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Joseph Savant
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Into Ecuador

11.26.2017

The Ecuadoran border wasn't too far away, so we headed for Ipiales the next morning, the last town in Colombia and the Cathedral at Las Lajas.

He was fascinated by the bike and thrilled to sit on it. Mama was shy and tried to hide behind the baby

Random Savant sighting

Tossing gear into the hotel and chilling out for little bit, we then grabbed a taxi for the short ride out of town to Las Lajas. The gothic style Cathedral spans a river gorge and is quite the contrast. At the top of the long walkway down the mountain stood beautifully festooned llamas available for photos, cafés serving roasted guinea pig and endless shops selling religious souvenirs and candles amongst other plastic toys. It was crowded, being a Sunday afternoon, but despite the hordes of tourists and faithful, it was an interesting spectacle.

There was a service going on in the main cathedral, while tourists and rappeling demonstrations went on outside.

Charlie and I went below the church into a smaller chapel, brightly illuminated by color-changing LED's while the priests sat in the confessional booths awaiting parishioners.

My favorite moment came when a daughter and son were helping their old mother down the stone castle stairway into the lower sanctuary. I was standing in the corner at the base of the steps when the old lady, being supported by the two, walked over to me and then slowly looked up to my smiling face. I'm not sure if she just didn't see me, or thought I was a statue, but her tan face turned cream colored and she didn't speak for a moment, then yelled out something of a surprise. Both her offspring burst out laughing, as did I, but she was a bit shaken.

After a bit of exploration and observation, the long steep walkway back to the taxi area took its toll in the thin mountain air.

San Juan of the Open Hand, possibly the patron saint of all the folks who simply walk up to you with an upturned palm asking for money

Cuy (Guinea pig)

The Ecuadorian border at Rumichaca lay a scant 12 km from Ipiales the next morning, and I was excited to get out of Colombia and into Ecuador. Colombia is a beautiful country, rich in scenery and people, that requires a lot of time to explore!

Arriving at the border about 9 am, and nervous about the hassles from past experiences, checking the bike out required simply handing the TIP paper through a small glass window from the motorcycle seat that took about 30 seconds, except for a couple more minutes to my bike to grab a decal and slap on the DIAN window.

Checking out of immigration would take substantially longer. We parked the bikes between the buildings, immediately approached by 2 money changers who pointed out where we needed to go. A line that wrapped entirely around the Immigration building had quickly formed. We completely circled the building trying to find the exit stamp window, but came to the realization that we would have to stand in the line with everyone. I asked two security guards and an official and was told it was the only line. The moneychangers had agreed to watch our bikes, pointing to the GPS and gloves indicating to take them with us.

This line went about 100 yards encircling the building then down into a much longer one

As we stood with them, a fixer showed up, his breath reeking of alcohol already at 8:30 in the morning. He kept aggressively trying to indicate something, but having had enough of fixers we ignored him and just stood in the line. The fixer kept showing 10,000 pesos to me and indicating to follow him. He seemed to be indicating that he could get us in the back door, but I just didn't trust him. Charlie wanted no part of it. After moving only 3 or 4 feet in 15 minutes, I saw the fixer take two backpackers into the exit gate, and magically the security guard opened up the exit gate for them under the watchful eye of an immigration official.

I told Charlie we needed to pay the 10,000 COP to skip the line or we would be there the entire day. Charlie was uncomfortable but I told him I was going to do it. He decided to as well, the money was exchanged, and after a few minutes the exit gate was surreptitiously opened and we were inside. It was obviously an unofficial situation, as both the security guards and official were in collusion and seemed a little nervous. There was a short line and a much longer one, all leading to a bank of windows served by one worker. It was insane that this one man had to deal with the hundreds already in line. I saw the previous two backpackers in the short line so I headed there. One of the security guards pointed Charlie to the long line. After a couple of minutes I decided to stand with Charlie, which we did but the line was not moving. The one official was trying to handle about 75 people and it simply wasn't happening. He was prioritizing the short line and the long line was not moving.

I finally had enough and went back to the short line, which was for the handicapped, aged, children, and pregnant women. Though I fit several of those categories, no one else in the line did. Charlie decided to stay in the long line but I went through in about 10 minutes with no problems or questions asked. It was obvious it was a Gringo Express Lane. It was also hard to believe that they didn't have one specific window for those just exiting the country. This situation was made worse by the fact that there was only one worker despite the 10 windows that were available. I ended up waiting outside by the bikes for over an hour for Charlie to get through, but changed the last of my Colombian pesos into USD and tipped the money changer for standing by the bikes.

Crossing over into Ecuador was exciting, my second country in South America. Per past experience and expecting the worst, the Ecuadorian border guards were shockingly friendly and indicated where to park. Walking into immigration led to a short line, friendly, English speaking attendants, and after only a couple of questions a stamped passport with a smile at no cost was back in my hands. Even better, no copies or BS. Outside to find the Aduana was only slightly more difficult as the door wasn't clearly marked, but as I wandered around a man in a small circular glass booth tapped on the window and waved for me to come inside. It was a tiny booth, but he was very friendly and trying to speak a little English. He looked at my passport and opened it to the stamped pages, saying "history?"

After all the BS at other borders and bad attitudes, I began trying to decipher the stamps to tell him the history of the countries I had come through, when he laughed and began tapping the image beneath the stamps. The background image of the paper was of Mount Rushmore and he began saying "Washington, Lincoln…" and wanted me to tell him the other two, Roosevelt and Jefferson. In Spanish he told me that they learned American history and English in school and counted from 1 to 10 with a few other words in English. I started laughing because the last thing I was expecting was a friendly person working in an Aduana. The process could not have been simpler or are more enjoyable and it was a great welcome to Ecuador. A simple, modern, efficient and friendly entry process, completely free of bullshit or fees!

Nicest border agent I've ever met

Charlie had had a similar experience somewhere else in the Aduana though I never saw him until we were both finished.

By the bikes again, a beat up KLR 650 pulled in carrying a rider from Turkey, Erol, who'd been traveling for 4 years. He was happy to hear Charlie knew another Turkish rider he knew and we exchanged information before heading on. I kept my paperwork handy expecting a checkpoint but was never stopped.

Erol from Turkey

The highway from the border into Ecuador was absolutely great, as well-made as any US highway and traveled through beautiful mountain landscapes. The terrain was a patchwork quilt of farmland on the mountainsides, the small villages and towns feeling very clean. Ecuador had a different feeling, no sense of concern or danger of any kind. Those feelings are tangible when you're on the road and Carlos Canuck felt it as well. Pulling over for a lunch break we had a great meal for about four dollars US. The gas stations were government regulated with regular gasoline being priced at $1.48, and premium at about $2.16.

It was apparent the US had some influence upon Ecuador, aside from the obvious currency, as the road signs and other indications showed. The town of Ibarra was the place to spend the night and we found a decent hotel downtown.

#Rumichaca #Ecuador #Motorcycle #Photography #BMWR1200GS #Adventure #Ibarra

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Quito to the Amazon

12.04.2017

From Ibarra, the next stop was a brief one to see Otavalo and its famous textile markets, even though it was not Saturday when the big market occurs.

Stopping at the main plaza, vendors were just getting going and even though it wasn't market day, it was impressive. The goods were handmade and more interesting than much of the crap I'd seen elsewhere. For the first time I was wishing for a way to buy a bunch of things for home - blankets, ponchos I'd never wear, carvings and more. Oh well, I settled for a keyring as a souvenir.

The friendliness of Ecuador continued to engulf, as vendors gave genuine smiles, people wandered to the bike and made conversation as best we could. A couple were admiring the bikes as we walked up, turning out to be from France and GS riders, but on a "regular" vacation this time. We exchanged info and good wishes before re-energizing with a coffee for the road.

Ahead lay the Equator and it was an exciting prospect. There are multiple locations where one can cross the equator, the Mitad Del Mundo in Quito the largest and most well known, however the one lying outside Cayambe, Quitsato, is touted as being the true and most accurate, based on GPS technology. Mitad Del Mundo outside Quito was done long ago and has been found to be inaccurate, as it was made before GPS technology.

The Quitsato location was desolate, save for a an expedition camper and couple from Canada who'd been on the road for 4 years. What was great about this location is that for $5 you can park the bike on the plaza for photos and we took advantage of it. There is also a campground there for moto travelers and overlanders.

Photo fun over, we were treated to some explanations which were interesting, including the desire of the organization to change the orientation of the globe with the equator as the vertical center, turning the world sideways compared to the way we know it. Makes sense from the information, but it ain't happening. They also said the Coriolis effect of water swirling opposite directions on either side of the equator was a parlor trick and not real. My life was ruined that day.

Quito lay ahead and we both needed our Yellow Fever vaccinations, the only real reason it was our destination. Bolivia requires Yellow Fever certification. True to expectations, traffic was obnoxious and despite the cool air of the near 10,000' elevation, Charlie's bike was running hot and we had to stop a couple of times to let it cool down.

Twice in the slow moving traffic, I got lightheaded, partially from the thin air, but also because it was loaded to the gills with smog and diesel. We'd been in 9500' elevation for the last three days so it had to be the smog reducing the oxygen content. After a death defying ride where we both almost got creamed by huge triple-car buses, the hotel was finally found and we got our rooms.

Wandering out that evening we found a soup kitchen loaded with locals and ordered a bowl described as "visor" soup on the English description. I joked it must be cow eyelids, and later wished it was. The liquid was delicious but "visor" translates as "viscera" and the meat was chopped stomach lining and other internals. Neither of us could deal with the rubbery and bitter chunks it was loaded with.

Order of the next day was to find the public health location downtown in the old section and get our free Yellow Fever shots.

A huff and puff walk led to the old hospital and Charlie was a bit nervous about the gig. Not so much the shot, but the idea of being pumped with a disease. He's had relatively few inoculations purposely, but I said to consider it a visa into Bolivia. I wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t afraid of needles either.

Reminders of the previous night's soup

 

The vaccination process was very easy, the receptionist pointing us upstairs and after a couple of meanderings were led to the vaccination office. A couple of questions and a signature after presenting our passports and the shot was done for me. I sat waiting with my camera for an action shot of Charlie passing out, but alas, it didn't happen.

We both felt a bit unsteady, more from the oxygen and mind game than anything else, but made our way back to the hotel to take it easy for a day or two since the reactions can vary. Along the way I spotted a souvenir shop and found a vaunted sticker of Ecuador, despite the lady's insistence I should buy a patch. She asked how I liked Ecuador and told me that Ecuador was beautiful, and the people were quiet, tranquil and chilled compared to Colombia, which was a more aggressive country. I told her the sense of peace was apparent immediately across the border. The roads were amazing, the traffic little, the drivers being considerate and cautious on the roadways and the people very friendly. After feeling like I was in a combination demolition derby and motocross race the entire time I was in Colombia, her words rang true.

Everything was good until the evening when we both developed mild sore throats and head congestion. Later that night, it was if I'd been given speed. I tried to sleep but my mind was going at insane speed and each time I tried to close my eyes it was a crazy party of insane thoughts. By 4 am I was going nuts from fatigue and a sense of smothering, I think from the congestion and altitude. Somewhere after 4, I passed out but was awoken by noise from the parking garage below around 6 am, onto which my window opened.

At breakfast I could barely stay awake and went back to the room, getting a couple hours of sleep around noon. Part of my plan for Quito was to try and find Nikwax to rewash and apply waterproofing to my Firstgear jacket which was no longer rainproof and sent a couple of emails to outdoor stores there. No joy.

We'd wandered to a couple of tour agencies to find out about the Galapagos, trying to compare costs and make decisions for the next day. I decided I wasn't going to the spend the money as my budget is getting tight and there was a long way to go still. Charlie texted me that night he'd booked a tour and would spend the next day getting things in order. I decided to stay an additional night and leave the day he did, paying the hotel for the next evening.

I had the same experience as the previous night, a racing mind and sense of smothering, which kept me awake the entire night. Zero sleep. I knew that altitude sickness can bring insomnia and though I had no other symptoms, am guessing that was it. I let Charlie know I was heading out for Baños and its lower elevation and less pollution, about 3-4 hours south. After loading the bike the hotel was kind enough to refund my money for cancelling the night which was a surprise.

The ride was miserable due to being groggy and in such a fog that I was barely able to function. It was dangerous and I stopped a few times on the road edge to try and sleep if only for a minute or two, my eyes unable to stay open. It was a very difficult day and by God's grace I didn't get hurt. In one of the moments of blurriness, a car traveling alongside moved over and slowed down, a woman leaning out the window to wave and shout "Welcome to Ecuador! Welcome to Ecuador!"

I couldn't help but smile and wave, momentarily lifting my fog. A few miles ahead we stopped at the same light and she again welcomed me.

The highways were outstandingly good and the scenery amazing, even in my stupor. The road to Baños was inspiring, eventually arriving in the town and working my way to the center square and hotel. There was a huge sound stage set up in front of the hotel and the owner warned me a fiesta was going to happen and it would be very loud. I didn't care and just wanted to lay down somewhere. I got into the room and opened the window to a cool breeze and singing birds in the plaza. In a matter of minutes I was sprawled on the bed to the sound of the music system testing, and within 15 minutes the sound pumping out was so loud and strong, that pieces of plaster literally fell off the wall in my room.

The volume made no difference and I was asleep in minutes, feeling the vibrations through my body. I slept three hours in the monster dance mix and it didn't bother me a bit. Crazy.

I finally got up and out on the streets to wander, a solo female singer belting her out-of-tune heart out, with about ten people watching from 50 yards away. No one got close to the stage. The booming sounds echoed through the small town as I continued wandering.

 

By nightfall I was back in the hotel, the poor manager/owner sitting in the reception desk absolutely worn out from the volume and incessant beat of the music stage. It was stupidly loud. As the evening progressed, the crowd grew to a couple hundred and various singers rotated through. At nine the concert ended, and by ten the stage was gone and it was quiet. I still had some residual insomnia but finally slept a good 5 hours.

Exploring Baños the next day, I was able to get some images and a better feel for the town. It reminded me very much of a Latin American version of Ouray, Colorado, lying in a bowl or valley at the foot of Tungurahua Volcano, with steep mountains covered in lush green vegetation. It is a sports center with mountain biking, paragliding, bicycling, dirt bikes and all the other tourist based activities. Nonetheless, it still had character. In wandering, however, I have never seen so many hostels, hospedajes and hotels. I'd say there was "one on every corner" but that wouldn't cover it, since there were several in each block.

The next morning, Saturday, the streets were lining up for a parade which began about 2 pm. The bustling crowds which seemed to appear from nowhere, pushed and elbowed their way in front of me. One particular old lady was the biggest pain in the ass I've met and my evil half wanted to kick her. She literally pushed me with all her strength to get in front of me, then bought a chair from one of the many vendors and sat down, then turned to push me with her hands to allow space for her older daughter to stand next to me. As the sun came out she bought an umbrella, opening it up directly in front of my face. We had an umbrella pushing match for most of the parade. Up down, up down, up down. The things we adventurers must suffer through. The horror.

The back streets were quiet as I walked to visit the waterfall and thermal baths located in the town.

Wandering down quiet streets, I eventually heard the sound of an announcer and discovered the finish line of a mountain bike race, the riders coming down what appeared to be almost a vertical mountainside, doing their final jump before sliding sideways into the small crowd who cheered each arrival. That mountainside was steep.

That evening about 8, the parade fired up again and went another couple of hours but was entertaining until the final minute.

With all the Stahlratte exes wandering around, it was little surprise when Jules and Christine rode into town and we caught up on gossip and stories. That evening the hotel attendant indicated he wanted to take a picture of my bike when possible and showed me a picture of his V-strom and son, who were in Venezuela. It would be interesting to know the story of his working in Baños, as Christine and Jules had a 7 hour crossing at the same border as I, due largely in part to huge numbers of Venezuelan refugees without papers.


Old bicycle sidewalk show

The next day I prepaid for an extra night in the hotel and headed east for Puyo, a town in the Amazon basin and a little known monkey rescue farm I'd read about. The morning was drizzly and rain was forecast, but I needed to ride. The road was great, hugging the steep mountains following the Pastaza river flowing to the Amazon. The rain was gentle and mists covered the mountains, the cool temperatures so enjoyable after months of heat. Views were spectacular and several tunnels were on the way.

Ecuador is such a relief to ride. The roads are excellent, wide, smooth and pothole free. For the first time on this trip, I've been able to actually look at scenery and rubberneck, appreciating the mountains without being glued to the tarmac watching for potholes and deadly drivers. It's one of the reasons I'm becoming enamored with Ecuador. Stunning scenery, inexpensive and incredibly friendly.

As the road began to descend and seeing the river flowing heavily into the plains ahead, it was obvious I was entering the Amazon basin. Tropical plants were everywhere, houses built of wood planks on stilts, and a sudden rise in temperature. Amazing to see such an obvious change in climate, from cool, high, misty mountains to sudden heat and foliage change.

I stopped briefly near a bus stop to fiddle with something, and was approached by a guy who looked about 20, speaking Spanish but with a bad stutter. He talked and asked me questions for a while, but I had no idea what he was really saying other than pointing to the stickers on the bike. Defaulting to my litany of descriptions of where I was from, where I was going, how long I would be traveling and so forth, none of these satisfied his questions. He continued on and finally I decided it was going nowhere other than him saying "cellular" so I assumed he wanted a card, but when I produced one, he waved no and stepped back a bit. Okay. Next I tried a decal of the website, but again he shook his hand no as if it were a snake.

Deciding this was fruitless and nicely trying to leave, he began saying "Argentina" and then did pantomime golf swings. He was quite animated in trying to get me to understand whatever he was asking, and then mumbled "gringo" as well. He didn't seem angry but I finally gave up and got on the bike. The conversation was either too deep for my comprehension, or he was just a weirdo. Who knows.

A storm was rolling in over Puyo as I arrived and I timed finding a portico in front of a roadside tienda perfectly as the rain started. Adjacent was a chicken-based restaurant, as practically every one here seems to be. I wasn't really hungry but decided to get a 1/8 chicken meal for $3, but the roasted chicken wouldn't be ready for another hour, so I got a pineapple juice drink made with leche, a great smoothie style drink, and watched the rain and cars slowing to stare at the gringo and his bike.

​ After two hours of waiting for the rain to stop I decided to try and find the outdoor monkey reserve, though I had serious doubts about how fun it would be with a bunch of wet, muddy monkeys crawling all over me. Still, it seemed appropriate based on some of the other bullshit I've survived on this trip. The GPS said it was ten minutes further and the slight lifting of rain that had led me out of my dry chicken-less restaurant suddenly changed back to heavy. A dirt and rock road to the left off the main highway had a small sign, so I swung onto the road and rolled down some mud and river rocks toward the boonies. It wasn't far before the road forked, of course with no sign indicating which direction, so I followed the better one, which led down a steep hill to a dead end. The bike squirmed it's way back up and I planned to take the other fork, but while I had been gone, a huge dump truck had managed to get stuck on the fork, blocking any entry or exit.

That was my sign to forget it, and I headed back for Baños and the hotel to escape the rain, which continued all the way. The road was really beautiful, with many waterfalls and vistas of the river below and long, dripping tunnels to ride through.

Rain 1, monkeys 0, but a ride worth making!

