27.11.: 8 km before Ocongate - 3,500 m -

27.11.

my last breakfast in the market halls. I am quite early, no soul workers to be seen yet.

This morning I run into Gusto, whom I immediately address regarding his outstanding debts. Yes, yes...
I tell him that I want to leave early today. Yes, yes... pouting face... I wonder what will happen?

Later, when he asked me about my profession, he quickly wants to have some PR and marketing tutoring from me - but I am not in the mood for it right now, as I really want to leave early. But I make some suggestions and write something on the iOverlander platform in his presence. A mix of English and Spanish.

But when I am ready to start and show up in his shop and make my demand for the third time, he pulls out a bundle of soles notes from his trouser pocket and gives me four hundred. So in the end, there is a nice farewell and many good wishes.

As if it were an inspiration, it occurs to me that the brakes need to be checked before I leave for the Amazon basin. I actually want to go, but I overcome my impatience and drive to Eric's.
It is before ten, but he is already there and has time for me. Eric thinks that I could have driven another 5,000 km, but I am reassured when the brakes are changed in the front and rear.
Also, from Eric and his wife, who has an infant and two nice girls aged 5 and 7 who are very interested in the workshop and also actively participate in it, there is a nice farewell.

I can't say it any other way: I owe the Vespa almost always nice encounters.

I refueled yesterday after my second test drive and now it's finally starting. The weather is cooperating, for a while I still follow the Rio Urubamba, but I have to drive with great concentration to avoid getting into the truck's tracks and making the Vespa wobble.

Although the good week in Pisac was not exactly a vacation, but determined by technical things, I am still well-rested and refreshed. This cushion is very welcome for what awaits me in the next three days...

The Vespa confidently passes the spot where it broke down over a week ago, and soon we leave the Sacred Valley and head steeply uphill.

I am starting to relax, and the trust in the technology is back. Everything is good. No stalling, but I can feel that the engine is struggling.
The weather gets worse with the altitude. Dark rain clouds are building up over the quite impressive mountains in my direction, and the wind is coming from the west and getting stronger.

a last look into the Sacred Valley

Then I get the signal to adjust the carburetor for the altitude, top up the reserve canister, and off we go. But I already notice when starting that the Vespa struggles with the incline. Fortunately, we replaced the clutch before my departure, otherwise we wouldn't have gotten going at all.

So it gains speed, the curves are easy to drive, and soon we are on the plateau. I see a sign telling us that we are at an altitude of 4,200 m.
My hands are getting cold, it starts to rain, and I'm glad that I'm not only wearing my motorcycle pants.

the first clouds releasing rain

Once again the desolation, clumps of grass, sheep and vicunas, abandoned adobe houses, dreary roadside villages, and Peruvian women by the roadside with their bags filled with heavy loads.
But I see them not only on the roads, but also on the steep slopes hacking the earth.

Now it's getting downhill again, and before it goes up again, the Vespa stutters, slows down, and finally comes to a stop.

Carburetor? Should the air in the reserve tank be dosed? Or is there simply no more gasoline? I start with the carburetor, it starts again, but after a few meters, it stalls again. The rain has stopped, and speculation begins. Is the fuel hose blocked? Is it simply too long?

The children from the area watch me from a distance, later a teenage motorcyclist joins them, the kids push me, the Vespa gains speed, but only briefly, and then it stalls again.
It behaves as if there had never been an alternative to the regular fuel pump.
Unfortunately, I upset the motorcyclist when he asks me where I'm from and where I'm going and how much the Vespa cost in dollars.
I really don't feel like small talk now and I tell him that. I need to focus on repairing the Vespa now and don't want to answer his numerous questions. He stays for a moment and then drives away - probably offended. The kids are no longer around either. I shorten the fuel hose, attach it expertly using cable ties, and thus avoid the suspicion that it might somehow get caught after inserting the helmet compartment.

The Vespa starts again, I let it idle and bubble, everything seems peaceful, the damage is fixed, I breathe a sigh of relief, pack my things for the 7th time, and start driving.
The engine sounds very good, it accelerates well, I look at the clock and remember the minute, but it's not even five minutes and the familiar scenario begins. Stuttering - engine off.

