from 27.06.: Sicuani - 3,600 m

27.06.:

wake up, pack, take a shower, have breakfast, change the scooter, pack up and go. And yet it's already 12:00 o'clock when I finally sit on the Vespa.
My host mother said goodbye to me nicely. I told her that she doesn't have to make my bed again, I used my sleeping bag. I have seen her washing clothes by hand several times. She can save herself that with me.
She only wanted 5 sol for my laundry!!! I gave her four times that amount and maybe ruined the prices.
I get out of the small town and I'm next to the railway connection from Puno to Cusco. The narrow Märklin rails will accompany me all the way to Sicuani - without noise protection walls or other safety measures. Sheep graze there - guarded by colorful farmers.
I'm excited to see the landscape again, even though the coloring with ochre and clumps of grass is slowly becoming boring. I don't know how high we have to climb today. I only know that Sicuani is lower than Ayaviri.
I don't like the Vespa. Is it because of the headwind? But we don't have any. Is it because of the slope? I can't determine that. Then the jerking starts again. I look for a shady spot, which is really difficult and requires a lot of imagination. For example, there are half-ruined adobe houses, one wall of which is still standing and provides enough shade for me to work there. But then I find a large building that I use as a shade provider.
I had to adjust the carburetor three times today until it finally worked. A motorcycle loaded with 5 fuel cans stops and offers help. He could tow me..
He then wants to know what a scooter costs - I reduce the price, but it's still damn expensive in the sol currency. Then another Peruvian from Cusco comes with his new Honda, stops, turns around and also offers help. He is excited about the Vespa and takes photos of himself, me, and the two-wheelers.
I'm still in the altiplano region and I'm wondering that we just climbed 500 meters in no time. I see mountains whose snowy peaks don't seem so far away anymore. On the way, poorly paved roads, bumps, unguarded railway crossings that I have to cross very slowly so that the front wheel of the Vespa doesn't slip on the metal. And just when the Vespa has regained its cruising speed, there is another reason to slow down, very slowly. But the landscape changes. Suddenly I see green trees.

the 'railway' in the background

almost like an alpine hut...

and green fields! The Urubamba River, which comes from the mountains near Lake Titicaca, is responsible for this diversity.
Farmhouses in adobe style everywhere, boundary walls like in Ireland - and yet I feel like I'm in the foothills of the Alps.
That lifts my spirits. In the meantime, I have cleaned the visor and the sun protection and can now drive better against the low sun - finally visible life and not just cows grazing on seemingly dried and brown areas.

a task for rainy days or at sea:
what was there before the Incas?

Sicuani is in sight. And I see the train coming from Puno on its way to Puno. It pulls 6 royal blue - white painted wagons and travels at almost walking pace on the narrow rails. A few travelers - probably tourists - are standing on the observation platform of the last wagon and enjoying the afternoon atmosphere.
I benefit - once again - from my Stuttgart friends Sandra and Rolf, who found a great hostel in Sicuani and raved about it to me. Rolf sent me the link, so all I have to do is pull over to the right to activate it. And I am led to my hostel without much effort.
Well - just a hostel. Located on the main road, a large entrance gate, which calms me down for the Vespa, no other conspicuous features that could justify raving about it. I ring the bell and after a wait, the door opens - to paradise!

A little mishap on my part could have had serious consequences, but - the guardian angels are watchful.
The hostel father asks me to drive my Vespa to the rooms, from which I should choose one - for this, I have to drive over a terrace and in this maneuver I forget my two side cases, ram a sofa, lose my balance, and the Vespa falls over exhausted from this tour - and stays there. The engine is still running - otherwise it won't work like this. Turn off the engine - reduce weight as much as possible and get to work to put it back in a more dignified position.
But my hostel father is acting practically from his point of view and wants to know from me first whether I want a room with a big bed and shows me his selection of rooms. So - that's settled. But now back to the Vespa. Fortunately, it fell into a reed bed - caught by a 30 cm high log. I lift the back, the hostel father lifts the front - uno dos tres! And we have it back in the vertical position. The engine starts immediately, scratches and dents are not recognizable quickly - I drive it to my room, which has an exit to the garden - take a deep breath - done!

Feierabend!

After enjoying a cola, my strength returns, I write some apps and then take a mototaxi for 2 sol to the city for dinner. Please no chicken!!! I am lucky and find a nice restaurant that is warm and cozy. The host recognizes after my expressed wish that I am a vegetarian and brings me rice with vegetables, very nicely arranged, well seasoned, and for dessert a mate-coca tea.
On the search for a restaurant, I pass by a shoemaker. An old man with a white beard and a wide-brimmed white hat. I realize that the seam of my hiking shoe, which I always wear on the Vespa, has come loose and must be repaired. I go straight in.
He immediately takes the time for me, puts a piece of cardboard down for me to stand on with my bare foot, inspects the damage and starts immediately. The damage is where the laces are threaded from bottom to top. It's not easy to get there and with your hand through the thick suede? How is that supposed to work? He has an ancient sewing machine that is perfect for such hard-to-reach places. He skillfully threads the appropriate thread into the machine in very dim light and sews by turning the crank of the machine. The needle cuts through the leather and presto, the seam is finished and he proudly hands me the shoe. 5 sol! I give him 10 with the reasoning that this special service deserves a different payment.
I'm staying here for another day. There is an Inca hanging bridge nearby that is made of reed and was highly recommended to me by Rolf. The route there is a challenge for the Vespa, but nowhere near as bad as for Felix. potholes in the curves...
We'll see.

