Date: Mon, 9 Feb 2009
To: touring@phred.org
From: Michael Ayers <michael@terminalia.org>
Subject: Gondwana - Continental Culmination, (slightly Cautiously) in Colombia
Buenos Dias Phreds,
My final country in South America was the intriguing, seldom-visited land of Colombia, a destination that I was not entirely sure would be a wise place to visit.
My original plan for South America had me finishing in Ecuador, where I would hope to find a sea transfer to Panama. I had started to consider adding a few destinations, primarily Colombia and Venezuela, to the Stage route while in Africa, and when it looked like I would need to lengthen the route to avoid returning home in winter, I penciled both onto my list. Either country, I assumed, would be a preferable place from which to find the necessary transport to Panama (in order to bypass the infamous Darrien Gap.) By the time I was finished with Ecuador, I was already significantly behind my planned schedule, not to mention the coincident drain on my budget, so the need to lengthen the Stage was long gone, and, in fact, reversed. However, the shorter transfer to Panama was still an appealing reason to go farther, as was my image of the country as a distinct place on the continent with a handful of compelling sites.
In geographic terms, the country is the northernmost of the Andean nations, and, like Ecuador—but unlike the rest of the countries along that chain—its latitude precludes any significant areas of semi-arid or arid terrain. Instead, except for a small region in the far northeast, along the Caribbean coast, the country is humid and thickly vegetated. Lowlands along a thin Pacific Coast strip and in the large, but difficultly accessible, Amazon basin to the east, are covered with rainforest remnants. The Andes bisect the country, though they are a significantly wider range there than in Ecuador, with a number of active volcanoes included in the chain. With their altitude providing a cooler climate, most of the larger cities are located fairly high in the range, and with them most of the transport routes parallel the range as well. Colombia is possibly the place with the greatest amalgamation of indigenous American, European, and African cultures in the world, though those populations are not very evenly distributed. The high altitude areas seemed to be home to most of the indigenous peoples, while those with African heritage have settled along the coasts, and European descendents in the cities. Overall, the environment and culture of the country seemed like a good fit for my desires at the time, though after 13 months on the continent so far, I had probably seen almost enough mountains for a while and was really feeling the need for a rest break.
I really had no idea what to expect in the way of services and facilities in Colombia, but I assumed that things wouldn’t be too different from the other countries on the continent, and in some ways that was true. The nature of the highways was not too bad, for the most part, with the majority being two-lane roads with minimal shoulders. While traffic was heavy in a few places, it was reasonable in volume over most of the route. However, I quickly discovered, to my distress, that Colombian motor vehicle operators possess the “overtaking disease,” which compels them to spend much of their time in the opposing lane overtaking others, to such a level that they would give stiff competition to the South Asians or Argentines for the championship of that dubious category. Where expenses were concerned things were generally quite reasonably priced, with food and accommodation costing somewhere in between what I had spent in Bolivia and Peru, making Colombia one of the more affordable countries of the tour. Food, in general, was adequate and usually abundant, though not really distinctive. Basic restaurants were easy enough to find, though their menus weren’t all that exciting. Supermarkets were on the small side in small towns and, not surprisingly, large in larger cities. However, I noticed a distinct lack of imported, or at least “international-style,” products there, with the local replacements showing a somewhat lower quality. That put a bit of a crimp in my snacking habits. Though I probably would have liked to camp more often, I stayed indoors on all but one night partly due to safety concerns (which were probably less of a problem than I imagined them to be.) Finding a descent place was never too hard and while I usually didn’t look around for stunning bargains, mid-range places were common enough, so that was my usual choice. On a few occasions I ended up in top-level hotel, and while the cost was more in line with international standards, the quality of the facility was not always so. When registering for accommodation, or at local attractions, I frequently observed that I was the only non-Colombian on the list. As might be expected, the reputation of the country has apparently not been good for the nation’s tourist industry. With so few international visitors - I was surprised that tourists from other parts of Latin America were absent as well - most of the people I observed have had little contact with anyone from another country. That manifested itself primarily in a distinct difficulty in spoken communication. I had picked up enough phrases in Espanol over the previous year, that I rarely had very much trouble with basic conversation, despite my abysmal pronunciation and syntax. However, in Colombia essentially no one seemed to understand anything that I was saying. That included such perplexing encounters as: walking into a mini-market as asking for the South American bike tourist’s best friend—“Helado, por favor” (ice cream, please,) a relatively easy-to-pronounce phrase which, nevertheless, invariably drew a blank stare from the proprietor. I couldn’t believe that I was mangling the language so badly that someone who worked in a small market, with a limited selection of items available, still couldn’t decipher which product I was seeking. That seemed to be the case, however, and while I usually enjoy the craziness of communicating with charades and gestures, my increasing tiredness led me to frequently use the, “Ah, never mind!” method.
