tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38153715793810334082024-03-13T23:54:34.780-07:00watermelons.and.redstarfruitI pray on hands and knees for someone to steal my bike so I can stop this madness, but until then I keep pedaling in South America...Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-52014383126844752492009-01-30T10:49:00.000-08:002009-02-08T09:36:41.216-08:00Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales, Chile<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300137911094767138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fWUtibiI/AAAAAAAAAcg/JSwlLfGFCYY/s320/P1270006.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨This was the best of three attempts. You can see the storm coming in the upper right.¨<br /><br /></em><div><div><div><div><div>I see a pattern developing in my bike traveling; I need at least a day of rest and recuperation for every day I spend on the bike. I never intended for this to be a purely biking endeavor, rather I wanted to travel and use the bike as the mode of transport. It turns out that if you are traveling by bike that it becomes the main part of your experience. It cuts down on contact time with other travelers and that for me is the most entertaining, eye-opening part of the travel experience. Hearing other viewpoints and what people sacrificed in order to travel or how it is important to them or what they do or their family, so on and so forth, are the things I daydream about in the years to come, and not the statistics or fact that I biked 250km against the wind with 1,500 meters of incline in three days. You can keep your stats.<br /><br />I tried biking with team 'Personality Plus' from Switzerland but that did not jive for either party so I left Punta Arenas, alone again, with my mind in a haze. The haze was part confusion and part meditative. The former being why am I going to battle the elements of cold and wind again, and the later the natural birth of the unique state to endure those elements.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300137901857084338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fVyTGk7I/AAAAAAAAAcQ/_A-l8ccKjW4/s320/P1270002.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨This was called ´Monument to the wind´. Interestingly enough these giant metal structures did not move in the wind, but their presence was at least an acknowledgement to me that the locals admit it is a windy place.¨</em></div><div><br />Starting the day I had every intention to bike 50 or 60km, a short day, and find a place to camp in the wilderness. The headwinds proved to be consistent but relatively light so I was able to fight fight fight until I got the tipping point of being able to reach the next town, only 100km away. At km 85 the wind turned on all its fury and I was left dry crying the remaining 15km to reach the campsite and water in Villa Telhuenin, which took 2.5 hours. I wanted to stop along the way but there was no shelter from the wind for miles- only a flat prairie with little desert shrubs and sickly wind slapped flowers with arched backs desperately clinging to the thin soil, like me desperately clinging to my bike.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300137905878671378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fWBR7IBI/AAAAAAAAAcY/oXs-PnMx6bc/s320/P1270003.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨This photo is not for you but a memory photo for me, and how I felt in this exact moment. Really I should delete it as to not remember.¨</em></div><div><br />Believe it or not there is another solo Swiss German biker setting up camp when I arrive. We chatted for a bit while propping up our tents and making food. We compared notes and observations of the day´s ride, none of which were very profound. ¨Last 15 km were tough.¨ Agreed. And then nothing more. The guy is 35, an independent carpenter with no girlfriend or kids, and as mentioned, also a Swiss German.<br />¨I have noticed some big differences between the Swiss if they are from the Italian, French or German part,¨ I threw out the comment to see if he would even care.<br />¨How so?¨ was the curious response.<br />¨Well, if you meet a biker from Switzerland 9 times out of 10 it will be from the German part. The Swiss Italians cannot be bothered with the inconvenience and do not see the point, and even more so for the Swiss French who are connoisseurs of fine wines, fine food and fine living. That most certainly excludes a lifestyle of bike touring. The Swiss Germans are the only ones organized or stubborn enough to bike tour, and they love it. I think more than any other country, or so it seems,¨ I explained.<br />Like a well-made Swiss German machine his mechanical reply is, ¨I would have to agree with your observations.¨<br />What?! Did he just say that? This is surreal.<br />The conversation then mainly went into biking and camping gear pros and cons. Keep it factual. My mind started to wander and think about the ´types´ that bike tour, at least those that bike tour alone. They are strange. Are they biking from something or trying to prove something or perhaps a little of both? I guess the same can be said for all solo artists like the extreme hiker or mountaineer. What is that wild look in their eye that drives them? And come to think of it, are not I one of them as well? I like to think I am not one of them because I would prefer to bike with someone else, but then I cannot stand the company of what I deem ´incompatibles´ and that puts me right back into the same group I just mentioned.<br />The Swiss German recoils into his own shell of a world and I get the impression he would rather eat, and bike alone the next day. I am right.<br /><br />Briskness hung in the blue air of a long overdue sunset while I greedily ate dinner. In the process I nearly ate the tips of my fingers off. ¨Food me,¨ is the most profound thing I can think at the moment. Your jaw muscles cramp and give out before your stomach gets full. The legs are like unappreciative children- taking, taking without a thought except being satisfied. Try as I might to feed them and do my best, just like a parent, it is like throwing pubic hairs on a fire- they go up in smoke before they even hit the flames.<br /><br />My brain has turned into cycling putty. Does the brain need stimuli from its surroundings to create thoughts? Perhaps I am happy like a Buddhist is happy. All thoughts are blown clear, in one ear and out the other. Happy like a clueless monk. Not sad cause you need a thought to be sad. Happiness a default state from a lack of thoughts? Perhaps. Ignorance is bliss, and this landscape is bliss inducing.<br /><br />Morning. Dew and a grumbling stomach. The Swiss German has already packed camp and split.<br /><br />Shadows of showers approach and I hop back in the saddle to try and outrun the weather. Rain means lighter wind, but then again, you are getting wet. From a squinty grimace I can see an abandoned farm house about 500 meters on the other side of a barb-wired fence keeping sheep and ostriches from becoming road kill. Each of the four bags were removed from my bike and I threw my bike over the fence, only getting one sensitive underarm caught in the barb wire. The animals scattered as I approached the empty hut with broken windows and I cautiously scanned for any guard dogs. None seen. Although there is a lock on the door it is only for appearance and I am able to get inside and take a respite from the weather and cook up a warm spaghetti meal for myself, and then take a one hour nap on my blue roll out foam while listening to my iPod on my little battery powered speakers. I am in squatter heaven. All it takes is a little trespassing to feel so free free free! I slept like a baby with mononucleosis, and upon waking the clouds had dissipated. Voila! I considered staying the night in this wind and water proof miracle of modern engineering- never had shelter been so appreciated.<br /><br />I decided to take advantage of the good weather and pushed onward. Good choice. 30 min later it is raining again and I am looking for a place to set up camp, in the rain. That is always fun.<br />I pulled up to 90km for the day and found another great spot under some trees in a field of sheep, again, just a barb-wired fence jump away. My wind and rain tree block I had picked from the roadside also happened to be the best spot for the sheep to take cover. They scattered as I approached and I was left to find a sheep poop heaven of a camp ground. Along the route I have seen sign-posts warning of mine fields (you want to make sure NOT to hop those fences and camp there!) left over from the cold war between Chile and Argentina in the late 70's. Now I am in a different minefield of sorts, a sheep shit mine field. I cleared a place and put down the tarp and read in my tent under the pitter patter of rain droplets collecting and dropping from the tree above. Nature's drum solo played all night accompanied by the ¨blahahahah, blahahahaah¨ of the woolly clad singers. At times I do enjoy this parsimonious existence. In the morning, like the fog in my eyes, the countryside looked like gorillas in the mist. Goose bumps wont do, I had pterodactyl bumps.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300137916616802402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fWpSGAGI/AAAAAAAAAcw/3py7_9DZhXE/s320/P1280009.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300137918236701506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fWvUTs0I/AAAAAAAAAco/kIr2kPYtdn8/s320/P1280008.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Sheep shit mine field.¨</em></div><div><br />The always predictably unpredictable weather continued. The wind subsided and I flew through the countryside like a horse freed from pulling a wagon. 26km in one hour. I stopped to refuel and unload. The well water I have been drinking gives me stomach cramps with period-like bloating (ladies, you know what I am talking about). My movements are profound as they are poetic and I imagine a tracker being mistaken for an existence of a Shetland pony in the area. These are not your feeble ´ribbon´ India traveling breed of movements. These make you want to light a pipe, nestle one hand under your elbow and ponder with a confidently tilted head.<br /><br />Lighter and hopped up on chocolate I sang at the top of my lungs until I gasped for air while pumping as hard as I could. I thought the chain would break or my wheels would dissolve into gummy bears. The downhill joy of arriving into Puerto Natales had me yelping like a wolf with its nuts in a rat trap. Pure animalistic joy and a smile that I could feel giving me permanent wrinkles. Arriving in Puerto Natales damp and rainbows burned in my cornea I had finished another leg of a journey that has no end point. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300138369837897730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SY3fxBqbGAI/AAAAAAAAAc4/xbV4HpfqzBU/s320/P1280007.JPG" border="0" /></div></div><br /><em>Caption, ¨One of the many rainbows. Sometimes you see something amazing and you cannot muster the ganas to stop the flow of biking to take the photo to remember the moment. This time I did even though it was the least spectacular.</em>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-1970770418829492372009-01-26T14:47:00.000-08:002009-01-26T15:30:24.789-08:00Where does the time go?It was another pointless test of endurance on a 50 hour bus ride departing from my ´home´ in Buenos Aires for a return to the saddle starting in Ushuaia and heading North without a destination. The 50 hours passed uneventfully where I read, listened to music while watching the seemingly endless treeless Patagonia tundra passing, and fell in love with an Italian for an hour while sitting next to a Chilean lady breastfeeding her 2 year old child <em>every</em> 10 minutes. The kids was asking for ´teta´, meaning tit.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742429375774802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BrnToQFI/AAAAAAAAAbo/5O2cR9Kiwp4/s320/ushuaia.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Ushuaia, the southern most city in the world, so they say.¨</em><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742047623306866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BVZKv3nI/AAAAAAAAAa4/6jlixrm91m4/s320/goodsteakbetterconversation.jpg" border="0" /> Ca<em>ption: ¨Good wine, great steaks and better conversations. New found friends from Wales and Bulgaria.¨</em><br /><em></em><br />I would take breaks from my all consuming book, Mysteries by Knut Hamsun, to watch the happiest animals playing I have ever seen. Horses were bucking and chasing each other like kids playing tag in nature´s yawning expanses. Lamas and big fluffy sheep were bumping and bounding over each other while curious foxes darted across the road. The land gets flatter, more windy, and the days longer the farther south we get until we finally arrive at the bottom of South America in a town called Ushuaia on the island of Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire).<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295741594693404706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5A7B32CCI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/rsbXEX90VUw/s320/beforestormroad.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨An hour before the storm.¨</em><br /><br />After taking a month break from riding I was anxious to get going so instead of trekking in the National Park of Tierra del Fuego I opted to purchase 4 days worth of food and hit the road going north immediately. It was a good choice. I left and right away within the first 50km a storm rolled in and I took cover next to a lake appropriately named Lago Escondido (Hidden Lake). I found a path and maneuvered my bike on foot down to the waterfront with a curious excitement in my belly. It was pure wilderness camping on the bank of a unpopulated lake. It was the perfect spot. Alone. I mean really alone. I cooked up a pasta, took some clean water from the lake that was once a clear blue glacier, and then saw the storm come in. The wind and rain battered my little tent with me in it for 24 hours straight. Great, is this what biking Patagonia is going to be like? The wind gusts gave birth to Wizard of Oz dreams of fly spinning up into the air. I read, and ate, and slept, and read, and ate, and slept. When I finally poked my head outside the tent the surrounding hills were covered in a layer of powder sugar snow. Is this summertime?<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742428981560258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5Brl1pA8I/AAAAAAAAAbw/ulfs1EzX5gg/s320/stormtree2.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742420053631426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BrElDocI/AAAAAAAAAbY/z5oJ6LceXoI/s320/stormtree.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨An hour later once the storm rolled in. Looks and felt foreboding.¨</em><br /><br />I continued onward until I made it to Tolhuin situated on the banks of the Lago Fagnano. This is where the wind starts and really does not stop until you get 500 km North. The winds get up to 120kph and create 3 meter waves (9 foot) in the lake from the wind swell. It is really not so much a gust as a constant blast of wind, like sticking your head out a car doing 60 mph. Now try to ride your bike in that with full luggage bags that act as open umbrellas towed behind you. Luckily there was a camp ground with wind breaks set up so your tent does not blow away.<br /><br />The wind blows and blows, and blows your body heat away, then blows your moisture out of your skin and eyeballs, and eventually blows your patience away. I continued North. Wait, did I mention that most of the people bike WITH the wind, going South, not like me, going North right into the headwind? It doubles the travel time and takes 3x the effort and energy. At first I thought, ¨Well, against the wind, how bad can it be?¨ Let me tell you, far worse than one imagines.<br /><br />As I was saying, I continued North to Rio Grande and did some more wilderness camping along the way in a field filled with sheep and guanacos (lamas). These curious creatures would come check me out then get frightened and scamper off. Birds flew into my tree area protected from the wind and chirped away while I read my book and jotted down some notes basking in the sun under my cowboy hat. This was a truly peaceful spot, and I think the fox I saw agreed with me too. Thoughts flew around my head along with the birds. Is the experience about enduring or to give you a new appreciation of creature comforts you have once the experience is over? At this moment the experience is the enjoyable part. I have comfort, food, water, time, and great weather- from my protected spot, in a good warm mood, I can hear the invisible hand of the wind pass over the tree tops and it sounds like a roller coaster made of cotton candy passing- but only 48 hours ago I was just surviving to get out of an uncomfortable situation. Then a quote from my book Mysteries makes me laugh out loud, ¨The world maintains that no rational man or woman would have chosen this way of life - therefore it is madness.¨ I guess so. It makes me realize that I am strange, even for strangers in strange lands. A ´list´ of items to check off in life does not exist for me, rather I have whims. Yes, I agree, the word whim is as flimsy as it sounds but somehow it has gotten me this far.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742044440713538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BVNT9WUI/AAAAAAAAAaw/E52ocYBUKis/s320/direcionobligatoria.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption,¨Direccion Obligatoria. Ya, sometimes it feels that way in life.¨</em><br /><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742431273064770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BruX-mUI/AAAAAAAAAb4/2VXivQfAKJc/s320/treecamping.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Whimsical camping.¨</em></p><p><br />The next morning I get up yet again without the sound of an alarm clock. A breakfast of dried fruits, nuts, oats and chocolate fill up the gas tank for 2 hours of pedaling before the next gas stop. Exactly 2 hours later the last of the trees were behind me and the wind began punishing me for everything I did in my life and my last life and my future lives. A constant 40kph headwind was being grounded against by my two steeds and Falcor, my thighs and my bike respectively, while tucked into a ball and wind tears arched down my cheeks. It was a grueling ride and once I got to Rio Grande I checked into a hostel to recuperate and think about what the hell I was doing in Patagonia battling these winds. Talking to the local I was griping about the strong wind and he says, ¨Strong Wind?¨ with a hearty chuckle. ¨This is a breeze!,¨ and he continued to laugh.<br />¨Oh, jesus and baby jesus,¨ I thought. No way. This is bad.<br />The trees in Patagonia are bent over and wind blown to one side, as crooked as my back will be after this experience.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742426349064114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BrcCAT7I/AAAAAAAAAbg/b0RYrYV4lMk/s320/wagoncowboy.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨I was thinking, why would anyone live here? I still am wondering.¨</em></p><p><br />Rio Grande is a wind scorched forlorn shack-filled shit box designed with all the love and personality that only a gas company could urban plan, its only industry besides sport trout fishing.<br /><br />I left after two nights rest from Rio Grande with a Swiss German couple that had just started their trip that is scheduled to last 2 years all the way up to Alaska. And I do mean ´scheduled´ in the way that only a Swiss German could plan it with GPS, laptop, personally designed biking shirts, and an alternator that can charge all their electronic devices from the motion of the wheels. It is a classic case where technology trumps common sense. They have spent a small fortune with every outdoor/biking gadget ever invented and have managed to pack their entire house, including, I think, a kitchen sink and their couch with them. They have too much shit. The bike frames look like a paper clip about to buckle under the strain. I love getting behind them and watching them ride these two sloppy drunk cows down the road struggling against the wind. While they are both ´in shape´ they are still getting used to the weight and the long days in the saddle. It makes me realize that I am in now fit and can ride, although before I did not notice it. I rode in the front of them to break the intense headwind, but they still could not keep up and told me, ¨You take off like a rocket!¨<br />¨No, you just have too much shit,¨ I tell them, but it is a little bit of both that is true. I call out, ¨Ok, lets take a rest for food and water. It´s been about two hours.¨<br />The Swiss German reply was,¨It will be two hours at 8:17¨.<br />I am not joking. He said 8:17: We had to ride until 8:17 to stop even though I called out a rest at 8:10. </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742645511557442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5B4MeakUI/AAAAAAAAAcA/5J7v1rRcUO0/s320/waterbuffalos.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption,¨The sloppy drunk overloaded Swiss German water buffalos before the crash. End of pavement.¨</em></p><em></em><p><br />It is the first time since I started in Sept that I have biked with company. There are positive and negatives. In general company is nice, but then again we are talking about all the spontaneity and exciting conversation of a sweet, but dorky Swiss German couple that has the same sense of humor as a Whiffle ball bat, wait, that is not fair to the Whiffle ball bat, a bicycle pump.<br />There are often outbursts of Swiss German words coming from either one of the couple as if they hit their thumb with a hammer or they forgot one of their massive bags at a stop 100km behind, or their tent is on fire, but nope; it is usually about something like, ¨Where did I put that sausage?¨ Meanwhile I have sprung to my feet ready to attend to a tragedy.<br /><br />Two Italian men bikers approach us and we exchange pleasantries. They continue on and the Swiss German couple remarks, ¨They were so typically Italian.¨ HA! I thought, I am sure they thought the same about you two, and come to think about it, me too, being American.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295741600104404354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5A7WB7VYI/AAAAAAAAAao/I-SWdyF8-2Y/s320/bikeshed2.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Shelter.¨</em></p><p><br />Our days started earlier now because the winds pick up at 9am and are strong until 6pm, but it is light out until nearly 11pm so we can always ride in the evenings too. The Swiss Germans, who when unpacked look as if grenades have gone off in their bags, need 2 hours to get prepared in the morning. I tell them to wake me up half way through packing, and we leave at 6am each morning. By 8am the winds hit and by 10am the winds reach up to 70 or 90 kph and make traveling impossible. We would take refuge in a river gully, or behind a shed, and make pasta and read while being baked in the sun cause there is no shade now, not until you reach the city. With a mild headwind we can still make 15kph an hour but with wind it drops down to about 4kph and that is with every ounce of force you have in your body. The wind blasting past your ears is deafening and really annoying (again, picture head out the window on the freeway). It is so bad that I put in ear plugs and I can hear my deep breathing and pounding heart. This cannot be good for you. We still manage to average 50 to 60km a day by riding in the mornings and evenings.<br /></p><p><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295741596519980290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5A7IrVXQI/AAAAAAAAAaY/9E49_NtDK-Q/s320/bikeroadme.jpg" border="0" />Caption, ¨All trees have blown away. Flat flat flat.¨</em></p><p><br />We are riding on ´ripio´, or dirt/pebble roads. I tell the couple to watch out cause the load they are carrying can be a little dangerous and make a tire slide out. Less than an hour later the guy does a full shoulder face plant at 20kph into the ground with his feet locked into the pedals. A pure pancake slap to the ground, and skid. Ouchie. I almost ran over his head but managed to stop. He was banged up but luckily no broken collar bone or arm. I was expecting the worse from how he fell. As graceful as a giraffe on ice skates.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295741595183845746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5A7DsxkXI/AAAAAAAAAaI/l1ztve3KlDc/s320/bangedupswiss.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Look at that proud smile. I thought he was done for.¨</em></p><p><br />Once in a while we pass people biking south and they are chipper as can be with big smiles painted on their faces. We are dug into WW I bunkers waiting for a respite to continue the drudgery. It is a relatively fun free experience. My hands are so wind chapped and used from setting up camp and tinkering with the bike that they have started to crack in the folds making them painful to move. No showers. The filth is caked on. Hair is heavy and oiled. We continue to ride. We wake up and it is 4 C degrees, and with wind chill it goes down to -5 C degrees.<br /><br />My notes from my journal are short and sweet. ¨Tierra del Fuego can kiss my ass!¨ I have also had a spate of strange nightmares that I wont go into at the moment. You get the idea, it´s a constant torment. I realize that a day without wind or rain in Patagonia does not exist and I will have to deal with that reality. I justify everything by hoping this wind will get me over my hatred of wind. I have always disliked wind since I was a kid, so in comparison, after this trip of a month battling against the wind, nothing will seem windy ever again. I will be old and my kids will be able to say, ¨We know, we know...when you were in Patagonia, now that was windy. This is nothing...¨.<br /><br />On the bright side I have never been so happy for a windless moment. Ever. It´s so nice it makes you believe in God. The countryside, with innocent puffy white clouds seemingly impervious to the winds, is postcard perfect and puts bubbles in your blood when the beauty catches you off-guard.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742051869024834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BVo_AYkI/AAAAAAAAAbA/jdbwY55kfE8/s320/postcardsky.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Blood bubbles.¨</em></p><p><br />Slow days of fast wind. My moods swing with the weather. The couple wants to go slowly, but I want to get out of the elements and on the last day I push myself 85km in headwinds to make the boat from Porvenir to Punta Arenas where a hot shower and a windproof bed awaits. The couple wants to take it easy, and that is fine. With my new found freedom I took off like a ferret released from a cage. I put on music and smiled and sweat the whole way to the boat. It was liberating.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742649831396626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5B4ckWFRI/AAAAAAAAAcI/53SzhxO67MY/s320/sheepcar.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Dinner.¨</em></p><p><br />I am now ´a free man´ again and resting in Punta Arenas for 4 nights. I am leaving tomorrow alone, and would have left this morning but the bike shops were closed yesterday, Sunday. So instead I leave Tuesday morning to battle more wind all the way to Puerto Natales (250km) where I will be meeting up with Amy, my friend from Madrid, to continue biking together. Much welcome company.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295742051554538306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SX5BVn0Bs0I/AAAAAAAAAbQ/ESzSA05qn8A/s320/prettyflowers.jpg" border="0" /></p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-82406100990911934562009-01-07T06:47:00.000-08:002009-01-08T09:28:45.211-08:00B.A. Travel Romance RevisitedI remember holding in my hands Grandma´s stiff wrinkled finger when I was no more than 5 or 6 years old. Leaning over, she was showing me a thorn from a rose bush buried in her skin from when she had fallen a year ago. It was just now working its way to the surface. With the other hand she pointed to the bushes in the backyard and told me to go play, have fun, but be careful of the thorns. Thorns. Splinters. Splinters of the past. Sometimes they get so deep under the skin and you cannot get them out. Three quick long years have passed since the last time I saw Maggi here in Buenos Aires. The weather and the women are exactly the same as before; hot. But why am I here again? I make it a rule not to revisit places unless it is for a good reason. Am I retracing steps to make sure I did not miss anything? Does time change soured relations into good ones?<br /><br />Wandering the streets I find myself happy to be back in civilization because it is familiar and offers a degree of anonymity but then I get this creeping feeling up my spine. Looking around I see responsible people hustling to work, buying groceries for the family and driving nice cars. In a nutshell, sensible and the opposite of me. Being in a dusty backpacker town in Ecuador or Colombia you have the weak pretense of ´exploring´, but here in a real city you are long haired loafer.<br /><br />Maggi is one of these responsible city dwellers and absorbs me effortlessly into her life´s routine. She houses me and goes to work with regular hours leaving me this strange isolated life outside the hostel world. I soak up the solitude and immerse myself in reading, writing emails and dancing naked in front of mirrors. It´s nice to have a home on the road and take a break from the meet and greet sessions and the unsettling electric bustle of the hostel circuit.<br /><br />South of the equator and it is a humid summertime Christmas and New Year. The first round of socializing is with the family for the ever-so-delicate and awkward traveler´s Christmas Story, in Spanish. The family is cautiously happy to see me revisit their daughter and sister. Lets say there was less gusto seen in their faces than the first time I blew through town. Obviously they know the story will be much like the last time I was here- a friendly visit and a departure leaving their loved one sadder than before I was there.<br /><br />At least I can speak with them in Spanish on this visit and get to know them on a different level. The father translates for a living and is fluent in English so we indulge in side conversations. The younger gay brother knows 4 words in English- funny enough they happen to be ¨blow job¨ and ¨cum shot¨- so we were able to get to know each other on this trip much better than before. Most of Christmas Eve I spent nursing a glass of Sprite attentively listening to a 6 way conversation about people I have never met and trying to wrap my head around this new Argentinian accent. Maggi would reach out to touch my knee, check on me and ask if I was bored because I was not speaking. I was fine, but completely lost. I did what I always do in these situations- find the outcast of the group, someone who is equally as lost as I am, and start a conversation with them. You can always count on Grandma.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288936349687822610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWYTlorLORI/AAAAAAAAAZo/dhWjgBDp7Ak/s320/PC310004.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Brother with 4 word English vocabulary, on the right. Other brother with his Penelope Cruz looking girlfriend. Damn you Argentina!¨</em> <div><div><div><div><br />Grandma is 91 years old and frighteningly sharp. Her son came over with a filled glass in each hand, ¨Mom, do you want wine or Coca-Cola?¨<br />¨Wine,¨ she says. ¨Which one is the wine?¨<br />¨They are both wine, mother.¨<br />¨Well give me both then,¨ laughing at her own cleverness. She was sweet and reminded me of my own grandmother, and like her, she had lived a great life and each laugh was a laugh in the face of death cheated. Ready to go, but enjoying each extra moment. You are defenseless talking to a woman like this and you sit back to soak up the knowledge and emanating light. Maggi´s Grandma spoke sentences in English, German, French, and Italian to test my language skills. I failed miserably, of course. When you are that old you are allowed to show off like that. She recounted stories of her childhood of how the siblings went off to Europe to learn languages, ¨The boys would learn German and the girls French or English. The journey to Europe took 19 days; this was in the 1920´s, you know.¨ Argentina, or I guess I should say Buenos Aires, has always considered itself connected with Europe even though it is geographically connected with the rest of Latin America. Argentina has a deep disdain for its neighbors and will take a trip to Europe thousands of kilometers away rather than step foot in a place like Bolivia or Ecuador. I enjoy talking to the idealistic Argentinian Marxist as much as the racist Grandma. Both fascinate me, although I do not agree with either of them, but neither offends me with their polarized views because they are products of their environments. Are not we all?<br /><br />Later I rejoin the group conversation when the rhythm has slowed down from the initial excitement of seeing each other and now I am able to keep pace and contribute. No questions are asked about my life or my stupid biking mission and I know why; Maggi has briefed them beforehand. My story, and reputation, has preceded me. I feel as if the frosty reception received earlier in the night has begun to melt and they begrudgingly accept Maggí´s judgment in allowing me back in her life, if even for a short period, and they do the same.<br /><br />Maggi is great. She lets me be me by spending the day reading, writing, cooking and listening to music. It goes well with her temperament since she needs the first 8 hours of the day to wake up, thus allowing us to do our separate things. Each day we have a deep talk and an intimate moment. We see the craziness within each of us, laugh and bask in it, and proceed with realistic happiness and one foot cautiously covering the break.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288936338974951650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWYTlAxByOI/AAAAAAAAAZg/AfG8RyXA9ok/s320/PC310003.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Maggi.¨</em></div><div><br />The next gathering is a family affair along with Maggí´s friends for New Year´s. New Year is a strange time of year. The expectations of what you will be doing when the clock strikes midnight mixed with the resolutions and sadness of hoping for a new year.<br /><br />Maggi´s friends, like the family, is less excited to see me, and for a mix of confusing reasons so am I.<br /><br />Like a scientist taking a random sample at different times in the same location for a study I notice that the couples that were couples three years ago are still together and the single ones are still single and searching. Could that be a coincidence? Then I think about me traveling 3 years ago as well, and what my friends were doing three years ago, and nearly all of them are doing the same thing. Does time move that fast, or that slow? Does that show the true paths, or path of least resistance, of each of those people? Am I ´doomed´ to continue my world meanderings like a scrap of paper in the wind?<br /><br />I was being paranoid and the friends all warmed up to me with cold drinks. Genuine hugs and smiles were shared amongst playing catch up on each others lives. I was amazed on how much you can remember about a group of people met for a short period of time so long ago. I already know the over-dramatic sigh and look from the corner of the eye of Sebastian to his girlfriend, the curious way Nati ashes her cigarette, and the smell of Maggi´s neck. The older I get the more I perceive that each day is important, and each interaction with people and your surroundings leaves its mark, forever. Nostalgic brain slivers and heart splinters.<br /><br />Getting up to fill my glass I run into another Grandma. She pulls out a chair for me and slaps the cushion for me to take a seat. She wants to know where I have been and where I am going. She is another treasure chest full of memories and iridescence. Her thin lips moved and her eyes danced as she told me where to go in Patagonia, the languages she speaks, and crossword puzzles she does. ¨If you want strong legs then you bike, if you want a strong mind then you do crossword puzzles.¨ And she is right. Speaking with her gave me that fleeting sentiment to take care of yourself, just in case you live that long. She stood up from her chair and with a flair for dramatics she looked down on me, ¨Guess how old I am?