Intro
The sky over La Punta stayed a muted, partly cloudy grey for most of the morning, providing a reprieve from the direct desert sun. I spent the early hours on the patio of Hotel Don Felix, where the paved ground was already shimmering with a thin layer of fine grit. It is a logistics day—the kind of pause that feels more like work than the actual riding, but necessary before I turn my back on the ocean and start the long climb toward Huambo.
Scrubbing the Desert Away
- I started the day with a three-cheese bread and the very last mandarin from my panniers. The morning was dedicated to the invisible labor of bike travel. My landlady explained that the reason every property in this area is surrounded by three-meter tall concrete walls isn’t for security, but to act as a shield against the relentless desert dust that migrates across the Panamericana. Even with those walls, the grit finds a way in. I spent two hours tackling the bike. While a broom brush took care of the frame, the drivetrain was a disaster. It was covered in a thick paste consisting of oil, dust, and sand grains that had turned into a grinding compound. I spent 20 minutes with a rag and soapy water, flossing every link of the chain until the metal finally showed through again.
- Between scrubbing the bike and washing my water bottles—paying extra attention to the grime built up in the caps—I handled the digital side of this life. I sat in the courtyard downloading insurance documents to my server back in Germany and updating my stock market spreadsheets. It’s a strange contrast, clicking through financial buys while my fingernails are stained black with chain grease, but it’s the only way to keep the wheels turning. I also spent a good chunk of time mapping out the 4-to-5-day stretch to Huambo. The route is sparse, and if I don’t nail down where I’m sleeping each night, I’ll be camping in some very exposed places.
The Camaná Scramble
- By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the side of the highway waiting for a collectivo. A car pulled over fifteen minutes later, and for a few Soles, I was zipped into Camaná. I had a specific mission: calories and cash. The cash part is becoming a source of low-level anxiety. I realized today I only have enough paper money for maybe six days. After the ATM in Atico failed me a few days ago, I’ve learned not to trust the mountain towns to have working machines. I hit the local market first, avoiding the pre-packaged nut mixes that are usually 80% cheap peanuts. Instead, I stood at a stall and hand-mixed 300 grams of pecans, almonds, dried cranberries, raisins, and walnuts.
- In a supermarket called Estrella, I found a squeeze bag of sugar-free peanut butter and, surprisingly, olive tapenade. The peanut butter was overpriced, but I bought it anyway; I’ll need the fat for the climb. I finished the errands at a bakery called Barruchi, where I ate a strawberry cream roll topped with chocolate sprinkles. It was the kind of sugar hit that makes your teeth ache, but I figured I’d earned it after the morning of maintenance. The bakers pointed me toward the return collectivos, and I was back at the hotel by 5:45 p.m., bags heavy with water and supplies.
Waves, Broth, and Bobby Cars
- I didn’t want to spend the whole day off the bike, so I headed out for a 5km loop along the shore at sunset. I had hoped to eat at a highly-rated restaurant with beach view nearby, but like most things in La Punta during the low season, it was shuttered despite what the internet claimed. I kept riding along the beach instead. The sensory shift was immediate. I moved away from the constant, aggressive roar of trucks on the Panamericana and into the rhythmic, heavy sound of the waves hitting the Pacific coast. I passed the Monumento a la Virgen de la Candelaria, standing solitary against the darkening sky, and took a moment to appreciate the coastline before I head inland tomorrow.
- Dinner ended up being a bowl of Caldo de Gallina at a truck stop restaurant back on the highway. It was a simple, hot broth that I ate while watching a movie on a TV bolted to the wall. It’s frustrating how much of the dialogue I still miss; I can navigate a grocery store or a hotel check-in with my Spanish, but the rapid-fire slang on screen remains a blur. Back at the hotel, I spent twenty minutes pulling the landlady’s daughter around the courtyard on her bobby car. She has a little leash attached to the steering wheel, and she didn’t seem to care that I was exhausted. I eventually retreated to my room to pull my laundry off the line and pack. The bike is clean, the bags are full, and the ocean is behind me.
Overnight
I stayed at Hotel Don Felix in La Punta. It’s a quiet spot where the massive three-meter walls actually succeed in keeping the desert wind and dust from rattling the windows all night.
Reflection
A clean drivetrain only stays clean for about ten kilometers in this desert, but the mental benefit of starting a climb without a grinding chain is worth the effort.