Colombia, Bogotá → Soatá
Country
"The Andes"
This name has been in my dreams for years. Now the grand mountain range is my daily reality. Look how it forms the continent's spine. Stay tuned.
Q. Why fly from Panama to Colombia, why not just ride?
A chunk of dense rainforest joins the two continents. It has no usable roads and is controlled by nefarious types - people and drug traffickers. A few adventurous souls have crossed over the years, but practically it is not doable. That unbroken cross continental highway the Pan-American is ... well ... broken in two here. Governments on either side have no appetite for completing the highway.
Overlanders with vans/4WDs need to ship their rigs at great expense and hassle. We riders can also ship, but the simpler option is air freight.
Leaving Panama was dead easy.
Well renowned air freight firm eCargo made it so: ride up, leave most crap on the bike, toss helmet and boots next to it, grab backpack, hand over a chunk of cash. Bossman Teofilo sorted out customs stuff before chauffeuring me to the passenger terminal. Great bloke. All these stickers are from past adventure riders; most have the words "Alaska", "Ushuaia" &/or "Pan American Highway" on them.
Entering Colombia not so much.
Immigration insisted on an accommodation booking for that night, made on the spot, thank you internet in the pocket. They also wanted proof of ongoing travel, repeatedly asking for a plane ticket leaving. A superior official gave the okay after flicking through pages of passport stamps. After this, my lady's demeanor changed 180 degrees: "Welcome to Colombia. Happy voyage!" and smile. Nice.
Getting my mitts on the bike was a pain in the bum. All the next day was spent at customs, waiting on the sole staff member who could do these things to return to the office. Only action for the day was one signature lodged. All done señor, come back tomorrow please. Aaaaghhhhh.
The only relief was yarning with a 28yo Portugese fellow going in the other direction on his Africa Twin. It was his third year travelling, having already ridden around the world on a Honda monkey bike - 124cc, 9.7 bhp, max 50kmh. If I'm to believe him, he's riding, drinking and screwing his way. Thinks: How will he be in thirty years time?
The morning of the third day was spent standing in a cargo dock, watching a closed roller door. In the fullness of time said door was raised ... and there she was.
First task: juice up. As required for the flight, it was well into reserve. At the pump a couple were fluffing around filming the servo. Angie and husband Julian are YouTubers on motorcycle topics (click here and here), with fifteen bikes between them.
We went inside for a coffee and chat. Angie lived in Melbourne suburb Point Cook for one of her high school years. They offered contacts if I needed any help. So given that Colombia post does not offer poste restante I arranged with them to have my replacement credit card sent to their address.
What could go wrong? It's only a bit of plastic and I'd known them for a solid ten minutes.
Colombia has shades of earlier Latin American countries. I found Costa Rica and Panama in comparison more orderly than their neighbours. For example, riding to the airport in Panama City at peak hour, traffic seemed comparable to Melbourne, maybe even lighter. Sure, some of us on two wheels were cutting it up, pissing car drivers off, but it was largely serene.
Colombia isn't quite as mental as Mexico, but it's got a good start.
Same with street food - it's great to have stalls on the footpath again for quick, cheap grub on the spot.
A local specialty is the empanada, a deep fried casing holding a variety of fillings - meat, rice, eggs, chook. Yum.
Capital city Bogotá allegedly has many lovely areas to visit. I didn't care. Three days of walking in the gritty parts near the airport quashed any desire for built up culture. I headed up the Choachi Rd to the east. It wiggled left and right as it rose up into the clouds above the city, leaving all that concrete and humanity in the distance.
For the hell of it, I took a minor road northwards. At this stage, there were just mild rain spots, not enough to spoil a gentle putter along rural roads.
Progress was halted by roadworks. Just around this bend was a big yellow Tonka truck ripping up tar.
The next few miles were then rutted mud, which was fun, especially when the rain increased.
A directional whoopsie led to the gates of a condo block. At first the guard seemed reluctant to allow shelter from the now pissing rain, but after some clunky chatter he relaxed. Camillo told me he'd also like to tour on his motorcycle and showed video of crazy off road riding in Equador.
