It is a strange feeling when you pull across the border to another country. The transition from one to another always leaves us with deeply engrained memories. We can still vividly recall crossing into Turkey, India, and a whole myriad of others. Something special always seems to happen at these demarcation lines which leave indelible stamps on our memories like the permanent mark in our passports. At times these events are invariably tied up with the wonderfully naïve way we approach the whole thing; pulling up to a line where we have no language other than a smile and a handshake. People all over the world have responded.

Everywhere we have been my own blindness or Bernard’s ways of dealing with people have enabled us to overcome the worries of our friends and family at home. It sees heavily armed police or soldiers rush off to find a chair for me while others help Bernard fill out reams of paper so we can go on our way.

Naivety, innocence, gullibility, inexperience, call it what you will but these words, if used against us, would not change our mentality even if we could. Our ‘innocence’ has, we think, kept us safe in many ways as we wander through country after country.

"Two innocents abroad."

It may be true but we are happy in our innocence.

Pulling through the final barrier Peru stretches out before us and Bernard’s voice repeats the ‘traditional’ greeting at each new encounter:

"I’ve brought Bertha to Peru!"

Sometimes he says it with such amazement in his voice, like a child in many ways, the rising and falling cadence demonstrating the enormity of his achievement. Despite passing through so many borders, overcoming so many problems, he truly still cannot believe he has passed another line. Some other far distant place on the other side of the world; achieving another part of a dream which he has longed for his whole life.

"I can’t believe we are in Peru, I’m actually riding a bike in Peru!"

He laughs.

The sound carries through the speakers in my helmet; it is good to hear. All worries of border crossing wash away from him. Despite so many he still has to be calmed as we advance towards a line on a map. Peru was no different. I always know, somehow, everything will be fine.

Meanwhile he constructs scenarios involving multiple ‘What if?" questions before going on to generate three solutions to every problem we (may) encounter. I cannot change him. I have tried across the miles. It is the way he is, always looking for possible problems. I gave up many long days ago trying to change this aspect of him.

Pulling through the final barrier separating Chile from Peru we experience all the excitement of ‘newness’, stopping at a little road-side shack selling ice-cold drinks where we use the few Peruvian coins (soles) we have; contributed by Jaime and Conti before we left the Spanish couple in Chile.

Sitting in the sun we savour the drink’s coldness while all around us heat radiates until we can bear sitting still no longer. We set off towards our destination of the frontier city of Tacna where the night’s stop is planned. Arequipa is too far away (at 380km) to reach before darkness falls and we are always cautious on the first day in a new country. The one thing we know when we cross a border is we do not know how long it will take; anything from an hour to a day.

Finding the Gran Hotel we fill out all the immigration documents while waiting. The receptionist cannot find any of the bell-boys and eventually the manager goes to find them all pouring over every detail of Bertha; all activity in the building has stopped with even the kitchen staff evacuating to the car park. The manager scolds the staff, but gently, ushering them back while ‘our’ bell-boy laughs sheepishly as we climb the stairs with ‘la Moto’ (the bike) being discussed; how big it is, how far we have come.

We set off ATM hunting after settling in, walking through a town where people step out of the way while taxi drivers stop their cars – and other traffic – to enable us to cross the busy roads. Beggars fill side streets, approaching us in droves as we try to find the elusive ATM.

We walk under the Alto de la Alianza (The Arch of the Heroes) as we wander – standing like a giant commemorative wishbone of a battle in 1880 where the region fought Chile during the battle for independence. It talks of the wish to be part of Peru once again; successfully achieved in 1929.

As we walk Bernard ponders about the Chilean riders at the border who seemed to be there far longer than usual before being allowed into the country. Perhaps, like people of Spanish descent, the Peruvians have a long memory, looking backwards to what has gone before? We’ll never know.

The roads are busy while we play the ‘ATM hunting’ game. People stare at us as we pass, mildly inquisitive, but Bernard meets their eyes with a smile, readily given back in this border city. We eventually find the ATM and cross back under the careful tutorage of the two laughing female police officers while local people play ‘chicken’ in their death defying leaps of faith in between the streams of cars.

Leaving Tacna the next morning with two sets of directions for the route to the main highway and end up completely lost until a police road-block stops our progress. They want to see all of our documents but this is rapidly forgotten when they realise I am blind. All talk of ‘Documentos’ are swept away while they helpfully give us directions towards the north.

Bernard "It was really funny to watch all the riot stick totting, armed police and soldiers’ line up like well behaved school children. It looked so incongruous really as they borrowed money off each other, shifting machine guns off their shoulders as they rooted in their pockets for money. Banter filled the air as they talked amid much laughter. A simple thing like an ice-cream and suddenly they became something very different to me; people, not uniforms."

Needless say when Bernard described what has happening it would have been very impolite not to support local businesses; we join the queue! Getting to the front we have a choice of Peruvian Melon or Peruvian Melon. One of the soldiers behind helpfully sorts out the handful of money Bernard holds out and the cost is handed over. Bernard stands patiently sucking on a cigarette while I savour the contents. After the last crunch on the cornet we climb back on the bike.

The soldiers, police and customs agents all wave from their shaded positions as we pull out back onto the road – some of them clutching second ice-creams, so enjoyable was the first.

The road from this point winds in ever tighter circles until we climb to a plateau of 7000 feet where we can merrily blast along at 90kph on reasonable road surfaces, cutting across the flattened tops of the mountains where nothing grows. Dropping down into valleys where the floor is covered with lush green vegetation we find trees are everywhere, like little oases, before once again climbing to leave the greenness behind us.

