No!

Yes!!

no!!!

yes!!!!

no !!!!!

yes !!!!!!

-Steel, black-rimmed eyes and sour expressions on both sides. 
This is approximately how the communication between 2 grown men and a woman unfolded, at a bus station in a tiny Peruvian village, at 5 in the morning. 
We had bought a ticket for the night bus from Cusco to Ayacucho so that we could get to the start of one of the bikepacking trails we had been looking forward to the most. 

Already a year ago, at home on the soft sofa in Copenhagen, we had found this gem of a beautiful trail, The Peru Divide Trail, which led the hardworking rider through some of the most remote and beautiful landscape in Peru. And not least, over some of the highest passes in the mighty Andes Mountains. Lots of climbing, and lots of steep descents awaited us.
But now we had been thrown off the night bus that we thought would take us all the way. The other local passengers on the night bus were already comfortably seated and half asleep in the other bus that was supposed to take us the last leg. 

But the two pale Danes, who hadn't quite grasped what was happening, were now arguing with the driver, who was on the roof of the small bus. He refused to transport two large bicycles on top of the huge load of parcels that had already found their way onto the roof of the small vehicle. 

We stood on the ground, clutching our beloved bikes until our knuckles were completely white, while we kept insisting in broken Spanish that he take us and the bikes with him.

Quite frankly, it was enough to tighten it, to throw the two bikes on the roof, but at 5 in the morning in an empty city, with a view of… nothing… we were pretty convinced that the two bikes weighed or filled almost nothing. 

The whole ordeal ended with a little support from the ticket inspector from the night bus, who had to agree that we were right in that we had tickets, and therefore had to go along. So the bikes were thrown onto the roof, tied with a little rope, and we were squeezed in between the half-asleep Peruvians in the small bus. We crossed our fingers that the bikes would stay on the roof, and roared out into the morning light, which peeked out between the mountains. 

On this slightly crooked leg, the otherwise absolutely fantastic trip we had for 8 days, over the ridge of the Andes Mountains, also called the Peru Divide, began. 

The Peru Divide Trail is 350km and 8700 metres of elevation gain. Many bikepackers are interested in that. It takes a few metres of elevation gain. What we really care about most is whether the trail is beautiful and fun to ride. And we should get plenty of both. It should turn out to be the most beautiful cycling we have done in Peru…

From Ayacucho we had to take another bus to get to Huancavelica, where the trail started. This time it went without drama. 

In Huancavelica we suddenly experienced a completely different Peru. We had had a few bad experiences earlier, and even though we had also met many nice people, Peru had not yet completely crept under our skin. But here in Huancavelica we now experienced a sincerity and a kindness that warmed us. And you could see that it was a city where people made an effort and were proud. It was really nice here. The trees were cut into small shapes and there were lots of beautifully laid out sidewalks. Not like at home where you think that the gray stones lie nicely in a straight line, but such that they have laid beautiful tiles in beautiful patterns. Real craftsmanship, which has required time and aesthetic sense. 

In Huancavelica we also met the teachers who are striking for better conditions. This time we were standing in the town plaza when a demonstration came around the corner. It only took a moment before someone had the good idea to pour gasoline on a couple of car tires and set them on fire, which caused the police officers present in riot gear to storm across the square. We did not see the end of that escalation, as we chose to evaporate and leave the teachers to deal with their problems themselves. 
Thus, already filled with quirky experiences, and with an open mind, we headed out of the city, into the mountains, onto The Peru Divide Trail. 
Our faithful spectators for the next several days would quickly turn out to be the Alpacas. The cousin of the llama. An overgrown sheep with a long neck, if you will. A woolly animal that is equally curious, equally scared. Maybe just confused. Usually they stand completely calmly on the side of the road, or on the road, looking for us when we come cycling. Until we get really close. Then they think that we might be dangerous and then they get mad and they panic and run in some random direction. Preferably up the steepest cliff they can find. But even though they are a little crazy, it's hard not to like them. 

Even though we quickly leave civilization, and feel far away from everything and everyone and far out in the countryside, we find that we are never alone. There is always someone living in a tiny house out in the middle of nowhere. On a slope. On top of a rock. Some wild place. And the animals that we see around us are always owned by someone, so it gradually becomes a sport when you see a group of animals, to see if you can spot the one who is looking after them. It is not always easy. But you usually have to look for a big, beautiful colorful dress, hidden in the shade behind a large rock. 

Sometimes we also pass houses close to the road. And at one point, where the road made a bend, an older lady called out to us as we cycled past. We turned around and talked to her for a bit. She said she had a chest pain and asked if we had any medicine she could get. We had to apologize for that. She then asked if we couldn't take medicine back to her from the next town (which was supposedly 7-8 days away). We tried to explain, as best we could, in broken Spanish, that we wouldn't be coming back. That we were on a long trip, to Alaska. But it was as if she never quite understood the long trip, and couldn't relate to going further away than just the local area. But we did get to explain that we weren't coming back. 
She lived, like most others in the area, in a small house, built of blocks of dried clay soil, filled with straw. The roof is of straw, or corrugated iron. The door is of wood, or tin. And there are no windows. We see many of these kinds of houses. They are beautiful. And they are certainly sustainable. They don't cost much to build, other than the time it takes to do it. In these times when architects are working more and more with sustainability and indoor climate, there is something truly beautiful about seeing these completely traditional houses. 

