A selection from Karl’s journals that cover PERU

Friday, 12th March 1999.------ continued.

Tuesday, 16th November 1999. 25 kilometres. 35 degrees C. 70 degrees 15 minutes west, 18 degrees 01 minutes south. Tacna.

It was a long, hot and straight run on to the outskirts of Tacna. In the middle of a large roundabout on the ring road my second wheel spindle snapped. It's as if these things work on synchronised timings. As you've probably worked out for yourself being immobile slap-bang in the centre of a roundabout was not a good idea. As I began to search for my spare spindle it suddenly dawned on me that I'd used it when I tried to make a hinge on the beasts towing frame back in Iquique, and bent it to an angle of 30 degrees. Bollocks! Now what? I ended up having to trap the break in a nut again and continued for a further seven kilometres into town.

The usual story, horrendous traffic mixed now with the fear of my wheel collapsing again, plus some terrible road surfaces. I would have held my breath if I'd had any to spare. I had intended to find a supermarket, then post my stuff off to England and get out of there, but now I also had to find a bike shop. Somehow I could just sense this was going to be a problem. Once in the city centre I began to ask the locals for directions. Those that would talk to me sent me in all directions and for many hours I wandered the streets, after rapidly losing my sense of humour. "

It's over there."

" It's five blocks that way."

" It's back seven blocks over there. "

Back and forth to the north and south of town, it would have been easier to find the lost city of Atlantis. Finally I found someplace but they didn't have wheel spindles, however on seeing how visibly distressed I was they were kind enough to strip down a bike on display and give me one for free. Outside I flipped the beast onto its side, and began stripping out. For some reason a large crowd gathered on the busy street and I found myself surrounded by people, all watching intently. I came to the conclusion the people of Tacna were bored to the point of suicide.

Anyway, job done and it was getting dark and I still had to find food. I found a small supermarket but it had very little and I then learned the larger places had closed until tomorrow. On top of all of this I still have to find the Post Office. I jacked and sat in a small ice cream shop and had a drink of something called 'Inca Kola' which seems to be bigger than Coke here. I'd had enough of this town already, stressed out by the traffic all day I had to calm down before I started popping brain cells. I then had to find somewhere to sleep.

Wednesday, 17th November 1999. 30 kilometres. 33 degrees C. 70 degrees 27 minutes west, 17 degrees 50 minutes south.

Not far from the town centre I found a dark drainage or irrigation ditch running between large buildings, with a path running alongside it. There was no one in the street and all seemed very quiet, so I pulled into the shadows of the undergrowth and the simply slept next to the beast in my sleeping bag liner. It was a warm night and I wrapped my head in my shamag to protect me from the growing cloud of mosquitoes. The place had been used as a public toilet for decades so the smell took some getting used to. I slept little, waking with every sound.

The first thing I did the next morning was find the Post Office. I sat outside and put together my package of notes, films, reprints and other odds and sods before presenting it to the staff. However they would not except it because of all the tape I have used to secure it and then requested I take out the contents to show them before rebagging it. It cost me S29 (29 Soles, that’s 3 Soles to $1 US ).

I still didn't have any spare spindles for the wheels, or all the food I was after, you just can't go shopping with the beast, but I'd be stuffed if I was hanging around this place much longer.

There's a growing phenomenon known to me as the 'Dog on the roof phenomenon'. A trend I first noticed in Antofagasta which has grown more widespread as I've gone north. Sometimes you'll see packs of dogs on a roof and always the animals are in a frantic state of euphoria, sprinting around the rooftop screaming at everything below. I can of course see the logic. Dogs running around under your feet,-- throw dog on roof. Dog loves it, its out of the way, less crap in the garden and extra insulation on roof. If it carries on at this rate by the time I reach Lima there'll be dogs base jumping from multi-storey buildings.

I pulled out of town, picking up water on the way. It was a hefty climb out into the hills and I felt very weak, but considering I hadn't eaten last night or this morning it's hardly surprising. I'd been on the climb for about one-and-a-quarter hours when I realised I hadn't picked up any fuel, what a prick! I had a little left and hoped I could find more at the next small town, but lo and behold just over the top was a small gas station. After that it was much the same story flat, endless desert roads leading off into infinity.

To my right, away in the blue mist of distance, hills give way to mountains and on the visual limit white snow peaks stand bold in the midday sun. The mountains below the peaks just fade into the blue.

Monday, 23rd November 1999. 30 kilometres. 39 degrees C. 70 degrees 56 minutes west, 70 degrees 11 minutes south.

Moquegua A very difficult day. Very little wind and extremely hot. Not long after 13:00 I dropped down into a green valley and followed it for the rest of the way along a straight road before one last gut wrenching climb into town. Moquegua supports 65,000 people but you wouldn't think so to look at it. I normally like to enter a town with my brass buttons shining and bulled boots, but today I was looking a little rough and Christ! I felt it. Moquegua was a rough town so I guess I fell into place. My timing was spot on as tomorrow two days of partying for the town's birthday begins, (25th November). Quite a big affair by all accounts. 65,000 people, plus one, and only one of us has blonde hair and blue eyes! This placed is well off the beaten tourist trail and Gringos aren't often found here. Struggling into town in my 'weathered' condition the attention was unwelcome, however, I continued struggling towards the towns plaza. I had a break, a drink of Inca Kola (ice-cold), and then just wanted to sleep. Two children stood next to me staring, and then other people would just stop and stare, deep sunken eyes from dark faces. The population was mainly Peruvian Indian, a very distinctive looking people. I couldn't relax with all this attention so I mustered what strength I could and went to find food, but had little luck in finding anything larger than a small grocery store. Unfortunately, I was told that's as good as it gets in this place. I bought some more pasta but couldn't get any milk powder, which I needed. They only sold it in 250 gr packs and it's too expensive in this form. I really needed a one kilogram bag but was told I would have to go to either Tacna or Arequipa to find one.

