El Paso to Santa Cruz de Mon Pox

Back on the road, the landscape shifted. If I squinted, I could have sworn we were pedaling through the Sahara—except, of course, there were no elephants, giraffes, or zebras.

Instead, nature introduced us to an entire avian welcoming committee. White storks soared overhead, tiny swamp birds scurried in the marshes, and one bird looked like a cross between an owl and an eagle (a serious identity crisis, if you ask me).

And, of course, the vultures. We see them every day, lurking ominously. Some days, when the heat drains every ounce of energy from our bodies, I swear they circle a little lower. "Not today, my friends," I think, pedaling on, "not today."

In Arjona, we stopped—not for our usual menu del día, since Maree had whipped up fried rice in the morning—but for a much-needed limonada.

Enter Restaurante Bahareque and the ever-enthusiastic Leandra.

When she found out we were from New Zealand, not Australia (today we reclaimed our identity!!), she practically burst with joy. She was all smiles, all energy, and—best of all—she refused to let us pay. Gratis lemonada. Gratis watermelon. And a giant hug for good measure.

By the time we hit Mandiquilla, hunger had returned, and we found what appeared to be the only restaurant in town.

It was more of a backyard operation, with tables under a tarp, an entire family buzzing around, and a few chickens weaving through the scene—which made my fried chicken lunch feel a little awkward.

But the real highlight? A tiny budgie, sitting quietly and observing the chaos like some sort of feathery philosopher.

When I leaned in for a closer look, Granddad casually plopped it onto my hand.

Two small children, who had been sneaking glances at me, crept in closer. So I sat down, bird in hand, kids at my side, and for a few quiet minutes, we just patted our new little friend. No words needed.

Post-lunch, the ride was a dreamy cruise—until, suddenly, something bit or stung my thigh.

"What was it?" Maree asked.

"Dunno," I replied, rubbing the spot.
Was it an ant? A bee? A miniature Colombian land shark? We'll never know. I popped an antihistamine just to be safe and pedaled on.

Finally, we rolled into Chimichagua. I'd expected a touristy hub, but instead, we found a sleepy little lakeside town, seemingly trapped in the 1950s. Was it run-down? Or up-and-coming? Hard to tell.

We wandered the pier, watching fishermen and locals going about their day. Then we found a beach shack blasting Colombian music so loud my skull vibrated, ordered a couple of cervezas, and soaked in the atmosphere.

Tonight, we stay at Hotel Central—which, judging by our options, might be the only hotel in town.

We checked into our hotel cell for the night. The air conditioning was a welcome relief after a long, hot ride.

Maree flopped onto the bed, looking less than stellar. "I feel a bit queasy," she muttered.

We both showered to cool down, and while she rested, soaking in the air-con, I decided to head back to the pier for sunset.

"You’re on your own, love," she stated weakly as I grabbed my wallet and camera.

Wandering down to the pier, I found the locals gathering, as if drawn by some unspoken ritual. Fishermen, families, and stray dogs all mingled as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

The bar on the pier was doing what I’ve now come to recognize as the Colombian thing—cranking music at a skull-rattling volume.

I grabbed a cheeky cerveza, found a good perch, and watched the world unwind. Birds flocked overhead, boats bobbed lazily in the water, and a gentle breeze took the edge off the heat.

It was peaceful, it was picturesque.

Returning to the hotel, I found Maree sitting on the loo, clutching the rubbish bin like it was a lifeline.

I raised an eyebrow. "How’s it going?"

She groaned. "Nothing yet… but I’m not sure which end is going to go."

And then—Niagara Falls, but chunky.

She vomited violently, loud enough to drown out the Colombian music!!

What is that truck saying?" I asked our hotel host, phone in hand, Google Translate at the ready.

We both stood roadside—me, watching the town slowly wake up, and her, dutifully sweeping her part of the pavement.

A large truck rolled by at a snail’s pace, a loudspeaker blaring rapid Spanish.

She barely glanced up. "They’re selling bananas," she replied.

With Maree still out of action, my day was split between nursing duties and aimless wandering.

I strolled down the pier again and then the streets, absorbing the rhythm of small-town Colombia. No rush, no stress—just people going about their day.

Over lunch of pollo and potatoes, I watched life buzz around me and reflected on this town, and the many others we’ve passed through.

These places run on a simpler way of life, but one that feels richer in connection.

There’s no one-stop-shop supermarket—instead, there’s a corner store where locals stop to chat. A guy selling just buckets (seriously, any bucket you can dream of, but only buckets). A shop for cleaning supplies—brooms, mops, and soaps. A bakery that sells only bread.

People don’t rush in and out like back home. They stop. They talk.

Evenings see them gathering on street corners, buying a cerveza and sitting in groups to sip and chat.

All towns, including this one, seem to have a central plaza, usually with a church. Today, instead of riding through, I just sat and watched.

We stopped our wheels from spinning today. And I just existed.

Today, we embraced cruise control—a short 40km spin from Chimichagua to El Banco, giving Maree more time to recoup.

Rolling into El Banco, it was morning feed time, and to my surprise, Maree demolished her meal. Nice—the comeback queen is back in action.

We found Hostal Casa de la Abuela and knocked on the door, only to be greeted by an excited elderly lady. Her energy alone made it worth staying.

In the afternoon, we wandered down to the esplanade—not exactly a happening tourist hub, more like a run-down version of what once was. I had grand plans for a peaceful river stroll, but yet again, we were warned "don’t walk that way." There went that idea.

