Time to visit Dr. Feel Good…to take care of “it”

July 8th, 2009: Having a medical issue, I thought it would be easy and economical to give myself the medical attention that was required in the comforts of my own room at the hostel. All I needed was a hanger, couple of pints of some cheap liquor and some solid searches on the internet. Asking Dr. Google, I was given 23,700,000 results. It was a bit concerning that some of the top results were about botched self surgeries. Not feeling it is as easy as Hollywood makes it out to be…I called my nurse back at home and was quickly convinced that I should have “it”…looked at.

Now that I was going to make a pleasant visit to Dr. Feel Good and due to the complexity of my issue, I needed a translator…not a Spanish phrase book. So I invited my new friend Martha, who is from Columbia, for an exciting afternoon at the local doctor’s office, just a short painful walk away from my hostel.

Checking in at the reception desk, I was awkwardly not handed a clip board to involuntary spill my entire medical history. The only thing the nurse asked me for was my name, phone number, address, ID number, signature and how big “it” is…for billing purposes. She didn’t even ask me to place a number on my level of pain. This medical facility must be rebelling against the system because it seems that almost everyone wants you to rate things these days on some numerical scale.

Asking Martha to stay in the waiting area due to the location of “it,” I followed the nurse into the exam room. The nurse said something as she walked around the exam table - not understanding, I gave her my signature “lost look.” Undressing me with her eyes, I hesitantly looked at the curtain hanging from the ceiling which was intended to give a patient privacy but didn’t have enough material to even cover a bath tub of a Barbie playhouse.

Sitting bottomless on the white cloth sheet that partially covered the exam table, hoping I did a thorough job in the shower, I was signaled to roll over by the turning of the nurse’s index finger. Feeling like a dog with his tail between his legs, I obediently obeyed as I spun around lying on my stomach. Nervous, my sweaty forehead bonded me to the exposed vinyl table top as a fly trapped to a bug strip.

During my examination, the doctor painfully poked around getting a better idea on what needed to be done. Legs open, I laid there clinching onto the corners of the table…almost shattering my bones with the massive pressure I was placing on them. My feet hung over the end, as I pressed the tops into the table, trying to prevent myself from mule kicking the doctor as she was examining, “it.” I quickly wore myself out, but continued to hold on to the table, making music with my muffled moans as she pokes around, debating on if it is too early to abort the $0.25 gum ball sized infection.

Focusing on the flaking paint on the wall, I momentarily left my body. I faintly heard the doctor saying something in Spanish and I assumed it was directed toward the nurse because she knew I didn’t speak her language. Then I heard a voice, a familiar voice that slowly brought me back out of my deep state of separation. Turning around, a blurred figure came into focus. It was Martha with her face about 1.5 feet away from “it” as the doctor was making my checks do the splits so my friend could get a better view. I inaudibly said, “Martha?” shaking my head as I turned back around, placing my face on the table, hoping a hole would appear so that I could stick my head inside.

Sitting up, the doctor took my blood pressure and checked my heart rate…laughing at the readings. Obviously it was elevated since I was just stuck by the embarrassment bus as Martha was still in the exam room, smiling at my brown…eyes. Having to come back in two days, I am given a prescription for a heavy dose of antibiotics to hopefully keep the doctor from having to manually abort “it” - which I am guessing that “it,” is an abscess since my translator was unable to explain this part to me.

Going to the pharmacy, I was issued my antibiotics with no packaging or 100 page book that explains the directions, side effects and warnings – not that I ever read them anyhow. I learned from early on in this trip that it is good to have at least the packaging, as I stared at the capsules locked in standard over the counter plastic covering with foil backing…hoping that I was giving an antibiotic and not Benadryl. Leaving, I painfully wobbled back to my hostel thinking that I have two days to get better, not to mention another translator.

Thief in the hostel caught

June 27th, 2009: I caught an American backpacker with my groceries unknotted and wide open with the eggs out as he was helping himself to my margarine. Giving him the benefit that all he was doing was heating some margarine in a frying pan…I placed my items in the bag, knotted it back up, not saying anything about the food and asked him how his day was going, being as sociable as I normally am to him. I could tell he felt awkward, with no need to say anything about my groceries.

Not able to put my groceries in my room, I was thinking how I could prevent the further pilfering of my goods. Since my head hair is not long enough to sabotage my own margarine or other food products, this means I would have to farm from a less…desirable location. Thinking that this might give them an idea to put more additives in my products, I will take the easy route and think of it as a charity donation for the needy – not to mention being much more sanitary.

