July/August 2024 – Colombia

Read the previous chapter to this story here.

I checked out of my hotel in Turbo and headed north to keep following the coast. I wasn’t planning to go all the way up Colombia’s coast to Santa Marta (that would be a trip for next year), but I would keep going a bit and take the long way back to Medellin. I had plenty of time on my hands. Having this moto was a more powerful high of freedom than I had ever experienced, and I wanted to keep sniffin it up as long as it would last.

First stop Necocli

The roads just north of Turbo were great. Dazzling tropical scenery, bananas, and mountains sweeping down to meet the road. I felt like I was in a Donkey Kong game. The highways in this part of Colombia are more like a backroad. Cars had to pay tolls every now and then, but motos could pass through the gates for free. Every few kilometers you would pass through a school zone, were you needed to slow down to cross over the speed humps before continuing on. The road forced you to go slow. Vehicles were not the only obstacle; people went about there lives in and along the roadside too. Fruit stands, empanada stands, farm vehicles, motos loaded down with produce, and the occasional cow or ass.

The first major town to stop in was Necocli, a place that wears many hats: it’s a sleepy coastal town known for its fresh seafood, unspoiled beaches, and relaxed Afro‑Colombian atmosphere. But it’s also a tense, critical staging ground. From here, similar to Turbo, countless migrants attempt to cross the Gulf toward Capurganá and then disappear into the deadly Darién Gap.

Shit roads between Necocli and Arboletes

I had some lunch in town and hit the road without staying long. It was hot as fuck, and I needed the wind on the moto to cool me down. The roads outside of Necocli quickly turned to shit. I wish I had some pictures to post here of their state but I was too busy trying to survive with the heat and the dust clouds covering up the roads so badly that I could barely see the potholes. I needed to slow to a crawl to keep the bike in shape. After several hours, that stretch of road was behind me, and Arboletes lay around the corner.

Pulling in to Arboletes was a fascinating experience. The town was tiny, and the buildings were small and basic like many others in this area, but rising up from along one side of the road in, was a castle-like hotel remeniscient of a Disney resort.

I had a few beers and listened to Salsa on the beach for an hour or so in Arboletes. I knew I wanted to stay the night here. The place was idyllic. But the day was young, and there was an interesting looking spot on the map just a couple hours away. If I left, I could check it out and make it back to Arboletes before nightfall.

Puerto Escondido

It was off the main highway, and there was only one lonely road out to get to it. The beach town of Puerto Escondido. Tiny, quiet, and not exactly booming, it’s the kind of place where life runs simple, fishing, farming, the odd tourist like myself rolling through.

But like so many towns along this coast, it carries heavier shadows too. Not long after I passed through, a soldier was gunned down here in what they call a Plan Pistola, the kind of targeted hit on police and military that armed groups use to flex control.

Anyway, gorgeous spot. But I didn’t stay too long.

Balling out at the nicest hotel in Arboletes

I raced back to Arboletes. The road back from Puerto Escondido was the definition of solitude. The only company I had was a bee that hit me in the forehead while I was cruising. I frantically came to a stop and ripped my helmet off to shoosh it away. That fucker hurt.

It was a smooth ride back into town. Arboletes was the kind of place no one seemed to know about. A real hidden gem. And as such, the hotels were dirt cheap, but also super run down and basic. There was one outlier, and it was the nicest spot in town: the Boutique El Mirador.

Right on the beach, with a multistory patio, bar, restaurant, and multiple pools. It was the place for Colombians who wanted to splurge, but didn’t want whatever that castle resort on the edge of town had to offer. Thinking back, I would have gone to that place instead, but it didn’t have that beachfront view.

I had the fried fish with a side of fish soup for dinner and watched the sun go down with a Mojito and cigarettes. Tomorrow I would head back to Medellin.

Arboletes to Puerto Valdivia

I wanted to make it back to Medellin in one day. But since this was about a ten hour drive, I would have to haul some serious ass. I looked at the map for about 30 seconds before firing up the bike and heading out on the road. From my quick glance, it looked like I would pass through Monteria, Planeta Rica, Caucasia, Puerto Valdivia, and finally Yarumal (along with countless pueblitos in between), before getting back to Medellin. These were the bigger names at the list that looked like they were worth stopping for gas and a bite to eat.

I passed through Monteria in a few minutes, without grabbing a picture. At the time it looked like a stinky industrial city, and for the most part I was right. But I would return here next year on my way to Santa Marta, and spend a bit longer. That is a story for another time. I did find out that it had much more to offer than my stinky first impression.

Much of the roads south of Monteria were dismally the same. Flat terrain and grazing lands as far as the eye could see. The roads were in great shape too. The type of drive you could let your gaze wander over the fields and daydream for a minute before becoming aware of your speed.

Much of the journey followed the Cauca river, Caucasia was the first real stop. They call it the “Capital of Bajo Cauca” a trading hub, low where the Cauca River widens and drains the mountains along the border with Córdoba. It’s a rough-and-ready city. Livestock, mining, timber, and food trucking life, all where the river meets the road.

Then I hit Puerto Valdivia, a little riverside hamlet that sprang up around fishermen and miners on the edge of the canyon. It’s always been a waypoint on the old Route 25 from the coast into the interior. That route used to mean serious travel. And still does, even though the old bridge got nuked in the 2018 Hidroituango spill, and the place still has this “semi-abandoned, fading” vibe

Yarumal – City in the Clouds

From here the roads brought me slowly up in elevation, worsening in condition along the way. It was fantastic looking over my left side and see the straight drop and the valley swooping back up in the distance. The steep incline forced my gas to sit at the back of the tank, resulting in the gauge reading almost empty the whole way up the mountain. This made for quite an anxious ride as there were not many gas stations.

The view was soon shrouded in cloud cover as I made my way higher. I rode through the cold before finally reaching what seemed like the top of the mountain, and began to see some more urban style construction poking out of the mountainside. I had reached Yarumal.

At this point, I only stopped for gas. But Yarumal fascinated me, and I would end up going back on a future trip. I had lunch at a little shop next to the gas station, and I am pretty sure the lady there ripped me off, charging me the equivalent of $5 for a cookie and chocolate milk. But I didn’t say anything. That shit really hit the spot.

From Yarumal it was a straight shot through the dairy lands, off the mountain top and down through Copacabana, and finally back into Medellin. As Hunter S. Thompson puts it “straight on into frantic oblivion. Safety. Obscurity. Just another freak, in the freak kingdom”.

In the future I would do the Cauca portion of the trip in more detail. The run from Medellin to Turbo was brutal. And I made a note that if I was ever going to the coast again, I would take this route instead. But for now, I had completed the loop: Medellin to the coast via Turbo, then back to Medellin via the Cauca route. My next trip to the coast wouldn’t come for another year (but you won’t have to wait that long to read that story).