Intro
I rolled back into Cajamarca this morning on a bus that felt like a refrigerator on wheels. The sky was a flat, partly cloudy grey, and the paved streets of the city felt loud and abrasive after almost a week in the silence of the Chachapoyas highlands. I’m back where I started, but the goal now is to shed the weight that’s been slowing me down on the 1,000-meter climbs.
The Room and the Purge
- The bus ride from Leimebamba was a long, shivering stretch of sleeplessness. Even with the windows clamped shut and my rain jacket zipped to my chin, the mountain air found its way through the cracks. I arrived at Hotel Chakra Runas around 10:00 AM, feeling like my brain was made of static. Herbert, the landlord, was already standing near the entrance. He looked genuinely relieved to see me; apparently, I was late enough that he’d started to worry. He didn’t make me wait for the official noon check-in, just handed me the keys and let me collapse into the room.
- After thirty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I forced myself up. The floor quickly disappeared under a sea of nylon and gore-tex. I’ve been carrying things ‘just in case’ for months, and the Andes don’t have much patience for ‘just in case.’ I spent the next two hours performing a ruthless gear audit. Extra layers, spare parts I haven’t touched, and sewing kits—everything went into a pile to be shipped ahead to Huaraz. Stripping the bike down felt like a confession of how much I’ve been struggling with the verticality of this route.
The Scavenger Hunt
- Around noon, I headed out into the city to find a way to package my life. The search for a box took me to the Plaza Vea shopping mall, a strange island of modern retail in the middle of the old city. I managed to score a sturdy cardboard box, but the real win was stumbling upon a jar of peanut butter mixed with cacao powder. I bought it on the spot; it’s the kind of high-calorie luxury that makes the morning oatmeal bearable. From there, I wandered into a smaller neighborhood shop and asked for empty egg trays to use as padding for my gear in the shipping box.
- I walked back to the hotel with the box under one arm and the egg trays under the other. The smell of damp cardboard from the mall’s recycling pile clung to my clothes as I navigated the narrow sidewalks. Back at the hotel, Herbert saw me struggling and stepped in to help. We spent 45 minutes in the courtyard to make this parcel ready for shipping. The ripping sound of transparent packing tape was the only noise in the patio as we went around the edges again and again, making sure the cardboard wouldn’t burst on the long truck ride south. Herbert even helped me wrap the entire thing in a layer of protective plastic to keep the dust and rain out.
The DNI Wall and the Cobbler
- The afternoon took a turn for the frustrating. I hauled the box over to the Shalom delivery office at 6:15 PM, thinking I’d be done in ten minutes. Instead, I hit a bureaucratic wall. The clerk stared at my German ID card and shook his head. Their computer system requires a DNI—the Peruvian national ID—which is entirely numeric. My ID has letters, and the software simply wouldn’t let him proceed. I stood there for a while, trying to find a workaround, but the machine was the boss. I had to strap the heavy box back onto the rack of my bike and pedal back through the city traffic, feeling every extra gram.
- Before heading back to the hotel, I stopped at the zapateria to pick up my sandals. The soles had been flapping like a loose tongue, and the straps were shredded. As the cobbler handed them over, the rubbery scent of fresh shoe glue hit me—sharp and chemical. He’d managed to bond a new sole to the old frame, but the work looked hurried. I have little confidence that the glue will hold once I start walking through stream crossings or over rocky paths, but for now, they’re back in the kit and ready for the road.
Provisions and the Final Soup
- The shipping situation was eventually saved by a message from the guy at the casa ciclista in Huaraz. He sent over his DNI number and name, which means I can use his credentials to get the box into the system tomorrow morning. With that stress dialed down, I went on a final resupply run. I hit a local bakery for a massive bag of breadsticks—the dry, salty kind that survives being stuffed into a pannier bag—and found a shop selling Swiss-style cheese with bits of bell pepper inside.
- Dinner was a bit of a trek. I had my heart set on a specific place that serves potato mash, but they were sold out by the time I arrived at 9:00 PM. I ended up walking through the cooler night air until I found a small spot serving Caldo de Gallina. It was a simple bowl of yellow broth, a hard-boiled egg, and a piece of chicken, but it was hot enough to burn away the last of the bus-ride chill. I’m back at the hotel now, the bike is partially packed, and the sleeplessness is finally catching up. Tomorrow, I lose the box and start the roundtrip climb toward Cumbemayo.
Overnight
I stayed at Hotel Chakra Runas in Cajamarca. Herbert was an incredibly helpful host who allowed an early check-in and assisted with parcel wrapping, which made the logistics of the gear purge much easier.
Reflection
Navigating the specific requirements of a shipping database is more exhausting than a ten-percent grade on a mountain pass.