.