I pulled back into the narrow streets to a large open market place, very busy, exactly what you expect in a Peruvian town. Hundreds of people and it was impossible to get about with the beast. In the end I sacked it and found a small side street cafe and sat with a coffee until it got late, writing up my notes. I began to find the writing difficult because of growing cramps in my hands, legs, feet and face. It was time to find somewhere to sleep and I was hoping for somewhere close to the centre, but was having no luck. Eventually I came across a small builders yard with the gates wide open. It was filled with bricks and other paraphernalia. The whole place was built onto the base of a large cliff that provided a back wall. I pulled the trailer inside and found a small alcove formed by the bricks. It was out of the street lighting, out of sight-- out of mind. The place was a bit grotty and smelly, but I felt quite safe, plus this place was reasonably close to the town centre. I laid a layer of bricks on the floor for my bed and got some scoff on before crawling into my sleeping bag. For while I just lay there listening to people passing by in the street.

My inner alarm sounded! I had been asleep but within a split second I was wide awake. I was aware of someone in the yard. A shadowy figure was moving about, but apparently had failed to see me. This spectre, after a minute or so, left the compound,-- locking and chaining the gates as it did so. All for the best I thought it was just a wickerwork gate and I would escape in the early morning with no problem, plus at least this kept the rest of the world out. However, I was still kept awake during the night as rocks would often fall from the cliffs above, crashing onto the bricks. I was up at about 06:00 and undid a section of fence, fixing it behind me as I left. There was not a thing out of place to suggest I'd even been in.

I took a stroll down to the Plaza, and as there were few people about, I decided to get some food on. With that, people came from everywhere and again they would sit around and watch me. Then some guy came and sat down next to me. He claimed to be a teacher at the local school and began questioning me. He spoke no English and I was left struggling to hold a difficult conversation with a mouthful of food. I gave him a copy of 'The Mercury' magazine.

" There you go! You read, I'll eat."

He read a little then asked me what religion I was. 'Here we go'. I muttered something as I continued to eat. I then received a lecture on how I had only got this far because God had let me, that he was travelling with me, and that I should accept him blah blah blah---. He asked if I had a bible, but by now I was playing dumb.

" What, what?"

He pulled a small bible from his trouser pocket .

" You must have one of these!"

" No!"

" I insist,--- you must!"

A group of children began to gather, and the man began to explain how I got here, and how it was all due to God. He spoke in a loud preacher like fashion, and I began to wish I had a gun. Other people began to gather round and this small group attracted even more people. My friend now stood and began to read aloud from the magazine. Before I knew it a huge crowd had gathered about and individuals would throw questions at the 'preacher'.

" Why is he here, where did he come from?"

" He's walking"

" But he has a bike!"

" No, he's walking"

" OK--- but where's the biker walking to?"

At this point I felt I had to chip in.

" Does it really look like a bike?" I asked.

There was silence--- a pregnant pause --and not a few puzzled looks.

" Yes!" they all cried as one.

I just smiled, bless them. I was now beginning to feel nervous with all these people around me and the beast, so while the preacher grappled with questions I took the magazine from his hands with a 'Thank you', in that 'now piss off' tone of voice. He did, quite rapidly, and once he had most of the crowd began to disperse. I got a look at myself in a mirror. White salt crystals covered my face and hands. My clothes were run through with bands of thick salt, turning my cotton shirt into a plastic like material.

An old man came over and began asking questions, amongst which was "Where are you sleeping?"

" Anywhere."

" You could sleep at my place if you wish. "

" Really? Please answer the following questions as truthfully as possible, Mr -- ?"

" Genaro Escalante."

" Mr Escalante, do you live in a mansion or a shed?"

" A shed"

" Hmmm,-- close to the town centre?"

" Yes!"

" Do you have a fridge ?"

" Just"

" A spare bed?"

" Yes!"

" TV?"

" Yes"

" Cable?"

" No"

" Oooooh!-- video?"

" No."

" Oh dear, careful now!-- a shower?"

" Yes!"

" Warm water?"

" No"

" Tut tut, we are not doing very well, are we Mr Escalante? Do you own a dog?"

" No"

" Cat?"

" No"

" Daughters?"

" Yes,--- five!"

" Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of one human parasite,-- let's go!"

The house was an old odd-shaped mixture of concrete, wood, breeze blocks and 'wriggly tin'. It appeared dark and dingy, but after a refreshing cold shower and a meal everything felt and looked a lot better. I now had a chance to test my fast charge on the sat-phone with my solar panel. A series of old rickety stairs led to an opening onto the roof of the house where I could leave my panel in the sun. However after a few hours I found the battery had failed to hold or store any charge at all. Meanwhile another meal was being prepared downstairs and I sat down with soup for starters. A concoction of all sorts, vegetables, beans, oats and bugs! (weevils). Lots of them. I would pick them from the soup and line them up along the edge of the plate. This became a regular past time, (weevils on parade!). The potatoes were worm ridden to, and had to be inspected carefully. Not that I'm complaining, I was well fed.

For the next two days there were parades through the streets, which included everything and everybody from the army to local schoolchildren and groups of farmers from all over the region. In fact it was quite a big do, with national TV coverage.

Tuesday, 30th November 1999. 28 kilometres. 27 degrees C. 71 degrees 52 minutes west, 16 degrees 48 minutes south.

I fell asleep early last night but at 23:06 I was woken by the ground trembling. There was no traffic about and it was silent other than just a deep rumbling from the earth. I lay there for a while in the dark, wide-eyed and then it began to suddenly increase, and I could hear things beginning to move about in my tent. I sat up, poised to move, where I don't know. My heart was pounding, it was so creepy in the pitch black, with such strange noises. Then as it came, it began to fade and I went back to sleep.

