Ecuador in a Nutshell

Still buoyed by the incredible sight I'd just seen at Las Lajas, I made the short ride back across Ipiales to the Rumichaca border crossing to Ecuador. Canceling my Colombian TIP was as easy as handing it over to the DIAN agent, and getting my exit stamp from Colombia was more a matter of waiting in line than anything; quite a few Colombians were crossing over alongside me. I had been warned about the possibility of Venezuelan refugees packing the border crossing and making things difficult, but aside from a few tents pitched underneath the Red Cross shelter next to the Colombian station, and a few groups looking for rides by the roadside, I saw very few. Once everything was stamped and approved, I hopped on the bike and rode the short distance over the famous Rumichaca bridge to Ecuador.

Finally, after ten years, I was setting foot on Ecuadorian land again; my heart jumped just crossing the bridge. The entry process to Ecuador turned out to be the easiest I'd experienced since Mexico, just a few minutes in line and about 30 seconds at the passport window, and I was out of there with my entry stamp, for free to boot. Getting my TIP took a little more time, mostly because the guy ahead of me in line had an entire truckload of goods to declare, but once it was actually my turn, that process went smoothly as well.

From the time I first set foot in the country back in August 2009, through my month on the mainland and three months in the Galapagos, and all the way through the process of planning this trip, Ecuador was THE place I wanted to explore on a motorcycle. I'd absolutely fallen in love with the country ten years prior, enamored with its temperate climate, expansive mountain landscapes, friendly people, and the indigenous residents of the rural highlands who maintain strong cultural traditions to this day. I would be lying if I said that the excuse to fulfill my dream of motorcycling through Ecuador, one I'd held since before I even learned to ride, wasn't an almost equal driving force for doing this trip in the first place as reuniting with Ngaire in Santiago was. And now, thanks to over a week of not being able to enter the country, the impounding of my bike in Pasto, and the need to meet a November 30th deadline to meet Ngaire in Chiclayo, Peru where we'd continue our adventures together, I had five nights to spend in the country.

I cannot overstate how bitter I was, and to some degree still am about this last part; Quito alone would be worth five nights, to say nothing of the myriad other parts of Ecuador that are worth seeing, including the coast, the mountain highlands in the middle of the country, and the Amazon basin in the east. It grated on me to no end that I was going to have to skip so much of this amazing country, but on the flip side, I'd at least already seen much of the region surrounding Quito, and I'd still be seeing new places on my way south.

Making my way out of Tulcan, the Ecuadorian side of the border and onto the Panamericana revealed the kind of highland landscape I'd grown to love years ago. Rolling hills and valleys were covered with a patchwork of farm fields and livestock pastures in every shade of green, and while the low clouds muted the colors somewhat, I could still see for miles in every direction. The highway certainly didn't disappoint either, appearing to have been recently paved and winding nicely around the hills and valleys. I continued at a steady pace until stopping for lunch outside the city of Ibarra, about halfway between the border and Quito. It was in Ibarra that I started to see tangible evidence of just how extensive the Paro, the common name for the protests that had brought the entire country to a halt had been. Every few hundred meters, black lines crossed the road; on a closer look, I realized that I was looking at the marks left by lines of tires laid across the pavement and set on fire, leaving a series of burned circular imprints in the asphalt. It wasn't just the routes into and out of Ibarra; practically every major intersection showed evidence of roadblocks in all directions, and working my way through the city, it was clear that had I even been able to get across the border a week prior, I wouldn't have made it any further than this.

It wasn't just the major cities, either. Even the small towns I rode through along the route to Quito showed the telltale scars of the Paro on the roadways, and I soon understood why the Ecuadorian government had backtracked so quickly on the policies that touched off the protests in the first place. The outskirts of Quito, specifically around the airport, were full of roadblock remains, and it was obvious that had I somehow made it past the dozens of roadblocks on the Panamericana to Quito, Ngaire wouldn't have been able to make it out of the airport to meet me anywhere. Luckily, my only holdups came in the form of heavy traffic and a bit of rain, but I made it to Quito by the early evening, just in time to meet my former host family as they returned from work.

