It is always easier to go up…than down

July 29th, 2009: My hand shaking, as I look up trying to find a stable rock to grab onto…seeing nothing, I stretch my arm up above my head, feeling and hoping for anything. “I must not look down, I must not look down, l must not look down” I told myself…as I look down, squinting - as if this is going to somehow make things better. I see nothing below me but my two heels protruding out of the cliff. At this point I was about 212.3 feet in the air clinging to the side of the rock face. With no helmet, rope or safety equipment, I am attempting to follow my friends (that also have a limited amount of brain cells) to the top of this gargantuan rock outside, Quito. Thinking that I should have stuck with my original decision, to meet them on the other side, but I was now committed with no option to turn around, since it is always easier to go up…than down.

Glued to the rock, I could not get the thought out of my mind on what happened to me over the years? I thought I use to be quite brave, doing almost anything…not thinking too much about what could happen. Now, there seems to be such a struggle doing activities that may be questionable. I am curious if what I am fighting is…common sense.

Ledge after ledge, I was hoping there was some other route back. Trying not to climb too close to the others above me in case they fell to their deaths, I was disadvantage on not knowing the way they were taking. I had to get the fear out of me…this was not a wise place to be scared. To help defeat my fears…at first I thought that if two women can do this, I should be able to – that didn’t even come close to working. I then thought of something that is typically true and it ever so briefly made me feel better. If two women were doing this, it must not be that bad because they would have been the ones smart enough to say we shouldn’t - later thinking they must have been two lesbians who play the man’s role.

Meeting a guy who was coming from a different route, told us that he saw the way we were going up and thought we were crazy - definition of crazy in this context meant…stupid. I wanted to agree but I held that thought to myself. Now knowing that we didn’t have to go down the same way we came up – not to mention going the way of someone who thought we were crazy…I was relieved. This relief was brief…lasting only until we began following him down after reaching the peak. Seeing an easier way down that he didn’t want to capitalize on, I separated from his route with the others. Crossing back onto his path we were now in ahead of him. Standing there…we look up and see him dangling above us, as his feet were trying to feel some footing below him. Not wanting to be the person to break his fall, I observed him from a distance as I quickly I pulled out my camera and started recording the event on video…while the others pulled out their cameras to take photos. They too knew this was going to be a good photo opportunity…if he falls. Calculating a 92% chance of him falling…I was going to be there to capture it.

Waiting for the fall, somehow – I don’t know how…he made it down safely, beating the odds. He must have had someone - no, not someone…a congregation praying for him. I went up to him after and patted him on the back for defying mathematics. Once again I thought, it is always easier to go up…than down.

Overlooking Quito, the new Gotham City

July 26th, 2009: Arriving into Quito at the bus terminal, I asked a woman that worked at the bus stand for directions in Spanish. She gave me the most unattractive look I have seen from a woman in the longest time. I originally interpreted the look as being the, “why are you bothering me look” – thinking about it now, maybe I accidently said something…offensive.

Walking around lost, I went back to ask her for directions again, but now I was armed with my fail proof method. Smiling at her, I grunted and pointed in the book on where I wanted to go. We were now communicating on a level we can both understand. She was very helpful pointing to what platform I needed to go to…and even smiled back at me – did she forget it was me? Going about 20 feet…I was lost, again. Not wanting to push my luck with her, I asked another uniformed person roaming the bus terminal and made it another 20 feet. Asking another worker, I again made it…another 20 feet. Nobody else to ask, I went back to the last person. This method can be slow but it keeps you from looking too much like one of those carnival games in which a duck goes back and forth as it gets shot. Not wanting to see me again, she walked me not just to my bus, but to the front of the line and told the driver where I needed to go. How nice…special treatment for being handicapped in foreign languages and sense of direction.

