Hauraz to Lima

This morning started with another round of physio on my bung shoulder. It’s been acting up like a moody toddler—tight, twitchy, and just generally a pain in the arse… or arm, in this case. The physio lady did her thing again—electro-zaps, warm pads, goopy ultrasound jelly, and a firm rub. Not quite a day spa, but my body didn't complain.

Afterwards, I met up with Maree at the local market for a classic street-side lunch and some more bits and bobs we needed. Hauraz's market scene is a heady mix of raw meat stalls, ripe bananas, bootleg DVDs, ancient Andean medicine, and every herbal remedy under the sun. You don’t go in for one thing. You go in and come out changed.

We passed a fella on the street with a collection of little jars and vials—natural rubs, oils, and brews. One caught my eye: big bold letters said Cannabis. Had rosemary, arnica, and some other bits chucked in too. I shrugged. “Bugger it—when in Peru,” and bought myself a wee tub.

Back at the hostel, I slathered it on my shoulder and arm. Either the placebo was strong, or that cannabis balm is the business, because my arm felt the best it’s been in days. The pain eased off enough for me to feel a flicker of hope that I might not turn into a permanently lopsided cyclist.

This arvo we kicked back a bit. Caught up with a Kiwi and a Scot who’d met on a ski field in Canada and were now wandering South America together. Good yarns. Bloody nice to hear a familiar accent again too. Been a while since we had some solid Aotearoa banter.

Wrapped up the day with some comfort food—nachos loaded like a fiesta. Big feeds for big rides. Tomorrow, we ride.

I traipsed off to physio again this morning, one last round of poking, heating, zapping, and all the usual carry-on.

Today, she really took things up a notch. Covered me in wax. Not a little dab, full coverage. I swear I looked like a candle ready for a romantic dinner. It gave serious Fifty Shades of Grey energy, except a lot less sexy and a lot more awkward small talk in Spanish.

Then she stuck a heat pack on me, patted my legs, said something I didn’t catch, then added “muy bien.” So apparently, my legs got the physio’s tick of approval. I’ll take that. Bit of a spring in my step as I trundled back to the hostel.

I was fizzing to hit the road again, I hadn't been ready for a break in the first place. We smashed some leftover nachos, packed up the bikes, and finally rolled out. Felt good. For about 30 minutes.

Then came the pain. Throbbing, stabbing, radiating down my arm like a siren screaming: "Oi! Pay attention to me!"

I tried to ignore it—l, pushed through for a bit, but it got the better of me. I pulled over on the side of the road, close to tears.

“Babe, I can’t cycle with an arm like this.”

And with my lower lip dragging on the ground, we turned around.

We found a new hostel, Caroline’s. It’s bloody lovely, actually. Calm, peaceful, spotless. But it’s not where I want to be. I want to be out there, riding, moving forward. Not sidelined. Again.

We had one of those Big Talks that every adventure eventually demands. What’s next? My arm needs rest, and probably more therapy. But my soul needs motion.

So… we pivoted. Signed up to a volunteer platform. Spent the night scrolling listings, building projects, organic farms, mountain lodges, you name it. Found a couple that felt right, so I flicked them a message.

The adventure’s just taken another twist. Not the one we wanted, but hey—every good story needs a plot twist, right?

We treated ourselves to a cheeky sleep-in this morning. The kind of indulgence that makes a Sunday feel like a Sunday.

We decided to meander into town for a bit of a mish. I’d been on the hunt for one of those electro-pulsing muscle things—you know, the ones that zap your muscles back to life like a science experiment. My arm’s still being a right pain, so I figured it was worth a go.

We traipsed all over town, ducking into shops, pharmacies, and anything that looked remotely zap-adjacent, but came up empty-handed. Maybe Lima will deliver the goods.

I forgot to mention that's where we are heading next, by bus, on route to our volunteer work. Ee’re heading past Lima to an eco-lodge in jungle country. They’re after a couple of keen beans for gardening, building, DIY bits and bobs. Itss a different kind of adventure, but one I’m actually fizzing about. Getting our hands dirty, doing something meaningful, and maybe meeting a few characters along the way.

Back to ourwander, we stumbled upon our new favourite lunch: Chicharrón con mote. Porky goodness meets Peruvian soul food. Washed it down with an ice cream and, naturally, grabbed a bottle of red for later. Priorities, treats to soothe my soul.

We sorted bus tickets for tomorrow morning and kicked back with a glass of wine to toast this unexpected twist. I won’t lie there’s a knot in my stomach. I didn’t want this. I wanted to keep riding, wanted to pedal Peru's winding backroads and feel the road under my wheels. But you’ve got to listen when your body whispers (or screams), and mine’s had enough for now.

