Post Two
September 7, 2026
I put the bunch of bananas into the food bag hanging from the motorcycle, thanked Ricardo’s aunt once again for the delicious bananas, and set off. I had six hours of riding ahead of me.
This was actually my first solo ride in Colombia. I had no idea what awaited me, what kind of scenery I would pass through, or what the villages would look like. Everything was new, and I loved it.
I rode through the heavy traffic on the way out of Bogotá. In a few more kilometers, I would reach the open road, and the farther I got from the city, the lighter the traffic became.
The landscape turned green, while bumps and potholes accompanied me along the way. I had just ridden over a sudden ridge in the road that I had no chance of seeing in advance, so I decided not to ride faster than 80 kilometers per hour.
Before leaving, I adjusted the suspension, which has to be adjusted manually on this motorcycle. The setting seemed right. The motorcycle floated over the road, and I could barely feel the potholes.
I passed cattle farms and small villages with wooden houses along the roadside. Interestingly, I saw many chickens even in places where there were no villages. They simply wandered along the edge of the road.
I stopped at random at one of the roadside restaurants. Four men wearing cowboy hats were sitting on one side, with empty beer bottles on their table. On the other side, near the cash register, a large television hanging on the wall was showing a historical film about the Romans conquering Jerusalem.
A woman in her forties sat at one table, completely absorbed in the film. At the next table, a mother was sitting with her two children. She stood up and pulled the children, who were also glued to the screen, from their chairs.
I ordered coffee, looked at my motorcycle parked in front of me, and noticed a large heart made of flowers between us. I took out my phone and photographed it.
In another hour and a half, I would reach Barichara, a town that had not been part of my original route. Eduardo had told me that it was the most beautiful town in Colombia and that I should visit both the town and the surrounding area.
About half an hour before reaching Barichara, the landscape changed. The road twisted through a green valley and crossed a small town.
In its final square, I passed carts loaded with fruit, corn roasting over hot coals, and other foods I could not identify.
The road climbed the mountain. The bends were sharp and dangerous, and I kept close to the right to avoid vehicles overtaking toward me, even when their drivers had no clear view and could not know whether the road ahead was clear.
The higher I climbed, the thinner the vegetation became. Once I crossed the mountain ridge, the landscape grew more arid. It was incredible to see how, within just a few kilometers, the scenery changed from tropical and green to dry and arid.
I arrived at the entrance to Barichara, a small colonial town in the Santander Department, considered one of the most beautiful and best-preserved towns in Colombia. Its stone streets, white houses, and gray and red tiled roofs made it look as though it had been preserved from another time. Barichara is officially a town, but to me, it felt like a village.
As usual, before looking for a hotel, I rode into the center to take in the atmosphere. The streets were clean and orderly, and the quiet surroundings made me decide that this would be a good place to rest for a day or two.
I found a family-run hotel with secure parking for the motorcycle. Cindy told me that the town was very safe because there was only one way in and out.
I parked the motorcycle in front of the hotel. My room was on the second floor and overlooked it. In addition, a fat ginger cat with a
menacing face sat in the courtyard, watching everything around him.
“He must be the guard,” I said to myself with a laugh.
The next morning, I got up for breakfast and decided to stay another night. I used the time to write my blog and edit a video for YouTube.
In the afternoon, I went into the town center and sat at a café. That evening, I ate a simple and delicious Colombian meal at a local restaurant.
The following morning, sunlight streamed through the balcony doors. The first thing I did was check that the motorcycle was still there. Then I took a shower and went down for breakfast, which was served in a green courtyard filled with plants.
“Hola, hola,” someone shouted in a hoarse voice.
I looked around, trying to understand who was shouting like that so early in the morning. Then I saw two large, colorful parrots repeatedly calling, “Hola, hola.”
I laughed and sat down at a table facing them. A hotel employee in uniform served me black coffee without milk or sugar. I took a sip and watched the noisy parrots.
The parrots’ owner, who lived next door, came over and tried unsuccessfully to quiet them.
“It’s all right. They’re not bothering me,” I said.
“They’re keeping my wife from sleeping,” he replied.
Breakfast arrived, and afterward I was ready to continue my journey.
I said goodbye to the couple who owned the hotel, as well as to the fat cat with the menacing face, and set off on a two-hour ride to Chicamocha Canyon, Cañón del Chicamocha, once again on Eduardo’s recommendation.
The plan was to descend into the canyon, reach the village of Cepitá, and then ride back to one of the towns to find a hotel.
As I continued, the landscape changed again. The tropical vegetation gradually gave way to dry scenery that almost resembled a desert. After about two hours of riding, Chicamocha Canyon appeared before me. From the road, I could see its immense scale and depth, with a river flowing through its center.
My navigation device told me to turn right onto a dirt road.
A dramatic, winding descent took me hundreds of meters down to the bottom of the canyon. Before I began descending, the temperature was 20 degrees Celsius. By the time I reached the bottom, the temperature display on the dashboard showed 38 degrees.
I stopped to photograph the beautiful scenery, then crossed a bridge over the river and continued toward the village. Along the road, I saw plots where vegetables and tobacco were being grown.
As usual, I rode to the village’s central square and parked the motorcycle beside the church.
“I’ll walk around for a while, explore the streets, and then continue,” I thought to myself, and that was what I did. But the peace and quiet, and the village’s distance from the city, roads, and noise, drew me in. There were a few grocery stores, several simple restaurants, and a small police station beside a large church.
Suddenly, I no longer felt like continuing that day.
I entered a nearby restaurant to eat. During the meal, I asked the owner if she knew of a hotel in the area.
