*** THE CHRONICLES ***

38) The Mister and the Gringa: A Love Story

Arriving at Iquitos marked a special moment, since it is the most populated city in the world that cannot be reached by road. But there was something else that transformed this place into one that I had been anxious to arrive at for some time; it was here that I was meeting Franziska Krebs, a Swiss with whom I was going to continue riding on to Ecuador.  

I had met Franziska over a year ago through one of those travel quirks when I was riding together with Kathy and Oscar through the Canadian Rockies. Although that meeting lasted a bare 5 minutes, we kept in touch long after through emails. When she told me that she had felt inspired by our trip and that she wanted to go on one of her own, I didn’t hesitate in supporting her initiative. But when she asked me whether she could ride with me, I started feeling a little doubtful. I didn’t know her, I had no idea whether she had any experience travelling by bike… it could turn out to be an excellent experience just as easily as a really bad one. Her being an elite Iron man triathlete (a race involving a 3800m swim followed by 180km of biking and 42,2km of running) left no doubt that there were no worries to be had over her physical shape. But this would be very different from a competition. Different skills would be required and I didn’t know whether she possessed them or not. And meeting somebody while travelling and deciding to share the road for a bit is one thing; meeting up with someone who decided to go on this kind of an adventure “because” of me…and to do it at my side! It was a huge responsibility and at first I was reticent to say yes.

But Franziska didn’t quit, she persevered with her intentions. And she certainly did persevere! So much so that she didn’t mind my travel plan changes which made it so that my originally southbound goal shifted by 180 degrees to lead me to Ecuador, which was not originally part of my plan. Months went by and the meeting started taking shape until a dot could finally be fixed upon in a map. And Iquitos was the chosen place. A place that could only be reached by maritime or air travel. This girl was definitely convinced of what she wanted and nothing was going to hold her back. 

On November 12th 2008, I arrived in Iquitos, over one month late according to my original plans. Franziska had already gotten to know half of Peru by then from riding around while waiting for me to arrive at the agreed site. The speed boat that I took from Santa Rosa ran out of fuel just before getting into port, so we had to be towed in by a barge to the coast and I ended up touching ground on the outskirts of town. Fearing that we would miss one another at this stage of things, especially after postponing the awaited day so much, I sent along many emissaries to let her know that I was on my way… but coming in by road.

After packing everything up on Maira in front of a very attentive local public who followed each of my movements, I sunk in an unprecedented state of chaos. The streets were choked by “motto-taxis”, I’d never seen anything like it. These motorised tricycles in which just about anything was carried went all over the place frenetically without respecting any kind of traffic rule whatsoever. The racket was deafening and the competition to get a passenger pretty ferocious. And even though they could see that I had my own method of transportation they never stopped offering taking me somewhere. I immediately realised that, as an Argentine, I would easily be recognised thanks to football (soccer); for the first time, I could see more jerseys and images of the Selection Argentina and the Boca juniors than I had in my own country.

I was going forward, spellbound by the urban and human landscape that spread out before my eyes, and that’s when I saw her coming towards me. Just like a fairy right out of a children’s story, Franziska was coming on bike dressed in a delicate while dress that captured everyone’s eye. I was no exception, and after many months of planning and coordinating thousands of details, there she was in front of me. We got lost in a hug, although, considering how sweaty I was, I don’t think it was the best of ideas. It didn’t matter, done was done and for a few weeks I would ride in company… and not just any company either! My “gringo” face was already something that drew eyes in this area, but Franziska’s blond hair, blue eyes and athletic body relegated me to second place, or even third I would say. 

We got a couple of howling monkeys on our way and we set ourselves up at the hostel she had picked out. Although it was only the second time we saw one another in person, it felt like we had known one another our entire lives.

Nestled in Rio Amazonas, Iquitos is one of South America’s most exotic cities. Around the city, there are different indigenous villages and hamlets, zoos, national reserves and other natural attractions. The city also works on the conservation of republican time buildings that go back to the rubber era. 

Iquitos was a languid, forgotten town until a naval factory was built. It then became an important city port because of its strategic geographical location. The splendour and definite growth of the city, however, came together, just as it had in Manaus, with the rubber fever of the beginning of the 20th century. It was during those times of prosperity that most of the present arquitectonical heritage was built, and the city was provided with basic public services: electric lighting, urban rail transit, the Superior Court and the Matriz Church, among others.
Still, the real richness of this place resides in the fact that, due to its geographical isolation, Iquitos is surrounded by forests that still posses characteristics that are typical of the Amazonian ecosystem. The plan was precisely to be able to visit a few of those sites, such as the Pacaya-Samiria or the Allpahuayo-Mishana reserves.

Unfortunately, my plans were going to be affected by circumstances. My feet had barely hit the ground and an email was already waiting with some bad news; I had originally been given permission to postpone my teaching post and now a university had refused to extend it. I therefore had to resign. This was one of the consequences of my trip being lengthened and Iknew that something like that could happen. Neither the arguments I presented nor the endorsements of the directors of the 12 Aldeas Infantiles SOS that I had visited up to that point were of any use. The root cause of the problem was that, in leaving my post, I was saddled with an economic sanction for a previous license back when I was working in Antarctica, and the resulting wage updates as well as the fine print of the signed agreement (which one never reads or even knows how to read) led to a debt that endangered my voyage. I had already had to tighten my belt when I lengthened the time I would spend travelling, and now I was going to have to add a few more holes to it to be able to continue.   

Like a domino effect, a relentless pharyngitis took over my throat and I had to remain in bed for agonising two days, delirious with fever and in a more than pitiful state. And to complete this sombre picture, things with Franziska were not all peaches and cream. Adding to the worries in which I felt buried, our strong and very similar personalities led to constant clashes that brought me to ask myself whether getting together had been a good idea.

Despite everything, in the few days that we spent in Iquitos we were able to go to some of the main attractions. In the central part of the town, the Plaza de Armas (which is the name given to central parks in Peru) stands out, guarded by the cathedral and the famous “casa de Fierro” (House of iron). This structure, designed by French architect Eiffel, was dismantled, carried by ship in pieces, and was reassembled at the height of the rubber era. Its two floors with balconies on either façade, its pyramid shaped roof is supported by columns of forged iron, and has given in to modern times by housing a bar as well as a few stores. 