Interrogated at Timbio

June 24th, 2009: Waking up, I felt as if it was my first day of school as I was about to be a guest speaker for a rural high school’s English classes. I pulled out my best semi-clean clothes that passed the sniff test and took my second shower in the past 5 hours - it’s not that I had an accident in bed last night, got lucky with the neighborhood bicycle or because I needed to wake up - it was due to a much less exciting reason…my skin contained the odor of rotten eggs from the sulfur pools I marinated myself in the day before. I scrubbed and scrubbed, successfully removing several ounces of healthy skin, but the remnants of the odor rested much deeper than what soap could remove. To partially resolve this slight dilemma, I was forced to switch my short sleeved shirt to a long sleeve shirt…minimizing my exposed skin, hoping I will not leave the school today with the nickname, “Stinky Americano.”

Meeting up with Estella, the teacher that invited me, we carpooled with some other teachers taking us 20 minutes outside Popayan to the small town, Timbio. When entering the town, it seemed as if it was run by students as they filled the streets swarming the dealers outside the school door who specialized in sweets. Pulling into the grassy field along the school, my heart began to race. As we exited the car the students piled up at the huge row of windows that stretched across the two story building as they stared down at me.

Making it inside the courtyard, I found it somewhat difficult to blend into the crowd. Following Estella into the teacher lounge…the first one I have ever been to, I felt as if I was just granted access to the infamous Area 51. When growing up, I would never, ever, ever, ever think about going into, let alone looking directly inside the inner sanctum. Miniature desks lined the room as the teachers prepared for the upcoming classes. “Where are the couches, flat screen T.V.’s and attractive teachers?” I thought. The teacher lounges in the U.S. must be different…they just have to be. Am I suffering from an overly stimulated imagination or is this just the reality that it is sometimes better to just keep dreaming?

Estella and I entered our first class and she kindly introduced me as Anthony from the United States. Standing there…the class went silent, with no podium to hide behind to save me. The first three noises that exited my mouth was, “umm….ahhh….umm.” Five or six words of rust slowly fell out of my mouth as my jaw quickly broke free. Going to about 5 classes, I was asked a multitude of questions: How do I like their town Timbio, would I like to live here, is Colombia what I expected, do I like their president, do I like Mr. Obama, do I like Colombian women, what type of alcohol do I like to drink, do I like football (soccer), what is my favorite football team, do I salsa, do I have a girlfriend, do I have kids, and how old I am – gasping when they found out I am as old as their parents…telling me I look 24 or 25 years old – what good students. Am I at that point in my life it feels that good when they are that far off? Mental note: when guessing someone’s age…guess ridiculously low. There were some good questions, but the hardest and perhaps the best one was, “how do you feel about love.” This one floored me…not able to locate the hall pass, I had to do an extended pause, until I was…saved by bell.

The Colombians are obsessed with soccer. This was obvious when I was on the balcony watching the student/teacher soccer game on the basketball court with the other teachers. Here I listened to the smart nonparticipating teachers laughing as their colleagues were massacred, tasting pavement throughout most of the game losing 1-6 to the 9th graders.

After a day of representing the American people, I was exhausted. How do politicians do it? When leaving school, the elementary school children were flowing into the building for the afternoon session. The children surrounded me, wanting to see the White American Big-Foot up close. Looking up, trying not to break their necks, I heard “Hello” coming from the groups as they giggled grabbing my pant legs, as they followed me. I really enjoyed being at the school today and it just strengthens the thought of me needing to do something more internally rewarding with my life whether it is my career or what I do with my time after work. Today was simply…wonderful.

Projecting the path of a tumbling boulder

June 16th, 2009: Riding the off-road capable bus back from Tierradentro to Popayan, I was soaking in the beautiful scenery through my filthy window. The muddy roads the bus would struggle through were retched, barely doing their job as there were several spots the road could no longer hold on, breaking away into the water that flowed hundreds of feet below, thus reducing the width so that even a Suburban would struggle going past.

