Colombia and Donkey Sunrise

I had been planning to take a little ride between work on magazine issues during the winter. My first thought was to ride from Florida to Mexico then end in Guatemala before turning back for home. Mid-January would have been good timing for that, but as I thought about it, the recent turmoil with cartels in Mexico had me thinking twice about that route. I’m not naïve, so I know that much of the naysaying about travel in Mexico (and other places) is way overstated, and usually by people who’ve never been there. I’d traveled through Mexico back in 1979 and had not had any issues and found the people wonderful and helpful everywhere. However, it did seem that currently Mexico is less stable than usual. I also considered, with only four weeks at most, that I would have to rush through the country and back and whether a ride like that would do justice to the lands I remember so fondly. I would be retiring from the editorship this year, so I decided that, if I’d did that ride, I should do it when my break time was freed up and I could devote proper time to it.

So, I put that plan aside and waited for my next period of freedom, coming in mid-March through mid-April. As I was considering other options, I remembered that one of my best friends, who I’d known since I was twelve, had recently retired after many years of working in the Cayman Islands and had settled in Medellín, Colombia. A short visit by plane would be fairly inexpensive and allow me to see him. Also, I’d always had in the back of my mind the possibility of riding a motorcycle through South America starting from Colombia. A trip there would allow me to get a feel for the area and to see if my long-ago Spanish skills were still up to the task. It sounded perfect. I could easily fit that trip into my timeframe and even have a week to catch up back home before diving into yet another issue. As I mentioned my new plans to some of my Horizons Unlimited friends, Greg spoke up and said he happened to have a bike in storage in Colombia. It was a bit far from Medellín, but if I wanted to ride it while there, I was welcome to use his V-Strom 650. The trip was sounding better and better. While my main purpose was to visit Scott, who I rarely get to see in the States, I could set aside a little of my time to get the feel for riding in this new-to-me country.

Headed to Colombia

I arrived in Medellín mid-March as planned and Scott met me at the airport. He had a place in Laureles (Cumuna 11) in a beautifully shady and green residential area, quiet but close to many restaurants, pubs, and coffee houses.

The view from Scott’s apartment in Laureles

We spent a glorious week catching up, wandering around Laureles on foot and sampling the many options for dining out, in addition to hopping into taxis and, for just a few dollars, visiting other interesting parts of the massive city. We visited Cerro Nutibara, with quaint shops and great views over Laureles and the rest of the city; the Botanical Gardens; the Museo do Antioquia, beside sculpture-filled Plaza Botero and with works of art both antique and modern and many works by Botero displayed inside; Poblado (Comuna 14), where the nights were alive with people wandering around the square, many of them gringos like us, music blaring out of every nightclub, and the choices in restaurants was endless. We took a ride on the Metro, on which we made a failed attempt at visiting Parque Arví via the Metro’s suspended cable cars—who knew the park was closed on Mondays, which we discovered only after reaching the end stop of the cable car ride up.

Plaza Botero in El Centro with a Botero bronze

A typical street in Laureles. Street art is everywhere in Medellín.

In the botanical garden

The view of Medellín from Cerro Nutibara

The V-Strom was quite a distance from Medellín, six hours by bus, then another couple by taxi. Scott had been wanting to explore a bit more outside the big city he’d settled in about a year before, so he was game to ride the bus with me to Armenia, a smaller city located in the heart of coffee country. He would stay there while I went off on my short motorcycle adventure. We booked into Hotel Mocawa Plaza, which was a fabulous five-star, yet affordable, hotel in downtown Armenia. We had dinner in the hotel restaurant, which was excellent.

At this spot about halfway to Armenia the bus stopped at a food plaza for a break.

The route from Medellín. Medellín to Armenia by bus and Armenia to La Unión by taxi. In this screenshot you can clearly see the three cordilleras (ranges) of the Andes.

View at night looking south from our room at Hotel Mocawa Plaza in Armenia

While I loved Medellín, I was overwhelmed by the traffic there. It wasn’t just the volume of vehicles, it was the manner of driving. Where there were three lanes indicated there were four lanes of cars, many of them taxis, and between each lane buzzed small motorcycles weaving their way around, in front, and beside the other traffic with inches to spare. There had to be as many motorcycles as cars, and any space they could fill was fair game. I knew I would not want to ride in Medellín, but arriving in Armenia the traffic mayhem, while better, was still not anything I was ready to experience on a bike. My initial plan was to pick up the V-Strom and ride it back, using Armenia as a departure point each day from which to ride out and explore the surrounding area. The day before we were to return to Medellín, I’d ride the motorcycle back to Donkey Sunrise and take a cab back to Armenia, then we’d take the bus back to Medellín the following day. Considering the traffic in Armenia. However, a new plan was hatched. I’d go on to La Unión by myself, where I’d stay at the moto camp and ride out from there, after which I’d return to Armenia and catch up with Scott the day before our bus left for Medellín The next morning after breakfast at the hotel, I hopped into a cab, driven by the outgoing and friendly driver, Jórge, and set off for La Unión.

