CHAPTER 5 - CUSCO, CARNAVAL & NEON LIGHT HOTELS

Wednesday Feb 11th

START: 11217km

FROM: Tacna (PER)

TO: Desaguadero (PER / BOL)

FINISH: 11677 km

Having spent 2 days with my gearbox being rebuilt, it's time to leave Tacna and push on to our next target destination – Puno and the world's highest navigable lake, Lake Titicaca. Immature as it may be, it's OK to giggle at the name - we still do.

Being in a remote part of the world with almost empty tanks, we are forced to fill up with the stuff the locals run their old bangers on, the indescribably woeful 84 Octane petrol. At this altitude the bikes will run like 2 legged asthmatic dogs on that stuff – imagine scaling Mont Blanc on a morning coffee made with 16% dishwater and you can understand the  inherant shortcomings of the internal combustion process in our engines that day. Luckily we have bought some octane booster a few days previous, so we dunk some of that in the tanks and fill to the top with the local muck. Our bikes will thank us later for spiking their drinks.

Climbing up into the altiplano and desert we are reminded of what barren landscapes the Atacama can serve up. What is even more amazing is that wars have been fought and won over this stuff. Why you may ask? Well the answer is even more amazing...it was all over a pile of bird shit. Literally.

These desert landscapes are rich in guano, the collected manure from seabirds and bats. Back in the days this was a hugely strategic resource. Used in the manufacture of fertilisers and gunpowder it held almost the importance that oil does today. During the War of the Pacific (1879 - 1883), Chile attacked neighbouring Peru and annexed the guano rich area of Arica, where we stayed previously. History often has a funny way or righting wrongs though...as victories go, this one would turn out to be pyrrhic. Some smart chappy in Germany came up with a way of producing petroleum based fertiliser early in the 20th Century, leaving Chile with a whole lot of worthless bird poo and a very pissed off next door neighbour.

All ears are on the bike, dissecting and analysing and every grind, rotation and controlled explosion coming from the engine. After the rebuild it all seems okay, but like welcoming back a lover who has cheated on you it's hard to have full confidence after the gearshaft bearings brief but dramatic affair with the sump oil. I swap bikes with Pierpaolo for 5 minutes and realise that I am overanalysing every shudder and shake – the rebuild is spot on and everything is working just as it should.

Our ride today has us encountering almost every condition imaginable...from the arid coast, up to the desert altiplano and 30 degree temperatures, climbing further up into the mountains where the rain and fog will render us cold, wet and miserable within 3 hours. The climb from Moquegua to Mazocruz is never ending...the continual hairpinned ascent of the mountain reminds us of Tiz'n Tichka pass in Morocco 2 years earlier.

The first signed mountain pass we read clocks us at 3900 metres above sea level. Breathing is hard, visors are steaming up and with the fog our visibility is down to about 15 metres. A broken down truck parked just after a bend and an oncoming semi trailer make for an interesting underpant tinting moment for both of us but it's too dangerous here to sit around and count our blessings... our clothes are getting saturated and we are riding with our visors open, fog drenching the insides of our helmets. We must ride on and get to the top of this damned mountain.

Next road sign reads 4500 metres above sea level...Geez, this is getting higher than I anticipated. All my concerns in Sydney of how the bikes would run at altitude have thankfully been unfounded...sure there is no great throttle response and they stall at idle, but the beasts keep on chugging on. With that pass finished, we get to a stretch of flat land flanked by the peaks of the Andes and belt along, with the welcome reprise of sunshine to warm our souls and dry our saturated clothes. By now we are up at the summer snowline... green pastures bordered by snow and surging peaks in the distance is so beautiful to behold I am deliriously whooping in my helmet, amazed at how quickly a ride can go from torment to pleasure in a few short kilometres.

Mazocruz is our first sizable town for the day, and with our final pass taking us up to 4900 Metres (higher than Mont Blanc) we stop for lunch and devour everything served up in the rustic country restaurant, little more than a dining room in someones' house. A massive storm is crackling and rolling in from the East which happens to be the direction we are travelling in, so we decide to stick around for a while and wait it out.

2 bikes coming into town is a big event here, so much so that the local mayor comes up and introduces himself. With Pierpaolo performing ambassadorial duties of The Wrong Way Down, we are invited into the main building just opposite the central plaza, where we can while away the storm in the relative warmth and dryness of his office. Such a superb display of hospitality! Going up the stairs into his working area, we see that the invitation has been extended to about 10 other locals, all milling about in the waiting room sitting on an assortment of battered Victorian settees. People come in and out of the mayors office every 10 minutes or so, and each new person by ritual does a lap of the waiting room, introducing themselves and shaking hands with everyone including us. The interest of these people in each other and strangers is genuine, and such old fashioned manners are an absolute delight to see on display. Lady secretaries punching their typewriters in traditional dress add to the scene.