Looking up at a hill where a land slide occurred a few days prior, I saw something moving. I thought it was perhaps a goat or a cow enjoying the new terrain. Looking closer I noticed it was a rock…not a rock, but a large boulder about the size of the world’s largest man in the fetal position, slowly tumbling down the hill. My mind quickly went to work and my calculations projected that it was going to hit us - but thankfully not affecting me…just the front left hand side of the bus. Not saying anything, I just watched it roll in slow motion as we moved closer to its path of decent hoping the driver would notice what was taking place. I kept on glancing at the bus driver through the rear view mirror, waiting for some evasive action but nothing was being done…not even a slight tap on the brake or a massive stomp on the gas pedal. As we came closer, somehow the boulder stopped, getting hung up on a small flat ledge of the hill.

Disappointed that I was not able to type more on this event…I leaned my head back on my jacket that rested against the window and internally pouted as I continued to enjoy the views back to Popayan.

Oh where oh where can the trail be?

June 15th, 2009: Going straight up this hill, that by definition could potentially be considered a cliff – I extended my leg straight ahead of me, one after another, passing the scattered coffee plants that clung to side of the trail that barely existed. Half dead, walking as if I was a zombie, thinking on why am I trying to do all these fuuuuu – dang tombs in one day. My last stretch of tombs is El Aguacate, which I was not even really interested in seeing. Reaching a rundown wooden shack along in the hills, thinking that this is where a guy suppose to run out of the door swinging a chainsaw, making sausage out of me to sell to the secret society that lived in the hills. But unfortunately for me, this was not Hollywood and not the country where everyone owns cars let alone a chainsaw.

Making a lot of noise so I would not startle anyone inside, I called out to get the attention of somebody that might help me get back onto the right path to the tombs. The linen sheet that hung in the door frame moved and out came a thin, frail, half blind woman – having no idea how she was able to get up here or how long it has been since she been down. Asking her where El Aguacate was, she turned and pointed up and continued to go about her way. Thinking that perhaps I should just make it back down to the trail which I knew would take me back to my hotel…I was drawn to go to the tombs. Not sure what was drawing me because my body and brain did not want to go anywhere else. Looking for my ruby red…hiking shoes, wanting to slip them on and click my heels and say, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!” until I realized…why in the hell would I ever own a red pair of shoes!

I continued my journey up the hill internally crying. Up and up and up and up I went. After each burst of energy, which I thought would bring me to the top…another hill was waiting for me. Knowing now that I was not on the right trail, I was hoping at one point I would intersect the proper tourist trail with wonderfully placed signs confirming to me that I am struggling for a reason, and will not have to backtrack later, meaning all the ground I covered was wasted energy.

Dragging my body onto someone else’s property that was clinging to the hillside, I met a pet…a scraggly guard dog, standing in front of the house. Hoping for a leash that did not exist, I called for the owners. Barking crazily as a dog infected with rabies, I knew there was a reason I should have watched more TV, specifically…the Dog Whisper. “What would he do?” I thought. I continued to call for someone hoping they would come out - there was no response. Hesitant to pass the dog, I wanted to avoid a full confrontation and headed back down the trail in the other direction. Stopping, I had a feeling that I needed to go past the dog. Pulling out my knife, I hid it my hand just in case someone did come out of the house and headed back to say hello to my little friend – happily thinking that I had my rabies shot before leaving the U.S. if something did manage to happen.

Not looking at the dog I tried to follow the trail right next to the house. Understanding that I shouldn’t be there, I respected the dog’s job as that he doing what he suppose to do. The dog did a fine job making noise…but this time, he dashed forward. My knife was drawn, quickly I tried to cut up the hill past the house. He continued toward me, not knowing the proper thing to do I turned toward the ragged beast and accepted his challenge, running at him making a loud noise - he took off backwards barking. I called his bluff as sweat dripped down my face, adding to my drenched shirt of stench. I hurried past him and choose the path that look most like a trail.

Still lost, I went further up, swaying as I attempted to walk straight, my body hurting…I exited the real world and went into my own. Somehow I made it higher up the staggering steep hill, eventually making it to a wired fence. Trying to bend down to go underneath the obstacle, pain shot through my back. Again the thought about turning around clouded my mind but still I continued forward. Running into another house I startled a girl standing outside the door. Asking where the El Aguacate tombs were…she pointed…up. Asking her again hoping she was going to change her mind...she again, pointed…up.

