Cali (Colombia) to.San Miguel de Piquer (Ecuador)

The Border Beckons but first… logistics and loving up our bikes!

Today wasn’t about mountains or mystery roads or sweaty, swear-filled climbs. Today was Logistics Day. Not glamorous, not particularly wild—but totally necessary. Because we’re about to kiss Colombia goodbye and shimmy our way into Ecuador, and there’s a bit to sort before that border hop happens.

The started with the boring-but-important stuff: money, buses, border bureaucracy. We pedalled our way across town to the Cali Transportation Station and did the full circuit of bus companies. Four, to be exact. Lots of head tilts, miming, and broken Spanish as we tried to explain that we wanted to bus with bikes to the border. Turns out, if we buy tickets on the day, it’s cheaper. Who knew?

Next was accommodation. We looked up the first Ecuadorian town we’d land in—Tulcan—and discovered it had precisely three places to stay. We booked one, just to be safe. We usually wing it, but border crossings seem like a bad time to play the ol’ hit-and-hope game.

Then we did a pesos-to-dollars financial shuffle, making sure we had enough Colombian cash for the next two days, and planned to change the rest en route. Everything was ticking along.

But the highlight of the day? Hands down, the bike spa session. Our hostel legends let us use their outdoor laundry setup, which is basically a concrete bunker with a washing machine and buckets galore. We got stuck in—scrubbing chains, shining cassettes, and getting ourselves absolutely covered in grease. But Goldie and Thelma (our bikes) came out gleaming. Good enough to smuggle across international lines.

After that, it was siesta time. (Some things don’t change.)

Then came the celebration. We had officially bikepacked Colombia, that called for proper cheersing. Marie was craving ribs. I had margaritas on my mind. We found a spot that delivered both—plus sangria for Marie. We raised our glasses to this wild, wonderful, at times slightly insane journey across Colombia. We’ve ridden, sweated, laughed, broken down, built back up, and been changed by this place.

Next stop: Ecuador.

Today was all about one thing: food. And not just the "shove-a-bun-in-ya-gob" kinda food—nah, this was proper, soul-hugging, belly-satisfying Colombian goodness. From the moment we woke up, where our tummies were chanting, “Give us breakfast!” The universe bloody well delivered.

It started simple—Cafe Negra to wake the senses, then a Lulu (fruity and fizzy like a cheeky grin), followed by hot chocolate… with cheese. Yep. Cheese in your hot choc. And to be honest I think it is but some here say it tastes bloody brilliant. Then came the maze arapas with egg and cheese.

Honestly, it was like being served a mini banquet before 9am.

But wait—there’s more.

We'd signed up for a market tour that promised “tastes of Cali,” and boy did it deliver.

At 10.30am, we met our crew: two stylish French ladies, a sweet Kiwi duo, a half-English-half-Irish couple, and our guide, Fernando. No, not the Lycra-clad bike bloke from yesterday—this was a new Fernando. Market-Fernando. Charismatic, passionate, and full of charm.

Fernando led us through the bustling mercado, stopping to let us smell, touch, and most importantly—taste—weird and wonderful fruit. We were biting, slurping, chewing, and grinning like kids in a lolly shop. Cheeses came out. Then sweets. Then drinks.

Honestly, Colombia has been packed full of gems — people with open hearts, big smiles, and kind gestures. I’ve met so many bloody lovely Colombians… but today? Today we met that guy. The only one who didn’t seem to get the memo that kindness is part of the national personality. What a dickhead.

But let me start from the top.

After another knockout breakfast at Hostel Sadiago (this place knows how to do mornings), we figured we’d better go grab our bus tickets for the evening. Didn’t want to play border-crossing roulette — not tonight. So off we cruised on our bikes down to the bus station, landing at the SuperTaxi Company (not as super as the name suggests, stay tuned). We’d already scoped the place out earlier in the week, so we knew where to go.

We bought our tickets and, being the seasoned travellers we now are, we asked — three bloody times — in three different ways (plus a translation app, just to cover all the bases): Do we need to pay extra for the bikes?

No.

No.

No.

Great. Noted. Remember this for later.

With tickets in hand and smug, prepared vibes radiating off us, we pedalled leisurely back to the hostel. We didn’t have to check out till 1.30pm, the bus wasn’t till 6.30pm, and the plan was simple: pack, prep, chill, and drink coffee.

We sorted all our gear, carefully divided things into “border important” and “bus survival,” then checked out and pedalled into town to exchange our leftover pesos into American dollars. We kept just enough cash for a feed and a couple of snacks — look at us, functioning adults!

Post-lunch, we headed back to the station to hunker down for a good three-and-a-bit hours wait. I plugged into a podcast and slipped into my happy bubble. Maree doesn’t do “wait” quite the same — she starts to twitch and pace like a caged tiger!