Of course, the biggest issue when deciding whether to tour in Colombia during recent years has been the 40-year long civil war, which has been the main cause for the country’s relative isolation. The protagonists in that conflict are reasonably well known by now; the federal government, currently a right-center leaning administration that receives support from the U.S.A.; the FARC, a militant, socialist force with its roots planted in the rural peasantry of the 01960’s; right-wing paramilitary groups, relics from the cold war with their genesis largely owed to outside influence from the major powers of the past and present, both governmental and corporate; with a further complication arising from the world’s desire to consume the two most nefarious exports of the country, both being shipped out in white powder form. It was my observation that, as with most long-running conflicts, Colombia’s troubles have become institutionalized, with some of the participants doing so as much for employment than to achieve any specific political aim. In that regard, the situation had settled into a dispersed, low-intensity, though still dangerous, conflict in recent years. FARC had apparently moved their operations to the deep-forested areas of the lowlands, while the paramilitaries seemed to show up in unpredictable locations wherever they can attack relatively defenseless rural people, accusing them of being FARC “supporters.” With most of the major cities and transport routes under the sphere of government control, more or less, and the smaller groups less active as a result I wasn’t too concerned about any major battles happening in the areas I was interested in seeing.
Many residents of other lands would probably only recognize the names of two Colombians, only one of which was a real person. That being the infamous Pablo Escobar, one of the founders and leader of the notorious Medellin Drug Cartel, a group largely credited for turning Colombia’s cites into gangster-controlled battlegrounds. However, with Escobar’s death 15 years earlier, and with his cohorts either meeting a similar fate, or being imprisoned, the cartel fragmented and lost most of its control and power to intimidate. Indeed, the primary cities involved in the troubles, Cali, Medellin, and Bogotá, have all begun to move out of the shadows of their violent periods, and are emerging as safer contemporary cities. In fact, Bogotá is well known in alternative transport circles for its annual car-free days, an event that I would loved to have participated in. However, with some level of crime probably still present, and with my usual preference to avoid large cities, not to mention the fact that all three are fairly high up in the mountains, I did not have much desire to see them on this Tour. The second Colombian that most people have heard of is, of course, the lovable coffee pitchman, “Juan Valdez,” who a Colombian friend of mine once laughingly insisted was originally portrayed by an actor from Argentina, (actually, all the citations I could find indicate he was Cuban, but the point is the same. The most recent Juan Valdez was, in fact, from Medellin.)
Probably the most worrisome issue, however, was the FARC’s ultimately counterproductive tactic of kidnapping for ransom. Their targets have included politicians, diplomats, landowners, poor alleged collaborators, and, more relevant for me, tourists, many of whom were, or have been, help captive for many years. Cognizant of the fact that getting kidnapped could bring a fast end to a long Tour, I had no desire to be exposed to that risk. However, in 02008, the FARC seemed to be realizing that holding captives was not really working out for them, as prisoner releases and rescues had been increasing. I also believed that from the captor’s perspective, selecting a target was not a spontaneous act, as in: “Look, there goes a Gringo-Let’s get him!” but usually involved more careful planning. In that regard a shabby-looking bike tourist would probably not draw too much interest and without staying long in one place, as usual, be able to slip by without trouble.