I am staying at the Secret Garden in Quito, which is amazing. The view from the terrace is beautiful as it overlooks the entire old town. In this view, an enormous Basilica easily stands out as it catches my attention. Nervous about all the rumors that circulate in the backpackers’ world about Quito’s reputation on how things tend to frequently get stolen…with or without you knowing about it, I was on high alert as I made my way to the object of my desire that rested on a hill nearby. Once I got there, I forgot about what I was suppose to be scared of as I was instantly morphed into a Japanese tourist that could not stop taking photos – even a karaoke machine wouldn’t have stopped me. I climbed several flights of stairs and scaled steep ladders bringing me to the very top. It felt as if I was on some sort of religious jungle gym at Michael Jackson’s Neverland ranch.

Seeing that there was an opening in the roof due to the basilica being in need of some overdue roofing repairs, I climbed out and sat on the ledge as batman would over look Gotham city. Sitting there, I realize that I did not have super vision, hearing or special gadgets to assist me in helping anyone or myself for that matter…so I just took in the view and was happy to finally make it to Ecuador.

Chick fight in Otavalo, Ecuador

July 25th, 2009: Walking through the doors, I look down and see a large red carpeted ring and in the depths of my brain I can clearly hear the words of a famous announcer…”a-r-e y-o-u r-e-a-d-y t-o R-u-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-b-l-e?!” I have been waiting to see a chick fight for about…36 years – actually 37 years and about 8 months if you count when I was hanging out in my mother’s womb. Before you gasp I must remind you that the chickens fighting are not the cuddly chickens that can do tricks and play catch. Nor, are they the gazillion pound immobile feeder chickens that the fast food industry has genetically altered – though if these birds did fight…it would be more like a sumo fight. These chickens fighting tonight are lean, mean, pecking machines that are trying to extend their lives before taking a dip in the local deep fryer. So if you think this is cruel and inhuman…it…it is.

Arriving early, I was told by a group of individuals stumbling near the ring that the fights weren’t going to start until another hour. Leaving to get something quick to eat, I rushed back so that I wouldn’t miss the first pulled feather. I was now told…It wasn’t going to start until another two hours. Hmmm…truthfully, I don’t know if anybody knew when the first fight was going to be. About to leave again, I was invited to have a drink with the individuals who were stumbling near the ring. Thinking about what happened in Colombia, I had a feeling that history might be repeating itself. Unfortunately, my only options were: wait in my room and watch some Spanish TV – which is more like porn, go to some internet café and read the status of my friends on Facebook (such as how they just went to the store to buy some cigarettes and they didn’t have Marlboro lights), read someone’s boring ass travel blog or…hang out with the stumbling individuals. It was a tuff decision but I chose to sit down with drunkards.

To assist me in being able to easily turn down the foul alcohol and to help my newly acquired temporary friends to save their breath, I told them that I was taking medication and couldn’t drink. Now, I will not have to drink the backwash of a complete stranger and will be able to make all my inaccurate calculated decisions on my own with a completely functional brain. Also, with two of the guys bandaged up from fighting…I thought my ability to pull someone’s hair, scratch with great precision or to run faster than them might be necessary sometime during the night.

Once the chick fight started, it was not what I imagined. They didn’t have the Rocky theme song playing in the background, no strobe lights, no smoke coming from the cages as the warriors were brought into the ring, no blood spurting into the audience throughout the match, no deaths…not even a lousy ring girl walking around in a bikini with some unimportant number above her head - nothing, nada, zilch! I must say though…it was exciting when the chickens were set free into the ring with a metal spike attached to their freshly shaven legs as the feathers on their neck would stick up, running at each other bumping breasts in the middle of the ring. The fights lasted anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes, winning when they injured the other to the point it can’t get up or until the time runs out. Just like a chic fight…there was great potential that the fighters might leave the ring with some bald spots, as they ripped each other’s feathers out with their beaks.

Not betting any money, I just sat and watched a few fights before heading back to my place. My friends told me it wasn’t safe and for me to get a cab, even though I was only a few blocks away - this is the reason I didn’t drink. Walking out the front door there was not a cab in sight…just an extremely dark, quiet, dirty street. In my mind, the street transformed itself into a running track. Ready to show my speed…I quickly walked back to my hostel and safely made it to the front door. Standing there for about 15 minutes, I was abusing the buzzer and banging on the door, trying to wake up the people inside to let me in. Fortunate for me…there were no thieves, because if so I would have definitely woken them all up.

