Part Two: The Call of Bogota
Part 1 : Spicy Salsa in Cali

By Wednesday, I am again in a familiar situation of peeling myself out of bed to leave a city I love. Everything points to me staying, good fun, good friends and a fascinating city to explore. Helfried is a record collector and has a wide range of classic salsa. He is looking to make a documentary on the birth of the music in the city during the cities, and is a fascinating storyteller. But I have only 10 days left on my visa which I´ve decided not to extend, and I haven´t yet seen Bogota. These mornings are always the hardest to wake up to. I slowly pack, slowly eat breakfast, and slowly load the motorcycle against my best instinct. Chau Cali.

I depart at 10.30 for Bogota, unsure how long the day will be. The map advises me it will be 500km which in Colombia promises a very long day. Distance is a poor yardstick of a journey in Colombia as the road regularly climbs mountain passes dwarfing New Zealand´s roads. Roadworks are frustratingly common and can hold you up to half an hour at a time.

I am making good distance on the road having left Cali when up ahead I see a school group crossing the road. I slow down to let them cross but it becomes obvious that they aren´t moving on but staging a roadblock protest. Although Mexico is famous for these roadblocks where peasants or local groups obstruct traffic to have their voices heard, this is the first I have seen on my trip. Colombia is moving to privatise its inefficient public education system as neoliberalism takes hold of the country´s policy makers. Introducing fees for education may improve the quality of what´s delivered but the most probable result would seem to be a lower level of education being offered to poor or isolated families. The federal government isn´t renowned for it´s consultation and I wouldn´t be surprised if public strike and protest is their only way to be heard. Whatever the basis for their protest, it has impacted me, watching hundreds of schoolchildren block all transport at an important roundabout.

I sit and wait for 20 minutes, I don´t feel like a fight. After watching and realising that if I don´t move I will be driving in Colombia´s motorways in darkness, I notice some motorcyclists pushing their vehicles through the block and riding off the otherside. What are my chances of going unnoticed? Low. I push the bike regardless.

A teacher calls out to me but not in anger. He wants to know where I´m from and it seems a safer way to pass through the students so I start a conversation. Within a minute, the bike is surrounded by about fifty students, touching the bike, touching my helmet, touching the armour on my jacket. The teacher tells the crowd to be careful of such a heavy bike and that if it falls and breaks someone´s leg, it won´t be my fault. I answer the usual questions from some young girls, how old am I? What do I do for a living? Where is my girlfriend? Am I looking for a girlfriend? I always smile and be friendly but I need to move on from these questions. These girls are too young for me but they don´t think that. I take a couple of photos and everyone wants to be in it. I´ve made friends and explain to everyone that I need to be off. No one begrudges me passing their barriers although I´m later than ever.

On the road again I move quickly through the lowlands of the Valle de Cauca, stretching from Cali north about 200 kms to reach the first pass through the Andes western ridge. Even here, the road rises from lowland to over 2500 metres, mist shrouds the summit and visibility reduces to 50 metres. It´s an epic climb - the 100 kms between the start of the pass and the city of Ibague takes an hour and a half. It is a persistent strain on trucks and those The road is in good condition and the curves sweep me through the pass, a feeling I haven´t had on my bike for weeks. After the descent, the terrain abruptly changes back to plain land, none of the rolling terrain of Antioquia (the state of Medellin). It is mid afternoon and the light through clouds turns the grass a golden hue. The vastness of this valley, between two forks of mountain ranges reminds me of the scale of California. In place of California´s golden dust, Colombia has lush fields.

I move quickly - Bogota is another climb into the ranges and I do not dare do it by night. I have seen so many frightening hazards by day, I will be forced to stop for the night. As the sun sets, I race up again to altitude over 1000metres. Numerous roadworks hold me up, but they give me an opportunity to race in front of queued traffic ahead. Dusk falls when I am about an hour from Bogota but I have made the climb already so continue. I sweep through the corners while the last of the light remains, overtaking rapidly until two policemen waiting for me race onto the road and flag me down. Shit.

I have my headphones on, and AC:DC has urged me to ride faster and then faster still but thankfully the policemen are doing some data collection of motorbikes on the road and are ignorant of my speed. They ask for identification and check out my bike. I ask them, ´half an hour to Bogota?´ They look at me, look at the bike and nod. ´On a bike like yours, no problem.´ Licence to kill.

I zoom off again although a little more cautiously in the dark. I am stopped at roadworks again, frustratingly. My remaining half hour trip to Bogota takes over an hour and then I am in the city itself. I ask directions but am directed in various corners of the city. I inadvertently give myself a tour of South Bogota due in part to the maddeningly vague road signs. But in the end I arrive at the hostel late, tired and very hungry. I collapse into my bunk. It is 9pm. A long 500 kilometres.

Posted on Saturday, June 2nd, 2007 at 5:26 pm in Josh's Journal.
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