So rather than mope about it, we’re pivoting. This isn’t a detour, t’s just the next chapter, a bonus episode.

Tonight we pack up our bikes and gear for a bus journey. We are off to a new place, with new people and new purpose.

Lima! Lima! Lima!

Rapido! Rapido! Rapido!

(Go on, read that in your best high-pitched Spanish accent.)

That’s how we knew we were in the right place. The chaos of the Peruvian bus terminal was alive with voices, dozens of peoplr shouting out their destinations, all competing for our attention.

“Lima, Lima, Lima!”

“Rapido, Rapido!”

Like some kind of transportation auction where the loudest wins.

We followed the call of “Rapido”, our bus company, and sure enough, our chariot eventually arrived. Only 30 minutes late, which in Peru, basically means it’s early. Rapido, indeed.

The only reason we were heading to Lima at all was it was on route to our jungle destination but I thought I could see a chiropractor there too. It turns out I could’ve done with a bit of anger management too.

First time in Peru we’ve had to pay extra for the bikes, and fair enough, I don’t mind that. What wound me up was the way the driver and his sidekick manhandled our bikes. Tossed around like they were broken furniture at the tip. I swear I felt my blood pressure spike. In the end, Maree and I did what any bike-loving she-warriors would do we muscled in, took control, and secured the bikes ourselves.

Then we were off.

The moment we started winding our way up and out of the valley, I felt it FOMO, big time. The road we were now driving was the one we would’ve ridden. Every corner, every bend, I imagined us pedalling it. And that familiar ache started growing in my chest. The ache of not being in it, not feeling it with every fibre of my body.

The first couple of hours offered a steady, beautiful climb. The kind we live for. The kind we curse while doing, then remember with romantic reverence. We followed a river upstream through small rural villages women hearding sheep, kids with sticks, corn drying on roofs, donkeys tied to lamp posts. Life happening in slow, humble rhythm. I could see our journey unfolding as it would have been.

And then the magic happened.

The plateau opened up before us like a revelation. A vast expanse of golden tussock, stretching into forever. On one side, jagged grey scree slopes rose up into the clouds, snow-dusted peaks looking down like ancient gods. I nearly cried. This — this — was my kind of heaven. The kind of wild open space that doesn’t just speak to you, it sings. I didn’t want to just see it, I wanted to be in it. To pedal through the thin air, feel the burn in my legs, let the cold whip my cheeks. To smell it, hear the silence, feel that sacred solitude. From the bus seat, I felt like a disconnected tourist. I watched it all pass behind a window instead of living it, and it hurt.

The land shifted again. We dropped into a river valley, hemmed in by massive rocky slopes. Now, I’m no geologist, but I reckon we were driving through an old glaciated valley. The walls were like giant moraines, scraped and scarred like someone had dragged a god-sized rake through them. Nature's leftovers from an icy past.

And now? Chilli farms. As far as the eye could see. Row upon row of vibrant green plants, stretching like puzzle pieces across the flat land. And the drying yards, massive tarps laid out like sunbathing mats for thousands of red chillis. What a wild contrast. A place carved by ice now baking hot with spice. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Eventually, the Andes fell away behind us and a different kind of vastness emerged, the desert. It went on for miles. Just flat, barren sand, the kind that makes you feel small and weirdly exposed. We were at sea level now, but the ocean still felt distant, teasing us with the occasional glint on the horizon.

By the time we finally rolled into Lima, darkness had fallen, but it was anything but dark. The lights were overwhelming. Neon signs, flashing billboards, big-screen TVs blasting ads into the night. Everything was loud, alive, hyper-modern. Like we’d driven through some kind of wormhole and come out in another world. Gone were the simple villages and dusty paths of the Andes. Here, it was mega malls, motorways, and mega everything. It was a cultural whiplash I wasn’t prepared for.

Believe it or not, we got from the bus terminal to our hostal without Murray or Laura. Yep. We adulted. Navigated the chaos of Lima, rode through the manic streets, and found our way. Small win. And after the emotional rollercoaster of the day, I’ll take it.

Today’s mission sounded simple enough: cross Lima to see the chiropractor and get my twisted skeleton cracked into place. Easy, right? Yeah… nah. Lima’s not just big—it’s sprawling, chaotic, and utterly mental when it comes to public transport. But I was determined. I’d been walking like a wonky scarecrow for a few days, and it was time to sort it. Naturally, I dragged Maree along for the ride. Misery loves company.

It all started at the hospital. I figured they’d know how to get around, so I asked a lady behind the desk how to get to the other side of this monster city. She nodded wisely and gave us the first piece of the puzzle: walk out to the road and get in a van taxi.

