Repelling the Juan Curi Waterfalls

May 19th, 2009: After what happened the other day on the Rio Suarez…repelling down a 60 meter section of the 180 meter Juan Curi waterfall was an extremely simple, refreshing and enjoyable event. It was something anyone could do who had at least one hand and a pirate hook.

Hiking up to the falls to meet our guide, my new friend Andres and myself ran into some guard turkeys. They wandered around the barbed wire fence waiting to shred any non vegetarian trespassers. The closer we got to them the bigger they became by filling up their juicy breasts with air and raising their war feathers high. At first I had to laugh at their cockiness but began to wonder on what they would do if I let them get too close to me? Would they make me suffer for all of abuse my species puts them through year after year? Thinking about it…if anything, I should have kicked the closest turkey – for all of Thanksgivings I clearly won the break on the dried wishbones and didn’t even get my measly wishes answered. After a few fake attacks by the turkeys and the ability to move quickly opening and closing the fence, we continued journey.

Once at the top of the falls, we were quickly told in Spanish what needed to be done…but due to the simplicity, I only needed a minor translation from Andres. Stepping into the harness, tightening the straps and snapping into the rope, we were walked to the edge… and off we went. Basically, in order to make your way down all that had to be done was to pull some of the rope behind you up and you will go down as far as you pull out - Simple indeed. The only part that is a bit nerve wrecking was getting to the horizontal position off the top and of coarse the random thoughts of a log from a tree or animal coming down on top of us when making our way down.

Some Colombian paparazzi tourists were at the bottom of the falls watching us and waiting for a photo with me. No, they didn’t want one with Andres because he is half Colombian. They wanted a photo with me because I was from the U.S. – or could have been due to my legs amazing white glow. This somehow makes me feel special…as if I made it to Colombia before tourism totally destroys this beautiful country.

Making our way back to the main road to flag down a bus, we ran into some other Colombian wildlife…a momma cow and her cow child. Hiking in California it is common to run into cows but they are somewhat skittish at each and every movement or thought of movement, especially with their calves. These cows, right next to the trail let us pass without even flinching. Thinking that I needed a photo of this rare occasion, I gave my camera to Andres and head back up the hill. Walking up to momma cow…I placed my hand on her head – she tricked me. She pushed me off the trail and made her way toward me - she might have made a loud roar or growl, but everything went silent to me as I ran down the hill. I had to mentally thank EA Sports NCAA Football and Playstation 2 for what was about to happen. I performed a juke flawlessly – easily faking out momma cow. It is sometimes funny on how the small things on trips sometimes top the bigger events that happens along the way.

Two breaths away from drowning

May 18th, 2009: The “red phone” at the Macondo Guesthouse in San Gil rang this morning, the Rio Suarez a class IV+/V-, was running. Actually...the river is running every day, but was closed for the past few days due to a big storm that battered the area, causing the river to be too strong and dangerous to raft on. Today the guides were willing to risk 7 foolish participants lives that was willing to pay $120,000 Pesos’… to challenge, a Colombian. A mere few hours later...I was two breaths of water away from drowning.

After being picked up we were driven down into a lush canyon which was where we were issued some thorough instructions, in English from our skipper (our guide) – thanks bejesus…I could understand him. After getting into the boat near the riverbank, we practiced some of the commands on the water and casted off… for a 3 hour tour. Not even 49.0506066 seconds into the rapids we lost someone off the side of the boat but quickly performed a failed textbook recovery - fortunately down the least brutal part of the river.

The Rio Suarez is a consistently turbulent machine, violently churning anyone who it could taste. After each big rapid we would paddle to the side to catch our breath. For safety reasons we had a man in a kayak that would float in front to save someone if they fell out of the boat…but note that he could only save one person, at a time.

Rapid after rapid we were getting better and better at listening to our guides commands and becoming more and more comfortable with the river. At the end of a tough rapid we would raise our oars in the air and do some high fives joining the oars in the middle tapping them together to celebrate our success.

