Mystical, Magical Colombia
Only as the plane touches down in Bogotá do I realize the extent of my nervousness. Sure, I've already ridden my 2003 Twisted Throttle Suzuki DR650 SE almost ten thousand miles from the U.S.A. to the end of the road in Panama. Somehow an invisible, yet palpable, line is being crossed.
This is a point of no return for me because simply turning my motorcycle around and riding home to the USA is no longer an option.
Natalie and Bruno lead me to the farm hostel in the Corcora Valley.
Colombia is a troubled yet enigmatic country that has struck fear into the hearts American travelers for decades. A country of exotic extremes, renowned for its coffee, its beautiful women, and for its violent past. A country that until recently wasn’t well known even to its inhabitants because travel within her borders was too dangerous. Unbeknownst to me at this moment, Colombia’s charms will become the highlight of my journey through Latin America.
Spectacularly twisty roads, lush landscapes, and outstandingly good pavement greet me outside Bogotá. Perhaps it is my imagination, but Colombia seems to be two shades greener than any other place I have ever been on Earth. There is a heady mix of danger and diesel exhaust on the wind that thrills my senses, and the enthusiastic driving on curvy roads make me feel more alive that I can ever remember.
In all honesty, it takes a few days for my wheels to roll right once in Colombia. Packing up the bike and flying it over the Darien Gap has broken my daily riding stride. State Department warnings sent to me by my mother and boyfriend (who choose to send me Canadian Warnings just in case I do not believe the ones issued by the USA) have unwittingly lodged themselves in my subconscious. And unfortunately the lack of forward movement has created a space in which the travel warnings rattle around inside my head.
While a part of my brain acknowledges the risks, and the new rules of travel on a new continent, it is the riding itself that allays my fears and helps me to focus on the adventure at hand. Riding in Colombian traffic takes my full attention, and I ride without earplugs for the first time in my life so none of my senses are dulled. I border on sensory overload, and apply myself to my riding with wild abandon.
It’s a twisty, fast and fun highway that climbs the mountain into Manizales, hub of the coffee trade in central Colombia. Although the city itself isn’t much to look at thanks to the earthquakes that have destroyed the city’s original splendor, a few colonial buildings still remain.
I cross the Plaza Bolivar and take a walking tour of the government seat building—where old world charm meets modern politics. Maids with white aprons carry coffee on silver trays down the long hallways. Heavy wooden doors swing wide over marble tiled corridors as modern-day professionals in suits attend to the business of state.
It’s a fast and fun highway that climbs the mountain into Manizales.
Leaving Manizales I find myself traveling at dusk. Night travel in Latin America is not wise due to road hazards and animals in the streets, so I am eager to find a place to stay before full dark. I consult with a policeman who informs me that there are no lodgings within a hundred kilometers. He points me to the local “Love” Hotel and shrugs his shoulders.
A “Love” Hotel is a place that rents rooms by the hour. You can probably guess for what. I’ve seen plenty of these places while traveling, yet as a woman touring alone I’ve been reluctant to stop in at one. This night I choose safety over propriety, and I am pleasantly surprised by my pleasant stay at the Mar y Mar.
The hotel has a well monitored entrance/exit gate and a tall concrete wall around the entire complex. The room is clean, the bed large and comfortable, and the room has air conditioning, which is uncommon. Best of all is the private parking. Evidently lovers and motorcyclists alike appreciate the privacy of having your vehicle completely hidden from indiscreet eyes.
A chance conversation a couple mornings later has me riding the tight curves into the Corcora Valley, just east of Salento. A subtropical landscape nestled between angular peaks, the tranquil valley is dotted with wax palms. It is an unexpected find, and the serenity of the place seduces me into relaxing with a mid-day cup of coffee under a thatched roof.
The gentle breeze speaks directly to my soul, and I decide to stay the night even though I have traveled less than one hundred kilometers this day. Eschewing the hotel, I opt for a farm-stay, and meet Brazilian honeymooners Bruno and Natalie on the narrow path up the hillside. With Natalie opening the gates and Bruno helping me push my overloaded bike across the rocky stream bed, I make it up the daunting driveway and am rewarded with the room of choice overlooking the entire valley.
Charles Greenwood checking out of the Maya Hostel.
The Brazilians are touring South America two-up, fully loaded, on a Honda XR 250 for six months. Bruno keeps marveling at my “big” bike, just as I marvel at his. There are times when I could envy their lighter bike, usually on severely rocky or muddy terrain. Or on the driveway to get up here. For the most part I find the DR650 to be the perfect size motorcycle for this trip, and always highly reliable.
I cross paths with the honeymooners a few days later on the regrettably straight road to Cali. Today the skies are blue and clear, yet the air has an acrid smell to it. February is sugar cane season in southern Colombia, and after the cane is harvested the fields are set on fire. This creates dense black spirals of smoke and sometimes unpredictable roadside fires.
As if the billowing clouds of smoke were not hazard enough, a sugar cane train adds an additional danger to the highway travel. True to their name, these semi trucks pull three or four full wagons of sugar cane down the road. Long and unwieldy, these trucks careen down the highway barreling through the haze, oblivious to smoke and frightened motorcyclists in their path.
In Cali I get the last bunk at the Casablanca Hostel. Owned by a ’round-the-world motorcyclist, Mikkel Foged Thomsen, Casablanca is a mecca for motorcycle travelers to Colombia. Casablanca offers bike rentals, mechanical services, tours, and for my purposes, lodging with safe overnight parking for my ride.
