Bike-packing Peru: Homeward Bound
Puno, Peru, 00:08am; I’m sitting upon the hostel’s toilet, stomach in turmoil, diarrhea flowing like air from a punctured tire. Back to bed. Ten minutes later, again perched upon the throne. Up and down like a fiddler’s elbow until I finally fall asleep around 8am. Somewhere during that time I also vomited. Misery. After a month in Peru without any illness, I thought my mighty immune system had saved me from the ills of being a white boy travelling in South America. The others had their turn early in our trip so I really thought I gotten away with it. Not so. I would spend all day in bed or on the toilet. I vomited again, tried to drink some juice and chewed on coca leaves. By mid-evening my stomach had settled but I was by no means feeling fine. Checking to make sure I was still alive, Reilly came to my room and we talked.
We were all of the same mind; the trip had run/cycled its course, we all were ready to head home for snowy Colorado. Reilly and Kimberly had that day investigated flights out of Cusco with the local Puno LAN office. But since they were not much help, we were directed to return the next day. The pair also investigated the bus situation. We had the option of a 7am bus ride to Cusco where we could make the changes we needed or, wait in Puno all day in hopes the local agent could help us then take an overnight bus to Cusco. We opted for the former. Up at 5am, we made our way to the bus station around 5:45am to arrive an hour before the bus’s departure as we’d been directed. Lost in translation; the bus actually leaves at 6am. We barely made it, barely minutes to pack our three bikes in the belly of that purple bus and ourselves above. The bus was packed with men, women, children, crying infants(my favourite, ugh), strange smells and odd stares. My belly felt better but certainly not 100%. I prayed for dry underwear and a smooth ride. By 6:05am Friday morning, wheels were hot and we were Cusco-bound. Part one of our homeward trip had begun.
We had been told that snacks would be available for purchase on the bus. Perfect; I hadn’t eaten a thing in over 36hours and was starting to find my appetite. After about 2 – 2 1/2 hours, at one of the several stops we made along the way, a lady and her four year old son boarded the bus. She had a very large brown paper package stuffed within the traditional multi-coloured blanket Peruvian woman tie around their shoulders to carry all sorts immense loads on their backs. She plopped the great sack upon a seat, standing in the isle bracing herself against the side of a chair’s seat-back, facing the bag. Unwrapping the blanket and the many layers of brown paper, steam came pouring forth as did the powerful scent of cooked animal. Beef, pork, alpaca? Made no difference, it was overwhelming, nearly too much for my sensitive stomach to bare. Our cook grabbed a great big meat cleaver and went to work. For a mere ten Soles[about $2.80USD] she’d cut, hack and chop a hearty section of meat, wrap it in a layer or two of brown paper, stuff it in a plastic bag and send her son to deliver your meal and collect payment. Quite the little operation. In the hour or so she was on board before getting off at the next town, she must have served up at least twenty portions to the hungry masses. I was so thankful the surly gentlemen next to me didn’t have an appetite; I think that would have sent me running down the stairs to the tiny on-board toilet.
On a ride of 7 – 8 hours a movie might be nice, some sort of entertainment. Enter the fellow in the kaki-pants, green golf-shirt and headset. He stood a few rows ahead and turned on the microphone with its little speaker. He pulled a binder from his carry-on sized suitcase and began the show. Yup, for the next hour we would have to sit through a live infomercial.
In a very clear, purposeful tone of voice, he extolled the virtues of quinoa and other grains. He went on and on moving to descriptions of all sorts of ailments, illnesses and diseases. Hang-nails, herpes, cancer, Alzheimer’s, diabetes, high blood pressure and heart disease; all that plagued our frail bodies was discussed with pictures and newspaper testimonials dangling from his binder. With conviction and confidence the man in the green golf-shirt then made his pitch. “Copaiba” the wonder potion. Was this the blood of Christ that fell upon the holy grail, did this potion spring from the fountain of youth, did the ancient Inka’s have this little oinment in their medicine cabinet? While his take may not have been that of the meat lady, he did succeed in a few sales of his miracle cure-all. Not a moment too soon, the next stop arrived and he, too, got off the bus, presumably to educate, inform and extort folks on the south-bound bus.