With all of the above aspects of the conflict in mind, and remembering past areas that I had been where doom was prophesized around every corner, but which, in reality, turned out to be great places to visit, I felt that there should be no real problem touring in Colombia. However, while I didn’t expect any real problems, I still did not discount the possibility of big “inconveniences,” such as roadblocks, checkpoints, required bribes, and so forth, which, as my remaining time on the continent was running short, would be less than welcome. In reality, the only really visible signs of conflict I saw while I was in the country were the military units stationed at either end of practically every bridge I crossed. The soldiers at those locations seemed to me to be barely 18 years of age and looked to be bored witless with their tiresome jobs. I also received some positive reports from list member Jeff Kruys, who had began his North and South Americas tour about a year after I started (had I not gone out to the Galapagos when I did we probably would have passed each other in Ecuador.) He had followed my planned tactic of staying to the major routes in Colombia, and did not have any problems whatsoever, and listed Colombia as one of his favorite places. As you may have already surmised, I chose to disregard any reservations I may have had and kept Colombia on my route. Of course, I’m glad I did that, as it really did turn out to be a nice closing for the Stage in South America.
My route began at the main border crossing from Ecuador, in the extreme southern part of the country and continued generally northwards. The main highway through the country continues more or less in that direction, generally along the mountains, though Cali and Medellin, and then to the Caribbean coast. However, I had already decided against that route, even though it was the shortest way to my final destination. A couple hundred kilometers to the north of the border, the Andes splits into three parallel ranges, and farther north yet, a branch of the main highway crosses two of the ranges on the way to Bogotá and points north. I decided against that route as well, as my interest in riding through more mountainous areas was quickly slipping away. Between the ranges was the valley of the rather large Rio Magdalena, and my maps showed a secondary route along most of its course. However, there were some gaps and unimproved sections appearing on the map, as well as a lack of distance labels for most of the roads in the valley. Nevertheless, I thought that route would probably be the best, since it would theoretically be the flattest of the three. At its northern end, I would have to cross back across the broad wetlands of the Magdalena before eventually reaching the historic port city of Cartageña. That city was my new end point for the Stage as it has good connections to Panama, is known to be one of the most attractive cities in the region, and is Colombia’s only real international tourist destination. Venezuela would, unfortunately, have to be put off until a future tour, as I had neither the time, money, nor energy to add another large country to the Stage at that point. I had already made arrangements for a place to stay in Cartageña, as well as in Panama for that matter, well before I reached the border, and when I did arrive I felt as if I had just enough time to reach the end at a typical pace with enough time off to see the places I wanted to visit along the way. However, as I often do, I squandered what extra time I did have fairly early on in the country and eventually had to sprint to the finish.
As I approached the border from Ecuador, I was not 100% sure what the situation there would be. Several days earlier, the Colombian government had attacked a FARC camp which turned out to be in Ecuadorian territory, sparking a diplomatic crisis in the region. I had heard that things had already started to settle down and that there never was any closure of the border, but those sorts of things can change quickly, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if I had to stay in Ecuador for a little longer. As it turned out, that particular crossing was one of the busier ones I had seen in a while, and there was a huge line of trucks and buses waiting to enter Colombia. Of course, I was able to roll right past that and up to the foot-traffic window, so the immigration procedures were surprisingly fast. At the station, a few hundred people were there as part of a peace demonstration, presumably sparked by the recent incident. A journalist ran up to me to ask what I thought, but I could only give a few quick words of encouragement in Espanol. The area that I would cross during the next few days appeared to be fairly benign on the map, but I had already learned, from Jeff Kruys’ crazyguyonabike.com journal and a few other sources, that there was some quite severe terrain ahead. With that in mind, I stopped after a short half day at the first town across the border, Ipiales, which gave me a little extra time to acclimate to a new country. For the next several hundred kilometers, the combined factors of terrain, weather, and the spacing of towns, attractions, and services made this section problematic in terms of covering my desired distance each day and keeping to the schedule I needed to meet. The next city, Pasto was only 87 kilometers father north, but with a deep gorge to cross, including a 1,100-meter descent, a 1,380-meter climb, and another 610-meter descent, it took most of the next day. I also lengthened that day’s route by an additional 12 kilometers (including another 300-meter descent/climb) to visit the Sanctuary de Las Lajas, located just outside of Ipiales, deep in the gorge of the Rio Guaitara. The story goes that sometime in the 18th century, an image of the Virgen Maria was seen in a slab of Laja, a type of flagstone quarried in the gorge. A sanctuary was built on that spot, which reminded me somewhat of the Difunta Correa shrine I visited in Argentina. In contrast to the earlier stop, this one was a little more traditional in design, with a pretty baroque chapel jutting out over the gorge. However, like the Difunta Correa shrine, Las Lajas had hundreds of little plaques of thanks attached to the stone walls around its grounds, and, similarly, one bike-related plaque caught my attention. That one was a bit more mundane than its Argentine counterpart, simply giving thanks for the first anniversary of the formation of the Ipiales Bike and Tennis Club.
