Colombia, que chimba!

"Colombia is like someone has taken the beautiful rolling English hills, bunched them up into mountains and sprinkled dancing chicas all over them."

Dave Bailey 2014

After the long bus ride from Lima, we crossed the border into Ipiales for our final set of adventures. Adjusting to the heat and higher altitude we rolled out from Ipiales, transfixed by the surrounding lush green.
What ensued was a sudden unforgiving snap back to reality. Our last 5 days had been at sea level, on flat roads and with a slight tail wind. Here at the border we were 2900m up and immediately flew downhill. All the memories of difficult cycling disappeared with the wind through our back wheels and the landscape unfolded into our first of many beautiful valleys. If only it could had lasted.

The first valley down from Ipiales. A sign of things to come

Instead, we engineered a commonly used phrase in Colombia, "what goes down must come up." As after the descent we began a 24km, 1500m climb. Starting abruptly and finishing without haste, it was four hours of pedal bashing in significant heat. From our haircuts in Pasto to Popayan and our venue for the Brazil vs Colombia game. Two Brits surrounded by 5000 dancing, cheering Colombians. Que chimba!

No roads on a flat surface, all built into the mountains

A sharp Colombian haircut. Beard trimming included.

The next few days provided some of the most up and down cycling I have ever experienced. Long climbs 8-12km) at least twice a day, sometimes thrice. Every climb just served as a platform to descend into the next valley, down to the next river bed and then up to the next mountain-top village. Each of them had Dave's quote replaying in my head, 'someone has just folded this country up into mountains.’ 'Bastards,' we thought, 'It's completely ridiculous that people even live in this terrain.'

A standard day in the mountains

Both this extreme topography and the degree of peoples' warmth were equally emotive. At first sceptical, 'are they trying to rob/rape/kill us?', but after a few meetings that scepticism was shunned and replaced with a reflection of their warmth, enjoying the interaction with the friendly locals. We grew accustomed to rolling into a plaza and being quickly surrounded. People asking us what we needed and helping us find accomodation and food with no desire for anything themselves, just eager to ask what we thought about the country and for us to spread the news of its quality.
I've heard a few theories for the reasons for this warmth: 1. It was a successful World Cup fro the Colombians; 2. Cycling along with football is the national sport; 3. People are trying to reverse the bad image gained over the last few decades; and my favourite 4. It is just their culture. Whatever the reason, they managed to produce one of the warmest and most welcoming environments I have ever experienced.

The road that just climbs and climbs round the corner

We headed North with a large detour, off the main route to Medellin, hanging to the side of the mountains through the coffee country and beyond into the villages past Manizales. The roads lined with coffee plantations, banana trees and pinapple plants. At this point I started to notice a real change in my ability to keep up with Dave, the first time there had been a real difference in our speed since the depths of knee pain back in Chile. Strangely, sleep became less restful and each day saw my legs produce less power than previously. After 4.5 months, a variant of exhaustion seemed to be catching up with me.

A pinapple plant, who knew it grew so weirdly

The view from Salento, dubbed as one of the best in Colombia

Thankfully we made it from Salento to Medellin but a scheduled 3 day trip took 5 as the World Cup finals and my legs conspired to shorten our days. Unfortunately this also happened to include some of the best terrain and nicest towns we encountered in Colombia, a joy to cycle for Dave. Tired or not, it was undoubtably a great advert for the red spokes cycle tour taking that route.

Coming out of the mountains on the way to La Pintada

Ditto

Medellin gave us our first glimpse of big city Colombia, filled with music, alcohol and never ending dancing, a treat after the exhaustion of the bike. Medellin was also the location of our separation. Dave showed his loyalty to Colombia then took his flight home, and with a week extra, I planned to bomb on to Cartagena and the Caribbean Coast.

Vamos Colombia

What at first seemed just like another 5 days cycling turned into a fearsome battle with the tropical climate and with a continued weakness in my legs. Getting out of bed at 5 so I could miss the midday sun and the 35degree temperatures, I still emptied my blood vessels of fluid onto my skin and would watch my electrolytes drain into my socks. The tiredness did not abate and unfortunately not at one point during those 5 days did my legs feel good or feel that I had any sort of 'form'.
Such was the intense heat and humidity that I spent the 650km to Cartagena drinking water, being red/white from my sunburn/suncream combo and squelching as I walked. Despite my constant sweating and spidery white salt lines on all of my clothes, I still managed to find a few marriage proposals from fathers for their young daughters along the way.
Rolling into Cartagena at midday on the 5th day was a difficult end to the trip. Devastating hot, dehydrated, alone and no arrival band, I wanted to run around and tell everyone I was a champion but everyone just seemed to be busy partying. I took stock of the situation: 6500km cycled, exhausted and sunburnt. I cracked open a nice cold beer, started chatting to a chica and decided, 'if you can't beat them, join them.'