Jórge was my driver from Armenia to Donkey Sunrise.

Jórge and I had a great drive the ninety kilometers (55 miles) out of the mountains, into the plains in Valle Cuenca, and to the little village of La Unión, nestled at the base of the western cordillera of the Andes, towering overhead in the west. We chatted the entire ride, Jórge kindly tolerating my broken Spanish. It was good practice and an enjoyable ride, only slightly spoiled by a stop by a member of the Policía Nacionál, who “found” an infraction serious enough to probably turn the barely profitable drive into a loss for Jórge. Back on the highway, we discussed the situation. I asked Jórge if that was a common problem. He said the local police and the military were great and not a problem at all, but the Policía Nacionál were a problem and liked to target taxis, as they assumed they’d have cash money on them. When he dropped me off at Donkey Sunrise moto camp, just off the PanAmerican Highway (Highway 23) and at the north end of La Unión, and promising to retrieve me again on Friday, I made sure to give him some extra to at least partially negate the loss he’d suffered at the hands of the police.

Valle Cauca. In the mountains to the east of this valley coffee was the main crop. As we dropped down in altitude to the valley floor the crops changed to cacao, bananas, and sugar cane.

During the ride over, as we had left the outskirts of Armenia, the traffic had fallen to a very reasonable level, and a more tranquil driving style was the norm. Maybe if I had more time to ride, I could work my courage up to riding in some of the bigger towns and, eventually, even Medellín, but in the area around Donkey Sunrise riding would be easy enough.

Inside the gate of Donkey Sunrise, I was greeted by Tim, the owner, and given the low-down of where everything was and how things were done at the moto camp. The place was beautiful, with a workshop up front, just inside the gate, a kitchen, an open-air thatched meeting area where, most importantly, the beer fridge resided (honor system: write down each time you take a beer, settle up at the end), another big table out in the open for eating and gathering in nice weather, and my room with private bath. The compound was beautifully maintained with fruit trees, like mango and cacao, scattered around the grounds and walking paths heading here and there among the greenery.

The walkway to my room at Donkey Sunrise

The wall of my room at Donkey Sunrise was painted with this whimsical design.

I dropped my stuff (one forty-liter dry bag containing my boots and riding clothes) and then wandered back to the thatched hut for a cold beer as I enjoyed the quiet of the afternoon, as most of the other guests were scattered around the roads in the area. As the sun crept lower toward the ridge of the mountains, the buzz of their motors could be heard returning to the camp. I met Hadar and Asi, a couple from Israel on an odyssey heading south toward Tierra del Fuego and using Donkey Sunrise as a base while they explored. I also met Isa, Tim’s beautiful and gracious Colombian wife; a young German rider named Daniel; Lucas, from Australia; Eleazar and his wife Aura, the moto camp chefs; and Ron, the expert mechanic working at Donkey Sunrise.

While breakfasts and lunches are served for the guests, dinners are on your own, so misjudging the time of day, I set out on foot for the nearby village in search of some food. The sun had already dipped below the peaks on my right as I walked on the sidewalk south toward La Unión as the sky darkened. Many locals were out doing the same thing, taking a stroll in the cooler evening air. I never failed to get a “buena noche” in response to my “hola.” Soon, it became obvious I’d not make it into town before it was completely dark, so I turned around for the walk back to camp after I’d gotten two-thirds of the way into La Unión, walking and taking photos in the waning light and recording the beautiful sounds of Colombian frogs singing in the watery ditch bordered by lush tropical foliage beside the sidewalk.

The church at the intersection of the dirt road leading to Donkey Sunrise and the paved street going to La Unión

Museo de la Uva is in La Unión. These grapes were growing beside the waling path into town from Donkey Sunrise. The western cordillera, where I'd be riding, is in the background.

The sidewalk to La Unión

Back at camp, Hadar and Asi and a few others were making dinner plans to walk to a street vendor nearby for some food. Having failed at my attempt, I happily joined them for a short walk to the church plaza I had earlier passed on my walk, where a fellow was just about to put away his food cart. When approached by a half dozen customers, he decided to stay open a while longer, walked over to a small tienda nearby, where he picked up some more food, and grilled us all some chorizo and corn on the cobb. It was dark on our walk back to Donkey Sunrise, the streets only being lit by the lights of quiet homes along the dirt road, but our bellies were full, and we were a happy bunch. After some conversation and more beer, the long day caught up with me. I said my goodnights and trundled off to my room for the night.

