On the 6th of April 2005, cousins Jamie Mackenzie and Ben Wylson set off on their bikes on a journey which will take them to over 50 countries and to every one of the worlds great continents, all without the use of an aeroplane.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007: FWE rocked by earthquake
Sadly, it seems like Ben's recovery to full & glowing health and cycling capabilities is going to be a drawn-out, prolonged and painful process that cannot, must not and will not be rushed. Rest, rest and a bit more rest is the order of play. Doctor's orders. In the evenings fresh vegetables are lovingly procured, washed, chopped and lightly fried and taken to the ailing patient's bedside. Morsel by morsel the crunchy matter is consumed and met with weak smiles and soft utterances of gratitude. Grapes are peeled and brows mopped as colour creeps like a red mist into the patient's cheeks. Good days and bad days, relapses are frequent and morale takes a daily beating.
We'd both like to say a large thank you to all the well-wishers out there and for all the notes of encouragement and optimism that have flooded our inbox. But now I must dash for in the distance I can hear the faint tinkle of a bedside bell...more grapes no doubt.
Sunday, April 08, 2007: Virus of the Sands
A dark cloud loomed above our Ariquipan stronghold. Three days ago Ben was diagnosed with Meningitis.
Off the back of our desert cycling, Ben had started to get a severe headache. We thought it might be heatstroke. He had bouts of fever and lost all appetite. As he wasted away, a selection of Doctors was called out to get a diagnosis. What we at first feared to be heatstroke was diagnosed as Meningitis. The standard of Medical facilities in this hill city are poor and in Ben's condition, a walk to the loo left him exhausted and calling out in agony, therefore to transport him to a more developed country would be impossible; in fact, to transport him to the local hospital was bad enough. Wincing with the pain Ben managed to hobble to a taxi and 15 minutes later was in the hands of a German specialist.
The hospital was like a bee hive crammed with buffeting, jostling swarms of ill Peruvians waiting for medical attention. The hospital looked like it had not had a re-vamp since the 70s; coughs, splutters and bleeding accidentees surrounded us. I said to Ben under my breath, "If you want to pick up an illness, this is the place."
Ben's case was considered enough of an emergency to sidestep the queues and again he was examined without further ado by the German. There had been talk of a lumbar drain to determine the strain of Meningitis, a needle to the spine. Ben and I waited for the giant hypodermic to arrive. But it did not.
After being prodded and poked with a selection of Peruvian medical implements ,the German specialist said, as if making conversation "You have anaemia?"Ben said, "No, that's my normal colour," as he looked down at the distinctly yellowish chest the doctor had exposed to prod. I said, "He's right, Ben doesn't go brown in the sun, he goes yellow." The German frowned, obviously thinking us fools. There was a long pause before he spoke again. This time his words were well appreciated: "I think there has been a mis-diagnosis," he said before pausing again. We hung on his words. "In my opinion... you have Salmonella. Now, I am going to recommend you go to my friend Dr Alcazar's clinic on the the other side of town for blood tests and urine samples, just to be sure." Our worries dissolved. Salmonella sounded like fun compared with Meningitis. The dark cloud had lifted. Relief was visible on every face.
Dr Alcazar was a kindly man, slightly rotund with a spark in his eye. He wore pebble spectacles on the end of his nose, spoke perfect English and was clearly a well educated man. He emanated calm and, as he methodically banged Ben with rubber hammers and prodded and poked at him in a way that Ben had become only too accustomed to, we all knew that it was going to be O.K. "Right then, Ben," said Dr Alcazar smiling, "I also believe that you have Salmonella. Now, it's time to see your blood."
Some tests later and we were back with Doc Alcazar. He had sheets and sheets of paper, computer print-outs, Ben's test results. He shuffled through the pages, looked down through his spectacles and began to absorb the results slowly and carefully. Was he TRYING to build the suspense? Eventually he began his interpretation of the hundreds of figures before him. He looked stern, serious, grave.
"Ben, your liver is in perfect condition." "Well, blow me down!" I said, jumping in surprise. "So are your kidneys," continued Alcazar. "In fact, I am pleased to report that everything is normal.... with the exception of your white blood cell count which is high. But do not worry, that just confirms the infection. Now, I am going to prescribe an antibiotic which I want you to take for 5 days. You must not move for one week." "What about cycling?" asked Ben, looking worried. "You plan to cycle through the 3000 km coastal desert, do you not?" "Yes," said Ben quietly. "Well, in my professional opinion you must not undertake any strenuous exercise like that for at least a month. You must take it easy Ben, you have lost a lot of weight. Maybe in one week you will be well enough to take a little exercise. Go for a walk or something like that, do not ride a bicycle through a desert. Please."
Our South American mission suddenly seemed like a failure. We had given it our all, only to lose a valuable month to illness. All our plans will have to be put back, all our schedules, our deadlines, our distance goals, everything. We are trapped in Arequipa suffering a minor FWE crisis.
Monday, April 02, 2007: Boiled Alive
Boiled bitter lemon sweets were sucked on a boiling Chilean day as for the first time in many moons our Thorn bikes ominously rolled into action. Our return to the leather saddle after such a lengthy lay-off was tentatively met with tight, nervous muscles that were stretched and coarse like sun dried biltong. Stringy thighs, knocking knees, quaking quads, backs, arms and chests; the creaking, crunching and cracking of un-oiled joints and hinges could be heard echoing in the sandy canyons for miles around like pistol shots at dawn.
