Colombian Motorcycle Diaries

The motorcycle gang with Brayden and Sam - the young, cool ones at the end

Prior to our hike to the lost city, we had walked into the burbs of Santa Marta - an adventure in itself - to check out a motorcycle tour Dave of Livin’ Life had discovered.  We arrived at a rambling, bopping hostel full of young backpackers sitting around the bar and pool.  Much more equipped and nicer than the hostels in Europe of 35! years ago which I had frequented.

The owner/leader of the tour company was temporarily operating out of the Aussie-run hostel.  This 26 year old, American had set up his seven bike company six months ago with a friend.  While motorcycling through South America, he had seen an opportunity in northern Colombia where tourism was growing and motorcycle touring was not.  (We saw several of these North American entrepreneurial 20-something year olds who were setting up businesses - mainly hip hostels - along the way.  Colombia seems to be the new land of opportunity.)  We signed up for the three day tour.  The name of Sam’s company, Adrenalin Addicts, should have given us a clue of what was coming!

We had one full day to recover from our hike - copious laundry; we had left all our clothes on the dock including backpacks for fear of Colombian bugs boarding our boat, and nursing bruised toenails and sore muscles - before we set off for our adrenalin rush.  

Our group consisted of eight cruising couples.  Three of the women, including myself, had only been passengers on motorcycles and so, thankfully, didn’t rate our own bikes.  One woman, Janice of Livin’ Life had grown up on dirt bikes - she looked like a natural.  Three of the men were bikers from way back.  Peter had not driven a motorcycle in more than thirty years and then only a couple of times.  His adrenalin rush was going to be on overload.  And so was mine!

Packing up, psyching up

Peter getting a tiny bit of wobbly practice.

Ready, set...

Sam was taking along two volunteers, which is illegal in Colombia as it takes away jobs from locals.  Asa was a twenty-something woman, trained as a photographer and taking pictures from the back of the motorcycle.  We were, apparently, a website-worthy group, a tad older than Sam’s usual clients.  And Brayden was an Aussie physiotherapist who had worked professionally in Ecuador and was looking to set up shop in Colombia.  Both were great, kind and patient with clients who could be their parents.

There was a bit of practicing up and down the street in front of the hostel.  Peter was a bit rickety, getting used to the clutch and gear shifts, but gamely took me on as passenger. Then we were off, holding tight.  First stop was the ATM - cash only, up front, for our tour.

Getting out of the city was our first challenge.  Lots of buses, scooters, taxis, motorcycles and plenty of horns blasting mainly to say “I’m here, look out.”  We were last in the cycle line.  I kept an eye on those ahead to watch for turns while Peter concentrated on potholes and traffic.  Just as we were getting out of the city, the cops pulled us over, fully equipped with guns.  They were looking for papers - licences, ownerships, some of which were missing.  And they looked through Brayden’s pack for pot, none of which was found.

Off again on a beautiful - paved - two lane highway that took us back past the trailhead to the Lost City and then hugged the coast through banana plantations and along steep hillsides to Palomino, a beach town on dirt roads - mud puddles/lakes - and backpackers haven.  The mud puddles prove particularly difficult to negotiate.  It’s impossible to see the contours of the bottom, of course, and the deepest spot is also a secret.  Janice picked the wrong route and was the first of our crew who went for a tumble into the muck.  Our gallant leader, rushing to her aid, was the second.  Peter and I had stowed a few items including our books in Janice’s back panier which also went for a mud bath. 

First muddy fall.  Janice is still smiling!

Our lunch stop - a hostel with pool, great pizza and just a few minute walk from a very long beach.  At least $100 a night in Caribbean, here about $15.

After lunch, back on the same highway to our own hostel  which had a muddie lane and stream to ford to access.  Success by all.  

The hostel was owned by a bunch of young Canadians.  The one we met was from Kingston!  It was a series of open buildings - bar, kitchen, dining hall and several dorms.  Our dorm slept eight, a series of bunks and swinging beds.  I swung all night.