Another point of interest was the port of Belem, also called Venice of Peru. It is an area made up of houses built on wooden stilts where, during high tide, the second floor is inhabited. The people mainly fish but, when the river level decreases, they use both floors of the house and farm the land around them. It was one of the poorest settlements of the area, and with the look of us, walking around its streets was not precisely calculated to bring me peace of mind. One of the police officers that we asked even recommended that we leave as soon as possible in the first motto-taxi that we could find. 

After a quick trip to the Allpahuayo-Mishane natural reserve, to which we rode our bikes using the same Nauta road as I had upon arriving, it was time to leave. After almost one month without being able to pedal Maira’s, my body needed a bit of action…at least, cycling action!

But it wasn’t just a matter of loading up the saddlebags and being on our way. We still had to navigate for another 3 days on the fast-flowing Napo River to get to Yurimaguas, from where a brand-new road penetrated deeper into the heart of the Peruvian Andes. The port was just as I had imagined it, as little like a port as it is possible to look. The vessels that offered theirservices, with big signs indicating their destination clustered along the dirty river shore. There was no such thing as a reservation. It was a matter having a look at what the best option was (or the available option) and then going. The “Eduardo” boats had been recommended to me,and we found some room on one of them. The facilities were a lot more rustic than they had been in Brazil, and this time around there were different classes to choose from; hammocks on the lower deck, where the overcrowding was rather alarming; the upper deck hammocks, where almost double the price afforded a much more relaxed and safer space; and the cabins which, for an additional amount, were the ideal option to be able to keep our many bundles without too much traumatism. The costs were a great deal less than they had been in Carioca land, and that is why we didn’t hesitate in hiring a cabin for the navigation.

The size of the cabin was pretty restrained, so much so that there wasn’t much room for the saddlebags and even less to stretch out one’s legs. The small bunk bed had a really thin mattress that seemed to be starving and it was best to spend as much time as possible outside the cabin if one did not want to risk being struck by a serious case of claustrophobia.

The routine was similar to how it had been travelling from Manaus, with the added element of interpersonal relations, to which, it seemed, I had grown fairly unaccustomed. Although I had had other close meetings of the “third type” during my voyage, it was the first time that my occasional companion would travel so long with me! I definitely must have had somewhat oxidised relationship abilities because we fought like a cat and dog. We looked like a couple who had been together for years, almost a married couple I would say, and people understood nothing when we told them that in reality we had only met in person a few days ago. Would the relationship work or would it be an unforgettable headache? Time would tell….

A few bracelets later and anxious to leave this sailor’s life behind to get back to my profession as a cyclist, we finally arrived at the town of Yurimaguas. It was a new beginning, a new road and with a new partner. A heated morning discussion made this memorable return to pedals burdened with the weight of bad moods and anger. That first hit of the pedal ended up being with the left foot. But there was only one road, and a common destination, so we launched ourselves on the 130 kilometres separating us from Tarapoto. 

The recently inaugurated asphalt made riding through those flat and green places very pleasant. We crossed apredominantly rural and poor region where the common denominator were the small indigenous settlements of precarious constructions. A heavy downpour caught us as we were starting on the hilly country that separated us from our final destination, but despite its intensity, it wasn’t bothersome because the heat was so suffocating. We had barely started on the broken terrain when Franziska gave irrefutable evidence of the physical strength that she possessed. As if her bicycle were a road bike that weighed nothing, she started getting further and further away ahead of me until she disappeared from my sight. And I wouldn’t see her anymore until I crested the hill! On my end, Maira’s extra weight, those days without pedalling and my recovering health had transformed me into an agonizing straggler with his tongue hanging out. 

I found her some time later, lively chatting up some police officers, a huge smile across her face, which contrasted with the agitated state in which I found myself and which wouldn’t allow me to utter a single word. Here was someone who was capable of overcoming any obstacle and the coming days would show the truth of those words. 

The following days, we rode through undulating roads, crossing rice fields and farmed land, dragging with us the hot and humid climate of the Amazonian territory. Little by little we got closer to our objective of entering the northern foothills of the Andes, returning to cooler and more easily bearable climate.

The only cold drinks that it seemed possible to acquire while on the road were Coca-Cola classic, that I never found all that good for hydration purposes, and the traditional and very Peruvian Inca Kola. I had heard of this yellow-coloured soft drink that is so popular in this part of the world and one of the first things I had done upon arriving in the country was taste it. It was also the last time I did it! Just as I had been warned, it had a ”particular and unique” flavour, which reminded me of the horrible cough syrup that I was given as a child. Franziska agreed with me on this one thing and so Coca Cola sadly became the official drink of our days throughout Peru.

Tabalosos, Moyobamba, Nueva Cajamarca, Aguas Claras, the towns in which we spent the night varied in size and in the facilities they offered., but they all had one common factor: wherever we were, it seemed that the typical regional dish was white ricewith chicken… and a lot of white rice it was!From the paddy fields straight to your table seemed to be the slogan…and for that matter, from the patio to the table too, because I’ve never seen so many chickens all over the place! A couple of times I almost got tangled up in those clueless animals’ necks, which all had the bad habit of going straight for the bike’s path sporting suicidal attitudes! 

The motto-taxis seemed to be the kings of the road, and except for the occasional bus or truck, they were the only vehicles to be seen around there. Private cars were an exotic luxury and the only models to be seen were white Toyota Corollas of rural style, used as taxis. Traffic was pretty sparse and it was only when getting close to urban centres that one had to be especially attentive because of the demented way in which people drove.

Franziska’s presence did not go unnoticed and the red-coloured cycling clothes that she wore, which matched her saddlebags, made her a instant target for harassment. There wasn’t a spot we went through in which the men who saw us ride by didn’t yell out at her, whistle at her and even make some repulsive kissing sounds that gave me goose bumps. It would be a constant element of our travels through Peruvian territory, and that is why we decided to take the initiative. Before the very first sign of harassment, she was the one that launched herself in a veritable rosary of movements and sounds, which, in a few cases, intimidated the men thus caught  unawares. I did my share too with comments and we went on our way laughing by ourselves at the reactions we caused.

The people in those hot regions were pretty laconic and, generally speaking, didn’t give many outward signs of friendship. Our greetings were usually ignored and sometimes, the looks that we got made us hurry on our way, making us fear that they would throw a machete at us. On the other hand, those attitudes were interwoven with those of other people who gave us toothy smiles and who went out of their way to greet us and make us feel comfortable. A disconcerting dichotomy. 

