Mud and Mompos
April 30, 2011
I’ve now reached the riverside settlement of Mompos. Strung out across the banks of the Magdalena, this colonial river port was once an important staging post for the transport of gold and goods between the interior and the coast. Now it’s contentedly living out its retirement as a laid back, pleasantly dishevelled town, just awkward enough to reach from Cartagena to keep it that way.
The journey here was an eventful one, following first the main highway towards Medellin, then a slippery, sliding trail through the remote, inaccessible ranch country of El Salado, once a FARC (Colombia’s revolutionary army) stronghold, and sadly infamous for the massacre by paramilitaries that took place in 2000. After my lap-of-luxury sailboat crossing from Panama (which I’m still getting guilt pangs about), this ‘short cut’ definitely satisfied my fix for discomfort, stretching out a three day ride into four. Reaching the town itself involved crossing the swirling eddies of the Magedalena on a wonderfully slow, ponderous ferry, the perfect filter to life’s usual clammer and clatter, unplugging Mompos from the rest of the world.
I like it here. Even if time hasn’t quite stood still, it’s definitely dialed back a couple of notches. Mompos’ searing midday heat, its grand, crumbling colonial houses, a cast of characterful locals and its sleepy, forgotten air lends itself to a location in a Marquez novel – which it’s believed to be, as the setting for the Colombian author’s Chronicle for a Death Foretold.
The roads, flitting between buckled pavement, dust and stone, are quiet and mellow, home to bicycles, trikes, wandering cattle, horse and carts, and the rattle of motorbike taxis. The street corners are well stocked with mounds of sweet mangos and neat stacks of pineapples. There’s little more to do than wander the backroads, sit beneath the umbrella shade of ceiba and knotted orejero trees, or join the locals in watching the world go by from the meditative comfort of a rocking chair.
I left Cartagena with Arnaud and his friend Anne Claire. She's taking a break from her work in the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) to visit him for a month, having bought a bicycle in Turbo for a bargain $100.
Camping in the grounds of one of the cattle ranches close to San Jancito.
The owners, from Bogota, were away. Kindly the family looking after the ranch welcomed us in, fascinated by the minutae of all our kit.
Heading back out onto the highway early the next morning. The terrain here is gently rolling and beautiful, marred only by heavy truck traffic that thunders by.
Enormous, land-of-the-giant avocados, range in price from 500 pesos (25c) to 4000 pesos (over 2 dollars), depending on taste and texture subtleties I have yet to decipher. I picked up one of the cheaper versions, and it was good enough for me.
The heavy traffic on the road to Medellin, which came in spits and starts, was getting me down. At El Carmen, I left the others and turned off onto this dirt track - carretera despatada, as unpaved roads are called here - to the tiny settlement of El Salada.
Perfect riding conditions. Although relentlessly steep and hot in places, it was all but empty.
Beautiful rock formations too, as the track meandered its way through the backcountry.
Then the mud started, just in patches at first. Note still-clean tyres.
Only motorbike taxis and a few jeeps travelled this road. Some stopped to warn me that if rain should fall, the whole area would quickly become an impassible mudpit...
After El Salida, where I was stopped and quizzed at the army base, it was easy to see why. The road deteriorated rapidly, and was no longer drivable in anything but a burly tractor.
And then, what I was dreading most: a distant storm swept in over the horizon bringing the promise of a downpour.
Once rain fell, the trail instantly become a slippery quadmire, as foretold. Making it up this short, steep incline alone took me the better part of twenty minutes. I struggled to push the bike forward half a metre, before sliding back on my heels, resting, and repeating. Had anyone seen me, they'd probably have spotted a mad glint in my eyes. And they'd probably have laughed at the comic element of my toils, knowing there's a perfectly good paved road just thirty kilometres away...
Before long, the 'road' was little wider than a singletrack. As I later found out, occasional vehicles do pass through in the dry season, winching their way up the steeper inclines. In the rainy season, not even motorbikes use these roads, and that's saying something in these parts.