I was up at about 05:00 and on the road by 08:00, straight back into the climb. Once again the road continued to wind uphill like a coiled spring, but this time with small tunnels thrown in for good luck. It was 16 kilometres in all to the top and I was gasping like a fish out of water for two hours. From there the road ran straight across a desert plateau. Given the hard work I'd been doing, I was guzzling water again, which would run out to me as though I was full of holes. The sun was back, but I'm glad to say so was the wind so the temperature stayed in the high twenties. Along an empty road, with a flat featureless landscape, my mind began to tumble as though in some kind of a walking dream world, and thoughts would merge into one another. Jumbled streams of imagination and memories,-- anything to try and escape from the endless road and its silence.

Towards the end of the day I was coming up on an air base, and before I could finish my 30 kilometres a large road sign told me that I could not leave the road because this was military land. I therefore decided to stop two kilometres short so as not to risk being moved on during the night. I pulled off the road and into the desert, far enough to make sure passing vehicles didn't catch sight of me, before just laying down in the sand, shattered. I instantly fell asleep for about one and a half hours.

I'm running low on water. I picked up three litres in the valley thinking it would be enough, but obviously not. The problem with using water bags is you're never quite sure just how much you’re carrying, unlike when I'm just using bottles. In that case I only have to look at my trailer to see exactly how much I have. The bottles being neatly set out in 2 litre and 11/2 litre units.

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Thursday, 2nd December 1999. 33 kilometres. 71 degrees 36 minutes west, 16 degrees 23 minutes south.

Up and on the go early. I set off in fighting spirit as this would be a hard slog today. The funny thing is, none of this was necessary. I could have got a lift into Arequipa as it was well off my route, and having having had my time in town I could then get a lift back to where I left the Pan-American. However I wanted to enter the town on foot, 'the old way', in all my glory, the massed bands and drums behind me. Of course in reality it would be a nightmare fight with the traffic, and the locals would simply sit and laugh at me from the street. The stupid Gringo, looking as if he'd just crawled out of the desert.

It was indeed a hard slog. Just after midday I reached the top at 2,175 metres. I was already having many problems with the traffic on the narrow roads and the winding tight corners. There were lots of trucks and coaches fighting for space, and lots of angry drivers hurling abuse at me, which was starting to wind me up. I began to suffer from pains in my stomach, which I put down to stress. I dropped down into a deep valley and now had to push back up over the top to find somewhere to sleep. I was absolutely knackered by now, and began to lose my cool with the traffic, biting back.

Once over the top I was hoping to find a stretch of desert so I could sleep, but I had a sneaking suspicion that I would start to hit the outskirts of the city, and sure enough that's what I found. I was now having major problems finding somewhere to pitch tent. Eventually I spotted something that looked OK, I thought. An old abandoned brick building set off the road, behind which was a small patch of ground, pretty well hidden. Beyond that an irrigation ditch and a green field in which some farming folk were busying away. I sat for a while, taking a breather, but decided to pitch tent before the mosquitoes closed in. As I began work a woman came over, a large Indian woman, screaming and yelling, followed by a group.

" Oh Christ!"

She stood in the field, giving it 'rock all'. "This is all mine, get out!"

' Yeah yeah, I'm going', and began disassembling the tent. She kept up the verbals and I just played dumb.

" Can't I just sleep here" I asked.

" No, this is all mine!"

" All this waste land?"

" Yes, all mine, get off!"

The hell it was. They began to laugh with each other, and obviously found this rather amusing. I could understand most of what they were saying." Stupid Gringo, understands nothing". She would then come back with another round of insults. These people were just arseholes getting a kick out of telling a Gringo where to go. I was losing my rag, but carried on packing away quietly. The large woman got louder and more aggressive. There was no need for this I told her in Spanish, I was going. Next on the scene was Paps, stumbling through the field, obviously pissed out of his brains.

' Here we go!'

The drunk came in, arms swinging everywhere. I simply pushed him onto his arse. The children thought this was smashing and were having a great time. The woman and her elder daughters began throwing bricks at me. This was definitely getting beyond a joke and my fuse was about to run out. In comes Paps again, like a demented windmill, and so pissed he could hardly locate me. That's it,--no more Mr Nice Guy.

'Bang!'--- I landed one squarely on the end of his nose and he dropped like a shot moose. The woman went berserk and came at me clawing, punching and screaming like a banshee. It was hard to keep her at arm's length. Paps was busily rolling around on the ground, trying to reorientate himself with north, south, east and west,- aided by the kids. '

Christ! Got to get the hell out of here!'

The woman then picked up a brick and tried belting me with it. In the meantime Paps had got to his feet and was coming at me from the other side with a brick. Time-out! I pulled my machete from the side of my bergen. This had a similar effect to firing a shot over their heads, and the crowd moved backwards,-- rapidly. ' Yep! The Gringo is really pissed off now!'

The kids began dragging Paps off into the field before the crazy Gringo decapitated him, his nose pissing blood everywhere. I finally got my tent away and pulled off down the track, under a volley of stones and bricks. The woman continued to come after me, still swinging a brick. She dealt me a blow across the shoulders that has left a nasty mark. The trouble with women in this sort of situation is you never know how to deal with them. I refrained from dropping her, but maybe I should have.

I laughed, it's like Belfast. Welcome to Arequipa Karl. So--- back on the road, but it wasn't long before I found a track leading up to a patch of waste desert, out of view of the locals below. So drained and tired.