Prior to going down the last rapid which was a class 5-, our guide disembarked our raft to attempt to plan a route for the mountains of H2O that needed to be climbed and of course…conquerd. We were forewarned that this was a tricky spot and if we don’t do exactly what he commands we will definitely not make it and the experience will not be pleasant. We back paddled off the rock and began our journey into the K2s’ and Everests’ of the H20 world as the finale of this trip. Our guide shouted, “FORWARD HARD – FORWARD HARD!” as we sliced the water with our paddles digging deep in the water powering ourselves forward. Some small premature cheers leaked out as we barreled through the rapids. Seconds later he yells, “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” dropping into the boat we braced ourselves for the inevitable…the boat completely flip over and out fell the 7 foolish participants including our guide. The river consumed us as we were violently raped by the grouchy Rio Suarez.

Underwater for more than a breath, inhaling the filthy water without my trusty set of gills…I popped up as would a soggy apple. Gasping for air grabbing on to the rope of the upside down raft, I was immediately forced back under – fighting to keep from going under the boat and to trying to keep my feet in front of me to protect myself from the rocks…this was just the beginning of my 2 minute and 59 second battle (the actual time that was taken from the video footage that I have). I barreled through mountain after mountain of H20 - each time I managed to get my head above the water I was able to take a small breath of air and a larger breath of water… I kept involuntary going underwater, continuously fighting for more air but was not receiving what was needed. I felt myself getting weaker and weaker and was slowly sinking. “Why isn’t my life jacket keeping me up?” I thought. From at one point the chest straps were extremely tight but they seems to have loosened up during my advanced struggling session. This could be because of the poor quality life vests that in no way could have passed any sort of test. Wanting to rip off my jacket I didn’t, for it being ingrained in my head since I was a youth that life preservers save lives even though it seemed to be bringing me down.

Hitting a rock ripping my Teva sandal almost completely off, I made a quick and easy decision at that moment. Save a $70 sandal and protect my feet or...attempt to capture another sustaining breath of air. So air won, the only free thing we actually have cost me a about 3 days of expenses. What I was doing wasn’t working. Barely being able to think, I needed to get away from the raft. I was outside the raft along the middle portion cruising down the river side ways. Moving along the rope breathing, feeling and seeing the air for brief moments, I was being teased by the Rio Suarez before getting pushed back down. This is one moment when the body slows down time in a crises, it did not benefit me...I wanted it over and for me to be back on the boat doing those cheesy high fives. The water was going into every orifice, pumping through my body without my permission. I wanted it to just …stop.

I was losing all my strength and was hoping that it was going to get calmer and this rapid was going to stop and let us regroup. Seeing a glimpse of the river ahead, I realized that the fight was coming to an end and that I was almost there. At that moment I heard a foolish participant ask if anyone knew how to turn the raft back over - since we also lost our guide for a brief amount of time. Hearing someone’s voice was the best thing I heard for a while. It was much better than just hearing the noise of the rushing water and my struggles under the water.

Along comes to my side was the kayak…my one hand locked onto the rope which was connected to the raft, I reached my free hand and rested it on the top of the guys deck just to confirm to myself that it was going to be okay. Eventually we made it to the side of the river. Land! At that moment felt as if I was going to vomit from the over consumption of water and perhaps adrenalin. I made it and I knew then the battle was over. There we waited for our guide – him too battered by the fall injuring his knee.
Looking back at this thinking…would I do this trip again if I knew what was going to happen? My answer would be…yes, definitely. I made it out safe and it sure is a lot better than just floating down the river being bored. Hmmm…perhaps I took inn too much water and too little air for an extended period of time…causing me to lose a few more of those nifty little brain cells. Lets see here…2+2=4 . Nope…all is good – sheesh, I am so fortunate for having at least 4 fingers.

Laying down for bed…the scene of me grabbing the rope was stuck on replay – were the tears that leaked from my eyes the filthy water that made its way in?…or was it just...

The Drug House

May 15th, 2009: Arriving at a new hostel yesterday, I thought I might make it out to a club with my housemates to check out Bucaramanga’s nightlife. Before going out with them, I first needed to be invited. Hearing them on the roof, I did a small climb to the peak only to interrupt what seemed to be Narcotourism meeting. This hostel seems to draw a breed of traveler which I haven’t yet run into. They go around consuming products from the local drug scene, sort of like how some people go around consuming local wine from certain regions.