Pasto is a fairly large regional capital, somewhat chilly at 2,500 meters a.m.s.l., with a smattering of interesting architecture mixed in with more contemporary buildings, a little chaotic in its layout, but useful enough. I only intended to spend a night there, but the following day, after a late start on a grey morning and a fairly slow climb of the 300-meter grade at the north end of town, I paused at the top of the forthcoming 1,900-meter descent to wait out a light but steady rain, hopefully. The skies continued to look rather ominous, and, not wanting to do the big decent in the rain, I chose to return to Pasto for the rest of the day, the first of a few wasted days to come. When I finally did get going on the next day, with reasonably good weather, I was rather surprised at the slow progress I made, given that the day’s route included 2,700 meters of major descents but only 940 meters of climbs. However, some patches of rough pavement, especially on the descents, and a few brief showers, slowed things down a little. The distance I did manage, just bisected the length to my next destination, so it didn’t turn out to be much of a problem. On the second day, the terrain was inverted, with 1,600 meters of gain on three climbs, but only about 500 meters of descents, but the weather was good throughout the entire day, the first time such a situation had occurred for almost a month. Though I took only short breaks throughout the day, I still could not reach Popayan, my next stop, before sunset. While I usually don’t like to finish in the dark, I have on a number of occasions, and since there was no place to stay, or reasonable camping spots, on the outskirts of town I kept going well past nightfall. Though it was a moonless night, and the highway was unlit, my concerns were eased a little when a nice wide shoulder, the first I’d seen in a long time, appeared for the final 10 kilometers into town. With that, I slowly made my way to the center of the city, opting to spring for a nicer place to stay in an old colonial building right in the centro. Though the two previous days were a little more tiring than I really needed them to be I was partly compensated by the excellent scenery in the area, with bright green hillsides on the numerous sharp gorges cut into the Andes by the Rio Patia watershed.
Popayan was a place I was looking forward to taking a short break in, as it is often cited as one of Colombia’s most beautiful cities. It is also one of the oldest, being founded in 01537, and possesses one of the most intact historic centers in the country. That, however, was almost lost in 01983, when an earthquake destroyed many of the finest buildings. Today, the damage has all been repaired and the streets of the centro, lined with stout, thick-walled white buildings, which give the town its nickname; La Ciudad Blanca, made for a relaxing place to rest and wander. My interest was increased by the fact that my arrival coincided with the start of Semana Santa (holy week,) for which the streets of the centro were closed to motor traffic. The Semana Santa celebrations in Popayan were said to be the largest outside of Europe, though the processions that I saw, with groups of men bearing sedans containing religious statues leading the procession of hundreds of palm-leaf-waving citizens, only lasted an hour or two. It was quite a spectacle, though not as gargantuan as I may have been led to believe. Perhaps the latter days of the week were when the most important festivities occurred. I couldn’t wait around for that, as time did not permit, though I did extend my stay by one day since I had to wait until Monday morning to visit a bike shop (with its tradition of producing well-known competitive cyclists, Colombia had the most complete selection of quality bike shops I saw in South America,) in order to buy the set of brake pads that I desperately needed. By the time I finished that errand it was late enough in the morning, and I was feeling lazy enough that I didn’t think I would be able to get as far as I needed that day. The extra rest and time to explore the town was appreciated, but I really shouldn’t have wasted an additional day at that point.
