Thursday, 17 June, Pasto, Colombia

I roar out of Cali with my two biker roommates called Rick and Rob. My little red duffel is strapped to the back of Rick’s bike and I am on the back of Rob’s heavy, shiny black Harley. I have never been on a motorcycle before and I am terrified. This is no slow meander through the back streets of a small town: we are zipping in and out of Cali’s chaotic traffic, dodging trucks, cars and other bikes on a six-lane road. I’m wearing a small green helmet, the chin strap of which I nervously tighten until I can just barely breathe, and a rain jacket of Rob’s. Every muscle in my body is tense and nervous sweat trickles down my back despite the cold wind. I squeeze my legs around the seat as tight as I can and try not to move. I start to relax when we get out of town. Now we’re surrounded by shiny cattle grazing calmly in grassy fields and Rob reminds me that I can release my death grip on his shoulders. “My girlfriend falls asleep on here. You won’t fall off.” I take a deep breath and lean back. We’re an hour closer to the town of Pasto, our destination on the Ecuadorian border. The next seven hours are thrilling, and I’m not scared anymore. We only stop a few times to eat and take pictures and stretch our stiff legs. At the rural gas stations the workers come out and stare at us, admiring the bikes and Rick’s motorcycle boots. “From the US? We don’t get Harleys here. Too expensive. And look! Fox boots! Yes or no, am I right?”
When we arrive in Pasto, we look for a hostel I have written down. The numbers of the address don’t seem to match up with any of the numbers on the street we’re told is right, and we’re circling blocks trying to make sense of where we are. Rick, who is leading, turns up a side street. The street leads up a steep hill which Rick’s light, fast bike zips up with no problem. The Harley makes it most of the way up, but between the heavy frame and the two people on the back, we start to drift backwards. We walk our feet on the pavement alongside the bike faster and faster, but we can’t stop. After a couple seconds of rolling, we topple over and before I know it I am lying faceup on the street, feet higher than my head. Luckily, I don’t even get a scratch. I push myself up and see the faces of three young Colombian boys gawking at us, snapping pictures with their cell phones and firing questions at us. “What are you doing here?” they ask. “This is a dead-end road! What are you looking for? Where are you from? Is that a Harley? Do you speak English? What do you think of Colombia?”
I tell them that we love Colombia and that we’ve just gotten turned around. By now their families have come outside to see what the ruckus is, and I try to joke with them. “This is how we park in the US.”
When we righted the bike, we discovered that everything was fine except for second gear. In first gear, then, we finally found the hostel while traffic passed us on both sides. I checked into the comfortable but mostly empty hostel while Rick and Rob opted for a nicer hotel next door, a place with bike parking. One country down, four to go.