Fortunately, the jump plane from Panama to Cartagena de Indias was direct and without problem. I always considered the most stressful part of a trip by bicycle to have it to be transported in a way that was not pedaling, and by far the plane is always the worst. The packaging of the bike, the excess baggage and the bad predisposition to dispatch things out of the ordinary ... I've gone over the years through every situation imaginable, but in this case, the staff of Aires Airlines behaved impeccably and everything went smoothly and not at all traumatic.

In Cartagena Daniel Sanchez was waiting for me, a contact that I had managed to make thanks to my friend Oscar and he immediately showed the great hospitality and warmth that I would witness along my journey through Colombia. I settled down in his department and in the days I spent there, he gave me an attention worthy of a high-level politician, giving me tours of the area and starting me in the gastronomic delights typical of the coastal zone.

The historic center of the city was emphasized above everything else, perfectly preserved, surrounded by high walls, and that could easily be the envy of many others in Europe. It was clearly a tourist center and I noticed the influx of foreigners, the commercial offers and the ongoing harassment of pedestrians to get their money. The area of Bocagrande, with its imposing modern buildings on the sea shore, contrasted markedly with antiquity of the historic sector and was the gastronomic heart of the place. In its beaches one could soak the feet in the warm waters of the Caribbean Ocean, provided they could dodge the persistent vendors who used with a number of tricks to deceive the unwary to get a few more pesos.

My case was no exception and I almost end up choking one of those traders who wanted to areal smart ass withsome “free” crab legs. Somewhat later I met people from the Tourist Police, almost as abundant as visitors, who must have seen a suspicious face on me and that on two occasions they came to check my pack contents while I was writing quietly on the rocks. The first time, and almost making me feel at home, one of the officers asked me if I had something for “refreshment". I thought I did not understand his accent and when I got that he was trying to get a bribe from me, he almost gives me a fit of laughter. "You are asking for money? From me? Nooo, I'm Argentine and I do not have a single peso. You got the wrong tourist. Try the Americans…” and upset, I walked away. The second time I asked them directly if theywere there to ask me for money and faced with the embarrassment of others when they heard my other story, they said no, no way to excuse the bad behavior of his partner and that they simply wanted to check me up because, as I was explained later, I was sitting in the place where they usually meet those who buy marijuana. Ah, well, thank you very much for the information! It was time to go home...

I had my reservations about what to expect in this country, which has so much bad reputation at international level. If it was as I heard around, just putting my feet in Colombian territory would mean to be kidnapped by guerrillas, paramilitaries or involved in a drug trafficking problem. The exaggeration was such that it suggested that a guerrilla army would be waiting around every curve and that the borders of the road were painted with cocaine! However, all the feedback from other travelers did more than extol the beauties of this nation, and especially its people. I could not put aside seeing it with my own eyes and so full of expectations, I started to travel its roads.

Some days crossing through hot zones waited for me. The coastal area is characterized by a relentless sun and constant high humidity, making my progress more demanding. The villages that I was going through were very humble and most of the inhabitants were black. My first night on the roads arrived in San Onofre, a quiet place where almost everyone had dark skin and it felt as if I was immersed in the heart of Africa. The people were very friendly and I did not feel out of place or uncomfortable. On the contrary, some curious ones came out to chat with me when they saw me pass by with Maira. Talking about the relaxed atmosphere that was perceived, they commented that only a few years ago was it not as well, since the region was hit by the scourge of paramilitaries, who with the drug trade dominated the area.
  

The proof was in the large number of military checkpoints that had been set on the roads. A little after starting riding I got used to Colombia's military presence, which was a guarantee of safety on the roads. While that allowed for a smooth ride, it did not mean that everything was fine. Just their presence was an indication that things were not resolved at all. I was also limited to the main roads, without having chance to travel on the side roads, since in these cases could prove risky for the diminished but still existing guerrilla activity in the country. It was a shame given the numerous natural resources that remained out of reach for those reasons.

