Riobamba to Sucua

At the moment, it feels like I’m in The Hunger Games. I'm not dodging arrows, but I am perpetually hangry. Like, ravenous gremlin levels of hangry.

I reckon I’ve always had a fast metabolism. I’m not a massive eater, but I do have very specific feeding times—10am and 3–4pm.

Between those windows? If I’m exercising, I don’t tend to snack much. Which is a bit of a conundrum when you’re cycling up in the Andes.

Lately, I’ve been making a real effort to stuff more fat and protein into my body. The problem is, when you're in a different country, it’s bloody hard to find food that sustains you—especially being gluten-free. Back home, I know the brands, the shops, the snacks. Here? It’s a mystery box challenge every day.

So I’ve been surviving on a questionable but delicious diet of ice cream, chippies, and fizzy lemonade.

This morning was meant to be a rest day. But in reality, it was more like a mission day: running errands to get ourselves sorted for the next stretch of the ride. First up, hunt down more gas for our cooker. Then fruit and veggies. Then hunt for a place to clean our bikes. It was less “rest and recover” and more “prep and survive.”

Hostel breakfast was the usual: free, and not really fit for purpose. A wee scoop of scrambled eggs, a bread bun I handed over to Marie, and a banana. So off we went, into the Hunger Games arena once again.

Honestly, I felt like The Very Hungry Caterpillar—except I ate everything in a single day.

First, I scoffed a bunch of mini donuts from a street vendor (jury’s still out on whether they were gluten-free… but no tummy explosions so far).

Then I saw a lady frying up some piping hot salty papa frittas on the roadside...yes please!!

Around the corner? Cono lady. One cup please and thank you.

Back at the hostel I annihilated a punnet of fresh strawberries.

Later: chippies.

Even later: lollies.

Dinner? Nachos with extra cheese.

And now I sit here, stomach full, wondering what I’ll eat in ten minutes when the hunger strikes again.

We got up and wriggled into our cycle garb, wandered downstairs for brekkie. As usual, Marie got two croissants, and I got… an egg.

Once I had scoffed my food I took my coffee and collapsed into the hammock in the common area, strategically placed right next to the breakfast table, and pretend I was fine.

That’s when my body piped up.

(Now say this in a really squeaky voice, like a cartoon character who’s had too much helium):

> “Hey! What do you mean we’re riding today? We didn’t really have a rest day yesterday. You were up doing things! Chasing gas, cleaning bikes, buying veggies—none of that was rest. I need a rest. Give me a rest! I don’t want to get on the bike today. GIVE. ME. A. REST!”

To be fair, it wasn’t wrong. Marie had made a cheeky comment the night before, something like, “So that was our rest day, was it?”

She had a point. We hadn't really stopped. We’d just swapped pedalling for errands, chores, and food-hunting. Same output, different flavour.

And that’s one of my new habits Im trying to install, I want to start actually listening to my body, not just steam rolling over it in the name of productivity or ‘adventure’.

I’ve given my body a pretty hard time in the past, and I’ve dealt with the consequences. So I know how important it is to listen. Not just to the body, but to the mind. And to the missus!

So I said, “Babe, I think we should just take today off and not get on our bikes.”

Maree didn’t even hesitate. She turned to me and said, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

So that was that. We declared a rest day. Apart from a short wander to the market to buy some dinner supplies, sausages, spuds, peas, and a packet of gravy—we did a whole lot of nothing. We were gunning for a classic bangers n mash for dinner. The day was spent doing some good old-fashioned slothing, and my body was on board with that plan.

No kilometres to cover. No bikes to wrangle. Just hammocks, sun patches, and sweet, sweet stillness.

We actually managed to get out of town without Laura or Murray popping up.

We might mark that down as a milestone.

I really enjoy cycling through the back roads and seeing the simple life that country folk live. Though I do go off on tangents and thinki 'is it actually a simple life, or just a hard one?' I’m not really sure. I wish I knew more Spanish so I could ask, really ask, what their lives are like.

They seem to have a kind of rhythm: a small abode, maybe one or two rooms. A cow or two tethered out front, pigs lounging in the dirt, chickens doing chicken stuff, and always a handful of dogs. Whether they belong to the family or just hang out, who knows. But they’re there.

There are always fields too—corn, and other mystery crops I can’t quite identify. It looks like each family tends their own little patch. Maybe they trade food for food. It’s hard to tell from the saddle.

Apart from dodging the odd ankle-biting dog, it’s peaceful. Beautiful, really. Still, I can’t shake that nagging thought, 'simple life or tough grind?'

