Colombia - for coffee, for root vegetables, and for inadvertent altitude training

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After a solid few days in the highland city of Bogota, leaving behind the damp rooms of our accommodation, it was with anticipation we left for first a salt cathedral, and then on to our flight westwards to the centre of Colombia’s three alpine ranges



Packed up, and out the door of Casa Platypus by 8am, the traffic of Bogota rendered our trip slow, giving me time to talk and view photos of Mexico with fellow travellers. Ninety minutes later there and bladders relieved, we entered the underground world of mining religion into salt which was of note in this area of Colombia.



Carved deftly, through 2km of passages and 150 metres beneath ground level, elaborate alcoves dedicated to religious purpose promised symbolically the abolishment of sins and cleansing of the dedicated. A large cross of 16 metres height furnished the underground cavern at the terminus of the tunnel, carved into the rock, and the place where the masses collected.



As spectacular as the crosses height was the presence of various souvenir sellers, promising precious emeralds/ dust collectors/ sweets and t shirts at the end. To purchase such merchandise was truly a religious experience



Returning to Bogota airport in plenty time, we took a flight to Cali that afternoon. Cali was to promise our beginning point for the cycling tour proper, point to point in the supposed coffee and agricultural region of Colombia. Intense humidity met our bus, followed by heavy tropical rains and, behold, a luscious and long pool!



As we pulled up at hotel Guadalajara, Senor conductor took a wide turn into the car park, crashing into a bollard and tearing back the front of the quite decrepit bus. According to the other scrapes, it was not his first time.



“Gracias” he said quietly, ushering us to get off once he had negotiated the obstacle course imposed by other inconsiderately parked vans and orange cones prohibiting parking. I gave him a Spanish pat on the back and thanked him for the safe passage



The hotel in Buga, an hour from Cali airport, was a utopia compared to what would come to be in the next few days. 25m swimming pool, Wi-Fi in the rooms, smack bang in the town centre, and the best breakfast we would have had since meagre portions at Casa Platypus. Being Holy week, known as Semana Santa, the build up to festivities included apparent faith healing at the cathedral, although when we wandered through El Centro, the crowds were sparse.



Further healing for our travel day was celebrated at the only bar in town run by an Englishman, right before several folk, excluding myself, fell ill. The goal was to stick to bottled, boiled or peeled. We watched the local life from the balcony-top then retired to our luxurious sitting-roomed abodes, dreaming of how 90km would feel the next day



So dawn at before 6am meant for earlier rises and after knocking off 2km in the water, we left at a relaxed 9am setting off to Roldanillo, northwards.



The Holy town of Buga was typically heaving with mopeds, often 2 or 3 abreast, concreted streets and trucks, trucks, trucks. Weaving out of town single file, it was relieving to part from the highway and head along the valley towards our kilometre goal for the day



At times resplendent of North Queensland scenery with fields and fields of farmers and canar de azucar (sugar cane), harvesting was in progress, the air tinged with smoke and dust



Pulling into our rest stops always hit the dehydration spot, with a solid 27km first, followed by an extra 15km to lunch. Typical of other South American towns, it had concreted streets, curb less sides, haphazard urban zoning, and seemingly with many men sitting around not working. Familiar site.



But for the busy little kitchen we took our meals at, those without appetites remained near a toilet or hand basin.



Those with iron constitutions and mental fortitude ploughed on, even in sorry states, no doubt testament to military training or sheer resilience. But when the final two hills came, after a stop for water on and in the body, I and several others felt the strain despite our hardiness. To arrive eventually at our accommodation for the evening and rinse our manky clothes was relief, even if the room was 35 celsius in the shade and without air conditioning



“Sin aire” I said, after deliberating whether to complain. Promptly, a room with functional cool air manifested from the senorita at the reception of Hotel Balcones de Parques, and I was relieved to be sleeping without the risk of Zika virus or donning wet bike clothes the next day. A family dinner with our bike storage hosts ended the day, retiring to air conditioned, yet park square noise comfort.



Starting off on the 16^th to a tepid morning and weak coffee, we wondered where the best caffeine could be had and when for that matter.



25km into our valley ride, the scenery merging from cane farms to passionfruit and grape plantations, we took our first taste of jugo de uva (grape juice), alcoholic coffee in a vanilla essence sized bottle and a very large custard apple. A jack fruit was produced and my mind wandered to whether the foul smelling durian, known from north Queensland and Asia trips, would be produced for our tasting.



A further 15km to our lunch was broken by a saggy tyre. Powering along with Andrew the Doc, I nearly continued down a steep hill before noting my puncture which within minutes Jonathon and Julias Ceasar (our driver) fixed sending me on my way with a fast catch up.



Lunch by the gas station and a steady 20km through Cartugo went painfully hot, and passing on the chance to buy embroidered grandma shirts with a group visit, the pool looked far too enticing to pass up.



Threatening clouds turned to torrential rains at El Danubio resort, flooding the forecourt and our drying togs. Safely under cover, dinner arrived soon after with lessons from Eduardo on fruits of the area. Rapidly descending into Spotify salsa music and photo sharing, we found ourselves entertained in between bursts of Wi-Fi function.



Waking again bright and early, the shower sprayed north south east and west, as another traveller did sun salutations in the same direction. Coping with 14 travellers, some with dodgy tummy’s, a breakfast was made of weak coffee, unusual for this supposed coffee area, fortified us enough to enhance our ability to climb our first of several big hills. We bid farewell to the resident parrot, and el perro sin nombre (the dog with no name)



A 7 percent gradient met us 11km from our accommodation. A steady climb to 3km from the highway, constantly being passed by trucks and mopeds, lead into a fast descent and a further 4km uphill. Lush scenery of rain forest, roaming hills and dairy farms gave way to more undulations. Up, up, up, down then up, with more twists and turns than a roller coaster or my slightly tumultuous-feeling tummy.