In general my stops at the checkpoints were nothing more than to satisfy the curiosity of the military. They were very interested in knowing about my trip and like n all of Colombia; the most frequent question was how I did when I crossed borders. For the inhabitants of a nation to which they were required to have a visa to enter virtually every country in the world, my freedom of movement at that level surprised them. It was only a little while and I had been already given the shields of the army, the highway police and the national flag.

Almost as frequent as the roadblocks were the tolls. This of course did not have any cost to me nor for the motorcycles, means of transport par excellence and in quantities that were amazing there. A special lane allowed passage without having to get on the sidewalks and it was also a safe source of drinking water during the journey. While motorists would prefer to avoid them, I was looking for them, eagerly to replenish the vital fluid.

I was in a place where cycling is a passion. It no longer seemed an oddity to see other people riding bicycles and the road bikes were a classic. For some reason, Colombians are recognized as global competitors and Oscar had given me proof already of how tough they could be when dealing with a slope. I invariably ended up chatting with them and they were the best source of information regarding details of the road. They knew it like the palm of their hands up to the minimum elevation, distances and locations for which I would have to pass. That meant that when asking other people for directions, they immediately believed that I had already been in the area by the degree of detail with which I asked my questions.

"You're a berraco!” That was the adjective generally used when someone learned about my trip. The first time I was about to return with the best Argentine insult that could think of, but prudence prevailed and to clear any doubts I asked what he meant. Form what I interpreted, it was like saying "how crazy, what a beast, what you are doing!” I mean, it was not so bad. So I adopted the word and from then on I got accustomed to it being used with me all the time.

Arriving at Pueblo Nuevo, I came across with Wilfrido, who had been training with his mountain bike and invited me to cross the city center with him. We stopped briefly at the main square to get something fresh to drink and immediate, like bees to honey, dozens of people were around us, generating a crowd of onlookers intrigued to know about my trip. It seemed that half the town’s people were there! Because the other half would be the drivers of the "motorbike taxis", scattered in every place I passed. It was so strange to be transported on a motorcycle. Definitely it was a good job when the passenger was a graceful lady who was holding the driver at the waist!

The "arepas" had become one of the most typical dishes of the trip, a sort of chubby corn tortilla that was accompanied with cheese or whatever you would like to add. The "bandejas" (trays) formed the basis of each lunch or dinner, combining rice, beans, salad and a choice of beef, pork or chicken. The good thing was that prices were accessible and therefore the fuel for ride was insured. Guava snacks were indispensable when it comes to eating sugar and chocolate covered coffee beans were the greatest pleasure you could expect. The lodging in "residences" was also economic and allowed for a safe place to spend the nights without high costs. The truck stops were a classic in which the combination of abundant and affordable food was asured.

But if there was something that characterized Colombia, was the classic "tinto" (red wine in Spanish) or filtered black coffee, which could be found almost anywhere. Whether in the street, where there was always a salesperson walking with his cart loaded with thermos, or in any business that one visited, it was the primary drink and one that with great pleasure I included in my daily menu. People were even surprised to see how naturally called I asked for “tintos”, as id I was a local. For a coffee lover like me, riding through Colombia was a luxury without limits!

If there was one common denominator among Colombians and Argentines, it was the passion for football (soccer). Everywhere I went I was quickly identified by the colors of the flags I carry with me and after being recognized as an argentine with a classical "che Boludo," (Argentine slang meaning “hey, dumbass), came the jokes about that time where Argentina lost 5 to 0 against the national team of Colombia. It did not matter that I said that I was not aware of the results and clashes between the football teams; this was karma that it just happened with every conversation where the topic of this popular sport would come up.

I was moving for long stretches, taking advantage of the flatness of the ground before I had the inexorable first encounter with the foothills of the Andes. I knew that an "arrecha" climb waited for me, as they referred to it as being somewhat difficult. And they were right!

