Long way home (Motorcycle Diaries, Pt V)

Heading towards El Carmen.

Like a Walmart shopper, I got an early start on Black Friday. I've found there comes a point during most adventures when I need a break from my own thoughts so I popped headphones in and cruised through the countryside. With the throttle on the little 125 wide open, I danced along to ZZ Ward, Kanye, and some reggaeton while ignoring the uneasy looks from other drivers. Apparently dancing and driving isn't a thing in Colombia.

I cruised all the way back to the Ruta del Sol and started retracing my way south towards Bucaramunga. I wasn't quite ready for my adventure to end though and Marlon's map denoted a big triangle off to the east going through El Carmen, Ocana, and Cucuta so I decided to head that way.

Exiting the Ruta del Sol, it would be an understatement to say I was startled to find the road I needed was dirt. I still wasn't used to the idea that I could go from one of the largest highways in Colombia to a dirt road instantly, so I spent several minutes sitting on the side of the road trying to figure out if I was in the right place. It was only when I saw a tanker truck barreling along, kicking up a huge cloud of dust, that I decided this was indeed a "main road."

The road twisted through the mountains, following babbling creeks and climbing to scenic outlooks over and over again. When I finally made it to a small town I stopped for the night. The one hotel in town didn't have a single-occupancy room for me so the proprietor told her 4-year-old son to walk me down the street to a family that had a cheap room. Basically what they had was a bed in their storage room which they rented for 3 bucks a night. It was awesome to stay in a rural family's home and though the accommodations were extremely basic nothing was lacking.

It took about two hours, but once one of the kids started talking to me everyone had hundreds of questions. All in Spanish. One of the men, William, drew me three maps in a row - every time I would get up from the table the map he had drawn would disappear and he would insist on redrawing a new one for me. He warned me to stay on main roads because I was deep in FARC territory and venturing down a side road would almost certainly land me on the front page of newspapers. Although I had seen an "anti-explosives" insignia on a soldier walking down the road earlier that day, this was the first time I realized I would be riding through a conflict zone and had mixed feelings.

On one hand I felt confident I'd be fine. FARC was making headlines for surrendering and de-escalating conflict, and I figured the last thing their PR campaign needed was a foreign kidnap victim. I was riding a local motorcycle, and with a full-face helmet, long sleeve shirt, and jeans it was difficult to tell me apart from a Colombian. But - this local man was very adamant that it was very dangerous. I decided I wasn't willing to turn around.

Overlooking El Carmen.

In the morning I rode on to the beautiful colonial town of El Carmen and found further evidence of the conflict. The buildings leading into town forced a pinch-point in the road and that was exactly where the police decided to position their station. It didn't look like a peaceful police station though, there were bunkers and sand bags stacked out front in case of an attack. On the street corner an officer was lounging in a plastic lawn chair, surveying the area while casually chatting on a phone held with his left hand. In his right hand, draped over a sand-filled 55-gallon barrel was a large pistol, and slung across his lap was a menacing automatic rifle. It was the most casual display of massive firepower I'd seen.

The rest of El Carmen was beautiful but I left to continue towards Ocana. I was nervous the whole way and tried to avoid talking to people since that would give away my Gringo status, but the remote dirt road riding and spectacular views made it worth it. At Ocana I relaxed because William had told me that was the end of the dangerous area. He also told me to check out Los Estoraques and although my Spanish wasn't good enough to understand what Los Estoraques was, when I saw a sign for them I peeled off the road.

Los Estoraques. They're cool and all, except I live near Moab, Windows, and Zion.

Leaving Los Estoraques I started climbing a mountain pass on to Cucuta but was turned back by a rain storm. By the time I got close to the top I was wearing shorts, jeans, a tee-shirt, a tank top, a long sleeve shirt, a wool sweater, and a rain jacket, and I was soaked and freezing. I crested the mountain pass, grimacing as the road transitioned from pavement to potholed mud. A local shop owner told me the rain went on for hours, and though I know rural Colombians would rather make something up than admit not knowing the answer, at this point I was just looking for a reason to turn around and that's exactly what I did.

Bad weather lost its novelty real quick.

That night I stayed just outside Ocana in one of the nicest hotels I've ever been in. It cost 13 dollars a night. The town was having a celebration of some sort so I sat in the town square and watched kids have flour fights, teenagers race motos in the streets, and a local band rock out while writing in my travel journal. It was a fitting way to spend the last night of my trip.

In the morning I made the epic run from Ocana to Bucaramunga to San Gil. It was 310 kilometers on extremely twisty road on a 125cc motorcycle. I got stopped by a cop once, I saw a flipped cargo truck, I descended into a 2000m deep canyon and climbed back out, and then, finally, I arrived back at the Colombian Bike Junkies HQ in San Gil. The moto made it. I made it. The adventure was incredible.

Overlooking the Chicamocha Canyon, nearly home!

Finial route map