Forty-Four in Ecuador

Once the bike is back on the road I ride up north of Bogotá to Zipaquirá to see the famous Salt Cathedral. A gigantic set of sculpted chambers in a salt mine.

I also visit the country house Simon Bolívar lived in in Bogotá

and nearly pop my lungs walking up to the church at Monserrate at 3000m or so whose service includes an eye-watering musical asides from bloke with a cheesey electronic keyboard. Ecclesiastical Karaoke anyone? Amazing view though.

I finally tear myself away from the creature comforts of the big city and head south to El Desierto de la Tatacoa. I try to take a direct route by country roads when I near but am turned back after a little village called Purificación by the army who tell me there is too much guerilla activity. I should take the longer way around crossing the Rio Magdalena at Aipe. But the bridge is closed til the morning when I get there and I have a weird little night there sitting in one of a row of seedy little bars in a crossfire of distorted sound systems watching the scooter choreography. A smiley people as a rule, the grins are always that bit wider when on two wheels. In the morning the bridge is impassable and has been for a month. On to Neiva for the really long way around. Two hours later I am finally on the opposite bank at Villaviejo. A little further the desert begins and I walk in the beautifully eroded Labyrinthes de Cusco.

Later I attend a talk on the roof of the little observatory.

Despite the Spanish I still learn a lot about the constellations spread out lustrously above us. Back in my tent it´s too warm for the flysheet so I sleep under the same gorgeous stars in a moonless sky. It´s the only time in my life I can remember experiencing pure silence outdoors. Perfection.

The road up to San Andrea de Pisimbalá has collapsed a lot and I edge round the parts where the bit of road remaining clings to the hillside. I walk past the thatched adobe church

and try some coca wine. In common with the cactus wine I tried in the desert that morning and hooch the world over it has a strong taste of petrol. I turn in early and read "A General Theory of Love" - another in a line of inspiring books I have had recommended along the road, the others being "Tropical Nature" and "A New Earth". I am here for the pre-hispanic tombs here at Tierradentro and I set out bright and early for the most remote and altitudinous, Aguacate. Within an hour I am scrambling on my hands and knees up a near-vertical and slippery path which finally forces me and my annoying vertigo back in ignominious defeat. More humiliating still is that I am met halfway down by a guard who saw me struggling and came to my aid. At least I am not completely grovelling by that point on the path and we have a great chat as we descend together. More and more these interactions are the high points of my day; the army guy at the checkpoint and the ferryman yesterday. It feels great to speak Spanish even if it is only the level of a 5 year-old... I divert to the less chalenging climbs to the other tombs at Segovia.

Then it´s some of the muddiest roads yet over to Popayán. At its highest point I have my first experience of the extra-terrestrial Páramo, the high marshes with their Frailejones.

On my way down I get caught up in a funeral procession in one village. All the indigenas with their plaits under bowler hats giggle at me as I am helplessly swept along past my turning.

I swoop and twist on down to Popayán which reminds me of Edinburgh for some reason. A beautiful town and the perfect early-evening temperature for strolling its streets.

Another lovely ride back over the Cordillera Central through the cloud forest and Puracé National Park to San Augustín. I camp in the squishy grounds of Finca El Maco and hire a horse to ride to the nearby archaeological sites.

My horse is energetic without being homicidal, a balance I have found hard to achieve on my previous equestrian outtings, and I gallop and canter my way around the trails, stopping off to appreciate the 5000-year-old statues left scattered over the countryside.

Our guide Pacho is great and his Spanish not too hard to follow. The dutch couple and the swiss girl also along are good company too and we chat the evenings away over delicious thai food.

On down to Mocoa, still studiously avoiding the Panamericana.

The road over to Pasto is apparently known as the "Trampoline of Death". Luckily I only find that out a few days later. In the meantime I bounce up the very rocky road with its landslides and bits missing. One place the gap next to a pile of rubble is only about the width of a tyre, a dizzy drop on the other side. When I hesitate a road worker helpfully comes up behind me and pushes. Cheers mate...

I wrench my left leg in a half-fall a bit later but eventually pop out safe and sound onto the western side of the pass at Sibundoy and reward myself with hot chocolate. I finally find a place to rest my head at Laguna de la Cocha, a surreal little tourist town of mock-swiss chalets that seem to have been made by a film-set´s art department such is the haste apparent in the flimsy constructions with gaping gaps in the walls. Not ideal at this chilly altitude. Despite the 30-odd restaurants there is only one dining option, smoked trout. In the morning I peel away the 4 blankets and take a walk around the odd little town

but the drizzle puts me off actually taking a lancha to the island. I drink another in a long line of Batidos de Mora - a blackberry milkshake I have become addicted to and head on to Pasto.

More tasty snacks here - a Quimbilito which is a cakey vanilla and raisins thing and then a Tamale de Añejo - quite nice but has all kinds of unidentifiable animal parts lurking in it. I pass a clothes shop with the usual skinny mannequins but at least this one has a more honest name...

On down to the border at Ipiales. The mountains lining the road are nothing short of majestic. A lot of Ecuadorean number plates on the road and they seem to be even worse drivers than the Colombians. One even throws a plastic bottle out of the window in front of me hitting a pedestrian. Hopefully Ecuador can redeem this poor first impression! I stop just short at Santuario de las Lajas, a stunning cathedral built into the side of a gorge

and stay with the nuns. They let me park inside the lodging house.

Feels slightly blasphemous to ride into the lobby of their chapel! I wander the dark passages of this odd hotel with its boyband-style photos of Pope John Paul . A donated carpet catches my eye. The donor´s name is woven into the fabric: "Luis Satan"!?!