Passing by Caucasia I touched the fringes of the fast Cauca River and left the livestock and crops areas for a landscape that was gradually becoming more mountainous. The hillsides were covered of abundant and deep green vegetation. But the environment was dominated not only by what was natural, since the human aspect also gave it a very special touch. On both sides of the road, squeezed in between the mountain walls on one side and the cliffs towards the waters on the other, an endless succession of precarious houses were crowded into every possible space that was available. The doors, when they were not mere curtains, faced the road and I saw childrenplaying in the shoulders with an astonishing naturalness. The degree of poverty in which thosepeople lived was clear and gave the feeling of riding by a huge "favela" (Brazilian shantytown)that extended for miles and miles. During the long, slow climb, this painful scene had nointerruptions until reaching the highest point at 2000 meters above sea level, on the Alto de la Ventana. In many parts you could see how they earned their living by exploiting the abundant water courses down the steep hillsides, with pressurized water hoses to offer a rudimentary but effective car wash to cars and trucks. 

Consulting on the issue I was told that they were entire displaced families who had to leave their homes because of violence generated by clashes with the guerrillas and drug traffickers, but who were reluctant to leave the area with the hope of return to their lands at some point. For that reason Colombia is one of the countries with more people in such conditions in the world. A sad spectacle which my little speed allowed me to feel it deep down inside during the 80 kilometers that lasted.

The climate factor was fiddling with me with the traditional evening thunderstorms and it was no exception this time, with a rain that gave me no respite. The difference was that now, while gaining altitude, the water brought a very cold side effect that I did not remember what it was! Virtually since I had reached the Pacific coast in Guatemala I did not experienced these temperatures, which combined with rain, they were lethal.

The fog was so thick that I went through a military checkpoint almost without noticing the soldiers until I almost crash into them. It looks like they were pretty bored because they did not want to let me go and bombarded me with questions, but the only thing I wanted to know was how much I needed to go to get a place to spend the night.

The next day, and despite the pile of blankets that I had thrown over me to sleep, I woke up with frozen fingers. When taking a deep breath I felt a sharp pain on the right side of my back, as if I had a perforated lung. My fingers hurt so much that it was very difficult to squeeze the handles of the bike brakes. That scared me a bit. Was it the combined effect of the rain and cold after all this time that it was hot or something more serious? Luckily the sun appeared a while later and its rays warmed me slowly to recovery until at the end of the day it looked as if nothing had happened. Touch on wood!

That day, things were much better and Colombian generosity acquired unique proportions! In a stop over that I did to have a “tinto“, Jhon Jairo of Briceno, took pity on my tired face and invited me some coffee and an arepa with "chocolo", which for me was corn or maize, and which recharged all the energies already spent on the pedal. And on top of that, he gave me the change he got when he paid for the things. Soon after, while I seek refuge from an occasional downpour tasting another “tinto”, I came across Jhon Gustavo Balbin, who told me that if I made it this afternoon to Santa Rosa de Osos, he would invite me for dinner. How to resist such an invitation? Although I was already thinking of hanging the pedals for the day, I continued the march relying on the veracity of the fact that I had little left to the top and with the sun hiding behind the horizon and just before it was about to raincopiously, I arrived to the village. Jhon was the owner of a cafe in the main square and seemed to know everybody. The “tintos” were going one after another like a long night of beer drinking, but in this case it was my caffeine level the one that was gradually increasing while talking with those present. Jhon not only fulfilled his word to invite me for dinner, but it also got me a hotel for the night and even organized a collection among its partners and friends leaving me a good capital to invest in meals in the coming days .It was a selfless and endless generosity that was a clear reflection of the receptivity of the Colombian people that I had been talked about.

I was in Antioquia, "paisa" land and only an electrifying descent away to reach the Aburra valley. There, Medellin, the second largest city of Colombia and notorious for the age in which the drug trafficker Pablo Escobar came to dominate everything, awaited me. But although I had to travel with care, those were different times. A great friend and traveler, Martin Monti, had warned me about it: "be careful in that city, because you’ll have so many invitations from the people there and how lovely are the paisas that won’t want to go any further." He was so right!  