A section from Karls stay in Arequipa

On the way I had to pass the old church in the Plaza San Francisco. Sitting on the steps of the church was a large gang of youths, about 15 in all, with ages ranging between 16 and 19. I walked on by, I had seen them before. I had reached a narrow street that ran from the Plaza, effectively walled in, when suddenly I was jumped from behind, with some kid hanging around my neck. Within a split second the whole gang were on me like wolves. This was a frightening moment! I was surrounded by a mob, punches and kicks coming from all sides. Gripped with fear, there was nothing else for it,-- I could well be fighting for my life here. God bless the people who trained me, I was like a baited bear. I exploded into a whirlwind of aggression, so fast and furious most of it was just a blur. I remember focusing on individual faces and hitting hard. Within a few moments I'd punched my way clear, broken out and run. A 50 yards sprint left my pursuers behind and they stopped, giving up the chase. I then stopped. My blood saturated with adrenalin, I had reached that point where the 'red mist' takes over. Exhilaration gripped me and also anger at being made to run. I'd put up with abuse from such groups since I reached town and had resentment to spare. This wasn't finished, there had to be more. Standing in the middle of the plaza, with a smile on my face, I began a tirade of abuse aimed at the gang that now stood watching me from the narrow street.

" I'll take on any one of you that thinks he's worthy, here and now! In fact no, make it any two of you!"

I kept up the demand, but they didn't play that way. I then realised I now had an audience of onlookers and left, feeling rather foolish, but with my blood still boiling. If Gringo baiting was a local sport then maybe they would think harder before indulging next time. Giving myself a quick check, I found I was unmarked, nothing. Whatever, I had shamed them and I could sleep tonight. I had perhaps been very lucky, but this was not over. I would see them again. What now? Change my route? Stay in? Let a gang of kids dictate my life. No, I think not, not as long as I draw breath! I'm not sure of the reason for the attack, your guess is as good as mine. Money? Or just the pleasure of kicking the shit out of a Gringo,-- or even both.

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Wednesday, 12th January 2000. 31 kilometres. 73 degrees 16 minutes west, 16 degrees 22 minutes south.

It was a hell of a hot night and I lay soaked in sweat, my tent like a sauna. From the word go the following morning it was uphill. Climbing up the valley wall and then up and on to a peak after about five kilometres. From there I followed the coastline, running along some high cliffs. Below me was the ocean, a deep emerald green. Large waves crashed on to the rocky shoreline forcing air and water up through blow holes. The sun was weak and struggled to get through the clouds, but yet it was still so hot. When what little wind there was dropped it was stifling.

I was stopped by a couple in their late Fifties, travelling to Lima from Arequipa to visit family. They have land with two houses in which that family lives and I was invited to camp out on their land when I get to Lima. Another incentive, I was invited to the guys birthday party on 14th February, a big do apparently. It was possible. He told me it was on the outskirts of Lima on the approach side and gave me an address. If that's the case it might make the occupation of Lima a lot easier. After that I dropped down to a small place not on any of my maps called La Planchar. It consisted of a large fish oil plant and a group of houses and restaurants. This just happen to be my 20 kilometre point so I stopped for a break. It was a rough spot. A group of workers sat pissed and argued with each other to the point where I thought there was going to be a fight. A second group of men sat with three 9mm pistols on the table and one of them looked as though he was wearing half a uniform. Could these be off-duty security guards from the plant? I had a Coke, but only because it was so cheap.

From that point on it was a steep climb over to the next valley and as I climbed I had this strange dizzy spell. I'm sure I have mentioned this before, it feels like being drunk and after I felt as weak as a kitten. Once I'd reached the next valley, a place called Pescadores, I stopped and bought myself some chocolate, thinking I may be running low on fuel. This now leaves me with very little money left to get to Ica. When I get this weak I start to get almost paranoid about food and eating. A few handfuls of pasta in the morning and at night just doesn't seem to be enough to deal with these hills. I'm always hungry and terrified I'll lose too much weight, so I begin to eat anything I find and look even harder. As I sat outside a pokey kiosk forcing my precious chocolate down my neck, I'm suddenly aware of lots of people taking a big interest in me. Gringos it would appear, never stop here and a group of teenage girls go into role.

" Look at his blue eyes!..... Look at his blue eyes!" they repeated.

Again this place is nothing more than a group of houses whose occupants farm the valley. From here on it's a long climb out of the valley, the last six kilometres of my day. On the way I found a pile of rubbish left by the road workers. You find them all the time, where food is brought out to the workers. The standard seems to be a little polystyrene carton with a small bottle of pop. Like a sharp eyed vulture I noticed they had left something uneaten, a small plastic container with a tinfoil lid, holding some sort of home made gel, seemingly of fruit. It had been well sealed and I looked at the remains of the other discarded containers to try and estimate how long it had been there. I reckoned about two days, but it's hard to tell in the desert as food tends not to rot but dry out. An unidentifiable food substance, made up in someone's kitchen, and found on the side of the road, its date of manufacture unknown and found somewhere in South America,---- would you eat it? I ripped off the tinfoil and threw the contents down my neck, like a dog in a garbage can. A hungry man has little pride, and spare me the lecture, you're not doing these hills. I spotted a second container and leapt on it, nothing tastes as good as free food. I was disappointed find that this one had a rip in the lid and had been exposed, so with difficulty I managed to convince myself to discard it.

I camped at the top where a stiff breeze was blowing, which made a cool change. I sat for a while, absolutely knackered. It had been one helluva day.

Tuesday, 18th January 2000. 28 kilometres. 74 degrees 28 minutes west, 15 degrees 42 minutes south. Tanaca.

The lights of Chala shone bright way down below as I sat staring for some time. I was brought back to reality by my pan beginning to boil over, having to switch my attention rapidly. I sat outside to eat, stripped down to just my shorts in the cool night breeze. It very pleasant but my concerns once again revolved around food and distances. Water was not a problem for now of the near future, but I now had to start rationing my food, a move I really did not wish to make, and it was a bit of a worry. I had plenty of pasta, but little of such items as sugar, milk powder and soup cubes. Today, I knew was going to be a struggle and it wasn't long before I was hard at work, climbing. It started off hot, but soon clouds began to grow. There were lots of locals on mopeds or motorbikes cruising on by. Fishermen returning after a night on the beach and others going out. Two or sometimes three guys, plus all their gear, on a small bike with wobbling wheels.