I was reluctant to start late that day, because that was the point where I needed to make my final crossing of the Andes in order to reach the Magdalena Valley and its, presumably, milder terrain, for the final stretch of the Stage. In addition to a big climb, the road to the east, over the mountains, was reputedly poor, and its status uncertain to me. That was due to a few entries I saw in guidebooks which stated that the FARC had blown up a bridge on the road between Popayan and San Agustin, the town I needed to reach, causing a lengthy detour onto even worse roads. If the direct road was indeed closed, I wouldn’t have had nearly enough time to take the longer route, and still see the two archeological sites in the vicinity of San Agustin, as I desired. Instead I would have been forced to take the main highway through Cali and Medellin, which I did not really want to do. I knew that guidebooks are often woefully out of date, though, and I was hopeful that with the FARC moving to other parts of the country repairs had already been made. I made several inquiries in town about the current status of the road, and everyone said that it was open. Of course, I had been burned by that sort of information before, but when the bike shop staff said it was possible by bike, I felt a little more optimistic. It was about 142 kilometers to San Agustin, and the folks at the bike shop indicated that the summit was a little above three thousand meters, meaning a climb of at least 1,300 meters, and while it wasn’t really likely that I would be able to do that in a single day on a bad road, I wanted to get as far as possible in order to leave as much as possible of the following day available for sightseeing and rest.
Exiting the city early the following morning was reasonable enough, and I quickly reached the junction for the eastbound road, which, to my pleasant surprise, was paved for the, rather gentle, first 30 kilometers. At that point I found a small village with just a few basic shops and restaurants. Though it was still early, I took a meal in one, assuming that there may not be many other options later on. However, the truckloads of soldiers that came rolling into town while I was eating caused me to wonder again if I was making the best choice. But, at that point I was already committed, and so I continued on, now on a dirt/gravel mix, with the grade beginning in earnest. The climb was steady, with the countryside opening up to more of a fresh green pastoral-type environment as the elevation increased, and while the road condition was not the best, it could have been much worse. By the late afternoon I reached a tiny settlement were there was a basic cafe or two, which was much appreciated. While I was eating there, a truck delivering groceries pulled up, and I took the opportunity to try to gather information on the rest of the route. Truck drivers in most places are notoriously unreliable sources of information, especially concerning the conditions of road surfaces, but I assumed that those fellows would at least be able to tell me if, and where, there were other places to get food ahead, since they would presumably be making deliveries at those shops as well. The best I could get out of that attempt was that there was something along the way, but I wasn’t exactly sure what it was or were it was. Later on, I crossed the bridge that had once been destroyed, it apparently having been repaired so long in the past that it was now starting to fall apart again from natural causes. Later still, I eventually reached the summit, at 3,180 meters, at the boundary of the Parque Nacional Purace. I had only managed 74 kilometers that day, but since I was at the summit it seemed like I would still be able to make it to San Agustin early enough on the next day. Since there was no one at all around, I took the opportunity to camp again, for the first time in a long while, and for the only time in Colombia. However, the soggy ground all around that area made for a less than ideal spot in which to do so.
In the morning the road continued to roll a little through the national park, and the road surface in that area was the only really rough section on that route, with quite a lot of loose rocks. After crossing though to the other side of the park, the road improved just slightly, and the descent from the summit slowly started to take hold. There was a cluster of a few basic structures not far ahead, and one of them was a family restaurant that was able to serve me a bowl of soup and drink. The main part of the descent came next, dropping 1,240 meters, but the rolling nature of the road, as well as its still slow surface made the ride feel quite jarring and take much longer than I would have liked. Eventually, in the late morning, I came upon the little town of Isnos, which had a few small shops, but was more notable as being where the pavement started again. With that, and a further 490 meters of descent, I felt that it would not be much longer before I arrived in San Agustin. In reality it was not a quick as I’d hoped, for near the base of the descent, after about 20 kilometers, the pavement disappeared again for a few kilometers, being replaced by a very bad gravel surface. The good conditions returned once the road crossed a small bridge over the headwaters of the Rio Madgalena, the body of water that I would not be far from for the rest of the Stage. At that point a side road split off and began another climb up to the town of San Agustin. The elevation at the river was something around 1,300 meters, much lower that I had been since the start of the climb up to Cuenca, Ecuador, and the tropical heat and humidity were in full force that day, making the climb, a somewhat surprising (and a little annoying) 450 meters, seem to take forever and wear me down completely. When I finally reached the town it was the early afternoon, and while I had originally wanted a full day off there, a half day would have to do. I even considered making only a quick visit to the archeological park and then riding a little farther, but since the park was a few kilometers beyond the town, and the town itself was pleasant enough, I decided to stay there anyway.