I already had a test about the special character of these people and it was funny, after the initial surprise, that every time I spoke with a woman they would addressed me with a "my life", "my heart", "my dear "and even" my love "! And how about their intonation? In addition to being beautiful, they were extremely seductive with their own way of speaking. Colombia not only had good coffee, and the proof was just right there, in front of mine!

Getting to Medellin meant reuniting with old friends from college who I did not see in a long time. With my recently completed 19,000 kilometers (11,875miles), it was the first time in the trip that I was meeting people who I knew from years ago, so it was like an advance of the arrival home. The initial impression seeing the city was overwhelming: as a vine that spreads through the walls of a house, buildings with red bricks and tiles were covering the entire valley, climbing on both sides of the slopes and almost crowning the sharp ridges. The city was huge and was getting into a true cement jungle.

To avoid getting into the wrong neighborhood, I contacted my friend Ximena to come to get me at the metro stop, and guide me to her house. To do so, I resorted to buying "minutes" from the system of cellular phone rentals that I had admired since I entered the country. To make a call, I simply had to find a street stand or some business with the poster saying "minutes", where according to the company to call you were given a cell phone to make the call by paying only for the used minutes. And to my amazement, they had a flat fee regardless of the destination in the country! Something that I had not seen anywhere else! Now I got why people gave me their cell phones numbers every time I got their contact information. Here there was no need to put a lien on the house to be able to talk over the phone!

My arrival coincided with the Festival of Tango, so I was able to recall with nostalgia the homeland by listening to the music typical of Buenos Aires in places such characteristic of Colombia as the Botero Square, a true outdoor museum with works of the famous author. Soon I met the friends of my friends and the outings with Alejo, Viole, Andrew and the entire gang that got together became part of my trunk of good memories. I had the chance to visit Santa Fe de Antioquia, a colonial town where we stayed at a historic house that seemed taken from a book. There it was my turn to do the honors with a good “asado” (BBQ) and the famous "chorichés" were immortalized, a new take on the classic Argentine "choripanes". We even crossed paths again with my riding brother, Japhy!

While in Medellin I learned a bit more about the complex reality of this nation. The family which I was staying with was connected to the political environment and that allowed me to have a more complete perspective of what we were living and what they had lived in another era. I was amazed to see that it was the first country in my entire journey in which people, almost without exception, had a good image of their president. Indeed, the popularity of Álvaro Uribe was in the sky and that was largely due to hiseffective campaign against the guerrilla army that came to plague the country for many years. I even had the fortune of being an eyewitness to the release of the most important hostages that were abducted by the FARCs, with the former presidential candidate Ingrid Betancourt at the top of the list. It was touching to see how the whole world stopped what they were doing to follow the news on television with an irrepressible joy and even shedding tears of happiness. It was a door that was open to hope, to end at once with a situation that hit the country so hard for such a long time. In a nation where until a few years ago it was impossible to travel at night on the roads due to the levels of insecurity, these changes, significant since the arrival of Uribe to power, made his growing popularity more logical.

But not everything was peachy and there was also a side not so auspicious to pay attention to. While the main theme in the minds of the entire world was security, other issues such as education, health and economy deserved a little more attention. The problem with the paramilitaries and drug traffickers was still hot and while maintaining a "low profile" this is still part of what people live every day in the country. And on the other hand, the perpetuation in power has historically proven that in general does not have a "happy ending."  

I got to know people involved with the fight for human rights since very long times, who illustrated me about the complex environment in which they literally had to "survive" to be there to tell their stories. This brought bitter memories of the dark years of military dictatorship in the 70s in Argentina and I could not feel more than admiration for the spirit of dedication and selflessness for this fight that took place and still remain in force today.