#Ecuador #Quito #Baños #Puyo

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Baños to Cuenca

12.06.2017

The day before leaving Baños, Christine, Jules and I walked the town and the outskirts.

The cemetery was an interesting layout I've not seen before. It's like a small town with houses for the dead and their families. There are streets and blocks, the buildings looking different, the niches filled with those passed on and empty spots for the remainder. It's like a white city of the dead, a continuation of life where you move into your next home a few blocks up the way.

The days had been generally rainy and overcast, but we decided to take a harrowing cab ride up a steep mountainside to view the town below. A cab ride is a cab ride, whether in a bustling city or on a narrow, super steep switchback mountain road, and this one was no less insane along narrow switchbacks with sheer drops.

The mountainsides were so close to vertical, it seemed almost impossible to work the farms with various crops of tomaté and maiz, but the rubber boot clad farmers planted, maintained and harvested with smiles.

Amazing were the cattle, who grazed so tenuously on the mountainsides that it was difficult to tell if they were lying down, the sides of their bellies literally touching the mountainsides as they stood chewing. As Jules said in French "one slip and there's no stopping until they roll into the butcher shop way down in the town".

Yours truly with Baños below

Tungurahua volcano, which sits above the town and is close to 17,000 feet, had been shrouded in clouds and overcast, but as we watched from the top, blue skies and winds from the east slowly uncovered the beast. An amazing phenomenon happened, at least to me, when the last of the clouds moved away, a smooth flowing cap of cloud flowed over the top, and then a flowing circular disc of vapor formed around the top rotating around the top even into the winds. Was a beautiful sight to see as the clouds slowly dissipated until the bare rock of the mouth was clean, save some slivers of snow in crevices.

From Baños, I'd planned to ride north again to Quilotoa and then east and turn back south. The weather forecast for the region was 94% rain for several days straight so I decided against it, since visibility would be close to zero on the high peaks. It was very disappointing. Instead I rode with Christine & Jules until Riobamba where they peeled off for the coast and I continued south for Cuenca.

At a toll station on the way south, I paid my 20¢ toll and pulled forward to some traffic cones, not quite clear of traffic to quickly put on my gloves. A small, older security guard came quickly for me, and I just knew he was coming to run me off. Instead, he grabbed my hand and shook it fiercely smiling a huge smile and welcomed me to Ecuador in Spanish. He continued to ask me questions and held my hand. I told him gracias and he continued to hold my arm, then again welcomed me and patted me on the back hard, laughing as I pulled away.

To be honest, I got a lump in my throat at the true warmth of the greeting from a total stranger.

Ecuador is a stunning country and the ride was no less so. For the very first time on this trip, I felt like I was truly in a different land, escaping the ever-present sense of rap music, skinny jeans and sideways baseball caps of societies far removed from the US yet somehow entranced with its insipid culture.

The road ranged from 9000 to 12,000 feet the entire day, generally on a high rolling plateau, to be broken by massive valleys below. Plenty of "Oh God I can't look" moments... because if you're not familiar with riding, where you look is where you go. One has to steal very brief glimpses to the side, as the motorcycle will inexorably follow your gaze and at dizzying heights on narrow roads it’s a real danger.

As if the face shield of my helmet was a screen and I was watching a movie, mountain peaks and wisps of clouds cracked with blue skies slid past, while patchwork quilts of varying greens and browns covered the steep treeless mountainsides, where indigenous women dotted the landscape, their brilliant pink, green, blue or red shawls standing out like lone flowers in green fields. They herded sheep, or cattle, or llamas, in their black hats, tilled soil with large hoes or waited on roadsides with bundles of grass or bags of harvest.

To the side deep valleys stole my breath, endless points of fascination. I laughed out loud in my helmet or said the occasional "Holy crap!" at my sense of wonder so high in the mountains. Spats of rain and black clouds came and went, children of the mountain gods. For over an hour I rode at 20 mph due to zero visibility, my shield open and face dripping from the moisture of the clouds, trying desperately to see a few feet ahead as a bus or semi would suddenly appear in the white mist as if from nowhere. It was fascinating and tense, an hour I desperately wanted to end, despite the adrenalin rush that made me feel alive.

At an intersection in a small village, the fog was so dense I had to wait a few moments before gathering courage to merge onto another road, unsure as to where the road and turn actually were in the fog. It was a sheer guess and prayer to ride into that fog knowing the semi’s and buses that barrel blindly along the roads. Honestly, was the scariest moment of my entire trip. It took more courage to ride out into that fog than anything I’ve ever done.

I gritted my teeth and dove in to the nothingness, barely catching sight of a white line directly ahead and sharply veering hard to my left to avoid running off a mountainside. I realized it was the road edge strip and I glued myself to the pale paint stripe as long as possible, unable to see anything and hoping I’d be close enough to the edge to be missed by any semi’s roaring up from behind me.

A few moments later, I pulled over to mess with my GPS briefly, and immediately was passed by a bellowing semi truck coming head on in my lane at about 50 mph. He had no lights and was passing a bus, driving blind in zero visibility conditions.

Had I not pulled over and stopped on the edge, it would have been an instant head-on death for me. Chance? Gift from God? I know which…

 

At last the clouds thinned just as I reached Alausi, a very interesting town along the route where the famous train runs the La Nariz del Diablo. I was tempted to stay there a night, but continued on. I'd been in touch with Michnus and his wife Elsebie, moto travelers from South Africa whom I'd met in Dilley, Texas a year before, who were on the coast and heading for Cuenca in a couple of days, and it turned out were en route for Alausi. Later that evening, I found out they'd actually made it to Alausi in a long day and I missed them by a couple of hours.

By the time I made El Tambo, I hadn't eaten since breakfast and took a break in the town. I was engulfed by curious onlookers before the bike was quite stopped, as if I were an alien craft landing. Two men, dressed in suits and sunglasses amidst the curious indigenous dressed, came up to me immediately and grabbed my hands, shaking them and welcoming me. We made our conversations and they were happy to find out where I was going and of my travels, talking for a long time and recommending places to eat in the town before again shaking my hands and patting my shoulder.

As they walked away I sat on the curb to the curious looks of the local women. I'd smile and nod and their expressions wouldn't change but they would continue to stare. After a snack and bottle of water, I got to the bike again and preparing to leave, pulled out my camera to get a shot of the onlookers and bike. Like magic, they vanished or turned their backs!

Rolling into Cuenca, I was quite surprised and frankly impressed at what a nice, clean and beautiful city it was. Traffic was thick as expected, however the colonial town was much nicer than I expected. That evening Michnus and I connected on WhatsApp and made plans to meet up a couple days later in Cuenca.

I had no knowledge, preconceptions or expectations of Ecuador, but have been truly impressed with this country. It runs at a slower pace, the roads and infrastructure are excellent, and it has been extraordinarily friendly and beautiful.

#Baños #Cuenca #Andes #Ecuador

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

The Cuenca Diaries

12.08.2017

Walking the main area of Cuenca, I was happy to find a city that wasn't obnoxious, but instead was beautiful and fairly tranquil. The main plaza was filled with people and the large cathedral was one of the most beautiful I've yet been in. It was monstrously large and one of the more impressive from this trip.


When I first walked into the back of the cathedral, a strong incense seemed to be in the air... until I realized the foggy mist was, in fact, aerosol spray paint and fumes. To my right a man had been painting an entire Christmas display dark green with cans of spray paint. I have no idea how many cans it took, but I suspect the people in the back of the cathedral near the display were seeing heavenly visions far more than those at the front of the church.

Outside, the afternoon was sunny, clear and paint fume free. It felt good to walk around.

​

 
 
 
 
 

I wandered here and there while the day slipped away, spotting some white boxes piled on the floor of a small chapel. As I peered in, a woman and her two daughters came up next to me. The lady spoke to me in English and said that evening there would be a "festival of lights" just as they had in Villa de Leyva, Colombia. I thanked her and told her I had been there just a couple of weeks before. She said she had never been, but today was her birthday and she had come to visit from Quito since the celebration coincided with her birthday weekend.

 

True to her words, as darkness fell young people began lining the streets and plazas with the candle containers. Here and there, folks began to light the candles and let their children stare, fascinated with the flickering flames. It was a beautiful sight and as I walked the streets in the cool air, the crowds grew and grew until the streets were shoulder to shoulder with people.

 
 
 
 
 
 

I wandered into a smaller church that seemed to be the center of the festivities and watched in silence as the evening message was spoken, listening to the squeaks of the old wooden floors as tourists snuck in to try and take photos.

Outside, the festival continued as the city painted itself in Christmas lights and the glow of countless cell phones on the crowded streets.

 
 
 
 

The next day I located a new hotel a few blocks away, that was a bit cheaper and advertised free parking. Though it was only a couple of blocks away, the one-way streets and repairs turned it into a 15 minute ride. Unfortunately I discovered that there was absolutely no parking on the street in front of the hotel to be able to check in. In addition the road was a major thoroughfare and trying to even stop proved almost impossible. I looped several blocks twice trying to find the combination of a gap in the traffic so I could try to get up onto the curb. Buses and cars don't give a crap here.

The stars aligned and I was able to get onto the sidewalk without getting hit or dumping the bike. After checking in, I asked the girl where the free parking was, and she indicated for me just to pull the bike into the lobby. First of all the lobby was very tiny, and secondly, there was a large step up into the hallway from the sidewalk. I finally got to use my camping duffel bag for the first time of the trip, using it as a ramp to get the bike in. It was quite a bit of maneuvering on the sidewalk to avoid having to try to back into the traffic and take a run at it. Lots of gentle clutch burning and I finally got the bike into the hallway to the lobby where she then indicated to continue into the dining room. I finally got the bike in and the cases off, rolling it back into a gap between dining tables before moving into my new accommodations.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the streets again, looking for images. I walked to the Pumapungo museum, an interesting place featuring the ethnology of many of the tribes in Ecuador.

One of the displays featured real shrunken heads from the Amazonian tribes, somewhat macabre and fascinating. Outside the museum, a walkway lead to Incan ruins and the park, complete with llamas and an area with birds on display. Both the museum and park were very impressive and worth every penny, which amounted to none. The museum and park were free.

True to my childish inner self, I found the shrunken heads fascinating...

Outside, the walkway led to preserved Incan ruins in their original layout, with an original garden location and a small park with an aviary.


 

One thing I never knew was that the Incans had sloped roof dwellings with brick style walls

 

After walking the streets, I had a small meal while the sun set. Stepping out of the café onto a dark side street, a small procession of people passed in the darkness. They were dressed in robes and religious attire and I walked around the corner with them to the front of the massive cathedral.

I stood on the steps like Jethro, near the cardinal and officials while the band played and the statue they'd carried in the procession arrived.

It was a solemn affair and as I watched the officers lifting the statue to carry into the Cathedral, I was suddenly engulfed in a white blur and had no idea what was happening, until I realized that from above, thousands of rose petals were pouring off the roof onto the statue, the Cardinal and the few of us standing with them.

It took everyone by surprise, including the soldiers, the Cardinal, officials and myself and everyone's solemnity turned into laughter. I watched as the statue was carried into the church in the procession behind the religious officials and relished my moment in the celebration.

 

There was a mad rush to gather the rose petals by people in the crowd, stuffing them in pockets and bags for use in some form or fashion.

Chuckling from the once-in-a-lifetime bath of rose petals, I walked back to my hotel brushing stems and petals off my head, my collar and camera bag.

Unfortunately, my new hotel choice was even worse with noise than the previous one. That night I don't think I got any sleep since my room was on the main street and a constant roar of buses, trucks and honking never ended. The next day Michnus messaged me saying they would like to meet me in Ingapirca the following day, the sight of some Incan Ruins about an hour north of Cuenca.

It would be good to see Michnus and Elsebie again, having met them a couple of years previous at MotoHank's place in Dilley. At the time I was living in the Texas Hill country near Medina, and had ridden to Hank's shop to hang out for the day. There sat two almost brand-new Suzuki DR 650s outside his shop when I arrived, and when I walked in I saw a guy mounting tires. When he turned around I immediately recognized him from a ride report about Angola on ADVrider.com. It was fun meeting Michnus and Elsebie that day. They'd finished their travels across the African continent and had flown from Europe to Texas, where they'd just bought the DRs and were in the process of outfitting them for their North and South Americas travels.

Now, a couple of years later, life had woven a path for a reunion in a foreign country, something I would never have expected.

I dressed in my gear, got the bike turned around in the dining room and started it up, riding out of the dining room as one of the guests in the lobby held the doors open for me. I dropped down the steps and out into the street into a beautiful sunny day and headed North into the mountains. The traffic was reasonable and the drivers were courteous in comparison to some of the other countries. A few miles out of town I passed through areas where whole roasted pigs were on display and, man did they look delicious! We'd agreed to meet around noon, so I didn't have time to stop and sample one, but definitely planned a big lunch on the way back.

I made good time and arrived in the high mountain area around 11, exploring a couple of small villages and killing some time until about noon when I rode on out to the park.

 
 

I spotted Michnus and Elsebie's motorcycles parked at the curb and saw them smiling and waving from a small coffee shop. As I got off the bike, three people began talking to me about the bike and Ecuador, stalling me long enough that Michnus and Elsebie walked on over. It was good to see them again.

We bought our park tour tickets and then had a cup coffee to catch up before walking through the ruins. The sunshine had quickly disappeared, replaced with heavy mountain mist.

 
 
 

When it was time for the three of us to head to Cuenca, there was a puddle of oil beneath my bike and my heart sank. I hoped it was coming from my recently replaced oil filter, however that was not the case. The oil was leaking from the joint of the transmission and clutch housing, a bad sign that the engine main seal was leaking. That was a major issue, and usually the clutch would begin slipping as the leak saturated the clutch plate.

We had planned to stop and have some roast pig for a late lunch, but decided that it was more important to get the bike back to Cuenca in case something was about to fail in a major way. I followed them down the mountain. Luckily, my clutch was not slipping and I was thankful, but the slow and certain realization that I had a big problem was difficult to swallow.

Again, my camping duffel saved the day getting the bike back into the hotel. I watched as drops of oil collected on the white polished marble of the dining room beneath the bike and felt my joy of the trip drain away. Aside from engine failure, one of the hardest jobs to do on a boxer engined BMW is to split the motor to replace a $15 seal. It would require almost complete disassembly of the motorcycle, and BMW parts outside of the USA or Europe are few and far between. Finding a qualified mechanic and parts would be a huge problem and likely entail weeks of time. On the bright side, at least the breakdown had occurred in a great town and not in a Peruvian desert 300 miles from anywhere.

Unfortunately, the noise of my hotel was just too much, so I decided I'd move to the hotel where Michnus and Elsebie were staying, further away from the main square than I wanted, but they said it was quiet and had secure parking - in a gated lot and not in the dining room.

#Ecuador #Cuenca #Andes #MotorcycleRepair #BMWR1200GS

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

It's An Adventure... Right?

12.16.2017

The bike had left a good size oil puddle in the dining room of the hotel the first night, but afterwards didn't leak another drop. Miracles happen, but I wasn't dumb enough to think the oil seal had healed itself. The search for a solution to a very big dilemma began.

Michnus told me Kevin Chow, a friend and fellow adventurer on a BMW similar to mine, had a main seal failure in Quito a few weeks earlier. A local shop there, MotoHell, had done a great job working with him on replacing it. Michele, the partner in the shop, had located a seal for him in Colombia and he had to wait about a week and half, mainly due to a shipper's strike in Colombia, but got the moto repaired and on the road in a couple of weeks.

Michnus connected me with Michele at MotoHell in Quito, and she began looking for parts while I began searching for any BMW dealers in case they had parts and abilities to repair the big 1200. I was happy to have MotoHell tackle the job, but the problem lay in the fact that Quito was about a 10 hour ride north, and I had no idea which seal it might be. The clutch plate could easily become oil soaked, and though it was thankfully not slipping from my hour long ride back to Cuenca, at any moment it could worsen and ruin the clutch unit as well. If I could be lucky enough to keep the repairs to just a seal, getting parts shipped from the US would be far easier than an entire clutch unit.

Frankly, I had no desire to go back to Quito if at all possible. It being a weekend, I sent an email to a BMW dealer in Guayaquil, a city a few hours away, though there would be no response for a couple of days. MotoHell had also recommended Morejon Motos in Cuenca, as a possible local shop that might could help. It turned out Morejon Motos was also the shop Michnus & Elsebie were going to for replacement chains and sprockets for the Suzuki DR650's.

Monday would hopefully bring some solution, when Morejon opened and I could get a chance to speak with them about repairs, and possibly the BMW dealer in Guayaquil would answer my email.

In the meantime, I swallowed the bitter pill of what lay ahead - finding a mechanic, total disassembly of the bike, waiting for parts from somewhere, the loss of a month and the resulting financial hit from hotels and repairs, not to mention my schedule for reaching Ushuaia in good weather season. I was now very glad I hadn't blown a couple grand visiting the Galapagos Islands, as much as I hated missing the opportuniy.

An internal oil seal leak on any bike is an issue, however on a BMW it is a bit more serious. Due to their traditional engine design, the engine has to be split from the trans, entailing massive dismemberment of most of the motorcycle which is far more complex than some other motorcycle designs. Outside the US and Europe, parts and dealers are very limited.

The other problems associated with splitting and disassembling a moto as complex as the BMW are the sheer number of electronic connections, which can get finicky when the connectors are separated, not to mention miniscule vacuum leaks, poorly torqued bolts and a thousand other things that can happen. A fear before entering much more desolate terrain in Bolivia and Patagonia. If the bike couldn't be set right it would have to be shipped home, ending the trip. My thoughts were going crazy and never left my head.

I'm glad Michnus and Elsebie were there and hanging out with them was a lot of fun. We wandered and shot photos, ate both good and not-so-good food, and had some fun over the weekend.

Michnus and Elsebie


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Monday rolled around and we rode from our hotel to Morejon Motos, pulling in and assessing the place. The shop was busy, with a few KTM's in for repair, as well as a couple of BMW's parked around. There was also a good selection of tires and moto gear in the shop. It looked promising that they at least had experience with motorcycles of European background and I felt some measure of relief. It was better than the dirt floored garages I'd seen that worked on the little motorcycles and scooters at least.

In the repair area, I saw a familiar looking BMW R1150GS in pieces and wearing some serious damage. Shortly after, Griffin rode in on his DR650, followed by Carson on foot. The R1150GS belonged to Carson. Griffin and Carson were two riders who'd been in Cartagena the day we'd arrived on the Stahlratte. They'd taken a different sailboat to Colombia, but had found insurance somehow and gotten on the road quickly. In Medellin, at the BMW shop, I'd bumped into Carson again, who was looking for some parts for the 1150. It was a surprise to see them again.

Carson told me the crash story behind his damaged 1150. He'd missed a curve on the way into Cuenca, flipping the bike and knocking himself out cold. He came within a quarter inch of losing his eye from a helmet chin guard breaking and piercing his face right next to his eye. At any rate, he was having Cristobal, the owner of Morejon help him with repairs, having trashed his engine guards, shattered the valve cover into pieces and shearing the cover bolts, breaking the bolt hole castings in the head in the process. The bike was in bad shape but even in such condition he was told it could be sold for $2000 locally but illegally, and if repaired for $10,000. He was intrigued by the idea and considered pocketing 2 grand then buying an inexpensive motorcycle locally to continue his trek for Ushuaia.

