Otavalo to Quito

The plan was simple.

A 20k uphill, camp up by the lake, toast the day with a view, and call it a night. Easy, right?

Wrong.

Thre 3k's in, and I was already wheezing like a deflating airbed. My lungs clearly hadn’t read the itinerary. They were on strike. It was a “push job” turned into a full-blown “new plan required” situation.

Lucky for us, salvation came in the form of a tiny roadside shack — a humble café selling lemonada and mystery meals. As per usual, I over-ordered like a tourist trying to impress Mum: big kernels of Ecuadorian corn, broad beans, and pollo for Africa.

Maree and I sat down to “logisticise,” and between Google Translate and wild hand gestures, we managed to ask if anyone had a ute to take us up the hill.

One thing I’ve learnt about South America — if you’ve got a problem and a twenty-dollar note, someone’s got a solution.

Sure enough, minutes later, a local rolled up, ready to haul two bikes and two bedraggled Kiwis to the top.

Except… they really didn’t want us to camp up there. Dangerous, they said. Robbers. Bad place.

Righto, new-new plan: take the ute up, soak in the moody mountain lake views, then bomb down the 30k descent to find somewhere safe to sleep.

The ute ride? Bloody brilliant. We bounced around the back seat like a ping pong balls. Once dumped at the top, the ute disappeared in a cloud of dust, leaving us on a bleak ridgeline, half-dressed in layers and looking like misplaced extras in a survival movie.

There was still a few kms of climbing to go, so on we pushed — into mist, into silence, into that kind of quiet that makes the world feel ancient. It was beautiful, eerie, cold.

The track narrowed. Got wetter. Slipperier. Ruttier.

There was multiple dramatic down-hill bike entanglements.

More than once I ended up in a muddy embrace with my bike, limbs everywhere, tyres spinning in the air like a dying beetle. Maree wasn’t faring much better. The mud was thick, deep, and riddled with ruts big enough to lose a Billy goat in.

We were knackered, filthy, and gasping for air.

When we spotted the first horse prints, we knew we were on the edge of civilisation again. The track smoothed out into a rural path.

Eventually, a village appeared like a mirage. We asked around for accommodation.

Nada.

By now it was 4pm. The next town? Twenty-five more kilometres. Google said there’d be beds there. Maree, ever the optimist, said it was “mostly downhill.” Famous. Last. Words.

We carried on, through mining sites (yes, actual mining sites, just cycling past guys in diggers like it was normal), down sandy backroads, and finally hit the main road.

It wasn't all downhill.

There were a few grunty climbs that had us woundering "why!!!" Somewhere around the 17th wind, we stopped caring and just pedalled.

We rolled into Guayabamba round 7pm. Found a hostel that opened its big electric gate like a scene out of Mad Max, and collapsed inside.

But the highlight?

Dinner.

We found this woman running a food joint out of her garage. Big pot out front bubbling away with pollo and papas, her old man peeling spuds in the back, another woman whipping up salads, and locals coming and going like it was McDonald's on a Friday night.

We just sat down, got handed a plate, and joined the flow.

It was hot, greasy, comforting, perfect. The kind of food that wraps around your soul and whispers, “You did bloody good today.”

We ditched the Trans-Ecuador route today..again!

It wasn’t an easy call, taking the main road into Quito is a guaranteed sanity test. The endless trucks, the honking, the fumes, the chaos. All of it makes us go a bit loopy.

But sometimes practicality trumps peace. I’m still not fully right in the lungs, this chesty, coldy thing keeps hanging on — so we figured a steady climb with a known destination beat another mystery mission into the unknown.

The day's stats: a thousand metres of climbing. But it wasn’t the kind of climb that has you pumping your fists at the summit. It was the sort that messes with your head — slow, hot, relentless. One moment I was zen with the view, the next I was a crumpled mess, ready to be scraped off the tarmac like roadkill.

One thing I haven’t really shared enough about Ecuador: it’s the land of temperature betrayal.

In northern Colombia, it was hot. Always hot. Predictably, consistently hot. Southern Colombia and Bogotá? Cooler, sure, but again, no surprises.

Here in Ecuador, one minute you're sweating like a shearing gang, the next you need a beanie.

Altitude might be part of it, but even at the same elevation, the temperature swings like a rugby scoreline. I reckon it's half the reason our colds are dragging on — you just never know what to wear.

Today, it was sweat-dripping hot. Midway through our climb, like a fever dream, I saw a bloke waving a red-orange flag on the roadside. An oasis. He was selling ice blocks. We pulled over and sucked down frozen sugar under a dusty tree.

“Babe, look! More bikepackers!” Maree shouted, already waving.

Two Colombian legends rolled up, equally fried from the heat. We shared ice, yarns, a mess of Spanish, English and Spanglish, buzzing on that rare joy of finding your tribe on the road.

They were heading to Peru, after sharing afew laughs with out new Amigos we left them fixing a flat tyre and our spirits were lifted knowing there were others out here sweating it out just like us.

We thought we’d hit the top of the hill.

Spoiler: we hadn’t.

That was just the teaser. The real summit was another 17 kays away, and the road still had its fangs out. I sunk back into the grind, lungs wheezing, brain fried, until we finally rolled into Quito.

