This morning we awoke in a dusty, grey campground, surrounded by noisily holidaying Argentines and motorhomes from "Alemania" - "Germany" in Spanish. The dunnies in the campground are both filthy and busted. As I perched on the porcelain, I wondered whether a small investment in the provision of bog paper might result in a reduction in the very, very yucky finger-shaped stains on the toilet wall, and thus pay off for the owners. As i reached into the cistern to operate the flush, I reflected that they don't do much cleaning anyhow.
Heading downtown, I knew that I would find toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and sweet croissants for breakfast. I hoped that the coffee would be half decent and therefore exceed the national standard; thanks to my expectation management skills, I was not disappointed.
In the town square of Humahuaca, a large crowd had gathered to see San Francisco Solano - or at least, a replica of him - appear from behind a bronze gate. He does this at around midday each day, but today's appearance included a bonus. His crucifix, usually used to ward off feelings of self-reliance amongst his followers, got caught in the closing doors. Despite the palpable suspense, we left before it was liberated, confident that a mechanical miracle would soon rectify the situation and leave the paper-mache saint to snooze another day.
We are here because, despite the fact that I was carrying a picture of The Virgin in my jacket pocket, our shock absorber has failed again. Regular readers will readily realise that this makes four times in a few months that this has stifled our lifestyle and disrupted our movements. As my beloved gran would put it, the shocky has gone "fut" again. I used language similar but not identical to this.
We were out in the sticks, at about 4000m above sea level, camping with our new mates John and Marcia in the Laguna de los Pozuelos NP. We had gone there hoping to see big birds, and the preceding night I had been heard to sing, to the tune of the Aeroplane Jelly theme-song that people as young as I seldom know, "I love motorbike camping, motorbike camping for me..."
When rain threatens at the time of day we are looking for a place to camp, we usually look to avoid setting up the tent. It's not that we are wimps, but that a damp tent can be a pain in the bum for many days. This night we had a choice between a semi-constructed national park visitors' centre, and a concrete bridge built over the top of an older floodway. We went for the little-used bridge, on dry and smooth concrete, cooked up John's beef stew recipe, drank some wine (which by the morning, given the altitude, had changed into whine), camped up and loved it.
In the morning there was porridge and tea, a lazy packing-up session as we all anticipated our first days in Bolivia. Then John and I started our bikes and got them back up onto the road. I did my daily tyre-pressure check, and while down there noticed that the shock absorber was again allowing its contents - oil - to leave the premises. Sure enough, the shock absorber was fut.
For those not familiar with the anatomy of motorcycles, the shock absorber is the bit that keeps the rest of the bike and the gear and people from rubbing on the back wheel, which itself is the part that rolls along the ground and up and down bumps. The shock absorber has a hard job to do, especially with us two and our stuff above and very bumpy roads below. But this is the job it is designed to do, and the job we have had it repaired to keep doing. But no, it's gone fut again.
So here we are, somewhat unwillingly in Humahuaca. Thankfully, it's a beautiful place to hang out, with far more to recommend it than a disabled saint and a half-hearted Easter parade. And we did find time for a haircut.
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