At six o’clock, we decided to wheel our bikes to the main bus platform, stripped off the bags and front wheels, and got everything set up — ready and raring to load.

We even asked a few times if we could chuck them on. No, no, no, they said.

Then this older fella suddenly turns up, starts shoving everyone’s gear on the bus with zero chill. We tried to offer help, suggested loading the bikes early (you know, while there was still actual space), and the man just starts yelling at us. And not your garden-variety annoyed grumbling — I mean full noise, fast-as Spanish, like we’d personally offended his ancestors.

I kept trying to gently say “Un momento, amigo” — just trying to do it right, slow and steady. It’s not our first bike-on-bus rodeo, we know the dance. But this dude just kept yelling, louder and louder, steam pouring from his ears, ignoring any ounce of logic or calm.

In the end, Maree and I ignored the chaos and just got it done ourselves. Bikes and wheels secured, all was looking good until - we’re told we have to pay 60,000 pesos for the bikes.

Even though we’d been told no extra cost THREE TIMES. And the man continued to yell at us. Now it's about the fee. The honest fact was we had no spare pesos, just what we'd budgeted for snax and breakie.

Cue Maree, absolute queen under pressure, who charged into the little kiosk like a woman on a mission. Negotiated the fee down to 40,000 pesos — literally all we had left. Forked it over just to end the chaos.

Bus doors finally closed. Yelling man left behind. Sanity slowly returned.

As the engine hummed to life and we rolled away from Calis, I let out the deepest sigh of the day. Not exactly the farewell we imagined, but hey — it’s all part of the story, right?

Ater a night twisted like pretzels trying to sleep on our overnight bus ride, we finally rolled into Ipiales. The bus doors hissed open, and out we staggered like grumpy possums, blinking into the dawn.

First things first—Goldie Hawn and Thelma got put back together with the kind of loving touch only two half-zombified Kiwis can offer pre-coffee. Loaded up, a bit wonky but operational (us not the bikes!!), we pedalled off toward the Colombian-Ecuadorian border with a good dash of nerves.

You hear all sorts about border crossings: chaos, queues, confusion, cavity searches... but turns out, Colombia just gave us a stamp and a smile, and Ecuador waved us right on in without so much as a latex glove in sight. We were bracing for bureaucratic battle, but instead, it was the smoothest bit of admin we've experienced since leaving NZ. Just like that—we were in Ecuador!

And Ecuador wasted no time welcoming us with a bit of a hill. “Just a little one,” Marie said, all casual, like we hadn't just spent months cycling up the Andes. I gave her a look. "Honey, Ecuador is hills. Might as well get used to it."

We climbed our way to a little town called Tulcan, our first stopover in this new land, where we scouted out a place to stay and began the classic resupply mission—food, snacks, and a cheeky bit of chocolate (always essential). This is our launch pad for the next big leg: the Trans-Ecuador Bikepacking Route. We’re buzzing for it—mostly remote, rugged, and packed with wild camping. Our kind of party.

But for now, we're not riding. This afternoon is for rest. Time to shake off the bus-lag, eat something that doesn’t come in a plastic bag, and stash up some energy. Because tomorrow... we ride. And the dust won’t know what hit it.

We kicked off the day in Tulcán with a very serious mission: one last decent coffee before we properly hit the Trans Ecuador Bikepacking route.

Finding said coffee, however, turned out to be Mission Impossible. After much faffing about, we finally stumbled across a café that looked half legit.

“Ono café negra. Ono café leche. Por favor,” we said, hopeful.

Out came some condiments — sugar... and a suspicious brown powder.

Being the brave souls we are, we dipped a finger in.

Instant coffee!

I joked, “How much do you wanna bet I get a mug of hot water and you get a mug of hot milk?”

No joke. That’s exactly what landed on our table.

Make Your Own Coffee, folks. DIY Ecuadorian style.

Good thing we’d packed some perk coffee — cowboy coffee to the rescue later!

Full of enthusiasm, we hit the road.

“Hey babe, how far have we come?” Maree asked, puffing a little.

Now, context here: we don't use bike computers, and we don’t have our phones mounted on our handlebars like a couple of techy nerds. We’re old-school — stop, check, guess, hope for the best.

At about 5.5km we’d checked our route, both confident as hell we were heading the right way.

So onwards we mashed — up a brutal, cobbled, rutty, lung-busting climb, about 80% bike pushing!

The kind of climb that makes you question your life choices.

After what felt like a thousand vertical metres, I finally pulled my phone out again.

"Um, babe... we’ve cranked out about 15km..."

Pause. Breath.

"On the wrong bloody road."

