Meet Me in Medellin

Taking off from Sincejelo early in the morning (for once), I continued south towards Medellin. Google was still predicting upwards of nine hours to go, so the odds of me making it that day were unlikely, but I was going to do my best. Aside from the construction zones, the ride was great; the further I got from the coast, the cooler the temperature became, giving some much-needed relief from the hot and humid weather that had dogged me since Cartagena. I was squarely in the middle of farm country, the highway winding between columns of trees and signs for the various haciendas along the way, with impossibly green cow pastures spreading out beyond them, and I was perfectly content taking in the views as I rode.

I was in the mountains before I realized it. One second, I was looking at farm fields and rolling hills, the next I was in a narrow valley bisected by a rain-swollen river, surrounded by trees and rock walls. I got a small scare when a meter-long iguana ran out in front of me and stopped dead; after a brief staredown, it ambled onwards as though nothing had happened. If I didn't already know I was in the tropics...

I continued up the winding highway into the mountains, noting that the temperature was dropping as the altitude increased and the sun sank lower. By the time I passed through the small town of Valdivia, it was starting to look like rain as well. Noting all of this, and the fact that I was only a couple of hours from Medellin, I elected to stop at one of the many roadside hotels along the highway, where the owners nicely allowed me to park the Twin in their dining area, a kindness I was grateful for when the downpour that would continue through the night started shortly after my arrival. The dinner wasn't half-bad either,

The next morning, after waiting out the last few spits of rain, I continued on through the mountains, loving the winding and plunging curves even with a damp road and all the bags on. It was like being on my favorite routes in the mountains of East Tennessee, except the curves never stopped and the mountains were a lot higher.

Coming in from the north, my first glimpse of Medellin revealed a sprawling city climbing the sides of a beautiful valley. The traffic on the highway gradually increased, but I didn't have a clue what I was riding into until exited the autopista. City traffic anywhere in Central and South America is a little crazy, but driving in Medellín is borderline insane, and I was glad that my destination was a fairly short ride from the Autopista.

I would be staying with Ana, a former student of my father's who is now a professor in the music department at the Universidad de Antioquía. Ana was one of a group of Colombian students who'd attended the U. of Iowa at the same time, and who my father had very much enjoyed teaching. We were both very excited to meet again, and I enjoyed staying with someone who had a genuine connection to my family. Her spacious apartment was dominated by a pair of pianos in the living room, which also gave me an opportunity to rediscover my lapsed piano skills over the four days I'd be there. 

Once I'd brought my things up, changed, and settled myself, I took a short walk around the surrounding area. Ana lived close to the Parque Bolivar, which was closed for construction, and the Plaza Botero, a large municipal park housing more than 20 sculptures by Colombian artist Fernando Botero. Even among the many public art pieces I'd seen in Latin America thus far, the Plaza Botero stood out by virtue of scale alone; the sculptures were huge, and the plaza was overlooked by the grey-blue checkered façade of the Museo de Antioquía.

Having explored the neighborhood to my satisfaction, I returned to Ana's and spent the rest of the night relaxing, writing, and planning my next couple of days.

I left fairly early the next morning to make the 1.5-hour ride to Guatepé. Located in the middle of an artificial lake, Guatepé is a small but interesting city surrounded by a number of islands and overlooked by the Piedra de Peñol, an enormous rock formation rising over 600 feet above the lake. I stopped before getting to Guatepé proper so that I could climb the 675 stairs cut into the side of the rock. Doing so in motorcycle boots probably wasn't the best idea, and I definitely started feeling some altitude effects as I went up (total elevation at the top was over 7,000 feet), but the view from the top over the lake was genuinely spectacular.

After carefully trekking back down, I continued on to Guatepé, and found one of the most colorful towns I've ever been in. Guatepé is famous for its decorated buildings and zocalos, the paintings running across the foundations of most of the houses and businesses in town. Everywhere I looked, I found bursts of color, particularly in the town's central square, and it was hard not to take photos of practically every building in town.

I probably could have stayed in Guatepé the entire day, but I needed to be back in Medellín by the evening, and this made the ride back through the winding roads surrounding the lake. One of Ana's students would be performing Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor, one of my favorite pieces ever written, and I'd gladly accepted her invitation to the performance. Other than a clarinet that was noticeably out of tune, the performance was excellent, including Rachmaninoff's Symphonic Dances and a choral piece I didn't recognize along with the Grieg concerto. Afterwards, Ana and I joined Carlos, another of my dad's Colombian cadre at the U. of Iowa, for dinner and a night of catching up and reminiscing at a restaurant near Ana's place. 