Thanks for all your support. If you'd still like to give then visit our justgiving page, anything you can spare is really helpful.

Kyle

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The climb, and the rewards

In retrospect it had all been a training camp for the biggest climb of them all and as a terribly underprepared duo we had stumbled across the perfect acclimatisation schedule. We first began climbing in Northern Argentina from Tucamán and over the following 6 weeks had been conquering hills with nothing in common except their altitude above sea level. Up into Bolivia, up further to Potosí, up and down to la Paz and the slow ascent around lake Titicaca.

Although a detour, takling the abra patapampa pass seemed like the only option. At 4910m above sea level, it is the highest paved pass in the Americas and once more tested whether we had bitten off more than we could chew. A nice challenge.

The day before was a wonderful preparation. Riding all day and into the night time, past deserted lakes and archetypal volcanoes, we arrived in Patahuasi and slept at sub zero temperatures around 3800m up.

High altitude deserted lake outside of Puno

 

Night time views on the ride into Putahuasi

 

 

Breakfast was a Hen soup with egg, rice, spaghetti and lemongrass. The second time we had eaten the strange but hugely popular 'caldo' in as many meals. Fed and with the usual slow feeling that we like to put down to the altitude rather than not being fit enough, we detoured off the main road for the first time in over a month and headed to Chivay, the gateway to the Colca canyon.

 

The hours ticked by as the road rolled, teasing us with a climb only to let us descend on the other side. Gloriously, that familiar and enevitable feeling of chest tightness and gasping was manageable as we passed sections of ice in the barren sunny wasteland. We thanked our training schedule.

 

The never ending road to the pass

It was really high

 

For the first time motivation was torn as every hour we moved closer to the top but further from our direction on the main road, a point that didn't make climbing easy. However, six hours past and we finally saw the welcoming site of tourists at the top. Much to Dave's pleasure, the only thing left was to get the obligatory and slightly underwhelming snap.

Delighted

 

The view of six volcanoes at 4910m

 

 

For me however, the climb will always be remembered for what came after:

First the descent into the spectacular Colca canyon with the setting sun, 40 minutes of free rolling joy with Jon Hopkins as my soundtrack. Second, finding ourselves in the canyon we decided to see the Condors, the birds with most in common to a finely tuned and super economical bicycle. Watching them soar effortlessly above us was a nice break from a particularly challenging section of road.

 

Descending in Chivay

 

Condor and Dave locked in a stare off. "You won.....you always do."

 

 

Third, the descent to sea level and it's reprecussions. In two days we descended from 4000m to 150m above sea level. My face wore a beaming smile as i overtook buses on the way into Arequipa and my legs had a self-satisfactory bounce as we worked out the kilometers covered. Cruising downhill at 40km/h is not a bad way to spend most of the day.

 

 

View from the Arequipan hostel

 

 

After we hit the pacific we had 850km until Lima and were keen to get there as soon as possible so we could get North (Columbia). Although not unexpected, it was still surprising to be at sea level and to be different men since Argentina. All of a sudden the gears we were using shifted 3 lower; the hills became fun distractions from the flat road as we jumped out of the saddle and bounced up them to the drum of our music; and the kilometers just flew by. Never have I felt such a profound change in my feeling of fitness and I immediately forgave Lance for his use of Epo, it felt damn good.

 

 

Pacific Ocean and mountains of sand. Everywhere.

 

The constant desire for Cerviche drove us on, past pockets of civilisation carved out from the omnipresent sand and under cloudy skies. We motored to Lima in 6 days, already bored of the repetitive ocean / sand scenery, keen for a Friday night and ready for our last set of adventures in Columbia.

 

The ultimate snack from a motorbike driven wagon riding up the panamericana

Thanks for your support.

 

Kyle

 

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The altitude

Surveying the scene on top of a church in Potosí, I reflected on a few monster days of climbing culminating in the 4238m climb around Cerro Rico.