But while it's easy to romanticize rural life, the simple life, the lady showed us very clearly the downside. She has no access to medicine, or a doctor, without having to travel for several days. There are many of the necessities we take for granted that are a distant luxury for many others in this world. 

And we felt it ourselves when we got a stomach ache once again. As a long-distance cyclist, there are two very favorite topics of conversation that are connected at opposite ends, as they say. One topic is food. The other is how it comes out again. Because, as Tim our cycling friend says, you are never one hundred percent healthy. 

And this time, when we were a third of the way through the route, far from the nearest doctor, we got Banana Pancake. And no – it’s not a delicious dessert I’m talking about. It’s how it comes out again. Banana Pancake was a term Morgane (French cycling friend) invented when she was getting tired of hearing about yellow slimy stools. 

Well – but there is no doubt that we had done something wrong. And it was also noticeable in our strength for a few days. We had various options to cut the trip short and drive down to a doctor, which we discussed over the next few days. 

In the meantime, we forced a few more high passes. Those over 4000m we started taking pictures of at the top. It turned out quite a bit. Over the entire 350km route, we drove 8 passes over 4000m. And in total we drove 8700 vertical meters. 

But it was always the beautiful landscape that impressed us the most. The colors of the mountains here are indescribable. A mountain lake, where a snow-capped mountain peak is reflected. The large marsh landscapes. The way the gravel road cuts through the landscape and forms a beautiful curved line, almost like a signature. And not least, when we took an alternative route to avoid a mine, we drove along a candy-striped pink mountain. 

Unimaginable sights that we hope will never leave our retinas. 

One evening when we arrived in a small town, we were given an extra warm welcome. The grocer, who had a small shop on the outskirts of town, where we stopped to get our bearings, came running to meet us. It was very overwhelming. He was a really talkative guy with a big heart. Within 5 minutes we had parked the bikes in his garden, set up the tent, and we were now sitting on a chair inside the shop. He had called his sister, who had a restaurant in town, and asked her to cook food for us. And while we ate tangerines and waited for the food to be ready, he told us about his family. He told us how “The Shining Path” had wreaked havoc and spread fear in the area throughout the 80s. And he told us how his own father had been killed in the town square by terrorists. It was a very moving story. And it was hard to fully relate to as we sat there. It wasn't many years ago, but apart from his story, the country seems so untouched by it. Maybe because after all, we are only scratching the surface, like the cyclists on a passing trip that we are. 

We went out into town and found his sister's restaurant and had some traditional food. Soup with spaghetti for starters. Rice and potatoes for main course. 

The next few days the route went almost 2000 meters down into a gorge before we had to work our way back up. The climate changed significantly from the cold plateaus up in the mountains to almost tropical heat, even at night. It was really nice to be able to sleep just one night without freezing. And it was a very special and wonderful experience to cycle up through the next valley, along a bubbling river. There is not much water in the mountains. But here we cycled a whole day along water, which poured down through the valley, giving life to plants and animals. 

Speaking of water. A few days later we had to fetch water from a lagoon before we could continue. We had timed the water supply to fit a large lagoon on the map. It turned out to be a rather sad, dried-up one of those. And we had to take off our shoes and socks to go out into the somewhat swampy mess to collect some water. Filled with small animals. We filter all our water from the mountains, so it should be fine, but it certainly didn't look that appetizing. 

We cycled around the next corner and were a bit taken aback when we saw a huge lagoon with lots of fresh water. Yep – that’s what happens when you don’t study the map in detail. But we were happy to be able to release all the little animals again and filter some new water. 

In the next small village, we had planned to check into a room, as all our gadgets had run out of power. 

When we arrived in the afternoon, the town was completely deserted. Only the small kiosk in the square was open. And in front of it, the town's two peddlers were sitting on a bench, chatting. One of them said that everyone was out in the fields with their cattle, so we wouldn't be able to find a place to stay until later in the evening. 

There was probably nothing else to do but wait, so we bought a cake and a juice from the grocer and sat down to wait in the square. And sure enough, as darkness fell, people and cattle came walking through the small town, and it all came alive a bit. 

We found a place to stay, with an older lady. She was nice, but a bit firm when she said she wanted us out the next morning at 6am because she had to go to the fields. 

We had soup with cheese and pasta for dinner. And when we asked if there was a main course, she offered a bun with cheese. As a hungry cyclist, you can't say no. 

The room we slept in was built above the kitchen. There were cracks in the floorboards so we could look down into the pots. The walls were made of masonite sheets and the roof was made of tin. But we slept well, and were still allowed to slam our doors shut so we wouldn't have to be out at 6am. 

Out in the mountains, with so much cycling up steep gravel roads, it's important to plan carefully how much food you bring so you don't have to lug too much. Another side of the matter is that in the small villages, you can't buy much food at the grocery store. So the last few days we ate a lot of white buns with jam. And on the last day we deliberately ran out of water on the way up to the last pass. 

So it was with great appetite that we threw ourselves into a freshly caught trout and a large beer when we reached the last small village on the route, which fortunately was located by a river with a fish farm. 

The next day we headed to Lima and a hot bath. It had been 10 days since the last time, so what we needed was not enough. Once in Lima we quickly found a doctor and were examined. 

We went out to celebrate with a big burger and a trip to the movies while we waited for the test results. They showed both parasites and salmonella, so that meant another round of antibiotics. 
But nothing could make us forget the last 8 days in the mountains. Beautiful sunsets. High mountains. Cold nights, warm days. Friendly people. Amazing landscapes. 

This was exactly what we had hoped to find in Peru.