After 8 hours and not one bathroom incident, we made it to Cusco and headed directly for the LAN office. There, after a painful 2.5 hours, the ever-so-friendly patient attendant, Noemi, secured us all flights back to Denver…the next morning! Hurrying to the hostel where we’d stored our cardboard bike boxes, we had just 16 hours to get ready for our flight. We walked around town for a couple of hours, eating dinner and shopping for a few final souvenirs. Kimberly and I also purchased new shoes for the trip home since both ours were destined for the garbage can. Back at the hostel, we spread our bikes and all our bike-packing kit upon the courtyard’s floor and began the task of packing it all in those boxes and one carry-on item each. Tossing a few items and adding our souvenirs, we eventually got the bikes all packed, much to the wonder and amazement of the hostel staff and other guests. Sleeping soundly, we rose Saturday morning, got into two cabs and made our way for the Cusco airport. We had left Puno about 29 hours earlier and the fun was just gettin’ started.
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The airport was jammed full of people, quite different from when we arrived four weeks earlier. After nearly 45mins in line, we got to the ticket counter to check our bags. $107USD per bike box[$200USD Denver to Cusco] with the assurance that would get them to Denver, no further charges. With paper receipts in-hand, we breezed through security and took our seats on the plane. Two short hours later, we arrived in Lima. Regrettably, we had to re-check our bikes there and not until 3 hours before our flight; we had a ten hour lay-over! So, we ate and ate. Then I noticed the Ramada hotel next to the airport. “I bet they’ve got a bar we can sit at” I announced. And sure enough, they did. The friendly porter, Benjamin, even agreed to store our giant boxes at the hotel so we were free to wander the airport unencumbered. Turns out, Benjamin, who used to be a mixed martial arts fighter, was a HUGE fan of the great Canadian fighter, George St Pierre, so I think he had a bit of a soft spot for a Canadian traveller. We slept, we read, we drank a beer and eavesdropped on the group of business-folk sitting next to us. Finally, with three hours till departure, we grabbed our bikes and wheeled them to the American Airlines counter, ready to check-in with receipts in hand.
“I am sorry sir, but these receipts are invalid, they mean nothing to us. We can’t accept them. You have to pay us to get your bikes to Denver. $170USD” WHAT?!! We were livid. Turns out the folks in Cusco had under-charged us and given us deficient paper-work. The best the American Airlines folks could do was get our bikes to Miami but there we would have to pay for the remainder of our trip. It took us about 2.5 hours, about six employees and supervisors from the two airlines to arrive at a conclusion; there was nothing that could be[or would be] done. While our bikes would get to Miami without further charge, we would have to revisit this all when we attempted to check our bikes again to Denver. We were angry, we were tired, we were 30mins away from our flight’s departure and still had to pass through Peruvian customs and airport security. There was nothing we could do, no amount of stern talking or intimidating looks from Reilly and I would help matters. We boarded our flight, slept and got ready to do battle again in Miami where we had a 12hour lay-over.
Miami, Florida, 5:30am. None of us slept on the 5hour flight from Lima, all of us stank and were cranky. We got off the plane, found our bikes and dragged them to the American Airlines counter, ready for a fight. We calmly explained the situation to “Alina.” She listened in attentive, professional silence. She nodded, took all our paper-work and disappeared for about 15mins. We waited, anxiously. Soon enough, Alina returned and typed all sorts of unknowns into her computer terminal. New tags for the boxes were printed and new claim-checks handed to us each. Done. Alina fixed it all without even so much as a word. We shook her hand till it nearly fell off, we thanked her a hundred times for relieving us of the stress we’d been carrying since Lima. Now, just a 11 hours till our flight to Denver.
Actually, 13 hours; our flight was eventually delayed by about two hours. So, again, we loafed about the airport. We read, we ate, we slept on the floor[we each brought our sleeping bag and inflatable mattress in our carry-on bag]; I drank coffee, did yoga and flirted with Leah whose flight to LA was delayed an hour. We did, however, finally board our flight to Denver, with an ETA of 10pm. Our dear friend Roland would be waiting with Reilly’s van to collect us. Actually, when I called him to say our flight was delayed, he announced he’d simply wait at the bar.
In Denver, we met Roland–who had indeed been waiting at the bar for about four hours–and waited for our bikes to appear…which they eventually did and not too battered. At 11pm, we pulled out of DEN and began the three hour mountain drive to Roland’s house, about 30miles south of Salida. Within an hour, the clear skies turned to a snow-storm, making the roads slick and the visibility nearly non-existent. We crept along. At 3:30am, the chains went on the van’s rear wheels for the drive up to Roland’s house, the steep dirt roads covered in snow and ice. By 4am and after 5 hours, we arrived at Roland’s house. We slept for a few hours but were up in time to get Roland to work in Salida by 10am. We were home. And you know what, despite all the problems, the adventures, the lack of sleep, the delays and the stresses, it felt wonderful to be back in familiar surroundings and among friends. Travelling sure is great, but coming home is always such a special feeling.