What never failed to appear was the initial prejudice based on looks. It was a pretty rare occasion when someone didn’t call me “Mister” and that was precisely the beginning of any conversation: “hello mister!”, sometimes with good intentions and other times not so much. “I am not a mister, I’m from Argentina, and I speak Spanish”. Franziska suffered the same karma, but unlike me, she was the “gringa”. Little gringa this and little gringa that and the blood immediately rushed to her face and she launched her spiel with that Spanish accent of hers: “I am not a gringa! Not all blonds are gringas, I am Swiss, I am European!” Of course, it was all useless and a waste of our breath. Generally speaking, they just stared past us at the horizon without saying anything. Or they had a little smile that was all the more irritating for our nerves. Patience and resignation had to be learned, since in these lands, we would invariably always be “el Mister y la Gringa”. 

Her Swiss flag generated even more confusion since everywhere people thought that it was the international Red Cross flag. The fact that it was white on red was irrelevant, everyone that came up to us for a chat seemed fascinated by the “doctor” who was travelling around on bike doing some eccentric health work. In Tabalosos, where we were invited to the local radio station for an interview, they were even originally convinced that we were part of a Red Cross international mission for children with no family!

During those days, our state of mind changed to the rhythm of the terrain’s irregularities. When we were both in a good mood, we were an unbeatable pair and had an amazing time. If oneof us was a somewhat miffed, an alarm went off warning that precaution was necessary…and if the two of us were in a foul temper, best stay far away!It was apparent that we were capable of bringing out the very worst in one another with alarming ease. The speech barriercomplicated things even more. Although Franziska spoke castellano and wanted to practice with me, she had learned in Spain, and my typically Argentine expressions were unintelligible to her. So we’d switch to English, which she spoke with greater skill but with some roughness in her way of speaking which I blamed on her mother tongue, German (of course, she didn’t agree). That last language was the one that quickly became the one in which I was most readily insulted when she was visibly angry. I didn’t understand a thing, but I got the gist of the message immediately! Even so, we made a good team, and together we faced the mishaps of the journey with no major inconveniences. 

We were on the verge of the first ascents but did not know very well what was in store for us further along. In any place where one is faced with a similar situation, the most logical course of action is to ask someone who lives in the area because, theoretically, they are they ones who best know the region, but we quickly discovered that it was a useless task. Asking almost always led to this sort of listless dialogue:

-Good day! Do you know whether there’s a big climb up ahead?
- Ia...
- Ia??!!
- Ia...
- Well but…ia yes or ia no???
- Ia...

This kind of interaction occurred in other situations as well, such as when we asked about food, which turned any attempt to get information of any kind whatsoever into an exasperating event.

Despite the fact that we were riding on a road with asphalt in very good state and that the ascents weren’t extremely difficult, once more, my companion’s athletic condition prevailed and I was left pedalling alone. Every once in a while she’d wait for me to say hello and she even got so far ahead of me that she gave herself the luxury of leaving me little encouragements written on the road with stones. I didn’t know how to react to her noble gesture, whether I should rejoice or start crying! 

After having gained over 2000m in elevation and having arrived at the longed-for “pure descent” that had been hinted at in between the “ià and ià”, we arrived at Pedro Ruiz, a hamlet located at the crossroads that would remove us from the main road towards the coast in order to penetrate further into the most remote valleys towards Chachapoyas and Cajamarca.  

We were really close to the Gocta falls, known for a bare few years and which, with their height of 771m, have a legitimate claim to being the third highest in the world. But the climate conditions during those days made attempting the difficult access route not recommendable and we chose to continue going further in the valley to the Utcubamba river. And precisely after the turnoff that led to the imposing falls, the velvety asphalt that we had been riding on since leaving Yurimaguas came to an end and the real adventure began. With the appearance of gravel roads, physical exertion from now on would get much tougher.

We had to cross a part of the road that was to be asphalted. Almost 30 kilometres to the crossroads that climbed to the plateau to the city of Chachapoyas. A sign indicated that the way was closed off between 8am and 4pm, which greatly complicated our plans to get ahead. Moreover, almost every day until now, we had been hit with evening showers which, now that we were almost at 2000m, weren’t nearly as welcome as it had been at lower elevation. We had to get through, and after adamantly asking the police officer for a good while, we managed to have him take pity on us and give us permission. 

On many occasions, we’d had to be careful of the big trucks or had had to try to dodge workers, but now we had the road to ourselves, and it opened up ahead of us and our wheels, making them spin round and round without a break. The valley seemed boxed in, with really high vertical slopes that seemed to want to choke us in the thin space that remained for the broad river and the narrow road. It was a unique privilege and we fully enjoyed ourselves, delighting in the experience.

After a couple of badly timed downpours, we arrived at El Tingo, a small village from which it was possible to go visit the imposing pre-Inca fortress of Kuélap. We were looking for a way to get there without losing an entire day on our bikes when we met Juan Hemerson Rodriguez Coronado, a multi-facetted psychology professor, cab driver and raiser of ring fighting chickens. Of these three, we only made use of his occupation as a driver and together with him and his family we climbed up the intricate road that went up to the ruins. His eldest son, who proudly wore the same name as his father, acted as official guide in our solitary ramblings through the grounds. Although Juan, at barely 9 years of age, didn’t possess that much information about the site, our imagination and inventiveness were enough to recreate what we would later learn through the information booklets.

Kuélap is characterized by its tremendous position, placed in a hard to access, forested and rainy site. It is located on a great platform, which is itself settled on the rocky outcrop on the mountain’s summit. The platform extends for over 600 meters and is supported by a 19 metre high wall. The visual impact that this generates at a distance is immediate! 

Within the fortifications, to which one accesses through a narrow doorway that is similar to a crevasse in the wall, there are over 400 enclosures, most of them circular in shape. For the most part, only the base is left. The friezes, which seem to be in the shape of eyes and birds, are shaped like a chain of “V”s and have been reproduced throughout the neighbouring towns, each one adopting a specific and distinctive design, which gives even more mysticism to the peoples of the region. Apparently, those enclosures were not inhabited, they were to store food so that the population would not suffer of food shortage on bad years when climate conditions prevented good harvest. 

One could also see other constructions amongst the forest, like the so-called “Castillo” (castle), which was likely the dwelling of the leader and high dignitaries. 