The riding today was a steady uphill, one of those climbs where you can’t quite settle into a gear. Not low enough to spin mindlessly, not high enough to cruise. I kept flicking between my three easiest gears, never quite locking in.

It’s the kind of terrain that keeps your brain busy, and your quads even busier.

Then we hit one of those magic moments.

We reached an intersection with a little shack, and a lady selling juice greeted us with the kindest smile. We barely understood each other, but we all tried. The result was laughter, warmth, and good vibes all round. One of those interactions that sticks with you, even if you can’t put it into words.

Magic number two came not long after: another one of those Ecuadorian camping gems.

This one, Playa Azul, wasn’t on Google Maps. Just a quiet spot down by the river, with a wooden gazebo, a campfire setup, and an air of tranquil magic.

Turns out it’s owned by ten siblings, and we met two of the brothers who welcomed us like old mates. They’ve been running the campsite for about two years but had just decided today was the day to get on social media. They were filming promos and taking photos, and guess who got roped in as their first models?

We were more than happy to oblige,posing with the bikes, smiling by the firepit, helping them get their buzz going. They were absolute legends.

While Maree got dinner sorted and built the fire like the camping queen she is, I hung with the boys, learning a few phrases in the local Indigenous language. I’ll give ‘em a go tomorrow. Probably butcher it, but hey, points for effort.

And then tragedy struck.

The worst kind of tragedy.

It was hot choccy time.

But there was no hot choccy.

Where was the choccy to put in the hot?

Now, if you don’t already know, I’m a little bit OCD when it comes to gear organisation on trips like this. Not so much at home, but bikepacking? Everything has its place. I’m the keeper of the drinks cabinet, a wee bag that holds the coffee, choccy powder, powdered milk, and the other essentials. You use it, you put it back. Easy.

So imagine my face when I go digging for the choccy and it’s… gone

“Marie… where’s the choccy?”

“In the fridge.”

“The fridge?”

“Yeah, the fridge at the hostel."

"Who puts choccy powder in the fridge??"

Nice one, Marie. Real nice.

No hot choccy. Just heartbreak by the fire!!

“Babe, why are my socks lying all over the lawn?”

“I dunno,” Maree shrugged, as I picked them up and chucked them by the fire Maree had lit to get brekkie going.

As I busied myself with tent duties, I turned around… and there was Linda, the dog walking off with my sock hanging from her gob like a prize.

Mystery solved. I bolted after her, she gave me a 'Ive been sprung!' look, dropped her prize and sauntered away with her tail between the legs.

Later that morning…

“Babe, where’s your other Croc?”

“I dunno,"Maree answered.

Now, keep in mind. this Croc is bright orange. It should stand out like a tradie in a black-tie gala. We scoured the whole area. Bushes. Tent. Creek. Nothing. Linda, meanwhile, remained suspiciously quiet. Stone-faced. Tight-lipped. Zero remorse.

Peter—one of the brothers, popped down again this morning and we had a yarn via Google Translate. I finally got to ask one of the questions that’s been swirling around in my brain: Is this life here really as simple as it looks? Or is it hard?

Peter, being local and Indigenous, gave it to me straight. He said, “It’s simple. Not that hard. Everyone just looks after their own animals, their crops. That’s it.”

It’s so enriching to sit down with someone who lives the life you’re quietly observing from a bike seat. Gives you fresh eyes, a deeper appreciation, and a whole lot more respect.

Time to hit the road..Maree decided to take her one croc just incase she found a one rouge roadside.

We were about half way up the step drive when Maree yelled out "There it is!!" Pointing at the same time. I looked to where she was pointing. And there in the middle of the field above where we had been camping was a bright orange croc.

We were definitely going more rural, more remote. Proper countryside now. And I loved it. Steep patchwork hills with people going about their day.

Everyone seemed genuinely stoked to see us trundling along on our bikes. Even tossed us a “buenos días” as we passed.

And then it started!

The rain!

Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a memory… Thanks Annie. (Linux, if you don’t know.)

One thing Maree and I cop the odd look for is our shorts.

Stubbies, to be exact. Short shorts, if you’re not from NZ. No bike shorts. No lycra. Just good old-fashioned thigh freedom.

Which, on a pissing down rainy day, really makes us stand out, especially when all the locals are wrapped up in thick woollen ponchos, scarves, and layers of alpaca.

But hey, legs dry easier than clothes. And there’s nothing worse than wet gear sticking to your body like clingfilm.

The rain got heavier. Proper curtain-style. The uphills were still bearable, even kind of enjoyable. But the downhills? Useless. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Spray in the eyes, frozen fingers, soggy socks.

