After a day of rest and blogging, I made the attempt again today. After my previous experience I stocked up on plenty of water and four--count 'em--chocolate bars. Not the best nutrition but light and lots of calories per 100 grams. This time I decided to increase my energy efficiency by renting a bike. Mountain bike rental outlets are ubiquitous here. I had noticed a couple of places the day before that seemed to have decent bikes, but at 10am this morning neither were open (perhaps the owners were at church: in a place this size, there are at least three options--Catholic, Pentecostal, and Jehovah's Witness). Anyway, the first open place I came across was a combined internet cafe and bike rental. Their prices were lower and the bikes not as shiny but there was nothing decidedly dodgy about the joint. I didn't know whether to be comforted or disturbed when in addition to the bike I was issued a spare inner tube, a patching kit, pump, and a flashlight. Either lots of things go wrong or they really care about their clients (or their bikes). A welcome addition was a helmet. This was unexpected as I hadn't seen anyone in San Pedro riding a bike and wearing a helmet.
I told the guy I was going to Catarpe and he drew me a map, the gist of which was that I continue on the same road I took the other day, until I come to a stream, and which point I cross and turn left for Catarpe and right for something else called Quebrada del Diablo. diablo I know, quebrada I wasn't sure of but I thought it meant a brook or river. As for the stream in question, special instructions: don't ride across, take off your shoes and carry the bike. Not sure if this was for my comfort or the health of the bike. He also said it was 20m wide.
I should add that I can't remember the last time I rode a real bike, instead of the stationary ones at the Dunfield Club. Not that I had forgotten how or anything.
So I duly ride out into the desert, for about 4km or so, reach the stream (which was less than 20m wide, at least at the narrow point where any sensible person would cross), ford it magnificently, and take the first left, despite the lack of a sign saying "Catarpe this way". I kept on going, wondering where Catarpe must be, because I had been led to believe that it was 4-5km away. Eventually I reached a second stream, or really, the path crossed the stream again. This time it was wider. Ok, shoes and socks off, roll up pants, sling shoes over neck, and walk across. Bike does not touch water. Nothing but air! Reverse previous steps.
Aside: there's a trick to crossing rocky streams. If your foot hits a rock, it hurts, and your spinal cord says "foot, move" (remember what you learned in science class about what happens when you touch a hot stove--your brain is the last to know). If this happens, you tilt, and if you're not careful, you end up in the stream and you and the bike get wet, as does the saddle bag containing your camera. So, you just have to creep along the bottom so that you don't strike anything in a way that hurts.
So, more road, no village. Eventually a third crossing of the stream. At that point a guy in a 4WD was crossing behind me, so I asked him if I were going to either Catarpe or Quebrada del Diablo. Negative on both, amigo. Plus, the route from about a km on was not doable by bike. The truth of that last statement was that it was about 100m on. So I turned around and ended up back at the first stream, where a bunch of people were picnicking. I asked them and I was told to cross back over the stream and I would find Catarpe. I was dubious (since I hadn't seen Catarpe on the way out), but I did it. After a few more minutes I was more dubious. I saw some guys up to something or other just off the side of the road, so I asked one of them.
Here is where I attained sudden enlightenment. Catarpe is not a village. There is no village. Catarpe is just an area, perhaps with some legal status, but definitely not a place where people live. In defense of my stupidity, I specifically asked the guy working at the Pukara de Quitor if there were a pueblito in that direction, and he told me there was. Perhaps his definition of pueblito encompassed the encampment a few hundred metres off the road surrounded by old vehicles. Sigh. But the good news was that I had been to Catarpe, and the picnickers were full of it, and I had still gotten a nice ride out of it. Lesson: do not believe a man just because he speaks eloquently in Latin. Or any derivative thereof.
This news also meant that if I went back and turned right, I would get to Quebrada del Diablo, whatever that was (the guy who rented me the bike said it was "interesting"). So, I rode back and crossed the first stream for the third time. Exit, stage right. Well, a quebrada, as I later learned, can be a gorge, and that's what I got. Not one with water, but high rock walls and a sandy, winding path.
Sometimes underneath solid rock.
Sometimes with a ledge that means you have to stop and hoist the bike up first. I was getting a little ticked with this bike that I had to carry so many times when it was supposed to be carrying me.
More long and winding road for 20 minutes or so. Then...The Hill. There was no way I was going to ride up that thing. In addition the path being a bit precipitous, my 49-year-old lungs and legs were not up to this job. So I walked the bike up, and it became obvious that them organs were not really up to that either. I was maybe 10m from the top and not feeling hopeful, so I left the bike behind and scaled the mount to see if what was on the other side was going to be any better. Five minutes walking the trail convinced me that just more lung-torture was on the way. But i can handle being bested by a clearly more powerful foe. I sat atop the hill for 20-30 minutes and contemplated various things, not the stuff Pei Mei contemplates, just my stuff.
At around 2.30 I decided to make my way back. Getting the bike back down the hill was non-trivial, since its momentum wanted to make me go faster than I thought proper on a hillside path. I basically rode the brake down. A pleasant surprise was that the way back was slightly inclined downward--so slightly that I hadn't even noticed it on the way in, but enough that I could coast a lot of the way back without at the same time worrying about embedding my head in rock.
Back to stream, cross again. Here is when I have to get philosophical on you. The Sophists will tell you that you can't cross the same river twice. Don't you believe it. Certain adepts have managed four crossings, on the strength of two chocolate bars, even.
I got back to San Pedro at 3.45. I still had 45 minutes left on the bike rental but my butt was sore and I had no place else I really wanted to go. I calculate that at this point my body was no more than 1% bicycle. All things considered, a good day.
(The bike cost me 4000 pesos ($8) for a half day (6 hours). A full day would have been 7000 pesos. The places I saw yesterday were charging 6000 and 8000 per half day. You pays yer money and you takes yer chance.)
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