28.11.: Ocongate - 3,500 m -

28.11.

At some point during the night, sleep overcame the barking dogs. Surprisingly, the traffic on the nearby road has decreased. Only a few gas trucks thunder by. The rain has turned into a steady downpour. But as long as it only rains at night - which has mostly been the case so far - it doesn't bother me much. On the contrary, I am glad to have a roof over my head and a mattress beneath me.

Early in the morning, I hear noise in the neighboring house. I don't want to disturb their morning routine, so I get up. It is cloudy outside, and the boss is at the patio sink, washing yesterday's dishes.
Breakfast is not on the agenda. Later, the daughter appears, struggling with her long hair for at least a quarter of an hour. The older brother also steps out of the house, but the younger brother is nowhere to be seen.
The father already has his little backpack on his back, waiting for the bus that will take him to work. In the meantime, he is trying to get the clay oven started, but the wood is too damp, and he is more mentally preoccupied with the arrival of his bus than with lighting the fire.

I am glad that no expectations are placed on me, and I also start my work for the day. The 17-year-old joins me, and later two of his friends show up and observe and comment on my actions. I don't particularly like him, and I don't know if I can trust him...

Draining gasoline, replacing the canister, carefully drilling a hole for the ventilation hose with a screw, and inserting it, starting it, and silently shrugging my shoulders in front of my observers to acknowledge my failure.

A hot cup of tea wouldn't be bad.

It starts to drizzle again. The battery has reached its last third of power, and it is expected to completely die very soon.

The 17-year-old's friends have to catch the bus - he himself disappears on foot...

But everything falls into place: across from the house, there is a bus stop that goes to Ocongate.
I remove the battery and set off. By now, the surrounding houses have also lit their hearths, and blue smoke rises slowly.

The bus is taking a while to arrive.
Instead of the bus, a red Toyota sedan arrives, and I wave at it on a whim. I don't believe that I can ride with them here. The backseat is occupied by two plump Peruvian women, but they make room so that I can just barely close the door. A quick question about where I am from and where I am going, and then we quickly head into the mountains. The shocks and tires are pushed to their limits, the curves are generously cut at visible points, and frequent sharp braking. The driver knows the route, I think to myself, trying to brace myself against the fullness of my neighbors in the curves.

It is still very early. Ocongate makes a sad impression at first glance, a river with a strong current flows past the place but is not appreciated by the population and is instead used for construction waste.

About 5,000 people live here and make use of the fertility of the river valley. Potatoes can only be grown at altitudes above 4,000 meters, and even then, only every 6 to 7 years. The barren soils up here need this time for recovery.
Healthcare is provided only by a medical center. Infant mortality is high, and life expectancy is low. Although it gets cold and rains a lot here, the adobe houses are not equipped with stoves. Pneumonia is said to often lead to death here. The nearest hospital is in Cusco, 100 km away, about two hours from here, if the road is passable and spared from landslides.

Quechua is also spoken in my family. This indigenous language is maintained and cherished. Even in school, it is the language of instruction before Spanish. I can't understand a single word of it. It has nothing in common with Spanish. How could it...?

The fast Toyota driver drops me off at a workshop that can charge batteries. They send me on to Ulisses, with whom I will spend the rest of the day.
The battery will be fully charged in half an hour. I use the time for a breakfast of fried eggs and two cups of hot coffee. Shortly after, I am back at the workshop, and the battery is charged. I tell my story about the Vespa. Ulisses, a master in his early forties, listens attentively. His two helpers are busy with motorcycles. I manage to pique his professional curiosity. He suggests that he accompany me to my Vespa to see it for himself. We get into his brand-new Hyundai - his colleagues are still being given instructions - and drive off.

Fortunately, my adobe house is green in color; otherwise, I wouldn't have found the Vespa so quickly amidst the uniformity of the landscape.

With leaving the vehicle and reaching the Vespa, my status changes. The tone becomes rougher - from now on, I am his assistant and must follow his orders.
I must have dismantled the carburetor for the 500th time already. Ulisses looks at everything, screws, adjusts, deems the jet too small, checks the fuel line, changes the spark plug, and does the things I have done as well. The rain starts again. We push the Vespa under a shelter with a thatched roof, which the family and guests use for their meals on sunny, hot days.

