Loja to Jaen (Peru)

This morning’s escape route out of Loja had us following the Rio Malacatos (yep, not Magellan — whoops). The river looked like it had been in a punch-up with the weather gods recently — flood debris everywhere, washouts along the edges, and a few nervy bridge crossings to boot.

Not long into the ride, we bumped into a lovely local woman on her morning walk. She was all warm smiles and seemed keen to make sure we were on the right track. Every time we paused to repin ourselves or take a break, she'd reappear like a human compass with impeccable timing. The last time we saw her, the rain had just started to spit, and with a twinkle in her eye, she spun on her heel and declared “mi casa!” before disappearing down a side track. Absolute gem.

The rain this morning was being a right trickster — waiting until we’d slogged uphill in full sweat-mode with jackets zipped up tight, only to switch off and leave us cooking like pigs in a blanket. The eternal question: jacket on or off? Still, it felt bloody good to be back in cooler air. As lush as the jungle was, the heat there had been sapping our souls one sweaty kilometre at a time.

After a cruisy uphill, we were treated to a glorious 29km downhill run. Just when we thought the day couldn’t get smoother, we came around a bend nearly at valley floor level and hit a full road closure. Now that was unusual — most of the time in Ecuador, you just roll the dice and bike through slips alongside buses and trucks. But here, a massive rocky landslide had properly shut things down.

BANG! A boulder crashed onto a nearby corrugated iron roof. That made our stomachs lurch.

Because we were on bikes — aka pedestrians with wheels — we were allowed to detour over a footbridge that crossed a small river and continue down the other side. From there, we had a front-row view of the action: four huge diggers clambering around the top of the slip, shifting rocks, some of which tumbled down with ominous rumbling. The only thing separating us from that chaos? A little trickling river. Cheers, Mother Nature.

We rolled into Malacatos in time to stumble upon some sort of religious ceremony in full swing at the town square/church. Judging by all the well-dressed kids, it looked like communion day. We opted for a less ceremonial lunch, finding a small park on the town’s edge with a covered shelter to brew up.

“Babe! Look!” Maree suddenly pointed up.

Holy. Shit.

We were sharing our shelter with some whopper banana spiders dangling casually overhead, as if they were supervising lunch. Bon appétit.

The rest of the ride felt gentle — like the universe had eased its foot off the gas pedal. Just the two of us, slowly edging our way south, one jungle valley at a time, Peru on the not-too-distant horizon.

That night, we scored the coolest little campsite: Rumi Wilco Nature Reserve, a privately owned eco-sanctuary tucked away in the trees. It was quiet, calm, and so, so peaceful. The kind of place where you can breathe in deep, let the noise of the world melt away, and feel nature wrap around you like the soft night air.

I know I’ve said it a million different ways by now, but honestly — there is nothing better than waking up in a tent to the sound of birds singing and nature wrapped all around you. This morning was one of those magic ones. Soft light filtering through the trees, everything still and calm. Just us, our tent, and the symphony of the wild.

We knew the ride to the Peruvian border would be another classic Ecuadorian undulator — up, down, sweat, repeat. And, true to form, the rain decided to play its usual game of peek-a-boo. One minute dry, the next, soaking through our shirts just as we hit an uphill slog. But here’s the silver lining: that massive slip we worked around yesterday? It’s totally blocking all the through traffic. So, apart from the odd local car or a donkey or two, the road is ours. It felt like we were cycling through our own private valley.

I was loving it. My legs were humming, lungs were singing, and I felt properly in the groove. One of those days where the bike just feels like an extension of your body. But, I couldn’t help noticing — my hun hasn’t quite got her spark back.

It’s not criticism, just observation. She’s been a bit off for a few days now. And tonight, I gently brought it up. She admitted that she’s been feeling kinda knackered since Riobamba. Which is odd, because before that she was smashing out 1000m climbs like a boss. But lately, even the smaller rollers have been dragging her down.

We talked it through, trying to figure out what it could be — but came up blank. Maybe just cumulative fatigue, maybe something deeper. No answers yet, but we’ll keep an eye on things. She's bloody tough, my Maree, but even the toughest need a check-in sometimes.

Later in the day, we rolled into Yangana on the lookout for a place to stay. We spotted a wee sign and had to scout around a couple of houses to figure out who was actually offering the bed for the night. Classic Ecuador. But luck was on our side again. The folks running the joint offered us a room for $20 or—get this—we could pitch our tent on their lawn for free. Well, that was a no-brainer. The lawn it is! Flat ground, friendly vibes, and the sweet sound of chickens as our lullaby.

