a thousand turns

The logistical need for a good reliable address while on long term tour can’t be overstated. Getting stuff sent, sometimes seems like an overwhelmingly difficult task, since it requires the effort and goodwill of people both at the point of sending and, also, at the point of reception. While there is certainly a lot to be said for not relying on equipment that can’t be easily maintained with available parts, that can be a pretty rough row to hoe and consequently I have ended up holed up in Tumbaco for the best part of four weeks waiting for a series of parcels to arrive.

First, it was the parts for my new wheels, sent from the UK; next, a package containing some new Mondial Marathon tyres, from Schwalbe in the US, to replace a couple of XRs, that failed to fulfill the expectations raised by their venerable reputation; and finally, in the face of a stove that required dismantling and rebuilding several times during the course of preparing a simple meal, a last minute emergency maintenance kit from Primus in Sweden.

Since the wheel parts came from a few different companies in the UK, I had to enlist the help of Lindsay, my beloved fairy godmother in London, who collected them together, repackaged them and sent them on their way via courier. They arrived with the minimum of fuss and incurred no duty charges.

The replacement tyres from Schwalbe are ostensibly freebies but Schwalbe will only agree to send them to a US address. Catriona, one of my oldest friends from Australia, just happens to be in the process of moving to LA to pursue her career as a film director* in Hollywood and so is on hand to receive the tyres and send them on to me. She is kind enough to augment the package with a some wholesome goodies such as tea-tree oil and Dr Brenner’s liquid soap. Sadly, this package gets caught up in customs, and by the time I negotiate a creaky unwieldy bureaucracy and then pay $55 dollars to release it, the freebie tyres turn out to be quite expensive – especially on top of the $89 Catriona spent sending the box, an amount that the Customs officials of Ecuador, somewhat unfairly, include in calculating the supposed total value of the package!

I love my Primus Omnilfuel stove, however, it has been labouring for some time on a diet of poor quality dirty petrol and performing significantly below par. Magnus, from Primus, in Sweden, is a very helpful** when I describe my difficulties with the stove and instantly offers to courier a maintenance kit to me.

Getting spare parts for the maintenance of my bike and other equipment all comes down to foresight and planning – qualities that, unfortunately, I am not always overly endowed with – and thus I end up waiting… and waiting…  and waiting… Luckily Tumbaco and Quito, between them, provide a positive wealth of opportunities for improved health and happiness on tour. By the time I leave, I have new friends, my bike is in excellent shape, I’ve been to the dentist for the first time in a couple of years, I have hopefully eradicated my intestinal friends, the amoebae, who I now know by name, I have started a long-term war against toenail fungus (after having lost a toenail or two), and received all sorts of goodies from far-off places.

I have to offer enormous thanks to Steve (and his family) of Warm Showers for letting me stay for such a long time in the cane cutter’s cabin that sits on stilts, slightly incongruously, in this mountain climate, at the end of the backyard.

My current home...

...at the back of Steve and Maria's tiny house and big backyard in Tumbaco.

...

...

Steve, Maria and Carla gather round to admire my bike...

... while Ramon experiments with the possibility of wheels and gravity.

Steve is a keen cycle tourist himself and he and his family have quite a few cycling and mountain adventures under their belt.

Steve uses just about every available opportunity to embark on an adventure and so we set off on an overnight mini-tour which encompasses...

...sights such as the horrifically polluted Rio Guayllabamba, which drains out of Quito.

After dropping down to this particularly low point, we make our way...

... into the far more charming valley next to it, which boasts hot (well, at least luke-warm) springs, where we spend the night at a hospedaje,...

... before climbing...

...and climbing (no, not on that road, thankfully), fifty kilometres, or so, up and around Volcan Cotacachi before dropping down towards Otavalo and getting a ride home.

It was an epic weekend's ride. Thanks, Steve.

Home again, where I can admire various snow capped volcanoes from my cabana when Tumbaco isn't enveloped in brooding wet season clouds.

On a clear day, though, all the peaks peek out and climbing up to Quito offers some spectacular views of Cotopaxi.

Quito doesn't boast a lot of cycle paths and the traffic is pretty unforgiving but there are a few nods...

... towards an aspiring bike culture.

Ah, South American cuisine. (Sigh.) I wasn't brave enough to try Chicken a la Coca Cola myself...