Lourdes and Fernando had hosted me for the first month of my semester abroad in 2009, and had treated me like close family from day 1 along with their son Diego, 10 years my junior. We had fallen out of touch for a few years, but I'd reached out to them in the very early stages of planning my trip and we'd been in steady contact for a couple of years, all looking forward to reconnecting. We had a lovely time catching up over dinner after years apart; they were particularly interested in Ngaire's and my wedding photos, and I was interested to hear about Diego's collegiate studies in the U.S., his interest in American football (we'd spent many afternoons playing soccer in their backyard, so I found this particularly amusing), and his work as an athletic trainer.

Lourdes, Fernando, and Diego back in 2009

I spent the morning of my only full day in Quito doing shamelessly touristy things at the equator. There is a huge monument called Mitad del Mundo on the northern edge of Quito, built at the site where a French explorer calculated the path of the Equator in 1736; unfortunately, the advent of GPS mapping showed that his estimate, and the monument, was about 250 meters too far south. There is another museum and monument built at the GPS-calculated equator, full of entertaining tricks supposedly only possible on the equator itself, including balance tricks and demonstrations of the coriolis effect using water. Things to take with a grain of salt, but it was fun. And, not having any photos of myself at the equator the previous time around, I wanted some keepsakes.

After I was done being a tourist, I headed back into town to meet some fellow riders at Ecuador Freedom Bike Rental. Located near the center of town, EFBR is one of the most famous names in motorcycle touring, offering guided tours, self-guided routes, and motorcycle rentals ranging from small dual-sports to 1000cc+ adventure bikes from Suzuki, BMW, and Honda (they have a couple of Africa Twins!), plus an extensive selection of gear for riders passing through. Three other riders I knew were staying there for the week: Stefan, Chris, and Nathan. I'd met Stefan way back in Antigua when we'd shared a room in the Mototours hostel, and been fascinated by stories from his round-the-world trip on his KTM 1190; Chris and Nathan had joined him in Panama City just prior to their crossing to Cartagena, and I'd met the two of them there. All had needed things fixed; Stefan had had suspension problems on the way, needing his shock rebuilt in Colombia, Chris's KTM 690 had needed its head gasket replaced, but Nathan's Yamaha Super Tenere turned out to have major top-end engine damage that would likely delay his trip for over a month. Still, it was great to catch up with the three of them, and we spent the afternoon waiting out rain showers at EFBR while poring over maps and planning routes with the owner, Court Rand. Court has a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the dirt roads crisscrossing Ecuador, and was able to recommend some great routes for both Stefan and Chris, who would be spending a couple of weeks riding as many trails and off-road routes as possible, and my much quicker transit through the country that would still provide me with great scenery. He also sent me on my way with a free shirt and stickers, and his crew helped me find some replacement hand guards to fit the Twin; the ones I'd started the trip with had proven to be both flimsy and cumbersome, bending severely every time I'd fallen over, and reaching a point where they kept me from using the full steering range at low speed. Ecuador Freedom should be at the top of the list for any fellow riders going through Quito, and is a great destination in and of itself!

The next day, after heartfelt goodbyes to Lourdes and Fernando, I set out south again, heading for the town of Baños a few hours south of Quito. On the way, I hoped to pass by Cotopaxi, one of Ecuador's most famous and picturesque volcanoes; motorcycles aren't actually allowed in the national park surrounding the mountain without a permit, but I figured I'd still get some nice views from the road. Unfortunately, the thick clouds and rain I encountered shortly after leaving Quito had other ideas. I rode right past Cotopaxi, knowing it was just to my right, but couldn't see anything. The fog and rain didn't start to clear until I got off the Panamericana and onto a winding, rural route that Court had recommended to me, but once it did, I was greeted with more amazing views. After two hours of six-lane interstate-style highway, I was more than happy to get back into the mountains for real, even more so when the road turned to hardpacked dirt as I approached Baños, and I had a blast the rest of the ride.