When Cristobal had time to look at my bike, he said he could do it in a few days if I could start finding the seals. Question was, which seal, as there are two at the rear of the engine - the rear main seal and a countershaft seal - and only disassembly would show which one. Whereas in the US, it would be simple to buy both but in South America finding one would be a challenge.

In the meantime the BMW dealer in Guayaquil had responded and said to send all my paperwork for the bike and they would decide if they could do it. Guayaquil was 4 hours away, so that seemed feasible, however he also told me there was a BMW dealer in Cuenca! It showed nowhere in Google searches. I found it from the name he'd sent and after talking with Cristobal, myself, Michnus and Elsebie took a taxi to the BMW dealer to get a feel for the shop. As it turned out, they only sold motorcycles, but had neither a service or repair shop. I was to find this common in South America.

Cristobal had a good reputation as a mechanic, from feedback from others, so I made the decision to let him tackle it rather than face either trucking or riding back to Quito. After my difficulties sleeping after getting the Yellow Fever shot there, I was a bit paranoid I might have another episode. Cuenca was a much nicer town. My only regret was that MotoHell had literally just done the job on Kevin's bike and were experienced and ready, parts availability the only hitch.

While talking to Carson at the shop, a couple rolled in on a huge Kawasaki Vulcan cruiser. They were from the Czech Republic and heading for Ushuaia. We all had fun talking about our travels and Michnus invited them, as well as Griffin & Carson, to meet us at a Belgian Brewery that evening. We'd planned to meet up with two of Michnus' friends who were Overlanding from the US in a Toyota Tacoma that evening. As it turns out, CanuckCharlie had returned from the Galapagos and was riding into Cuenca that day, where he was meeting up with Derrick, another rider from the Stahlratte, so I told them to come on as well.

While the mechanics jumped onto replacing chains and sprockets on Michnus and Elsebie's motos, Michnus noticed some oil on his rear shock base, pulling it off to overnight back to Quito where it had been rebuilt a couple of weeks earlier.

Michele at MotoHell got back to me that there was no countershaft seal anywhere in South America, one main seal located in Lima, Peru and one transmission input seal in Colombia. Parts shipments would be 15 days minimum.

I'd been on the phone to MotoHank in Texas and as bad luck would have it, the BMW dealers both in San Antonio and Dallas were also out of stock. I went ahead and ordered a set from Dallas to ship when possible to MotoHank, who was familiar with shipping and customs to foreign countries to repackage and forward to me. Hank had jumped on the search and contacted industrial seal houses in Cuenca, Quito and Guayaquil to see if a generic one could be found in proper size. He'd had no luck with any seals, but having dealt with so many stranded travelers overseas he wanted to handle the DHL shipping for me. I really appreciated it, even though it would be a minimum of a week and likely two or more with customs in Ecuador. Hank has busted his butt for so many travelers over the years trying to get parts or tires to them in various countries. Now, I found myself in the same situation I'd overheard so many times in his shop, on WhatsApp speakerphone calls from Africa or South America and voices asking for advice and help, followed with hours or days of often unpaid time helping collect parts and deal with shipping. Hank is an amazing guy.

The next day I walked back to the shop, to find that Cristobal had disassembled the BMW. Despite having seen other BMW's apart, it was still shocking to see the level of disassembly done. All BMW's have to be split, and it's major surgery to do the clutch or seals, but since he wasn't a BMW mechanic there was much more taken apart than necessary. I was a bit dumbfounded and nervous that it would ever work again. There is so much interconnectivity of electronics and technology that there would be a thousand places that could cause issues. It's a big job even at a BMW dealership.

Would it ever be the same again???

The good, or bad, news is that it was a leaking main seal, one of three various seals in the engine housing. We measured the clutch plate thickness, since it is better to replace everything possible once inside. Surprisingly, the clutch was still in good condition with over two thirds thickness still left. One of the factors that had to be considered was the importation of parts from the United States into Ecuador. One of the biggest delays is when parts come through customs, it's common for them to sit for two, three, or four weeks at times, something I could not afford to do.

I had gone ahead and ordered the parts from the United States, which were out of stock but were due in. Adding a $400 clutch plate and parts to go with it would certainly cause more difficulties in customs than a small bubble-wrapped package with 2 small seals. I made a hard decision to not replace the clutch, which would mean another big expense in the future. For now, just getting the seal replaced and back on the road was my priority. I'd been in Cuenca for two weeks already and had no idea how many more might lay ahead. I wasn't sleeping well.

That evening our group collected up in pairs - the Overlanding couple whose names I've forgotten, Michnus and Elsebie, me-self, Charlie and Derrick, Carson and Griffin and then the new Czech couple. The upshot was that Michnus had mentioned how they never met more than a person or two at a time on the trip, and now there were eleven travelers meeting at one table. It was a great evening and nice to forget about the bike for a while.

A day or two later, Suzy and Kelvin, another pair of world travelers from the UK and friends of you-know-who arrived and we spent time together as well.

Suzie and Kelvin

Michnus' rear shock had come back, a simple o-ring at the adjuster being the issue. Their bikes back together and with only a couple of days left on their Ecuadoran visa, they packed for Peru and left the next morning.

Michnus and Elsebie

It was a great experience being able to hang out together with them and their zest for life kept me from being focused on my problem all the time.

#Cuenca #Ecuador #Adventure #Travel #Photography

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Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Notes On Photo Gear for Travel

12.20.2017

There have been several online requests for advice on camera gear, so the following are some of my thoughts and opinions, biased heavily towards adventure travel by motorcycle.

My background was in advertising and commercial photography, where pre-digital film format sizes from large 8 x 10 cameras to small 35mm were employed. Equipment choices were based on the project, choosing the right tool for the specific job. The same applies in the digital world.

Current Sony A6000 travel kit on the left and the excellent tiny Lumix GM5 kit I took on the previous Alaska leg of this adventure

Sometime, somewhere, I said photography is that rare blend of technology and art, where each depend on the other to produce. Maybe you're a technician where pure color accuracy and image size are critical but there's no creativity required, or maybe you're creative as hell but have no technology genes and get the rare perfect technical image by accident. Two extremes we all fall between.

So, you love photography and want to improve your images? Most folks think the answer is in buying a big pro DSLR and large lenses. If the pros use the camera, it has to eliminate the possibility of poor camera performance, right? That's true to an extent, but buying a big, heavy, expensive system won't automatically make your photographs any better. It will offer higher resolution, and possibly sharper images, with the tradeoff of larger file sizes for storage. If your photos are average and uninteresting, they aren't going to improve with more expensive equipment. Most cameras take excellent images now and the differences are minor.

Since we're looking at gear related to travel, and specifically by motorcycle, you have three or four directions to consider. First, using just a phone will be the smallest, lightest, simplest possible way, however the limitations are in lens selection. But, it offers an option for minimalist travel and may work for your needs. A second choice would be a high quality "prosumer" pocket camera. The image quality is very good, it fits in your pocket or tank bag easily, so it's handy when you need it. The limitations with pocket cameras are typically a limited zoom range, but overall they make a good solution. The third alternative, and the one I'm using on this trip, is a small mirrorless body and interchangeable lenses. The mirrorless design is smaller than a typical DSLR, but rivals it in image quality, especially with excellent lenses. For me, it makes the best system for great image quality in a much smaller footprint. Lastly, is the DSLR system. Until recently, these have been the standard for mobile professional grade images, with many excellent choices available. The downside for travel is the size of the bodies, and worse, the lenses that accompany them. For a weekend motorcycle ride, one might get away with stuffing a system on the bike, however for longer term travels where much more travel gear is needed, spare parts, etc., the DSLR system becomes much harder to pack.

As to the megapixel issue, people think more is better but unless you're an ad shooter, or selling prints in a Jackson, Wyoming gallery, you'll likely never make a wall size print. The megapixel race began years ago to deal with the nightmare of "moiré" patterns on fabrics for studio photographers, where the sensor grids and fabric weave grids would interact creating a weird pattern which was a nightmare to retouch. The magic number for sensors was about 36 mp to reduce or eliminate it.

I'd suggest you set aside the need for megapixels and concentrate on sensor performance, especially for low light. Realistically, 12-16 mp works great and anything above that is gravy, as long as file storage isn't an issue, which on a long term trip can be. Years ago I shot national advertising and collateral campaigns with just a 6 mp camera which was state of the art at the time. Point is, a 16 mp camera will produce beautiful images as much as a 36 mp one. Don’t feel the need to chase very large sensor sizes. Instead focus on color and low light performance which are far more important overall.

The most obvious travel solution is a pocket camera that's durable, easily carried, and small enough to carry as a spare in case of failure. Electronics fail, internal battery chargers stop working, USB ports on the camera fail, etc. If you desire to do street shooting, pocket cams draw less attention and people assume you're just a tourist and ignore you. It's also there when you need it. Many pocket cams take great images - most cameras on the market today do - but you will run into limitations of the genre very quickly. JPG's are often lacking, too contrasty, flat, certain colors false, etc. Lenses in compacts typically aren't sharp and have slow apertures to compensate, at the expense of being terrible in low light. To use them will kick in high ISO and image noise from the small sensors, slow and poor autofocus, with slow shutter speeds that result in camera blur. In bright daylight they will typically work very well.

Having said that, there are some superior compacts that are well above the norm in performance such as the Sony RX series and others. They'll cost you a grand for that performance, but if you want to have a minimal system, they're excellent choices. However, the zoom range is typically limited to the 35mm equivalent range of 24/28 mm to 80/100 mm. Great for most things needed, but you'll be frustrated eventually because you'll want to get better portraits or distant shots.

The other problem small sensor cameras have, aside from noise, is extreme depth of field. In one way it's great as most of the image will be sharp, eliminating some lost shots due to bad focus, but the flip side is that most of the subjects in the image will have equal sharpness and importance, other than compositionally. Some semi-pro pocket cameras have fairly wide apertures and if you choose one, try to get the widest aperture you can, all things being equal. If you want a subject to pop from the background, you'll have to shoot at the longest lens range and widest aperture.

For street shooting, startup time is important. Go for a camera that starts quickly and preferably doesn't have to wait for a lens to extend.

Inherent with capturing travel images is the need for long lenses for people shots from comfortable distances. To give you a sporting chance, you'll need telephoto capabilities. Some superzoom pocket cameras are great for this, as long as you are in sunlight where the aperture limitations aren't evident. In low or failing light, even shade, the lens problems will get you. Superzooms are amazing designs, however physics dictates that wide ranging zooms are usually not sharp. It's always a compromise.

The image below of the girl was taken from a long distance with the Lumix ZS-50 pocket zoom I brought as a backup. It works fairly well in bright conditions for an inexpensive camera, but it is sluggish. Newer versions are better, but will still be limited to bright conditions. I got the shot and it looks good, but there is lack of fine detail compared to the Sony A6000 shots. That's because the sensor is very small and the lens quality can't record the fine details, since the superzoom lens range is a compromise. The fact they can produce a zoom that ranges from 24mm to 300 or so in such a small package that still looks this good is amazing however.

​Shot with the Lumix ZS-50 superzoom pocket camera at maximum zoom from a long distance

Those are some of the issues with pocket cameras, and I look forward to the day when technology advances them to a level where they're everything one needs.

In a nutshell when searching for a camera, first decide your budget, then compare startup times, get the lens with the fastest aperture possible, look for a lens range that is 24-28mm at widest and as close to 100mm at the telephoto end, look for the larger sensor size models which will have less noise, and even shoots raw if your'e serious. The pocket cams that have all that will be the more expensive but grab the previous year's model or buy used. If you have no desire to shoot other than in bright daylight, then most pocket cams will do a good job. Most of my older ride reports were shot with the Panasonic LX series, which had limitations but had a good fast lens and made exceptionally images at the time. I liked the little cameras, but the slow startup and limited zoom range and was frustrating.

There are just so many variables and types, I'd suggest looking at DPreview for their silver and gold travel camera recommendations if you want the better models.

From the compact pocket cams, the next step up are the mirrorless designs and quality difference is dramatic. Sensor sizes double and the ability to interchange lenses is huge. The body and lenses are roughly half the size of DSLR's with quality that is really close or in some cases exceeds them. Many non-mirrorless lenses can be adapted as well. Like it or not, mirrorless is the future. If you are serious about travel photography, I wouldn't consider much else for size-to-quality ratio. Not all are created equal, but there are several choices and sizes available. If any issue has risen its head with mirrorless its been lack of fast, critical autofocus in the past and that would be the frustration of it. Sony is getting serious about fast autofocus, and the DSLR is on the road to becoming a dinosaur. I'm not promoting Sony, who have their issues, and Fuji, Olympus and others are producing great images, each with it's own merits and issues.

If you really need a tiny, interchangeable lens system, one of my favorite mini kits - the Lumix GM-5 - is about the size of a deck of cards with a viewfinder. The kit zooms for it are slow but very sharp and there are some outstanding fast primes for it. A little too small for my hands but it has no problem giving excellent images and the primes are great. The images in my trek through North America were done with this camera and it's cheaper cousin, the GF-7 which had a tilt screen. It has some challenges due to size, but it's a brilliant tiny system if you need a really small system. ​

The tiny Lumix GM-5 and it's cheaper cousin, the GF-7. Hundreds of lens choices and a 16mp Micro 4/3 system.

I am not recommending any particular system, because only you can decide what camera fits your hand, needs, size and budget. Be prepared to try a couple of brands, if not more, before you find a system you like. Buy an almost unused body/lens combo from a doctor/lawyer photo nerd on Craigslist with all the boxes, wrappers and foofoo to try, then flesh out the system or buy a newer body if you like it. If you don't, keep it clean with all the foofoo boxes and resell it.

If you go with an interchangeable lens system and get serious, the lenses are the most important and camera systems should be chosen on that. Optics are the most important aspect of photography, and fast prime lenses are the penultimate, but don't make the mistake of thinking all zooms are crap. They're not. Some zooms are great and if space dictates, two zooms will cover everything you need and give you good or excellent images. Probably 75% of what I shoot is with my Zeiss 16-70 F4 zoom lens. It is brilliantly sharp and though F4 is a bit slow, it still does what I need and lives on one body almost all the time.

With a Sony travel kit, one could do the 10-18 and 18-200 zooms and cover a huge focal range. My previous Fuji travel kit had the 10-24 and 18-135 zooms plus a 56 1.2 prime and produced stellar images. Michnus is using the same system minus the 56. The drawback to zooms are slow apertures, and though good in daylight, they begin to fail as the light drops, requiring slower shutter speeds and the autofocus begins having issues.

Thus to prime lenses... image quality doesn't get any better than a high end, fast aperture, prime lens. Since the elements are fixed as opposed to internal moving elements, they can be exquisitely sharp. Add in a large aperture and you can get razor sharp slices across images that blur backgrounds and force you to look at exactly what you choose.

That said, there are downsides. First and foremost, the razor thin area of focus when wide open likes to live where it chooses and with zero room for error. Zero. Getting what you want in focus can be frustrating and difficult with moving subjects and finicky autofocus. Not a problem in a static portrait but for street work, a challenge. Secondly, in a dynamic situation you are stuck with the lens length. You use the old fashioned zoom called "your feet." Changing lenses on the street doesn't work well and when you drop a lens you'll see why, not to mention the sensor dust you'll get, and whatever you're trying to catch will be gone by the time you get the lens swapped. You'll end up with a second body and wish for a third. That's why the photojournalists always had 4 bodies hanging off them and 30 pound camera bags. Been there, done that.

Shot with Sony A6000 and Sony 85mm f1.8 FE lens

Prime lenses will spoil you for sharpness and shallow depth of field, and if you just can't go back to zooms, get a couple of bodies with a couple of primes on them. A good range would be a 16/18/23 mm on one body for overall shots and a second with your choice of 30/55/85/90mm lens for tighter stuff. That's the basic photojournalist load for street shooting. And now your kit is getting bigger and heavier :D

Despite my gear load on this trip, I basically use two lenses. I keep the 16-70 f4 and 85mm f1.8 on the bodies most of the time, then at night I bag the 16-70 and alternate between the Sigma 30 f1.4 and Zeiss 55 f1.8 lenses. Even with the older A-6000 sensor, I can still shoot in low light with the 16-70 f4 and get good results.

If I survive this trip with any money left, the other system I'm intrigued with is the 1" sensor superzoom cameras by both Sony and Panasonic, the RX10 series and FZ1000/2000 respectively. I've seen some shots with them and have been impressed. The idea of a sealed body, amazing zoom range, and no changing or carrying lenses is appealing. As long as image quality is there I'm up for it. Downside is that the body is as big as a DSLR and more intimidating on the street than smaller bodies, but fast shooting and minimalism would likely compensate. Carrying an extra camera as a backup would still take up less room than the kit I have. Shallow depth of field and low light performance would be my concerns.

Another thing to consider is the carrying case you use on the street. Discretion is the best way to go, but unfortunately manufacturers are more interested in showcasing their logos and produce bags that scream camera. Traveling pros have always known that camouflage is important and used to choose older, nondescript luggage with gear inside. Many times in airports I'd be sitting with an assistant and beat up looking luggage, carrying $50k in gear inside and watching the tourists walking past with huge camera bags. For travel be as wise as you can and unfortunately there are very, very few manufacturers making low key, non-descript bags, so get some lens pouches and carry your gear in something that draws less attention on the street. I had my leather bag made in Guanajuato for $40 and it turned out great for what I need. People assume it's just a leather travel bag.

Since this trip might be a once-in-lifetime deal, I brought more gear than typical, but thought it out well and so far I wouldn't change a thing. It's worked well and I've used all of it. The small pocket zoom I'm carrying has gotten me a couple of good shots and it's good for daylight work. It stays in the tank bag or pocket as a grab shot camera.

Realistically, shoot with whatever makes you happy, as long as you can pack it on the bike and can carry it around all day and night.

Okay, I've bored you enough with some gear opinions, and will post a second update touching the more "artistic" and "realistic" aspects of shooting - learning to see and how to get images on the street... but not today.

#SonyA6000 #StreetPhotography #Motorcycle #Adventure





Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

A Cuenca Gallery


12.21.2017

With the motorcycle was broken down and waiting for parts I had plenty of time for street photography.

Here's a few more images from my wanderings in Cuenca.




#Cuenca #Ecuador #Adventure #Travel #Photography #Motorcycle

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

More Photo Notes: RAW vs JPEG

12.22.2017

Concerning raw files for those who don't understand the purpose and differences:

1. Sony Raw file imported into Lightroom into Adobe colorspace (purposely underexposed when shot). The image looks dull and lifeless. This is not how the scene looked in real life, but the data is there in highlights and shadows for processing, rather than 2/3 of the data being tossed out if it were a jpg:

2. Sony Camera JPG Profile with "Landscape"profile applied in Lightroom (identical to what a JPG from camera would look like - not bad but a little underexposed)

3. Sony Raw file with correct white and black point set, and exposure correction - much more detail and subtle color.


This next image looks like heavy handed manipulation but it's not. The heavy blue on the door looks oversaturated, but it's actually the reflection of a massive, blue LED Cuenca sign across the street. The yellows are the overhead lights and the pinkish hues are from the mix of blue light and overhead orange sodium vapor lights in the park, as well as the red taillights of the line of cars in front of the guy. The magenta saturated streaks on the columns are the blue LED's reflecting into the glossy gold marble, the gold eliminating enough blue to leave the magenta base. The same blue reflects as blue on the white marble between the steps, because the white marble doesn't kill the blue as does the gold on the columns. It appears to those who know nothing about light or color as an oversaturated magenta, but that's how color and light work. That's how the moment looked and the reason I shot it.

