Crossing to Colombia part III (Colombia)

On board of the Colombian Panga

Seen from above, in a sunny day of blue sky and calm sea, the small boat moving away from the shores of the Ballena island, with white sandy beaches and coconut palms, encircled by a transparent green sea that slowly transformed itself in the deep blue of the ocean, one could think that I was about to start a boat trip somewhere in a idyllic place of the Caribbean. but at 7.10 pm on board of a Colombian contraband boat with 3 strangers, in the darkness of the night and in an agitated sea, the scene was terrifying.

My only comfort was to known that I was going to Colombia and not coming from Colombia. That assured me that I was not on a drugs trafficking contraband boat. What it was, the load, I never found out, and didn't even dare to ask. Soon that was the smallest of my worries.
The merchandise was piled up well above the boat line and only with a gap in the middle, with about half meter long and all the width of the boat. It was in this "hole" that I threaded and travelled for 11 hours without moving.

Next to me was the young assistant whose face lines I would not be able to see properly before dawn. his job during the entire trip was to remove with a plastic container the sea water, that entered in the boat due to the agitating waves and also the rain water from the 2 storms we went through. If fact, I think that was the only reason of the existence of that gap.

Occasionally, and at the captain's command, the youngster would climb on top of the load, and with an agility that demonstrated habit, he kept his balance, and looked at the infinite of the ocean trying to sight some reference point. Some mountain in the coast, a light of any Colombian patrol, and in the final part of the trip, any indication of firm land, a clarity or a lighthouse.

At the back of the Panga ( boat in Colombian Spanish) were the other 2 crew. Each one seated in front of an engine, although they only use one, we travelled at good speed. In front of the pilot was a wooden box with a rudimentary navigation instrument, that he consulted regularly with his lantern.
The 3 man spoke little. The moments of silence were enormous. Some times half hour or more. and with me, they hardly spoke at all. I was not a desired passenger. I was there like if I was another piece of contraband. 50 dollars of profit, net. That was the only reason why they took me.

During the trip, I tried to make conversation with the guy next to me, offered a cigarette, talk about life in the sea, soccer, but the answers were always short and dry. On my right side, the black line of the mountains got lower and lower until it joined the infinite line of the ocean. The coast disappeared of sight and we travelled now in the open ocean. The sea was more agitated and the boat moved all over the place. The sky was cloudy but one could see some stars. There wasn't any moonlight, witch gave a somehow sinister feel to the night.

Everything happened so fast, that I didn't have time to prepare for the trip. My Gore-Tex was inside my luggage at the front of the boat and I didn't dare to go there and get it. So I spent all night soaked wet from the waves and the rain. But it wasn't cold.

The night was passing, long...interminable.
Minutes seemed like hours, and hours like an infinite time But the night didn't go by without its "entertainments". First it came the run away from the Colombian patrol that the captain starts the second engine and cuts through the waves at full speed. Latter came a sea storm, and then another, whose lightnings illuminated the vastness of the ocean. Some times they were so close that it felt like a camera flashes in front of my eyes. I remembered of "cape fear", of my mother, of the tranquility of the roads, and how much I had archived already on this trip.
-Ooh, how I wished I had gone through the Darien gap!

I wanted adventure, so here I have it, and on reinforced dose. When we sighted land was still dark, but it wasn't until dawn, that the boat run aground a few meters from the beach. A group of people were waiting for the boat. Some just curious, others to help with the unloading, and 3 of them, the purchasers, in old land rover jeeps.
I gave my bicycle and all my bags to some of the helpers and jumped on the water. I had set foot on south America soil. Never in the planing of this trip, I though it would be this way.

I load my bicycle and squeeze my t-shit to remove the extra water. I didn't feel like changing cloths. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. " The road? where to?" I asked. A man indicates me the way pointing to the twirled marks on the dry mud of a pasture. I joggled my way through the farm land. I looked like if I have disembarked in Africa. Vast pastures with huge trees giving shade to the cattle and to the simple houses made of bamboo and coated with adobe.Its inhabitants were all black, descendants of the African slaves that populated not only the Colombian coast but also large parts of the central American coast and Caribbean.
Minutes latter, the jeeps fully loaded pass by at full speed.

According to the captains information, the first village was Moñitos, 6 km inland. The asphalt road passes there, he said, just before grabbing my 50 dollars.
14 km latter I entered Moñitos. For the asphalt was another 7 km. I was tired. I didn't have any water, Colombian money, or map. I just entered the country illegally and didn't have the foggiest idea of where I was.

In Moñitos I stop in the center of the village and got surrounded by a crowd of around 10 people. Some one fills up my water bottle from the tap. I then ask: "Cartagena...is it far? Uuuuh, lejissimo" (very very far) someone answer. A young man that insisted to talk to me in English, dawn me a map of the Atlantic coast, writing down all the towns until Cartagena with the mileage under each one. Under Cartagena he wrote 400 km.
I thanked everyone and left.

I still made 62 km that morning and reached lorica just after 1.30 pm. An armoured tank cruised the streets, and everyone stared at me and my loaded bicycle. For sure tourist are a rare sight around here, specially on tow wheels. I look for a restaurant and have an introduction to the Colombian food, "bandera paisa". I return to the hotel and at 4 pm I was asleep. didn't woke up till next morning.
I take a day off to reestablish energies and to soak myself on the atmosphere of the new country I just entered.

Now, that everything has passed, it didn't look like such a mad trip. I remember the unchanged posture of the crew members (except on the run from the patrol), as if it was just another trip on their routine as smugglers. But for me was everything so new and real, that it was probably the scariest boat trip of my life.
I felt like telling them how much I admired their bravery in their work and the daily risk they took. But I didn't say anything. After all, the "close to Cartagena" promised by the captain, ended up been 290 km.

I still cycled 3 more days until Cartagena with the fear of been stop by the police or military, because I didn't have a stamp on my passport. But the 2 times I was stop by the road check points (they seem to be very characteristic of the Colombian roads) the police were more interested in the Portuguese soccer league, my rusty machete (always creating a general laugh) or how many km I made per day.
Tomorrow veronica arrives in Cartagena for her 3 week cycling tour, and a new stage of this trip begins. I hope that will be a less "agitated" one.

Nuno Brilhante
In Cartagena, Colombia.