¨<br />Hmm, these kinds of questions I hate, ¨55?¨<br />¨Ha! Higher!¨<br />¨65?¨ A head shake, ¨75?¨, a prouder head shake, ¨82?¨, not yet, ¨87?¨.<br />¨Ok, now you have gone to far. 85,¨ and she stood there with her chin up and looking off to nowhere in particular to let me study her. I was looking at a triumphant 4 year old child pleased with itself while receiving praise from the parents for not wetting the bed the night before, not an 85 year old woman with a life time worth of living. I wanted to give her a big hug. She was too adorable. It is the big circle of life before our very eyes, from child to adult to child again.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288936331453731314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWYTkkv1EfI/AAAAAAAAAZY/Lkt54J__ibs/s320/PC310001.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Maggi´s dad celebrating New Year´s like a real Argentinian man- cig in one hand and a gun that sounded like a goddamn hand cannon. In blue is his novia from Paraguay and next to her, one of the lovely grandmas who was up until 4am chatting the night away.¨</em></div><div><br />Now the Aunt wants a go at me and waves me over. She is sitting in a corner flanked by her husband and Maggi´s step mother from Paraguay. Like most conversations of the evening we have to start with the topic of languages. ¨So you have an Italian passport? Do you speak Italian?¨ she asks me.<br />¨Nope,¨ slightly ashamed but we are speaking in Spanish.<br />¨Oh,¨ shaking her head, ¨this is horrrrrrrible.¨<br />¨I know. Thank you,¨ is all I can muster to say but I really want to do is give her a compliment on her voice. It´s deep and sexy. Well sexy if you think sounding like a man with vocal chords bathed in whiskey and hickory smoked with Marlboros for 40 years is sexy. She should opt for the more natural sounding robotic voice box replacement surgery so as to not scare the children.<br />¨I speak Italian,¨ of course she does.<br />The meek husband adds to the conversation for the first time, ¨The most common error Argentinians make is believing that they can speak Italian.¨ I love this guy. Unfortunately it is the last time I hear his voice until goodbyes at the end of the night. The Aunt goes on a vicious monologue. ¨Well my grandmother was from Milan...¨ she goes on speak about 6 grandparents in all (huh?) and she speaks each of their languages, carried in the blood I suppose, from each different country. She goes on rambling about languages for the next 15 minutes throwing in an English word here and there just to show me she speaks fluently, which she does not.<br />She made the mistake of leaving a slight pause to catch her breath in her pontificating and I was able to ask Maggi´s step-mom a question to include someone else in the conversation, ¨So I know they speak a different language there in Paraguay.¨<br />She replies, ¨Yes, it´s Guaraní¨<br />And then wouldn´t you know, the Aunt is an expert on Paraguay and Guaraní too! Never mind the lady who was born there and speaks the language. This speech was a tactless and clueless masterpiece. ¨Oh yes, I know all about Guaraní since I had three servants from Paraguay. This was back when I had my other husband. When I had money.¨ The husband gets up and walks away while she continues digging the hole she is quite comfortable sitting in, ¨You see, I am from the city but I am not like the city folk. It´s as if I am provincial. I speak to everyone, even to all my servants, which is why I know about Guaraní. And I would treat them all very well. Well except one who stole from me. I had to throw her out. And I threw her out with the police, I did. The funny thing about Guaraní is soup means tortilla. I did not know this so I had my servant make a ´soup´ for my guests and out comes this embarrassing thing. I told her no, that will not do. You have to make a proper soup. She returned later with another soup but it was like no soup I had seen before....¨ and on and on she went until Maggi´s step mom got up as well and left me alone with this raspy woman who knows everything except for the fact she is annoying. I see Maggi sitting on the couch laughing and talking to her friends. I am trapped in a whirlpool and there is no way to gracefully exit. Maggí calls out, ¨Come here, you need to meet my friend,¨ and I excused myself from the table. Saved.<br /><br />Back on the white leather couch with the 30 year old ´kids´ they are all laughing. ¨You got caught by my Aunt. We were enjoying you suffer from here,¨ now everyone is taking enjoyment from my pain. Ha Ha.<br />Lying, ¨Ya, well I could have taken another two hours.¨<br />The whole group in disbelief, ¨No, no, it´s not true!¨<br />Maggi chimes in, ¨Ya, it´s true. He is like an Anthropologist. He is doing research.¨ This makes me laugh. It´s funny to see how others see you.<br /><br />Sebastian turns to me, ¨Lets speak English. I want to practice my English.¨ This is always entertaining. Everyone in the group has studied English for at least 7 years but only 2 of them can really speak. Usually conversations start awkwardly with phrases like, ¨What do you want to talk ABOUT?¨ But this time it starts differently. Sebastian´s girlfriend can hardly put a sentence together so he turns to her and says, ¨Your sphincter is too loose.¨ Then he turns to me and gives me the sly wink that only a genius can do. Sebastian is one of those rare characters you meet once in a blue moon. Blessed with a giant presence; he is as intelligent as he is compassionate. He is likable with no effort.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288936356530695298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWYTmCKpLII/AAAAAAAAAZw/zw6gOAjgwzA/s320/PC310007.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Sebastian, on the right.¨</em> <div><br />With the impetus of just finishing an endless round of toasting with RedBull and champagne I am rife with giggles while Sebastian is on his feet acting out his story of constipation on his last road trip. I was laughing so hard that I forgot I was hearing the story in Spanish. It was one of those times when you realize you are in the moment and that realization makes the bubble pop on the magic. Like the biggest lies of all time, ¨I love you¨ and ¨I am so happy right now¨, both are better never said leaving the lips. They are moments that can only be felt and not said. The act of putting crude and coarse words to such beautiful ephemeral feelings separates you from the act and ruins it.<br />I really should have made a New Year´s resolution to quit moralizing. I hear it is harder than nicotine to kick.<br /><br />With the holiday festivities behind I find myself daydreaming on a bus in the city, listening to music and looking out the window thinking of the fireworks that accompanied both Christmas and New Years. It was like Baghdad. After the 113 hour bus ride I notice city rides are so short you get interrupted by arriving at your destination just as you get lost in a thought.<br />The bus pulls away and I am walking the streets in autopilot to a park. Staring down I try to grasp at that aborted thought but it´s lost forever with the bus fumes. A hopeless feeling, like a scrap of paper with an important number blowing out of your hands and off the balcony on the 11th story. Lost thoughts, lost memories. Maybe that is why I am back here in Buenos Aires. To revisit lost memories. Memories buried in the skin that would never be triggered if you did not retrace your steps. Sad to think of memories that will never return. Nostalgia lost.<br /><br />The buses´ pneumatic hiss and hiss and hiss bite my ears like snakes hugging the gutters up and down the streets. The svelte women of B.A. pass by me with a runway determination but I know that aloof look is fueled by a sour feeling from smoking cigarettes on an empty stomach. These women will only look at you if you have another girl in hand, and that makes me smile. My heart swells with something like joy. I come across an old friend; a wooden bench where I spent past afternoons losing myself. Like looking into a mirror for the first time in 3 years I see the changes in the bench, the changes in me. Sitting down with a creak, nostalgia grabs me by the throat.<br />Things are familiarly different. The lacquer has worn off and some of the wooden slats are cracked. Running my hands over the back of the bench absentmindedly I watch the rollerbladers and joggers stopping for their smoke breaks. ¨Ouch! Dammit.¨ A splinter in my finger. I shift in my seat and hear my heart creak. Digging at the sliver I cannot reach. Love weary and false kisses. </div></div></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-7961168641538220512008-12-30T20:33:00.000-08:002009-01-09T13:42:10.696-08:00Hazards of Gleaning in a Gay ParadiseSometimes you wake up with the right mix of having escaped a hang over, a cup of strong coffee coursing through your veins, listening to a perfect melody from a quality stereo system as a gust of warm wind hits your smiling teeth while overlooking a polluted city from a balcony and you feel as if you have made some right decisions in the world and that life is worth living well.<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286555190756179010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2d78aE_EI/AAAAAAAAAXY/vd26IqoHs0E/s320/PC230107.JPG" border="0" /></div><em>Caption, ¨Two weeks here and I did not get tired of this view.¨</em><br /><div><br />It´s funny how you can fill yourself up with fake self importance by just borrowing someone else´s material possessions.<br /><br />I am drinking in Buenos Aires from bird´s eye view in a gay paradise. My friend from three years ago on my last visit in BA is house sitting her gay uncle´s apt while he is away for the holidays. He doesn´t get back from Mexico until the second week of January with his younger hunky lover. You can glean how the relationship works without straining the brain; one is a 58 year old doctor and the other is the 35 year old massage therapist with well chiseled abs. I am sure it is a two-way street but the home, flow of toys, and it turns out even his job, is tied to the doctor.<br /><br />When I crossed the threshold and first stepped foot in this place I immediately became dizzy. A waft of herbs and spices from other lands and a kaleidoscope of sparkles and colors lifted me off the ground. ¨What the hell is this?¨ was all I could say.<br /><br />I had to investigate this place.<br /><br />I set off sauntering into the dining room and I felt as if I had been transported back to a rich merchant´s house in the time of pre-eruption Pompeii, Italy in 78 A.D.. White walls? Not a single spot of white in the house. No respite. This dining room is a 4 walled mural painted with life-sized characters and two views into an imaginary past. One wall is crafted to create the illusion of looking out into a courtyard with a fountain in a foyer and on the other a peak down a medieval Italian cobblestone road lined with red-roofed houses. Coming from the IKEA generation I have never seen such a finely made dining table; two types of wood thicker than the width of my palm and lacquered to a mirrored finish. I can easily imagine a megalomaniac noble sitting at the head of the table munching on a turkey leg and waving a jester in with the his free hand for entertainment.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286555756912418354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2ec5gPnjI/AAAAAAAAAXg/znyxr1EvugA/s320/PC230111.JPG" border="0" /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286555981035677138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2ep8bZJdI/AAAAAAAAAXo/m_sS15gXFzA/s320/PC230112.JPG" border="0" /></div><em>Caption, ¨The owner would probably be peeved that I did not straighten the candles before taking these pictures.¨</em><br /><div><br />I back pedaled away with awe slowly from the illusory noble wiping grease from his cheeks and entered the living room. The walls are all painted an Egyptian orange (even the smallest detail of painting the air conditioner mounted on the wall was not overlooked) to set the backdrop for the overwhelming collection of antiques he has gathered on his world travels. It is clear that these items have been purchased on the black market. It´s a splendid collection well kept in glass cases and, of course, proper mood lighting. Most of the items are masks and clay pots from pre-colonial Latin America, but there is also intricate silver work, items from Africa and Asia and the Middle-East. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286556700006493762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2fTyzZLkI/AAAAAAAAAXw/NgfkTRy52zM/s320/PC230126.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨This represents only a small portion of the items on display- not to mention, just like the Guggenheim, only 10% of his collection is visible at any one time. The rest is in storage.¨</em><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286556955847436210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2fir4oJ7I/AAAAAAAAAX4/qF6EexFSxkA/s320/PC230128.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨I noticed a running theme throughout the house; Horses.¨<br /></em><br />Mythical and realistic horse statues from all civilizations in pewter, clay, ceramic, paintings are found in each nook and cranny. I look down and I see I am standing on a full-sized zebra skin rug complete with tail. Seriously. What the shit. I am lifting my feet up as if I stepped in dog poop and an equally disgusted look on my face. Over my shoulder I notice the door has been painted over to blend with the surrounding wall in a giant MerHorse- half fish and half horse with it´s front hooves replaced by little fish fins. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286558532635110258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2g-d4Gq3I/AAAAAAAAAYA/Ckxvwlyvs1M/s320/PC230124.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Mer-horse, or do you spell that Merhorse? Notice the door handle.¨</em><br /><br />This is all too much. I took a seat on what looks like a handwoven artisan couch to keep my head from spinning while on my feet. The coffee table is cluttered with silver-dipped candlesticks that weigh more than a new born baby, a king´s crown made of bronze and topped with a cross, intricately ornamental and completely non-functional ruby encrusted eggs on little stands, a chalice, and it goes without staying since this is a gay man´s house, lots and lots of candles. Everywhere. The coffee table itself is a work of art worthy of an Art History doctorate thesis- it looks as though it took 2 Muslims their entire life to carve the wood into such an ornate lattice work and now it is a functional part of a living room on which to rest a coffee cup. </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286560643311672274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2i5UwnG9I/AAAAAAAAAYI/vGQSZSmep_A/s320/PC230132.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨The view from the couch.¨</em><br /><br /><div>You could buy another house with the items filling this apt. The cleaning lady from Paraguay says one thing to us before leaving the apt, ¨How can you sleep here?¨ If it´s possible there is too much culture. The walls and furniture pulse with the dead heartbeats from times past. Each item has it´s own history and when the house is quiet you can hear the faint murmuring of the stories and memories told by each relic in their native tongue. Souls from different civilizations bump into each other in the dark. My friend could not sleep for the first two nights she spent here alone.<br /><br />There is no escaping the ambiance. From the couch I can hear the calls of endangered birds from the zoo the apt overlooks. The balcony is alive with green vegetation. Griping the guardrail and looking down 11 floors I can see a lion walking amongst the trees. It´s a green oasis in the middle of the city for blocks and blocks since the zoo meets up with the largest expanse of parks in all of this sweaty seething city of 13 million. You feel above all the madness, isolated in a tree house in the amazon looking down on the jungle below.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286561947966454930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2kFQ-jPJI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/R6cZpcTNaXw/s320/PC230108.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨The zoo down below.¨</em><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286562566775639970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2kpSOKD6I/AAAAAAAAAYY/3ZONb-J3Pt0/s320/PC230123.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨My feet got accustomed to the glass spiral staircase. Now I simply cannot imagine exposing my feet to the horrors of carpeted, or god forbid, wooden stairs.</em><br /></div><div>Up the glass spiral staircase I head to the master suite. Along the way I pass what looks to be the hatch on Noah´s Ark bolted to the ceiling with more mood lighting and the pets of the house: a snake, a ferret, and the best kept salt fish tank I have ever seen in a house. The palatial master bedroom has two wood columns flanking each side of the bed covered in gold lamé duvet and tasseled pillows. In my head I imagine the Pope and Elton John coming for a visit and looking at each other saying, ¨You know, it´s just a little too fabulous, don´t you think?¨<br /><br />The uncle is a ´foodie´ and the place is filled with fine wines, cook books, herbs, spices such as: Pink Hawaiian Sea Salt, Jamaican Pepper, Coffee Merlot Chocolate Sauce, Moroccan Harissa Paste, Cape Malay Babotic, Swazi Mama Mama Ibalulekile Hot Sauce from Ukua Africa, Sun-dried Apricot and Raisin Chutney just to name a few and more in French and Italian. The soaps in the bathroom sounded equally as appetizing: Botanical Shower Body Mousse with Pink Grapefruit and Cucumber detoxifying and purifying with a stringent grapefruit peel and toning cucumber fruit extract AND Botanical Shower Body Mousse with Olive, Almond and Myrtle moisturizing and revitalizing with olive oil, oil leaf, sweet almond oil and myrtle. Coming from a backpackers mentality where my luxury items are AAA batteries and pistachios I find I am left with a tickling feeling, a giddiness brought about by the gay extravagance. The uncle must be the Truman Capote of his gay circle of friends in Buenos Aires. Imagine the parties and costumes this place has seen over the years. That spine chilling creepy scene in The Shining comes to mind when a guy in a full bear costume giving a blow job suddenly stops, and looks down the hall (The zoom-in is what really makes your elbows tingle <a href="http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=NmOoekbK6YI">http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=NmOoekbK6YI</a> ). Furthering my suspicions, at the moment there is a gay couple (friends of the uncle) from Miami staying in another room here along with us. They had a visitor, a tall drink of water, come over late and spend the night. Those gay guys know how to have an unapologetic good time. </div><div> </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286564243812893442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2mK5q_wwI/AAAAAAAAAYg/5m3OzGi0mrk/s320/PC230117.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨Marble countertop to hold the spices from around the world. All joking aside, this kitchen does make you a better chef.¨</em><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286567690187538162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2pTgavfvI/AAAAAAAAAYo/HLNgA462Lf8/s320/PC230122.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Those are real Versace glasses, and real ugly. I think I saw one of these on the floor next to the bed in that Shining scene.¨</em><br /><div><br />One of the great reasons of traveling, number 413, are the stories you come across. Nothing is how you first see it and everything has a story just beneath the surface. As cliché as that sounds this is a fine example. It is so easy to dismiss the apt as a gay whim and see the stereotypical rich old man with the gold digging younger and more attractive trophy just as I did when I assessed the situation. Over the days talking to my friend I slowly find out more of the uncle´s story. All of his 5 brothers and sisters died of cancer, one of those being my friend´s mother. Watching all of his immediate family dying at a young age he has made a conscious effort to live life to the fullest and pursue his pleasures to the fullest- and he has many- wine, food, world traveling, art collecting, and men. It is money spent but spent well. Wealth enjoyed. It makes you wonder who is using who? Really it is a symbiotic relationship with the two. Both of their needs are met and they are together as long as the both are happy, and when the wave of happiness finally breaks then they will both move on.<br /><br />It´s easy to judge but I have not lived through the same pain as he has. The whole reason he is on holidays through Christmas and New Years each year is as much to see the world as it is not to be home and feel the pain of his missing family here in Buenos Aires. My friend, who finds the house equally ostentatious and curiously comical, tells me this story with caring eyes. Although she has not traveled the world she understands it and has compassion in a much more profound way than myself from losing her mother when she was 7 and her brother a few years later. It´s a profoundness I am not sure I want to know yet know it awaits.<br /><br />Still looking out from the balcony of gay paradise, while sipping my morning coffee amongst the whispering souls, I think about all the chaos in the world swirling about. How one could be been born in another situation in another country with other parents or none at all. It´s hard to not infer stories from what you superfically see. Putting people in neat little categories and placing them on an organized shelf is how I make sense of this holy pandemonium in the world so it is a little more managable for my small brain.<br /></div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286568664378739650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2qMNkBi8I/AAAAAAAAAYw/5oBoWSMEXaE/s320/PC260138.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Not many people have so many scepters as to necessitate a ´scepter rack´, he does.¨<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289259005642502322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWc5CrxbcLI/AAAAAAAAAaA/6aGj8lPoTy0/s320/P1050011.JPG" border="0" /></em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /><em>Caption, ¨What a decadent wine stopper. It´s giant red ruby.¨</em>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-77138565467711757722008-12-21T11:28:00.000-08:002009-01-01T20:32:57.593-08:00The 113 hour bu-bu-bu-bus rideI will tell you right now that I am going to hell and that is the only reason I can share this story.<br /><br />After the little bike ride of three months I had only made it through Colombia and Ecuador. There is a two month window to navigate the trails of Patagonia in Southern Chile and Argentina when the paths are clear of snow and warm. Since I am a fair weather traveler and have no desire to freeze my ass off I had to take the marathon bus ride from Ecuador all the way to Buenos Aires. It is half the price and besides, airplanes are cheating since it is like stepping into a carpeted time machine- enter a door, wait a few hours, out a door and you are there. You do not feel as if you traveled. Well, after 113 hours on the bus, wow, did I feel like I had traveled- I had traveled all the way to the very edge of my nerve endings and patience.<br /><br />Luckily, or so I thought at the time, I met a Scandinavian girl, lets call her Scandi, that was idiotic enough like myself to attempt this trip to see some friends for the holidays. Ok, cool. Companionship on will be nice and we can endure the pain together in graceful sarcastic self'-depreciating conversations the whole way there. Didn´t happen.<br /><br />We were equally enthralled that the other was going, but there was no fiber of my being that thought there would be anything more happening than being travel companions. She is sweeter than sweet, so much so that she has an overenthusiastic laugh born out of an innate social awkwardness and uncomfotableness with herself that she uses like a period at the end of each sentence...but that includes sentences she says and I say or anyone else says. I hardly noticed at the time since we met over drinks in a loud cafe in Cuzco that she had a slight stutter in English, but being 30 years old it seemed as though she had worked on it to a point where she had it under control. This laugh however was not in control and the more boisterious it became the faker it felt.<br /><br />Day 1 and 2: 7 hour bus ride from Cuzco, Ecuador to Guayaquil, Ecuador and then a new 26 hour bus to Lima, Peru.<br />Ok, I am feeling good during the first 34 hours. Scandi has been learning Spanish off and on for the last 10 years and she only wants to speak in Spanish for the entire journey. Ok, fair enough. I am very patient and fill in all the missing vocabulary as she tells these long winded stories, well, not stories since ¨story¨ would imply there would be some sort of a point, but more descriptions of things, anything, that had happened in her life. The added bonus for me is that her stuttering is in full bloom in Spanish because it is her 6th language and it naturally takes more effort for her. That´s a good philosophical question actually- Would you trade the ability to speak 6 languages for a stutter? Hmmm, me either.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286548691026161874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2YBnBrsNI/AAAAAAAAAXI/s3_gIcjordY/s320/PC170104.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨This is the desolate martian landscape somewhere either in Peru or Chile. I could have cared less where I was. If only there was a camera for smells. Scratch and sniff pictures perhaps.¨</em></p><p><br />Day 3 and 4 and 5: We take a night to sleep in a cheesy Chinese hotel next to the bus station in Lima, Peru. Framed posters line the hallways of groups of girls in bikinis painting a wall sexually intertwined in a ladder with paint smeared bottoms pointing at you called ¨California Girls¨, another one of rock climbers nearly nude but covered in a climbing ropes and harnesses again with butts out calling you named¨Hard Climbing¨. There were more gems too. They made me smile each time I went up and down the stairs though.<br /><br />We needed to rest before the 60 hour bus to Santiago, Chile.<br /></p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286548911318385106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2YObrcQdI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/kUobLi8whxM/s320/PC130093.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨One of the two pictures I took in the week of traveling. Lets say I was un-inspired.¨</em></p><p><br />This bus proved to be the breaking point. Scandi suggested word games, in Spanish of course, to pass the time on the bus. After she took 10 painfully slow Spanish stuttering minutes to explain the rules my brain shut down. She finished the rules, or so I imagine because she stopped talking because I could not follow her train of thought with the 20 second gaps between some of the words. It requires such a huge amount of attention and patience to follow her stories and that reserve was used up on the first 37 hours of the bus ride. Within these 37 hours I honed in on the fact that the trouble words always started with the letter ¨b¨ or ¨d¨ and I knew when one was coming up and would be silently impressed when she found a work around to avoid a stuttering stumbling block word. I simply said, ¨Ok,¨ when she finished the rules and I did not say anything. In fact, I did not say anything for the next 48 hours. If I were to say anything at all it would inspire a heartly laugh that at this point sent electric shocks of wide-eyed exasperation from my tingling ass up my now scoliosis plauged spine. I was spent and needed alone ´me´ time to recharge. She got the hint after 24 hours and even she stopped talking and I could enjoy sweet sweet silence in this bus from fuqing hell. Well, not quite sweet sweet silence. An Ecuadorian Neanderthal with a crooked 5 toothed smile in the front of the bus insisted on putting her favorite music on at all hours of the morning and afternoon and night with no volume control. Volume set to FULL with a speaker, very luckily, positioned right above my head. I think they use this technique to torture POW´s in war camps to get them to snap and tell them military secrets. I was ready to snap. Music of this ear ringing volume seemed important in all of Latin America to preent any thought whatsoever. I continued my frothing silence.<br /><br />I think all of my 5 senses were abused in some way shape or form on this trip. We were positioned right next to the toilet on this second class bus, and what a treat that was! MMMmmm, how can I describe this ¨flavor¨, this joyful dancing of odors on my palette for 60 hours so you can fully understand? Most scents your body gets accustomed to and they are not as strong after the initial shock, but no, each breath was like being hit right in the facial region with a 2x4 covered in rusty nails. Utterly shocking. Just imagine sitting inside of a shaking Porta-Potty used in those outdoor festivals, sloshingly filled to the brim, for 60 hours and you will start to understand my situation.<br /><br />The odor/stutter/music combo along with my spine piercing my left kidney from trying to sit and sleep was making me really hate the bus, the Scandi girl, and eventually myself. No one was safe from my bitter wrath of mental insults in my fragile mental state.<br /><br />I realize that my annoyance with Scandi´s stuttering has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. My personal theory is anytime someone is getting on your nerves it is because something that is bothering you and not the external stimuli. Most of the time the personality traits you most hate about yourself annoys you when you see them exhibited in other people. So the more annoyed I was at Scandi, the more I knew I was actually annoyed with myself, for whatever reason, and that made me even more annoyed cause it was my fault and I ended up being even more annoyed with Scandi. Another example of this just happened today in Buenos Aires. I met two American Peace Core volunteers just ¨released from service¨ in their early to mid twenties. Their resume building experience rubs me the wrong way along with their need to save the world with an egotistical slant. They are better people than me, this is clear, but for some reason I cannot stand them. My only conclusion is the American attributes I see in them and detest in myself. Well, it turns out I met one of there co-volunteers in the Buenos Aires bus station. He flagged me down because he saw my bike loaded with bags and saw it as a ´sign´ that he had to talk to me because he was leaving on his own biking adventure, of course, to raise 100,000 dollars to save a Paraguayan rain forest (I am not making this shit up). So the natural question he presents me is what am I riding for? ¨Nothing. Just felt like going on a bike ride,¨ I innocently confess.<br />¨Ya, that´s great.¨ was his disappointed reply. ¨And why are you taking the bus?¨<br />¨Oh, I am no purist. I took the bus to bike in Patagonia in the summer. I figured sponsorships would hold me back from cheating,¨ was my only half-joking reply.<br />The American half of him was disappointed from my lack of vision and purity of the mission and my American half was detesting his idealistic eager eyes ready to save the world. ¨Here is my business card (business cards?! for biking) printed on 100% recyclable paper with vegetable based ink. Make sure you tell every one you meet about it,¨ was his over enthusiastic good bye.<br /><br />Day 6 and 7: Once we got to Santiago, Chile we had to take another night to sleep horizontal. I started to think about experiments on mice. If you took these poor creatures and put them in a cardboard box continuously shaking and blasting loud bad Latin music for 6 days and then took them out of the box and analyzed their behavior I am sure you would find they were an unhappy lot compared to the ´control´ group. They would be frazzled and probably eating their neighbors ears off or something along those lines, but since we are civilized humans we can´t eat off each others ears so we deal with it in our own ways. I shut down into a silent coma with red dry open eyes staring out the window thinking of better days and the stutterer stutters approximately 50x worse than normal.<br /><br />Only 20 hours on the Santiago to Buenos Aires, Argentina leg. That is nothing. HAha, I can do anything after the Porta-Potty assault on the senses journey. Here is a journal entry so you have an idea of my mental state at that moment on the last 20 hours:<br />¨Will you allow me the pleasure to cry? To ride my dream in the skies with pterodactyls showing teeth with rabid joy thundering down smoking mountains of Martian sunlight. A bear paw tickles my ribs as I laugh uncontrollably sitting on the handlebars of a blind man´s bike down a spiral staircase of butterfly cocoons. I wish I could transport myself to give everyone I know a hug of blue-eyed fearless happiness. The head tingling of life is all rushing up now, like a shaken bottle of champagne opened at altitude. Bubbles of foamy wide mouth open delight are streaming showers of ice, cocaine and rainbows. Love jumped up from the corner and inflated itself to a big red elephant balloon squeezing me in warm squeaky giggles. Warm squeaky giggles of pissing sprinkles in the air and eyes and silver lined mouths of reborn extinct genius unicorns. Blond bats sing honey harmonies filled with basement thoughts and the scent of dead flowers in already empty holiday room.¨<br /><br />Who needs acid when you have 113 hour bus rides? It is amazing how environment, comfort really, can affect your mood. The whole range from inspiration or desperation and depression. Ah, travel is my drug of choice at the moment. People often ask, why the bus ride, why not just fly? Experience is my answer, even above being a cheap bastard. Same answer for the bike ride. Experience.<br /><br />I understand why people work and have nice cozy houses and big safe cars, but for me I want these damn experiences. At the moment, and yes it can change, I do not want that Saran Wrap security to keep safely away from living. I welcome the aging and the wrinkles that come from experience. Shit, I earned them. I question a long life lived with a youthful face on elders. To all the professional non-smokers (as Bill Hicks says, non-smokers die everyday) that slide through life on transparent plastic purchased entertainment and well planned investments, I have decided to invest in myself.<br /><br />Opportunity cost you say? Yes, I 100% agree. You have lost lots of opportunity. No time to waste. Start wasting on yourself until you have the weight of family and responsibility on your head and the party is over, or turn gay and keep that party going forever. People planning for events of a future that does not exist- of future fathers that have never lived outside a classroom or a cubicle- what sort of parent are you going to be? Train your kid to become one of those that sits collecting interest of the sweat of others compounding quarterly. Can I be a liver? One of those that truly lives. Live like you will die tomorrow and plan like you will live forever...impossible, maybe? We are the people we wanted to know and we are the places we wanted to go.<br /><br />Enough of this idealistic egoistic American rant from just another angle...<br /><br />I made it to Bu-bu-bu-buenos Aires.</p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-49817780222037846622008-12-11T13:16:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:17:13.407-08:00The Ceviche Incident<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWPX5OeLP6I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/ps-GvPSHHtc/s1600-h/beardbike.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288307765600272290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWPX5OeLP6I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/ps-GvPSHHtc/s320/beardbike.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Caption, ¨Blotchy bearded bike repairman.