Colombia: to the West

Bogotá is the capital city of Colombia. It is a sprawling expanse of high-rises, town homes, churches, parks, and 8 million people. Getting into the heart of the city was both hellish and blissful. It began with a four lane highway full of cabs, busses, and motorcycles all jockeying for position. That cluster leaves little room for bicycles. The final section was on bike paths that zig-zagged through the residential district and kept drivers at bay with frequent “bikers have priority” signs. Thanks, Bogota DOT, we couldn’t agree more.

After Ryan had gotten his fix of fine dining, murals, and museums, we made our exit from Bogota. Leaving at 5am, we had open roads and uneventful riding through the notorious SW barrios. Around sunrise the commute started in earnest and the smog grew thicker. In what could only be described as untimely, this is the moment when I ran over a 3 inch roofing nail. It pierced my normally impenetrable tire and ground us to a halt. To make matters worse, we were: 1. On a three lane bridge without a shoulder 2. In the middle of rush hour 3. In Beijing-thick smog 4. In one of the most dangerous parts of the city. At least it wasn’t raining?

With a smile and a head shake of disbelief Ryan wheeled me down the bridge, onto the median, and got to work. While most of his marketable skills have slipped over the past 9 months, he’s gotten damn good at changing tire tubes. After 20 anxious minutes on the highway median, Ryan finished the job, packed up, and set off to find the city limits. Insert quote here about adversity making you a better person.

The Trampoline of Death

This is the name of the “road” from Mocoa to Sibundoy, Colombia. An alternative name is “Adios, la vida” or “Goodbye, life”, which I think is more apt. The road connects the Amazon to the Andes via a cloud forest. On a map, the route resembles a seismograph during a 9.0 earthquake. Of course we were going to ride this route.

Within the first hour we faced a knee-deep river crossing with a strong current and football size boulders. It’s not a seasonal river, it’s just a river that was there first. Then we encountered a landslide that had stalled traffic for 4 hours. Though it was a messy affair, the mud and rocks were no match for my wide tires and high clearance. To complete the scene, the amazingly patient Colombian motorists even cheered as we made it through. Up we went. From there it was waterfall after waterfall until the summit where we made camp for the night. Though the rain overnight nearly washed Ryan’s tent away, we set our early and had another full day of scenic riding before finally arriving at unbelievably smooth pavement of Sibundoy that afternoon. The trampoline had bounced us from 1500 to 9000 feet and Ryan was still alive. Success.

Salsa break in Cali

Even though bike touring is clearly numero uno, Ryan does have two additional loves in his life: Cait and Salsa dancing. Both were present in Cali, Colombia which required a jarring 9 hour bus ride through the mountains to reach. So, while Ryan was in a reclined seat up above listening to NPR podcasts, I bounced around in the bottom of the coach bus with the lowly luggage. I won’t soon forget this slight.

Once in Cali, I was quickly reassembled in the pre-morning light and off we went to the AirBnB before the rush hour traffic and heat caught us. We arrived with enough time for Ryan to eat his typical 1500 calorie breakfast and for me to get a good washing before Cait arrived. Once she was there, the attention quickly shifted from biking and eating to dancing and exploring. They climbed mountains, upped their dancing game, and criss-crossed the city in search of the best farmer’s market. Having seen these two with 7 days and no obligations before, none of this surprised me. It’s their MO.

The 10 hour crossing

Border crossings are typically stressful days. First, there’s the inevitable border town that owes its existence to the flow of border crossers passing through each day. These towns are often full of people that want to help with your crossing, want to sell you discounted merchandise, or want to run off with your bike wheels. In short, they typically aren’t the places you would like to spend an afternoon if given the choice.

There was no choice given for the Colombia – Ecuador border crossing. Our arrival was perfectly timed with the arrival of several thousand Venezuelans fleeing Maduro and heading to Peru and Chile. They brought their backpacks, suitcases, children, worthless currency, and homemade arepas for the arduous 3-5 day bus journey across South America. The line they formed was formidable. It stretched around the immigration building and, and it appeared that those in line had been there for a very long time. Owing to my good looks, a young Venezuelan approached us and asked if we’d like to join their group. Lacking consideration for the economic refugees who had been waiting in line for over 5 hours, Ryan jumped at the opportunity and entered near the front of the line. Don’t worry, Karma caught up with him later in the afternoon.

In two hours, Ryan had endeared himself to a group of 15 young Venezuelans and was busy talking about hyper-inflation, arepas, bike riding, Caracas murder rates, and the road ahead for these wonderful people. I don’t say that lightly, these people were truly wonderful. They were thoughtful, friendly, patient, and most astonishingly, optimistic about their lives after years of economic hardship, horrid governance, and abysmal policing in Venezuela.

Once Ryan and his new Venezuelan friends had received their legal permission to leave Colombia, they walked across the bridge and joined the a new line to get into Ecuador. There was no cutting here, and the whole group settled in for a long night of waiting. Fortunately, a cottage industry had sprung up to serve the border crossers with hot chocolate, fried chicken, empanadas, and even the occasional bottle of rum. Ryan and his group consumed all of this. Just as they were finishing the rum around 10pm, their numbers were called and an official rubber stamped their entry into Ecuador. With many hugs and well-wishes, Ryan left his group and set off riding into the night while the hardy Venezuelans loaded into a bus bound for the Peruvian border. I am both equally inspired and heartbroken for these Venezuelans. I sincerely hope that they can make the return trip back to Venezuela before too long.