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As such we wobble our way into Patria (a town of patriotism) where no one wants to talk to us. Locating a bicycle repair shop, the man takes a look at the job and says he is far too busy and can do it tomorrow. He then returns to playing soccer with his friends. The next place is also closed because the owner is drunk or drinking (or both) and they direct us across the street to a place where the guy isn't home but the niece begrudgingly lends us some tools.


We gather a crowd of kids as we drag off the wheel, hoping to straighten it out with stones, brute force or willpower. When all this fails, a man approaches us, "I'm not from around here," he says, which explains everything. One and a half hours later in the heat of the tropical sun he acknowledges he has made no difference, disconnects the brakes, and waves us on to the next town.

If you put an average looking girl beside a rather plain one, the average girl is going to look pretty. So it was with Pilcopata, after Patria. People who wanted to talk to us and best, a tiny little wizened man who chattered indecipherably like a monkey and had my wheel off quick as a flash. A tropical rainstorm slowed his progress, but in this time we had chatted with the locals about the lost city of Paititi and the native tribes of the area. We also discover that all the buses out of the region are full, and there are no more buses for two days. We decide to visit some native villages, and continue deeper into the jungle where people vaguely indicate there might be more transport options.

The thing about "native" villages is that you never know what your reception will be - as we carted our bicycles up a washed out rock-strewn road, we wondered, would they greet us with sticks and stones? They were genuinely pleased to see us, and after a hair-raising downhill ride back to Pilcopata over river rocks, we headed onwards to Atalaya, the tourist port for Manu. On the edge of town we encountered a wide, deep and powerful river, which reflected the bright greens of the jungle, and the dark sky with 20 different shades of grey threatening to rain!

We cross, thigh deep, the water deliciously warm and the rocks below clean and fresh - this is the deepest river of the trip - little do we know that we have innumerable more rivers to cross. We've crossed five by the time we arrive in Salvacion - which appears, complete with internet (one very old slow computer for the whole town) and the chance to camp in the Ministry of Agriculture's machinery shed. We jumped at the opportunity, squeezed in between a motorbike and tractor, on a bed of barley husks!

With no transport options, we continue on the next day to Shintuya, a hellish hot six hour ride upwards! With the humid heat of the afternoon bearing down on our shoulders we find the community practically deserted, a town past it's hey day, no longer the port for the region and not even on the main road. After being furiously and rapidly attacked by sand flies we get out of there quick. There was no transport, nor was there likely to be, according to the people of Shintuya.