Thefollowing image from Honduras was shot with only the light of an LED lamp. I loved the dull color it made, capturing the late night boredom of the vendor. It was processed exactly the same as the above images with the same settings, but inherent in it's nature were the flat colorations, not brilliant ones.

The next image was processed from the raw file with the same settings the other images have, the difference being the muted subject matter and inherent flare from the windows that muted the colors and shadows into a soft and subtle image.​

​ Point is, don't confuse subject matter, light, environment, atmospheric conditions, lens renderings (which differ substantially between each lens you own), and all the other variables, with having been manipulated one way or another. All of my images are imported with the same corrections and generally are exported out as jpg's with no changes. To that matter, jpg's toss most of the data and change from your original on export. They then enter the world of differing color monitors and computers. Your computer and monitor may display that jpg very differently than your spouse’s iPad.

Entering a world of insane variables in image processing and display will lead you down a never-ending road chasing your tail. I suggest just enjoying taking photos and don't sweat bullets unless your'e trying to copy the Mona Lisa for a museum and need to be as accurate as possible. But then again, that ain't really photography, it's technical recording.

The following image of yours truly is a good example of JPG limitations. Charlie's Olympus produced typical jpeg output which is both dull and oversaturated at the same time, with no detail in the clouds or black shadows. Don't forget, when you see an image, your eye doesn't see black shadows or overexposed clouds. It compensates instantly and sees detail in shadows and detail in clouds. This image doesn't look anything like what Charlie saw at the time. Raw files will allow you to make the image look closer to what was reality, if you know what you're doing. If a raw file was available, when processed it would render much more shadow detail and also detail in the clouds.

​ Caught the following when Michnus, Elsebie and I were walking around the other night, specifically for the brilliant surreal colors! I knew how to expose for the midpoint, blowing the colored light strings into saturated glows to capture the tone of green I wanted on the tiles and his profile. It's not manipulation, it's understanding how to shoot.

​ I hope this helps some of you guys begin to look at things differently and to understand the value of raw AND the camera system you choose. Some are better than others. Canon has always had flat color but good skin tones, Sony is good in low light and good with color, but I feel Fuji has the best combination of all. No camera brand has completely accurate colors, even when calibrated with custom profiles, and will always interpret colors differently than another.

If you want to become a photographer, look for images you like and capture moments in life that engage people, focusing on why rather than the technical issues. If you're happy with jpg's that's great. If you want to improve the quality then consider diving into the world of raw. The point and purpose of photography is to create images that are beautiful and capture the viewer. Get the basics of technique down and then move on to what's important - the image you capture that captures others. Ignore the photo forums that rant on about megapixels and technical details.

Choose life and color instead!

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Pase del Niño Viajero

12.24.2017

In my wanderings and walks to Mojeron Moto to stare forlornly at my bike, I'd run across a little restaurant tucked away on a side street. It turned out to be run by a local who'd worked in Chicago for 10 years, and on his return to Cuenca had opened a US style eatery. The bar portion was run by a Canadian expat lady and they dished up some ribs and barbecue sauce for me. Dang tasty and a nice break from local rice dishes.

The upshot was, I got invited to an expat party a couple of days later to watch the upcoming Christmas parade known as Pase Del Niño from a streetside balcony with food and drink all the afternoon.

That Saturday morning, the Canadian expat picked me up in a cab, which turned into a meandering quest to find a way to the address of the party, as so many streets had been closed for the upcoming parade. Beside me in the back seat was her little Maltese, his head sticking out his carry bag, absolutely uninterested in being petted and unresponsive to my babytalk to him.

We finally got within a couple of blocks of the party and bailed out of the cab to walk. I grabbed my camera bag and a food dish she'd baked for the party, standing next to the cab while she retrieved her Maltese baby from the back seat. Suddenly she exclaimed "PiPi, I can't believe you sh*t on the back seat!" To her surprise, PiPi had PooPooed on the rear seat of the taxi, apparently worming his way out of the head hole of his carry case, doing his dump and then somehow getting back in the carry case.

I could vouch it hadn't happened while I was in the cab nor had I seen any proof when I got in the cab. While she searched for tissues to take the turd off the seat, I did a quick check to make sure I didn't have any on me. I saw or smelled nothing obvious, apparently having missed it when I jumped quickly in the cab due to the busy, honking traffic behind us.

After the excrement escapade, we walked the couple of blocks or so to a nondescript building, were buzzed in and climbed up to a beautiful, expensive apartment overlooking the main parade street. It was filled with food and drink, other expats and general chitchat. I decided to set my camera bag on an end table, slipping it off my shoulder. When I laid it down, I noticed a blob of PiPi PooPoo smeared on the backside of my leather bag. Hmmm. Since the bag rides on my hip and side, I took a look at my nice shirt I'd worn to impress everyone. There sat a tortilla sized schmear of poo, where my camera bag had smeared it all over my side. It's hard to explain the joy of realizing my coming out party to impress the expats had seen me shaking hands and trading pleasantries with a giant brown patch of poo on my side! I wanted to kill PiPi.

With such limited space on the motorcycle, I'd splurged and brought on nice travel shirt just in case I was invited to a Presidential dinner or bumped into Queen Elizabeth. I'd spent nearly an hour that morning trying to get the now permanent creases and wrinkles out from having been super-compressed in my sidecase for 3 months. Realizing I now had a giant brown poo patch on my left side, I tried to walk sideways through the crowd, constantly turning to the left to keep the big schmear out of sight.

I found the tiny guest bathroom, yanked off the shirt and managed to drop one sleeve in the toilet, while putting it under the spout in the itty bitty sink. I spent a good 15 minutes trying to wash the sh*t out of the shirt with the little bar of guest soap, while listening to the occasional rattle of the doorknob from desperate guests. Finally cleaned, though soaking wet, I crumpled the now empty Kleenex box and buried it in the trash can, hoping the owners wouldn't realize an entire new box of tissue was missing... "Honey, did you take that box of tissues out of the guest bathroom? I just bought it for the party and now I can't find it anywhere!"

With the side and half the back of my shirt wet, I smiled, nodded and crab-walked sideways past guests who were introducing themselves attempting to hide my shame until I found the balcony and some sunshine to wait until it was dry. Eventually the sun did it's job and I went back in for a drink and snacks with thoughts of murdering Maltese PiPi still filling my mind. The expat crowd was an interesting one, mostly older hippies but a fun and funky group. I was struck by the number of grey-headed guys like me with ponytails...

One guy, Bill from Colorado, had done a lot of adventure riding, both in South America, the US and India. We talked a lot and agreed to meet up again.

As I watched the parade assembling below, I just couldn't face spending the afternoon watching from a balcony and schmoozing with people, so I snuck out of the house, diving into the long line of parade floats and masses of people queuing along the sidewalks. It was far more interesting and photogenic.

The parade is known as the "Pase de Niño" and is a conglomeration of families, groups and cultures, mainly dressing in the Biblical characters of the birth of Jesus. It was long and featured mainly children, lasting for hours. Floats were festooned with candy, fruit and cooked items, all part of the decorations. Beautiful horses and riders clattered the streets, groups of dancers swirled and smiled. It was a mesmerizing sight.

The various groups and costumes were fascinating, especially the little children who did a great job of suffering in the heat in their outfits and dutifully waving, though they had no idea why. Candy was thrown, bands played and dancing groups of differing cultures came through.

Throughout the day, over and over I had great encounters with the friendliness of the Ecuadorian people as I walked and shot pictures. Occasionally the indigenous women, who do such a great job of avoiding photos or eye contact, would glance at me and the glimmer of an upturned corner of the mouth beginning to smile would appear, before their eyes quickly turned away. I began to recognize that their culture was one of shyness rather than animosity, and they exhibited the training of that culture well.

One particular aspect of the scene I enjoyed was watching the candy being thrown and the resultant reactions. The adults were just as much in a mad scramble and just as excited to get a piece as the little children were.

One exciting facet was the amount of fruit being lobbed from floats and trucks, and it kept life interesting to see apples, oranges, mangos and bananas coming at you like a home run baseball. Once, near me a lady who wasn't looking took a hit on the head by a large and quite juicy mango.

One woman stood beside me on a curb, and when I finished a picture, she began talking to me in Spanish, pointing and discussing many things of which I had no understanding, but I realized she was being friendly to me as a gringo and wanting me to feel at home in her city.

Throughout the afternoon this repeated itself in many forms, two of which come to mind. First was a parade float featuring a smoking brick oven with piles of handmade bricks, and children in a miniature mud pit holding bricks and wads of fake money, shouting sales pitches for the business owner of the float.

As I photographed one of the boys, I gave him a thumbs up. He hesitated, then responded with a thumbs up, having never done such I could tell, and behind me I heard a chorus of laughs. I turned around to the crowd on the sidewalk who were laughing and smiling at the scene. I gave them a thumbs up and they all laughed again. The boy realized he was on to something and kept repeating it for the crowd as the float floated away.

The next memory was a few blocks further, when a guy, late 20's with a big daypack, came over while I was shooting and welcomed me to Cuenca in Spanish, quite genuinely. He shook my hand several times, and though he did't speak English, conversed with me. Again and again he shook my hand, fueled to some degree by alcohol, but nevertheless sincere and happy to meet me. As I finally indicated I needed to go, he grabbed me and gave me a big bear hug, not once but twice, then shook my hand again and again. He finally let me go and I walked away feeling both strange and good as I instinctively double checked my pocket for my wallet. It was an interesting afternoon.

As I walked along, mothers would pose their children for me with big smiles. The day waned as the parade wound down. After several hours I reached the tail end as the sun dropped low, watching an organized and efficient team of blue and orange suited street cleaners attacking the streets to remove trash and washing the mounds of horse droppings away.

Here and there, locals came out of their homes to offer water or drinks to the workers.

A Gallery of Faces from the day:

#Ecuador #Cuenca #PasedelNiños #Adventure #Motorcycle #Travel

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

A Christmas Story

12.25.2017

I’d been stranded in Cuenca, Ecuador for almost the entire month of December, staying in a hotel and waiting for parts to repair my motorcycle, concurrent with the holiday season and delays inherent in the culture. I was under much stress, watching my timeline to beat the snow at the southern tip of the continent slip away, unsure as to whether the motorcycle could be repaired - if not, my trip was finished and if so, would it be reliable for the rest of my trek? I could do little to affect an outcome and buried myself in a routine of leaving the tiny hotel room to walk the streets of the city, shooting photos and grabbing a coffee or lunch in one of the little shops around town.

A few days previous to Christmas, the hard-working maid at the hotel came up to me and peeled off a non-stop 5 minute diatribe in Spanish, pointing and waving in her discourse. It was so fast and long that I only gathered two words - "niños" and "nueve". Since we'd never spoken, she of course assumed I spoke Spanish... I mean, what sort of fool would ride a motorcycle through South America that didn't? Smiling and nodding like Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies probably didn't help.

I mulled it over a day or two and figured she might be talking about an upcoming parade in Cuenca. A day or so later she repeated the discourse and then I began to wonder if she was warning me that the hotel would be closed for Christmas. I located the hotel owner's son, Marco, who spoke a little English and asked him if they were closing for the holiday but he assured me no. Relief.

Christmas eve morning, the maid again gave me a brief, machine gun fast conversation and my stress level increased. I'd been invited to an expat party that same day to watch the “Pase del Niño Viajero”, a massive festival and parade featuring children in Biblical costumes that engulfed the entire city. At the party, I'd slipped away from the balcony view and disappeared into the crowds for the experience rather than observation. It turned out to be a beautiful spectacle that lasted all day. Back at the hotel that evening, the owner rambled a fast discourse to me, of which again she emphasized “nueve” and also mentioned “niños”. She was stern and serious, so I figured I'd better be ready for something at nine in the morning. I assumed it was yet another children’s parade or something.

That night my constant head and chest congestion from the diesel pollution worsened. I got very little sleep, groggily waking around 8:30 am to the sound of heavy rain hitting the windows. I felt bad physically and didn'twant to get up, taking some comfort in the fact that maybe the event planned for the day had been rained out and I could just stay in bed. I had trouble getting going, finally rolling into the shower about 9 or so. At 9:30, there was a knock on my door and the well dressed hotel owner was pointing at her watch and staring at me sternly.

Now, I’m the type of guy who's always early and the one time I drag my feet, I get caught. I frantically grabbed a couple of things and ran down to the little SUV idling in the courtyard. Sheepishly I squeezed into the back seat and rode with the owner and her adult son, the only sound in the car being Ecuadorian pop music on the radio. The emotional silence was deafening however, so I sat ashamedly and stared out the window.

After about an hour and a half, we turned off onto a dirt side road in the mountains and parked. Moments later a small pickup pulled up next to us, carrying the hotel maid who rolled down her window and spoke to us. We followed them and in a moment, the truck turned off onto a steep dirt road about the width of a bulldozer blade. We climbed higher into the mountains on the rough and narrow red dirt scrape. Out the window and out of place, I spotted a crazy, middle-eastern, onion domed castle on a hillside across the valley. My mind began to wonder...

Our two car caravan worked its way up to the crest of a steep hill and finally turned sharply into a driveway. Thehouse was a partially constructed concrete home with a stellar view of a valley and mountains below. Outside sat a few of the family, while a big brick and clay oven spewed smoke and the smell of something roasting. The "something" turned out to be a whole pig.

The uncle and son manning the operation spoke no English, but we had fun communicating anyway. I gleaned that the pig was to be roasted for 5 hours. Beside the oven sat an old darkroom timer that went off with a buzz every three minutes, at which point they'd leap up and drag the large tray with the pig on it out of the oven, spin it 180 degrees and shove it back in. I was informed this turning had to be done every 3 minutes for the first 2 hours, before letting it roast unmoved for the last 3. They took the job very seriously.

 
 

As I was introduced to the family inside the house, I immediately felt like a very large fish out of water in a family gathering where no one spoke English and I was quite the enormous gringo rarity. Mama was busy in the kitchen, but welcomed me and insisted I sit at the family table rather than outside in the plastic chairs with the growing company of locals who were arriving.

As I watched, a hot meal of freshly cooked "free range" chicken from their yard, yellow rice and potatoes, "mote", a corn similar to hominy in the US, fresh bananas and soda was brought to our table. They'd made a lunch meal just for the hotel owner, her son and myself. We were treated with honor. The food was delicious, then an old milk jug filled with brown liquid resembling dirty water was pulled from the refrigerator and placed on the table. I was a bit nervous as to what would come next. Glasses were produced for us guests, but mama insisted the daughter rewash mine immediately. I watched as they poured an inch or two of the milky brown liquid into my glass, all eyes watching me intently. I could smell the odd aroma of the concoction, but as I sipped it, the flavor was sweet and followed shortly after by a swift kick in the pants. They smiled at my nod of approval and someone said "caña", then “Cuencan wheeski" another said, a powerful homebrew liquor made from sugar cane. I downed the rest of the musty and earthy concoction while they continued to watch my reaction.

Through the burn, I smiled and said "Muy bien, rico suave!" which brought big smiles. I was later to find out that was a mistake, but it was very good indeed. In less than 5 minutes the effect of the single glass hit strong, with a sweaty skin flush and swimming head. All I can say is that was some very strong “caña”!

After the lunch meal, the few families that had gathered outside began to stir with frantic activity. The children were dressed in costumes of Biblical characters, angels and even as local adults. It was apparent they were part of an upcoming parade and one of the adults said to me "Pase del Niño”. I realized we were going to the nearby village to repeat the parade I'd seen in Cuenca the previous day.

I stood outside and waited, taking in the beautiful vista of the valley below, while chickens and chicks scrambled in the yard and amidst the coffee plants, banana and cacao trees on the steep hillside below the house. Behind, I heard the sheeshing rush of a fireworks rocket, followed by the loud boom so famous, or infamous, in Latin America for occurring at all times of the day and night. I turned and above saw the small brown cloud of the rocket's explosion. It was a signal to the locals and I could see the father of the house with a big smile, holding three more of the large bottle rocket type fireworks with long, split cane tails in his left hand.

 
 
 
 

The gathering at the house grew as time past, possibly from the fireworks signal. Then a family member indicated for all of us to hurriedly get into the cars since it was time to leave. I piled into the back seat of the tiny Chevy Tracker with the owner and her son in the front. Crammed next to me was one of the daughters with her newborn baby and another relative filling the other side of the seat. It was hot as we sat packed together in the back seat. The baby was cranky and crying, dressed in its little white angel robe. In my hand I held her tiny plastic halo and tiny set of wings for the mother. We sat waiting for the other trucks to leave with the family members aboard, who were standing in the beds and holding onto steel side rails.

Finally our turn came and the little Tracker lurched up the steep, tiny dirt road behind a little Nissan flatbed pickup loaded with grandfather, grandmother, family members holding babies and children in costumes. Next to me, the baby began to cry, the young mother immediately exposing her breast for the baby who lay against my arm. I looked away as quickly as possible out of respect, but it didn't matter, as the young mother looked at me and smiled. I was just part of the family.

I stared out the dirty windshield to the slurps and sounds of the suckling child next to me, fanning both the baby and mother to cool them with the tiny angel wings in my hand. Ahead, I watched the family group in their robes and attire pitch and sway, standing in the back of the truck as it lurched and fought its way in the mud and rough dirt, branches brushing the sides on the narrow road. It was a scene forever burned into the channels of my mind.

As we neared the village below, like streams flowing into a river, other trucks and families joined the line from side roads. Reaching the town, we finally stopped at the iglesia, being the the first and only ones there. Kids and family piled off the trucks excitedly for pictures, while the older adults stood in the shade of the side of the church.

 

The little group formed up and headed down the dusty street alone, waving for me to join them dutifully in the heat of the sun. Along our way, two young teenage girls joined from the sidewalk ahead of me. One, probably fourteen, carrying a baby girl and shading her from the sun with a scarf. As I walked up next to them, I smiled and asked the baby girl's name. “”Yazmeen” (Jasmine) was the response from the very shy young mother, who was embarrassed, surprised and uncomfortable to both see and interact with a big gringo. She slowed with her friend to make sure I passed them quickly.

I had begun to wonder if our little group was to be the entire parade, but rounding a curve there were several groups coming towards us in the heat. We waited until they arrived, joining us, now a somewhat larger procession back towards the church plaza.

 

The church was a large metal warehouse, the exterior plastered. Inside, everyone sat down in preparation for the service. I sat in a chair in the back, watching the children’s fascination with each other's costumes as more families arrived. Here and there, a dog would wander in and take its place on the cool concrete floor as the hot metal building filled up for the service.

 
 

I eventually gave up my chair for a mother and family and stood at the back, to the serious and un-ending gaze of some of the older men around me. I had a splitting headache, probably from the sugar cane moonshine, that eventually drove me across the street to a little tienda for a bottle of water in the shade, until the sounds of an Andes flute drew me back to the church and its beginning rhythm of rituals.

