Ecuador – Colombia Expedition, our route opening experience
Stuck in Quito, waiting for the rain to ease and the engine to call to start with our Ecuador – Colombia Expedition, the city began to feel too still. The bikes outside hummed softly in the distance, as if mocking the delay. It was time to move again, to trade waiting for motion and stillness for noise. The plan was simple: ride out of Ecuador, cross into Colombia, chase mountains, deserts, jungle, coffee, and cacao, then return with our boots full of dust and a few more stories carved into our helmets. Leaving Quito at dawn, the air felt sharp, clean, electric. The gray skyline melted behind us as the road twisted north into Imbabura, where the earth dries into a palette of gold and ochre. We stopped at a place called Tunas & Cabras, tucked between cactus and wind. It wasn’t just a hotel; it was a kind of silence you could touch. The night settled warm and weightless, the bikes cooling beside the horizon. In that stillness, the trip officially began—not at the starting line, but in the quiet before the next ignition. Adventure start By morning, the rhythm had changed. Asphalt turned to gravel, the horizon curved wider, and the language of the mountains shifted as we neared the border. Crossing into Colombia wasn’t just geography; it was entering a new tempo. Voices were louder, music brighter, and even the dust smelled different. Pasto welcomed us with altitude and sharp air, but the real awe came just beyond it, at the Sanctuary of Las Lajas. The church doesn’t sit in a canyon—it floats inside it, anchored to sheer cliffs by stone and stubborn faith. Standing there, with the river roaring far below, I couldn’t tell whether humans built it or simply discovered it waiting. North of the city, the road twisted again, deeper into the green. Riding toward San Agustín felt like being swallowed by the jungle one curve at a time. When we reached the archaeological park, the noise of engines gave way to something older. Stone guardians stood watching over the valley, carved faces half-human, half-animal, entirely timeless. Our guide was local, his family rooted in the same soil as those statues. He spoke not like a historian but like someone introducing old friends. Every word carried the weight of belonging. In that quiet valley, surrounded by rock and myth, I realized travel is not just about distance—it’s about listening. The next day the color of the world changed. The green faded into the deep rust of the Tatacoa Desert, a vast labyrinth of clay and heat. It looked like another planet. The air shimmered, the silence buzzed, and the sun turned everything into shadow and fire. Yet even here there was life. Local families guided us through narrow canyons, showing us how to read the landscape—the small shade trees that meant water, the ridges that whispered when the wind moved right. They spoke of survival, not tourism. By dusk the desert glowed red, and when night fell, the stars came alive in numbers that made you forget your own name. The road from Tatacoa to Ibagué climbed back into green. The air thickened, the temperature softened, and suddenly everything smelled of rain and fruit. Ibagué is music made into a city: trumpets, laughter, the rhythm of markets and motorbikes in harmony. The food alone could redeem a lifetime of bad road meals. Lechona—the roasted pig stuffed with rice and spices—tasted like victory. For a moment, we were just travelers again, not riders or warriors of mud. Cali came next, and Cali is pure pulse. The descent into the Valle del Cauca feels like sliding into a heartbeat. Coffee plants line the hills like an endless mural, and every bend in the road smells faintly roasted. We stopped at a local finca where they treat coffee the way monks treat prayer—with care, patience, and a hint of obsession. The brew was smooth, bright, and dangerously addictive. Cali at night is another story. Music spills from every doorway, strangers become friends in one verse, and laughter is the local currency. The city doesn’t sleep; it shimmers. And yes, the people are beautiful—vivid, magnetic, impossible to forget—but that’s another kind of story. After the rhythm of Cali, Popayán felt like a deep breath. White walls, cobblestone streets, the echo of footsteps instead of engines. A colonial city that insists you slow down, even if your throttle hand twitches. Sometimes the best rides are the ones where you stop moving. Farther south, we chased altitude again and found it in Nariño. There, hidden among mist-covered hills, was a hacienda with natural thermal springs. The water smelled faintly of sulfur and rain. Sliding into the steaming pool after days of cold wind and dust was nothing short of rebirth. Steam rose into the night air while the bikes cooled outside. It was one of those rare pauses where time and exhaustion finally make peace. Back in Ecuador, the road climbed into thin air. El Ángel unfolded like a dream: a forest of twisted Polylepis trees with red bark peeling like paper, frailejones standing tall in the mist, and a silence so complete it felt sacred. Riding through it was like moving through the spine of the earth itself. Every breath carried the taste of altitude and something older than language. Then came the drop. The mountains gave way to moisture and the scent of flowers. We rolled down into Mindo, where the air feels alive and the forest never stops talking. The first thing you notice is the smell—sweet, earthy, unmistakably cacao. At El Quetzal, the beans are roasted in small batches, ground by hand, and turned into chocolate so pure it almost feels illegal. You taste it and realize it’s not dessert—it’s landscape, condensed into flavor. The final stretch took us west, following the sun until the air turned salty and the road ended at the sea. Playa Cañaveral greeted us with open sky, calm waves, and
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