Cerro Rico and Central Potosí

 

We'd had the wind in Southern Argentina, the rain and cold in Chile, and the wine in Mendoza. In northern Argentina, we entered an environment that bit closer to the rays of the sun and that bit further from the sweet moisture of the oceans. An environment that tested our physiology more than the permeability of our skin.

Leaving Tafí del Valle we climbed our first real climb, up to 3000m and our first real experience of breathlessness. Insidious and draining we used coca leaves as our crutch, hoping the advice of a fascinating Argentinian was valid, "It helps with acclimatisation and if you add bicarbonate of soda there is a alkali-acid reaction that.......". Well, he was an interesting bloke.

The first real climb and the last sign verifying our accomplishments

Moving through Northern Argentina was like a gentle transition into Bolivian life and culture. Food, skin colour and the amount of available textile changed as we climbed from Jujuy. Once we crossed the border we were suddenly surrounded by old Bolivian ladies covered in textiles with a skirt, smart sandles, a bag of coca in their hands, few teeth, weathered faces and the essential bowler hat.

Standard Bolivian Lady taken with a covert camera

 

Settling into life above 3000m we pulled into a town Cotaigata for a place to stay. We strolled into a courtyard and unknowingly interrupted a Mother's Day celebration. Our lycra'd legs and great conversationalist spanish quickly enamoured us with the Mothers. We were fed, given wine and the local eau de vie, Singani. 5 hours later after some celebratory snaps and some Bolivian folk music, we excused ourselves, knowing that booze doesn't mix with exercise at altitude.

The mothers

The entertainment/the sons

 

It was now 5 days since we had left Jujuy, having climbed more than 1200m a day and at most 2000m. On the way Dave had left his passport behind, his 'maintenance free' Rohloff hub had oozed most of its special mineral oil under the atmospheric pressure, I had lost yet another shoe and my wheel had needed some tender loving care.

Patched up and eager to finish the climbing, we entered the last day from a height of 2500m, an ominous number knowing the height of Potosí. Setting off early we were buoyant, confidently thinking we just 'had what it took'. Joking as we left, we were efficient and business like. Soon the realisation that there were descents mixed in with the climbing sucked up our humour like a 'fun sponge' and a Trappist silence descended on us. 38km left after lunch was almost continuous climbing, with a falling percentage of oxygen and a falling sun.

Exercise at 4000m is like having a band placed around your chest. Every breath you take not quite fulfilling your needs, every exertion measured and rhythmic for fear of straining too much. So fine the line between managing and needing to stop, our water consumption dropped as we were too breathless to have a drink whilst riding. It was so profound that Dave had to take a short break on one of the climbs for fear of blacking out.

Note the climb in the background. Heartbreaking.

The barren wasteland at 4000m

As the sun began to set we finally reached the peak around the back of Cerro Rico, surrounded by a now tin mining industry and descended into the colonial Potosí.

 

Back to Potosí and after a rest day we started the 5 day 545km road to La Paz. Research was cut to a simple map that just had names of towns, confident that Potosí's trials were the beginning of an easier stretch and surely much descending.

More barren high altitude

 

We set off and after a morning of up and down, we realised we hadn't lost much altitude. The all too familiar concern entered our conversations during breaks and the afternoon consisted of a 3 hour climb at a heavy altitude. We spent the whole afternoon in our easiest gear, fighting with a headwind a road that seemed to wind around the mountains like a helta-skelta, never showing it's end. Time ticked on by and we only began the approach to Ventilla at 7 with heavy legs and empty stomachs.

The helta-skelta road somewhere between 3600 and 4000m

 

With only a headtorch to guide us, our sight was poor, but a rather large, strange grey object passed us, "Was that a big rock in the road?"

"No I think it was just a pothole"

We dodged a further grey object, "that was definitely a rock", "Look, there's another..... and another."

Our speed slowed as we began to pedal past parked lorries. 10, 20, 30, 50, on and on we followed the lorries interspersed with boulder sized rocks in the road. "What's occurring?".

Suddenly a mass of people appeared in the darkness next to a blockade of rocks. Indigenous Bolivians standing in the middle of the road, Indian feathers in their hair, coca leaves coating their mouths and the aroma of Singani filling the air.