I dropped and climbed all day, and it was a real grind. That afternoon a strong wind began to blow from behind and stinging sand filled the air. As I approached a small settlement on one climb, I came across the women and girls ambushing traffic, trying to sell them small bags of fruit. You find a lot of the Indian women and girls hard-selling whatever while the men combed the beaches. As I came towards them over the brow of the hill, the girls would nervously hide off to the side of the road and keep their distance from the odd stranger. Because of the sun and the stinging sand I had masked up with my shamag and probably looked a little more menacing to them. Yet a woman still came over with a gift of four small pears as I passed.

Later I began a steep descent and the view in front of me was of a very flat stretch of beach and the road running off into the distance. As I approach the bottom I could see a small settlement called Tanaca, and from my still relatively high position it looked deserted, nothing but old mud brick houses, no doors, windows or any sign of life. As I drew closer however, I could see people moving about and found that it was in fact full of white people in shorts and swimming costumes. I started to spot flash cars parked in the shade behind the houses. Most odd. I stopped at one house, made from mud bricks with the roof of bamboo stems, a group of old people sat on the porch drinking, dressed as though they were at your local golf club. They greeted me with smiles and raised glasses and I was handed a glass of water. They were from Lima and it turns out so are most of the other people here. They've all come from somewhere else in the country for their holidays, for a few weeks, a month maybe. For the rest of the time it's a ghost village. There were girls in bikinis everywhere, blonde hair and long legs. Just at the bottom of the street was an absolute belter of a beach, and it didn't take much to work out why the village had been built here. It's a beautiful spot and a far cry from the madness of Lima and its eight million-strong population.

Having filled a bottle of water I pushed on as I only had a few K's left to attain the target. As I reached the very bottom of the hill and was about to leave town, I passed a chap and his son who were heading for the beach armed with bats and the ball. They stopped and spoke with me. He spoke good English and again and come from Lima. The man told me they had passed me the other day on the road somewhere near Camana and it wasn't long before they'd asked me if I would like to join them for a meal, ( the magic words ). Back at the house I sat in the kitchen with the family, Genette Toutin Plaza, his wife and son, and was fed like a king. He was an olive farmer and exporting olives all over South America and even North America. It was obvious he wasn't doing too badly either. Both he and his wife spoke very good English, and his son was that an English college in Lima. They had a farm just down the road in the next valley, Yauca. As I munched on all sorts of goodies, I was questioned at length about my trip. As soon as my plate was empty it was refilled. The family would spend two months a year here, somewhat of a family tradition. They bring everything and when they leave take everything with them--- doors, windows and toilet, the works. Anything left will be removed. The evening progressed with discussions on Peruvian history, politics and stories of the 'Shining Path', the terrorist group that terrorised Peru, killing tourists and whole villages. However they are no longer considered a threat. We also spoke of the people and their customs etc. I learned an awful lot about Peru that evening.

It grew late and I was offered a bed for the night. I had a wash in water warmed by the sun that day and we spent the rest of the evening sat on the porch on soft chairs, drinking coffee,-- with milk! They even had a TV which was wired up to his car battery. A warm and pleasant night with a gentle breeze and I was regaled with stories of U.F.O's in these deserts etc--- then had a good night's sleep.

Wednesday, 19th January 2000. 33 kilometres. 28 degrees C. 74 degrees 44 minutes west, 15 degrees 35 minutes south.

It was an early start, I was up and about around 07:30. We took breakfast and after some photos I was given some more soup cubes, sugar, two tins of tuna and lots of crackers. Genette also slipped me S40.00. Again I was swamped with kindness and all this of course was a huge benefit to me. I couldn't thank them enough. As I left so did Genette and his son in their car, to Yauca. It's only about 10 k's down the road. Off I went along the coastal road flanked by sand dunes. Way off to my right, was what appeared to be a long hill range but in fact is one huge sand dune, the largest in the world they tell me. The wind was up and the sand blew across the road in shimmering sheets. The sand dunes, had begun to engulf the highway, covering one lane with long spurs of sand forcing the traffic into the other lane. You could see the sand dunes being formed and how they would creep ever so slowly. In these high wind the dynamics of the sand dunes was accelerated.

Somewhere down the windswept road I met Genette and his son returning. They had with them a bike pump to get some more air into my tyre. He had also brought me a new 36x Kodak film as mine had run out. To top it off there was also two litres of 'Inca Kola' for my journey, what a guy! I continued between the sand-dunes until I began to drop into the valley of Yauca. Forests of olive trees filled the valley floor. A group of teenage girls insisted I stop and talk to them for a while before I pushed on to the village of Chavina in the next valley. Here I stopped for a Coke in a small pub/ cafe. Chavina was nothing more than about 200 metres of shoddy houses on either side of the Pan-American. I was swamped by kids as I sat with my Coke. They all stood around and just stared at me until eventually they got brave enough and began asking me questions. People came from every house to peer at the Gringo, or looked through the windows, (well holes in the walls). Nobody seems to have glass windows in these parts. Then the kids swamped my table to get a look at my maps, which they found most interesting, and running their fingers along the map would shout out excitedly the names of places they knew. Outside I let them pull the beast for a short way.

It grew overcast now and the wind dropped as I pushed on for my last 8 k's. I was stopped by traffic cops and stood chatting as we drank Coke for a while before finishing the day. This evening is a lot different, cold, very strong wind and rain. However I have lots of food so I'm smiling like a pig in a muddy field.

Saturday, 22nd January 2000. 29 kilometres. 25 degrees C. 74 degrees 59 minutes west, 14 degrees 54 minutes south.

A wet night, with rain and mist still hanging heavily in the air as I start the day. I didn't sleep very well last night, tossing and turning until the early hours. There's nothing much to look at as I set off. Long straight roads and mist.