After an hour of thunder and rain, the storm passes us by and we prepare to set off  to Lake Titicaca. To counter the bikes stalling, we turn the engine idle up to a gentle purr and hop on for the final stretch of the day. On our way their we ride through snow, get stared at by llamas and chased by wild dogs. Business as usual traveling in South America then.

Desaguadero is our stop for the night, a manic border town where an incessant stream of tuk tuks and bicycle taxis pulse up and down the congested lumpy streets. We are the only tourists in town tonight, and the general air of disorder and chaos is fun to immerse ourselves into. Breaking tradition and shying from our “nothing shalt be added” to our luggage principle, we invest in 2 wooly hats as it is getting positively Baltic as the night progresses. An excellent chicken dinner, a quick hop into the comically patrolled Bolivian border side (just to say we've been there!) and it's back to our glamorous digs for the night, the incomparable Hostal Los Angeles.

Saturday Feb 14th

START: 11677km

FROM: Desaguadero (PER / BOL)

TO: Puno (PER)

FINISH: 11848 km

Incomparable in oh so many ways. Plastic bedsheets, altitude and the dehydration make for a very uncomfortable night. No chance of a shower to freshen up, as the water comes in only 1 temperature (multo frio) and the supplied towels are already wet and minging before we get our hands to them. The standard high altitude breakfast of champions – 2 altitude pills, a cookie with an expiration date I will never live to see and a slug of water from our Camelbaks and its on the road again to Puno.

A few miles out of Desaguadero and we catch our first glimpse of Lake Titicaca. In reality, not that awe inspiring, but different features captured our attention. Pierpaolo noted the flamingos on the water, but being an agriculture dork in a previous life I was more taken by the farmlands around – families living in simple mud huts growing potatos and maize, young daughters often watching over the few cows and sheep that they owned. The small holdings ensure that all crops and dividing stone walls are meticulously maintained, like a cover shot for a UK organic food magazine.

One of our shortest days on the bikes, a quick 170 kilometre jaunt downhill (!) to the largest town on the lake, Puno, at 3890 metres above sea level. Hotel El Lagos is excelllent, providing beds for us and special treatment for our bikes with a tarpaulin brought out for each to cover them from the dust and any potential afternoon storms. Having come all the way here we feel obligated to go on the daily trips out to see the famous floating islands, so book a tour for the afternoon.

The trip out to the island takes about half an hour, and on the way we see the different kinds of birdlife who call this place home for part of the year... swallows darting above our heads and some larger goofy looking birds coming into land on the surface, feet in action before contact so that they hit water in running mode. Showing off to their mates by walking on water, just like that Jesus chap on Lake Galilee.

The islands in the middle of the lake are entirely man made, constructed by the local  tribes in a bid to isolate themselves from the more aggressive Incas. Metre deep blocks of roots gathered from the shore have an additional metre of totora reeds piled on top, creating a buoyant platform on which they survive. Nowadays  invaders, armed with SLR cameras are encouraged and despite the negative regard in which many of the tours are held we both feel that this one reaches a good balance between educating the tourists and providing a means by which the residents can continue to live there.

All 15 or so of our group then jump on one of the traditional reed boats and we wade our way across to another island Venetian gondolier style. While on the water some pretty apocalyptic looking clouds are starting to build up on the hill behind town, creating incredible textures and shades in the islands and their reed buildings. Safely on “land” we peek around and see that there is an option to spend the night here in a traditional style guest house. The thought is initially appealing, but we muse that once the boat pulls away and you are left in a place with a flat Ipot battery, no lights and a dripping roof it probably becomes a lot less enchanting. Paid hotel it is.

Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks on our trip back to port, with the heavens opening above and unleashing a mighty torrent of the wet stuff. Package tourists for the day and none the worse for it.

Sunday Feb 15th

START: 11848km

FROM: Puno (PER)

TO: Cusco (PER)

FINISH: 12214 km

Titicaca done it's time to move on up to Cusco, so we navigate our way out of town and head for the highway. Traffic is typically South American... no traffic lights and the general principle of big guys go first with the rest scampering across as and when they dare. Bumbling on through one intersection, we are stopped in our tracks by the piercing whistle of what can only be the law.

