Cartagena sunset, Journey to Cartagena, Colombia road trip, Painted skies, Colombia
Waking up in the park gives the sensation of entering a primitive world, reminiscent of Jurassic Park, but without the dinosaurs. The place remains almost as pristine as when it was first found. Enormous palms and dense jungle foliage drape over the path, creating a thick green cover that shields you from the intense sun of the northern coast. The refreshing ocean breeze faded, and the heat starts to stick to you like a second skin.
Now loading up the bike, we are observed by birds flitting from tree to tree, observing us with their inquisitive gazes. Today, our destination is eastward, aiming for the northernmost point of Colombia—towards Riohacha, a medium-sized town on the Caribbean coast.
We arrived with visions of a quiet coastal escape, but Riohacha was far from it. The city buzzed with nightclubs and hotels, a beachfront stretching along the main drag, crowded with life. We stopped for fresh seafood at a small place by the water, the salt air mingling with the scent of grilled fish, but the city's energy didn’t feel quite right. Our first hotel, a gated compound with a stunning pool and bungalows, seemed promising. We waited at the heavy iron gate, finally let in after what felt like an eternity. But inside, there was more waiting. Heather, switching to her best Spanish, asked if our room was ready. Apparently, we’d have to wait until exactly 3 p.m., despite it being just after 2 and despite the fact that we’d already been waiting 40 minutes. Frustrated, we decided to scrap the whole reservation and hit the road again, the oppressive afternoon heat baking the pavement.
Eventually, we found a small local hotel—a no-frills beach club, cheap but clean. It felt more like someone’s house that had been boxed in by walls and converted into a simple L-shaped hotel. No view of the beach, but it was safe, and the hosts were friendly. But then came a new problem. Earlier, during one of our many stops, Heather’s seat pad had fallen off unnoticed and gotten caught in the bike’s chain, blowing out a seal. Now the motorcycle was leaking oil, leaving a trail wherever we parked.
That night, we settled in for a quiet evening, ordering in using Rappi, the local version of UberEats. We had the hotel’s outdoor seating area to ourselves, sipping wine and laughing under the stars, temporarily pushing the worry of the leaking oil out of our minds. But by morning, it was impossible to ignore. The small puddle under the bike had grown into a dinner-plate-sized pool. We knew it would be a long ride to our next stop, so we picked up some oil at a station, hoping to keep the bike running smoothly. Oddly enough, the leak seemed to lessen while we were on the road, though we stopped frequently to check the oil levels, nerves on edge.
We were heading back west now, toward Cartagena, but it was too far to make in a single day. Just west of Santa Marta, we stopped in a quiet beach town and found a hotel that had a small casino attached. After checking in, we spent the afternoon by the pool, though it soon fell into shadow from a nearby building, leaving us chilly and eager to retreat to our room. That evening, we walked down to the busy beach promenade, the heart of the town’s nightlife. Bars, restaurants, and hotels lined the waterfront, the sound of Latin music spilling out into the night. The sea stretched endlessly into the darkness, the crashing waves just a backdrop to the lights and music. We found a corner spot, enjoyed a simple local meal, and lingered in the warm, heavy air, soaking in the atmosphere.
The next morning, we packed our bags and headed down for the included breakfast. I’ve had many breakfasts in my travels, but none as bad as this one. One bite was enough. We left it on the plate and hit the road, eager to get back on the bike and away from the disappointing meal.
The route back to Cartagena was familiar, one we’d traveled many times. There’s something comforting about a road you know, even if it’s never quite the same twice. Whether we took the main highway or a twisting dirt road through remote villages, there was always a sense of adventure. We stopped at one of our favorite places along the way, a traditional open-air restaurant with a large palapa roof, terracotta floors, and handmade tables. The lot was filled with trucks, motorcycles, and cars. Here, we enjoyed ice-cold Coca-Colas made with real sugar and heaping plates of ribs with typical Colombian sides. It was a welcome break from the dust and heat of the road.
As the afternoon sun sank lower in the sky, the clouds began to stack high to the west, layer upon layer like vast towers of cotton, rising into the heavens. The sun, ever persistent, worked its way around them, casting beams of light that painted the sky in breathtaking hues—vibrant pinks, deep oranges, and brilliant yellows. The clouds glowed like giant canvases in an open gallery, a display of this world’s beauty, each one a masterpiece unfolding before us.
We knocked off the final kilometers toward Cartagena, the long shadows of the palm trees stretching across the road, as if they, too, were reaching toward the horizon. Anticipation grew with every passing moment—home was within reach, but there was a bittersweetness to it. The familiar landmarks appeared, reminders that the journey, rich and full, was coming to an end.
The sun dipped behind the old town, casting the skyline in a warm, golden light, its rays stretching across the rooftops and walls of the ancient city. In the distance, the modern towers of Cartagena shimmered, catching the last flickers of daylight. Palm-lined beaches, silhouetted against the glowing sky, swayed gently in the sea breeze. A common sight, yet one that never lost its power to take our breath away. The light, the colors, the moment—it was as if the world had paused, just for us, offering one final, brilliant gift before nightfall.
It was the perfect end to this leg of the journey—a beautiful farewell to the road. Yet, as always, there was that lingering thought: maybe we could keep going. Even though the road would run out, even though we had to stop, there was a pull to continue. To wander, not to find something or lose something, but simply to experience the world in this nomadic way. To feel the wind on your face, the sun on your back, and the endless possibilities ahead. There’s no better way to live. And as the sun set on this chapter, we knew it wouldn’t be the last. We would say goodbye to this journey, but there would always be another road, another sunset waiting for us somewhere down the line.
Jeremy