After a solid night’s kip pitched in the backyard, we were up and ready to tackle the hills toward Peru. The first climb out of Yangana was a doozie — and we knew it the moment we saw the big permanent sign: Falla Ecológica. That basically translates to "The road's stuffed — good luck!" The tarmac gave way to dirt, the kind that’s more pothole than path, with just enough room for maybe half a vehicle. Steep, narrow, crumbly, and washed out in parts. But somehow, still technically open.

We’d also slipped back into jungle territory — thick vegetation, wet air you could wring out, and the kind of humidity that makes your clothes stick in places you’d rather they didn’t. That said, I do love the outlook. Lush greenery, steep rock outcrops, and waterfalls tumbling down vertical cliffs — it’s not a bad view to be grinding uphill to.

By the time we summited, every part of me was dripping in sweat — like someone had poured a bucket over me. And there, waiting for us like a reward from the gods, was a wee roadside restaurant. We wandered in and ordered cold drinks. Mine was something tea-ish? Herbal? Fermented flower juice? Who knows. But it was cold, and it hit the spot.

Inside were four guys, chowing down and giving us curious glances. Soon enough, they struck up a convo. Two spoke a bit of English, enough for a few laughs and questions about our bikes and where the hell we were going. As it turned out, we all left the restaurant at the same time. Then came the offer: "We can give you a lift — close to Zumba."

Enter: The Ute Ride of Doom.

We seized the chance, slung our bikes on the back, and jumped into the tray — holding on for dear life as we were bounced around like popcorn kernels. I’m pretty sure my spine lost a few vertebrae. I’m also fairly certain I’m now shorter than I was before the ride.

Halfway through, they stopped for gas and we realised our bikes had gouged up some paint on the ute. Oops. We scrambled to pad it out with our gear — too little, too late. The damage was done.

Eventually, they dropped us about 10km short of Zumba — right at the base of a 700m climb. Cheers, lads.

To be fair, we were grateful. But by this point it was 1:30pm and we hadn’t eaten since 7am. We were running on empty, crawling our way up. Weak and feeble, we found a derelict schoolyard and cooked up our trusty empanaditas. Honestly, that first bite gave me life.

With our bellies full, the second half of the climb flew by in comparison. We rolled into Zumba with one thing on our minds: cono. Ice cream. Cold, sweet salvation. We bee-lined it to a store, and guess who we ran into? Our four ute amigos. Two were all smiles, shouting us our cones and laughing about the ride. The other two were definitely avoiding eye contact — maybe due to the paint damage, or maybe because they’d told us they weren’t coming to Zumba. Busted.

Tonight, we raised an ice-cold beer to Ecuador. What a ride it’s been — the climbs, the jungle, the chaos, the kindness. Tomorrow, we cross the border.

Peru, ready or not — here we come!

We were up early this morning, rolling out just as the first light spilled over the hills — our final push to the Peruvian border. Only 27km on the cards, but it packed a punch with two sharp 300m climbs. And while our GPS likes to paint a nice little elevation graph, it never tells the full story — like whether it’s a dusty goat track or a vertical mudslide. So we figured an early start was our best chance at survival.

Unfortunately, the heat had the same idea. Now riding below 1000m, we were back in that heavy, sticky heat that mixes real well with a dash of perimenopause to make one hell of a sweaty, swampy cocktail. Sloppy H on ice, anyone?

The road? A potholed, one-lane, semi-collapsed excuse for a track that zigzagged up and down like it had a hangover. But it gave me time to be in my own thoughts.

This morning, I found out my dear mate Richard had passed — the cancer finally taking him. So I rode uphill, sweat dripping into my eyes, talking to him in my head. About the trips we’d done, the Leonard Cohen tunes he’d always hum, and the stories we’d shared. He was in his 80s, but that man lived harder and braver than most. His mantra was simple: keep going on adventures until you absolutely can’t anymore. And he did. He really did.

By the time we rolled into La Balta, I had the hungers big time. Our breakfast plan was boiled eggs and yoghurt at the top of the hill, but Maree’s egg timing the night before was... optimistic. Soft-boiled mush in a warm bag is not my idea of trail fuel.

So instead, we smashed some lunch and then traded our last Ecuadorian coins for two glorious ice blocks. Then it was time. Passport stamps out of Ecuador, a lazy pedal across a simple bridge, and hello Peru. No queues, no questions, no drama. Just like that — a new country.

And even on the short ride into Namballe, we could already feel the difference. The road was smooth. Smooth! It had safety barriers. It looked... looked after.