Baños is located in a narrow valley formed by the Rio Pastazo, and is a well-known and highly regarded stop for tourists looking for any kind of outdoor activities and adventures. The last time I'd been there, I'd been talked into bungee-jumping off the bridge in the center of town, and then my friends and I had rented bicycles and spent the afternoon riding bike paths along the river canyon to an amazing series of waterfalls. I only really had the afternoon there and felt like bungee-jumping once was enough, but I wanted to revisit the waterfalls and see the canyon again, so after dropping my things at my hostel, I jumped back on the Twin and headed east along the road known as the Ruta de las Cascadas. With the fog cleared out, I had a beautiful view of the road and the canyon, but found to my surprise that I couldn't see quite as much as I had from the seat of a bicycle years prior; rather than running along the side of the cliffs as the bike paths do, the road wound through a series of tunnels bored into the side of the canyon, fun for motorcyclists but not as much for anyone looking for amazing views. Anyone visiting Baños who isn't in a time crunch as I was would be much better off doing the bicycle tour.

Still, the destination was the same, and it was an amazing one. After about half an hour, I pulled off at the entrance for Pailon del Diablo, or the Devil's Cauldron, paid the small entry fee, and began the short hike to the waterfall itself. Pailon del Diablo is one of the tallest waterfalls in Ecuador, falling nearly 80 meters down into a split valley, and is one of the most amazing and spectacular natural features I've ever been to. After a short hike to the base of the falls, you're able to get right up to the lip via a trail that's more of a crawlspace cut into the rock; at times, I was nearly flat on my stomach getting through! Once through the tight squeeze, a small stairway takes you to a point just a few meters from where the water cascades over the cliff; I happened to visit at the height of rainy season in Ecuador both times, and it is an incredible and awe-inspiring experience to have thousands of gallons of water shooting over your head. Soaked but thrilled, I crawled back down the access path, took a few more photos, and headed back to Baños for an evening of dinner, drinks, and lively conversation with the other guests at my hostel; most were around my age, and we had a great time swapping travel and life stories.

The next morning, I woke up to a low curtain of fog, but I didn't have much hope of escaping it, as I'd be heading back into the mountains on my way to Cuenca, another of Ecuador's major cities (and one of the most active sites of protest during the Paro). I'd like to tell you about all the great views I saw along the way, particularly since I went straight past Chimborazo, Ecuador's highest mountain and the furthest point from the center of the Earth...but I can't. I don't think I had more than 150 feet of forward visibility for the first two hours of my ride, and it was next to impossible to see anything beyond the shoulder and trees on the side of the road; at times I think visibility was down to 50 feet or less. Here's a photo from 2009 of Chimborazo and the valley below it so we can all see what I missed:

Given enough time, however, the sun always comes out, something I've found myself mentally repeating any time I start to think things are going wrong, and so it was this time. It took a while, and a little more altitude, but I finally found myself under blue skies again, riding the Panamericana, or Troncal de la Sierra as it's called through most of Ecuador, through Riobamba and the many indigenous communities surrounding it, on past the Parque Nacional Sanguay, which I regrettably didn't have the time to explore past a glance. The emerging sun was evaporating the morning's rainfall off the roads and farm fields, and watching the indigenas working their crops through the rising steam made for an extremely cool effect that I was almost wholly unable to capture in pictures.

For the second day in a row, I made it to my destination, Alternative Hostel in downtown Cuenca, with plenty of daytime to spare; I can't remember the last time this happened. Cuenca is famous for its extensive colonial-era architecture, and the city's historic center did not disappoint. I spent the evening exploring the central square and the well-preserved buildings and churches surrounding it. The central cathedral in particular was a wonder; built of alabaster and red marble and topped by three enormous blue-and-white domes, it was so big I couldn't fit the entire facade in one photo. Cuenca's city hall was equally impressive, with the same locally quarried red marble making up its large columns and much of the exterior. There were also a few nice murals around the area, along with all kinds of anti-government graffiti left over from the Paro. With the sun fading, I found a place to eat, then ambled back to my hostel to spend the rest of the night working on photos and writing.

Waking early the next morning, I grabbed a quick breakfast at the cafe adjacent to my hostel, then loaded back up and prepared to head out for Loja. I was stopped on my way out by the Brazilian volunteer working the desk, who tied a simple necklace made from a Colombian coin around my neck and wished me safe travels. Riding off with a warm feeling inside, I continued south towards Loja, the last city I'd be visiting in Ecuador. Loja is well known as a musical and cultural hub of Ecuador, and I was excited to experience the local music, something I hadn't heard much of on my previous visit. The ride between the two cities was absolutely gorgeous; I had perfect weather the whole way, the roads were both smooth and very curvy, and while the ride should have taken around four hours, I made several stops for photos, and one for some unbelievably good mote pillo con chorizo; mote is a traditional Ecuadorian dish made from cooked corn grains mixed with boiled eggs and spices, usually accompanied by some sort of meat. I'd never had it before, and it was one of the tastiest dishes I'd eaten in South America thus far. 