(Columbia is developing it’s tourism, now that it is safe, at least, parts of it.  Still cheap, it is a backpacking haven with many more hostels than hotels.  Our hostel fees were included in our package but we were told that a dorm bed is $10 US and a hammock is $5.  Some had private quarters in small cabanas at additional cost.  Our package included great breakfasts and dinners.  The hostels we stayed in had pools/swimming holes, lounges, bars - really a mini all-inclusive, apart from the toilet paper.  Cleanliness varied, toilets and showers shared and very basic.  Pretty amazing, all-in-all.  Great for us to experience once or twice, although not for the faint of heart.  We would opt for the private rooms if we made a habit of travelling in South America.)

Our day was not finished, not nearly.  We had a tube ride down a river to attend.  This required a lift from several locally driven, Spanish speaking motorcyclers to another hostel down the highway and a couple of miles up a treacherous mud road with huge, deep puddles meant to sink a motorcycle.  I chose a large, older driver who seemed capable and undaunted by the challenge.  Others stopped and got their passenger to walk.  Mine plunged forward, laughing the entire way while others watched admiringly.  I giggled nervously with a couple of OMGs, clung to the bike and was grateful to get to the next hostel.

We were given a tube and told to follow the guide who forded a wide river - three times - and walked a good mile or two through forest and banana plantations up river in barefeet and bathing suits.  Wild!  One of the guides carried an enormous cooler of beer and rum and maybe a water bottle or two.  We finally got to the starting point in the river, jumped in the tube and coasted down the river while one of the guides swam beside us to guide the tubes away from rocks while another guide dealt out the beer.  The river was alternately calm and serene or rapids.

Peter in the tube.

Take off place, up river

Rafted.  The guy in the red t-shirt was the herder and gatherer, guiding us down the river, often underwater or swimming madly but always smiling.

And the beer man.  Beers were thrown from person to person, tube to tube.

We ended back at the hostel to await our drivers.  Only three were left so we went back - it was now dark - in small groups.  I immediately chose my formidable driver who got me back in the dark without mishap.  A delicious dinner was served and we fell into bed to all be entertained by each others snores.

Canadian owned hostel.  Landscaped, pretty lovely.

The Canadian part-owner had been given this little goat for his birthday.  He was definitely at home.

The dining room with $5/night hammocks

The bar,

kitchen,

our open dorm with palm leaf roof, mosquito nets, swinging beds and bunks,

swimming hole

waterfall in the backyard.  Not bad at all.

We rose early and headed to yet another hostel being renovated and enlarged by yet another young entrepreneur, this time from Colombia.  Hiked from there, fording a river, through more banana plantations to the beach for a swim in the surf.

A couple of the bikes had, during our first 24 hours had some problems.  One had no effective front brakes.  Sam traded it for his.  After leaving the beach, Dave got a flat tire.  Luckily, within 200 meters was a tire patching man who probably had a lot of business, even on a Sunday.  We had noticed that services in Colombia were geared toward fixing appliances, TV’s, cars, bikes, etc rather than throwing away and replacing as we are so used to.  And this tire patching guy was a great example.   We were on our way after about 20 minutes.

Tire repair man was pretty amazing

His equipment was basic including household iron.  He stuck a match within the sandwich press and when it spontaneously lit, he knew the patch was hot enough.  Nothing fancy but effective except...

minutes later, back on the road, the valve broke and Sam had to nurse it back to a good enough state to get to the next village.

Within another 15 minutes, the same tire was flat.  The patch had held but the valve was a goner.  Lunch plans changed.  Instead of Sam’s chosen spot, we all drove a few miles, Sam with the flat tire, to a local street food place specializing in chicken.

New lunch stop - street food at it's best

The chicken, yucca and potato was served with one plastic glove to keep our fingers on one hand clean.  No utensils.  The potato was eaten like an apple.