... but with a little persistence some more appetising fare can be found.

* If you happen to be in Australia be sure to go to see Sattelite Boy, Catriona’s first feature film, when it is released in the cinemas some time in the next month or two.

** I wish I could say the same for earlier contact with other Primus people – but all’s well that ends well.

I haven’t had a lot of luck with my tyres over the years. My original wire beaded Schwalbe XRs did really well, clocking up around 17 000 and 20 000 kilometres respectively, but the two folding XRs that replaced them, as needed, both had massive blowouts within around 4-5000 kilometres, which was far less satisfactory.

I bought a couple of Marathon Mondials, recently.  One replaced one of the original XRs – which had made it all the way from Alaska to Panama – and has now, in Ecuador, seen around 3 500 kilometres. The other came along as a spare, which I managed to lose off the rack, on a long bumpy mountain descent, only days before one of the blow outs referred to above – but I guess I can’t blame Schwalbe for that.

When I contacted Schwalbe US and sent them photos of the blown tyres they didn’t hesitate to offer me replacements. Unfortunately, however, they could only offer to send the replacement tyres to a US address and so they ended up as quite costly freebies by the time they got to me in Ecuador.

Still, I’m curious to see how Schwalbe Marathon Mondials end up holding up over the miles here in the Andes. But I’m also curious to see how the Kenda Small Block 8 that I bought in Colombia as a stop gap measure compares. It’s a bit noisy on paved roads but so far I don’t have any other complaints. It was pretty cheap and – best of all – available on the spot. It feels a little flimsy compared to the Schwalbe heavy weights but … let’s see … so far the heavy weights haven’t proved as reliable as their reputation would suggest.

Marathon Mondial are hailed as the successor to XRs. I've had good XRs and bad XRs. Let's see how Mondial shapes up. Word is they aren't as durable as (a good) XR.

My interest in cities is minimal and my knowledge of the intricacies of Spanish colonial architecture and culture relatively superficial but, nonetheless, since I am in the neighbourhood of Quito a visit to the Old Town to see the sights is more or less compulsory.

The old town of Quito is popular with tourists but it's still a vibrant living city with some kind of soul.

...

San Francisco Church...

... and Monastery, like Quito itself is ...

... part living monastery with shady corridors...

... and elegant gardens...

... and part museum full of lugubrious religious art celebrating...

...pain...

... and human travail in all its Catholic glory. Unburdened by any form of religious upbringing...

... I can enjoy the Baroque details in a relatively uncomplicated fashion.

...

...

...

...

...

...

Recently, everything has been falling apart: exploding tyres, split rims, leaking panniers, flat thermarest, wobbly bottom brackets, wonky hubs.

Having a couple of inches of water sloshing around the bottom of your panniers whenever it rains gets pretty tiresome, pretty quickly. Some people suggest that the way I am fastening my panniers might be the problem. I didn't read the instructions when I got my Ortlieb panniers and so I carelessly discarded what I thought were optional shoulder straps for carrying the bags off the bike. No so. The straps are designed to hook under the hooks at the bottom of the bag apparently rendering the bags more water proof than if you clip the bag shut at the top. In Bogota I fashion myself some new straps to replace the discarded ones. Looks smart, doesn't it? But it still leaks.

Next I notice that the fabric is worn and splitting along the attachment.

It takes a while to find some appropriate glue...

...but eventually a guy making awnings says he has something that will do the trick. He even manages to find some fabric in a matching colour.

Not that I show the same aesthetic sensibilities when I apply a liberal quantity of black silicon* for extra waterproofing.

The newly waterproofed bags withstand an aggressive dousing by hose and I so hope the next time I get soaked in a downpour that my goodies will stay dry inside. Let's see.

*Special thanks to Sarah and Tom for sharing the silicon tip. It’s cheap and easily available from pretty much any hardware store in Central and South America. It works pretty well for patching up Thermarests, too.

I can’t say I recommend the border or bust approach but after my unsuccessful Venezuela visa wrangling I find myself with only ten days to get to the Ecuadorean border from Bogota before my Colombian visa expires. It’s only around 800 kilometres, which seems doable, but there are some serious mountain ranges to cross and I’m not really willing to stick to pavement to speed things up.

Day 1: Only a hour or two out of Bogota, I'm on dirt...