And so begins our education in the Peruvian road traffic handbook. The whistle has come from a traffic cop, stationed in a booth in the middle of the road, masterfully obscured by an array of trucks, donkeys and Inca Kola billboards. His associate comes over to apprehend us, explaining that when the traffic policeman has his back turned, that is the signal to stop, which we flagrantly disobeyed. Pleading genuine ignorance to this rule our representative of the law is totally unmoved, and proceeds to pull out a well worn and dogeared notebook. From this point on Pierpaolo and I are acutely aware that logic and compassion will not be required – it's a battle of acting skills.

Traffic cop treads the boards first, reaching for and thumbing through the pages of his notebook. Inside he finds Violation 81B, a picture of a traffic policeman, and a box next to it with “340” stamped in it. Nodding assertively he shows us both the page, convinced that this performance is enough to earn him a traffic Oscar and 340 Soles (about $100) in  patron endorsements.

Pierpaolo's turn to respond as he is the only one of us capable of delivering the kind of meaty dialogue to save these characters from jail or unjust poverty. It's a fine performance, with genuine regret in his stage presence for any offence we have caused. We never received the education of reading and interpreting the body language of fine government officials such as our captor... can we put this one down to learning and promise to be more careful in future?

It's at this point that our captor overplays his role and reaches far beyond his acting capabilities. Since there were two of us that violated the written law, he attempts to convince the audience that actually 680 Soles would be the amount required to let us continue on our merry way... something that for us is impossible both financially and morally. Time to go freestyle!

Knowing that our mutual kitty has about 500 Soles in it, and my own personal wallet 40 Soles (with $200 US tucked down the back), I pull out the personal wallet and display to the officer, complete with Oliver Twist facial expression the sad fact that our net wealth is 40 Soles as we have been using credit cards to pay our way on our trip (a blatant lie but convincingly told by Pierpaolo).

Our Officer responds by saying that today is Sunday and the banks are closed...perhaps there is another way in which we would like to collaborate? At which point the end of the scene writes itself... on the condition that no receipt will be necessary for our indiscretion, the officer sends down one of his minions to covertly accept our 40 Soles cash and we saunter off into the distance.

Overall it was a rather uninspiring piece of drama. Although the stellar performance of ourselves carried the act through to the final curtain, the performance of the main officer character dragged the whole show down. Convincingly portrayed we could have had an intriguing tale of scandal and corruption in far off lands. The end result by contrast felt clunky, wooden and parochial. I would find it exceedingly hard to recommend it to others - two stars from me, Margaret.

Driving through the town of Juliaca and for 15 minutes we may as well have been in India. Absolute traffic chaos, with cows, donkeys, tuk tuks and moto taxis carving their way through reflections of themselves. Here the correct side of the road to drive on is the one where you can find space. Concentrating on not running over feral kids and avoiding foot deep potholes we are again brought to a rest by the shriek of a whistle...oh bugger, not a rerun of the previous episode! We locate the traffic cop (camouflaged booth, back turned) and signal apologetically to him...fortunately the traffic is too thick or he is too lazy to come and try his hand for some cash, so he waves us on with just a caution. Off the hook there thank god.

Out of the dusty towns we start to get into the Sacred Valley en route to Cusco. The morning has been a total pain in the arse with the slow grind of city traffic and the police stoppages but this afternoon is making up for it big time. Walled in by huge mountains, this   stretch of land invents shades of green I have never seen. The hillsides are terraced and planted in patchwork fashion all the way to the top, while in the valley floor we pass kids as young as 6 tending their sheep, cows and llamas as their ancestors have done for generations. They are happy to be outside on a fine day being masters of their herd. Poor but seemingly content they wear their traditional clothes with dirty cherub faces.

Stopping in a field for a slug from our water bottles and a muesli bar, a couple on decked out Kawasakis heading South pull over and come and chat to us. Boyfriend and girlfriend from Seattle heading to Tierra del Fuego, they will be the last of the snowbirds we expect to see as it will be getting inhospitably cold by the time they complete the 7000 kilometres ahead of them. It is encouraging for us to hear yet more good stories about their experiences in Colombia – from what we have heard so far, probably the best country with the worst PR in the whole of South America.

