It's evening in Cartagena. I sit at a restaurant table, outside, in a spacious cobblestone plaza within the walled cuidad antiqua (old city). Now imagine this: I'm with three friends from the Cuidad Perdida hike. Around us are buildings muy antiqua, dominated by a lovely 400 year old cathedral on the western edge of the plaza, tastefully showcased in spotlights. Above the iglesia, la luna de cuarto watches us from a black sky. I'm in shorts, sandals and golf shirt - not really appropriate for more formal latino americana dinner but tolerated as extranjero customers are. It is windless, the plaza protected by the old fort walls from the Caribbean sea breeze. At 10:30 PM I can't feel temperature on my skin, it is that pleasant. Merlot is served by meseros in white gloves, the starter salad and steak are to die for, full-bodied Columbian cigar and coffee follows for dessert. After eating arroz y pollo (rice & chicken) for six months, the splurge is worth it.Later, at an open air pub, we have many Cerveza Aquila and watch caribbean mestizos dance to the penetrating sounds of african drums. I get back to my hotel at 2:30 am. It is still too hot to sleep even with the ventilador running overhead at warp speed. No blankets are needed for cover.

During the day I wander the old walled city with its narrow streets and colonial buildings. Think of Disneyland's New Orleans quarter, fill it full of restaurants, cell phone shops, emerald and gold stores, hawkers, and sidewalk fruit vendors and you get the idea of la antiqua cuidad.

The three story buildings create a solid front lining both sides of the one lane calles, each building decorated in 17th and 18th century colours, with ornate wooden balconies, flowers and hanging flags. Airy spaces are provided by small, leafy plazas with water fountains and statues of noble heroes, like Simon Bolivar.

Or heroes like Don Blas de Jeso, the one-eyed, one-armed, one legged Frenchman who led the successful defence of Cartegena against Sir Edward Vernon´s massive 27,000 men and 300 cannon siege. (Blas de Jeso seemed to lose something everytime he went to battle - maybe that's where Monte Python got his idea...)

In riding to historic Cartagena I become engaged in the time-consuming business of looking for a shipper. I need to get Katie across the Darien Gap to Panama. Luckily I stay at the absolutely super Villa Colonial Hotel, owned and operated by Alberto Akel and wife Martha Akel Alzate. English speaking daughter Daniella and son Alberto Jr are also generously helpful. They all go out of their way to make numerous phone calls for me and to drive me to the Cartagena airport in search for an air carrier for Katie.

I even go to Club Nautico and row out to a 44' sailing vessel to check it out. Blue paint peals from the grey cement hull. I notice alarmingly gaps between the hull and deck as I climb aboard. Lash Katie to the mast, literally, offers the long-haired captain. He and his girlfriend look almost desperately hopeful I might join them. I look around the boat. The wheelhouse is apart. Pulleys are rusty. The quarters below look like a depth charge has gone off. Vague assurances are offered of actually arriving at a port in Panama where I can clear customs, and that has connection with the mainland and ROADS. The whole thing is terribly romantic but terribly unorganized. The boat looks too old and the skipper too young. Presently, according to the Club Nautico master, the cement tub is the only boat going north. It is my misfortune the planets (or is it yachts?) do not line up.

I spend my last afternoon in Cartagena on the broad fort walls overlooking the Caribbean. I'm sit comfortably in a notch where a Damascus cannon used to point to sea pirates and smoke a fine, fat Columbian cigar. I have two ice cold Aguila cerveza to keep me from getting parched.

The sun is low but still very warm, the air feels very tropical. Hiding behind me, within the fort walls, is the cuidad antiqua of Cartagena, with its colonial buildings in the warm colours of el sol a la tarde. I toast the SBTC. I feel peaceful this time of the day, but a little lonely. It occurs to me that friends make a place come alive and that time special, more special because it will never be repeated.

The night scene, as I view later from my hotel terrace, is one of timelessness. I am not the only one who can't sleep until long after the sun has gone down. Sensual latin music drifts, boys play street soccer, old men drink beer, the women sit and visit quietly. There is a comfortable pleasantness to it all.

I must ride 651 km today, longest ever, from Cartagena to Medellin. And do it in daylight. This close to the equator means in 12 hours or less. At 6:30 a.m. Katie and I are on the road out of Cartagena.

The Caribbean lowlands have lots of picturesque fincas and haciendas. But the tradeoff is a poor road, heavy traffic with muchos camiòns moving like slugs, lots of little speed-bump towns, security checkpoints and time-burning desvios at road construction zones. As is typical, there are ejercito (army) and policia checkpoints almost every ten kilometers. It's a roulette wheel whether I get stopped or not. Today I really hope they leave me alone because I have such big miles to do. There is no crystal ball to consult to see if this trip is achievable in one day. Perhaps just as well because if I looked into one, I wouldn't have tried.

