From: Mark
Date: 15 Jan 2007
Location: Colombia

It felt good to be moving again, especially as we were now flying. The bikes had flown the day before and now we were wheeling high above the Panama City, heading towards Bogota.

The time on the plane literally flew by, as we crossed the Darien Gap (an area of virtually impassible, bandit infested jungle separating Panama and Colombia) and started our descent into Colombia.

The city of Bogota sprawls North to South along a huge valley, surrounded by green mountain ranges and on the day we landed, banks of mountain clouds.

The city is situated at a fairly impressive height (at least by UK standards), of 2,600 metres above sea level. This equates to approximately twice the height of Ben Nevis and is enough to wipe Daisy out with Altitude Sickness for several days just after we get settled into our Hostel.

So, we spend a few extra days in the Jewish run hostel, which also doubles as a synagogue. Unfortunately, we arrived just in time for a major religious celebration, which involved the dining room-come- synagogue being witness to several days and nights of chanting, dining, drinking and singing. All this, whilst Daisy was wiped out with sickness and couldn't move further than a couple of paces. To cap it, the times when there wasn't all day and night religious piss ups, the hostel was left in the incapable hands of two slightly simple, absolutely bone idle teenagers. Highly recommended.

The Bible describes Bogota as a city of extremes. "Beautiful and Horrible". "Rich and Poor". Blah, blah, blah, blah (Oh it does go on). However, riding east, we did became witness to the two extremes of the Colombian mentality. On one hand, as a people, they are friendly and welcoming. Cars would beep and hands would wave from windows. Drivers would open doors in traffic jams and ask where we were from, wish us welcome to Columbia and good luck with our journey. Everywhere we went, we would be greeted by big smiles and warm words.

The other extreme however was in the way the Colombians behave whilst the traffic is in motion. With a mixture of stubborn Latin pride and piss poor spatial awareness, they drive like crazed Chimps, stratospherically high on Angel Dust. They do everything you are not supposed to do on the road, but tend to do it around blind corners and coming up to the brows of hills.

Whilst talking to other backpacker types, we found out that the bus companies post statistics at bus stations on how many accidents and how many fatalities have occurred on their specific routes. The theory behind this being that the discerning consumer can then pick and choose which bus service is the right one for them (i.e., which one they stand the best chance of survival with). Unfortunately, I didn't get the name of the bus company running the orange bus that tried to undertake us and push us into the oncoming traffic, as I would have embraced the chance to enhance that companies profile with some statistics of my own (size 12 to the drivers cods).

If you believe the hype Colombia is still supposed to be dangerous because of the guerilla fighting and kidnapping. In fact, the number of tourist related incidents have dropped dramatically, falling below the figures for Guatemala (which felt a lot sketchier in the cities). This has been mostly due to the massive police and military presence, especially in the main cities and along the main routes. On the main road between Bogota and Cali, we passed squads of stern-looking army types, dressed in full fatigues and watching over the road with M16?s poised for action. This may just be idle talk, but I suspect that those few tourists that have been reported missing have actually just picked the wrong bus company and are now lying in a brightly painted Chevy bus at the bottom of a valley somewhere.

Heading South we stay in the town of Popayan, the finest Colonial town we have seen as yet. With just a smattering of westerners, the town is still cheap and friendly. That evening we head to a little bar for one drink which inevitably turns into a session when we meet up with three other Brits. As the landlord plays his Salsa vinyl's and the landlady drags the customers up dancing, we're joined by four Colombian teachers and the night flies by in a haze of cerveza and salsa.

A couple of days later we made our way uphill towards the border with Ecuador. Suddenly, on the road, everything changes for the better. The temperature drops to a pleasant 20 degrees as we climb into the hills, following the smooth twisting road every up into the clear blue sky. The traffic dies down and we start to meet other bikers on route. Ian, another Brit from Brighton riding North. Fumie, a Japanese lady riding South America on a Suzuki DR200. Mike, a retired Scot who has to walk with a stick, but easily hustles his GS1200 around the mountain roads. Alex, the German living in Colombia, heading to Quito to get a working visa for Colombia(?). Miguel and Jeorge, two Colombian Harley riders full of excitement as they start their trip around South America.

With brief, but warm memories of Colombia and it's people (though not it's driving) we cross into Ecuador with the two Colombians and the German and head towards Quito.

By: Daisy
Location: Colombia
Date: 14th January 2007

Yes! The bike arrives in Colombia with minimal hassle and so do we! We adorn the neon bibs as motorcyclists are obliged to here and away we go! The entire country is crawling with police and military (mostly on their mobile phones), so you get a sense that it's a relatively safe place to be when blatantly it isn't. We knew this before we made the decision to come to Colombia, but the pro's seemed to far outweigh the con's, which I know for definite now - what a place! What people!

After arriving in Bogota, 2,600 metres above sea-level, the Altitude Sickness got me so my first experience was of the inside of a hotel room for almost 3 days, sweating, shivering, aching and being sick. As if that wasn't bad enough, turns out the hotel doubled as a synagogue so we had to endure Hebrew anthems from the adults all day and night followed by Puerto Rican rap from the kids at 1o'clock in the morning (Mu rectifies this situation by pointing out "This is a hotel not a Discoth�que!" - I nearly die laughing, the kids nearly die of fear from The Tall One!).

Bogota is absolutely wonderful and gigantic! We stayed in the old town, full of colonial buildings of every colour, just down from the Boho bars, cafes and restaurants where a percentage of the 7 million beautiful people hang out. Sundays are alive with Flea Markets selling everything from 80 year old surgical utensils to Iron Maiden posters and jumpers made from yak wool. We look down from the lush mountain overlooking Bogota, where miracles were meant to have occurred in abundance. Tell that to the lepers and mentally ill who need a miracle. And to the llama who desperately wants out of the baby shoes he's perversely forced to wear!

It takes us an hour to get out of Bogota, and when we did we kind of wished we hadn't - the road was beautifully carved through the mountains making for one of the most scenic journeys ever through fluorescent green rolling hills, sugar cane and bananas and babbling rivers with locals bathing and children splashing. Ruined only by the GENETICALLY INSANE "drivers" (we know where you live Pedro Fernandez!) who think nothing of double-overtaking uphill, on a mountain pass, in a shit heap car, mobile phone in hand. Was inevitable we were going to come off the bike at some point, and duly did, gracias to Pedro and his ability to drive like a spaz. No one was hurt and nothing was broken luckily, we picked up the bike and continued through the mountains.

Find a charming old fashioned bar in a stunning, white washed Colonial town. Entered through saloon-style swing doors, it takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust to the dark and your ears to adjust to the 50 year old Tango's, Merengue's and Colombian crooners that the Landlord picks to play from his vast 7- record collection. His lunatic yet endearing wife embraces you at any given chance, dances with you around the room and insists her husband plays Tom Jones especially for you for some reason! We meet some great Brits and Colombian fellows and continue do drink and dance ourselves into a Latin Oblivion. By 3.30am everyone in the bar knew everyone else in the bar, nationalities irrelevant. Note to self: learn some Salsa moves so as not to humiliate oneself again on the dance floor.

The Beans have been replaced by Chick Peas and the Tortillas by fried balls of flour, there seems to be at least 10 variety of fruit my eyes have never beheld and the beer is far tastier than Panama. The cuisine is definitely on the up - embracing the wonder of roadside shacks with giant pots of who-knows-what boiling away for your pleasure. Even find some matter that was very, very akin to Mushy Peas - maybe there are miracles after all.

Continue on to Ecuador