Intro
Cajamarca is holding me still today, and for once, I’m not fighting it. My legs are still humming from the relentless 1,000-meter climbs of the past week, and a stubborn headache meant the bike stayed leaned against the hotel wall while I navigated the city on foot and by colectivo. The sky is mostly sunny, a rare break from the heavy grey of the mountains, but the air remains cool enough to remind me I’m still high up.
The 30-Sol Fix and a Street-Side Start
- I woke up with a dull throb behind my eyes and a complete lack of appetite, the kind of morning where the thought of spinning a gear makes my stomach flip. I skipped the planned ride to Cumbemayo and Sexemayo, opting instead for a slow-motion recovery. I shaved, showered, and finally dealt with my disintegrating sandals. They’ve been falling apart for days, forcing me to clomp around in heavy hiking boots that turn my feet into ovens. I took them to a zapateria Herbert recommended, where the cobbler promised to stitch the straps and slap on a fresh sole for 30 soles. Leaving them there felt like a small victory over the wear and tear of the road.
- By 10:30, the headache started to recede, replaced by a need for distraction. I headed toward the Mega Plaza shopping mall to find a colectivo. On the way, the sweet, thick scent of surtido—that blended fruit mix that smells like a tropical greenhouse—hit me from a street stall. I paired a glass of it with a cheese-filled humita, the corn mash warm and salty. It was the first thing that actually tasted good all day. I ended up brushing my teeth in the mall bathroom, a classic touring-cyclist move that always draws a few confused looks from the locals in business casual.
- Finding a ride to Otuzco was its own brand of entertainment. The colectivos here don’t just wait for you; they hunt you. I stood by the road and watched the ‘criers’—the young men who work the van doors. They lean their entire upper bodies out of the sliding doors while the van is still moving, their feet dangling inches from the pavement. The raspy shout of the colectivo criers—’Otuzco! Otuzco! Otuzco!’—became the rhythm of the street. It’s a frantic, loud, and incredibly efficient system. I hopped into a van, the door sliding shut just as we accelerated into the flow of traffic.
The Windows of the Dead
- I reached the Ventanillas de Otuzco around noon. It’s a pre-Inca necropolis where hundreds of rectangular niches are carved directly into the volcanic rock face. It looks like a giant, stony honeycomb. I hiked up above the main site to find some quiet, away from the handful of other visitors. The rough, porous grit of the volcanic stone felt cool under my hands as I scrambled up the path. Up there, the village of Otuzco laid out like a green-and-brown map below me, and the silence was a massive relief after the chaos of the city.
- I pulled out my supplies for a makeshift picnic: trail mix, those incredibly crunchy breadsticks I found yesterday, a block of local cheese, and a sliced cucumber. There’s something grounding about eating simple food while looking at 1,800-year-old burial sites. I sat there for an hour, just chewing and watching the clouds move. The village itself didn’t have much else to offer—a rather unremarkable suspension bridge over a shallow river—so I caught another colectivo back to the city, once again serenaded by the door-leaners shouting their destinations into the wind.
Ransom Rooms and Offal Omelets
- Back in Cajamarca, I made a quick stop at the Cuarto del Rescate, the Ransom Room. It’s supposedly the place where the Inca emperor Atahualpa filled a room once with gold and twice with silver in a failed attempt to buy his freedom from Pizarro. It’s the perfect museum for a cyclist with a short attention span: you walk around the central stone structure, read two plaques, and you’re back on the street in thirty minutes. I finished the rest of my snacks on the steps of the church near the Plaza de Armas, watching the Good Friday crowds drift past in a slow, somber parade.
- As evening fell, my stomach finally decided it was ready for a real challenge. I went to Restaurant Salas, a local institution, and decided to be bold. I ordered the vegetable omelet with pig brains. It arrived looking innocent enough, but the texture was unmistakable—creamy, rich, and slightly metallic, tucked between layers of fried egg and peppers. It’s the kind of dish that demands your full attention. I spent the rest of the night tucked away in my hotel room, enjoying the luxury of a private space and a bed that doesn’t move. My head is clear, my sandals are being reborn at the zapateria, and the mountains are waiting for me tomorrow.
Overnight
I stayed at a hotel in Cajamarca (Hotel Plaza), which was essential for recovery. Having a private room allowed me to manage my headache and gear without the noise of a hostel or the cramped space of a tent.
Reflection
Pig brain has the consistency of thick custard and tastes exactly like iron-rich marrow; it is best eaten quickly before you think too much about it.