Colombia VIII: Easter Rising

When we were young the week before Easter was more of the same: plain Lenten denial, except now there was an end in sight. We were still ducking our heads into tins of hoarded sweets and inhaling deeply every last scent of minty chocolate but Sunday seemed a long way off.  Nothing much ever happened before Thursday, and then it was only mass.  But in the Latin countries it’s a week of freedom, vacation, music and fun. Sure there’s religion involved but while we’re sitting in church for three hours, they’re outside observing all sorts of passion plays and pageantry. It just didn’t seem fair. The best an Irish childhood had to offer was a day off school watching “The Song of Bernadette” on telly.

We returned bow-legged to Bogotá intending to do something about the Himalayan’s seats. While waiting for the upholsterer to restock his gel (or “hell” as they called it), we took the time to rearrange our belongings. The new side boxes were 30 litres each and a lot smaller than expected. They looked like large mailboxes but without the slots. Even though we had very little, there was still too much stuff. By the time we’d finished our total possessions were reduced to 90 cubic litres. The weather was still warm so half the clothing sat pristine at the bottom; definitely NOT the way you’re supposed to do these trips but too late now.

It was the start of Semana Santa (Holy Week) and we were leaving to begin the Big Trip proper. It was a silly time to go as all the best accommodations would be already booked. We cancelled our Saturday departure to give the mass exodus time to disappear and 5:00 AM Sunday found us weaving through roadworks in the dark. We took the north-western route instead of the shorter, more popular southern one. By 6:30 the traffic was busy and when we reached the toll booths there were already lines. I’d forgotten that motorbikes ride for free on Colombian toll roads. For once we were glad we weren’t on Pferdi because he never did fit into the bike detour lanes and after queueing up with the cars, our three wheels always had to pay the price of four.  

In Bogotá’s surrounding mountains there was a heavy grey mist. Cyclists and motorbikes clogged the roads, all bound for the great weekend escape. For miles and miles there was nothing but restaurants lining the road, and barbeques being stoked for the crowds to come. It was 7:15 and one place already had about 20 cars parked outside. Down the mountain it continued and the signs now advertised “lechón” (roast suckling pig), with some of those same pigs on view behind thin veils of blue smoke. It certainly beat a bowl of cornflakes.

Once in the valley the air began to heat up and instead of dark green forests there were palms, fruit trees and small banana plantations. It soon became clear that our beautifully-stitched new seats were a disappointment. The aches began after the first hour and even dangling my legs didn’t provide relief because my seat had been made wider (something that sounded like a great idea at the time but was evidently not).

At the hotel in Neiva there was no parking so the staff insisted on us bringing the bike inside to the little lobby. Several urns, dainty side tables and a mosaic washbasin had to be removed as did both side boxes. It was quite the production but we finally got himself situated, in front of two life-size ceramic figures, a Grandmother and Grandfather in rocking chairs.  Suddenly the bike didn’t look so small anymore.

The town was hot and humid. We spent evenings on the roof terrace, always alone except for one night when we were joined by a large family passing around a large bottle of aguardiente. (How come the oldies always seem to have the best goodies?) Less than 40k away was the Tatacoa desert and we drove there on a curvy road scattered with tall cacti. There was a brown river with a narrow concrete bridge where a family was washing clothes and bathing. Finally the red and white sand took over and we were able to stop and explore. The landscape was a cross between the Baja desert and Bryce Canyon, surreal, beautiful and quite unexpected. Further down, the town of Villavieja was busy with mud-covered vehicles driving goggled and scarf-wrapped passengers out into the dunes. All these Mad Max impressions looked quite exhausting so we found a quiet corner and had a coffee. You can never have too much coffee in Colombia.