A large army outpost appears in the middle of nowhere with high concrete walls painted in desert camouflage colours of sand and beige to make it ‘disappear’ from sight – like a child with their fingers over eyes saying "You can’t see me!"

Large signs declare "Live Firing" and "Live Missiles in Use" as we come to a Peruvian Air Force complex further down the road. Signs everywhere indicate you cannot stop, take pictures, or do anything else the multiple signs say you cannot do. Others refer to the loud, sudden explosions which may occur. All we hear is the sound of Bertha’s engine and her tyres on the surface of the road. Not a single explosion to be heard anywhere.

Soon the 470 year old city of Arequipa appears nestling 7800 feet up the Andes under the snow capped shadow of the eight largest volcano in the world, towering 19000 feet up into the sky (El Mistri). The white stone of the volcano, from which many of the city’s buildings have been constructed, led to ‘The White City’ label by which it is widely known in Peru.

We roll into the outskirts where the road instantly deteriorates as we bounce down pitted and pot-holed side roads which were left ruined by the earthquake in 2001. They have obviously been repaired but hastily so, thus falling into ruin under the weight of traffic. Driving around for twenty minutes avoiding holes while looking for an elusive hotel, we give up and resort to Plan A.

These are always humorous events as Bernard flags down a taxi. I listen as he goes into his whole ‘Spangalese’ pantomime with much use of the words (in various permutations) "Hotel" and "Buenos ‘Otel" (Good Hotel). Sometimes I giggle as he resorts to saying the same thing numerous times with slight intonation changes, then slower, then quicker until the message gets through (usually). This time the taxi driver gets the message.

He sets off with his hazard flashers lighting the way for us to follow, sending the message ahead "Beware English Lunatics coming through." The driver leads us through various streets with buildings of gleaming white before depositing us at a lovely little hostel. Here staff want us to bring the bike through the marble floored foyer into the covered garden;

"In case it rains".

We manage to convince them Bertha could do with a wash and a little water is not going to harm her.

Leaving Arequipa the next morning the smell of fog and smog is thick in the air like in Kathmandu, grabbing your throat in a vice while your eyes water under the assault. We drive round and round trying to find the road to Juliaca before we begin the great climb with the day spent traversing roads at 14854 feet – setting a new Bertha height record. The information we have proves to be correct as the road twists and turns constantly throughout the 175 miles we cover.

As we ascend we come across new road signs – in Australia they warned of Camels, Kangaroos and Ostriches while in Peru they warn of marauding Alpacas. These animals are famous for their fibers which are woven into everything from blankets to socks, living at higher altitudes in Chile, Bolivia, Ecuador and Peru where they graze in herds.

The animals themselves seem to be something akin to Llamas but considerably smaller; long necked but with straight pointy ears. We stopped several times to take pictures, trying to talk to them in a very Dr Doolittle manner but our accent confounded them and they never responded – Peruvian accents are hard to mimic when you are speaking Alpacan, particularly in a Lancashire accent!.

In the middle of the emptiest landscape where Alpacas roam, we come around corners and there, lying in the middle of the road or just on the edge will be a dog. They are everywhere in Peru. They sit in the grass verges watching the world go by. Alternatively they engage in the great Peruvian Doggie pass time of "Chase the Bertha." Snarling, growling, barking, they race alongside the bike, pitting their legs against Bertha’s fifty horsepower; an unequal battle but one which they did not understand it to be. We blast away from them before they return to lay waiting for the next entertainment.

Sitting downstairs later on I can hear my steak being beaten into submission for at least 20 minutes in the kitchen. By the time it arrives the Coca tea has kicked as we sit giggling and, at one point, while trying to cut my steak there was a twanging sound:

"Do you want me to go and get that piece of steak for you?"

Bernard innocently asked me as he explained I had catapulted a piece of steak across the room. We both descended into a fit of further laughing as he went to retrieve the AWOL piece from 10 foot away. We are still laughing when we fell into bed. The last thing either of us remembers is laughing as we fall asleep before 9pm.

Britain should definitely import this Coca tea. It would provide an instant cure for most of the national woes – at least the perception of those woes. "Let’s have a cup of tea" would bring on a whole set of new connotations; people would certainly feel better afterwards. The problems would still be there but, perhaps, they would feel slightly smaller. At least until the tea wore off.

In the morning we set out to cover the 344kms to Cusco, the last seat of the Inca Empire and the road to Machu Picchu or ‘Lost City of Incas’. For once we find our way straight towards the S3 which heads north back towards the wilderness of the Peruvian mountains. The road starts well and we wind our way through the streets of the town until we hit a roundabout.

Burning tyres block our route.

Thick black acrid smoke fills the air as people block the road to Cusco.

Barricades block all entrances and are manned by very determined looking people according to Bernard. We sit and Bernard watches as events unfold. Cars, buses, or trucks approaching the barricades are stopped and forced to turn around.

"No way through it seems". Bernard explains as he sits watching, looking for options.

Patience.

Eventually several vehicles simply drive up the wrong side of the centrally divided route before crossing a gravel divide hundreds of yards further up the empty road. The bike is nudged into gear as we follow the next truck who attempts the same thing. Around the roundabout we go, the wrong way, up the wrong side of the road against oncoming traffic - whole all beep furiously - before nipping across the gravel divide onto another appalling road surface.

The surface causes the bike to bounce like a jack-hammer and it is fifty miles before we find anything like tarmac. Bertha shudders and vibrates the whole way as she sends shock waves through the panniers where I hold on with tight fingers. We bounce over the surface, rapidly slowing where deep holes appear and cannot miss them or around them we weave like a skier on a slalom run.

