Cajamarca to Laguna Sausacocha

I’m starting to think we should rebrand this whole adventure: 'Adventure that Ends in Cajamarca!.' Okay, that’s Laura talking. But still.

This morning I once again braved the chaotic Cajamarca traffic, escorting Maree to what I hoped was her final dentist appointment.

Don’t mistake that for me being a cold, heartless girlfriend, I do care deeply, but I’m also twitching to ride. My legs are practically vibrating. I need to move.

With Maree safely in her dentist’s chair (I’m convinced she’s now part owner of the clinic), I missioned off to stock up for our eventual re-entry into the wild. Gotta keep the optimism alive.

Friday markets were humming. People everywhere, stalls bursting, smells wafting, total sensory overload. I loved it.

With my backpack loaded with veg and good intentions, I wandered back to find Maree waiting.

Big breath. “So... was that the last one?”

She looked at me with that sheepish grin. “Well... I’ve got two cavities. Figured I may as well get them sorted. What’s one more day?”

Oof. I tried to keep Laura in her box. You know, the selfish, impatient side of me who just wants to ride. I know Maree’s right, it’s smart, it's cheaper here, and future us will thank her. But man, I’m struggling to sit still.

So I smiled (maybe a bit tight-lipped), told Laura to pipe down, and gave my girl a squeeze.

She suggested Chicharrón con mote for lunch. She knows how to butter me up. It may have been a bribe, if it was it worked!!

Okay, this is it. The final dentist day. If not, I’m riding into the Andes and never coming back

.

With Maree’s appointment not until 6:30pm, on a Saturday, no less, we had the whole day to kill. So we decided to spin our wheels somewhere ancient and epic.

Sitio Arqueológico Ventanillas de Otuzco, a pre-Inca cemetery site where tombs are carved straight into volcanic rock. They reckon it dates back to 200–800 AD, maybe even earlier. Standing there, surrounded by stillness and stone, I felt something hum through me. A place with proper mana. Sacred, peaceful. Real glad we made the effort.

Back at the hostel we collapsed onto the sun-warmed porch couches, soaking up rays when a young woman wandered in, Frankie, from London. She looked a bit dazed, a bit flustered. Turns out she’d just legged it from a horror volunteer gig where the “host” basically used volunteers as personal sex objects. Disgusting human. She needed a debrief and a safe space, so we handed over both.

As we were heading into town, we dragged Frankie along. Maree got dropped at her beloved dentist (again), and I played host.

Frankie and I parked up at Plaza de Armas, beers in hand, soaking up the buzz of Cajamarca after dark and swapping tales.

Two cans deep and who should wander up but Maree grinning like she’d just won Lotto.

“Five fillings!” she beamed. Honestly, the woman’s excited about dental work. She reckons the price was so cheap she basically made money. Me? You couldn’t pay me to lie in that chair!

To celebrate the grand finale of Maree’s mouth mission, we missioned to the Mega Plaza, not for the shopping centre, but for the señora outside selling pollo con papa that could raise the dead. Hot, salty, crunchy goodness. I’ll dream of that plate when the hills get steep!

I can actually say I enjoyed wandering Cajamarca at night. But more importantly...

TOOTH SAGA = COMPLETE.

Tomorrow, we ride. Finally. I’m twitchy with anticipation.

Today we found Jesus. No really, we literally found Jesus, a wee town just 20km from Cajamarca. It was Sunday after all. Fitting, right?

The ride out there was the kind of gentle sealed back road that makes our legs hum and our heart say “yes mate, we’re back in the saddle!” That is, until Maree got puncture number six. Back tyre, of course. We limped into town and parked up in the plaza with ice creams and repair kit. Classic combo.

With the tyre plugged and sugar levels topped up, we rolled out of Jesus feeling upbeat and ready to crack into the next leg. But I reckon Jesus had other plans for us… like sending us straight to hell!

First, I bought a bunch of bananas and strapped them to the top of my rear bag, on top of my rain jacket. Good idea at the time, but was it??

Then the road turned into that sandy gravel nightmare that gave us Ecuador PTSD. We pulled over after 1.5 hours… we’d made it maybe 2km. I kid you not.

“Babe… your bananas are hanging off the back,” Maree pointed out.

They sure were. Battered and bruised, and my rain jacket? Nowhere to be seen.

