The end

Silent cheers erupted from the busy streets and in every glance I saw applause dancing in the eyes of jubilant onlookers. People seemed to reach out in offering hi fives, only to finish brushing their hands through their hair in embarrassment. A lady shouted to us, "well done! You did it" just as a young child took their first steps nearby. We had done it, done what none had done before us (except quite a large number of people).

After 313 days we had cycled 13,825 kilometres (8590 miles) from the southern tip of South America to the shores of Central America.

That is the equivalent of cycling from London to Istanbul 4.6 times or travelling to the moon 0.0359 times.

We have cycled through 6 countries, battling wind, rain, snow and heat. We have traveled the length of the longest mountain range in the world. We have had over a hundred punctures. We have eaten a truly disgusting quantity of porridge oats, and Anna has been assaulted by an alpaca.

As we return to normal life the changes have been abrupt and numerous. Underwear that was discarded months ago as an unnecessary cause of bottom chafing is once again welcomed back as a desirable undergarment. Toilets, no longer seen as a weekly luxury are once again readily available at all hours of the day. The same can be said of showers, though admittedly with less enthusiasm (I've just gone off them). Our diets have once again been expanded to include things other than porridge, pasta and bread. Having developed the appetite of a lion, the possibility of returning to the days of 'Fat Mavis' is worryingly high. 

However, I feel these small benefits of living in a house are far and away defeated by the many, many things I am going to miss about this last year. Waking up in a new place everyday, falling into an exhausted sleep at 8 o'clock and waking before sunrise. Meeting new people and seeing spectacular sights every day. I miss it already.

The final weeks of our trip took us past Medellin, over the final mountain climb and down to the hot, flat plains that brought us, sweating and a bit burned, to Cartagena, on the Caribbean sea. Yet again our journey through Colombia was coloured by the generosity of people that took us in every evening, fed us each day and gave us more coffee than any person without regular access to a toilet should advisably drink. Someone even took us to the zoo. 

After a few days of celebration in Cartagena we said goodbye to South America, taking with us many amazing memories and, as it turns out, a parasite. We spent a day on the ferry before two very slow and sickly days brought us across the country (they had gotten a lot smaller) to Panama city where we arrived to scenes very similar to those depicted earlier. As we approached the city we were stopped by a couple who invited us to stay with them and went on to spend their entire weekend wining and dining us. It was an amazing end, and a meeting that epitomised the generosity we have been greeted with, particularly in the latter part of our journey.

Our final two weeks were spent off the bikes, learning to surf and attending the most incredible wedding of all time, set in the jungle of Matapalu, in Costa Rica. Congratulations Kristen and Jake!

I am now sitting at home in Worcester trying to think of something beautifully profound and inspiring to conclude this superb blog. I don't think I have quite managed it. This has certainly been the best year of my life. We have discovered an incredible way to travel that takes you to places you would otherwise never see. It is difficult, rewarding and last, but probably most important, it is cheap. I want to thank all of the people that fed us, housed us, and repaired our things when I was incapable. There are too many to name. 

The beginning of the end; Ecuador and Colombia

 

We are hurtling towards the end, less than 1000 short kilometres lie between us and the Caribbean sea. In the time since my last blog post (they are admittedly losing a little bit of steam) we have passed through the tiny country of Ecuador and through much of Colombia to Manizales, just South of Medellin.

'Wild camping' or 'stealth camping' are phrases that we heard for the first time on this trip. They refer, in an overly-dramatic manner, to camping where no-one can see you. Countless times over the last ten months we have discretely dived over fences and hurriedly launched bags into forests when all is clear. Now we have all but abandoned these shady behavours in favour of our own branch of 'domestic camping'. Essentially we try to locate a house with nice family and maybe a good view and ask if we can stay there.

The result has been that over the last two months we have stayed with police, firemen and the army; we have stayed on chicken farms, livestock farms and even cock fighting farms; we have stayed on coffee plantations, organic farms, a 24 hours car wash (didn't have many options that night) and our most prized of stays was in a 300 year old hacienda.

