Colombia V: Colombia’s Death Road

After having stayed a week in Cali I’m finally back on the bike and I’m eager to make some kilometres and see the last part of Colombia.

I had to stay a bit longer in Cali to patch up myself (after my crash in Salento) and my bike (my suspension broke). I’ve had to glue a plastic part that holds my front bag to the adapter on my steer, but of course the plastic part breaks as soon as I hit my first bump on the road. I fix it by strapping my front bag to my steer. The suspension that is an integral part of my frame is a more difficult story.

Disclaimer: You’ll have to excuse me but here follows a bit of a technical story.

So I think what happened is that an o-ring got worn out, so the whole body of the suspension is leaking. I have a “lock-out” switch on the suspension and if I put it in the “locked” position and go sit on my bike it just deflates. You’ll have to understand that without a suspension in my frame my bike just folds together and it simply becomes unrideable. So I had to come up with something. I went online and bought a new pneumatic suspension via eBay, but since all these parts that come from China have a shipping time of 30 days I had to order it to Quito, Ecuador. Now the only thing I still need is a temporary solution that gets me to Quito.

I tried every bike shop in Cali to get the part serviced but nobody could help me. Besides that I looked for a new pneumatic suspension in every bike shop in Cali, but all they had was a simple suspension that works with a spring. I bought one of these, found a helpful shop owner that grinded down the ends for me to make it fit in my frame. At first I was super happy and relieved: finally a solution to my big problem. But then I started cycling “home” and I found out that the spring is not stiff enough. It felt like I was sitting in a carnival ride, bouncing up and down the whole way. After 5 minutes this became very annoying and after cycling up a hill, wherein the energy of every strong pedal stroke got absorbed by the spring, I decided that this was not the solution. I saved the springy suspension in one of my bags, just in case, but I still had an unrideable bike. Then I came up with the idea to make the faulty suspension rigid. If I could just find a way to make it sit in place and hold its outer position I could make it to Quito. I went to the closest ferreteria (DIY shop), found a piece of PVC tube that fitted right over the piston of the suspension, cut it to the right length and made holes in the side so I could still reach the bolts to assemble it. Ta-da! Please see a drawing below, a true masterpiece if I say so myself:

Fair to say that I was pretty happy and proud of my creative thinking here. I mean, there is no one around me to help, I could cry but nobody would’ve heard me, there is no safety net to fall back to, I was basically dealing with a broken bike that nobody could fix, I had to come up with something. And I did.

Vamos al sur! I’m back on the bike and of course it doesn’t take long before that lovely liberating feeling of pedalling around the world strikes me. Although I have to say that there were times that I’ve been more comfortable on the bike: I take every bump as slowly as possible trying to put as little force on my dear PVC-tube as possible. After every speed bump I check for cracks or damages to the PVC solution, but after a couple hours on the bike with no visible damage my trust grows and grows. Of course man, you’re an engineer, come on, have a little faith in yourself!

I drive through lovely small towns dodging the big highways. I buy some coffee and other groceries at my favourite cheap D1 supermercado. Once I get farther away from Cali and the pueblos become smaller I see some FARC posters and some people wearing t-shirts with these infamous 4 letters on it. I get scared a bit because I’ve heard that the surroundings of Cali are still guerrilla territory. And I also vividly remember the conversation I had with a German couple cycling around Colombia a few weeks ago that had a very unpleasant encounter with armed forces of the FARC. Luckily none of that happens to me today.

I have lunch at one of these small towns and watch big colorful Chivas buses drive through town. These buses are rolling pieces of art: painted with all the colors of the rainbow, always accompanied by texts like “Dios es mi guia” (God is my guide), dressed up with flags and other attributes. You can hear them presenting themselves loud honking when entering the town and leaving a trace of soot when pulling up again and leaving town.

I paddle further south, up and down. I pass a lake that I only get to see when the road climbs up. It’s the end of the day and I see beautifully carcasses of buildings overlooking the lake that would lend themselves for perfect camp spots. If only I wouldn’t have such a competitive mind-set. It’s always the same: “Come on, 5 kilometres more“, “You’ve only did 70 kilometres today“, “80km would be a nice round number to finish the day“. Always more and longer. So I leave the perfect camp spots to be and cycle on, hoping to find opportunities like this further up the road. But of course I don’t. I try to take some back roads and ask some people around if I can camp on their land but they friendly reject me. I cycle on to the next little village where I find a friendly police officer. I leave my bike with the police because the man with the hammer has hit me and I feel very hungry. First some food. After a soup, and a typical plate of food I return to the police office. They are trying to help me to find a free place for the night and eventually they point me to an abandoned building where I can set up my tent. I give myself a good old babywipe-shower and stroll into town for a bit.