La ciudad era un crisol de contrastes en el cual se podían recorrer modernos edificios y centros comerciales en la residencial zona de El Poblado, o ver expresiones de extrema pobreza en las laderas de los cerros, como la comuna nororiental. El metrocable era el mejor medio de transporte para desplazarse con rapidez dentro de la metrópoli. Tenía un sistema de transbordo que permitía subirse a un moderno cable carril en dos sectores del ejido urbano, escalando las laderas del valle y acortando los tiempos del transporte urbano hacia las zonas altas de manera drástica. Semejante muestra de modernidad y tecnología chocaba con la cruda realidad de los barrios que uno observaba desde las alturas. Era un viaje hacia el corazón de la pobreza humana.

The city was a melting pot of contrasts in which one could go to modern buildings and shopping centers in the residential area of El Poblado, or see expressions of extreme poverty in the hillsides, as the northeast commune. The “metrocable” was the best means of transportation to move quickly within the metropolis. They had a system that allowed one to climb to a modern cable car in two sections of the city, climbing the slopes of the valley and shortening drastically the times transportation to the upper area. Such example of modernity and technology clashed with the stark reality of a neighborhood that watched from above. It was a journey into the heart of human poverty.

On July 4, 2008, after a few unforgettable days and the heart broken by the farewells, I got back to the pedals for a new visit to the SOS Village of Rionegro, some 45 kilometers away. Maira wore a new fashionable handlebar that it had been sent by my friends Johnny and Anne, cyclists from England. Would it hold up against the hardships that wait on the way to Argentina? Hopefully, yes!

In spite of going "down" towards the plains of the Magdalena River, the climbs happened often and that night I arrived to a small town called Santiago, surrounded by the mountains that still remained to be climbed. It was so small that it had no places to spend the night, but after chatting with some people at a food stand, I managed to get the contact info of a man who was in charge of an estate that is rented occasionally for the holiday season. So I ended up staying in one of the rooms of the enormous construction, with a view dominating the entire valley and the town, givingme the impression of being a drug kingpin in his luxury mansion!

After another memorable experience at the SOS Village, I had to go back all the way to Medellin to be able to take the main road that would take me to Bucaramanga, my next destination. Being Sunday, the number of cyclists who were training on the roads was significant and I got company until I went inland on the road to Cisneros.

I had only four days to travel the 450 kilometers that separated me from Floridablanca, because I had already scheduled another visit to the local SOS Village. I spent long hours on the bike and from Puerto Berrio, after reaching the plains, the heat became unbearable. The landscape was not very interesting and I was stopping everywhere to see if I could buy a juice or a milkshake to replenish energy ... and have a bit of shade. Luck was not on my side and in two days I had 5 punctures that tested my patience to unsuspected limits. Of course, I was always in the middle of nowhere, where the "oven" effect of the asphalt was greater and there was no place to hide from the sun. .

I was going through a region that had been hit by violence during times of increased activity by the guerrillas. Despite the quiet and tiresome atmosphere now perceived, the stories I had heard about the area were nothing short of frightening.

The third day I did not find a place to spend the night before the sun fell and I ended up arriving at a truck stop in La Lizama in the midst of a total blackness. Something was wrong. I felt that my forces had left me and I had almost no desire to eat despite the 140 kilometers that I had pedaled. Something was definitely wrong! The fever took hold of me and between chills and intense body aches, the night was endless.

Making an extreme effort, I continued with my journey and by the next afternoon I arrived in Floridablanca. It was a tough day on which the climbs were the order of the day and in my state of deteriorated health, they became a torture. The rain gave me the final blow, and when I got to the house of Nelson, my contact in the city, I was almost gone. Immediately both Nelson and his family worked on me and gave me the care that was urgently needed.

When I arrived at the SOS Village of Floridablanca I still had the symptoms of whatever plague was harassing me. The medical service diagnosed an acute pharyngitis and recommended to take at least two days of rest, to which I wasn’t opposed at all!

