Death Trampoline was our last major stop along our route to Ecuador, so after staying a night in Pasto, we arose early the next morning to make the crossing into Ecuador at Ipiales. Now, by this point it had been brought to our attention that Ecuador was experiencing a slight case of civil unrest. The indigenous tribes are currently angry at the government over the outrageous gasoline prices. For those of you in the USA, you may not know this, but due to large volume consumption and a strong distribution network (along with other variables), Americans get a pretty good deal on fuel. While all of you in America were spending over $5 per gallon Mike and I were often paying upwards of $7 per gallon, nearly twice the highest I have paid in my entire lifetime. Imagine paying $7 (USD of course) for a gallon of fuel when it takes you several days just to EARN $7… Yea, I would be pissed too. However, I am not a subject matter expert on the global crude oil market, so I am not so sure that the government of Ecuador has a big say in what they pay per barrel.

Anyhow, the indigenous were protesting by blocking major roads to hinder commerce throughout Ecuador. These roadblocks consisted of burning tires, fallen trees, rocks, and whatever else they could drag into the street. These roadblocks obviously impacted the delivery of fuel to gasoline stations, so for the first time on the entire trip we were getting nervous about where to find the next belly full of gasoline for our bikes.

We had done our best to avoid the roadblocks via Google Maps and word of mouth, but it wasn’t long into Ecuador before we ran into our first roadblock. We stopped about 25 feet from the roadblock looking on at the indigenous, as they looked back at us. We knew the other routes were certainly blocked off, so there was no other way to continue through Ecuador. As we discussed what to do next, the idea had come up that this may mark the end of the trip, at least until the demonstrations were over. Observing the roadblock, smoke rising from the burning tires and wood, I said to Mike, “F#$% it, I will just ask them if we can pass, all they can do is say no”. I approached what appeared to be the leader of the demonstration and in broken Spanish asked, “Traveling to Peru, can we pass?”. One woman laughed at the idea. At the same time, the leader and another man had a short discussion, after which the leader turned back to me, and much to my amazement nodded up and down and waved for us to proceed through. They even helped us move the burning branches. After quickly rolling our bikes through the smoldering ashes (hoping dearly that our fuel tank vents did not catch fire from nearby licking flames) we briefly exchanged gestures of gratitude and were on our way. We had heard stories of people trying to pass through the roadblocks only to be assaulted and their property stolen and/or destroyed. They clearly understood that their fight was not with us, and that it would look better for their argument to let uninvolved tourists pass through.

Along the ride through Ecuador we passed many abandoned roadblocks, made noticeable by the charred surface of the road, and remaining steel bandings from the burned tires. The first night in Ecuador would be in San Lorenzo, a small town on the Northwestern-most road in the country. Just before this town we had found a gas station with an ample fuel supply, so we topped off the tanks after babying the throttles up to this point. There were no hotels before San Lorenzo, and none for a while after, so we had to make do and stop in for the night. Small, noisy, and chaotic, San Lorenzo was another example of a place where the pandemic had deleted several establishments, in this case, the nicer hotel in town. This left us with less favorable options, and as night began to fall, we needed to decide on a different hotel fast. This was clearly not a place where tourists want to be stranded after dark. We settled on Hoteria El Pedregal. A small and simple hotel with a mini waterpark for kids, this place is a local hotspot. The main concern was secured parking for the bikes. With that covered, we were able to look past the obvious cracks in the walls and ceiling, which granted passage to any number of insects wishing to bed down with us that night. I even made friends with a large cricket who found his way in, but I eventually brushed him out the door onto the walkway.

After San Lorenzo we set off for the coastal town of Esmeraldas. We had been warned that the coastal areas of Ecuador were not among the safest places for tourist, and once again we found ourselves being stared at as if we were aliens from outer space. We had no choice. Central Ecuador was completely locked down due to protests, so the coast was our only chance of reaching Peru.

