Part of our my goal in South America is some balance of surreal relaxation and dangerous adventure. I have already been dipping my toes into both realms but the next week and half would come to exemplify some of the most drastic examples of either on this entire trip. And I was only three weeks in!
Avoiding Civil War
Santa Marta was supposed to be a stopover on my way to Venezuela, where I hoped to quickly pass through before entering Brazil and then making my way down the Amazon River in time for Carnival in Salvador. That was the plan. But plans can change, especially with the threat of robbery and civil war. While I knew the situation in Venezuela to be of a growing concern, the realities were carried back in vivid retellings by other travelers. At the relaxing hostel-resort, The Dreamer, a kiwi around my age implored me not to cross the border; he had been robbed more than half-a-dozen times in two weeks and it was only getting worse. A couple of other travelers were equally as passionate about me not making the crossing but with my Carnival hotel already paid for and the direction of my entire South American journey about to flipped upside down, I was reluctant to give in just yet. I decided to wait it out for a couple of days but after more horrendous news reports and stories came back through of growing violence, discontent, and a growing refugee swell coming over the border, I made the painful decision on Friday that I wasn’t going. That fateful decision proved to be the absolute right course of action as civil war broke out a couple of days later; I would have been in the middle of Venezuela, on a big orange bike, during a violent and desperate civil war and humanitarian crisis. Stay flexible, listen to the road, and take calculated risks.
Breaking a Leg in the Jungle
With my long held South American plans completely flipped on their head, I pivoted to use Santa Marta as a delightful base of operations to launch three separate campaigns . The first, an attempt to get to a picturesque hostel in the Sierra Nevada mountain range less than two hours to the south. The hostel; Casa Elemento, was a former paramilitary generals house that is now surrounded by farms (mainly coffee) and looks over the valley down to Santa Marta and the Caribbean ocean. At The Dreamer Hostel, I befriended an American geologist named Jeff. Almost ten years my senior and dressed like a character out of the video game Uncharted, Jeff and I got along well instantly and upon his enlightening me of Casa Elemento, we decided to make the journey together with Jeff on the back on my bike. While I expressed my nervousness of never having had a passenger on the back on my bike, Jeff said the route was supposed to be quite easy and doable. With that brief encouragement, I assumed it should be fine and readily agreed. After a quick visit to the market to purchase a cheap helmet that barely fit Jeff’s American-sized head, we set off on the motorcycle for what we thought should be a relatively quick and easy ride; a couple of hours max. A wrong turn in the town of Minca decided otherwise.
As we ascended the mountain, the sun got lower and lower, the roads deteriorated more and more, and we thought we should be arriving at any moment based on time estimates. As we came up to a fork in the rocky dirt road (one leading up and one leading down), we stopped to ask some seated locals at a cantina which way to Casa Elemento. There seemed to be some confused looks on their faces but eventually they signaled to take the higher road. So, off Jeff and I went, blasting up the hill, but a mere 100 feet up and I hit a patch of powdery sand, lost control, and the 500 lb (225 kg) motorcycle plus two grown men crashed into the dirt. I popped up almost immediately but Jeff kept lying on the ground clutching his ankle. Eventually he managed to gather himself and sat on the side of the road while some locals came up to help.
The motorcycle was okay except for a slightly dented left pannier. Jeff on the other hand was in obvious pain, gripping his leg intensely. After a minute, he sucked it up and limped up to the top of the hill where he got back on the bike. We thought we had gone through the worst of it, but it was only the beginning. The road deteriorated further into a mixture of sand (the enemy of my big bike and my inexperience), rocks the size of my head, and chunks of missing road that had been washed away some time long ago. And then we went down again; Jeff in grimacing pain once again. He and I agreed the road was too bad for us both to continue on the bike. Besides we had to be close given how much time had passed. By this point the sun had set and I continued on through the darkness and nightmarish road. Over the next 45 minutes the bike went down almost ten times and the night of repeatedly dead lifting the massive weight continued. Just as I was consciously reflecting on my gratitude of learning proper motorcycle lifting technique after laying the bike down once again, a tarantula, the size of a salad plate, silently crawled by, insuring my desire to sleep on the side of the road remained low.
