Hijacking the San Cipriano trolley

June 3rd, 2009: Running late for a day trip to San Cipriano, I chose the lazy route to the bus station by hiring a cab instead of doing a brutally easy 3 km walk. The taxi that I flagged down was driven by a twelve year old looking boy who must have borrowed his father’s cab after picking up his comatose body from an early morning at the bar, conveniently tossing his lifeless body into the truck. The five minute ride turned into a somewhat enjoyable 30 minute metered tour of Cali, taking me all throughout the city exploring areas which I would not even have even thought about going. During my tour, I would periodically gaze at the taxi meter…slightly concerned as the numbers continued to grow. Not sure if he understood my original instructions, I kindly repeated to the driver where I needed to go - mumbling something I could not comprehend, he drove faster.

The meter did not take a break, but kept moving, climbing higher and higher. “Am I going to have to pay this,” I thought? Immediately I began to look through my Latin American Spanish phrase book, to say something about the taxi fare when it was time to pay. When the driver finally made it to the bus station, the meter read $9.50. Compensating for traffic, the trip should at the most have cost me $2.50. So, I smiled as I gave him $3.00 (just in case I was wrong in my calculations) and used my new phrase that I learned as we were touring around town, “That’s too expensive.” The expression on his face looked as if I took a sucker away from a child, as his head lowered and a small whimper escaped between his lips. Slowly, I left the cab…hoping he wasn’t going to create a scene since my phrasebook book didn’t contain enough words to properly defend myself.

After getting out of the cab…I quickly located a microbus that was leaving toward the village of Cordoba. Jumping into the front seat, I was officially on my way with a full frontal view of my driver’s madness. Every so often I would check my seatbelt to make sure it did not somehow disengage as we swiftly moved along the road as the driver performed the signature blind curve passes with finesse and still had enough concentration to honk and lock eyes with at all women who were old enough to bear children. Sitting there, I was hoping the sign of the cross that the driver made before we left, along with some of the other passengers…was enough spiritual strength to get me to the village. A few hours later, the microbus swerved over to the side of the road in some obscure location and the driver signaled to me that we were at Cordoba, saying nothing, just looking at me…starring.

As three fair skinned people exited the microbus – it was obvious that we were the tourists. Six local trolley conductors were dispatched toward our location, doing a full on Olympic qualifying sprint, making it across the road risking life and limb as if we where home base during a brutal game of tag. Rapidly trying to explain to the other two individuals from Britain, that we need to negotiate as three people, not two - they failed to listen…leaving me to fend for myself.

The San Cipriano trolley is nothing like the trolleys you would see on the hilly streets of San Francisco, with the Rice-a-Roni advertisements plastered to its sides. It is powered by a moped bolted to a wooden platform connected to metal wheels from what resembles old school roller skates with the back tire of the moped lying on the rail road track. The passengers either sat or stood along the wooden bench that went along one side. Being that there is no traffic control system, the trolley is a highly mobile contraption that can be quickly removed on and off the tracks in case another trolley is coming down the tracks or even worse a train.

The Brits, made a poor choice agreeing to the first hyper inflated tourist price. I was able to negotiate my trip to be much cheaper but it ended up not getting me anywhere since the conductor who was taking the others, ended up securing the only trolley set up for transportation. Jimmy, my conductor with no trolley, signaled to me to get on anyways, but it ended up not being that easy. As soon as I would get close to boarding the trolley, the grouchy conductor would make the ugliest face and would accelerate moving forward, yelling, “NO” - making it impossible for me not to laugh.

After doing this a few times the two individuals began to yell at each other, as the conductor slowly moved away leaving us both behind. Off Jimmy ran down the tracks chasing him, as the moped’s engine screamed as he tried to get away. The moped did not having enough power to outrun Jimmy, as he easily caught up – as I anxiously waited for a fight to unfold. Nothing happened besides a few exchanged words…no rocks thrown, no sticks wacked over anyone’s head, no gun was pulled, no exciting fist or knife fights, no eyes torn out of the sockets…just some extremely boring words being exchanged. Now…why travel if nothing exciting ever happens? Eventually, I thought something was worked out since I was permitted to get on. As I sat on the bench, the conductor gave me a pissy look, yelling, “YOU WIT HIM OR MAY?!” Realizing that I was not getting on for the price I originally negotiated since Jimmy was not in no means a decision-maker or a fighter, I folded and paid $1.00 more than my originally negotiated price, settling the labor dispute.