The woman supplying the high priced items of consumption did not fit my profile of a Colombian drug dealer...I was a tad disappointed. She was gorgeous, quiet, well mannered, had a complete set of white teeth and didnt even support a signature limp. She is quite a business woman who even diversifies her product. Since I was not interested in the stuff that was inhaled through the various openings of the body, she informed me that she sells good quality shoulder bags if I was interested. If it wasn’t for the Bob Marley color scheme, I might have bought one.

When God created bar flies, a day later he created hostel flies. The one at my hostel resembles a bottom feeder who has the characteristics of a professional dancer (aka stripper)…working on the guys who clearly lack the ability to talk or pick up on even the ugliest women at a bar. I am thinking that some of these Narcotourists at the hostel are oblivious to some of the local Colombian women’s intensions of hanging around with a bunch of under showered walking ATM/drug dispensers.

3...2...1...we have lift off!

May 14th, 2009: After a 40 minute bus ride, I made it to the paragliding office, which at first seemed to be closed. A woman came out the restaurant next door and when I showed her my pamphlet, she woke up a guy that was laying on the ground – it was Tony, the individual that was going to take me paragliding...both whom could not speak English. He was not smelling like alcohol and his pupils were a decent size, so I figured there was no need for him to walk a line or say the Spanish alphabet forward and/or backwards before we ran off the top of the hill together.

After filling out the loads of paperwork which consisted of two questions…name and weight, I was ready to go. Not being knowledgeable on converting pounds to kilos due to my lack of experimentation with drugs in high school, college and grade school, I had the woman who needed my information take a guess. I am sure women lie all the time about their weight when they go up, so I saw no harm in being off a few kilos here or there. Guiding me outside she pointed at a steep hill – so I hiked to the top of it.

Eventually, Tony made it up to the top with the paraglider in an oversized tattered backpack. Prior to climbing into the harness…I stood on the edge of the cliff looking down at the valley – briefly…only briefly I thought, “what am I doing?” Is this because my only instructions were two words…"walk” and “run” since I didn’t understand the Spanish version? Or was it how Tony was having difficulties untangling the lines on the paraglider as he pulled it out of the backpack?

When it was time to go, I was attached to my harness and then to Tony. Tapping me on the shoulder prior to lift off, he gave me the thumbs up. Seeing that my shoulder straps were not even near my shoulders, I noted that my chest strap was not connected. “Was that strap really important?” I thought - hoping that was the only strap that was forgotten about as I buckled it.

There was a moment of silence and he then pointed toward the cliff like Babe Ruth would point toward the outfield when he would go up to bat. At that moment, those words I learned from the extensive ground training were said, “walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk, walk” and I obediently obeyed. As the edge of the cliff was approaching, his instructions became louder…”walk, wAlk, waLk, waLK – RUN! – RUN! – RUN!” Before reaching the edge of our runway, my feet left the ground as I briefly continued to run through the air…sailing over the cliff and over the road. Sitting back in my seat, we were...chair borne.

There we were, gliding with the hawks - it was wonderful. At one point I stuck my arms out like I was a bird or some sort of super hero. We cut through the air, up, down and around the valley for about 45 minutes. It was a completely different feeling from skydiving or parachuting. Those flying dreams when growing up finally came true with a bit of material assistance. Unfortunately toward the end of my flight, my stomach was getting extremely queasy. I am not sure if it was from all the circles we were doing or the lack of food? Hearing from one of the girls at the hostel the other day on how she threw up on her paragliding trip during mid flight, I became a little nervous - really nervous. Fortunately, I managed to hold every coca crispy in without having to use my shirt as a receptacle.

Once finished, I walked down the hill to catch a bus to Medellin with a smile from ear to ear, grateful that the wind was so cooperative. Raising my hand at the first bus that passed by, I was quickly picked up. Not asking where it went...just knowing that it was going downhill, I figured that I had the rest of the day to find out where it was taking me.

The Mother of all Hot Dogs

May 10th, 2009: Why would someone go to Colombia to order a hot dog? After hearing some amazing things from the locals about the hot dogs and confirming its popularity by seeing a multitude of stands lining the streets, I had to try it. I must say…this hot dog crushes – completely dominates any hot dog that I have ever had - even a Costco dog. And what about the Ballpark Frank? Forget about the Crackerjacks, the dreadfully boring ball game and even the $11.00 beers that go hand and hand with this overpriced mix of meat!