Saved by a Saint
With dehydration setting in, tempered panic bubbling beneath, and hope fading like the sun, I wondered how we’d make it out of here. Just then, the beamed headlights of a vehicle hit me. As I signaled the little 4×4 to pass, it pulled up to reveal Jeff in the passenger seat. A local middle-aged man had picked him up just down the hill and said he’ll follow behind as we searched for Casa Elemento. Skeptical at first, Jeff’s confidence and ease with the gentleman mixed with a complete lack of alternatives, forced my guard down and so we pressed on together.
After another exhausting push, we came across some locals on the dark mountainside and following a brief chat with them, we realized we were completely lost and had to turn back. The man driving Jeff offered to take us in for the night and realizing we had extremely limited options, especially with Jeff being essentially crippled, we gladly accepted the invitation. The gentleman’s name was Jaoco and he ended up being an unforgettable human being.
With a bent axle on Jaoco’s little 4×4 causing an amusing wobble and only further amplified on the washed out road, I followed closely behind for no more than a mile before arriving at our hosts relatively basic but perfectly placed jungle house, which as we found out in the next morning’s light, provided a spectacular view of the mountains, valley, the cities of Santa Marta and Baranquilla, and the Caribbean. With Jeff’s swollen leg propped up, beers in our hands, and spliffs being passed around, Jaoco cooked up a delicious storm of fish, rice, and fried plantains accompanied by wine of the mora fruit. Jeff and I were given the master bedroom to share, despite our polite objections. That night we slept heavily like babies; the stress of the day falling away in our exhausted state.
The next day Jaoco went further down the mountain while we slept, found a phone and made some calls to figure out where to go. He swaggered back up, beaming with useful information, fed us breakfast and explained that we were on the wrong mountain. After we ate, he put Jake in the wobbly and squeaky little 4×4 and lead me almost an hour back down and up the other mountain to Casa Elemento. Finally, we made it!
The kindness of Jaoco, a complete stranger, exemplifies what it means to be a good human being and in this case an absolute legend. We all shared a beer in celebration, gave him some gas money, mora wine, and exchanged information before he headed back home.
Casa Elemento lived up to the hype. A dreamlike existence greets its visitors with a 20 person hammock overlooking the green jungles and eventually the blue Caribbean, a pool, tree house with more hammocks, outdoor bar and lush jungle all overlooking the valley and beyond. The owners of the hostel and its workers were wonderful. They have created a relaxed vibe in a unique location. The food is phenomenal and the coffee fresh straight from the surrounding farms. Trips down to pick fresh fruit, canyoning, mountain biking and more await those interested. And if you want to lay in a hammock all day then do it. It’s made to get away from it all.
Following a few days of rest, I headed back down to Santa Marta, leaving Jeff to heal up and relax. I had a day or so back in town to get ready for the next trip to Tayrona National Park. Initially I planned on going by myself but as I was departing I saw a German guy I met in Bogotá, who was also going with a guy from Seattle, USA and a woman from the Netherlands. We all shared a taxi to the park entrance, got into a minivan which took us further into the park and then proceeded on a two hour hike through sandy jungle terrain to the coast and our place for the night at Cabo San Juan.
Tayrona National Park draws people in for its pristine beaches that carve semi-circles into the jungle and low-lying mountains. Our accommodation for the night were hammocks under a thatch roof which provided circulation for the cool ocean breeze. Beach time, postcard worthy views, and food were the medicine we were after and we got it. The next day consisted of more of the same and a much tougher four hour hike up to a different entrance. If you find yourself in northern Colombia and are up for some sweaty walking in a world class landscape, make your way here, you won’t regret it.