Going to bed tonight, I have a new respect for chickens. If someone ever calls me a chicken…I will have to thank them – that is…as long as they don’t call me a feeder chicken.

Another day at Purace National “Water” Park

July 19th, 2009: This morning…the rain clouds once again welcomed us to Purace National “Water” Park. Martha and I headed back to Purace, starting our day by hiking to the condor viewing point where the lazy beast is fed since some of his other mates died from starvation. While crossing a mine field strategically laid by the rebel cows that dotted the landscape, I inadvertently stepped on an explosive…covering the sides of my shoe. Fortunately my shoes are not just waterproof but poo poo proof too.

Since the condor didn’t want to take in the prime views on this rainy day, I decided to climb up to his spot to enjoy a…birds eye view. Making it only 2 feet from the top, seeing the condors very own excrements on the rock, I lost my footing…slipping - finger tips becoming ridged, I tried “the cat” pose but I remembered that I have no claws. Catching a hole in the rock, I stopped myself from an extremely unpleasant landing.

With the rain coming down…horizontally, the next item on our, “to do list” was to hike up the active volcano, Purace, to a point of interest that Martha wanted to show me. Today, I was not extremely motivated to hike up or to anything…this is including the coffee shop at the entrance into the park before venturing off to the vertical hike of no interest. Hoping Martha would be like most of my other woman friends, I was thinking the weather or high altitude was going to break her down telling me that she is ready to go home before we even start. I was…wrong. I should have been wiser with my educated guess that a professor in civil engineering, specializing in…water, would fold because of bad weather.

When leaving the coffee shop, some climbers that were denied by Purace looked like a bunch of monkeys, huddled at the fire in the ranger station trying to bring life back to their extremities. Looking at my fingers, still swollen like bloated waterlogged earthworms from the day before, I slowly put down my head…following Martha up the hill, not wanting to tell her I didn’t want to go.

Each 10 steps up, I gasped for air…because of…the… altitude- not fitness level. Each 5 steps, Martha gasped for air - I had the advantage, meaning I would only have to work half as hard as her. Still not giving up on her potentially wanting to turn back, I wasted my breath pumping her mind full of information about the affects of altitude on the human body…forgetting she is at times like a senior citizen – or international traveler…saying yes when she has not a clue what I am saying.

The rain continued to flow, creating a river of water that followed the trail down the hill trying to make it to a more constant water source. With little success, the water either made pleasant mini-waterfalls or beautiful deep dark muddy trails.

Hiking up Purace I noted the locals had some creative means to protect themselves from the elements. I saw plenty of guerrilla boots, one piece painting suits, unisex garbage bag skirts, green industrial strength rubber gloves and the more fashionable food handling gloves. Some of these outfits today have seen more quality outdoor time than the expedition quality outdoor gear of others back at home…only enduring the elements when heading out of the cubical cell for a smoke break or to their car.

Due to time limitations we were only able to do a three hour hike up Purace, unfortunately not making it to our destination – Martha’s destination. Everyone I saw coming down didn’t make it to the top so I was obviously happy that time constraints saved my body from burning more calories than absolutely necessary. With my garbage bags over my socks failing me and my fingers again not wanting to function…this was a good ending point.

Waiting for a bus to take us back to civilization, we were invited into a local woman’s house to warm up next to her wood burning stove. I stood there in the dark blackened kitchen with my hands over the fire as it kindly brought feeling back to my 10 little friends. Watching the woman’s children playing marbles on the cracked cement floor…I built up enough courage to challenging one of the kids to a game, knowing he was the Tiger Woods of marbles. Hearing the bus tearing around the corner, our game was cut extremely short, since we didn’t even start. Sprinting out of the house we were able to catch the attention of the driver without me having to sacrifice Martha by pushing her in front of the bus, to create an effective but one time use speed bump. Unable to sit under the tent like tarp on top of the roof with the others, we slid into a row on the side of the bus feeling as if I was on a train circling a zoo. We had seven people on the bench in my row of this massive bus that engulfed the dirt road as a Humvee would fill a suburban street. Every inch of the bus was maximized…with the back half of the bus filled with individuals’ cardboard luggage, potato sacks and livestock.

