Intro
It’s Day 353, and the familiar rhythm of the Altiplano is starting to feel less like an adventure and more like a commute. The morning at the 3810 Lodge was slow, the overcast sky hanging low at 11.9°C, matching a mood that was more content than excited. The paved road ahead promised a steady 51km transition, but my legs and mind seemed to be operating on a delayed fuse.
The Banana Bribe and the Strait
- Breakfast at 08:15 was a quiet, domestic affair. Andres and Herman served up rolls fresh from the oven, heavy with scrambled eggs, alongside a bowl of oats that I topped with a sliced banana. That fruit became the unexpected star of my departure. Around 10:10, we gathered in front of the lodge’s mural—a colorful depiction of a cyclist and a kangaroo—for a goodbye photo. Andres spent a couple of minutes trying to coax their two massive dogs into the frame, wielding a half-peeled banana like a conductor’s baton. I could feel the sticky residue of the banana peel on my fingers as I gripped the handlebars, waiting for the dogs to finally look at the lens. We got the shot, a rare moment of choreographed chaos before I rolled out toward the water.
- By 10:40, I was leaning my bike against the rusted rail of a ferry at the Strait of Tiquina. I shared the deck with a small truck and a massive German RV that looked entirely too large for the wooden planks beneath us. The low, rhythmic thrum of the ferry 40 PS engine vibrated through my shoes, a mechanical pulse that signaled the end of my time on the western shore. The crossing was short, barely fifteen minutes of watching the dark water churn, before I was spat out onto the other side to begin the day’s real work.
The Saturation Point
- I officially started the ride on the eastern side at 11:00. The only significant obstacle was a 170-meter climb over three kilometers, which I summited by 11:35. From the top, the view of Lake Titicaca opened up again, but something had shifted. For the last 14 days, this lake has been my constant companion—I’ve seen its sunrises, its silver-mirrored afternoons, and its deep indigo dusks. Standing there, looking at the vast expanse of water, I realized I was full. The ‘magic’ had been replaced by a flat, geographical fact. It was just a large body of water at high altitude. I wasn’t awed; I was just checking a box.
- The descent led into a slightly hilly landscape that would define the next 48 kilometers. The sky began to clear, the temperature creeping up to 13.1°C as the wind picked up to a stiff 20.7 km/h. At 13:05, I pulled over in Chua Cocani. I wasn’t starving yet, but the map showed a long stretch of nothingness ahead. I found a roadside stall packed with local students—always a reliable indicator of decent food. I sat among the chatter and ordered Chicken Guisado. It was basic, salty, and exactly what I needed. Before heading back out at 13:45, I slathered on another layer of sunscreen, the white cream disappearing into my wind-chapped skin.
The Search for Green in a Fried World
- The afternoon was a steady grind. I hit the junction at Huarina around 15:00, merging onto the main northern highway. The traffic increased, but the road remained a smooth ribbon of asphalt. I passed the turn-off for Isla Cojata twenty minutes later; other cyclists had mentioned camping there to see flamingos, but without my glasses, I knew I’d just be staring at pink blurs in the distance. I pushed on, reaching Batallas at 16:30 under a clear, 16.3°C sky.
- The hotel I chose is a functional, no-frills building right on the main road. The draw was the secure backyard, currently patrolled by two large security dogs who took their job much more seriously than the lodge dogs earlier this morning. My room is clean but the bathroom is a structural oddity: a long, narrow corridor with the toilet at the far end and an electric shower head mounted right in the middle of the walkway. After a rinse, I headed out at 17:45 to find food. The town square was a gauntlet of grease. The heavy, cloying smell of frying oil hung over every stall—fried chicken, fried pork, fried eggs. It took twenty minutes of searching, but I finally negotiated a plate of grilled chicken and rice. When I asked about salad, the woman offered a small bowl of steamed vegetables. It felt like a massive victory to see something green on my plate that hadn’t been submerged in a vat of lard.
The Midnight Code
- I’ve spent the last few hours in the hotel room, the sound of the highway outside acting as white noise. After finishing my notes, I opened the laptop. It’s 23:30 now, and I’ve just finished a coding session with a few AI agents to fix a nagging issue with my vlog chatbot. I’ve finally implemented a landscape-to-portrait toggle, which means I can choose the video format before the final render. It’s a strange way to end a day of cycling through the Bolivian highlands, but as the landscape becomes routine, these digital tasks provide a different kind of forward motion. The laptop is warm, the room is quiet, the lake is finally out of sight and tomorrow will begin the chaos of La Paz.
Overnight
I’m staying at a basic hotel on the main road in Batallas. It’s nothing fancy, but the backyard is secure thanks to two very alert dogs, and the bicycle is tucked away safely. The electric shower in the middle of the bathroom hallway is a first for me.
Reflection
Fourteen days is the exact amount of time it takes for one of the world’s highest lakes to stop looking like a miracle and start looking like a commute.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-10-09
- Distance: 51.30 km
- Elevation gain: 424 m
- Elevation loss: 403 m
- Duration: 5 h 12 min
- Time in Motion: 3 h 41 min
- Average Speed: 13.9 km/h