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South America
> Ecuador
> Peru
> Bolivia
> Chile
> Argentina

 PERU JOURNALS
 Photography by Steve Wallstrom
 Journals by James Mallory

Frame Update - Kawasaki has generously decided to send down a replacement frame. The plan is to meet up with it in Bolivia and start tearing things apart.

Though it has taken several weeks to fully appreciate, I know realize how little our maps of South America correspond to the reality underfoot. Driving through Central America one can safely estimate driving time within a couple hours. Not so down here. Everything is bigger, from the massive Andes with 15,000ft passes to the countless rivers gouging their way ocean ward. In such terrain a little red line, only an inch or two on our map can correlate to an epic day of riding. Motoring through the latter half of yet another of these tiring days we encountered our first major bike problem.

With a dollar sixty dinner sitting in our bellies, we sped off towards the Peruvian border. Hmm, I thought to myself, these cobblestone roads sure do a number to the handling characteristics of the ol' KLR, as the handlebars twitched nervously back and forth. Oddly, the unsettling situation continued when the route returned to smooth dirt. Easing up to yet another stream crossing I told Steve, "I've either lost all muscular coordination in my limbs or there is something seriously wrong with my trusty stead."
photo by SW

Eyeing a loose bolt, I give it a few turns and hope for the best. But alas such a solution is too easy, for we are at least 8 hours from the nearest pavement. Such circumstances require something a bit more serious. Fire up the engine, ease out the clutch, drive ten feet and crack, the sickening sound of tearing metal reverberates through my helmet. Hey Steve, "why does my radiator move when I turn the handlebars?" Must be some custom feature I've failed to notice.

Uh, Jim you don't want to see this, Steve remarked. Well, of course I looked and to my dismay the frame was cracked completely in half. Too surprised to fully appreciate the gravity of such a break, I laughed in disbelief. Well, at least it will make a good story.

After an hour or so we had the injured bike strapped into the bed of a truck and bounced back to the nearest village. Dropping it off at the local welder I was treated to another glaring example of why you must never leave a bike unattended in the hands of a foreign mechanic. Standing next to the sorry looking bike I eyed our repair friend suspiciously as he strode over with a hack saw. Though failing to see how such a tool could benefit the situation, I humored him for a few seconds.
photo by SW

Such generosity didn't last long as he made the first incision across the frame. "Good Lord, what on earth are you doing", I blurted out with no shortage of alarm in my voice. "Testing to see if it is aluminum or steel" he replied as if this was the first step any good mechanic would take. "No, I am positive it is steel" suddenly losing all confidence in the outcome of this repair job. If it was aluminum, how far would you cut before you're satisfied, do you throw a rock at a window to see if it is Plexiglas? C'mon this is basic stuff here folks. Y'know a magnet would tell you much quicker and with slightly less repercussions I offer as a suggestion.

Returning the next morning I was greeted with more good news, the frame had also snapped under the gas tank. So that was that second cracking sound I heard as we rolled the bike out of the truck last night. Of course the mechanic discovered this after disassembling the bike without waiting for us, the very thing we expressly told him not to do. Upon further examination it became apparent the only thing holding the front half of the bike together with the back was a radiator guard we installed from Dual-Star. Without this little addition every wire, cable and hose would have been ripped apart as the two ends of the bike went their own way.

--JM--

Big Trucks In My Lane

So, Jim and I just entered Peru and were drivin on these sweet dirt roads. I was jammin to my CD player for a bit and decided to listen to a Mars Hill sermon (yeah, while drivin on this dirt road- that takes some concentration). The thing is, that when your on the road, drivin, even with the big, beautiful scenery of the Andes, sometimes you get hungry for learnin. So in went some mp3 bible teachin and... WHAM! my head hit right below the windshield of this truck, bike went down, i went down, under the tire almost, glass everywhere... what's going on? i stumbled to my feet unable to make sense of why my head hit a truck. I walked around as if i was drunk and people were all the sudden all around staring at me, but I couldn't make sense of it all. It smelled like gasoline and soon i realized my tank bags were getting covered as my bike laid beneath the truck- my toothbrush still smells like gas.

photo by SWSo as I was rounding a corner and one of those trucks that i always see cutting the corners cut a bit too much into my lane and nearly ran over me. I ended up putting a good dent in his hood when my head hit and broke some lights and turn signals. So... after an eventful run in with a truck we drove the next two hours and much of it was spent behind Jim suckin dust using his headlight to see ahead.
Man, it was quite the day! Now as I'm sitting here typing there's this little nino watchin over my shoulder everything that i do. His name is Jesus and he sells carmelo´s.