In the morning I bump into a carnival parade. They’ve assigned the most beautiful woman of the town to be the shining centerpieces of the wagons. A beautiful hilly ride follows leading me back to the main road. Half way through the day I see a bunch of trucks pulled over to the side of the road and I know: good food, good prices. I pull over and order an almuerzo and are treated to Sancocho soup, rice, beans, avocado, plantain, yuka and salad. Lunch here is paradise for cyclists, it always has a lot of carbs and the portions are huge. I climb further next to the big road into the center of Popayan. A beautiful town with a historical center consisting of only white houses. I position myself in the Parque Central with a cold beer and immediately are being addressed by a couple of people. One of them, a professor of the local university, carries a notebook with him and writes down all kinds of random stuff: the names of my two stuffed animals I have on my bike (“Flappie” and “Ant Charlie”). Also he scribbles my first name into his little booklet. Really wondering what he had in mind to do with this information.

In the meantime I get the address of the house of Fabian, my Warmshowers host for the night. It seems to be 8 kilometres back to from where I came, but it’s okay I have time. Fabian, his wife Gilma and their son Sergio welcome me in their house in the rural outskirts of Popayan. They offer me a beer and food and we get to know each other.

They have a spare room that I can sleep in which is great.

Because I’ve been resting for more than a week in Cali and I’m eager to cycle on my initial plan was to just stay for the night and continue. But in everything I feel that the family is expecting me to stay a bit longer. And I do get that. I mean, these people have opened their house for me, cleaned up a room, made investments from their side. The least I can do is make some investment from my side as well. Tell them about the dream I had and that I’m currently pursuing, tell them about my culture, tell them about the things I’ve seen during this journey, talk some English with Sergio and Fabian since they’re eager to improve theirs. Of course I decide to stay for another day.

I take it easy, call some friends, cycle into town to see the city a bit more. I watch the sun set over the city from up a hill. Soon after it becomes really cold and I cycle back to my host family. We have some more quality time together and they are talking about a family get-together tomorrow for Father’s Day. They tell me I should stay another day to celebrate with them.

Sure, I can wait another day and also a family party sounds lovely. They’ve been preparing food already since I’m here.

I’m glad I stayed because Sunday turns out to be a magical day. I wake up early and already see Fabian and Gilma preparing for the guests to arrive: sweeping, putting tables outside, but most of all: cooking food. Soon after the first family members arrive. Everybody is helping in the kitchen and I dedicate myself to be Chef Onion. I think I cut like 30 onions. Around 10AM the first big pans go on the big cast iron stove. A Sancocho soup with a complete hen in one pan and lots of yuka and rice in two other pans. More and more family is arriving. The first beers are passed around. The nephews and nieces are all around the same age and run around the house screaming and playing. And after all the cutting and cooking in the afternoon the first plates are passed around. I’ve never eaten a more delicious meal than today. And in such a nice and cozy environment. After lunch the two grandma’s are folding empanadas filled with cheese that soon after are fried in big pans. Also delicious.

After the empanadas we make a group picture while the sun is setting in the fields behind us. The atmosphere is getting more and more cozy and lively and I guess the beers that keep coming have something to do with it. We move inside because the cold is setting in.

Presents are being handed out to all the dads, movie clips and audio clips where the children are expressing their love for their dads being played on the television. And all this time I feel like I’m becoming more and more part of this family, at least for tonight.

This family strongly reminds me of my family and the Christmas parties at my aunt’s house. The family has a strong connection, and spending time together is valued. Nephew A gets along really well with Auntie B and Niece C is dancing together with Uncle D. I chat around with everybody, dedicate myself to make some pictures and everybody is becoming more comfortable with my presence as well. At some point a karaoke set is connected to the television and little shot glasses with Aguardiente are being passed around. At this moment the memories become a little bit more cloudy. I do remember that I contribute to the karaoke by performing “Kleine Jongen” from Holland’s greatest singer Andre Hazes. And after way too much beer and Aguardiente I decide to call it a night around 1AM. The rest of the family doesn’t seem to make any appearance to end the party yet.

