Santa Marta y la playa (Motorcycle Diaries, Pt II)

After a few days of hanging around in the sand I was ready for a night out in the big city of Santa Marta for two reasons. Reason 1) I know laying on the beach doesn't take much skill but I'm strangely bad at it and 2) San Gil's largest party spot was the downstairs section of a gas station. Even though they tried to hype it up by calling the gas station La Isla, there still wasn't much of a scene there.

I knew I would have fun on a Saturday night in Santa Marta, but the idea of driving through city streets was very unappealing so I procrastinated well into the afternoon. Finally I tossed my bag on the back of the moto and started into town.

Since this was the only major city I planned to be in during the whole trip I had a short to-do list which I was able to complete fairly quickly. After checking into La Brisa Loca, I got a small oil leak fixed on the moto. The mechanic worked on my bike on the sidewalk outside the shop where about 30 other bikes were being repaired. He replaced a seal and a gasket, and tightened and lubed the chain all for a whopping $15. A mechanic won't even glance at a motorcycle for 15 dollars in America. Next I tried to sell an old iPhone, and then found an overnight parking space for the motorcycle.

La Brisa isn't the classiest place ever, but it is party central for travelers in Santa Marta.

With all that out of the way it was time to get the party started - an easy task at La Brisa Loca. I joined up with a few people I had met in San Gil who were living in Santa Marta, got some street food, and let the party progress from there.

I woke up the next day around 2 in the afternoon. I felt like I had eaten sand while someone blew a hairdryer in my face all night. Fortunately I couldn't sit around feeling bad because the CU Cycling Team abuelo, old man Becker himself, was due to arrive shortly with his girlfriend. It was really cool to meet up with a friend from home in a foreign country, but since they had to pack everything into a week-long vacation we didn't get to hang out a whole lot.

There's not much to do in Santa Marta as it's more of a hub for exploring the surrounding areas. I had accomplished what I wanted to do - fix the moto, have an all night party, and meet up with Becker - so by Monday I was past ready to go back to the beach. The only problem was the city had outlawed motorcycles for a day.

I now have a basic understanding of timber framing. I basically understand it's extremely hard work.

A few days before, two guys on a motorcycle shot and killed two cops in the city. The mayor's shortsighted fix was to immediately ban any male passenger from a motorcycle, thereby infuriating the hundreds of mototaxi drivers who rely on passengers for their livelihood and inciting them to riot. Most people ignored the ban so the police, not wanting to appear impotent, banned all motorcycles for a day - the day I wanted to ride my motorcycle out of town. So my departure was pushed back once more.

By the time I finally got out of Santa Marta on Tuesday I couldn't wait to get back to nature at Costeño Beach. Two of my friends were timber framing a building next to the hostel and I figured some testosterone-fueled hammering, chiseling, and heavy lifting would be a great cure to the congestion I had been fighting while in the city. After that we won an impromptu beach rugby tournament, and I climbed a (small) palm tree to get a coconut before hacking it open with a machete to drink the water inside. Rawr, watch while I beat on my chest! We built a bonfire on the beach that night and I slept outside in my hammock to round out the celebration of nature and manliness.

By the next morning I was over the cloistered atmosphere of a backpacker hostel and ready to hit the open road where new challenges and adventures awaited.

Leaving Costeño Beach.

Easily bored (Motorcycle Diaries, Pt I)

Marlon's hand-drawn map

Was I living in a foreign country, trying to learn a language, and immersing myself in a new culture? Yes. Was I leading mountain bike tours through the beautiful and lush Andean mountain range? Yes. Did I still get bored and decide to take off on a motorcycle ride? Inexplicably, yes.

Preparation

My friend Marlon seems to know where everything is in San Gil, so once I decided I ride through the country I asked him where I could buy a map. Apparently maps of Colombia are extremely difficult to find in, oddly, Colombia, but he sketched a quick route on a 10x15cm piece of paper with names of towns jotted in the margins. I don't think he intended for me to navigate a 2000km journey based on a hand-drawn map, but like I said, maps of Colombia are hard to find.

