South America
First Post
August 27, 2026
On April 25, 2026, I completed the first part of my journey, from Los Angeles to Panama. Since there is no way to cross the jungle between Panama and Colombia, I had only one option—to fly the motorcycle to Bogotá, Colombia. Shipping it by sea was not an option as far as I was concerned.
It was a good time to take a break and visit my family.
I left the motorcycle at a warehouse near the airport that also handles all the paperwork with the authorities.
August 27 was the date I chose to continue my journey toward the end of the continent.
Four and a half hours from Tel Aviv to Madrid, six hours waiting for the flight to Bogotá, and then another nine and a half hours in the air.
Six in the morning. The plane lands at Colombia’s international airport. Following the recommendation of Tao, the owner of the warehouse where my motorcycle had been stored, I booked a hotel about four kilometers from the airport. The motorcycle is scheduled to arrive by air at two in the afternoon.
The hotel owner sends his wife to pick me up from the airport. On the way to the hotel, I ask her whether any other riders like me are staying there. She tells me that two American riders stayed there the previous week and that one rider is currently at the hotel.
We arrive, and I ask her husband about the rider. He explains that the man’s motorcycle was stolen three days earlier. Apparently, the American rider wanted to sell it and advertised it on Facebook.
He met a potential buyer who asked to test the motorcycle, and the buyer disappeared with it.
The story puts me on alert and adds to the concern I already have. This is my first time in Colombia, and as part of my preparations for the journey, I researched personal safety. I found quite a a few stories, but very little concrete information—onlymostly travel warnings.
I want to stay at the hotel for a few days to adjust to the city’s altitude—2,600 meters above sea level.
In the meantime, I will prepare the motorcycle for the journey. I still need to buy a spare fuel can to replace the one I lost in Costa Rica.
It is eight in the morning.
I eat breakfast at the hotel and go to sleep. After all, 22 hours in airports and on planes have left me exhausted.
I set my alarm for one in the afternoon. At two, I am scheduled to meet Tao’s employee and release the motorcycle from customs. This is part of the service he provides.
The alarm rings. For a moment, I have no idea where I am.
I take a shower, and the hotel owner drives me to the airport. There, I meet Tao’s employee, who has already started the release process.
Two hours later, I meet my motorcycle inside thethe customs building.
The motorcycle is ready and has been released from customs. As part of the service, Tao has also arranged the mandatory insurance. I did not know about the insurance, and when I asked him how to arrange it, he told me it had already been taken care of.
What a pleasant surprise.
I ride back to the hotel. A red warning light immediately begins flashing on the dashboard, with a message reporting low pressure in the front tire. I stop at once to inflate it, but the warning light light continues to flash.
Tomorrow, I will ride to the BMW workshop to have it checked.
I finish a few more errands and go to sleep.
Nine in the morning. I ride to the workshop, learning the local driving culture along the way. The warning light and the message “Stop immediately” stay with me throughout the ride.
Before I even switch off the engine, one of the employees comes outside to meet me. I explain the problem, and he asks to take the motorcycle into the workshop.
A fear rises inside me that the motorcycle might not come back, especially after what happened to the American rider at the hotel. I reassure myself that this is a BMW workshop and that the man is wearing an employee badge, and I try to control my thoughts.
Half an hour later, he returns and says, “The problem has been fixed.”
The receptionist arrives with a cup of coffee and places it on the table.
“Where do I pay?” I ask.
“No, there is no charge. You are riding around the world—it costs you nothing.”
A good feeling washes over me, and not because I do not have to spend any money. It is the warmth and willingness to help that make Colombia feel like a pleasant place.
After searching on Google, I ride to a motorcycle accessories shop in the city center. About ten million people live in Bogotá. Traffic is heavy, but I do not sense any aggression from the drivers on the road.
I park the motorcycle on the sidewalk, right next to the shop’s entrance, and ask the employee who comes out to meet me whether it is safe to leave it there.
“Yes, of course,” he replies.
“We have a fuel can,” the shop owner answers. I also see panniers and a toolbox—exactly what I had been looking for along the way but had not bought because of the high price.
“Four hundred and fifty dollars,” he says.
Before I have time to say, “No, thank you,” he adds, “Because you’re riding across the continent, it will cost you 250 dollars.”
“Excellent,” I reply.
While I wait, I talk with Eduardo, who has also come to have something done on his motorcycle.
I ask him where I can find Colombian food, and he offers to take me to a restaurant serving food from the Pacific coast.
“The motorcycle is ready,” the shop owner tells me, adding, “You’re going to eat at the best place in Bogotá.”