Finally I made it to the top of the ridgeline. I wanted to pull out an American flag sticking it into the soil as a mountaineer would do when reaching some famous peak and name it after me. But seeing the well traveled trail, I knew I was not the first person to concur the hill. Making it to the tombs, my body was hurting so badly, I decided not to climb down into the run down tombs, looking at them from above quickly passing them. Making it past about 9 tombs, I stopped. Turning around, not my own doing, I went back to see the tombs I worked so hard to see. I climbed into the first tomb…then the second one…the third one…the fourth one…the fifth one…and said f@#k the rest. I couldn’t do it. Heading along the ridge I had to drop back down into the valley. Two more hours of stopping every few minutes of painfully steep steps down the mountain, hoping that somewhere along the trail they thought about using switchbacks to help make my trip down a little easier - I wanted it all to end. I eventually made it back to the village and thought, “Is this what it feels like to be old…or…is this what it feels like to be stupid?”

Chicken fighting Mr.Tyson…the biting horse

June 13th, 2009: Yesterday, I had to make a tuff decision…burn thousands upon thousands of calories walking to the multitude of Archeological sites that dotted the San Agustin area or take a horse and burn a lot less. Not liking to be wasteful, I chose option #2…take a horse. This was also a good opportunity to improve my riding skills and get a more relaxed look instead of the, “just got caught masturbating in the hostel look.”

Today I was looking forward to the horseback ride more than the sites, which have failed miserably to capture my attention the past few days. Not that I didn’t appreciate what I saw, perhaps I just saw too many pre-Colombian megalithic sculptures (a.k.a. standing stones) numbing the pleasure. Sitting patiently at the hostel, our horses showed up over an hour late. My guide’s tardiness didn’t bother me but it really disturbed the French guy from my hostel, Pierre, who was ranting about how the people we were waiting for must be English speaking people – claiming only English speaking people would make others wait, so that they could eat breakfast.

The horses here seem a bit taller than those in Salento, but still vertically challenged – good for the Colombians and good for me. Mounting our horses, we rode down the hill to pick up the others…hoping Pierre was wrong. As we pulled up, I was relieved about his flawed international generalizations. They were fortunately not English speaking travelers and unfortunately, not French. This made me wonder…is he still upset about how we disgraced the, “French Fries” by calling them “Freedom Fries” right after our invasion of Iraq, or is it something much deeper?

My horse was an older horse that knew the coarse well, but I was still able to override his routine. Not wanting to do too many altercations in case he would get angry, I would let him pretty much do what he wanted…running and chicken fighting was just a few of them.

Something changed inside my brain today. I really enjoyed the speed the horse produced - without having to fill in the event with a false sense of it being fun, to overcome my fear. I seemed to figure out that you can’t just sit in the saddle as if it was a modified La-Z-Boy when running. I needed to use my undefined thigh muscles as if I was an Ultimate Fighter in a UFC match clinching my opponent hoping for the tap out.

My smile lines became deeper when we were dashing up and down the mud slide like trails as the rain gushed out of the clouds as if it was holding it all night, waiting till the morning so everyone could see. The other horses would slowly inch their way down the slippery trials when mine would move at a steady pace and when possible…run. Even with all of his life experience my horse would slip from time to time, stumbling along the way, but somehow was always able to save us from a fall. With more confidence then ever before, my right hand still maintained the lock on the horn of the saddle – so much, I now have one callused hand. This is not good…especially being a solo backpacker. Maybe next time I will switch off using my left hand, so no assumptions can be made…on why one had is softer than the other.

Is there always a rotten piece of flesh in every group of horses? Today, it was Mr. Tyson (name was changed to protect his identity) and thankfully he wasn’t my horse. He would not just stop at trying to bite his own rider’s legs, but he would also lash out at the others who would get too close, biting the French guy. The Italian woman on him would let him go about his disobedient rampage with no ramifications. As soon as my horse would decide to pass, I would give him a rib massage with my heels trying to make him go faster for some extra assurance that we are going to clear them without any altercations.

At times, we were either blocked during the pass by Mr. Tyson or we would be forced to engage in a full on chicken fight. Rusty on chicken fighting warfare, since I haven’t performed this since I was a kid in my neighbors pool, I had to quickly access my memory banks…pulling up any proven strategies to avoid a potentially painful loss. As Tyson would lean into me, he displayed his cockiness by smiling, giving me a full dental view of his perfectly aligned teeth prior to striking. Pulling my leg out of my stirrup to avoid being bitten, I would counterstrike leaning down and hitting his nose with an open hand, too kicking him…yelling my signature, “NO!” I am sure PETA would not have condoned this act of violence toward an animal. Perhaps just a simple time-out was in order, but I did not give consent for a temporary tattoo on my leg. Hindsight…I think I can now relate to my last guide wanting to box my horse, Billy Bad Ass when I was in Salento.

