Minca to El Paso

As if the universe was celebrating with us, the day started with 10km of glorious downhill. The kind of downhill where you barely touch the pedals, the wind dries your sweat, and you feel like you're flying.

That was followed by a short and easy roll into Santa Marta, where we checked into Casa del Pintor—which, judging by the two old dudes running it, seemed to literally be the painter’s house. Quaint, covered in art, and with an atmosphere as colorful as the walls.

The rest of the afternoon was all about preparing for the next stretch—330km ride to Santa Cruz de Mompox. And some quality Supermarket time to stock up on essentials.

Somewhere between cramming food into our bags and debating how much water we needed Maree did some quick math on our cycling distances.

Barranquilla day? 90km.
Two daysafter? 80km.

No wonder we were absolutely destroyed. We’ve been unknowingly cooking ourselves alive.

We need to stick to our new strategy: No more stupid-long days. More breaks, more pacing, and less feeling like we’re being slow-roasted on a Colombian highway.

The day began with a bang. Or more accurately, Maree’s bum exploding.

"Hun," she groaned, clutching her stomach, "my tummy is a bit queasy."

We had a quick strategy meeting. Stay another night? Push on? After assessing the level of destruction (only one explosion… so far), Maree decided she was good to roll. Brave.

Before setting off, we made the most of something we hadn’t had in weeks—a kitchen! Maree whipped up raisin arepas while we brewed a much-needed coffee. The arepas were a masterpiece, especially when loaded with queso and piña jam.

Fueled and (mostly) functional, we hit the road.

Deciding to avoid the main drag madness, we took a detour. Cue a brutal hill climb that turned into a full-blown bike push. But at the top? Worth it. The view was a stunner, and the downhill was pure magic.

Once out of town, we cruised into Ciénaga, where our stomachs reminded us that coffee and arepas were a long time ago. A brunch of rotisserie chicken was in order. It hit the spot.

And Marees situation, a once off scare tactic by here stomach. She was all good and riding high!

From here, we veered away from the highway chaos and aimed for Sevillano. That’s when we found it—the forgotten highway.

Smooth tarmac, zero traffic, lush greenery, and the occasional cow for company. A dream ride. Until, suddenly…

Without warning, the pavement ended. Dirt road time. On both sides, endless banana plantations. Peaceful. Idyllic. A much-needed break from the Colombian highway insanity.

We took a well-earned break in Riofrío, where Maree inhaled a big-ass chocolate donut and we both downed fizzy drinks.

We got out our Google off line map. We had two choices:

1. Head back to the main road (booooring).

2. Think like a local.

A railway line ran through, but no roads were marked beside it. Gamble time.

Where the dirt road ended, a goat track followed a river. We took it. It was like a singletrack mountain bike trail. Soon, it led to the railway line… and, just as we suspected, a road running beside it. Winning.

Riding alongside more banana and palm oil plantations , we made great progress.

We eached Macondo and faced the next question—where to sleep?

We asked the Policía for camping advice. They pointed us to the library. Off we went, directions in hand, until we got completely bamboozled and had to ask for help.

A woman who spoke English asked her local friend where the library was. His response?

"That's not safe. That's where all the druggies hang out at night!"

Thanks for the stitch-up, Mr. Policeman.

Just to put things into perspective there was a lot of abandoned and derelict buildings in this town, the library was one of them.

Plan B: The only hotel in town. We expected a dingy dive, but surprise—it was actually clean, tidy, and only $19 NZD for the night.

The restaurant of choice this night...We cooked our dinner in the car park.

"But wait," you say, "you don’t have a cooker!"

Ah, but we do now. Our homemade penny stove, crafted from two cans, made its grand debut. And just like that, we were officially self-sufficient.

The day kicked off with a gourmet breakfast experience—or in reality, brewed coffee and arepas cooked in the car park. Simple, but it did the trick.

With the morning “cool” (still well into the 20 degrees C, but by Colombian standards, refreshingly crisp), we set off.

The backroads were treating us well—lush scenery, friendly locals, and a real sense of connection. Every "¡Hola!" was met with a grin, and the high-five exchanges with kids were pure joy.

Then, reality hit.

Two men on a motorbike pulled up beside us, gesturing wildly and speaking urgently. They weren’t aggressive, but they had something very important to tell us.

We all stopped. They pointed to my Google Maps and kept repeating “Americano” while dragging a hand across their throats. Then came the classic teacher-style "no, no" gesture.

Message received.

From what we understood, some people in these parts weren’t happy with Americans—and in their eyes, we could be mistaken for them. That could mean trouble. The two men insisted we get back on the main road and even rode with us for 5 km to make sure we got to safety.

I’m incredibly grateful for them—they didn’t have to warn us, but they did. A reminder that Colombia’s past struggles still leave deep marks in some regions.

Big American corporations now own huge areas of land, and for some locals, that’s a painful reality.

Back on the main road, we were back to frying like sausages in a pan.

One of the huge perks of the backroads had been shade. Now, it was full sun, full sweat, full suffering.