¨</em><br /><div></div><br /><div>I should take a moment and add some boring updates on the biking trip (I would skip this post if I were you since I am feeling quite uninspired at the moment). After I left Montañita I biked down the coast some 50 km to a forlorn pueblo on the ocean called Ballenita. Nothing is nice about this town except for the tranquility it offers. I read 100 Years of Solitude, swam and watched fishermen pull in a catch with a net load of about a ton of fish right on the beach. That was incredible.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286462779769075522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1J46p1t0I/AAAAAAAAAVo/gRujg_c3NN4/s320/PC070076.JPG" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286463103549742450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1KLw1KnXI/AAAAAAAAAVw/7EM9sySaUiY/s320/PC080077.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Ballenita, this place had all the charm of the inside of a prosthetic leg.¨</em><br /><br />I decided it would be a good idea to have some seafood since it would be my last time on the beach for a while and my friend from Guayaquil kept telling me how I have to try the ceviche of Ecuador. I have steered away from uncooked seafood since my Thailand near death experience about 5 years ago. At that time I was motorbiking through Vietnam, Laos and Thailand with a friend from home. We decided on a nice restaurant to celebrate a hard long hot day of motor biking in the north of Thailand. Long story short I ended up losing 10 pounds (4 kilos) in 3 hours when I was converted into a human sprinkler system from some rancid fish. I was so dehydrated my tongue was swollen in my throat and my kidneys were sore to the touch. Luckily I was hooked up to an IV bag or three and was saved from further suffering. A traveler friend told me that after an incident like that your body can go into anaphylactic shock and die if I get the same food poisoning from fish again. So this was going through my mind when I finally found the only restaurant in this desolate pueblo with ceviche, or any food at all for that matter. I decided to risk it.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286463519352036450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1Kj90KHGI/AAAAAAAAAV4/du4Zci2d7ko/s320/PC080083.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption,¨Foreshadowing 101. I took this photo just an hour before eating the ceviche.¨<br /></em><br /><div><br />Again, I turned into a human sprinkler system but on a much smaller scale. The funny thing is I knew this dirty dish was going to get me sick. I could feel it. I spent the entire night vomiting up rancid fish, clams, and shrimp with a hint of lime. On the plus side I think the pissing out my butt flushed out the lingering parasites that have been dancing and squeezing my intestines for the past month here in Ecuador. My stomach finally feels better, but I still have some lingering issues, but no pain. For me this was the perfect excuse to skip riding and start taking the bus from the coast all the way to Guayaquil, Cuenca and then down to Buenos Aires. I was feeling weak from lack of sleep, dehydration and wiping your bum about 90x in 48 hours is not a good mix with 8 hours a day on a bicycle seat.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286464124307762242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1LHLc17EI/AAAAAAAAAWA/ZGFlrdVZtuE/s320/PC080080.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨This is what it felt like inside my intestines.¨</em><br /><br />It has been decided. Due to ¨The Ceviche Incident¨ and lack of time to arrive in Buenos Aires to meet friends down there for Christmas and New Years I am hanging up the bike until arriving in Tierra del Fuego in the south of South America somewhere in Patagonia. It´s only 120 hours non-stop on the bus from Cuenca, Ecuador to Buenos Aire, and from there another 50 hours on the bus to Ushuaia. Sound like fun? Oh, it should be.<br /><br />When I finally do arrive in Argentina it will be in the middle of their summer. If I wanted to be a stubborn purist and continue down from Ecuador by the time I biked through Peru, Bolivia and Chile it would already be getting cold in the south. I prefer being a fair weather biker. From the northern coast of Colombia where I started until the southern beaches of Ecuador I have accumulated a respectable, although not fast but enjoyable, 3,000 km. Now I will be heading north from the most southern tip. In all honesty I wanted to avoid being the ´dude´ that bikes all of South America and makes a mission out of it. I prefer to just travel with a direction in mind, but I have had a dying urge to see Tierra del Fuego since I was in South America three years ago, so that is how it works out. I don´t care if I make it back to the exact spot I hopped on the bus in Ecuador. I might not even make it to Peru. I might get stuck in Buenos Aires for all I know. I am open to anything that can and will happen. My plans don´t exist and is one of the reasons why I am doing this insane bus trip and why I only ever buy one way plane tickets- cause you never know. I think it was best put by a Belgium traveler I met three years ago when he told me, ¨Expections, they don´t exist.¨<br /><br />Now I am in Cuenca enjoying this cozy colonial city tucked in the mountains and the hungry eyes of the local ladies I pass on the street. Not shy, they are. I get to chastise myself for being an idiot while breathing the thin clean mountain air because some where in Montañita my flash stick fell out of my pocket with three months of photos. I know, I am an idiot and deserve it. My only photos that exist are on this blog. The shame is I wanted to make a montage of all the scenery while biking alone through Colombia and Ecuador. This is cheesy but one of the reasons for me traveling is a scene in Forrest Gump. Forrest is sitting at the foot of the bed of a dying Jenny in his old house after having run across the States from coast to coast an endless number of times and he tells her all of the amazing sunsets and sunrises he saw, of the beauty and memories of when he was alone. I wanted those photos but I´ll have to just remember them. Amazingly enough I remember places and people I have met from years ago at the strangest times triggered by a scent or a sound or an angle of a tree branch. Pictures come and go and my heart swells, an impossible smile to wipe off my face and somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind there is a voice saying that these exquisite good times will end with the weight of responsibility sitting on top my head. I warned you it was going to be cheesy.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286465500648298690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1MXSt_2MI/AAAAAAAAAWI/3iYgZ0jDiTY/s320/PC120089.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨If there was time I would have stopped here to get tested. I had every one of the syptoms on the list. No joke.¨</em><br /><br />Tomorrow AM I leave for 120 hours of non-stop busing fun (I really do not enjoy buses and find them impossible to sleep on). Only thing to do is pick up the camera and start again.</div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-31373223958753503672008-12-09T13:28:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:22:43.226-08:00Montañita, EcuadorHave you ever noticed how lesbians, on a whole, are pretty grumpy and gay dudes are pretty happy? I guess they are called gay for a reason; gay being happy. Well, this lead me to my theory of dick. Two women, no dick and not too happy. Two guys, double the dick and an overabundance of joy for life. Then you have a normal couple where the woman is generally happy if she is getting dick and the man is too because we all know from Christmas it is better to give than to receive. So if you meet someone grumpy you can be assured they are in need some serious deep dicking, my theory goes.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286545419266998754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2VDKxgweI/AAAAAAAAAXA/CbU97ZmxG5U/s320/PC110086.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨The Ecuadorian that posted this poster is definitely not getting enough sex. He has the time and desire to not only think of it but design it, print it, find the glue, walk out and locate a place to post it. I can almost see him patting himself on the back for a job well done.¨</em><br /></p><p>I spent the last week in a joyous surfer town (you can infer why the town was joyous) called Montañita. After having spent 4 days in the sleepy coupled-out surfer town of Canoa it was a welcome change. Canoa is great if you are single and your idea of a good time is to hang out with 6 couples. Upon arriving to Montañita you feel like you are walking down the streets of a backpacker party haven in Thailand where there is a sparkle in the air that anything can happen without the slightest effort and hangovers do not exist. All you need to do is sit back, enjoy and the good times that naturally come. If you are having fun then other people that also want to have fun magically appear. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286457133441808994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1EwQcg-mI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/FeerPwUlD5Q/s320/n3329545_40886327_7788.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption, The American guy flexing his abs in this photo said to me, ¨Damn, if you get laid with those swim trunks it will be a miracle,´ and I said, ¨If I don´t it will be a miracle. These are hot.¨</em> <em>Although in general he is right. In Ecuador they think ´irony´ is something you do to get wrinkles out of shirts.</em><br /><em></em><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287884006384041762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWJWfMX9fyI/AAAAAAAAAY4/BLjGmMi-vNA/s320/toomuchflare.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption,¨Listen buddy, have you ever heard of too much flair?¨</em><br /><em></em><br />Montañita is not complicated- two streets and a beach. You should know everyone in the town within 24 hours and sure enough we had piled together a hodge podge of solo travelers into a surrogate family with the common bond of English. And man was it nice. At night during the weekdays you have one of one places to choose from to go out. That´s good, keep it easy. I ended up relaxing in Montañita for 9 days and with that holiday within a holiday from biking it gave life and ladies a chance to catch up with me. While always being on the move it is hard to let life live sometimes and this was a delightful change. An American couple had a joint and I was able to take a vacation within a vacation within a vacation and life became a whole lot more real. I wandered the sparkly beach and the dusty streets with childlike curiosity. Then it hit me, with the perspective change that only pot brings, what a crazy motherfuqing bike trip not only I have done but am actually doing. What in god´s name am I doing? and I shrunk and the world got big enough to swallow me whole. The next minute I was skipping along the beach enjoying how damn amazing life is and how happy I am to be alive while hugging, then giving a nice kiss, to a lava rock.<br /><br />Unfortunately for us humans, we cannot sniff each others asses to see who should couple up with who and so ensues a comical fumbling social dance of courting between the sexes. It was enjoyable watching people chasing their own tails and barking up the wrong tree. By the time Friday rolled along the idiotic humans finally figured things out and managed to, for better or for worse, couple up to enjoy the animal delights along with the dogs. It is amazing how alcohol brings out those instincts. It´s a shame we have been socially conditioned to suppress them until they build up, BUT there is that one person in a thousand that is brimming with life and their eyes glow with a childlike radiance. They somehow did not get the memo of how we are supposed to act and instead act as they feel, always.<br /><br />The gringo boys roll their eyes when the cute gringo girls are talking and hooking up with the local ¨Artisanas¨ aka ¨the bracelet makers ¨ because guys can smell the sleaziness of these other guys that are with 7 girls 7 days a week. Some call it jealously, and to that I say, ¨Touché¨, because they are up to same antics as the gringo guys but just with little or no shame. It makes me laugh because I assume, although I have not confirmed it, that the gringo girls can smell the ´gringo hunter´ girls from a mile away and are repulsed by their sleaziness. So completes the circle of slime that is Montañita, a microcosm of the travel circuit and life in general.<br /><br />When Sunday rolls around most of the men have released their wax darts they have had pent up traveling solo and the entire town suffers from a collective sigh of relief and glowing communal hang-over. The energy of the weekend has been spent and heads can been seen resting on table tops with half eaten plates of food and half drunk bottles of Gatorade.<br /><br />I took a welcomed mental holiday from good judgment and allowed myself to be easily poached by a ¨gringo hunter¨ from Guayaquil, Ecuador. She was a perfectly pretty lady with curves in all the right places but shrunken down like a Shrink-a-Dink into a 12 year old sized body. Never has something felt so good and seemed so wrong. I mean she was beyond petite. On the plus side my penis looked like a sky scrapper in her little hands.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286461215955867362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1Id4_t1uI/AAAAAAAAAVY/fKuxdAFxZFI/s320/monta%C3%B1ita.JPG" border="0" />Caption, ¨Can you guess who is who?¨<br /><br />I have been lucky enough to spend time with three Ecuadorian families, and let me say it has left me very confused. I know it is a small sample size and there could be a language barrier as well, but I have to share some of my wonderings. The most important rule I picked up is ALL things are taboo and secret relating to family.<br /><br />The women will be the first to tell you about machismo-ism in Latin America. They claim to hate it and in the next breath I could swear they were bragging about being choked by their jealous boyfriends and husbands. Women pay for absolutely nothing when going out with the men. The trade-off is, if they are lucky enough to be allowed to go out with their lady friends without their men, their outfits are scrutinized to the button so no boobs are showing in typical insecure Latin male fashion. Meanwhile, in a good turn of faithfulness, the men who have two children and a wife are running off to the whore house at the first chance they get. It´s always that way. The one who is cheating is the most suspicious, and so goes the Latin romance circle of jealousy. A group of ladies around a table asked me, ¨Are you jealous?¨ and while I think it is impossible to be without any jealousy, the level their men attain shows a lack of confidence. They all shared glances with each other with raised eyebrows at this revolutionary idea.<br /><br />Back to the petite Ecuadorian girl and her family- Her sister was an older ex-Ecuadorian model who could have been mistaken for the petite girl´s mother. Her mind was so warped by years of people fawning over her beauty that she lives on a planet somewhere near Pluto cackling at jokes only she understands. The sister explains how she had a Rolodex of papers that men would give to her in hopes of a date. Due to the amount she would receive she would have to label them, ¨Tall, rich, ugly, businessman or ¨Short, poor, handsome, student.¨ Each weekend she would thumb through her options. Now her options are slimmer and she takes what she gets along with mounting self-esteem issues like obsessing over her giant butt, which it is not, and she requires a certain amount of boy attention at all times or she sulks in a corner. Her features are sharp and delicate, and those of an older model that has visited a surgeon to keep everything where it was 20 years ago. The eyes are large almonds with a heavy eyeliner that make them jump off her face. When the older sister takes a shot it is followed by over dramtic painful faces and a death-claw grip of my arm to hold herself steady. She turns to me, ¨I think the alcohol is going to make me puke, again.¨<br />¨Again? I say, confused since this is her first shot.<br />¨Oops, ssshhhhh, do not tell anybody,¨ she winks to me. Gotcha, she is a bulimic which makes sense. But then it gets better. The night after I rag-dolled the petite sister the older sister latches onto my arm and says in my ear, ¨Tonight I want to change men with my sister.¨<br />Hmmm, this is said to me while I am standing with the petite one on my arm. Next thing you know I am walking arm in arm with both girls down the main drag of the street and my gringo family is giving me eyeballs, like what did you do to that poor girl last night so the sister is hot on your ass right now? I have this look of utter confusion on my face mixed with pain from the nails of the older sister digging into my arm and occasional ass grabs. This chick is freaky.<br />¨What is your plan?¨ the guys in the group excitedly ask me when I have a moment alone since they are thinking sister on sister threesome action. I am thinking how am I going to ditch this older psycho.<br />¨My plan is to drink enough to pass out in the gutter so I do not need to make a decision,¨ was my only half-joking reply.<br />We were able to pawn her off on an unsuspecting dancer on the dance floor and the petite one and I made a dash for the exit. ¨So, what is up your sister?¨ was my very vague but probing question.<br />¨Oh, she is just joking.¨<br />Hmmm, not with the way her eyes were talking to me. Her eyes were showing me Kamasutra positions not yet invented and hysterical screams only heard from animals being killed on the plains of the Serengeti. I was scared yet intrigued. In the end I went with the sure bet and the right choice.<br /><br />Around the lunch table with them the next day they invited me to Guayaquil to spend a day and night with them. I jumped at the chance and they were waiting for me at bus terminal in the center of Guayaquil. On the ride I attempted some small chat to get to know them and their city better.<br />¨So where are the nice neighborhoods?¨<br />¨Well, the poor people keep chasing the rich people around the city. We build one area away from them and then they move in and surround us, so we have to move again. This has happened three times now. Now we are in the North of the city. I do not have anything against the poor people, they are fine, but they rob us and make things dirty and dangerous.¨<br />¨Ok,¨ was my only reply. But I was more interested in this family because the sisters did not look related.<br />¨So how many brothers and sisters do you have?¨ I asked.<br />¨Hmmm, 7 I think. Wait, hmmm, yes, 7,¨ was the petite one´s response while exchanging confirming glances with the older sis. ¨You see, we have different mothers, but the same father.¨<br />Ok, that is normal. Nothing shocking there. ¨So how old is your father?¨<br />¨Hmmm, I am not sure. In his 70´s I think, right?¨ again confirming with the sister, ¨Yes, 70 something.¨<br />I am off put by the confusion. One of those things you should be able to figure out with a moments thought is how old your freakin parents are and how many siblings you have. That is something you only need to add up ONCE and then remember.<br />¨Where are we going now?¨ was my hopefully straightforward question.<br />¨To our brother´s house where we are staying,¨ since the older one lives in Miami (it would be a crime, so she says to tell her age, AND neither her nor her petite sister can say what she does for a living or for money, which is fine, but she has to understand that I will automatically assume the worst and that she is a prostitute until otherwise told so).<br />¨And your brother is how old and what does he do?¨<br />They of course do not know the age, 40 something, and he is a legal prosecutor for the state. Ok, finally we are getting somewhere.<br />The brother comes home late and I see him purposely ignore me on the way upstairs while we are all eating dinner. Strange, not even a hi to a new person that is staying in your house. Later when the petite one and I are relaxing with a movie in the guest room I notice that she is nervous. She locks one bolt of the door but is searching for the keys to lock the other bolt.<br />¨You worried someone is going to come in? You seem nervous,¨ was my half asleep question.<br />¨Well, you remember how I told you I was married to a French man for three years while I was living in France?¨<br />¨Yep.¨<br />¨Well, you see, in Latin families when you marry you are supposed to be married forever so only a few of my sisters know I am separated. My brother and my father do not know. My brother has the keys to this room so he will probably open the door at any time to check on me,¨ her emotionally twisted childlike face says.<br />¨Ah, am I in any danger here?¨ is my question, now being completely awake.<br />¨A little,¨ she shruggs. ¨But we can sleep in the maid´s quarters out back since she is off getting married at the moment.¨<br />Jesus christ. What is with the secrecy of these Latin families! You cannot say you are gay, your age, what you do, if you are separated, and you get choked and beaten daily. She replies to my unspoken question, ¨See, in Latin families we do not share and open up everything with strangers.¨<br />Ya, I am thinking, or family members for that matter. I guess the entire world is the same, but I grew up in a different environment so find this all quite foreign, literally.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286461832691627426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV1JByg-taI/AAAAAAAAAVg/Vp65UIiCtyI/s320/PB280066.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨Check out the man in the boat.¨</em></p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-29736198917251489522008-11-28T16:28:00.000-08:002009-01-01T20:13:04.430-08:00Booming tourism industry in Puerto de Cayo. BUY NOW!!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSEPLpdtbI/AAAAAAAAAUg/OQSaxF7Pl14/s1600-h/PB280071.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274986459917301170" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSEPLpdtbI/AAAAAAAAAUg/OQSaxF7Pl14/s320/PB280071.JPG" border="0" /></a><em></em><br /><em>Caption: ¨PCH of Ecuador.¨</em><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSFOEOqSfI/AAAAAAAAAUw/zEQ9B55u8WM/s1600-h/PB250040.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274987540257589746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSFOEOqSfI/AAAAAAAAAUw/zEQ9B55u8WM/s320/PB250040.JPG" border="0" /></a><em>Caption: ¨The often stinky and unsightly roads. Sign says do not throw your trash.¨<br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286539573494415314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2Pu5kt_9I/AAAAAAAAAWY/yaWhVY-95eI/s320/PB270049.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨Beach pueblo.¨</em><br /><br />All things considered I should be hating biking in Ecuador, especially after Colombia. In Ecuador the unpaved roads cover me in dust clouds leaving me with a dirt face mask at the end of each day, dogs are chasing my ass in every goddamn pueblito, on shore wind in my face, long stretches without restaurants, dirty food that has made me very very afraid to fart and left me with a feeling of an invisible hand squeezing my intestines every 15 min while biking (maybe I should get that checked), filthy roadsides covered in plastic bags of garbage, and a horrible stench of rotting fish and cow carcases decorating the roadsides. Despite those differences with Colombia I am having a better time than ever in Ecuador. The people are delightful.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286540305929421730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2QZiG1Q6I/AAAAAAAAAWg/3pI_G8hBU64/s320/PB250038.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨Tim Burton trees.¨</em><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286540578361530466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2QpY_tWGI/AAAAAAAAAWo/r3H4p6gDWn4/s320/PB240024.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption, ¨Fellow companions in idiocy.¨</em><br /><div><div><div><br /><div>I was biking down the coast yesterday dancing in my saddle listening to some awesome Egyptian pop (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD9xXRm3Jpw, Amr Diab is one of my personal favorites). 30km (about an hour and a half) had gone by without seeing a person or a place to eat and I was famished. If you don't eat every 2 or 3 hours your body does dead like a cell phone. The amazing thing is all you need to do is eat, wait 15 minutes and you are charged up again and can go another few hours. Biking has given me a new love for fruits and veggies. I have a nearly sexual attraction to them now. Looking at a good bunch of bananas is much the feeling I get when a woman walks down the street and she passes you and you turn your head to admire. Freaking love those bananas.<br /></div><br /><div>I came across a cabana with a man watering a lawn of rocks and pebbles with a few sad weeds. He was a family man of 30 years and had a cute frazzle haired kid hanging on each leg. We chatted for a bit about how far it was to the next town and the weather. Being a hot day of 80km I was ready to set up camp, find some food and take a dip in the baby blue sea. "How much to camp here?" I asked him.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286541070340260226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2RGBwlAYI/AAAAAAAAAWw/0j-L-1LmwE4/s320/PB210015.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Not Puerto de Cayo.¨<br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286541352252677730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2RWb9vHmI/AAAAAAAAAW4/a9R8yuyjIOo/s320/PB280072.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption, ¨Definitely not Puerto de Cayo.¨</em></div><div><br />"Free and safe. No one will bother you here," he reassures me. Ok, sounds like a deal. As with all things nothing is free. After my swim he offers me a home cooked meal with his family and then to take me into "town" to show me around Puerto de Cayo. His plan, as I found out, was to show me everything this wonderful pueblo has to offer in order for me to tell all my fellow tourist friends with pockets full of disposable income to come here, and not to places set up with tourist services such as internet and restaurants (both of which this town lacks). </div><br /><div>Although relaxing on the beach and reading sounds appetizing I of course go with him because of the hospitality he is showing me. Now I am about to embark on the red carpet tour of his pueblo he is so full of pride about. It's only a 10 min walk in the blazing sun into the dusty center of town lacking trees big enough to give a dog shade. First stop, we get to watch a dump truck unload dirt on their un-paved road in the center of town. While squinting into the broiling heat to watch the truck unload its payload an SUV pulls up and a man hops out of the car with three other guys all holding camcorders. It's the mayor from Jipijapa coming to check on the road construction. I love saying the word Jipijapa. Anyway, he is a typical slimeball politician small talking up 'his amigos' in the streets and pressing flesh. He has a nice fake smile behind twitchy eyes that tell all his lies. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274987945672954658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSFlqhN0yI/AAAAAAAAAU4/ZkePkzsCP4Q/s320/PB280057.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨The jackass mayor soaking up and loving the limelight. He smelled of a scandal.¨<br /></em><br /><div>He grabs an old lady and holds her over the shoulder and starts talking into the camera, "Here we are in beautiful Puerto de Cayo with this wonderful senora. As promised we are improving the roads for you, and to bring tourist and money to your town and improving your quality of life..." Just then the old lady interrupts him, he gets annoyed and grabs a more docile old lady. The mayor tells the camera man, "Ok, lets start over again," and he continues with his political campaigning. While he is talking the other two camera men are filming me talking to my new friend, Oscar. The mayor, after getting his sound bites, comes over to me, shakes my hand and wants to know how long I have been here (2 hours), how much I love it (so much) and more small talk. I think I am the first tourist in this town.<br /><br />The mayor takes off as fast as he showed up and Oscar and I head down to the local free clinic. In Ecuador they provide free condoms for the people because for the average guy they are very expensive. "Oscar, why don't you get the pill instead?" I asked him.<br />"Oh, they do not have the pill for men here in Ecuador."<br />"No, No, not for you, for your wife," obviously being a language misunderstanding due to my shitty Spanish.<br /><br />"My wife was not always fat," he says. Oscar is a fit and handsome Ecuadorian stud. I saw his wife and I thought, wow, she lucked out. She was fully equipped with the standard "muffin tops" that you see on nearly all Ecuadorians. "There are hormones in the pill and she will get even bigger than after the two kids." and he puffs up his cheeks and puts his arms out to his sides and starts waddling around. Haha, Oscar is awesome and men are the same all around the world.<br /><br />I bought a 20 liter jug of water and a chicken for the family's dinner. We were walking back to his place on the beach and he decides to take me to the "famosos chongos". The what? Ah, the whorehouse. Gotcha.<br /><br />I do not like whore houses. Maybe if I slept with whores I would like them. Never say never, I could lose a leg on this trip and it could be my new favorite hang out on Earth but until then I tend to shy away from them and it has kept me out of trouble for the most part. So Oscar and I go in and I immediately know this is a bad idea. This hut is located on the outskirts of town tucked into a hill covered with dead weeds. Under the palm frond roof there are a dozen wasted guys with piles of beers in front of them and two rollipoli looking whores that are dressed in a Borat bathing suit made out of spare fishing nets. Oh, yes. 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound sack came to mind. What a treat for the eyeballs.<br /><br />Oscar looks at me and I give a cracked smile and a head nod that tells him I am not digging this place. We took a seat. I wanted to get him a beer for his hospitality and for being a great guy, but I did not want to stay long enough to finish that beer. Sitting their awkwardly, all drunk eyes are on the white boy wearing a cowboy hat. Lets go, lets go, lets go...nope, we are getting waved over by the two biggest slime buckets in the place and we have to go over and say hi. Both of them have the sweaty red bloated drinker face look going on. One guy is large and looks and talks just like Jabba the Hut so I can hardly understand his pueblo talk. On his right is sitting this little guy that has his two, possibly four, front teeth missing, a MASSIVE cold sore and is laughing away like an idiot, coincidentally just like Jabba the Hut's sidekick in the movie. What a duo.<br /><br />They hit me with a barrage of questions in ghetto coastal pueblo talk. The sidekick hands me a small glass of beer that he has been filling and passing to each person in the group. It arrives to me, "No, no, I do not drink beer." Ya, that set tone. A look of horror and confusion came over their faces. "Ok, well, how about a nice muchacha for your little fishing boat?" was Jabba's question. "What?" What the hell is this guy talking about? I found out later that fishing boat means cock here in this particular pueblo. He tried to bring one of the girls over and I say, "No no, it's ok we were just going to see the rest of Puerto de Cayo. We are on a tour." The guy is trying to get me to go on his fishing boat for a discounted rate the next day, but I am explaining to him I leave at 6am. I am walking a fine line of offending Jabba and at the same time my face is giving me away that I am not enjoying his company. My face is pained in a crunched laugh with darting eyes to Oscar in hopes that he will get us out of this situation. The guys are getting more and more worked up because I have declined their generous offers of herpetic beers and even more herpetic laced lovely ladies. Ok, time to go.<br /><br />Oscar finally reads my uncomfortableness and got us out of there. Jabba is noticeably annoyed and gives me this bitter sad limp handshake because he was offended, rightfully so. I was being a jackass due to my annoying sense of self preservation. I guess I should have slammed the glass of beer covered in scabs and then slammed one of the girls in one of the rooms that is set up with a mattress on the floor right off the main room where everyone is drinking and next to the shitter.<br /><br />It is one thing to be in an awkward situation in English but throw in the the misunderstanding x factor and your are on uneven footing. Yes, I can communicate with the people but I cannot express myself, and that is a giant leap away. I spend days talking to pueblo folk, but at the end of the day I do not relate to these people. We run out of things to talk about because our cultures are so different. We have to talk about weathers and their, what usually ends up being, traumatic family history. We cannot talk light and fluffy with pop culture references. And I cannot stand their salsa music. Can you name your favorite 3 Raggaton and Vallanata artists please? Any music that uses a fog horn for an instrument is complete garbage. You can put on my tombstone.<br /><br />Oscar and his family were a treat, but even with them we hit conversation dry spots. I played with his kids making Lego houses and guns after a warm Ecuadorian dinner of soup, lentils, rice and chicken. My tent was pitched facing the crashing waves and I passed out thinking about what a wonderfully strange life I am living.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSF5sqV3kI/AAAAAAAAAVA/b68eEQm_W20/s1600-h/PB260043.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274988289845485122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STSF5sqV3kI/AAAAAAAAAVA/b68eEQm_W20/s320/PB260043.JPG" border="0" /></a><em>Caption: ¨Cuidad de Manta.¨</em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286537183587578562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SV2NjyehssI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/bPYEhqCuawA/s320/PB270044.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div><em>Caption, ¨I love this photo. A giant monument in the middle of a glorieta in Manta of a tuna fish and then a can of tuna with a bar code underneith. The tuna is bigger than Shamu. The police were waving at me to move cause I stopped to take this picture in the traffic circle.</em>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-29960030204383442752008-11-26T06:29:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:24:19.788-08:00An afternoon beer with TedAfter spending a few uneventful but relaxing days camping in a sleepy tourist beach town called <span class="mark" id="misspell-0">Canoa</span> I decided to head southward. I woke up late because the place I love to eat whole wheat pancakes served with <span class="mark" id="misspell-1">mantequilla</span> <span class="mark" id="misspell-2">de</span> <span class="mark" id="misspell-3">maracuyá</span> and homemade cane syrup does not serve until 9am. On ride days I usually get up at 5am but these pancakes were worth the delay, not to mention they are served with a great bowl of fresh fruit.<br /><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Lazily I set off for Bahia because I really wanted to see this gigantic tortoise that made the cruise from the Galapagos to the coast. The sailors would take these defenseless creatures and chuck them in the boat for long sea passages. They could live on their backs for months and would provide sailors with fresh meat later in their journey. Luckily this guy was not eaten and ended up in an ¨Eco-School¨ in a Bahia.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>It was a short ride from <span class="mark" id="misspell-4">Canoa</span> to Bahia, 22 km, with a free boat ride over a river estuary. I checked into a 5 dollar hotel, showered up, and then ate lunch at a place filled with locals. After eating I heard a couple speaking English at a table across the way, which is strange because Bahia is not a major tourist destination. People usually go to <span class="mark" id="misspell-5">Canoa</span> or <span class="mark" id="misspell-6">Montañita</span>.