The last morning in Ecuador started with a pleasant surprise: four Colombian riders had stayed in the same hotel. Handshakes and hugs all round before the six of us readied our machines for the day.

The final run from Zumba to the border was a great little blast.  Unlike the day before there were few wet spots; the hard packed dirt road was a delight to zoom along.

The only delay was an army checkpoint near the frontier.  Stern chaps in green camo seemed unsure what to do with these two smiling foreign looking motorcyclists. Just the usual query then: pasaportes, por favor.

Gawd knows what they do with all those hand written notes.

The border fornalities were amazingly low key.  As soon as Thomas and I  switched off, a happy customs official asked for our "TIPs" - temporary import permits.   Once handed over, that was it. No stamps. No  copies to show the new country's officials. Smile and a wave forward.

Bike checked out. Body next. 

In past border offices, the agents were behind a counter at least and sometimes a barred access hatch, with signs forbidding the use of mobile phones and cameras. Sometimes with armed guards. Not here. A pokey Iittle office had a single desk, steam powered PC and a string of wires. For all that, the internet was down. Our super friendly migration lady rang up someone, pressed a few keys and stamped us out. 

She allowed us behind her desk for selfies, then asked for photos with the bikes in return. Could we wait until she changed her shoes? The road was a bit muddy.  Sure!

The other side of the bridge over River Canchis was similar. A lady in jeans and T-shirt was sweeping up dirt outside the customs room. She later sold us the obligatory Peruvian vehicle insurance, then when someone else was crossing, she hoisted the barrier on behalf of the authorities. Talk about multiple job skills.
 

The road south of the border was all tar, with a sprinkling of potholes for interest. It was dusty and hot.  We zoomed around hilly twisties for the first hour.

Other rituals at crossings are finding a local phone SIM and getting local money. It was the first crossing post Mexico without money changers waving bricks of banknotes and shouting for business. Instead I changed $USD to Peruvian Soles at a bank. The teller rejected this $20 note for the miniscule tears just above Mr Jackson's head.

A motoposada a few km out of San Ignacio looked promising, based on reviews. It had a large lawn for tents, covered concrete area with tables, bathrooms and even a pool. It all seemed ideal. 

We dropped into town to a market area for supplies. It had crazy energy. Made the Queen Vic look serene. Tuk tuks were parked two deep, scores of vendors sold fresh produce, commotion aplenty.

A fruit seller took a shine to Thomas, insisting he accept a bag of grapes on the house after all the usual travel questions.

My initial impression is that Peru is out Mexicoing Mexico: mad traffic, dirt in the streets, dust in the air, excessive litter, a non stop bustle of a squillion people making their own in life.

Unfortunately it was the worst night's sleep for ages. Music played from an adjoining property until after the sun rose. The same few songs were repeated the whole night. What a bummer.

Thomas also only started to learn Spanish only months before his trip. However, he used an online system where he conversed directly with a Latin American. For different reasons he's also spent days and weeks at a time immersed in local living. His command of the lingo is far better than mine. Conversations start easily for him.

For example the next morning at a petrol station had us taking selfies with the attendants.

We headed to Cocachimba for the Gocta waterfall. Scenery along the way was desert like in parts, then flat country full of rice fields, then mountainous canyons.

Cocachimba is a small town well off any main road. We fluffed around seeking a secure parking spot while we wandered to the waterfall. We asked a lady selling drinks outside her house: Was there anywhere we could leave our stuff? Just here, next to my house said Carmen-Rosa, it's a tranquillo town. In appreciation we both bought a mug of her quinoa juice.

The 11km round trip walk gave us a chance for relaxed conversation, even with heavy breaths on the uphill sections. The cascade itself was pretty. One could follow a given chunk of water by eye as it fell, to explode into a cloud of white when it hit the bottom.

On the way back we asked about rooms at a hotel alongside the trail. It turned out to be Carmen-Rosa's brother. We enjoyed a more peaceful sleep for New Years Eve. The waterfall was a backdrop for a top meal, then NYE beer and chips.
 

The next morning's ride continued by a river in a steep canyon. It was easy to zip along at 100kmh, casually tipping the bike into each curve.

By and by the road left the canyon, winding uphill. The vistas had us smiling and chattering excitedly. 