The San Agustin archeological zone is one of the country’s few ancient sites, and one of its main tourist attractions, though, as was the case throughout the country, there were only a few international tourists besides me at the site. No one knows much about exactly who lived at San Agustin in ancient times, but whoever it was built numerous altars and tombs guarded by one-to-four meter tall stone statues depicting fearsome-looking creatures. To me the sculptures seemed quite reminiscent of the illustrations in Maurice Sendak’s books for children. The statues are scattered around a pretty green hilltop park, though I wasn’t sure if that had been the original location for all of them. There was also a large, exposed slab of granite by a creek side, into which had been carved small water channels that twisted around in whimsical patterns, which also looked as if they had been designed for, or by, kids. Perhaps the whole site was some sort of Pre-Columbian theme park. Half a day turned out to be adequate to see the whole park and I enjoyed the visit. At least until near the end, when I slipped in some mud, landing on a sharp rock, and bruising my back in exactly the same spot where something similar had happened in Mancora, Peru six weeks earlier. That made the rest of the Stage a rather uncomfortable undertaking indeed.
There is a second archeological park in the general vicinity, which, like San Agustin, is a World Heritage Site, and so was a place I wanted to visit. However, the Tierradentro Archeological Park, was not as convenient to my route, being located back up in the main range, away from the highway with access only on unsurfaced roads. I guessed that it could take at least two days just to get there, and after wasting a day in Pasto, and a second in Popayan, I simply didn’t have the time for that. However, after a sort and pleasant ride to the nearest large town, Garzon, I stopped to see if I could go out for a day by bus. That may have been possible but I was lead to believe that it would take a very long time. The only remaining option was to hire a taxi, and though I probably shouldn’t have done so, as the cost was exorbitant, much more so since it was still Semana Santa, I decided to go anyway. It still took a long time to get out there, despite the taxis crazy, and significantly risk-taking driver, which didn’t leave all that much time to see the site. Tierradentro is another mysterious place whose origins are not well understood. Its claim to fame is a series of underground tombs, many of which have interiors painted with ghoulish faces and other abstract designs. While I didn’t enjoy using a taxi to get out there it was an interesting visit, and after that there was only one other significant place I wanted to see before reaching Cartagena, and completing the Stage.
Before that, however, was just over 1,000 kilometers more to go, generally heading north, which, I hoped, would be over terrain that was a little easier than the previous two months had been, and which I could, therefore, push through quickly, or at least without losing any extra time. More or less, that turned out to be true, and there were only a few items of note along the way. The first couple of days were the most pleasant, with nice weather, and the best cycling conditions I’d had in along time; pretty green countryside, some useful small towns, relatively light traffic, and though the route was far from flat, there were no major climbs. There were also more frequent encounters with local cyclists in that region, mostly of the club/racer persuasion, and though we couldn’t communicate perfectly, it was nice to interact by using some phrases laced with bits of the universal cycling vocabulary. A little later, the main road curved back up into the western range to serve the city of Ibague, which would have added some extra distance, not to mention a moderate climb to the route. There appeared to be, however, a more direct route using minor roads continuing along the river valley, but my maps were not very clear in that area. The route started out great, along a nice quiet road though the agricultural area of the valley. But when I saw a sign indicating a left turn to a ferry across the river, I assumed that the eventual crossing I needed to make would be there. In reality, I should have continued north for a while longer, where there would have been a bridge across. For while the ferry was fine, and after a short distance had I rejoined the main road heading north, it was not until sunset at the tiny town of Lerida that I realized I was much farther south than I had thought I was. A half day later, at lunchtime, I reached the town of Honda (a town that would make the news a few months later due to the riots that resulted when many of its residents lost their savings in someone’s unscrupulous pyramid scheme,) and feeling hot and worn out, I thought I could spare the afternoon and stopped for the day. That turned out to be a lucky move, as that evening something I had eaten gave me a case of food poisoning, the only real occurrence of any G-I malady I had since the middle of Stage 3 in Africa. In that case, however, it was the type of bug that wipes a person out completely, for 24 hours, at least, and I was forced to curl up and spend the following day in town as well. That completely blew any chance I had of taking a final day off at my last destination, the colonial town of Santa Cruz de Mompox.
