Peru.

 Peru,
Another country, another experience. I crossed the bridge over the river to the border control at La Balsa, Peru and let the party to continue at the Ecuadorian  border. All was quiet in Peru, the only Gringo in town again. The simple process was made to last for one and a half hours, and then it will be another dreary day over for the Border Control. Engine numbers were the subject of much debate this time. My ownership document (Title)  does not include the engine number on the document, there is no provision for it.The green card that is painfully being filled out with perfectly formed letters, has a box requesting the engine number. This is a major obstacle in a Custom Officers day, as it means that he will have to leave his sweaty plastic chair and perform a physical inspection of the bike. The number was concealed under eight thousand miles of filthy roads, and the last time the bike was cleaned was Boxing Day. I did the decent thing, and cleaned the offending area to reveal the number. The number is obscured by the exhaust, back up was requested for a second opinion on the number to be sure that it was correct. Eventually the task was completed, only the duplicate part of the form was to be carefully written out now. Once completed, the card was divided in to two along the perforated line and I was given my ticket to freedom. That was short lived, as two kilometres along the road, there was a land slide blocking the road, and the rocks and soil were still falling down. I had no choice but to wait, at least I was at the front of the que.

A excavator was ready and waiting to clear the road, but by the time this was done the daylight was almost gone. I had no Peruvian money, so I had to find a town with a bank. The road was no more than a muddy track, with all the hazards. With no visible life in the distance it was looking like it was going to be a camping night.

 That was sooner rather than later as a storm quickly prevented further progress. Luckily there was a suitable out of sight area to conceal myself. The storm was hail and rain, and it was cold. I quickly threw the tarpaulin over the bike and sat under that to keep dry for a while, hoping that the weather would pass over. That was not to be, it rained most of the night, I pegged out the tarpaulin and snoozed beside the bike on my stuff sack with all my worldly possessions within.

  It was a cold and misty start to the day, it did not take very long to get moving again. 180miles of muddy

road awaits to the first town of San Ignacio. A rough old town, after several attempts I extracted cash from an ATM. Happy now, I nearly have all I need.

  Away from the town and back to tarred roads the surrounding terraced landscape is growing crops of rice.

  The watery landscape provided an opportunity to clean me and the bike up, the dirt road had taken its toll. Now hopefully a little more socially acceptable I need to buy insurance for the bike, before I get stopped and have to pay a bribe or a fine or both. The town of Jaen provided, in a whirlwind of activity I successfully bought the insurance and found a welder to repair the broken rack on the bike. Amazingly, the welders were only fourteen years old, used sun glasses for eye protection when welding and it cost me £1.00.

 In search of higher elevations in the Andes, I head for Moyobamba, and when I arrive the weather makes it    an unpleasant place to be. Cold and wet, the muddy cobbled streets and over priced accommodation gave no reason to stay. I made several circuits of the town, but was unable to find my way out to Celendin. I asked at least six people, who gave me no conclusive answer as to which way, so in the end I retraced my steps and went back to Pedro Ruitz, where the climate was warmer and a room not so expensive. I planned another route to Celendin, the tarred surface soon turned to dirt again, I'm off the beaten track again

  The dirt road takes me through Laymebamba, a thriving market town in the hills. A "one horse town", all was quiet today, just a passing Gringo for entertainment. I stocked up on essential supplies, never miss an opportunity, I remind my self.

 But I did miss the photo opportunity, the children still play with go-carts made from pram wheels here, and make mud pies.

 The market square, not busy today other than the entertainment that I am providing, I say goodbye and head for higher elevations.

Captivating landscape.

11800ft above. Cold, raining and grim.

No sign posts or fuel

Just to keep you alert.

14000 ft above.

The mining town of Barro Negro

 The first sight of life for many hours of travel, it was getting late in the day, I just got the feeling that I may not (want), find some where to stay here. Late in the day it was, I continued onwards in hope.

 I arrived at this town, Santiago de Chuco, It did not look like this in the darkness of night. The narrow

 streets of mud block constructed houses and slimy muddy streets were less than inviting. I did find two hotels, but they had no parking space for the bike, so I continued the search. Help was at hand, I met a native on a

 motorcycle, and explained my dilemma. He escorted me to a hotel with a courtyard, perfect. Expensive at

£4.50. Colourful markets and street traders selling wonderful real fruit and vegetables, nothing processed on this continent.