For some time now I have been suffering those stupid car horns that sound like something from the Dukes of hazard, or even worse the 'wolf whistle' one's. For some reason today (probably tiredness), I find them particularly irritating.

I dropped into a shallow valley with a thin strip of green running across my front. I'm looking for somewhere to have my midday break as I just passed my 20 kilometres point. Perhaps a little roadside cafe would be nice, but this place looks like it's been shelled. It would appear the Serbs have got here before me. There's nothing but rubble, and ransacked derelict buildings. However just before I reached the desert I found a small settlement which had the distinct look of an African village. There was a small bar, which had one old rusty table and a few old rusty chairs. The whole population stopped and stared at me in silence. Behind me people left their houses and walked into the street to investigate this odd chap. The bar was a small place with a grubby looking counter. After a quick check to see if the chair was safe before sitting I ask for a coffee, but it would appear they don't have any so I settled for a dusty old bottle of Coke. A skinny dog eyes me nervously from behind the counter, and a large chicken roams around, pecking at the vegetables in a rack by the door. I have time to kill, it's now 13:30 and I have only six kilometres left of today's distance. Children gather outside and stand and stare for as long as I sit here. I sat for two hours, almost dozing, before pulling myself together and pushing on.

I came upon a second green strip and pulled off the road for the day, deciding this would be a good place to sleep. I then began a fight, with my cooker, which has been giving me trouble. It needs a good clean in an acid bath again. Try as I might I can't seem to stop the thing from blocking up. I wait till it cools, strip it, clean it, put it together, fire it up---- stoppage! I then have to go through the whole rigmarole again. It wasn't long before my patience began to dissolve. All I wanted was a shagging cup of coffee! Some food would have been a real treat!

Thursday, 17th February 2000. Lima. 77 degrees 02 minutes west, 12 degrees 02 minutes south.

I slept well, except for their damn dog which had decided to sleep by my tent, and every time something moved on the other side of the wall the hound would let rip with howls and barking, scaring the crap out of me. I was up very early and ready to move by 07:00. As no one in the household was awake I left a letter explaining that I must be on the move and thanking them for all the help etc.

On reaching Lima I followed the route down onto the beach area which kept me up separated from the city proper by high cliffs, on top of which stood blocks of high-rise hotels, flats and restaurants. All the morning was spent moving along the seafront, before I finally climbed up into the town and on to a main road running straight into the centre, (Avenida Brazil). This would take me very close to where I needed to be. It was a busy route which would give a certain amount of security although the traffic of course would give me a certain amount of stress. After being spat at, abused, and yelled at constantly my patience was running thin. I'd eaten nothing and was feeling a little weak by the afternoon. I had no phone number for the address so could not pre-warn anyone of my arrival or know whether anyone was actually in. It was all a bit hit-and-miss, which I could have done without. It wasn't too hard to cut my way through the last few streets to the river and the bridge which led into Rimac .

On the other side of the bridge I stopped for a map check. I was now only a short distance from the address. Two 'smack heads' sidled over, all smiles and 'Hey Gringo', trouble written all over their dirty hides. One of them tried to put his arm around me.

" Get off and go away!!"

The next thing I know, the shorter one, has come in from the other side, grabbed my left arm and is tearing at my watch. Your first mistake of the day mate! As he clung to my arm I rained a series of punches straight into his face. He dropped to his knees sliding down my arm, taking some serious blows. There were four policewomen on the other side of the bridge who had seen this commotion and were running my way. His friend stepped in and I became scared that I was about to be outnumbered, as I was still strapped into the beast. I reached over my shoulder, and pulled out the machete. As I did the second guy grabs his friend and drags him clear. There were lots of people around me now and I had an awful feeling I may be jumped and picked clean. I began to issue threats to anything that moved. It was then that I noted with horror that my watch had gone, ripped from its strap. The two offenders were only a few feet away, stumbling around, and I began frantic efforts to get out of my bergen harness, slipping out of it as the policewomen arrived. I turned and pointing to the beast, said " Protect that!". One of the four policewomen stayed with my kit while the others ran to follow me through the crowd. By now the red mist is down, and I'm 'locked on' to my prey. Coming from behind I grabbed him by his hair, drag him off his feet and into a wall at the base of the bridge across the road. He does little to defend himself, acting as if he was drunk. I lay into him again, while screaming at him to hand over the watch. Through the anger it suddenly occurs to me I would probably do better if I shouted it in Spanish. The policewomen catch up but do nothing, standing back and watching as the attacker becomes the victim of an enraged Gringo. All I can get out of him is grunts and murmurs. His friend is trying to tell me he hasn't got the watch, but the interrogation under fist continues. Two male police officers arrive at the scene and I'm asked to step down. Happy he's going nowhere, I go back to look around the area just in case he's dropped it-- nothing! The bastards still got it, and I go back intent on tearing him limb from limb if needs be. One way or another I was going to get that watch back. On returning I find the thief being given a strip search by two men from the crowd under the direction of the police. Not thinking clearly, and wound up for a real fight, I storm into the middle and throw a corker of a punch straight into his face as the two men on either side are holding him up by his arms--Crack! This was followed rapidly by a second, third and fourth. It was at this point I was pulled off by a policeman, who held my watch up in front of my face whilst telling me to calm down.

A huge wave of relief swept over me as I saw it and I took a step back. The police dragged the thief over to a taxi and want me to go with them but I explain I can't. They want me to go down to the station and write a statement. One of the female officers points out that I have the trailer with me, and I'm also thinking about the fact I don't have a visa! I can really do without this extra hassle. I tell them they can toss the thief back into the street for all I care, I've got my watch so I'm happy. The copper shrugs his shoulders,-- 'OK'. In my haste to get rid of the trailer I've ripped one of the elastics on the beast that ties the bergen to the towing bar. As I go about repairing it the police move the crowd on, and three policewomen stand around me making sure no one goes near. Once back in the harness I take a deep breath, stop and look down at my hands held in front of me. I'm trembling like a leaf. My knuckles are split, bruised and bleeding, and my clothes splattered with blood. The skin on my wrist was grazed and broken where the thief had been hanging onto the watch strap. I thought back to all those warnings I had received from people along the way and had to smile to myself. I'd only just entered Rimac, over the bridge that separates it from the rest of the city. Christ! Welcome to your new home!

