Losing the trailer is the best decision ever made. It feels like a hundred pounds have been shed since Panama city. Months of lugging that piece of garbage around has granted me retard strength. Yesterday was my first century, and half of it was spent climbing with very little descending. Now it's time to fly.
Wow, I sure have been putting this off for a while. Once again, lot's of distractions and no excuses. Since crossing into Colombia, and then Panamá, my face has slain so many gigantic tropical butterflies I'm pretty sure I've wiped out a couple of species.
Clown trash cans in Guatape, Colombia
Otavalo, Ecuador
Let's see...no update since Quito? Leaving the greatest city in Ecuador, I was back in mountainous terrain. Though not nearly as punishing as the Perúvian Andes, I was moving at a snails pace compared to my rapid progress along the Ecuadorian coast. Luckily, I had shed quite a bit of weight in Quito a few days before by sending back some pretty heavy gifts to the folks back home, so the climbing was easy going and a little less stressful.
Bussing dissapointed children to a Disneyland knockoff in Tulcan, Ecuador
A lot less tropical up in the mountains of Ecuador, which means a lot less free food being tossed out of the backs of pickups in my general direction. It was a bittersweet end to a short voyage across a small country that was packed from boarder to boarder with great folks and even better sights. You definitely do not need to take a trip to the Galapagos or Montañita in order to enjoy Ecuador, although I've heard plenty of good things about both places.
Columbian-Ecuador border
But my unquenchable eagerness to enter the next country of the trip had me pressing hard through the last leg of the Ecuadorian mountains, heading down to Ibarra before a steep climb up to Tulcan and then a mercifully quick border crossing into the mysterious and untamed land of Colombia.
Ipiales, Colombia
First impressions? Any country with a three hour descent into tropical paradise immediately after crossing the border is going to be held in high esteem, and Colombia has plenty of that...for a little bit, but mostly it's an up and down ride without the respiration problems one might have at Perúvian altitudes.
Bicycling is huge here, far more popular than any country I have passed through so far. Cycling teams from Ipiales were teeming the roads starting from the border and came complete with uptight attitudes as snug as their tights, passing all too quickly in thousands of dollars worth of sparkly carbon fiber and titanium and regarding me with little more than sneers, offended by my antique ride or my smell. Let's say both.
Even if the fellow peddlers weren't quite as supportive as I thought they would be, seeing another cyclist every five minutes made me feel secure on the roads in this new country. The country is perfect for the sport (is cycling sport?), with hairpin turns running parrellel to the sunken rivers that run down the canyons far below, and ascents that are not nearly as exhausting or long as those encountered in Perú or Ecuador. Like, I know everyone makes a big deal about France or Northern California being a cyclist's paradise because tour routes cut through wine country and cyclist get to feel all haughty and aristocratic like they're going to a Giants game, but in all seriousness, Colombia is the true promised land of cyclists, but only for those with a menacing temperament and huevos to match.
Dustin from Arkansas, couple km´s south of Pasto, Colombia
I'm making Colombia seem pretty exclusive. This land looks like the kind of place where not so long ago, mighty men battled each other over pastures and fine powder, but the guns appear to have fallen silent now, and peace reigns once more...
...and when I say peace reigns, I mean it reigns with a heavy hand, for every single bridge, sharp switchback, and fork in the road is patrolled by the best guns that American taxpayers don't know they're paying for. The green machine is omnipresent and leaves no pothole un-holed. The government out here might be content to let road conditions go to shit and leave plenty of folks in rural areas without running water or electricity, but it will be a cold day in hell before these ever vigilant teenagers lower their galils and pick up a nasty Starcraft II habit.