Just as we were beginning to fade from a mix of hypothermia and hanger, there it was.

A small restaurant. Salvation. Perched right on the roadside like it knew we’d be coming.

Turns out this area’s known for trout farms. Not the big commercial kind, just locals with a couple of pools. People pull up, pick their trout, and it gets gutted and filleted fresh.

We rolled in. Heads turned. You could almost hear the internal monologue: What the hell are these two soggy weirdos doing cycling in this weather? In shorts?!

But they ushered us in, no questions asked. We asked for the menu del día, and what landed in front of us was the best chicken soup I’ve ever had.

Like, “I’m-on-my-deathbed-and-this-is-my-final-meal” kind of good.

It warmed us to our souls.

Eventually, we had to don the wet gear again. I caved and pulled on rain pants over my thighs. Even I knew bare legs were crossing into the territory of plain dumb.

We rolled into a little place called Saskines, a wee restaurant that also offered accommodation.

Me and Maree skidded to a wet halt, gave each other frozen looks, dismounted our bikes, and fell through the door to see some smiling faces.

We asked about the accommodation and they said yes—they had a dorm room.

We said, that’s okay. We took it. And ordered hot, milky chocolate.

Honestly, we always seem to fall on our feet with accommodation in cool places.

Tonight’s setup is rustic in the best kind of way. Thatched grass roof. Brick and wood walls. The kind of construction that feels like it belongs to the land and the people who built it. It’s properly Indigenous and full of character.

Inside, there’s a line of six double bunk beds—each layered in more blankets than a Nana’s linen cupboard.

It’s like a filo pastry bed. Blanket, blanket, blanket. Bed. Blanket.

I was a bit apprehensive, not gonna lie—the room was cold. But once I climbed under those layers?

Oh. My. God!!

Today, from the moment I woke up, I was blown away. I stepped outside for a pee and the vista that greeted me was straight out of a dream.

Craggy, sharp mountains cut into the skyline, a waterfall tumbling down their side, all peeking through the morning mist like nature was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.

We’ve been through some wonderlands on this trip, but this was the first place that felt like it recognised me. Like we knew each other. Like I was kin.

We’d checked the forecast, rain. We had put off making a big route change decision till this morning. We had planned to go high again, staying up in the mountainous terrain but......the weather wasnt at all favourable for that.

So we changed tack and would cycle over a mountain pass then down into the lower valley.

We suited up, mentally and physically, and pushed off into the damp morning.

The ride took us through sweeping alpine tussocks, scattered tarns, soggy wetlands, and jagged rocky peaks that looked like some ancient god had thrown a tantrum.

My heart sung even as the rain pelted us sideways and the wind bit as sharp as my ex.

Just as the downpour really set in, we came across a tourist parking area, thank the road gods. It had banyos (toilets), though they were locked tight. Still, there was a small porch out front, and in it, huddled like a lost pup, was a young woman from Panama. She’d bussed in from Riobamba that morning, planning to spend the day hiking until her return ride at 2 p.m. Poor thing had picked a hell of a weather window.

We stood together in that little dry nook, and waited for the worst of the squall to pass.

Once it eased off, we layered up like onions and dropped into what became a downhill saga of pure magic.

Oh. My. God. Imagine Milford Sound, New Zealand, then jack it up on speed. Waterfalls exploded from vertical rock chasms, the green bush turned wild and thick and primal, and a furious river crashed far below us in the gorge. It was like riding through the Earth’s own epic movie set.

Around one tight bend, we spotted a tower looming beside the road. A two-storey wooden lookout, with a corrugated roof up top. Clearly made for soaking in the views, but today, it became something more. A refuge.

From the top deck, the world laid itself bare, valleys, ridges, mist, magic. We stood there soaking it in, breathing deep, feeling small in all the best ways.

Getting back on our bikes Maree noticed something off with hers. Her rear rack had come loose and was rubbing hard against her tyre. Nothing for it but a bit of trail-side bike maintenance. Thankfully, the space beneath the tower was dry, making it the ideal makeshift workshop. Tools out, fingers frozen, we got it sorted.

And then we looked around and thought—why leave, it was laye in the afternoon.

This spot was perfect. Dry. Sheltered. Spectacular.

We pitched camp on the top floor of the tower. Our penthouse suite for the night.

Wow. Last night was next level!

It was like, one of those moments you know you’ll never forget.

Two valleys over from where we were camped stands the volcano, Sangay, its jagged top visible when the clouds decide to behave.

We’d spotted some cheeky little smoke puffs during the day and were already impressed. A volcano doing volcano things, mean as. But when night fell?

Mate. Game changer.