28.06.

No, I won't subject the Vespa to that. As nice as it would be to see the Inca hanging bridge made of reeds, the route there has too many adventures.
Instead: first take a mototaxi to the market and have breakfast.
The Peruvians I have met don't hesitate to openly and honestly amuse themselves about what I want. Not hidden, but they grin, laugh, and smirk. I laugh along because I know what a figure I cut. So here comes a white exotic and expresses his wishes in broken Spanish.

things get serious here...

Today it was indeed a bit complicated. They had fried eggs, a pan was ready, tomatoes? No hay. Bread? No hay. Tea? No hay. Okay, I say, I'll get the tomatoes and bread. Do we have a deal then? Mutual grinning, no direct answer - I say, I'm going now to buy the things and will be right back. No clear yes or no - I go and say: hasta luego - I look the boss in the face, she nods and I start my search. After a few minutes I'm back - give the cook the tomatoes and explain to her that I would like them fried in the pan like the eggs.

that pleases the vegetarian heart- upstairs on the second floor I fetch my breakfast

I can sit at a long beer table and wait. And after 10 minutes breakfast arrives!!! Everything just the way I want it. And believe it or not, I get a hot lemon tea. I thanked everyone and announced my return for tomorrow. I hope it wasn't a threat... 5 sol changes hands. About €1.50.
The mototaxi takes me back to my hostel, but I don't stay there long, I want to see more. On the iOverlander platform I read that there are Inca ruins just 20 km from here. They are located directly on the Pista to Cusco, so 30 minutes should be realistic, as the road leads through the valley.
Everything goes smoothly, I experience even more alpine foothills than yesterday, little traffic, but then TRAFFIC JAM!! I merge, stop, and see a crowd of people at the beginning of the jam. Gawkers! I think to myself, because I suspect an accident. What to do? Wait? Too bad about the time. Turn back? That would be frustrating. Pass on the left side of the queue? I can't yet assess the temperament of the Peruvians... Then I see a red tour bus approaching in my rearview mirror. It reduces its speed, turns on its hazard lights, and passes the queue. There is no hesitation for me - hazard lights on and follow behind - protected by the big one. The car drivers look at me, but are distracted by the make of my motorcycle and my high-visibility jacket, and leave me alone.
I reach the crowd - ambulance, fire brigade, police? None of that. Instead, some Peruvians stage a sit-in - in the middle of Pista 3 - the main connection between Puno and Cusco - they have laid down red banners, so I can't read them - and let me pass!
According to the navigation, the Inca ruins should be coming up soon. I don't see any signs and where the navigation lady tells me to turn right, I only see red dust. I keep going and reach Tinto, turn there and discover a small village with narrow streets and colorful adobe houses. I am led to the Plaza de Arma and there I am greeted by the tranquility of the early afternoon. It's a small market, there is a church, the town hall, and few people.

just peace and quiet - the occasional mototaxi...

I sit on a bench, drink something, and enjoy the peaceful silence. At first, I am being watched, I greet loudly, receive a smile, and then adapt to the general atmosphere. Only the quiet sound of water interrupts the silence, and I suspect that this sound brings the people down here. The water comes from the mountains and flows through water channels at the edge of the roads into the valley.
But I want to go to the Inca ruins. The navigation tells me that I should go back the same way I came, and logically I come back to the spot where the people and banners are on the road. Things are getting more temperamental here. A stressed mega-truck driver also managed to get to the beginning of the jam and is not being let through. I have now also reached the front and take advantage of the general commotion to maneuver past the people centimeters away from them. It works. I see how a Peruvian bends down and throws a handful of sand towards the truck driver. He is just about to climb out of his cab, and I expect a brawl, but then he thinks better of it, reaches for his smartphone, and either calls his boss or the police - because they still haven't arrived. Anarchy???
I nod to the people in a friendly way, thumbs up always works, and make sure I quickly disappear from sight.

