San Ramon Part 1

The bus was meant to get us into San Ramón at 7am. Instead, it spat us out, groggy and frostbitten, onto the side of the highway at high noon like a bad hangover no one asked for.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to feel heat on my skin. After being entombed in that icy bus—windows sealed tight, air-con blasting like we’d paid extra for the Siberian experience—we stumbled out with stiff limbs and zero sleep. I’d spent the night alternating between shivering in a foetal position and rage-whispering to Maree, “How is this legal?” Her only reply: “Hypothermia’s cheaper than therapy.”

There we were, dumped roadside with our bikes wrapped tighter than Christmas hams. Just as we began wondering how many generations it would take for that much plastic to break down, a local legend materialised—grinning, holding scissors, and without a word, started liberating our bikes. Like some kind of eco-minded Santa Claus, he even took the plastic away. Just disappeared it. No clue where it went. But the guilt started to ease.

Next priority: soup. We wheeled our way to a tiny local eatery and ordered two bowls of sancocho, hot and salty and just what our wrecked bodies needed. I finally felt human again. Then—because we’re basically powered by sugar and magic—we turned the corner and found a juice cart dishing out mango hugos. Sweet, cold, fresh, and sticky. We were practically moaning with every sip.

The ride to our volunteer Eco Lodge was blessedly short and all downhill. The universe gave us a tiny win after a night of punishment.

We arrived at the lodge and were greeted by Recio—an absolute gem of a woman, warm smile, soft voice, and a vibe that made us instantly feel at home. Her young daughter peeked out from behind her legs, curious and cheeky. They showed us around their jungle haven—eco chalets tucked amongst the trees, flowers blooming everywhere, and birds calling from the canopy like something straight off a David Attenborough doco.

Our room? A private chalet perched up a little hill, completely surrounded by green. You could hear nothing but the breeze through leaves and a river murmuring below. No horns. No shouting. No sick bowls. Just the whisper of the jungle telling us to exhale.

We offered to help, which turned into a bit of bed-making. Let’s be real—we’re better at sleeping in them than prepping them, but it felt good to muck in. Recio and her family are the kind of people who make you want to be a better human just by being around them.

As night fell, I lay back on the bed, the window open to the trees, my body finally warm again, my mind quiet. I felt something I hadn’t felt in days.

Safe.

Tomorrow we’d get stuck into volunteering, but tonight? Tonight was just about breathing in this fresh mountain air, listening to the river, and falling asleep without a single honk or hypothermic shiver.

Ill.keep saying it,there’s something bloody magic about waking up wrapped in birdsong, bush, and that slow hush that only comes when you’re far, far away from honking horns and freezer-bus-induced frostbite. Our chalet sits tucked on a wee hill, a green cocoon of trees and damp earth and filtered light.

I woke with a kind of hopeful ache in my arm and a fire in my belly to do something about it. If I want back on the bike proper, it’s going to take more than wishful thinking. So, I’ve committed. This morning: a proper stretch session, solo yoga in the trees. Just me, the birds, the bugs, and my slowly uncrunching joints.

It was all go here at the lodge from early on. There was a group of guests due—l, could’ve been 11am, might’ve been 12... in classic Latin style, no one really knew. But that didn’t stop the whole place firing up like a Bunnings sausage sizzle. Bed-making was on the agenda, and I expertly ducked out of it by declaring myself the official leaf racking manager. Someone’s got to do the jobs no one wants, right?

Soon enough, I levelled up: found a leaf blower abandoned like a war relic and decided it needed reviving. The plug was fried, but I’ve got dodgy DIY down to an artform. Snipped. Spliced. Wrapped her up. And for extra safety, I slapped on my rubber gardening gloves—because that’s obviously how qualified electricians roll! And what do you know? She coughed back to life with a wheeze and a puff, and I blew those leaves into next Tuesday.

Maree, meanwhile, got promoted to the real work. Someone reported water wasn’t flowing to a few cabins, so off she trotted with a spanner and her Kiwi can-do. Trade lady to the rescue.

I then kept myself busy tidying up the pool area, rehoming pot plants to prettify the open-air restaurant, and generally pottering about like someone who lives here.

There’s something deeply satisfying about giving back to the places that host us. Especially when they’re run by people like Recio and her family, salt of the earth, genuinely kind, and not afraid to hand over a broom or a cup of coffee.

By lunchtime, the sun had climbed high and the heat slapped us round the ears. That river we’d been eyeing up yesterday? It was calling. Maree and I wandered down, barefoot and heat-dazed, and flopped into the cool water like boiled potatoes. Dunk. Float. Exhale. Nature’s version of a cold pint.