The next morning, I got up early enough to grab a cold shower (hot water not necessary at this altitude and this close to the equator) and headed to the large table outside the thatched hut. The first order of business was to procure a cup of locally sourced coffee, then I sat down with my new friends and had a marvelous breakfast provided by the chef at Donkey Sunrise.

The only piece of gear I could not fit in my dry bag had been a helmet, so after breakfast I found one that fit to rent in the office and picked up a T-shirt as well, as my stash of clean shirts was down to one. I found the V-Strom getting its last few adjustments by Ron, the Donkey Sunrise mechanic, as I passed on my way back to the room to gear up.

I rolled out of the gate, my phone mounted on the handlebars for guidance, and headed out on a route recommended by Tim toward El Dovio, high up in the mountains. The route line looked like a purple snake as it wound itself higher and higher onto the ridge of the western range, almost 500 meters (1,700 feet) feet above the Cauca Valley floor at La Unión at 920 meters (3,020 feet). Traffic was light as I got used to riding the bike and passed through La Unión. Leaving the pueblo behind, the road began its twisting way to the west as it climbed past Mirador la Unión, a dirt layby overlook on a tight hairpin, and toward El Dovio. I’ve ridden North Carolina’s Tail of the Dragon many times, and this route was its equal, although you had to watch out for potholes on the blind hairpins on rare occasions. The first pothole almost caught me off guard, but after that warning, I was aware of what to watch for and did not have another misstep on the ride. I kept pace with the occasional other vehicles, almost all motorcycles, and found my rhythm as I rode, rarely being passed by other bikes and once in a while passing the slower autos.

My route riding Greg’s V-Strom 650

The road dropped into a small valley and the pueblo of El Dovio, where I spotted a pastelería with open doors on a corner, above which a peak loomed 1,300 feet overhead in the southwest. I knew I would miss lunch back at camp, so I wanted to have at least a little something in my stomach to hold me over until dinner. I ordered a tinto (half espresso and half hot water) and had a seat with a view onto the street. While I gulped down my last sip, I spotted some cake in a glass case and ordered a piece and one more tinto. The cake turned out to be much larger than it had looked in the case and was so sweet that I only got through two-thirds of it while I drank my, by contrast, bitter black coffee.

Lunch over, I got back on the bike and headed through the little village toward Roldanillo, located at the eastern base of the range on Highway 23. I climbed back out of the valley from 920 meters (3,020 feet) in El Dovio to the ridge to the east, crossing over it at around 1,800 meters (5,900 feet). The road twisted and turned as it fell back to the floor of the Cauca River Valley. The route down the eastern slope was a series of turn after turn after hairpin after hairpin as the road lost 880 meters of altitude (over 2,880 feet) in only 6½ kilometers (4 miles), as the crow flies.

On the way down to Valle de Cauca from El Dovio to Roldanillo

After passing through Roldanillo, I turned north on Highway 23 toward La Unión, but as I approached it, I was still enjoying the ride, so I continued north for several miles before turning back toward Donkey Sunrise.

I’d not planned on riding off-pavement on this ride, but taking a wrong turn near La Unión upon my return, I found myself on an unpaved and very rough narrow track through the back streets of the pueblo. It was every bit as challenging as some of the Forest Roads I’ve ridden in North Georgia in the Blue Ridge Mountains, but the roughness did not last long, and I soon found myself back on tarmac and at moto camp.

My turnaround stop on Highway 23, north of La Unión

Over the, literally, last few kilometers, the bike decided to act up. Shifting took a gargantuan amount of force. Despite that little glitch, I’d made it back, and the bike was back in its spot in the shop so the problem could be worked out. Ron performed a clutch adjustment, which improved things substantially, and said for a better fix a new lever was needed, as the hinge point on the lever was worn badly. Greg was going to be down not long after I would be leaving Colombia, so I let him know via WhatsApp that he should pack a new lever when he came.

That evening, I let the dark creep up on me again and did not have a chance to walk into town for dinner. No one else was around at the time or I might have gotten in on another group food run somewhere, so instead, my dinner consisted of beer. Later, I joined Eleazar and Aura, both of whom mostly spoke only Spanish, under the lights haning above a circle of chairs outside the hut. We talked for more than a half hour, me in the best Spanish I could manage. I was thankful when, before I headed off to my room and as I was apologizing for my lack of language skills, I was told they had been able to understand almost all of what I had been saying, even though my grammar may not have been perfect.

My liquid evening meal the night before was more than made up for the next morning at breakfast with coffee, pancakes, syrup, fresh local fruit, eggs, and a wonderful banana/cinnamon dessert that demanded seconds. After breakfast, I settled my bill: $112 US for two nights, meals, rented helmet, T-shirt, and half-dozen beers. What a bargain! By the time I’d finished paying, Jórge was at the gate, and I climbed back into the taxi for the return to Armenia.

