Pioneer Complete

The Peru Pioneer is done. All the riders hit the finish line well after close, with Mr Joolz rolling in last, following an eight hour tow by Alvaro of the Bambu Heroes.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a new adventure.



Hell Road gives us an arduous end

Lightning flashes in the distance. Scuffing sounds in the undergrowth, as unknown creatures pad by in the night. The occasional lorry chugging by, stacked high with tree trunks.

As the sun comes up, we all start to get organised, strapping gear back onto bikes and putting the place back how we found it.

The whole village seems to have gathered around to wave us off, with a parting offering of masato. Making masato is a time-consuming exercise, with the yuca plant boiled, peeled and then chewed, before being spat into a container to ferment for several days. Being invited to share a drink with your hosts is an ancient tradition of hospitality, and social suicide to turn it down. We pass around the glass, taking a gulp each. Yuca doesn't have much flavour by itself, so the drink is flavoured with fruit and spices. It's hard to describe the taste, except to say it's sour and maybe a bit tingly on the tongue.

With a big smile, our host drains the rest of the glass, and it's waves all around as the villages sends us off - onward, to Atalaya.

We've only been riding a few minutes before we're brought to a sudden halt again, as Joolz' chain comes off, and gets stuck in the gap beside the sprocket. A bit of brute force eventually gets it unstuck and back where it belongs. Soon after, Heather realises that her chain is also really loose, so another quick halt to tighten it up.

We had set off with a rough idea that it was maybe another 50km to Atalaya - a few hours and we'd be there. With no reception and no accurate map, we started asking the locals to get a better picture, and it sounds like it might be twice that distance, and with few opportunities for petrol along the the way. We fill up in a small village, not just the bikes but the jerry-cans we're all carrying too, and press on.

Despite the uncertainty about what's ahead, the bright sunshine and warmth brings out the playful side, and the river crossings give us an excuse to play - followed by the inevitable crashes.

It's around midday when Alvaro races through a stream at speed, spray coming up on both sides and giving us a great photo opportunity. Until he reaches the far side, and the bike sputters to a halt. And refuses to start. As he starts stripping bits off the bike, with water pouring out of the air intake, and the filter sodden and dripping, it's really not looking great.

With Heather and I both nursing issues with our bikes and being generally a little less gung-ho than the others, we decide to carry on, thinking that it won't be long before the others catch up. As we leave, it's reached the point where Alvaro's started removing the intake manifold.

Heather still has the occasional stop to open her tank and break the vacuum lock - her efforts to clean up the breather have helped some, but it's still not totally fixed. We ride on, not in any rush, and after a few hours, we're surprised that there's no sign of the others. Reaching a bridge, we look down into the river and decide this is a perfect spot to park up and cool off.

Half an hour later, with no sign of the others, we're back on the bikes and riding on. There's not been a hint of phone reception since we entered the jungle, so with no way to communicate, there's nothing to be done except keep riding.

As the day goes on, the road gets increasingly worse. The steep uphill sections are covered in so much loose rock there's practically nothing for the tyres to grip, and in first gear, we're half-riding, half-pushing the bikes up the hills. Stressing the engine like this soon has my bike overheating, with the engine stalling and struggling to restart. To top it all off, the bouncing and vibrations have done in for the panniers and luggage rack, with some of the bolts missing, and others sheared through. I do a quick bodge repair with the last bit of cord I've brought.

As dusk settles in, it looks like there's still a long way to Atalaya, and darkness brings a new problem. An earlier knock had thrown out the alignment of my headlamp, so rather than illuminating the road, it shines up in the air, lighting up the trees to my left. Heather and I experiment: side-by-side, her leading, her behind - whichever way we try, her headlight helps a little, but nothing really makes up for the lack of light. Things take a turn for the worse when my handlebars finally let go. Nursing a crack from before, they've now properly given up the ghost. Both sides can now swivel independently, and it's only by actively pushing them both forward can I keep any hint of control. The right handlebar rotates so far forward it's almost pointing at the front wheel.

But never mind, we're…er…not nearly there in the slightest - we've actually got no idea how far it is to go. But at least the road is…er…worse than any stretch we'd already gone through. Well, shit.

We encounter rivers across our path where we're having to shine headlights across, trying to figure out where (and whether) the road continues on the other side. They're both wider and deeper than anything before. "Hell road" indeed.

There's nothing for it but to keep going, wrestling the bikes up hills and across rivers, peering through the dark hoping not to come a cropper against the next unseen rock or pothole.

It's around 9 o'clock when we breathe a sigh of relief for a most welcome sight: a wrought-iron arch over the road, dangling a dimly-lit sign welcoming weary travellers. Atalaya. We'd arrived. Streetlights in the distance beckon us on, and the gravel turns to paved roads as we approach the central square.

We slump onto a park bench, and call Alfonso for directions to the finish line. "Where *are* you, we expected you hours ago! We've been messaging you all day!"

He jumps on a bike to find us, and leads us back to the finish line. It's only a block away, and the balloons pay tribute to the finish-line party that's been waiting for us for most of the day. With beers in hand, as we drink to the end of our adventure, and wonder what's become of the others.

