As I prowled the one and only mean street of Sibundoy I spotted a stall selling really big juicy looking salchichas (sausages) and I simply had to have one. Thus I spent the following day writhing around in bed in a windowless room with a dodgy stomach and a fever. Thankfully after a cocktail of drugs and copious amounts of water I sweated it all out and the next morning I was feeling fresh and raring to go.
San Agustin and THE TRAMPOLINE OF DEATH
Diomar showed me around the village, which didn’t take very long, and we visited a friend of his – a very nice lady who gave us warm milk fresh from the cow and, presuming I was an affable invalid with no understanding of what food was, showed me potatoes, spring onions and maize, repeatedly pronouncing the name of each, despite me already having said it.
“Ah, so you grow spring onions too?”
“These are spring onions. SPRING ONIONS”
Tam’s Hacienda and The Most Hated Dog In Cauca
I’m not some fanatical fan of Miyazaki movies but, as was the case with El Hobo earlier in the trip, when I saw the name Totoro on the map I felt it was my duty to visit. So, after a couple of hours of bumpy roads I rolled into what turned out to be (surprise surprise) a very typical Colombian village. Not a catbus, nor even any catbus graffiti in sight. After some salchipapa and a surprisingly decent piece of fried chicken I went on my way.
A Brush With Danger And Camping In The Switzerland Of The Americas
If there was one section of Colombia that slightly worried me it was this: riding through the corridor between Palmira and Cali, respectively the 8th and 10th most dangerous cities in the world. While the chances of anything happening were tiny, I didn’t want to end up skirting some dodgy barrio come nightfall so I set of from Walter’s good and early to be sure. In fact I need not have worried. I shot like a bullet down the Pan-American Highway and by 12 o clock I was comfortably clear of both cities. All I had to do was find some lunch.
In The Doghouse
I didn’t want to leave Casa Madrid. Diana told me tales of a German guy named Matheus who spent 2 months there and I envisioned myself spending the rest of my life swinging in the hammock, reading books, drinking beer and practising Spanish. And so, it was for that exact reason that I had to leave. I cooked Diana and Isabella a thank you meal of makeshift carbonara (ain’t easy to find bacon on a Sunday in Bolivar) and regretfully pulled myself away from their tractor beam and back onto the saddle.
Bighead Jesus, Moonlit Adventures and a Sore Tongue
I woke up early and after a little meditation and a simple breakfast (along with the Andes, I see mountains of porridge in my near future) I was on my way. On the side of the road a man was selling huge bags of blackberries and for only 2,000 pesos and I couldn’t resist. About 10 seconds after paying I realised they were underripe and, judging by the vast quantity, were obviously intended for making juice. Not so easily deterred I kept shoveling them into my mouth. My tongue felt weird for about 2 days after.
In the Jardin
In the morning I decided to try out my alcohol stove. I rustled up some porridge only to be ushered inside to calls of “Ross! Ven! Desayuno!”.
What Comes Down Must Go Up
Keen to avoid the mistakes of the day before, I set off in search of a hearty breakfast. And I found one. Calentao, which literally means “reheated” is a popular staple in Antioquia, traditionally comprised of yesterday´s leftover rice, beans and whatever else. Accompany it with beef, scrambled eggs, cheese, a mini croissant, and a coffee (which was conveniently served in a handle-less bowl like a soup) and you’ve got a mighty fine breakfast. Even the chili that came with it was near Mexico-level spicy, which is a rarity in Colombia.
“Lucky lucky lucky on your first day”
“A donde vas?”
“Hijueputa…y cuantos son?”
*Hijjueputa roughly translates to son of a bitch, but carries a bit more weight here in Colombia
About 5 years ago I went on a 2 week cycle trip through Europe. Starting in the Bavarian town of Donauwörth I worked my way south along the Claudia Augusta, the first Roman road through the Alps. I passed through the likes of Innsbruck, Florence and Verona, wild-camping along the way, before arriving in Rome where I gorged myself on pizza and gelato.