Unlit adobe oven on the right front

After a long attempt and a lot of patience, the Vespa starts again. Its performance is irregular at high revs. I take a test ride, and the symptoms return.
More out of curiosity than conviction, we reconnect the regular fuel pump. The Vespa comes alive. It starts and proves me wrong in claiming that the fuel pump is defective. Before I can start pondering, Ulisses puts pressure on me and wants to leave. He insists that I should come to the workshop, where we will figure out the next steps.

My curiosity and sense of adventure have reached their limits. I ask him if he seriously intends to let me drive alone to Ocongate???
Finally, he understands my wish for him to accompany me. Done deal. Farewell to my hosts and their guests. We weren't unnoticed. While the guinea pigs were sizzling, there was still enough time to observe our actions.
The place is crowded now. The boss shows me a large pot filled with grilled guinea pigs with heads, eye sockets, claws, and open bellies. That's how they come to the table. But it smells good...

We set off and reach exactly the spot where I kept getting stuck yesterday.

Before that, I wave to the younger brother, who has tied a small vehicle to a stick and runs up and down the long street. He is not alone; a little girl is also part of the game. Both are in constant danger. The road is their playground, and cars honk and thunder past the retreating playmates. Hopefully, everything will be fine.

I also provide a reason for prolonged honking.
Ulisses tinkers and tries, and we continue.
The Vespa once again realizes the seriousness of the situation, takes me to the peak of the mountain, and then goes out a few minutes later. I let myself roll down into the valley - it's several kilometers with many curves - and the rest of the way along the river to the workshop, she manages to make it on her own power.

Curious glances in the workshop as we arrive.
I remove the carburetor again and notice that 3 or 4 pairs of shoes have joined in. Don't make eye contact now. Otherwise, I'll have to talk and make mistakes. The carburetor undergoes a thorough cleaning, the fuel pump is checked - we don't make progress. Ulisses believes that gravity is not sufficient, and we should permanently connect the electric pump. Later, he is no longer convinced of its reliability and qualifies his statement. We could alternate connecting the pumps.
By now, it is afternoon, and the Vespa is showing off again. Test drive? Definitely not with me.
A journeyman is interested and drives away - accelerating very slowly. He will definitely return, pushing with dimly lit headlights after about an hour. Yes - he says so too - it's the fuel pump. Ulisses has no more ideas and actually wants me off the premises.
I tell him that I don't feel like it anymore. I need a pickup truck that can take me to Puerto Maldonado. General amusement...

Did he really forget that his brother owns a truck? Well, a pickup is difficult... and until tomorrow...???? Poker face or genuine contemplation? I start low. And because I have no idea, I say 100 soles. No flicker of interest in his eyes. I raise it to 500 soles, and I notice interest. Okay - I'm on the right track. He wants to make a phone call. I take care of the battery, gather my things, load up the Vespa, and wait patiently.
I put the question of a bed, shower, and dinner on hold. A solution must be found now.
Ulisses has an answer. I should expect 1,600 soles. I gulp, but there is no room for negotiation.
I should be here tomorrow at 05:00 a.m. It will take 8 hours to get to Puerto Maldonado. I agree.

Later, an older man appears, whom he introduces to me as his father. Reserved, suspicious.
It doesn't get better when I tell him that I need to go to the ATM and try to get the amount. I recall being politely informed when I tried to withdraw money twice in a row that I had already received money this month.
I tell him that, and I promise to try again in Puerto Maldonado if necessary.

To make him believe me, I suggest that we should now check the ATMs at the plaza, and then I would give him a down payment. His facial features relax.

There is only ONE in Ocongate. And it is not in service. The security guard tells us to come back in an hour and a half. There is no other ATM available.

Ulisses' father - I call him Felice - becomes more trusting. He accompanies me to a hostel, benevolently and partly grinning, observing my negotiation with Rockzana - that's the name of my landlady. I give him another 100 soles as a down payment, and we agree to meet tomorrow morning at 05:00 a.m. in front of the workshop.

No more showering. Thoroughly scrubbing my hands, 1/8 chicken with fries and some salad and cola. The ATM is working again. And not just once, but until I have the desired amount together. Do I feel watched? No. No suspicious figure far and wide. Like in every Peruvian city or town, the police is visibly present here too! Back to the hostel, unfortunately, no WiFi.
I write down my experiences offline on the computer.

Everything falls into place: the causes of the Vespa problem are still limited, transportation is organized - a solution for the cause will also be found.

Is there really only an issue with the fuel pump?