Colombia II: The Business Of Living The Dream

Reuniting with Pferdi after the beach, I noticed one of the bars connecting my sidecar to the bike was no longer connecting my sidecar to the bike. I was still attached in other ways but we’d lost the bolt holding these two together. Until we figured out a way to get a replacement, Fran had the bright idea of getting it welded. Bogota was our next stop so it was added to the bike maintenance list. We’d just got to the hotel when a welcome text from “Jimmy of Bogota” came in asking if we needed any help. He showed up the next morning with Leidy his girlfriend. Following them through endless backstreets we arrived at not only a welder’s, but also a side car maker! This guy even had the bolt we needed and $20.00 later I was fully attached. Like all supermen after a job well done, Jimmy left as quickly as he’d arrived but we met again a few days later with another hair-raising ride across town, this time in the dark. On a quiet side street we met several of his friends and everyone juggled their motorbikes into the host’s railed-in patio. The evening was spent mostly listening to a couple just back from their ride to Argentina (very useful for us) and the Ural was squeezed out later to give everyone a driving lesson.

Bogota was a bit of a shock. At 2640 meters the climate was similar to autumn in Ireland. The locals were dressed in puffy jackets and boots, some even in woolly hats. And this in July! The change in altitude didn’t bother us but I didn’t care much for the drizzle or digging out socks and fleeces. The traffic was horrendous. If a car wanted to be in our lane, it’d just drive right at us, like they expected us to disappear. I don’t know where they thought we’d go but probably they didn’t care. One day a blue bus roared passed us on the shoulder, missing the sidecar by centimeters. I was horrified but still got the middle finger up before he forced himself back into the lane further down. Still, off the roads, the people were lovely and we got to socialize quite a bit. We had dinner with Alex, a colleague from my old company in California; another person I’d never expected to see again. Life can be very pleasantly strange sometimes.

Bogota was our stop for business and bike maintenance. Life does go on even for those living the dream. We needed to find a doctor, a dentist, an optician and a place for Fran to do an oil change. We also had to get the proper bolt and other small parts shipped from the U.S. without taking out a second mortgage. Alex came through with the most gentle of dentists, Google found us a great, English-speaking doctor and on the ‘optician’s street’ Fran joined the ranks of the old-aged and bought his first pair of bifocals (full eye exam and a pair of glasses cost $75.00). The winning streak continued when the doctor’s assistant, an elderly Cuban, became our shipping connection. His very reasonable contact in Miami sent everything in less than a week for the modest sum of $25.00. (It had cost $35.00 just to get the parts from California to Florida.) More importantly there were no customs delays which had been the big concern. The local KTM dealer was close to our apartment and proved to be a great resource for non-Ural items. Fran met the owner, Santiago Bernal, a 3-time participant, and one time finisher, in the Dakar Rally, who let him do the oil change right there. He came home glowing one day after Mr. Bernal took a ride on Pferdi and declared Fran a genius for being able to drive such a convoluted contraption. High praise indeed. All in all, it was a very productive month. The only downside was the traffic. It took so long to get anywhere, it was really only possible to accomplish one thing a day. I call this the “Nini Effect” after Fran’s visits to his Mum in Ireland in her later years. They’d plan one excursion per day after which they’d have to go home and have a cup of tea and a digestive to recover.

In between chores we got to enjoy the city and surrounding countryside. Jimmy invited us to visit his grandmother’s farm. We left at 5 AM, on a Sunday, to avoid the traffic. His 19-year old neighbor came along for the ride as well as two friends. After picking-up groceries in Pacho (another tray of 30 eggs) and skirting a Virgin Mary procession, we drove down country roads with wonderfully fertile hills. We were staying at Jimmy’s uncle’s and had no idea what to expect. He was farming the family’s land and after the introductions the boys began loading the bikes with large sacks, his green bean harvest, to carry down the hill to the tiny, local shop. Fran had two sacks (100 kilos) in the sidecar. Meanwhile I was offered oranges from trees behind the house and next to the large, concrete sink in the open laundry room, orchids grew wild on twisted tree trunks.

After the bean run we visited the grandmother’s house which was hidden in a bamboo grove. There we met the family and an old plastic container of unidentified liquid was produced and poured into gourds. We were instructed to taste it while everyone watched and waited for our reaction. The drink was mild enough so we didn’t let the side down but the two friends had to drive home and “No” wasn’t being taken for an answer. I was glad we were staying the night. Then Fran went and spoiled our reputation as civilized guests by dancing with Jimmy. One very merry uncle kept topping us up and the afternoon flew by. After a while I stopped worrying about where we were going to sleep.

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Back in the city we climbed Monserrate, named after a sanctuary in Catalonia in Spain. While we weren’t jogging along, we did manage to get all the way up to the church on top, as well as down again. At 3150 meters we allowed ourselves some slack; I’m sure wheezing breaths and ragged lungs at that altitude is perfectly normal. We took Pferdi down to the Candelaria district and Plaza de Bolivar and less than an hour’s drive from the mayhem, hiked through a cloud forest to Colombia’s highest waterfall, La Chorrera. On the trip to Pacho and back we’d passed signs for the Salt Cathedral, built inside a salt mine, so we promised to return. It turned out to be a wet day in Zipaquira so spending it underground wasn’t a hardship and listening to some Irish fellow’s voice give the tour on our headphones was oddly comforting. A week later Egan Bernal won the Tour de France and we smugly congratulated ourselves on not only knowing the town where he grew-up but actually having been in it three times in the week before his victory.

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We made a final trip to the doctor to pick-up our Miami package. Everything that had to be done seemed to be on the other side of town and we’d beaten a track down the autopista and past the mosque so many times I could snooze in the sidecar and still know what section we were on. Bogota had been good to us but it’s a city that makes you forget what country you’re in. After the emerald velvet of Colombia’s northern slopes, Bogota’s green hills were too dark for me and the skies too grey. On the plus side we had a nice apartment overlooking a kindergarten and no roosters waking us up at 5 AM. Fran cooked our favorite (mostly vegetarian) meals, there was a decent neighborhood supermarket and now and then we treated ourselves to a classy Italian restaurant nearby. Oh the joys of the smell of garlic again, the silky taste of good olive oil and the clink and sparkle of a glass of red wine. The waiters, skirted in long, white aprons, treated us not only like real people, but like we belonged as well, which is a tall order when you’re dining in zippy hiking pants. It’s hard to belong anywhere really when you're of no fixed abode. On the other hand, not knowing who and where your next dentist will be does avoid the possible predictability of taking care of business while living life on the road.