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 and flew to Cartagena.
After a week in Colombia I received a message from my shipping agent, Alejandro, letting me know 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 ahead of me. A man wearing dark blue coveralls, a safety-orange vest, and a white helmet greeted us and handed each of us a vest and helmet. 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. Although it would take another day of paperwork before we could drive them out, both vehicles had survived the journey. My flight to South America had taken just 45 minutes, but it took over a week for my truck to catch up with me.
It was now late February, and I was glad to be back on the road. Before leaving town, I made sure to top off the truck's gas tank. About an hour into the drive, the engine began to stumble on uphill stretches, I could hear a new pinging sound was coming from under the hood. I found a hotel for the night and began trying to figure out what was wrong. After a bit of internet searching, it seemed like I had been sold watered-down gasoline. I walked to a nearby gas station and bought a bottle of octane booster. When I got back to the truck I poured the entire bottle into the tank. The gentleman who owned the hotel saw what I was doing and came out to talk with me. “Mala gasolina en todos lados." He said the country was full of bad gas. Before leaving the next morning, I decided to buy another bottle, just in case.