The route from Honda to Mompox was affected by the road along the valley being united with a few others dropping down from the hills. I had hoped that the highways running past the major cities in the mountains would carry the majority of the traffic heading to the cities and ports of the Caribbean coast. Of course, most of the truck drivers seemed not to be fools, and chose to travel over the fairly flat terrain of the valley, just as I had done. With that, the occasionally narrow or bumpy nature of that highway, and alternate periods of rain and valley heat, the next three days, to the mid-sized town of Aguachica, were completely tedious. North of that town, I knew that there could be another tough section ahead, as to reach Cartagena via Mompox, I would need to travel over minor roads through the now broad and meandering wetlands of the lower Magdalena Valley. A traveling salesman I had chatted with a day earlier, who said that the area had been prone to paramilitary attacks, and some vague traveler’s reports on the Web about getting to Mompox via bus, were the only real information I had on the area. Without any time to spare I couldn’t really modify my plans at that point, so I proceeded with my planned route. North of Aguachica, about 65 kilometers, was the junction with the road to Mompox, which was a dirt/sand/gravel affair, a rather poor-quality type that caused the few other local cyclists (and me) to use 20-cm-wide footpaths though the grass alongside, instead of the regular lane. After about 18 kilometers of that I reached a little village called Tamalameque, which at least had some small shops with cold drinks, though not much else. At that point it was already getting late in the day, and I was not sure if I would make it to the next town that day, though I was sure that if I did it wouldn’t be very pleasant.
Based on the route I had chosen for Stage 5 later on, I then realized that, aside from the occasional construction zone, or cross-country short cut, I was probably on the last section of bad gravel road of the entire Tour. At that point, while enjoying my drinks, I began to think back over some of the abysmal roads of days gone by which I had already experienced: the Highlands Highway in New Guinea, the Riversleigh Track in the Queensland outback, the rocky road though nowhere in Laos that broke the bike in half, pretty much all of the roads in Myanmar, the freezing Friendship Highway in Tibet, the soaking wet climb to Debark in Ethiopia, the road across the Dida Galgalu desert in Kenya, the unmarked track across northern Zambia, sandy R.N.13 in southern Madagascar, lonely Ruta 40 in Argentinean Patagonia, the slippery Carretera Austral in Chilean Patagonia, the sandy Bujuru Road on the coast of Brazil, dusty Road #702 in the Bolivian Altiplano, the poly-defective descent from Huaraz in Peru, the just-completed road to San Agustin, and numerous shorter non-roads. And the thought that came to me at the time, was that all of those were probably enough. If I weren’t short for time I suppose I would have continued on, instead I hopped the next mini-bus that came by and transferred to the next town, the interesting riverside town of El Banco. It was a bit of a shame, because there was an incredible amount of birdlife visible along the way. However, the road was still poor, and included a slow ferry transfer around a previously washed-out section. Even with the transfer, it was still fairly late when I reached El Banco, which I found to be a fairly unique place, appearing rather self-reliant in its watery isolation, though decidedly frumpy. There was a surprisingly nice place to stay there, and after I cleaned up, I went to the river port, where small boats were constantly shuttling people around to various outlying villages. I asked if there was a boat to Mompox in the morning, as I thought that would be fun and might get me there a little earlier, and I thought that the reply was that indeed there was. However, early in the morning drizzle the next day, I bought a ticket to Mompox, and was a little disappointed when my gear was loaded onto one of the waiting minibuses instead. Without enough energy to change plans again, I took the bus once more, which may have been a good idea in any case, as though it didn’t look like an especially long distance on my map, it took a surprisingly long time, over a road that was paved only part of the way.
