Cartagena to Barranquilla

Fueled up, we rolled into Villanueva, snagging a couple of mangoes from a roadside vendor before making our grand exit into the countryside.

And just like that, the pavement disappeared.

Our so-called "secondary road" turned into a rugged, clay 4x4 track, complete with a hefty hill to kick things off.

As we sweated our way up, men on horseback and motorbikes meandered past, eyeing us with a mix of curiosity and amusement. At the top, a large farm gate loomed, and we had a decision to make—push forward or ask the farmer for a place to crash.

Being the refined, mature adults that we are, we settled it the only logical way: rock, paper, scissors. Maree lost, which meant she got the fun job of asking the farmer for permission to camp. Before she even had to knock, he appeared.

"Podemos campa aquí, por favor?" I asked, putting my best Spanish forward.

Turns out, we could camp here. Not only that, but we scored prime glamping real estate—a rustic thatched-roof pergola to set up our tent under, complete with two chairs (luxury!).

We had a front-row seat to farm life, and a canine camp guardian who took a deep, investigative sniff of our gear before plopping down beside us.

Dinner? Squishy cheese, pineapple jam in tortillas, and the juiciest mangoes we’d ever. Entertainment? The cows being herded in, chickens finding their roosts, and the night breeze keeping us cool.

Morning greeted us with a rooster’s relentless wake-up call and the sight of the farm slowly coming to life.

We packed up, inhaled yet another juicy mango, and rolled out into what quickly became scorching heat. By the time we hit our next turnoff—a not-so promising-looking dirt road—it was a full-on inferno.

The road was a goat track at best, a washed-out mess with steep, rutted climbs and no sign of recent traffic. As sweat dripped from every possible (and some impossible) places, we looked at each other and, in perfect unison, declared:

"F**k this."

New plan: retreatae.

What had taken us over two hours to grind up took 30 minutes to roll back down. Villanueva welcomed us once more, this time with an arepa and ice-cold juice to drown our sorrows.

Then, it was back to the main road, dreams of a scenic countryside shortcut firmly in the bin.

Late afternoon, hunger hit hard. In a small town, we found a feast—meat, rice, patacones (plantain fritters), and two icy beers. The grand total? $20 for both of us. Absolute gold.

Later in the afternoon came the daily dilemma—where to sleep.

Maree spotted an open farm gate and slammed on her brakes.

"That gate’s open!"

I gave her a skeptical look.

"Let’s go in and ask."

And so, looking like two sweaty, sunburnt raisins, we rolled up to a complete stranger’s house and tried our luck. Miraculously, they said yes (we think). We picked a tree behind their house and were soon joined by two chatty kids, utterly unfazed by the language barrier.

Then their dad got home. Turns out, he was a sugarcane farmer. He took one look at our weary faces and handed us fresh-cut cane to chew on. Maree was in heaven.

Meanwhile, I was dealing with a different reality—bum rash.

The brutal Colombian heat and 60km+ days in the saddle had turned my rear end into a battleground. Customs had confiscated our chamois cream (why, Colombia, why?!), so my only defense was smothering myself in PawPaw,ointment, not the fruit! I minced around camp like a cowboy fresh off a week-long cattle drive, praying for relief.

Dawn brought yet another mango feast, but just when we thought breakfast was over, the farmer’s son returned—this time with a plate of yams and cheese.

Then, because Colombian hospitality knows no bounds, out came another plate—PawPaw (the fruit, not the ointment). And, best of all, the strongest coffee we’d had in Colombia yet.

Recharged, we hit the road.

It was another scorcher. To put it in perspective—I was radioactive. My eyeballs were sweating. Maree, somehow, was just “moist.” We were drinking 5-6 liters of water a day, pounding electrolytes, and still couldn’t stay hydrated.

By afternoon, I was in struggle city. The heat dial had cranked up to "literal oven," and I was wilting fast. We pulled off the road, searching for shade, and I tried to reassemble myself.

"We should find a bed in Barranquilla," Maree suggested.

I nodded, too exhausted to argue. The problem? Barranquilla was still 20km away, and rush hour was starting.

Cue another round of dodge-the-traffic, with Maree masterfully navigating while I focused on staying upright. The first hotel we found tried to charge us a fortune for a dodgy room. The next two were closed.

And then, salvation—Hotel Casa Boston.

Clean, cheap, and run by absolute legends who not only gave us a great room but even ordered takeout for us. We didn’t have to check out until 1 pm the next day.

The shower? Absolute bliss. The bed? A cloud. I won’t even tell you how filthy we made the shower water. Let’s just say, it had layers.

Tomorrow we will be back in the Saddle (With a Smarter Strategy)