--SW--

Trujillo

Following our time honored technique of sifting through countless hours of web pages looking for missionaries we stumbled upon several leads. Perhaps the most enjoyable and definitely the most interesting aspect of our travels is simply conversing with those who have devoted their lives to the region. Guidebooks tend to gloss over the negative elements and only highlight the positive, while news reports achieve quite the opposite. Somewhere in the middle lies the truth. Those immersed in the culture, with their lives focused on serving the natives usually provide this vivid reality.
photo by SW Unfortunately this actuality is often far more painful than the rosy mental image conjured up of serene mountain villages. The country of Peru carries two distinct regions, separated by extremes of geography and culture. A missionary in Trujillo summed this up best by describing the different styles of greetings, they kiss on the coast and shake hands in the mountains. For obvious reasons the societies clustered along the Pacific exhibit far deeper Spanish influence and thus much closer to life in North America. Though at the end of a long day, not close enough.

Life in the mountains is rustic and ancient. The people descend from the great Incan Empire conquered by the Spanish in the 1500´s and have since not changed dramatically. Cattle and burros still outnumber combines and tractors, and the adobe mud houses remain the same, minus the colorful political slogans painted across the front. Literacy in many places remains at unimaginable levels, less than one percent in some areas. As is common throughout rural areas, an 8 year old is far more likely to read and write than his parents.

5 months of lounging on a motorcycle does little to prepare oneself for the rigors of manual labor. But figuring a solid day of demolition would serve us well we gladly obliged to aid in tearing down a few walls for a church expansion. Blistered hands and aching back aside it was wonderful to endeavor upon concrete and brick, swinging a 18lb sledge hammer.

All except for the brief moment when a 1000lb piece of wall nearly became an impromptu guillotine. " So you're sure this isn't gonna fall?" I asked as the hammer slammed into the supporting column. "Sure, no problem" came the casual reply as the block of concrete detached and crashed amid a cloud of dust. "wow, you move pretty fast for latte-sippin Seattleite" remarked a missionary as I jumped clear of the disaster. All in all we had a great time working with group and thoroughly hope to return in the future.

--JM--

Bureaucracy - Latin Style

Throughout many areas in Latin America economic development is the Achilles heal that relegates the countries to third world status. Surprisingly we've encountered relatively few organizations that are taking serious steps to alleviate this problem. Much of this relates to the formidable challenges presented by the foreign governments. The mind boggling bureaucracy plaguing such nations is described succinctly by a recent story from fellow travelers.

Arriving at the Ecuadorian border a wandering motorcyclist found himself scratching at the brick wall of papers, signatures, stamps and fees found at the fronterra. A stalemate ensued regarding the bike and the governments need for assurance the vehicle would not be sold in Ecuador. Of course, the customs agents came to the logical solution, why not send an officer with the rider to ensure the transitory nature of the trip.

This nearly incomprehensible decision was followed by the requirement that the motorcyclist pay for all the travel, food and hotel fees of the officer. And of course every breakfast, lunch and dinner of your pleasant equatorial vacation is shared with a charming Ecuadorian. Stories of this nature are all too common.

In light of such difficulties it was refreshing to hear the plans of the Presbyterian organization in Trujillo. Within the year they hope to open a woodworking facility to export hardwood furniture to the States. The program will bring both job training and a steady income to the impoverished community. Extra income generated from the venture will also free the mission to tackle new projects. Speaking with the missionaries organizing the endeavor also mentioned the great need for business minded individuals among the foreign regions.

--JM--

Into the Andes

Though most everyone has flipped through a photo book of the Andes nothing can prepare you for the incredible topography of Peru. The crumpled landscape leaves little in the way of usable flat land, instead immense valleys, gorges and mountain ranges dominate the geography. Leaving the barren coastline for the higher altitudes it appears Ecuador was merely a warm-up for it's southern neighbor.

Following a tip from a well traveled motorcycler we followed a private road across the desert. The scorched red landscape appears truly Martian, as if the rock and sand drew their very colors from the sun perennially throwing itself upon the land. Rainfall is almost non-existant with the coast receiving less than 2 inches annually. Praying the sharp edge rocks would leave our tires unscathed, we headed east along the winding dirt track.