Saturday, 11th March 2000. 30 kilometres. Temp. (Off scale). 77 degrees 33 minutes west, 11 degrees 16 minutes south.

I didn't sleep well last night, don't know why but woke constantly. On the move just before 09:00 and feeling like crap from the word go. It was an extremely hot day and I went straight into a slow four kilometre climb that wiped the floor with me. On reaching my five kilometre marker I stopped for a rest and began guzzling water. The rest of the morning was a killer. The pain in my feet, overwhelming heat, and the beast felt heavier than ever. I just couldn't seem to get into it at all. When I reached the 20 kilometre point I was glad to find a few shacks on the road side selling Coke. By now I was dead on my feet and collapsed over a table, my head spinning with the heat. I was feeling faint and extremely weak. I asked for a Coke.

" Do you want a cold one?"

No, still boiling in the pan! Why do they ask me that every time I ask for a Coke. Look outside! Look at me! She goes to a large metal box and comes back with a Coke at room temperature. I said nothing, what was I expecting -- Ice? Perhaps these people believe that that's a fridge and this is cold. Perhaps they don't even know what cold is. This was a run-down, rancid place. Dogs and so many flies you could hardly take a breath without sucking them in. There were loads of kids running around or standing staring at me. All I wanted to do was sleep, and I dozed for a while before having a second Coke. However before I could finish it was full of swimming flies.

I stayed for as long as I could to wait out the hottest part of the afternoon, but by 15:00 I couldn't stand the kids, flies and dogs any more. The road was straight for nearly 50 kilometres, rolling over spurs and hills. There was nothing but desert on either side, but by now a wind had picked up, thank God. This gave much needed relief and I started to feel a lot better. I met up with an English chap on a bike, David, who was riding to New York from Punta Arenas. He'd been on the go for four months, and could not believe that someone was walking it. We had a good chat as we'd done pretty much the same route and so could appreciate the places we been through. 5 kilometres on from there I pulled in to camp down for the night.

Friday 14th April 2000. Chiclayo. 16 kilometres.

On my way into the town I was stopped by a chap who had read about me, and like Roberto, he was an agricultural engineer.

" Where are you staying in Chiclayo?"

" Don't know."

" Not a problem, I have a place you can stay."

Sorted!. .I reached town shortly before midday and having found the main plaza I then located the Western Union office and was able to pick up some money. More good news came in the fact that Mariano's (my new-found friend) place was only two blocks away from the plaza. Unfortunately you have to add to that the six block detour I took after being pointed in the opposite direction by a copper.

However, more good fortune was to come. It transpired that Mariano's wife ( Celima ) ran a medical laboratory and I was given a room just above this on the first floor. I stripped the beast down and humped it up the stairs, then showered and slept a little. Later I was invited to go back to their house for a meal. It was a nice place, well kept by three housemaids. I managed to eat something though really struggling with my lack of appetite. I have no interest in food at all and this is the most worrying thing for me. I've eaten nothing today and yet I'm not hungry.

Over the following weekend I just chilled out and checked the local night life, which amounts to nothing. Celima brought me some more pills and I suddenly find myself being mothered. On Monday I was given a free blood and urine test by Celima in her lab to find out if there's anything of a slightly more serious nature. There is still a lot of hepatitis and typhoid etc around. This escalated and I was screened for a whole host of other possibilities.

On Sunday I met up with Roberto and Anna, who had come up from Trujillo to have lunch with me. We went to a decent restaurant and they had two friends with them, one of whom I had met before. He had in fact once stopped to talk to me in the centre of Camana, a small town just north of Arequipa, where I had overnighted a long time ago. A small world indeed.

After waiting, a little nervously I may add, the day for my test results arrived. Everything turned out clear, a negative result on all diseases. There were a couple of points worthy of note though. The main one being my haemoglobin count was in the anaemic range, very low at 11.4 gr/dl, when it should have been about 14. This, I was told, is the equivalent to being short of 1 litre of blood and meant I would tire very quickly during exercise. However that has not been news to me for some time now. Despite the good Doctors concern, it means life goes on as normal for me. The other point noted was a very high young white cell count. A clear indication my body was fighting an infection. Other than that we were good to go.

During the following week things did not go quite according to plan. The Lopermide pills I was taking began to lose their effectiveness and things seem to be getting worse. Luckily by now I had a well established 'hotel suite' on the first floor above the lab, complete with cable TV and hot water etc... and I was being mothered by Celima. She now put me on a special diet, and supplied the food twice a day. Christ, I couldn't have paid for better private medical attention. Later in the week noting things weren't improving, she gave me a further stool test which showed a very strong infection and also the presence of a high blood count, which seemed to cause some concern for Celima. She believed it was this that accounted for my lack of red cells. 'Occult bleeding' an internal leakage, or possibly an ulcer? The sample also showed fungus and yeast spores. Celima put me on a stronger drug, Bactrim Forte twice a day, Floratil for the fungus, and Confer (iron supplement capsules). Plus there was Buscapina for the pain, (not that I had need of them). I was made to double dose on the first day and the strength of the drugs literally put me to sleep for the entire day. In fact I did little of anything else for that first week.

Tuesday, 30th May 2000. 19 kilometres. 80 degrees 04 minutes west, 04 degrees 37 minutes south.