The next morning was one I'd been looking forward to since arriving in Medellín. I'd booked a walking tour around Comuna 13 to explore the neighborhood and the famous graffiti and street art within it, and I met Leandro, my guide for the morning, at the Metro station close to the neighborhood. Comuna 13 had long been infamous as the most violent neighborhood in Medellín in its period as one of the most violent cities in the world, and had been ground zero for numerous battles between the cartels, FARC and associated paramilitary forces, and the government for control of Medellín. Leandro was about my age, but had grown up in Comuna 13 at the height of the violence, and told us as much history as he could during our introductions. After the fall of the cartels and the expulsion of the paramilitaries from Medellín, many young former members of both banded together and turned to art and tourism as a means of rejuvenating Comuna 13, and the results are on full display today, in the form of various kinds of art, many independent restaurants, shops, and businesses, and the escaleras (escalators) that allow quick transit up Comuna 13's steep slopes.

 Walking the winding streets and alleyways of Comuna 13, incredibly detailed and vibrantly colorful graffiti pieces stand out almost everywhere, some extending nearly the length of a city block, and all bearing the unique tags of the many art collectives that have replaced the narcos and guerillas. There is a near-constant, largely hip-hop soundtrack to go along with the art, some audible from open windows along the streets, but much of it from break dancing groups performing in the parks and streets. 

I found myself drawing an interesting contrast with my previous afternoon in Guatepé; the two places were some of the most colorful and artistic communities I'd ever been to, but while Guatepé had kept its street art in rigidly square zocalos and mostly straight lines, the only limits to the graffiti and street art in Comuna 13 were the boundaries of the walls and buildings they were painted on. 

It's hard to pick out the absolute best places I've visited in my travels so far, but Comuna 13 is easily near the top of the list. It's not often that I get the opportunity to visit a neighborhood that went from one of the most violent in the world to the hotbed of art and culture that it is now. Where some places might try to sweep that history under the rug in the name of gentrification, Comuna 13 takes the opposite approach. While the scars of the past are certainly visible in the symbolism permeating the graffiti and the bullet holes the paint doesn't quite cover, the pervasive attitude of optimism for the future is even more obvious, and almost infectious among residents and foreigners alike.

Before hopping on the Metro back to Ana's, I took the cable car up to the San Cristobal neighborhood in the heights of Medellin, enjoying some spectacular views of the city and a few more colorful murals and buildings. 

Though I was absolutely enjoying being a tourist in Medellin, I had some actual business to attend to; the Twin's tires were just about worn out, having endured nearly 6,000 miles of abuse on pavement and dirt alike, and she was due for an oil change. Fortunately, I was South America's motorcycle Mecca; Medellin has an entire neighborhood that's almost entirely motorcycle dealerships, parts shops, and gear vendors, and I figured if I couldn't find the tires I needed there, I wasn't going to find them anywhere. I felt like I was in bike heaven as soon as I parked. Even surrounded by hundreds of other motorcycles, in an area bustling with people ferrying parts and working on bikes both in the shops and on the sidewalks outside, the Twin stood out; it was significantly taller than almost any other bike in view, and the sparkling white paint definitely drew some admiring eyes. I was fielding questions about the bike and my trip for the whole afternoon. Finding tires actually proved to be a much harder chore than I'd expected; while the 90/90-21 front is a very common size, only one shop had the 150/70-18 rear I needed. Sergio at Mundimotos was incredibly helpful in finding me all the options they had on hand as well as the right inner tubes, and even had the shop install the tires for free. When I got the bill, I initially thought there'd been a problem, as the price was impossibly low, but a closer look showed that everything was indeed correct, and that the price of my new Michelin tires was just about half of what they would have cost in the U.S! I was elated, and had the shop go ahead and change the oil while the Twin was on their lift, figuring they'd earned the business. If any other motorcycle travelers are reading this and planning on passing through Medellin, I can't recommend Mundimotos on Calle 38 enough!

