A hundred miles or so out of Cusco, the bike starts to lose power, as the road climbs high up into the hills. My head starts to feel heavy and thick, as if I have a head cold, the feeling caused by the blood thickening due to the altitude. Although the sun is shinning, it soon becomes cold, there are few signs of human life beyond the very occasional collection of grey stone buildings, stone walls dividing plots and penning in flocks of lamas, their ears tagged with coloured threads indicating ownership. Beyond grass and moss, there is no vegetation, just sheep and lamas grazing by the lakes left by the melting snow. Pulling over to stop for some lunch, I suddenly notice that one of my two rear pannier lids is missing. A determined thief could jemmy off either lid, but they stop grabbing in busy towns and it means I can leave the bike for short periods. It's around 100 miles since I'm absolutely sure I last had the lid, so I turn the bike around to retrace my steps. It takes around two hours to double back, but there is no sign of lid, so I swing the bike around again, hoping I'll spot it on the second sweep. Occasionally a piece of derby in the gutter glints in the sun momentarily raises my hopes, but each time they're dashed. After an hour or so I pass through Chalhuanca for the third time, then back up into the hills, as I notice the light starting to fade. It's still a good few hundred miles to Nazca and one hundred mile to the next town, although it's tempting to make up the miles, I know it's going to get very cold once the sun disappears, so once again I track back to the little town of Chalhuanca to find a place to stay for the night. The next morning I picked up where I´d left off, back up into the hills, which eventually ended up with a helterskelter ride through the desert, perhaps the best fun I´ve had on the road since routa 40, as the road become a continuous set of switch backs, climbing up and down the dunes, the road ahead often visibly clear for miles, enabling to ride as if I'm on a race track for a good forty miles.

The Nazca lines were created between 200BC and 600AD, depicting 100´s of figures from simple lines to complexed animals, humans and in one case what seems to be a spaceman. There are many unanswered mysteries surrounding the lines, primarily, the fact that the figures are only coherently recognisable from the sky, the fires fanned by the fact that some of the animals depicted are not native to the area, with some theories suggesting alien visitations, the lines marking out the landing strips. The most likely explanation lies with the precious resource of water. The Nazca people built stone tunnels over the streams of water flowing from the Andes, down to the desert plains, protecting it from the sun and using s-bends to slow down the flow, an engineering feat that's remarkable for the time. People understood that the stars, moon and the sun had an effect on the seasons and it's thought that the lines where used in religious ceremonies, created for the benefit of the celestial gods. To see the lines I went out to an airfield on the outskirts of the Nazca, where the length of the runway is lined with lots of private tourist offices, outside each a light aircraft proudly parked. For me I was as excited about going up in a small plane, as I was about seeing the lines. The pilot was gung-ho to say the least, performing acrobatics to ensure we all got a good view of the lines, banking at 90 degrees in one direction, before flipping 180 degrees, so that people sitting on the opposite side got an equally good view. Even the landing is a treat, as sitting next to the pilot I got a birds eye view as, instead of floating in like a swan, the plane comes in nose first, levelling out at the last moment. The lines are a wonder, any explanation only ever an educated guess, the most amazing thing, that they have remained visible for over two millennium. Back on the ground I head back into Nazca and head for the night market. Coy is on sale everywhere, a delicacy found throughout South America, it taste a bit like chicken wrapped in bacon, although guinea pig is not to everyone's taste. Replica football shirts are on sale for a few dollars, the counter fitter carefully copying the finest detail, my favourite the England shirt, with "Inglaterra" emblazoned across the front in large letters.

Standing in the centre of the tiny oasis town of Huacachina, you are surrounded completely by sand dunes, rising high above the roofs and palms trees that circle the mineral lake. People for many years came to take the water for their healing properties, but more recently this has been superseded by sand boarding. The town is no more than a dozen or so buildings, around which winds a road leading up onto the sand, where dune buggies raw up the surprisingly steep banks, their passengers strapped in, beneath sturdy roll cages. The pace of life in Huacachina – pronounced wakacheana - is very laid back, reminiscent of the hippie beach communes in Asia. I find a cheap and cheerful family run hostel, with a large shaded back garden, parrots and Macaws in the trees, hammocks swinging in the late afternoon breeze and should the temperature sore, you can always cool off in the pool. I've been really looking forward to sand boarding, interested to see how it measures up to snow boarding. The boards are the same shape as a traditional snow board, but they're made of chip board covered in vinyl, the binds, and Velcro straps with no support. Fernando our guide takes us to what would surely be a black run in the Alps, I'm not sure if I've bitten off more than I can chew as images of broken limbs flash though my mind. Strapped in goofy style, I shift my hips to get moving, expecting to hurtle down hill at great speed, when it soon becomes clear that the friction ratios of sand to snow are worlds apart and although the dunes extremely steep, I'm going no where fast. After a few attempts standing up, I resort to stomach boarding, which is just as much fun, my teeth soon full of sand from grinning. The real highlight of the dunes is not the sand boarding, desert views or oasis, it's the roller coaster buggy ride. Fernando has been tearing about on the sand for over twenty years and takes great pride and pleasure in scaring the living day lights out of his passengers. Forget Alton Towers or Euro Disney, get your family down to the nearest sand dunes for the ride of you life. The buggy roars up a dune, almost coming to a stand still as it hits the saddle, the angle hides what's ahead, the peddle floored we plunge over the edge, into an almost vertical drop, that than on any other surface would surely be suicidal, but we seem to sink in giving us enough grip, before Platoing out at the base, as shrieks of joy erupt from everyone. We manage a few more runs on the board, but the majority of our time is spent racing up and down dunes or banking at speed around steep cambers, the momentum and centrifugal force ensuring the buggy doesn't roll. Back in town the slow pace draws you in, so much so that it's another few days before I even think about heading into Ica, a town close by, to try and organise a new pannier lid. It turns out, with the help of a taxi driver to translate, to be a breeze, as a few hours later I am presented with a, not identical, pretty dame good replacement.

