It was time to ship my truck to Colombia. The shipping container arrived still attached to a semi-truck, with a flatbed tow truck following close behind. The tow truck's role was to lift my vehicle and align it with the container's entrance so I could drive it inside. I reversed onto the flatbed, and while I stayed in the cab, the tow truck driver leveled the bed and slowly backed it up to the container's opening. My foot was glued to the brake pedal. A pair of oil-stained wooden blocks bridged the gap between the flatbed and the container. I folded in my side view mirrors and crept slowly forward into the container.
Once my truck was tucked inside, I had to get myself out. I couldn’t fit through the gap between the partially open door and the container wall. I ended up doing a reverse Dukes of Hazzard through the open driver’s side window, climbing on to the hood and down the tire.
To keep costs down, I shared the container with another traveler. My container buddy, Adrian, was heading home to Brazil in his blue Ford van with California plates. He had spent the past year surfing his way through Central America. Within half an hour, both vehicles were strapped down and locked inside. I took a picture of the numbers stenciled on the container’s faded gray and rusty exterior. I’m not sure what I thought I was going to do with that information, but it made me feel better to have it. With the truck en route, I purchased a plane ticket to Cartagena.
My flight to South America took just 45 minutes, but it took more than a week for my truck to be returned to me. During that time, I explored Cartagena on foot. I woke up early to avoid the heat and wandered the city. My favorite part were the narrow streets and colorful murals in Getsemaní.
I received a message from my shipping agent Alejandro that my truck was ready for pickup. I headed to the Puerto de Cartagena, a massive fenced lot filled with row after row of shipping containers. Adrian had arrived before me. A man in dark blue coveralls, a safety orange vest, and a white helmet came to greet us. He handed us both a vest and helmet to put on. We entered the port and found our container. Adrian cut the lock, and inside were his van and my truck, just as we had left them. It would take another day of paperwork before we could leave the port in our vehicles, but they survived their boat ride.
It was the end of February, and I was glad to be back on the road. One of the shipping requirements is to have less than an eighth of a tank when the vehicle is loaded, so I made sure to fill up before leaving town. That day was one of the first during my trip to reach triple-digit temperatures. After about an hour of driving, I noticed the engine stumbling while going uphill, along with a distinct pinging sound coming from under the hood. I bought a bottle of octane booster at a gas station and brought it back to the hotel where I was staying. I poured the entire bottle into the tank. The gentleman who owned the hotel saw what I was doing and came out to talk to me. “Mala gasolina en todos lados,” he told me. He said the country was full of bad gas. I decided to buy another bottle before heading out.