Today, we got luck!

A brand-new highway was under construction, and for most of the day, we had a private road. No cars. Just us, cruising past roadworks, weaving around diggers, and getting zero reaction from the construction crews. Clearly, a couple of sweaty chickas on bikes weren’t seen as a health and safety risk!

And in today’s “Bum News”—I ditched the cycling shorts.

Why? Because wearing sweat-drenched chamois felt like riding in a soggy diaper. And my rash was being persistent. Today, I went rogue—just regular shorts.

Results?

Bum = Happy.

Other bits = Surprisingly fine.

Could this be the end of the chamois era? Only time will tell.

Tonight, we’re treating ourselves. Búcaros Parrilla Restaurant & Hotel in El Cielo.

You might be thinking that all we must be living it up in some luxurious hotels—maybe a cozy Hilton or a charming boutique stay.

Let’s reset that view!

A Colombian hotel is more like a downgraded motel—functional, but far from fancy.

No kitchen. Just a room, a bed, and a… bathroom?

Actually, let’s talk about that bathroom. Forget divisions or walls—it’s literally a toilet-shower combo. That’s right, the showerhead (if there is one) is positioned directly opposite the toilet. You could, in theory, multitask.

Cold water only. Refreshing? Sure. Shocking? Every single time. High water pressure? A luxury we don’t know anymore.

It's heaven to us, let me tell you!

As I sat in the shower—yes, sat—letting the cool water trickle over me, I reminisced about today’s ride.

We kicked off the morning on our own private highway again, free from the looming presence of trucks riding up our arses. The empty road gave us time to soak in the rolling hills on one side, sprawling farmland on the other.

One thing caught our attention, was the abundance of road signs with Antesters on them. So as we cruised we kept an eagle eye out for them. But all we saw was cows.

We spotted cowboys grazing cattle on the wide, grassy median strip.

Maree quipped, "Nothing like free grass!"

I remarked. "Babe, do you think maybe they’ve been grazing this land for generations, and then someone just decided to build a highway through it?"

Our first stop was Bosconia, a 20 km cruise thanks to our smooth highway ride. Typically, we run on a two-hour/20-30 km rule before refueling.

Maree and I have near-identical metabolisms. Breakfast snack of arepas and coffee, but by 10 AM, the hunger hits.

I was the same as a kid—always eating my lunch at morning recess and leaving just a piece of fruit for the afternoon. Old habits die hard.

Finding menu del día for morning tea has become a ritual, and today was no different. But since we’d made such good time, only 1hr, we decided to push on to Cautro Vientos—another 20 km ahead.

At the edge of town, we pulled over to check our Google offline map when we met one of our favorite characters yet—the drinks lady.

She had a chilly bin cart full of ice-cold drinks and a sharp sense of humor. She pointed at our raisin-like, sun-darkened legs, then tugged at her own long sleeves and pants while laughing and chattering away.

At one point, she even hiked up my shorts to reveal my lily-white thigh/buttock and burst into laughter. We joined in.

The truth is, when we strip off, it looks like we’re wearing short white onesies!

Maree pulled out our sunscreen to show that we were at least trying to protect ourselves. Without hesitation, the drinks lady grabbed it, helped herself, and rubbed it all over her face before handing it back. Absolute legend.

We bought Colombian-style energy drinks from her—basically Colombia’s version of V or Red Bull.

I turned to Maree and said, "I’m sorry in advance for any post-drink behavior!' I don’t touch these drink normally, let alone sugar!"

Fueled by our new-found Colombian rocket fuel, we zipped along the now-busier highway and reached Cautro Vientos. Hunger levels were critical.

We found a small restaurant serving menu del día and downed our included limonadas in one gulp. The owner, a true hero, came back out with a 2-liter jug and left it on our table.

As we ate, a gaggle of schoolboys appeared and started inspecting our bikes. Then, they hung around, chatting and asking where we were from.

This is where I have to admit something embarrassing!

No one here knows Nueva Zelanda or New Zealand. So, just like Crowded House and pavlova, we’ve officially been claimed by Australia.

Like everyone else we have encountered, the kids knew what Australia was, so we just rolled with it.

One brave soul even tried to ride my bike. I had to hold onto it, as I don’t think he was expecting the sheer weight. But he gave it a solid effort!

After lunch, we turned off the main highway—don’t worry, no rogue detours this time! We were heading toward Mompox, and today’s goal was El Paso.

Taking the motorbike guys' advice seriously, we’ve adjusted our route planning. Instead of winging it and trying to wild camping every night, we have broken next days to Mon Pox into three-day legs with hotel options.

Just before reaching El Paso, we stumbled upon a watermelon vendor.

We bought one, sat down, and devoured half of it. The remaining half? We handed it over to some local teenagers who helped us find a hotel.

And now, here I am. Sitting under the cool shower at 2 PM, letting the day soak in.

A short day, but well-earned.

Tomorrow we are planning to take a deviate off our route...because.....