We arrived in Ecuador amidst driving rain that rarely subsided in our 22 short days in the country. We chose the jungle route, taking us on a relaxing (ish) journey through 'the orient' of Ecuador. The first thing you notice when heading into Ecuador from Peru is that its clean. For around 5 months we have been travelling through Bolivia and Peru, where toilet etiquette denotes – go wherever you want, whenever you want. You learn to keep a watchful eye out for the results, as well the mounds of nappies (diapers) that for no apparent reason group together like incredibly foul-smelling charity shops.

Not only have the piles of litter on the outskirts of every town vanished but the road signs have also changed. Peruvian signs depressingly urge fathers not to abandon their families whereas Ecuadorian signs stick to an environmental theme, declaring 'trees are the lungs of the earth' and other such wisdom. All in all life was now a little cleaner, quieter and easier with the rain not even bothering us too much until Anna decided she had trench foot.

 

 After reaching the equator (which I thought would be a much more momentous occasion than it actually was) we soon made it to Colombia, the final country that we will be visiting in South America.

Colombia is quite possibly the greatest place on earth. Each day brings new landscapes and slightly altered climates that transform the stalls lining the road from overflowing with pineapples one day, then mangoes and then an abundance of unknown and (mostly) delicious new fruits. Each region offers up its own particular cuisine and, after a lengthy return to vegetarianism in the questionably clean countries of Bolivia and Peru Anna has even succumbed to some fat pork ribs. In Colombia we have passed through the jungle, across the expanses of flat, hot plains dedicated to farming sugar cane, then up into the rolling hills of which coffee plants occupy every available inch.

Every day we are gifted food, water and coffee by this unbelievably generous and friendly people.

And so, just a little further to go....

 

Dogs, horses and bit more of Peru

The last few weeks in Peru have taken us past the ocean, mountains and jungle, all while being pursued by a multitude of teethy dogs that have become much more vocal in their disapproval of cyclists. So if you feel like reading through the latest section of our travels imagine every scene with a salivating hound hot on our wheels.

 

From Lima we spent three more days of dismal coastal cycling with a view that changed sporadically from sand dunes to industrial plants to slums. The weather was an indecisive and unchanging brand of wet, dry, hot and cold whilst being at the same time oppressively none of the above. It was an ugly section that changed almost the moment after taking the road inland, leaving the shrouded ocean behind us and climbing climbing climbing back up to the beautiful heights of the Andes. Two slow days of upward grind took us back up to above the 4000metre mark and another down to Huaraz, the tourist destination famous for hiking, climbing and every outdoor pursuit that can be enjoyed in the Cordilleras Blancas, the picturesque snow capped mountain range of central Peru.

Our attempt at hiking was a three day, turned two day adventure that involved getting lost, getting blisters, getting wet, being saved by some professionally clad Germans, failing to save a cow that was stuck in a hole and seeing some breathtaking mountains, glaciers and lakes.

We left Huaraz with aching bodies and headed North. The traffic thinned out as we entered the canon del pato (canyon of the ducks), a road chiseled out of the mountain, a single lane dirt track with huge drops down to the river bed below and over 40 pitch black tunnels.

The road passed through the canyon and continued back down towards that gloomy coastline from which a vicious wind slowed our progress towards Trujillo. The warnings of roaming gangs and the fact that we no longer have that luxury of time forced us to take a bus back inland. We arrived next day in Chachapoyas, a small town on the fringes of the Amazon jungle that stretches on almost uninhabited for thousands of miles towards Ecuador, Colombia and Brazil.

 

 

 

Just a days cycle away we visited a small village, put on the map in recent years by the discovery of a the Gocta waterfall, a cascade that measures 771 metres in height which, depending on who you ask is pinned at somewhere between the 3^rd and 14^th highest in the world. The locals of the village, with just two family names between them are the very embodiment of close knit and were friendly enough to let us stay in their community hall. The following morning we decided that after our recent hiking failures we would rather be carried. We organized a couple of not particularly enthusiastic horses and set of at a canter/slow walk through the rainforest. I can confidently say that 1 hour on a horse has done far more damage to my nether regions than any amount of time on a bicycle ever could.

