Sucua to Loja

The rain gave us a cheeky wee lie-in this morning. Bloody decent of it, really. When it finally eased, we were off—down Route 45. It’s a main road on the map, but didn’t behave like one. No big trucks puffing black smoke in our faces, no noisy cars screaming past. Just the occasional bus that zipped by like a silent blur.

Thanks to the rain, the humidity had cooled off for the morning, and our undulating jungle ride was actually pleasant—lush, green, and rhythmically cruisy.

We pulled into a small town called Chinimpimi around lunchtime and spotted its stadium. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet, but while Colombia had those outdoor gym sets in nearly every town, Ecuador’s got stadiums. Big covered concrete structures with bleacher-style seating on either side and a central court for volleyball, basketball or footy. They’re perfect for lunch stops.

So there we were, setting up to make our empanadas and boil a bit of coffee, when a pack of schoolboys wandered over. They ranged from tiny 10-year-olds to teens with swagger.

They shook our hands shyly and greeted us with "¡Hola!"—big grins, curious eyes. They were fascinated with our bikes, so I let them loose on mine.

Next thing you know, there’s a full-blown hoon-fest happening inside the stadium. Laughter, hollering, whoops of joy as they raced around, legs pumping and hearts flying. Even the wee fellas had a go, wobbling their way around the court. It was magic. Pure magic.

Eventually, they must've had somewhere to be—school maybe—because they all stopped, said “gracias” with cheeky smiles, and disappeared like a gust of wind.

That wee moment fuelled me for the rest of the day. I had a grin glued to my face as the jungle slid by.

But Maree was struggling a bit. Truthfully, she’s been finding it hard the last few days—just the relentless rhythm of pedalling, day in and out. She’s still in it, still moving forward, but it’s taken a toll. She reckons it’s all part of the adventure—which it is. You’ve gotta take the highs with the lows. But still, when you love someone, you notice.

So this arvo, I made it my mission to find us a place to lay our heads sooner rather than later. We’d done some recon earlier when we had internet, and this stretch looked grim—no camping spots, no obvious hospedajes, nada.

We rolled into Bella Unión and did a lap of the town square. The only hostal in sight? Burnt down. Not ideal. I pulled up at a wee restaurant to ask around, and before I could even finish my sentence, a man who’d seen us cycling said, “You need somewhere to stay?”

Turns out he had the hookup.

So here we are: sleeping in a construction site that’s half volleyball stadium, half maybe-one-day hotel. He gave us a concrete room—bare bones but with a loo and a cold shower. BYO bed. He even handed us the key to the security gate and said, “Make yourselves at home.”

And we did.

We swept the concrete dust out of the room, laid down our tent inner, threw the mats on top, and flopped down.

Can’t get much better than this right now.

I’m not sure what I find more gruelling: grinding up a thousand vertical metres in a day on a single monster climb in the cool of the Andes, or undulating endlessly in hot, clammy jungle heat.

Honestly, I reckon they’re equally challenging—but that tropical sun just saps the life outta you. The heat wraps around you like clingfilm, and no matter how much water you suck back, nothing comes out the other end. Hydration in, swamp creature out.

Today was one of those jungle undulation days. Just one little climb after another, roller-coastering through the greenery. And by the time I checked my inReach at the end of the day, we’d clocked nearly 950 metres of climbing. So yeah—basically a full thousand-metre day, just disguised with the odd downhill break in between.

There wasn’t a single shop open all morning—no ice cream breaks, no cold drink stops. Just us and the jungle, grinding it out. When lunchtime rolled around, we stumbled on a deserted marketplace—no market, just empty benches. We took the chance to rustle up our own lunch, and I poked my head into a shop that looked shut. Lucky for me, there was a bloke pottering out the back who let me in to grab a cold Sprite and Coke. Heaven in liquid form.

Our aim for the day was to reach a town called Limón. Yep—Limón, as in Lemon. We rolled into what we thought was Limón, but there was bugger all there. No hostels, no sneaky camping spots, thanks to a massive river gorge hugging the road. We glanced at each other with bloodshot eyes, sweat-soaked and done. “Guess we just keep going then?”

Turns out... we weren’t quite in Limón yet. A few more kilometres up the road, the real Limón appeared. And it wasn’t a lemon after all.