"WTF!!!"

Yup. We’d both missed a crucial right-hand turn at 6km.

So back down we went — at least the downhill was free.

By the time we found the actual turn, it was nearly 1pm, and we were ravenous.

We beelined it back towards town to smash a menu del dia. While we inhaled our papa con pollo, we mulled over our options. And the universerse helped us as the skies opened up and dumped down.

Decision made: cheap hotel. Reset. Start tomorrow.

Lying on the hotel bed, rain hammering the roof, I opened our Garmin InReach tracker.

“Shit babe, check this out,” I laughed, waving the screen at Maree.

We’d climbed over 600 metres... up the wrong road.

We looked at each other and absolutely lost it — belly laughing like a couple of idiots.

Good news — the right-hand turn we missed yesterday stood out today like dog’s balls today. No missing it this time.

And a pleasant surprise — the uphill that followed was actually a happy, just-tick-along gradient. We spun along for a couple of hours, nice and steady, before deciding it was time for… coffee. Obviously.

We found a good wee spot and decided to whip up pizzas too — well, empanada-style pizzas by the time we finished. Gourmet, aye.

After a good break, the real action started. The road turned into a full-on mud negotiation course. We actually found it pretty fun — like a strategic game. Sometimes we chose the right puddle to charge through, other times the mud won and sucked us in. Good times.

After about 4km of that game, we unlocked a new level: rock avoidance. She was a bit of a bumpy ride, but with the gradient easing off, we could just focus on rocking it out (pun intended).

Then, like a mirage, we met three more bikepackers heading towards us — the first we've seen since starting this whole trip!

And what’s more — it was other babes on bikes: two from Slovakia and one from Sweden, heading north after starting in Quito.

We had a good ol’ chinwag, swapped a few road tales, then carried on our separate ways.

The afternoon continued with a mash-up of the mud game and the rock game, until the road finally became a bit more rideable.

Just as we started to relax, we heard it... "Crack!" Thunder — way off in the distance.

Then "Crack!" again, but closer. It was coming for us. And we knew it would be bringing its best mate... rain.

We legged it, aiming to reach Reserva Ecológica El Ángel where we'd heard there might be camping.

But nope — out luck wasn’t in. "Crack!" was followed by an absolute deluge.

We rolled into the reserve, soaked and shivering.

And then — our luck finally flipped. The warden, a bloody legend of a bloke, let us stay in a shelter for the night.

Not just a rough shelter either — four walls, a roof, a picnic table, chairs, and even a bathroom. Heaven.

We drowned the cold away with copious cups of hot chocolate, listening to the rain hammer down outside.

No need to hunt down coffee because we could whip up our own cowboy coffee at the shelter. Pure bliss.

But before we even got to that, there was a bit of drama last night...

I was all snuggled up in bed, just about to drift off to sleep, when Maree decided in her infinite wisdom that it was a great idea to run her head into a windowsill while plugging in her phone.

“Babe, are you alright?” I mumbled, half-asleep.

"Oh yeah, I think it’s just a little scratch," she reckoned, turning around — with blood dripping down her face!

That woke me up bloody quick.

Out came the first aid kit. I patched her up with some plasters, a bit of tape, and a few fun games involving alcohol cleaner... safe to say there was some swearing.

So, the very first thing I saw when I opened my eyes this morning was my beautiful girlfriend sporting a fresh black eye. (Meh!)

Being parked up in an ecological reserve, we decided to make the most of it before moving on. There was a lagoon about a 20-minute walk away, so after brekkie we laced up our shoes, gave our biking legs a change of scenery, and set off to check it out.

The environment was stunning. Alpine, crisp, and surrounded by endless wax palms — honestly, the wax trees went on and on and on, disappearing into the horizon. They were mixed in with other native trees too, though I couldn't tell you the names to save myself.

When we reached the viewpoint overlooking the laguna, it was pure serenity. The water was still as glass, reflecting the skies perfectly — just one of those magic moments you don’t rush.

It was bloody nice just being there. Taking time to soak it all in instead of the usual ‘pack up, ride out’ hustle.

Eventually, it was time to jump back on the bikes. We had a 20km downhill ride to El Ángel ahead — mostly a steady, cobbled descent.

Only one small hitch.

I had no back brakes.

Just a minor issue, you know, nothing serious!!

I had to take the downhill at granny speed, feathering my front brakes gently, knowing full well that if I had to stop in a hurry, I’d be learning to fly right over the handlebars. Fun times!

Once we rolled into El Ángel, priority one was food. We went on a menú del día hunt and filled our tanks, then sat down to figure out my brake situation properly.

With Ecuador’s hills looming ahead, we couldn’t really ignore it.