I was sodden and shaking, so he offered a mug of aguapanela from his thermos. Aguapanela is a South American sweet hot tea made from sugar cane. It's the bees knees.
The town of Villa de Leyva crops up in all of the tourism guides as "Colombia's Most Beautiful Town". It is a pretty colonial town and it knows it - many, many eateries, bars, ice cream shops, hotels, places promoting outdoor activities.
It has the biggest central plaza ever which is oddly devoid of ornaments. The ground is lumpy round cobblestones, just like adjoining streets.
Like in all Spanish colonial towns, a church/cathedral is in the centre of one side of the plaza. The church is always the most impressive building in town, inside and out.
Perhaps to keep the universe in balance, there were six bars / grog shops along that same plaza edge, plus a combined toy / motorcycle accessory shop. Truly something for everyone.
The laid back night-time vibe encouraged relaxing with a thirst quencher.
Overlooking Villa de Leyva is a religious statue, kinda like a tiny Christ the Redeemer in Rio. The trek up the hill is a good old workout. The trail is mixed clay and rocks, it's steep plus the town is already at 2,149m altitude (for reference Mt Kosciusko is 2,228m). Altitude is definitely a Colombian feature. A slender chick in crop top and little-bum-in-tight-black-shorts had run up it three times already that morning. I was like Puffy Billy even at a modest pace.
All worth it though.
It was noticable that many Renaults are about, both old and new - far more than in Australia. I cannot recall seeing any in Central America. It transpires they were assembled in Colombia for decades and there's still strong sentiment for them. Today the most popular car is the Renault Duster, a compact SUV.
Lake Tota is Colombia's largest. It even has a white sand beach that attracts visitors in droves. Getting to the lake was gentle fun, burbling down twisty, steep, narrow dirt paths. Away from highways, the local main roads are constantly changing surface: soil, rocky, mud, broken tar, water crossings. They're great fun and the DR munches them up.
Local agriculture puzzles me: virtually every patch of ground around the lake is growing onions. 80% of Colombia's bunching onions come from this area. How can they all make a peso, growing the same stuff? The gardens nestle right up against every house.
Braking was getting a bit sketchy. Rear pads were a little past their best.
... then the front fork seal on the brake side cried enough, spilling fluid over parts that really don't like being covered in oil.
Finding a shop with the seals was challenging, mostly due to being inept in the old español, but also because most shops only deal with the smaller machines. It turns out that a number of Colombian bike shops have them, the trick was finding them.
The first order of business was cleaning off the accumulated mud. On the plus side, Latin America has bazillions of car wash shops. On the minus side, none are self serve and they love to get everything perfectly clean - despite my frantic requests for being gentle around wheel bearings, suspension linkages, chain and the like, the high pressure blast went everywhere.
I really wanted to do this work myself, not that I'm much of a mechanic, but I would rather be in control. However, I just had to trust this bloke.
Still, the chain adjusters were set differently left to right (so wheel left out of alignment) and for my taste the chain too tight. I also asked that the rear axle nut not be superduper tight, gesticulating with both hands in a my-dick-is-this-long manner that I only had a short tool with me. He nodded..
Here he's giving the nut that final shove to 37,000Nm. In the foreground is a steel bar welded to a reluctant disc bolt. The Suzuki bolts come with thread locker equivalent to Loctite red, so the hub needs heating for release. I mimed a blow torch saying "fuego" (fire). I'm no Marcel Marceau. Perhaps they don't have a DR650 workshop manual.
Friendly bloke though.
Sure enough, loosening the nut for chain adjustment the next day was bloody difficult.
Another morning walk, this time a loop above Monguí. Yet another religious theme, this time a "stations of the cross" set of sculptures
... leading to Peña de Oti, an altar thingo in the white building plus a cross.
Any more and I'll have to convert.
Hey Kirsten, these look like those mushrooms we harvested from Emerald golf course under the pine trees. Reckon I should fry them up?
Probably not this fella - he looks a bit angry.
Riding from Monguí to El Cocuy was brilliant. It was a little ugly at first battling coal trucks and their black coal dust clouds. Much of the road is covered in coal. Dozens of small mines are spread along the road.
