Thirteen degrees south

Still, in the sand, the sun´s heat.  And from the rocks, all around, that prevented the pitching of a tent, a warmth is felt that makes them feel living; as creatures that every night die in their sleep, unwaking and cold in the frozen dawn.

Sandflies bite, have bitten all day.  I count the swollen white bumps on the inside of my right knee.  Eleven.  And my left.  Six.  And on my ankles and arms many more.

I lie on my back and count the stars, in an attempt to get to sleep, but can´t.  There are too many of them, and they are not in good shapes for counting, and every time I look away or blink I lose my place.

A dog starts to bark and doesn´t stop.

Two hours later, footsteps, voices, a torch shines upon my face.

"Turista.  Solo un turista.  We thought you were a theif."

"I´m not a theif," I say.  "I just want to sleep.  Perdon, no queria molestar ustedes."

And they tell me not to worry, I´m not bothering them.  The men wave over the children who had evidently stayed a little way behind, in case I really was a theif or other dangerous person.

The chubby, smiling face of a boy.  A chubby half-laughing face, with bright and giggling torch shining over scene.  "Esta dormiendo en el suelo no más!" he tells his father.  He´s just sleeping on the floor!  Light moves from face to bike and bags and back, "¿Adónde vas?"

"I´m going to Argentina.  But not now.  Now I´m sleeping."

And the search party takes the hint, wishes me a good night, and I watch the torches bob away, floating in the night, in the shape of steps.

The dog barks, torches shine out across the river, sandflies bite, and I don´t sleep, but wait until dawn to leave.


The next day I stop at a dirty cafe and eat lomo saltado which tastes like an old dead rat, fried to death and unsuccessfully disguised under half a bottle of soy sauce.  This will be case number three of food poisoning in Peru.

Trees stop growing, and now just a harsh and barren grass, and alpacas, and the descending herds of cows, escaping the evening´s chill.  A woman asks where I´m going, and calls after me "Vas a morir en frio!  You´ll freeze to death."

And all the sun´s heat evaporates as the warm yellow light climbs the thin blades of Andean grass and leaps from the frosty dusk and shadow, to the undersides of clouds, and up again till all is a lightblue grey.

As I push my bike to camp there is a feeling that I have climbed too high too fast.  From sea level to 4500m in one and a half days with no sleep and, a biting, stinging wind.  Hand in armpits, and sitting and shivering in a thoughlessness.  Just put up a tent and sleep, and tomorow will be better.

But I have forgotten how to sleep.  The wind beats the walls of my tent, and slowly sting, then feeling return to my hands, but my mind races, trying to remember what you have to do to get to sleep.  What I cannot realise is that I´m one person.  I fight at an impossible speed to make my legs sleep, and it works, and I feel them dead and heavy.  And my arms, and a feeling of accomplishment fills me.  This is how you sleep.  And still my mind races with impossible useless nothings.  Eyes tight, to block thought, and still a turning over, and the long and windy night.  Twice I wake up, elated that I have slept.  And each time a glimpse at my watch betrays less than twenty minutes have elapsed.

The huge blue light of a full moon rises half way throught the night.  And slowly I watch it grow grey and yellow with the rising sun.

A worse, exhausted wakefullness, and an inability to eat, and a slow puncture.

In the yellow light of a morning not quite warm, I spend two hours trying to replace a tire.  Only I  can´t remember what to do.  I curse the tire for being too small, and all the time the press conference scene from Notting Hill repeats itself in my head.  From the start to the word "indefinitely" and the flashing of cameras, and back again, for two whole hours till I remember how to mount a tire.

Breathless to the extent I can´t stand up.  And dull, and tired, and stupid.  I crawl around on the floor taking down my tent.  The sky all blue and crisp, and the sunlight forever warmer, I lie on the floor to sleep, and again the excercise is futile.  I´ve forgotten what to do.

A whole day of cycling on the altiplano and 12 miles covered.  Every half mile I drop my bike to lie on the ground.  And will myself to get up.  I have a bag full of food I can´t even look at without feeling sick.  And well before the sun´s light leaves the yellow blades of grass, I have spent another two hours putting up my tent.  Crawling breathless around it and rolling my panniers inside because I don´t have the energy to lift them.

I lie outside and sleep blissful exhausted sleep for the first time in 60 hours, and half an hour later I wake and crawl to my tent and sleep for half an hour again.

A night of sleep, but with the onset of food poisoning waking me every two hours, as I run outside the tent, and shiver in a sideways sleet.



Nothing left in the morning.  12 more miles.  I lie outside a lady´s shop in the afernoon heat.  Three miles above sea level, still struggling to stand.

After two hours she comes out.  "Are you okay?  Are you just resting, or do you feel bad?"

"Feel bad.  But okay.  Just resting."



The hospedaje costs $3, is a dry mud box, with no windows, a corrugated plastic roof, and a candle on a plywood shelf, and appears as some sort of paradise.  The next day I eat for the first time in two and a half days, and strength enough returns to ride to Ayacucho.