I wake up with a heavy head after snoozing my alarm 4 to 5 times (a tool I barely use these days). When I make my way to the house I see one of the uncles fell asleep on the couch with his jacket on. The house is swamped with empty cans of beers. Lots of family has stayed for the night including the nephews and nieces. Everybody is waking up around the same time and we find each other in the kitchen. Once again I feel like I’m one of the family and it’s a really nice feeling. Yesterday I video called with my godmother that was celebrating her sixtieth birthday having a barbecue with the whole family. I have been able to counter the sad feeling I got from not being able to be together with them with this incredibly warm family in Popayan.

I give some small presents to Fabian and Gilma and after some hugs everybody walks me to the gate to wave me goodbye. On my way I encounter some family that’s making their way back to Fabian’s house to help clean up the mess. Another sign of the unity of this family.

Enough talked, time to cycle. On the program for today: climbing 50 kilometres from 1700 to 3100 meters altitude. It starts of pretty tranquilo and I enjoy the sun and the surroundings. I have two big fried pasteles filled with potato and a boiled egg for lunch, my favorites because they are so cheap and fill my stomach very well. I continue to some hot springs. Unfortunately the entrance (50.000COP ~ 10€) is equal to my day budget so I cannot allow myself to warm up in the hot pools.

I continue my way deeper into the valley, agonizing my legs a bit more. Up, up and more up. It’s getting colder now because I’m reaching 3000m.

At a roadside waterfall I change my wet shirt for a dry one: sweat and cold are an unlucky combination for cyclists. The valley is truly stunning. Green mountainsides, a small meandering river finding its way down, cute wooden cottages with black and white cows grazing next to it. Suddenly I think I’m in Switzerland or Austria. I climb further to 3100m and have to change for some dry clothes again: a warm hat, legwarmers, warm jacket and buff are necessary at this altitude. Than the last part is flat and leads to the teeny tiny village of Paletera. In the meantime I’m treated to an overwhelming amazing golden hour. The sun sets and the mountain ridge on my left is lighted up in a palette of pink, red, yellow and purple.

In the village I find a restaurant where I’m served fried fish with the other regulars. A warm aguapanela (sugar cane tea) warms up my soul. I change clothes one more time and ask for a place to camp. The owner of the restaurant points me to some kind of gallery. I ask around at the gallery that houses people but also looks like it serves as a market sometimes. The people say that it’s fine to put up my tent. “Aqui no pasa nada” is something I just love to hear.

I slept well. Yet it’s still cold when I wake up. I make coffee on my little stove to heat up internally a bit. Armed with legwarmers and gloves I start cycling. Soon in my ride I reach a field of so called frailejones, a typical plant that can only be found in high altitudes in the paramo of the Andes. The paramo is a neotropical alpine ecosystem in the high part of the Andes. After 5 kilometers of cycling the perfect asphalt suddenly stops and is replaced by gravel. Something that I luckily factored in.

Climbing at 3200m weighs on me, I can feel there is less oxygen in the air here. I have to make several breaks where I eat bread that I bought this morning and drink coffee from my thermos. Sometimes it drizzles but luckily it never comes to a full downpour.

After 33km of bouncing and bumping I reach asphalt again. A final inspection to my PVC-tube shows me that it survived yet another beating. My trust in reaching Quito with this temporary solution grows.

Back on asphalt the road goes down and the descending on this smooth surface is just lovely. I fly down. In the next town I can take my warm clothes off again. Today I’ll climb 1000 meters but I’ll descend 2400m: the dream of every cyclist. At the end of the day when my legs are all relaxed and comfortable from all the descending, they are suddenly awakened by a final punch to San Agustin. I treat myself to a delicious Cholado, a mix of ice cream, shaved ice and fruit, on the little square of San Agustin. Soon after I’ll cycle to a hostel for a hot shower and some rest.

San Agustin’s highlight is an Archeological Park that houses various beautiful old and big statues of a society that lived here 2000 years ago. The entrance is pricy but it would be stupid to cycle all the way to this village and then not see the park. It’s a beautiful walk through antiquity. But all the time there is an annoying thought that’s rushing through my head: “I don’t want to loose a day and I still have a lot of cycling to do”. So I keep my visit to a minimum, I mean the statues are beautiful but if you’ve seen 10 then you’ve basically seen them all.

I change into cycling clothes and make my way down back into the valley. I take a beautiful shortcut over earth roads through little agricultural settlements. A beautiful path that meanders through banana- and coffee trees. Chickens and hens shoot away into the bushes when they hear me coming. Sometimes a little wooden house peaks through an abundance of green.