I arrived in Loja in the late afternoon, greeted by a small rainbow over the city, and after dropping my bags and parking the bike at the AirBnB I'd reserved, I set off to explore the center of town and hopefully find a bar or live music venue to spend the evening in. I succeeded quite nicely in my first venture; Loja's downtown area is exceedingly walkable, very clean, and wholly pleasant to spend an afternoon in, with more colonial-era buildings and the requisite old churches found in nearly every former Spanish colony. I sat in on Sunday services at the cathedral for a short while, as the city was celebrating an annual holiday revolving around the pilgrimage of a sacred statue of the Virgin Mary between Loja and one of the smaller mountain towns, then carried on. When it came to my quest for music, however, I failed miserably; apparently practically everything in Loja closes early on Sundays, and the city effectively shuts down after 5 P.M. I hadn't known this going in, but even if I had, it wouldn't have made a difference with the short timetable I was on. Dejected, I found a quick dinner and then retired to my room for the night to write, edit a few photos, and catch up on some Netflix shows I'd been missing.

Monday would be my final day in Ecuador, one I'd spend riding to the border crossing at Macara, and hopefully getting as far into Peru as I could manage during daylight hours. I sorely wished for another day in the country, particularly to see some of Loja's attractions, but I had two days left before meeting Ngaire in Chiclayo, which would have been an 8-9 hour ride even before the border crossing, and I've learned the hard way to never assume that Google's driving estimates are correct. Adding to my annoyance, I dug into my bags to get my waterproof gloves, expecting rain on my way out, only to find that they weren't there. I'd worn them most of the previous day, and it struck me that after changing to my summer gloves prior to arriving in Baños, I had almost certainly left them on the rear rack in my haste to get going. Chalk them up as a casualty of the trip, I guess. I stopped by a bike shop on my way out and surprisingly found another pair of waterproof gloves that fit me, so $30 later I was back on the road with dry hands. On my way out of Loja, I stopped at the elaborate gate to the city, an elaborate Spanish-style construction housing a huge clock and galleries dedicated to the city's history and art. 

I watched the landscape change drastically as I made my way from Loja down the mountains towards Macara, changing from lush, humid-yet-cool highlands to the "bosque seco," or tropical dry forest, an ecosystem unique to coastal Ecuador and Peru that has been nearly wiped out by deforestation and agriculture, to near-desert by the time I made it out of the mountains. Even if I was out of time in the country, I still made sure to plot a route that would give me the best views I could find, and a few dirt roads to have fun on along the way. I'd enjoyed my return to Ecuador as much as reasonably possible, but still couldn't shake the feeling that I'd been screwed out of a far better experience by the events that befell me in Pasto. I had already resolved that my first time through Ecuador by motorcycle wouldn't be my last, but I wasn't going to give myself time to be bitter about it: Peru awaited.

Problems in Pasto

With the protests in Ecuador having ended for the moment, I didn't want to waste any time in getting back on the road and into the country, and after taking Ngaire to the airport before sunrise and catching a couple more hours of sleep, I got back on the bike and hit the road from Cali to Pasto for the third time in less than a week. I know I've already mentioned how beautiful the route was, especially the last couple of hours, but it bears repeating. I happened to catch a perfect day, with none of the rain that had dogged me through my first ride south, and as I approached the mountains surrounding Pasto, I found a gorgeous scene, with the sun hitting the mountains just right, and waves of clouds cascading over their peaks.

I arrived in Pasto with no trouble, and was greeted warmly by Roberto, owner of the Casa Hospedaje La Bohemia, where I stayed for the night. I was sharing the hostel room with an Argentinian traveler who'd been stranded in Ecuador during the protests (El Paro), and his stories made me glad I hadn't even attempted to enter the previous week. He'd been on the coast when the Paro started, and after a couple of days stuck in place, had found a bus willing to take him to Quito with promises that other companies would be running to the border. After arriving in Quito and finding exactly nobody leaving the city, he and a friend hired a taxi to take them north to Ibarra. They didn't even get halfway to Ibarra before running into a roadblock, surrounded by indigenous rioters who slashed the car's tires and forced out of the car, and ending up stranded. After walking for two straight days, they were able to get a bus to the border when the Paro ended. I was stunned; after spending months in Ecuador in 2009, this didn't sound anything like the country I'd fallen in love with all those years ago.