Dusty Chile succumbed to the Clamesi Desert of Peru in the first hour of riding. Border control personnel more interested in the spectacle of our cumbersome bikes than our tatty British passports, inspecting & stamping seemingly being something of an inconvenience for them. It was a day of functional brutality, a re-awakening for the forgotten far-flung corners of the cycling mind and a none-too-surprising return to use for Ben's trusty puncture repair kit. Only a few hours down and already his front tyre was bored and fed up. It wheezed once or twice, gave a long high-pitched sigh and eventually pancaked, splaying its unsightly black rubber on the road like melted tar. Watching Ben set about rejuvenating the flaccid tyre, resuscitating it and cajoling it back into action was an all too familiar sight. "Why me, again?" Ben said despairingly as he removed panniers and began rooting around inside them for the necessary tools. "It's always me; we've pedalled 11,000 kms and you still haven't had a SINGLE puncture. Where's the justice?"
Mirage-clad roads of endless undulation play tricks on our eyes; where do those temptresses of shimmering lake water disappear too? Rocky views of wind-lashed orange mountains like a giant's sand pit host our route north, offering endless inclines that require constant leg pressure. It's as if the entire landscape has been fed through a chewing gum machine, stretched and laid out at a funny angle that defies all laws of logic in the Universe. It's a road straight from the world of 'Ripley's Believe It or Not', where an empty coke-can placed on the tarmac actually rolls up the hill! It looks like you should be pedalling down, like the horizon is on an incline, but the altimeter says otherwise; in fact, you're going up. Speed drops, shoulders hunch, legs tighten, knees whimper and a stinging combination of sun cream and sweat start balling down your face causing eyes to shrink and squint. It really is the strangest, most frustrating phenomenon. Encouragement comes from passing trucks tooting their approval as mystified looks are met with waving hands, knowing grins and raised water bottles. Onwards and upwards. Challenging but beautiful. Where else could we be privileged to such strangely arresting eye fodder?
The last week has, in truth, seen some of, if not the most demanding / rewarding cycling that we've encountered since leaving England two years ago. For sure some of the difficulties can be attributed to our obvious lack of form & fitness but the evil dictators and designers of the roads and controllers of the contours on the maps, have teamed up to serve a thorny meal that at times is almost impossible to swallow. Climbs of a steady ascent can last under torturous heat for hours on end with gears 3, 4 & 5 being paid visits that were previously so seldom seen. However, with the slow upward struggle comes a great reward: the harder the climb, the greater and more terrifying the distance, the more protracted and drawn out it all is, the broader the smile will be at the top. When you reach the summit of your ascent and you're able to glance back on the road behind and view it simply as something that was necessary for you to do in order to get to this moment, then the mask of the monster becomes just a little easier to behold in the future. All efforts are of course repaid in kind. The internal and external battle gifts you with chocolate bars and biscuits, pilfered from their lodgings and crammed with trembling fingers into cavernous mouths, and then, ultimately, with a coasting down hill to be savoured with a grin and yelps of joy. More hills will undoubtedly loom but always you know that a down will follow, that it will get easier the further on you plug. The more accustomed to it you become, the more the benefits of your efforts will shine through and the easier it becomes to see the bigger picture once again; the ride as a whole, Free Wheels East.
Towns and even small villages are frighteningly few and far between. Shade simply doesn't exist and of course water is just a myth in these remote regions. A light green sheet was procured in Tacna from a thrift shop in the city centre that was run by a man who was most likely an escapee from the Island of Dr Moreau, with the purpose of providing midday shelter from the belting sun. With the bikes splayed in a 'V' formation and the sheet lashed to the bar ends and supported on the desert floor with large rocks, it makes for a most effective shield against the ferocious burn of the day. From 11:30am to 2:30pm we are to be found here, seated in our make-shift marquee with a cool wind blowing through the ventilation flaps that billow about our ears, as we quietly chew on the superbly named 'Sublime' chocolate bars.
Arequipa was a city we'd longed to reach. It was a self-inflicted challenge that we set ourselves; a point on the map that had long been targeted as a measuring stick for our mental & physical ability coming into year three of our adventure. We've made it and now a new surge of hope & knowing runs high. Ambitions are soaring like kites and soon we shall be reunited with the wonderfully beautiful and mystifying Pacific coastline that we once viewed from the decks of the BBC Ecuador, once again free to gaze on the secrets of its canvas and, of course, occasionally to plunge into it.
Road stomachs have announced themselves to us with renewed vigour, ceaselessly demanding sweets, peanuts, cakes, fizzy drinks, chocolate bars, fried chicken, fried chips, burgers, crisps, olives, more sweets and more chocolate. Has there ever been a better excuse to consume such filth and feel so great for doing so?
In Brief:
The much-hyped and anticipated pictures from our Christmas Antarctica expedition have now been added to the 'Gallery' section and there are also several snaps of the legendary bench in Fitzroy and the complimentary friendly bums Jimmy & Jim. Have a look at Warehouse X too. I'm sure you'll also be interested to have a look at the feature article we wrote for the Lonely Planet and have a laugh at the related debate that is subsequently raging on the 'Thorntree'.
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/journeys/feature/pedal_power_0307.cfm
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