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>We chatted it up a bit, and they led me to their hostel while they left to go swim. Lucky for me Ted was sitting out front of the hostel sipping on boxed wine and reading a hardcover book about the history of Latin America before the conquistadors arrived. Upon first glance you know Ted is going to be an interesting guy. At 57 he has a full head of gray hair trimmed into a mullet. A fine specimen: 7.5 on the <span class="mark" id="misspell-7">mullitude</span> scale.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STKpnkXFy5I/AAAAAAAAAUI/yyTBX04yXSY/s1600-h/PB250030.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274464610844789650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STKpnkXFy5I/AAAAAAAAAUI/yyTBX04yXSY/s320/PB250030.JPG" border="0" /></a><em>Caption "Ted, the man. And one of those hands of his."</em><br /><br /></div><div></div><div>It is just the two of us and we hit it off splendidly because he loves to talk and I love to listen after setting him up with questions that he loves to knock down. Set it up...knock it down.</div><div><br />I started him off slowly talking about boating since he has been on the sea since 13. From there about women, Latin America, America, etc...it goes on, and then he mentioned he had a pension back from his military days. A few minutes later after we had moved onto other topics I brought up his dangling hint again.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>¨So, what war did you serve in?¨ I ask knowing full well he is a Vietnam vet.</div><div></div><div>¨How did you know?¨ he quickly asked with a raised eyebrow and a sideways glance.</div><div></div><div>¨You mentioned your pension a moment ago,¨ I replied.</div><div></div><div>He lets out a sigh, his chair squeaks back when he gets up and says, ¨Ah hell. What do you drink?¨</div><div></div><div>He comes back with a large afternoon beer and more boxed wine. ¨I usually drink rum. Rum is my drink, but today I am drinking wine,¨ as if he has to legitimatize his drink to me. <span class="mark" id="misspell-8">Ok</span>.</div><div></div><div>¨I served in Vietnam,¨ was his answer from no where. </div><div></div><div>¨How was that?¨</div><div></div><div>¨I don`t go there.¨</div><div></div><div>¨Gotcha.¨ A pregnant pause passes and we sipped our drinks, ¨Being a Vietnam vet do you have a theory of why we were over there?¨<br /></div><div></div><div>¨It`s obvious, right? To stop the spread of Communism. If Vietnam fell then they would have all fallen to Communism, right?¨ he says with a sarcastic smile. </div><div>¨So why do you think it was if it was not that? Personally I think it was money. The USA needs to keep the military industrial complex going or our economy will disappear,¨ I realized I should not have said anything so he could have talked freely without being influenced but I felt I had to add something to the conversation.</div><div>¨Ya, that too, but you know 58,000 men died in that war. Now do you think that Bush would be in office today if those 58,000 men were not killed in action? They killed those good men to keep themselves in power, THAT is why we were sent to Vietnam,¨was his adamant response.</div><div></div><div>I wanted to ask him if Bush won by 58,000 votes or if they checked whether they guys that were killed we registered Democrats or Republicans, but I knew he had lost his mind and I decided to pass on rilling him up.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>We changed the topic and he changed his drink to a rum, his favorite. We kept talking, only to be interrupted by him from time to time making loud inappropriate English comments to the <span class="mark" id="misspell-9">trunky</span> Ecuadorian women walking by. They do not understand a word he says but they know enough not to look his way.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Next he goes into a nice piece about a guy that owns an electronics store in town. I will summarize it for you. Basically the very nice man, who is friends with Ted over the past 4 years, would take his shop's earnings every Monday to the bank after work. That, according to Ted, was his first mistake. Two Colombians guys came up to him one Monday evening and demanded the money but the owner would not give it up without a fight. 4 shots to the belly later and the Colombians are off and running with the cash. They end up on a public bus and decide to rob them all as well. In the may-lay that ensued, somehow, the men were unarmed and the police show up and surround the bus. The men are taken into custody in the back of a pick-up truck and driven into the center of town where the mob patiently awaited their arrival. They men are pulled from the truck, doused in gasoline and set on fire. Ted tells this story with the utmost pride and he WISHED he could have been there to throw the match on those guys.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>¨How can you be certain that those were they guys? The weapon was never found,¨ was my concerned question. </div><div>¨I am certain and I think what they did was 100% right. Those guys, if convicted, would have gotten 8 years and only served 5 years. He was a great great man that they shot,¨ was his passionate reply.</div><div></div><div>¨<span class="mark" id="misspell-10">Ok</span>, lets say the mob was right this time, but how about a philosophical question,¨ and this I realized was going to fall on deaf ears the moment those words fell out of my mouth, ¨Lets say the mob is right 9 our of 10 times and the 10<span class="mark" id="misspell-11">th</span> time an innocent man gets set on fire. Do you have a problem with that?¨</div><div></div><div>¨First of all, they had the right men. The guy that poured the gas on the guys saw him pull the trigger, and secondly let me tell you another story... (obviously not answering my question in the least but I am now curious about this new story),¨ Ted makes a long obvious pause staring at the table, he lifts his glass to eye level and says to himself and to the glass, ¨AH, HELL...I told myself I <span class="mark" id="misspell-12">wouldn</span>´t, but the alcohol...¨ and he trails off.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>Ted is noticeably restless with himself in the chair, but he takes another sip of rum and starts, ¨35 miles outside Memphis, Tenn was living this sweet blond girl who was a friend of mine. This was in the middle of nowhere. To protect herself I taught her how to shoot a .45. I took her into the woods and got her confident enough to fully unload all the chambers in a crouched position. My instructions to her were to go to a corner and unload.<br /><br /></div><div>Well, I got a phone call some time later and I came over to her house. There laying on the floor was a black man filled with bullets and the only thing the girl could say in her shock was, ¨I <span class="mark" id="misspell-13">didn</span>`t know it was going to be so loud!¨ because we had practiced outside and not indoors. Now what do you do in that situation? Call the cops? Hell no. We took him out back and buried him, then replaced the door that had a few bullets lodged in it where she had missed. That is what you do. No questions asked. That poor girl would have gone to jail and what we did was right.¨</div><div></div><div>I took a look at Ted`s hands. What have those hands done in this lifetime? He has just admitted to a complete stranger after a few hours of conversation that he buried a man, so I am quite certain he has killed. This story was obviously not up for debate whether he did right or wrong. He did the right thing is all he wants to hear, but I cannot help myself, ¨Well, I will tell you right now. I am a pussy. I would not have buried the guy. I would have called the cops and let them sort it out. You did what you thought was best.¨<br /></div><div></div><div>¨Damn straight, and it was right. That poor girl would have gone to jail.¨</div><div></div><div>I am thinking a blond girl killing a black guy going into her house in Tennessee would be an open and shut case, but what do I know?<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>I wrapped up that conversation with a comment about wanting to see the <span class="unmark" id="misspell-14">tortoise</span> at the school and I headed off wondering how many people like Ted roam the streets. A lot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STKp2vn6fmI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/UB0eppcGAhw/s1600-h/PB250036.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274464871566179938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/STKp2vn6fmI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/UB0eppcGAhw/s320/PB250036.JPG" border="0" /></a><em>Caption "This tortoise was my excuse for a somewhat graceful getaway from the conversation. He looks like the tortoise from The Neverending Story, right? Look at that wise old eye. His eyes are 105 years old."</em> </div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-83519136568083693472008-11-21T08:15:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:32:15.055-08:00Mr.Roger`s Field Trip to an Ecuadorian Prison<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSrU_ZvDS_I/AAAAAAAAAS4/a7xgzWc8v2c/s1600-h/PB190009.JPG"></a>Yesterday morning I was carrying a new friend`s bag and hailing a cab in a dream state. Saying a `bye` just 24 hours after a `hi`. A kiss, a door slam and a plume of smoke disappears as if watching a movie in fast forward.<br /><br />Lazily walking back to my hostel without a single thought in my head I ran into a fellow long haired traveler. ¨Hey, I am going to the Quito prison. Do you want to come? We just need to buy two packs of cigs and we need to hurry because to enter visiting hours we need to be there within 30 minutes.¨<br /><br />This is traveling life. Whisked away to a new distracting activity before your mind can properly wrap itself around and digest the last one that just took place.<br /><br />Next thing you know I am in a cab bumping along with two packs of cigs in my pockets and two beers. The beers are for me. The cigs are for the prisoner we are about to visit as a thank you. There is no entrance fee. My British traveling amigo explains to me that he got this guy`s name, Raymond, from Canadian traveler who had been last visiting hours. Twice a month the prisoners can get conjugal visits and once a week they can have family and friends. We are the friends.<br /><br />Upon arriving we are searched. NO belts, cell phones, lighters. My passport is held at the gate and my forearm is covered in stamps so they know we are only visitors. I am left with 8 dollars in my pocket, my room key, two packs of cigs, two beers in my belly and an overall itchy nervous body feeling about willfully stepping into a prison.<br /><br />Raymond is there to greet us. In his 60`s he has a full but slightly thinning head of gray hair with a thick yellowed mustache. His jet black eyebrows hang over droopy eyes that crave cigarettes. Raymond`s stooped over posture is that of a man that has spent a lifetime on a bar stool talking about stories with no end and no point.<br /><br />He greets us in his Liverpool accent and tells us how, ¨I know the guards. He did me a favor to let me down here so I could escort you from the entrance to my room (cell).¨ Raymond shakes hands with the guard in a thankful gesture and the guard ignores him. The metal bars of the gate clank close behind us and now we are in. What the fuq are we doing in here?<br /><br />It is nothing like I thought. The prisoners are walking freely among the Pabellons (cell blocks). They are not waving at you from behind their barred cells. They are brushing shoulders with you, eyeballing you, trying to extort money from you, and following you around. My only protection is this 60 year old man named Raymond that has spent 2.5 years here and does not speak a word of Spanish.<br /><br />We spiral up stairs to the third floor. My head is on a swivel and I am not sure if I should be making eye contact or not. Sounds are heard while passing people to let you know they know who you are: frightened little tourists here to take a glimpse at their world. We get to Raymond`s cell. There are no bars. It is a wooden door with vents to let the air pass. Inside it is a very cramped college dorm room. A bunk bed sleeps two, and a third sleeps on the floor. It is claustrophobic, there are 6 guys crammed in there all smoking and socializing. We enter and try to make ourselves comfortable. I find a corner of a bed to take a seat and sit hunched over so the top of the bunk bed does not hit my head. One of Raymond`s roommates, Carlos, hands me a cup of Coca-Cola and a cig. I take both.<br /><br /><br />We sit and chat for a while. The usual questions: Carlos has been here for 5 years. Most of the guys are here on drug possession (minimum sentence of 8 years), but no one knows what the others are really here for. Sometimes it is found out that the guys are rapists or child abusers and they are ¨dealt with¨. The cliche is true. They are ALL innocent. Both Raymond and Carlos tell us their stories of how they were set up with their bags filled with coke in the airports. A moment later Raymond contradicts his innocence by saying, ¨Shit, they are supposed to help you and your family out if something happens. But nothing! Not even a word from them.¨ Them being the guys for whom he was obviously running the drugs.<br /><br />The prisoners here have easy access to drugs and naturally, living caged up, start to lose their grip on reality. They have delusions of grandeur both about themselves and psuedo importance of their friends there in prison. Carlos explains that the prisoners run Ecuador from inside the prisons. If the prisoners call a strike the entire country shuts down. ¨How does that happen?¨ I ask.<br />¨Well, the prisoners kick all the guards out of the prison. Then we shut down the country. We do not do that anymore now because we rewrote the Constitution of Ecuador from inside the prison. The people voted to approve it and we will be out of prison before Christmas¨ Carlos says with raised eyebrows as if to say ¨how about that?¨.<br />Raymond goes on to tell us that Carlos worked on the legal changes right there in their little cell. Impressive, and unlikely.<br /><br />Enough of story time hour, it is time to take a walk around the prison. Raymond brings us back downstairs to where you can eat and socialize. There is an eating area that is free. The food is so bad there that Raymond has never eaten the food there once in 2.5 years. To get decent food you have to pay for it. Cells on the bottom floor have been converted into tiny food stalls. A bakery, a Coca-Cola vendor, fried empanadas, and regular plates of food with rice, beans and carne as you would find on the side of the road. Nothing is provided for. Money is used to buy cigs, toilet paper, laundry, drugs, and betting. We leave the food area and pass a corridor that has cocks in a cages for the weekly cock fights. Now we are outside. This is Pabellon C. This is the nicest Pabellon. In order to get in you need to pay 80 dollars and then 1 dollar a week to keep your ass there. This guarantees you have a room with only three people in it. If you are a drug addict or have little or no cash you end up in Pabellon B or D. There you sleep 6 to a room. I cannot even imagine how 6 fit into a room there. I think it is impossible unless there are two in each double bed.<br /><br />Outside in Paballon C there are people walking around stretching their legs. Each corner you look to there are shady conversations taking place, overly smooth handshakes and heavy rolled shoulders. The area is no larger than two basketball courts.<br /><br />¨Now I am going to take you to what we call the machete ward, Pabellon B. Real bad guys there. Drug addicts with weapons. Stay close to me, do not talk or look at anyone. AND do NOT give anyone anything,¨ was Raymond's list of instructions.<br />¨Huh, we do not have to go there, really,¨ was my British companion´s thought. Mine too but I had some morbid curiosity.<br />Raymond acted like he did not hear and we walk into Pabellon B. The vibe is distinctly different as we pass the threshold, and in different I mean worse. Not even two steps in and there is a guy poking in me in the ribs asking me for a dollar. ¨No, I do not have any.¨ You know you are not supposed to give the guy anything, but your instinct is to give him something so he will go away. You also hope that the finger will not be replaced with a shiv. Next he trys the Brit. He starts nervously fumbling for some money but Raymond sees what is happening and bitches both the Brit and the crack head out.<br /><br /><br />The crack head leaves us alone but walks exactly two paces behind us for the rest of tour. I can smell him, like an LA bum covered in piss with sores all over his lips. Raymond points out the first ground floor cell. Here, like Pabellon C, there is commerce on the ground floor, but in Pabellon B it is drugs. You can get a joint for 50 cents, coke for 3 dollars a half gram, and heroin etc. can be purchased. The prison guards obviously get their cut and they turn a blind eye to it all, besides, the prisoners on drugs are probably easier to handle.<br /><br /><br />Many people buy drugs on credit. The interest rates in prison are steep. 10 dollars today and in two days you need to pay back 20. In two more days that goes to 40. In less than a week you own 80 on your original loan of 10. Trouble comes when you do not pay. As long as you pay you are valuable to everyone in prison. Do not pay and all of a sudden something can go horribly wrong. 10 people have been killed since Raymond has been there. Shot and stabbed. Those caught of killing once in prison are sent to Pabellon F. Luckily they are separated from the others, and right now us.<br /><br />Coincidentally I am reading Papillon at the moment about the French murderer that escaped from prison two times in the 1930`s and 40`s. It is one of the most incredible true life stories I have ever read, so I have to ask Raymond how many have escaped. 10 people have since Raymond has been here.<br /><br />Both the Brit and I are ready to get back to the sanctuary of Raymond`s room. Once back in the room I see that the Brit is ready to leave. He is sitting on the bed and nervously fidgeting with his sleeves and clasping his hands. I feel the same way, but internalize it all. Instead I have another nervous cig and wonder if my cold sweat is washing away the visitor stamps on my forearms under my jacket.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272261062394110738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSrVgKsf4xI/AAAAAAAAATA/KNCWe_DjXgo/s320/PB190009.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Now I understand why prisoners get tats in prison; I even felt hardcore with these stamps.¨</em><br /><br />Sitting in the corner of Raymond`s room is a new greasy curly haired character with caramel skin. Behind glassy eyes he smiles. ¨He is one of the three main mafia bosses here,¨ says Raymond with much respect. ¨You can buy whatever you want from him.¨<br /><br />Mind you, Raymond just told us a moment ago that a prisoner was caught with drugs inside the jail and was given another 8 years. And that contradicts what he told us that the cops know about the drugs being sold from Pabellon B but do not care because they are paid part of the profits.<br /><br />¨Do not worry. You will not not be searched on the way out. Only in,¨ reassured Raymond. Ya, fucking hell, right. I am going to take this guy`s word? A man that has obviously made some great decisions up until this point of his life. I think I will pass on buying some coke and pot IN prison surrounded by guards that can arrest you and just keep you there.<br />I am not sure what is wrong with some of the tourists there but I have heard of them smoking J´s and doing lines with the prisoners and buying stuff. This, in my opinion, is the least relaxing atmosphere for drugs. My heart rate never got below 150 beats a minute while there for the hour and a half, which seemed more like one and a half days. Perhaps they figured they were tourists and nothing can happen to them, but both my friend and I felt the gravity of the situation.<br /><br />You always know that prison is bad. You think about ¨what if¨ I was there. But once you are inside (and this prison is one of the best case scenarios you can imagine) your body and stomach feels heavy. Heavy with realizing this is their existence. We leave and wander outside, go to bed, and hop on a bus. All the while these guys are still in prison trying to convince themselves that they have it all worked out, have the best protection and friends, and that they will be out by Christmas time (I am sure they said that last Christmas as well...but it was delayed by `lost paperwork´).<br /><br />We try several times to get up and leave. We have had enough of the tour. Each time we attempt to wrap things up Raymond gives us a ¨Oh, you going so soon?¨ and guilt anchors us there another 15 min before our next attempted escape.<br /><br />While sitting there waiting for the minutes to pass, small talking, I get the creeping feeling of anxiety walking up my spine. Wanting to leave but held by an unseen hand. I look at each of the guys in the cell, including my friend, and I see that in their eyes as well. There is this pent up energy waiting to be released that has no where to go. They are all mousetraps ready to snap. Raymond`s eyes seem to be more distant now as the time with him passes. He is sitting next to us but he has left us while talking about names of streets in his hometown and watering holes. Hints of his shady past are being mentioned while reminiscing.<br />¨Why do you like having visitors?¨ I asked him, snapping him out of his ¨stooper¨.<br />¨It is nice for us,¨ was the simple response. I looked around the room and all the roommates heads were nodding in agreement.<br /><br />About every 5 minutes there is someone at the door asking Raymond to buy a book or a DVD or some thing or another. The more you buy the more valuable you are. It buys your safety. It is extortion. Raymond has payed 50k dollars in the 2.5 years he has been there but he lives in relative peace for it. Now this time it is a guard asking him to borrow a charger for a cell phone (cell phones can be sneaked in, for a fee). I take this opportunity to stand up and my British friend takes the hint and follows suit. ¨Ok, me must be going.¨<br />Raymond walks us out. We shake hands heartily and thank God it is us who is leaving and not the other way around. The metal bars closed behind us. On wobbly legs we race down the streets fueled by nervous energy. No cab is needed. We walk as free men on the streets with heavy stomachs back to our hostel bubble.Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-88991614046114139862008-11-18T10:28:00.000-08:002009-01-06T14:32:50.429-08:00Jesus versus the devil womb of Cotopaxi<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSr17cisFeI/AAAAAAAAATw/sKdsFjmuihw/s1600-h/cotopaxi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272296715413362146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSr17cisFeI/AAAAAAAAATw/sKdsFjmuihw/s320/cotopaxi.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Caption: ¨Cotopaxi in all her hate.¨</em><br /><br />Although I was a participant in this epic struggle between good and evil I felt more like an observer. What struggle, you ask? It was the climbing of the 5,897 meters (more than 19,000 feet) of pure evil and the center of hell on Earth that is Cotopaxi.<br /><br />It all started off innocently enough. Backpackers talk about hiking Cotopaxi as if it were a trip to Disneyland. No one properly prepares you for what awaits. I think this was the first of many traps the Devil laid out for us that we ended up walking right into.<br /><br />The players:<br /><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272292832850708434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 198px; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSryZc3nh9I/AAAAAAAAATI/xWhUCxFS4Y4/s320/jesus.jpg" border="0" /><em>Jesus aka Drouyn from the land of Oz,</em><br /></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283854950906007010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SVQGFTFxDeI/AAAAAAAAAVI/dSkZiWs49hk/s320/cotopaxi.JPG" border="0" /><em>Gigi, Z German the German aka, me and Drouyn.<br /></em><br />Gigi was visiting me on the typical one week American whirl-wind vacation. Being a lawyer based in SF this was her longest break from work in over three years, and you could tell. Somehow we decided hiking a mountain would be a good idea and luckily we managed to talk Z German and Jesus into it as well for some companionship on the walk to hell.<br /><br />We left Baños for a long warm cramped jeep ride up to the refuge camp where we would be sleeping. We were acclimatizing in Baños at 2,000 meters for a few days before, if you can call that altitude acclimatizing. Along the way our driver explained some interesting facts about Ecuador. One, he says all the industrious indigenous people of Ecuador are immigrants from Boliva. All the lazy indigenous folk are native to Ecuador. Interesting fact. Second, the top 2 sources of income for Ecuador are its sales from petroleum AND money sent back home from Ecuadorans working abroad, mainly in Spain. That is insane.<br /><br />We hike slowly up to the refuge at 4,800 meters to spend the ¨night¨ before hiking up. Arriving at 4pm we quickly eat dinner and go to sleep at 6pm to wake up at 11pm. We were tired due to the long ride and from a lack of oxygen but the cruel joke with the lack of O2 is you cannot sleep even though you are tired. Stacked bunk beds sleeping shoulder to shoulder with over 60 is our sleeping quarters. One of the special added bonuses of the altitude is it makes your intestines freak out. Trying to digest food at this height feels like two hands are kneading your innards and in the process everyone is leaking like a natural gas main. This was hell`s waiting room, and man did it stink.<br /><br />After ¨waking up¨ at 11:30PM from one of the worst restless and stinkiest nights sleep in memory we all get to enjoy nice cup of tea and a fat throbbing headache. You try to choke down an apple or something even though you have no appetite, bordering on nausea, because you know you need the strength for the climb that awaits. Everyone is clomping around the wood planked floors with their hard plastic hiking snow boots, two layers of pants, three layers of jackets, two layers of gloves and a fleece hoody, snow goggles and a lantern strapped to your head.<br /><br />At 12:30 we begrudgingly shuffle out the door of the refuge in pitch darkness having no clue what the next hours holds in store for us. Here is where there comes a bit of game theory. For each 2 people there is 1 guide. If 1 of the 2 gets sick both people of the group have to return with the guide, UNLESS one of them turns back before they put on their crampons (Metal teeth attached to your snow boots so you can walk on snow or ice without sliding down the hill. They look like you are wearing bear traps on your feet.)<br /><br />Jesus and Z German are one group and Gigi and I are the second, each having our own guide. As we are approaching the point of no return, where you put on the crampons, Gigi tells me she is feeling nauseous and a moment later my guide says he has never seen anyone walk as slow as Gigi in his 4 years of guiding up the mountain. My fingers are crossed for Gigi to turn around before putting on the crampons because everyone in the group silently agrees there is no way she can make it to the top. Nope, she is putting on the crampons.<br /><br />After walking a very slow 30 min more I ask the guide if we can make it to the top at this pace, and he flatly says no. So I suggest that just the men go and leave the the other guide with Gigi since she is now wearing the crampons and cannot be left alone. The guide explains he is fine with it but that Z German and Jesus must understand that if one of the three of gets sick we all have to go down since we are roped together in case one of us falls down a crevasse. They luckily agree and this puts pressure on me and places in an awkward position if I am to become ill. Now it would be my fault they do not make it to the top. They guys are cool and once we leave Gigi we excitedly start a jog up the hill to make our summit quest and to make up the time lost. I want to suggest slowing down in order to pace ourselves but I am now the invited guest of the group. I just hope my biker legs and lungs can keep up with their bounding energy.<br /><br /><div>At first the Devil Cotopaxi tricks us with a nice gradual incline and firm snow. Jesus is gingerly making his way up the mountain as if walking on water. We are in high spirits with our new found freedom and opportunity to make it to the top.<br /><br />We settle into a good rhythm plugging along with sparse water breaks in the midnight hours. The sky is clear and starless due to the full moon washing them away with her brightness. We still have O2 and energy to enjoy ourselves and look around to appreciate the glacier that surrounds us and the desolate peaks in the distance bathing in the moon light. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288304490800397794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWPU6m5CveI/AAAAAAAAAZA/KsSHuWDdza4/s320/cotopaxi3.jpg" border="0" /></div><div><em>Caption: ¨My headlamp lights up liquid life.¨</em><br /></div><div></div><br /><div>2 more hours pass smoothly but with strained effort. The devil sees we are approaching.</div><br /><div>The next 2 hours becomes a monotonous existence. My reality and field of vision is reduced to the rope between my two bear trapped feet, foot holds in the snow, and the sound of my dry breath going in and out like a steam train.Nothing else exists. I could be on the moon or in a desert or on this glacier. It is now all the same to me. I ask the guide, ¨How much time until we get to the top?¨<br />¨2 hours,¨ was his reply and the group takes a collective sigh. Sweet Lord, 2 more hour of this?! We were already spent and I could see each of our shoulders, including Jesus`, slump forward. We all juggled the thought of quitting but no one wanted to be the one so we continued. We continued miserably and with far more frequent stops as we approached the summit. Our ice axes were used as canes to slump our bodies over to catch our breathes. The higher we get the thicker and looser becomes the snow. Often you take three steps and fall back two, but you have to quickly recover because you are anchored to the person in front of you. At times you have to take one large step instead of two small ones and this feels as if the Devil has punched you in the gut and takes all your air away. You have to struggle to regain a breathing rhythm or risk passing out.<br /><br />The closer we get the more I can hear the devil womb laughing. Jesus is carrying the spiritual load of the group and thankfully he calls breaks to spare us all. ¨10 more feet then a break,¨ became our mantra. The closer we get the higher we are with less O2, deeper snow so more difficult to walk, plus each step we take the more tired we are.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272293566141819186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSrzEIl16TI/AAAAAAAAATY/ZE6u6FeXiis/s320/PB140127.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Our guide, and clearly one of the devil`s helpers.¨<br /></em><br />Yes, the final hill is in site. We all joyously work our way to the summit and find out, nope! that is NOT the top. We have to go down and around a crevasse then back up another 30min. This is demoralizing. On top of it, since I have been in the caboose position, I am the one to go down along the side of the crevasse first. I took a peak over the ledge, then into Jesus`s eyes, and realized it is an endless pit. At least 7 stories deep. I assume it is Cotopaxi´s butt crack.<br />Conquering all we make it to within 20 feet of the top, and for some reason my body cannot catch its breath. I try to sync up my breathing to my heart rate, which has been like a hummingbird for the past 6 hours, but I cannot. The group is tugging at my cord, eager to be at the top but my legs are firmly planted and I will not move until I can breath. I can only compare it to running a full speed sprint while standing still and you have that fish trying to gulp air feeling. You cannot take in enough of what your greedy body wants.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272298782750462834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSr3zx-Q03I/AAAAAAAAAUA/QlFmp1bwrlw/s320/PB140136.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Sunrise view. We earned that monkey.¨<br /></em><div><br />I recover and get to watch Jesus reign over the raging bitchface that is Cotopaxi. Z German also celebrates by collapsing on the summit top and dry heaving for 10 minutes. Oh, success. It tastes so sweet. Jesus is content and I have the face of someone that is getting a hot branding iron shoved up my ass. Not happy. I was envious of Gigi snuggling up in the refuge while we were here. Instant karma, serves us right.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272293304778788450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSry068CjmI/AAAAAAAAATQ/bZ86h8kRYSU/s320/PB140131.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨Type II Fun in progress. I do not recognize myself.¨</em><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272294750619831666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSr0JFHaDXI/AAAAAAAAATo/XHxncO6fqYY/s320/PB140133.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨Being a good friend I had to take a photo of Z German dry heaving on the summit. A form of celebration, I suppose.¨</em></div><div><br />We give each other hard heart felt man hugs. Hugs that I imagine were given after war battles to your friends when you realized you are still alive and you won. The sunrise is amazing. There are clouds but only far off in the distance that add to the landscape and help with perspective. White topped mountains are seen in the distance giving their morning stretch and clearin their eyes of clouds. It will be a nice sunny day. We feel like champions.<br /><br />We made the typical error and used up all our energy for the accent. Resting on the summit we drink water with newly formed ice cubes floating in it and we try to eat frozen Snicker bars to recharge. I was desperately looking around for a teleferico or cable car to get us down. Nope, only the big gaping vagina of Cotopaxi laughing at us while belching sulfur in our faces.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272294068634278050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSrzhYhYWKI/AAAAAAAAATg/xPTVvMwjgXQ/s320/PB140132.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨The sulphur belching devil vagina of Cotopaxi.¨</em></div><div><br />Time to go down. I tried to butt sled it all the way down but Z German would not have it. He walked down with the determination of Arnold Schwarzenegger. If he walked it made my balls get crushed and tied up in my harness. The truth was at this point I was willing to sacrifice my balls. I was that tired. Jesus too was knackered. He would take two steps, trip over his own feet and go down like a Godzilla character on a building in slow motion, but this happened to all of us at least a few times a minute. The sun was baking our wills and we were ´over it´ and ready to be back in the refuge to complain in comfort.<br /><br />The guide must have had a hot date because he was eager to get us down and end his shift, but that was not in the cards for him. ¨On the way up, very good. On the way down, very bad,¨ was his honest and correct assessment. We were walking with rubber crutches all the way down. I could hear, ¨Fucking hell. Dammit, Fucking damn it,¨ from each slip and ass slam from the guys behind. I broke out into giggles from sheer exhaustion.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288305965179091250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SWPWQbYUOTI/AAAAAAAAAZI/QlhEYjg7zSk/s320/cotopaxi2.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272297613976074114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SSr2vv8u94I/AAAAAAAAAT4/6Kd863gAG0s/s320/PB140142.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨The sunny and comical rubber leg walk down.¨</em></div><div><br />I am not sure if this account sounds fun to you. Personally I found not one part of the experience ¨fun¨ or enjoyable. Not the miserable sleep, not the climb up and certainly not the hike down. The only fun there could be that came out of this experience was Type II Fun. Type II Fun is the kind where you are miserable the entire time you are doing it, but you reflect back after some time (in this case perhaps years) and think about the summit or the overall experience and say, ¨That was fun,¨ even though it was far from fun. If you like Type II Fun then the devil Cotopaxi is waiting for you, my personal hell on Earth.