Gringo Mike and Marlon also warned me of all the dangers of riding solo through Colombia – flat tires, torrential rain, and harassment by the police if I didn't have my license plate numbers on my helmet and riding jacket. I think it's amazing that just 15 years ago Colombia was one of the most dangerous places on earth, but now my concerns were that the police would enforce minor traffic laws and it might rain.

Setting off

Mike recommended that I ride backroads from San Gil to the colonial town of Zapatoca, and then on to Bucaramunga. Backroads are always cool on a motorcycle so I set off through Barichara, one of the most affuent pueblos in Colombia, got on dirt roads and rode to Galan. Since I was only riding an air-cooled 125cc two-stroke motorcycle I decided to stop in Galan and hang out with some high schoolers watching the Colombia v Netherlands soccer match in a corner store while the moto cooled.

The camino real rock wall in the foreground, overlooking the Rio Suarez.

Noting the absence of road signs, I asked how to get to Zapatoca and was pointed down a side road. I soon found myself on a beautiful, flower-lined dirt road that, upon further inspection, I realized was actually a well used camino real twisting through the countryside. This road was used every day but since it was never sealed the paving stones and rock walls that are a signature of the paths constructed hundreds of years ago still poked through the dirt and brush on the sides. I thought of all the people that must have used this route, from the indigenous people herding their livestock, to the colonial armies, to contemporary Colombia farmers, and then the most recent user in that long line – me.

The route was beautiful as it followed the Suarez River, and everyone I asked for directions was extremely friendly. I filled up my gas tank in Zapatoca but, not finding anything else particularly interesting, decided to press on towards Bucaramunga. As it started to get dark I thought about asking one of the finca owners if I could set up my hammock in their yard but it was my first day out and I was still feeling shy so I decided to go to a hostel in the city. This was a mistake and I highly recommend travelers, if lucky enough to get off the beaten path, stay with locals.

Fantastic canyon road between Zapatoca and Bucaramunga.

The next morning I set my sights north and rolled along the Ruta del Sol. Around lunch time it started raining, so I made a U-turn and pulled into a lunch spot I had just passed. As I parked, the skies opened up and it poured for about the exact amount of time it took to eat my meal. I hopped back on the bike as the sun came out and continued onward.

La policia

Colombia has road checkpoints along the main highways every half hour or so. There's always a speed bump, a group of people trying to sell snacks to hungry drivers, and weary, disinterested police officers standing around talking to each other. I've never been stopped at one and rode by all of them without a second glance. On the second day, few minutes after passing one of these checkpoints, two officers whizzed by me on an underpowered scooter. I remember thinking 'They must really want to catch whoever they're after to make that scooter go that fast.' A little while later, as they motioned for me to pull over, I realized that person they really wanted to catch was me. I was pulled over, and was instructed to get off the bike and get out all my information while one of the officers began searching my motorcycle for drugs.

A Yamaha DT 125 – my bike – is cheap, reliable, and fast and thus became the drive-by shooting bike of choice during the 90's when the cocaine cartels were at their peak. The bikes have retained their bad boy image and, while they're ridden by a wide variety of people in Colombia, today they're especially sought after by wannabe gangsters and drug runners. The police must have gotten a tip that a white DT was carrying drugs because they searched my oil and gas tanks, and spent about 10 minutes pushing on the seat to see if anything was hidden in the padding. They seemed more relaxed when they realized I was a foreigner but that didn't stop them from conducting a through inspection. I was just glad they were looking for something major, not trying to harass me for failing to wear a license plate emblazoned vest. 

The road flattened and straightened as it worked its way north, and aside from some sketchy passes by tractor trailers the ride was beautiful but uneventful.

No elbow room

The beach!

The following day I eschewed the traffic and congestion of Santa Marta by going straight to Costeño Beach hostel and relaxed knowing that I had made it all the way to the ocean. I had purposely ridden the easiest and fastest way north so I could hang out at the beach for as long as I wanted but already knew I'd take a more adventurous route home. 

Home sweet home, courtesy of Hennessy Hammocks