Everyone stops here at 1pm for a proper sit-down meal. It’s not rushed, not grab-a-sandwich-on-the-run. It’s shared plates, elbows on tables, and laughter floating up through the trees. It’s slow and grounding and strangely nourishing beyond the food itself. I like it.

The afternoon was ours, and I didn’t argue. I think the aftershock of the bus from hell and my gastro crash was still hanging around because I went full light-out mode in our chalet. Out cold. The kind of sleep where you wake up confused about where and who you are.

But then—pssst. The glorious, familiar sound of a beer can being cracked. I emerged, tousled and blinking, and joined Maree on the deck for a sundowner, sipping slowly as the jungle sighed its way into evening.

And as for my arm? I’ve added a new weapon to my recovery toolkit: an electro muscle stimulator. It’s hard to know if it’s actually doing anything or if I just get a buzz out of pretending I’m being zapped by aliens. Either way, I reckon I’m on the mend. You watch. I’ll be back on the saddle before the next chook tries to kill me.

Today Recio’s cleaner, who usually keeps the chalets sparkling, had a car accident and couldn’t make it in. Fair call. But that meant the baton was passed… straight to us. Yep, me and Maree, the self-proclaimed queens of clean your own mess and that’s it.

Cleaning is possibly at the absolute arse-end of our life’s to-do list. But, when you're surrounded by good people in the jungle, well, you bloody roll up your sleeves and crack into it.

Recio paired up with me and sent Maree off with her teenage daughter. Not sure how productive that team was—judging by the volume of chat and giggles, it may have been 10% elbow grease and 90% yarns.

Recio’s a character, though. No nonsense, and she gets things done. We actually made a good team, once I figured out her system of toilet-scrubbing triage and rapid-fire bed fluffing.

By the time we’d finished the final loo scrub and fought the last set of jungle-scented sheets into submission, the day had stealthily crept to 2pm. No wonder my stomach was howling like a banshee. Turns out the kitchen hand had the day off too (great timing, team), so Wascor, Recio’s husband had zipped into town and returned with pollo con papa for the lot of us.

Somehow, miraculously, my belly didn’t turn on me. That, my friends, is progress. Maybe I’ve finally exorcised the ghost of Polo Puke Fest 2025.

In the afternoon, with the heavy lifting done, Maree and I escaped into the greenery. We followed a dirt trail through the bush, zigzagging up toward a tucked-away waterfall. Naturally, when we got there, the clothes came off. You can't be half-arsed about a jungle waterfall dip.

The water was icy, fresh, and exactly what our sweat-soaked, bleach-scented selves needed. Splash, laugh, float. That moment reminded me why we’re here. Why we keep saying yes to the wild.

As always, dinner isn’t dinner here, it’s a 1pm sit-down feast. Come 7pm, it’s DIY dinner vibes, usually cobbled together leftovers or snacks.

What I love is how Recio always wanders in to join us. Just to chat. It’s not forced or fancy, just a daily dose of connection, stories, and genuine kindness.

We’ve fallen into a bit of a rhythm here. Mornings start slow, coffee in bed, quite literally under the covers, listening to the forest wake up around us. Then it’s down the hill to the main house for breakfast before we don our cleaning hats again.

We came here for DIY, not domestic duties, but somehow we’ve become the cabin-cleaning crew. Honestly, Maree and I could scrub this whole place spotless in two hours flat, yet Recio’s daughter spends three hours making one bed. Productivity levels?

After lunch, we decided to hop on the bikes and pedal into San Ramon, just to spin the legs and grab some fruit. But the moment my bum hit that saddle, the pain came roaring back. It’s like my nerve gets trapped and sends lightning bolts straight down my arm.

One minute of riding—that’s all it takes—and I’m doubled over, gritting my teeth, feeling like my arm’s on fire. It’s soul-crushing.

We made it into town, and the first thing we stumbled upon was a festival. Naturally, medicinal beer was prescribed immediately. A cold one in hand took the edge off the frustration, but not the pain. We wandered the stalls, loaded up on fruit, and trudged back to the eco-lodge. By the time we got there, I was completely wrecked. Couldn’t sit, couldn’t lie down, couldn’t find a single position that didn’t make me want to scream.

On the pain scale, it wasn’t a 10. It was a solid 15. And trust me, my pain threshold’s high. This is next-level agony. Tonight I just lay there staring out the window, wishing for a miracle, wishing I could wake up and this nightmare would be gone. Tomorrow I’ll be back to Googling “pinched nerve magic fixes” because I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep not riding. This isn’t how the dream was supposed to be.

Today’s mission started by prettying up the pool area. Bit of sweeping, a few leaves chucked out, and the place looked halfway flash. That didn’t last long though, because before we knew it, we were back in toilet territory, scrubbing loos and doing all the odd jobs that seem to appear out of nowhere around here. After that, we smashed out all the cabins in record time – two hours flat. Even Recio was impressed, and she’s not easily impressed. I’ll take that win.