From that little excursion we set off along an empty jungle road, the weather hot and humid with the inevitable daily rain a cooling relief. These were some of the best cycling days of Peru, back to the countryside and camping reminiscent of the open expanses of Chile and Argentina. Our final two nights left us with some fond memories of Peru, first being invited in to stay with an elderly couple who fed us three meals grown and produced on their little farm and then a chance camping spot with a motorcylist that entertained us with stories of the world.
 

And so the Peruvian chapter of the trip was closed as we crossed the border a couple of days ago, dragging the border guard from his game of volleyball to stamp our passports. Not such a busy crossing.

Into Peru

The last month or so dragged us out of  Bolivia, onto the tourist trail of Peru, back into the mountains and at last to the coast of Peru, and Lima.

On leaving La Paz we headed first towards Lake Titicaca and navigated our way to the Peruvian border where we had a little trouble leaving the country. The border guard accused us of overstaying our visa for 8 days, I in turn accused him of having limited maths skills, he in turn handed me a calendar. 10 minutes of counting later and I found that we had overstayed our visa for precisely 8 days and ended up scrounging every last coin we could find in order to pay for our exit stamp.

We finally arrived in Peru, greeted with waves and whistles and screams of GRINGO that would continue unabated in a headache inducing manner for the following weeks. While Chileans and Argentinians were generally uninterested by us and Bolivians were generally bemused by us, Peruvians seem to be very, very amused by us. For the duration of the trip many young men have offered great support to Anna in the encouraging form of whistling. Now that I am apparently whistle worthy, I somehow find it a little less encouraging. In Peru people either look you in the face and smilingly triple the price of whatever you want to buy, or, they give it to you for free and give you a hug. I can't get my head around it. We have met the friendliest and most generous people and also most unbearably annoying people in the past two weeks alone.


Our first stop in Peru after navigating our way around Lake Titicaca was of course Cusco, the ancient Inca capital and one of the most visited cities in South America. Standing in the central plaza looking up at the old Spanish cathedral neatly wedged between KFC and Paddy's Pub the imagination needs to work hard to even imagine a time before facebook, let alone any Inca civilization. We spent a day and a half not being able to afford anything and then left.

The sacred valley of the Incas was our next stop, taking in the cheap (er) ruins that surround the old capital. We spent four days dividing our time between cycling, hiking and exploring the ruins, trying to avoid the hoards of tourists that stampede through each village at certain times every day. Despite never bothering with writing, the wheel or metallurgy the Incas did absolutely master the art of building things in remote and beautiful locations.

After our loop through the valley was at an end it was time to get back on track in the right direction. We chose the most exhaustingly spectacular route onwards, cycling up the spine of the Andes. This involved six consecutive passes, seemingly unending climbs and descents that rose 60kms up and 60kms down, every one bringing an ear popping 2500 metres change in a altitude. I had aspirations to do each in a day, an idea that was quickly discarded as we found ourselves peddling through darkness on the first day after 8 hours in the saddle, weeping a little more after every false summit.

Anna has had a throat infection for the last few months that has been diagnosed by three separate doctors as three separate things with six separate antibiotics provided as the solution. Breathing is absurdly hard anyway on these climbs and so, it was decided after a couple that Anna would take a bus to Lima to see a fourth and hopefully more successful doctor.

45 micro climates, three thousand heckles and two raw cheeks later I was approaching the 6^th and final climb and was feeling ready for a descent that didn't ultimately turn excruciatingly upwards. As I climbed ever slower towards the peak, the light rain turned into snow and by the time I reached the summit I was in a full on blizzard.
Snow is lovely when you are inside. When you are outside, at 4800 metres, on a bicycle, life gets a bit sweary. On the descent my hands became entirely unresponsive and I instead adopted the feet to ground braking technique, one that is relatively useless. It was over an hour of icy misery before I reached a tiny town where a friendly lady took pity on me, covered me with blankets and let me shiver myself back to life in her spare room whilst consuming litres upon litres of tea.