It's a hot one today, no clouds. What kind of a surprise would it be to find the shop sold nothing at all. 1km down the road I found our gas station, or rather a hut with one diesel pump. So we plodded on for a further 6 k's until we came across a second police post. Next door was 'the shop'. The most they could give me was three bread rolls and a bottle of pop. Moving at such a slow pace along the straight road exacerbates the already dragging pace. Yet despite this we actually made better time, probably because I'm pulling the damn thing again. It's not too long before we hit a junction and I find a small shop selling pasta, and even a chap selling gasoline from cans, so we are still in the game. We move eastwards again from here, on a tarmac road, but now we are in the foothills of the Andes, the desert well and truly left behind me. For the next two days I'll be following this river valley up the river until the climbing begins to a place called Ayabaca, some 80 kilometres. It's a sad note that I could be in Ecuador in 2 days if I could go via Macara, but now it will be another eight days before I see the border of Ecuador. I have to take 146 km detour to try and avoid border police and customs. It's the old visa problem again, remember Lima?

As we make our way up the valley we pass small groups of houses and villages and all the time I'm asking if anyone is selling horses, but apparently it's always the next place, not here. It's a beautiful view as the valley drops a fair way in front of me, so much greenery. In the last hour of our day I stop for water at a small river that is flowing over the road. There's a lot of locals at this point, mainly kids with jerry cans to fill up and also their donkeys to do the carrying. As I arrive on the scene the very young kids run like hell, scared stiff of me. Others move away, off the river, and watch me from the bush. I fill four litres with my filter and the donkey stamps around snorting at the presence of the other donkeys. He can't even be bothered to drink. He just wants to bonk or fight something and it's one hell of a job to get him back onto the road. It's always the same when he sees something on four legs, he just goes wild. All day I have to drag him away from other animals. We find a nice spot up on a spur for the night, overlooking the road and up the valley. I watch the donkey kick up a patch of dirt then roll around on his back for a while. He does this every evening.

Wednesday, 31st May 2000. Approx 20 kilometres. 79 degrees 54 minutes west, 04 degrees 36 minutes south.

At 04:00 I am woken by the distant braying of a donkey a long way down the valley. This is repeated by donkey's within earshot and so the clamour makes its way along the valley towards me, one over here, two more there. Soon it's got to be the turn of EEEEEEEE!!......EEEEEEHAWWWWW!!.....HAWWW!.......Hawww!.......hawww.

Despite being woken during the night by my donkey scuffling around and farting outside the tent, I am in fact sleeping much better recently. Treiz and I made a large 'saddle' from a blanket and some foam to form padding beneath the load and at night I stick this under my tent. It's like having a mattress to sleep on.

There's been a slight improvement in progress as the donkey is picking up on the routine,... eat, drink, sleep and walk. We made good progress yesterday. As we crawl off down the valley yet again I begin to ask everyone I meet if they know anyone that sells horses.

" No, not here,... but if you go down to the next vill--"

"Yer, I know, thanks."

At about 11:00 I spot three chaps ahead of me on fine looking animals, big burly looking horses. The men are stationery talking and as I pull up to them I ask the same question. One looks at the other and says " Yes, sell him yours." The man (a local campesino) ponders for a second. I'm thinking Yes! Yes! Do it, do it!

" How much are you offering ?"

" $80 US, and this fine rocket-powered sociable animal."

The men talk amongst themselves and seem to agree it's a worthwhile deal. They then get off their horses and leave them at the roadside with the young boy while they walk up to a nearby house and talk with an older man. After a couple of minutes they all come back down, complete with kids and the wife, who is carrying a notebook and pen. It's a deal! Nice one Sonny! He strips off his saddle and harness from the horse and I strip out at the donkey, (ha-ha, goodbye Fatso). To tell the truth the donkey is possibly the happiest one of all. They ask to see the donkeys papers? I plead dumb.... it doesn't matter it's not marked anyway. I just wanted to get out of there before someone raised an objection, or the donkey starts choking and falls over dead. My man saddles up the donkey and he's off down the road on its back. I now have myself a very fine looking beast, built like a tank, this is more like it!

After some pratting about I manage to sort out the harness and saddle and fit them to my new dark brown, very large horse. I equip myself with a big smile. The horse is very wary of the whole set-up, but we get under way and I am pleased to note a distinct difference in speed, it's faster! Not a great deal but faster all the same. After only a few hundred yards the load comes loose and slides off to one side. The horse freaks out and begins to panic and buck, leaping about all over the road, my kit being dragged and thrown everywhere as it hangs beneath the damn thing. It takes all my strength to hold it down, and finally it comes to a halt, with locals running in to help. I gather my stuff together, once it's calmed down, and start again. This time I seem to get it right. I next experience the same thing as I had with the donkey, it just doesn't seem to switch on to this walking thing and has to be dragged, except now it's a bit bigger and heavier,...... but I can drag it faster. Like the donkey before it I reckon this will take a few days before it succumbs to realities of its new job spec and is schooled.

The road now begins to climb and dropped very steeply, the tarmac giving way to dirt-track as we push on up the valley. We pass through more villages. At one of the larger ones, Palmas, I have to use my water bag to pick up water as I've lost two water bottles when the animal freaked out. However, the water bag has a few slow leaks. It's not long before I realised the animal is hungry and it begins to fight with me for food growing on the side of the road. I think keeping this chap well fed is going to be hard work, I may have to take a day out every four - five days just to let him eat well for a day. A hungry animal is a real pain to walk with and by the end of the day I'm knackered, really tired. I'm advised by a chap in a passing truck that just up ahead is a bridge off to my left. It's the quick way to Ayabaca. The land has changed now. To my right it climbs steeply and to my left drops dramatically to the river below. I can't find anywhere to sleep, it's all fenced off and farmland as well. We cross an old rickety wooden bridge and begin to climb. In front of us is the first of the mountain's. From here it begins.

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