Lunch was the usual rice and beans, simple but bloody good fuel for the soul. Then the sky opened up. A proper deluge – two solid hours of rain hammering down. But I made the most of it. Sat myself down with my best mate Google, diving deep into the dark world of pinched nerves and bike setups. What can I do to stop this pain? How do I get back on the bike without wanting to scream after a minute?

When the rain eased, I dragged my bike out and did a full fit check. Adjusted the cleats on my shoes, fiddled with the seat height, shifted everything I could think of. Took it for a test spin, praying for a miracle, but nah… the pain was still there like an unwelcome passenger.

My gut tells me my handlebars are too wide, but with Jones bars there’s no magic fix right now. Guess that’ll have to wait until I can find something narrower.

Google also handed me a list of stretches and exercises that might untrap whatever nerve is ruining my life. Tomorrow, I start trying them. Because there’s no way in hell I’m giving up on this ride.

By late arvo, Maree got bored of whatever deep-dive she was on and wandered off for beers. We sat outside, sipping slowly, chatting with Recio and her daughter as the jungle went quiet around us. Just the sound of the forest, a soft breeze, and the hope that maybe tomorrow, I’ll be one stretch closer to riding pain-free again.

Our life as domestic servants has somehow found a rhythm. A beat I never thought we’d be moving to, yet here we are, toe-tapping to the tune of brooms sweeping and mop buckets.

This morning, a big group was packing up, three cabins’ worth of humans dragging their heels towards the exit. When it’s us milking a late checkout, no problem, right? But when the shoe’s on the other foot, you just want to yell, “For God’s sake, bugger off so we can get this shit cleaned!”

These guys definitely took “12 o’clock checkout” as a flexible guideline.

Maree and I got fed up with hovering, waiting for them to move, so we retreated to our usual hangout on the porch of the main house. The coffee situation was dire, the pot had run dry, and after being served decaf this morning (a crime against humanity if you ask me), I wasn’t risking it again. No caffeine, just pure sulk mode.

Finally, after lunch, the guests scarpered, and we went in like cleaning tornadoes, blitzing five cabins in record time. Anywhere else, if we’d been sidelined into being the help, we would’ve walked out without looking back. But Rocio is different. She’s this soul you just want to be around – all warmth and kindness, a beautiful-hearted woman who pours everything into this eco-lodge. Helping her feels right. It’s the least we can do.

By the time the last bed was made and the final loo flushed, late afternoon had rolled in and so had the rain, heavy and relentless. We sat in our usual spot on the porch, listening to it drum on the tin roof, watching the mist gather in the jungle, sipping the last of the day’s energy away.

This morning, I woke up with zero mojo. None. Zip. The cabin cleaning gig had officially lost its sparkle, if it ever had one. I dragged myself around with the mop like it was my life sentence.

Maree and I chatted as we worked, trying to hash out a plan for my arm and this limbo we’re in. I know I need to stretch, heal, and give my body time. I know this is a sweet setup – good kai, a comfy cabin to crash in, and a beautiful jungle backdrop. But holy hell, cleaning cabins day in, day out isn’t exactly the adventure of my dreams. I guess for now, this is my life, and I’ve just got to own it.

This afternoon, I decided enough was enough. Time to claw back a little happiness. I washed every filthy piece of clothing we owned, scrubbed mud from places on my bike I didn’t even know existed, tightened a few bolts, oiled the chains. It felt bloody good to do something that smelled of bike life again. Small win, big grin.

Then came the evening chaos. Sixty-nine – yes, sixty-bloody-nine – Jehovah’s Witness teenage boys descended on the place like a swarm of locusts, armed with tents that wouldn’t survive a mild sneeze, let alone a night in the jungle.

By dark, they’d given up on their flimsy setups and dragged their tents under the shelter of the dining area, claiming every spare patch of concrete. Can’t say I blamed them.

Dinner service… what a circus. Apparently, our job description had expanded to include “restaurant wait staff,” and we were roped into setting the tables. Proper restaurant-style settings. For teenage boys. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that a teenage boy doesn’t give two hoots about a neatly folded napkin – he just wants to shovel food into his gob and get seconds before his mate does.

But nope, it was plate by painstaking plate, boy by boy. A slow, painful process that made watching paint dry seem thrilling.

Meanwhile, Maree and I weren’t just serving, we were dishwashing, fetching, clearing, doing everything the three actual kitchen servers seemed incapable of doing. Honestly, those three moved slower than snails on sleeping pills.

By the end, we were knackered, sweaty, but at least the boys were fed, the chaos calmed, and we could retreat to our own little cabin and breathe again.