I made the tactical decision to camp the night in the grounds of an empty ranch, hoping it would be drier by morning. In the middle of the night, I awoke to the sight and sound of an electric storm overhead, and a field flickering with hundreds upon hundreds of glow bugs, lighting the landscape up like an alien landing. Unfortunately by morning the heavens opened and my tent was soon floating in the middle of a marsh. Not ideal...
My drenched companions.
As the rain fizzled out, the owners arrived, smiling ruefuly at the sight of my tent and my bedraggled state.
Their mode of transport: the donkey. I was soon to appreciate how much more sensible these beasts are for this part of the world.
A sooty pot of water was soon bubbling away over the fire.
They offered me strong coffee served in seed pods - totumo. Perfect receptacles for cupping cold, water-wrinkled hands around.
I left the ranch and pushed on, inching forward, barefoot, slipping and sliding everywhere. After some time, Senor Ormedo Periz passed me by, and offered to carry my panniers on his donkey. If it wasn't for him, I'd probably still be there...
The river had also risen overnight, so his donkey had to be coaxed into swimming across.
We somehow manhandled the bike and panniers across this slippery log.
Normally my bike weighs around 15kg. By this time, even without panniers, it was almost impossible to lift, thanks to its extra cargo of mud and tacky donkey shit. Still, those Surly Troll massive clearances were doing their job as best they could - only on a few occasions did I have to stop and scoop out great handfuls of muck to keep the bike rolling. Running disc brakes made a big difference too - now I just need to find wider racks...
Compare and contrast my tyres from earlier photos...
Gloopy.
Unfortunately, mud worked its way into the Rohloff cabling, making shifting especially hard.
Once I made it to the tiny settlement of Canutalito, Ormedo invited to his home for a bucket shower, a plate of yucca and a cup of coffee.
From there the track improved, still mud splattered in places, before finally emerging back on the main road at San Pedro.
In Magangue I caught up with Arnaud and Anne Claire. Following a formula Arnaud has been using since he left Alaska, we slept the night at the local fire station. The firemen rotate 24 hours on, 24 hours off, but have to supplement their income with secondary jobs - like selling sunglasses in the street, or driving motorbike taxis.
Basic shower facilities in the neighbouring, now disused rice factory.
The next morning we were up early to catch the sunrise and the ferry over to Bodega, some 40kms away from Mompos via a quiet paved and dirt road.
A slow, languid journey down the river. It took an hour, though I'm not sure how far we actually progressed. All part of the timewarped feel of the area....
Colombia has recently been experiencing unusually heavy rainfall, and much of this low lying area was completely flooded. Cows were marooned on newly created islands.
A chance for a chat and a kip...
More rain induced destruction.
Fields and farms all around were inundated, lending the area a strange, watery beauty.
This pile of bananas would keep me fuelled for at least a week.
A stature of Simon Bolivar, who liberated much of South America, stands in the main square. The rousing inscription reads: If it's to Caracas that I owe my life, it's to Mompos I owe my glory.
My dusty bike and Mompos backstreets.
Arnaud, who is riding around the Americas, climbing the highest peak of each country en route, and his friend Anne Claire.
A dirt road runs the length of the town beside the river, lined with parks and local cafes, pumping out endless loops of traditional, lilting 'vallenatos' into the balmy air.
A sanctuary. La Casa Amarilla, one of the finest hostels I've come across, is very relaxed, packed with information and well priced. Both the interior and exterior of this former 18th Century warehouse have been beautifully converted and restored. I was particularly pleased to arrive, knowing I could rest sore muscles, wash mud-impregnated clothes and give my bike some much needed TLC. And right now there's a posse of eight trans-American cyclists here!
The view to Santa Barbara church, from the rooftop terrace of the hostel.
Vibrant colours. I can't get enough of them.
I'm also a sucker for a bit of sun-bleached, peeling paintwork...
Lazy days.
I was invited into this particular house after nosily peering through its open doorway. It was originally bought for twelve pieces of gold, and the family have lived there for four generations.
Full of original features, like this water urn, it was used as a location in the filming of Marquez' Chronicle for a Death Foretold.