Time just flew by and on the way back, Juan invited us to have dinner in his home while we waited for the storm, which made riding the narrow and winding road back to El Tingo dangerous, to ease up.

We left on the following days with our spirits full and our gear somewhat lessened. Someone had entered our room and my binoculars as well as the headphones I used to communicate over the internet had disappeared out of the front of my bag. Strangely, nothing else of value or importance was missing, the camera and cash were still there. Franziska, however, had to make do with one less pair of panties… 

The previous evening’s rain had left the road in very poor condition. A few kilometres into our trip, we had to cross a section where our wheels sunk down as if we’d been riding in chocolate fondue. Had that been the case, we would at least have been able to gladly remove the pasty mixture and pig out! Instead of that, the mushy mess stuck to any gap or crack there was and in no time the breaks were blocked, the speeds jammed, and the chain popped off. Going forward became a very slow and complicated affair, threatened as we were with simply just staying bogged down there. But since in the pigheadedness department we were second to none, a lot of shoving, insults and thousands of stops to clear up the wheels finally made it so we were able to get ourselves out of that nightmarish swamp. A man who mercifully was cleaning his car with a pressure hose saved us from the major headaches that we would have had had all that dirt dried and petrified on our bikes 

We arrived at Leymebamba just before the daily storm. We still had to climb up to Abra Barro Negro (Black Mud Pass), and I could only hope that the place’s name would not be justified by such another downpour. We looked for a place to spend the night and so ended a short but intense journey on our bikes.

If there was one thing on which Franziska and I didn’t agree, it was sleeping habits. I am more of a night owl, and despite having had a hard day, I can stay up until late into the night without major inconveniences. She, however, automatically jumps out of bed very early in the morning, wanting to start with riding right away. There is nothing better to put me in a bad mood than shoving me out of bed and disturbing my slow waking process. That pressure to start the days off quickly and without any anaesthetic was lethal to my state of mind. 

But that morning it was justified since we had one heck of a long day ahead of us. We had arrived at the point in which the topography placed before us would be one of the hardest physical challenges that we’d faced until then: surmounting the Marañón River valley. The map already gave a good idea of what awaited us. The altitude lines crowded very close together, and the gradient of colours went from dark brown, indicating an altitude of around 3500m, to a very pale green that barely grazed 1000m in altitude. But the problem was that immediately after getting to the riverbed, everything was to be done all over again on the other side of the water. Instead of following the gradual changes in elevation along the valley, we had to cross it like a giant “V” that went from 3600m down to 800m and then went right back up to 3200m on the other side. Madness!!! 

We started riding after 5 am, guessing at the unevenness of the road in the half-light of a day that didn’t want to get started. It was cold and the clouds gave off an edgy atmosphere. The first 30 kilometres, unavoidably, went up: 1300 metres of elevation separated us from the pass that we wished to reach as soon as possible as we had no wish to freeze in the daily storm so high up. We rode slowly…well, at least I did, because the “cabrita suiza” (little Swiss goat) took off like a rocket as soon as we started off and I didn’t see her again until I got to the highest part of the road. Was she on something special that I wasn’t? While I climbed, falling further and further behind, I thought of demanding that she undergo a doping test as soon as we got to the next town… 

When we reached the summit at the pass, the view before us was both striking and bloodcurdling; the road fell abruptly toward the Marañón river, in a squeezed valley where, far off, like a Lilliputian village, you could see Balsas, the hamlet that was our objective for the day. But what was bad is that immediately after, you could fully appreciated the mountainous wall on the other side, where a thin while line showed us the road we were to take the next day. Whichever way you looked at it, it was total madness! Just thinking about it knocked the breath out of you!

We were facing a 60 kilometres descent that ended up being anything but relaxing. Almost as we were about to start down the slope, dense fog materialised out of thin air and covered the road in its whitish mantel. The clouds travelled over us, blurring the shape of the road and hiding the steep cliffs. These achieved dizzying proportions and tinged the atmosphere with mystery. But this poetic and mystical charm was torn to shreds when we were inside the fog which froze us to our bones and didn’t allow us to see any further than our noses.

When we got out of that hell, things didn’t get all that much better, because as we went forward the road became more and more impassable.  The stones in the road seemed to grow in a way that was inversely proportional to the altitude, which made it that the jolting we took became bigger and bigger and more abrupt. Our arms were exhausted by the constant rattling, our fingers were seizing up from hitting the breaks so much and our legs were a mass of cramps from being immobilised on our pedals for so many hours. Resting out butts on our seats in those terrain conditions was unthinkable. And yet, what I feared happened: a sharp rock that I wasn’t able to avoid in time lodged itself in my back wheel and provoked the dreaded and unwished for flat.

The climate didn’t bode all that well and rain was imminent. Just a bit before getting to Balsas this dampened our spirits, but at least now it was a bit warmer now. Extreme exhaustion had sharpened spirits and the atmosphere was being held together by a thread. Franziska had hit rock bottom in an activity which would prove to be her Achilles tendon; the unending descents on gravel roads in deplorable state. A little before arriving, she had had a discussion with a woman who, like most locals, had thrown her garbage to the ground without much thought. Making a vigorous effort to generate some sort of ecological awareness in the lady, she launched into a speech that would have made Al Gore proud which, as in many other occasions, seemed to have gotten lost in the air. The only response she got was the typical vacant look with lobotomy overtones and her listener’s disdain. The most recommendable course of action was to eat something and rest…the next day, everything would be even worse, but only for me, since almost everything was in ascent! 

Luckily, the weather took pity on us and in the morning skies were clear. We had to take as much advantage of it as possible since this opportunity did not present itself very often. We said goodbye as soon as we crossed the bridge over the river, since it was useless for me to try to follow Franziska’s rhythm. In those 40 kilometres, we had to climb up 2300 metres continuously and almost without resting. It was utopian to think I could do it with her (unless I removed some air from her tires, something I’d already thought of doing) and we agreed to meet up on the summit or in Celendin if the weather deteriorated.

Despite the terrain’s difficulties and the physical effort that would be required by the ascent, the turns of the road on the mountainside and the extensive series of balconies they created allowed me to admire the grandness of the landscape and the gradually declining size of the things that I was leaving behind. 