It's not until 11:30 when they straggle in, and we get to find out what became of them. Alvaro's flooded engine had actually been fixed in fairly short order, and they'd all got underway. But it wasn't long until Joolz' engine inexplicably gave up the ghost, and he'd spent the entire trip being towed (occasionally dragged) behind Alvaro. Wow. That bike.

So at the end, after a spectacular week: what a ride. What a trip. What an adventure. Let's do it again.

Hangover cures and unexpected bridges

Rum was a tremendous idea. Last night. This morning, less good. Thankfully, the same café that plied us with rum yesterday, is now making amends with omelette, fresh papaya juice, and coffee by the gallon.

Heather and Rich make an early start, whilst Joolz and I take our time over coffee. We have a half-baked plan to maybe meet around Puerto Ocopa, but the coffee's too distracting.

As we leave Satipo, the traffic quickly disappears, and we have an open tarmac road ahead of us. It's quite odd, being back on tarmac. After wrestling gravel trails, mud and potholes for so long, it's actually quite nice, cruising at 40kmh, soaking up the sights.

As we're riding along, I begin to realise just how large the bugs are here, in what is essentially still jungle. They remind me how large they are by flying into my face, and at 40kmh, that's quite a reminder!

We reach Puerto Ocopa around midday, perfect time for a spot of lunch. As we ride down towards the ferries, Joolz starts cursing. He explains, pointing towards the narrow rickety boats, "The last time I came through here, we had to take those, they were the only way across the river. Now, some fucker's gone and built that!" As he gesticulates towards the main road, it's clear that the modern tarmac bridge has sadly taken some of the adventure out of the route.

Thankfully the adventure's not entirely gone. As we enter a café to ask about the menu, the lady who walks up to us has a tail wrapped around her neck, and of course I can't help but ask. She turns sideways to reveal a tiny marmoset, who, as I reach out my hand to say hello, jumps over to my arm and climbs up, before perching on my shoulder and holding on to my neck. It's just the cutest thing ever. Eventually I manage to detach myself, and we head up the hill.

With Puerto Ocopa running alongside the river, we had been hoping to find somewhere serving fish, and this place doesn't disappoint. A fish broth, followed by smoked fish and potatoes - exactly what we need to refuel.

We stop at the petrol station - a proper petrol station, with normal petrol pumps - and Joolz shares his concern. After riding all morning from Satipo on tarmac, and seeing a brand new bridge spanning the river, this could be it. Tarmac to the end. And what kind of finish would that be? The locals at the petrol pump quickly put us right: the tarmac is about to run out, and it'll be gravel from then on.

Sure enough, we cross the bridge, and the tarmac runs out, leaving gravel, grit, and rough terrain. As we leave the tarmac behind, the jungle becomes more and more obvious. During a brief pause, Joolz takes a chance than he's correctly identified the plant by the side of the road as coffee, and takes a bite. "If I die in a few hours, please don't tell Cool Earth what I ate, they'll laugh at me if I've got it wrong". He sounds a bit worried.

We catch up with Rich and Heather shortly after, and thankfully, Joolz still isn't dead.

As it gets closer to the evening, we're thinking about maybe stopping somewhere for dinner, and reach a village somewhat larger than the rest at just the right time. A large space sheltered by a roof but no walls marks out an open air restaurant, but it's the bird that catches our eyes. Iridescent green feathers and perched on a sign, she looks at us, shuffling side to side. We're told her name is Aurora.

With most strange animals, I'll proffer my hand, and wait for their reaction. Aurora jumps on my hand, scuffles up my arm, and perches on my shoulder, nestling her beak against my ear. The local animals really are adorable. It takes some encouragement, but she eventually takes her place perched back up on the sign.

Although it's getting late, with daylight left, in the end we decide to press on, with no expectation of reaching Atalaya this evening, but thinking to at least reduce the distance. Soon after we leave, Alvaro and Alberto catch us up - the first time we've seen them since Ayacucho. But with darkness falling, their tales of adventure will have to wait - we need a campsite.

Twilight quickly turns pitch black, but we're passing buildings, and having Alvaro and Alberto with us, my terrible attempts at Spanish translation are thankfully no longer required.

It turns out we're passing an Ashaninka community, who offer us the shelter of their school building for the night. It's a large cabana - a dirt-floored pavilion with a thatch roof and no walls - and most welcome. The others pull benches together for beds, whilst I hang my hammock from the roof beams.

We share tales of adventure across a campfire, before drifting off to sleep to the sound of crickets, and a crystal clear view of the southern stars dotting the sky.

virtually flying

On the downhill, no one can touch Rosalita. The mountain roads into the jungle are also the best in the world. After a great day of monkeying around we reach Satipo. 

Jungle, sunshine, and Satipo

An early night leads to an early start, as we all wake up with the dawn. It's still cold and overcast, but for now the rain's stopped, and it shouldn't be long before we descend into the warmth of the jungle.