So far, I have remained calm. The bad weather, the increasing twilight, undermine my composure.
I wait, do nothing, it recovers, I turn at the mountain and drive down the steep road with full throttle. This is also accompanied by misfires and stuttering.
Just before a green adobe house with a large front yard, it comes to a stop. Although I saw from the corner of my eye that people are inside and in front of the house, I let my curses run free, both in volume and in language.
I unpack all my luggage again, remove the fuel hose and see the precious liquid flowing from it in sufficient quantity. I put it back on, let the Vespa idle and go towards the house.
I already expect a fearful step back and door lock, but they stand still and watch me approach. I smile at them to balance out my previous outburst and to build trust. It is now very dark, no sign of hostels, only a few houses scattered on the mountain slopes.
I ask if there is a hostel or hotel nearby. Shaking heads. The first raindrops start to reappear.
When I ask if I can sleep on the ground here, I don't get a yes or no, but a friendly hint that it is only 8 km to Ocongate. At the moment, I don't see a chance for a successful negotiation, so I say that I want to try again now. Hope on their faces, waving, and I drive up the mountain towards Ocongate. But after just a few minutes, I notice the stuttering, quickly turn on the mountain, and the Vespa recovers again, I drive past the green house waving, turn again, and just in front of the house, the engine dies again.
In the meantime, the family council has apparently met and concluded that I can stay here for the night.

There are two single-storey adobe houses at right angles to each other, with one door and two windows. The bathrooms - shower and toilet in separate compartments - have access from the patio.
The parents live here, a girl about 15 years old, a boy who is maybe 17 years old, and a boy with Down syndrome.

Everyone looks at me suspiciously. It is also not an everyday occurrence for a gringo to appear in their house and ask for accommodation. The mother is the boss - I estimate her age at 40, the husband is nice and accommodating, but rather silent.

With great effort, strength, and use of the engine, I manage to get the Vespa onto the grounds behind the house.
It is downhill, making it difficult to find a safe parking position. I don't pay attention for a moment and end up with both wheels in a muddy drainage ditch. Getting out is impossible. The rear wheel gets stuck in the mud. My strength is fading, it's already getting very dark, only the weak bulbs from the house illuminate the scene. Asking for help is not possible because I can't get off.
That's when the boy with Down syndrome comes out of the house, assesses the situation, fetches his brother for help, and both push me out of the drainage ditch.

The house facing the street, with a large room where the family spends their evenings, is a dining room for truck drivers and the neighbors during the day. They have guinea pigs, which are grilled in the clay oven next to the house. About 30 guinea pigs are consumed during the day. They go directly from the oven to the plate without being dissected. They are served with potatoes and pasta.

Feeling completely worn out, I enter the house and join them. Ceiling light from an energy-saving bulb, it's cold even though both doors are closed.
The TV is on, everyone's gaze is fixed on it. The daughter is painting a cat's head that she made from plaster or clay - not much talking. The TV picture is grainy, the sound is choppy, the image sequence is unreliable, the colors are bright and frequently changing in intensity.

I adapt (happily) to the situation until the boss gets up and comes back with a plate of noodles and potatoes. We are only four. The boys are probably in the living house. Later there is hot tea as well. Both surprises me very much, because I don't see a stove and wonder how she made it. The clay oven has been extinguished for a long time - I discover the thermos flask for the tea later on the windowsill.

We are slowly starting to talk. The daughter doesn't say anything, but she is interested. The boss has a great sense of humor and laughs a lot.
I tell a little bit about Germany, about our comfortable life compared to the hard work here in the countryside, and about my Vespa journey. But the TV is diverting my attention and also makes it difficult for me to understand the boss. I say that, but this troublemaker is not being put in its place. The sauce, which has the color of avocado puree, was quite spicy. I'm thirsty and ask for a cola.
The husband has left the room, and I am asked if I really want to sleep on the cold floor. I show them the sleeping bag and the sleeping pad, and their faces express disbelief that I want to sleep on them. That's when the husband comes into the room with a mattress and puts it on the floor. I can put the sleeping pad on the mattress. The wife doesn't trust the sleeping bag, and I hand it to her so she can warm her hands in it. She seems convinced.

At 7:30 pm, the three of them retire.

I am too tired to write, I read my WhatsApp messages and can send just two messages, as the internet is quite scarce in this region. A truck stops in front of the house. I get surprised looks when I say that the family is already sleeping.

The night is as expected. This time it's not the roosters, but the dogs making a lot of noise. I can't fall asleep anyway and have the fun of finding out how long the dogs stay silent. I try to count to 60, but fail. I make it to 53 - then the barking starts again.

only dimly recognizable to the left side of the door is a poster: a white-haired guinea pig with shiny black button eyes. It doesn't know yet that its body size will soon be its demise.

I think about the cause of the Vespa's behavior. At some point, I have the idea that rainwater could have entered the ventilation hole of the reserve tank while driving, rendering the fuel for the carburetor more or less useless.

So tomorrow morning, several tasks await me. Replacing the reserve canister and putting it in the position suggested by Manfred, letting gasoline run out of the carburetor opening with the water and, if necessary, replacing the carburetor jet.

Conclusion: the Vespa brought me over the mountain and to an inn. It could have turned out very differently...

How I will get away from here tomorrow is a mystery to me, but a solution will be found for that as well.