The miles slipped away beneath us in a cloud of dust and finally we realized why someone had forged a road through such God forsaken terrain. A vast water project, diverting water through the desert in route to Trujillo. It seems Las Vegas isn't the only city supplied by water from distant regions. Following the river upward, the route became less of a road and more of a fragmented cave. By the end of the day, our dusty machines had slipped through nearly 40 tunnels. For twenty miles or so not a yard of road passed that was created without the aid of copious amounts of dynamite.

Huaraz

Following the breathtaking scenery on the canyon approach you would imagine we were prepared for sights of the Cordillera Blanca. We were not. Maybe it is the fact that outside of Ecuador, our eyes haven't felt snow in 5 months, or perhaps it is the bleak contrast of unblemished snow meeting the dusty desert below. Either way the mountains defy explanation, words are but a dusty mirror held up to the grandeur of such terrain.

Though Mt. Rainier holds a similar vertical relief as these Peruvian monsters, the comparisons cease abruptly. Where the tallest peak in Washington is a hulking rounded mass, owing to its volcanic heritage, the Andean peaks are beautifully sculpted and carved into dreamlike shapes. Razor sharp edges fall from towering summits, like giant sheets of white satin dropped from a passing deity. These are the mountains that will turn climbing from a casual hobby to an insatiable addiction. And here I stand, out of shape, thin on time and money, unable to follow such desires. As some cruel joke a Chilean climber approaches us desperate for a climbing partner for a challenging route up a nearby peak. Painful. Rest assured I'll be back.

Unfortunately there can be a terrible price for residing under such imposing peaks. Directly above the nearby town of Yungay towers the twin summits of Huascaran, which holds the title of the highest mountain in the western hemisphere requiring technical climbing. In May 1970 a 7.5 earthquake loosed a mudslide carrying 80 million tons of mud, snow and rock, leaving 20,000 dead beneath the rubble. The towns of Huaraz and Caras were also destroyed.

Night Riding

While riding under the cover of darkness should be discouraged under any circumstances, the experience takes on a deeper thrill amid a foreign country. Yes, I am quite aware of the dangers but sometimes your options are dictated by circumstances rather than desires. Thus, while deep within the bowels of the Andes we concluded that 4:30 in the afternoon was not the ideal time to find ourselves cruising over the highest drivable pass in the world. But alas, we simply had to visit this remote statistic.

With both our bikes and our lungs struggling under the thinning air we lumbered up towards the frigid pass. At just under 16,000 ft, we had just piloted our bikes to a height well over a thousand feet above Mt. Rainier. All with a simple twist of a wrist. But such comforts still extract a price, and in many cases, no less painful. After snapping the obligatory photos we descended into the darkening skies, well aware of the foolishness of our predicament.

Pulling over as the final rays of daylight slipped away, we bundled layer upon layer of clothes, looking far more suited to a day of snowmobiling then motorcycling. Such is the perfect conditions to contemplate the finer points of racing upon dirt roads under the cover of darkness. Perhaps the trickiest aspect of such excursions is tiring mixture of quick predictions and faster responses. The light thrown forward from the dim headlight only provides about 2/3 of the necessary vision needed for sight. Thus, at 50 mph you simply cannot stop within the distance illuminated by the solitary headlight. In turn, an interesting game is born.

Potholes become black, bottomless pits, with a 2 inch ripple nearly indistinguishable from a foot deep rim bender. Corners also present a thrilling experience as the narrow beam of light fails to properly enlighten the curved road ahead. Suddenly a long graceful sweeper tightens into a hairpin turn full of skidding tires and surging adrenaline. C'mon, focus I tell myself again, cursing the treadles tires underfoot but thanking the many layers of clothing protecting my frozen body in the event of a miscalculation.

Perhaps the most unexpected antagonist among the midnight roads is the wandering Peruvian. For some inexplicable reason the all important gene that encourages survival instincts was completely skipped over in the native population. Speeding down a thankfully straight section of dirt road this biological oversight became dangerously evident. 100 feet ahead the soft headlight illuminates the dark outline of a woman standing aimlessly in the center of the road. I swerve right, so does she. Trying left, my actions are met with the same incredible movements, like some sick game of high speed frogger.