The enchantment of the valley comes to halt when we close in on Cusco, which can only be described as scruffy from the outskirts. This is the bit that you don't see when you fly in or catch the big tourist coach as most travelers do, and I would have to say they are none the poorer for it. Dogs scavenging round piles of garbage, near buildings that lie in semi complete or semi derelict states (hard to tell which) you wonder what all the fuss can be about. But when the tarmac turns to cobblestone and you enter the old centre, all superlatives become justified. The Spanish may have been outrageous looters and pillagers in the 1500's and 1600's, but on the plus side they knew how to put up a decent building or two. We ride off the cobblestone and into the front doors of one such contruction just a block from the main square...it's a nice feeling parking our bikes next to the reception desk.

Cusco is definitely a tourist hub. After a long time on the road, I can handle the beggars, the touts and the unshakeable tourist guides in return for a decent pizza and cold beer that this town is sure to offer. Man can only live on chicken and rice for so long.

The guides are particularly persistent at this time of year, as we have recently discovered that their lifeblood, the Inca Trail, is closed for the month of February due to yearly maintenance work. They are trying to coax all passers by onto any number of different treks and tours but it's the trail that everyone wants. Wanting to use our time here before we jump on a plane to Rio, Pierpaolo books us on a 3 day trip tour that will have as much biking, hiking and Machu Picchuing as we can handle. Leaving tomorrow morning we have a quiet night out strolling around the square and back streets, marvelling at the perfectly preserved Spanish Architecture built on top of the stone foundations of the Incas.

The English nutters on Che Guevara Nortons (www.revolutionroad.com) are meant to be at the local pub tonight, so we pull into Norton Rats tavern and keep an eye out for two smelly blokes in leathers. We catch a whiff and find them with Jeff the American owner, also a Norton boffin, trading tales about the journey so far. Hats off to the English boys as they have already made it further on their bikes than Che and Alberto did on their machine. Pierpaolo and I both feel like wimps on our 6 month old Japanese machines in such company!

A nice Aussie journalist is sitting with us and is getting inspired by all this talk of 2 wheeled travel across foreign continents. He lets us in on his planned adventure, which will be riding a Diesel powered Enfield around India.

A diesel powered Enfield? Yes, amazingly enough they do exist as some misguided or dead fool in Chennai has failed to hit the stop button on the production line. The sole basis on which the Enfield has been chosen by our friend is due to its astounding fuel economy and range – they get 200 miles per gallon! Not wanting to burst the boys bubble we let the dream live on. 5th gear at 30 miles per hour and having the engine require a valve reshim and rebuild before you have finished your first tank...it hardly fits the bill of a something I would call “fun”. Honestly he would be better off trying to fly a Reliant Robin to the moon. At least the guys from Top Gear got one of those off the ground.

Monday Feb 16th

CUSCO to SANTA MARIA – Bicycle

If Alaska to Tierra del Fuego was all downhill then maybe, just maybe I could begin to understand what all the overland cyclists were on about. Today gives us cycling the way it was meant to be...being bussed up to the top of a 4500 metre high mountain, shoved onto a rickety old mountain bike and then booted 52 kilometres downhill to the bottom of the valley. Hairpin corners, river crossings and amazing views down the valley. Our only complaint is that our guide could have gone a bit faster, but given that one of his troupe brained themselves on an oncoming truck last week then perhaps there is good reason to squeeze the brakes a bit and keep a little in the tank.

Ride completed, its off to our hostal for the night in Santa Maria – a remote town with a dirt track for its main drag. A football team is assembled from our group, with the Global Allstars (Italy, Chile, Australia, France) victorious over the local team by way of forfeit. A sweet victory nonetheless.

The hostal is unmanned, unless of course the tarantula in our room counts as staff. My goodness, I thought Australia had the monopoly on ugly creatures that can ruin your day. Cold water, a rubbish nights sleep with strangers banging on the hostal door at 3AM and club footed guests tap dancing in the room above. Gee it feels good to be in the great outdoors again.

Tuesday Feb 17th

SANTA MARIA to AGUA CALLIENTE – By any means

Pierpaolo's birthday today and all I can offer him is lashing rain and an Oreo cookie for breakfast at 5:45.

We are woken up earlier than planned as today we break away from our group and join another one a day ahead, which will involve traveling to the town of Santa Teresa. Rain has poured incessantly all night meaning that the journey ahead could be a rough one.

Setting out in a colectivo taxi, we are forced to turn back after 5 kilometres as the main road has been closed due to water coming up over the bridge. Our driver then takes his poor little overladen Toyota up, up and up a single lane goat track around the valley edges. Mud roads 7 feet wide with shear drops 2000 metres down on tires balder than Kojak makes for a unique travel experience my underpants are unlikely to forget.