Most Columbians, at least in this area, ride by "motos".  We stopped at this village early in the day so members of the gang could replace flip-flops, and lost sunglasses - sunk during the tube ride.

Street food.  Where in the world is chicken not a staple?

You could buy a bit of everything in this highway village including pork or is that beef.

veggies, fruit...

and armed guards.

Sam’s partner came with a new bike and off we went again, uphill toward a mountain top.  The first many miles were along a paved road with hairpin turns - exciting but tame compared to what was to come.  We reached the topmost village, Minca, but our hostel was several miles higher still up a dirt road.  There had been a great deal of rain in the past month, including the last several days.  A road that was supposed to be dirt was mud.  Deep mud.  In a few spots there were cement  sidewalk type lanes wide enough for car tires but disconcertingly narrow for a slow going motorcycle.  The lanes dropped on both sides into deep gutters, or muddy mires.  On one of these Peter and I took our first spill - painless but intimidating.  

The mud continued for long stretches.  At first, I would remain on the back trying not to look at the steep drop off on one side and the huge potholes on the other.  Peter gamely continued on.  We fell seven times, hauling up the heavy bike after each fall.  Finally, we reached the hostel where, we thought, we were staying for the night only to be informed that we were less than half way there with the added news that the top was in worse condition.  I decided to hike!  

It was much easier for Peter to negotiate the treachery without me on the back.  I scurried along on my own, enjoying the walk through mud that at times was up to my calves.  Luckily my shoes were done up tight and didn’t get sucked off.  Eventually, Peter caught up, I got back on and we travelled together for the next part.  Not for long though, more mud, a couple more falls and I was done, preferring to walk.  Peter did not have that option but he was much better off without my weight on the back.  

We all met at the top - a glorious view for a basic but cool hostel with enormous outdoor hammocks hanging over steep drop offs and a spectacular view.  After a great dinner, eight of us shared a room with homemade multi level bunks and our own bathroom to share.

An extra large hammock overlooking the view at sunset. There was also a pool, large outdoor area, bar, kitchen where we lined up for our grub, a huge plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots etc.  And then to bed.

We were up before the young who were still sleeping in their hammocks, to hike down the road.

Hiking down meant I had time to take photos of the early morning view,

flowers,

and Peter who made his way down the muddy path without one fall.  No dead weight on his rear made all the difference.

Coca plant/shrub/tree.  They are rather spindly.  We drank the tea which was supposed to give us a zip for the day.  Didn't notice a thing.

Peter on his way.  No room for a wobble on these narrow tracks.  The tracks, though, were a luxury compared to the mud pits.

The next day we left before breakfast.  Five of us hiked down to the half way hostel where we were served breakfast and coca tea promised to give us a energy boost.  The day saw more muddy off roading, a tour of a coffee processing plant, a steep downhill ride, another broken down bike, lunch at a barbeque joint where the elderly meat carver smoked the biggest joint we had ever seen and a safe ride back to Sam’s headquarters.  Taxi back to Milly.

Huge spiders made their home in the coffee processing plant.  And the tour guide was not afraid of putting them on the tour.

Ribs were popular on the menu of this canteen, carve by the characterful owner, who in this picture is missing his joint.

Our second Columbian adventure was done and so were we for a few days!  Peter and Dave both had second degree burns on their calves where the exhaust pipe of the bike had touched on repeated falls.  We were all filthy but, wow, the memories would last a life time.  And I would highly recommend it and Sam to anyone so inclined.

Last lunch on the road with the gang

Finding Ciudad Perdida - The Lost City

Besides having a secure marina where Milly could be left for a few days at a time, Santa Marta is a perfectly situated city to explore northern Colombia.  Here’s where the Lost City comes in.  We had heard about it from other cruisers, read about it in cruising guides and The Lonely Planet - which is our favourite tourism series - and we were itching to hike the four day, 47 km roundtrip trail between 900 and 1200 meters above sea level.  