A second of distraction was enough for a vengeful rock to charge my front wheel. “Fuck!”, I thought, on top of already being behind, now I wouldn’t catch up to her anymore for sure! I didn’t want for Franziska to have to wait for me more than necessary on the summit, so I used the only means of communication that we had available: the very few cars that went by! The first that went toward her carried the message that I’d had another flat tire and that I was using my last spare chamber. If I didn’t make it by nightfall, it meant I’d had a second flat! Some time after, a truck on its way down brought me the answer: your “girlfriend” says (because since for everyone, there existed no other description, although according to circumstances we also introduced ourselves as “married”, “lovers” or quite simply “strangers”) that she would wait in Celedin in the Plaza de Armas. And she sends this! He gave me a bag that had a spare chamber, two little packs of cookies, a bottle of water and another of Coke. An angel was watching my back, although she was quicker than me and was ahead of me on the road. 

When I was almost at the end of the ascent, I wanted to take a picture and was upset to realise that my small portable tripod had been left behind in that dusty road turn where I had had to fix the bike. It wasn’t that far away, but the 1000 metres in altitude that separated me from it made me give up going back for it. I hope that whoever found it knew what it was and how to use it! 

There was one day left to get to Cajamarca. It was the first large city that we were hitting on our route and our bodies were crying out for a bit of rest. I was raving about the famous Inca baths, the thermal waters where the famous Atahualpa bathed at the time of the Empire. It was my 18thmonth anniversary and I thought it would be a quiet and relaxed journey. We had been assured that it was downhill all the way to the city and that on top of this, after a short while we’d be back on paved road. Very well, but before getting to this “all downhill” we had to overcome three more passes of more than 3000 metres in altitude, and the bloody asphalt didn’t show up before we go to Encañada, 30 kilometres away from Cajamarca. By that time, we’d already been riding on gravel for 80 kilometres! On top of this, a demented head wind made us crawl forward as slowly as we had on unpaved roads, making it almost impossible to enjoy the smoothness of the pavement that we were trying to ride on. After 10 hours of pedalling, we finally arrived at the city, considered to be a historical and culture heritage site of the Americas. 

Cajamarca is known for its colonial and baroque architecture. The streets of the historical centre are very inviting to stroll around in while admiring the buildings that are cared for with great zeal and respect. The churches possess a special characteristic; the bell towers were never finished because during the viceroyalty, all incomplete churches were granted an amount of money periodically. The cathedral was built in the seventeenth century and has a façade made of volcanic stone, as does the impressive San Francisco church.  

The Plaza de Armas is one of the largest in the country and is the keeper of a bitter and sad memory; this is where the fall of the Inca Empire started. Shortly after having beaten his brother Huàscar in 1532 in Ouipaypan, close to Cuzco, Atahualpa, an Inca, proclaimed himself Emperor. After having won the war, he immediately went to Cajamarca to get to know the Spanish, but an unexpected attack by the “conquistador” Francisco Pizarro made him a prisoner. A few months later he was accused of treason, of hiding a treasure, of conspiring again the Spanish crown and of having killed Huàscar. To save himself he had to pay with two rooms full of silver and one of gold, as well as women, among them his own wife. Although he filled his side of the bargain, he was executed anyway. He was hanged in the same place where we now strolled with a lot of other tourists. Sadly, nowadays the “cuarto de rescate” (the rescue room), in the centre of town, is the only visible trace that remains of the Inca Empire. 

The city bustled with a mixture of modern urbanisation, a historical touch given by the colonial past, bringing together obvious foreigners with local indigenous people who stood out in their colourful clothing and white hats that we’d been observing since we entered the Andes region. They seemed to be getting bigger and bigger and I thought that they must not only be used as protection against the sun but also against the rain and perhaps even used to carry things under, as if it were the glove compartment of a car. It was a multicultural mosaic that even got a bit bizarre sometimes and that could be observed for hours without becoming boring. 

Travel times seemed to be different for Franziska from what they were for me and it was becoming obvious that going our separate ways was becoming necessary. And yet, the affection between us had increased with time and following a reconciliation in the Inca Baths we decided to continue on together up to San Ignacio, at the border with Ecuador.

There were a few hard days ahead of us as we were going to take the most difficult route to get to the city of Jaén. These were secondary gravel roads and we’d been assured that our  attempts to go with our bikes would be hampered. The other option was going down to the coast and then riding up the main, paved highway, which was out of question. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into!

On the first day, the objective was making it to the town of Bambamarca. We took off when the light of dawn was just starting to hint at the coming day and made the initial climb riding on a new paved road, courtesy of the conflict-ridden and controversial mining company Yanacocha. When we got to the highest point, we came across a sight straight out of Dante’s nightmares: the highest mound of contaminated earth in the world! The mountains of lixiviation were as high as an eleven-floor building, with thousands of cubic metres of accumulated rock being treated with cyanide to extract the gold from it. The yellowish and orange-coloured tones would have appeared more artistic in a different context. To me, it seemed like a grotesque monument to environmental pollution…and quite huge at that!

We had a companion with us, Lenin, a young guy who was training a bit and he was the first Peruvian with a high-end mountain bike that I had seen until then. In the zones through which we had ridden, bikes were a cheap means of getting around and nothing more. No model was any better than the classical Chinese bicycles, true little all-terrain war horses.

With Lenin, we celebrated the 24,000 kilometres that I had accumulated during my trip, a number I had reached upon entering the Utcubamba valley. We were pedalling through a vast plateau at over 3500 m in altitude, avoiding the storms that were breaking out all around us but which, for some strange motive, never poured down on us. We said goodbye to our temporary companion and faced the gradual climb to almost 4000 metres from the mine accurately baptised “the summit” (la Cima). The day had dwindled away through our bicycles’ spokes and we still had a bit over 50 kilometres to ride before getting to our destination. There were only about 2 hours of daylight left, so we had to hurry. We presumed that since we had to descend from so high, it would go quickly and we’d make it with time to spare. Gross error! We had barely started on the road when we realised that the rains that had been lashing out from afar had poured down here, so the path had become a slippery bog in which it was very difficult to manoeuvre. But even worse, as it was Sunday, people were coming back from the “stroll to town” and huge trucks crowded with people were climbing up, leaving us almost no space at all on the narrow path. Clouds started lowering, soaking the atmosphere with mysticism and causing terrible blindness! Night was falling inexorably down our backs and the end of the journey had been transformed into a suicide expedition.