We climb higher and the landscape changes from brown to green as rivers appear on our sides. Sheep and cattle graze peacefully in the fields as we hit heights over 14000 feet again. Peruvian women tend their flocks but never return waves in contrast to the men. Young children, irrespective of gender return happy waves but the girls stop responding when they become ‘adult’ so it seems.

Passing through small villages where houses are mud brick with thatched or corrugated grooves, people stare as we drive slowly on the narrow roads while children all wave furiously back to our greeting.

The road continues to hammer at Bertha while we weave through the worst of it before coming around a corner to find rocks all across the surface. Over the next few miles we find the same thing yet there is no sign of landslides which are our initial thoughts to explain the extent of the debris. It gets denser.

Tree trunks and huge boulders suddenly appear as we turn corners and our speed drops considerably. With 344kms to go, across high altitude roads, we start to become concerned at our average speed. We wonder whether we will make Cusco before nightfall?

A small town full of military in riot gear appears and it dawns on us. Something is not right.

The debris gets worse and worse as we continue, soon joined by corners strewn with broken glass glinting in the sun. No traffic is moving on the road and we have not seen another vehicle for nearly an hour. It would be impossible for anything larger than ourselves to navigate through the boulders, rocks and glass strewn roads anyway, we reason. It is such slow work, often the bike is at little more than walking pace as Bernard picks his way through carefully; like riding a bike through a minefield.

We come across cars seemingly stranded at whatever time this strange situation developed; surrounded by boulders blocking progress either back or forward. Drivers sit in the sun and ruefully watch as we slowly wend our way around them while they wait for whatever is to come. Several of them try to shift some of the debris which will allow them to drive six foot before they have to get out again and clear another section; only to be confounded by boulders half the size of their vehicle and so they have to sit and wait.

We drift through using small gaps barely wider than Bertha’s three feet wide girth. Sometimes scraping the horizontal cylinders on boulders which do not move even given her 350kg weight pushing against them.

After two hours and 20 miles of this we come upon a line of traffic and it is obvious this is the end of our progress. A hefty manned barricade blocks our way.

The police stand in the shade watching as we slowly pass lines of parked cars, wagons and coaches on the main road to Cusco. Making our way to the front of the line we stop just short of the tree trunks slung across the road. The bike is lowered onto the side stand as group of Germans come over.

They tell us the road has been shut for three hours by farmers protesting about prices but it is due to open again in 10 minutes (at 3pm). The protest is region wide and we know, in this case, we are going to struggle to get to Cusco before nightfall. It is a prospect which does not fill us with glee; Peruvian mountain roads, at night, and under these conditions. Meanwhile the barricade watchers clutch their farm implements in their hands. The farm implements include machetes.

Bernard lights a cigarette and puffs away the ten minutes while drunks approach asking for money in thickened, slurred voices.

At three we can go around the barricade and Bertha comes to life as Bernard stamps out the cigarette. We start to move.

People are milling all around us, their voices a cacophony of chanting, shouting as we slowly wind through the parked cars, trucks and people on the other side of the barricade. Several voices shout "Hey Gringo" as we pass. Depending on which understanding of the word you believe, they are either using it derogatorily (as an insult) or in greeting to people they assume are Americans. We think it was a greeting of ‘Hello’. It is our way.

The road is a mess with miles and miles of rocks, broken glass, and tree trunks being cynically placed on sharp corners or on humps in the road to drive you onto the wrong side. Sympathy runs out for the farmers after hours of such dangerous riding.

We pass an old lady on a corner trying to shift the rocks outside her house. A car stops. The driver and passenger get out helping her move the stones and the image is replayed on many parts of the road. We assume the great clear up is underway although heavy machinery will be required to move some of the massive boulders blocking the road which we weave around.

Slowly over the miles it becomes obvious people are clearing ‘their section’ as, little by little, the roads improve. At times the ‘protest’ is nothing more than a few small stones spread across the road in a line while other small villages we pass through look like there had been an explosion; debris, logs and burning tyres are scattered everywhere.

At one point the bike brakes hard and Bernard tells of a rope laying across the road, of the two young boys hiding in the trees on either side, waiting for us to approach. He explains the concept of ‘clothes-lining’, pulling the rope tight and taking you off the bike. He laughs as they run and let the rope go as we approach.

Bernard: "If it had been me I would have wrapped the rope around a tree both sides, it would save their palms from being shredded when 500kg of weight travelling at 40 mph took it from their hands. It’s all about physics."

He laughed. Still I have no doubt it would have been dangerous if he had not been so tuned into the environment.

By now I know he is waiting for a vehicle to cross the surface so he can sit and watch what happens. Looking at the wheels of the vehicle he gauges the depth of the surface, how slippery it may be for the bike, which track to put our wheels on.

"We’ve done worse" he comments as he watches a car pass.

"Hang on".

We bounce and slide across the loose surface with the rear wheel sending loud cracks as it compresses the gravel. Occasionally it skips sideways but the bike keeps moving forward to climb back onto tarmac.

During the day sections of the road have disappeared under the force of raging waters which have hurled the surface down the mountain below, leaving deep channels through which water still flows deeply. Steam hisses as the engine submerges sending warmth up my legs as we power through. The sound of loud crunching fills my ears constantly as miles of gravel and hardcore fill our time while passing vehicles throw up large clouds of dust obscuring the road for Bernard. We wait for the clouds to settle before driving on.

We fall over two thousand feet quickly through snake-like roads. Our ears pop and you swallow hard to unblock them; aircraft like symptoms as we continue the roller coaster and helter-skelter highway through the mountains.

We drop down into Albancay and, despite all the effort, Bernard claims it is his favourite day as it ‘had everything’.