<br />As for me, I made up some new rules. NO more high altitude climbing. NO going above the tree line. I figure if trees cannot breathe then neither can humans.<br /><br />**note: less than 50% of the people made it up that fateful day</div></div></div></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-32080859017655254452008-11-09T13:14:00.000-08:002008-11-11T14:14:43.692-08:00Border Crossin´I stayed in Popayán much longer than I had planned, a week longer to be exact, but I had to get over this fever and cold thing. Once that was out of my system I figured, why not stay until Halloween? Nothing could be more depressing than being between here and nowhere during a holiday alone. I stayed to check out the once a year party that all of Popayán talks about the rest of the year. I do not want to go into the boring details but the party was small with alternating bad electronic and salsa music. Regardless we all had fun after getting hopped up on rum and danced the night away. We all paired up that night and I danced the blurry night away with a quintessential ´butter face´ that was as British and young as she was annoying, but when in Rome right? Well apparently they did not get action in Rome because I passed out hugging a pillow that night.<br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn39DRNfMI/AAAAAAAAARY/xzR_8B2X2x4/s1600-h/PA300146.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn39DRNfMI/AAAAAAAAARY/xzR_8B2X2x4/s320/PA300146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267513867408080066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn4a5MAYAI/AAAAAAAAARg/kI64Y07qcoQ/s1600-h/PA300155.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn4a5MAYAI/AAAAAAAAARg/kI64Y07qcoQ/s320/PA300155.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267514380097970178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Halloween: This kid blew me out of the water on the ¨cute-off¨ He is a horse riding another horse.¨ </span><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I lack that youthful freshness that I remember once having. There is a doughiness now. The freshness seal of youth has been broken. Perhaps it was drank away or traveled away. It is not necessarily a bad thing either. I enjoy the new stoicism. I find myself relating more to my grandparents. Flashing back I remember bouncing off the walls with energy while they sat in rocking chairs all day for hours and hours while watching life go by. I understand them now. It looks really appetizing. I am not willing to put in the effort with a young lass that does not get me excited. Before it would be ´game on´. You play because there are players.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Then a penny from heaven arrived in the form of an email. It was a message from my friend Gigi that she wanted to meet me whereever I was to have a week long holiday. Awesome. I could use the friendship.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>She was down to meet in Quito, Ecuador on the 8th of Nov. That gave me exactly 7 days to get there from Popayán, about 600 up and down and up again kilometers away. It would be a struggle, but I am no purist and I was up for cheating to get there on time. I headed out and burned myself out the first day trying to go 130km. Easy there tiger. My legs were hairy throbbing bags filled with soreness.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>The next days were all up, up, up through some hills that made you feel like an ant. I had to crawl up these monsters on what felt like hands and knees. These damn things would not stop. Sometimes it would be 6 hours of uphill. I wanted at least a moments break to feel the wind in my hair, but no.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn5HGUjK2I/AAAAAAAAARo/B_sZ_tVq2zg/s1600-h/PB050057.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn5HGUjK2I/AAAAAAAAARo/B_sZ_tVq2zg/s320/PB050057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267515139537709922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨6:30Am sunrise riding. Breakfast was a 2 hour hill.¨</span><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>So I thought long and hard of why in God´s name am I doing this to myself. To me it seems that in today´s society all is provided for- you have a place to stay, a job to earn money to buy food. You are never ever hungry. I mean hungry in both in terms of food and in a desire to do shit. All is convenient and easy (this is especially true of backpacking where all is provided for you and you don´t even have to work). I think the challenge of today´s comfortable consumer is to create a hunger. I see it in all my friends. Although all is comfortable they have a hunger to explore their world and create things and inform themselves. For me, since I have no talent, my hunger is to challenge myself to see if I can make it up a hill or learn a language that sounded like babble for a year. This act of creating hunger today is what makes life interesting and not just living. It must be the annoying American in me talking right now. I guess you really don´t always have to be doing things.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I pulled up to kilometer marker number 38 and called it a day at a gas station. My legs, and more importantly, my will, was spent for the day. I showered up and watched and listened to a cow chewing grass until the sun went down. Cows are zen. What a bitch to be a vegetarian. My friends always say the biggest animals are all vegetarians, which in general is true, but have you seen what those guys do all day? They stand staring at the grass or a branch of leaves eating 16 out of the 24 hours of the day. It´s insane.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I prefer to eat meat every once in a while. Then, after eating a piece of chicken that really tasted like a burnt bird with a strange tumor growth looking thing hanging off it´s bone and growing into the meat, I started to think. If you eat unhealthy animals, like a chicken with breast cancer or a cow with leukemia do you think that would be bad for you? I was eating a hunk of pig skin that still had hairs still on it. This particular piece of pig tasted really piggy. That did it, my stomach did a half somersault. The thing is I need to eat to keep my gas tank full. There is nothing else to eat but these hunks of sub-prime meat in all these pueblos, rice, beans and fried platanos. I found the secret. Ají picante! You just drown your food in this hot sauce and you can eat the furriest burnt creature without a problem. The only downside is the exit of the spicy on the already tender bottomside from being your only pressure point for 8 hours a day on the bike. As with all things in life, it is going to catch up with you eventually, it is just a matter of time. I figure I am working on good down payment for colon cancer with 4 portions of spicy grilled meat a day and biking. My poor ass is wondering what it did to deserve this kind of treatment.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I finally arrived to Pedregal. Only 40 short and very uphill km from the border of Ecuador. I sat facing the street having my usual piggy tasting pork lunch and I noticed two motorcycle cops madly driving up and down the street. They were swerving here and there with really serious looks on their faces. I saw a car drive by with a mattress on top of it and I did not think of anything. Then another and another one appears- this one right in front of the food stall. The lady chef, who looks and walks a lot like a pig herself, jumps into action and trots over to the car with a knife. People are jumping out of the woodwork to help get this mattress off the car. They lady chef slashes the cords and 4 guys whisk the mattress next door and out of sight. Just then the motorcycle cops are flying up the street and are on the scene. They stop 2 more cars with mattresses. I ask a young lady what is going on. ¨Contraband from Ecuador. A shipment of 35 mattresses was hijacked and they are trying to get them into the city,¨was her story. We had a good laugh. Only in border towns. It´s a cat and mouse game with the people and the cops here. I snapped a few pics and the cops flagged me down. ¨Me?¨ I gestured to myself. Yep, me. They left the illegal mattress-ed car and came over to make me delete the photos. What a shame.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn6_KWaC6I/AAAAAAAAARw/6jamKXuv47Y/s1600-h/PB040016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn6_KWaC6I/AAAAAAAAARw/6jamKXuv47Y/s320/PB040016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267517202203544482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨On the left hand side of the pic you can see the car with the mattress on top. I had to take this picture over my shoulder while walking so the cops would not delete this photo as well.¨</span><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I had a restless sleep that night. It was decided, today would be a rest day and I searched out my first hitched ride of the trip in order to give me enough time to do the border crossing paperwork and make it to Tulcán 10 km inside Ecuador.<br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>I flagged down a pick-up truck and truely enjoyed the one hour freezing ride up the hill that would have taken me a better part of 5 or 6 hours. I have never relished a ride so much in my life. The peaks are so craggy and foreboding that nothing will grow on them in this area except an coat of emerald green and rust colored moss. I noticed the wallpaper on the computer in the internet cafe was of a country road on a barren plain- flat as far as you could see. This must be such a mysterious landscape for them, for people that have never left their pueblo and seen a horizon without a mountain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn8hA4RsdI/AAAAAAAAAR4/veHEyc9bGT4/s1600-h/PB030013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn8hA4RsdI/AAAAAAAAAR4/veHEyc9bGT4/s320/PB030013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267518883288429010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Biking in fog, and then later in the pouring rain. Good times.¨</span><br /><br /></div> <div> </div> <div>Well, I made it out of Colombia without a single problem. Out of one frying pan and into another. I am like a piñata of a gringo on a bike filled with bags of money (I literally do have money stashed in each one of my bags incase I lose one I have something in the others). Take a wack and watch the money pour out. I am more suprised that they have not robbed me than they have not. 70% of the people are below the poverty line and are daily looking for a way to fill their and their families stomaches. Why not rob the gringo? Shit, I would. I am more surprised of civil peace than civil war, but people, for the most part, are not pure evil unless they are pushed into a corner and have no where else to turn.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn9EqCFCsI/AAAAAAAAASA/MXRploGzxFs/s1600-h/PB070073.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn9EqCFCsI/AAAAAAAAASA/MXRploGzxFs/s320/PB070073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267519495630817986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨The Piñata sitting at the equator, I think.¨</span><br /><br /></div> <div style="font-weight: bold;"> </div> <div><span style="font-weight: bold;">**A BREAKING FOX NEWS ALERT**</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There have been some recent developments of new muscles on my legs. They were last seen in the inner upper thigh region flanking the testicles. The testies are reported to be quite annoyed by the recent encroachment in their sphere of personal space. Negotiations will be taking place between the two parties in the coming weeks to arrange some sort of settlement. The leg muscles have promised to stop any further growth until after talks have closed.</span><br /><br /></div> <div style="font-style: italic;"> </div><span style="font-style: italic;"> In other news Obama is our new President.</span><br /><br />Other roadside attractions:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn-7RSPD-I/AAAAAAAAASI/GGGQEHAelDA/s1600-h/PB050051.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn-7RSPD-I/AAAAAAAAASI/GGGQEHAelDA/s320/PB050051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267521533392130018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨The grounds keeper of the most amazing garden in the cemetary of Tulcán. Notice the cig while working. Nice touch.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn_qY4m7UI/AAAAAAAAASQ/IlJSUBvpsIM/s1600-h/PB050049.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn_qY4m7UI/AAAAAAAAASQ/IlJSUBvpsIM/s320/PB050049.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267522342885977410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨The romantic cemetary.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoAFLvVu3I/AAAAAAAAASY/A_lWHY9ZqjI/s1600-h/PB040035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoAFLvVu3I/AAAAAAAAASY/A_lWHY9ZqjI/s320/PB040035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267522803213908850" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨The bumpin streets of Tulcán, Ecuador.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoAxZZYwMI/AAAAAAAAASg/FuESZVrmLCA/s1600-h/PB070075.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoAxZZYwMI/AAAAAAAAASg/FuESZVrmLCA/s320/PB070075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267523562794172610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Lunch time.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoBNf0msrI/AAAAAAAAASo/SXRBb73zNrQ/s1600-h/PB090079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoBNf0msrI/AAAAAAAAASo/SXRBb73zNrQ/s320/PB090079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267524045555282610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨This fellow American ambassator was very very proud of the tattoo he designed. America, fuck ya! (in the banner it says ¨sit n´ spin¨)¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoCIPectyI/AAAAAAAAASw/ObTEL-i8o7c/s1600-h/PB110099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRoCIPectyI/AAAAAAAAASw/ObTEL-i8o7c/s320/PB110099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267525054779668258" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Street art in Baños.¨</span>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-84876734091418152252008-11-06T12:32:00.000-08:002008-11-11T13:14:04.644-08:00Anal in the name of the LordPerspective is everything and it is easy to lose it when you get to wrapped up in your own little world.<br /><br />I know a couple named Jeni and Jimy (I misspelled their names to keep their identity secret). Jeni was one of those Catholics who followed the word of the scripture to the letter and although she was 27 she was still a virgin, or was she?<br /><br />Through a firsthand friend source I found out that she was saving herself for marriage, BUT, and this is an important but, they would have anal sex. Hmmm. Ok, I like the religious loop hole. No vagina, but taking it in the ass in the name of the Lord is quite alright.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnxwT8WmxI/AAAAAAAAAQw/kxV_O4qHfpc/s1600-h/PB040018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnxwT8WmxI/AAAAAAAAAQw/kxV_O4qHfpc/s320/PB040018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267507051475933970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨One of the churches in favor of Anal.¨</span><br /><br />I can see in my mind`s eye a tear welling in the corner of Jeni`s eye as she gives a furtive smile to the cross hanging over her bed as Jimi is hunched over from behind. The Bible is opened on the bedside table with a highlighted passage that reads, ¨Hell hath no fury for the unwed vagina, turn thy other cheeks and endure.¨ Ok, I have too much time to contemplate these things.<br /><br />Well instead of being wrapped up in a religious world I have been wrapped up in traveler biker world. I realized that I was so focused on biking and all the dangers that come with it that I was missing out on the most important part: the people. I just finished Colombia but I feel as if I did not open myself up to the people as much as I have in past trips and I think this is due to feeling vulnerable traveling alone and trying to create this comfort zone around me. I have managed to build a little wall around myself.<br /><br />I do not want to be too hard on myself because after all, I am still learning how this bike travel thing works and I think it is natural to start off a bit defensive. I am also sure that I will realize that I have met some great people, although I say ¨hi¨ and ¨bye¨ to them so quickly because I am always moving that I do not get to create strong bonds with the locals.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnzrEd6VEI/AAAAAAAAARI/LlQpI3hJaqU/s1600-h/PB020004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnzrEd6VEI/AAAAAAAAARI/LlQpI3hJaqU/s320/PB020004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267509160445629506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨I had breakfast in their home. More ¨hi´s and bye´s¨. </span><br /><br />All this became even more clear to me when I met Dan yesterday in the Ecuadorian border town of Tulcán. A 50 year old good-hearted affable American who teaches 8th grade. As simple as he is likable. He has been biking 15 months down from Alaska with his dog in tow. He travels slow, takes his time even while speaking, and does not worry about something going wrong until it does.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnyWMkDF7I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/fwXuVUVlJtY/s1600-h/PB050056.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRnyWMkDF7I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/fwXuVUVlJtY/s320/PB050056.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267507702329972658" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Dan, my hero. He bought and biked with 200 USD worth of weed that was the size of two bowling balls all through Colombia.¨</span><br /><br />I went over my daily biking routine of taking breaks to eat every couple of hours and his response was, ¨Ya, I do the same thing, but instead of food every few hours I smoke a J. Next thing you know, 3 days later, I am there.¨ This was in reference to his leisure pace of 3 days in what took me 1 to get from Pasto to the border.<br /><br />He chats with the locals with a child-like innocence and curiosity. No rush, no where to go and no where to be. I realized there was much to be learned from him, as usually seems to be the case with the older travelers I meet. Over a Chinese food dinner we talked about America, travel, life, houses and marriage.<br /><br />¨How about those views between Popayán and the border?¨ was my open ended question.<br />¨Ya, amazing. I want to write people back home about them but how do you describe it? So I figure why even try,´´ Dan says.<br />¨Ya, I know what you mean. The hills make me feel like an ant. So why is it you have never been married? Was it because you do not consider yourself the marrying type, or was it a matter of not finding the right lady?¨ I asked him.<br />¨Ah, it was me. I couldn´t give up my freedom,¨ was his straight blue-eyed response. ¨I see so often in my friends that they have to be with someone else, jumping from one relation to the next, and I prefer my independence.¨<br />¨Ya, I think that humans are social creatures though, and it is normal for people to want to be with someone else. After all, you have your dog as a companion on the trip. Everyone needs someone in their life,¨ was my reply.<br />¨Yep, I don´t think I could have made it 15 months on the road without her. She is old I worry about the black smoke coming out of the buses when they go by. Hell, I can take it. I am a smoker, but I worry about her.¨ Dan cares more about the dog than about himself, that much is clear.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRny7fqg8PI/AAAAAAAAARA/FoGQWFRHGn8/s1600-h/PB020010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRny7fqg8PI/AAAAAAAAARA/FoGQWFRHGn8/s320/PB020010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267508343112528114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨One of those views. An ant tunnel. Nah, I had to bike through it in pitch darkness.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn0ZBwEn4I/AAAAAAAAARQ/5QZCJ4IO5g8/s1600-h/PB040015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SRn0ZBwEn4I/AAAAAAAAARQ/5QZCJ4IO5g8/s320/PB040015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267509949990477698" border="0" /></a>Caption: ¨Big man eating hills. Fun?¨<br /><br />The conversation continued with moments of over laughing that was needed by both of us. It was a sanity break for us and Southern Cali colloquialisms were thrown back and forth like a game of catch with an American football.<br /><br />We parted ways with an exchange of emails and a hearty handshake. After this mad 7 day scramble from Popayàn to Quito to meet up with Gigi on the 8th of Nov I am going to take a deep breath and start pulling down those bricks I set up of a wall that does not protect me so much as keep me from even more experiences than what I am already having. Time to make the little world a little bigger.Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-3040260030393713782008-10-29T15:48:00.000-07:002008-10-30T15:46:35.393-07:00Is Colombia safe?<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" ><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCHZWGsWI/AAAAAAAAAQA/KltI7VXw3OQ/s1600-h/PA020133.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCHZWGsWI/AAAAAAAAAQA/KltI7VXw3OQ/s320/PA020133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262247384435831138" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ´´Missing Persons Poster. These are posted around cities like we see missing pet signs in West Hollywood.´´</span><br /><br />It´s really not as dangerous here in Colombia as the news suggests, but it´s still no northern Europe or Japan .</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" lang="EN-US" > </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdBxtXRmAI/AAAAAAAAAP4/e05MZMKoIcM/s1600-h/P9220040.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdBxtXRmAI/AAAAAAAAAP4/e05MZMKoIcM/s320/P9220040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262247011852326914" border="0" /></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ´´Standing near these guys you feel as if you are an extra in a bad futuristic action movie with Sylvester Stallone. To tell you the truth I was a little scared to snap a photo, but I had to.´´</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >The cities in Colombia tend to be more dangerous than the countryside. In the city if you don´t have any food you wont eat, and when someone doesn´t have food they get desperate and shit goes down. Now if you are in the countryside and you don´t have food you go over to your neighbors place and pick some platanos. The people in the countryside, while they can be just as poor as the poorest people in the city, are not desperate and in general have more teeth. You will see more violent crime in the cities, but that holds true all over the world and is nothing special in Colombia . The great thing about Colombia , and for me on the bike, is there is lots of countryside still left here. To me, the place seems like one big rainy jungle with lily pads in the shape of cities.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCXbTIBuI/AAAAAAAAAQI/RUI3TfepasU/s1600-h/PA110020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCXbTIBuI/AAAAAAAAAQI/RUI3TfepasU/s320/PA110020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262247659838113506" border="0" /></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCl4zgE8I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/iiNtZPmDFzM/s1600-h/PA110021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdCl4zgE8I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/iiNtZPmDFzM/s320/PA110021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262247908276704194" border="0" /></a></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ´´This fortress is in a nice neighborhood in Medellin. You would think there would be something really important inside, but the store sells cell phones.You can hear the snaping of the electric wires along the roof when you walk by.´´</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >The situation has really improved as of late, but there are still tell-tale signs of the not so distant past. There are metal bars and glass on the convenient stores like you will see in the Korean liquor stores in the ghetto in the States. There are security guards outside of every shopping center and apartment complex. The regular shops put security tags on everything, including batteries. All moto drivers must wear vests that have their license plate clearly displayed after a law was enacted to try and cut down on the number of moto-assassinations that were occurring in Bogota. In clubs and bars you have to take care and watch your drink so no one slips you something and you don´t wake up naked and broke in a park with a horrible headache the next day. Also, you cannot take any cigarettes or crackers or drinks offered to you by sweet smiling grandpas on the bus since they are also probably laced. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >What was my point again? Oh, yes, since it was not safe for a while, and now it is getting better, Colombia is just now starting to open up for tourists. It´s always nice to catch a country in this blooming stage because they have not yet perfected the art of how to truly rip off a tourist. Visit Vietnam , Thailand , Peru and Ecuador if you want a lesson in how to get fleeced.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >Recently I biked through an indigenous demonstration on the road who was asking for land that was promised to them by the Colombian Govt but was not given to them. For me it is fascinating to see pure indigenous people because in the States we did such an industrious job of exterminating all of them. Here in Colombia they alive and debating. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >I spoke to a European Colombian and asked him what he thought of the indigenous people marching into Calí to start a dialogue with the President Uribe regarding their grievances. I will paraphrase him, ¨On one hand the indigenous people have legitimate grievances to get land that was rightfully theirs before Spain arrived, but they want more land than what is reasonable. The truth of the matter is the half the indigenous people are hard working and the other half is lazy drunks. They want more land so they can turn around and sell it, make a few million pesos and then stop working. They do not care about getting back their ancestors holy land per say, they want govt handouts.¨ </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" ><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://us.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/americas/10/23/colombia.shooting/index.html"><span style="color:navy;"><br />http://us.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/americas/10/23/colombia.shooting/index.html</span></a> This CNN link is the protest that I innocently biked through. The roads were shut down going both ways to auto traffic but the police did not mind my bike going through. I waved to the police when I entered, then waved to the indigenous people, then waved to the police that were book ending the procession. The article says the police shot at the demonstrators, which is true since it was captured on video, who were throwing stones and molotov cocktails. Luckily this must have been after I </span><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >biked through because I missed all the action. I did snap these photos though. </span><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdC7w141OI/AAAAAAAAAQY/1se86jte-HA/s1600-h/PA200096.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdC7w141OI/AAAAAAAAAQY/1se86jte-HA/s320/PA200096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262248284096353506" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdDLGd9lYI/AAAAAAAAAQg/LjfHrtPcrNk/s1600-h/PA200097.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQdDLGd9lYI/AAAAAAAAAQg/LjfHrtPcrNk/s320/PA200097.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262248547599619458" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > Caption: ´´The indigenous protesters and the police. Yep, I biked right past these guys with no problems. I guess I missed the gun shots by a few hours.´´</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >So Colombia still has its political problems even though the President has the highest approval rate of any president in a democratically elected nation, ranging from 75 to 85% in the polls. Some say that the results of these polls are dubious, and I would have to agree. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >For me it is a tough philosophical question to answer. Is a loss of freedom worth the increase in security? No one can deny President Uribe´s stats since he has been in office. Kidnapping, murders, and all crime are all way down. Only 5 years ago people that had money would buy old crappy cars to attract less attention for fear of being robbed. Colombians could not travel within their own country for fear of being captured by guerrillas on the road. Now, thanks to the military, the roads are open and safe. People with money can now purchase a BMW and drive without fear between major cities on the autopistas. For anyone with money, or for a traveler, this is a great thing. Foreign business is now willing to invest because there is social stability and no worries about guerrillas taking your business for hostage. The economy has grown by leaps in the past 8 years, mainly due to the investment by the foreigners and the standard of living, at least for the middle class, is improving. But all is not fair and well. Military enrollment is mandatory for all young men, unless you can pay the 400 USD to pay your way out of it. This leaves, as it usually does, the poorest to do the shit work of holding the guns on the highways. Also, the govt has been accused of murdering members of opposition parties with little or no trials. I guess all is fair in war, and there is a war going on. FARC supporters (FARC is part of the Guerrillas) say they are no more terrorists than the people that were against the Nazi’s pre-WWII Germany , since Hitler like Uribe, was also democratically elected. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >Uribe is also great friends with our President Bush. So you know instinctively all cannot be kosher. Colombia , along with Israel and Egypt , is in the top three of foreign aid in the form of cash and military aid from the States. A quick lesson in Colombian politics: There are three warring factions. 1) Paramilitaries that were originally the paid bodyguards for the campesinos, the farm workers in the low lands that grew food and coco, to protect them from the Guerrillas. 2) Guerrillas mainly grow coco in the highlands (away from military presence) and and unlike the Paramilitaries they would use kidnapping to gain access to more land and to take control of drug trafficking. 3) The Govt which is the Military. All three groups use violence and intimidation to get what they want.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > Uribe originally rose to power as the candidate for the Presidency being supported by the Paramilitaries. He used their influence to get into power, and once he got into power he double-crossed them by handing over the Paramilitary leaders to the States to be tried. <span style=""> </span>Since then the Paramilitaries have lost some of their strength but they are regrouping, according to my chef on the Cuidad Perdida trek, who was a Paramilitary until just recently. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > Both the Paramilitary and the Guerrillas have used brutal means to intimidate and get innocent farm owners off their lands to use for growing coco. One of the firsthand stories I heard was they took an 8 year old boy from the pueblo and dragged him down the street to a corner and shot him. But they would not shoot to kill him. They would shoot him in the leg, then drag him to the next corner, and shoot him in the arm, and drag him around the neighborhood sending the entire pueblo a message until the kid finally bled to death. Another technique they used would be to kidnap a child, then chainsaw his body into parts and leave the parts around the village. It was yet another way to send a message to the people.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > So these people, fearing for their lives and their children, left their lands. Colombia has the largest displaced population of people within its own borders of any country in the world (2 to 3 million people), and is second in number of total displaced people to Sudan .</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >(<a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.unhcr.org/publ/PUBL/4444d3ce20.html">http://www.unhcr.org/publ/PUBL/4444d3ce20.html</a>).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > The farmers left their lands in a mass exodus, and having no where to go they ended up in the cities like Medellin , Cali , Bogota , Barranquilla , and Bucaramanga . Uribe’s Govt has not fully addressed the problem, mainly because those displaced people are unregistered and cannot vote so their needs are swept under society’s rug. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > One of my travel friends attended a meeting with the lawyers of the displaced persons in Medellin and was informed that one of the Paramilitary leaders responsible for killing an entire village of 1000 owns a finca (a farm) right next to Uribe’s. You can now see why there is not much attention or help is being given to the displaced people when these guys are rubbing shoulders with the President of Colombia.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:black;">America</span></span><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" > ‘gives’ financial aid to Colombia to help fight the war on drugs and to stem the tide of the left Guerrilla elements that are still alive and well in their country, like FARC. As evil as Bush and his advisors are they are no idiots. Once Colombia receives this money they have to use it to purchase arms and herbicides (for the coco fields) and helicopters, etc from American companies who are amigos of Bush Inc. Everyone is happy since Colombia gets what it wants, the owners of the companies in the States have a guaranteed market, and Bush is happy with his increased campaign contributions from those companies he helped. All is great except for the American tax payer who is getting shafted and whoever is getting sprayed with those bullets and herbicides.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >One last note: Your main risk in Colombia is being run down by a black smoke producing bus or twisting your ankle in a pot hole while not paying attention. Oh, and today an American guy staying at the hostel took a wrong turn into the wrong neighborhood and was robbed at knife point by a gang of youths. When the guy came back to the hostel a little shaken the owners of the hostel asked him where he was. ''Ah, that's a bad neighborhood. An Irish guy wandered into the same area and came out buck-naked about a month ago, so you should consider yourself lucky.''<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >This very same afternoon, today, I was taking a walk with a two hostel friends up to the city look out. A few Colombians came up to us to warn us that there were two groups of two guys following us. One waiting for us below and the other watching us on top of the hill, and that we should be cautious because they are known to be bad. The important thing is that we understood what they were saying, and then walked down the backside of the hill with this friendly bunch of Colombians that was trying to help us out. At home you know what neighborhoods to avoid but when you are traveling you can be 'exploring' a city and end up in the wrong area very quickly.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-size:85%;color:black;" lang="EN-US" >So Colombia is far from free of its problems but in my opinion it is a great place to take a holiday. I want to have my honeymoon here. I am thinking you are still yet to be convinced, especially after those photos.