This initial sector, which was the steepest, was followed by a long and endless ride in the middle of total darkness, avoiding holes as well as possible (when it was possible) immersed in clouds that did their best to reflect the scarce light from our headlights right back at us which made is so that the only thing that was visible was an infinite rosary of little droplets in front of our noses. The accumulated fatigue worsened the situation. We’d ridden over 110 kilometres, had climbed over 2000 metres and had spent a ridiculous amount of time on our seats; we ended with an absolute record of 11 hours and 11 minutes! I joked to Franziska that I felt as if I’d competed in an iron man, but the atmosphere didn’t lend itself to joking. The exhaustion and tension of the last hours had left her out of the rink and as soon as we found a place to sleep she fainted on the bed. I’d found her second Achilles tendon: pedalling at night… and in those conditions! Well, that would be the case for anyone! 

Although before falling deeply asleep she’d confessed to me that she felt horrible and that maybe we’d have to stay there an extra day so she could recover, like magic, on the following day at 6 am she was already poking around the room with her typical early morning anxiety to get going. In my case, however, the previous day hit me with a delayed reaction compared to her, and the very idea of getting out of the sheets made my body ache all over.

But negotiating a rest day turned out to be impossible and it was with great difficulty that I managed to get a few little extra hours to rest. With notable lethargy and grumbling to myself I joined in her morning hyperactivity and after cleaning the bikes in a close by washing place and doing a couple of emergency repairs to my front carrier, we pursued the trip. 

It wasn’t as demanding a day as the previous one, but the deplorable state of the road made the kilometres go by very slowly. We arrived at the town of Chota during a local celebration it seemed, as all the inhabitants were in the street. We had to ride through chaos, but instead of it being caused by vehicles, this time it was human beings. We fled that asphyxiating conglomeration and stopped a bit later to get some fuel in the machine. Apparently, seeing cyclists such as ourselves wasn’t common in those areas and we were immediately surrounded by the people of Lajas who insisted that we should stay there. But we wanted to get a bit more ahead and so, day’s end found us in the small town of Cochabamba. We’d ridden for 8 hours, and I could certainly feel it in my legs! 

One more inconvenience between Franziska and myself was the difference in our appreciation of our daily objectives. Her sports background as a long-distance runner had quite a bit of influence in the goals that she proposed; she planned out stretches which were utopian for me. On this occasion, we talked about what we could expect for the next day quite a bit. She was adamant that we could get to Jaén, which was 140-150 kilometres away, in one go. But these weren’t just any kilometres: the first 40 were an ascent, then followed 60 kilometres of descent, all of this through a gravel road that we’d been warned was a nightmare compared to what we had already ridden on, and then came the cherry on the sundae, a “quiet” ride on pavement right to the town. To me it seemed impossible. With spirits worn down by the effort of the previous days, a lethal combination of crossed moods led to a “premature divorce”. That dawn, Franziska left and told me: “see you in Jaén”, knowing full well that that was the equivalent of saying goodbye. Without any further words, in the blackness of night that didn’t want to leave just yet, she disappeared in the darkness of the ascent’s first curve. 

The situation had disturbed me somewhat, but I didn’t have that many options in front of me. If I wanted to see her again, I had to pedal, and I gave myself over to this with all my energy. The ascent up to Cutervo was gradual and little by little I gained ground and height. The morning mist was dissipating and a lukewarm sun dried my sweat from the ascent. I made a stop to eat something and asking after “another cyclist” I was told that my “girlfriend” was a half hour ahead of me. Well, so I wasn’t all that bad! Maybe I’d make it to Jaén to see her once more! !

Looking at the map, the road went from a brown line, synonymous with a dirt road, to a thin grey line, which, in the references, was explained as being a lane or a path. That could only mean one thing: the state of the road was going to be deadly! And the map wasn’t lying…

The first kilometres played hard to get; this was a nearly vertical ascent through a stone path that was the town’s garbage dump. With bloodcurdling dauntlessness, trucks threw tons of litter throughout the hillside, leaving a sad veil of pollution through which countless flies and carrion eating birds battled a few human beings for food scrap. A sad and desolating panorama which I witnessed as if through slow motion. 

Finally, the moment of the awaited descent arrived! If I really pushed here, I would have enough time to get to the paved road and get all the way to Jaén! “What a gullible dreamer” would be my thoughts after the first sections jumping and being jolted, fearing that my teeth would rattle out of my mouth from the infernal shaking that I had to endure. For the fist time, they’d gotten it right as far as the diagnosis of the road’s state was concerned and it was a true hell! The quantity of loose rock was frightening and disallowed letting go of the breaks even for a second. And forget even thinking of sitting down! It was completely out of question. I even became frightened for Maira’s structural integrity. Although it was frightening, I was enjoying it because of the attention that I had to pay constantly in order to prevent my head being split open. It was adrenaline in pure form! 

An unexpected uphill slope wiped the smile from my face. When I saw what the few cars to be found there were riding through I became thoroughly disheartened and I threw away my plans of arriving in time, even to the crossroads with the anticipated asphalt. Curves and switchbacks with disproportionately steep slopes stretched out before my wheels all the way to a summit covered by cold clouds. I asked around a few local farmers to see whether they had seen my companion and they answered me that she had ridden through a half hour earlier. Could it be? Encouraged, I faced the enormous hill that one of the people I spoke with managed to do more quickly than I…. on foot! The cold mist seeped in right down the bones but when it left off just a little to uncover the landscape it felt as if I were poking my head out of the window of a plane. And in this way I could forget, for a few moments, the suffering that I was putting my battered body through. 

 went on through this endless torture that didn’t allow me to go faster than 10km an hour when, halfway through the descent, I arrived at the small town of Capillas. I once again asked after Franziska, and the people in a store where I was told me that they had seen her about a half hour earlier. I was already starting to doubt the accuracy of Peruvian watches when a man came to me and said: 

- your girlfriend said to say that she’d see you at the crossroads.
- yeah? And when was that?
- a half hour ago, more or less. She left in a small truck.
- what? Did something happen? How was she????
- she told me that she’d fallen a couple of times and she couldn’t stand the state of the road anymore. It is pretty bad, isn’t it? 

I didn’t need to be told that. It was 4 pm, I had another 30 kilometres of masochism to get through, but I knew that Franziska was there below, so I had to make the effort to get there. I abandoned my idea of calling it a day right there and I continued my jumping course. The road was so bad that there were sections in which the river that coursed by the road actually became the road! 