Bernard: "It is strange really. I worry about our safety more than anything. Despite this, I think it was the challenge more than anything. You see I don’t claim to be a ‘great’ rider, far from it. I am undoubtedly better after riding under so many different conditions across some 14,000 miles. However, I also know there are far, far, better riders than me. While I believe all this, for me, and based on what I think are my riding levels, it felt like a major achievement to get through today without coming off!"

We pull into the streets of the city which nestle under the mountain ranges, passing through side-streets where school children march up and down with high goose-like steps under the watchful eyes of instructors and teachers. The children at the front enter into it enthusiastically with smiles while the rear slouches along with the "I’m bored" look of their counterparts all over the world.

The next morning I can hear the rain falling heavily. It patters on the roof, against the windows, while dripping noisily and heavily onto the small balcony outside. Bernard is pulled into wakefulness by a bout of stomach cramps which leaves him doubled over. Multiple trips to ‘The Little Boy’s room’ leave me in no doubt all is not well. He swallows Diafix tablets after each visit and tells me he can see ten feet outside due to rain and the heavy mist of this 7800 feet high city. We have a feeling the God’s are against us this day. Bad weather and stomach are conspiring to tell us something. We take the hint and decide to sit still today, catching up on writing, journals and web updates.

Clear skies greet us on the morning as we climb out of Abancay and drivers wash their cars in streams which race across the road surface. We understand why as we pass through the first wash of water and discover it is hot and so must come from underground thermals. All along the roads above the city it must be car-washing day as soap suds turn the road white.

We spend the day climbing and falling on near derserted roads and Bertha pulls us up to 14,963 feet gasping under the strain while Bernard searches for another 37 feet to go past 15,000 (without success). He ponders whether we should take one of the side tracks up the mountains just to claim this (to him) magical figure. Eventually he relents and we continue on our way with the 15 barrier unbreached, much to his disappointment.

The rain starts to fall painfully as it thumps into us and we pull over to haul on our waterproofs, last used in Australia. We fumble and rush to pull them on as torrents drop from the sky; within seconds we are breathless from the simple effort of getting dressed. It’s cold and Bernard’s hands are shaking as he passes me my layers while hail-stones start to crash noisily down onto our helmets. The sky is black and threatening as we continue onwards splashing through torrents of water which rush across the tarmac ribbon.

We weave around goats, ases, cows, horses, sheep and Alpacas who all consider the road a good place to lie down and rest. Wild pigs scurry out of our way as farmers return wet waves as the rain pounds down.

At 14,800 feet we come upon a stationary set of vehicles and discover the road is closed for at least two hours as they rip the surface off in preparation for the new. To make matters even worse Bernard discovers he has no cigarettes; he is not amused. It is 2pm as we pull up and we have 89km to the next town. The sky is completely black.

Two hill women are sitting on the edge of the road with their babies wrapped in blankets and slung across their backs. A wheel barrow is before them and to Bernard’s delight he discovers it is full biscuits, drinks and Eureka, two open packets of cigarettes from which they sell individuals. He buys two cartons of orange juice, several packets of biscuits and 10 cigarettes (all they had).

As he puffs away, now unconcerned, he watches several wagons divert onto the old road 100 yards away from us. He disappears to investigate.

Bernard: "It was obviously hard going for the vehicles as I walked over and watched several wagons negotiate the surface. It was deep in water and extremely muddy. It took me five seconds to realise it would be beyond me to ride on it. Bertha’s engine would be virtually under water and the wheels axel deep in mud gauging by the degree the wagons sunk into the water. Even a couple of four-by-fours made hard going of it. I watched 12 vehicles go through and then discounted it completely."

He came back to tell me we wait.

We sit by the side of the road laughing about events. Laughing about the weather, the roads. In the end laugh about laughing. Two English people huddled under an umbrella at over 14,000 feet wrapped in four layers of clothing; hail and snow starts to pummel us and it feels just like home!

The hill women cross the road run to shelter in the leigh of the wagons, seeking comfort from the wind, rain, sleet and snow sweeping across the plateau and turning everything a mushy white colour.

Bernard asks them, with Spangalese and sign language, if he can take their picture. They indicate no and he puts the camera away.

The weather eases a little and people appear, including two female members of the road crew who direct the traffic with Stop/Go paddles like table tennis bats. They stand looking at the bike while asking questions. Even the young daughter of the two hill women wanders over, shyly, to look at the bike.

So it is that a little 9 year old Peruvian girl called Samikai sits on a bike made 11 years before she was born, in a country on the other side of the world. Life can be wonderfully magical sometimes. Mum even relented, and then viewed with delight, the picture we took of Samikai. It was a shame we could not give her a copy but when you live 14,000 feet up with no electricity, gas or phones, it is a different way of living.

In many ways, it is a different world.

Then the hail and snow starts again and everybody retreats back to whatever shelter they have while we hide, once again, under our Malaysian umbrella.

A police officer suddenly appears and gestures towards a bus as thunder and lightning crash around us. The sky rages and hailstones fall like bullets hitting us painfully. We retreat to the bus with its leaking roof which eventually hosts a compliment of a Peruvian Policeman, Two Traffic attendants, two hill women, one young girl called Samikai, two babies and ourselves.

The thunder and lightning is crashing, blasting around the sky as if the Thor, the Norse God, is striking his hammer in the sky while riding a Harley-Davidson with open exhausts. The hail drops like stones onto the roof. We pass the time with Eduardo (The Policeman) reading Bernard’s English/Spanish, Spanish/English Dictionary and with Paddle baring Gwen admiring our rubberised waterproofs as she bemoans the broken zip on her coat. The landscape turns white as time drifts past in the way we have got used to when we are waiting for something to happen.