Ye olde locks. Doorway detail.
Faded glamour.
And a more contemporary side to Colombia. Football and guns...
Designated a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995, Mompos is slowing being meticulously restored. Unfortunately, due to bureaucratic disputes, the magnificent customs house in Plaza de la Conception has fallen into disrepair.
Nowadays, kids climb the staircase and backflip into the fast flowing, cooling waters of the Magdalena river below.
If that sounds too athletic, you can hail one of these trike-powered vendors selling natural fruit drinks, mixed with icy cold water. 'Refrescos', they yell, bouncing their way through the backstreets.
Did I mention the baking heat? Here's Monty, resident hound of Casa Amarilla, collapsed at midday...
The Need to Know section:
Money-wise, it’s around 1800 pesos to the dollar at the moment.
La Casa Amarilla is a great base in Mompos, and comes complete with all import Wifi, a lovely kitchen, a terrace, clean en suite dorm rooms (15,000 pesos pp) and space to store bikes. Even eight of them…
The national map institute of Augustin Codazzi, publishes an in depth road atlas of Colombia (13 000 pesos), which covers most of the backroad and dirt track options in the country – the layout is a little weird though. There’s also separate state maps, with even more detail, for 12 000 pesos each. There are Augustin Codazzi offices in each state capital; the one in Cartagena is in Plaza Bolivar, in the old city.
I’m back in Cartagena, having left my bike briefly to check out Tayrona National Park, further round the coast at Santa Marta.
After getting a wisdom tooth pulled (no 18) and undergoing some heavy, root canal drilling (I cracked on a chicken bone in Panama), the dentist has recommended I stay put for a few days, to reduce any chance of infection. Despite the bargain price, the whole ordeal proved relatively discomfort-free. Only the closing moments of digging out my stubborn, semi-rotten wisdom tooth induced a flurry of feet kicking and expressive toe wiggling, as I tried to fulfil my promise to keep my head as still as possible.
Anyway, Colombia… So much more than just cheap dentistry. Most visitors are drawn to my first port of call, Caribbean Cartagena, for the colonial splendours of its old town, stamped with the UNESCO heritage site stamp of approval. As such, it’s been spruced up for the huge gangs of tour groups, regularly disgorged into its tight cobbled back streets from their towering cruise ships. They, in turn, draw an almost equal cluster of street touts, collecting like bees around honey/money. Still, with their merchandise of Panama hats and Cuban cigars, they’re definitely a higher class of tout than the ones who loiter in the street where I’m saying, yelling ‘Rasta!’ when I pass, sidling over and sniffing provocatively, or whispering a hopeful ‘charlie’ or ‘cocaina’…
Yet impressive as the old centre is, with its grandiose gateways, churches and convents, its elegant balconies, shaded squares and its Francis Drake-proof city ramparts, I inevitably find myself steering away from the boutique hotels and cafes, in search of the peeling paintwork and the scruff of real life.
I’m itching to rolling again, but will wait until Easter has passed. In Getsemani, the backpacker part of town, the streets are fast emptying in readiness for Semana Santa, a momentous festive period for Latin Americans, stretched out into several days and nights of drunken revelry. If it’s anything like Mexico, it’s no bad idea being off the roads at times like this.
This enforced break has at least given me the chance to recover from another bout of phlegmy coughing, and more importantly, taste some of the street snacks and drinks Colombia has to offer, surely one of the most enjoyable perks to bike touring.
I just have to remember to chew on my left side…
The Puerta del Reloj, gateway to the old town. Seen here with pirate-proof reinforcements. Cartagena was a valuable staging post for shipping plundered gold back to Spain, making it a popular spot for British pirates too.
The 16th Century Iglesia de Santa Domingo, the oldest in the city. Below the crop is a throng of American tourists.
Plenty of colonial splendour for history buffs, though much of it was rebuilt after Drake sacked the port in 1586. He was bought off for a princely sum of money.
On every street corner, copies of the works of Colombian art hero Fernando Botero - who delighted in depicting unusually rotund characters.