Most of the military dudes on the trip have served out entire four year enlistments without meeting one of the many legendary guerrillas that operate with impunity in various wide swathes of jungle, but they're out there. Years of this strange war between the Colombian government and a faction that was once considered political has reduced the rebel alliance to nothing more than roaming bands of thieves that nobody seems to like. Civilian folks in heavily fortified areas all seem to have their own guerrilla stories, and pretty much everyone describes the guerrillas as petty thieves who'll beg for food if they don't have a gun and rob when they got the bullets to do it. What a bunch of assholes, right? And then they'll do mildly inconvenient things like cutting power lines to rural areas or not quite blowing up bridges so then the Colombian government can invent more excuses not to ante up public infastracture in rural areas other than flood these problem places with more bored army dudes.
Roads closed in Medellín
Drug wars are stupid but what else is new? A Chomsky interview from 1999 gave me the heads up that Colombia has the greatest degree of wealth disparity than any other country in the South American continent. Now we're a whole twelve years into a new century and it doesn't appear things have changed too much...big cities amass great coffers of gold and frankensense while the folks in the countryside struggle to find a signal on their ancient boob tubes before Colombia Tiene Talento comes on. The country folks are well aware things are unfair...they know cities get priority when it comes to road construction and repair, leaving them to deal with their broken axles and gravel filled potholes on their own. And it doesn't appear they have anywhere to turn to either. The Robin Hoods of the amazon have turned into the Crips and Bloods, and the Colombian government is pretty much the equivalent of the early nineties LAPD. Folks got nowhere to turn to. Alot more begging in the streets occurs out here, more so than any other country I have visited on my trip, with the exception of the United States, which says something about the state of things back home.
The Medellín hostel crew in Guatape
I get too incensed about these issues, so I try to take a deep breath, relax, and chill with cool local folks as much as I can. The dudes working at the Casa Kiwi in Medellín turned out to be true amigos in this regard. I'm thankful I ran across these fellas, especially since I was about to stay in a casa de ciclista in Medellin, which fortunately never got back to me. I get special treatment as a cyclist in a hostel because I smell really bad most of the time and nobody wants to be around me except the exceptionally curious and bold, and most of the time, these individuals are the ones working behind the reception desk or the bar.
Showing South Americans how to make a real man's breakfast
It was just a day and a half before Carlos, the unofficial boss of Casa Kiwi, and Juan decided we should take a bike trip to Guatape, a vacation town for high rollers such as ourselves and just a small 70km climb from Medellin. We packed our bags and sprinted up some more steep mountainsides, fueled by pure sugar cane juice.
It was at this point I realized just how fucking dumb my bike trailer is. The trip to Guatape would be my first camp trip without the trailer strapped to the rear skewer, and what a difference that turned out to be. For one, I was packing all my normal gear to my back rack, plus some back packs and water for my amigos, and yet I was moving at a faster pace than any other point in my journey...and I'm talking sprinting for a solid hour at a time up steep Colombian highways.
We dropped into this Swiss Alps-like town around sundown and helped ourselves to a healthy dose of watching hot chicks zip line across giant lakes while inhaling wave after wave of arepas with cheese.
Our arrival was somewhat ill timed seeing that the day marked the beginning of some Jesus stuff that goes on for a week, which means every subsequent day is a sunday, which means Dominos stops delivering at six. Didn't seem to stop the locals from having a good time though. Wood sculptures of saints and angels were strapped to the tops of taxis and driven around town with great fanfare and much to the chagrin of Satan, who was also pissed about the Dominos thing.
The next day we got up early and felt crazy enough to do some more biking around town. We happened upon a monastary up in the hills, complete with actual monks! These were the first monks I've ever seen, and naturally, they didn't want their pictures taken because they could sense the absence of Albert in my heart. Very keen, these men of the cloth. I'm also very impressed that these guys start praying at three in the morning and don't stop until eight at night. They also make hella good candy almonds.
Guatape was a temptuous place full of temptuous things, but like every temptation, the tempt itself is fleeting and one is compelled to move on to bigger and better things. We said our goodbyes and returned to the big city with time to spare. Carlos and Juan went back to work and I didn't. Then the next day I did a little bit of work but got bored and read a book. Then I decided to permamount my machete to my bike and make this machine into a bane for all mankind.