So what is on this hot dog I purchased at Rapidogs? I had not a clue when I ordered it…do we even know what is in a hot dog? Really? Yeah – yeah – yeah - legend has it that there are bits and pieces of animal…stuff, but do we really know? So if we don’t know what is in it…does it really matter what is on it?

Wanting to have a Colombian theme night, minus the cocaine and beautiful women, I needed to find out what made this hot dog so special. I did some extensive research on the Internet and came up with nothing but a massive amount of conflicting information...and porn. Having to go back to the establishment that I purchased this creation, I wrote down the ingredients and quickly headed back to the hostel to have it professionally translated by the intoxicated transients and of coarse Google Translator to reconfirm their drunken slurs.

Rapidogs secret recipe: bun, hot dog, lettuce, french fries, ketchup, mayo, mustard, guacamole – deep breath - pineapple, bacon and cheese. Who knows…with ingredients like this, perhaps this will be the country I roll out my own creation, “The Smore Dog.”

Shadow Stormtroopers in Action!

May 9th, 2009: The only day I went somewhere without my camera, is the day the Colombian youth decided to create a public disturbance without me there to record it…all of it. My friend Ross and I just left the hostel and 2 blocks away I saw that the police were stopping the cars from going down the main street. Since only the cars were being stopped and no t the law abiding pedestrians, we continued forward. Here I was honored have a front seat view to see the battle of 70+ youth verse the rolling shoebox - not just a shoebox…a shoebox with water guns and some type of convenient teargas dispensers.

Rocks were being tossed at the mobile shoebox with great force…breaking a mirror. The water guns seemed a bit harmless…if anything it was just a nice shower for the chosen few. When this attempt to restore world peace failed…the Shadow Strormtroopers aka SWAT were sent in.

During intermission, I ran back to the hostel to grab my camera. Fortunately for me, I made it back in time for the beginning of the second half. When the Shadow Stormtroopers moved forward to pay them a little visit…sticks and stones...were genisoned into the air along with a nice warm motif cocktail – and here I thought when growing up sticks and stones would break some bones…I was obviously lied to. The troopers continued to move forward as the group ran like a bunch of cockroaches back into the compound leaving the poorly constructed roadblock to be disassembled. The roadblock was a chain tied across the road to a fence and a tree, which was perhaps at most...capable of clotheslining a pedestrian who was not paying attention.

From that point shots tear gas was fired into the crowd…in my opinion, it should have been rubber bullets. This would have created much better footage by adding a few screams to the extremely quiet scene. The Shadow Stormtroopers didn’t even do their signature, “hut – hut – hut –hut –hut –hut” when they moved forward – didn’t they ever watch the movie, Swat or even Reno 911 for that matter? Startled, the Colombian youth ran back inside the compound locking the fence behind them. The troopers could not easily breach the fence so they just stood there awaiting orders from the command center.

My friend Ross was leaving up north and wanted to get a coffee and check out this other district, so I was painfully persuaded to leave the scene. Unfortunately, when coming back there was nothing going on. The street was once again clear with no sign of any prior disturbances. Thanks to the Shadow Strormtroopers, it was once again safe to roam the streets.

Medellin, Colombia

I am told the Colombian women in these regions are known to have extensive plastic surgery, hence…The Plastic City. Besides the Colombia pop star, Shakira, I didn’t really know of any Colombian women until now. Being here…has opened my eyes.

The hostel price is getting cheaper along with the quality of the place I am staying. I checked into the Black Sheep hostel after arriving in Medellin. I was kindly given a discounted room rate because I do not have a door in my 4 bed dorm. So instead of paying the standard rate of $7.86 I am paying $6.55 - what a…deal. At 7 am every morning I am happily awaken by the hammering and bits of the ceiling coming down, nicely adding to the waterfall from the wall behind me when it rains. As for the noise, to some normal people it might be a bad thing but to me it is an added bonus – I should be paying a premium for all of the extra dreams I am racking up. Yes, I have been sleeping in till about 9:30am recently. To attempt to justify this, I could say my body is still on the west coast time zone but it is really because I haven’t been getting to bed until 3 to 4 am.

They have two cats that roam the hostel, John Doe #1 and John Doe #2 – not their true names; I am just protecting their identities. These pets are quite popular amongst the transients – much much more popular than the chia pet in the shower from all the built up pubic hair in the drain. One of the cats will lie across me when I am on the computer and demands to disrupt productivity and be the center of whatever is going on – this must be an inherited disposition of a cat no matter the ethnicity.