Finally getting out of Cordoba we headed to San Cipriano. Around each corner, I would envision me jumping off the trolley to avoid being tangled up in the carnage of a head on collision with another trolley or train. The farther we went into the jungle…the higher the price became to get to San Cipriano and back. Kind of late to be negotiating I thought. The Brits, kept agreeing to each raised price as I did the opposite and kindly objected, sticking to the originally agreed upon price once on his trolley. At the vertex of his madness, he told me $19.50 each way when $2.00 was the going rate. I tried to enjoy the scenery as we moved along the tracks, but it was difficult as he would not stop trying to see how much more he can legally rob me without physically assaulting me. Thinking about casually pushing the conductor onto the tracks and hijacking the trolley, I refrained.

The conductor was obviously not going to make me get off the trolley, nor was I going to pay the ridiculously inflated prices. I was willing to spend the night and would negotiate with someone else in the morning if paying his prices was my only way to get back. If the prices were still not reasonable…I decided I would walk back following the tracks and knife fight any one of the machete toting individuals with my enormous 3 inch pocket knife, but smartly run away from the gun toting F.A.R.C. members who wanted to obstruct or delay me from going to Cali. The conductor eventually accepted the price we originally agreed on - but not wanting to make anything easy, he now wanted me to pay upfront for the ride back to Cordoba. This was an obvious, “no” and this too he accepted after his angry rants.

My initial impression of San Cipriano was not the greatest, partially due to what I had to do to get here. This region had a completely different feel than any other spot I have been to so far in Colombia. This feeling I was experiencing, is difficult for me to describe. Perhaps it was because I felt locked into a village with no easy way out and even worse, in an area in which a smile didn’t exist. Not that they were not happy people…it just wasn’t easily visible. I could have tried to see how many people were happy by getting the village people together to sing some songs...starting off by singing, “When…your…happy and you know it clap your hands.” But…this probably wouldn’t have worked.

After having a decent lunch in a kitchen that would have been nice not to see, the Brits and I hired our very own machete touting guide and headed off to visiting this beautiful region I came so far to experience. An immense variation of the shades of greens filled the dense jungle we explored. Hiking along crystal clear stream, we reached a swimming hole that rested at the base of the small but peaceful waterfall. Temporarily escaping the heat we emerged ourselves into the cool refreshing water, swimming underneath the thick canopy of the jungle. Here we were able to take some waterfall photos of each other that will eventually be lost amongst the thousands of photos taken throughout this trip – or deleted due to the embarrassing glow of my white pasty skin, not understanding the huge resistance my skin is putting up to the suns poisonous rays. The peacefulness of seating beneath the falls too floating around in water unfortunately dissipated as soon as I heard a screech rip through the air. The girl I was with was attacked by some sort of fish leaving a blood blister on her leg. Being thankful that this was not a region for piranhas, but still not wanting to get bitten…my legs quickly fluttered back and forth as I swam so that the fish couldn’t grasp on to me. Making it to the bank on the other side, I stealthily held my…goods, to block any of unauthorized sampling from the local fish as I exited the water.

Finished with swimming, we started to make our way back to the village. Along the trail, we came across an unmarked ant crossing - not just an ant crossing, but a high speed super highway ant crossing. These ants are not the type of ant that is easily bullied or easily ignited with high powered magnifying glasses, they were Raspberry Crazy Ants. In large numbers such as this, they have been known to asphyxiate small animals. The ants viciously covered the feet of the others in front of me... making it difficult to see their once white skin, as they were being bitten. Seeing this quickly unfold, my body moved instinctively before I could even tell it what to do, running on the tips of my shoes passing the Brits, stopping farther down the trail. Banging my feet on the ground, I was able to break the grip of most of the ants that were on me, swiping the others off with my hand and zeroing in on the ones that made it higher up my leg with my finger, smashing them into my skin. The second biting experience within minutes, I came to the conclusion that the jungle seems to be the home to a large variety of grouchy creatures…big and small.

Having to head back to tracks to be picked up, I was hoping the conductor was there at our agreed time and extraction point. Arriving 15 minutes early, I was yelled at with words I did not know or care to know, by the big grouchy creature, my conductor. I smiled, when he struggled to place the motorbike onto the track, as I pretended to help…grabbing onto the trolley giving him 5.68%. Asking for a photo he grunted and a head nod was given, which translated into, “sure I would love for you to take my photo – which side would you prefer?”

Making it safely back to Cordoba, I trekked up the hill to the main road, stopping the first bus back to Cali. Exhausted, I sat down with my oversized legs in the aisle due to the bus being built for hobbits. Moments later I was peacefully sleeping, having wonderful dreams about the conveniences of having my own car…and pushing my grouchy conductor onto the tracks, hijacking the San Cipriano trolley.