I get surprised by a down pour and seek shelter at the first roof I see. It belongs to a house and I ask friendly if it’s okay if I wait out the rain a bit. I immediately get a chair to sit in and some cookies and tea. People here are too friendly. After the rain, the roads have become a muddy mess.

Back on tarmac I munch on two of these fried pastries with the eggs inside. After lunch it’s time for more climbing. After 18 kilometres I have to change into dry clothes for the descent. I was promised a descent but in my view this descent has way too many small climbs in between. It makes me grumpy. I guess I’m just tired. In the dark I arrive in the little village with the beautiful name of San Juan de Villalobos.

I eat first and afterwards I ask the ladies of the restaurant for a place to camp. They don’t really know but point me to the other side of the road where there is a restaurant on the side of the road that is closed, has a roof and is a bit out of sight. I guess that’ll do.

I leave my bike at the restaurant and walk into town to look for a television. Tonight is the first leg of the final of the Colombian football league between Atlético Nacional and Millonarios FC. I find the local youth sipping on some beers outside of a little shop that has turned it’s tv to face outside. I join them. The game is far from entertaining and I’m glad when it’s over. When I get back to my bike the ladies from the restaurant tell me that I can also sleep above the restaurant. Even better. They find a piece of foam for me to lie on so I only have to pack out my sleeping bag.

First I have breakfast at the restaurant of the sweet mother and daughter that have provided me shelter last night. Yet again I am struck by the image that the woman do the hard labor in these countries. I mean, they’ve closed the restaurant yesterday at 11PM and this morning at 6AM yet again the coffee is simmering, the pan of soup sits on the fire and the rice in the cooker. Incredible.

Today is a day straight through the rainforest. Everywhere the eye meets little waterfalls shooting under the road. The road is constantly interrupted by little pieces of gravel. The hillside perfectly green. Sometimes I have to find a little roof to shelter for some rain, like I’ve gotten used to these last weeks. When I’m digging deep on a little climb I look up and see a little scooter passing me. They honk at me and behind the driver sits a guy that shows me the biggest smile I’ve ever seen in my life, uncovering the three teeth that still sit in his mouth.

He pontifically raises a big thumb addressed to me. For the next five minutes I cannot stop thinking about this funny guy, he cracked me up.

The clouds are playing hide-and-seek again with the rainforest on the sides. Despite the rain a really nice day on the bike. On my last climb towards Mocoa I feel like I still have some energy inside of me and I feel like squeezing it all out once more.

Arrivé Mocoa. I walk passed a few hotels to find the one with the lowest price. When it comes to hotels I only care about price, since for me everything is luxury. If it has a bed and a shower I’m more than happy. After a cold shower I make my way into town. I’d love to talk to some people but nobody approaches me and I also don’t approach anybody so I retreat and call it an early night. Tomorrow a big day.

Who wants to print a shirt for me?

“I cycled Colombia’s death road and survived!”

So today I’ll embark on Colombia’s infamous death road, they call it La Trampolina de la Muerte. A gravel road that’s known for its many landslides and steep abysses that yearly leads to many fatalities. A beautiful road that slowly creeps its way up the valley. Or better: I’m creeping up the valley. The first 10km is flat, but after that 25 kilometres of climbing where I reach around 6km/h on average. So 25km doesn’t sound like a lot but with an average like this it still takes a lot of time. When I start to feel hungry there is a little restaurant on the side of the road. What a timing. I go sit at the bar and chat away with the funny ladies in the kitchen. They want to take a picture with me.

I climb on. There are multiple waterfalls that flow over the road into the canyon. Most of them are not deep and I can cycle through without problem. One is a bit deeper. I think I can make it but halfway my wheel bumps into a big rock and I come to a standstill. My right foot has to come down and my shoe and sock get soaking wet. That won’t dry for the coming days. I fill up my water bottles at a little waterfall. I don’t know if it’s a drizzle or the thick cloud that leaves drops of water on my skin. All day I’m soaking wet. Not only my shirt, but also my cycling bibs, pants, socks, everything. Luckily there’s no wind and it’s not so cold so I don’t have to change into dry clothes.

I count down every kilometre. “Twelve kilometres to climb”. “Ten kilometres to go”. “In two kilometres you can have a break again”. “Six kilometres to go”.

“Six divided by two is three, so in three kilometres you’re halfway”. “Two kilometres”. “One”. Boom. I reach the top and luckily there are a few little shops that sell empanadas and coffee.