We found a sweet little hostel, dumped our gear, stripped off our sopping clothes and lay starfished on the bed, completely starkers, guzzling ice-cold beers and munching on a bag of salty puffers. That first sip? Bliss.

It’s weird being back down at a lower altitude again. People look different here, dress different too—less alpaca wool and more skin. But the warm hospitality’s the same.

Maree got her happiness fix today: a proper burger. Sure, it gave our budget a wee dent, but to be fair, we started this week’s budget on a Friday, and we’re still cruisin’. Actually, we had $10 left over from last week. And on our infamous $26 day, we only spent $16.

How cool are we?

---

Want me to pull a title or some punchy Insta captions out of this one?

Lemons suck. And so does Hammy—our niggly knee. Maree's been a bit off the last few days, not quite as sparkly as usual. I’ve noticed. She’s quite stoic, doesn’t like admitting when she’s tired or sore. She’d rather just keep pushing on, even when her body’s telling her to stop.

I woke up all bouncy at 6:30 this morning, ready to get into it, but my honey was snoring away, and I knew she needed the rest. So I kept myself busy—no, not like that. She didn’t wake up until an hour later when she thought it was coffee time. I went downstairs to the shop where our bikes were stored, but it was shut. So, back to bed it was.

I kept dropping massive hints, like a volcano about to blow, that maybe we should have a rest day for that sore leg. But no—she just gave me the “we’ll just keep going” look. I knew we had 600 meters of climbing right off the bat, in the first 10 km. Not exactly the best recipe when you’re tired and dealing with a sore leg.

Finally, after all the missed hints, I wore her down. “Maybe a rest day is a good idea,” she said. I knew she was hesitant because we both love the idea of having a proper rest day in a camping area, surrounded by trees, with birds chirping and not the concrete jungle of a town around us. But every time we think about camping up, it’s never the right spot—either we’re fully loaded with gear, or it’s a random spot off the side of the road up a tower. So we keep dreaming of that perfect spot.

With the day off sorted, I decided to go for a walk around Limón while Maree rested. I ended up taking her out for lunch because, believe it or not, I was hungry again. And we found the most amazing meal—slow-cooked beef that was char-grilled to perfection, and a veggie sausage wrapped in pigskin, stuffed with corn and veggies. It was a bloody awesome feed and filled me up.

Maree took her knee back to the hostel while I went for a stroll. I told her I was looking for puppies and butterflies. Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned the butterflies yet! They’re incredible—black ones with neon blue, red ones, orange ones, striped and spotted ones. It’s like walking through a butterfly wonderland. I’m obsessed with them now. Puppies come second.

I’ll be honest, I don’t enjoy rest days in towns. I’m not one for wandering through shops; I’d rather be in the bush. So, after a while, I started getting a bit fidgety. But I know that when you’re climbing a thousand meters of hills day after day, a rest day is needed. So today, I’ve just had to give in and stop.

So there we were—parked up in a bus shelter, somewhere deep in the Ecuadorian jungle, while a proper tropical downpour hammered down. Just two soggy bikepackers talking smack about Tarzan… and how we’d absolutely steal Jane from him.

The morning had been your standard jungle affair—hill climbs and sweat—but it all felt surprisingly cruisy. We were taking it easy on Maree’s knee, trying not to push too hard. By the time we hit the top and stumbled on a little roadside restaurant, it barely felt like half a day had passed.

We tucked into some food and coffee and ended up yarning with a young local full of beans and wide-eyed wanderlust. He’d caught the travel bug hard and was fizzing about the idea of biking all the way to the end of the earth one day too. We sat there for ages just chewing the fat. It’s those connections that really juice up a day, eh? Makes the world feel small and full of kindred spirits.

While we were chatting, the sky absolutely opened up. Buckets of water, thunderclaps—you know the kind. We thought we’d timed it sweet: the rain stopped just as we climbed back on our bikes. But yeah, nah. Not even ten minutes down the road, and we were soaked again.

Hence the bus stop. Hence the Tarzan smack talk.

Eventually, we realised the rain wasn’t going to give us a break, so we wriggled into our rain gear—just jackets really—and got back on the move. Warm rain on the road is actually kind of a joy. There’s something about riding through puddles and mist and jungle smells that makes you feel alive. I had a big dumb grin on my face the whole way.