The road got steadily rougher with broken tar and potholes. A new yet familiar clatter denoted the chain guard coming apart for the third time. My cross-Pacific welding was fine, but once more it had fractured at the bolt hole - as you'd expect. I threw it out.

We copped quite a bit of weather over the rest of the day. Initially it was slight rain, then thick mist. Vision was awful with visor down or sunglasses on. The best solution was visor up and tolerate rain on the face, keep blinking. 

In all the excitement of avoiding potholes in thick white, it took some moments to realise that right next to us were the most breath taking valley views. I've crapped on a lot about big landscape sights dear reader, but let me tell you that these were amongst the best so far on the whole trip. Maybe having a mate to share with helps.

The road worked its way around mountainsides, usually only a car's width in size.  The path was so convulted, we could spot a destination town just over there (points across valley), yet it took a couple of hours to reach. It all made for the best riding.

Maybe Google can give you a clue what it was like:

The bike's motor had been running well for some days now.  Blowed if I know why it came good, but who cares? However, there were some other growing issues. The steering head bearings are worn, so notchy off centre. It didn't feel dangerous, just an odd wobbly sensation tipping it in on corners. Also there was a heap of clanking from the rear on take off. Could be the chain as it had done a lot of hard work in the last 32,000km.

After a thrilling day from Cocachimba to Celedin, the next to Huamachuco was bloody awful. It rained a lot, we had heaps of mud, traffic was heavier, whinge whinge, moan, moan. Second gear was the order of the day, standing up looking where to bypass the worst holes and often unable to avoid big thumps. I really should have taken photos for you, but there was no way I was taking rain sodden gloves off. The guts of the gloves kept pulling away, making it impossible to wriggle fingers in again.

Both Thomas and I understood that wonderful scenery and riding awaited in Huascarán National Park, further south along the mountain range. However, we were advised that the main road was so poor we'd take a week to make the 500km to Caraz. 

It's always tough to know how accurate local road advice is. On past outback trips, some have said "you'll struggle to get your bike down that road" - then it's been straightforward. And vice versa.

Maybe it was just the same as yesterday. Maybe worse. Who knows?

We shrugged and took the recommendation - looping back to the Pan-American highway at Trujillo on the west coast before heading inland later. I'm glad we did. It eventually showed off a heap of fascinating country. Often ugly, but never dull.

The terrain was alpine for a long time, peaking at approximately 4100m. It was beautiful but FREEZING. Summer leather gloves (winter gloves still sodden overnight) were a tad insufficient against the rain and cold air.

A couple of hot drinks with fried trout helped thaw us. Two couples rocked up on sports bikes. One rider was wearing leathers top and bottom, unusual in these parts but god awful cold. He was shaking. I don't understand why his pillion in flannel pants (in background here) was so cheerful. His BMW S1000R with its slick tyres and no screen can't have been comfortable.

In the fullness of time we dropped down to Trujillo. One should be careful what one wishes for. Sure, it was heaps warmer, but boy it was an ugly, busy, stinky city.

As mentioned previously, cities at least have stuff. A shop could supply the steering head bearings, maybe tomorrow, maybe Monday. I pulled the trigger. Even if it meant backtracking later, at least it would give certainty.

Trundling south on this section of the Pan-American was engrossing albeit often ugly. The huge four lane blacktop cut through yellow desert sands, from hills in the east right down to the Pacific. The beautiful desolation appealed greatly. 

The ugly aspects naturally were man made: endless litter, dust thrown up by myriad heavy transport, black diesel clouds, harrowing traffic, gritty towns.

Strange seeing a Bombers supporter around here.

We went inland on a gorgeous 40km stretch of perfect tar, sinuous in places. All around were barren rocky hills. Close by the river green swathes of agriculture were a stark contrast to surrounding earthy tones (Michelle: Mum would have loved all the browns!).

It gnawed in the back of the brain that fuel might be an issue. As we got closer to the next town, that concern dissipated. Cool, I was gunna make it.  

A busted bridge changed everything. 

Folk were crossing in cars and urging us to do the same. It seemed an insane idea. We met a VStrom rider later who crossed with help from two others; he had wheeled his Suzuki along the steel rails. Impressive.

The odometer showed 194 miles since filling up. It usually hit reserve about 200. I wasn't going to make it all the way back.