Another 5 kilometres of flat and then there should be an abandoned house somewhere where I can camp. That’s the advantage of having bicycle friends that have done the same road already a few weeks ago.

There’s nothing here, just a road through the mountains and maybe a little house every 10 kilometres that sells some snacks. On the flat part I am treated to an incredibly beautiful spectacle, the clouds hang at the bottom of the mountains and the road meanders past it wonderfully. I try to film with one hand but that is quite difficult on a bumpy road like this.

The abandoned house appears just where I expected it. I inspect the area, shout a few times, but indeed it seems like it’s abandoned and there’s nobody around. I push the bicycle inside, half of the interior is flooded, but the other half is dry. I put up my tent and sit in my chair outside to enjoy the view.

I make some tea to warm up before starting on my pasta meal. Turns out to be the most disgusting dish I’ve ever made. I think it’s the combination of the cheap spaghetti and the tomato sauce that turns out to be ketchup. I eat with my nose closed, just because I know I’m going to need the calories.

And then it’s dark. I’ve eaten. And then what? After a few games of backgammon on my phone and listening to a podcast while doing the dishes I’m off too bed early.

I didn’t sleep well, but I don’t know why. Maybe it was just the altitude. It was freaking cold, but my sleeping bag hold me warm. I was surprised by the amount of cars that still where driving around this dangerous, dark gravel road in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t dare to drive here in the night. Around midnight a truck stops right next to the abandoned house. I hear him drag around heavy tools so I guess his truck broke down. Luckily he drives off after an hour, never knowing that someone was sleeping inside.

The most annoying feeling of this lifestyle is when in the morning you have to slip into your ice-cold and still wet cycling clothes from the day before. Brrr. Everything is wet at this point. I’ve been cycling for five days now in the cold and the rain and I’m also sweating a lot. Plus the sun doesn’t show itself so nothing dries here. So once clothes get wet they won’t get dry anymore. I’ve used up all my dry clothes at this point.

Well, better get going then. The last of two days of the Trampolina de la Muerte. After a few kilometres I already see a little restaurant selling empanadas and coffee. Better make use of it. After that I’m treated to stunning views. After every bend in the road I stop to make pictures. This road is incredibly beautiful. As if someone has carved a diagonal line into a folding green mountain range with a hot knife. I see tiny trucks in the distance winding their way up. If there is no car or truck for a while, you’ll only hear the sound of waterfalls crashing down in the distance and crunching stones of gravel beneath you. The road is sometimes so narrow that traffic has to stop to let uphill traffic go first. Clouds stick to the green mountain walls like cotton balls. Sometimes the jungle hangs over the road making it look like you are driving in a tunnel.

Luckily the restaurants are spread out in a way that I’m never too hungry. Whenever I feel like a soup or a cup of hot coffee with a sweet bun a restaurant looms up from up a distance. I reach the top of today and start descending. I swirl from left to right on this gravel road to find the smoothest path.

And then I reach asphalt. Like a living cycling statue of Christ the Redeemer, with two hands loose and pointing to the sky, loudly hallelujah-ing, I make my way down. In the first town I treat myself to ice-cream and in the second and last town of today to a beer. The name of the town is Santiago and it’s nothing much.

I’ve seen a synthetic football pitch when I entered the town which looked like a good place to camp. So after dinner I cycle back to that pitch. It’s perfect indeed. I set up my tent and make myself some hot tea.

There is another football field some fifty meters away from this one where some football games are being played. I figure that after the games are finished everybody will go home and it will be peaceful and quiet again.

I need some water to make more tea so I walk over to the other football field because I cannot find a tab here. Then I suddenly see stands with food and two people at the entrance selling tickets. I inform on what’s happening. “A big Salsa party after the football game that can go on until the break of dawn, sir”. Aiii, that’s bad news for me and my quiet camping spot fifty meters away. I retreat to my spot to think. It’s not easy to move since I’ve set up everything already, sleeping bags unrolled and pads fully blown. Also, where should I go? I wait until the party starts. The thing I was afraid for clearly unfolds in front of me: loud Colombian music. Ever since I’ve set foot in Colombia the amount of decibels in any bar or restaurant has been shocking to me.

