The Great Migration to Colombia

"Babe! We need passport photos!!" This is how I woke my hun at 1.30 in the morning. My brain spinning like crazy. The airport blithering had began....3 nights before our flight date.

Airports turn me into a confused mess, clutching my passport like it’s a lifeline and second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made.

Our Sacrificial Chauffeur

We sweet-talked a Stu our mate into getting up at the crack of dawn (we’re talking stupidly early) to drop us off at the airport way early than we needed to be!

The Great Bike Box Heist

We had technically weighed all our bags, but were we confident in our calculations? Nope. So we left our bike boxes untaped until we had a rewiegh in at the airport. This allowed for some last-minute reshuffling—shifting gear between bags, making sure we weren’t about to get slammed with overweight fees, and confirming that we hadn’t accidentally packed anything ridiculous (like the nextdoor nieghbours cat!).

Once satisfied, we taped those bad boys shut like they contained the Crown Jewels. Seriously, Fort Knox-level sealing.

Squeezing in Some Parental Mooching

Since we live nowhere near our parents, we made sure to book our flights with a built-in stop to spend time with the olds . This conveniently included a glorious lunch—on them, of course. Fueling up before two days of airport food was a strategic move.

Surviving 20+ Hours of Transit Delirium!

Getting to Colombia wasn’t just a flight. It was an odyssey. Over 20 hours of airports, crying babies, turbulence, and that special kind of delirium that only long-haul travel brings.

Somewhere above Bogotá, our plane entered a holding pattern. And not just a little circle-around-for-a-bit situation—oh no. This was an eternity of loops, like a plane stuck in purgatory.

Below us, the clock was ticking. We had a connecting flight to Cartagena, and the buffer time we’d been banking on was slowly disappearing into thin air.

Like Sheep in the Yards

By the time we finally landed, we had a little over an hour to clear customs and sprint to our next gate. Just one problem: so did three plane loads of people.

The queue stretched endlessly, and as we shuffled forward, we were treated to an array of conversations—lost luggage complaints, questionable snack choices, and what sounded like a full-blown confession at one point (but hey, our Spanish isn’t great, so who knows?).

Finally, the sweet sound of a passport stamp. BOOM baby!

The Amazing Race: Bogotá Edition

We took off like contestants in The Amazing Race, zigzagging through the airport, dodging slow walkers, hurdling suitcases, and likely traumatizing innocent bystanders with our desperate expressions. Gasping, sweaty, and slightly wild-eyed, we made it to our gate…

CLOSED.

W.T.F.

We arrived just in time to see our plane taxiing down the runway. Without us.

Negotiating Our Fate

The LATAM Airlines staff... spoke zero English. We spoke zero Spanish. What followed was an amusing (and slightly tragic) game of charades, pointing, and wild gesturing that somehow resulted in us being handed a hotel voucher.

The Bogotá Grand Prix:

The moment we left the airport, our driver made one thing abundantly clear: speed limits were merely suggestions. He floored it, weaving in and out of traffic like he was auditioning for the next Fast & Furious movie.

Then, just as we were settling into the high-speed madness, he overtook an ambulance. An ambulance with its lights flashing.

As the city lights blurred past, we quickly realized we had no clue where we were. But hey, that’s fine, right? Taxi drivers always know where they’re going…

Except, as we hurtled through dimly lit backstreets, it became apparent that neither did he.

At one point, as the ride stretched on, I turned to Maree and asked, "Are we driving all the way to Cartagena?"

Because at this rate, it sure felt like it.

After what felt like an eternity, our driver finally—suddenly—screeched to a halt outside what we hoped was our hotel. Before we could even question it, we were ushered out, our bags were dumped onto the pavement, and the taxi vanished into the night.

We stood there for a second, dazed and mildly traumatized.

At 1:30 in the morning, we found ourselves sitting in a surprisingly decent hotel room, courtesy of the airline, shoveling room-service steak and salad into our exhausted faces.

The Cartagena Challenge
If our first attempt at getting to Cartagena was an episode of The Amazing Race, our second go was more like Survivor: Airport Edition. But hey, where’s the fun in a straightforward journey?

The Case of the Missing Taxi
We were told (we think) that our return taxi was booked for 4 PM. So, naturally, as the time neared, we stood ready and waiting.
Maree, in true ‘we-are-not-missing-this-flight’ mode, was pacing like a caged tiger. I could almost see smoke coming off the carpet.

But guess what? No taxi!

Enter: the second round of the Hand Talking Game—this time, starring the hotel reception staff. After a lot of wild gestures, broken Spanish, and the unmistakable look of panic in our eyes, they sprang into action.

New taxi? Sorted.
Peak hour Bogotá traffic? Less sorted.
Maree spent the entire ride holding her breath as we crawled through the chaos. Would we make it? Would Bogotá claim us forever?

Plot Twist
At the airport, we rushed to the departure board, heart rates through the roof. And there it was, glowing like a beacon of irony:
Flight to Cartagena – Delayed 1.5 Hours.

Well then. Nothing left to do but take the edge off with a cold beer—conveniently sold next to the Coke cans, because it’s Colombia.

Luggage Roulette
Once on the plane, the next phase of the game began:
Would our bikes actually be in Cartagena? Would our shuttle exist? And how exactly would customs work, since we’d already been stamped in Bogotá?

Standing at the luggage carousel, holding our breath again, we flagged down a LATAM staff member and fired up Google Translate. After a phone call to who-knows-where, Maree suddenly gasped—
"Babe, LOOK!"

And like magic, our now very disheveled bike boxes and gear bag slid onto the carousel.

Customs? Never Heard of It.
Expecting some sort of customs rigmarole, we cautiously pushed our gear forward, there was no trollies!!

But… nothing.
No one stopped us. No one even looked at us. We just pushed our way on out.

Colombian Taxi Chaos, Part Two
The last hurdle: our shuttle. Would it be there?

Miraculously—YES!

Minor issue: It was completely inadequate to carry two bike boxes, a gear bag, and two passengers.

But we’re nothing if not resourceful. With some creative strapping, we turned it into a makeshift expedition vehicle.

I wedged myself around the gear in the back, while Maree got the full terrifying front-seat experience. Because, of course, yet again our driver was also practicing for the Indy 500.

The Final Hurdle
We arrived at our hotel, battered but victorious.

Except… they had no record of our booking.

More Google Translate. More deep breaths. A phone call to our travel agent.
After some suspiciously long pauses, the receptionist suddenly found our booking.
And just like that, we were in!
We Have Arrived!

At last, we had successfully made it to Cartagena—the official start of our bikepacking adventure through South America.