Final breakfast at Donkey Sunrise before heading back to Armenia with Tim and Isa in foreground and Hadar and Asa behind Isa. Daniel, Ron, and Isa’s parents, Eleazor and Aura, in the background.

This time, Jórge took Highway 23 north and crossed the valley further north, as the National Police seem to be more common the closer you got to Cali, which was south from La Unión. Luckily, we got back to Armenia with no “fines,” and I once again added a little to the fare, to compensate Jórge for his loss before and for his faithfulness in picking me back up and on time as he’d promised.

Heading back to Armenia with Jórge. Crossing the Río Vieja (Old River) in Cartago.

When I got back, Scott texted me via WhatsApp and said he was at a nearby restaurant for lunch, so I joined him before heading back to the hotel. We enjoyed one more night at Hotel Mocawa, but that evening the restaurant was so loud, with a live performer in the adjacent bar area, that we decided to order room service instead. The next morning, we had some time before having to grab a taxi and meet our return bus, so we went out in search of breakfast someplace new and found it practically across the street.

The six-hour bus ride back through the endless winding mountains turned into nine when traffic was stopped by a crash up ahead. We inched forward for a couple hours until traffic was flowing again, and by that time we were entering the traffic in Medellín. By the time we’d arrived at the station, taken a taxi back to Laureles, and rode the elevator to Scott's sixth-floor apartment, it was almost midnight.

View of the countryside from the bus on our return to Medellín

Tuk tuks (motocarros or motochiva) await fairs in one of the small towns we passed though on the bus.

I had another wonderful week in the city. We continued our culinary adventures and met up with some other gringos a couple times. Scott’s brother, Steve, flew in after we got back with two employees who were working with him on a coffee business back in, of all places, Sebring, just thirty-five miles from my house in Florida. We met up with Steve, Al (the roaster), and Chris (whose family owned a coffee finca in Santa Marta on the Caribbean coast, where they were headed next), at their hotel in Poblado. We all headed to Mamasita Medallo, a nearby restaurant. Scott and I had gone there my first week in Medellín, where I had enjoyed a traditional bandeja paisa (frijoles, rice, plantains, carne en polvo, blood and chorizo sausages, chicharrónes, avocado, egg, and an arepa). The food was fantastic the first time, and it was just as good the second, as I devoured my meal of fresh trucha (trout).

Steve and Chris decided naps after their big meals were in order, but Al, Scott, and I walked to Mall Santafé, where Al wanted to try to find a few things he needed, then taxied back.

We dropped Al off back at their hotel and said our goodbyes, as Steve and his troupe were leaving the next day for the finca in Santa Marta. Scott and I returned to Laureles for another good meal in the Comuna that evening. We spent my final week wandering about town, having coffee at Plaza Botero and finally making it to the top of the 2,581 meter (8,470 feet) peak on top of which was Parque Arví, to do some hiking with a couple gringo women Scott knew, who usually joined him at a weekly gringo breakfast in Laureles.

The cable car ride up to Parque Arví

Nearing the park on the summit

Hiking in Parque Arví

Some spectacular flora on the hiking trail in Parque Arví

Next, we decided to take the grueling hike to the top of Cerro de las Tres Cruces, south of Laureles. Scott had befriended a Lyft driver, Nick, and we called him up to get us to the base. He had said to Scott that if he ever wanted to climb it, he would climb it with him, so all three of us scaled the steep trail that led to the top. In some of the worst parts, “steps” had been cut into the grade to assist in the climb. The climb of 336 meter (1,105 feet) terminates in a flat park at it summit with, of course, three crosses and beautiful views across the valley containing Medellín to the massive mountains surrounding it. What was the most amazing to me was that there was an al fresco workout area on the top and it was common for athletes to run up the “hill,” workout, then run down it again! It was well worth the climb, but next time I’ll choose a cooler day, wear shorts, and bring more water!

Nick, younger and in better shape than us, waiting for Scott and me to catch up on the way to the top of Cerro de las Tres Cruces

View of Medellín from the summit of Cerro de las Tres Cruces

We filled the remaining time I had in Colombia eating out, meeting people, and talking until late at night over bottles of wine about all the experiences we’d both had separately and those we'd shared over the years. Nick drove me to the airport on the day of my flight, and soon I was above the land I had been exploring. It was obvious there was so much more to see: huge wetlands and lakes, mountains, coastal cities, and beaches, all passed under the plane—the country is huge, and I had only scratched the surface of all it offers. As the plane left the shores of South America and crossed over the Caribbean, I knew I’d return.

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