We set off mindful that although we're carrying jerry-cans, it wouldn't be a bad idea to fill up at the next opportunity. We've not been riding long when we reach what seems to be a small village, and a building with cars and bikes in various states of disrepair parked outside. This usually means a mechanic, who often doubles as the local petrol station.

We stop, and I jump off, looking around for signs of life. Someone from the next building comes out, and I ask if there's petrol to be had in the village. She runs the village café and asks if we want to eat, but right now the priority is petrol. As she waves us off towards a field, we find someone midway through milking a cow. She does have petrol, but right now she's busy with cow's udders.

With that settled, we take a seat in the café. Fresh coffee and fried egg sandwiches makes us feel altogether more human, and it's not long before our bikes are fed too.

As we carry on, the road heads steadily downhill, exchanging altitude for warmth on the way into the jungle.

I love mountains, but jungles are new to me. They're their own kind of photogenic. Verdant greens, towering trees, and waterfalls crashing through canyons.

We've already had a few stream-crossings, but now they're getting wider and deeper. And inevitably more fun. Add in go-pros, cameras, and muddy lumps formed into natural kickers, we stop to have fun with one of them. Surprisingly, no one crashed!

Eventually Joolz and I press on to Satipo, leaving the others behind. I'm keen to get a mechanic to look over my bike, having accumulated a decent collection of breakages since my last mechanic visit only a few days ago. I blame it entirely on the bike. We arrive sooner than I expect, and the route in is lined with garages and workshops. After finding a hotel, I head back to mechanic alley, where everything is fixed apart from the cracked handlebar mount. Sadly that's aluminium, so most mechanics aren't able to weld it, and those who can, are shut. It looks like I'll be stuck like this for a while longer.

Back at the hotel, we go out to find food, and seeing all the Mototaxis, Joolz succumbs to nostalgia. A lap of the square (just for the hell of it) and a short ride later, our driver finds us the sort of food place where locals eat. The food's lovely, the local drunk seems to have taken a shine to us, and a begging dog has Heather feeding him scraps under the table.

Tired and fed, we reach our hotel, when Rich suggests a quick nightcap in the café next door. When he asks for a glass of rum, we find out that they only sell it by the bottle. So naturally, Rich buys the bottle. Cheers!

long old ride

A huge ride into the mountains. Through comas, and the last 4000m pass


Ended the day in a icy rainstorm, on the road to Satipo.

Please someone explain us why are we right now in Cusco, or about 1100km from the finish line with 3 days remaining

It's all good fun

Snores galore, and a cold drizzly start

SnzzxxxGWKH. GhroWwhZZxFg. GrrOWWKHJIjdh. HHhhNhghgxx.

Despite the all-night snores of the upstairs resident, the shelter was most welcome. Camping at 3'500m altitude wouldn't be much fun, especially given the rain I'd heard overnight. So I was already sympathising with Rich and Heather, who had no doubt spent an uncomfortable night in the torrential rain. Whilst Joolz and I got up warm and dry, and breakfasted on hot coffee and fried egg baps.

We head off, and this is the point where we leave the "road", and head off into the hills, along a trail that's barely a dotted line on the map. Straight away there's trouble: Joolz, riding an even more diminutive bike than the rest of us, can barely get up. The path is *steep*, and his bike seems inclined to stall at every turn. It takes another 30 minutes for us to figure out the problem was - yet again - fuel. Brimming the tank at least stops it stalling, but can't do much about the 5kmh crawling speed up the hills.

Between the cloud cover and the altitude, it's blimmin cold. Having to physically wrestle the bikes around some of the more challenging terrain is at least one way to keep warm. An assortment of sheep, cows, pigs and alpacas line the route, mostly untethered and wandering free. Sadly, the dogs were also untethered, and it makes for a slightly worrying experience, riding a mountain path with a cliff to one side whilst a dog chases beside you, barking at you and nipping at your ankle. Slightly territorial.

The trail turns out to be fairly similar to the earlier road: sections of hairpin bends, loose gravel, and challenging riding, and parts where you can open up the throttle, and maybe even reach third gear!

We regroup near Comas, where the trail rejoins the road. Although we're aiming for Satipo, the clouds get thicker, the rain gets worse, and visibility fades away. With darkness falling and us all drenched and shivering, as we enter a village, Joolz calls a halt. Camping in this doesn't sound much like fun, and as Joolz eyes up some of the shepherd huts dotted along the roadside, I see a most welcome sign painted on the side of a building. Restaurant!

With hopes of repeating yesterday's success with a home-stay, I walk over to ask if there's anywhere to stay. I'm not sure my appallingly bad Spanish is understood, but they fetch someone else, and then a third, and before long they're offering to open their village hall, which turns out to have four bedrooms and doubles as a hostel. As soon as we park our bikes and drop our bags, they shoo us back up to the restaurant, where they bring out hot soup, and a platter of hot potatoes, which also turn out to be great hand warmers. We must have looked a right sight; shivering, soaked and bedraggled travellers, as we realise they're intending to feed us all entirely for free. In the end, we settle for leaving some money on the table, as we say our thanks and head to bed and the enticing warmth of a pile of a blankets.