No wonder they covered it up with a coffee table.

At the border I meet a Welsh guy called Pat coming the other way on a Tenere 660. I ask him about the Peruvian police as I have heard some bad shakedown stories. He says a biker caught a whole bribe scenario on his helmet-cam about a month ago and uploaded it to YouTube so apparently they are bending over backwards to be nice to bikers now!

My first Ecuadorean town is Ibarra. I stop for a burger and they bring me plastic gloves to eat it with. Odd. More odd is the disorientation I experience trying to find a place on my city map. Eventually I realise I have fallen for the oldest one in the book and have the map upside down. Or at least what I thought was north is south. It was the same in Australia. The midday sun being in the north catches my usually instinctive sense of direction out. I ride out to Laguna Yaguacocha. Apparently the Spanish cut the throats of 30,000 indigenas here and threw them in. Lake of Blood.

Now it´s a place for Ecuadoreans to have driving lessons. Right next to a big racing circuit. Significant? I clean my air filter and fix my rattly panniers with a cunning system of rubber bands and head up to the coast.

San Lorenzo is a town that comes with a hefty health warning. Not a place to linger apparently. And the streets are a mass of broken concrete and poverty. There is a great statue of escaped slaves emerging from a conch shell.

The inhabitants here are descendants of African survivors of a shipwreck off this coast. As I eat, flinty eyes bear down on me and my bike from nearby tables. Toothpicks are sucked meaningfully. It is a relief when one guy is more friendly and draws me a little map to find the mangroves. I pass through Borbón

and find Las Peñas, a little beach town that puts me in mind of the dead-ends of Cabo de la Vela or Puerto Arista.

At first the water in my room doesn´t work but then the girl turns it on and to proudly prove the point, she points at a twisted mass of pipes pissing water in all directions. 30 minutes of that and I have my shower. Later a coachload of teenagers show up and spend the night literally screaming. Even earplugs are not enough as I toss and turn in my stuffy little room. Huge matronly Maria cooks me a restorative breakfast and sits peeling garlic with a machete while I eat. Her husband disappeared. One son in the Galápagos and a daughter in Spain. She wants to know what Switzerland is like and if they have good fish there. She´s from Limones Island. She wants to know about Australia but especially the fish. She wants a husband with money. Not a millionaire you understand. Just enough to buy the daily fish. Back at the hotel I have other informative conversations about visiting the mangroves. The highest mangroves in the world? Oh no it´s too dangerous. But what if I park by the police station? Take a boat. A boat from here? A bus. Why is it dangerous? Go and ask. So I set off. Cows by the road up to their haunches in the soggy land working on the green bounty. At La Tola

they tell me to go to Majagua and find a guide called Oli Ferín. Somewhere down a dirt track I find a woman unloading endless apple sodas froma truck onto a rickety bridge.

She calls across to the huts on the other side for Oli. Oli is in La Tola so Carlos punts over in his dugout. A lovely guy of 68 he poles us silently up the blackwater river and explains the 4 types of mangrove.

There´s a forgotten old boardwalk and we wander among the giants and talk about how the shrimp farms have all but ruined the mangroves.

At Mompiche where the greenery takes on monstrous proportions, Eduardo and his mute friend look after my bike and paddle me across to Isla de Portete and a nice cabaña there where I do almost nothing for 2 days. Much hammock time. I walk the beach and paddle the impossibly warm waves under the cloudy garua sky that lends an unreal air.

June arrives and with it the landmark of six months on the road. As if to reinforce my jaded mood Eduardo rips me off for a few dollars and I stew about it as I ride down the road. A few miles after Pedernales I finally cross the equator. I carefully manouevre the bike until my GPS says I have one wheel in the southern hemisphere and one in the north.

Halfway in time and halfway in space. Half-hearted in mood, truth be told. I want to call Laryssa for her birthday but not one of my 3 phones will obey me. Even the satellite phone is mysteriously impossible to wake despite an attempt at hotwiring it to the bike battery using nearby pieces of bamboo. I am in need of the sound of my mother tongue. I bypass Santo Domingo de las Colorados with its nearby indigenas. The town looks post-apocalyptic. In a depressing rather than an interesting way. On up into the stratosphere and the altitude starts to take away the oppressive mugginess. Then into thick cloud as my ears pop again. Then a dramatic exit into bright sunshine as I summit. I make Hostal Bambú on one of Quito´s steep cobbled streets and gratefully unload myself onto the stunning roof terrace full of friendly travellers cooking up a storm.

The night is spent getting predictably drunk and dancing in the scrum of the Mariscal Sucre.

I wander the old town and sample the delights of the yuppie enclave - a chocolate shop with armed guards..

I spend my birthday climbing Volcán Pichincha. The first bit is easy, there´s the telefériQo.

That gets you up to Cruz Loma at 4100m. A good view of Volcán Cotopaxi. If those annoying little clouds hadn´t arrived JUST as I did. Behind them is the nearest spot on earth to the sun.

Then it gets a bit harder. The effect of altitude is way more intense than you expect. I like those maps with the crumples in them called relief maps. They show you three dimensions and in South America the dramatic furls of the Andes. But to look anything approaching how we imagine mountains to look they have to exagerate the rise by a factor of at least 10. Really these mountains are just slight ripples on the surface of the earth´s crust. But it feels far from a ripple as I head up the grassy slope. After only 30 yards or so my heart feels like it´s being crushed in a vice and I am breathing like a beached haddock. Remember when Arnie is trying to breathe on the Martian surface in Total Recall? Yup, exactly like that.