How did I end up here?

June 12th, 2009: Passing in front of a mangy bar in the small town of San Agustin, I noted a massive gathering of drunken locals who were waving me in for a drink. Thinking that I have been interacting with the drunken travelers a lot more than the drunken locals, this would be a good opportunity for me to if anything, practice some Spanish. With nothing planned for the evening anyhow, I went in with the intent to stay for one drink – just one.

Sitting down at the table, I was able to get a better look at the individuals…feeling as if I just placed myself in the center of a bunch of small time petty criminals – quickly moving my internal readiness to DEFCON 3. I was immediately given a small plastic cup for shots, looking as if it was straight out of a child’s Fisher Price bar set. It was promptly filled by someone who might have forgotten his glasses this morning, as it overflowed onto the table. Taking the shot and practicing everything I knew in Spanish, took 15 seconds…total.

The locals were eager to know how my Jeep tour was today and what I thought of the English girl who was in my group. “What?” I asked, even though I clearly heard them - not remembering seeing any of the people I was sitting with at the bar. Asking one of the guy’s on how he knew what I did today…he leaned back against the wall in his chair, with no expression on his face – looking as if he gave himself a botched Botox job in his leathery skin. Eventually after great thought…he told me, “It is a small town.” So when they asked me where I was staying and being that I didn’t want them to know, it was pointless telling them that I wasn’t sure of the name, since I was quickly helped out by another man, telling me that I am now at the Casa de Felipe – so…why did they ask? After tonight I will have to think about my desire to one day live in a small town, where everyone knows more…than just your name.

One shot after the other, the vile liquid kept being forced down my throat causing me to create a wide variety of unusual faces as it went down. Even worse, I somehow acquired a magical cup that would refill itself as soon as I would finish a shot. As the night went on, the table was no longer functional for anything but a bottle stand, as it was littered with empty vessels. At one point, I had to stop drinking so that I could have what was consumed catch up with me…needing to figure out how altered my decision making process was. Soon, our table harbored 6 1/2 intoxicated individuals and was slowly growing. Figuring that being 1/2 intoxicated was enough for me, I decided that I needed to start working on an exit strategy to go home.

With the locals wanting to do some business, starting with Leatherface, he told me he can get me stuff…rubbing his nose. After giving him an awkward look, he did it again…rubbing his nose and said, “If I don’t like….I’m sorry, no problem.” I was confused with his words but not his actions, turning down the local special. Soon after a Frankensteinish looking man with a metal plate in his head, which was installed by a blacksmith, asked me a leading question on what I thought about Colombian women. I told him that I thought they have wonderful…personalities. Then he asked me what he really wanted to know, ”Do you want a Colombian woman?” as he pulled out his large black book – not knowing how he could fit something as large as the yellow pages in his pocket. Declining, Leatherface sharply asked me, “You not police, are you?”

Uncomfortably still around, I thought, “How did I end up here?” I needed to leave…a long time ago. Getting on my jacket, Frankenstein asked me if I could help him out with his bill. That is a strange request, but then it clicked…I am the walking, talking, human ATM machine. Figuring that I bought more than I drank, I didn’t owe anyone anything. Not helping him out, I asked, “Why don’t you ask your friends?” Feeling a bit hurt, I was wondering if this is the reason they wanted me to join them in the first place. Being a good salesman/conman, he was persistent and kept asking me for money…starting high and was slowly working his way down. With no reason to negotiate, I practiced being a politician and issued a false apology, lied to him by saying I didn’t have enough money to help and finished it off by telling everyone that it was nice meeting them. Getting up, I was able to make it out of the bar as they tried to get me to sit back down.

I quickly headed back to the hostel. Noticing that someone seemed to be on the same path home as myself as soon as I left the bar, I took off running hearing Jenny yelling, “Run Forrest, Run!” as I went through the town, past the abandon buildings and up the dark blackened hills. Remembering how much I hated running, I was gasping for air as I dropped down into a chair after arriving at the hostel. Blood rushing through my fatty veins, I have no desire to run up a hill ever again…but knowing that this will not be the last hill I run up or the last person I run away from.