An old and beaten Dodge van arrived, dispersing a mix of young and older people who joined us at the doorway. They looked weathered and different, some with physical issues and some with apparent mental deficiencies, but they were attendant to the service.

In front of and around me, the darkened faces of young women stared, brown eyes peering hard into mine to see what they needed to see. I had no connection, yet felt deeply connected somehow.

A young girl of nine or so walked directly to me and stood looking up, staring intently at me. Her pretty face was accented by a deep scar beneath her chin. Her gaze didn't retire or weaken, unsure whether to return my smile or not. She abandoned her position in front of me as the service ended and the people began flowing out. Smile after smile came my way, something I wasn't used to nor did I expect in a small village unused to seeing Americans.

Our little family group slowly reassembled for the trip back up the mountain, followed by the other vehicles we'd followed down. When we arrived at the house, a large number of locals were there and waiting in the back yard.

 

I wandered about until the nephew who'd been roasting the pig motioned to me and shouted "arriba!” He led me to the front of the house and up a set of steep concrete steps to an open balcony with a stunning view. There sat his uncle and a couple of other men, before them on the table the old milk jug I’d met earlier filled with brown caña, along with some empty glasses. Yes, they were smiling and excited that I'd liked their lunch liquor and were going to make sure I got my fill.

My smile hid my inner thoughts of “Oh dear God, no!”, remembering the powerful punch of just the small amount they'd given me at lunch, but they were determined and poured me a full glass… not a shot glass, but a full-sized glass. I also noticed they only poured themselves about a fourth of what they had poured me.

They were very happy and proud and loudly toasted “Salud!” I was honored that they were honoring me, and would not have refused their request, however somewhere in my paranoid brain I had visions of a big drunken gringo, dressed in ribbons wearing a papier-mâché head, being chased and beaten with sticks by children to the cheers and sounds of laughter of the adults in some unknown Ecuadorian ritual…

Nonetheless, not wanting to offend my gracious hosts, I downed my entire glass as they watched happily. To my rescue a bit later, a call came from below that it was time to come down to the yard. As we stood waiting for our turn to go down, the demon rum began its magic. I carefully and thoughtfully began to make my way down the steep staircase and had almost reached the bottom step when the “caña” slammed me with a wave of lightheadedness about two steps from the bottom. I had purposely chosen to go last, just in case something happened and luckily my hosts (or captors?) were a few steps ahead and did not get to witness me missing the last step in a big way.

I suppose if someone had seen me, it would've been similar to watching a football player catch a pass and lose his balance, trying very hard to run fast enough to catch up with his upper body. I did a great imitation, bolting off the staircase after a gigantic step and hurtling across the grass until I landed on the hood and fender of one of the small pickups with a loud boom. I decided to pose there as if in deep thought until I felt I could actually walk back down to the yard.

The nephew had come back to check on me, probably hearing the thud of my hood landing, and it was his truck I was leaning against. The truck sported some motorcycle related stickers and the discussion began. I attempted to communicate my travel story and showed him a picture of my big BMW GSA.

A two man party broke out and he excitedly indicated he raced motocross. The scar comparison began, pulling up his jeans to show a big ankle scar. I pulled my pants leg up to show a similar copy and we laughed as he pointed here and there on his body indicating injuries. In the same way Air Force combat pilots love to show maneuvers with their hands, he showed me his motocross jumps with hand language. I tried to communicate that I raced motocross in the late 70's but I'm not sure he understood. Nevertheless we were instant friends.

He motioned me to come with him, and I slowly and deliberately followed, one step at a time. Rounding the corner to the backyard area behind the house, now sat probably a hundred people, standing, talking, or lining the perimeter in chairs. I decided to stand near the house corner to remain as an obscure observer, but the owner of the house placed a chair in a prominent place and insisted I sit. Reluctantly I did so and became the center of focus for the entire ring of people. I never felt so "gringo" in all my life. Everywhere I looked, the stares were on.

 

After sitting alone for a while, a few more chairs were brought and placed near me. Shortly after, an older woman came and sat to my right. Not long after she sat down, I was suddenly embraced from behind with a big tight hug from a female. Around my neck and chest were the arms of a woman and I felt her head leaning against mine. I was in shock, not knowing anyone and certainly not knowing anyone well enough to be held in an embrace. Needless to say I was again the center of attention for the locals in the backyard who were really staring now.

For an unknown woman to be holding me so tightly, I made the assumption that maybe she was a local prostitute or something, which might explain the long embrace as well as the stares from the people.

As I was sitting in the embrace, a young man came and sat at the feet of the older lady next to me, followed soon after by a young girl whom I could tell I had mental deficiencies. Just about that time, the girl who was embracing me let go and squeezed past my chair to sit between me and the older woman. Then the older woman next to me was suddenly swarmed with people loving and hugging her. It turned out to be the same group of people who'd arrived at the church in the old beaten van. They were special needs adults and children with mental and emotional deficiencies and were very childlike. I looked at the woman next to me covered in them and smiled at her. She eventually shooed them away, smiled and said something about "fundacione". I smiled back and said "trabajo dificile", to which she nodded agreement. The young woman who'd hugged me stood between us like a little girl, despite her age which was probably in the 30s, and I realized she was just very sweet and childlike in her understanding. Her long hug was just saying hello.

It was now becoming apparent what was happening as more local families arrived, their children excited and expectant. This family I was visiting were hosting a Christmas meal with gifts for the poor local families and the special needs children and adults. The pig roast and giant pots of rice, potatoes, beans and yucca I'd seen were to be a meal for the poor. The realization flushed me with emotion and I looked up at the sky and thanking God that I was able to be part of this moment.

The owner of the home began announcing games for the children, while most of the special needs folks gathered around me and the woman adjacent, engulfing us with arms and sitting around like happy little children. I was touched by the situation around me and I won't lie, it was every thing I could do not to shed a tear. Something about this day had struck me hard and deep and maybe the emotions were a sense of feeling alive and of what's important in life. Maybe it was because I hadn't slept much. Maybe it was the moonshine. I don't know, but all my emotions were on the outside.

I watched as the children were called up to play various games and receive little toys and bags of candy. They were so excited to receive them, it was as if they were the greatest thing ever to happen to them. Maybe it was. I watched and thought of how blessed my life was, even more that I could be a part of something so simple and so powerful. One moment lying in a hotel room by myself, depressed and complaining about my problems and a few hours later engulfed by love and strangers, who had so little to give and yet gave so much.

The time came for the main presents to be handed out and a line was formed outside the house. One by one, the children came in to get a toy, so excited and overwhelmed with joy.

 
 
 
 

I squeezed inside the house to watch as each child or special adult came in and was given an inexpensive plastic toy. Some would come to me in wonder and show me their plastic dump truck, or little doll, smiling in disbelief. They were so happy.

It was incredibly touching and I felt my throat tightening as I began to choke back tears. I hurriedly squeezed out of the house to get my composure, but a little girl grabbed my hand at the doorway. She was deaf and dumb, unable to speak but she could smile and she did, beaming at me in pure joy. She held up her doll to me for a long time, squeezing my fingers and staring in my eyes. Damn it was hard. She finally released my hand and overcome with emotion, I just wanted to run, quickly making my way to the edge of the yard to stare into the valley below to get my breath back.

Then, as if God said to look deeper and harder, the woman-child who'd embraced me earlier, along with her friend, ran across the yard and sat directly in front of me on a tire. Her friend held a little doll with her eyes wide in literal disbelief, squeezing it tightly and rocking it like a baby constantly. She kept staring deeply at the doll as if it was real. I was forced to watch them, so engulfed in joy at so little, until I felt the hot tears on my cheeks.

The Christmas fiesta continued as the roast pig was carried into the home and set in the kitchen. The crowd outside sat in the mist of a darkening evening sky. The mother insisted I sit in the home at the table, with the hotel owner and her son again, as well as a young man and his wife, whom I later found out ran the foundation for the group of challenged folks who were with us.

It was an undeserved honor and I didn't want it. They brought the first of the pig to us, delicious pieces of crispy roasted skin with the shallow layer of fat beneath, atop slabs of butter-soft pork with rice, potatoes, yucca and more. When I realized the host family and the crowd outside would not eat until we guests had finished our meal, it was humbling but very uncomfortable for me. I ate as quickly as I could, getting up to go outside for fresh air but mainly because I didn’t want all those hungry families waiting for us.

 
 

Outside, the teen girl whom I'd seen at the parade with her baby Jasmine, stood with her family and this time, outwardly smiling and holding little Jasmine up any and every time I looked her direction. Standing behind her, her worn and weathered parents and sister would smile at me as well. Several times that afternoon she had stood looking at me with her parents, holding up Jasmine and quickly trying to get the baby to look my direction.

Her family would light up and smile as well, and it was with a bit of sadness I would wave back. It was apparent the young girl was alone with her child and no husband or future. A gringo who was kind enough to speak had probably fanned flames in the family that he might be her ticket out, a ray of hope for their daughter.

The evening festivities continued as the locals ate and family by family began to disappear for their homes, always coming inside to say goodbye and shake everyone's hand, including mine as they left.

I came back inside at dark and sat with my hosts and hotel owners at the main table. The hotel owner said something to me in Spanish about Feliz Navidad. I looked at her son who spoke some English and he said haltingly "She is asking if in the U.S. you celebrate Christmas like this, feeding the poor?" I swallowed hard and hated myself for the answer I had to give. "No", I responded, “we just celebrate with our family and exchange gifts.” I felt terribly defensive, even though it was just a conversational question. I wanted desperately to tell her all the good things I’d done for people in my life, somehow justifying myself though I knew no why, but it was futile and pointless.

Outside in the evening air with my thoughts, I had to face the fact that Christmas in the US was really about ourselves. It had become an orgy of indulgence and self, so far from what it should be. I thought about the hotel maid where I stayed, whose family was the one hosting and feeding this Christmas event, and how easily overlooked she could be, bypassed and ignored. Yet, here she was joyfully serving and taking care of the people around her, a masterpiece of love.

As it came time to leave, I went back into the home to thank all the people who had graciously treated me both like family and royalty. I stepped back out into the night and the cool damp air of the mountains, slowly walking up the driveway towards where the car was parked. The young girl with her baby Jasmine came to me out of the darkness and said "Estados Unidos?" with a smile and hopeful look. Though it was dark, I could see her family silhouetted under a tree in the shadows a little ways away, watching hopefully. I smiled, touched the baby’s hair and said “Si."

The day had been one of strong emotions and I was drained inside. The girl's appearance was yet another unexpected moment, one that filled my heart with sadness... Sadness because I knew she and her family were hoping for the impossible, sadness for her situation in life, and sadness because I had no way to help her out of it.

It was very, very hard to do, but I just smiled and slowly walked on past to the car, leaving her and Jasmine in the darkness. In the twilight, I stood at the car staring at the golden points of light on hillsides far away and the stars above, dimmed through a whisper thin veil of fog. My Christmas in Ecuador would never be forgotten.

I was given a gift I did not deserve, but then I guess that really is the message of Christmas isn’t it?

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Notes On Street Photography

1.01.2018

I promised to share my thoughts on the intangible aspects of shooting and what contributes to making good images vs average ones, so...

It's all about Emotion

If you want to move away from being an average shooter, I suggest studying the images of Henri Cartier-Bresson and W. Eugene Smith, producers of some of the most iconic photos in history. The images capture you with emotion of the moment, beautifully spun in compositions, light and subject matter.

It's not about the camera or gear. That would be simple. Yes, we love our technology and toys, and I get sweaty handling it, but when you switch your brain off from technicalities and start looking for light, people and moments, then you're moving the right direction. The key is learning to look.

Gear becomes a background issue as you begin to understand what photography is about. You realize you're on a hunt and the camera is just the net to grab the moment. The "moment" is the reason you carry the net. Carrying the net is not the reason you hunt. Find a camera you like, and most importantly one that is simple in operation, not easy with the manufacturer's loading every camera down with crap we only use 10% of.

“It is an illusion that photos are made with the camera… they are made with the eye, heart and head.” – Henri Cartier-Bresson

Photography is a sophisticated electronic and mechanical machine, working in conjunction with the mind and reactions of the human, all to capture nothing but an emotion. If your photo evokes no emotion, be it subtle or mesmerizing, it's only a record of a moment. Remember, you're trying to capture a moment that captures someone else's mind.

It's all about Composition

A good image will hold the viewer for a period of time, with a mix of visual interest that stirs something inside. There are compositional rules that can be used to capture the eye and force it into a circular flow in an image, or it can be held just due to subject or moment, but a great image usually combines them all.

Some people are born with an eye for composition and it comes easily to them. Some aren't and learning to compose is a struggle. Either way, if you study the works of great photographers, you will train yourself to recognize compositions and, like racing against someone faster than you, your skill level will increase. You are training your brain to recognize patterns.

We could go on for hours about this subject, and I won't as you can study about it on your own, but here are at least two basic points that will make your images more interesting:

First is called the "Rule of Thirds" and is basic to most images or paintings. If you divide an image into thirds vertically and horizontally, the eye finds interest when an object lies at the junction of one of the thirds. Visually, odd numbers capture the eye more than even numbers because they create visual tension. Yes, you likely have the "rule of thirds" grid on your camera screen if you've ever wondered what those lines are for.

If you imagine a blank wall with a person in front of it as the subject, your image will be more interesting if the person is placed on a 1/3 line position rather than dead center. The visual weight of the person to one side is counterbalanced by the other 2/3 of blank wall. This creates balance and visual tension that the eye finds appealing. Remember all the family photos where the people are dead center? That's why they're boring to look at.

This image has visual tension because of the position of the subject on a 1/3 position

vs dead center

Despite some rulesThere are no absolutes in creating images, and centering a subject - symmetry - is also a good thing when done properly. It can be interesting in many situations and is often seen when when backgrounds or locations are symmetrical such as hallways or rows of pillars, etc. Aligning the backgrounds and subjects appropriately symmetrical can look great, such as a person centered between rows of columns as an example. You have to decide which is more interesting in those situations. The brilliant director Stanley Kubrick was famous for using symmetry in his movies and they are captivating. Again, it only works in certain situations.

Symmetry

The second point of improvement you can make is to get very close to your subject. Remember the boring family photos that were centered? They were also probably far away from the subject. Get in very tight and your stuff will be more interesting. We're fascinated to be up close and seeing details, and I assume it's because as humans we never get to be inside a stranger's personal space, but whatever the reason, we're intrigued to see people close and personal. Use it to your advantage.

I suggest you study photography masters and see if you can recreate their photos, if only compositionally. Secondly, study up on the rule of thirds and symmetry and purposely practice them. Last but not least, don't make all your shots be overall views, but come in very tight on your subject, especially people. Learn to look closer at all things and sometimes small details are the most interesting subjects.

It's all about Light

Study and observe light - patterns, shadows, textures, colors, angles and more, then incorporate it into your photos. It's the key to moving good images into great ones. If you combine good composition, subject matter and beautiful light, you'll have a winner.

Interesting light is your best tool...

The same spot in daylight

Now to the issue of street shooting...

Photographing overall scenes, mountains, buildings and such don't require much except composition, interesting angles and light, so I'm skipping that aspect.

Here are some thoughts on getting better images:

I'm a bit of a purist when it comes to photography, preferring to work on composition, light and design. I have nothing against filters and software, however they are used to hide many bad photos. I honestly think in a pure sense, if you're relying heavily on filters for a "style", then you aren't producing good enough images to stand on their own. But again, I'm a purist to a degree. If filters make your images, then credit the software geek who built it as well. They're great for adding interest to images, and I'm not slamming people for using them, but keep in mind one day they'll be out of style and you'll have a library of cheesy looking stuff that will look very dated.

“If there is one point, it's humanity, it's life, the richness of life. The thing is simply to be sensitive.” - Henri Cartier-Bresson

Your personality will determine how you shoot. If you're comfortable around people and are gregarious, you'll have an easier time getting shots. If you're shy and retiring, it'll require a bit more work. Your images will reflect who you are inside.

Street shooting requires fast reflexes and a camera system that is responsive. You have to be looking constantly and ready to grab something when it pops up. It helps if you have the sixth sense about what will occur and shoot just before it happens. Some are really gifted in this area, but most of us aren't.

If you're one of those guys who disappears easily into a crowd, you're miles ahead. Being unnoticed is best. I ain't.

Most of the time, you'll need to be surreptitious to get any real shots.

I suggest using a camera that has an articulated screen at best and a tilt screen at minimum. You can shoot from waist level or with the camera pointing a different direction entirely.

When you're obvious or stand out, you need to take more time to capture moments. Trust me, I'm the elephant in the plaza when I shoot and everyone stares and watches me. The way I've found around it, is to sit or stand somewhere long enough - usually about 10 minutes - until they finally get bored and assume you're just texting on your phone. That's your chance.

Another method is "hunting and trapping", where you find a spot that looks good and wait for people to come into your scene.

Use the Remote App on your cell phone or tablet sometimes when seated somewhere. Nobody will assume you are doing anything when turned sideways on your phone, while your camera sits pointing at them next to your coffee cup.

Get a camera with an electronic shutter that can be set to silent.

In real life situations, a smile will get you a long ways.

Be genuinely interested in what someone is doing, such as cooking or making something. If you're genuine, they'll know it and open to you. Then ask permission to take a photo after some time. You'll get a posed shot, but at least you got one.

Money talks and feel free to offer some change to a leery subject in a respectful way. If they have a child, say "it's for the child" or something similar. You'll probably get the shot. Also, in many areas the locals are expecting money for pictures, so carry coins.

All the above methods that ask permission or payment will result in posed images, but you can shoot enough that they go back to what they were doing. That said, your best images will be caught moments where people are unawares.

"What reinforces the content of a photograph is the sense of rhythm – the relationship between shapes and values." - Henri Cartier-Bresson

Try to find interesting areas of patterns, textures and light, and if you can combine those with people your images will have a lot of interest.

You'll miss or lose far more good shots than you'll ever get. Over time you'll get better at it, but don't expect to get many images at a time... thus, shoot a lot and frequently when new, then shoot very little and selectively as you develop instincts.

Just get the shot and don't worry about the technical aspects or if it's slightly blurred or out of focus. That's for the pixel peeping bitches on forums and not for great images. What the image says or does will transcend any and all minor technical issues. Reference Henri Cartier-Bresson, W. Eugene Smith or any number of other really outstanding street photographers.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

A Fiery New Year's Eve

12.31.2017

In Ecuador, people celebrate New Year's Day in a very original way.

At the end of the year, individuals take a set of their clothes and stuff them with newspapers, creating a dummy of themselves, complete with a papier-mâché mask of their likeness. At night or during the day, they burn the doll with friends and family, each of the witnesses jumping over the flames once or more.

I had been invited to a combination birthday party and New Years celebration last night. After dinner, the music was set booming and guests danced in the darkness, lighting paper lanterns and releasing them to float over Cuenca in the darkness. Finally, the effigy of the person, in this case the birthday boy, was set on fire and each of the party attendees jumped over the flames.

It was a lot of fun, and I asked what the representations meant. The paper floating lanterns represented the bad things of the past year being released, the dummy representing the bad times and bad things that occurred to them in the past year being burned away. Jumping over the flames was an act of good luck for the year ahead. Around town, there were thousands of these occurrences on the public streets.

