San Ramon to Urubamba

Today started with tears. Not the stub-your-toe kind, but the oh no, we’re actually leaving kind. Me and Raiden did an epic clean-up of the cabin we’d called home for the last two weeks — wanted it sparkling so Ricio wouldn’t have to lift a finger after we left. Maree ducked off to fill in the last bit of the drain hole from yesterday, then came back to help with the final scrub-down.

Leaving this place was hard — the jungle, the river, but mostly the people. Ricio… what a woman. She’s got the kind of energy and warmth that makes you feel like you’ve gained a sister.

They weren’t letting us go without a send-off. In true Peruvian fashion, the whole family got involved: Grandma, Ricio, daughter Valacier, Oscar, me and Maree all heading out for chifa — Peruvian-Chinese — after shuffling bikes into the ute in three separate runs.

At lunch the tears properly started. Hard to walk away from people who’ve opened their home and hearts like that. They dropped us at the bus stop, waved goodbye… and yep, even Maree got misty-eyed.

The bus, meant to arrive at 2:00, rocked up at 2:45 (basically early by Peruvian standards). It was packed, the luggage hold already bursting, but the crew were pros, they wedged our bikes in without charging extra and treated them better than they’ve been treated all trip.

We settled in for the ride to Ayacucho, our halfway stop to Cusco, ready for a long, unpredictable journey.

My arm had been feeling good, but hours of sitting set the nerve pain off again. Thankfully I had my little electro-therapy gizmo, so I zapped myself whenever I could.

Food stops were chaos. First was a petrol station with zero snacks. Nothing. Nada. Just a toilet queue. The second stop was a mystery street somewhere with one dude selling dodgy fried chicken and rice (my choice) and another selling tamales (Maree’s pick).

We rolled the dice, ate up, and tried to sleep in seats clearly designed for humans with no spine.

Around 4 a.m., Maree shook me awake — “Babe, we’re here!”

We scrambled off the bus into a dark Ayacucho street… and then I realised. The black plastic bag we’d stashed under the bus? Still there. On its way to who knows where. Half my clothes, shorts, t-shirts, socks, bras, gone.

Then "Shit babe!! Mum is still on the bus!!"

Our Garmin Inreach GPS tracker, we call Mum and she was still riding the bus!!

To top it off, Maree’s Google Maps hadn’t been downloaded, so there we were, in an unfamiliar city with no idea where our hostel was. We cycled around until we found a juice stand, showed the lady our address and she pointed us in the general direction.

On route we stopped at a local restaurant to feed our hanger. Chops and spuds for breakie. Dont get to excited, these werent your kiwi farm style fat pork chop. Here they manage to slice thier chops into four, so theyre skinny samples of what could be!

By some miracle, we were only two blocks away from our hostal. We banged on the hostel door at 8:30 a.m., way before check-in. The owner must’ve taken pity on two hagged Kiwis as she handed us a room key, where we collapsed into bed after a quick coffee.

The afternoon mission: find the bus station and see if they could help us track down our GPS tracker and clothes missing bag. The “station” turned out to be nothing but a sign and a phone number. Useless.

The bus ride and pain had worn me down, riding my bike around was the last thing I wanted. So we ditched the hunt, flopped onto the hostel rooftop, and watched the city lights flicker thier city night beauty.

This morning’s mission: message every number we had for the national bus company. Every. Single. One. No answers. No callbacks. Nothing.

With my wardrobe reduced to thermals, not ideal for this warm weather, we decided it was market day. Shorts and a t-shirt were top priority.

Navigating another Peruvian city’s traffic on bikes is like unlocking chaos mode in a video game, exhilarating and mildly terrifying. The best part? (and worst at times!!), on a bike, you’re practically invisible here. Footpaths, one-way streets, weaving through taxis, all fair game. At one point we were pushing our bikes through a pedestrian street when we smelled it…

Fresh. Roasted. Coffee.