... but there are still places where there is no avoiding tarmac and trucks.

It's almost all downhill out of Bogota and so I cover a fair amount of ground and spend the first night with the bomberos in Melgar.

Day 2: I wake to a drenching downpour in an inadequately pitched tent on concrete at the back of the Melgar Fire Station. Everything is soaked. It continues to bucket down as I set off and for a while I am stuck on an unavoidable bit of highway.

I never understand when people try to convince me that travelling on the highway is my safest and most comfortable option.

Day 3: However eventually the sun makes an appearance and soon I am back at the Rio Magdalena again. Crossing to the other side in an outboard canoe life is far calmer. But hot!

I like this cyclist's plantain pannier set.

My tranquility is soon exploded, quite literally! A sudden bang...

... and my expensive and highly lauded Schwalbe XR tyre is rendered useless with only about 4000 kilometres on it. To make matters worse it is only a matter of a few days since I lost my recently purchased spare on a rough mountain descent. I was philosophical about the loss at the time, smugly thinking, "Oh, there you go, 800 grams lighter!" Sigh.

...

I'm heading into the Tatacoa desert, it's about 40 degrees, and I'm not expecting any traffic any time soon. As luck would have it, however, a pick up does arrive and loads up my bike and takes me to the nearest village where I buy a $4 Chinese tyre that will get me as far as Nieva. My rescuer feels the need to buy me lunch, too. Did I mention that Colombians are super nice?

I had hoped to spend the night in desert which is famous for it star gazing potential but what with cloud cover, cruddy tyres and a tight deadline I plough on to Neiva.

Rumble thunder over the mountain ranges holding the valley in a pincher grip doesn't bring much relief. It's a hot, dry, dusty trip.

Neiva is a city without much charm but after I search about for a decent replacement tyre it is too late to escape it’s clutches. The bomberos here don’t cater to cyclists needs and all the ‘family’ hotels are ridiculously overpriced. I wander the seedy end of town searching for the least sordid cheap place to stay but I end up being defeated as much by the fact most of the cheap hotels are on the upper floors of buildings at the top of long flights of stairs, as put off by the general air of dissipation. It is heading for 8 or 9PM before I stumble across a ‘love’ hotel catering to people on motos*.

I wheel my bike down a tunnel like corridor into a reception area filled with parked motorbikes and try to convince the woman at reception to let me have a bed for the night. She is reluctant but at the same time obviously curious about me and eventually, after asking a lot of questions, she calls the manager and gets the OK. I have to wait for a couple to finish their business and then for the receptionist to see to the room. She heads off bearing a mop and a large bottle of disinfectant and some clean sheets.

Neiva marks pretty much the end of my 300 kilometre downhill run out of Bogota and the going gets a lot tougher as I head into the foothills of the Central Cordillera the next morning.

I want to spend some time in San Augustin but as I approach more bike trouble strikes. My brakes are squealing horribly on the rough rocky descents and an inspection of my rear wheel reveals a split rim of sobering extent. I back track a little to take a more gentle paved approach to San Augustin and end up catching the bus for the final 30 kilomtre deviation from the highway.

It is the weekend before Semana Santa**, the most important holiday period in Latin America. After a sleepless night in a hostel full of partying Colombians, I catch the bus back to the highway. So much for San Augustin.

Day 6: This rim (a Rigida Sputnik for those of you who care) has seen almost 25 000 kilometres of pretty rough road and I have no complaints at all with its performance. Never one for a fearless descent, I'm a heavy braker. Next time I buy a bike I think I'll probably go with disc brakes.

This is what riding on beaches leads to.

A bus trip back to Pitalito, a medium sized town on the highway, yeilds a 13 000 peso 36 hole V-brake compatible rim. The wheel build costs 5000 pesos bringing the whole affair to the princely sum of $10. I am mobile again, if not particularly confident about the potential performance of this replacement wheel. A quality 36 hole rim is not to be had in Colombia - as a later trip to a high end bike shop in Pasto reveals.

Just about all my equipment is starting to fail. My panniers let water in but not out - leaving my belongings in a swampy dank state. My clothes all have mildew spots.

