In Search Of The Disappearing Inca Roads

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istory’s most important roads have always been the bastard children of tourist attractions. These transportation antiquities have often shaped our human story, but of course they’ll never draw crowds quite like the churches, monuments, and Disneylands of the world. They’ve been forgotten about, left to erode away into the history books. Some have endured but face an uncertain future. Over half a millennium ago the Incas constructed a 24,000-mile web of stonework that traversed the Andes Mountains and their expansive civilization, a vast area of land that covers six South American countries today. It was the key ingredient to their political, military, and religious influence during the height of their power. After their demise at the hands of the Spanish, the stone arteries of the Inca Empire began to disappear with each passing year. The remains can still be explored, and for a motorcyclist, these stretches of rideable history can easily become the main attraction and a source of self-reflection. No time machine required—for now.

“How are you feeling about everything?” I ask my girlfriend in the back seat of the cab, now on its way from the airport to downtown Quito, Ecuador’s capital. “Fine,” she quickly replies, never breaking eye contact with the vehicles weaving in and out of the morning traffic. The frequent barrage of car horns slowly dismantles our excitement, leaving in its place a palpable, nervous energy.

Less than 48 hours earlier, Nicole and I were on a flight en route to this small South American country. We had no plans, no accommodations, and no mode of transportation organized—motorcycles were only mentioned in passing as a wishful “wouldn’t it be cool” remark.

As the tires of our plane touched the tarmac, my phone returned to life with an email from Court Rand, a co-owner of Ecuador Freedom Bike Rental. It read, “Let's do something,” followed shortly by, “Did you want to ride paved or unpaved roads?”

It was the best email I received in months.

There were two small details Rand did not realize when he generously offered up a pair of motorcycles from his fleet: I had no experience riding in another country, and Nicole had no experience at all. Despite earning her license earlier this year, she had not yet ridden a bike on a public street before this trip. Her first time cruising on two wheels would be in a country where street signs barely exist and vehicles run the road on a looser set of rules.

The taxi stops in front of a large gated courtyard surrounded on all sides by high-rises. A neon colored sign over the entryway reads “Adventure starts here.” And indeed it does.

Nicole and I make the rounds, introducing ourselves to the international fraternity that makes up Ecuador Freedom Bike Rental—a mixed bag of French, American, and local Ecuadorian guys (and one Canadian for good measure). The compound is an adventure-touring wonderland, the showroom overflowing with the greatest hits of modern ADV bikes—F and G series BMWs, Honda Africa Twins, Suzuki, Husqvarna, Triumph, KTM. You name it, Ecuador Freedom probably has it right here. Most of these machines are behemoth classics with enough horsepower and fancy features to get you around the world and then some. But that doesn't interest us. Hidden away from lustful eyes, they keep the crown jewels of their collection in the back: two Yamaha XT250s, the smallest motorcycle in the house.

The resident Canadian, Andy, reassured us of our choice, “You can find people riding these bikes all around South America. You’ll have a good time. Just watch out for speed bumps.”

“They won’t have to worry about speeding on those little mopeds!” interjected one of the motorcycle guides from across the room.

The next two hours consist of contracts, instructional videos, route planning, gear fitting, and a final bike inspection. But these go by in a blur. An audience has gathered by the entrance to send us off. We mount the fully packed Yamahas and I glance back at Nicole. Her eyes are fixated straight ahead, her brain in overdrive trying to remember everything she was taught more than six months before. Few people forget their first ride, and Nicole would certainly be no exception.

We are immediately thrust into chaotic stop-and-start traffic as we make our way north out of Quito. This city is the poster child for modernization the Ecuadorian government has long yearned for. And it shows. The trappings of contemporary society are on every corner. Shopping malls and casual coffeehouses in every direction. In the first 10 minutes alone, we pass three clones of Colonel Sanders peering down at us, his sadistic, chicken-eating grin reveling in watching us navigate the foreign city streets. At a glance, Quito is almost indistinguishable from the metropolitan neighborhoods of America’s big cities, and I assume, for a second, the tourists, the business men, and Ecuador’s leadership prefer it that way.

With the stoplights behind us, we merge onto the Pan-American Highway, a legendary transcontinental network of roads bridging more than a dozen countries, totaling roughly 19,000 miles. It’s the spiritual successor of the road system constructed centuries ago by the Incas, connecting many of the same cities originally established during pre-Columbian time.

As ridiculous as it may sound, the Yamaha XT250 has a similar trajectory as the Inca road system, just in a much more condensed time frame. When the roads began construction in the 15th century and the XT250 was released in 1980, they both shared success early on, especially in rural areas. But it didn’t last long; they were eventually abandoned for bigger, more modern technology. In the 1990s, the XT250 was discontinued just as the practice of building cobblestone roads abruptly ended in Ecuador. Their respective replacements—higher-capacity dual-sports and asphalt roadways—allowed people to travel farther, faster.

However, that's where the timelines diverge. Yamaha ultimately recognized the value of the small dual-sport market and revived the 249cc model in '08. For the Inca roads, being recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2014 did little to change their fate; cobblestone roads continue to be dug out or paved over in favor of blacktop.