Our journey comes to a halt near the top of one of the mountains – the road has literally fallen away down below and an impassable pile of mud stands in its place. As far as birthdays go, its more memorable than the ones where you received a pair of socks from your Mum and some punches on your arm from your older brothers but I'm not sure which type Pierpaolo would rather right now.

You have to hand it to the Peruvians though, they are not ones to sit about and do nothing. Pretty soon people are arriving from huts nearby and a grand total of 5 hand tools are assembled – a mattock, a couple of spades and a shovel. Everyman, from 18 through to 80 lends a hand and takes their turn with an implement, and in an hour a sort of road is cut on which the backlog of traffic (8 cars and a few small buses) can pass. The short straw is drawn by one of the minibus drivers – he has to guinea pig the structural integrity of the latest municipal works. Faith in the efforts of his fellow man is rewarded with a sketchy yet successful traverse of the new crossing. After he goes, its a Le Mans style start  with every other driver running to their vehicle to make the crossing before it turns to impassable mud or perhaps more material for the valley below.

Mission to Santa Teresa completed at 11AM, we meet up with the group ahead and set off on the hike to Agua Callientes. The term “hike” is used liberally – we simply follow the train tracks and the river all the way to town – about 12 kilometres with the rain keeping us company for every one. Our motorcycle jackets, the only waterproof top we could take with us feels like a soggy lead sheet by the time we reach the end.

Peru is a country made notable by many things - a mind boggling abundance of archaelogical sites, the relentless export supply of pan pipe cover bands to all corners of the world and the proud fact that it is one of 2 countries on earth where Coca Cola is not the number 1 selling drink. Inca Kola is the ghastly local concoction that outsells all others here, a yellow caffeinated substance that tastes nothing like Cola and even less of Inca. If you are wondering which other country holds that same claim to fame, the answer is Scotland and the drink is Irn-Bru. 4 million hangovers can't be wrong!

Peru is however also made notable to travelers by what it lacks, particularly a striking paucity of hot water. I cannot yet find a justifiable reason for this as there are only 2 elements needed for its production, water and heat. Given that we have been pissed on with rain for 3 of our 5 days in this country, that's 50% of the recipe taken care of. Man discovered how to make Fire around 70,000 BC and mobile phones in the mid 1980's. I have seen mobile phones here so assume that Fire has also arrived. But turning on the red tap in any of our hotels and hovels this side of the border has led to delayed disappointment.

Imagine our joy then at arriving at the town of Aguas Calientes – a town so confident in its ability to deliver fire and water in a pre mixed format known as hot water that they actually named the town after the very substance! Sublime earth, what further pleasures can you truly hold?!

Suffice to say that Pierpaolo finished off his 37th birthday with a cold shower. The towns name being aspirational as opposed to actual.

Wednesday Feb 18th

AGUA CALLIENTE – MACHU PICCHU – CUSCO

One of those delightful mornings where you wake up early at 5:30 to beat the hordes of tourists, walk down to the bus stop where hordes of tourists are waiting in a large line of tourists, all queing up so that they can avoid the hordes...

Anway, bus up to the top and into the ruins before the dreaded day trippers from Cusco arrive. Once inside we have the services of a guide and it feels like we have the whole place to ourselves. I have been here before but with the changes in light and seasons, it feels all new again. After 10 minutes though, the clouds from the bottom of the valley rise up to blanket the site - any chance of getting the postcard shot seem to disappear, but apparently this is normal and at about 10 o'clock the clouds will burn off.

During this wait our guide gives us snippets of opinions and facts about Machu Picchu and its discovery. Now the fact we are here today bumbling about with our cameras and splashing money into the local economy is in no small way due to the efforts of one Hiram Bingham, an American historian who in 1911 was guided to this site by a local boy while searching for the lost city of the Incas. Thinking he had found Vilcabamba, he moved at record pace -  this was an archaelogical gold rush, and using local resources he went on a massive mission of excavation and restoration. Looking around the site today and knowing that a million other people will visit here this year, you would think that he had done Peru a favour, unveiling and promoting to the world the main drawcard for the country's tourism industry, which by itself contributes an increasing 7% to the nations economy.