 

In the midst of the darkness and guests, again I felt like a third thumb, but was warmly welcomed by the family and friends. One of the guys attending spotted my bike in the darkness and wanted to hear the story. He owned a small motorcycle repair shop in town and was very excited to see a big adventure bike. He asked for one of my travel decals for his shop window and I was happy to give him one or three.

We talked a while since he spoke English, and after a few minutes he put something in my hand. I looked down to see a well worn $5 bill. I said "no", of course, but he insisted and said he wished he had more to give me, because it might help sometime. I thanked him and told him I'd write his name on it as a good luck gift.

That's the people of Ecuador folks...

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

On the Road Again!

1.04.2018

After a month of time spent in Cuenca, due to the confluence of the motorcycle breakdown, parts shipped in from the US and the Christmas and New Year’s holidays, I was absolutely spent from the stress, worry and expenses. My timeline was now a month behind to reach Ushuaia before the ice and snow, which meant I would not be able to explore or enjoy many places I'd wanted to.

I will admit to considering ending the trip entirely, in moments of depression and frustration, and due to the complexity of the repairs by a mechanic who had no experience with such a task, doubted whether the motorcycle would ever run properly again. BMW’s are notoriously complex and computerized, and the chance of all of these systems working properly and requiring computer analysis seemed impossible. If it did get running again, and the repairs worked, I didn’t know if I’d feel safe heading deeper into the Andes and far more remote areas further south.

In addition, each time I'd been told the bike would be ready, the repair shop had either taken another day or two off, or had an excuse as to why they couldn’t work that day. In Mexico, it’s “mañana”. In Ecuador it’s “tranquilo”.

Cristobal the mechanic finally sent me a message on WhatsApp that the bike would be ready on the following Tuesday. Cristobal had been chosen based on his experience in large bikes, rather than the local shops who only knew how to service small Chinese scooters and motorcycles. There was actually a BMW dealer in Cuenca, however a visit there showed them to only sell motorcycles, not repair them. Unbelievable! Dealers in other cities were similarly uninterested in helping and only independent mechanics were available. My preference was to have had the work done in Quito by a reputable and experienced shop, however they were 10 hours away or more and would require truck delivery. They’d recommended Cristobal and that solved the logistical issue.

In the meantime, I’d enjoyed much of the time in Cuenca alternated with worrying at night, having met several expats and been invited into their community. One man I’d met at the moto repair shop was Ron, an ex-pilot who lived in Cuenca and had an adventure bike. He’d given me a ride from the shop to my hotel, along with his contact info. We met again several times and in the process he told me a friend of his was riding his bike from Colombia to Ushuaia and was due into Cuenca in a few days.

Ron was bandying about the idea of riding with his friend to Ushuaia, and wanted to see if we three might travel together. It was fine by me, with the understanding that I would travel alone and follow my own route, interconnecting with them at certain points.

Ron's friend Edward, a Canadian from Toronto arrived and we all met up, also about the time two guys from the US hit Cuenca. Ken and Chip were from Virginia and Colorado respectively, having previously ridden around the world on BMW’s. Ken had experience in BMW repairs and had read of my troubles on Advrider.com, wanting to see if he could help. I really appreciated their coming by and we had a good time that evening discussing travels and solving world problems. Since the bike was in the shop, he couldn’t do much and they continued on for Peru the next day.

I was due to pick up the bike and wanted to test it out thoroughly before heading south for Peru, understandably. I'd wanted to stay a few more days in Cuenca and explore the area to make sure the repairs were done correctly before heading onward. Ron and Ed were pushing to leave quickly, and I felt the stress of being rushed, having agreed to ride with them. I had serious doubts that the BMW would be in perfect order, but the idea of traveling with them alongside appealed to me in case I did break down. At least I wouldn't be alone.

I walked to Mojeron Motos, and the bike was sitting outside, assembled and freshly washed. After seeing it in pieces for so many weeks it was a wonder to behold. The bike started and ran, but was a bit rough above idle which wasn’t normal, however I figured I could live with it until reaching Lima, Peru and a certified BMW dealer to have it properly analyzed and adjusted.

With some trepidation and excitement, I fired up the bike and headed for my hotel, but decided to ride around town as much as I could before the afternoon rains hit. It began sprinkling soon after and I stopped at a coffee shop just before the monsoon rains hit.

Hours later it slacked off enough to make the hotel for the night. The next morning, Ron arrived at my hotel and we set out for a 4 hour ride to see if the bike had any leaks or issues. I noticed the motorcycle didn’t have much power on the highway, and smelled of heavy unburned gas. Worse, the mpg was reading only 17 when it should have been in the mid 40’s, which explained the heavy gas smell as running very rich. Something wasn’t right, but I hoped it would improve with running as the electronics of the throttle position is self-learning. About 30 minutes away from town, as I made a turn for the mountains, the bike sputtered and died. While still rolling I started it but it was barely running. It would only run with the throttle open wide and I had to keep restarting it. My heart sank and I realized I was having big problems again.

Ron followed me back to my hotel and I parked the bike under an awning, where I tried to check what I could and run my computer analysis tool to reset anything I could find wrong. I finally gave up as the heavy rains started and I went my hotel room, despondent and angry. My options were all extremely expensive if Cristobal couldn’t sort the problems. Shipping it to a dealer somewhere, shipping it home, or flying my mechanic and his BMW analyzer from Texas to Ecuador were all costly options. I didn’t sleep well that night.

It was January 1 and the shop wouldn’t open until the next day. Ron and Ed were anxious to leave and I told them to go ahead without me, since I had no idea what the future held. They agreed to wait a couple more days to see what the results might be.

The next day, I started the bike and it idled fine, then after 5 minutes began the same sputtering as I rode it back to Cristobal’s shop. He was distraught at the sight of it, and began checking what he could. The spark plugs were terribly fouled and he felt that was the problem, but I told him the problem had caused the plug fouling. He disassembled the bike to a point to check all hoses and connections, while I spoke much of the day with my mechanic friend MotoHank by phone. Spark plugs were unavailable for my bike in Cuenca and had to be shipped from Quito by bus, not arriving until late the next day. I always bring spare plugs, however I apparently had left them out of my parts kit and had none with me on this trip.

Despondent, I sat on his couch trying to decide what to do yet again, since his efforts weren’t working. Just before closing at the end of the day, he came in and said he’d remembered another bike like mine that was having a similar issue a couple of years earlier and he disappeared back in the shop. About 20 minutes later, he happily appeared, having found that the waterproof Throttle Position Sensor module had somehow gotten water in it. He admitted to using a pressure washer on the bike and felt he must have gotten it too close and forced water past the seal. After trying to dry it out, it still ran a bit rough though better. A second disassembly and drying made it sound even better and he hoped the problem was solved. The next day and a new set of unfouled spark plugs should answer the question. The next day was also the scheduled day of leaving, and Ron and Ed were anxious to get on the road.

I was feeling pressure, not only from the bike issues, but from them as well. I wanted to ride with someone if possible since the bike was untested and would like the help if it failed. I’d decided to cancel my original route into Peru through some spectacular mountains into the remote Andes and decided to stay on the main coastal highway to Lima where there would be a better chance of finding a truck in case of my motorcycle breaking down again. Lima was my goal, as it had a good BMW shop as well as other moto shops who had sprung up from the Dakar Rally.

Ron and Ed wanted to leave at 9 am, but I told them I couldn’t possibly, as I had no idea if the bike would even be running. Much less I needed time for a test ride, loading all my gear and then finding an ATM to pay my month-long hotel bill. I really had no desire to head for another country without testing the motorcycle thoroughly, but prayed the bike would work. I told Ron that in an absolute perfect case scenario, I might be ready by 12 noon. He said they’d be packed and waiting for me at noon.

A final night in Cuenca

 
 

The next morning I walked to the shop and Cristobal had received the plugs and installed them. The bike was idling and sounded much more like itself. With a knot in my stomach I headed down the street for a test ride and after 15 minutes it was still running smoothly, a miracle. Everything seemed much better than before and I headed back to the shop.


When I arrived, Cristobal spotted an oil leak and my heart sunk, as did his, since if the new main seal had begun leaking again it was a total disaster. After a few minutes he traced the oil to a hydraulic clutch fitting and retightened it. I hoped it didn’t leak, but asked him to give me a pint of mineral oil to carry just in case it did. Finding motorcycle mineral oil is almost impossible, especially in the countries in South America.

I swallowed hard and made the decision to head for Peru on the bike that day, hoping to make Lima and a BMW dealer in case of failure again. I just wanted to get out of Ecuador and the situation, having felt trapped as I watched finances and more importantly, time slipping away.

It took a while, but I settled up with Cristobal, thanked him and raced for my hotel. I’d pre-packed the night before and after multiple breathless trips up the 4th floor stairs, finally had my gear on the bike. The hotel owner insisted on cash, so I left and found an ATM for cash for the hotel bill and some travel money, then settled up, rushed to get to Ron's place and made it by noon exactly. My arrival was a dud, since they were no where near ready at all. By the time they’d finally gotten loaded, it was 2:30 pm and I knew we’d be riding after dark to make our goal of Macara, the last town in Ecuador near the Peruvian border.

One thing I’d learned about traveling anywhere on this trip, is that it’s best to double your travel time from what Google or any GPS app says and you’ll be correct. If Google says 4 hours, count on 8. Macara was officially about 4 or 5 and I knew it would be very difficult to make it before dark. Riding in the dark is an absolute no-no anywhere south of the US. Terrible roads, bandits and large animals free range on the roadways at night.

When we finally got going, the bike felt good and the mileage slowly climbed into the high 30’s and broke 40, a huge relief which told me the water in the throttle position sensor had indeed been the issue. At a few stops, I triple checked for potential leaking main seals and the hydraulic clutch seal, very happy to see none. Though tense and still worried, it was a good sign. The engine idle wasn’t perfect, still telling me something wasn’t right, but at this point all I wanted to do was make it into Peru, a mental safety net that if the bike failed, at least I wouldn't have to deal with all the hassles of getting a motorcycle through the border crossings with the added complexity of shipping it in a truck.

After about 3 hours, we stopped for a break to warm up and grab some food high in the mountains, and as we left again, the rains started. Ron was in front and didn't stop when the rains began so that we could don rain gear, since we were about 15 miles from the next town and he thought we might make it. It didn't happen and we were soaked when we stopped to put on rain pants and jackets. Ron was having trouble getting his motorcycle boots into his rain pants and fell over backwards into a small stream of water on the road edge, completely helpless and tangled like a large beaver in a net.


I went to help him, only to find his modified boot soles had tangled in the interior fish net lining of the rain pants and were never going to either come out or go in. As he lay in the water on the roadside, I fished out my knife and slowly cut the lining out of his pants until he was free. I tossed the net into the stream, watching it wash away for the Amazon river or wherever it was headed. Phil was soaked, as were Ed and I, but we had to continue as the temperature began to drop.


At this point I must address Ron's modified motorcycle boot soles. He rode a KTM 950 Enduro, notorious for being one of the tallest adventure motorcycles on the planet, and though he was about 6'3", he had a tall torso and short legs. Ron had just bought the KTM from a guy in Cuenca and had no real experience riding an adventure bike, much less a tall KTM. This point had not been made known to me before leaving with he and Ed.


In Cuenca, one day when riding with him in his car, we double parked outside a cobbler's shop and he ran in, returning in a few minutes and tossing a pair of motorcycle boots into my lap. I looked at the boots in shock as we drove, the soles having had about 3" of height added to them. They looked like the boots the band KISS wore in concert, except they had backpacking treaded soles, with a gap between the heels and foot bed area. Ron commented that when he sat on his KTM, his feet were a few inches off the ground so he had a cobbler add 3" and he now figured he'd be flat footed on the bike. I silently thought to myself "This isn't going to end well". I had wondered at that moment just how much experience he had on the big bike, not finding out til later the answer was "none." I looked at the narrow gap between heel and foot bed and knew if he wedged the pegs into those gaps, he'd never be able to pull his feet off the pegs when stopping.


The day we'd left, I'd arrived to see Ron standing next to his bike wearing his KISS boots and had to stifle a chuckle. I also noticed the gap between the heel and foot bed had been noticeably hacked larger with a rough cut knife or something, and knew he'd gotten his foot stuck on the pegs and had to find a quick remedy.

But back to the story. With Ron's rain pants now on, the bottoms flared out like wide bell bottoms and in concert with the tall KISS boots, I couldn't help but laugh. The entire scenario of Ron lying on his back in the running water, trapped like a rat by his KISS boots while I cut the lining out of his pants to free him had me laughing at the memory while we rode.

Darkness fell with several hours to go yet and the rain stayed steady. I’m used to running in the rain, but Ron and Ed were not. Ron’s KTM headlight and running lights failed and went completely dark. Ed was really unprepared, having only a cheap plastic rain suit, an open face helmet and worker's safety glasses instead of goggles. In drenching rain and in the mountains, you need serious gear and Ed had none. My motorcycle is equipped with super bright LED lights for just such moments. We gathered up on the roadside and I told them to stay right behind me, to be able to see ahead with my riding lights, slowing my pace tremendously so they could stay near. However they continued to slow and drop further back, bringing us way down on time.

The road was very high, twisty and dangerous with sections fallen away due to landslides. In some ways I was glad I couldn't see off the roadsides in the pitch black, as no doubt we were very high with huge drop-offs to either side. It was a difficult road in any conditions, but in heavy rain and fog, and at such a slow pace it really dragged out. Multiple times Ed had stopped behind us, trying to clear his safety glasses of water and I could tell he was freezing cold and soaked to the bone. He didn't have a face shield or goggles and it was a bad scenario as his glasses were coated with rain both inside and outside the lenses, with the open face helmet allowing the rain to run down inside his jacket. By the time we finally made it through the fog and rain to Macara on the border, it was 10 pm. I wasn’t happy to have been delayed and forced to ride in the darkness for so long, but at least we had made it, and at least my high intensity LED's had helped the three of us.

It turned out my new friends Ken and Chip, whom had visited me in Cuenca, had ridden the road earlier on the same day, and when we met them at the border the next day, Ken said we were insane to have ridden that road at night in the rain, as in the day it had required all their attention and concentration, and there was no way in hell they'd have attempted in the dark.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Chiclayo, Peru

1.05.2018

As previously mentioned, since I was still unsure about the bike's reliability, I had decided to skip my plan of taking the more easterly crossing into Peru which led into the high Andes, and instead go for the major coastal road in case the unproven moto had problems.

Ron, his KTM and The Beast

Ken and Chip caught us the next morning at the gas station just before we crossed the border, an easy process and a quiet crossing. Ken, Chip and I had that nervous tic about fixers, but this place was like paradise in the hell of previous border crossings on the trip. There wasn't a fixer in sight, nor even a money changer!

Checking out of Ecuador was easy, maybe fifteen minutes, then Peru was similarly easy, that is until Ed had to get his bike processed through the Aduana. Ed had purchased the BMW F800GS in Colombia from another Canadian, and had done some wonky things to get it worked out. His registration papers didn't match his passport name and it stalled the quick process, the Aduana agent having to make calls and staying on the phone for an interminable amount of time. In the meantime, the quiet crossing had developed a line of people waiting, and it wasn't too long before the natives were getting restless. Their usual quick process was now lasting hours due to three gringos at the head of the line. A few times I heard "Americano" and turned to see some angry faces.

Previously, while checking out on the Ecuadoran side, a man had come up to me and asked about the bike, telling me he had a BMW R1200GS in Guayaquil and we had a good but limited conversation. He ended up in line behind me and we continued our conversation on the Peruvian side. A few folks decided to try and cut the line, but gentleman Ken was having none of it. I watched as one guy pulled some money out of his wallet surreptitiously and put it at the bottom of his paperwork to pay off the aduana worker and get his paperwork prioritized. Finally, the agent told Ed to go outside and wait so he could deal with the huge line. The bribe guy jumped in front of Ken and Chip, or rather tried to and was roundly yelled at by them and me. All our patience was running thin by then and he backed down, then disappeared.

Finally, as Ken said, the most satisfying sound in the world for a traveler is the thump of an official stamp, and the process came fairly easily for the rest of us.

Ed, Chip and Ken checking out of Peru...

Ken and Chip hit the road for Chiclayo, Peru where we agreed to meet that evening for dinner. Ed's issue wasn't resolved for another 2 hours and while we waited, a crew of three Germans arrived on old Africa Twins. We had a good conversation with them, as they'd been exploring South America for a total of seven years, storing their bikes in countries and returning for 6 or 7 weeks each year. At one point in the past, they'd returned to find they'd lost their bikes when the man who'd been storing them on his farm was busted by Interpol and all his property was seized, including their motorcycles. Turns out he was the biggest seller of fake Viagra online and was taken down by law enforcement. They never got their motorcycles back.

The man from Guayaquil whom I'd spoken with came over to wish me well, gave me a big hug and then told me he owned a hotel in Guayaquil and invited me to come stay for free next time.

Ron told me to go on ahead with my riding plan to either Piura or Chiclayo and not to wait for them, but I decided to hang out since we were traveling together. At long last, the agent signed off on Ed's bike and we got going, only to be stopped a few km's down the road at the aduana checkpoint. Ron got a long phone call while we were there and Ed had to do some things with his bike. Once we finally got going again, Ron was riding very fast, bordering on out of control because he was unfamiliar with the power and handling the big KTM was capable of. He was hitting the speed bumps or "topes" along the route hard and fast with a lot of force. I kept a reasonable pace, knowing that a heavy and loaded adventure bike was at the limits of aftermarket suspension designs anyway, and was not going to risk blowing my suspension since I had to think about long term travel and had a long ways to go. Ed was traveling about my pace and somewhere along the way, he had to pull over once again.

As I waited with him, Ron came racing back to us and swung around, pulling up and shouting at us angrily to speed up, with a few curse words thrown in for effect. They did have an effect on me, because after all the BS I'd been through with their various issues of unpreparedness and delays that led us into dangerous moments, I'd finally had enough. I had 100,000 miles of motorcycle adventure travel under my belt, knew how to ride, and I wasn't in the mood to get cursed out by someone who had no idea what they were doing.

I shouted "See you later dude" and took off. He and Ed stayed on the roadside and disappeared behind me in the rear view mirror. After a month of stress and frustration, then the pressure to get on the road prematurely with them, only to get delayed and endangered by their lack of readiness, then to get screamed at as if I didn't know how to ride had just pushed my last button. I wouldn't have left either of them alone, but since they had each other and had planned to travel together anyway, I had no qualms about leaving. I wasn't angry, I just needed to get in my rhythm of travel and not be held back or distracted by silly things and make time south.

Just as I'd heard, Peru was dry, sandy and hot, with trash as far as the eye could see in many places. The change from Ecuador was substantial. Traveling solo now, I kept remembering all the stories and warnings of solo travelers that the Peruvian police were corrupt and shook down motorcyclists constantly, pulling riders over and taking their licenses only to hold them until they received a bribe. In most cases, I'd be fine with that, except that they radio down the line and every vehicle will stop you and extract another bribe. I had not seen any policemen so far but as I pulled to the right side of a semi truck, I caught a glimpse ahead of a lone police vehicle waiting under a roadside tree. I whipped back to the left side of the truck quickly and did a perfect "Smokey and the Bandit" pass, keeping the truck between myself and the police car, moving at a speed to get me in front of truck. It was probably unnecessary, but my paranoia was the ticket to a perfect move I'd always wanted to do :D

At the turn south on the outside edge of Piura, I pulled off and waited for a while in the heat for Ron and Ed to catch up but saw no sign of them. I had taken a less traveled route and realized they might have stayed on the main road for Piura, in which case I would miss them anyway. I headed on south towards Chiclayo. The delays and slow running that had put us so late the previous night I did not want to repeat and wanted to make a hotel at a reasonable hour.