Santa Cruz de Mompox is another World Heritage Site, due to its lively colonial center, which had its heyday back when the Rio Magdalena was the main transport corridor into the interior of Colombia. I had hoped for a full day off, but since I had paid in advance for an apartment in Cartageña the following night, I only had time to ride around the colorful centro for a while, taking a few photos, and then to have a quick lunch. After all, I had seen quite a number of colonial towns thus far, and I didn’t mind making just a short stop that time. Continuing on, finally back on the bike, the road heading west was a good quality paved road, and though the scenery and wildlife were not quite as impressive as the day before, it was still a pleasant ride. However, I was slowed again by another ferry crossing of the Magdalena, which involved moving upriver a considerable distance. Fortunately, foot (and bike) traffic were taken by speedboats, as opposed to the much slower, large ferry which hauled the motor traffic. The boat dropped me off at the bustling town of Magangue, where I only lingered long enough to get a quick bite to eat. The day up to that point was slow enough that I was not able to get nearly as close to the city as I had desired. As sunset approached, I was only near the little town of San Pedro, where, as opposed to camping for one final night on the continent, I stayed in the very basic guesthouse located there. Looking at my maps that night I determined that it would be 154 kilometers to Cartageña, and though I would have preferred a nice easy day for the last day of the Stage, that seemed like it would be no problem. Of course, with so many surprises and obstacles thrown up by the continent over the previous year, why should I have expected the last day to go as planned? In reality two of the most common unknowable factors presented themselves. The first was, though my maps made the terrain in the region appear to be flat, in reality, it was obnoxiously hilly for almost the entire distance. Even more typically annoying was that by the time I reached the city, I had already ridden 175 kilometers, as opposed to the 154 that I had been expecting, and, to make matters worse, the part of town which is set up for tourists, where my apartment was a located, was about another 20 kilometers farther. The total then was 196, just a few kilometers sort of becoming my longest day of the Stage. While much of the last couple hours involved navigating though a typically chaotic urban zone in the dark, I was not about to give up at that point, being the final day of the Stage, after all, and it was two hours beyond sunset when I eventually found the place I would be staying.
I did make it, finally, and with that, the longest Stage of the Tour, both in time and distance, was complete, and I was 100% ready for a break! Cartageña, where I stayed for a week, was a nice city in which to end, with a decent beach, and a very nice historic district. I had planned, as I had done on the three previous stages, to have my laptop shipped to me there so I could manage the 13,000 photos I took during the Stage, work on my slideshows and website, and catch up on my writing. However, I discovered that the person I had hired to store it and ship it to me had, in effect, vanished, at least as far as I was concerned. The result was that I did not have it while I was there (and wouldn’t locate it again for another 7 months,) and consequently couldn’t do any of that work. I can honestly say that I wasn’t complaining about that too much, since what I needed more than anything was a little rest and relaxation.
I had always felt that South America would be the most important Stage of the Tour, since it had the most diversity of environments, a compelling cultural mix, and a large number of impressive ancient sites. For that reason I wanted it to be the longest stage. In reality, I got more than I had bargained for, with 28,157 kilometers of cycling, instead of the 20,000 I had originally planned. That was not in any way a bad thing as I saw all of the impressive things I had hoped to, and many more. To be sure things were not always easy, partly due to the nature of the continent, party due to the long Tour starting to catch up with me, and partly due to an annoying number of “external factors.” With all of that, the 9-10 month Stage I had been hoping for took 13½ months, leaving me way behind in both time and money. However, I could say with certainty that I didn’t care, and all that remained was to decide what to do next.
Despedia America del Sur (do Sul)!!
Gracias,
Mike
The Tour of Gondwana
May 5, 02005-August 22, 02008