Righto.

Now, van taxis in Lima aren’t like regular vans. They’re more like moving puzzles of human flesh. We flagged one down, the sliding door clunked open mid-intersection, and a sea of faces stared back. Standing room only. We shoved ourselves in anyway, the door slammed shut behind us, and we hurtled off into the urban abyss.

We got dropped at MEGA PLAZA—a chaotic, dusty expanse of consumerism—and were told to find the “subway.” We looked around for escalators or tunnels… nothing. That’s when we realised: in Peru, the subway isn’t under. It’s above. It’s buses. Massive, articulated, turbocharged buses with platforms and ticket barriers. Think more rollercoaster station than bus stop.

After some truly Olympic-level sign reading and Spanish deciphering, we figured out how to pay, where to go, and which side of the barrier to stand on. We even got on the right subway-bus. Felt like absolute champions. Navigated through the madness, managed to get off at the right stop, and then began what was described as a “short walk.”

Yeah… nah. It was a bloody mission. Easily a 30-minute hoof through the posh end of town. Glossy shops, groomed dogs, SUVs gleaming in the sun. People here didn’t bat an eyelid at $8 coffee. A long way from dusty roads and 10-sol menú del días.

Eventually, we found the clinic, tucked neatly between a gold-plated café and a salon that charged more than my bike’s worth for a haircut.

First stop? X-rays. Apparently, in Peru you’re not allowed to get cracked until they’ve peeked inside your skeleton. Fair enough. I coughed up the cash (surprisingly cheap) and got marched downstairs for three spine-glamour shots. Click. Flash. Done.

Then I met André, the chiropractor. Warm eyes, calm energy, hands that radiated confidence. He talked me through the results, explained a few things in slow, clear Spanish, and gently laid me down on the table. Crack. Pop. Snap. Realigned like a Tetris block.

It felt so good.

Floating on endorphins, we began the journey back. What we hadn’t factored in was rush hour. The subway bus stop was now a full-blown sardine factory. People everywhere. Pushing, shouting, jumping the queue.

First bus arrived—doors whooshed open—and the crowd surged. People jammed themselves in like their lives depended on it. Maree and I missed the boat entirely, left blinking in the fumes.

Next bus: I looked at Maree. “We’re getting on this one.”

Doors opened, and I became a human battering ram. Grabbed Maree’s hand and launched us into the madness. Bodies everywhere. We twisted and wedged and squashed in just as the doors clanged shut behind us. Welcome to Sardine Can: Extreme Mode.

More people got on. No one got off. We were so tightly packed I could feel someone else's heartbeat against my ribs. A woman clutched a chicken in a bag. A guy had his face in Maree’s armpit. It was a vibe.

Eventually, someone whispered that we needed to get off at the last stop and change buses. So we did. Sardined again. Back to Mega Plaza.

We stumbled into a nearby market and found dinner. Chicken and chips. A Peruvian classic. I poked the chicken with a fork. “Babe, does this look cooked to you?”

Maree: “Yeah, yeah, looks fine.”

I should have trusted my gut.

Fast-forward to 2am. That chicken came back like a demon. My guts twisted like a washing machine. I crawled to the bathroom and hugged the toilet like a long-lost friend. It was not pretty. I’ve slept in ditches, cycled up volcanoes, and showered in cow troughs, but nothing quite strips you of dignity like Peruvian food poisoning.

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The Day After (aka The Human Puddle)

We were meant to go back to the chiropractor today. Then catch a night bus up to San Ramón to start our new volunteer gig. That was the plan. The universe laughed.

I woke up wrecked. My limbs ached. My eyes were gritty. My stomach? Still staging a protest.

Maree took one look at me and said, “Nope.” She sorted everything. Rebooked the bus. Found another night’s stay. Handled it like an absolute weapon while I melted into the mattress.

My day? I slept. Drifted in and out of woozy dreams. Every muscle felt bruised, maybe from the c⁹hiro session, maybe from vomiting up my soul. Either way, I wasn’t moving.

At some point, Maree came back with lemonade ice blocks—my favourite sick treat. The kind of gesture that makes you want to cry and marry someone at the same time.

I didn’t eat anything else. Just lay there, occasionally sipping electrolytes, occasionally remembering the chicken with a shudder. I think it’ll haunt me for a while.

Tomorrow’s the new plan: crack my back again, get on a night bus, and begin the next chapter—volunteering in the Peruvian highlands.

If I never eat another chip in my life, I’ll die a happy woman.

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Let me know when you’re ready to carry on. I’m prepped for your next adventure entry!