Suddenly, sporadic bursts of red-hot lava started spitting up into the air, glowing against the night sky like fireworks from the gods. And just to top it off, it was a full moon.

There we were, sitting in the wild, wrapped in our sleeping bags, basically front row VIPs at Mother Nature’s own light show. Unreal.

Then came morning.

Maree and I were woken by gentle spray of water on our faces. The wind had picked up, and the rain was horizontal, coming in sideways like it had personal beef with us.

Without a word, Maree grabbed the tent, flung it over us like a giant waterproof blanket, and boom, we were back to snoring within minutes.

When we finally stirred again, it was still raining, but neither of us cared. We brewed a coffee and just lay there, letting the sounds and smells of the wilderness wrap around us. The best soul food. Could’ve stayed there all day.

Eventually, we packed up and hit the road. Rain came and went, like some moody guest that doesn’t know if they’re staying or not.

The scenery? Still full throttle Milford-on-speed vibes. We even passed through a Homer Tunnel doppelgänger, not as long, but the same dark, dripping, echoey magic.

Despite rice pudding for brekkie, my stomach was yelling at me not far down the road. Carbs never hold me long. So we cruised into a wee village chasing the promise of empanadas.

In classic Ecuadorian fashion, the restaurant sign lied, no empanadas. But the lady running the café was all smiles and sunshine.

No stress. She offered us pollo con papa, and it hit the spot. She and two other women cooked away while laughing their heads off, the whole place just radiated warmth. She even taught me a few more Spanish words while we waited. Full hearts, full bellies.

Later that arvo, we rolled out of the hills and into Macas. Not the golden arches Macas, but the town. It was kind of jarring—like stepping through a portal back into the "real world." Cars, shops, people...weird.

We did the usual restock and then Maree led the charge to our camp for the night. Another "activity" camp area, which seems to be a bit of a theme lately. This one came with a bonus...a swimming pool!

We ditched our grimey clothes, jumped in, and turned full camp tourists for the evening.

We woke up this morning feeling… damp. Not soaked. Not dripping. Just that clingy, sticky, jungle kind of damp. The kind where the inside of your sleeping bag feels like someone breathed on it all night.

Our campsite was surrounded by jungle wetlands, and every step across the grass squelched with warm mud between our toes.

The air was thick, heavy with moistness, there’s no other word for it. We’d almost forgotten what it was like to be hot and wet. We’re officially back in humidity country, where just standing still leaves you sweating like you’ve done a spin class in a sauna.

We didn’t muck around too much rode the short distance into town where, naturally, it was time for an ice cream. It was only 10am. Judge us if you want, but ice cream makes everything better when your skin feels like it’s melting off.

About an hour of pedal-pushing on the main road got us to the turnoff onto a smaller road that would wind us through the jungle for the day. After so long riding the dry, sharp ridges of the Andes, dropping into this lush green tangle of life was a full-on feast for the senses. Everything pulsed with colour and heat and the kind of rich, earthy smells that only a jungle can deliver.

The riding itself? Bliss. It honestly felt like we were on a slow scenic cruise. No brutal thousand-metre climbs. Just gentle, rolling undulations—maybe 100, 150 metres of climbing all day if that. We cruised, smiled, and took our sweet time. It was one of those rare days where the bikes felt light and our legs didn’t scream in protest.

We didn’t rush. We soaked it in. It felt good to have a lighter day, to give the legs a break and the eyes a treat.

Since arriving in Ecuador, we’ve also decided to try a new budgeting system. Instead of pretending we’re tracking our spending, we’ve made it simple: US$140 a week each. That’s it. No fancy spreadsheets. No second chances. Just one pile of money, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.

This works out to about US$40 a day, all up. At the start of today, we had $70 left in the kitty.

When we hit Sucua, it was pretty obvious camping was out the window, concrete, traffic, and not a patch of grass in sight. So we switched gears to “cheap hostel hunt mode,” and scored a double room for $16. Boom.

Now, Maree was hankering for a hamburger big time. But when we did the maths, a burger was basically the same price as a whole meal for both of us if we went with the local menu. And if she went for it, we’d be just about skint for mañana.

She wasn’t stoked. I mean, who wants to be told they can’t have the burger they’ve been dreaming about all day? But she got it. She understood. So we sniffed out some empanadas that hit the spot. Well, kinda, close enough.

After that, we bought some fruit, yoghurt, and a bit of pan for brekkie, so we wouldn’t have to go hunting in the morning. That left us with a grand total of… $26. For all of tomorrow.

We’re not fazed. We’re calling it the $26 Challenge. We’ve got this