Determined to make it to Quito by the end of the day, I loaded up and left Pasto early for the border town of Ipiales. By distance alone, it should have taken me around two hours, but extensive construction made for slow going; the road detoured into narrow gravel sections many times, and there were frequent stops for road closures that had both directions sharing one lane. I was starting to grow frustrated with all the stoppages and time stuck behind slow-moving vehicles, particularly when I ended up in a quarter-mile line of cars waiting at a complete road closure. And this, friends, is when the wheels came off the whole thing...

As I sat in the line, seeing no traffic moving in either direction, a group of local motorcyclists sped by in the opposite lane. This had been common practice everywhere I'd been, and seeing a rider on a BMW R1200GS at the tail end of the group, I figured there was no harm in trying to save a little time with the rest of them, and joined the group. I was proven immediately, disastrously wrong when, at the front of the line, I found two national police transitos with their ticket books open, stopping everyone who'd skipped the line as we'd just done. There was already a group of riderless bikes around them, and I realized that I was about to have a problem as one of them came up and took my driver's license and passport. The BMW rider came over, admiring the Twin and expounding on how much he wanted one; high praise from someone riding the bike that defined the "adventure bike" class. He introduced himself as Dario, a resident of Pasto on his way to Ipiales for business. He then explained, his expression turning grim, that the transitos were ticketing all of us for passing on a double-yellow line, and that rather than being a fine we could pay later on or right then and there, they would be towing all of our bikes back to Pasto and impounding them. Apparently practically any traffic infraction on a motorcycle can result in impound at the discretion of the officer, and Dario explained to me, lowering his voice, that the transitos were often in cahoots with the towing/parking companies and often pulled stings like this on Fridays, ensuring the impound lots would get a weekend's worth of fees out of unsuspecting bikers.

There was nothing I could do, even after not-so-subtly asking the transitos how much it would cost me to pay the ticket in situ; Dario later told me that if it had just been me, they'd likely have taken a bribe to let me go, but with seven or eight other motorcyclists and a line of cars watching, they weren't going to let just one go. As we watched, our bikes were loaded onto a tow truck, which promptly turned around and headed back up the highway towards Pasto. I'm honestly not sure what I'd have done if I'd been completely on my own, but fortunately, Dario had decided to help me out without my even asking, figuring that the whole thing was an injustice on its own, and doubly so for having ensnared a foreigner. His wife was already on the way to pick both of us up, and once she arrived, we crammed our various pieces of luggage and riding gear into their car and we followed the tow truck back to Pasto. Dario spent most of the ride on the phone, calling anyone he could think of to see if it was possible to get our bikes out of impound that day, but the one thing he wanted to make sure of was that the bikes got there safely, so after following the tow truck to a lot on the edge of Pasto and unloading the bikes ourselves, we filled out inventory forms and made sure they'd at least be locked up while we figured the whole thing out. Dario drove me back to La Bohemia and assured me he'd call once he found something out.

Roberto was sympathetic to my situation; he'd sold his family's car the year before because of constant trouble with the transitos; according to him, any time a holiday came around, or the cops were lagging behind on their end-of-month quotas, they'd show up looking for excuses to write tickets, whether it was "worn tires" or miniscule traffic violations, as had happened to me. After having to fight weekly tickets in the transit police office for six straight weeks, Roberto had sold the car and was, so he said, far happier for it. I waited the rest of the evening, but didn't hear from Dario again until Saturday morning, confirming that there was almost certainly no way we'd get the bikes out of impound before Monday. With nothing to do but sit around and wait, I found a few things to do around town, wandering through Pasto's Plaza Carnaval and perusing pre-Colombian artifacts at the Museo del Oro. I found the displays fascinating, particularly the explanation of how the intricate gold jewelry was made, but I had a hard time really focusing on anything, given the situation. I'd run into delays before, but this was different; other times, I'd at least been able to go somewhere on my own schedule and without having to rely on others, and I'd come to take that for granted. Being stripped of my bike, and by extension my mobility, felt like it had thrown my world out of whack, having been one of the few constants in my life for the last three months.