Casablanca is host to a diverse clientele. During my stay there are two other moto-travelers, a plethora of backpackers, and even some business folks staying in the private rooms. Cali is the plastic surgery center of South America, and I am a bit surprised to see some folks in bandages shuffling through the hostel. Colombia has a reputation for the most beautiful ladies, and Cali is evidently where they make it happen.
La Cocha, a high Andean lake located on the eastern slopes of the southern Andes of Colombia.
Cali is also known for its night-life, and if there is one thing Colombians do well it is to enjoy life. Known as the Salsa Capital of Latin America, music pours out of even the smallest cafes, filling the dance floors—and even the sidewalks—with revelry until the wee hours. Gastronomic delights are everywhere, and I find that the dinners are late and the parties even later.
Mikkel takes my photo to join the other motorcyclists on the Casablanca “Hall of Fame,” and then it’s a highway ride to Popayan, one of the timelessly charming colonial cities of Colombia.
Most of the downtown buildings are painted white, and many of the houses feature second story balconies overflowing with flowers and tropical plants. There is an effort to re-cobble the streets, which adds even more charm to this lively town.
I make a friend in Popayan, and she allows me to store my panniers at her house while I detour to see some ancient burial sites. Rain has drenched the area lately, and I am happy to travel ultra light with just a day pack on the dirt roads winding my way through small villages, bucolic vistas and dense forests. A good dirt adventure off the beaten path is just what I need after so much time in cities.
A thoroughfare sprinkled with errant farm animals leads to Inzá, a depressing mountain town I stop in for the night not realizing my destination is but a few miles away. I spend a night in an unclean room with questionable wiring and a toilet out back. I am glad to only pay eight dollars for the privilege, and I am glad when daylight breaks and I can leave.
The mountain road to San Andres leads me up into coffee country, and it’s not surprising to see locals spread their coffee beans out to dry beside the road. I briefly investigate the inside of the straw-roof church, and pause to watch the innumerable swallows tending their colony of young inside the thatch. I am met with curious stares and nodded hellos when I smile at the villagers.
An elaborately decorated chiva in Colombia.
After lunch I begin my hike to see the tombs of Tierradentro. Part of a pre-Colombian funeral complex, the tombs are reached by a steep mountain trail accessed only by foot. I am happy for the cool air, as the sun is quite strong and burns my skin. I am breathless when I reach the tombs, and nervous climbing down their narrow, steep circular staircases. I curse myself for being brave enough to travel alone in foreign lands, yet too timid to climb down a rail-less tomb into seemingly total darkness.
The ride from Tierradentro to San Agustin is on broken pavement, through populated areas. I emerge from the dense forests back into “civilization.” I muse inside my helmet that it must be National “Bring Your Cows to Market Day,” as I repeatedly stop for trucks loading or hauling the bellowing cattle. At times the stench in this tropical furnace is overwhelming, and I pass on the double yellow for self-preservation.
In San Agustin I head directly to the tourist center. I book a tour for the following day, opting for hooves instead of wheels. My hired guide and horse will help me access some of San Agustin’s ceremonial sites that lie scattered over a two hundred square mile area. It does not surprise me that the man at the tourist information center will also serve as my guide the following day.
As I make my way to the hostel, I am approached by a stranger offering another type of tour—a psychotropic one. The man carries a three ring binder and furtively shows me pictures of various hallucinogenic plants I could choose to consume, and describes the different types of journeys they would bring me on.
At the end of his presentation he shows me beautiful, artistic renderings of the psychedelic mental wanderings I might experience. I listen patiently and then graciously decline.
In the middle of nowhere, yet exactly where I need to be.
In the morning my tour guide brings me a well-fed and seemingly un-abused mount as I have instructed, and we clatter out of town and onto a dirt path to explore the burial sites at San Augustin. Very little is known about the people that created the stone statues excavated from the various sites, but much work has been done to preserve them. The carvings take many forms such as jungle cats, frogs, and birds. I am particularly fond of the human statues with jaguar teeth.
My tour guide leaves me at the museum. I drink a leisurely cup of coffee, then walk the stone paths within the grounds and take thousands of pictures. The walking is welcome after six hours of riding the horse, as I now have saddle sores in different places than those gained from my DR650 stock seat.
There is no taxi to take me back to the hostel, and so an ambulance driver and his nurse offer to take me to my hostel. He turns on the lights and sirens when I tell him it is my first ride in an ambulance. They think I am a crazy woman to travel so far on a motorcycle, and ask many questions about my travels. They are honored to spend time with a North American, and are entertained by my rampant abuse of their language.
Back to traveling on paved roads, my final stop in Colombia is Las Lajas Sanctuary, in the remote mountains of southern Colombia. It is the perfect departure gift from this magical land. Shrouded in mist, the soaring spires reach towards the heavens while the Cathedral clings to the sheer cliff.
I find I am reluctant to depart, and not because of the holy presence. Colombia herself has spoken to me, whispering the ancient mysteries while shouting to my inner adventurer. My senses are filled with a palette of colors, tastes and textures so rich, so bountiful, that Colombia has become the pinnacle of my trip.
Lunch break in the foothills of the Andes.
And, not one time rolling through Colombia’s enchanting countryside, did I consider turning around and riding towards home.