And just a short time later I see tour buses parked on a parking lot on the left side, and the navigation tells me: turn left and I'm on the site of the Raqchi memorial.
Raqchi is the name of the village where the Inca ruins are located and initially means nothing more than 'ceramic pot made of fired clay'. The village earns its living from this, as there is plenty of it here. I have passed quarries whose cutting edges glow in a deep red. The paths along the road also have this color.
I occasionally see tourists on the site and reach the market square of the village. There, arts and crafts are offered, colorful Inca figures made of ceramics on a chessboard and jewelry. I am allowed to leave my helmet and motorcycle pants with the ticket seller, pay a guide who, after receiving the payment, nicely told me to wait for more interested people. I buy a brochure and am glad that I can familiarize myself with the subject matter in advance. My guide is nowhere to be seen and I am even glad that I can explore on my own and see what impresses me the most. I have seen the buildings and ruins - they don't make much of an impression on me, and I am drawn to where the gardens are. And there I find something that is really rare here in South America: just PEACE and finally bird chirping and blackbirds searching for worms. Homesickness? Well...

walking through a completely overgrown arcade that emanates the scent of herbs - 
I stop and inhale. A treat after the exhaust fumes that are uncontrollable in the city. I stay outside - far away from tourist groups -  and watch the sun as it moves from right to left, heading west.

peaceful evening atmosphere on the Urubamba River on its way to the sacred valley of the Incas

The shadows get longer, the contours of the mountains become clearer again, and slowly I feel the urge to head back to the hostel. Driving in the dark here is already a medium risk.
I didn't see my guide again and drive to the east, with the sun at my back.

peaceful evening ambiance at the Urubamba River on its way to the sacred valley of the Incas

Suddenly, I have the desire to stop or pause in the next village, have a cola, smoke a cigarette, and look at the mountains that have already taken on a reddish hue.
Another realization I have gained here: endure - then I experience much more than running or driving around looking for things to discover or find that come to me on their own.
A truck with a handful of children in the loading area is just coming from the field - the children climb merrily on the framework for the cover, the truck struggles to get over the main road. Late afternoon atmosphere, everything is tinted reddish, including the dust stirred up by the truck. I wave to the children - they immediately react and shout hello how are you, wave, and laugh.
A few meters away from me is a motorcycle, the driver is on the phone further away. After a quarter of an hour, two children and a younger woman arrive, and a little later I see the four of them riding away on this motorcycle. The older one sits on the tank and holds onto the handlebars, the younger one sits between the parents, protected from the wind, and off they go towards Sicuani.

So confident at altitudes up to 4,400 m - 4,700 meters of altitude are still ahead.

I also get going again and, of course, it gets dark. High beam headlights or cars without headlights come towards me - the bumps are no longer visible - I feel my way forward at 50 km/h. And if the navigation lady hadn't given me the right direction in my helmet speakers, I would have ended up somewhere else....
After a few minutes, I safely arrive at the hostel, park the Vespa, and take a mototaxi to the city for dinner. Apparently, there is no inspection here, but this mototaxi is life-threatening because the exhaust fumes get into the passenger cabin through leaky tarps. At the beginning of the ride, I wanted to close the door because it was getting cold, but then I quickly opened it so that oxygen can get into the cabin.

unhindered exhaust disposal into the passenger cabin

Hunger drives me to the city in the evening. I am drawn back to yesterday's restaurant because I know they understood me. The server from yesterday recognizes me and she does everything right. I tell the two of them that I will leave tomorrow and then they will probably only serve guests who don't do without meat.
I take a final look at the church, which is very well attended today - on a Thursday.

the front rows are already filled. Church bells cannot be heard

Nearly 95% of all Peruvians are Catholic, and the traditional belief is not completely displaced. The Spanish missionaries built the churches on ancient Inca ruins.
The church service probably lasts over two hours - an opportunity for me to let the atmosphere sink in. There is no organ, the sacred music comes from large speakers. I don't get the impression that attending the service is a social obligation. The church service is more of a social event, people meet and are part of the village community, but not shunned if they don't go. I sit there as a gringo - there are a few more of us, but we represent the minority. Even during the preparations for the church service, heads turn repeatedly towards the entrance. I suspect that the gathering distracts the churchgoers. But later, the priest with his entourage arrives. Everyone stands up, the priest nods solemnly to his congregation, and finally begins with the liturgy.
During the proceedings, I have the opportunity to observe the people who more or less concentrate on what is happening. In front of me sits a family with two kids, and the daughter was allowed to bring her lap dog. Only a European can guess that this won't end well. No one feels annoyed that the dog is whining and demanding attention from other churchgoers - the parents follow the proceedings with curiosity and tolerance. In the row of benches next to me sits a nun who feels entitled to regulate a churchgoer sitting in front of her. While he is on his knees during the devotion, his neighbor apparently told him an experience from his day that resulted in stifled but still audible bursts of laughter. She touches him, he turns around, receives a reprimanding look from someone 20 years younger, signals understanding, devotes himself only briefly to his neighbor, and then concentrates on the church service again. When reciting the Creed and also when reciting the Lord's Prayer, I notice that the emphasis is the same as in our version.
After the Lord's Supper, which takes place not only at the front altar but also in the aisle between the pews and is thus quickly completed, there is again shaking of hands, peace be with you, and finally leaving the church.

Outside we are welcomed by bright spotlights, overdriven megaphones, red banners, and many people. Maybe a teacher demonstration? The suspicion will be reinforced in the next few days, as will the experience on my journey to Raqchi.

Tomorrow I'm going to Cusco - with mixed feelings.