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Though our next stop was a town we’d visited in 2019, we were driving in an area we hadn’t been before. There was nothing to indicate the ride would be bothersome; we even stopped for a break which is unlike us. All went well until we declined a small suspension bridge and followed a sign to Popayán, even though it looked a bit homemade. Shortly after we found ourselves on a narrow, unpaved road that was full of rocks. There were breaks in the bushes where it disappeared over the edge of the mountain but the white stone mile markers with the black number 26 indicated we were on the right track (“track” being the most significant word here), and we figured it’d eventually become asphalt. It didn’t. There were a lot of big drops to my right and nothing keeping us from them. The going was slow and unsteady and we were getting beyond the point of no return. All signals on the phone were by now gone and we were climbing. Every time I thought we were nearing the top, another hill appeared around the next bend. The views were magnificent, but I couldn’t enjoy them, and taking photos was out of the question. All my time was spent trying not to react when it felt like we were losing traction, and concentrating on keeping still so as not to distract the novice dirt rider and force him into any sudden manoeuvres. At intervals I’d remember to unclench my teeth.

After a long time we came to a village that was reached by a very nice paved road that appeared out of nowhere. The streets were empty except for a few people at the plaza. They were standing under a great tree that had two pieces of fish hanging from it. My pronunciation of Popayán was barely understood but we were pointed to a side street and told to stay right, right, right all the way. Which we did, did, did until that nice road stopped in a straight line and we were back to the dirt, and a fork. We took the left because the right was smaller and had a sign for the cemetery. This, unknown to us, was the wrong decision. Eventually we came to another village and they sent us back out to a side lane going down the mountain. As we bumped along an increasingly narrow route, an old man emerging from the bushes tried to return us to the village but we ignored him. Down we went, the foliage closed in and milky brown puddles from the last night’s rains spanned the whole width. Eventually, when the phone re-connected with a civilization somewhere, I realized we were going east, further and further away from the first village and returning to where we’d come from. There was a road showing above and we were moving in a slow diagonal towards it. This was the real (new) 26. It was only then I realized we’d been driving around in what was probably a small circle of jungle for the past three hours.

The new 26 was a thing of beauty.  In reality though it was washed away in more places than not. This was an environment where concrete was losing the battle with nature. Often the road was on two levels with drivers diverted to the old, original way because the new one was now lying several feet below in a cracked and crumpled heap. We detoured over muck and puddles alongside collapsed concrete, rusted rebars and old bridge supports covered in mold. It was the oddest thing, out of the blue a straight line of smooth grey highway would appear for several hundred yards before disappearing in an abrupt step. If we’d been going any way fast, we would have popped right off those awful saddles into God-know-where.

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The low cloud over the last mountain was cold and damp and all the little motorcycles coming in the opposite direction had riders wearing brown woolen ponchos. There was an eerie grey-brown desert on top with a cactus forest, Frailejon Espeletia I think they’re called. They stood silent like a wild-haired army waiting for the coming of something you really didn’t want to know was coming. While I was overcome with relief we were out of the jungle I thought I would die if I didn’t get off that bike. But there was nowhere to stop. When we finally did reach a village I tried to climb off but my right leg had seized up. It took all my willpower not to pull the whole mass of metal down with me. With not only the whole village watching, but Jesus in a red dress on a float too, that shame would have been unbearable.

We did make it to Popayán and we did get over the journey that had thrown Fran headlong into his first off-road experience. Last time we were here it was Halloween so it seemed we were never to see the city in its quiet period, if it ever has one. There were the usual Easter processions, the first one led by soldiers in camouflage, and bands that played late into the night to audiences lining the pavement. There were cops everywhere, a benign presence that assisted old ladies through barricades, handed raised babies back to mothers and ate giant corn-on-the-cobs from sizzling street carts when they thought no one was looking.  It was a fitting time to say goodbye to Colombia, with families gathered outside like they’d done for centuries. The bleeding Jesus statues had been returned to their churches and his mother’s anguished face hidden behind closed doors lest she put a dampener on the festivities.  It was time to celebrate and in Latin America it doesn’t have to be Easter to find a reason for that.

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