At 00:30Aam I decide to pack up. Because anyway this will result in zero sleep. I roll into town, check out some spots that don’t make the cut. Roll a bit further in town, my eyes are set on a football stadium I’ve seen on Google maps. When I reach it there seems to be another small, more intimate party going on. I see people holding hands while dancing in circles to rhythmic music. When I roll up I immediately get pressed some kind of homemade liquor into my hands by some bystanders. These people are pretty wasted and I’m sober so it’s kind of hard to level with them. I tell them I’m looking for a camp spot and they tell me I can camp right here. Well that’s really nice, but it’s still full of people here and I’m really tired. I decide to wait a bit and after a while it seems like people indeed are leaving. When I look a bit better I notice that all the people have very indigenous faces and I read a sign saying something like “Instituccíon Educativa Indigena”. I happen to have crashed an Indian party. When everybody has left I start putting up my tent on the terrain and to my surprise I see that another tent has been pitched as well. I greet my fellow campers goodnight. Kind of nice that I’m finally camping alongside others again. The gate closes and I feel secure. Around 3AM I can finally crawl into my sleeping bed.

With a few hours of good sleep I am awakened by loud music around 07:30. The neighbours clearly have decided that it’s time for everybody to wake up. When packing in my tent I have a short smalltalk with the girl of the couple that was sleeping in the tent next to me. Why they were also camping there remains unclear. “Adios!”

After breakfast it’s time to cycle but the drizzle isn’t making me very enthusiastic. After a while I’m wet, stopping for the rain doesn’t make sense anymore so I keep on pushing. I’m struggling, the grades push me to go deep in my red zones. Luckily a small red car drives past me, waves a thumbs up to me and boosts my morale. Later a little blue car drives past and a small girl on the passenger seat hands me a piece of candy and whishing me luck. Another big boost to the morale. I’ve clearly underestimated this first climb because it’s only later that I see it was 18km long and steep as hell. But I’m wet and cold and therefore any breaks would be suicide because of the cold. I have to keep going. I make it to the top with my tongue on the ground. After a quick cambio into dry clothes at the little chapel at the top I start descending.

It’s not strange that I see frailejones again, the typical plant for high altitudes, because I’m at 3200m again. The man with the hammer has hit me hard and made me really hungry. So I start scanning for restaurants. But the first thing that my eye catches are two bike tourists coming my way.

Wow! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen other cicloviajeros. We chat away. An American and a Chinese on their honeymoon and they’ve nearly completed their bike trip from Ushuaia to Bogotá. We exchange stories and tips.

And then, like the cyclist-valves had been constipated but now are flowing again: two other cicloviajeros coming from the same direction as me! A Swiss couple, Gaetan and Dea, started in Colombia and have the same goal as me: South Argentina. After a small roadside party and some pictures me and the Swiss couple team up and have lunch together. I’ve been looking forward to meeting some fellow cyclists for a while now so it feels like a gift from heaven.

After lunch we jointly make it to Pasto and are joined by some Sunday-mountainbike-riders for the last bit. We celebrate surviving Colombia’s Death Road with hot chocolate and afterwards all go to our hotels. I’ve booked a really fancy hotel with points I collected via my credit card that normally would have been way above my budget. Time to pamper myself a bit. I enjoy a freakingly hot shower. I think it’s seriously been months ago since I’ve had one.

The next day we take a rest day filled with the usual chores (wash bike and clothes), coffee in the city with Gaetan and Dea and I enjoy my big, warm and comfortable hotel bed to the fullest.

Unfortunately I can only pick up my laundry at 11AM the next day. Which is fine for me, but the Swiss decide to get going already. It’s a big day ahead of us. I tell them it’s fine and I’ll meet them in the little town that we’ve marked as the goal for today.

After a slow morning and having picked up my laundry I get going. After one rest day I can already feel that my legs feel so much fresher. After the first big climb I’m treated to a super cool descent on perfect asphalt. I fly down, reach speeds of 80km/h and surpass plenty of cars and trucks. Sorry mom. After a good lunch I start with the second ascent of today, slightly more gradual than the first one.

On my way up I see lots and lots of Venezuelans walking alongside the road.

They carry the bare minimum, sometimes complete families with small children. It’s a terrible tragedy unfolding before my eyes. In Africa they take boats to reach Europe, here they walk ten thousands of kilometres to reach the holy grail: “Estados Unidos“, the United States. I stop and talk to five youngsters. Probably in their early twenties. They have a little sleeping mat with them and a small tent where they sleep in with the five of them. They tell me about their dream to make it to The States. I cannot help but think of them and the hardships they have to go through the whole day.

I make it to Santiago where an old lady at the first hotel that I see is waving me in. She tells me my Swiss friends are inside. We have dinner together and go to bed early.

Tomorrow we will cross the border into Ecuador.