As we clattered and bounced our way out of town, we found ourselves on the final stretch of this grand loop, pointing our bike north toward the sun-drenched coast and the warm embrace of Cartagena. The road ahead stretched out like a ribbon of endless promise, the air thick and heavy with the humidity that clung to our skin. The days had begun to blur together, each one a repetition of the last, yet the road still held its spell over us. There was a bittersweet recognition in our hearts that, despite the lure of endless adventure, the road would eventually demand a pause. Perhaps that’s what makes the journey so intoxicating—the idea that you can keep going, leaving everything behind, with no tether to draw you back.
We chose the northern route, the highway a narrow artery cutting through the heart of Colombia. Heather had picked out a place along the Magdalena River—Hotel Tekal del Rio. It sounded like an oasis, and when we arrived, it was just that. The resort, with its scattered bungalows around a shimmering pool, was utterly deserted. It was as if we had stumbled upon our private paradise.
The bungalows, simple yet full of character with dark wooden beams and stucco walls, formed a quiet semicircle around the pool. As we unpacked, geckos darted across the walls, their movements quick and unnoticed until Heather suddenly gasped. Somewhere along the way, in the chaotic dance of loading and unloading, her swimsuit had been left behind at our last stop. The road had claimed another victim, as it often does, and in that moment, we decided to create a new ritual—a double-check of every departure to ensure nothing was forgotten again.
The pool, with its inviting, shimmering surface, beckoned like a siren, but Heather, the true water lover between us, sat frustrated, the absence of her swimsuit threatening to spoil the moment. I tried to reassure her, suggesting she could just wear a shirt and underwear since we had the place to ourselves, but she wasn’t convinced. Then I remembered I had an extra pair of clean boxer briefs, and with her black shirt, we fashioned a makeshift swimsuit. It wasn’t perfect, but for an empty pool, it was just right. The crisis was averted, and soon we were slipping into the cool water. We swam, splashed, and let the solitude of the place seep into our bones, the silence surrounding us like a comforting blanket.
As the afternoon melted into evening, the air thickened with swarms of insects, buzzing furiously around the lights. We wandered down to the open-air lobby to ask about dinner, but the restaurant, which was supposed to stay open until 7:30 pm, was dark and lifeless. The front desk attendant, a young woman with a tired smile, informed us that it was closed, though she offered to arrange for a local meal to be delivered. Grateful for her help, we insisted on buying her dinner as well.
The meal arrived, but our initial contentment quickly soured. The burgers were a strange concoction, as if someone had tried to merge incompatible flavors in a single dish. We picked at the fries, hoping to salvage something from the experience, and I wandered back to the front desk for a couple of beers. I noticed the untouched food and couldn’t help but wonder if she had experienced the same disappointment. In my fractured Spanish, I learned that she planned to take the meal home to her family. A warmth spread through me, the kind that only comes from small, unexpected acts of kindness. I knew what to do with our half-eaten burgers. I carefully halved them, discarded our portions, and brought the rest to her, urging her to take them home.
Later, when I went back for one last beer, she had already left, and the night guard was sprawled on a couch in the lobby, engrossed in a video. He jumped up as I approached, but I waved him off, gesturing that it was no trouble. With a grin, he unlocked the fridge and offered me a choice of local brews. I pointed to the Club, or “Clooba” as it was known, and took my drink back to the quiet of our bungalow.
By now, the food was gone, and the garbage can by the lobby was empty. It was a small thing, but it made me feel good to think that those odd burgers might have been enjoyed by someone after all. I strolled back through the swarms of bugs, past the empty bungalows and the stillness of the pool, and returned to our cool, air-conditioned room. Heather listened to my story with a soft smile and simply said, "Oh, good."
The resort was perched on a bluff overlooking the river, an open-air slice of paradise in the middle of nowhere. But the front of the place was stark—just a gravel lot that spilled onto the narrow highway. Our motorcycle sat in that lot, only feet from the road, and though nothing had ever gone wrong before, the thought of it being there, so exposed, nagged at me. Morning came, and with it, the search for coffee and a quick check on the bike. It was still there, slumbering peacefully as if waiting for the next leg of the journey. The hunt for coffee was fruitless, so we decided to get back on the road. The familiar routine of packing up began, and with a roar, the bike awoke from its slumber, ready to carry us onward.
The highway droned on, two lanes cutting through the landscape as the jungle began to recede, giving way to rolling hills of golden grass. The heat bore down on us, the air thick with dust as we pushed forward. The villages we passed were little more than strips of bustling activity—tire shops, truck stops, roadside eateries. This was the main artery connecting the cities to the port of Barranquilla, and it seemed the whole country was on this road, pushing toward the coast.
The highway was a constant state of chaos, with construction zones funneling traffic into narrow lanes, the smell of diesel and overheated brakes hanging in the air. What should have been an easy leg turned into a test of patience as we crawled through one traffic jam after another. Exhausted, we finally gave in and found a basic hotel, the only option left on this stretch of road.
The hotel was simple—a large iron gate leading to a tiled courtyard that doubled as a parking lot. The rooms were spare, just a bed, air conditioning, and a bathroom. Clean but devoid of any luxury. Our dinner options were limited to a roadside restaurant, where the thunder of trucks and buses drowned out our conversation. We laughed about it, but there was a tinge of exhaustion in our voices.
The room was well-insulated from the heat, and we slept soundly, waking in the cool of the morning, our frustrations melted away. As we packed up the bike, the hotel owner admired our motorcycle, asking to take a picture. Heather translated, explaining that he loved the look of it. With a rumble, we rolled out, stopping at a gas station just beyond the gate to fill up before heading back onto the road.
The cool morning air was a blessing as we sped north, the heat not yet clinging to us. We were eager to reach the sea, to feel the breeze off the Caribbean, and to reunite with friends. Tayrona Park awaited us, a promised land of sorts, and the road, as always, was ready to take us there.
To be continued...
コメント