We rolled into a little town called... what was it... ah yeah, San José, sometime in the arvo. I thought it was lunch o’clock but turns out it was time to call it a day. There were only two places to stay in town, so we scoped them both out and went with the quieter one. Or so we thought.

As I sit here writing this, the honking from the street below is relentless. So much for quiet. Still, it’s a small town—surely it’ll settle soon.

One thing I’ve clocked about Sundays in rural Ecuador: people go hard for the Lord in the morning, and just as hard for the liquor in the afternoon. Town’s basically shut down except for the odd shop with instant noodles and mystery meat. But hey, there’s something kinda charming about the rhythm of these places.

Occasionally, as we bike through Ecuador, we spot these oddball little fairgrounds, and parked near them. always on the roadside, is the same dodgy-looking "caterpillar" kids ride. You know the kind: six trailer-like carts hitched together in the shape of a caterpillar, with bootleg Disney characters slapped all over it—from Ariel to Spongebob—blaring music and flashing like a disco ball on acid.

Every time we pass one, I look at Maree with a grin and go, “Hey babe, can I have a ride? Hey babe, can I have a ride? Hey babe… can I have a ride?”

Well, last night, there was a fair in town. And every half hour like clockwork, one of those lit-up caterpillar rides would rattle past our hostel window, music thumping, lights flashing! Eventually, we figured: if you can’t beat ‘em… may as well join em.

We headed out expecting a harmless, happy little ride through town, la la la, wave to the locals. Sweet as.

Wrong. So very, very wrong.

This thing was a weapon. Straight onto the main road it went, gunning it, swerving left and right like it was trying to shake us off. No seatbelts, just a dodgy bar to hold on to that wobbled more than our knees.

We nearly jackknifed around corners, with buses flying past us and cul-de-sacs being used like burnout pads. At one point we did actual donuts in the middle of the road, the front nearly kissing the back.

Honestly, I thought we were going to flip. I haven’t clenched that hard since riding washboard gravel with a full bladder.

We finally staggered off, legs like jelly, me trying not to spew. We laughed our guts out…

Then later on in the night I was semi woken by Maree actually losing her guts. A good ol' Ralph-chat.

Not just once either. A few convos with the porcelain prince through the night and into the morning. It was clear she was properly crook.

Now, I know I’m not the world’s most empathetic partner in the moment, I might have cracked, “Oh well, looks like we’re finishing Ecuador how we started it…” Which yes, was with both of us pretty damn sick.

And thank god we didn’t have to ride this morning. The heavens unleashed what was easily the heaviest rain we’ve seen in Ecuador. And that’s saying something,we’ve been drenched more times than a sponge at a car wash.

But honestly, the real issue wasn’t the water falling from the sky, it’s what it does to the roads here. Ecuador, especially down south, doesn’t “fix” landslides or road cave-ins. Nope. They just slap up a big, permanent sign that basically says: “This bit’s buggered. Good luck.” The road might be half fallen into a ravine with weeds growing through it and they just expect you to own it. I weirdly respect that.

But with this latest rain, those landslides probably turned into full-blown disappearances, and I wasn’t keen to test our luck. Not with Maree barely able to keep down water.

So today I stepped up my care game. Bottled water for my sick honey. Her favourite pan (bread). I even cleaned her bike. (And mine too—because we’ve done them dirty lately.)

And—learning from our Colombian Spew & Ride debacle—I made an executive call: we’re catching a bus to Loja tomorrow, 200km away. There’s no ticket office, you just stand on the roadside like a hitchhiker and wave the bus down. Legit.

I even scouted the spot with the lovely señora from our hostel, who showed me where the bus passes and handed me fruit for the journey. Bless her.

So that’s the plan:

Bike-pause. Bus to Loja. Rest. Resupply. Sort the border.

Because Peru… she’s getting close. And we want to be ready for whatever the land of pisco and potatoes throws at us next.

Today was a gamble. No reservations. No bus tickets. No promises. Just roll the dice and see what happens.

We’d spent the night holed up in a little hostel, trying to nurse Maree back from spew-city. She was still a bit green and slow on the uptake this morning, but we weren’t in any rush. Check-out wasn’t till noon, so I let her lie in while I quietly played amongst myself (no, not like that). Around midday, we packed up and pushed our bikes to the roadside—two sweaty wanderers casting our hopes into the transport gods’ hands.