</span></p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-14277985036940175152008-10-27T10:15:00.001-07:002008-10-30T15:54:08.079-07:00I think I can, I think I can, I know I can´t<span lang="EN-US">Salento was a holiday within a holiday. Tucked into temperate hills the days are neither long nor short. Just right. <o:p></o:p></span><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX3dGrt9aI/AAAAAAAAAOg/eH1B86Om8Oc/s1600-h/PA150077.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261883819034539426" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX3dGrt9aI/AAAAAAAAAOg/eH1B86Om8Oc/s320/PA150077.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption:¨Salento: Coffee plants, platano trees, all in a bamboo frame.¨</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The best part of Salento was it gave me a chance to settle in and bond a bit with the fellow backpackers. Going, yet again, over days of spectacular scenery and entertaining encounters and having no one with which to share experiences is getting old. Then, because I am starved for conversation and in a weak attempt to make me feel like others can halfway understand where I have been and what I have seen, I annoyingly tell them biking story after story after story, until I want to put my own hands around my throat to shut me the hell up. Luckily for me some of them are genuinely interested.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX31HWRYeI/AAAAAAAAAOo/bpUviGLICbU/s1600-h/PA150076.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261884231529882082" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX31HWRYeI/AAAAAAAAAOo/bpUviGLICbU/s320/PA150076.JPG" border="0" /></a><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨One of the victims of my endless story telling.¨</span><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I am quite capricious. One moment I think biking solo is the only way to meet the locals and have an opportunity to really have amazing experiences and put your self out there, the next moment I want someone to relate this entire experience with and to. It was after Salento I started to really wonder if the biking solo was really worth it. Yes, it has been amazing, but I feel as if I have done my fair share of solo traveling. I have spent more than the average person ¨getting to know myself¨ away from family and friends, and I have looked in each corner, under the mattress, under the dresser and rug of my brain, so to speak, and I am now quite confident there are not going to be many new realizations having more alone time. It will only give me the opportunity to get more comfortable with being alone and become dour. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I remember when I first started traveling and I met people that had been traveling away from family and friends for a long period of time. I distinctly remember the cut off was at 6 years when people started to get a little strange. They were now on their own trip, and not on a trip related to anyone else. I think that our experiences define us. If you are a doctor or a lawyer or a construction worker, you are trained and work in this field for years and eventually there are similar personality traits within these careers. All of these jobs are knitted within the fabric of normal society and they are then bound by similar experiences and responsibilities. A person that has been traveling or living abroad will have a completely different experience and as the years go by they will find it harder to relate to the people they left. Naturally your view of the world changes, and now, after having been ¨on the road¨ for a while I have started to see the gradual changes in myself that I saw so glaringly in others when I first started to travel. On one hand it is nice because I am different, but on the other I feel that I am starting to reach a point where I cannot imagine dating someone that has not extensively traveled or lived in another country or is an exotic foreigner. This cuts down the dating pool of my own Tierra Madre by about 90% of the female population, if not more. So I have opened horizons on one front and, for better or for worse, closed them on another.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4Z6UEH5I/AAAAAAAAAO4/BZ6ypu01oQ4/s1600-h/PA220112.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261884863686123410" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4Z6UEH5I/AAAAAAAAAO4/BZ6ypu01oQ4/s320/PA220112.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨A child walking his little dog through the playground.¨</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I am going to give my fickle mind a bit more time to decide. I will bike my ass to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Quito</st1:place></st1:city>, over some¨hills¨ (I like to use the euphemism of hill in order not to get discouraged) of about <st1:metricconverter st="on" productid="13,000 feet">13,000 feet</st1:metricconverter> (<st1:metricconverter st="on" productid="3,700 meters">3,700 meters</st1:metricconverter>) and decide there if I will continue onward, solo or otherwise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4y_Dlc-I/AAAAAAAAAPI/2J8QZPIMwTY/s1600-h/PA180093.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261885294455911394" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4y_Dlc-I/AAAAAAAAAPI/2J8QZPIMwTY/s320/PA180093.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Another roadside attraction. I had to take a pic of this artistic Oreo combo.¨</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I had this whole plan to get to the border before my Colombian VISA runs out in 4 days, and I would have made it since I am in Popayán, only 4 days ride from the border, but I came down with my first cold. It has been a cornucopia of sore throat, fever, body muscle aches, throbbing eyeball headache, and a draining lack of energy. While in that half delirious state of fever sleep your mind goes through all the alluring options of what it is you could possibly have. I ruled out malaria of the testicles and brain infection, instead thinking it is a cold or flu at worse, although my lungs hurt.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Luckily I decided not to try and ¨sweat it out¨ by biking onward from Popayán when I first started to feel a little off. I would have been stuck in a no mans land between here and the border which is known to be still be in guerrilla hands. Instead I am in a safe cozy traveler hostel with two of the nicest hostel owners, The Scots Tony and Kim, to help me with my VISA extension and a daily dose of sympathy. I will stay here a few extra nights, perhaps take a class of Spanish and watch lots and lots of movies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX5phGjJCI/AAAAAAAAAPg/nS612D0wFfQ/s1600-h/PA160081.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261886231308084258" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX5phGjJCI/AAAAAAAAAPg/nS612D0wFfQ/s320/PA160081.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption:¨This guy looks how I feel at the moment. ¨</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">If I am honest with myself I think I know why I got sick. My bike rides since Salento have been nothing short of super human for me. I am now able to go distances in times I never thought possible when I started my journey in the northern part of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colombia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. My legs have been replaced with two wild steeds and I am still not certain how to control these guys. I pet them, comb their hair, and feed them oats and water daily. They take care of me and I take care of them. Well, I think I abused my steeds between Calí and Popayán and over ran them a bit to the point of exhaustion. It was 10 hours of uphill, and 140km with the last two hours in some cold rain. Over-exertion was to blame and now I am paying the price by letting the steeds relax and graze for a few days. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4lJzo8sI/AAAAAAAAAPA/DzSPrXmrrMw/s1600-h/PA220115.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261885056823653058" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4lJzo8sI/AAAAAAAAAPA/DzSPrXmrrMw/s320/PA220115.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Not one of my wild steeds, but this guy was following me.¨</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4N_Gf5wI/AAAAAAAAAOw/ereZ8VvMRdo/s1600-h/PA220109.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261884658812970754" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX4N_Gf5wI/AAAAAAAAAOw/ereZ8VvMRdo/s320/PA220109.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX5Vaq1kRI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wi5bWxFwOPM/s1600-h/PA140075.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261885885983854866" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 240px; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQX5Vaq1kRI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wi5bWxFwOPM/s320/PA140075.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨I spend lots of quality time with the owners/chefs of the restaurantes along the way. All sweethearts that make great soup.¨</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-17137280608041499372008-10-23T11:02:00.000-07:002008-10-24T11:48:33.559-07:00Casa de Nelly all to myself<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISKlObxQI/AAAAAAAAAN8/xla91AW3GSU/s1600-h/PA230125.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISKlObxQI/AAAAAAAAAN8/xla91AW3GSU/s320/PA230125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260787287722804482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Casa de Nelly.¨</span><br /><br />I found my own archaeological treasure in a <span><span>guesth</span>ouse c</span>alled Casa de Nelly here in San Augustìn. Everyone comes to this pueblo of 2000 people to see 1000 year-old cold hard stones chiseled by people that had a smaller vocabulary that I do in Spanish. Paralyzed by the beauty I have<span> decided </span>not to do anything. The archaeological sites and piles o<span>f rocks that </span>surround me out of sight will be here when I come back someday. I have more important things to do....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQIXHchXL2I/AAAAAAAAAOY/mZ2P6Wdh8OY/s1600-h/PA220119.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQIXHchXL2I/AAAAAAAAAOY/mZ2P6Wdh8OY/s320/PA220119.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260792731404808034" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨The garden that absorbs you.¨</span><br /><br />Casa de Nelly is cursed with magnificent tranquility and is baptized in hourly rains. Cycles of rain, clouds, rebirth of the sun and a thousand days of weather are lived in 2 hours time- a new chance of life every few minutes. I read DH Lawrence all day. Compared to a regular day on the bike I stayed dry and happy and still. I think I´m gradually losing my mind, or perhaps creating a new surly one.<br /><br />I am enjoying every dry relaxing moment of my life. Savoring it. My legs up in a hammock and I sink into a deeper, more profound relaxation than ever before. It´s wonderful. I drink it in. My heart beats thick and slowly. Bronze Chrysanthemums wave ¨hi¨ to me from the garden that snuggle in around me.<br /><br />A 60 year old purple-haired lady no taller than a hobbit who looks over the place brings me a coffee and tells me that Saturn`s return is at 2pm. I am happy and content about that news. Do I have time for another day here?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQIRzlz6ikI/AAAAAAAAAN0/u17UwEnDOYo/s1600-h/PA220122.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQIRzlz6ikI/AAAAAAAAAN0/u17UwEnDOYo/s320/PA220122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260786892743019074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Sun, rain, flower, rain, sun.¨</span><br /><br />I guess it´s a good thing I have a 60 day travel VISA or I would never leave Colombia. I could do without the stress of hearing that imaginary ticking clock. I decide to instead drown out that sound by putting on a song. Sometimes you find a song you have heard before but never really listened to and it defines your feeling at that exact moment. That song right now is ¨My dearest friend¨ by Devendra Banhard from the album Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon.<br /><br />Swinging.<br /><br />Have you ever drank a cup of coffee while being surrounded by a garden of coffee plants while a little indigenous lady gingerly picks red ripe Arabic coffee beans with sun scorched hands from the branches?<br /><br />Cheap luxury adventure travel. It´s the only way I can explain it. My life.<br /><br />Spinning.<br /><br />I´m skipping gaily, no, hop-scotching through mine fields with an intrepid smile painted on my face. Clueless, careless and very very alive. About to be more so. That feeling of understanding the world only lasts as long as those hairs are standing on your arms, then it slips through your fingers like water.<br /><br />Dripping.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISXZY5Z4I/AAAAAAAAAOE/aG3MWNcCjmY/s1600-h/PA230127.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISXZY5Z4I/AAAAAAAAAOE/aG3MWNcCjmY/s320/PA230127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260787507883763586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨This sums up my life. My view from the hammock.</span>¨<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISqa7xjLI/AAAAAAAAAOM/ywE0llKI3P4/s1600-h/PA220098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SQISqa7xjLI/AAAAAAAAAOM/ywE0llKI3P4/s320/PA220098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260787834715999410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨You can feel the heavy solitude.¨</span>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-81599278983896365072008-10-16T15:32:00.000-07:002008-10-30T16:06:32.562-07:00Sweat in the eyes of strong coffee country<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I rudely departed from Medellín early on Sunday morning without saying as much as a ¨Goodbye¨ to my week long friends. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I´m not a big fan of ¨Goodbyes¨ and it´s even harder to make them seem natural when it´s people that you have been accidentally calling the wrong name on and off all week.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I hit the road on a holiday weekend and was pleasantly surprised to find one of the main roads leading south out of Medellín was closed for foot traffic and bikers. I was able to make it out of the city stress free. Then I hit the hill leaving Medellín.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am slowly but steadily making my way up the hill with my bike loaded with my usual crap. Weekend warrior bikers are curious and continually asking me questions while passing. I´m struggling to breathe and they NEVER understand what I say the first time I say it due to my accent so I have to say it again, exactly how I said it the first time, and then they get it. Sometimes I am so frustrated I am yelling at them in this very clear monotone voice so they will clearly get what I am saying without me having to repeat. So far I have not ignored anyone and I try to be as respectful as possible to these inquisitive folk.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One of them clung on like a leech and would not let go. He also happened to be one of the top competitive bikers in Colombia. The guy has these frightening watermelon thighs and a very light 11 pound bike that he had to mention and rub in my face. This guy can bike circles around me and I start to get somewhat frustrated huffing and puffing my way up the hill while he is playful pedaling and smiling and thoroughly enjoying the interview he´s giving me. My patience was being tried and I secretly wished death on him or a flat or anything that would get this guy to let me suffer in peace.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My answer was of course answered but only in the form to teach me a lesson. On a slight decline my tire popped and I crashed into a giant puddle of mud and nearly missed a barb wire fence. They guy pedaled ahead, then circled around and joined me. Great. Now I get to have him watch me massacre my tire cause I´m not proficient fixing flats in anywhere under an hour. The guy, being as nice as I was afraid he was, hoped off the bike and helped me out. He taught me tricks that proved to be helpful when fixing flats on my own.</span>
<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We got the bike moving again and now I was indebted to him, but all the same I was tired and wanted a break. I found a place to eat, and he joined me. I was able to buy him something for his help, to earn back those karma points I had lost while wishing him death when I had sweat burning in my eyes.</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >
<br />He continued to lead me all the way up to the summit. 26km in all the guy rode with me, which as about 2.5 hours at my slow uphill pace. We shook hands and parted ways; yet again learning a lesson on humanity and humility.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkf7W1znII/AAAAAAAAAL0/T9t5tMpDmWs/s1600-h/PA110022.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258269144535768194" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkf7W1znII/AAAAAAAAAL0/T9t5tMpDmWs/s320/PA110022.JPG" border="0" /></a>
<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >Caption: ¨Oh, those lovely hills. Bring them on.¨</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >
<br />
<br />The backside of the mountain was another downhill grin-fest. There is nothing like pumping techno music while you take your life in your own hands blazing by semi´s only relying on rubber tires with patches on them and $5 worth of break pads. You feel like a bird on Ecstasy. Nothing can get you down. You can taunt dogs that can´t catch you. It´s wonderful until that next hill. And there is always the next hill and it always arrives too soon. Then time slows down again and you have to pay back the downhill debt you just enjoyed.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >
<br />I ended up going 75km that day until I found a water amusement park with camping. Ok, sounds great. For $7 you can have access to pools, water slides, camp grounds and about 200 Colombian families on a holiday weekend. The Colombian families were nothing but nice. Taking me in and offering me food. Asking me the usual questions in disbelief, ¨You are traveling solo?¨ and the like.</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkU6lF4iCI/AAAAAAAAAKU/jx7hdBFY1mo/s1600-h/PA120027.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258257036553521186" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkU6lF4iCI/AAAAAAAAAKU/jx7hdBFY1mo/s320/PA120027.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨One of the Colombian families that could not believe I am riding solo in Colombia. And I could not believe how bad that stuff they were spreading on their bodies smelled.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">I enjoyed watching the families bonding and playing together in the water park. It even gave me pangs of wanting to start my own family. Interacting with Colombians and seeing how important their families are and the look of concern on their faces that I was alone so far away from my friends and family has made me think more than once.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">
<br />I basked in the sun and water. I was stared and pointed at but still enjoyed myself even when the youngsters would stop walking and watch with big curious eyes the wet long-haired gringo walk by. It´s a non-stop show wherever I go.</span></p><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" equiv="Content-Type"><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"><link style="font-family: arial;" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CCONFIG%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"><link style="font-family: arial;" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CCONFIG%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"><link style="font-family: arial;" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CCONFIG%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0cm; margin-right:0cm; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:70.85pt 3.0cm 70.85pt 3.0cm; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">At night the festivities continued with traditionally dressed dancers enjoying themselves while the families watched. I was out of my mind overly excited about all of this. Am I that entertainment starved? After the dancing and a solo guitarist performance that no one wanted to see end, there were games to win prizes, like a free breakfast. Five eager ladies volunteered and came up to play a game not yet revealed. It turns out it´s a singing game where you have to keep singing the right words of the song when the music cuts out. Not only could these unrehearsed ladies do it, they did it with style and grace and well. One of them was even dancing and swinging her hips to the beat while belting out the lyrics to a well known Colombian song I have never heard in my life. It got me wondering if the same would happen where I´m from at home. If so, not like this. There was something wholesome and warm that emanated from them. A giddy grin could not be wiped off my face while sitting Indian style before the show.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkVigAT5qI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Fb9CGkM1e6Y/s1600-h/PA120031.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258257722382739106" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkVigAT5qI/AAAAAAAAAKc/Fb9CGkM1e6Y/s320/PA120031.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨ Who would have thunk it here in a pueblo in the middle of Colombia?</span>¨</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkWVVN9n0I/AAAAAAAAAKk/lB7Ye4sfSGA/s1600-h/PA120034.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258258595660537666" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkWVVN9n0I/AAAAAAAAAKk/lB7Ye4sfSGA/s320/PA120034.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Caption: ¨</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">Camping in a water amusement park. Amusing, eh?¨</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkW506xLtI/AAAAAAAAAKs/myXrDy6C1m4/s1600-h/PA120051.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258259222645255890" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkW506xLtI/AAAAAAAAAKs/myXrDy6C1m4/s320/PA120051.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkXM_bXlWI/AAAAAAAAAK0/Rkg-Qu8lIOg/s1600-h/PA120046.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258259551883859298" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkXM_bXlWI/AAAAAAAAAK0/Rkg-Qu8lIOg/s320/PA120046.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Night festivities. Warm blooded creatures.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">I got up in the dark the following morning to pack up my tent. My only company was a flock of vultures picking through the BBQ remains of the campers from the night before. Those vultures follow me wherever I go while I bike. I curse and yell at them flying overhead when I´m in pain and tired that I´m NOT dead yet.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">I biked a very long 97km uphill that day. Joyous scenery that makes your eyes hurt. I ran out of will power to make it the last very steep 9km to the town Chinchiná. I got a call on my cell from my brother at 3pm while eating lunch. As I had been eating a really dirty-shady vagabond was laying about 10 feet from me on the concrete with an empty 2 liter bottle of coke under his head as a pillow and staring at me the entire time with this gaze that was somewhere between puppy dog ´I would like food´ eyes and ´I know you have money and I want to rob you cause I´m strung out on drugs´ eyes. So Randy calls me and the vagabond takes the opportunity to come up and ask me for my knife sitting on my table. ¨Ok,¨ and I reflexively stand up from my chair. He squatts 3 feet from my table and starts to cut the empty bottle in half. I told Randy, my brother, to call me back in 5 because I had to pay the bill and go across the street cause I didn´t want this guy to hear me speaking English. I hang up and the guy is asking me, with knife in hand, if he can finish my coke. ¨Yep, it´s for you, ¨ was all I could say. I never imagined providing the weapon for my attacker.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">I went across the street to the gas station and got a room. A very shitty place and it looked like a prison with chicken wire and barb wire surrounding the concrete box structure. Whatever. I was tired, beat and would rather talk on the phone with my brother than bike a 10th hour that day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">That next morning, again leaving at 6am, I made it up 25km of straight up hills while listening to Emilina Torrini. Struggling up these hills becomes painless and tears well up in my eyes as I pass excruciatingly beautiful scenery lit by the rising morning sun. It´s then I decide I want to have sex with Emilina Torrini´s voice.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkZ6o9cIII/AAAAAAAAAK8/gdT0HD-6NNU/s1600-h/emiliana+torrini.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258262535149985922" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkZ6o9cIII/AAAAAAAAAK8/gdT0HD-6NNU/s320/emiliana+torrini.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨She made me cry.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">I made it to the top of the hill three hours later (yep, about 8km per hour) to Santa Rosa. Here I found a truck and a company to take me another 18 km up a steep dirt road with thermals at the top. $20 for the ride, camp site, access to the thermals and breakfast. I brought food to make a camping soup lunch with lots of bread and fruits.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkadEY7tuI/AAAAAAAAALE/MiPhMdQg1LI/s1600-h/PA140061.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258263126628611810" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkadEY7tuI/AAAAAAAAALE/MiPhMdQg1LI/s320/PA140061.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Jurrasic Camping.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">The Termales de San Vicente can only be compared to Jurassic Park. Steep jungle cliffs enclose a pristine wilderness with cascading waterfalls and bubbling hot pools. I marinated my aching knees and sore watermelons in hot waters and a strong sulfur smelling Turkish Bath that made you hallucinate after 15 minutes. I think they call it a Turkish bath because you are bathing in your own sweat. You can see each pore crying on your skin making a perfect bead.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPka00uFhkI/AAAAAAAAALM/EWgIFZsWxGw/s1600-h/PA130058.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258263534739228226" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPka00uFhkI/AAAAAAAAALM/EWgIFZsWxGw/s320/PA130058.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Abs of Steel in just 8 hours a day.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">At the end of the day I decided I had to get a massage. It was cheap and I was once again alone. I did have company with two families interviewing me separately for a few hours each while in the thermal pools together. They were curious and sweet and since I was not exerting myself up a hill biking I found it enjoyable instead of wanting to curse them with incurable diseases.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkbVOH3G8I/AAAAAAAAALU/kMCX7yR-fGw/s1600-h/PA140062.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258264091314035650" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkbVOH3G8I/AAAAAAAAALU/kMCX7yR-fGw/s320/PA140062.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Caption: ¨Damn you, GOD!¨</span><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">Camping was cold, but cozy inside my down sleeping bag while I fell asleep to the music of rain dancing on my tent. I woke up to find a few of the seams in my tent are not as waterproof as I would have hoped. Drips were inside the tent and now it leaves me with in a quagmire of what to do with my tent. A new one? Carry more weight with another tarp for the top? Ah, shittles. I´ll worry about it later. It´s winter here and it rains everyday at least two hours a day. There is NO weather forecasting here cause it´s pointless. Look outside. It will change in 45 minutes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkbsRkKbXI/AAAAAAAAALc/hTPJRSOBQ4o/s1600-h/PA120053.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258264487375039858" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkbsRkKbXI/AAAAAAAAALc/hTPJRSOBQ4o/s320/PA120053.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨My breakfast morning view. Total bullshit.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">The next morning I had a slow start. I couldn´t muster up an appetite to eat all of my free breakfast which I know I need to eat for the day´s bike ride. After breakfast I took another dip in the hot pools to warm up the legs after the cool night. Then I headed down the 18km of downhill after having to walk my bike up 2km of straight uphill gravel. I could not bike up that to save my life. Walking was difficult.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkcP7y8XKI/AAAAAAAAALk/i8TjVcSFlS4/s1600-h/PA140066.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258265100006743202" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkcP7y8XKI/AAAAAAAAALk/i8TjVcSFlS4/s320/PA140066.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Dirt road.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">While on the downhill what do I see creeping slowly but surely around the corner? A most ridiculous sight- a bike loaded with giant colorful bags. Now I know how absurd I look to the locals! Turns out it´s an American lady from Colorado biking from Quito through Colombia with no destination in mind. I think she was just as happy to see me as I was to see her and we covered ourselves greedily in verbal vomit for an hour. We were dizzy and drunk off the encounter, not remembering anything we were saying or what was being said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">It can´t be underestimated the moral boost it gives you to run into a fellow bike traveler that has also lost their mind. And I mean lost their mind traveling solo (here she is a lady, no less) on a bike through South America and deprived of talking to fellow travelers. We talked for an hour and I went on my way. More adventure and rolling hills lay ahead for me this day. A flat was fixed, a long hill was climbed and then a speedy downhill to a camping spot just outside Salento in Zona Cafetera, an authentic colonial pueblo with a heavenly coffee aroma.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkcunICBiI/AAAAAAAAALs/He4D9uqGvzU/s1600-h/PA140068.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258265627033994786" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPkcunICBiI/AAAAAAAAALs/He4D9uqGvzU/s320/PA140068.JPG" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Caption: ¨Solo American woman biker that made me feel sane, and Colombian military all in one shot. Just your typical 9am photo.¨</span>
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">I wanted to see this camp site, but I really wanted to make it to Salento, only 4km up the road. I called on the owner of the place and this frail energetic fellow of 40 something years greets me and takes me inside. Right away he invites me into his house, and I am full of biker sweat stink, and offers me his couch and asks if I want a joint. I said, ¨Well, I´m not sure I want to stay but I want to take a look.¨
<br />¨No worries, man, relax. You can smoke, no obligations,¨ was his genuine reply.
<br />We shared a joint and after my ride it expectantly floored me. He puts on his TV, pops in a DVD and turns the volume to FULL, as all Colombians do, and starts air guitaring this Jethro Tull song.
<br />¨So you play the guitar?¨ I ask him with puffy eyes and a smile.
<br />¨No, flute,¨ and right then a flute solo that can only be rivaled by the scene in Anchorman was on the screen and my new hippy stoner friend was air fluting right along. He took a moment to put down the imaginary air flute and picked up a jar of Milo (like Quick chocolate milk powder mix) and took a giant spoonful and hands it to me. We then passed the joint and Milo mix until we were finished and content. He then drops in my lap a book about tree houses. I thumbed through this book mesmerized. Each tree house was more amazing than the last. He is fascinated by tree houses and I am fascinated by him.
<br />Now I was in the proper state of mind to take the tour of his grounds, and definitely in no state to make it up the 4km road because I was stumbling walking. He takes me on a magical tour of his grounds. Each room is more amazing than the next with themes. One themed tent has animal skins, bones, and teeth from all over the world. Everything has been carefully crafted. It is a work of love and not of garish money. A handmade bamboo coffee table has an elephant foot sitting on top of it; there is a mural on the wall made of bird feathers and lion teeth.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">{http://www.geocities.com/campingmonteroca/ This is the site. Take a look at the themed rooms.}</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:85%;">The next separate room a few minutes walk from the first one is called ¨Hippy Hilton¨ and is decked out in rare 70´s albums and art: Beatles memorabilia, waterbed, and murals all done tastefully, with little money and lots of love.
<br />Each room was more amazing than the next. Another US Army tent with decorations from all over South America. Another tent filled with stars that glow in the night so it seems you are sleeping in the Milky Way.
<br />We go to his tree house in construction (remember the book) and there is a ladder leading up to a platform where he has a table of 4 kilos of weed drying that he picked that morning. He hands me a fistful and tells me it´s organic and free of chemicals. Awesome, thanks.
<br />
<br />Then he takes me to his labor of love, his own mini museum of artifacts he collected from around South American on his travels. A molar from a mammoth, jaw bone of the oldest indigenous tribe of Colombia, spine of a whale, incandescent meteorites, and the list goes on and on. My head was dizzy was amazement. Then he takes me to his snake collection. Here we play and hold snakes he says are safe, but I start to lose faith in that fact when he pulls one of this favorite and ´sweetest´ snakes out of it´s cage. He holds it by the tail and gingerly passes the tail from one hand to the next while keeping his legs as far back as possible. The snakes head is right at knee level and is striking for his legs and crotch, finally catching his pant legs with a bite and not letting go. It´s then he starts walking to me asking if I want to hold the snake and the snake turns its attention to me and starts striking at me in my biker shorts.
<br />¨NO, get that thing away from me. It´s trying to bite my shit!¨ and the guy just laughs it off and puts it back in the cage. All this in Spanish, too, by the way.
<br />We go back to his house, eat some fruit loops and then he says I can choose any camp site in the place. I start walking with him but I already know this place is amazing but not a place to stay with NO visitors. I tell him that I´m going to head up the hill before it gets dark cause the place in Salento will have people that I would like to talk to since it´s been 4 days of Spanish for me. He says no problem and that he will give me a ride up there! Wow. What a man.
<br />We drive up with the bike in the back of the car with the trunk partly open. When we arrive to town we are nearly green from the carbon monoxide filling the car. He takes me on a tour of town and introduces me to his friends. They a military guy comes up and shakes his hand to say hi and asks him for weed. He hands him a fistful of weed and they part ways with smiles. I´m stoned and he just sold weed to the military. I love this country.
<br />I got to the guesthouse and was back in the cozy traveler cocoon. I got to share a dorm room with the most annoying Israeli girl I have ever met. She is surly. She is the type of person that even when she is right she is wrong because both her and her tone sucks. She was telling off these Aussie travelers because they didn´t want to eat a cheap menu meal. God have mercy on the soul of the man that spends his life with that lady. She will make his life a living hell.