Outrunning the storm

The following day I had thawed satisfactorily and was ready to be able to breathe properly again as the road hurtled downwards for over 150 kms, descending 4500metres to the Pacific ocean. It was a dribblingly exhilarating section, heading downwards at something close to the land speed record.

Two more days and here we are in the Capital, and I can practically see the end of the trip on the horizon, just three more months and few thousand kilometers to go...

Our last weeks in Bolivia

Our time in Bolivia is drawing to an end, somehow our permitted 90 days have nearly passed us by and we shall soon be making tracks towards Peru. Our final wanderings around the country took us from a classroom in Santa Cruz, upriver through the Amazon jungle and speedily back to the frigid highlands and the capital, La Paz.

We spent a week at Casa de Sara, camping out in a spare classroom, painting rooms and generally trying to be useful. We tested out our Spanish with a group of four and five year olds, learning some vital new phrases such as “I need a wee” and “look at my bruise”. The school has eight members of staff who cook for, clean after and fill the brains of 50 children aged either 4 or 5. They are an untiring team, most of whom have to either head off to other jobs or to study in their own schools after Casa de Sara finishes for the day. Back when I was teaching classes of 4 and 5 year olds there was an undercurrent of chaos that rippled noisily through every lesson yet here the kids seemed to do what they were told, amazing.

We spent just a week at the school before we had to make tracks, after a tearful goodbye we headed on our way towards the jungle.

We had spotted several rivers on the map that snake their way through the Amazon jungle to Trinidad in the North of Bolivia and that had been enough to get us excited for a waterborne adventure. To reach the river we cycled for 3 swelteringly hot days (spotted a couple of ginormous dead snakes along the way) and then 2 drenchingly wet days. The final night of camping brought a thunderstorm that our battered tent offered a rather Frenchlike resistance to- leaving us splashing around in puddles for the rest of the night.

A couple more days and we arrived at Puerto Villaroel under more ominous skies and started asking around for boats that would undertake the 7 day journey. In the end, Freddy, a friendly old man offered a deal whereby he would take us for three days to a place from which we could easily get a boat the rest of the way. Although the price was extortionate by Bolivian standards and the deal itself left a fair amount of scope to be screwed over, we were taken in by the idea and understandably comforted by that fact that our captain had the very friendly name of Freddy.

The following morning we boarded the 'Pichon' and set sail with Freddy, his very strange son and a boat kitten. As the journey progressed the wildlife diversified and we spotted river dolphins and an assortment of absurdly enormous birds, but sadly no tigers. Each night we pulled over to camp on the bank, diving for protection as the mosquitoes swarmed out in force. These aren't your normal mosquitoes, these are mosquitoes on steroids that drink repellent for fun and penetrate clothing with ease. After a week we were itching as if we had some kind of full body venereal disease.

On the morning of the third day we arrived at the confluence of two rivers, the place where we would find a new boat heading North. Sadly we had an acrimonious split from old Freddie as we weren't best pleased with the truthfulness of the picture he had so eloquently painted for us back in Puerto Villaroel, he didn't even give us any food. After an interesting moment where he chained Anna's bike to the boat we agreed a slightly altered price and disembarked onto the bank of the most isolated community we have visited on the trip. Sadly it wasn't quite the naked cannibal tribe I was hoping for but it was certainly a bra-less fish-eating community.

With no roads here we were stuck until we could find a boat heading to Trinidad, which we now discovered could be anytime in the next two weeks. We were immediately accommodated in the village and spent the next three days perched next to the river watching lots of dolphins but not a single boat pass us. Finally we awoke to find a banana laden boat docked next to our tent and managed to persuade a not so enthusiastic man to give us a lift to the next town from which we would abandon the river for a road which we were told linked it with Trinidad, just a little further North. So, 15 hours on a boat, half a day cycling and half a day on a truck through alligator infested swamps and we were at last in Trinidad.