I'd hoped that Monday would bring better news, but the word from Dario was little more than hurry-up-and-wait. Our tickets still weren't in the Policia Nacional's computer system, meaning we couldn't pay them, so we'd have to wait. Dario had a friend of his working on it, who turned out to be a tramitador familiar with the police bureaucracy in Colombia; I couldn't help but laugh at the dark irony that one of the people I'd despised when it came to border crossings in Central America was now my best hope of continuing my trip out of Colombia. Our tickets finally posted in the late afternoon, but at an hour that made it impossible to get everything done before the offices would close. We were ready to go Tuesday morning, first to the Transito HQ around the corner from my hostel to pay the tickets, then to another government office across town to provide proof of ownership and obtain release orders for the motorcycles. Dario had business to take care of, but I wanted to get the Twin and get back on the road ASAP, so his friend offered to drive me to the impound lot. After a few minutes of waiting, a fee that was actually far less than I expected, and a quick inspection, I finally had my bike back. I went back to the tramitador's car to ask what I owed him, but he waved me off. "Have a good trip," he told me in broken English. "And maybe you can bring me some parts for my car next time."

Believe me when I say that I've never been so happy to see a motorcycle in my life. Although it had sat in an impound lot getting rained on for four days, the Twin looked none the worse for wear, and after blitzing it back to my hostel and loading up, I was, finally, back on the road. As it was nearly 5 P.M. by the time everything was said and done, my hope of making it across the border and to Quito that day had gone out the window, but I wanted to leave Pasto and get somewhere, so I settled for making the two-hour ride to Ipiales. And as a final middle finger in my direction, it rained the entire time; by the time I found a hotel with both reasonable rates and secure parking, I was soaked through. I didn't even bother leaving the hotel for dinner, and after eating a quick meal in the in-house restaurant, I collapsed into bed.

I awoke the next morning determined to make it to Quito as quickly as possible, but had planned one small detour before leaving Colombia. Just outside of Ipiales, in a valley formed by the Guaitara River, lies the Santuario Virgen de Las Lajas, an ornate Gothic church completed in 1949. I had seen pictures of the church before, but my first glimpse in the morning light was breathtaking. I have walked through Notre Dame, Westminster Abbey, the York Minster, and the National Cathedral among many other famous cathedrals and churches, and Las Lajas is right up there in terms of pure aesthetic beauty.

Visiting early in the morning turned out to be a smart move, as there was almost nobody there, and I was able to walk all around the church, the 50-foot bridge spanning the valley in front of it, and the grounds without having to dodge other tourists. The interior was nearly as spectacular as the exterior, with the back wall of the sanctuary formed from the cliff into which the church is built, and very ornate mosaics and stained glass inside and out. I'm fairly well convinced that the only reason Las Lajas isn't mentioned in the same breath as many other famous churches in the world is its fairly remote location in Colombia, and perhaps the residents like it that way.

After taking in my fill of Las Lajas, I started up the bike for the final time in Colombia and headed for the border. I'd spent nearly a month in Colombia, longer by far than any single country I'd visited thus far, through circumstances both planned and unplanned, and despite the sour taste left in my mouth by the episode in Pasto, I'd absolutely fallen in love with the country. I'd experienced beautiful art, vibrant music and culture, astounding natural beauty, and above all, unbelievable hospitality and friendship from people I hadn't known existed just weeks before. Though I was looking forward to returning to Ecuador, Colombia would be a very hard act to follow.

Cali, Pt. 2: This Time With Company

I've been keeping a mantra since I crossed into Mexico all those weeks ago: when traveling by motorcycle, never make plans more than two days in advance, because something will inevitably happen to blow them up. And so it went with Ngaire's and my plans to meet up in Ecuador.