I borrowed Thomas's 6 litre fuel bladder and set off across the bridge for the closest servo.

A passing bus picked me up after a kilometre. Phew. A generous passenger even handed over a water bottle. A father/son duo in a small truck helped on the return.

We regressed to the Pan-Am with our tails between our legs. All in all it had been a wake up call. By teaming up with Thomas, I'd relaxed and broken personal rules: always have a couple of meals on board, always have water, always fill up before heading off piste, always keep a surplus of local currency.

The silver lining was that it prompted us to chat openly about these matters. I resolved to be self-prepared regardless of being in company. I'd also pause for photos rather than feel obliged to keep rolling.

The bearings arrived the following morning - hooray, not too much backtracking after all. Another crappy ride across Trujillo.

We'd kept in contact with the four Colombians from Zumba. Their slower pace plus our erratic path had us meet up at the side of the Pan-American. And then we were six. 

Our little half dozen convoy took a road east past the broken bridge that thwarted Thomas and I the day before.

The irony was that this road was in far worse condition than yesterday's. Farms abounded on flat land either side of the river, tended by scattered communitites. Bare rocky hills surrounded it all.

The hills rose higher and higher around us. Progress was slowed by frequent photos, drone flights and ride past videos. All for good reason - the rugged landscape was captivating.

Towns were rare. This one had been hit by a landslide years earlier, its residents now resting in the adjacent cemetery.

As the sun fell, the first locality for hours was reached. A party was being held.

Earnest discussions with locals advised there were no suitable camping spots close by. We trundled on in the dark on a now muddy road. By Huallanca pissing rain made camping look unattractive; we jumped into a hotel instead. Dinner was beer, fried chicken and chips standing in the street.

The music went on back at the hotel. Funny how music from just a few western countries is universal: Stones, AC/DC, Pink Floyd, White Stripes et cetera. To South American music, the two ladies showed the two pale blokes how to wiggle their hips.

At midnight, Thomas produced a tiny slice of cake with a "3" candle. It was Lore's 33rd birthday, but the local store had had only a single candle.

It was only in the dawn that I twigged we were in the famous Cañón del Pato - "Canyon of the Duck", named for a rock formation. The new day's sunlight showed it off nicely.

Our destination for the day was Caraz, only an hour away. Just as well, because by golly this group has a relaxed pace. 

A closer look at the bike's rear revealed why it was clunking: the bearings are loose, along with rubber cush drive pieces. These had all been replaced in Colorado, but are known to get flogged out frequently. Given the tough roads and muck, it's not surprising. In addition, the clutch is sometimes slipping.

Geez, I'm now so angry with myself. I should have checked this much earlier. At a bare minimum new bearings would have been available in Trujillo. At best, most parts would have been in Colombia. The DR was never sold in Peru and model-specific parts generally have to be ordered from elsewhere.

Casa Azule is a well known place for motorcyclists to stay in Caraz. It gets much praise online for owner Victor's welcome, local route knowledge plus the chance for fellow travellers to mingle. I had high hopes that Victor's contacts in the motorcycle fraternity could help locate parts and a workshop.

The "camping" at Casa Azule didn't quite live up to how it was described online. I imagined grass for tents and open space to accomodate a big gaggle of travellers. The reality is that while a hostal is being constructed, camping is in a somewhat cramped area out the back, a mix of earthern and concrete floors covered in plastic grass. The street and driveway is all usually wet bare soil. There's a solid "shit everywhere" vibe consistent with most smaller towns.

Victor took my shopping list of parts, asked his contacts and a day later replied that the DR had never been sold in Peru and parts would have to be ordered from elsewhere. That sounded familiar. Bummer. One day lost.

He later informed that his friend has the wheel bearings at his workshop here in Caraz. 

Let's end on a good note: Lake Paron was outstanding. Only 30km from Caraz the scenes are postcard worthy, even on a cloudy day.

The lake is at 4155m, with peaks well over 6000m around it. The clouds kept moving, literally putting the snow covered peaks in a different light minute to minute. 

A lookout is reached via a rock scramble. At this altitude, the old lungs work a bit.

Even the road out to the lake was great.

The rest of the crew have just set off for camping and trekking in the mountains. This scungy machine is about to get cleaned and taken to the workshop.

Fingers crossed.