Day One: Downward Madness

Picked up early than I expected, I was a little flustered after being shoved immediately onto a waiting bike. Particularly when everything was around the wrong way for my comfort – brakes, gears etc – and the rest of the group, I later realised, had been collected by car or had strolled to our meeting point. It didn’t bode to well for the next four days, I thought, where I would be climbing my way through the selpa (high altitude jungle) with thirteen others.

Of course it was the usual false start, and almost an hour before our minivan finally starting moving out of the city, retracing most of yesterday’s steps back to Ollantaytambo. Here we stopped to go to the toilet and get some snacks, and I armed myself with some more essential supplies of moisturiser (the altitude robs your skin of everything). We then got back on the road to climb up into the mountains and and zig-zag our way to our biking spot.

Again, it was not long before the journey left me nauseous - particularly because the driver specialised in speeding up around the corners – and I felt like I was on a slip-shot propulsion ride at the Royal Show. I really couldn’t see the logic in it all, unless he was trying to send us over one of the precipitous edges and force an early retirement.

After much head-bowing and closed-eyed concentration, we got to our starting point for the bike ride and dismounted to be given our wheels (I say that in the most literal of senses because most of our frames were being held together by hose-pipe and gaffer tape). Unlike my previous efficient encounter with the Death Road, we were left to pick an upturned bike and hope that the gloves and helmets fit. I don’t think any of us really got a perfect match – least of all the other Australian girl in our pack, who lucked out on getting something to protect her hands.

Similarly, our descent was started with no real instructions and I was glad to have already conquered Bolivia. I feared though, for the other members of my group, knowing that many of Peru’s roads are rumoured to be worse. And the path we were on was certainly a forerunner with its u-turn bends and snaking blind corners. Add in some speeding cars, trucks and other cyclists, and faulty brakes, gears and handlebars, and you might imagine some of the peril.

Luckily the first part was a bitumen road, in moderate condition, and those of us who either didn’t have brakes or didn’t use them, cruised down easily from 4300m. A few stops later, each one calling for more and more mechanical assistance (I think the idea of maintenance hasn’t reached Peru yet, and so quick fixes are the norm) and we were seated with our packed lunch of cheese rolls, fruit and various sweet and savoury biscuits.

But as soon as we were back on our bikes, the menacing gravel appeared, threatening to send each of us skidding into the watery roadside trench. Again, there were no instructions, and no real guide either, after he (Eder) was forced to swap bikes with Dutch guy Eric, whose brakes and gears had both given up. Needless to say there were a few minor mishaps, some preliminary baths if you like, but we were definitely more fortunate than the other group who had a more serious broken-in-half mishap.

Our ride finished quite early in the afternoon, not taking the five hours we were originally told, and we piled into the minivan, unsure what would fill the rest of the day and night. But like much of the rest of our individual travels throughout South America, it is beer and conversation that warms us up after our freezing cold showers, sending us to bed in anticipation of our first day of hiking.

D-D-Death Road

I was pretty tired and nervous when I woke up the next morning to take the bus to ride down Death Road. Having spent so much energy just trying to pay for the ticket, I was not sure if I should have read it as a bad omen and chosen to watch the Chuletas (traditionally-dressed women wrestlers) instead. And when the Scooby Doo Dodge van pulled up outside the hostel, I was almost back in bed.

But despite all this, and the knowledge that I was about to ride down a road that at its peak killed over 300 people a year, I jumped in and was soon shivering away with the other four people in my group. Sitting alongside the snow-caps at more than 4800m above sea, our starting off point was nothing more than a flat piece of dirt with a few potholes. It was here, in this bare desolation, that we were handed our gear and I cursed myself for not paying for the extra comfort of knee-pads and wet-weather gear. Eyeing off the other two couples kitted up in their polar fleece and clear plastic, I stuffed my jeans deep into my socks and took a deep breath. But getting onto my bike, I was instantly surprised at the ease with which the doubled-up suspension took care of the bumps and jumps in my path. If only I had known about these bikes in Melbourne, before flattening myself against its gauged tram tracks.

Next up were the instructions for our journey, with one of our two guides, Salamon, speeding through the gears, foot positioning and braking system with a little too much gusto for my liking. A little worried that I might have missed some of the Spanish, I of course got a second run through in English, and it was here that I learned we would be travelling a total distance of 64km, descending a monstrous 3500m to a final resting place of about 1300m. No wonder eight people have died on this trip.

But there wasn’t much time to register this before Salamon was asking us if we were ready, and, not waiting for a real reply, was already peddling off in front of us. Taking a sensible approach, I decided to take last position so that I could travel at my own pace for the first 32km of paved road, closest to our trailing van. And what a pace it was – speeding downhill about more than 45km an hour, I could barely see what was going on around me.