Ciudad Perdida, covering 30 hectacres, is a part of a sacred region and site of the most extensive of 300 other smaller villages in the area. It is, therefore, thought to have been a seat of political power for the surrounding villages.  The population at it’s height is estimated to have been about 2,000.  

The Tairona inhabited the area for thousands of years before the first Europeans arrived in the New World.  When the Spanish began to plunder the countryside for gold, the wise people of the Tairona preferred to abandon Ciudad Perdida sometime between 1580 and 1650, instead of allowing the riches of the site to be ransacked and stolen.  It was not until 1976 that this remote and difficult to access site was officially rediscovered, completely overgrown by vegetation but having been plundered in the early 1970's by those seeking gold.

To access the trail and the city it is required to hire a guide and touring company.  We chose Expotur, most highly recommended by our book but they provided an English translator.  We arrived psyched and ready for what we had been told was a tough hike.  It was my first multi day hike and Peter’s first since his childhood hiking in Norway.  We were ready…we thought.  

The cruiser/hikers ready to go.  At the marina, still clean and with smiles.  The smiles remained, not so the cleanliness.

Our group was made up of cruisers Dave of Livin’ Life, Steve of Slow Flight, Brita and Jason of Deep Blue, two young Belgian guys on a two week holiday before their girlfriends at home gave birth in the next weeks, one very young American teacher on a three month backpacking trip and six youngish Colombians.  Note: There is a theme here! 

Two vans, roof rack loaded (overloaded) with food and packs, took us two and a half hours - one hour of which was off, off road - to the trail head situated in a village where we were served a substantial meal.  The van as pictured was battered. The seats lined the sides so the ten passengers sat with alternating knees across from each other.  Sharp turns and braking required us all to lean in unison. 

Heading out of the village.  The 100 meters were on paved road, followed by dirt road, then lane, then single-file trail.

Beautiful green hills and mountains were feasts for the eyes. This region was completely dominated by drug cartels until 2008 when the government cleared the paramilitaries out.  The hills at that time were covered with caca from which cocaine was processed.  The location was perfect because of it's proximity to the Caribbean coast and routes to North America.  The people who lived in the region, reportedly, prospered because of the cocaine business.  However, the violence and guerrilla warfare made their lives unsafe.  Our guide told us they were much happier being hired by the park and tour companies.  Life did not look easy though!

For much of a couple of kilometres on Day 1, we shared the dirt road with mules and motorcycles. The mules carried heavy loads of food.  There were two cooks on our tour who ran from one camp to the next with the mules to be ready for us as we arrived.  They left watermelons and oranges at rest stations on the way.  The whole thing was so well-organized that we only needed to carry enough water to keep us hydrated from station to station. 

George - pronounced Orhey - our translator among other things, cutting fresh watermelon  at the first rest stop.  Chock full of seeds but watermelon had never tasted so good.  There was one rest stop each morning and afternoon. Often there were people selling cold drinks out of coolers, freshly squeezed juices, and occasionally snacks.  These were basically just shelters and the sellers brought their wares up by mule.  

The first hostel on route even had a pool table  on the far side of this bridge.  Don't know how they ever would have got it there.  Our first hostel was twenty minutes further - our guide had warned us of this.  I'm sure he had experienced rebellions when his group thought they could off load their packs and relax.

Our first night was spent under this roof.  No walls to speak of.  Each bunk bed was covered by a mosquito net which we tucked under the mattress to keep scorpions out of our beds.  The guide told me to be careful going to the toilet at night as "this was a jungle and the snakes liked the paths to the toilets."  That kept me under my netting all night - full bladder be damned.  All the hostels had hammocks or bunk beds on dirt floors - the floors were swept each day.  Our group always opted for the bunks which were lined up end to end - sleeping about 60 in a very small space.  No privacy.  Every snore was heard and those who did it heard about it the next day from those who had to listen.  The showers were in what resembled concrete phone booths that I'm sure never dried.  The cold water poured out of a pipe - no shower head.  There were no hooks to hold clothes or towel - that would have been a great addition.  Toilets did not have seats, flushing was always a bit of a puzzle and toilet paper was nonexistent and had not been on the kit list.  This, too, would have been a great addition.  Luckily, I had come equipped for the trail and the hostel on the second night had some for sale.