The road direct from Trinidad to La Paz was impassable, and without any more spare tubes, patches or time left on our visa we had to board buses taking a circuitous route back through much of Bolivia we had already cycled. The first leg of our journey went without a hitch, the second had so many hitches that they merged into one enormous 24hour hitch. First our bus was delayed by an accident and then, as if suddenly seeing the dangers of the road, it made some strange noises and broke down. Two hours later our new bus arrived just in time to be stopped by a group of protesters who blockaded the road for 5 hours. One more bus later when we were finally approaching La Paz a man thoughtfully threw a rock at the bus. Our driver calmly pulled over, removed his belt and attacked the offending lads. I never want to take a bus again.

We are staying in a casa de cyclista in La Paz for the next few days before heading to the land of the Incas where we are looking forward to new food, new people, the sea, and plenty of really old stuff.






 

Slow progress towards the jungle

It has been over a month since my last update and I am sure that my avid readers (Neil and Elaine) are itching for a thrilling new series of tales about our two wheeled adventures. My last blog left us in Potosi, since which we have descended a lung filling 3600metres in altitude, taken a three week holiday from our holiday and have now arrived in the tropics of Santa Cruz.

From Potosi two more cycling days brought us to the beautiful colonial city of Sucre that would see our bikes gently rust and our brains aggressively expand. We spent the following three weeks studying Spanish and enjoying the luxury of inactivity. We spent four hours each morning studying at Fenix school, home to some fantastic people. During our time there we met some great characters, namely our teachers Mum, ex wrestler and nurse who dressed us up in these new cycling threads.
 After Anna had grasped the very basics of language and I had finely tuned my understanding we prepared to leave. Only it was hard to get away. After three weeks of learning Spanish and watching the world cup the idea of cycling for hours each day seemed a little less appealing than it had before. Anna had developed a throat infection and what had originally been intended as a two week stay had soon stretched beyond three.

 

After such a long time our appearance had changed; our leathery rumps had softened, sunburnt faces had peeled, muscles had wilted away and were feeling decidedly unprepared for cycling.

As soon as we were back on the bikes we realised how much we had missed them. The following few days heading towards the Amazon only reinforced our love for this country. We passed through dozens of villages, met an endless stream of friendly people, struggled through roads consisting of ankle deep dust, happened upon the opening ceremony of a national handball competition, enjoyed the heat and saw our first wet river in over 2 months. After months of deserts our view has finally turned green.

As soon as we left Sucre the weather got a little tropical. Now I am convinced that, many centuries ago, an unfortunate woman living on the coast of Norfolk had a meeting with a viking warrior. This unhappy accident has led in turn to my flowing blonde locks, muscular build and ferocious manner in battle. However, it has been noticed on this trip that whilst my viking roots have certain benefits, Anna's native American roots place her in better stead when the sun comes out. As soon as the temperature approaches 30 degrees I cycle from shady spot to shady spot while Anna glides past without a drop of sweat falling from her armpits.





















After five blisteringly hot days the clouds enveloped us and we spent two gloomy days in Samaipata (very close to where Che Guevara died). The only
redeeming feature of our stay was our visit to the monkey refuge where we met that friendly fella. After our football induced break we continued our endless downhill to arrive in Santa Cruz where we are staying in a truly tropical hostel that is home to two resident toucans.

Tomorrow we will be heading out of town to Casa de Sara, the school that we are raising money for. We will be staying with them for the week, meeting the kids and maybe giving a lesson.

As we are actually here and have still raised very little please click here to donate!!

Sickness and Salt

To the time conscious of you, here is the briefest of summaries of recent events - Me and Anna split up this week, then got back together and went mining. For a more detailed description of events, please read on.

Uyuni provided us with an abundance of cheap street food the like of which we hadn't seen since Vietnam. We threw our stomachs perilously into the fray sampling every deep fried morsel we could lay our greedy tongues on. It was always going to be a case of who met with the cold, unforgiving surface of the ceramic bowl first and to my surprise, it was Anna.