And one of his original sculptures, in Plaza de Santa Domingo.
Beautiful old town backstreets in El Centro. Caught in a rare tour group lull.
This was more my style - the more beatnik backstreets around Getsemani.
A little run down, but rich in character.
Each house, a slice of living history.
I spent ages walking the streets, bemusing locals with my choice of photos.
Enjoying the little details around every corner.
More city artwork, in front of la Iglesia de Santisima.
And to cool off... Chichas, natural fruit drinks, help temper the Caribbean heat. This one is made from mandarins.
And this one is made from avena - oatmeal, water, syrup and canella. Nice bit of anti-corporate recycling.
Healthy snacks available too.
Great to see the bike culture here is going strong. On the recreational front, Colombian riders are famed for their hill climbing prowess, and I've heard there's an active road club scene too.
Utility bikes everywhere.
And handpushed carts.
More refreshing liquid mysteries on offer, served on three wheels.
Lorely and Russ, from Bath, UK, on their Argos and Surly LHT. They've also ridden down from Alaska. I'm now being overtaken by the riders who left in summer 2010...
My 'local' grocery store. Colombians are quick to smile and have a laugh.
Cheesy classic. The Colombian stable, arepas, are fried corn flour dough generally stuffed with butter and cheese. Available through the day.
More cheese: the tasty, doughy pan de bono. An instant classic. Appears at breakfast time.
As far as I can see, when Colombians aren't eating some form of pastry made with cheese, they have a sweet tooth too...
The best of both worlds. This snack involves wedging some cheese with a slice of sugared bocadillo - made from guayava. Strangely delicious.
Fruit crazy. Each 'pila' - pile of mangos - costs a dollar. I had ten in mine.
And my current favourite treat, bread intertwined with 'arequipe' - heated, sweetened caramelised milk. I really need to get back on that bike...
And perhaps brush my teeth a little better... This is the sorry state of my stubborn wisdom tooth. Glad that one's out. After a scifi panoramic x-ray (15 dollars), the dentist promises me the rest are in much happier condition!
Need a good dentist?
Try Ivan E. Porto Cortes, Manga Cra.16 No 25-23 (tel 6606399 – 6604814).
Sailing around the Darien Gap.
April 20, 2011
Figuring out a way of reaching South America is a conumdrum all two wheelers face on their journey south.
Why? Because the Panamerican Highway peters out a couple of hundred clicks west of Panama City. Beyond, a chunk of largely impregnable jungle still divides Panama from Colombia, a swathe of land fabled for both its untouched beauty and the infamy of its residents: various insalubrious narco trafficantes and pockets of FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. Occasionally adventurous folk trek through, like Karl Bushby. Perhaps even more rarely, travellers kayak around it – like the Riding the Spine crew. Where there’s a will, there’s always a way.
Both of these routes have their logistical issues, which can include difficult to procure permits and specialist equipment. They also promise a very real element of danger. Having explored possibilities with a couple of other hardy travellers (we found inflatable kayaks, but shipping the bikes alone was going to cost $750), unfortunately neither was destined to come together within our various timeframes. So in the end, I opted for the more ‘straighforward’ overland route: boating through the Caribbean’s prestine San Blas islands to (finally) reach South America.
The cheapest of these options is to hop on a series of lanchas – local speedboats – and hopscotch across the islands that speckle the Caribbean coast. More info is available here. This can take anything from a few days to a week or more, depending on the connections, and tends to cost around $150 to the port of Turbo. Alternatively, various yachts sail backwards and forwards between Portobello, in Panama, and Cartagena, in Colombia. At around $425 it’s certainly the pricier option, though the journey is stretched out to five days, with the romance of island hopping, snorkelling and fine sea food is thrown in for good measure.
I decided to treat myself to the latter…
Although the cost of the trips are largely the same, the yachts themselves can vary greatly; you can also land yourself with a grumpy captain, cramped conditions and a lack of promised food. Turning up in Portebello, I chanced upon quite the opposite: La Rebeldia, an incredible 67ft boat, complete with B&O sound system and fine dining that included lobster, king crab, baracudda and delicious paella, thanks to its excellent Barcelonian captain and first mate. What’s more, there was so much room my bike could even be stowed inside.