Two hours later the road reopens and we say farewell to everybody as the bus disgorges its visitors. We say goodbye to Samikai and her mother, shaking hands with everybody.

Climbing back on the bike Bernard waits for the trucks to go through, watching, as always, what happens. Bertha edges forward with a clear run in front of her. Slithering and sliding through the mud and hailstones we juddered up onto the new hardcore surface which has just been laid. The road crew all wave as we pass on the other end as Gwen had told them to hold the traffic until we got through safely. The surface improves after a few miles and we blast along as quickly as we can.

The prospect of being caught on these roads at night is not something we want to even contemplate really, never mind experience. It is just too unpredictable. One minute good tarmac, the next no road, then good tarmac, then huge potholes. A huge black storm hovers over to our right and we do not need more water to complicate the road surfaces. Water and soil equals mud. Water hides the depth of pot holes. We don’t need it and so Bernard hustles Bertha as quick as he can safely go. Sporadic road crews appear and all wave as we pass seeking mileage above all else.

We enter Puquio as the light starts to fall, dropping 2,500 feet into the town – where the tarmac suddenly finishes, leaving us with nothing but hard packed dirt and narrow streets before we climb the street from hell. Launch-ramp like it strecthes up into the air except, unlike a launch ramp, it is full of voluminous pot-holes. Bertha’s front wheel paws the air like a stallion as we exploded up its length onto the Plaza startling everybody there.

Bernard: "I couldn’t believe the street. I really couldn’t. The gradient was so steep and I sat looking at it for a long time before attempting it. It was the steepest thing I have ever, ever, encountered. Single car width with holes running across. It was incredibly bad. I thought we were coming off for sure as we crashed up it. It was truly fortunate there was nothing at the top as we exited; front wheel in the air before slamming down hard. I just kept muttering all the way up ‘Keep the power on, keep the power on’. It was the only thing Cathy heard all the way up!"

The town is so far off the tourist radar people stop to look at us as we search for, and find, an ‘authentic’ Peruvian one-and-a-half star hostel (-5 star European rated) and eat chicken (Pollo) and chips with dogs wandering around our legs looking for scraps. We retire to stand underneath luke-warm water which trickles over our heads before falling into bed where, eventually, we get warm and drift asleep at 12,000 feet.

We wake tired and irritable as the Hound of the Baskervilles has barked every hour all through the night. It is like a finely tuned Swiss Watch with its alarm set. The first vehicle fires up at 3.40 in the car park just outside our door. They obviously like to get their heater working before they set off as they rev the diesel engine constantly for 15 minutes before setting off. Like a true Gothic Horror film, the garage doors give enormous loud creaks as they swing open so the, presumably warm, driver can depart. We drift off to sleep. An hour later the same process occurs with vehicle number two. After a little while we struggle out of bed as no further sleep is possible – the whole town is up and about. Children shout from the street, cars fly up and down, dogs are barking and it is only 5am. It seems the Peruvians and the Nepalese even share the love of getting up early!

We spend the day riding on shattered roads passing orange jacketed crews working for mile after mile as they whistle and cheer our passing, giving ‘V’ for victory signs. The constant hammering breaks a frame which leaves the pannier wobbling dangerously and we stop to allow a spanner to be cable tied across the crack to brace it. Even this job leaves Bernard puffing with the altitude.

Alpacas roll in the roads, kicking their legs in the air like playful dogs as we pass them. Horses wander across the road in mobs while a dog plays with six piglets on a bend as we gently coast to a halt to watch. Hundreds of goats appear around one corner completely hiding the surface as the farmer ushers them on with his two dogs; one at the front and one at the rear. The tail-end dog limps heavily and seems much older and his more youthful companion. He struggles to keep up.

"A bit like me sometimes" Bernard confides tiredly through the intercom.

After hours of being shaken to bits across 80 miles, Bertha drops rapidly down the mountains and we both know our time in the heights of Peru is coming to an end. The Pan-Americana beckons us as we fall through the clouds onto pristine new black tarmac complete with freshly painted bright yellow lines.

Bertha stretches her legs as she is freed from the constraints of hours stuck in first and second gear. Dropping 12,000 feet quickly our ears pop as we calculate it has taken 5 hours to cover the 100 miles. In some ways we ride onto the Highway with a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief as it has involved hard roads but sadness as there is something very special about riding amongst the clouds and people of the high places of Peru.

We think we shall miss the silence, solitude and peacefulness of where we have been.

Like a greyhound unleashed, we sprint up to 100 kph as we hurtle towards Ica where our hearts sink as Bernard describes mounds of rubbish on entering the town. Often it smolders and gives off acrid smoke which drifts across the road. A police motorcyclist pulls up and realises we are looking for somewhere to sleep. He sets off with flashing lights to lead us to the only guest house with somewhere for the bike. We are completely worn out and drag ourselves through the motions of eating before falling sound asleep to the beeping of horns at 8pm.

We pull onto the 1S (Pan-Am) the following morning and it is hot with straight roads and traffic, both of which, we haven’t seen for some time. The landscape is burnt, flat, and sandy and so unlike the mountains which seem ‘lush’. I miss the mountains. The air was clean and smelled so different. It was also so much quieter. The air here is full of the sounds of people rushing everywhere. Loud diesel engines thunder along and fumes are everywhere.

Police road blocks start to appear and we are constantly pulled over for document checks. When they realise I am blind, the documents are in the pannier, and I have to climb off for Bernard to get them they just wave us off.