Priorities instantly shifted. We ordered cappuccinos and sat there sniffing them like they were the world’s finest contraband. It’s been way too long since we’ve had coffee that wasn’t burnt or instant.

The market was the real challenge. You need to know something about me and Maree: we don’t “do” shopping. No retail therapy, no lazy browsing. Maree’s method? Grab the first thing that fits, pay whatever they ask, done.

My method? Drag her around every stall, hunt down the best deal, compare, haggle if needed, then decide. We survived the sensory overload and emerged victorious, new shorts, t-shirt, and a couple of extras.

Back at the hostel rooftop, Rocio, our eco lodge sister, messaged to check in. I told her about the missing GPS and bag drama.

“Don’t stress, I’ll ring the bus company,” she said.

This woman is an angel. That evening she sent two photos: one of my clothes bag, and one of my GPS tracker. She’d found them.

Her trick? She told the bus company we were consuls from New Zealand and urgently needed the device and clothes, or the embassy would go to the police. Legendary.

Tomorrow, the goods will be on a bus coming through town, and we can collect them. I’ll officially have too many clothes now. First world problem!!

. For tonight, we can relax knowing our stuff will soon be back in our hands all thanks to Rocio, our Peruvian guardian angel.

As you know I haveI refitted the bike, double-checked measurements, and even ordered a butterfly handlebar like the one I use back home. My Jones bar feels too wide, so why not try something new? Maybe it’ll arrive… maybe it won’t. Peru’s postal system is like a lucky dip.

I’ve also been religious about stretching. Found a brilliant lady on YouTube — Dr. Jo — whose shoulder and neck stretches have been a lifesaver. I’m a big believer that everything’s connected, so now I’ve added lower back and hip openers into the mix. Add in my beloved electrotherapy zapper (yes, I’m probably addicted) and that was most of my day — stretching, zapping, and waiting.

We couldn’t stray far because we were on standby for Rocio’s message about when the bus with our missing gear would pass through. No SIM cards means our phones are useless off Wi-Fi, so we were basically on house arrest. Finally, at 5 p.m., the message came: Go to the bus station, your gear’s on the way.

We straddled the bikes and pedalled across town, only to discover the “bus agency” was… a fruit stall on the side of the road. Through the magic of a phone translator, we explained the situation. They wanted money for putting our bikes on the bus — news to us — but we told them they’d get it only once we had our stuff back. Fair trade.

The wait turned out to be magic. A guy bought a load of mandarins and insisted on sharing them with us. Then the fruit stall ladies gave us more mandarins. A food vendor wandered by, didn’t get a sale, but came back to give us food for free when he spotted our bikes.

As the sky turned dark, headlights appeared down the road. The bus screeched to a halt, and the driver waved a bag out the window. Our clothes and GPS tracker were back in our hands, just like that. We waved them off, rode back to the hostel feeling proud and messaged Rocio to tell her she’s a legend.

Today was a proper cruisy one. We lazed about the hostel most of the day, killing time until our night bus to Cusco. Around 4pm we decided to make tracks, detouring via the markets to grab some chicharrón with mote (basically fried pork with corn – greasy, salty heaven). With bellies sorted, we rolled up to the bus terminal with heaps of time to spare.

Now, I’ve gotta say, this bus company, hands down the best we’ve dealt with so far when it comes to bikes. Usually it’s a battle: people yelling, trying to dominate, demanding we strip our bikes down like they’re Lego. But this time? Smooth as.

The guy at the counter asked us to pull both wheels off, including the back one. I wasn’t having a bar of it at first, the derailleur is precious cargo and yanking off the back wheel just screams trouble. But he patiently explained that the bikes would have their very own compartment, no packaging piled on top, no dodgy handling. I was still sceptical… until two other bikepackers turned up with bikes, and they too had to strip theirs.