While I was there, I started brewing a turn of the screw in the development of this trip and when I finally took up the pedals, I left with one more year added to the trip! Nelson and I had prophesied that my visit to Bucaramanga was going to change things. Our friend Martin had left there with a girlfriend in tow and I did it with a new outlook and a broader vision for what was left of the trip in South America. Every time I saw the signs advertising minutes for sale I thought that it would be nice if I could buy a few more months for the trip, and without realizing, I just gave myself 12 more months!

Nelson and Duke, his inseparable friend, accompanied me to the edge of the city during the first 20 kilometers of the climb up to Picacho, the highest point of my journey so far, with almost 3500 meters of altitude. It was a long day with a heavy climb, but it finally turned put to be a lot easier than expected. As soon as I said goodbye to the boys I entered a thick mist which became drizzle.. It made me remember my first pedal strokes leaving Anchorage, where Drexler's song "Be" sounded in my ears. As if I had planned it with premeditation, in those moments I began to hear the same melody, the acoustic version of which I had recently received from a dear friend. Excited to the bottom of my heart and with tears of joy on my face, I stopped my bike and as I did on June 4, 2007, I threw a coin into the air "and that whatever happens, happens!”

When I came to the toll booth of El Picacho the sun was painting the clouds with golden colors while sinking into the horizon. The cold of the heights has been replaced by the heat of the plains and the purity of the air penetrated deep into my lungs. I had not realized that I had been on the seat of the bike for more than eight hours! The pause was obligatory and taking a comforting and very hot "aguapanela" I settled in the truck stop that was there.

This drink was almost as popular in these areas as the “tintos” in the rest of the country and I didn’t take time to adopt it for consumption. It was just panela, a concentrate from sugar cane, dissolved in hot water, very sweet, as I liked it! The fresh air and sunshine that warmed me just gave it a more pleasant touch to go through Berlin. Unlike other landscapes that I had been observing in Colombia, here the vastness of the mountains with virtually no vegetation reminded me a lot to the endless expanses of Argentine Patagonia. This scenario gradually merged with an eternal continuum of cultivated hillsides that resembled a carpet full of patches with different shades of green and brown that occupied the plots. The scent of green onion was my companion along the way.

Returning once again to the lowlands in a dizzying descent, I came to my final destination inColombia, the border town of Cucuta. There, I hada new commitment, which had emerged while casually chatting with Duke while accompanying me at the edge of Bucaramanga. This time I was visiting the Association of Minors Rudesindo Soto,where Duke's wife, Graciela, worked as a social worker. I was invited to give a talk to the kids, although he did not know very well what the place was like. I thought it was a governmental organization working with kids from the street, but turned out to be a rehabilitation center for juvenile offenders!

So I ended up improvising a couple of presentations for the kids. First withthe most troubled andthen with the group that was about to be reintegrated into society with a probation program. Being able to communicate to these young people the idea of having a life plan was the most interesting one and the response that I got from them was very positive. It was the first time I spoke in front of an audience of this class, just the kind of people that I had to be careful with when I was riding around! The girl group was the most unruly and reminding me of jail movies, they had no problem with openly saying what they wanted to do with me! Colombia had treated me well and what I had found at first hand was that the excessive fears about visiting this country were unfounded. I felt that I had many things to see, people to know, places to go.This was a group of fighting people, hardworking and eager to overcome the difficult moments in its history, and it deserved a better future. I was captivated by its beauty and I had to return. There was no doubt about that, and the new plan that was brewing in my mind I would bring me back in a few more months...

Until next time!

Good Trails,

Damian

 

Acknowledgments

To Daniel Sanchez: for your generous hospitality and warm welcome to Colombia you gave me during my stay in Cartagena de Indias.

To the group of cyclists' “Mango Maduro" of Turbaco, Bolivar: for sharing that refreshing Coca Cola on the road and for the detailed information on the routes that waited for me

To Christ Caycedo Pico: for your enthusiasm sharing the passion of cycling and travel on two wheels.