No such praises from our guide. Bingham didn't find it, he merely advertised it. And when he did he excavated too quickly – they lost and broke some things in their haste that they could have preserved. Well without Bingham you would'nt have a job today mate. If at some point anyone in your own country had bothered to share this secret site with the world then maybe by now you would have a team of slow moving and expensive experts fannying over this enormous site dusting awaywith their miniscule paintbrushes. You might be able to show the world 3 stones and a broken urn by now. Doesn't sound like 7% of your GDP to me. Credit is due where credit's due – Bingham was a maverick and showed the world and Peru one of the greatest architectural and anthropological treasures of all time. If he broke a curtain rod and scuffed the carpet in the process then I can live with that. You live ON this fact.

It's not all slagging off the foreigners though. Our guide says at this point that the biggest desecrations at this historical site have been at the hands of Peruvians. While filming a commercial in 2000 for the national beer on site, one of the riggings for the cameras collapsed...onto the top of the one ancient sundial in the empire. Lights, camera...destruction! So not surprisingly that was the end of advertising companies using the area as a set.

Why stop at the film industry though? The next faux pas was at the hands of the Peruvian government. With the responsibility of hosting a meeting of South American leaders, what better way to show off your country than by landing all dignitaries by helicopter into the UNESCO World Heritage site itself? The only place where helicopters could “safely” land was in the Central Plaza, but this would require the temporary removal of a large stone obelisk. Temporary became permanent as the obelisk protested at its own removal and imploded on itself. Whoops. Despite that the meeting went ahead and no one asked any awkward questions about what happened to the big piece of stone they had seen in photos.

As promised the sun comes out and the clouds draped around the site burn off, giving us cause to run around all corners and take THE shot for the photo album. Turns out there are about 200 versions of THE shot... no place on earth rewards ham fisted, colour blind photographers as richly as this. Pierpaolo is blown away by the place, and for my second visit here I am even more impressed than I was the first.

Back down to Aguas Calientes and onto the train to take us back to Cusco. The feeling of romance and adventure that accompanies travel on rattling narrow gauge rail lasts for approximately 9 minutes, replaced by the realisation that modern wide gauge trains are faster and way more comfortable. An hour before we reach Cusco a business is built on this fact, as ladies come onto the train advertising a $4 express bus can have us there in 15 minutes. Full on arrival, an almost empty train rolls on into Cusco.

All the rain, all the cold hotel showers, all the bland food – it's been worth everything to see what we have seen today. Tomorrow we have the prospect of a week in Rio during Carnaval to warm ourselves up with.

Thursday Feb 19th -   Thursday Feb 26th

CUSCO to RIO DE JANEIRO

Leaving our bikes and heavy bags in Cusco, we pile into a taxi to the airport with just a light backpack each to get through the week. A Brasilian friend from work years ago, Marta, has offered us a place to stay in Rio during Carnaval, an offer that is simply too good to refuse.

Delayed overnight while connecting in Sao Paolo, we make it to Rio a day later than expected. Just as well we have masters degrees in sign language – Marta and her sister Cecilia are at work, leaving us with Marta's mum and a combined vocabulary of 3 words of Portuguese. Like prodigal sons she sits us down at the kitchen table, prepares us fresh squeezed juices of fruits I have never seen before and loads up our plates with some good old fashioned Brazilian home cooked food. Nice way to start!

Saturday is our chance to tick the tourist boxes – well one anyway. A cable car ride up to Sugar Loaf mountain, which provides spectacular views of the city and its beaches. Copacabana and Ipanema look just as you imagine them to, with thousands of tanned people moving around on them like ants from this height.

People think Carnaval and they instantly think of the incredible parade at the sambodromo. While this is perhaps the most colourful part of Carnaval, for most of the residents it is not the most important. What really matters to the people here are the blocos, or the local street parties which start at 10AM and go all the way into the night. On Sunday we head out to Ipanema to soak up the atmosphere of Bloco Afro Reggae. Thousands of people wedged into the street and spilling over onto the beach, massive sound system turned up and a live reggae band on a converted bus with 100 drummers walking behind – there are definitely worse places to drink a beer on a summers day than right here, right now.

Almost everyone in Rio is on holiday for the 4 days of Carnaval (Saturday – Tuesday). Cariocas (Rio locals) love the beach, so when all 10 million of them have the same day off and a handful of beaches to go to then the end result is pure chaos. A long day in the car for a few hours on the beach...lesson learned, take the train whenever possible!

Monday and Tuesday are the big nights at the sambodromo. This is the stadium which everyone would have seen from news snippets at some point in their life. Dancers naked apart from the odd sequin or feather, floats that are decorated in pure manner of fantasy – you get a rough idea of what its all about from the TV but you really have to go to the city to understand the scale and the atmosphere generated by the event.