The moon had become my lamppost by the time I finally caught sight of Chiple, a hamlet at the crossroads. I’d done another Iron man with a new record of 11 hours and 19 minutes spent on Maira’s seat. All of a sudden, in the semi-darkness of a hovel’s threshold, I recognised a figure coming toward me. It was Franziska with what appeared to be a bottle of Gatorade in her hand. It was like touching the sky with my hands! I felt beaten down, but I’d made it! 

We didn’t talk about it much. She just told me that the dreadful stone road had made her lose her balance quite a few times and that, faced with the prospect of exposing herself to a fracture, and with the exhaustion that she felt in her arms because of the many blows that she’d sustained, she chose to follow her instincts and got into the first van that came her way. She could have continued on to Jaén on the paved road, but she’d waited for me here. I was happy she’d decided to… 

The entire day I had been dreaming of having a comfortable place to rest my weary bones, have a nice shower to get rid of the sticky sweat and mud that covered me from head to toe, but that turned out not to be. That option doesn’t exist in Chiple and all we found was a “hospedaje” that was a farmhouse that most closely resembled a kind of ranch that would be found in a place prone to invasions than a place to spend the night. The owner was very nice, but that didn’t improve on the facilities of the place. Incarcerated in those pieces of tin, on a mattress harder than the very floor, after having “showered” at the tap in the terrace while chasing off roaches, I calmly fell asleep as if I had been in the Hyatt’s presidential suite…well, at any rate, it was the Chiple Hyatt. 

My body urgently demanded a bit of rest and the way to Jaén was a haven of pavement that wasn’t as punishing as the previous days. When we got closer to the city, we saw an ad for a hotel with a pool and just to poke around we went to see how much a room cost. I thought it was going to be a ridiculously high, out of budget price but to my surprise, it was quite accessible! Only a few soles more than the previous night’s canning place. Peru was a cheap country (at least outside of the typical mass tourist circuit), and sometimes the cost of things was really out of this world! We were even able to delight in good lasagnes, Franziska favourite meal and difficult to find in these out of the way places. 

We had one more day of pedalling to get to San Ignacio, last stop before entering Ecuador. The pavement stayed with us until we reached the midpoint mark and we were back on gravel, but this time it was like silk unfolding before us compared to our previous experience. In one of the stops we had to make, something happened that bothered me more than it would usually. A motto-taxi with a family in it came close, and in it a small boy, barely 4 years old, wouldn’t stop yelling “gringo, gringo”, but in a very aggressive and upsetting way. The parents made of show of total indifference. I went toward the kid and energetically explained to him that I wasn’t a gringo and then I concentrated my attention on the father. The motto was plastered with pictures of Che Guevarra, very popular in almost every place we had been travelling through for sure, and with indignation I let it loose: 

- “Do you know who that is on those stickers?”

- Silence…the lobotomy patient look, lost in the horizon…

- “That is “Che” Guevarra”, I continued, “a guerrilla who, by the way, was Argentine, like I am. And who fought against American imperialism, so, against the gringos. So please educate your son so that he stops yelling in that way to any white person that come across whenever he feels like it because we are not all gringos. And I, as an Argentine, find it offensive to be called that. Otherwise, remove all those little stickers since you have no idea what they represent!”

- More silence…more lobotomy patient look, lost on the horizon… 

it was useless, but at least I had gotten my fury off my chest and I could continue with my blood at a boiling point to face the last climb. Which, of course, was longer than hoped for and it was night by the time I arrived. Franziska had already gotten there and when I asked around at the police station whether she had said where we would be staying they answered: 

- “At the Gran Hotel San Ignacio”. 

I shook with fear for my budget. That name meant many soles for a single night. When I saw it from the outside, my fear went up a notch. I went in doubtfully, thinking that I was mistaken when I saw Franziska come forward, radiant and smiling. Whispering, I asked her what we were doing there, that I needed my bike to travel and that if I had to sell it to pay for this room I would have to continue on foot. Well, it turned out that the place was a total bargain! With breakfast and room service included! I dragged Maira up the stairs and collapsed on the comfortable bed…for two days in a row! I felt so comfortable that it didn’t even go through my head to leave the hotel facilities. 

Supposedly, it was time to say goodbye, but one more time, our feelings managed to get a postponement and our trip would continue to the city of Cuenca, in Ecuador.

After a well-deserved mini vacation and with the bikes decorated according to the upcoming Christmas period, we left the comfort of the hotel to get back to the dusty road that would bring us into a new country. The border patrol at Balzas wasn’t a busy one, and when we arrived on the side of Ecuador to do the migration paperwork, a police officer even answered that his colleague, the one in charge of filling out the entry papers, was having a bath… on the Peruvian side! 

We could stay there waiting “for just a little while” knowing how relative time can be in these places. We were still 20 kilometres of bad road away, and we knew that it wouldn’t be that simple. I insisted and begged for pity until we finally ended up filling out the forms almost alone, with the help of the officer who had nothing to do with those forms. Done! Welcome to Ecuador!! 

Franziska was sick to her stomach and could barely pedal. So, taking advantage of the only vehicle that seemed to be entering the country, I managed to get a spot in the back so she could get to Zumba earlier. 

There was nothing good about this welcome to this new country! As a foretaste of what awaited us further on the Ecuador Andes, those barely 20 kilometres stretched out forever! The three steep as hell climbs that I had to ride, where the wheels couldn’t even managed to get minimal purchase to cling to the loose rock that carpeted the road almost sent me to my grave! I didn’t even know with which part of my body I should work anymore. Night had enveloped me in its veil and the few vehicles driving around blinded me with theirs lights. I was about to curse the vehicle that had decided to stop by my side right in the middle of the last climb when I recognised Franziska inside, smiling and handing out a bottle of cold Gatorade. I couldn’t believe it!  The “forward riding angel” once again!!!

Things continued on just as tricky and the uphill didn’t allow for a single break nor breather. The day that we arrived at the town of Vilcabamba, we had accumulated over 2500 metres of uphill gain in a series of unending and eternal upward slopes. At least, in the last section, we were back on pavement, which was there to stay, and we were able to make a dash to the finish worthy of a cycling race. Our overall feelings of dejection made us decide to stay in this calm little town, considered the Mecca of Ecuadorian rest, for a day, doing precisely that: resting. 

