Cramped bus rides with overzealous air-conditioning and blaring salsa are often treated as a necessary evil of backpacker travel—something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Near Colombia’s Pacific coast, however, a tiny jungle village turns that logic upside down. In San Cipriano, the journey is not merely a prelude to the destination; it is the experience itself.
Reaching this riverside hamlet, tucked deep in the rainforest just two hours from Cali, involves boarding one of the most idiosyncratic modes of transport in South America: the brujita, or “little witch.” Part motorbike, part wooden sidecar, these handmade carts cling to abandoned railway tracks and zip through dense tropical greenery with an exhilarating sense of improvisation. What began as a practical solution for moving people and goods has evolved into a rite of passage for travelers seeking something delightfully off-script.
San Cipriano makes a natural escape after time spent in Cali, a city where heat, rhythm and rumba dominate the senses. The road west toward Buenaventura winds through the lush Valle del Cauca, revealing a landscape that grows steadily greener and more untamed. The jumping-off point is the unassuming town of Córdoba. From there, a short downhill walk leads to the railway tracks—and to the waiting brujitas.
At the tracks, drivers efficiently maneuver the carts into place, balancing wooden platforms atop small steel wheels. Passengers – locals and visitors alike – climb aboard and settle onto narrow planks that serve as seats. Once a modest fare is agreed upon, the engine sputters to life and the brujita jolts forward, gathering speed as it hugs the rails.
With up to six people squeezed onto each cart, the ride is intimate but invigorating. A cool breeze cuts through the jungle heat as towering palms and thick foliage blur past. The journey is just six kilometers, yet long enough to appreciate the ingenuity behind this community-built transport—and to feel a quiet thrill that it continues to exist largely on its own terms.
Technically illegal, the brujitas share the tracks with freight trains traveling to and from the port of Buenaventura. In practice, the system functions smoothly: only two trains run daily, and the carts are removed from the tracks well in advance. The brujitas have served as San Cipriano’s lifeline for more than 40 years, though their earliest incarnations were even more rudimentary. Before engines were added, drivers propelled flat wooden platforms forward by planting long poles into the ground, punting along the rails and braking with flip-flops.
Those broom-like poles gave rise to the carts’ witchy nickname, an image that still feels apt as the vehicles streak through the forest. Modernization has arrived gently. An official ticket booth now regulates fares for the growing number of visitors, and a small entrance fee supports the village’s status as a protected nature reserve.
San Cipriano itself is blissfully car-free. A single main street runs past plantain palms, modest wooden shops and a handful of rustic restaurants. The village’s greatest draw, however, is its river: a ribbon of crystal-clear water flowing over smooth stones beneath a dense green canopy.
After settling into a simple cabaña, most visitors head straight for the water. Inner tubes—oversized and cheerfully impractical—are rented from local eateries. A leisurely walk upstream sets the stage for a floating journey back toward the village, drifting through gentle currents punctuated by the occasional rapid. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the water’s surface, and time seems to loosen its grip.
Floating here feels less like an activity and more like surrender: to the river, to the jungle, to a slower rhythm of life. It is the kind of pleasure that invites repetition, and many visitors find themselves hiking back upstream again and again, chasing the perfect glide.
The river doubles as a playground for local children, who greet passing floaters with infectious enthusiasm. Laughing and shrieking, they leap into the water, hitching rides on inner tubes and guiding them expertly through faster currents before scrambling back onto the banks. As afternoon fades into dusk, the river grows quiet, offering a final, solitary float beneath deepening shadows.
Evenings in San Cipriano unfold simply. Dinner might include fried plantains, rice, and freshwater prawns simmered in coconut sauce, washed down with viche—a potent, home-distilled sugarcane liquor emblematic of Colombia’s Pacific coast. Nights are dark, humid and serenaded by the sounds of insects and rushing water.
The following day brings more exploration: short hikes to nearby waterfalls, another swim in the river, and, inevitably, one last ride on a brujita. Leaving San Cipriano means retracing the same rails, the same blur of green—but with a sense that the journey now carries as much meaning as the place itself.
In a world increasingly obsessed with efficiency and convenience, San Cipriano offers something rarer: a reminder that travel’s greatest joys often lie not in how quickly one arrives, but in how memorably one gets there.