We come to Lima and you know you are arriving by the smell of pollution. Horns blare everywhere, drivers cut each other up, buses pass and then suddenly pull in to stop for a fare. Relief floods us as we climb out of the city. We pull over and Bernard tells me the pollution hangs over the city like a cloud. It smelled like Lahore in Pakistan so dense was it due to vehicles constantly pouring out black smoke from their ruined or ancient engines.

We reach Chancay after a very mixed up day where we feel hemmed in; it’s noisy, busy. We don’t like it.

We are driven out of Chancay to a hostel on the outskirts by the fetid smell of fish which permeates the whole of everything. It is so strong you can taste it long after you can smell it. I want to retreat to the shower to wash away the taste and the smell. It seems to be stuck to my clothes but the shower is cold according to the whimpering sounds of Bernard as he goes first.

"Bracing, darling, bracing" he confidently reports. This means stone cold. After living in the same clothes for four days I’m not impressed with the lack of ‘Agua Caliente’ (hot water). Our feet have eaten the ‘odour eaters’ recently installed and we are running ragged really at the moment. On overnight stops we no longer get changed as it is not worth the effort; falling into bed so early.

The receptionist claims there is no hot water supply. It has been a long stressful day, we are surrounded by noise and pollution, the TV has nothing we can understand while the wagons from the wagon park next door rattle the windows deep into the night. They do not disturb my sleeping companion who seems to be able to sleep on a cliff edge and go asleep instantly. I lay awake deep into the night and when morning comes I feel listless and irritable.

Bernard tries to cheer me up with his quirky humour; describing everything and anything in his attempt to cheer me up but all to no avail. Eventually he falls silent and we ride for hours under a cloud. It is hot and the sand blows across the road despite the sandbags placed along its length.

We near Chamboti in silence and the right hand pannier moves more than it should; the lock has broken now as well. Gratefully we pull into the town and are directed to a Hotel which shall remain nameless.

The rooms look like 70s retro with large round beds and colour schemes of bright orange and purples. We decide to stay for two nights to try to get us both on an even psychological keel.

A broken legged man on reception tells us of his motorcycle crash and Bernard sets off to dismantle the broken carrier frame while I have my first hot shower in days.

Bernard: "As I dismantle the rear frame I can see workmen inside the compound building a set of steel gates and, presto, they have an arc welder. As I make this discovery our broken legged friend appears hobbling across the courtyard. I explain my predicament to him. A rapid exchange of Spanish occurs and the frame is welded back together and installed back onto the bike in under half-an-hour. That is what I call ‘a result’!"

We set off to find something to eat and the lingering effects of our mood cause us to, again, fall into our separate moods. We speak little through the whole evening before settling in for the night.

I awake several times and, after the third time, I sit up listening while coming to the realisation that, once again, he has brought me to a brothel.

It’s a very clean brothel I hasten to add, but still a brothel none-the-less. Putting together all the information, as in Kosovo, it all now makes perfect sense.

The round bed (Clue number one).

The Shower with no doors.

The 70s retro colour scheme.

The stainless steel pole in the corner running from floor to ceiling which Bernard described as having ‘a bit like a circular drinks table’ on it, ‘like in a club’.

The female receptionist laughing when Bernard asked if the rooms had ‘Matrimonial’ (double) beds before responding ‘Si senhor.’

The Pornographic channels which he found while flicking through looking for something to fill the awkward silence of the previous night.

The constant opening and closing all through the night of the electronic car gates leading to the arch way under our room.

The heavy footsteps on the stairs announcing constant new arrivals to one of many rooms – including next door – through the walls of which nocturnal activities of the sexual kind can be heard. An hour or so later, the door opens, footsteps descend and shortly afterwards, the sound of mop buckets announce cleaners going about their business. Then the next customer arrives. More nocturnal meanderings occur to the sound of the TV channels carefully selected, shall we say, to aid the experience.

Either that or people in Peru book into Hotels to power nap for only an hour, while watching pornography (or channels showing people with heavy respiratory problems perhaps?) Highly unlikely on both counts I would think!

As always, he is blissfully unaware of these goings on. I must admit though, they were fastidious in their cleaning of the rooms. It happened at least six times to the room next door through the night.

And my companion slept on.

I woke him at 2.30am and reported my observations.

"You woke me to tell me that?" came the incredulous sleepy voice.

"You complained in Kosovo when I didn’t tell you"

"No I didn’t"

"Yes, you did, you said you wanted to listen"

"No I did not"

"Yes, you did"

"If it bothers you use ear plugs" was his helpful reply as he turned over and went back to sleep.

Needless to say the two nights became one as we packed the next morning with Bernard grumbling he really liked it here, they welded his frame, the girls were all really nice (I’m sure they were), the bike was safe in the car park etc. etc.

We pull out past all the expensive four-by-four vehicles – at least it seemed to have been an expensive brothel – and ride towards Trujillo before continuing onwards to Chiclayo where a very nice rickshaw driver took us to the Gran Hotel. The room, and hotel, is everything we recognise, quiet, spacious, menus in English (Bernard: "This all means Expensive with a capital ‘E’").

We are so tired from the last few days we need to restore some harmony. In the end we stayed four nights as we wrote and launched the Thailand Update onto the internet. Through our time there we came back to each other from the places where we had gone. The bike is checked over, oils and filters are changed and everything else tightened down as Bertha has taken a beating crossing Peru so far. Much as we had but without realising to what extent.

We rest in Chiclayo and Hector (the receptionist) seems genuinely surprised at our leaving four days later.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it is time to move on Hector" Bernard had said, handing over the 15 cards for postage showing Machu Picchu; which arrived home over three months later (weeks after ourselves!)

"We have loved your real English accents" he proclaimed.