To recap, from my last post: massive, widespread protests in Ecuador over the end of fuel subsidies and other austerity measures abruptly instituted by the government had resulted in road closures, riots, and violence all over the country. The news stories and reports from other travelers who'd been in the country when the protests started were getting worse by the day; not only were nearly all of the major cities effectively shut down, people on the various travelers' groups I keep up with on Facebook were reporting incidents of protesters attacking foreign travelers, and just about everyone who hadn't been near a border was stranded in place, wherever that might be. Ngaire and I had planned to meet in Quito on October 11th, but there was absolutely no way that was going to happen; even if she'd been able to leave the airport, which wasn't a guarantee at all, crossing the border and attempting to make it to Quito by road would have been borderline suicidal on my part. Luckily, after an overly complicated process with LATAM Airlines that bordered on a Catch-22 scenario, Ngaire had been able to change her flight to meet me in Cali with less than a day to spare, and I'd made the 8-hour ride back from Pasto in order to be there when she arrived. It had been a frantic couple of days, and we didn't have anything like a plan in mind, but the only thing that really mattered was that we'd be in the same place for the first time since early July.

And in total keeping with the Adam my friends know and love, I was late to the airport. Serves me right for trusting Google's flight tracker (and I kind of got the bike stuck trying to get it out of our hostel). Neither of us really cared once we were reunited, though. After Ngaire's frantic day trying to get her flights worked out, and my slightly frantic road blitz back to Cali, we were both a little worn out, so after a quick and somewhat underwhelming lunch (the basic meat-rice-plantains combo got old for me long ago), all we really wanted to do was stock up on groceries for the week and take a nap. I'd booked us a private room at Oasis, another highly rated hostel in Cali, and in the evening, we joined several of the other guests for salsa lessons and then enjoyed some nice live music from the hostel's roof terrace over a homemade dinner.

Saturday would be a day for adventuring and hiking. We'd hoped to be able to visit the Farallones de Cali national park, but it turned out that we needed advance reservations to even enter, and there didn't seem to be any way to arrange that on a weekend. I'd read about a small town near the park called Rio Pance that supposedly had some nice trails leading to a couple of waterfalls. The road leading along the river of the same name had some sketchy parts, and I was more than a little nervous about riding two-up on dirt for the first time, but as usual, the Twin performed flawlessly. We stopped in Rio Pance for a lunch of freshly grilled Tilapia, then set off to try to find the trails. It wasn't quite obvious where we were supposed to go, but after half an hour or so of walking up the road leading away from Rio Pance and towards the mountains, we found a national parks sign and a trail leading off into the jungle next to the river. The trail was soaking wet but a nice hike, but as it turned out, the waterfall we'd hoped for was way further than we'd thought, and it was about to get dark, so we turned around and headed back to Cali.

After getting back and showering off, we joined a few of the other hostel guests and went out to Malamaña; I'd talked the bar up quite a bit, and hadn't been the only one. There was no live band this time around, so the place was far less packed, but that gave us some actual room to dance, and Ngaire and I took full advantage. Other than some patrons who got overly territorial about bar seats, it was a great night and an opportunity for Ngaire to experience a quintessential part of Cali culture.

Since nearly everything closes on Sunday and we still hadn't heard back from the park service, we decided to be tourists for a day and see some of the famous sights in Cali. First up was a return (for me) to the Gatos del Rio, certainly more enjoyable with a partner (and we're both cat people). From there, we headed up above the city to the Cristo Rey, with a stop at the Mariposario Andoke on the way. We had fun walking around the gardens and butterfly enclosure, which was full of Blue Morphos and a few other species we'd never have seen in the U.S, and then continued up to the Cristo Rey, an 85-foot statue of Jesus overlooking Cali. We had a gorgeous view of Cali and the valley beyond, and after taking plenty of photos and enjoying some luladas, a drink made with local Lulo fruit, we rode back to Oasis for the night.

Monday was a national holiday, and as such we knew that any of the major attractions that were actually open would be packed. We decided instead to ride west into the mountains, to the town of Pichinde, where the owner of our hostel had recommended we explore the river and trails all around the tiny mountain town. We ran into a couple of steep sections, one of which was precarious enough that Ngaire hopped off and walked it so that we wouldn't both fall over on the bike, but after a few confusing signs and some local advice, we found at least one of the trails we were looking for. A couple of hours of hiking ended with the trail dead-ending into private property, but the wildlife alone was worth it; we saw a number of tropical birds we'd never have encountered in North America, a few snakes, and a toad the size of a salad plate that didn't seem too impressed with us. 