We decided to find a hostel, regroup, and fix the bikes properly. Enter Hostal Paisajes Andinos — absolute gem of a place run by a lovely señora, complete with a bonus backyard for bike cleaning and repairs.

It was there, while giving the bikes a once-over, that I made a grim discovery...

I had well and truly cocked up.

Way back in Cali when we last cleaned the bikes, I’d taken my brake pads out to degrease and clean everything up nicely.

Turns out when I reinstalled them, I only put the pin through one brake pad and the spring — not through both pads.

Rookie mistake of the century.

Somewhere along the way, my back brake pad had simply fallen out.

And yes I am hanging my head in shame!!

Luckily, Google reckoned there was a small bike shop in town — but not open until 8am Monday (mañana).

So, no choice but to park up, and wait It out today.

And right on cue, as seems to be the norm every afternoon lately, the heavens opened up and the rain absolutely pissed down.

First priority this morning: sort my back brakes. There was one bike shop in town, Bike Settings, and I was crossing everything in hope. While I missioned off, Maree went on a different kind of hunt — breakfast.

I rocked up to the bike shop at 8:10am. Google said it opened at 8. And yet… nada! Classic. But just as I was about to turn away, a local woman clocked me loitering and asked if I needed help. In my best survival Spanish, I managed to get across that I was looking for the bike shop. “Uno momento,” she said, and disappeared.

I waited. And waited. Just as I started doubting whether she was coming back — footsteps. In strolled Andre, my knight in oily armour. He spoke a little English so explained my need and I showed him my sad solo brake pad. Without a word, he walked into the shop and pulled a set off the wall — the only set — and, miraculously, they were the exact ones I needed. What’s more, he installed them, threw in a brake lead, and only charged me three US bucks. THREE. I’d braced for at least fifty.

By now Maree had returned, eyes alight. “I’ve found the place,” she grinned. So off we biked, and what she'd discovered was an awesome little local market — fruit, veg, and most importantly, food stalls.

We parked up and ordered coffee and something that closely resembled Māori fried bread. I think it might’ve been gluten. I was sure later, by the bloated belly and nuclear gas, but at the time — bloody yum.

Then came the rain. Not the usual biblical kind — more what you'd call “soft rain.” Soft, that is, until you've been pushing your bike uphill in it all morning!

The road turned to dirt and the incline kicked in. We tried riding, but it was hopeless — tyres just spun out. So off we got, pushing again and again in the rain.

Because of our scenic detour a few days ago, I was pretty vigilant with the map. Every muddy fork and turn-off, I triple-checked.

Eventually, it flattened out, and I confidently declared we were at the top. There was no shelter, so we just kept moving to stay warm. As the gradient shifted downhill, a cold southerly wind kicked up, chilling us right to the bone. We were both borderline hypothermic, not exactly thinking straight.

A red ute. appeared coming up the road towards us. The driver stopped and rattled something off in Spanish. After some deciphering, we realised: we were on the wrong road...again!

Thisis guy was an absolute legend — told us to chuck the bikes in the back of his ute and took us back up the hill to our missed turn-off.

Let me tell you — the "road" we missed? A muddy cow trail, identical to the numerous cow trails we had passed all morning. . Both of us had seen it, ignored it, and carried on. Because surely it wasn't a road!!

Back out in the cold, I was freezing and had no idea how to even dress myself. “Babe, can you help me?” I asked, shaking.

Maree dressed me like I was a small child — overpants, jacket, layers - "Good girl!'

We finally set off down the right hill.

The track turned to cobblestones and the descent got steep — real steep. Thank God for new brake pads. You had to feather the brakes or you’d go from cycling to skiing. Maree, queen of the cautious descent, suddenly flew past me. Brakes locked, skiing like a pro!. Lucky for her, there was a grassy patch to crash into.

Next corner? There she was, on the ground. Second attempt at flight — this time, she’d properly stacked it. I just hoped we’d make it to the bottom with both her and her bike in one piece.

Eventually we rolled into a wee village — San Miguel de Piquer. We spotted two women sweeping a church. We asked if there was anywhere we could camp. They pointed us ten minutes down the road. "Camping," they said.

And there it was — not your average patch of grass, either. A glamping site, with day picnic area and fishing. But by the look on the family's faces, I don’t think they’d ever seen our breed of camping before.

We pitched our tent on a small soccer field, and they opened up the showers and toilets for us too.

They all came out to watch us pitch the tent. We gave them a tour — our tent. sleeping mats, sleeping bags — and their curiosity was delightful.

Later, as I cooked up a vege curry, the dad came back around, curious he watched me chop carrots like it was a live cooking show.

And for once today — no deluge. Just sleep. Glorious, warm, dry sleep.