After Esmeraldas we hopped to Santo Domingo for the night, then onto Guayaquil, where we gave the bikes an oil change and tune up with fresh spark plugs. What a difference! They were back to running nice and sharp and ready for the last stretch of Ecuador. Ecuador has plenty to offer visitors, but due to the protests we wanted to just blast through and minimize the risk of getting stranded. I was able to locate the main Suzuki importer in Guayaquil, Comandato, as I am going to need to replace my front brake rotor at some point in the trip. We arrived at the Comandato parts building to find that miraculously they had my OEM rotor in stock! At $428 (USD) they are practically giving them away. This is actually a few dollars cheaper than in the States, so on the premise of “you have to pay to play”, we added the rotor, two oil filters, and four spark plugs to our shopping cart. Here is where the fun begins. The gentleman at the counter somehow assumed that we poor Spanish-speaking gringos had Ecuadorian ID’s. When we told him otherwise, he informed us that you need an Ecuadorian ID to buy the parts (WTF??!). The clerk asked the guy in line behind us if we could use his government ID number, to which he thankfully said yes. We then proceeded the checkout only to have the woman running the register tell us, “Your card was declined because it is foreign”. Again, “WTF???!!!”. I have never, EVER had my card declined in a foreign country, so this was an unwelcome surprise. I replied, “I will be right back with cash!” We ran to the closest ATM and yanked out $500 in American leverage (Ecuador accepts USD). Panting, Mike and I walked back into the store, plopped the cash on the table, and politely asked for a bag for all the parts.

Everything looked great the next morning as we prepared to complete the final stretch of Ecuador from Guayaquil to the border crossing at Huaquillas. I started noticing a louder-than-normal tapping of my intake and exhaust valves, so I decided to pull off into a gas station parking lot, partially disassemble my bike, and reset the valve lash (see photos). After about an hour and a half, the engine was back together and running tip-top, so we hurried along our route.

That’s when our situation became more uncertain than ever before. While heading South on E25, just East of Machala, we would encounter a roadblock of much greater scale than the first. Hundreds of people, lots of fire and smoke, and lots of noise. This officially seemed to be the end of the road for us, and so close to Peru. The protest was at a junction and each outlet of the junction was blocked. Mike and I rode back and forth around both outlets looking for a weak spot to blast through, but with no luck. Despite the rage, one man was kind enough to warn me that money was hanging partially out of my pocket. And in another great act of kindness, a local man approached Mike on his motorcycle and asked where we were from and where we were going. He made the extra effort to call a friend of his that spoke English and communicated back and forth. After some brief discussion, the man informed Mike that locals were targeting us for robbery, scouting all our belongings. Locals have a trained eye in spotting these people, and with all the commotion, it would have been nearly impossible for us to notice. He said we needed to get out of the area quickly. He then motioned for us to follow him to the other, more hostile roadblock to the East. This was shady as all hell, and Mike and I were sure to leave room to maneuver the bikes out.  As we sat back, engines running, the local friend walked up to the protesters sharing the same message that we had assumed gotten us through the first roadblock. But this roadblock was different, people were screaming and holding clubs and various other improvised weapons. After the man had a short conversation (which felt like half an hour), he motioned for us to ride toward the barricade. A few of the protesters started pulling back the barricade and signaled for us to ride through. At last! We were through! But not yet. Other protesters disagreed with the decision and began crowding us, shouting, showing their weapons, and tugging at our luggage. It was beyond intense. We though for sure we were going to be attacked. But alas, the short blue-eyed kid who initially waved us forward yelled back at the protesters (in Spanish, God knows what he said) at which time I started easing out my clutch and twisting the throttle. Mike followed as I pushed my way through the crowd, and once clear of them, we rode as fast as our 650’s would carry us, bobbing and weaving through the remaining obstacles between us and the highway to Peru. Though we had to leave immediately for our own safety, we are saddened that we never had a chance to properly thank the man that negotiated our passage. Once we had the chance, we had to flee.

With that excitement behind us, it was time to enter Peru. We lost a lot of time, and as fate would have it, we would lose a bit more. The crossing into Peru would be simple if they had proper signage. They didn’t even have adequate signage in Spanish (I have picked up enough to easily navigate at this point). Either way, we burned another three hours or so going back and forth between the two countries finalizing our documents before being cleared to roam free in Peru. Another warning given to us, was that the first stretch of Peru is extremely dangerous even for local, let alone tourists. We were told not to stop for any reason until a certain point, conveniently near where our hotel of choice was located. That in mind, it was a race to the hotel. With full tanks there was no reason to stop until we reached the hotel just passed Caleta Cruz on 1N. Since traffic laws are seemingly non-existent in these parts, we hauled ass down the highway passing police (who had zero concern regarding how fast you traveled), splitting lanes, and filtering traffic. No sops were made for any reason.

We arrived at our hotel, booked our room, unloaded our luggage, and packed in for the night with a few beers to ease the nerves. Between riots, disorganized border crossings, and a race to safety, it had been a long day, and what a fantastic welcome to our next country.