While Maree sorted a lunch of fried banana wraps (surprisingly yum), I walked, backtracking down the hill, combing the road for my jacket. Nothing. I took a random walking track back up, empty handed and grumpy.

But off we went again, into that gritty, unrideable nonsense. Riding felt impossible. Pushing felt worse. And it wasn’t even a steep gradient, just that stupid loose sandy stuff that eats your will to live.

“Babe… this is bullshit,” I spat, after another hour of grinding and getting nowhere.

We sat down for a proper D&M. And you know what? We don’t need to prove anything. This is South America. It’s already epic. We don’t have to chase every godforsaken off-road side mission to feel wild or worthy. The main roads give us magic too stunning sights, camping spots, people, memories. No shame in picking the better ride.

So we turned around. Headed back to Jesus. Hallelujah!!

And the best bit? About 100m from town, there was my jacket, lying discarded in the middle of the road, run over, dusty, but totally intact. Miracles do happen in Jesus.

We rolled into a cheap-and-cheerful hotel, rinsed the grit off, and hatched a new plan for the week ahead. We'll winging it. Keep laughing. Andloving the hell out of this mad, messy, magical ride.

After yesterday’s plot twist and retreat back to Jesus, we woke up this morning with a clearer head and twitchy legs. A classic hostel room cook-up of eggs (that’s waffles and eggs and coffee kickstarted us back into ride mode. Today, we weren’t just leaving a town, we were reclaiming the adventure.

We backtracked 10km and it just felt right. The road hadn’t changed, but the energy had. Yesterday it was like cycling through soup—heavy, frustrating, joyless. But today? Flow, baby. Pure riding bliss.

Once we left Jesus behind (again, hallelujah), we wound our way through an undulating patchwork of small villages and alpine farmland. The hills were quilted in crops, but not the lush greens of Ecuador. Here in the Cajamarca highlands, it’s more golds, browns and dust-washed hues. Up here they grow everything from potatoes, quinoa and maca to maize and medicinal herbs like manzanilla dulce and ruda. You could smell the land working.

Mid-arvo, we pulled into a wee village for a sugar hit. No cono man, but we found a shop with pre-packed ice creams. As we were choosing, two cheeky local kids sidled up trying to sell us lemons. “No gracias,” we smiled. But they kept tagging along. I glanced down and caught one of them eyeing the ice creams, so I gestured—go on, pick one. Their faces lit up like it was Christmas.

When we stepped out of the shop, they were sitting beside an older woman, Mum, maybe, grinning ear to ear, slowly devouring their frosty treasures. Mum smiled and waved. That kind of joy? Magic.

Later that afternoon, we crested what we decided would be our final climb for the day. The plan: sniff out a sneaky camp spot on the descent to San Marcos. Failing that a cheep n cheerful hotel.

Bingo. A small sign with a tent symbol lured us down a dusty dirt track to what looked like an abandoned school camp. A donkey wrangler in a nearby paddock told me to ask Señor Somebody down the road. I found him perched on a rock, peacefully watching the world. After a quick exchange, a handshake, and some vague Spanish affirmations, we got the green light.

We pitched up behind the skeleton of an old basketball court. There were baños, but they looked like a horror scene from a poo-themed apocalypse and didn’t have water. So... yeah, bush wees it is.

Dinner cooked, we slipped into the tent just in time for the nightly dog choir. Seems all the canines in the district like to scream their opinions across the valley after dark. No idea what they were discussing, maybe religion. Or politics. Or just warning us not to eat the ice cream too fast.

Today felt bloody good. And after days of dentists, dirt roads, and decisions,we were back where we belong.

So here’s the thing, about 20ish minutes after I wake up, give or take a few sips of coffee, my bowels clock in for duty. Like clockwork. I don’t get how some people hold on for days. Me? One signal and it’s all go.

Last night, our plan was simple: wake early, coast the 10km downhill to San Marcos for breakfast and ablutions. But, apparently, my bowels didn’t get the memo.

There was nowhere to go. Hard-packed earth, no tree cover, no ditch. “Babe... what do I do?” I stammered, brain officially out of order.

Maree, the ever-resourceful one, handed me a plastic bag. So there I squatted... behind an old rusty car.

Misfire. Total disaster.

Cue bag number two, a stick, and some frantic cleanup ops. Turns out Peruvian plastic bags are basically biodegradable in real-time, so bag number three was recruited to carry the said package until I found a bin. Not quite the morning glory I imagined.