After six days rarely progressing further than the bathroom we set off towards Colchani, a town just 22kms away and from where we would begin our journey across the largest salt flats in the world. It turned out to be an entirely terrible day. A day that should be spent wrapped firmly in a furry blanket in a hotel room watching Legally Blonde and eating cheerios. Definitely not a day to be spent on a bicycle. The storm began conveniently as we left town, not the rain variety but the much less enjoyable dust variety. We choked our way through 6 kms of misery until Anna pointed how completely unenjoyable what we were doing was. And she did make a very convincing point. However, I wanted to carry on. In the end, for the first time in the last 5 months, we went our separate ways as Anna headed back to Uyuni to wait for me.

The storm only intensified after Anna left me, to the point that visibility at times was just a few metres. I abandoned the road in the hope of consuming less sand somewhere else and found instead that I lost the road. I struggled on blindly for hours, feeling like a sand timer, dust pouring into every orifice and settling in my lower limbs which got heavier and heavier until pedaling seemed absurdly difficult.

I at long last saw the hazy form of a cyclist coming towards me and I have never been happier to see an Australian as I was just then. Dallas led me to the shelter of a hostel and I spent the rest of the evening scraping dust out of my nasal passages. The storm knocked out power for the area for two days and, surfacing as a snow storm in the areas where we had cycled the previous weeks closed the border to Chile.

The storm raged through the night but by morning all was calm and we set off across the salt flats. Unable to find a road we simply headed towards the volcano far in the distance. It was a surreal day, cycling across a perfectly flat sea of salt with nothing and no-one to be seen. Judging distances becomes impossible with no objects to guide you and our volcano seemed at times to be moving obstinately away from us. We finally arrived at a village as dusk approached, the wrong village it turned out, but we were much to tired to care.

The following morning we headed our separate ways, Dallas going North with his map, his GPS and his various life skills. I headed South with my compass.

I was aiming for an island in the centre of the salt flats that, according to the map, could be found due South of the volcano. So I made my bearing, recalling all those skills learnt in the near completion of my Duke of Edinburgh bronze award and set off at what I will refer to as a cycling gallop.

After an hour I had spotted the island far in the distance. In another hour I had realised that that was definitely not an island, but a mountain over 150kms away. After a further hour I was feeling a little disheartened and comprehensively lost in a sea of salt. I had a sit down, scanning the horizon, and spotted what could well be an island, to the North West of me. So, I wheeled my bike around and set off towards it. Yet another hour later and it had stubbornly refused to come any closer to me. It was at this point that it dawned on me that this might not be the correct island. There are two.

I was quite quickly running out of hours and any sense of where I was. So I abandoned the island, found some jeep tracks leading South East and hoped they would lead somewhere good.

I spent the night camped in the middle of the salt flats and experienced the most beautiful sunset and sunrise either side of what felt like 13 hours in an enormous freezer. Thankfully my tracks took me back to Colchani the following day and I was feeling happy to be off the salt flats and on the road back to Uyuni.

After picking up Anna (a much easier feat after a week on the toilet) we headed off towards Sucre and rest. Standing in our way were a predictable abundance of outrageously large mountains but a beautifully paved road made life infinitely easier. Camping has, at least for the moment, lost all of its charm and so we set out to stay in villages along the way. Each provided a floor or a bed and it was, although never easy, a beautiful few days cycling. In TicaTica Anna's illness returned in the night and so we headed that morning to the newly built hospital down the road. Disappointingly we found only two resident Alpacas and no doctors. Luckily after another day of rest she was good to go and after two more days of mountains we arrived in the mining town of Potosi, one of the highest cities in the world.

This is the worlds richest ever mine and has claimed the deaths of (according to our guide) around 8 million people. We donned the gear and spent two hours crawling around the mines getting just the tiniest taste of how terrible a job it would be.

In two more days we should be in Sucre, enjoying being able to breathe again at a much more sensible altitude. 9 years after an acrimonious end to my school Spanish lessons I will be giving it another go and hopefully our Spanish will become muy bien.