At my third and last, as it turns out, ejercito punto de control the soldiers give my passport back after the usual chit-chat but forget to return the aduana "passport" for Katie. I miss that important detail. I'm in a hurry. Murphy's Law sneeks in action here, although I don't know it at the time. Katie can't leave the country without that piece of paper!

After roaring off down the road from the last army checkpoint, Katie and I hit the Occidental Cordillera. Switchbacking up into the mountains we go from 38 C and sunshine to 20 C and heavy fog. We come across a long lineup of trucks, buses and cars. Cautiously we sneek into the oncoming lane and creep along in the blinding fog til Katie and I get to the front. No oncoming cars means roadblockville. There at the epicentre of the frozen parade is a tractor trailer unit, unhitched. The tractor is broadside in oncoming lane, its 45 foot trailer in the other with its grain contents spilt all over the road. A five ton truck amuses itself in the ditch, stuck up to the hubs in the only other route around the chaos. Lots of arm waving going on but no real action. Without asking permission, I thread Katie through a maze of hazards and get past. Just as the whole thing is turning into a clusterf**k of all traffic jams. I've learned before no latino motorist has patience so I must behave much the same out of self defence. If I wait I'll be up here on this cold mountain for a month of Sundays.

Katie and I arrive in Medellin before sundown. We've made it! Previous home to the infamous Pablo Escobar, this lovely mountain city is now more dangerous to extrajeros from the crush of humanity and resulting smog. I stay only one night but do notice, as I have been advised by every redblooded hombre since I got to Columbia, the Mujeres of Medellin DO look remarkably attractive.

Medellin to Bogotà is half the distance and I plan to return to the Hostel del Norte in North Bogotà, where I was before. Early the next morning I hit the road again but promptly get totally lost in rush hour traffic. The GPS doesn't have street detail and my paper map is hopeless. So I go to ace-up-my-sleeve Plan C. I stop a taxi and pay him 4000 pesos to lead me out of town. I doggedly follow him through jammed intersections and oncoming cars. He leads me right by where I was half an hour ago. With no road signs I could never have known this was the road I wanted. Suddenly a highway out of town appears and my taxi pilot waves goodbye.

I survive my last day on Columbian highways today. The roads these last two days are built like the 1A Highway to Morley and loaded with lumbering, smoking camións and suicidal buses on two wheels. Far too often I pass the crawling camiòns on narrow curves and dart between them and oncoming traffic. Katie's brakes and drive chain take a beating. The temperature varies up and down with the mountains, from a chilly 19C and rain to a wilting 42C. But by 4 PM, Katie and I arrive safe and sound in Bogotá.

Tomorrow the shipping game starts in earnest but tonight I need massive amounts of money in preparation to pay for the air freight for Katie. I try three different ATMs and none take my card. I munch on my pizza later with some distraction.

Good news: Next morning going to the airport I spot a Bancolumbia and stop in. Surprise - I get money from both the debit and Visa card so all is right with msc's money world. At 9 am I find Girag, the air cargo company, at the El Dorado International Airport. Lots of great people and they dive right into the paperwork for shipping Katie and all is going tickety-boo.

Bad news: Until I try to find Katie's "passport", her Columbian Customs approved document to be in Columbia. That's when I discover it is GONE. I can't believe it. To make it more complicated, DIAN, the aduana (customs) folks, at the airport will/can not phone their colleagues in Ipiales, my border crossing of a month ago. Murphy's Law raises up in ugly letters across my empty passport holder.

Good news again: To make a long story longer, the wonderful folks at Girag do the phoning, faxing and coaxing until we have everything we need. That costs us three hours. But I'm back in business. Now more paperwork, Aduana inspection, more paperwork, Policia inspection for drugas, much to and fro and then more paperwork. Finally at the end of the day Katie is snarled up in a cellophane spider web and ready for Panama City on the 11 PM or 2 AM flight Saturday. I pay 1,131,000 Columbian Pesos to Girag. I've never paid a million for anything before, it feels kinda cool. The extra work I cause them is no extra cost so I buy the gang lunch for Monday. The whole thing comes to US$425. I just can't say enough good things about the Girag people - they sure pulled my ass out of the fire today. Thanks especially to Carolina Luque and to Gabriel Andrade, but also to Maria Elena Rodriguez, Andrea Alvarada, Andrea Yara Luque and Policia Nacional officer Patullero Paez.

Ironically, no one asks me to disconnect the battery or drain the gas but there is a $75 charge for handling Dangerous Goods. I think the only thing dangerous is "los documentos" overkill.

Directly after Katie is taken care of, I march the kilometre over to the terminal building and buy a ticket on Avancia for a sabado, 10 am flight to Panama City.

After 6 months I leave lovely Columbia and South America tomorrow for a new continent. So far Katie and I have seen so little of this continent it's embarrassing but still, we've managed a few adventures along the way. With Panama and Central America comes a road in front that leads directly to Miss P, CC and all my loved ones. No Darien Gap stands in the way.