But then came the downhill. Oh sweet gravity, you never fail me. The road was smooth and flowing, and for a moment, I forgot about the poo-plosion. We rolled into San Marcos and, like true champions, devoured chicharrón con mote for breakfast. Honestly, it hit the spot.

But it was the ride after that blew me away.

Today was one of those days where the earth just shows off. We rode through alpine paradise, soaring rock formations, hanging valleys, plunging gorges, and rugged cliffs that looked like they'd been pulled straight from Kahurangi National Park back home. Although, if anyone ever tried to put a road through there, I’d be chaining myself to the nearest tree faster than you can say "greenie with a cause." But here? It's already happened. And somehow... it works.

We were aiming for Cajabamba, but with 13km to go, the legs waved a little white flag—and then we saw it: a camping sign.

Bingo....again@

Now here we sit, in what feels like a private mountain resort. Hot chocolates in hand, gazing out at those glorious alpine vistas. There’s a pool, a bar, plush couches, and most importantly—working baños. Yep, a big step up from yesterday's derelict donkey shed.

It’s the chaos and contrast that make this life so bloody brilliant. This morning, Poobags and dog choirs. Tonight? Hot drinks, soft couches, and views that steal your breath.

Woke up poolside. Not exactly your usual high-altitude campsite scene. A Club Med-style swimming pool stretching out in front of us, mist still clinging to the mountains behind. It was all a bit surreal. I half expected a waiter to appear offering us mimosas, but instead I chucked on my merino and got to work making coffee on the ground.

We’ve been in this bizarre climate bubble for days now, freezing cold mornings that have us layering up like we’re about to summit Everest, but come 10am the sun’s got bite. No trees for shade. No cloud cover. Just pure, skin-sizzling UV. Unlike the Amazon, where we were a pair of sweaty damp rags, here it’s dry, exposed, and relentless.

Today’s ride was a 15km climb into Cajabamba, and I was already feeling the sun-fatigue before we even hit town. Three days in a row of being roasted like a Sunday chook had caught up with me. By the time we rolled into the plaza, I was fried. Properly toasted.

We tracked down a cheap comedor promising pollo con papa. Of course, when we ordered we didnt know, the papa was MIA.

Knowone mention they were out of half the dish. AS inconspicuously, not, just send someone legging it to the market. Fifteen minutes later a lady came huffing back through the door with a sack of spuds. The cook fired up the oil pot. We waited. Starved. All we can do is laugh.

Post-lunch we hit the fruit and veg market, and that’s when my body cracked. “Babe, I need to lie down.” That’s all I could muster.

We found our usual kind of dodgy, kind of charming hospedaje, and I barely made it through the door before face-planting the pillow. Out cold. Not even a snore. Just heat-stroked, sun-stunned silence.

Waking up with a solid 12-hour kip under the belt put a real bounce in my step. We launched into the day with breakfast at the Cajabamba markets, chicharrón con mote at 7am, because why the hell not?

Once we rolled out of town, the seal buggered off and the road turned to potholed chaos. But the slow climb was mellow, so we played dodge-the-ruts and marvelled at how tuk tuks survive this madness. Alpine peaks stood proud in the backdrop while we weaved through rural Peru.

At a bottlenecked bridge jammed with trucks, we chambered down a stream bank for a coffee break. It was like slipping into another universe—sunlight on rock, water sparkling, peace.

By late afternoon we hit Laguna Sausacocha and the tiny town beside it. Scoffing ice creams outside a shop, we suddenly had an audience: a gaggle of cheeky local kids and then three solo bikepackersl rolled in. A Dutch, Canadian, and French guys, who’d formed a crew on the road.

While Maree and the lads scoped camp spots, the kids asked to ride my bike. None of them could reach the pedals, so I became the human motor. Their joy was infectious.

The bilepacker clan ended up camping lakeside at a dusty recreational area with a dilapidated pagoda.. Our entertainment, a pack of horny male dogs giving one poor female dog absolute hell.

She took a liking to Maree. smart girl, and shadowed her. When the big black brute got rough during the night, Maree shot out of the tent like a mother possessed, told him to bugger off, and invited the girl to kip in our vestibule. She curled up in the opening and managed to sneak her head on my mat, and fell into a deep slumber.