"Not like American accents" he continued.

We ride into the heat of the desert complete with sand dunes which have crept over the road while men work with shovels like King Canutes trying to hold back the waves. The temperature increases drastically and in the sun our gauge shows 45 degrees. Bernard finds the scenery hypnotic and sleepy with the sun so bright his eyes get sore despite two pairs of sun glasses!

Sullana soon appears and we settle into a hostel for the night. The water is cool in the shower but I make no complaint as I have started to realise there is little can be done about it and, after the heat of the day, it is actually pleasant. I eat tuna steaks and salad and I like it far more than Bernard’s random menu pick which he say is ‘indeterminable’. The football on the TV blares in the background as twenty truck drivers shout at their local teams or watch the two of us in the corner.

The trucks wake us at 6am and the windows rattle as a whole convoy fire up, one at a time. Revving engines threaten to collapse our building but, thankfully, it stays upright.

We pull out and ninety miles later we sit eating toast and drinking coffee while ten mechanics in red overalls from the garage next door watch our every move and every mouthful. Back on the road we pass through small towns and encounter the biggest speed humps in the world; we think. Bertha’s sump and exhausts smack onto the top of them. Bernard tries different speeds and none alter the outcome. We ride over them slowly, "Bang"; we hit them faster "Bang".

The border is not far and we should be there by 1pm so we decide to stop about 40km away to stretch our legs while Bernard lights up. We have done 140 miles. Fifteen minutes later the starter button is pressed. Nothing. Pressed again, nothing.

Dead.

Panel lights are on. Horn is pressed and they blare loudly. Voltage shows 13 and good on all meters.

"Damn" accompanies the loud clicking as the starter button is pressed repeatedly; all to no avail.

A heavy sigh comes through the intercom.

"We have a problem Cath, climb off".

As Bernard dismantles the bike there is the sound of a small motorcycle pulling up beside us and a voice in heavily accented English asks "Problems?"

It turns out he lives a few hundred yards away and we are soon joined by another man walking past who is dispatched to the house to get a chair for me to sit on. As the chair arrives a truck load of Peruvian Police pull up as Bernard has descended deep into wiring world. The truck is one of the ones Bernard had waved to earlier and all the police remember the bike. Rapidly they suggest we bump start it and get to the next town (Tumbes) where a mechanic can look at it.

Bernard: "I readily agreed as if you have ever tried to work on a problem like this, with eight people watching you, it can be a little disconcerting! So I put the air filters and petrol tank back on, reconnected fuel lines and climbed on the bike."

It must have looked really funny in some ways to see five Peruvian Policemen running down the road pushing Bertha but then I heard her fire up and come back, slowly, towards me. More handshakes all around and off we go again.

We manage to find a hotel where Bertha is taken to bits to get at the starter motor while we both sit in the sun.

Bernard: "The starter solenoid works and the bendix shoots out to engage but the motor barely turns. The motor is carefully dismantled and the brushes are fine.

About 10 minutes into this process a van turns up and the next door neighbour turns out to be a mechanic.

Rapidly the whole starter motor is taken to bits on the grass and the problem located; magnets in the casing have separated and jam the rotor. Over the next two hours he manages to fix one problem but creates another by snapping the casing. With judicious amounts of epoxy it is all stuck back together. By this time night is falling and we are all being eaten alive by mosquitoes. We beat a hasty retreat and leave everything to set over night before reinstalling it in the morning."

Both of us gratefully fall into bed only to be woken half-an-hour later by the loudest Latin American Music ever experienced; it emanates from next door to the hotel. Bernard is dispatched to investigate and returns with the comment:

"It’s pretty good, sounds much better outside"

I would have hit with a pillow if my head was not buried under it.

"It’s a stage full of musicians and loads of people milling about. Looks like some form of concert".

At this he climbed back into bed, pushed ear plugs in and was asleep in no time. Sometimes I do hate him. Meanwhile every drum beat and shrill ‘Arriva’ goes through me until the drummers arms give out at 3.30. Silence fell.

The morning comes and Bernard is sure he must have a dartboard painted on his back for every mosquito in Tumbes to aim at. He is covered in lumps. So it is he found out - the hard way - Tumbes is renowned for the numbers of its mosquito population. Last night they fed well on white meat!

The room is like an oven and the overhead fan circulates the air lazily. Outside the sun is fiercely bright as we eat breakfast while Bernard readies himself to put the bike back together under its glare. Tubes of (now) depressurised sun cream are brought into play.

I sit under our umbrella as the clink of metal on metal signifies Bertha being restored to one piece. Soon he presses the starter motor and, the sounds of clicking and whizzing can be heard. Then comes a huge sigh as he tells me he has to take it apart again. The motor is not turning over the engine and there is little else can be done. He dismantles the whole thing again. Each bit is tested before deciding a new one is required which means more delays as we wait for bits to arrive from England. We are completely deflated and so fed up at the break downs (the fifth so far).

We hunt the internet in our sweltering room for another hotel as we discover we live next door to a disco as they set up for another round of all night ‘Arrivas’; we cannot face it. We pack overnight cases and call a taxi telling the staff we’ll be back tomorrow. A ten minute taxi ride takes us to the Costa del Sol and it has everything we need; air conditioning, English menus, internet, chips and tomato sauce. Karma is restored. We sit in cool shaded areas under palm trees and the rustling sounds calm us down. We fall asleep by 9pm to the hum of the air conditioner.

The next morning, after reading a menu we can understand, we make the decision to investigate parking facilities. Bernard soon reappears and confirms there is somewhere for Bertha. The manager (Franco) is called; speaking excellent English with a vaguely American accent.

