JANUARY 9th: Into Colombia
 Even after Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador, these mountains are overwhelming.Risk management on a trip like mine still seems to me to be a largely futile endeavour. The anticipated dangers hardly ever materialise, and obviously there's no way to prepare for the others. In any case, I learned many years ago that the odds in our favour are vastly higher than we imagine. A modicum of fear is a useful preservative, but I try not to let it affect my behaviour. Sometimes, though, I fail. Even in the seventies, Colombia's reputation for theft and violence reached out to me long before I got there, and induced me to take precautions. I remember sharpening my kitchen knife (though what I had in mind to do with it escapes me). I also put padlocks on my boxes, but they were of little use as I soon lost the keys, and had to have the locks sawn off. In the event, no aggression came my way and I experienced only wonder at the beauty of the country and admiration for its people. My memories of it were so warm that ever since leaving England a year ago I have been looking forward to seeing it again. But things are not what they were, and a distinctly different set of horror stories now emanates from Colombia. Two major guerilla groups have de facto control over sizeable areas of the country. The FARC, more to the East, are financed mainly by drug money, and carry out widespread bombings, raids and assassinations. The ELN, still thought to be the more ideological bunch, specialise in kidnapping and extortion, with a special presence on the very roads I meant to travel. And paramilitary death squads add to the mayhem in the name of right-wing justice. One could hardly approach this kind of situation without qualms. What is a biker to do? I did the sensible thing, and before going into Colombia from Ecuador I asked around. The advice I got was pretty straightforward. The danger is mainly on the more deserted stretches of the highway, either between Pasto and Popayan or north of Medellin. In these areas, where the ELN is active, ride early in the day and never at night, because guerillas like to get away under cover of darkness. Watch for oncoming traffic, because its absence could signal a road block. And keep asking the locals what's happening. I was visiting Ricardo Rocco, a passionate rider who lives in Quito and lavishes hospitality on every biker who comes that way, when I met Glen Heggstad, the gringo kidnappee from Minnesota. He spent five weeks of hell as the guest of the ELN, and did his best to dissuade me from going to Colombia at all, but having failed at that, he said, "If I had to do it again, I'd carry a red cross. The Red Cross is about the only thing they respect." Well, I didn't care for the idea at first. The ethics seemed shaky, and anyway I couldn't imagine a guerilla saying to himself , "Oh, he must be one of those Red Cross bikers I've never heard of." But Ricardo was very taken with the plan, and made me a big red cross out of contact paper, so I took it along meaning to ditch it later. Then, on my way to the border I began what became a long series of imaginary conversations with guerilla comandantes. "Yes indeed," I would say, trying to ignore the muzzle of the AK47 nudging my ribs, "I really am a Red Cross volunteer. We carry urgent medical supplies and blood. Well, no I don't have any with me at this moment, actually, but they're waiting for me anxiously in Medellin.... " After a bit of rehearsing I had almost convinced myself it could work. Anyway, it was better than nothing. I swept my ethical doubts aside, and as soon as I'd crossed into Colombia I stopped at the roadside and got the red cross out of my tank bag. An old man saw me from his garden, and came out through the gate to talk. "How's life? I asked. He sighed, mournfully. "It is very difficult, very dangerous." Then, as the big, bold rufus cruciform unfolded onto my windshield like the banner of St George, he exclaimed: "Ah, la Cruz Roja. Nobody will molest you now." I took his words as a blessing and set off for Pasto. The road climbed to 10,000 feet, and swooped around the high passes before bringing me down again to the headwaters of the Cauca river, and by then the landscape had completely distracted me from my paranoid dialogues with imaginary terrorists. Even after the glories of the Peruvian and Ecuadorian Andes, Colombia is astonishing. . Although much has changed here as everywhere, the mountains still exert their monumental presence. It was a bitter-sweet experience, riding with the thought that there could be a road block around the next corner, but the landscape seized me, and after a while I just couldn't think about anything else. Back to 1974
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