"Driving standards in Peru are poor. Stop signs and traffic lights are often ignored. Fatal crashes occur frequently. Drivers don’t always show concern for pedestrians.”
— U.K. Foreign and Commonwealth Office travel advice, Peru
NOTE: I haven’t told my mum yet about the events described here. If anyone reading this knows her - please don’t tell her. She’ll stop my pocket money (joke). And probably have a heart attack (no joke). So don’t, otherwise I’ll take my newly bought Peruvian machete to your balls; I kid you not.
The one thing that has scared me the most on this trip hasn't been crime, drugs, terrorism or corrupt cops, all of which the newspapers pitch as the things to be worried about in South America.
It's the other drivers on the road.
That's something that is hard to appreciate on paper. For us in Europe, whilst we all know roads are dangerous places, the standard of driving is of a good enough standard for it not to be spoken in the same breath as muggings, car-bombs or dodgy looking fellas with huge machine-guns, machetes and Ray-Bans. Accidents happen, but they are the exception rather than the rule.
On Thursday afternoon, my luck finally ran out.
The bike and I were involved in a head-on collision with a minibus in the mountains around 160 miles north of Lima. The driver rounded a downwards, right-hand hairpin on the wrong side of the road, the front left of his vehicle hitting the front left of my bike. I’m OK, the bike is not. I knew that in my heart straightaway, as it lay on its side, front-wheel buckled, exhaust header pipes crumpled, and, most critically, the engine case smashed open spilling hot oil, cogs and screws on to the road.
I left Lima on Thursday morning, travelling solo. I rode 100 miles north through the desert, stopped for a spot of lunch and then cut North East to hit the mountain roads of the famed Cordillera Blanca, in the central highlands, which is meant to be one the highlights of South America. My plan was to camp by a mountain lake in a suitably cliched manner, something which I haven't done yet on this trip.
The road rose out of the desert and traced a river along a valley, before the two separated. The scenery grew greener, the air damper and the switchbacks started. After 60 miles or so on a left hand hairpin, over a bridge, I approached the bend on the right hand side of the road. Down to third, ready to shift down to second to bleed off speed, a gentle push on the rear brake and then a slight squeeze on the front, preparing to move across to the left of my lane to touch the apex, before opening up the throttle and giving it the horses. Since 2012, I must have done it thousands of times.
Then I saw the dark grey, Toyota ‘combi’ minibus.
When you're on a motorbike and you realise that you’re about to be hit, you don't have time to smell or taste the fear at the back of your throat like you might in other situations - like slipping down some stairs, coming off a push bike or falling off a ladder, for example. There isn't time. Any reaction is purely instinctive, because you simply can not think fast enough. There is just a big bang, and then you’re either lucky or unlucky.
I was lucky.
I don’t remember how I actually got off the bike - I don’t even remember being on the ground. I must have either been thrown clear or jumped off. All I recall is the bang, then being on my feet looking down at Barney and the slowly realising that the South American part of my trip was most probably over.
There was simply no reason why the combi should have been on the wrong side of the road other than plain stupidity. As far as difficult hairpins go, I'd rate it a 3 out of 5.
Then I faced my first choice. The driver, who had stopped, had started walking back to his minibus.
Do I stay with my bike, still in the middle of the road, and my stuff (including my passport, $1000 in cash, laptop and camera), strewn across the gutter (including my phone)? Or do I try and go with him to ensure he doesn’t drive off?
I opened the passenger door, and got halfway in to the bus. Despite the fact that I simply was not with it at that point, I thought again. This wasn’t safe and I risked losing all my gear. I got out and despite him nodding to my repeated saying of ‘policia’ to him, he wasn’t seen again.
I tried to remember his number plate, repeating it out loud over and over until I found my phone to write it down, but in my state of shock I forgot the second part of it, then the first and then all of it. By the time the police arrived 20 minutes later, I could at best be 50% sure of what it was.
Peruvian police aren’t like British police - they weren’t interested in pursuing things any further. Speaking through contact in Lima acting as a translator over the phone, they wanted to avoid the paperwork, which would more than likely involve an overnight stay in the cells of a Peruvian police station for me (“You don’t want to do that, trust me” I was told) and a late finish for them.
With the aid of my contact, an ‘arrangement' was proposed. The police would help me find a lift back to Lima by a flagging down truck, where I’d be met by another truck from the Triumph dealership. The downside was that would mean no paperwork, and therefore no chance of any insurance money.
I was in the middle of nowhere, on my own, understood only a bit of Spanish and sensed that any insurance claim would be a waste of time - like most overland riders, I only had 3rd party cover. It was getting dark, and starting to rain. The Peruvian countryside at night is not a safe place for a gringo to be, even with police around.
It wasn’t an easy choice to make, given where I was at that point in time and the potential impact it would have on my travel plans - getting somewhere safe with the bike and my stuff ASAP or giving up the shred of a chance of an insurance claim, albeit on made on the off-chance the police wanted to pursue the case. I took the first.
After 2 hours of flagging down trucks in the dark, we eventually found one. Luckily it was a new Toyota pick-up truck, rather than one of the several battered farm trucks, complete with sheep/goats/cattle, that the police had tried to persuade to take me.
We loaded the bike, got on the road by 7.30pm and reached Lima by 1a.m. I was welcomed back Martin, Meg and Matt, who kindly supplied beers, Valium and, most importantly, Pizza Hut at the hostel I’d left that morning.
Despite my hopes otherwise, Triumph confirmed my worst fears the next morning - the bike would cost a least $4000 to repair. They could have it ready for me….by July. Huh.
What next?
For Barney, the next few days will determine what will happen to him. There is the possibility of a Peruvian buyer on the table, which would probably be the best outcome. A buyer plus the saving of not freighting the bike home would provide me with a budget to get a replacement bike in the UK.
For me, after 9 weeks and 7,200 miles on the road, I figure now is a good time to re-group. Motorbiking around South America has, quite simply, been unlike any of the other trips I’ve done before which have all been in the comparative comfort of Europe. If I’m going to be completely honest, it has stripped away much of the romance of the two trips I did, blasting around Europe in 2012 and 2013. But that’s not a bad thing.
I’ve learnt a lot (including some sort of Spanish) since I’ve been out here and made some great friends. With Meg, Matt, Martin and Mich there have been some epic rides - tearing along huge mountain passes, dodging rockfalls, fording rivers and slipping and sliding through the mud of the jungle.
Thursday in particular was a day of lessons about making tricky decisions on your feet.
One thing is for sure, despite Barney’s demise, my appetite for adventure motorcycling continues unabated.
It’s just a question of where next and when…and how quickly I can get a new bike.
Hellooooooooo Autotrader.com :-)