Crashing in the Desert
After another day of rest back at the Dreamer Hostel, I launched my third campaign from Santa Marta, which took me several hours northeast to the desert, just a few hours from the Venezuelan border.
The ride was going well. I was enjoying the sparse desert scenes of reddish-yellow sand and remote indigenous villages. I felt slightly more at ease in the dirt, especially after the crash a few days prior.
But before my confidence grew much, I was humbled once again by a near disaster. An hour on the rocky dirt road quickly changed with a car-sized patch of powdery sand presenting itself at the last second. The reddish-yellow sand seemed to create a uniform texture throughout but I quickly learned that not all is what it seems.
With no real knowledge of how to ride a motorcycle off-road, I was once again at the mercy of my ignorance and the overpowered behemoth I was inexperiencingly attempting to handle. I battled to stay upright, fish-tailing and whipping me back and forth, and clearly losing control to the cacti-laden flanks next to the road. With crashing imminent and a thorny demise as my landing point, I intentionally laid the bike down early.
A plume of powdery grey-yellow sand shot up and enveloped the area, caking everything in a flour-like existence. Coming to with my helmet face down in the sand, I slowly got up and patted myself down. I was okay. I felt a little bruised but the adrenaline was pumping and I seemed to be fine.
No fluids were dumping out of the bike and while the left pannier and tank bag were slightly damaged, everything else appeared to be in working order. Just then I noticed some locals running over. They asked if I was okay and helped me pick up the bike. Soon I became a spectacle for the local women and children, they came out of the wood works, staring inquisitively, as if I was an extraterrestrial that had just made first contact. After checking again that I was fine, I asked for a photo with my caring onlookers; a memory burned into my brain for life.
Making Friends in my Cactus Fort
Another couple hours of riding through the desert took me to some narrow footpaths and goat trails. After about 30 minutes of dodging cacti and riding on a tightrope of loose sand, I came to what I felt was a perfect camping spot: a 20 ft high circular cactus fort.
Wrongfully thinking I was isolated, I began to set up camp.
However, within ten minutes a group of locals pitched up to inspect the gringo on the big bike who was camping out in their area. Quickly, I learned that despite the map not giving any word of a settlement, I was just minutes away from a small village. The locals asked the usual questions: where I’m from, where I’m going, what size is the engine and I asked them about the area. But besides the odd question or statement, the locals just stood and watched me for nearly an hour.
To be honest, it was a little uncomfortable, especially with one of the men standing with a pistol clearly visible on his hip. But their presence came more as curiosity as to who the gringo was camping out in the backyard, rather than any ill-intent. Two of the women sold me handmade bags, which ordinarily I probably wouldn’t have gone for but considering I was being offered handmade bags in the middle of the desert, I figured they’d make for unique gifts with a good story. Not to mention it would soften relations with the locals.
That night as the sun set, I ate my food and was visited by some more people, including a 13 year old boy and his two younger brothers. I gave them something to eat and water as they hung out around the fire for 45 minutes. There were some questions exchanged but the conversation was minimal. They just wanted to meet and hang out the gringo.
Before they departed I gave them each a US coin as a momento rather than Colombian pesos that they’d spend. The next day I was awoken by more locals who wanted to take me to the ocean but with no water remaining and not exactly sure how far they’d take me, I decided against it. After breakfast a local man lead me through another confusing network of trails to “the main road” back to the nearest town so that I could make the dusty ride back to civilization.
The last week and a half has been the most adventurous of the trip so far. The learning curve has been steep and my perspective continues to grow and be challenged. The kindness of people continues to amaze me and it helps restore my faith in humanity that is often tested back home. With my South American trajectory drastically changed due to Venezuela’s civil war, a new set of adventures awaits, a new script to be written.
Check out Chapter 5: Carnival in Baranquilla, Colombia–the second largest in the world
Start this journey from the beginning: Introduction