"No pase!" Our bikes were slowly surrounded by people in the darkness, reminding me of a zombie movie. Their eyes squinting against our torchlight as they ambled toward our shivering flesh.

"No pase! Nunca, nadie."

"My Spanish isn't great but I'm pretty sure that's not good!", Dave muttered over their ramblings. "We need water can we not pass?!" I asked them.

"No pase!"

We stared through them to the dim lights of Ventilla, 'so close.'

A few minutes of pensive, exasperated faces later and a collection of the wiser, less inebriated locals and some truck drivers thankfully secured our safe passage through the zombie mob.

At last we entered Ventilla and treated ourselves to two fried chicken and rice dinners. Never had so fragrantly decreasing our life expectancy felt so rightous. 'Umm, so that's what the Lady in Potosí was talking about when she mentioned blockade.'

Now, just a short 4 days to La Paz.

 

Kyle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The transition

Location: Bariloche

Weather: Rain and 10 degrees Celsius

Forecast: Rain for 5 days

Date: behind schedule

Decision: Bus north

We arrived in Mendoza like we had just got off the bus for a holiday. Our smiles were proportional to the amount of leg we could expose to the outside, "And at 9am!"

The sun eased us into a hostel and we went for a celebratory beer in the local park. A young skateboarder named Fede stops to chat. Handsome, tanned, friendly and clearly affluent. He describes his recent jaunt skiing in Canada and surfing in Hawaii. A short conversation full of wity remarks from Dave nailed an invite to his parents house for dinner and a recommendation to a winery, 'Is our luck changing?'

 

The famous Argentinian 'Asado'. 3 cuts of beef, chorizo and morcilla

A lovely welcoming family eager to impress a key part of Argentinian culture on us. Our thanks to them.

Fede's family and the bearded Drs. FYI: she has a boyfriend

The next day a spring like one, perfect to use Fede's recommendation and take a trip to the local 'Altavista' winery. We pretended to listen during the tour about fermentation times and award winning wine but only really engaged during the tasting.

The 'Alto' voted 31st best wine in the world and not available for purchase

 

The formalities over, we bought two expensive bottles and preceded to flaunt our ability to drink them throughout the town. Setting up shop wherever we thought appropriate. Partly as middle finger to the dark, cold and gustatively uninspiring South. Partly as a self-congratulation for the trials that had come before.

 

Flagrant public boozing #1

Flagrant public boozing #2

 

The bus had been so kind to us that we decided to head further north to Tucamán (another 1000km) and the entry point to the more indigenous (interesting) Northwest of Argentina.

Here the trials were to begin again. Our first task to climb out of Tucamán up to 2000m into a desert valley. We left the greenery behind, picked up some coca leaves to aid our acclimatisation and set off (see Characters from The road: Pablo). One and a half days of climbing and we popped out from the forest at 2000m into a stunning mirage.

 

Lunch outside Tafí del Valle

 

In the valley we adjusted to the arid, cacti strewn landscape. Suddenly having hot water wasn't the issue, but having continuous water was, hearing that the area was often affected by incapacitating drought. We pondered the issue whilst gourging on oregano infused cheese and sinking a red artensanal beer. Memories of my last blog entry faded as the setting sun caressed our faces. "A drought doesn't seem like such a bad thing."

 

All local products purchased for pure enjoyment

 

Kyle

 

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The hypothermic pass

Creaking knees and piles and piles of rain created a forced hiatus in Puerto Montt. After which we were free to cross the border back into Argentina. The hope that the Andes would offer our bodies some protection from the precipitation drove us to cycle northwest toward the border.

The first kilometers covered in over a week were a welcome relief and we sucked up the tarmac around the great volcano Osorno, albeit with less sunshine this time. Two days in the saddle, the familiar mistakes recurring, the appetites reawakening. Things felt back to normal. We sat at sea level in Entre Lagos fuelling up, a trucker town with some questionable inhabitants, 71km from the 1300m pass over the Andes. Another granny host telling us where the paneneria was and wishing us a good journey.

The clock struck 10am and we set off, hoping to cycle a cool 110km to Villa la angostura in Argentina, just a small climb between us and a bed. The sky was surprising clear and we plowed on, only stopping for a sopaipilla sandwich (two bits of fried bread with some cheese in the middle) and 3 empanadas. We had learnt our lesson about food.