The dining room with hammocks and bunks in the background.  This hostel served cold beer from one of two chest freezers that were padlocked during the night.  The freezers had been brought up the trail slung in a sheet and carried by several guys.  The price for a beer was still only 5,000COP or $2.50CDN.  It got slightly more expensive 7,000COP or $3.50 CDN.  

The kitchen.  This was opulent compared to the next two hostels.  The photo was taken at 4:30 a.m. when we rose each day.  We were on the trail by 5:30 to beat the heat of the day as much as possible.  Lunch was served at the next hostel on the path, usually around 10:30.

Another rest stop on day 2.  This one had a few items for sale including freshly squeezed orange juice.  Our mules had already delivered some fruit so we had no need to buy.

A Kogi village beside the trail.  Each building is round with mud and thatch walls and thatch roofs.  The two sticks coming out the top of the roof symbolize the two snowcapped mountains in the Sierra Nevada.  

A few people were about the village but we were requested not to take their pictures unless they agreed.  We were also told not to go into their homes - who would do that?? I guess some have.

Our second day lunch spot had a swimming hole in a rushing, frigid river.  To swim out to rocks required a mighty front crawl with only a few inches gained at a time.  Luckily, my arms weren't as tired as my legs and I made it without being swept down river.

Rejuvenated after lunch for a very long, uphill slog.  We were spread out by the time we reached the top.  Steve and Peter were always in the lead - no surprise.

Another suspended bridge over more water.  This one had wide open sides and the plates of metal moved with respect to each other kind of like a "fun house" at the CNE.

Steve in the lead, his speed hampered by the mules.

It poured with rain during the afternoon of the third day.  I had not fallen in the river but was totally drenched from the sky.  The river, of course, was swollen and rushing.  No bridge this time, only a rope we were told to hang onto downstream.

I was a bit disconcerted by a mule coming my way.  But, no worries, it paid no attention to me.  These mules must have done the trip hundreds of times.  At some rest stops, the guy leading the mules would stop while the mules just kept on going on their own.  The guy would have to run after them when he was ready to go.

This bridge has been washed out by the fallout after Hurricane Matthew hit the area.  The river below, fallen trees, mud, all safely negotiated in the rain.

Another bridge.  It was getting a bit chilly, unbelievably, in the wet.

Our second night was spent at a larger hostel just one hour from the city.  Several groups were staying here mostly in bunks but some in hammocks.  We had a second storey loft on a wood floor! with at least 30 bunk beds.  We all shared four toilets and four showers.  There were at least 150 people.  Cozy.

Another river to ford before we got to the stairs leading to the city.  Time: About 6:00 a.m.  We were able to leave our packs at the hostel so we felt extremely light - good thing because their were 1260 uneven, steep steps to climb.

Problem was the steps were so uneven that you had to concentrate climbing and especially going down.  The scenery was a bit lost.  Important to stop and look around.

Steep!  Definitely short of breath.

Two weeks before our arrival, the slopes of the Lost City had been hit by the tail end of Hurricane Matthew.  The wind had lopped the tops off many of the trees, uprooted others.  The park had been closed for 8 days and the trees cleared as much as possible but the devastation was very clear.  The city was fine - a testament to how well it was built.

 I know, I know enough of the stairs but they were pretty, too.  Covered with moss.

This is a map of the region drawn hundreds of years ago.

The cruiser group.  We made it with only a few blisters, a couple of toenails that were going to come off and tired legs.  Really great feeling to arrive.  Now we just had to go back.