Sunday meant quiet streets, closed shops, and locals doing Sunday things. More rest for Maree, and to be honest, I’ve snuck in a few cheeky nana naps myself these past few days.

Oh, and for those following the bum news saga—we've both now ditched the chamois and are just shorting it. Shoutout to the Argon Women’s Touring Seat—absolute game changer!

With no kitchen in our abode and no carpark for an impromptu cook-up, we started the day hunting down breakfast. I struck gold with an arepa stuffed with egg, while Maree, still wrestling with food, opted for a croissant lifeline.

We turned onto Route 78 toward Santa Cruz de Mompox, settling into a morning of wetlands and farmland, where birds casually hung out with cows and pigs like it was some sort of interspecies social club.

At Guamal, 35km in, it was food top-up time. I, of course, had yet another arepa, while Maree, looking deflated, nibbled on her bread.

"You OK, babe?"

"No. Well, I’m OK when I’m not expecting myself to be, but I feel stuffed and queasy."

That settled it—we’d push to Mompox, another 30km, and take some extended leave.

And that leads us to now—lying in hammocks at Hostal Cultural La Candelaria, watching a spectacular thunder and lightning storm. The power's out, the darkness makes it extra cool, and rain—yes, actual rain!—is drumming down around us. We'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

What a way to end the day.

As you know, we've decided to park up in Mompox for four nights—partly to let Maree recoup, but also because our bodies have had a proper thrashing since we started this cycling adventure.

Most days push into the high 30s—I'm talking 38, 39 degrees—and while our daily distances are reasonable, throw in the relentless heat, and we end up feeling (and looking) like burnt raisins despite drowning ourselves in water.

Mission of the Day: Veggie Overdose

Our top priority? Rest. Second priority? Hunt down vegetables.

We've been severely lacking greens, and with a kitchen at Hostal Cultural La Candelaria, we intended to take full advantage. A stir-fry overdose was on the cards.

In the afternoon, we strolled around Mompox, a town that, like much of Colombia, is teetering between being a hidden gem and a missed opportunity.

Tourism? Not exactly booming. Even here, where it’s trying, it misses the mark.

Cycling Route 48 onto the 73, I couldn’t help but think—if this were New Zealand or other parts of the world, it would be a designated tourist route.

Theres amazing birds and wildlife, stunning lakes and rivers, farmlands, horses, and endless landscapes?

It’s one of Colombia’s idiosyncrasies—I love seeing it raw and real, yet I also see the untapped potential.

Mompox itself is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a colonial town frozen in time on the Magdalena River. It’s got:

Well-preserved architecture

Famous filigree craftsmanship

A deep cultural heartbeat

But the best part of the day?

Guess where we ended up?

Yep. The hammocks.

This morning, it was time for love. Not the mushy, romantic kind—bike love.

Our bikes have been holding up like champs, but let’s be real—some roads haven’t exactly been kind to them. And if there’s one thing I know about bike longevity, it’s that regular TLC is key.

Hostal Cultural La Candelaria has something we didn’t realize we’d been missing—outside taps. Back home, they’re a given. Here? A rare find.

Armed with our basic bike-cleaning kit—a cloth, a small scrubbing brush, and today’s makeshift degreaser (washing powder mixed in a squeeze bottle)—we got to work.

Bikes gleaming, chains checked, and it was time for yet another dose of hammock time before heading to the river for a boat tour.

Since Chimichagua, we’ve been shadowing the Magdalena River, catching glimpses of its wildlife—which, like New Zealand, is heavily bird-focused. But unlike home, the river here is a murky caramel brown, its waters carrying the ebb and flow of daily life:

Cows wading in to drink (and do their business)

Locals washing clothes and themselves

Farms draining into it

And, according to Maree, the town’s sewage plant making its own contribution

This isn’t criticism—it’s observation.

Some of New Zealand’s rivers weren’t pristine once upon a time either. But in the last 20 years, there’s been huge efforts to clean them up—and the ecological impact has been amazing.

With tourism slowly growing in Colombia, I can see eco-awareness becoming part of the conversation here too. But change takes time and money.

I managed to smooze my way up front on our tour boat (yes, we actually had to share space with tourists today—a rare thing for us!). Perched on a chilli bin, camera in hand, I was in my own world, soaking it all in.

Iguanas—so many iguanas!

Monkeys—just a few, but still cool

Birds—every shape and size

Post-river cruise, we treated ourselves to dinner at a touristy restaurant.

It’s funny—we’re so used to menu del día life that I barely even wanted anything else. But Maree? She had eyes for pizza. And sometimes, a bit of variety is good.

Back at the hostel, we ended the night with a glass (or two) of Vino de Corozo—a local Mompox specialty.

Not a bad way to wrap up the day.

And in Breaking News !!!

Maree is officially back on solids and feeling human again! No more tragic bread-based meals or weary stares at my arepas.

Today was a chilled-out, logistics kind of day. With our sights still set on Sasaima for the bird/wildlife function on April 1st, we had to face facts—cycling there in time just wasn’t happening.

Tomorrow, we hop on a 16-hour bus ride to Bogotá. Yeah, it’s a long haul, but it gives us breathing room to explore before Sasaima.

Heres our Game plan:

A couple of days in Bogotá (because, let’s be honest, we’re not city girls, and that’s our limit)

A detour north to Lake Guatavita for some adventure

Then back down to Sasaima for the event.

With bus tickets purchased and accommodation sorted, we’re back on the move tomorrow.