Every year, 14 samba schools from around the city participate in the final at the sambodromo. Each one has competed against countless others for their place in the parade, and their performance on an evening is the end result of a years preparation by an entire community.

Each school has 90 minutes to perform their routine, starting at one end of the sambodromo and continuing down the length of it – roughly 1 kilometre. In order to keep the Carnaval accessible to all schools, a limit has been recently placed on the number of performers that can be entered – only three thousand eight hundred people can represent a school! That gives you some idea of the scale of the thing. 3800 people, all decked out in   different dazzling costumes, split between 30 or so separate groups, with as many as 8 floats larger than semitrailers making their way down the arena. All led by one man singing a samba, and a king and queen of the samba school dancing non stop for the whole time. Their costumes can weigh 45 kg each and temperatures stay in the 30s all evening. These people are super human, and the whole thing is like nothing you have ever seen.

We watch it all from the comfort of home... with so much noise and visual stimuli you can overload in 10 minutes – hardly anyone goes to the sambodromo and stays the entire night (10 hours of non stop samba, even cariocas have their limits!). Inbetween performances are stories and interviews around the preparation for the event...it's amazing how much effort and costume design goes into creating and wearing a small strip of dental floss or a strategically placed Band-Aid. As Dolly Parton once said, “You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!”

For Tuesday we change scene and rent a room in a hospedaje closer to town to soak up a bit more of the Carnaval atmosphere. Thinking that we will be able to find a nice club and listen to some live music, we head to Santa Teresa and Lapa to find that the whole area has been taken over by a bloco gone crazy. The clubs have not even bothered to try and compete. The party is out on the street, just buy some beers from the corner store and join the madness.

Wednesday is recovery day for everyone – all 14 schools have completed their samba routines, it's now up to the judges to decide which one will be declared this years winner. If you thought this would be a simple case of opening an envelope and saying “the winner is....(drum roll)...” then you couldn't be more wrong. Judging of the entries is televised and takes an entire day, encompassing criteria such as the quality of the samba song chosen, the level of “fantasy” achieved by the costumes, the dancing of the king and the queen....the list goes on. We all know Brazilians take their football seriously... this is proof that partying is of national importance too.

We finish off our time in Rio by soaking some rays on Flamenco beach. When we return to  Marta's house, Cecilia has arranged a surprise for us. One of her friends was a dancer for the Mocidade school this year, and she has brought his costume home so that Pierpaolo and I can take probably some of the most frightening photos of ourselves decked out in it.  The outfit is amazing – a  Roman style tunic with a winged shoulder piece and helmet and white knee high boots, all adorned with musical notes, treble clefs and letters.  I only wish I could take it back to London to wear to job interviews.

A 5 AM flight has us leaving to the airport at midnight. Marta's mum and Cecilia both cook us dinner separately, so with heavy stomachs and heavy hearts at the prospect of going back to rainy mountain roads, we leave Rio's sunshine and beaches and incredible hospitality. A taste of a city that both of us want to return to one day.

Back in Cusco and a return to all things motorcycling... both of our rear tyres are on their last legs, so we arrange shipping of some replacements to Trujillo 1000 kilometres up the road. Anything we can do to avoid stopping in Lima.

Saturday Feb 28th

START: 12214km

FROM: Cusco (PER)

TO: Puqio (PER)

FINISH: 12714 km

There are some days to wax lyrical about the joys of motorcycling. The sheer wonder whereby the chemical potential energy stored in liquid hydrocarbons is converted to kinetic energy by means of explosions and transformed into human movement by intricate systems of valves, pistons, cams and gears is more delightful than words or equations can ever suggest. The fact that I can enjoy this phenomenon whilst sitting on a seat on a trajectory through serene landscapes warms the soul even further.

There are also days where it is simply better to lay in a nice warm bed, drink loads of tea and contemplate the productive capacity of your naval for lint. This is one of them.

And it all started off so well. Using our tried and trusted local GPS system (pay a taxi 3 bucks and get him to guide you out of town), we make our way out of the scabby bits of Cusco and climb into the surrounding hills and valleys. The first 100 kilometres is wonderful – despite a week of rest and relaxation it feels good to be back on our trusty steeds winding our way through the countryside. Then we start climbing higher above 4000 metres, into the altiplano and the clouds that blanket it.