We decided to call it at half a day — treat ourselves — and leave the 1000m climb out of the valley for tomorrow. One final nod to Ecuador, and now the curtain lifts on Peru.

Except... dinner.

We are slow learners! But just like the night we entered Ecuador, our first night in Peru had us wandering around like hungry zombies trying to find food. Namballe didn’t seem to have any restaurants. Sure, there were signs outside shops saying they had food, but nah, just a cruel tease. One joint had been pumping loud music and beer since we rolled into town, and we thought — surely! But when we asked for food, they straight-up said no. People were eating, but apparently not us.

We were about to give up and go back to our hostal to cook our sad little emergency meal in the room, when we saw her — like a beacon in the night. A woman with a food cart, sending heavenly smells of fried papas into the air. Halle-bloody-lujah!

She was cooking up pollo con papas — hot chicken and fries — and we nearly cried. Now, at the start of Ecuador, a meal like that used to overfill me. But now? It just scratches the sides. After hoovering mine down, I sat back and contemplated my stomach.

“Babe… do you wanna go halves in another one?”

“OK.”

With our bellies finally full, we waddled back to our hostal to rest our bones. There’s 1000m of climbing on tomorrow’s menu — best not do any exertion those paps are need for the climb!

This part of Peru started off with a bloody treat. Yes, sure, we were climbing uphill — but wait for it — on a sealed road. Actual, honest-to-goodness seal. We didn’t have to play pothole hopscotch or zigzag around gravel traps. We could just ride. Straight. Up. Without thinking. It felt like Peru gave us a chocolate on the pillow and whispered, “Welcome, adventurer. Have this little treat — you’ve earned it.”

Of course, because we were lower in altitude now, the heat cranked right up, and the sweat started flowing. Not the glistening type you see on fitness models — we’re talking full swamp-mode. The kind of sweat that soaks your knicks, runs into your socks, and makes your sunscreen give up halfway through the day.

We were also on a bit of a mission — Project Hydration. Lately, we’d been ending our days feeling a bit beehive-brained. You know that slightly dizzy, vague feeling like you’re not quite in your body? We realised we weren’t drinking enough water. So today we made a conscious effort to chug the good stuff.

The new backdrop for us today: coffee plantations. Row after row of green, glossy-leafed coffee bushes hugging the hillsides, and beans drying on large tarpaulins laid straight on the road. Apparently, over the past five-ish years, coffee cooperatives and production have boomed in northern Peru. We could smell the shift in the air — earthy, nutty, kind of rich — like coffee before it's even roasted.

Another new feature of the Peruvian landscape: motorbike trucks. They’re everywhere. From tuk-tuk-style taxis zipping past, to makeshift utes loaded up with sacks of coffee or entire families and their dogs — these things are workhorses. Loud, fast, and versatile. Kinda like the Swiss army knife of rural transport.

In the shade of some roadside trees, we paused for a breather, just watching life roll by. The occasional motorbike truck buzzed past, sometimes with passengers hanging on sideways, sometimes with coffee beans falling off the back. Locals walked by slowly, often with a nod or smile. There’s something meditative about those mid-morning roadside stops.

But by mid-arvo, the heat was truly taking the piss. We’d only climbed maybe 150 metres and were already gasping. That’s when we saw a tiny roadside stall. Cold fizzy drink? Don’t mind if we do. We pulled in and were greeted by an older lady who was an absolute riot — full of giggles, cheek, and curiosity. She came and sat with us, peppered us with questions, then dragged over another woman to take photos with us like we were some sort of sweaty, lycra-clad celebrities. We were all cracking up — her joy was bloody contagious.

Feeling recharged by sugar and good vibes, we hit the road again. But Peru wasn’t done dishing out the randomness.

Two young girls flagged me down and handed me a packet of biscuits with shy smiles. A group of teenagers gave me a sunflower (I was chuffed — who needs roses?). And then a motorbike truck slowed beside me, the crew in the back yelling and gesturing wildly for me to grab on. So I did. For a minute, I was flying up the hill, laughing and loving it. Until I looked back and realised… I'd ditched Maree. Oops. Got a bit carried away there. I let go, waved them off, and waited sheepishly.

We finally rolled into San Ignacio for the night. The town was pumping — honking horns, motorbikes revving, music blaring from every second building. After a week of sleepy towns and jungle hush, it felt like we’d been flung into the middle of a fiesta we weren’t quite ready for. The noise was jarring, our nervous systems twitching.