We sped through clouds, past tiny pueblos (towns) that were nothing more than a few roadside shacks selling water, lollies and chocolate. We competed with the many buses and 4WDs on the road, spinning around bends before skirting off the road to use our cameras and enjoy the view. But it wasn’t until we reached the tunnel by-pass that I got my first taste of the rubble road that would continue, and I got completely spooked as my bike took a spin in the dirt.

Quickly regaining my composure, we continued on to meet up with one of the couples and our other guide, who had requested to take a path without cars. Smart people. Here I dared to ask the all-important question of how to control my brakes and avoid the skids, and a new world was suddenly opened up to me. No sooner had I learnt the skill in alternating the back and front tension, than I was forced to put my understanding into practice, with the start of the dirt-laden Death Road.

Seldom used now by cars and trucks, who were luckily given an alternative bitumen road a few years ago, the track has been left for tourists like myself to experience the danger that for many years was the only passage through these areas (and so named after a government report in the 1980s that started the campaign for a new route to be built – this time, not by Paraguayan prisoners-of-war).

Hardly wide enough for a single car, let alone the double lane of traffic that used to frequent its rocky surface, it is no wonder that the chassis of many vehicles can still be seen at points along the bottom, and that the start our journey involved lots of dust. Luckily we stopped several times along the way, with each of the guides taking turns to explain the next part leading us further down. A mixture of winding bends, steep descents, waterfalls, and gravel sections, each section needed a different approach, to avoid a catastrophic end.

Needless to say it was a pretty hairy ride, but I soon got the hang of the corners and rocks and started to ease off on my braking. I passed the two other girls, and headed up to the front where the boys were throwing in a few jumps. Not wanting to be outdone, I of course attempt a couple of these too, but mostly just end up wet or sore bum.

And with the last section (my favourite) a steep 55km an hour cruise into a waiting bar, I suddenly realised that I was not the least bit afraid anymore, rather, was contemplating buying my own bike again when I get back to Australia.

Biking in Bariloche

The trip to Bariloche was pretty eventless – the buses still full from the end of Holy Week, people clamouring to swap seats to be with their friends. Bad 80s music blared us out of Mendoza and our waiter (aka the second bus driver) got on the microphone to mumble us through some instructions about dinner, breakfast, lunch, the toilet and bus stops. But sitting in the last seat at the back, my much improved Spanish failed to help me figure it all out. Fortunately I had some rice cakes and avocado just in case.

But as we drove through the night, and into the morning, I woke up to find a completely different landscape – one that looks a little bit like home, and a lot like Dampier. Low-lying sparse vegetation covered red rock-faces, with deep blue lakes (ok, so there aren’t any of those in Dampier, but there is a deep blue ocean) threading themselves in between. I scrambled for my camera several times, trying to capture the rocks as they transformed into higher mountain peaks lined with bright yellow, orange and red autumn leaves, but the smudges on the window got the best of me, and my inspiration.

But as we leave the bus station, and head into town, it is pretty clear that I won’t have to go too far to find some more scenery. The crowning jewel of the Lake District, Bariloche is a remarkably quaint town, full of more chocolate shops and Swiss-style chalets than tourists, and I was glad to have arrived with two Swedish girls to enjoy the sights on bike and horse.

The next morning we woke up – after our hearty-included-in-our-room-rate dinner (a backpacker first for this trip) – early to take the bus out to the Cerro Campanario. And at 25 pesos, it is certainly not the cheapest chairlift ride, but it is definitely worth it (particularly when we see the poor couple clamouring up the dirt path below us). Apart from having the most amazing view in the world, there is also chocolate and dulce de leche cake, fresh cream and hot chocolate at the cafe at the top. What more could three girls want?

But heading down to collect our bikes from a nearby rental place, my flip-flop-wearing, cardigan-wearing, stuffed-full-of-cheese-and-wine body was not quite prepared for the biking that would follow. Worse still when one of our group is a regular cycler and I came to the sad realisation that my university-trained butt was going to be hurting. We slowly, but surely went up and down the slopes, passing through chilly lake crossings, grey stone bridges, and amazing panoramas all the way to the cemetery.

Yes, a bit of a strange place for it to be, but I guess it makes sense to the many avid climbers, skiers and lovers of the mountains that are buried there – including two Olympic athletes. We next stopped at the jetty on Lago Escondido to have an apple by the water and catch some breathe before taking the treacherous path to another lake at Villa Tacul. And it is here that bad memories of my bike-tram smash a few years ago return to haunt me, and I start to get a little shaky with all the downhill adrenalin.

Luckily I survive it all, and we get back on our wheels for the last stretch, passing through a cute tea shop to sample their amazing rose hip stuff, and splurging on their hand cream too. But with the last 7 kilometres a series of killer inclines, oily hands is probably is not the best cycling accessory. Particularly when the slope seems deceptively slight – until you hear the cars groaning beside you.

And perhaps that’s the reason behind all the chocolate. As soon as we are off our bikes, we immediately head straight into town for some milky goodness – this time Abuelo Goye, one of the oldest companies in town - and feel the sugar return to our aching bodies, in preparation for another day.