School Geography classes taught me that Peru can be classified into 3 distinct climatic zones, dividing the country into distinct thirds that run its length. On the coastal zone, it never rains. Conversely in the jungle zone to the east it always rains. And in the mountain zone in the middle, it always rains but only if you are on a motorcycle. And so the next 400 kilometres to Nasca unfolds, with some sleet, hail and snow thrown in just to spice up what would otherwise be a dull day. I'd love to tell you about the scenery en route, but all I can tell you is what the fog in my helmet looked like.

Sodden to the core, cold and miserable we finally call it quits in Puqio...the paved highway gives way to a town of deformed mud streets – surely you would pave the town first then worry about the highway?! What a selfless bunch these guys must be. Expectations for a hotel with hot showers are not even entertained – we know that tonight a room with a bed and a roof will be a bonus. With jackets and trousers hung from hooks, dripping onto the tiled floor we put our wooly hats on, pull the sheets up and say farewell to a trying day on 2 wheels. What I would give for one more night in Rio.

Sunday March 01st

START: 12714km

FROM: Puqio (PER)

TO: Lima (PER)

FINISH: 13338 km

No real incentive to stick around in Puqio, we jump on the bikes and head for Nasca and the warmth of the coast. The mountains of Peru can be spectacular and offer amazing scenery to the traveler, but days of solid rain will dampen the most adventurous of spirits. We both agree that from now on we will stick to the coast as much as possible to avoid days like yesterday.

Scenery that was invisible to us yesterday is now in full sunlight today, the rich green fields and terraces of this valley displaying the up side of what caused our clothes to be so cold and soggy this morning. The road to Nasca is still challenging however even in the perfect weather. Pot holes as big as basketballs and hairpin corners with 2 kilometre drops below deem that the only time to be riding this is in broad daylight.

At the top of one hill, our transition in climatic zones is evident – the greens of the mountain dissipate into the burnt oranges of the desert below, with the promise of sweet sunshine below to warm and dry our clothes. How nice it will be to strip out our internal soggy layers and pop the vents and zippers on the jacket to feel air on the body again. Driving along for the first 10 kms of this we are like mobile drying racks, stretching our legs  and arms in all possible ways so that all parts of our clothing are exposed to this magnificent drying wind.

From Nasca we follow the Pacific coast all the way up – the beaches to our left are not particularly picturesque or inviting, but every minute without getting rained on is as good for us as a week at Club Tropicana.

The vortex of Lima can be felt 100 kilometres out – the cars have upgraded to prestige European and the driving standard downgraded to crack snorting Egyptian. Sunday families are returning from their day on the beach, and this is by far the most dangerous traffic of our trip so far.

Lima is an unavoidable evil for us. Neither of us want to go there, but if you want to get to Northern Peru then you don't have much choice but to go through the guts of it. Thinking that we might be able to scamper through it before dusk we twist the throttle and double concentrate on the traffic around us that seems intent on turning us both into meat paste. Approaching the outskirts a stinking conglomeration of trucks and belching buses slow our progress to a standstill. The sun drops off the edge of the world and darkness encircles – we have no choice but to stay in Lima for the night and we need to find a hotel quick.

Pickings are slim this close to the highway, so we press on to the Northern section of the Panamerican and like the Hotel California, up ahead in the distance we saw a shimmering light. There looks to be a group of hotels set just back from the highway, all neon lights declaring their facilities which surprisingly include jacuzzis and saunas. Might be better than originally anticipated!

Pulling off the highway and into the hotels, we appear to be in a bit of a rough area, with the hotels charging only 4 or 12 hourly rates. This is brothel country, but after 12 hours in the saddle and nothing else close by neither of us are bothered enough to offer any alternate suggestions. Parking provided and at 30 Soles a room, matrimonial only, we can afford to grab one each and avoid looking like a pair of gay bikers.

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The next instalment will be the grand finale – stay tuned! Wrestling with manta rays (really!), wrestling with the law (oh yes!) and wrestling our way around the salsa infused dance floors of Colombia it really has all the criteria needed to make you say “Don't stop guys - stay on those bikes, we love that stuff!”

Or perhaps not. But this is the second last opportunity I have to coax some money from you guys for a worthy cause. Some of you have given big so far, so a massive thanks to those of you who have helped raise $3253 of the targeted $5000 for Gynaecological Cancer Research.

But we are still nearly $1800 short. So for those of you with deep pockets and short arms you should know that all people who have donated thus far report improved sex lives, rock hard abs, tighter buns and even firming around those problem wrinkle areas. So PLEASE! If not for others, give for your own good. You can do it in one click, just go to our website at www.thewrongwaydown.com and donate your way to everlasting youth.