It soon got better. The road north of Chutá was terrific - mud + stones + running water on a road at times so narrow it's hard to imagine a car using it. Big scenery everywhere.
When the sun slipped behind the mountains yet I still had some distance to go, it was time to turn the wick up.
The best times are when standing up on the pegs. We off road motorcycle types love to stand up. We don't stand up when the judge enters the courtroom - we're already standing. On the footrests it's easier to control the bike, more comfortable, everything smooths out, is focussed, faster.
All the while the Andes delighted the eyeball. Every bend brought new vistas grander than the last. I choked up. A thousand photos cannot capture their beauty. You'll just have to get here yourself.
In the distance sat the glaciers of El Cocuy NP. Wow.
The obvious thing to do in El Cocuy is an all day hike in the park, to see the Ritacuba Blanco glacier close up. Instead, I rode around in a loop to the town of Güicán, visiting three trailheads into the park. This was more up-on-the-pegs fun.
Initial light drizzle was comfortable for a long while. The rain must have deterred trekkers - no cars were parked at the trailheads. With no park officials in sight, I rode the bike down one walking trail. It was lumpy, but doable.
I ummed and arred over riding the whole 8km walking trail, eventually deciding that it was probably not the right thing to do. Fun though.
While the views were spectacular, sadly the peaks were shrouded in cloud.
By and by the rain crept up. My waterproof gear is badly named. Once it soaked through to the cojones things were uncomfortable. Temperatures here range from 0 °C to 20 °C; that day it was definitely towards zero. The chill and wet cured any desire to spend a day hiking here. Time to scoot back down to Güícán for a nice hot aguapanela.
Let's talk about dunnies. In Australia we're used to having free public toilets everywhere. Throughout Latin America this usually isn't the case. Generally toilets are privately owned with a charge for use. In Mexican cities they were often combined with vehicle parking. Here's one at a fuel servo - the turnstile is coin operated. Looks like Fort Knox.
Toilets don't generally handle toilet paper, so bathrooms have a small bin next to the bowl for it instead.
On one ride the top box lid had been left open. My left thong had fallen out. Geez I was bummed. I'd had them for ages, so comfortable and convenient. With great reluctance I tossed out it's right side mate. They've stepped on a lot of feces over the years. This was the first time they were on top of my own shit.
Colombians love their bicycling. The high altitudes and big gradients allow excellent training for the Tour de France and similar. Yesterday a road race came through on the main road I wanted to leave on. Oh well, best laid plans and all that. Instead, I joined a lady on a bench outside a bakery to watch, wishing her Good Morning while sitting. Another joined us and soon started a conversation.
Doris is a primary school teacher and daughter Sara a psychology student. The family also runs some cabins. It took an age for all the lycra lunatics to pass, plenty of time to learn about each other. Sara and I hurt each other's ears with broken language. We laughed when we discovered she was the same age as my Kim. She had a natural uplifting energy about her, quite obviously engendered by her mum.
Doris invited me to lunch at their house. It didn't fit with my plans for the day, but I've long realised that if someone offers, one should accept. It was ace learning more about Colombian food and drink, getting more Spanish vocabulary and hearing Sara's life plans.
South America is the land of the poncho. Woolen "ruanas" are ubiquitous, often with a traditional "vueltiao" hat (straw, shaped like a cowboy hat). Some are patterned or colourful, but most are plain earthen colours. In these cold climes they look to be a good choice. Boy, I'd love to add one to the already stretched luggage.
It feels rude photographing local folk, so I usually don't. However these two scallywags and mum are friends of Doris. I asked, mum was happy, even if the boys wriggled in their smart little ruanas.
Heading up and over a range to Soatá, even in on/off rain had me smiling again. Scores more expansive scenes could hardly be captured in pixels.
The Ramirez family must love their departed relative Manrique. The shrine they've erected in his memory is in a perfect spot. They can enjoy outstanding views while remembering him.
Colombia never featured in my travel dreams - just a step to get to Peru and Chile.
Ten days in, I could stay for months.
