Fascinating Colombia
My Backpacking Experience in Colombia.
It’s not that we haven’t done anything interesting in recent months or that little has happened. No, quite the opposite. It’s just that, unfortunately, time flies by here too. So, to make the newsletter a little more lively—and since pictures are worth more than a thousand words—future newsletters will include more pictures and videos from now on.
I had already written the newsletter covering Colombia and part of Panama, and it was practically “ready to go,” but then, unfortunately, my cell phone was stolen in Ecuador during the carnival in Cuenca. Here in Ecuador, they spray foam around at the carnival parties; what’s actually pretty fun ended up being my undoing. I was attacked by a few guys; they sprayed the foam right into my eyes, shoved me, and just like that, my cell phone was gone. And along with my phone went all the photos and videos from the last few months, as well as the newsletter drafts. In that moment, my world came crashing down; I started questioning the meaning—or lack thereof—of this trip. Why does this always happen to me? Where am I going to get a new phone so quickly, my SIM card from Switzerland, and so on and so forth. A few hours later, the world looks a little brighter again, and looking back, I wouldn’t necessarily laugh at the photo of me sitting at the table looking devastated—no, it’s still too fresh for that—but it would certainly make me smile. But that’s just how it is on a trip around the world: negative experiences are part of it, and with each one, you grow a little more.
Colombia, you can be so beautiful!
After a voyage lasting several days, we finally arrived in the Bay of Santa Marta. Our plan for Colombia wasn’t just to visit the coastal cities along Colombia’s Atlantic coast, but to spend a few weeks traveling through the interior of the country. “What? But isn’t that dangerous?” is usually the first thing tourists hear when they announce their plans for a trip to Colombia, the jewel of South America. Still, that didn’t deter us at first—we just had to take care of the usual formalities. Clearing customs (the boat and passengers must be registered in the country) is significantly more complicated in Colombia than anywhere else I’ve been on my trip so far. On the one hand, various officials come on board and carefully inspect my belongings; on the other hand, you need an agent for everything. With a berth at the Santa Marta marina, the agent would have been free, but the marina itself was so expensive that we decided to stay at anchor. However, if you haven’t cleared customs, you’re not allowed to set foot on land; we did it anyway and explored the city of Santa Marta “illegally.” Back on board, as if on purpose, we were immediately punished for it. Both stern fenders were stolen in broad daylight. Colombia hasn’t been dangerous so far, but it’s definitely crime-ridden and, in some cases, corrupt.
Extremely upset about the theft, we decided the next day to sail to Puerto Velero, about 60 nautical miles away. 60 nautical miles meant about a 12-hour trip. Since the sun only shines for 12 hours here, we decided—contrary to our usual practice of setting out at dawn—to sail through the night. This isn’t an unusual practice among us sailors, as we want to avoid arriving at an unfamiliar location after dark. That only brings unnecessary dangers. After dinner, we weighed anchor at 9:30 p.m., hoisted only the headsail, and set off amid endless squalls. Downbursts are common here along the Colombian coast, as the Sierra Nevada mountain range—with peaks over 5,000 meters—stretches just offshore. After a short while, however, the wind steadily picked up, and we reefed the headsail (to make the sail smaller). As the wind picked up, we continued to reef until only a small portion of the headsail was left out. But suddenly there was a “snap”—one of the Lazy Jack lines snapped (when the mainsail isn’t in use, it lies on the boom in a bag that’s pulled upward by lines. These lines are called Lazy Jacks). Unfortunately, the bag hadn’t been tied shut—“laziness” has its consequences—and the mainsail fell down to one side. The two of us tried to secure the sail, but unfortunately, both the wind and the waves continued to pick up. For safety reasons, we gave up after a short while. Given what had happened, I decided to turn back toward Santa Marta; there’s no point in continuing to sail for 12 hours in these conditions. Under engine power, we plowed through the wind and waves. The waves had risen to over two meters in the meantime, and the anemometer was showing speeds of over 45 knots (about 80 km/h). Since we were drifting due to the waves and wind—fortunately out toward the open sea—it took us two and a half hours to cover about three nautical miles (5.4 km). During that long time, all sorts of thoughts go through your head: What will I do if we don’t make it back? Should we get towed? Should we wait until the storm passes? What if the engine overheats because I’m trying to fight the sea at full throttle? At 12:30 a.m., we finally dropped anchor—exactly where we’d set out a few hours earlier. Completely exhausted and with adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I headed straight to bed. First storm: Check. But I don’t need to go through that again anytime soon. Especially since the mainsail took a beating and was torn about 1 meter along the leech! Unnecessary and frustrating!
Two days later, we made a second attempt. This time there was absolutely no wind; we arrived in Puerto Velero after 12 hours under engine power, accompanied by annoying noise. Better than a storm, but it’s not exactly sailing fun. We cleared customs at the Puerto Velero marina, and the dreaded “Muppet Show” with five officials became a reality. People from Customs, Immigration, Agriculture, Health, and the Port Captain were all there. All we could do was flash a wry smile—these countries aren’t familiar with recreational boating, so we little yachties get treated like big tankers. Unfortunately, it also costs significantly more than in other countries. To make it all worthwhile, we ended up staying at the same dock for about two months. We took a few trips inland, I quickly went home on vacation, we learned to kitesurf, and we worked on the boat.
We flew to Bucaramanga and took a public bus on to San Gil, a hub for outdoor activities. We didn’t want to miss out and spent a few hours with our hearts racing at the climbing gym.