Thoughts of drilling this lady with 400 odd pounds of metal and plastic flashed across my vision as it became quickly apparent that avoiding the upcoming collision was not her top priority. Hoping for one last chance I crank the skidding bike towards the shoulder, stopping amid a cloud of dirt 5 feet off the road. Amazingly, when the dust settled, there she stood, less than a yard away looking as if this is an everyday occurrence for a Peruvian pedestrian.

Even more exhilarating then erratic locals and blackened potholes is the combination of dust and darkness provided by lumbering trucks. Attempting to pass one of these amid the plumes exploding from 18 wheels is not for the faint of heart. Many times a motorcyclist is lured into the corner pass, trying to slip inside a curve while the truck steers wide. While usually this works, any hesitation brings about a rapidly diminishing window of opportunity as the semi cuts hard to the inside, forcing you onto the shoulder or worse.

Rolling on the gas in preparation for such a maneuver I paused and backed off for some unknown reason. Squinting through the blinding cloud the reason for such misgivings became evident. Cutting directly across my intended route was a bottomless drainage ditch. While survival at this speed was likely, it certainly would have turned the Kawasaki into a interesting piece of modern art.

Finally we hit pavement. Predictable, solid and luxuriously smooth, I can't recall ever experiencing such joy upon eyeing a section of blacktop. Now it is time for our long descent to the Pacific. But someone decided our foolishness was not atoned for yet and the cruel highway climbed back into the frozen plains. Degrees steadily dropped off the thermometer amid the bleak plateau as I recalled the guidebook describing the road as the "highest continues road in the world", never dropping below 13,000ft for 100 miles. Perfect I thought, hands turning to rubber than wood as the racing wind demanded its payment.

Peruvian Politics

Though perhaps a bit painful no description of Peru would be complete without touching the shady areas of politics. In many ways this Incan nation has followed the predictable path of communist surges and far right backlashes. Pondering their history through the filter of American life it is difficult to comprehend the natives proclivity towards such political structures. That is, until their tumultuous background is brought forth into the light.

Reaching back 500 years, just before the Spanish conquistadors made their grand entrance, the Incan society was a tightly controlled society. The natives owned no personal property, worked communally on agricultural projects and utilized a decimal system for administration. Families, tribes, clans, etc. were organized into successively larger units from 10 to 10,000. This efficient system was sadly lost upon the Spanish invasion.

Lacking a written language system of knots was employed for accounting and runners were used to carry messages. Vast irrigation projects were also engineered to carry life giving water to the scorched coastal plains. The list goes on and merits further reading (The Conquest of the Incas, John Hemming). Drawing a heritage from such a background, the periodic flourishing of socialistic attitudes is more understandable.

The reasoning unfortunately goes far beyond cultural history. Numerous countries in Latin America, if not all, struggle with such polarized political landscapes, yet few claim a history as socialized as the Incas. No, the problems are far more recent. Ever since the fingers of Europe and later, the States, first laid hold of the turbid region a rather unique brand of capitalism has been sold. One that bares little resemblance to the system we enjoy farther north.

A place where the middle class is merely an idea. The overwhelming majority of land and business is controlled by a handful of pale skinned elite. Workers are paid a pittance while $100,000 Mercedes Benzes prowl the streets. And still those in power contemplate why capitalism is such a tough sell. Quite obviously it is not our economic system they flee, but the distorted phantom propped up in place. Otherwise you would not find them risking life and limb for a chance in the golden land of the United States.

Sadly our pride in the successes of our gov't have blinded us from the broad differences found throughout Latin America. For an honest and heart wrenching history of US involvement read "Inevitable Revolutions" by Walter Lafeber. Upon finishing this highly regarded book, my head is hung in shame, knowing a lifetime of service will not atone for the great disservice wrought upon this forsaken land. Read it. You will understand our position among the world with far more clarity.

Wherever you feelings land upon our current president, Latin America's opinion of him cannot be disputed. When all is said and done I am simply tired of it all. Tired of defending my country to arrogant Europeans and wandering hippies. Tired of daily riding by buildings covered with graffiti comparing my president to Hitler. Tired of every other Latino asking me how I feel about Iraq, and then voicing his opinion. It is an odd time to travel, knowing 95% of the population we encounter holds our current administration in utter detest.

In response to some peoples concern, let me emphasize that the previous paragraph is merely a snap shot of the feelings we've encountered from the locals along the way, not our personal beliefs. Simply raw observations, nothing more and nothing less.

--JM--