It’s 2PM before I leave Pitalito, which leaves me with three and a half days to reach the border. There are no real alternatives to the highway so at least I don’t have to face the dilemma of choice but what amounts to highway between Mocoa and Pasto is a single lane dirt track nicknamed The Trampoline of Death because of the tendency of vehicles to plunge fatally over the edge of precipitous drops while transiting it. Exactly where the trampoline part comes in is unclear.

Mocoa sits at 600 metres on the steamy edges of the jungle. The road to Pasto climbs over the Central Cordillera to just under 3000 metres, drops, then climbs again, before swooping down into the valley of Sinbundoy. It’s Colombia’s epic grand finale.

I set off out of Mocoa at about 2PM after after a longish lunch break to recover from a brisk 60 or 70 kilometres in the morning. Things start out innocuously but the pavement ends as the gradient increases and the road goes up and up and up. Eventually I spot radio towers far above but dusk and then darkness fall before I reach them. There is no flat place at all to pull off the road and set up camp so I continue in darkness hoping my reflective tape and patches will alert trucks and buses to my presence on the narrow road. It is well after 7 PM when I reach the towers where a hysterically barking dog brings a man and his son to the door of the building alongside them. I ask if I can camp on the flat patch of gravel at the front of their house and they invite me in.

During the night a fearsome storm unleashes torrential rain while wind howls around the ricketty house. I’m glad I’m not outside in my tent but the tin roof rattles and strains and water drips steadily onto the mattress laid out on the floor for me. Dawn brings no abatement to the storm and my host dons wet weather gear and goes to check on the internet and phone antennae in his care and replace the blown fuses while his son cooks sweet arepas. We sit down to coffee, eggs and fried dough.

Day 8: Rain, rain, rain... This storm is pretty much unnavigable and it doesn't look like I'll ever get to Pasto, let alone the border but eventually it abates and I set off.

Day 9: Looking back at the mountains on the other side of the Sibundoy valley.

A sullen roadside Mary with a sleepy Jesus and a manic eyed sheep.

Day 10: Leaving Pasto, mid-afternoon, the highway is populated by an unusually large number of pedestrians. I don’t pay it much heed, imagining perhaps that people are walking home from a sporting event or some such thing. However, as I continue there are more and more groups of people walking with unusual purpose along the road swinging stout walking sticks. Eventually it occurs to me to ask them where they are going. “Ipiales!” It transpires that each year at Easter pilgrims from all over Narino walk to El Santuario de las Lajas a wildly gothic church built over a deep gorge where a miraculous apparition of the Virgin Mary appeared to a deaf-mute young girl sheltering from a storm with her mother in 1754. It is 84 kilometres from Pasto to Ipiales and the pilgrims walk it in 24 hours. People come from further afield, too.

It becomes apparent that I am not going to reach Ipiales under my own steam on the 27th which is when my 90 days in Colombia expire but caught up with the whole peregrination thing, I decide that the immigration officials at the border might be sympathetic to me arriving with the pilgrims on the 28th.***  The highway doesn’t offer many viable camp sites so, passing a help station manned by volunteers from the Civil Guard which provides electrolytes and foot massages to the walkers, I ask if there is somewhere I can camp. “Here!” So I set up my tent next to the help point and the chaos goes on all night.

Most of the pilgrims are young men but some young women accompany them.

...

...

The volunteers offer basic first aid, foot massages and electrolytic drinks. More serious causalities of what is clearly unaccustomed exercise are attended to by the bomberos. I am woken in the middle of the night by a kerfuffle with an unconscious girl being borne off on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance.

The madness goes on all night.

When I wake in the morning the place is deserted by volunteers and walkers but a stream of cyclists, which I soon join, is flowing by. I have about 40 kilometres still, to the border, most of it uphill. The way is littered with the fallen. People sprawl on the highway embankments nursing sore joints and blistered feet. I am sorely tempted to visit the church with the rest of the pilgrims but it is a deviation from the highway and the border and my confidence in the understanding nature of Colombian immigration is uncertain.

And sure enough it transpires that 91 days is definitely not considered almost as good as 90 days. It is considered an infraction and unsurprisingly the official is utterly uninterested in exploding tryes and split rims as mitigating circumstances. A fine of over a hundred dollars is threatened but I must have looked so pathetic that eventually the man stamped my passport and contemptuously waved me into Ecuador.

* motos = motor bike

** Semana Santa = Holy Week/Easter

*** Fool!