Pulling into our lunch stop, curious onlookers meanwhile staring through our barbed wire fence, the lack of power and water had us wondering how our lunch would manifest. Yet it did, and the ‘cooked vegetables’ interpreted as wilted salad went down slowly with a salty brine, the local root vegetable soup. 14km more, my pedal breaking on the way, a few more curly interpretations of the expression undulating hills brought us to Montenegro.



In no way resembling that of the Adriatic namesake, our hotel La Tata was on the outskirts and dropping our dirty presence at reception for the common welcome drink, many of us slipped into vegetation mode bar an obligatory visit to the tourist tat at the nearby entrance.



Rain poured down in bucket loads, streets filled their pot holes, and the word out from our tour team was the Coffee Park of tourist kitsch was worth a pass.



The following day we started by heading into a small town, Pueblo, towards the highest passes so far and steepest climbs. To mentally prepare for such thing was as important as the physical and I started to think I’d taken a training holiday with high performance athletes not a cycling holiday



Sluiced by rain to begin, it gave way to humidity and more rolling countryside, ‘rolling’ turning to climbing, and a long downhill with horrendous traffic, which later that day we were to tackle on our return.



Lunch came early at the Rio Verde stop beneath the bush clad hill of Buena Vista on the right side of the valley and with full tummy’s and psyched heads, we started the first of several 5 to 15% inclines climbing to the summit at Buena Vista. The challenge was met with slow pace, multiple rest stops masquerading as photo taking stops, and musical accompaniment, what I never thought I’d do on such a trip again. The relentless up and down was discounted by a star view sipping local coffee, until we careered down the other side of Buena Vista to meet more climbing.



The satisfaction of arriving near comatose out on the porch of Hacienda Combio was a relief and to do such simple ablutions as wash out our clothes and stand motionless contemplating it all in the infinity pool overlooking the sunset, it seemed like a holiday had begun. We ate again simply, devoid of veges, and I managed a solid sleep to offset the major accomplishment



Meandering out for an 8.45am start felt wonderful, and a morning of non cycling activity breaking the usual pattern. Yet come midday, and lunch on its way, the prospect of an uphill 17km after lunch was certain to be a slog, our bodily resting digesting systems well underway. The mariachi man tried hard to win our devotion, and when encouraged to tip, we wondered if we really wanted more wailing about his lack of success with ladies and his life in general.



Relentless and gradual, to the sound of passing trucks and severely close at that, rendered our post-lunch cycle a highway commute. If I had wanted that, I could always cycle back and forth along Lake road or Auckland’s motorway, such was the physical strain of keeping to a 3 foot wide shoulder with drops to a ditch on one side and trucks on the other.



Colombian kilometres appeared accurate on this voyage for a change, and come a long descent to our El Rancho Finca hotel, we settled in, taking a short walk with Ingrid a lovely lady from Montreal. The bumpy road of rocks and intermittent pavement amongst the trees and cows was a perfect tonic for riding scared, and several witty musings on a tour-de-motorway were made.



It may have been a hairy arrival, yet the location could not be better. Wedged into a valley, watching the sunset from our wrap around deck and 3km up a windy road from Salento, the area was gearing up for Semana Santa, or ‘Holy week’ (Easter).



As the Easter eggs on bikes that we at times visually mimicked, a break from the saddle for the coming days sounded perfect.



Mentally prepared each night by Oscar our ever helpful guide, we got our options laid out over the first nights dinner of the local trucha (trout), right before traditional dancing troup played the ‘lets get the gringo up for a dance’ routine. A 14 year old boy swung me left right centre around and within seconds we had laughed ourselves back to our chairs, ever ready to watch some salsa action by those with the grooves.



So the rest day was an accomplishment in itself. Backsides relieved, we climbed by mini bus to Salento and took a jeep up to the entrance of the climb. Choosing a quiet route by Oscar was a good call, and after a small river crossing and steady valley ascent with horses aside us, the hard steep yards of switchbacks started, and at 2400 to 3000 metres it was a little breath-taking. Covered in mist at ‘el cumbre’ (the summit), we continued on our extended circuit to a small café, valley side and such a gorgeous view.



The usual hodgepodge of design met us, a shack, effectively decorated with pot plants, and hosting a small kitchen with a fire to power it.



50m cents NZ later and we started descending down the goat route to our entrance, the trails beginning to heave with visitors on this holy day and imminent holy holiday period. Just in time’s nick, we grabbed a taxi back to Salento, grabbed some lunch, supplies, and come 4pm, took to the streets as taxi services and availability were well overloaded.



Ever correcting my Español, Eduardo, Oscar and I had a good banter about terminologies and our differences in NZ. ‘Bush’, ‘Bush-bashing’, ‘tramping’, ‘cow pats’, ‘udders’ and my inappropriate vocabulary resulted in some fine two-way learnings. Such was Eduardo’s attempts to pronounce these New Zealand’isms, when Oscar took us off-piste on the way the Finca (to avoid relentless traffic walking roadside), clambering under barbed wire fences, trying to avoid cow pats, ‘boosh booshing’ became relevant.



“Tu eres loco”, the most common saying amongst us all, followed by “risas muchas”. The secret to life is being a little crazy and having lots of laughs.



So my voluntary work as team photographer is taking hold, the Wi-Fi appears to be working for a change to send onwards all my artistic prowess, the ladies in the kitchen at our Finca may indeed supply us with dinner cutlery without asking, and the dried cycling clothes will be taken out tomorrow for a further 3 days of breath-stressing climbing practice in the higher highlands up the valley.



Vamos chicos!!

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