Despite all my gripes against the inequality of cities vs. the country side, I can't help but sing praises of this magical city of Medellin. This was truly a land of homies and good times, with a good mix of nature and city life that's hard to find in so many popular areas these days. One could easily spend a few years out here with nothing more than the Chinese language and still manage to enjoy the place. It doesn't take much.
I almost convinced all my buddies out here to follow me all the way to Turbo, but work began to pile up for everyone and I was forced to say my goodbyes. In was an unforgettable stay, and to Juan, Carlos, Pilar and all the rest, you're going to have to visit my home one of these days.
Santafe de Antioquia
Getting drunk at 10 AM on a Tuesday in Santafe de Antioquia
Oh yeah, the rusty, extremely dangerous, frequently broken gondola of almost death that's built for two people but always has four or five riding at time, a good 80km's north of Cañas Gordas. Don't let the smiles fool you, these people were pretty damn upset over the fact that they have to do this pretty much every day just to cross the river to get back home, and they don't understand why the government can send a hundred men to patrol the highway on the other side of the river but can't spare five to guard the construction of a bridge that would be slightly safer.
Smart.
Turbo would be my last stop in Colombia, as I would have to jump on a speed boat and zoom across the Carribean sea for a smooth landing in Miramar, Panama. With all the talk of choppy seas and miserable looks on the mugs of other foreigners who just finished making the passage, I was sure I was in for a hard time, but the speedboat trip turned out to be a blast...something I would describe as a day and a half long splash mountain ride complete with breakdowns and tropical island stays. I have to be honest, I wish the boats went faster, and I'm pretty sure they could, but then I'm also sure my bike would have shattered into a thousand pieces if the sea was any rougher.
Street parrot in Puerto Valdia, Panama
Anti-pirate fort in Portobelo
So here I am in Panama, specifically Panama city. It took about a day to ride my bike from the Atlantic to the Pacific, which seems strange and unnatural to me but I guess that's the Panamanian way. Panama city is boring in this reporter's opinion, free of all but two really bad bike shops and no bike culture to speak of, so I'll be moving on rather quick. I'm also losing the trailer while I'm here...
Discovery Channel Discovery of the Week; The Bike Vulture
The bike vulture is a most recent occurance of mine and quite possibly unique only to my journey. It happened nonetheless and deserves mention.
In Puerto Valdia, I met up with a jazz saxophonist from Mexico and another cyclist from Argentina. While the guy from Mexico was a truely cool cat, there was something off about the Argentinian. His ride was an antique but certainly not a mechanical problem. His two biggest issues...he had absolutely nothing (no spare tubes, no spare spokes, patches, no money), and every topic of conversation always had to somehow come back to his ex-girlfriends and rimjobs. For three days, I traveled with this fellow, thinking his three year experience on the road might offer some enlightening insight, but these things never pan out the way you expect.
The bike vulture is a vulture for many reason. For one, he lets his unquenchable testosterone control his every thought process, so he's talking about fucking just way too much and crows at every single female he sees on the road, right down to the fifteen year old girls getting out from school, which is a good way to get a goddamn knife thrown at your face. And the fact that he's forty years old means he should be able to exercise some restraint, but this guy was a creep of the highest calibre.
Number two, once he gets to know you, he also wants to know what you're carrying in terms of cash. He'll be subtle about it, asking you to spot him for a few meals before you realized you've paid for breakfast, lunch, second lunch, and dinner. Then he'll go through a list of things that he's broken or lost, which is plenty, while making sure you're well aware of the fact that he can't pay for any replacements. Then he goes onto mention the fact that "another American cyclist bought this tent for me, and another Australian cyclist bought me some new sneakers, and a German couple bought me a new coat," which is his way of saying "soooooo you gonna be my sugar daddy for a bit?"
No. I'm going to tell you to go to Colon while I go to Panama City, and if you start following me again and asking me for money, I'm going to pop your tires and leave you with more problems to deal with.
I am in Medellín, a city known for having two more L's than Bogotá. That's as much as I know for now. Check back tomorrow after I place a flower at Pablo Escobar's grave.
