Transportation in Colombia is one of those things that sounds like a bad idea if you explain it out loud.

The rules exist… technically. Lanes are more like suggestions. Speed limits feel aspirational. And yet—against all logic—people get where they’re going. Not always smoothly. Not always calmly. But reliably.

After a while, you stop asking why it works and start asking a much more uncomfortable question:
Why does transportation in the U.S. feel more stressful with infinitely more rules?

If you’re new here, I’m Matt—an American living in Colombia. And this isn’t a rant or a complaint. It’s a collection of observations. Because once you live here long enough, Colombia’s transportation system stops feeling chaotic… and starts feeling oddly efficient.

Here are ten things about getting around Colombia that absolutely confuse Americans—and quietly rewire how you think about movement, rules, and control.

Uber in Colombia lives in a legal gray zone that everyone politely pretends not to notice.

The workaround? You sit in the front seat.

If the police see you, you’re not a passenger—you’re a friend. Apparently criminals always sit in the back, which is a fascinating legal theory, but one everyone has agreed to accept.

Drivers will casually say, “Front seat, please,” and suddenly you’re legally bonded strangers. You don’t know his last name. You don’t know where he lives. But if anything happens, you are now part of the story.

Five stars. Obviously.

In the U.S., a check engine light is a financial emergency.

In Colombia, it’s just… on.

It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t alarm. It simply exists, like a quiet acknowledgment between you and the car. I’ve asked people about it. They’ll glance at the dashboard and say, “It runs.”

That’s the full diagnostic.

The car is aware. You’re aware. And honestly, it’s been fine so far.

You land. You’re tired. You’re looking for a taxi.

Then suddenly, a well-dressed man appears, grabs your suitcase, and starts assisting with absolute confidence. No badge. No uniform. Just commitment.

He hands your bag to the driver like you’ve been coworkers for years. Then he turns to you and waits.

There’s no conversation. No explanation. Just eye contact and expectation.

You tip him—not because you asked for help, but because the job is already complete. It’s unsolicited entrepreneurship, and honestly, I respect it.

Speed bumps in Colombia are aggressive.

Small ones are called piscinas. Big ones are called sargentos. And the big ones are not about slowing down—they’re about humility.

No signs. No paint. Just faith.

You’ll be driving, feeling reasonable, when suddenly your suspension learns a life lesson. Some of these bumps feel less like traffic control and more like a chiropractic adjustment.

In the U.S., being honked at feels personal.

In Colombia, it’s informational.

One beep means “hi.”
Two beeps mean “you can go.”
A long beep means “I am processing something emotionally.”

No one gets offended. No one takes it personally. It’s basically Morse code with feelings.

I’ve been honked at and thought, “Wow, that was polite.”

If someone needs to stop, they stop.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a lane. Doesn’t matter if it’s legal. Especially near bakeries.

People double park, turn on their hazard lights—which legally translate to “I’ll be right back”—and everyone accepts it.

No yelling. No honking. Because bread is temporary. Missing bread is forever.

In Colombia, you park where your heart tells you. And strangely, it’s usually right.

If there’s space, it might become a lane.

Motorcycles slide between cars—not aggressively, just efficiently. A middle lane might suddenly decide it’s also a turn lane. And everyone adjusts.

No confusion. No outrage. We’ve collectively agreed this is happening.

At some point, traffic stops being infrastructure and becomes a cooperative exercise with no leader—and it still works.

There’s a motorcycle rideshare called Picap.

It’s cheap. It’s fast. And it’s a decision.

A man appears instantly with a helmet—not his helmet, just a helmet. That helmet has lived. It smells like ambition and urgency.

Then you get on the bike. No seatbelt. No door. Just trust.

You are no longer a person. You are a thought moving through traffic.

Four stars.

Colombian bus drivers are built differently.

You’ll be on a mountain road with a cliff on one side, a symbolic guardrail on the other, rain coming down—and the bus is going faster than your nervous system can process.

The driver? Completely relaxed. One hand on the wheel. One adjusting the radio.

At some point, fear gives way to respect. This man has done this before. You are the variable.

At some point, you’ll see it.

Dad driving. Mom holding a baby. A kid in front texting.

No one looks stressed. This isn’t an emergency. This is Tuesday.

Helmets exist. Some of them. Balance is perfect.

Meanwhile, you’re in a car with airbags and still nervous merging. At that point, you stop judging. Clearly, they figured something out—and you didn’t.

Transportation in Colombia looks chaotic. But it functions.

In the U.S., we have lanes, signs, rules—and still endless traffic and stress. Colombia relies more on awareness, negotiation, and confidence.

I don’t know what the lesson is exactly. But it probably involves adaptability… and ignoring the check engine light.