Intro
The morning in Puno broke under a sky so clear it looked like blue enamel, with the temperature hovering just high enough to make the rooftop terrace at Inka Rest Hostel bearable. I spent the early hours staring at the paved streets below, knowing today wasn’t about mileage but about the invisible gears that keep a long-haul ride from grinding to a halt. The mood was purely functional: get the money, get the food, and get the bike ready for the border.
The Puno Exchange and the Dry Lunch
- I started the day by doctoring the hostel breakfast, slicing into the half-avocado I’d saved from last night to add some fat to the standard bread and jam. While the other guests were talking about boat tours, I was on the roof, purging my digital life. I cut the Instagram link from my site—I don’t have the energy for ‘polished’ right now—and focused on the WhatsApp channel where I can just be honest about the grit. After rendering a few videos from the ride through Yunga, I headed out into the Puno sun to hunt for Bolivian Pesos.
- The north shore of Lake Titicaca is notoriously thin on banks, so I needed a stack of cash. I hit three different exchange houses, playing the numbers until I found a shop willing to give me 3.5 BOB for every Peruvian Sol. When the teller handed over the bills, my wallet took on a new, heavy texture. It felt absurdly thick in my pocket, a physical weight that represented about a week of survival on the other side of the frontier. It’s a strange comfort, feeling that bulk against my leg while walking through a crowded market.
- For lunch, I ducked into a local spot offering a five-soles menu. The chicken soup was rich and hot, but the main course of fried cheese and rice was a struggle. There was no gravy, no sauce, just a slab of salt-heavy fried cheese and a mound of grains. The texture was incredibly dry, the kind of meal that requires a liter of water just to swallow, but it was fuel. I followed it up with a massive grocery haul: mangoes, custard fruit, avocado, and the heavy hitters—cans of black beans, chickpeas, tomato paste, peanut butter and a nearly half-kilogram bag of nut mix. By the time I was done, my bags were straining.
The Rickshaw Stand-Off
- Getting out of Puno with all that weight turned into a minor comedy. I headed to the terminal terrestre, but the vendors there told me the minivans to Chucuito left from a different spot several blocks south. Just outside the gates, I flagged down a bicycle rickshaw driver. I didn’t actually need a ride; I just needed him to point me in the right direction. He had other plans. He told me he’d take me there for three soles. I asked again for the direction, and he just gestured toward his seat, refusing to give up the information for free.
- We eventually negotiated two soles for him to move the rickshaw forward. It turned out the ‘secret’ location was exactly one block away. He pedaled for about sixty seconds, stopped, and pointed. I handed him the coins and told him he could have just pointed from the gate, but he just shrugged and headed back for the next tourist. I caught the minivan, squeezed my groceries between my knees, and spent the twenty-minute ride back to Chucuito scribbling notes while the lake blurred past the window.
The Mechanic’s Zen
- Back at Los Cabañas, I found my room exactly as I’d left it. The bike was leaning against the wall, waiting. I moved it out into the winter garden as the sun began to dip, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor. This is where the day actually started to feel productive. I didn’t need to think about routes or exchange rates anymore; I just needed to focus on the hardware. I started with the drivetrain, which was caked in the dust of the last 20 days of high-altitude grit.
- There is a specific, meditative sound to this—the rhythmic metallic scraping of the brush against the chain links. I worked the soapy rag in until the silver started to show again, then wiped it down and applied fresh lube. It’s a sensory reset. I moved on to the front light, which had developed a frustrating habit of nodding toward the ground every time I hit a pothole. I torqued the bracket down until it wouldn’t budge. Then I moved to the front mudguard, tightening the four metal stays that had been rattling like a skeleton in a closet for the last fifty kilometers.
- I finished by fixing a repaired Rox strap on the rear rack, making sure everything was ready for the weight of the new supplies. By 7:00 PM, I was back in my room, eating the potato mash and fried egg I’d packed away in Puno. The bike is dialed, the wallet is thick, and the bags are heavy. I spent the rest of the night answering messages about the Galapagos and looking at the maps for the border. The logistics are done. Tomorrow, I just have to pedal.
Overnight
I returned to Los Cabañas in Chucuito. It was the right move to leave the heavy gear here while I did the Puno run; having a secure, familiar base made the maintenance much easier.
Reflection
The bike is only as reliable as the ten minutes you spend with a wrench the nights before a border crossing.