On our way to Bogotá, a city of millions, we stopped in the small, charming village of Barichara, went on lots of hikes and runs, and enjoyed life. In Bogotá, we visited the produce and meat markets, went on a graffiti tour (real works of art—spraying is technically banned, but the city turns a blind eye...), cycled through the city, and visited the world-famous Salt Cathedral and mine. It never ceases to amaze me what humanity is capable of accomplishing.
On our way to the next major city, Medellín, we stopped in Salento, visited a coffee farm, went hiking in the famous Cocoa Valley, and met some interesting people. We didn’t like Medellín as much; big cities in countries like this don’t have much charm: they’re big, loud, and dirty. Sure, the former favela, Comuna 13, had been nicely spruced up for tourists, and the cable cars to Arvi Park were nice. But to really get to know the charms of a big city, you probably have to stay longer than just a few days—or be lucky enough to connect with locals.
The only exception is probably the old town of Cartagena, where we spent a few days. We loved it so much—we strolled through the flower-adorned alleys, music was pouring out of the apartments everywhere, and the city exuded a very special charm. Of course, we weren’t the only tourists in town, so we quickly adjusted our daily routine and got up twice at 5:30 a.m. to avoid the crowds and take beautiful photos of the city.
Still, we were quickly drawn back to nature—to the unspoiled Colombia. In Palomino, we went on a three-day hike in the Sierra Nevada with a local guide. I don’t want to write too much about it here—just watch the video. An experience from this trip that I won’t forget anytime soon—wow! => Link here
In early October, after nearly two months in Colombia, it was time to say goodbye: Adios Colombia! A country with a unique blend of friendly people, great food, and diverse landscapes—from beaches and mountains to big cities. A country that manages to captivate travelers anew at every turn.
F
rom Colombia, we set off for Panama. We went shopping with Lara and Anja. It’s always a highlight to go shopping for a longer period of time. Some of the looks you get at the supermarket are priceless—people stocking up for the crossing.
We left Colombia under engine power and made very slow progress. Contrary to the forecasts, the wind didn’t pick up as we’d hoped. Since the boat hadn’t been moved for about two months, nasty barnacles had attached themselves to the hull, which slowed us down significantly. So we sailed into the first night at 2.7 knots. Because of the slow speed, my mind started doing the math again: Would we have enough diesel, especially since we’d last refueled in Grenada—four months ago? How fast do we need to go for it to last? What if the wind doesn’t pick up—will we make it under engine power? These were the thoughts running through my mind for several hours. I was jolted out of my thoughts in the middle of the night by an alarm that was unfamiliar to me at the time. I went to investigate and discovered that the custom-installed exhaust gas temperature sensor had gone off for the first time. Engine off! Luckily, a light breeze picked up and we hoisted the headsail; the mainsail was still damaged from the incident in Santa Marta and couldn’t be used. These are always those infamous moments—far out at sea, facing unknown problems in the middle of the night, flipping through the manual in the hope of finding a clue. In moments like these, you sometimes find yourself wishing you were sitting at your desk at home, not worrying about whether your house is still standing.
We decided to keep bobbing along under sail until the first rays of sunshine appeared. Naturally, sleep was out of the question for me—there were just too many things running through my head. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, but I was already up and had started the engine; I checked what I could and realized that no coolant was leaking anymore! Sailing to Panama without an engine was too risky, especially since we still wanted to make a stop in the San Blas archipelago. Navigating through the reefs without an engine was unthinkable! At least, if we didn’t want to end up like some of the shipwrecks off the islands. So I decided to change course back toward Colombia, since I was familiar with the area and knew we could anchor there without any problems. Together with Lara, I went through the manuals again. We removed the impeller, checked the saltwater intake, and lo and behold—there was no water left in the prefilter, which meant the engine couldn’t draw in any more water. We checked to see if the inlet was clogged but concluded that the problem was simply the pre-filter cover, which hadn’t been closed all the way during the last inspection. As a result, air had entered the system, and water could no longer be drawn in. A small cause, a big effect. We let the engine run for two hours to make sure everything was working properly again.
Because of the diesel consumption, I decided to motor on to Cartagena (the only gas station for miles around) anyway, since the wind still hadn’t picked up. We arrived in the middle of the night and dropped anchor at 0100 in front of Cartagena’s high-rises. It was far too dark for my taste, and I actually try to avoid arriving in the dark whenever possible. It wasn’t easy to tell whether the lights were signal beacons marking a shoal or navigation aid, or simply streetlights or lights from the high-rises. On top of that, some of the ships at anchor (some of them quite dilapidated sailing vessels) hadn’t set their anchor lights, which made the whole maneuver in the dark even more difficult.
The next morning, we took it easy—everyone needed to recover from the exertions. Lara and I tried to remove the barnacles from the Yum Yum underwater so we could move faster. After a short while, with blisters on our hands, we gave up. The hull looked like a coral garden—we needed professional help. A personal message from Switzerland also knocked me out of commission for a few hours. Nevertheless, we had no choice but to take care of some organizational matters that very same day, since we were once again in the country “illegally.” We had already cleared customs in Puerto Velero, and I didn’t want to voluntarily get into trouble with the Armada Nacional—especially since my Spanish wouldn’t be good enough for such a discussion.
That same afternoon, we found a sailmaker, took down the mainsail, and handed it over for repair. A day later, I was already ashore at 0700, looking for Paulo. Paulo was supposed to help us clean the hull. 2.5 hours later, Paulo came to me and said he was done. I was quite amazed to see that the entire hull had been cleared of barnacles. An impressive feat—and all without an oxygen tank. Hats off to him! The mainsail came back repaired shortly before noon, and by early afternoon we were already at the gas station. For once, everything went according to plan, and we were ready for Panama. Panama, here we come!
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