From Huacachina I head slowly up the coast, swinging back into the mountains occasionally. It's surprising how much of Peru is desert, as it continues beyond the Atacama, stretching up the coast of Peru all the way to Ecuador, disturbed occasionally by short stretches of agriculture as the mountain make their way to the sea. It's always enjoyable riding through the baron landscapes, as there is more often than not very little traffic or people about, which means fewer hazards, live stock, children and rickshaws, which have a habit of darting out into the road in more built up areas. As Ecuador approaches, the sea starts to run along the roadside, shrimp trawlers bobbing up and down on the sea, as the waves crashing onto the endless sandy beaches. Small towns offer the delights of the sea on their menu boards, simple palm covered restaurants and bars appearing on the beach from time to time, along with flat pack wooden holiday homes, raised off the ground slightly, their veranda steps leading to the sand.

The traffic starts to build up as I approach the boarder crossing into Ecuador. Leaving Peru is straightforward, my passport stamped, the bike paper work signed off with handshakes all around. I try to change the rest of my Peruvian Soles into the Ecuadorian currency, but people only seem to have US dollars, so in the end I give up and head off, trying to find the Ecuador immigration. It often surprises me just how difficult it is to find immigration offices, they are often miles apart, sometimes with no sign outside or on the building. After a mile or so the road splits, no signs to indicate where I should be heading. I keep stopping every so often to check I am heading in the right directions and haven't passed into Ecuador surreptitiously. Eventually I find the immigration control, where I am shown into a small and invited to sit down, in the corner is a small colour television showing the tennis, as a couple of officials are anguish over some documents. Often when I present myself, along with the motorcycle the border staff seem completely baffled and a succession of telephone calls take place, with people disappearing to speak to senior ranks, eventually settling upon a solution. The paper work is filled in carefully, each pen stroke and letter, double-checked against the DVLA documentation. After further consultations, inspection of the bike and double-checking all the documentation, a noticeable relief descends onto everyone's faces, the paper work is handed over and I'm sent on my way. I need petrol and have no money, so look around for someone to change my money with and I soon discover a currious thing, after a recession in January 2000, the legal currency throughout Ecuador became the US dollar. I´m not sure how you go about changing your whole of your nations currency to USD, I assume you just send the president down to the cambio or post office with everyone money, on a day when you know the rates quiet good, making sure you keep the receipt, just in case things don´t work out, then you can change your money back without any additional commission.

The vegetation builds gradually as the land becomes more fertile, soon the road runs down an avenue of banana plantations, the trucks loaded with ripening bananas ready to topple. The towns seem very modern compared to Peru, although people are still vending their wears at every junction and petrol station. The countryside seems to be more mass agriculture in some parts, in the hills is almost identical to Peru. After a while I swing off the main road to head towards Riobamba, where this evening there is a big street procession with music and dancing. Away from the coast, the ever present Andes take the road up into the clouds, as it begins to rain, the road twists, climbing, until eventually I rise above the rain. With the sun shining out of blue skies, its possible to looking down on the grey storm below, catching the odd lighting strike. I'm dry and its quiet warm, but I sense the inevitable as the road begins to dip and I descend back into the rain for another drenchting. Gradually the rain clears and I´m back in the sun, up in the hills I pass though lots of small rural communities, people all dressed up to the nines, making their way to or in some cases already congregated in the central squares, sound systems pumping out music. I round a corner a few miles out of a very small town and there seems to be some kind of hold up, I can see what looks like bamboo barrier partially blocking the road and as I get closer I can clearly see three people with cloth masks covering their faces, the eyes and mouth cut out. Its as if they are still setting up, as one seems to be dragging more veggitation onto the road, while another clearly has a machete. I swing the bike straight around and head a few miles down the road. I wait for a bit, as traffic continues to flow by, including a pick up packed full of children – pickups used to run local taxi services – along with smaller lorries that I remember passing earlier. Looking at the map there are no other roads to Riobamba, beyond a detour of hundreds of miles. I drive back to see what is happening, from a safe distance, I can see the traffic seems to be going though and although the situation looks intimidating, there is no aggression and they don´t seem to be trying to rob anyone. I sandwich my self between two trucks, tall enough that I'm hidden from view, keeping an eye on the break lights, ready to swing back around again if it looks like we're stopping, We're going around 25 mph and to my left the bamboo road block appears and I can see one of the masked figures, as which point I pull out around the truck and accelerate away, not looking back, just riding flat out for a good ten miles. There are often protests in South America where people block off the roads, but this would involve broken glass, rocks and barricades to ensure that nothing can pass and robberies are usually hit and run and although it was very intimidating there the people didn´t seem to be very aggressive. After recounting the story to a local that evening, I discover the answer lays with the festival "Dance of the Innocents" – a commemoration of the death of children under twe years of age, ordered by Herod when Jesus was born – where tricks and jokes are played, combined with dancing and masquerades. Although perhaps the road block had been part of these festivities, at the time it didn´t feel very festive, especially the choice of masks, along with a machette, but I guess it’s just another version of the "Trick or Treat" culture now associated with Halloween and in retrospect you´ve gotta laugh.