We didn’t rush this morning. No alarm clocks. No reason to leap out of bed. Just the slow shuffle of two half-humans piecing themselves back together after a few rough days. I still wasn’t in top form—my belly still giving me the side-eye after last week’s dodgy pollo—but we only had two things on the agenda: my 3pm chiropractor appointment, and catching the 8pm night bus out of Lima. Easy, right?

Ha.

We figured, rather than faff around with taxis or tuk-tuks, we’d ride our bikes across Lima. Smart in theory—until we were thrown headfirst into a high-stakes game of “dodge the homicidal taxi driver.” Lima traffic is next-level chaos. Horns blaring, buses swerving like they're in Fast & Furious 27, and us, two hopeful gringas weaving through the madness with the grace of a drunk praying mantis.

Then—bam—miracle. We stumbled across a dedicated bike path. Smooth, quiet, and gloriously stress-free. And halfway across town, an old fella on a beat-up bike cruised up beside us. Silver hair, cheeky grin, and zero English. He pointed ahead and yelled something, then waved us to follow. Why not?

Turns out, our mysterious guide was taking us on a detour—first to his daughter and son-in-law’s bike shop, then straight to a café where he insisted on shouting us both a coffee. No agenda. Just pure kindness. Another one of those random little moments that sneak up and warm your insides more than any flat white ever could.

Back on the road, my stomach still wasn't fully on board with food, but I decided an ice cream would solve everything. It felt like one of those ‘healing cones’—the kind that says “Hey body, you’ve been through it. Here’s some sugar and magic.” I don’t care what anyone says—cono therapy is real, and I was due.

There’s something about navigating a city by bike that turns the ordinary into an adventure. Even when the day seems slow-paced on paper—a 3pm chiropractor appointment and an 8pm bus—Lima had other plans.

We packed up sluggishly, limbs still half-asleep from the night before. My body was wrecked from both hugging the bowl and the chiropractic cracking that left me limping like an old duck. Still, we made the call to bike across Lima. Probably stupid. Definitely worth it.

Riding through Lima is like playing Frogger, only you’re the frog, and the traffic doesn't care if you croak. We wove through chaos until—hallelujah—we found a cycleway. Then, just as we were catching our rhythm, this older bloke on a bike pulls up beside us, all smiles and chatter. Told us to follow him. Now, usually that’d set off the stranger-danger alarm bells, but he had grandad energy, so we did.

First stop? His daughter and son-in-law’s bike shop. Classic. Then he took us for a coffee, just to be kind. No agenda, just another magic moment handed to us by the universe wrapped in Lycra and kindness.

Fueled on caffeine and friendliness, I decided I needed a cono. You know the ones—ice cream in a wafer cone, dribbly and glorious. I still wasn’t in full eating mode, but somehow the promise of artificial vanilla and crunchy cone felt like medicinal perfection. Lima delivered.

We made it to the chiropractor right on time. Crack, crack, pop—my spine got a once-over like bubble wrap in the hands of an anxious child. It hurt and helped all at once.

But the ride back across town? That was the real balm. We were in the zone—dodging, weaving, flowing through traffic like a couple of urban salmon.

Then came the real miracle: my first actual meal since the dodgy chicken took me down. We stopped at a chicharrón cart—crispy pork heaven—and it hit like soul food.

Now, here’s where things got stupid. The bus station. We were early, thank God, because instead of just loading our bikes like normal humans, we had to plastic wrap them. I’m talking layers of cling film thick enough to outlive the human race. Pay for it, too. Then pay extra for the bikes themselves. Capitalism at its most infuriating.

To calm our boiling blood and justify our slow march toward environmental guilt, we cracked into more cono therapy. Chocolate this time. Always chocolate when things are going to shit.

The bus was meant to leave at 8. Of course it didn’t. Ten pm roll-around, finally on board, only to realise we’d been placed in the cryogenic section of the Andes Express. Who needs air con set to “deep Arctic expedition”? Apparently we do. Sleeping was a pipe dream. We shivered like penguins caught in a sleet storm, huddled under thin blankets with visions of our own funerals.

Eventually, it was time to board the bus. Except it wasn’t. The 8pm departure was actually a 10pm departure because... of course it was.

The bus itself? A mobile freezer. Classic South America move—crank the air-con to Antarctic and call it luxury. We layered up in every piece of clothing we had, but still sat there, shaking like damp sheepdogs, wondering if this was how we’d die. Frozen. On a bus. Somewhere in Lima.

As if we weren’t already miserable enough, somewhere in the early hours the bus screeched to a halt. Car crash ahead. We sat there, engines off, for over two hours. Half-asleep, teeth chattering, limbs cramping in weird new ways. It felt like we were never going to get moving again. But eventually, the road cleared. We thawed slightly. And the wheels rolled on.