We ride through Bogotá’s busy streets and arrive at a market restaurant with plastic tables.
I look around and see dishes on the tables that immediately increase my appetite.
There is everything, but mainly fish prepared in different ways.
Fish soup arrives as the first course. Eduardo explains that soup is always served with the meal. A wonderfully delicious fried fish arrives right after it.
“I need to replace a tire,” I tell Eduardo. “Do you have any idea where I can find one?”
Eduardo thinks for a moment and says, “Yes, follow me.”
We arrive at a tire shop. I choose a pair of tires, and although it is Saturday and most businesses are already closed because of the hour, they replace my tires.
Eduardo suggests riding to a viewpoint above the city. Of course I agree. As we ride, I think about how fortunate I am to have met him. He shows me the city and gives me important information about Colombia, making the beginning of my journey smoother and safer.
It is already dark when we reach the high point overlooking Bogotá.
From here, I can see just how large the city is, and I think about the ten million people who live in it.
Bars and restaurants are filled with young people and couples drinking beer and looking out at the city lights.
It is nine in the evening. Before we ride down from the mountain, Eduardo suggests that we ride to a beautiful place outside the city the next day: CASCADA LA 70.
The name means nothing to me.
“Sure,” I say.
We agree to meet at seven in the morning at a location Eduardo sends me on WhatsApp.
I still have half an hour before reaching the hotel. In the meantime, the hotel owner sends me a message asking, “Is everything all right?” He is worried because I have been away from the hotel all day.
When I arrive half an hour later, I talk with the hotel owner for a while and then go to sleep.
At seven thirty, I arrive at the meeting point, but Eduardo is not there. Just then, he calls.
“My aunt has invited us to breakfast.”
He sends me a location, which brings me to her home eight minutes later.
I recognize Eduardo’s motorcycle parked outside and switch off the engine.
“Hey, Harel.”
I look up and see Eduardo signaling from the window for me to go around to the entrance.
The stairs lead me into his aunt’s home. Two plates filled with fruit—mango, kiwi and pineapple—are waiting on the table. His aunt shakes my hand and says with a broad smile that she is happy I came.
While we eat the fruit, she prepares scrambled eggs. She serves us excellent Colombian coffee, and we spend another half hour talking about life and everything else.
“These bananas are really delicious,” I say, and she gives me more.
“Time to hit the road,” says my new friend.
We ride along the main road.
After an hour of riding, we turn right. The scenery changes and reminds me of a thick, green jungle. Waterfalls accompany us on the right, while a river flows alongside the road on our left.
As we continue, we enter a valley surrounded on both sides by enormous green mountains.
“We are riding in the Andes,” I think to myself.
The road becomes dramatic, with waterfalls surrounding us in every direction.
We cross a bridge with a wide river flowing beneath it. I look to the right and see how the river cuts through the mountains. We stop to take photographs, and immediately after the bridge, we turn right onto a dirt road that passes through a tunnel carved into the rock, with water flowing from its ceiling.
At the tunnel’s exit, a tall and impressive waterfall appears on the right.
“There is a restaurant farther ahead,” says my new friend.
We order meat dishes and eat while looking at the enormous waterfall.
Eduardo suggests that I ride north the next day to the town of Barichara. I think about the route—around seven hours of riding in the opposite direction from the one I had planned.
“Yes, I’ll ride there tomorrow,” I say, especially after he describes it as one of the most beautiful towns in the area and a place without tourists.
He recommends leaving before six in the morning because of the traffic jams, or waiting until after nine.
I still need to pack the motorcycle, which always takes a long time the first time.
Despite my stubborn attempts to pack quickly, it takes me until midnight, and I find myself in bed at one in the morning.
I do not set an alarm and wake up at seven thirty. Breakfast and strong coffee. I read about the road and the town.
Eduardo calls and asks whether I have left yet.
“I’m leaving now,” I say, and offer to leave a shoulder strap for a GoPro camera at the hotel because I no longer need it.
“You’re passing close to me.”
“Oh, excellent,” I say, suggesting that we meet along the way. “Send me your location and I’ll meet you there.”
I ride toward the location, which directs me to turn off my route. I stop beside a shopping center with PANAMA CENTER written across it in large letters and call Eduardo.
“I’m here, next to Panama Center.”
“Wait there. I’m coming.”
A few minutes later, he arrives with his aunt riding behind him. I am happy to see them both. His aunt hands me a bag filled with yellow, delicious bananas, just like the ones from breakfast the day before.
We hug and agree to meet again when I return from my ride to Barichara.