Rough conditions meant I wasn’t always at my best (only dry retching on day one, thankfully!). Here a quick report to give you a feel for this crossing, an incredible way to close the chapter on Central America, and begin a new one in South America…
One of 378 islands in the San Blas archipelago.
I'll have that one please.
Buying fresh seafood from the Kuna people, who run the islands as an autonomous province.
Destined for the paella. We also swapped some rice and pasta for a King Crab.
Kuna Kids in their dugout canoe. The women wore beautiful, colourful beadwork that ran the length of their arms and legs. Some had geometric tattoos on their faces.
I bought a simple two panel Mola, the locally made fabric, on one of the islands. There are much more intricate and complicated designs too.
The girls head off for some snorkelling on the reef. We saw starfish, manta rays and even a hammerhead shark.
Snorkelling fanatic Daniella, from Chile.
The Argentinian contingent ensured there was always a good supply of Mate.
The waters were clear and clean. Different shades...
... on different days.
Sunset in the San Blas.
And sunrise on the 30 hour stint across open water to Cartagena.
Barcelonan Mario, first mate, works the sails. He was also a master chef, cooking up a delicious, freshly caught barracuda amongst other delights.
And our illustrious captain Jonny, also from Barcelona. Jonnys the veteran of a four month bike trip in South America, so I knew I was in good hands (-;
Much of the time was spent under sail.
We were very lucky with the boat we ended up on. A 67 foot beauty, decked with wood and home to a B&O sound system, blaring out the Rolling Stones...
While we all popped sea sickness pills and the final crossing drifted by in a dreamy haze, while Jonny and Mario took shifts through the day and night.
Nearly there... Dodging freighters on our way into port.
The metropolitan skyline of Cartagena.
Fede, from Argentina, a sports teacher.
Londoner Katie. A world away from working as a PA...
Mario and architect Sol, also from Argentina.
Daniella, a fan of Colombian diva Shakira, does a dance of joy upon reaching terra firma.
A massive gracias to Jonny and Mario for making it such a great crossing.
Vane, Fede, Mario, Ceci, Sol, Katie, Dani and Jonny (our last member, Ramon had wandered off when the picture was taken.) Our traveller posse was largely Argentinian, with a Spaniard, Chilean and two Brits. Thanks to everyone.
Colombia!
April 19, 2011
I’ve let the blog slide a little of late… I’ll try and catch up while I rest here in Cartagena (the fearsome cough has returned with a vengeance), get my wisdom teeth pulled (bargain, at $30 a pop) and plot my onward travels.
In the meantime, here’s some pics from the last few weeks…
An oh-so-tiny poison dart frog on the island of Bastimientos, in the archipelago of Bocas del Toro.
The lil frogs were almost as cool as the delicious offerings at the nearby organic chocolatier, Up in the Hill. There, this ball of pure chocolate loveliness was on tantalising display, made from their very own chocolate trees. I guardedly lingered over it, inhaling deeply. .
Taking a break on the Panamerican. The Troll is riding a treat by the way.
Star fish in the clear Caribbean waters of Bocas del Drago. Beautiful, otherworldly creatures.
Sunset and an evening game of footie.
Travel decorations.
Crossing the crumpled cordillera back to the Pacific. Again... Punishing hills...
Las Lajas beach, 20km of pristine shoreline. Sunrise and sunset here are bookends to perfect days.
Arriving in Panama City with Belgium cyclist Arnaud...
... like no other skyline in Central America.
Watching a bulging freighter inch its way through the fabled Panama Canal.
Heading out through the jungles to Portobello, to track down a boat (bike nerds: more on Arnaud's custom trailer soon!).
And here she be. A couple of days later... Sailing to Colombia. What luxury!
Travel companions.
Arrival in Cartagena. South America, at long last! Quite a feeling...