Medellin is quite a happening city. Way back in the 80’s and the very very very early 90’s, it was the base for a well known export business headed by Pablo Escobar, earning himself enough money to be listed in Forbes Magazine as the worlds 7th richest man and in turn, helped make Medellin the center of Colombia’s drug trade. Even though Wikipedia states that Colombia still maintains 90% of the cocaine processing of the world, a large amount of law abiding citizens here in Medellin, mainly export flowers – the pretty ones…not the refined poppies. Since I don’t have anyone to buy flowers at the moment and I don’t snort, sniff or shoot the other flower, I am just here to take a moment to stop and smell the flowers before I move on.

Santa Fe De Antioquia, Colombia

May 5th, 2009: An hour or so bus ride we arrived at the town of Santa Fe De Antioquia. It suppose to be the oldest town in the region – now the real question is…how many regions are there in Colombia because I am beginning to hear this quite a bit lately? It was a peaceful place where I didn’t have to worry about saving lives or fighting villains. We walked the streets attempting to get lost but the town was much too small to experience such a feat. So we followed the local trails that lead us into the woods. Here we witnessed a few cows when I was hoping for something more exotic. One seemed to be quite anorexic. Perhaps this was a way for him to save his own life from the flesh eating humans who is patiently waiting for him to gain more poundage before its slaughter.

One thing about traveling where you don’t know their language is that you really never know what you ordered. That is unless you are conveniently at a McDonald's or some other sort of fast food restaurant with the number system that dictates what you are getting by seeing the beautifully presented, sometimes falsely advertised meals. But when this isn’t the case, you need to leg it (attempting to break away from the cliché, “wing it”).

Trying to keep the conversation simple with the server at the restaurant, I ordered a tamale. She followed my request with a string of quickly spoken Spanish words describing what was in it. I only understood one word…tamale. So instead of walking through every word she said and still not understand, I looked at the others and gave them the…big eyes - a common signal for help. My friends were as lost as myself since their translation was every animal except for the guinea pig. So I pulled a practice that senior citizens have mastered and kept nodding my head as if I understood what was being said - thinking whatever meat was in it, I should…be able to eat it. When the tamale reached my table, it looked as how I thought a typical tamale should look and after taking a few bites, I was quite satisfied on my order of simplicity.

A third into the tamale, I approached a questionably large squared morsel about 1 ½ inches in diameter and thought, “is this a tofu tamale?” How unique, I never ran into one of these. So, I opened up and squeezed this cube in my mouth. My teeth easily sliced through this mass. At this point I realized it wasn’t tofu and quickly determined it was a supersized piece of fat. Not wanting to spit it out at the table nor in the paper thin napkin squares, I chewed and chewed and chewed, thinking I could get it down.

This fatty morsel managed to produce a massive amount of saliva which I was unable to swallow without triggering the gag reflux. I held the napkin under my mouth, as I dumped the contents - looking as if I stealthily vomited into my hand. Wrapping it in a multitude of mini paper squares, I sat it next to my plate wiping the excessive pool of fluid in my hands on my cloth napkin - the top of my socks. There the chewed wad of fat rested on the table as it continued to soil the napkins as if it was a wound that would not stop bleeding. Mental note: Don’t order by the numbers…it makes life too simple.

Taxi?

May 2nd, 2009: Out at a bar the other night, my friends wanted to go to a dance club let alone stand up straight so I decided it was time for me to head back to the hostel. Even here I have been maintaining my 2 drink limit per night making it a bit difficult when you hang out with the Scottish and English, since I don’t think they believe in limits. I left the bar around 1am, it was only about a 20 minute walk and feeling safer here than in Bogota, I deferred the $1.50 taxi ride and headed home.

While walking I ran into a man arguing with his girlfriend as she stood there crying. Right as I passed, this guy spun her around slamming her into a rolling metal gate of a closed shop. I thought at that moment…why did my parents raise me so well? Stopping I turned around, not knowing what to say in words that I have not yet learned. This guy was much larger than me…but I was much larger than the woman. Standing there about 15 feet away I did nothing but stare at him thinking about what I am going to do if he did something again – should I scratch his eyes out, pull his hair or do the unstoppable Tyson bite? I just stood there for her to know it was okay to leave and for him to know that I was watching. They guy could not look at me in the eyes but he knew I was there by how he kept glancing over. After about 10 minutes, everything seemed it was going to be okay…did I even help at all? I don’t really know, but at least I would like to think I gave him a moment to calm down.

