
800 lines and 300 giant figures etched into the desert 2,000 years ago by the Nazca culture — not, as theories once claimed, for aliens, but as rituals pleading with the gods for water.

A hidden firework buried under a pile of salt on Clif’s plate pops mid-meal, pelting him with salt and turning dinner into a war zone — while everyone else just laughs at the ‘big baby’.

A border clerk’s typo on the bike’s registration nearly derails everything — but a sunrise speedboat trip chasing humpback whales off the Peruvian coast makes the two hours of insurance paperwork worth it.

A market visit in Cuenca turns into an unexpected spectator sport: a traditional Andean cleansing ritual involving a full herb-bunch thrashing and an egg rub-down to drive out bad energy — the same ‘limpia’ Hollywood celebrities pay a fortune for.

Everest isn’t actually the highest point on Earth — measured from the planet’s center, Ecuador’s Chimborazo, right beside their hacienda that night, beats it by over 2,000 metres thanks to the equatorial bulge.

A police checkpoint searches two panniers for drugs and guns but skips the third — the one holding Susan’s stashed bag of white powder, which is actually just coffee creamer. It goes straight in the bin afterward.

Once the most violent district on Earth, torn apart by cartels and a brutal 2002 military operation, Comuna 13 has rebuilt itself around hip-hop, street art and outdoor escalators — visited, fittingly, on Clif and Susan’s wedding anniversary.

A gigantic truck rear-ends the bike in gridlocked toll-station traffic on the chaotic run into Medellin — no time to stop and assess, just keep moving through nearly nine hours of lawless, six-lanes-become-twelve mayhem.