Beyond the excellent service and great prices on parts and gear, I loved the whole motorcycle culture in Medellin. Bikes are everywhere in Central and South America, but riders in Medellin seem like a different, and friendlier breed. For one, riding in traffic was a crazy, fun, and communal experience; at every stoplight, bikes would filter between stopped cars to the front of the line, and always seemed to be able to make room for one more, even a beast of a Honda that seemed twice the size of everything else. The moment the lights turned green, a mad scramble ensued, until we encountered the next line of stopped cars and did it all again. For two, just about every other rider I met was incredibly friendly; I lost count of the number of stoplight conversations I had with other riders curious about the Twin, where I'd come from, where I'd be going on my trip, and how I was enjoying Medellin. I lost count of the number of times I gave out my Instagram information to other bikers while stopped at lights or parked on the street, and I know the Twin and I ended up in a few selfies by the same means. I'm not sure I've ever been to a city with a motorcycle culture quite like Medellin's, and I absolutely loved it. 

With the bike refreshed (and handling beautifully on the new Michelins), I somewhat reluctantly packed up my things the next morning and got ready to leave. I'd been told throughout my trip that Medellin was going to be one of the best cities I'd see the whole way, and I'd found that to be absolutely true. The city certainly has a complicated past, but the changes since the death of Pablo Escobar and the fall of the cartels are readily apparent, and the residents love to show off that fact. Coupled with the friendly and enthusiastic motorcycle culture, it's not hard to see why Medellin became an instant favorite, and an enduring highlight of this trip.

Old Town, New Friends: Cartagena to Sincejelo

Still giddy at the fact that I was on the ground, in South America, with my bike, I awoke on the Wild Card for the last time, sharing a quick breakfast with my newfound friends. Rather than feeling disappointed that we'd be parting ways, most of us were looking forward to spending the next couple of days enjoying Cartagena and meeting a few more times in the process.

We received our stamped passports a little after 9 A.M., and now that we were legally allowed into Colombia, gathered our things and left the port. Well, at least the others did; I still had to get my temporary import and mandatory insurance for the bike, so while the others headed off to find lodging, I made the moderate walk to the Direccion de Impuestos y Aduanas Nacional (DIAN) office. After trying two different security checkpoints and being directed to the next one, I finally found my way in and to the Aduana office. The process was surprisingly simple; after presenting my passport and vehicle documents, I was given a form to take to one of the nearby insurance agencies in order to get my mandatory liability and medical insurance (SOAT). Word of advice to any future travelers reading this: don't bother with the SOAT vendors near the DIAN office; the first one I went to refused to sell me anything less than a 1-year policy, and wanted the equivalent of nearly $250 for it. After a bit of Googling, I found another agency a short walk away who sold me the two-month minimum permitted by law for less than $30. The only issue I ran into in the process was that I caught the insurance agency at lunchtime, which added an hour and a half to the process, but once I had my SOAT approved, I was back in and out of the DIAN office in under an hour, transit time included. It was the easiest customs process I'd experienced since Guatemala, and gave me hope for easier times to come.

Now that I was fully legal as far as Colombia was concerned, I made my way back to the port to retrieve my bags and gear, and got a bit of a nasty surprise when I did. The crew had stashed my helmet, jacket, pants, and boots with my luggage for the voyage, and when I got my helmet back, I found spots of mold dotting the liner. Even after scrubbing off the padding in the bathroom, my helmet still smelled so bad I got nauseous after putting it on. More advice for motorcyclists taking the boats between Panama and Colombia: keep at least your helmet with you in the cabin, lest you suffer the tropical consequences.

Several of us had decided to stay at Hostel Mamallena in the heart of Getsemani, Cartagena's old town, and I found Paul, Kat, and Ferdinand in the common area when I arrived. The hostel staff had graciously agreed to let me park the bike in a corner of the common area, and once I'd parked, changed, and vigorously scrubbed out every part of my helmet I could reach with soap and a sponge, I joined the others to catch up. They'd already explored the neighborhood a bit, so after waiting out a brief rain shower, I took a quick walk around the few blocks surrounding Mamallena, taking in the colorful decorations surrounding and overlooking many of Getsemani's narrow streets. Cartagena, at least the area I was in, was showing itself to be a beautiful and vibrant place, and I was excited to see more of it. Returning to Mamallena, I ran into Bobby, Joanna, and Caro with an armful of food, and accepted their offer to come cook with them. Charlie had planned an evening out with any of the passengers who were up for it, and after finishing dinner and a quick phone call home, I met most of the now-former Wild Card passengers in Mamallena's bar. After a drink or two at the hostel, we set out around Getsemani, stopping first at the Plaza Trinitaria a few blocks away to watch a series of street performers, then heading across the neighborhood to Cartagena's famous clock tower and a rooftop bar overlooking it.