Turning off the highway and onto a small side road, we were soon introduced to the remnants of the Inca Empire. Densely packed together, each smooth stone our knobby tires touched was individually picked from the surrounding landscape and placed here by hand in the last century or perhaps many generations earlier. As we would later learn, the condition of this ancient terrain varies drastically. Due to the luxury hotels and picturesque old villages in the area only a couple hours from Quito, these roads near Cotacachi were perhaps the only routinely maintained cobblestone we would rumble across during our entire trip.

Between the towns of El Ángel and Tulcán, the road narrowed, and the cobblestone gave way to gravel, then dirt, then thick, viscous muck. It would be 30 miles and an entire morning of arduous riding before we would see another hard surface again. The deep water-filled ruts worn into the earth tested our handling and patience. It was a baptism by mud, and yet, we were having a blast stumbling along the backbone of the Andes, a sentiment I likely would not share if it were quarter-tonne adventure bikes instead of lightweight enduros we were having to pick up along the way.

After topping off our gas tanks with cheap petrol, we headed east through the rolling hills and farmland near the Ecuador and Colombia border. The cobblestone returned, this time in less than pristine quality. Cows, pigs, and the occasional alpaca watched as we dodged jagged masonry and sections covered in silt. The cobblestone serves a purpose here as it does in the rest of the country—and it’s not to amuse a pair of clueless foreigners. The consistent clatter coming from these roads act as a warning device for our farm friends, especially in this half-dodgy territory with an almost concerning number of military vehicles patrolling the area. Flat, smooth asphalt here is akin to a bolt gun; both can be near silent killers.

When the Incas tried to expand into the rainforest of modern-day Ecuador, the empire’s lust for blood and power was understandably met with hostility from the indigenous people. As our handlebars turned south and we descended from the mountains into the same jungle the Incas scorned, we were met with nothing but kindness and hospitality. On the steep dirt road down, the altitude dropped quickly, at times a meter every second. And with each meter, the vegetation became more dense and diverse. My ears popped, my sinuses opened, and my eyes widened in awe. Waterfalls passed by like clockwork every few minutes. The wood-burning smoke billowing out of mountain-slung houses mixed with the thick fog suspended over the jungle floor.

We stopped for the night in La Bonita, a sleepy town tucked into the corner of a forested ridge. If you were to Google the village and look at the satellite imagery, you’d find nothing but a smattering of blurry dots, a few forgotten pixels from a bygone era. We had the entire two-story hotel to ourselves and were treated to a private, four-course dinner at the market next door. This wasn’t an exercise in indulgent exclusivity—there was just no one else around. We woke up the next morning $20 lighter, but feeling rested enough to continue deeper into the Amazon.

The traditional Amazonian way of life in Ecuador survived the Incas, but was threatened centuries later by the discovery of oil, and lots of it. This thick, black elixir remains the golden goose of Ecuador’s economy, accounting for more than half of the nation’s exported goods. It’s not all good though. Studies have shown that the presence of Ecuador’s state-run oil company deep in the Amazon basin has resulted in deforestation, over-hunting, illegal farming, and overall loss of indigenous culture. Not to mention the hardened petroleum in the form of asphalt that now covers the majority of Ecuador’s Inca roads.

As Nicole and I pass oil wells and massive industrial complexes, it would be easy to look down on the whole operation with contempt—if I weren’t so damn complicit. The fuel that flows through my bike’s four-stroke engine and the twisty access roads I find so much joy in riding would not exist if it weren’t for the degradation of the rainforest that crude oil has brought on.

Are we selfish interlopers needlessly exploiting the native people? Or are we a welcome respite contributing much-needed funds to a marginalized community?

It was this train of thought I wrestled with as we sped through the jungle and past a collection of stilted houses. Suddenly and without notice, my motorcycle launched into the air and slammed me to the ground in a cloud of dust—an unmarked speed bump revealing itself behind me.

A funny thing happens after crashing a rental bike. Instead of counting the number of appendages still attached to your body, you’ll find yourself counting the number of dollars this embarrassing incident will cost you (the answer for me: $154 not including tax). Besides a few scratches on the bike’s hand guards and my hip, we both came out relatively unscathed. The only thing with significant damage was my ego. As I pushed the bike upright, a small group of startled locals approached me from the nearby bus station. One woman, mouth agape with shock, looked at my still functioning limbs and pointed to the sky as if to say, “The deity upstairs just spared your ass.”

I turned to Nicole and asked, “How do I say ‘lucky’ in Spanish?”

The last few days were spent eating up miles on the freeway. Like entering a Vespa into the Dakar Rally, it's just not what this machine was made for. We camped with farmers in the shadow of Ecuador's second tallest volcano, and our final night was spent sharing stories with fellow travelers at a hostel guarded by a llama named Tito and a Saint Bernard named Baloo. An intimidating duo if I've ever seen one.

On our way back to Quito to drop off our noble steeds, we trekked over steep mountain passes and were rewarded tenfold for the effort with vistas only possible at 13,000 feet. During the descent, my eyes shifted from the sky back down to the road where I noticed cracks in the blacktop revealing aged cobblestone below. The travels worth taking are not always smooth and uncomplicated like the highways we often find ourselves on. Meaningful understanding can be uncovered by seeking out the history and true culture of a people, regardless of how bumpy that journey might be.