Explaining our open-ended request for a room until parts arrive he shows us around and gives us an ‘executive room’ for half the normal cost. We promise to return in the morning and take a taxi back to Bertha where Bernard swelters under the sun putting her back together while I pack to leave. The heat is unbearable in the room and continues unabated even when an additional fan is called into play. Sweat drips down my face and threatens to short circuit the computer as I write emails home. The disco pumps all afternoon and at 7.30 we suddenly realise it has stopped as we sit eating our curried pasta – the only thing we can work out from the menu.

We are out of bed in a flash the next morning, so eager are we to move. The bike is bump started and everything is bundled into a taxi with me. Bernard follows behind as we all bounce down the rutted road for the short journey.

Fifteen minutes later we are being fussed around by Franco at our new location; where all work comes to a stop as we arrive. He shoos his staff back in laughing and delivers cold drinks to where we sit by the pool. Life is suddenly so much better.

We walk around the local area to find supermarkets supplying essential provisions; ‘clinking’ our way back to the hotel. Multiple alarms are set for the 3am call home (6 hours ahead) for parts to be ordered while Bernard finds out he is big in Japan with pictures lifted from our website. We see a new video of us on you tube and find a company offering 250 dollar prints of us sitting on the bike. We go to sleep chortling at our discoveries before ordering the new part in the middle of our night.

The days pass as we wait for the starter motor to arrive, wandering around the town of Tumbes which is within the land of ‘Perpetual Summer’ so we are told. It is certainly hot, very hot although there is very little to do as Tumbes.

A few kilometers away it sits from all the beach resorts where most people actually stay, lying on the sand or in deck chairs all day. People try to convince us we should go to the beach but we are no ‘beach’ people. We had watched people in Bangkok and noted they slept by the pool all day and then, probably, partied all night. Perhaps it is an age thing.

Thirty years younger your whole life stretches before you and time is infinite. As you get older you have little time to spend ‘doing nothing’, as lying on a beach would be to both Bernard and I.

We read on the internet of how Tumbes is ‘a dangerous place’ for travelers with guards accompanying tourists to ATMs, to buses, where taxi drivers belong to criminal gangs and will rob you. Meanwhile we see children laughing, shops with people counting their pennies, families sitting in the shade of the trees talking, where people step out of our way as we wander the streets with a smile and a nod while others smile as we sit eating ice-cream boats full of fruit. Children shout ‘Hello’ and ‘How are you’ as they did in Malaysia when we pass them; this greeting being the only English they know. We smile back and reply, as best we can, in Spanish.

I take to going swimming in the morning and it leaves the staff fascinated as I go round and round the circular pool. Circle after circle I complete for 40 laps; over a mile when we measured the diameter. Bernard covers me in sun cream as it is brutally hot before, he retreats from the brightness to the shade where he sits reading or watching me. The staff shake their heads at Bernard as if to say "How does she do this?" What they do not realise is swimming gives me freedom, it is under my control, I am, ‘on my own’ with ‘just me’. No white stick, no guide dog, nobody physically guiding me. Just me and the water. Allowed ‘just to be’.

The sounds of the pool orientate me. The water inlet shaped like two buffalo horns churns the water into froth as I swim through the bubbles. Ten strokes later I pass the ladder. The pool gets shallower at this point. I can hear the sounds of another – smaller – inlet in ten strokes time. Ten more strokes sees me pass the small pool where the central fountain splashes water gently onto its surface as I swim past towards the sound of the buffalo horns. So it goes on for 40 laps. My body changes colour under the brightness of the sun and Bernard suggests I change to backstroke to even out my tan and laughs as I comment:

"I won’t be able to see where I’m going if I do that!"

Meanwhile he sits in the shade as "He swims like a brick". I am sure he is exaggerating and it is more to do with him nearly drowning in a school swimming session as a child. It has left him with a life-long aversion to swimming. He can swim. He admits it. He just doesn’t ‘do’ swimming.

Franco appears to wish us well and we thank him for everything he has done off the scale of ‘guest’.

Hector urgently talks to Franco who translates his concern about entering Ecuador, "it is dangerous" Hector’s words warn. He insists we pay attention to certain parts of the route as "there are bandits who will rob you". We thank him and promise we will take care and watch out for all the things he tells us of.

We climb back on Bertha, she rattles into life, and we wave over our shoulders as we leave the square in which the Costa del Sol resides in the town of Tumbes. Our home for 26 days.

Within an hour it doesn’t feel like it has been over three weeks. It feels like a day as we pick up signs for La Frontera 40kms away while tracking the road towards Aguas Verdes. Everything runs perfectly, at first. We follow the signs down the highway (curiously deserted) towards the frontier with Bernard saying questioningly:

"There’s not much traffic between Peru and Ecuador?"

He is not convinced but we stop at road workers and they all confirm we are on the road to Ecuador. We drive on. Miles further on the road stops. Dead.

There is a 100 foot trench cut deep into the earth with an unfinished bridge supposed to span the several hundred feet across the gouge. It has not been built.

Bernard: "It was a complete mystery to me. There is an earthen ramp down to our right which occasional cars are using but I’m convinced wagons or buses could not do it. It seemed impossible this could the highway! I can see another dusty ramp across the other side to climb out of the trench but I cannot believe this leads to the border crossing. I ask several people about ‘Ecuador’ and fingers point across the gap. I’m puzzled. We have, however, come across some weird roads in this part of the world so it shouldn’t really surprise me but it feels wrong? I ease the bike into gear and use the back brake and first gear to set off down the ramp kicking up a cloud of dust. We bounce across the rutted ground where road workers watch in fascination as I gun the engine and hammer up the incline in second."