City-mode activated.

That’s when Maree’s internal GPS kicked in and mine completely tapped out, I was just a rolling zombie, following her lead.

Our digs for the night? A place called Latino Brothers. Rooftop room, noisy as hell, but killer views of the city skyline.

And for the first time in ages — other travellers! Humans! With stories! Real conversations that didn’t involve cows, tyres, or trying to mime "no trigo please" in Spanish. It felt bloody good.

We chucked our gear in the room and headed straight out for kai. Starving. On the walk in, we’d spotted something iconic: Chinese takeaway. A proper blast from the past. Ecuador felt like NZ in the 80s. Not even joking — pinball machines, Space Invaders, jukeboxes. If someone had handed me a lamington and a glass bottle of L&P, I wouven't have blinked an eye!

Bellies full, we wandered back to the rooftop with some cheap whisky and a block of chocolate. We spent the evening chating with new mates, swapping stories and laughing over shared chaos.

I woke up at 6am sharp. Classic. Internal clock m ticking on Adventure time. My body? Not having a bar of it!

“Oi, what’s she doing?” my lungs gasped.

“Yeah" answered legs, "are we moving? Thought we got the day off?”

“Don’t look at me,” grumbled the arms. “I stopped listening weeks ago.”

“Ask the glutes,” someone mumbled from the lower quadrant.

“This isn’t scheduled!” the glutes cried.

“BRAAAIN! Shut it down!”

Brain: “It’s not that easy!”

“Just DO IT!” they screamed in unison.

And just like that, I melted back under the covers. My limbs sighed. My brain stopped buzzing. And I dropped into one of those deliciously deep slumbers you don’t argue with.

Turns out the only thing more determined than my body on a rest day is my body realising it actually gets a rest day. Once the memo landed, every part of me slipped into total recovery mode. We became a united front of inactivity.

The biggest mission we managed all day? Stripping.

Settle down — I mean stripping down the bikes. Cleaning them up, pulling off bags and grime, prepping them for a well-earned service. Even that felt like a feat. Everything moved slow, deliberate, no rush.

Quito just hummed around us — high altitude, thin air, and city noise rolling over the top of our building — but inside, we were a crew of recovering limbs with zero plans and all the time in the world.

We tried to hook onto another one of those free walking tours today. You know, the ones that give you the inside scoop and save you the trouble of pretending to read signs? But just like Bogotá… stood up. Left loitering on the street corner like a rejected Tinder date. C

But no worries. H and Maree’s Random Wandering Tour was ready to roll. We set off without a plan, just following whatever lane or side street whispered, “Oi, down here.”

First major find: the Basilica del Voto Nacional. We wandered through the gates, admiring the grand Gothic spires — only to realise we were the only scruffs in sight. Everyone else was dressed like they were about to meet the Pope. A ceremony maybe? A wedding? A fancy funeral? Dunno. We just smiled awkwardly, admired the grandeur, and pretending to fit in!

What made the Basilica really special, though, were its gargoyles — not your usual grotesque creatures. These ones were iguanas, turtles, armadillos… all endemic Ecuadorian wildlife climbing the spires. Gothic meets Galápagos. Bit weird. Bit brilliant.

From there we bumbled, true wanderer style. Random streets, random conversations, pointing at murals or trying to guess what something used to be before it crumbled. No agenda. No rush.

Quito, for a capital, feels… cruisier. Less sensory overload than the Colombian cities. No loud reggaeton blaring from every second doorway. Just space to think, or not think. To be.

We ended the day the way all good self-guided city tours should — with a cold beer on the rooftop of our hostel. Letting the lights of Quito sparkle beneath us, like the city was saying, “Yeah, I’m alright, eh?”

Today’s mission was simple ride our bikes across town to the bike shop.

Navigating Quito’s streets on two wheels felt more like a team challenge on The Amazing Race. Swerving traffic, uneven footpaths, dodging rogue dogs and wayward buses. All part of the fun, eh?

Eventually, we rolled up to the bike shop, slightly sweaty and mildly frazzled. But the guy one the ground there — absolute legend. Calm, careful, methodical. He poked and prodded, asked all the right questions, and didn’t seem fazed at all by our dusty rigs and dodgy brakes.

I felt like we were dropping the kids off at a wellness retreat. “You’ll be alright now, mates. Time for some TLC.”

With the bikes sorted, we turned our focus to something equally important: food. Maree had a proper craving for Indian — she’d scoped out a spot already. Bit of a flip from our usual daily menu del día, but honestly, well overdue. Funny how the tables have turned — she’s usually the queen of meal repetition back home, while I’m the variety hound. But on the road, she starts cracking first.

Yeah, it blew the budget a little, but that feed? Worth every cent. Spice, flavour, naan you could nap under. Gotta treat yourself sometimes to keep the legs spinning.

Bellies full, we strolled our way back across town, wandering into a park we hadn’t seen before. A river meandered through it, lakes dotted the greenery, locals napping under trees. It felt like the city took a deep breath and offered us a quiet little pause. A soft patch in the chaos.

And just like the last few nights, we wrapped up our day on the hostel roof. Sunset over Quito, cerveza in hand, both of us leaning into the stillness.

The excitement in unbundling. Tomorrow we were off to the Galápagos.