In Ecuador, catching a bus isn’t as simple as buying a ticket and finding your platform. Nah. Here, you just stand somewhere bus-adjacent, wave like your life's on the line, and hope one slows down enough to scoop you up. We’d seen it a hundred times during our ride—locals jumping on and off at random spots, often while the bus is still rolling.

So there we were, roadside in the jungle, sitting under a scraggly tree like castaways. Every so often, a bus would screech to an abrupt halt, the conductor would leap off, rattle off a destination, and we'd try to interpret it through our foggy Spanish. “Nope, not Loja. Nada. Gracias!” And off it would zoom again.

Eventually, I twigged that the destination was scrawled on the windscreen—game changer. Made hailing buses a bit less like roulette.

In between near-misses and false alarms, a local woman wandered by. She stopped, smiled, and chatted with us for a bit. She had this warm, grounded energy, like she'd seen a few lifetimes and still chose kindness. Later, she reappeared with a few groceries and gifted us both an ice block. Just like that. No fanfare. Just good old Ecuadorian manaakitanga. We were stoked—big warm fuzzy moment.

To kill more time (and by “kill,” I mean grossly shock), we performed minor surgery on Maree’s foot. She thought she had a splinter… except it wasn’t. Now, Maree’s feet—let’s be honest—are a bit of a scene. She’d been mauled by noseeums again back in Macas, and true to itchy form, she’d scratched them raw. I know. Not a great visual. So when I dug around expecting a bit of wood, instead I found—brace yourself—tiny maggots. YEP. MAGGOTS. We were both dry-heaving and fascinated at the same time.

Then, just after 4pm, our bus appeared around the bend like a mythical beast. It actually stopped—miracle! The conductor hopped out, opened the luggage hatch, and left us to load our bikes. Efficient as. Our old mate from Cali (if you remember that saga) could definitely take notes.

Now, about that ride…

If I thought the caterpillar ride from the fairground was hectic, this bus made it feel like a Sunday stroll. The curves came thick and fast, and the driver didn’t seem to know his brake pedal existed. I’m pretty sure the bus was just drifting through corners on sheer faith. I had chunks in my throat more than once.

The bus only went as far as Zamora, where we could either transfer to another for Loja or just call it a night. One white-knuckle thrill ride was enough for one day. We staggered off in Zamora, legs like jelly, and found our go-to: the cheapest hotel we could find with four walls, a bed, and a cold shower. I’m currently lying in bed feeling like I’m still moving.

Waking up this morning, I was still green and feeling a little bit queasy from our joyride yesterday, and not really excited about having another one this morning.

I'd done a wee bit of recon last night before we left the bus station—yes, an actual bus station—and found out bus times to Loja for today.

This time, our driver actually seemed aware he had passengers. He didn’t throw the bus around blind corners like a grand prix maniac. No screeching tyres, no fishtails, no airborne goats. Just a steady roll through the southern folds of Ecuador, and we arrived in Loja in surprisingly good nick.

It felt like we'd come full circle. Gone was the sticky jungle heat, replaced by the crisp clarity of the mountains. We both took a deep breath—cool, dry, and clean.

Straddling our bikes, we made surprisingly easy work of getting through the city to the other side, where, for once, I’d booked accommodation ahead of time. I know—look at us, being all organised.

After pushing our bikes up a steep-as-hell hill to the approximate location of our Airbnb, do you think we could find it? Nah. Of course not. We knew it was probably a room at someone’s house, but with no clear house number, and no internet for a Google stalk, we were back in the land of blind guessing. Normally, this would be no issue—we’re practically pros at sniffing out hidden hospedajes by now. But not this time.

I asked two different ladies for directions, and they practically ran from me like I had the plague—or a clipboard. Not promising.

Eventually, I saw a preschool with parents collecting their kids. Worth a crack. I approached a couple of them, and as luck would have it—one of the parents owned our accommodation. Just like that, the universe tossed us a win. Saved.

So here I swing, gently rocking in a hammock on a mountain terrace, sipping wine while Maree cooks dinner. Yep—she’s back in action. Strong, steady, and humming with purpose.