Apparently, this was the community area of the town where goods were traded.  The Tairona built rock foundations with wooden walls and thatched roofs.  They buried their dead under the foundations with gold trinkets.  These were plundered in the early 1970's by grave robbers who fought amongst themselves for the spoils.  Finally, in 1976 the government stepped in to protect the site and get rid of the robbers.

Because we left at 5:30 a.m., we were the first group on the site.  Glorious!

There are two Kogi dwellings in the city for the Mama, the enlightened leader of the tribe, and his family.  His wife - he could have two - and the female children stay in the smaller home and he and his sons in the other.  

Our jolly, little guide, Gabriel, with the Mama's wife and female children.  The women of the Kogi tribe do all the work - cooking, harvesting, planting, childcare, and picking the coca leaves - while the men lead the family, impart their wisdom and chew coca leaves.  (Really, according to Gabriel).  The women carry the leaves on their backs in a bag.  The men carry a dried gourd with a long neck and a hole in it's stem through which is a long stick.  Crushed seashells are put into the gourd and manipulated by the stick into a powder.  Meanwhile the men chew coca leaves and rest them in a big wad that you can see in the pocket of their cheek.  Somehow, the details were lost in translation, the shell, spit, coca leaves get combined either in the cheek or in the gourd.  The stick is then used to wipe the paste around and around the neck of the gourd.  The paste hardens and the collar around the gourd gets inches thick.  Once it is a certain thickness, the man takes it to the Mama who gives him another gourd and he starts all over again.  It is a very serious offence for a man to be without his gourd - it has a name - with various punishments including having their hair cut.  Hair is considered to be sacred and both sexes grow it very long.  Men get their first gourd when they are 18 years old. 

The city foundations were terraced because of the steep terrain.  The whole city is built on a ridge.  In this photo you can see the trees and brush that were knocked down by Matthew.

Such beautiful green.

Archeologists have noted that the Tairona were exceptional at providing movement between houses, areas within the city and between cities.  And there were beautiful stairways and paths all over the place.

We stayed at this hostel on our second night and had lunch there on day 3, after coming down all those stairs from the Lost City.  Our sleeping loft was in the building on the left.  At each stop, hikers would empty their packs of wet - from rain or sweat - clothing and hang them on any available line, railing, bedpost, door etc.  It made for a very colourful, smelly camp.

The toilets at a rest stop.  Looking a bit fragile.  Most of the toilets were at least in concrete, unlit cubicles.

Our hostel on day 3 had been our lunch stop on day 2 where we swam in the river.  Another swim instead of shower and then we hung around the dining room table.  No where else to go.

Day 4, returning to civilization.  A very few homes in sensational landscape.

A Kogi family headed down the same road as we were going.  A very long walk for little legs but they must be used to it.  Female children were barefoot and had beaded necklaces.  Male children had rubber boots.  The adult female walked with the children and the much older man walked behind as if herding.  They moved right off the path when we passed.  It was startling how solemn they were - not a smile or a word.  Apparently, they believe they are the world's environmental caretakers and that we are jeopardizing it's health - some truth and wisdom to that.

Mules do a lot of dirty work.  These had a full load.

We arrived back at the starting village for an early lunch.  One shower stall allowed us to clean up before crowding back into the 4x4 for the two hour trip home.  Our bags were on top of the car, just the dirty clothes on our clean skin held our four day aroma.  We stopped for gas on the way back.  Gas is sold in jerry cans by locals - no gas station for miles.

We all tumbled out of the car to get a better view.

The tour was definitely as much about the hike as it was about the destination.  Given that the Lost City itself is spectacular and a place for the imagination to go wild, the trail and all it entails - donkeys, indigenous villages and people, rivers to ford, swinging bridges to cross, primitive lodges, Colombian food - is a Milly voyaging highlight all on it’s own.  We had gruelling, sweaty, short of breath fun!