Four bikes, their own compartment, handled with care? Couldn’t really argue with that. They even let us use a storage room to do the dirty work in peace. No stress, no raised voices. Bloody marvellous.

Onboard we managed to score the front two seats, prime viewing but apparently locals call them “death seats.” I reckon if you’re going to go, you may as well go with legroom and the best view in the house, right?

And crikey – the seats were comfy as! Reclined back, sleeping bags wrapped round us, pods in my ears… and before I knew it, I was dozing on and off the whole trip.

Could you believe it , we actually pulled into Cusco on time. Like, bang on 12:00. No delays, no breakdowns, no wild detours. Just us, on schedule for once. I almost didn’t know what to do with myself.

Off the bus, bellies grumbling, I asked at the counter how we were meant to get to Urubamba in the Sacred Valley, our next stop for volunteering. The lady at the desk kindly dropped a pin on Google Maps, like “easy as, just go here.” Ha. Famous last words.

The calm of a relaxing bus ride was instantly replaced with stress city. Out of nowhere, Old mates Murray and Laura popped up to say g’day. We hung out with them for most of the arvo, which was bloody lovely.....NOT!... though the transport drama loomed in the background.

We tried the minibus companies first, only to get laughed at. No bikes, not unless we coughed up 140Sol. Mate, that’s like selling my soul, they could get stuffed. They then casually told us where to find taxis, so off we trudged.

After chucking a few do loops around town, I muttered to Maree, “bugger this, let’s just head back to where the buses are, taxis gotta swing past there.”

Sure enough, we flagged one down and haggled a ride for 100 soles. At that point, I’d have probably paid double just to be done wit Murray and Laura.

We lashed the bikes to the roof, squished ourselves into the back seat, and just as the relief set in boom, four ypung adult Peruvians piled in with bottles of wine. Off they went, drinking and belting out songs at full volume for half the ride. My patience was hanging by a thread.

But finally... finally, Urubamba.

Knackered. Grumpy. Hungry.

There was only one way to fix the day: beer and chippies. We grabbed a bag and a few cold ones, then sprawled out on our hostel bed, crunching and sipping our way back to some kind of happiness.

Best. Bed. Ever. Honestly, that hostel mattress had me feeling like a princess. Then again, I am a princess, so no surprises there.

We packed our gear and cycled 20 minutes out of town to the dog rescue center. That last hill just about killed me, lungs on fire, but at the top we were greeted by a stampede of dogs and… a half-naked bloke called Angus. Turns out he’s from England and, apart from Emily the manager, he’s the only other worker here.

Angus gave us the grand tour. Dogs everywhere. Inside dogs, outside dogs, fat dogs, skinny dogs, dogs that probably should be outside but somehow sneak inside anyway. Total chaos. Hours were laid out for us: work 6–11am, back again at 3:30 for feeding, then bedtime for the dogs at 9pm.

Apparently five volunteers are needed just to feed and tuck them in, I raised an eyebrow, but Angus was dead serious.

It didn’t take long to see this place is a bit of a shambles. Systems? Hmmmmm??!! Organisation? And when it comes to feedback, let’s just say it wouldn’t go down well. We were also told someone has to be with the dogs all the time, meaning we can’t really leave the property. Now, I had something to say about that. We’re volunteers, not full-time staff, and unlike the Eco Lodge where we felt appreciated, here it feels like we should be grateful just to breathe their air. Doesn’t sit well.

Me and Maree had a yarn and decided we’d persevere for now but needed to lay a few things on the table with Emily.

Then later in the kitchen Maree unsutterly dropped the bomb, told them straight what she thought of the hours. My jaw hit the floor but I quickly jumped in to back her up. This initiated a not-so-pleasant chat about “passion” and work. Their view? If you’re passionate, you should give more time. My view? Passion doesn’t mean take advantage of me! Back when I started working in the outdoors people expect you to work longer for love of the job. Nah. Boundaries matter.

Ours are clear.