This morning, Murray and Laura were up before us. All they wanted was an ATM, breakfast, a couple of supplies, and to get the hell out of noisy, chaotic San Ignacio.

Here's the thing. Relationships 101. In a normal 9–5 life, you get small slices of time with your partner. If you piss each other off, you get 8 hours or so at work to cool off, reset, recalibrate. But on an extended adventure? Nah. You’re in each other’s faces (not on!!) 24/7. There’s no hiding. You get to know your partner real well. It’s not always easy. But with the right mix of grit, laughter, patience and love — it’s also a wild, exciting, totally worth-it ride.

Maree and I… we don’t hold grudges. We know when we’re being dicks. We know that when Murray and Laura show up (our alter-ego grumpy selves), it’s usually because we’re tired, hungry, overstimulated — usually by cities or noisy chaos towns. We try to keep them in check. But we’re human. So when they do show up, we talk about it later. Check in. See if we need to adjust. Then kiss, laugh, and ride on.

Also, giving our cranky alter-egos names totally helps. Like, “F**k, Murray was a real knob today.” — “Yeah, well Laura was a full-blown nightmare.

After a brilliant 20km downhill, winding through lush valleys and rich green plateaus, we realised something: for the first time in forever, there were no grunty climbs. Our legs didn’t need convincing. Our minds didn’t need to chant motivational mantras just to turn the pedals.

We slipped into autopilot, cruising beside the Rio Chinchipe, letting gravity do the heavy lifting.

No energy crises. No fizzy drink cravings. No lunch-time hanger pangs. We could have pushed on, easily doubled our usual distance. But without even talking about it, we both chose not to.

Instead, we had a progressive lunch.

First stop, a roadside stall ,nothing looked good except for cold beer. So we had one.

Round two: an ice cream spotted in a tiny shop down the line. Yes please! Third stop: a fruit stall with bananas calling our names.

Again, without any big conversation, we were both scanning for sneaky campspots. And we found a cracker, a sandy little riverbank, hidden from the road by thick bush, with a babbling stream feeding into the big river. Absolute magic.

No town noise. No traffic. No Murrey. No Laura. Just us, the river, the trees, and the kind of wordless rhythm that comes when you’re totally in sync.

Waking up riverside, with birdsong in our ears and yesterday's magic still swirling in the air, we felt revived. So we made a bold call over breakfast:

“Bugger it — let’s ride all the way to Jaén today.”

Seventy kms. Let's do it!

We also made a couple of other decisions, the kind that usually come after one too many days in the same crusty riding gear.

1. We desperately needed a rest day or two. Our clothes were starting to develop their own ecosystem.

2. We’d bus from Jaén to Cajamarca instead of tackling the monster 4000m climb ourselves. After all, Cajamarca has thermal pools, Inca ruins, and a good dose of history.—We’d save our energy for exploring once we got there.

Turns out if we needed a wash, nature had us covered. Not long after hitting the road, the heavens opened. Torrential rain, like, buckets and buckets of it. But with the heat hanging around, it was actually bloody glorious. Warm rain, smooth riding, and vibrant green rice paddies replacing the coffee plantations, all set against a backdrop of rugged, bush-clad hills. Bloody beautiful.

Our legs didn’t complain about the undulations either, it felt more like a gentle warm, down after a hard-fought match.

Then with 15 km to go tragedy struck.

I hopped off my bike to snap a photo, tripped, and nearly nailed myself into the dirt. As I dusted myself off, I looked down… and there it was: my shoes had blown apart. I mean proper flapping soles, full failure. Off they came.

Crocs to the rescue!

Now I know some people reckon Crocs are ugly, but those people clearly haven’t had a 20-year relationship with the mighty foam beasts. This isn’t the first time they’ve saved my arse. And probably won’t be the last.

Despite footwear drama, we made it. Jaén, go the Crocs!

We parked up in a cheap hotel, dumped our gear, and went hunting for food. A burger cart caught our eye, and with no fuss. they even made me a no-bun burger: just beef patties and a mountain of goodness. Heaven.

Next mission: bus station. But this ain't your one-size-fits-all bus stop, oh no. Different stations for different destinations and bus companies. A whole new kind of scavenger hunt.

After a bit of back and forth and a thrilling tuk-tuk ride (seriously, those drivers must think they’re in the Dakar Rally), we found the right spot, nabbed our tickets, and tuk-tuked our way back to bed.

Where we were promptly greeted by a disco-tech directly opposite our hotel. Yep, bass pumping, windows shaking, and zero sleep happening.