It was an excellent night all in all, and a nice way to cap off the voyage to Colombia, one of my favorite parts of the trip thus far. I was definitely a little sluggish the next morning, but not enough to keep me from exploring more of Cartagena, and after a quick breakfast, I set out for the Castillo San Felipe de Barajas, the enormous colonial-era fort overlooking the old town and much of Cartagena.

Originally constructed in 1536 and significantly expanded in 1657, San Felipe defended Cartagena from attacks by French, British, and privateer forces for much of Cartagena's history, finally falling out of use in the 1800's. The fortress is very well-preserved, enjoying status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and both the open areas and many of the tunnels criss-crossing the interior are open to the public. One of the more interesting quirks I learned about during my tour was that the outer tunnels weren't primarily intended for use by personnel; the small alcoves placed every 10-20 feet were pre-loaded with explosives intended to be detonated in the event invading forces tried to scale the walls of the fort. It was easy to see why San Felipe was such a strategic piece; its cannons could be trained on every possible route of attack by seagoing invaders, and the only real land-based approach was over a hill within easy range of the fort.

After leaving the Castillo San Felipe, rehydrating, and meeting one of my shipmates for lunch, I decided I wanted to see more than just the fort and the two blocks around my hostel, so I grabbed my camera (in my bag unless I needed it, I'm not an idiot) and started wandering the old town. What I found was a gorgeous, vibrant district with splashes of color at nearly every turn. There are murals all over the place, I stumbled onto a couple of different art exhibitions, and even regular streets had some kind of decoration on the walls or overhead; I particularly enjoyed the umbrellas stuck over a couple of different streets. Cartagena felt more alive than any city I could remember visiting over the last two months, and it didn't seem to matter whether it was day or night; as soon as the sun went down and the street vendors packed up, performers of all types came out to take their places. Whether it was a comically unconvincing Shakira in drag, multiple Michael Jackson impersonators, traditional Latin guitarists, the rap trio that entertained us during dinner that night, or break dancing groups, some kind of human creativity was on display nearly everywhere I looked.

I just want to point out that the composited RAW file for this photo is over 500 MB.

I could have easily stayed in Cartagena for a week or two, but needing to be in Quito by October 10th, I had to move on. My next actual destination would be Medellin, but getting there would require at least two days on the road; after getting used to crossing entire countries in a couple of days, the sheer distance between landmarks in Colombia was a bit of a rude awakening. I decided on spending Friday night in the town of Sincejelo, mostly because it was an afternoon's ride from Cartagena and because I'd found a Couchsurfing host there. Before I left, I did something I've literally never done, and paid someone to wash the Twin. It was utterly filthy, covered in dirt and mud, and had been exposed to saltwater for most of the last week, and I wanted to make sure that nothing corrosive was left anywhere. Plus it was nice to have a clean bike for once, even if I knew that wasn't going to last very long.

The ride from Cartagena to Sincejelo was perfectly pleasant, and brought with it an unexpected and very welcome discovery: motorcycles are almost entirely exempt from tolls in Colombia. This had been a point of worry for me, as I typically plot my routes to avoid having to pay tolls, but doing so for just this leg of the trip practically doubled my travel time. It was a huge relief to find out that I didn't have to worry. In what would become a running theme of my time in Colombia thus far, however, I ran into a considerable amount of road construction; it seemed that nearly every highway in Colombia was having some sort of work done, and while the long lines of cars had no option but to wait it out, I very quickly found that jumping the lines on either the shoulder, lane lines, or sometimes going entirely off-road was par for the course for motorcyclists. Colombian motorcyclists, it seemed, were capable of solving any traffic-related problem. I certainly wasn't going to say no to a few dirt road detours, nor to getting a little closer to the farms and marshlands I was passing on the way.

I made it to Sincejelo with daylight to spare (for once), and was warmly welcomed by my host, Julio, and his family. Julio teaches English classes at the local university, and had spent a year studying abroad in Pittsburgh, so the language barrier that sometimes showed itself when meeting new people was entirely erased. We spent much of the evening comparing notes on life in the U.S. and Colombia, and I was pleasantly surprised when Julio's mother insisted I share in their dinner. Julio freely admitted that there wasn't much for a tourist to do in Sincejelo, but I didn't mind; I'd been a tourist all through the San Blas and for three days in Cartagena, and I was happy to go back to being a traveler. Besides, I needed a night to catch up on writing and photos before riding the rest of the way to Medellin, which will have to wait for the next post. Thanks again for reading!