Impossible made possible
Two weeks ago an explosion of colour emerged from Cuzco, very very slowly. 31 mototaxis coughed and spluttered eastwards towards the Bolivian border, riders a' smiling, flags a' waving, engines a' running-out-of-petrol. Nerves evaporated as dust flew up nostrils and roads climbed skywards. One team, their mototaxi clothed in Elvis decals, ignored instructions and headed south to meet their fate at a Chilean border post. The rest, the sensible ones, were rewarded with two days in no mans land between Peru an Bolivia. Many trees were felled to cope with the demands of paper-hungry officials, and then our topsy-taxi drivers were off again, dispersing across the altiplano.At the other end I waited, preparing Asuncion for an influx of strange road craft. Reports filtered in of dynamite, strikes, rollovers and nights spent in barns and hotels made from salt. The Argentinian border swallowed some more mototaxis, and then some more. Just one team bounced off said border, not letting roads of sand and brittle wheels halt their progress. This team had left Cuzco swathed in potato sacks, natural clobber for the Irish. They would not be stopped, not even by the fashion police. The 14th came, the day of reckoning. Banners were hoisted, balloons blown. To be honest, mototaxis were not expected. Our first teams arrived on foot, glumly relaying tales of border-hate. They drank. We waited. We discussed the likilhood of anyone making it alive. And then the sound of an engine.Two dirty men climbed from their mototaxi, grins wide enough to allow the passage of a potato. It hadn't been a race, until now, because before us stood the winners! Team Spuds, presented with beers, began to speak of their adventures. We couldn't understand them, so we simply began to drink.More teams arrived, but again they were dragging their feet. Mototaxis detained in Bolvia by angry men with dynamite. Exploding engines in Santa Cruz. Soft excuses like that. The party began, Team Spuds revelling in their unique standing, spreading jealousy throughout the ranks. The night drew on and it seemed that only one teams would make it on Finish Line Day. And then there were cheers. I peered over the balcony and there they were, another four mototaxis, filthy to the core. One of them was affixed to the back of another, possibly a world mototaxi-towing record begun over 750km back. Our brave Spuds were joined by another six successful junketeers, one still holding his cricket bat. The party upped a notch in celebration of an impossible feat made possible. Large Argentinian men collapsed on glass tables, a small man from the bar produced remarkable dexterity with a shaker full of tequila, which he then dispensed into several junketeer's gaping mouths. Ladies undressed and nearly caused several car crashes. Cigars were bought and enjoyed. And this, my friends, was just Day One of the finish. At least ten more bikes remain on the road, we expect them at some point this week. If they're lucky.