The ride back was thankfully much easier, with a couple of stops for photo ops on the way, though we did end up getting stuck in standstill traffic once we rejoined the main road back to Cali. I wasn't as brazen about passing traffic as the locals, but we were still able to jump large parts of the line; the perks of riding a motorcycle in South America once again.

We'd planned something special for our last full day in Cali, and after eating an early breakfast, we loaded our packs and cameras on the bike and set off for the two-hour ride west to Zaragosa, where we would park the bike and cross over to the jungle town of San Cipriano. The ride went great until we ran into light, but constant rain about half an hour out, and by the time we found a place to park, we were both a bit wet. Once we crossed the pedestrian bridge over a raging river and paid the entry fee for the park and the town, we were treated to San Cipriano's unique form of access. San Cipriano has around 500 residents, and lies around 7-8 km from any road access, and requires at least two river crossings no matter how you get there. There is a railroad leading from the town of Cordoba further upriver, past Zaragosa, and into the jungle to San Cipriano, but the passenger trains that once served the town have long since stopped running. The residents, quite aware of the tourism potential of their town, came up with their own solution to replace the trains: the brujita.

The brujitas are, in essence, a low, flat railway cart with bench seats bolted to the bottom, and propelled by a motorcycle with the front axle secured to the cart and the rear tire hanging down onto the rails for propulsion.

This was, without question, the strangest form of transport I'd ever experienced, but once I got over the feeling that I might fall off the narrow bench seats at any time, one of the most hilariously fun. The motorcycles were small, commonly available 250cc units, but with little resistance from the rails, they could push the whole rig at a pretty good clip, and seated on the front, it felt a lot like a rollercoaster ride. The jungle whipped by on every side, though the rain made it a little hard to keep looking forward without my helmet on. The total lack of suspension made for a punishing ride at times, but I found myself loving it; it was like someone had combined the ease of a taxi with the exhilaration of a motorcycle, and despite my forward-facing side being completely soaked by the time we finished the half-hour journey to San Cipriano, I couldn't stop smiling.

San Cipriano's biggest attractions, other than the brujitas themselves, are the many hiking trails leading away from the town, and tubing on the river. With all the rain lately, the river was swollen, rapid, and far too dangerous for tubing, so after paying a small entrance fee for the national park, we set out in search of more hiking trails and wildlife. We didn't have to go far, and soon found ourselves hiking through gorgeous, thick jungle to a beautiful waterfall and lagoon. We spent some time swimming, and found a few frogs and birds around the lagoon, and once we'd had enough, dried off and started hiking back so as not to miss the last brujita back to Zaragosa. We saw many more tropical birds on the way back, including a couple of toucans overhead, and some beautiful insects and butterflies; we'd certainly had a nature-filled couple of days, and I didn't mind at all.

After another fun ride back to Zaragosa, thankfully dry this time, we got back on the bike and headed back to Cali. We'd thought about trying to go out for more salsa and music, but we were both wiped out and wanted to do nothing more than clean up and fall asleep.

Wednesday was supposed to be Ngaire's last day in Cali, with her flight back to Santiago leaving in the late afternoon. We'd wanted to get a taste of Colombia's most famous (legal) export, and found a couple of coffee shops that offered tastings of various types grown in the country. One turned out to be closed, but the other, Macondo, served up some excellent brew and a light lunch. After walking around some of the neighborhoods we hadn't seen, enjoying murals and old buildings, we went back to the hostel to pack up and get Ngaire to the airport. It was fortunate that we double-checked her flight status however, as thunderstorms in the area had delayed a number of flights out of Cali, including hers. So much so, in fact, that she had no chance of making her connection in Bogota, and thus would have to wait until the early morning the next day. Happy to have one more night together, we enjoyed a nice dinner together, and another few hours of drinks and chatting with other hostel guests, a few of whom we'd gotten to know well over our nearly-week there. Waking up at 4 A.M. in order to get to the airport wasn't ideal, but at least we didn't have to fight traffic, and after heartfelt goodbyes, Ngaire made her flight with time to spare, and I headed back to the hostel to get a few more hours of rest before I would have to ride to Pasto for the second time.

The trip had been a much-needed diversion from world events for both of us, but fortunately for me, the protests in Ecuador had ended days earlier, and it looked like I would have smooth riding for the rest of my time in Colombia and onward to Quito. Little did I know what was to come...