I could not understand her answer. A few moments later, a man arrived and showed me where the hotel was, or rather the hostel, which was right next to the restaurant.
For ten dollars, I had a room with a shower and toilet. The place was simple and built around a patio, with seating areas and a kitchen
where guests could prepare food.
I booked a room for one night, changed out of my riding gear, and went to the center of the village.
The villagers were very friendly. They greeted me and asked where I was from and where I had ridden from on the motorcycle.
I liked it there. The atmosphere was pleasant, and the people were wonderful.
Evening fell, and I began looking for somewhere to eat.
A sign reading “Doña Restaurant,” with an arrow, pointed me toward the place. A dirt path led me to a set of stairs going up to the restaurant.
Well, it was not exactly a restaurant. It was a terrace with dining tables. On the way to them, I passed the kitchen. A woman with a serious expression and a headscarf leaned against the kitchen window, waiting to take my order.
The terrace filled with more diners, and I thought to myself that it must be a good place if the locals ate there too.
I finished my meal and was amazed by the low price. Dinner cost only five dollars.
Tomorrow, I would get up early and return to the road.
At six in the morning, I woke up on my own and thought, “Maybe I’ll stay another night?”
It took me only a few seconds to decide that I was staying.
In the hostel kitchen, two locals were sitting in front of their laptops, looking deeply focused on their work.
I sat down on the sofa opposite them. The man turned to me and said, “Would you like to join us? She wants to practice her English.”
“Of course,” I replied, joining them at the table.
We spoke in English, and they told me that they were not a couple. They lived in a city an hour and forty minutes away from the village and had come there for work. They were both engineers working on a government project taking place in the village.
I asked if they knew where the clinic was.
“I need to have some stitches removed,” I explained.
They offered to come with me. When we reached the clinic, they spoke to the nurse and explained what I needed.
The nurse asked whether I had medical insurance. I told her that I did, but that I would pay in cash.
“Six thousand pesos,” the clinic clerk said.
I was surprised by the low price.
The nurse called me into the treatment room.
“Please take off your shirt,” she said.
She examined the wound and removed the stitches.
“One moment,” she said before leaving the room.
A short time later, she returned with the doctor. He examined the wound and instructed her to disinfect it, apply antibiotic ointment,
and cover it with a bandage.
When I left the room, Ricardo and Heidi were waiting for me on a bench in the reception area. We returned to the hostel together, where they suggested that we go and work in the village library. Ricardo said that entry was free and that it was the only place in the village with air conditioning.
After a short afternoon rest, we went to the library. I enjoyed the cool room and watched children playing with two dogs.
That evening, we met again at Doña Restaurant.
At seven the next morning, I got up to shower and thought about packing the motorcycle and setting off. Then another thought entered my mind: Why not stay for one more night?
Even as I considered it, I had already decided to stay.
I spent the day at the café, reading and writing.
On the way back to my room, I entered the grocery store beneath the café. The woman who worked there already knew me. Fresh
bananas had arrived, and I handed her a bunch to weigh.
Later, I passed the policewoman, who also knew me by then, and she wished me a good evening.
In the hostel corridor, I met the man staying in the room next to mine. He greeted me with a broad smile.
“I saw you at the clinic,” I said.
“Yes, I’m the village dentist,” he replied.
He lived in a city an hour and a half away from the village. Every Monday, he came to work there, and on Friday, he returned home.
While packing his motorcycle, he told me that he was from Venezuela and had married a local woman who was also a dentist.
We exchanged phone numbers, and he set off.
That evening, I returned to the restaurant where I had eaten on my first day and met the doctor from the clinic.
I sat beside him, and we talked about the journey I had made from Los Angeles to the village and about life there.
At six the next morning, I once again wondered whether I should stay for another night.
But no. Today, I was returning to the road.
The road leading away from the village looked more beautiful than ever. I climbed out of the canyon, reached the main road, and turned left.
Along the way, I stopped for coffee and met three motorcyclists who gave me tips for the road ahead. One of them gave me his phone number in case I needed help, and I continued toward the town of Charalá on my way to Paipa, which is known for its hot springs.
A few kilometers after Charalá, my navigation device instructed me to turn right onto a dirt road. I crossed a bridge over a river and continued until I reached a roadblock. A woman directing the traffic signaled for me to pull over and wait.
Half an hour passed, followed by another half hour, and then another. I realized that I would have to ride in the dark.
From the people waiting at the roadblock, I understood that the road was 87 kilometers long. When the roadblock opened, I continued riding, climbing along a road that passed through villages and an ever-changing landscape.
I made the most of the remaining daylight and increased my speed, leaving a trail of dust behind me. The altimeter showed that I had reached an elevation of 3,000 meters.
I rode the final kilometers in darkness, thinking about all the warnings I had received not to ride at night.
I had no other choice but to continue until I reached the city and found somewhere to sleep.
In complete darkness, I arrived in Paipa and found a hotel that allowed me to bring the motorcycle inside.
It had been a long day. Even though it was already ten at night, I needed coffee and something small to eat. I went out, found a café, and savored every sip.
At six the next morning, I began loading the motorcycle. As I walked back and forth carrying my gear, an older woman poured me a cup of coffee. I thought it might be a good idea to visit one of the city’s hot spring facilities before setting off.
After a nine-minute ride, I arrived at a well-organized facility, paid the entrance fee, and stepped into the hot water.
“This is good for the muscles,” I thought to myself.
Maybe I should get a massage too?
That was exactly what I did. An hour-long massage relaxed all the tight muscles after the previous day’s long ride and made me decide to postpone my journey to Colombia’s Coffee Region for one more day.