<br />Salento is wonderful with charming colorful buildings with colonial architecture. The coffee is strong, good, and inspires giant shits. The locals play a little practical joke on the tourits by locking all the bathrooms in the cafés and you have to pay 400 pesos (about 25 cents) to use them. It must be due to the havoc created by the strong coffee in the bathrooms. Too much info, I know, but this is just life here on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br />Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-7423627747609653812008-10-11T17:11:00.000-07:002008-10-16T11:22:25.976-07:00A visit to a mainstream Colombian clubThe other day I did some quick work on the metro after a girl innocently asked me where I was from because I stick out like a black dude in Buenas Aires. We ended up exchanging numbers and planned a Friday night hang out. Cell phones are horrible, yes I know, but they will at least triple your social life. You meet backpackers that are very proud that they don´t have a cell or iPod. Good for them. I am happy for them, but we are in a country where the people use phones to arrange hang outs (I was biking when I saw it so I couldn´t take a picture but I saw a Colombian cowboy on a horse going down the road while talking on a cell. It reminds me of the time when I didn´t have a cell years and years ago. I saw the neighbor´s Mexican gardener talking on his cell with his lawnmowers piled in the back of his bondoed 1980 pick-up truck and I figured it was time to get a cell). They are not going to stop by your hostel, take you by the hand and bring you out with their friends. Coincidentally, these same people without cell phones end up either 1) hanging out at the hostel and watching movies all night or 2) leaving our hostel to go party at <em>another</em> hostel down the street. I guess it´s the Colombian hostel tour. They are definitely keeping it real.<br /><br />The girl was cute and sweet. Messages were exchanged and we had a meet up at a club called Palmayas. Now I already knew about this club and I already knew I wouldn´t like it. You make sacrifices when you are in a foreign land. And one of those sacrifices are your ears and taste. I would prefer to get a typical Colombian night out on the town than go to a cool electronic club and only talk English all night with other foreigners. Colombians that go out to these mainstream clubs go out in groups and they do not socialize outside those groups. It´s much like other big cities that way, but even more so here since their is always a feeling in the air that people should be extra cautious, especially the ladies cause shadey shit does happen here in Colombia. The girls will not go out unless there are at least 3 of them, and then usually with some of their guy friends, so the fact that I was invited along meant I had an ´in´ and I didn´t have to sit and watch in the party go by like watching fish in an aquarium.<br /><br />I brought along this ex-party animal American that has been living in the West Indies for the past 18 years doing odd end jobs and loves to travel. We paid the cover which added insult to injury to have to pay for what I knew was coming.<br /><br />We walked in and I was not disappointed. An enormous building with one giant room decorated with balloons, giant screens in each corner showing strippers doing the booty clap with blue screen laser beam graphics, full-sized free standing neon palm trees, paid dancers on platforms, and endless groups of Colombians all singing their lungs out to Spanish songs I had never heard, never wanted to hear, and hope I do not hear again. They mixed up the music between bad Spanish sing-along rock, Salsa, Merengue, Reggaeton, oh, and don´t forget the bad techno anthems from 15 years ago! You can ALWAYS count on the third world for bad techno.<br /><br />The two of us bought a bottle of rum in the club in an attempt to trick our brains into enjoying this. The pre-party started hours before so we entered the club warmed up. Wandering aimlessly with my glass of rum and ice I found the group. The girl I met on the metro is grinding up against this ogre who is sweating and has the look of a man with one thought on his mind, and it´s not to play Bingo. I say ´hi´ to the group. The three girls are sweet, not drinking (¡¡PARTY!!), and I have to meet the two guys the are with. The ogre shakes my hand and I get a good grip of a big sweaty meatball of a hand with greasy sausage fingers. This guy is oozing. He is also one of those guys who has to keep shaking your hands and giving you bro-job half-hugs throughout the night.<br /><br />After yet another sweaty embrace from the ogre, number 15 I think, he introduces us to a real treat sitting on a bar stool. He says it´s his sister but I immediately think he is giving the gringos a hard time cause she was as cold as a cucumber. Ah, so he introduces us to a stranger, ha ha, funny funny. She gives me a one up and down glance and I can immediately see written on her face, like someone who has been chewing lime rinds all night, that I am not nearly abusive enough for her. This guy has all the charisma of a juvenile delinquent and can bench press a pony. Then he takes his ¨sister´s hand¨ and starts dancing with her. In Colombia they call it dancing but I call it grind humping. Her arms are around his neck and he is wearing an amazing distant sexual gaze on his face. His sister is a plastic surgery disaster and her tits are spilling all over his shirt. I asked the sweetheart from the metro if that was his sister and she confirms it indeed is. Shocking.<br /><br />She goes on to explain that you can dance sexual with someone but it doesn´t mean that you want to sleep with that person. It´s just how they dance. Wow. I wonder how you can every figure out if someone is flirting with you. I guess you get a tug on your nuts with a hand down the back of the pants. I don´t know. I´m confused, the rum is working, the laser lights and artificial smoke is making me feel even more intoxicated than I am. With all this Latin love dancing going on I turn into uber-white boy and clam up. I end up doing the 80´s white man dance with a chair cause it feels nice and safe, and right when I get in the groove I get interrupted by yet another meatball handshake and sweaty embrace. ¨Yes, yes, me estoy pasando muy bien. Gracias,¨ (yes, I´m having a great time) I say to him yet again.<br /><br />All the alcohol in the world can´t save the two of us. After nearly 2 hours we have to tap out. You can only fake having fun for so long. We met the other girls, did some ear hole shout talking which, as always, involves lots of, ¨qué?, no te oigo, como?¨ (what?, I can´t hear you, huh?). After 5 one word answers to 5 questions you move on. I think they only speak grinding here anyway. I sound like a stick in the mud but I really do enjoy dancing. I can dance all night, but now, after years of going out I can´t fake a good time and I know when the night has peaked. This night it peaked when I sunk 4 balls in a game of billiards before we entered the club.<br /><br />I had a Colombian hang out, and it makes me realize how we live on completely different planets. Their customs, the spice running through their blood is as foreign to me as my coldness is to them. Why not put my hand on their ass and just start grinding with someone I´ve never met? Mmm, I feel like a slimy scum bucket is why. I also figure it´s not my city, not my country, not my culture and that I could be treading on some unseen lines, not to mention the boyfriend coming back from the bathroom. I would rather stay a safe distance and take in the experience as a cultural observer.<br /><br />*I forgot my camera so you´ll have to use your imaginationMehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-79143117212353121842008-10-10T16:57:00.000-07:002008-10-11T17:10:34.454-07:00I contradict myself<div>Memories of past cigarettes smoked while smoking. Emotional traveling.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256052034361589138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE_ej0XfZI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/RBy7tAs7Qs0/s320/PA010114b.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>Caption: ¨Lost my mind.¨</em><br /><em></em><br />I read a line in a book that has I title I cannot recall, nor the character who said it, that went something like, ¨Unemotional people always cry from movies.¨ Although I know this doesn´t apply 100% of the time I identified myself with this sentence. Watching movies in the safe sanctuary of the hostel I find myself overly emotional, swept away with misplaced emotions. Somehow a movie triggers all those moments I experienced as the watchful observer that I could not deal with in the moment. They bubble to the surface. So busy in doing. So busy with dealing with the events that are taking place that your emotions don´t have time to catch up. Emotionaly inhibited. Instead the seeds are planted and grow slowly. You don´t find time to deal with them until you are quiet, until a waft of smoke, or a overly dramatic scene pulls back the curtain of the fully grown surprise. You are caught by the aweful beauty that you did not expect to see in that moment.<br /><br />I sit quietly watching a scene with a potato in my throat. All that I fear and desire in life comes rushing to the surface and you wonder what you are doing in this moment is the best thing to create the future that you will be happy with in 30 years, if that day will ever come. Yes, I know that the future does not exist, only the present and all the simple truths that make sense in one moment and in the next moment are arm wrestled away by my the conditioning of my upbringing. You can´t underestimate the affect that your home environment has on you. It´s always carried with you, like your nose or eye color.<br /><br />The emotional crust is peeled away at times and you become more human. You can clearly see the importance of everything and you realize it is impossible to be at all places at once and to please everyone, including yourself. It is in these moments you are equal with the rest of humanity. Brothers in fear, desires, hopelessness, and happiness. We all desire the same impossibilty but act differently in our struggle. Yes, in three mintues the curtain has returned, the smoke blows away, the potato is gone, and you are yourself, alone, and busy back to doing. Life continues until that next moment sneaks up on you where you become a human again, and you forget about yourself.<br /><br />I bask in the luxurious friviolty that traveling allows, but it isn´t for this that I enjoy it. Rather it´s the addiction to those moments where you feel more human. You are humbled by your momentary peek into the grand reality that engulfs us. All your efforts that put up a profective barrier to keep you safe, your arms attached to your body, and your head to your body are nothing more than a luck-filled lie. Walls built of money and planning just keep you from realizations. Money cannot make you a better or worse person. It is a nuetral energy and you create it´s meaning by your attitude and relationship with it. You wont become a buddist if you give away all your money.<br /><br />As Whitman says, I contradict myself, I am full of contradictions, as you can clearly read, I am. Isn´t that a great gift to allow yourself?<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256052210511916354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE_o0B4LUI/AAAAAAAAAKA/aoHs3WIaWlg/s320/PA010104.JPG" border="0" /></p><p>To be a human, but to rarely act like one due to well learned habits. </p>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-68231197543201742792008-10-07T16:15:00.000-07:002008-10-30T16:21:27.203-07:00Re-entry into Reality<div><div>Where does the time go? I keep making convenient excuses not to write. Lately, since arriving to Medellín, it has been I need to recover, relax and do some serious socializing after my 10 days of being a biking hermit. 4 days has passed and I´ve met some Colombians, more travelers than anyone, and seen about 10 movies. The hostel here has a great selection.<br /><br />I need to back up. I made it into Medellín on Oct 3rd after a long 130km bike ride. Yes, some of it was downhill that involved a lot of hollering with wild-eyed rabid joy and swallowing a few Colombian bugs. Not even that could damper my excitement on that downhill. I had earned every bloody sweaty inch. I was BOMBING down the mountain in a 30 kph zone going 60 kph, passing semi-trucks and even one time riding the yellow line between two semis- one coming at me and one going to slow in front of me.<br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256041498581571794" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE15S-qmNI/AAAAAAAAAIo/JiZxabdgVDM/s320/PA010117.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Truck drivers like this I get to share a lane with. Awesome.¨<br /></em><br />It was a good test for the bike and brakes. Everything checked out and I made it down the hill with another 30km to ride on the freeway in Medellín. I´m not sure that was legal because I didn´t see another non-motorized vehicle on the road. The fumes getting into the heart of the city were making me dizzy in the 3pm afternoon heat, but I rolled into the hostel after a 9.5 hours in the saddle.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256042597737281842" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE25RpzuTI/AAAAAAAAAIw/O_mtQXXbwP4/s320/PA010107.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256046149367730450" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE6IAgfkRI/AAAAAAAAAJY/J_mIG3zhXiI/s320/PA010102.JPG" border="0" />C<em>aption: ¨The hills I bombed.¨ </em></div><br /><div><em></em><em><br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256042864597556978" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE3IzyQXvI/AAAAAAAAAI4/zJ0m6Rl7tnc/s320/PA010105.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Child prison.¨</em> </div><br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256043134279701250" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE3YgbfUwI/AAAAAAAAAJA/R8GV-1XrtOo/s320/PA010106.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨I taught some Italian to these pueblo kids.¨</em><br /><br />I rolled into the hostel on my bike feeling like a para-trooper just getting back to the States after serving his country for 3 consecutive tours of duty in ´Nam. I was ready for a grand reception, ladies decked in flowers and pouring champagne in my mouth, but overall everyone was pretty unenthusiastic and perhaps even pity for what I had done to myself, meaning traveling by bike in South America.<br /><br />I showered up and started to meet some people around the hostel. The first being my roommate, an overly fit Aussie, that has seen me at a breakfast bus stop that morning when I had finally reached the peak of the summit after 3 hours of biking at 9am. His words where, ¨I thought to myself, where is that poor guy going?¨ Yep, that was me and now I was his roommate. He wanted to know how my ass and legs were holding up all the while shaking his head wondering why anyone would want to bike up those mountains.<br /><br />I guess it was a strange coincidence, but for me nothing seems strange anymore.<br /><br />Now I´m back in reality. English is spoken and we are back in our travel bubble, insulated from the reality that the rest of Colombia knows and lives. It seems utterly lazy, comfortable, familiar and most of the voices and conversations make my skin crawl. I have to acclimate to my new environment. I sit around judging and condemning. Something made me feel like I had earned the trip there. Like I deserved to be in Colombia more than them, but that is ridiculous and I know it, but I can´t help but feel it. Their stories are of minor inconveniences and trivialities, like,<br />¨It was soooo embarrassing last night when I was in the club and tripped on a two inch step. Everyone, and I mean everyone saw me. I mean, like, really, why do they put two inch steps in clubs anyway? They know we are drunk! Now I have a bruised hand and knee. Soooo embarrassing. I decided then that I had enough red bull and wine....¨<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256044163270562290" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE4UZuB0fI/AAAAAAAAAJI/JZ-8S9E9zI4/s320/PA040143.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Medellín nightlife brought to you by...¨ </em></p><div><div><em></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256044441809104226" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPE4knWyrWI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/56KqzgRi2Wo/s320/PA040145.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Twinklies¨<br /></em><br />And the dialogue goes on like that. Then you need to take into consideration that coke is $5 a gram down here and you get an idea of how interesting their conversations become. While sitting on the couch you could feel the toxic-ness oozing out of the tourists from the days they have been binging in Medellín. It seems for some reason, well, we know the reason, that people get stuck in Medellín for weeks and even months. Everyone has to figure out Visa renewals and the like. Sites in the city seen are discussed like the clubs, other hostels that have potentially more action, where to ´score´, and of course Pablo Escobar´s grave. I have reached the party pinnacle of the world that sucks people into a vortex. It is the polar opposite of my experience up to now here in Colombia. </div><br /><div>At the same time I love how familiar everything is and I need to stay put for a time. This has become my surrogate dysfunctional family. And they are loved for all their faults and shortcomings because that is what happens while traveling. It´s very rare you meet someone you just hate and can´t stand. Most people aren´t around long enough to really get sick of them and people are so in need of being liked that everyone tends to be very friendly and easy going. In the end it all works out and good times are hard not to be had. By the time the next few days roll by and I find myself ready to get back in the saddle I will end up having a pang due to my ephemeral home being lost. </div><div><br />Spirits are high, but that could also be due to spirits. I had not had a drink in a few weeks. Now my socializing has gone from 1st gear to 5th in a matter of hours. </div></div></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-23732570495003743322008-10-01T18:25:00.000-07:002008-10-25T15:04:31.267-07:00Picture Popurri<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP03xAf_1AI/AAAAAAAAANk/WwbIyllOVrs/s1600-h/PA080010.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259421254925931522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP03xAf_1AI/AAAAAAAAANk/WwbIyllOVrs/s320/PA080010.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨This is some sick ironic humor. Making the Indian statue supplicate in a public square to a Catholic church.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0vxwsNiiI/AAAAAAAAAL8/rs8RmJ2b1Ss/s1600-h/P9220028.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259412471769041442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0vxwsNiiI/AAAAAAAAAL8/rs8RmJ2b1Ss/s320/P9220028.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨This man gave me an adrenaline pumping shaky handed straight razor shave. I was checking the blade to see if there was chucks of flesh on it.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0xrSDwQiI/AAAAAAAAAM0/LnSTxUojJh0/s1600-h/PA080007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259414559490327074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0xrSDwQiI/AAAAAAAAAM0/LnSTxUojJh0/s320/PA080007.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Facades.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP03iB-NiMI/AAAAAAAAANc/La5ox91hWYE/s1600-h/PA080005.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259420997623056578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP03iB-NiMI/AAAAAAAAANc/La5ox91hWYE/s320/PA080005.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Countryside casa.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0xUhk-bXI/AAAAAAAAAMs/ltUUJOsXhiE/s1600-h/PA010100.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259414168519208306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0xUhk-bXI/AAAAAAAAAMs/ltUUJOsXhiE/s320/PA010100.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨An old western-like pueblo square in I can´t remember where.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0w5HwyLRI/AAAAAAAAAMk/vg_uXYzoTuo/s1600-h/P9240056.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259413697732947218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0w5HwyLRI/AAAAAAAAAMk/vg_uXYzoTuo/s320/P9240056.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Ray of light.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wiXgF07I/AAAAAAAAAMU/w9kGXkVUFU8/s1600-h/P9230053.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259413306820907954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wiXgF07I/AAAAAAAAAMU/w9kGXkVUFU8/s320/P9230053.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Roadside attractions.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wNoIAhpI/AAAAAAAAAMM/IEMSK9Bon7Q/s1600-h/P9220035.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259412950506047122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wNoIAhpI/AAAAAAAAAMM/IEMSK9Bon7Q/s320/P9220035.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Pimp my moto. This is so your ass is ridin in style on a hot chick´s face.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wB0aU68I/AAAAAAAAAME/-_OUjQv-iWo/s1600-h/P9100117.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259412747645676482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0wB0aU68I/AAAAAAAAAME/-_OUjQv-iWo/s320/P9100117.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Pablito Escobar will feed you to the pigs. They start the cartel training young here.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0zIWHeSII/AAAAAAAAANE/sfd3XnTo_mI/s1600-h/PA020124.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259416158307502210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0zIWHeSII/AAAAAAAAANE/sfd3XnTo_mI/s320/PA020124.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0y7fHKcYI/AAAAAAAAAM8/eWwEmDnrtuQ/s1600-h/PA020122.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259415937383821698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP0y7fHKcYI/AAAAAAAAAM8/eWwEmDnrtuQ/s320/PA020122.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨I heard techno music blasting from my hotel room. I ran out into the plaza to dance and the only lady there was well into her 70´s and was throughly enjoying herself. I got self conscious and decided not to dance and instead took pictures of her. She was working that staff.¨</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP001-k5nWI/AAAAAAAAANU/aXwYxzMkqKA/s1600-h/P9110139.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259418041774087522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP001-k5nWI/AAAAAAAAANU/aXwYxzMkqKA/s320/P9110139.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨Is the moon waxing or waning? I don´t know what that means but it sounds like something you do with your wang.¨</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP00k57-J7I/AAAAAAAAANM/D6cnmUKr_iE/s1600-h/P9290085.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259417748470900658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SP00k57-J7I/AAAAAAAAANM/D6cnmUKr_iE/s320/P9290085.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Caption: ¨My leg is like a tub of Neapolitan Ice Cream. My knee is chocolate tan, the strawberry strip of burn, and the upper milky vanilla. ¨</span>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-54896738904045038622008-09-29T13:01:00.000-07:002008-10-11T13:50:01.943-07:00Land of Guerrillas and the Chicken LadyI don´t know what it is about this trip, whether it´s how I´m traveling by bike or if it´s because I understand the language this time or because I´m so alone (I have not seen a tourist or spoken English in a week now), but the poverty is really affecting me. Each story is sadder than the next. What I´m guessing is that my personal safety is directly related to how well off I perceive my surroundings to be so I´m more in-tuned. Like Crocodile Dundee in the Australian Outback my senses are becoming refined. <div><div><div><div><div> </div><div>Anyway, what I realized is how freakin nice Europe is. Not America, OK parts of it are, but Europe is like a Disneyland Utopia. I don´t know what they are doing there but they need to keep it going and do whatever they need to do to keep it going. I know this sounds insensitive and soulless to many of those PC´ers out there, but I did the calculations on a beer napkin and if they distributed all the world´s money equally amongst all the world´s people it would be a shit hole everywhere. The PC´ers will be the ones to bitch me out for saying that but they would be the first to scream bloody murder and take up arms (or have others take up arms for them) if someone took away their yoga classes and their Frapichinos when all the world´s wealth was being redistributed. Here I am, living on dollars a day, not using a drop of gas, and I´m the one that thinks we should thank our lucky stars of what we have and protect it. </div><br /><div></div><div>I was thinking of all this today while biking along as I usually do, coming up with theories and then new theories to contradict the one I just made 10km ago, when out of the bushes jumped Godzilla´s baby. This thing was the size of a baby crocodile (from head to tail it was my length). Before I could even blink the think was under my front tire, then it got smacked with two rotations of my pedals (I could feel it´s body clawing and squirming for life under my feet) and then finally it was churned out and spat out by my back wheel. My bike and heart jumped like I had hit a curb at full speed. The only thing I could say was, ¨Holy shit, holy shit!¨ It was the most worthy ¨Holy shit!¨ I have ever said in my life. Spanish just wont do in these situations. I´m not sure who was more surprised, Godzilla´s baby or me.</div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255990089625443522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEHI5sZHMI/AAAAAAAAAH4/IiIBigS_X8g/s320/giantlizard.jpg" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Not ¨the¨ lizard but this is what we are talking about.¨<br /></em><div> </div><div>After the giant lizard attack I made it into Tarazá. This is the last flat town before the 8500 foot incline in 20 miles. I am not looking forward to that. I guess it´s time to see what I´m made of.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255999908264746962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEQEa-bH9I/AAAAAAAAAIg/uSJJ326jcQc/s320/P9280083.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Thinking scenery at the foothills of the Andes and just moments before the giant lizard attack.¨ </em><br /></div><div>Tarazá has all the charm of a border town but is located right in the heart of Colombia. My instincts were confirmed when a 49 year old lady working at the chicken shack befriended me and filled me in on all the local gossip. I guess Paramilitaries run this town and everyone, except for those related to drugs, is poor. The average tooth count here per person is 6.7, to give you an idea. The chicken lady could not be any nicer. She works from 7AM to 11PM 7 days a week, her husband cheated on her and left her 7 years ago after 20 years of marriage and her children are away in Medellín studying which leaves her here alone in paradise to eek out a living. She did not tell me this to invite me to a pity party. These are simply the facts of her life. She accepts it and has a great analogy to go with each story she tells. For her husband leaving her she at first thought, ¨It was my fault that he left. What did I do wrong?,¨ but now she has decided that relationships are much like an automobile. You fill up the car with gas, and when the gas runs out the ride is over. Sometimes you have enough gas for a year, and in her case there was enough for 20 happy years. Now you move on. </div><br /><div>She ranks the painful experiences in her life. The loss of a love is second only to the loss of her mother, which she told me with hard red watery eyes. The chicken lady went on and on about life, and making time for people, especially family and friends, to hold and hug them, and to always be in touch with your mother. All this knowledge was bestowed to me over two full chicken lunches. Then she took me by the hand to where there was a cheap safe hospedaje, where the city center was and the internet cafe. I was blown away by her genuineness. I can imagine having the same conversation with the lady that works at KFC back at home.</div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255991294198245730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEIPBE7aWI/AAAAAAAAAIA/o0AgT6R-myI/s320/P9290088.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨A moment, flag practice with band behind in Tarazá.¨</em><br /><br /><div>After she returned to work I stood standing, mesmerized in front of the church where a band was playing and a flag team was practicing their moves. In front of them was a group of kids playing football, and watching them were adults sitting around in the town square talking amongst themselves. This place might be shady and poor, but the people are living life out in the streets and interacting with each other. Everyone knows everyone and their business. Before I met the chicken lady I thought everyone was working 4 hours a day, but I think what happens is people are working all the time but it´s within the fabric of the community. They are sitting and socializing with the people while they are working. Yes, they are tied down to their jobs, but they are also engaging themselves in more than just their work. Of course the financial situation means that the majority of the Colombians that live in pueblos never travel. They don´t have enough money to visit the next closest town, let alone to get a hotel and vacation there. They are shackled by their poverty. All of this weighs so heavily on me. It makes me dizzy, and thankful for what I have, but mostly sad and feel like I´m wearing a lead trench coat as I wander alone around the plaza with my thoughts. </div><br />For lunch I went to a restaurant in the plaza I visited the night before. The waitress tells the chef, who is a major Italian food connoisseur, that I am Italian. My Italian passport that I had been working on for 4 years arrived one week before I left for Colombia, so I did not have to be an American while traveling in S.A.. A good thing. The chef comes from the kitchen and sits down to watch me eat, per usual, while quizzing me on Italian food. He says spaghetti and I say Gnocchi, and this goes on until he wants to know more and more specific Italian vocab. Some of it I get lucky, like the word for fish, and remember from dating an Italian girl for the last year while living in Madrid. Some no.</div><div>¨So what is cabbage in Italian?¨ he askes. </div><div>Oh, jesus.</div><div>¨How much time did you spend in Italy?¨he asks me with curious eyebrows. </div><div>¨Ah,¨ again, my quick wits save me. ¨Well, I was born there but was raised in London and Madrid by my father.¨</div><br /><div>He looks confused and smells a fish. He calls over a motor taxi friend of his. Motor taxis are known to be the shadiest of the shady. Apparently his friend speaks English, so he asks me questions in broken English and I respond back to him in Spanish, because I feel as if I´m being tested somehow. After a few minutes talking the driver has to leave and goes on his way.<br />I ask the chef, ¨How does he speak English so well.¨</div><br /><div>¨Oh, he went to America and was arrested,¨ and he makes the universal sign of cuffs on his wrists.</div><br /><div>Gotcha, so this guy was smuggling drugs, was caught and then learned English in prision. I´m hoping these guys are buying the European story cause these are not good parts to be an American when probably half of his friends are locked up in American prisions for Narco running.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255999300148114706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEPhBkHtRI/AAAAAAAAAIY/AxAENSaLOfY/s320/P9280081.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨City plaza. Where people go to be humans.¨</em> <div><br />The chicken lady came knocking on my hotel room door. Let me tell you that it scared the crap out of me but I was relieved it was only her. She says, ¨Oh, good. You´re here safe! I was worried cause I had not seen you for lunch and I knew you were walking around the town¨ </div><div><br />Wow, that is really nice of her to check up on me, and then I started to realize how freakin bad the situation is here if she is checking up on me after not seeing me for 3 hours.<br />My heart is beating going to the internet cafe, thinking I´m going to be stuffed into a sleeping bag at any moment and whisked off to the jungles. When I get there I check my email and a couchsurfing email from a couple in medellín wrote me:<br /><br />¨Hola Ryan,<br />As for Taraza, the problem is that lots of folks cooperate and benefit from the armed groups and will readily snitch. The surrounding area is peppered with coca fields (and probably poppy, aka"amapola"), you see. The gov't has taken a soft approach with the peasants there, trying to convince them to switch to legal cash crops. If they do grab you, there's just 2 likely outcomes, depending on which group takes you: paras/narcs: death. Farcs and the like: hostage for a long,long,long time. M'afraid I'm not joking! Pardon my French, but get the f... out of there asap!!! Tom¨ </div><div><br />That´s heart warming...he´s lived here for 7 years.The very NEXT email is this message from the hostal owner in Medellín when he responded to my request for directions on how to arrive to his hosal via bike,<br />¨Hi Ryan,Taraza is certainly a dodgy town full of paramilitaries and guerrillas.. probably best to keep a low profile...¨<br /><br />Ok, so I left the internet cafe even more weary of my surroundings than before and my weak knees carried me back down to the ¨chicken lady¨ that I´m now worried has just sold me down the river to the guerrillas. I ate my dinner chicken and was about to make a b-line to my room and lock myself in until sunrise. I just wanted morning to come so I could put some of this adrenaline to good use, and get my ass up that mountain. </div><div><br />After dinner the chicken lady wants to ´take me for a walk´. Huh? Why? What? And before I can excuse myself rudely I am walking with her down the road, down a dark dark alley and into an empty dark field. As we are walking across the field a warm wind has picked up meaning there is a thunderstorm coming. I ask to take a picture of her in front of a church with the lightening and thunder clapping in the background. The stage is set. I have already decided that this is my last day. We walk through the field and finally arrive to a house without lights down yet another alley.<br />¨Why are we here?¨ I reluctantly ask for fear of the answer.<br />¨Oh, I just need to drop off some money and I don´t want to walk alone,¨ was what I understood.<br />¨Ah¨...I never wanted to just run away as much as I did at that moment. Fuck being rude, just get out of there. This lady had been nothing but helpful, so I stayed even though my eyes were dialated. She handed the money to a black couple with a screaming crying baby and we made it back to the main road back to my hostel. She hands me something wrapped in a black plastic bag that she had been carrying.<br />¨This is for you,¨ she says.<br />I opened it up and it was a detailed almanac of all of Colombia with roads and complete with traditions and indigenous tribes for each region.<br />I stood there ashamed. First of all that I had doubted her pure intentions and secondly this lady, who told me sometimes she does not have enough money to buy a morning coffee, bought a complete stranger a gift to help me on my way. I was more than touched. </div><div> </div><div>Luckily I had a necklace in a plastic bag that I was gifted from the artisan in Taganga.<br />¨I know this is for a man, but I want you to have it so you can remember me,¨ and I handed her the necklace.<br /><br />We kissed on the cheek and parted ways.