When it came time for me to leave the ancient hostel in Popayan, the ever-present senora had disappeared. I left my money and the key along with a thank you note. The policia have not tracked me down so things must be ok. I walked to the terminal and this time my bus luck did not hold out. There was no bus to San Agustin until once, 11 AM. With an hour and a half to wait I went for a coffee and then staked out my area to be first in line for a good seat. This would prove a blessing.
Alas that I had already eaten or I would have indulged in some porcine bits at the bus station.
I was the first person ready when the 3010 bus pulled in and I threw my gear on the best seat on a thirteen person vomit-van, the window behind the driver's seat. There is extra leg room for the exit row and a good solid place to lean against as a brace for the hairpin turns. This would also be a blessing.
Your standard vomit-van and my gear already stowed onboard.
The ride started off with the normal deranged charging through hairpin turns, climbing into the mountains above Popayan. It was reckoned to be about a five hour ride, give or take a day. Our first delay came at a major washout of the road. This is also where the pavement ended. If one has to be stuck on the side of the road, this was a lovely spot for a piss break. A long piss break.
Waiting for the road to cometh.
Now things got seriously third world. Once underway again, the road resembled many a ranch road that I have bounced across on a moto. I wish I had been on a moto. But I was squashed in a vomit van and careening between potholes, slaloming from side to side as our driver raced from one washout to the next, washouts and washboard road that even he had to slow down for. At times he would put one set of wheels in the shallow ditch and slide along the edge of the road with the jungle sweeping inches from my face as I peered through the window.
This is the kind of bus ride that can only be measured in time. Distance is meaningless. Much of the time we were twisting and turning at least ten kilometers for every one kilometer of progress as the crow flies. Things became more interesting after the rain showers passed through, True, the dust was dampened, drowned actually, but the road quickly became a thing that took no prisoners.
An unlucky transport being dug out of the ditch by hand.
We jounced along for hours as the mountains rose and fell. We crossed countless rivers on narrow bridges. The jungle crept by the window, sometimes crawlled past the window. It was like traveling through an ever changing palette of all of the colours of green ever know, each of them glistening in the reflected wetness. It was as if we were loose in an arboretuem of exotic plants, species that gardners in the nortth would struggle to raise one of, and yet here was an explosion of life that would simply boggle a gardener's mind.
Suddenly there was pavement. We entered one of the national park areas and the road became pristine. It was back to full throttle and racing through hairpin turns! Three hours into the saga, we pulled over for the obligatory lunch stop. This was the most isolated rest stop yet, a dark and smoky shack on top of a mountain pass.
Nothing lacking in decor or in ambience.
Folks are wearing jackets for a reason.
Hot sopa was not a manical choice today.
Fifteen minutes for lunch and we were back on the road, at least for a moment. We had come to the first military checkpoint of the trip. The soldiers stopped the van, took a few of the younger guys out and searched them, but left me be. The area we were traveling through used to be a hotbed of FARC activity not too long ago. FARC was one of the guerilla armies operating in Colombia. This area is still prone to banditry and some of the roads are not safe to travel at night, even portions of the TransAmerica to the East of here. I deemed it unwise to take any photos of the soldiers so just picture a bunch of guys in uniform standing on a mountain pass with automatic weapons.
As we dropped down the pass, the pavement disappeared. Jouncing along the really bad road, we were entered steep farming country, with some sort of orchards of fruit, coffee fincas and cattle.
At the five hour mark, we were heading down something that resembled a stream bed a lot more than it resembled a road. Looking up I saw an amazing waterfall and at the same time we struck the pavement again, this time for good. We crossed the Rio Magdelena, a famous rafting river, and dropped off some passengers. Then I saw the blessed sign that read San Agustin 5 Kilometers. Hallelujah!
We motored into the small town of San Agustin and dropped off the rest of the folks in El Centro. There were two French girls and myself, all of us bound for Hostel Franscoise. The driver shrugged and drove all of us up the steep hill through town and to within 50 meters of the hostel. A first and a miracle!!
I am now safely ensconced in a fairytale hostel set above the lights of San Agustin. Night has fallen, but not before I enjoyed a lovely cigar whilst watching an amazing array of birdlife cavorting over my head. All is well and I have lived to tell the tale. Tomorrow I will be astride a Colombina horse, riding through one of the most important acheological sites in all of Colombia. But that is the stuff of another entry. Buenas Noches Chicas y Chicos!!
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