 Santiago de Chuco was another one of those towns where the door to get out could not be found. With no road names or sign posts you have to rely on local knowledge, that is often unreliable. Up in the mountains you cannot even rely on a sense of direction as the roads never take a direct line due to the terrain. I have spent many hours travelling north when I need to head south, eventually the road turns around and you find yourself where you want to be. (luckily)

 The roads are poor in places, I tried with out success to avoid  this sticky mud,the front wheel skipped over the gully, but with all the weight on the back the rear wheel did not fly as hoped and ended up being balanced on the frame. I managed to drag the bike, still loaded around 90 degrees so the front wheel was in the mud, and the rear wheel had some grip. It was a "do or die situation", with a fist full of throttle I managed to escape. There is always something to give the uneasy feeling, and running low on fuel is one of them. When you find a town you have to ask around, hopefully someone will have a stash and be willing to sell. I was lucky here, and he did not over charge for the privilege.

  Incredible terrain and roads, you often see a bus driving at high speed along these roads. This land slide stopped me for a while, the road gang were napping on the side of the road, so I had to clear it myself. I spent five days in the mountains, it came to an end at Santa Rosa, there were three towns in the area with the same name as the river and it was frustrating being directed in circles.I was only 50 miles from Caraz, my intended destination. However, the surfaced road was a welcome sight and I headed for Chimbote on the west coast and the Pan American Highway. The road followed the course of the Reo Santa, through spectacular canyons and dodgy bridges crossing the river.

 On the Pan American highway I soon pass quickly through the canned fish processing town of Chimbote. I hate the smell of fish, ..................

 South of Chimbote the Pan Am passes through the dessert, The strong cool breeze from the Pacific dusts

 the surrounding mountains with sand, making a spectacular sight. I have better photo's, my camera battery expired and I used my mobile phone, but I cannot transfer them to the computer via bluetooth, Grrr.
 As I failed to find Caraz on the dirt road, I make the sensible decision  and take the highway for the Huascaran National Park, with a very high pass over the mountains. The dirt road was difficult to find, the signpost not common place here.

  I found it eventually, beautiful lakes and snow capped mountains. I reached the dizzy altitude of 15419 ft.

  No snow on the road today, rain, sleet and hail to make up for the loss. It the photo looks cold, it was !!

  I hit the road one more time. I should have ridden through the muddy slop, I chose the outside route close to the edge and had to cross the remaining six feet diagonally. There must have been something lurking beneath the mud to throw me off. My camera was the first causality, it was thrown along with me to the mud.I picked it up, but it was plastered, along with myself. I cleaned it up and took this photo, so not so bad.

 I was unable to pick the bike up, and looking at the road no vehicle had passed this way for a while, so I removed all the luggage and spare tyres to enable me to pick it up. I have to say, I only just managed it, the next task was a clean up. plenty of mountain streams here, so no problem.I rolled in to the next town and finished the task in a hotel.
 Next day I head south towards Lima, the high altitude has taken its toll on the bike,the front fork oil seals are leaking and showering me in oil. A least my boots are shiny!!! The Police were busy on the Pan Am, I was stopped three times in one day for offences not committed. I have sufficiently developed my skills to avoid paying bribes for this day in time and get away with out paying. I get my parts in Lima and escape the nightmare city as soon as possible.
These are the lines at Nazca.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nazca_Lines

 Crazy Pan Am Highway towns, this is Chincha, amazingly there was a very modern town centre away from the Pan Am.

It's not all roses.

Open road, wind in your face, you are at work  I am not! Ha Ha.

  From Nazca I cross the Andes to Albancay, on routa 26. High Altitude, fog and hail, no Gasoline.

  Very green, when you could see. I am looking for lights on the horizon, gasoline and warm place to stay.

 There is a God, I eventually found what I was looking for, gasoline and a bed. The following day, this was my birthday treat:

  High altitude anti-plano, lagoon's covered in ice, packs of llama's, complete silence, just the wild life.

  Routa 26, make a note, Nazca to Largo Titicaca, ride of a life time. I fitted new tyres in Albancay, I tested them out on the way to Cuzco.

  South of Cuzco, the highway climbs high in to the hills. Oh, I wanna return, had the road all to myself.

  But all good things must come to an end, and I am sobered with the town of Julicaca. Here I had to make the decision to either take the northern route over the top of Largo Titicaca in to Bolivia or the busy southern route. I took the northerly route, but the weather forced me to return to Julicaca for safe accommodation that day. The two towns on the northern route had nothing to offer, a most violent storm was thundering towards me, I received several soakings on my return to Julicaca. I may have found the the most uninviting hostel on the planet, but I had shelter from the storm and safety.

 An early morning view, 06.00 hrs, life starts early here. Nothing last forever, I soon escaped the mean Landlord who wanted 25% of the price for a room for the night for a towel, £1.25. Gringo tax I suspect. I never paid.

 There is something better around the corner. Lake Titicaca. Peru, an incredible country, and I have only passed through......slowly.