To Wilfrido Herazo, of Pueblo Nuevo, Cordoba: for your friendship and this unique experience with people of your nation.

To Julio Enrique Martinez, Robert Ramirez, Francisco Uparela, Ricardo Henao, Fabio Ortiz and Dubernei Flores, the Highway Police in Cordoba: for the interest on my voyage and the patches that you gave me as souvenirs.

To Jhon Jairo of Briceno: for your cordial invitation for a coffee and that exquisite arepa with "chocolo" in my way to Yarumal.

To Jhon Gustavo Balbino, of Santa Rosa de Osos, Antioquia: for your generosity with your endless attentions and so many gifts.

To Ximena: for your unconditional friendship for years and endless hospitality with which you treated me in Medellin. And to your entire family: for the affection shown to me, treating me as one more of the house.

To Claudia Garcia Garcia: because thanks to your insistence and anger you convinced me that it should visit Medellin. And you were quite right!

To Viole, princess paisa, unforgettable companion and elusive prey: Thank you for your sympathy and freshness.

To Alejo, my "almost dragon" and Andrew: for the complicity of the moments shared.

To Alejo "Machacho" Puerta: for your incredible warmth and hospitality that were an example of the warmth of the Colombian people! Thanks for everything and until I get back!

To Carlos and Cristina: for those life lessons they shared with me that afternoon of coffees in downtown Medellin.

To Johnny and Anne O'Brien: because without their help and camaraderie of cyclists friends of the road I would have never been able to get the replacement for the Maira’s handlebars and continue riding the thousands of miles that I still have left to get home. Thanks for your great contribution!

To Gabriel Correa: for the gift of the Sacred Heart in my stop to rest on the path towards Rionegro.

To Willy, Donya Hamer and Javier Serna, cyclists from the University of Antioquia: for the company in the descent from Rionegro to Medellin and the exquisite chicken salad you shared with me.

To Sergio Pareja: for those smoothies that you gave me nearby Barbosa.

To Harby Carmona: thanks for the juice on the road to Cisneros and those pesos for a good meal!

To Nancy Olaya and Lina: for the gifts for Maira that you gave me when leaving the hostel Palermo, in La Lizama.

To Nelson Plata: for your friendship, housing and support in my stop in Floridablanca. You were right in that nothing would be the same after going through Bucaramanga!

To Gerardo Duke Sarmiento: for your good vibes and that creative and exemplary spirit.

To Luis Espinel Jesus Blanco, director of the Association of Minors Rudesindo Soto: for giving me the opportunity to interact with the kids of the institution and for giving me shelter during my passage through Cucuta.

To Graciela Acevedo: for generating the contacts for the talks I gave at the Association of Minor Rudesindo Soto and for being my guide in my short stay in Cucuta.

To Cecilia Pinilla: for the company and your hospitality in Cucuta.

To Orlando Jose Canas: for joining me with your bike at the crossing to Venezuela and that overcoming spirit. Good luck in Europe!

A Maribel…

Some statistics

During this stage

Days on the road: 34

Days pedaling: 16

Kilometers done: 1,382 km

Average kilometers done per day: 86.4 km

Hours on the bike: 91h06m (3d19h06m)

Average speed: 15.2 km / h

Climbed meters: 17,983 m

Maximum altitude: 3458 meters above sea level, Paramo Berlin, Colombia (14-Jul-2008)

Since the beginning

Days on the road: 408

Days pedaling: 236

Kilometers done: 19,712 km (1,700 on gravel)

Average mileage per day: 83.3 km

Hours on the bike: 1.210h02m (50d10h02m)

Average speed: 16.3 km / h

Maximum speed: 81.5 km / h down the Sunwapta Pass, Canada (15-Aug-2007)

Meters climbed: 193,015 m

Maximum altitude: 3458 meters above sea level, Paramo Berlin, Colombia (14-07-2008)

Amount of "tintos" that I took along the way: more or less 957.

Times that I was called "berraco": I lost the number!