The stretch through Loja and Saraguro, with their attractive indigenous population in the traditional clothing that made them so particularly distinguishable meant another good dose of unending ascents and descents. When we were on the final descent toward Cuenca, my back wheel decided to retire without asking for permission first and let the chamber come out to get to know the entire world for a good slash, leading to a crack that not only changed my heart rate capacity but almost cost me my teeth: I was a fingernail away from losing control and falling flat on my face on the ground. Almost as if she didn’t want to close the loop, Maira had another fit and a few kilometres before arriving at the city had another tedious flat, this time in the front wheel. To even things out, right? 

But this time it was for real, in the beautiful colonial city of Cuenca, we’d arrived at the end of our travels together, Franziska and I. she was waiting for me at Aldeas Infantiles SOS where I was going to spend the holidays with the family and for herself, Franziska had a flight waiting in Quito that would take her to Ushuaia, to start on her own adventure going back up the southern part of the South American continent all the way up to Bolivia. 

With time, we had overcome our differences, learning to live together in difficult conditions that are part of travelling this way, loving one another and respecting one another more with each passing day. Our feelings had grown little by little, in sync with the kilometres that we had travelled together. 

A great many memories of Franziska stayed latched on to Maira’s body. A new helmet, a top, a bracelet, all of these would remind me every day of her smile and that transparent glance… but above all else, her wheels had left a huge print on my heart. 

Would we see one another again? I have a feeling that we will…until then, cariño, I wish you good travels! 

Until next time! 

Damian 

Cajamarca: a contemporary calamity

The city of Cajamarca had been in my mind long before I ever got there. And it wasn’t exactly because of the sad story of the capture and assassination of Inca Atahualpa, but because of something more recent and closer in time. It was the socio-environmental issue generated by the exploitation of the Yanacocha gold mine.  

The Yanacocha deposit is the largest gold mine in South America and is only 48 kilometres away to the north of the city of Cajamarca. It is located at high altitude in the Andes, between 3400 and 4100 metres above sea level. It has 6 open pit mines, four lixiviation tanks (check) and three processing plants. The mine’s property has a total area of 30.000 hectares (1572 square kilometres) and is located in a zone where four important hydrographical basins are to be found in the continental divide. 

Yanacocha was thought up as a mine with a relatively short useful life of only 10 years. With the enormous success of its exploration activities however, the company has continued its operations. Since 1993, the mine has been exploited by a consortium made up of the United Stated company Newmont Mining Corporation (51.35%), the Peruvian company Minas Buenaventure (43.65%) and the International Finance Corporation (IFC), an affiliate of the World Bank Group.  

Through its subsidiary Yanacocha, US multinational Newmont in Cajamarca started its operations, which have unleashed a series of serious social and environmental problems. The inhabitants of the neighbouring communities and the city of Cajamarca expressed different concerns, such as negative social and environmental repercussions, the absence of an adequate consultation mechanism with affected people, and the failure to distribute the profits derived for the mining activities in an equitable way. Conflicts between the community and the mining company intensified after a controversial mercury leakage in the year 2000. Since then, the company’s care of the environment has been questioned by many NGOs. 

I started becoming more aware of this issue through my great friend Jonas Lambrigger, who both inspired and instigated this trip that I am making on bike through the American continent. Once Jonas ended the odyssey that I am myself on now, he went back to his homeland, Switzerland, and dedicated himself to the study of history and geography. But during his voyage, he was affected by social aspects he encountered, and these left a trace that made him feel very committed to it all. His passion for mountaineering had brought him closer to Peru, and the hard reality that he was able to experience here brought him to write an excellent paper as the final thesis of his career, focused on the issues stemming out of the Yanacocha’s actions.  

I had the privilege of reviewing the Spanish version of the draft while I was preparing my trip to pedal through America and I was impressed and moved by the material the he presented there, by the stories which were sometimes worthy of a thriller that he told me, of the difficult months that he spent in the region colleting data for his work. 

That is why I invite you to join this call to conscience and to become interested in an issue that may seem far away to some, but which affects many. And this is not the only case. May it serve as a lesson for future generations… 

You can see a summary of Jonas’ work clicking here, or have a look at the website of Grufides, an NGO with whom my friend had a close collaboration while he was doing his investigations. 

 

Thank you for your interest and commitment. 

I wish to thank

Mairena, Susana and Patricia, funny and nice Iberians, for the company during the navigation from Iquitos to Yurimaguas and the moments shared in that town.  

Juan Hemerson Rodríguez Coronado, for allowing us to share in a homey moment with your family. Thank you also to Juan Hemerson, Jesús Leonardo, Hemerson Leonardo and Susana!  

Carlos Lenin Jara Fernández, for his company with we rode together on our way to Bambamarca.  

Susanne & Andreas, a German couple travelling the world in a van, for being so nice and for taking the time to chat with us on our way to Loja.  

Lucy Kwana, a cyclist from Vancouver travelling throughout Ecuador, for those brief moments when we rode together.   

Judith Ochoa Rios, for letting us stay at salón parroquial in La Paz, Ecuador.  

  

Franziska, for having taken the risk to join this way of life, sharing its good and bad times on the road, for your unconditional caring and those feelings that grew little by little, as did the kilometres that we travelled together. Thank you for so many things! Have a good journey, and may the winds bring us back together again.

A few statistics

During this pedalling period

Days on the road: 31
Days pedalling: 23
Kilometres ridden by bike: 1766 km – 906 km of which were dirt/sand/gravel
Average number of daily kilometres: 76,8 km
Hours spent on the bike: 148h04m (6d04h04m)
Average speed: 11,9 km/h
Number of metres climbed: 30.105 m
Maximum altitude: 3963 m, Mina La Cima, Hualgayoc, Peru (07-12-2008) 

During the entire journey

Days on the road: 567
Days pedalling: 302
Kilometres travelled: 25.351 km - 2866 km on dirt/sand/gravel
Average number of daily kilometres: 83.9 km
Hours spent on the bike: 1.619h01m (67d11h01m)
Average speed: 15,7 km/h
Maximum speed: 81,5 km/h, going down the Sunwapta Pass, Canada (15-08-2007)
Number of metres climbed: 251.979 m
Maximum height: 4059 m, Pico del Águila, Venezuela (04-08-2008) 

Number of times that I went beyond an iron man race while seated on my bike: 2…more than enough! 

Number of fights and making ups that Franziska and I had during the time that we share the road: hmmm, I lost track!