South of Piura, the landscape really changed. From desert scrub it became vast stretches of windblown sand as far as the eye could see, tattered plastic bags and trash from horizon to horizon. I wondered how a country could be so trash covered and later found out the trash trucks merely pulled into the desert and dumped city trash onto the ground, not burying it. As a result, the constant winds blew trash all across the landscape of complete regions of Peru.

People lived amidst the barren, windy sand flats in houses made of reed mats, cane and pieces of plywood. It was hard to imagine how on earth they made a living, as well as how they tolerated the conditions.

Further south towards Chiclayo, the winds grew and a constant motorcycle lean was the norm, to be broken crazily when passing a truck or even a tree, the sudden jerk of acceleration and swerve towards the object, belying the force of wind so hard to judge.

Despite my constant focus and fears of the bike failing, it was hard to deny the fact of what a machine I was on, blasting through the winds like a battleship in an ocean of air. This was what the big GS was made for. Long, high speed hauls and I was glad I was on it.

The few small towns along the way introduced me to the little trike "motocars", motorcycles with a passenger compartment on the rear and swarming like ants in the towns and roadways. It was insanity.

As I motored further south, the winds increased, as did the epic scenes of desolation, huge sand dunes here and there, flats of sand that went to the horizon and constant sands pelting me, the bike and the windshield. Despite the barrenness and sense of being alone, I enjoyed the hell out of it, slashing through the wind with wheels rolling was all I cared about. I had no desire to shoot images or stop, just wanting to move and move and move after being stuck off the road for so long. I'd kept up with my Stahlratte shipmates by text and Facebook, only to see them far ahead, some already reaching Ushuaia and some already shipping motorcycles home while I languished in Ecuador.

It was getting late when I finally made Chiclayo and turned onto the traffic swarmed streets, engulfed in the trikes and insane driving, like a nightmare steel river. Trash and garbage were piled along the streets and litter was everywhere, along with the accompanying stench. I'd been warned, but it was still surprising to experience. So different than Ecuador.

I had no idea where I was going, since we'd made no plans other than to get to Chiclayo to meet, so I pulled over in front a trike shop to Google a hotel. I was met with several guys wanting to look at the bike while Google slowly loaded, showing a hotel with parking a few blocks away. It took a while to get there, but I finally arrived and got the bike unloaded and parked a few blocks down the street.

I messaged both Ed and Ron the name of the hotel where I was staying, knowing they'd eventually hit town and get wifi somewhere. I also sent Ken a WhatsApp message and he immediately responded that they had reached the edge of Chiclayo and were getting gas. I was very happy my T-mobile account had worked so well in South America. I'd switched to the provider because I knew they were owned by the German cell company that had built most of the cellular infrastructure in South America, and my international plan had worked almost flawlessly on the trip. For a $5 fee, I had unlimited text and data in all the countries with direct calls costing 20¢ a minute. Having data meant WhatsApp, the main form of communication in Central and South America, was free for calls and messages. Texts made staying in contact easy as well.

I went for a walk, the town's sidewalks swarming like Manhattan at 5:30 pm, a wild, crazy place of activity, noise and bustling people. Peru was quite different than Ecuador.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Chimbote, Peru

1.06.2018

The previous evening, Ken, Chip, Ed and I had gone out for dinner and had a great time. Ron was a no-show, he and Ed having gotten separated at some point in the day. He did not respond to messages, however I saw that he was online so at least we knew he was okay.

Ken and Chip had stayed at the hotel where I was, Ed having found a different place.

That morning, we three retrieved the motorcycles from the parking lot shortly after Ed arrived from his hotel. Ed said Ron was not responding due to their having parted ways the previous day. On the bustling streets in front, people gawked at the bikes as we packed them, and it wasn't long before the hotel staff were outside photographing the bikes and taking selfies.

The destination for the day was Chimbote. Saying goodbye to Ken and Chip, who were on smaller and slower motos, Ed and I headed off to find a gas station and work our way south. My bike had been pinging on every grade of gas since I left Texas, so I decided to splurge and fill up with 98 octane fuel available to the tune of $5 per gallon. Unfortunately the wind noise was so strong in my helmet I couldn't tell if the pinging had gone away. No matter what, that was the one and only time I would spend five bucks per gallon.

The coastal road South was a continuation of wind and sand, but the landscape had a certain epic quality to it, with distant dunes and mountains protruding from the plane. After a couple of hours we pulled off for a butt break and some coffee at a roadside restaurant. We had only been there a few minutes when I saw Ken and Chip come rolling up. They were making excellent time on the little DR 350's. Pretty soon our coffee break turned into lunch when we saw plates of fried chicken coming out of the little kitchen.

Ed stayed back with Ken and Chip as the road continued south towards Trujillo. At the bypass, I pulled over to wait and in a few moments they arrived, heading for the center of town to find some gasoline. The one thing I love about the GSA is the 8 gallon tank and the ability to ride almost all day without refueling. Ed and I teamed up again to go ahead, but my sluggish GPS caused us to miss a turn and have to retrace through an area, ending up directly behind Chip and Ken in the heavy traffic. I chuckled inside at the incident, because I think they felt like we were determined to ride with them despite saying we were on our own.

In trying to get through Trujillo, I was almost hit head on by a bus trying to pass another in the tiny streets. I had been warned about the horrific driving in Peru, getting texts from Christine and Jules and other Stahlratte riders that it was worse than any country, something hard to imagine. But now I faced it directly. The worst and most dangerous drivers I had yet encountered. I have been through some insane traffic in many countries, but mostly it's a dare game. Not in Peru, where they don't seem to care whether they kill you or not.

After the close call, Ed had pulled up next to me in a traffic circle with a big grin and showing about 2 inches between his fingers as to how close I’d come being hit by the bus.

Once back on the highway I nailed it for the small hotel we had pre-booked for the night. One thing about Peru that has been interesting has been the curiosity about the bike, with people honking and smiling. I have to admit honking seems to be the national sport here however. The congested cities and even roads are constant noise with the sounds of horns being tapped. One never knows if you're being honked at out of warning or out of excitement or out of anything, but they live on their horns.

Here and there along the route of blowing sand across the highway, one could spot glimpses of the Pacific. The sand and wind gusts were constant, the sugary sand clinging to my visor in the wind. Eventually the town of Chimbote arrived by the end of the day. The day of wind and sand had left me with a sore throat and a bit of fatigue. I rode the bike to the waterfront and sat on a bench looking out across the harbor towards the fishing boats anchored in the distance. After all the emotions and stress it felt good to just stare across the water at the pre-sunset sky.

When I finally hit the hotel, the guys had arrived a few moments before. Ed and I shared a room and I was informed Ron was having an issue with his bike and going to a different city to find a KTM dealer. That evening we strolled in the darkness to a local restaurant and had a meal of fried fish and cerveza.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Dancing With Transvestites & 38 Tunnels

1.07.2018

I woke up very early and couldn't get back to sleep for a while, posting a simple blog report and planning the day. At breakfast with Ken, Chip and Ed, we three discussed plans. Ken and Chip were going for family near Lima, and Ed wanted to follow me. tzhough I enjoyed traveling with Ed, I had concerns about excessive delays traveling with him. I'd originally missed Cajamarca in the Andes, staying on the main highway until two long days were under the bike's belt. I now had some trust in it and decided to head inland into the Andes for Huaraz and some mountain scenery away from the desert sand and dunes.

Ken did some work on Chip's motorcycle carb, which was farting a bit and got it running much smoother than the previous day. Ed and I packed up and said our goodbyes and fist bumps, heading back north a ways to catch the road east into the Andes, sweltering in the heat of the sun.

As the valley continued, dry and sandy everywhere except along the river, the heat didn't let up. It stayed in the 90's as we wove along the narrow road, passing several sets of cops, orange corn and orange peppers drying along the roadside amidst the melted clay and straw mud brick walls of habitations and abandoned farms.

The mountains looked like rusty remains, the oranges and browns of desert with no greenery were reminders of the incredible harshness of the land. In the distance and haze, the high mountains could be seen. The river was large and running fast along the roadside, many sections of pavement missing from floods on one side and eroding sand on the other.

The canyons grew deeper and got tighter, the road becoming a narrow single lane swerving and twisting, but carrying two way traffic. Finding places to pull over became routine as cars or large trucks would come barreling around blind curves requiring immediate maneuvers.

As I got into the valley, excitement and incredulity rose. I was feeling deep emotions that were driven by the realization that after so many years of dreaming and trying to make it happen, I was now riding my motorcycle into the Peruvian Andes. It was something I greatly relished. At last, I felt the deep emotions of a true adventure. It seemed as if I were in Afghanistan or Pakistan, amidst the barren mountains and facing a rough, narrow road along a roaring river leading me to somewhere unknown.

It was hard to take in and hard to let go. Another moment I'll never forget, ever.

The road got better and better, and by that I mean narrower and twistier, higher and rougher despite the crumbling blacktop. Sudden swerves and much rock debris from the vast mountainsides above kept you cognizant of where you were. Water ran across the road from streams and dripped from overhangs cut into the mountainside. Tunnels began to appear, with warning signs to honk when going through. They were only a bit wider than a car and made curves and turns in the darkness. Time after time a car or truck would exit just before I entered, and then in the darkness I'd strain to see any form of light from an oncoming car on the wall ahead. It added much interest to the ride.

After a while I stopped counting the tunnels and just focused on the road and scenery. Several times my gawking almost got me but I couldn't stop enjoying the stunning views above.

At a road intersection, we crossed a steel bridge and stopped to see if the tiny place had some snacks or food. Two cans of tuna and crackers later we were satiated and watched the few people there. Across the way a couple and their daughter and boy were setting up a fruit stand.

As we walked to the bikes, the man came over and asked to take a picture of the bike. His daughter had her cell phone and shot a picture, but I invited them the pose with the bike and after several pics they were smiling. I went over to the stand to look at their fruit to ask about the large green beans I see in people's hands in Peru. I was told they were "guaves" and they happily gave me one along with two mangos.

As I walked back to the bike, the man came back to me and asked for my FaceBook, so I happily gave him a card.

The few folks around waved and gave us big smiles as we rode away.

We had been riding a couple or three hours, roughly 80 miles, and still had only reached the midpoint of the canyon. Huaraz lay another 80 miles ahead. The canyon ride led higher and higher, as we continued through tunnels and switchbacks, passing through a couple of villages, the children waving happily to see us rolling through. Here and there, the indigenous women walked the streets in their colored leggings, bright skirts, black wraps and tall white hats. It was really amazing to see them on the roadsides but impossible to get a picture.

As we passed through a larger village, there were colorfully dressed men and dancers on a side street. We both quickly pulled in and got off the bikes.

On the sidewalks people watched the dancing and music and as we walked up to shoot some photos, we were quickly dragged into the dance by the locals and two guys dressed as sexy women. Neither of us get the transvestite thing completely, as it's seen around the towns during the holidays. Aside from the two dancing guys, the crowd wore men's suits with masks and the colorful men had on various primitive masks. The music was fun and the locals were dancing but when we showed up they all began shouting for us to enter the dance and then swallowed us up in the crowd. I was handed a white handkerchief and swirled around with my new buddy.

It was funny and bizarre at the same time but totally enjoyable. As the music stopped he/she kept trying to get me to go in the bar and said "cerveza" over and over. I kept trying to tell him I couldn't since I was riding but he was insistent. I finally drug him near enough to Ed, who speaks Spanish, who interpreted and he was asking for a gratuity for himself to buy a beer. I handed him a pile of coins and he was happy.

Rain lay ahead, and as Ed donned his blue temporary rain suit he'd picked up, a local guy came to watch us then warned me of the tunnels ahead and how dangerous they were as the traffic would be coming straight at us.

When Ed had finished his attire, the people in the crowd were smiling and laughing. I told him he needed to go back and join the dancers in the fiesta again. He laughed and we headed out, climbing steep switchbacks and going much higher, the sides dropping off far below. The next several miles were filled with sheer drops and tunnels, much longer and filled with apprehension. However I had no fear, after all, I'd just danced with a man wearing panties.

I watched as the elevation climbed to 9,000 feet as the rains finally came. We only had about 30 miles left but it took a while on the twisty road. The winds were gusting, and Ed's rain suit would fill with wind and inflate like a balloon. He would look like a giant blue Michelin man. I got a chuckle out of it, and when we finally reached the town of Huaraz, just as the altimeter passed 10,000 feet, I saw a girl staring at him from an adjacent car in his inflated suit. I started laughing at her expression, which started my complete unraveling. I became hysterical and could not stop laughing. I blame fatigue from not having slept much the previous night, and the lack of oxygen at 10,000 feet for the following video episode...

Blue Rain Suit + Inflation + Oxygen Deprivation =

After several attempts, we found a nice hotel and dragged our gear inside and out of the rain. I was hungry and remembered the mangos I'd been given. I bit into the first, and was greeted with the most amazing taste of my life. I cannot explain it, but I voraciously ate both of the mangos without stopping, literally chewing as much off the stems like a starving rat.

Never have I tasted something so good that I could not control my eating! I've had plenty of mango before and since, but nothing tasted like these two. Amazing.

The "guaves" bean thingy had a cotton candy like web inside which was sweet.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

“Mucho cuidado!”

1.08.2018

“Mucho cuidado! Mucho cuidado!” the old man said.

He had come up to me to inquire of my route into the town, looking at the muddy bike and shaking his head at the road we’d taken the night before.

Arriving in Huaraz after riding Cañon del Pato the day before, we’d headed back to Yungay and took the dirt pass road into a national park. It began raining immediately and the road was muddy and slick. Rain continued as we passed through the park and its stunning sheer mountain walls, waterfalls, and lakes as blue as Lake Louise in Canada at about 12,000 feet.

 
 

The road turned to rough rock and mud, the rain continuing as we slid and struggled up to 14,000 feet on the tiny narrow road switchbacking up the mountainside. As we hit 15,000 feet, it began to snow and the temperature dropped to 33 degrees.

Along the way up, I kept getting whiffs of burning oil and my heart skipped a beat. Having had the rear main seal replaced only three days before, my heart sank at the thought that the disaster might be reoccurring in the midst of the remote Andes. Multiple times I stopped and got off the bike, trying to see an oil leak amidst the mud, water and grit covering the rear of the bike. I could see nothing obvious, but could not deny the smell and feared complete failure somewhere in the mountains.

It was a difficult ride, finally entering thick clouds and struggling not only with the heavy bike in the mud and rough rocks, but just to get a breath in the thin air. My head began to pound as the little muddy road finally topped out at just under 16,000 feet. The sleet and snow was heavy but I pulled out the camera for a single picture to prove the location. The ride up was so demanding I’d not even thought of trying to capture photos.

The down side of the mountain was raining less intensely, thankfully. As we descended, the road was rough but smoother than the upward side. The lightening rain brought hope that soon we’d be in civilization. The road continued, heading further into the mountains and never dropping below 12,000 feet said my GPS.

The problem is, we’d only seen random names on our GPS apps and had no idea whether they were towns or what. In fact, we didn’t really know where we were going other than east. No towns really showed on the GPS, so it was hard to know which to head to. The constant rain made it difficult to stop and read a phone screen anyway.

I began to notice that my bike was getting harder and harder to turn, feeling sluggish as if having a flat. I stopped multiple times to kick the tires but they were hard and showed no sign of air loss. The bike began to move sideways at the slightest bump and became a real handful to control. To say I was fearful on the narrow pass roads at 13,000 feet was an understatement. I was working very, very hard to keep the bike from falling down in the mud or launching off the road into an abyss.

After a couple of hours we reached a fork in the road, but the GPS maps weren’t accurate in the area and we were effectively riding blind. An old man came by and Ed asked him where the nearest large town was. He confidently pointed at the fork heading downhill and we went that way, despite the road looking much less traveled than the other fork. It was very rough and rutted, with large sections of fresh mud from landslides and the continuing rains. I felt completely out of control and stopped several times. Something was severely wrong, as if the rear wheel was loose, however nothing appeared out of place. As I stood in the rain, I pushed down on the seat and it went down so easily that I realized the rear shock was completely blown out and had no hydraulic pressure. It explained both the burning oil smell and the bad steering problems. My $2500 aftermarket rear suspension had failed miserably and very early in its lifespan. My heart sank as I struggled the bike into the town we’d headed for. It was a shock to realize we’d come to a small village at a dead end and the light was fading fast.

Ward spoke to a man carrying a bundle of wood on his back, asking the way to a larger town. We knew no town names, but he pointed at the road we’d just come down. I couldn’t believe we were going to have to reverse all the way back up to the original fork, a good 30 minute ride and one I’d barely made down. We’d been on the bikes without stopping or eating for about 5 hours straight and the fatigue was showing from the time, the nonstop roughness and mud. Sitting in the village after dark was no option, so I swallowed hard and gunned it back towards the mountain. It was a lot of work and curse words, but after about 20 minutes we had made it back to the fork. The falling darkness was not comforting. I got my GPS to catch the track again and it showed the nearest town to be over 3 hours away at best.

It was easy to feel panicky, knowing the road ahead was treacherous and we were still 12,000 feet or more up in the Andes, with rain and night falling. We rode as fast as I could, until spotting a minivan in a group of small homes. Ed asked the driver what was ahead and how long. His response was "at least three hours to go". It was now 6 pm and the road ahead was difficult, just a narrow dirt track the width of a car on the edge of a precipice. We rode until the light faded completely, crossing mudslides and rock piles, through running streams, huge sections of grease-slick mud and deep ruts. I couldn’t help but wonder how the minivan we'd met had ever made it up this road.

Below, a silver ribbon in the dusk indicated a river and we made as fast as we could to try to get off the high precipices before absolute darkness. I had a few harrowing moments as the bike would pitch toward the edge at any bump. My arms were limp noodles from exhaustion of hours of wrestling the big moto and my hands were cramped badly. We made the river just as the skies went black, sitting at a fork in the road next to a bridge.

My GPS map indicated a town to the north and another to the south. Each showed to still be two hours away despite the actual distance. South was the choice and we headed off into the darkness, headlights on bright and swerving around rocks, mudholes and anything we could make out in the light. Below, the sound of a roaring river could be heard in my helmet over the breathing, rumbling engine and road noise. It was disconcerting to imagine what lay just a few feet to my side and a simple rock roll away.

The fatigue had set in deeply by now, having been riding in cold, rain and difficult roads for over 7 hours straight. The last hour and a half was in somewhat of a stupor. Ahead, twinkles of orange light indicated a town on a distant mountainside. It seemed forever to reach, the stupor broken by snarling dogs running out from the darkness and chasing as we passed. As scary and irritating as it was, it indicated people were in the vicinity and that brought a lifting of spirits.