I continued my stroll home. Passing a homeless man in a park, he got up and began to follow me. Turn after turn we seemed to be on the same course - a coincidence? I had to laugh…why didn’t I get a cab? Not wanting to know his intensions and perhaps just a bit paranoid on what happened in Bogota, after turning a corner I did a full out sprint the last few blocks not looking back. I had so much speed, I might have even broken an elementary school track record. When will I learn…they tell you to take a cab at night for a reason.

Bus ride to Medellin, Colombia

May 1st, 2009: My friends woke me up on Friday at 6:00am, 6:07am, 6:12am, 6:36am, 6:56m, 7:01am, 7:02am, 7:03am and finally at 7:18am. What finally helped me get up from my cozy bed was that I changed my mind and decided to take my friends offer and go with them on a bus to Medellin. The taxi was going to be at the hostel to pick them up twenty minutes after I officially woke up. I packed all my traveling possessions (42.5 pounds of it – minus my carry on backpack) and made it with minus 3 minutes to spare. I am not sure if this was a good idea looking back at it. Perhaps I should have stayed longer. Too late now…I am already in Medellin. I hate planning but I only have 52 days left before I have to leave the country and reenter or go somewhere in Bogota to request an extension.

I may not understand Spanish but not so fortunately for me, I do understand simple pictures. Okay…what does a circular sign with two black cars side by side mean? Oh, you can’t forget the red circle with a slash across the middle. I would like to answer this question without having to expend a lifeline by calling a second grader. It means, do not pass. My driver with perhaps too many head injuries as a child, must have thought it meant to accelerate around the blind curves while passing on the mountain pass. Since there were no mighty metal railings hugging the curves, the passengers - yes me included - didn't even have that false sense of security that it would stop us from going over.

I am not sure how we didn’t get into an accident…but somehow, we didn’t. I would have paid a premium to sit in the front of the bus to see the action up close, but I was painfully seated in the back of the bus with the rest of the foreigners. It was excellent ride, a ride that I would have paid to go on even if I didn’t have anywhere to go. If I only had enough money, I would start an international Indy car racing team. I would locate my team by going to these countries such as South America, India, Thailand, Nepal and even Italy – hmm, scratch Italy…it would cost too much. They would need no practice since they live it every day.

It took us about iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii – oops, I dozed off. I would say it took about 10 hours by bus to get to Medellin. The security checkpoint pit stops are included in this number. At these heavily guarded stops deep in the jungles, everyone must exit the bus and provide some sort of identification. The military will then take the ID’s and look through the “red book”. To my understanding of common sense, I would say…you really don’t want to be on the…”red book”. They were looking for F.A.R.C. and other organizations that don’t particularly get along with the current government.

On the way to Medellin, the scenery was beautiful. I was never a big fan on butterfly's but yesterday...I became extremely interested in them. The colors on these chick magnets (for some reason women love these things) were amazing. It felt as if I was at the zoo seeing all the new species of butterflies that I am not use to seeing except for in those insect friendly cages.

Eventually we made it to Medellin, the plastic city...

Last night in Bogota

April 31st, 2009: Went dancing with some locals my last night in Bogota. Yes, I danced – at least that is what I called it. I am not sure why I did not use the “I just sprained ankle walking over here” excuse. I am a master at it…I can even drag my foot a little and every so often will release a few tears if they are persistent on getting me out on the dance floor. The people over here make dancing seem fun – It could also be that I didn’t know anyone except for the people at the hostel, and I really don’t even know them. I could tell you I am great at the Salsa, but that would be a vicious lie. I asked this unbelievably beautiful woman (in butchered Spanish) who turned out to be a girl when she told me how old she was. I suppose I need a lot – a lot - a lot of practice on identifying the age of Colombian women at the moment. She thought I was 25…she needs practice too I suppose.

We were smart this time and paid the $2.34 cab fare instead of walking back to the hostel. No bum fights.