<br /></div><div>I walked back to my room with a heavy heart and disappointed in myself. If we choose to be frightened and fearful that is all we can see around us. The risk is real, yes, but 99 times out of 100 people are good. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255993786307287666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEKgE6BmnI/AAAAAAAAAII/12A68sbRZpc/s320/P9300093.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨The ¨chicken lady¨ angel with the roll of money in her right hand.¨</em><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255995854926356322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEMYfHPn2I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/1Z0wpIY7als/s320/P9290086.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨This is where the Tarazá cartels and drug runners buy their clothes steeped in irony. ¨American´s tennis¨ with an American flag logo.¨</em></div></div></div></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-58656504662527727552008-09-27T11:17:00.000-07:002008-10-11T12:58:08.456-07:0090210 Travel Romance y OvejasDo you know when you are talking to someone and you start to notice how much they are saying the word ¨like¨? Then all you can do is be fascinated and listen to that word come up over and over again and you lose track of what the person is talking about, on top of that you´re a little annoyed? Well, that is what customer service is like in Colombia at the moment. All I can hear is ¨a la orden¨, which means at your service. The thing is it´s said to everyone to solicit a service, when you are about to ask for a service you actually want, after each time you ask for something within your order, and then, of course, at the end yet another, ¨a la orden¨. <div><div><div><div><br /><div>Maybe I´m just losing my mind because I´m traveling by myself at the moment. Each day is filled with many superficial encounters that are mainly centered around food, water and shelter. The pueblo Colombian´s are nice enough but I´m really not sure what they talk about amongst themselves. They are mainly relaxing in front of their houses like the families on the weekends in the ghettos of Anaheim. Waking up at 6am in Cartagena to rain was all it took for me to postpone my departure another day. I ended up going to a free tango show and violin recital and getting mixed up in a sticky 90201 travel romance drama all at the same time. </div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255978241637546594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPD8XQf8-mI/AAAAAAAAAHA/JWnnpfLhBok/s320/P9230047.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Tango from Argentina in Colombia.¨</em></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255979317763632978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPD9V5YZ71I/AAAAAAAAAHQ/Q3OEfXFOiww/s320/P9230044.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Cameras and microphones always make things look more important than things really are.¨</em><br /><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255978526497368242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPD8n1r06LI/AAAAAAAAAHI/HI4iRWK5Tn0/s320/P9230052.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨Violin recital.¨</em><br /><br /><div>Here´s the quick wrap up and you can tell me on a scale of 1 to 10 on how big of an asshole I am. I met a nice half Canadian/Swiss girl on the beach in Playa Blanca. Our first conversation took place skinny dipping in the ocean while swimming in bio-phosphorescence. Each time you move, whether it´s your arms or legs deep under, you leave a glowing trail of sparkles like Peter Pan covered in Pixie dust. Add a joint and a hooch mix passed around made out of rum, vodka and wine and you can get the idea of how amazing swimming in the liquid murky covered in glittering stars under the moon with a naked girl. </div><br /><div>The girl is 24, we hit it off magically probably more to blame on the atmosphere, wild life and chemicals swimming both over and under our skin. She arrives without a place to sleep and luckily I have a hammock to share that´s just a 2 km walk down the beach. We spend a hot sticky and mostly sleepless night trying to get comfortable in the hammock covered by a mosquito net after I got bored playing kissy face with someone that kissed like a 16 year old. I´m saved by the sun at 6am and walk her halfway down the beach so I can get back to my hammock alone to get an hour of sleep because the night before I had slept only an hour underneath a table with a dog. </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255982030299356450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPD_zyXUXSI/AAAAAAAAAHY/ibwjysFlkyI/s320/P9200024.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Playa Blanca, where the magic happens.¨</em> </div><div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255982314972449250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEAEW2rCeI/AAAAAAAAAHg/HwtDh0Mwqto/s320/P9200023.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Beach camping and cooking. I spent less than 5 dollars a day while there.¨</em><br /><br /><div>Long story longer, I end up having dinner with this girl when I get back to Cartagena the following night and I really get to know her, sober. Wow, did that suck. She is as cute as a bug´s ear and nice. Too nice. So apologetically nice that you wonder if she has any personality besides nice. Picture out of control shoulder shrugging and big smiles all night to any comment made as if she didn´t understand English, but yet she does. Yes, it was bad. It turns out that another girl I met through Couchsurfing wants to meet at 8pm so I have to make her flotsam and jetsam but quick. I tell her I´m feeling tired and that we need to find her a taxi. She drags her feet around the city looking for a taxi and I now have ants in my pants. 8.25pm and I feel a weight has been lifted as her taxi pulls away. </div><div>Just before she got into the taxi she says, ¨I´m going to miss you¨.</div><div>My knee-jerk response is a confused, ¨Huh?¨ </div><div></div><div>I head to the plaza to meet the Colombian CS girl. I see her sitting next to two people that are friends with the Canadian/Swiss girl from where we met on the beach skinny dipping. Are you kidding me? Bad luck. We have beers together and chat in what ends up being a group of about 10 of us. The next night, at the Tango/Violin Recital you´ll never guess who is there. Yep, just my luck. Canada/Switzerland. She is happy but I can tell physically nervous to see me. She hands me a piece of bread to share and her hands are trembling. Jesus. So sweet and nice. After the show I´m looking to leave with the least amount of awkwardness, but she catches me. </div><br /><div>¨So, I thought you were leaving this morning,¨ she says. </div><div>¨Ah, it was raining when I woke up. Any excuse to stay in Cartagena another day. And it worked out. I got to see a free tango show tonight. I´m probably definitely leaving tomorrow,¨ I lightheartedly reply. </div><div>Um...did you go out last night after I took the taxi?¨ she asks with these doe-like eyes. </div><div>¨Ah,¨ was my quick thinking reply.</div><div>¨Because my friends texted me saying they were having drinks with you last night,¨ she continues. </div><div>¨Yep, I did,¨ was my cold and confident reply, now that I know I´m caught</div><div>¨Did you happen to run into them or did you plan it,¨and she wont stop with the questions. </div><div>Well, if she´s going to put me in a corner.¨Ah, ya, it was a couchsurf meet up,¨ why not tell her now that she is digging for dirt.</div><div>¨Oh, I would have come back but the taxi ride was too expensive to go home, then back to the center, then back home,¨ was her reply.</div><div>What? She would have come. Oh, that would have been even better. At this point I realize she is still in denial and again, far too sweet. I find a pin-sized opening in the conversation and get the hell out of the Tango Hall with a quick parting beso on the cheek. Now how big of an ass am I? We smooched in the hammock but nothing more. I didn´t feel like I owed her anything, nor her to me anything. I was nice, and fine until I got caught in my own tangled web. </div><br /><div>Thank god the weather was nice the next day and I could leave at 7am without any problems. To fill you in on a few quick boring biking tales. I ended up arriving 96km at 2pm at my final destination. I learned a few important tips. The body is a machine. Water is the oil and food is the gasoline. Gatorade is not food. I didn´t eat all riding except for a light breakfast and a banana during the entire 7 hour ride. By 1.30 I had bonked. I couldn´t turn the pedals over. I was exhausted by heat, and what I figured out later, a lack of food. I have now begun eating a breakfast, three lunches (one every two hours) and a dinner. The hunger is fierce. I can eat a bumper off a moving car. </div><div><br />The next day, I took it easy cause my tires sounded like bubblegum stuck on my shoe during a summer day in a Ralph´s asphault parking lot. It was hot. I ended up rolling into a pueblo called Ovejas. I should have just kept going when I asked the kids if they served, ¨almuerzo¨(lunch) and they took the piss of my Spanish accent. It went downhill from there. After having lunch surrounded by 6 kids asking me questions or just watching me put spoon fulls of food in my mouth I checked into one of the darkest, most miserable rooms I have ever visited. One of the kids that showed me to my room made the universal sign of finger in the hole sign for sex, and motioned his head to the 17 year old cleaning girl with Michellin man rolls. I said no thanks. </div><div><br />Then before I could close the door another younger girl came up to ask me to give her a 1000 pesos. Sorry, no. And I locked myself in my bug infested room.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255985835566750130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SPEDRSFw2bI/AAAAAAAAAHw/n3NPyLbK8Jk/s320/P9250068.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Ovejas bathroom. No running water. Bucket of water and cup for a shower. You can´t see the mosquitoes but they are there. Prisoners have better amenities. This can be yours too for only 4USD a night, and I still was over charged.¨ </em><br /><em><div><br /></em>The next 5 hours were like being on house arrest. I wanted to leave my room cause it was a super heated shit box, but when I left I saw the boys conspiring to steal my shit. Normally I wouldn´t give it a second thought but there was a giant opening on the ceiling of my shit box that could be climbed over from the next room, which was empty and had a well placed chair against the wall. </div><div><br />I also learned a valuable lesson. Never ever never ever get a Hospedaje (place to sleep) near a bar, and especially not a bar that is blasting music all day and night. In Colombia, as I have noticed in other Latin countries, they have two settings for their music: Off, or Full blast, turned to 11 and getting their money´s worth out of those shitty tinny speakers that can´t handle that much power. </div><div><br />Needless to say, my shit box was right in blasting range. I wore some ear plugs to read outside my room until it got dark. By 8pm I just wanted to finish my dinner and crawl into bed and forget this day had ever happened, but it would not be that easy. While having dinner the owner sat down with me, then two more 17 year old girls joined us. The three of them got to watch me eat, again, and then the dessert was to be one of these girls, according to the owner. I said politely no, for the 5th time (that´s an average of a solicitation per hour. Ovejas, a great place.) </div><div></div><div>Apparently no one says no to these lovely ladies in this town cause then one of them starts bitching me out with all the sass of a Latina, ¨What?! You don´t like what you see?!¨. This is when I get up, turn my back and say I have a girlfriend in Europe as I gingerly make my way to my room and lock myself in with the mosquitoes. </div><div><br />If you are ever biking in Colombia, give the little pueblo Ovejas a miss.</div></div></div></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-71761803784495511912008-09-16T17:41:00.000-07:002008-10-10T18:23:46.210-07:00Scuba and the Offical Welcome to ColombiaOne event begets the next. It´s strange how a seemingly insignificant event can start the dominos dropping. In this case it was sharing a hostal room in Taganga a week ago with a 45 year old woman from Bogota who had two kids, one 30 and one 27. Please do the quick math on that one. Well, we became friends, if you count me fighting sleep late night to listen to her ramble on and on in Spanish about her life reconfirming to me that all women around the world love to talk without picking up on the clues on whether or not that person is in the mood or mental state to talk. This one-sided friendship ended up bearing fruit, going to show that well timed ¨ah¨ and ¨qué fuerte¨ is all it takes to bond with some people.<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255697692234877266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_9NIiACVI/AAAAAAAAAGI/xFpt_fbSaX8/s320/P9090078.JPG" border="0" />Caption ¨Tanganga. Where the welcoming happens.¨<br /><br /><div>The first fruit bore when she brought me to her friend´s restaurant with the smallest, best tasting burritos found in Colombia until now. I became friend´s with the owner of the place, Carolina, and then left to the Crackpackers Lost City tour (see last episode). I returned from the couples intense retreat - couples from Ireland, Germany, and Australia - and was ready to do an underwater therapy session known as scuba in Parque de Tayrona. Nothing is more relaxing for me than floating upside, slowly breathing and watching your bubbles climb through 60 feet of water. Screw looking at the fish, I want to feel like a fish. I float around like a dead belly-up seal with a giant grin for most of the time, only to look around to find my guide every few minutes. </div><br /><div>When asked by the Dive Instructor when was the last time I dove I told him about a year ago. So I watched a 20 minute refresher video that covered the important dive pointers like, ¨FACT, PADI divers have more fun than normal people,¨ while showing divers doing hula dancing moves under water. Awesome. I´m prepared.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255699823894371938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO__JNlOnmI/AAAAAAAAAGo/_iSesNtqsyc/s320/P9070065.JPG" border="0" />Caption: ¨Relaxed, happy fishies.¨<br /><br /><div>Before I realize it I am sitting on a rocking boat with all my gear and realizing that I have not scuba dived in at LEAST 3 years, probably more. I jump into the water, do my own safety check from what I could remember of my Open Water Course from 6 years ago and notice there is a hole in my BCD. I tell the instructor and he says, don´t overinflate it or it could rupture but it should be ok. (For those that do not know, the BCD is a vest that you wear that inflates with air to keep you aloat in the water. If it ruptures you are a lead bowling ball underwater:) At this point my head is spinning and he gives the sign to go down. </div><br /><div>Well, here goes nothing.<br /></div><br /><div>So I go down and about 10 feet down I have a panic attack. First of all I hardly remember shit from the course and second of all I have a hole in my BCD. Underwater panic is a special sort of panic. You start thinking you can´t breathe properly and you basically freak out and you can hear your heart like a kick drum in your head. I start swimming to the surface. Bye bye group that is already down below on the sea floor. </div><br /><div>At the surface there are rough seas and I´m getting rag-dolled. On top of that I have to keep inflating my BCD to stay afloat on top of the water because of the hole. I took a couple of calming breaths. Relaxed myself for two mintues, focused and went back down to meet the group. It was one of those defining life moments. I was able to overcome, get a hold of myself, and get down there and even relax down there for 45 min. That was a mini-everest for me. I left the ocean feeling like a new man.</div><br /><div>Later that afternoon over yet another burrito I came across the second fruit that had ripened while I had been in the Lost City, Carolina´s visting friend, Angela, a funny youthful-eyed 27 year old Colombian girl from Calí (a city south of Bogota). Now I don´t get it either, but girls seem to be intrigued by little dirty curley-haired guys traveling by bicycle. I even tell them that I don´t think I´m strong enough to make it but I´m going to try anyway. They tend to agree and tell me that I´m crazy, as we have all already agreed upon.</div><br /><div>Well, things happen quickly, especially when you´re moving on the following day. We chatted it up over lunch and I went to run some errands like buying 5 liters of water in giant plastic bags and price-gouged in various other stores due to being a foreigner.</div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255693474802590690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_5XpXyY-I/AAAAAAAAAFo/GalCjVD8QmE/s320/P9100127.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Not a tourist.¨</em><br /></p><p>Later that night, over a single beer and a single baby-arm sized joint filled with weed from the Cogi tribe in the mountains surrounding the Lost City, we got to know each other better along with some people that happened to be in the bar area of the restaurant.<br /></p><p>One of the characters was this black Colombian from Bogota who had just finished a 3 day binge of partying. His nose ached and his nerves were frayed shown by the constantly twitching forehead and over-blinking of his eyelids. You could see him calming down following each exhale of the dragon-like plume of smoke. He got into the mood of telling stories of ¨the good days¨ when his coffe table was literally tiled in silver and gold and covered in piles of coke. It was a time when the indoor parties would last one week straight, were so long and so intense, according to him, it would turn a black man white. The guy was, and to me still is, the king of party. He told story after story until I was in the clouds riding that dragon just mentioned.</p><p>When the dragon finally dropped me off back in the bar I found myself with Angela again and with the dilema of where to go. She didn´t want to stay at her place and normally the owners of hostels do not let people bring in ladies due to security issues. More on this later. We go back to my place and the hostel owner lets her in with me, which is a miracle in of itself, but then I find the angles are watching me (well, I was with Angela after all...) because there is no one else sharing my dorm room. Just me and the official Colombian welcoming commitee.<br /></p><p>Now I have heard stories about Colombian women. They, like other latin ladies, are known to be a handful in bed. But surely it can´t be that different from Spain. Let me say that this particular lass had two settings...one setting was a blender turned on HIGH and the other setting was Hurricane Ike. Sweet jesus. I´m just glad I got to sleep that night with all the bits and pieces in the same spot they started the day. We passed out sweaty and satisfied, although if there were more condoms around, and thank God there were not, I would have shook hands with death.<br /></p><p>I woke up in the morning and noticed that all my stuff (iPod, camera, and cash) were still there but that she was gone. Thank God, I wasn´t robbed blind, but I knew her through someone, but this is Colombia and I figured all good stories ended horrible here. I was then awoken by a rap at the door. It was the owner of the hostal and I reflexively told him that I would pay for the extra visitor last night. He says nothing about it and tells me there was an artisan bag taken last night (filled with the usual hippy bead making stuff, string, endangered eagle talons from the amazon rain forest and other items impossible to replace like a crystalized coral snake eyeball that have no financial worth to us but to these hippies it means their livelyhood.) </p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255696126266449042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_7x-2CHJI/AAAAAAAAAFw/OjCx1JVpH68/s320/P9090071.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption ¨The hostel owner. You can tell he does not believe me.¨</em><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255697919457500354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_9aXAGHMI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/P7qS2YzLX18/s320/P9090073.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Caption: ¨The hostel´s valuable reputation was on the line. This is the street where it is located.¨</em> </div><br /><div>The owner, of course, blames it on the girl. I tell him that she didn´t rob me but he either doesn´t believe me or doesn´t care and he tells me I have to talk to the Brazilian man who lost his bag. This Brazilian artisan (someone who travels all over South American by making bracelets and earrings to support himself) is a great guy that can somehow live on 90 cents a day. To give you a visual of what he looks like, imagine Lou Diamond Philips had a baby with another Lou Diamond Philips, then tanned for 6 years, wore no shirt, and wore a necklace with various animal teeth hanging from around his neck.<br /><br /><p>Luckily I had ¨bro´ed¨ out with this guy earlier by smoking him out earlier. Now we talked and he itemized each precious gem lost and I did genuinely feel bad, and at the same time I was planning a quick escape in the rain on my bike for the bus station 10km away as soon as possible. I told him sorry without mentioning anything regarding the girl, which of course he knew about, and I gifted him a tennis ball-sized sack of the Cogi weed.<br /></p><p>As I said, the guy is cool and has a certain presence, like a shaman in his appreticeship stage. I think he hypnotizes ladies and gets them to do whatever he wants.The guy returns 5 minutes later while I´m frantically packing by bags and gives me a necklace he made while the hostal owner is watching. I´m thinking that either this is the coolest guy and he has forgiven me (we are yet to know who is at fault), or he has put a hex on this necklace so I end up under some truck tires before nightfall. I´m so scatter brained I don´t know what to think but I walked over to the hostal owner, because right then seemed like a good time, and I tell the owner that me and the Brazilian guy are cool and that I have him some Marijuana. The owner tells me to bring the girl to his hostel but I explained that she has left for the beach and will return tomorrow, but that I was leaving within the next hour. He told me to leave a message with the restaurant owner, but I knew she was gone too, but OK. I would do it. I hoped on my bike and spent the next 6 hours riding the bike and bus back to Cartagena trying to figure out what the hell I should do with this damn necklace. </p><p>This morning, back in Cartagena safe and sound, I have decided I will tie it to my bike. It got me this far...</p><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255700046050670946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO__WJLauWI/AAAAAAAAAGw/mYfFGPXLWLI/s320/P9090075.JPG" border="0" />Caption: ¨Taganga street hair styles.¨</em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p></div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3815371579381033408.post-78210590137231554992008-09-13T16:17:00.000-07:002008-10-10T18:23:58.871-07:00Gringo Crackpackers in search of The Lost City<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_jLOxZuvI/AAAAAAAAAEY/BCWelFvCr8I/s1600-h/P9130156.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255669072248027890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_jLOxZuvI/AAAAAAAAAEY/BCWelFvCr8I/s320/P9130156.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em>Caption: ¨Sooo touristy.¨</em><br /><br /><div>When you are traveling there will be a phrase you will hear often. ¨Ah, that place is far too touristy¨. And this doesn´t just go for places that are overrun with middle-aged Germans and Brits with amazing 9 to 5 tan lines. It is said by backpackers to show that this person knows how to spot a virgin backpacker heaven, which is a crock of shit because what backpackers do is trample down the same safe path because it us comforting and filled with other backpackers like themselves. The touristless backpacker spot is an oxymoron. These same people would be dying for another backpacker to talk to after one night in a pueblo just 2 miles off the backpacker blazed path.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>In this regard, I don´t reluctantly join the ¨Camino de gringos a Cuidad Perdida¨ but leap well knowingly into it. After all, the last time I checked I was a gringo. Your other option is to carry 6 days worth of food, buy the visitor permit that the military asks for once you enter the national park and then get some maps to follow up to the lost city (in one day we crossed the river 9 times) and find a place to sleep in the jungle. Unless you are a commando or have done the hike before I would say you would have a 50/50 chance of making it up and back before your food ran out or getting lost. In my opinion this hike is still relatively pristine since you are sleeping in an archaeological site on the 3rd and 4th night. The hike was filled with the usual international suspects; Israelis, Brits, Irish, Germans, Aussies, and the token American. They are all ranging from polite to overly-polite. Any topics verging towards the edges of normal (meaning getting interesting) and you´re seen as a freakazoid. The Aussie mentions that Japanese men buy used girls underwear from vending machines in Japan and all the girls in the group make the obligatory, ¨ewww¨. One of the girls says, </div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>¨I wouldn´t want some strange man smelling my underwear,¨ and my knee jerk response was, ¨Who cares what someone does to your clothes if you´re not using them anymore? I wouldn´t care if someone used my body in a gay gang bang after I was dead. I´m dead, it´s not going to bother me.¨ </div><div><br /></div><div>No one saw the connection between the two. You can get the idea of the tone I set. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255672294169125762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_mGxXQI4I/AAAAAAAAAEg/sXOdLMDgND4/s320/P9160158.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨I´ll suck your dick if you scratch my legs for 30 minutes.¨</em><br /><br />Starting the long hot and biting jungle insects walk up I was able to do some firsthand research on the stories I had heard about Colombia. And boy was I excited. One of them was about the young boys ´practicing´ sex and having their first sexual experiences with donkeys.<br /><a href="http://www.vbs.tv/video.php?id=823490101">http://www.vbs.tv/video.php?id=823490101</a> ¨The Asses of the Caribbean.¨<br />Jamie, the porter, confirmed the stories but said that it was only rural boys that would do it. Jamie grew up in a rural area. He was definitely uncomfortable about the line of questioning, even denying it happens until I told him I already talked to Colombians that told me it did happen. I guess he didn´t want to tarnish his tough guy ex-paramilitary image. More about the paramilitaries later.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255673032927246450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_mxxc6eHI/AAAAAAAAAEo/X9t3l6iLuW4/s320/P9100083.JPG" border="0" /><br /><em>Caption : ¨Jaime, his back to the camera to protect is donkey fuqing identity.¨</em><br /><br />The second story was the Burundanga tree I had heard so much about.<br /><a href="http://www.vbs.tv/video.php?id=1119242704">http://www.vbs.tv/video.php?id=1119242704</a> (Colombian Devil´s Breath.¨)<br />This tree grows wildly throughout Colombia in the jungle and even in urban areas. There are stories about tourists making tea with the white flowers and tripping for three days. As my guide, Castro, told me,<br /><br />¨Remember one liter of water per flower. I had an Israeli and a German in my group before that made the tea with 2 flowers in half a liter of water. They started acting crazy crazy. Instead of going into the bathroom where the imaginary animals were hiding they took a shit right in front of the group on the temple.¨ Ok, good advice.<br /><br />If you go to Ciudad Perdida you want to pray you get this guy for your guide.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255675259676693090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_ozYvWkmI/AAAAAAAAAE4/m-ijtHmhLBc/s320/P9120144.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨ Castro. I trust this man with my life.¨</em><br /><br />Studliness, confidence and charm exudes from this man that not even a dead baby full worth of coke could provide. The man spiffs himself up at each water hole while we lazily bask in the sun and sparkling water to cool our itching bites. Before we are ready he has already gelled up his hair, lathered his arms and chest in hair conditioner, and slathered on a grandpa-sized dose of Hugo Boss cologne.<br /><br />Castro also had an experience with Burundanga. The great thing about Castro was he would tell you anything about his life, about now or then, very matter-of-factly. He was and is involved in Narco-Trafficking. Back before the Bush assisted Uribe (current Pres of Colombia that is hugely popular with about 75 to 85% popular support) dessimation of coco crops near urban, tourist centers and highways coco was grown in the Santa Marta mountain range where Castro grew up. With its easy access to the coast it was a perfect place to grow coco, turn it into cocaine and ship it to the states in boats. Everyone, and he did mean everyone, was involved in the coke game at some point in Santa Marta and the farm lands that surrounded it. Castro, being just as charming as he is now back then, would wear 6 million pesos worth of gold in sausage thick necklaces and fat gold rings on each finger.<br /><br />Well Scapolamine, the white powder product of the Burundanga tree, was used then as it is now. To rob your ass blind. Two girls came up to Castro and they started drinking together. But Castro was smart and he would only pour the shots for himself and the girls from a bottle he hid in his pants to avoid being drugged. Unfortunately the ladies were smarter and one put the powder on her lips and kissed him, while the other put the white powder on her nipple and he kissed it. He woke up three days later in a hospital, nearly dying and having lost all his jewelry.<br /><br />I´m not sure what the moral of that story is, but it seems to me that in every single gangster/cartel building movie the main character achieves exactly what he wants and is then destroyed in every aspect of his life...his empire crumbles, his superficial lady leaves him and his best friend backstabs him and usually ends up banging his lady. To me it seems just like the pursuit of the American Dream. The greatest part is everyone from nerdy Jewish kids in private colleges to rapper thugsters idolizes these great blow ups and blow outs. One of us is missing the point.<br /><br />There was an additional ¨extra touristy¨ upsell side tour with the coke factory hut. Since when was a private tour to a coke hut in the jungle seen as touristy? But this is what each backpacker was telling me. If they were giving away souvenir t-shirts then ok, I could see that.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255680403514241074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_tezBysDI/AAAAAAAAAFA/0TiyuZr8q1Q/s320/P9180005.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨My Ciudad Perdida souvenir t-shirt.¨</em><br /><br />We go hiking up the river 15 min from where we were staying at 7am to see the coke kitchen. Maybe it was watching too much Mr. Rogers while I was a kid but I was just as stoked on going on the coke factory tour as I was seeing how Crayolas were made when I was 8. We arrive to the plastic tarp held by sticks with a pile of plastic bottles arranged next to a pile of fresh coco leaves. Most of the bottles were not used and was all part of the smoke and mirrors to make you feel like you got your overpriced money´s worth for this 30 minute upsell. Yes, we were ripped off.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255681325913855298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_uUfO_1UI/AAAAAAAAAFI/7eA8nmBLpc0/s320/P9100119.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption : Mostly empty bottles, but ones that had something were extremely toxic and caustic.¨</em><br /><br />Yes, definitely worth it. I wont bore you with the recipe cause you can surely find it online but what you should know is that the guy was touching these chemicals with this hands, which included gasoline, sulfuric acid, potassium permanganate, salt, and lye.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255681902507256194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_u2DNk6YI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/6CKiMxfjEJw/s320/P9100120.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨He touches his wife and donkey with that hand.¨</em> <em></em><br /><div>The end result was a gray pungent smelling paste that can only be smoked in this form. If you try to snort it rivers of blood will pour from your nose. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255682677900653522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_vjLxxM9I/AAAAAAAAAFY/nv7tVefEJCY/s320/P9100124.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><em>Caption, ¨Don´t try to put this stuff up your nose.¨</em><br /><br /><div>An undisclosed backpacker said that his brain went numb 10 min after smoking it. The final product is sold to the real drug dealers that have giant ovens that dry out the coke, and then they add 4 more lovely chemicals to turn it into nose candy. The coco farmers and guys that make the toxic paste make pennies compared to the guys that do the final processing and shipping. </div><br /><div>Bush and Uribe have been erradicating coco fields by spraying the fields with an agent orange type herbicide. As a result other food crops such as bananas and coffee are dying and they are still trying to figure out if there are any agent orange type nuerological affects on the children being born in the area. I did some of my own research and took this photo of a demon-eyed children from the indiginous village.<br /></div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255684470074942082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0mIdE28P9zA/SO_xLgJaooI/AAAAAAAAAFg/gT0LP0OZInw/s320/P9110133.JPG" border="0" /><em>Caption: ¨Take the time to blow this pic up and look at the eyes of this kid on the left.¨</em><br /><div></div><br /><div>The best case scenario is the kid needs glasses, and the worst case is he was spawned by the devil. He would beat puppies tied to trees. The child was not right. As usual, best intentions of getting rid of one problem, coke, makes another, neurological problems. </div><br /><div>Back to Castro; while walking down the trail I asked him what his craziest Narco story was and he replied very casually, ¨When both of my brother´s were killed by the drug gurrillas. Then I switched to full-time tour operator.¨</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>A little while later, again walking alone on the trail with him because I was the only person who could communicate with the guide out group of 12, if I noticed the mobile phone call he made before we left the last village before getting out of mobile reception range. Yep, I did. Well, he was checking to make sure that his London ´amigos´ had arrived safetly back in London. He had hooked them up with a few kilos and they had smuggled them back in the country. ¨How you might ask?¨ cause I sure as hell did. Castro´s friend makes European brand shoes with the sole filled with coke. 500 grams per pair of shoes. He says he has many clients from Italy, Spain and the UK that come each year for their holidays and to bring back their kilos. He says he doesn´t solicite buyers and that tourist search him out, yet I got a hunch he was telling me this story to see if I was ´interested´ in bringing back a little investment.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Ah, crackpackers...sooo touristy</div>Mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17009332078594038069noreply@blogger.com