The climb began and we made some headway until we hit the Chilean border, Dave looked classically confused when they asked where his visa document was, polite attempts at looking for it ensued, "Nobody told me it was a visa document."

The road just went up from the Chilean border. No idea of how far away the pass was we just turned the pedals over for an hour. The temperature began to drop and the rain that was forecast slowly started to fall. It was fun at first, the challenge increased by the rain and a wry smile washed over my face, "Bring it", my internal voice stoically holla'd.

The climb went on and on. The rain fell with increasing intensity, permeating all layers and becoming awkwardly familiar with our skin. The climb went on and on. The wind picked up insidiously, doing a heat stealing deal with the rain. We awaited the border at the peak, dreaming of the dry warmth.

Finally we breached the Andes, camera signs indicating good views appeared from the rainy fog. 1300 m up but visibility 50m and no sign of the Argentinian border. Suddenly the realisation that we had no idea where the border was became clear. Wet through, cold and 40km from our final destination, the darkening skies confirmed the 5 o clock sky and a little panic crept in.

No words were spoken, we knew what wet and wind did and we endeavoured to lose altitude as quickly as was safe. Kilometers ticked by but no border, without the exertion of cycling uphill our bodies leaked heat into the environment. Dave stopped at the side of the road, "I'm in a bit of trouble, I can't stop shivering and I need to change my clothes."

That's strange, "I was just about to say that if it were a couple of degrees colder I would be in trouble, but I feel ok. I'll cycle on and I'll see you there."

 

"I'm fine", I thought, "I'm not even shivering." I began to sing to myself as I rolled down the hill in torrential rain and with the wind licking my chest.

"Oh too-da-loo-da, where's the bloody border control. Boo-ba-doo-da." Dancing on the bike, not peddling.

15 minutes later and I got to the border. I got off the bike and rushed inside with a change of clothes, food and a towel. The drivers watching me with interest as I began to take off wet layers next to the customs queue and eat a banana. Rocking rhythmically and laughing to myself. "Almost got a little sketchy there Kyle."

Dave arrived, "You don't look well."

"I'm alright, I'm not even shivering." I changed some clothes and went through passport control. Strangely I could hold a pen but was unable to get my hand to write with it. Using two hands I fobbed a signature and one of the customs officers handed us some mate tea, "You look cold, drink this."

"Yeah, it's pretty cold", I laughed, not seeing the hint, but preceded to drink everything hot that came my way.

Dave intruded, "You don't look well, you look half dead. I'm putting my foot down, you're not allowed to go outside."

"That's strange, I'm not even shivering." Dave's unusual seriousness was funny.

I unwrapped my hands from the mug of hot water I'd been cradling. I'd scolded my palms without realising. The last hour began to repay in my mind.

"Ok.......maybe that's a good idea." Amazing how a little reflection can change your tune.

 

Kyle

 

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Erupted volcanoes and extracted teeth

 

From the moisture filled forests of Puyuihapi there was another section of wonderful scenery alongside the tarmac'd road as I rode into Chaiten, the end of the carretera for us.

The view on the way into Chaiten

 

Chaiten allowed a visit to it's eponymously named volcano. One that erupted in 2008 destroying large swathes of the forest, blocking the river and burying much of the town in ash. The town was evacuated and abandoned by the government, causing some political tension for the surviving inhabitants. It now lives on as a kind of ghost town, half of it rebuilt, half of it preserved under meters if ash.

 

The path of pyro clastic flow

 

Houses left buried in some kind of ash museum

 

The volcano still smokes away, one of the two overlooking the town and providing a constant reminder of former destruction.

The caldera's edge with the uprooted trees

 

Puerto Montt was where Dave and I reconvened following a week out with injury. A fishing port city and the current home of my sister Katharine. It provided a comfortable, if not a little bleak, place to rest the joints, eat seafood and get a tooth removed. Faced with the prospect of some maxillo-facial surgery with mixed chances of success, Dave chose extraction of his much maligned tooth. Yet another interesting story to tell the locals.

 

A two day trip to Puerto varas and its surroundings took us within reaching distance of the spectacular conical shaped volcano of Osorno, an imposing figure on a number of towns around its lake.

 

Volcano Osorno

 

Some hiking a welcome break from the repetitive cycling motion and glorious sunshine to light our way.

 

The pensive Bailey

 

We headed back to Puerto Montt in anticipation of the ride across to Argentina.

 

Kyle

 

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