The shambled road eventually brought a small village of mud brick walls and miraculously, a concrete street. At the first turn, I saw a sign for a hostel, and more importantly a gated driveway. That meant security for the bikes so we stopped. Through an iron barred window, the old man took our money and passed some thin and threadbare old towels through, along with a padlock and key. Finding my room, he had to help get the door open and showed me how to padlock it.

The water and mud ran down from my gear onto the stone floor as I stared at the tiny, musty old room and wondered what lay amidst the sheets. It was as if a scene from a movie, the faded painted walls, illuminated by a lone, weak fluorescent bulb. I was tired and just sat on the corner of the bed, the toes of my boots touching the wall, the room was so tiny. I couldn’t bother trying to get out of my gear for a while. There was no heat, just cold wind coming through an open hole in the wall that used to be a small window. Outside I heard Ed wanting to find food and slowly pulled off my gear, looking for places to put it since it was filthy. There was no choice other than the narrow space between the bed and wall. I stayed in my riding gear, save the rain pants and jacket, going outside to dig out my fleece and we walked a block down in the darkened town to find a lone restaurant open.

A cold wind blew through the door of the unheated place as we sat, each slurping down a bowl of chicken soup and waiting for the next dish to arrive. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open by the end of the meal, finally walking back to the room and collapsing on the bed, determined not to crawl between the sheets. In a few minutes, the cold drove me under the two heavy wool blankets and sleep came quickly.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

San Luis to Barranca

1.09.2018

The next morning I awoke in the cold, a single shaft of orange sunlight streaming through a hole in the wall, a bright orange spot on the faded green paint. Outside a rooster crowed, one of the only roosters on this entire trip to properly crow at sunrise and not 3 in the morning.

Slowly I got moving and grimaced as I slid into my still wet and now freezing cold BMW motorcycle pants, slipped on my gritty and muddy boots, then creaked open the door and stepped out to see a blue sky. Fatigue had made me sleep deeply and the color of the sky was like a big smile after the solid rain and dark gray skies of the day before. I stared at the bike some, thinking of how it had tried to fling me off thousand foot cliffs the day before, until I began to wonder if Ed had gone out early to find coffee. I said his name semi-loudly as I looked up at his room, and a moment later he opened the door. It was apparent I had woken him and said I was going to find coffee.

The sun in the morning was a nice, if not brief, change. I thought back about the previous day and smiled. It was what I came here for, challenge, incredible sights and scenes I'll never forget. The failed rear shock had added immense pressure to the day, and it would have been nice to have been freer physically and mentally, but I wouldn't have traded a moment of the experience for anything.

I stepped through the tiny door in the metal hostel gate, seeing the town for the first time in the light of day. Surrounding me were mist-covered mountainsides, with rough, dirt filled streets of the village pointing their direction.

Only a few souls were out, and I headed for the corner where the previous night many men had stood in the dark, watching us arrive. At the corner I paused for a moment, watching the brightly dressed indigenous ladies here and there, in their tall hats and carrying bundles. Normally shy, they had no problem looking me in the eye with quite a bit of suspicion.

 

A block away and desperate for coffee, I saw a lone street vendor and wandered over. She was cooking a fritter of egg and something green on her little cart, yammering off words to me in a high pitched squeaky voice. I said “café?” but she rambled on without answering. Seeing no other open restaurants at the early hour, I simply stood and watched her. She was eating her freshly fried fritter, then broke it in half and handed a piece to me. It was warm and delicious so I indicated two with my fingers. She hopped up and uncovered a basket filled with very cold ones, handing me two in exchange for two Peruvian soles, about thirty cents each. I'd hoped for hot fritters, but I got what I got.

She smiled and chatted away in Spanish, very friendly. I smiled and nodded my head, feigning understanding. At one point, she looked directly at me and said “Eres bueno o malo?”

I knew she meant "Was I good or bad?", but I thought she might be asking if I was feeling good or feeling bad, but she stopped smiling and thrust her knife towards me. I responded “bueno” and she smiled again. It was an interesting moment.

I sat on the end of a bench behind her and watched as she made small plates for the locals, mainly peeled potatoes mixed with aji, an addictive blend of crushed coriander and hot peppers, also pouring green breakfast drinks heavily laden with a liquor, a twinkle and smile in her eye. Above and across the street, a woman called from a window and the old woman twittered something to me to watch her cart as she carried a mug of booze and a plate of potatoes drenched in the hot aji sauce into the building.

A couple of old men came and stood at the cart while she was gone, eyeing me courteously from their peripheral vision. She returned to mix more drinks and peel more potatoes, serving the men and then sitting down next to me on the bench. It was an interesting time of observing life. Such a remote and small village suddenly hosting a big gringo was likely to cause much suspicion, as I had already witnessed on the street that morning.

Ed wandered up and we sat with her, buying a couple more cold fritters and a drink of tea, not to mention the green juice with lots of booze in it. She laughed and feigned falling asleep after a swig of the juice before handing it to us. She continued chatting away as she peeled potatoes and smiled, but then taking her knife and drawing it across her throat as she talked to us. I wasn't sure exactly what to think, except that she truly had suspicions of the two gringos? We never figured out what was up, but the scene certainly beat McDonald’s for breakfast.

We found some instant coffee in a local restaurant around the corner who'd opened up and chilled in the cold air of the place. We discussed how no one had heat or fires in their shops or abodes or even the hostel. Despite the forests around, there were no fireplaces or stoves for warmth. The only smoke seen was from wood fired cooking. I'm sure they've adapted to the cold temps after many epochs of time...

Our options for leaving were limited, as I needed to avoid another difficult mud road since my rear suspension was gone. Neither of us relished the idea of another 8 hour day in the rain and mud and we sure as hell weren't taking the road we'd spent almost 13 hours on the previous day. My GPS app showed the name of the village we were in to be San Luis, and from there only two real road options. One was a road going almost due west back over the mountain range we'd just traversed, and the other a longer road going far southward before bending back to the west.

We assumed the more direct western route would be dirt like the one we'd been on and made the decision to take the longer way south, assuming it too would be dirt, but possibly less tricky since it looked to travel through a valley much of the way.

 
 
 

Back at the hostel, the old man had come out to look at the bikes as we loaded up and Ed, who speaks Spanish, asked about the roads. His response was that the road west was “concreto”, hard to believe, but our ears perked up. The thought of a paved road sounded like bliss so we changed plans and headed for the west road entrance - which we’d seen the night before in the dark - passing colorful women, dogs who lay chase and dodging as much mud as possible on the quickly drying roads.

Reaching the western road entrance, it was a relief to see tarmac, but neither of us held much enthusiasm for it lasting. Sure enough, a mile or two in we hit construction and dirt, but after another couple of miles, pavement began again.

The road wound its way up and up, through switchbacks and drizzle, but we couldn’t deny the joy of being on pavement. As the drizzle became rain, my bike wallowed through the turns and felt at times as if it would slide away, but I was thrilled to be on a smooth surface. When the rear suspension collapsed, it significantly changed the steering geometry of the motorcycle which makes it hard to keep on track. So handling becomes much more dangerous, especially when carrying a lot of weight, as bumps in the road cause the geometry to vary in the middle of turns.

The climb continued as the rain stayed strong, until finally nearing the top of the pass, at 15,600 feet, we entered a very long tunnel. I have no idea of the length but it took a while and being out of the rain felt good. The temperature had dropped to 37º F and the chill was strong. As we neared the end of the tunnel, the exit loomed ahead, very, very bright. It was a strange sensation seeing almost glowing white, until we popped out into a sky filled with snowfall which explained the bright white we'd been seeing. It was a bit surreal.

The change from one side of the mountain to the other was a dramatic one. In the distance and far above I could see shafts of light illuminating snowcapped peaks through gaps of cloud and I was stunned. There were massive peaks above me, a good three thousand feet or so I guessed. What a sight to see despite the stinging sleet and snow mixture pelting my face in the open shield. I finally pulled over to take in the brief, humbling glimpse of the massive power above. The wind and precipitation drove me back to the bike to catch Ed ahead of me on the descending switchbacks.

Though blanketed in clouds and fog, it was easy to tell this road was another Stelvio Pass type of transit and I really wished I could ride it in good weather, not to mention a functioning suspension. Nonetheless it was a stunning ride.

At the stop to re-enter the national park, we dismounted to rest and warm up, talking to a couple of Colombianos on their motos returning from observing the Dakar race.

Across the road stood a little stone building with wisps of smoke coming from a tiny chimney, and in front were a couple of handmade tables. I wandered over, a little hungry as it appeared to be a kitchen, but as much out of curiosity as anything else. A lone indigenous woman was serving some food to two workmen seated at another table that had not been visible. I sat down, thinking maybe I could get some coffee or something warm, however she purposely ignored me. The tiny stone building sat high in the mountains, miles and miles from any form of civilization next to the road and a running stream.

I watched as smoke flowed out the front window and I could see her in the dark doing things with her ubiquitous hat and sweater. I wanted a picture of her, as trying to capture pictures of Peruvian people, especially women, was about as difficult as catching a unicorn. Each time she had come out of the building she'd immediately turned away from me.

Standing up with the realization I was not going to be waited on, I wandered over to the window with my camera in hand, then boldly stepped into her old stone kitchen. I surprised her, not to mention myself, and she turned, briefly smiling I guess in shock, and I caught the image I hoped for.

Surprisingly she didn't object as I snooped in her pot on the fire, filled with cooked whole trout. Beside the fire sat a young woman with her child, I'm guessing her daughter and grandson, who smiled shyly as I pointed to her son with a smile. I figured I had worn out my welcome in the lady's kitchen and smiled at her again as I stepped back out the door. She was back to her stern self and I knew my time to leave had arrived.

As I prepped the moto for leaving, I saw the woman making aji outside the hut and had to capture it. She allowed it for a few seconds before giving the look of death.

We eventually made the town of Carhuaz at the main road and assessed our energy level for the day. We were both still tired from the previous day, but decided to push on for the town of Barranca on the sandy coast. Barranca lay anywhere from one to four hours away, depending on which GPS app you believe. I went with Google’s 2:34 based on accuracy from the past and found out it was "optimistic"at best.

After having been cold and wet for the last few days I was feeling some excitement that soon we'd be out of the high mountains and heading for the coast and hopefully some warmth. To my chagrin, I was surprised to find as we rode the temperatures were dropping and the rains continuing. The road had entered a high plateau at 13,500' and continued at such for a very long period, the winds blasting across the barren high plains. It was raining heavily as the bikes leaned into the wind and pushed southwest. It had become bitter, with the temps about 39-40, mixed with the gusting wind and much water. I lost sight of Blue Smurf Ed behind me in the rains as I settled into my groove and shrugged my helmet down into my shoulders to stop the cold water trickles running down my back.

It seemed as if the plateau would never end and Barranca would never arrive. It was miserable and finally a lonely Repsol station on the edge of a small community of buildings appeared. I pulled in and waited for the blue man to catch up, my gloves soaked and my fingers stinging. I was getting a real chill and left the bike out along the roadside as a signal for Ed, before going in where the lone attendant disappeared to make me a coffee.

The other lone stranger inside was a cop sitting on a couch, absorbed in watching Kung Fu Panda on the television. After a while, I heard the buzz of Ed’s aftermarket exhaust and he came in, soaked to the bone and shivering. I suggested he change clothes and get warmed up to avoid hypothermia. He did and after a while had stopped shivering. We briefly debated trying to find a place for the night in the nearby community, but there was nothing listed. After he got warmed up a bit, another rider came in to get warm. His name was Luis, and he was heading from Santiago, Chile to Alaska on a KLR650. After a bit of time, a bit of warmth, a bag of Peanut M&M’s and some coffee, riding the rest of the way to Barranca didn’t seem so bad. Ward reconfigured his plastic bag and shipping tape rain suit a bit and we were on the way.

It was dark soon after we left and hit just about the time we entered heavy fog and rain on downhill switchbacks for the valley far below. Straining in the rain and fog, it seemed like hours and hours before feeling some relief from the chill and fog. Slowly the temps warmed, a sign we were going coastal. I’d stop and wait on the roadside in the night for a sign of Ed's headlight behind me, then take off when he pulled near. At a small village, we took a butt break and peeled out of the rain gear for our last hour into the coastal town.

It was about nine when we rolled into Barranca and spotted a bright lit sign for a hospedaje. We’d passed it in our stupor, then made a decision to ride back since it had gated parking. Ed did a u-turn in the street and sped off while I waited for some cabs to pass. Making the easy u-turn, I have no memory of how, I dropped the big Beemer in the street, something I've never done before, laying it across both lanes and blocking traffic. I simply hadn't realized how tired I was until that moment. In the headlights and dust cloud, I was suddenly engulfed by many hands, lifting the bike up for me. It was a surprise and I realized people had jumped out of cars and off the sidewalks to help. It was then when I went to thank people that I realized just how much of a stupor I truly was in. I had no memory of even dropping the bike, only realizing it because of the people walking away from me.

A couple of blocks down, the gate was opening and I pulled inside behind Ed, seeing several motos parked in front of their respective rooms. Again, more Colombianos headed north from the Dakar Rally. The room was decent and the owner, a bit liquored up, told us he wanted to give us a beer by the pool for free.

After dumping the gear in the room, we sat by the pool amidst the blasting thump of music speakers and were treated like mini-celebrities by the owner, his father and brother who were celebrating a birthday. Ed was asked to star in a video with the brother giving a thumbs up to the place for a FaceBook promo. They were very excited to have to international motorcycle travelers staying there and it was good for social media I guess.

As I lay in bed and retraced our path, I realized we’d ridden for 6 days straight, averaging about 9 or 10 hours a day with some heavy lifting involved. I didn’t realize the fatigue that had finally caught up. I barely remember dropping the bike and I guess the constant concentration for days in rain, cold and darkness had caught up. I went to sleep to the thoughts of yet another motorcycle issue and the ambiguities that lay still ahead.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

Barranca to Lima

1.10.2018

The next morning, after fitful sleep, it felt good to find some of my clothing dry from the last few days of rain. I’d laid all my gear and electronics out on the bed to air out from the rain and condensation, and luckily everything was dry from the warmer temperatures of the coast.

The hospedaje offered no breakfast, so we grabbed a tuk-tuk to the town square and found a place serving some hot food.

Lima was a couple of hours ride away, according to my Google maps app, so I added an extra hour mentally and planned the route for the big city. Luis, the Chilean rider we’d met the night before, had suggested Lucky Lodge hostel in Lima since the owner is a motorcyclist and had a small garage if work needed to be done.

We loaded the bikes and I loaded the GPS coordinates, then waved goodbye to the Colombians leaving the Dakar race for home, and rolled out for the highway south and a new city, but more importantly for me, a place to repair the blown rear shock which was endangering the handling of the bike.

The blowing sands kicked up and the ride was in buffeting winds all the way. The terrain began to appear as if we were in Morocco or the Sahara, giant dunes and clouds of dust blowing ahead. Tiny shacks littered the landscape and it was hard to tell if they were homes or some form of mining claims or who knows what.

To my right, the Pacific provided the winds and eternal sand, which covered distant mountainsides and created massive dunes everywhere. I guess I had no concept of the Peruvian coast and towns, but I felt like I’d gotten lost and ended up in North Africa. The concept of riding in snow, sleet and cold and then three hours travel later riding in North Africa was hard to grasp. Nearing Lima and seeing the brown, windswept, mud brick buildings laid out across a desert just didn’t compute in my mind. I enjoyed the sensory experience however. Ride to Peru and get a free trip to the Sahara!

Our destination lay in the upscale neighborhood of Miraflores on the southern side of Lima. After being warned by everyone about the horrendous traffic we elected to try the local coastal streets rather than the main highway, exiting into Callao and entering the city from the north. The traffic didn’t seem too bad, other than choke points near the airport shipping terminals. It took an hour or more but we made the Miraflores district and found that the GPS had taken us to a commercial building plaza. We couldn’t see the hostel, but a guard unchained the plaza entry and we rode in to find Lucky Lodge tucked away amidst restaurants in a quiet corner.

The bike was pretty clean from the mud of the mountains after several hours in rain the previous day

Ernesto the owner and a couple of other moto travelers were outside by their bikes. Ernesto showed us the garage and his current restoration project, a rare BSA Rocket 3 from the mid 60’s. The hostel was pricey but I didn’t care. It was nice, quiet and I got a big room with windows. I’d barely even looked at a map, having been so focused on the bike and it’s potential problems, and now the blown rear shock, that I just needed to delete everything mentally and reboot.

Since Lima had become the “de facto” center of the motorcycle racing community for the Dakar race, it offered more options for motorcycle parts and repairs than most South American cities, and I had been shocked to learn that Touratech, the German company who'd made my front and rear aftermarket suspension, actually had a shop in Lima. The next day I punched in Touratech Peru, where I planned to take the bike to have the rear shock rebuilt and with Ed taking up the rear, we plowed slowly through the traffic.

On the way we stopped at a motorcycle wash to get the crust off. Much is said and written about Peruvian drivers, and it’s pretty true. Aside from the insane honking of horns, they drive very dangerously, as in “kill you and not care” dangerous. Most bad traffic in cities is more of a dare game, where there is give and take, but generally the other driver isn’t willing to push it to the end. Not so in Lima, and as I made the final turn onto the street for Touratech, a big SUV was in my lane making a pass to beat the other driver to the stop sign. It’s the closest call I’ve had yet, tossing the bike as best I could, and missing a head-on collision by a few inches. I’ll never forget the face of the driver laughing and talking to his friends and not giving a sh*t what he did and how we barely avoided a serious accident.

The other incident I'd had a few days before was similar, making a turn in Trujillo to find a mini-bus in my lane coming full speed to make a pass to get in front of a vehicle before the stop light. It was so close I cringed in anticipation but somehow miraculously missed him. At the next traffic circle, Ed rode up under me in the turn, showing me how close it had been, with two fingers about 2 inches apart, a big grin and shaking his head.

Still buzzed from adrenaline, the street seemed deserted, dusty and nothing but walled compounds. The GPS said Touratech was here, but nothing was apparent. No signs, no nothing but high concrete walls along the street. We made the corner and stopped to find shade from the heat. My apps all said it was near us, but we couldn’t find it. Then Ed spotted a guy to ask if he might know and it turned out he was wearing a Touratech t-shirt, pointing us a half block back to a brick wall with a gate and a single yellow line painted over the door.

In a few minutes we were allowed in to find a very nice, new facility hidden inside. The shop was new and squeaky clean with a lot of gear in the store, as well as a pristine shop. Ivan came out to say hello. MotoHank had heard about the shock issue and had sent him an email with all the details of my shocks and settings. That was a real surprise and a huge help, but that’s the type of guy Hank is.

 

After drooling at the place a bit, I took Ivan over to check out the bike, holding it while he thrashed on the rear and said they’d figure out what was going on. He said they had parts and the ability to totally rebuild the shocks and re-pressurize with nitrogen. It was a huge relief and I hoped the problem could be resolved without another wait for parts to be shipped in. It was comforting to be in a state-of-the-art shop specializing in big adventure motorcycles and felt like I was in good hands.

They hailed a cab for me and Ed followed on his 800 back to the hostel. That night we shared stories with the few other riders staying there, of whom were heading both north and south.

Tuesday 10.07.25
Posted by Joseph Savant
 

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