As we moved onward to Popayan, I looked around realizing that I did not blend into the crowd very well as it seemed that I was the only one who was excited to be on this local bus. The people on the bus looked like liked they were “pigs in a blanket” with the blanket wrapped around them having just a nose or eyes peering from the opening… as I sat with my head sticking out my door like a dog, letting the cold wind dodge my face.

A man, shuffling along a 6 inch sideboard that went along the outside of the bus, was hanging from bar to bar… collecting the fare as the bus was quickly moving along the poorly maintained gravel road. It was amazing…a real life Colombian stuntman. What an amazing job…when the weather is nice. I am curious if this was the company policy for collecting fares?

We made it back to Popayan just in time to head to a local pizza place before they closed. I was thinking about pizza for two whole days – actually 41 hours, 11 minutes and 24 seconds. What is it about food when traveling? It seems to be a top item of interest for me in situations such as these. Here we sat right next to the oven in front of the pizza place absorbing and storing the needed heat. Recapping our weekend into the wild…I think the trip to Purace National Park has been the best part of my trip up to this point - it could not have been any better. The weather, the mishaps…it was the makings of a perfect weekend.

Into the Wild

July 18th, 2009: Waking up at 3:12am, with a puddle of saliva on the pillow next to the corner of my mouth and a hot water bottle that has chilled onto my back, I slowly rolled out of bed. Taking a 2 hour bus ride up into the Purace National Park, my friend Martha and I are on a mission…to be frugal and see the park without paying for an overpriced Jeep tour.

Down a wet desolate muddy road, we departed the local bus at the ranger station in Purace National Park, rushing inside to get out of the inverted lake of water that was being poured on us from above. Putting on my hat, water resistant gloves, raincoat, pair of rain pants and my waterproof shoes…I was ready to enjoy the elements from the safety of my own clothes. After building some inner strength, enjoying a warm beverage in a roadside shack, we left the building that provided us a temporary refuge to begin our journey down the trail into the wild.

As the hiking trail bent around the corner I was able to get my first glimpse of the thermals…I had to take a moment to absorb what I was looking at. The colors were so vivid and the smell of sulfur was so strong, I had difficulties focusing, becoming dizzy from my overloaded senses. The gray wet skies pleasantly contrasted the bright shades of green that lined the banks of the crystal clear bubbling water with bleach white sediment that peacefully rested at the bottom. The lack of signs labeling every thermal and the absence of warning signs at every hazardous location was refreshing that the legal system has not yet destroyed this country.

Walking back to the road we were able to jump into the back of a small off-road vehicle and headed to our next stop a few kilometers down, stopping at the San Nicolas waterfalls. The muddy trails were a huge obstacle for those - myself - who didn’t have waterproof boots, just waterproof shoes…almost effective as waterproof sandals. Not that I didn’t want to get muddy…I just didn’t want to lose a shoe or be soaked so early into the trip in this defrosting freezer like weather. I tip toed along the side of the trial as would an unskilled ballerina minus the artificial bulge and white tights so that I can submerge myself into deeper pockets of mud without it seeping in from the top of my shoes. When possible, I would swing from the base of the trees, vines, fragile plant life and bushes to avoid the pockets of knee deep mud that would clearly make my waterproof shoes ineffective.

Martha, wearing “guerrilla boots” which I am told that is the current fashion for all of the guerrillas’ fighting the Colombian government, has the advantage of being able to walk in mud at knee level. The boots resembled gardening boots without the overpriced Smith and Hawkin label. Not being able to always follow her path, I had to sometimes locate my own route.
Seeing a small piece of wood in the middle of the trail I jumped and safely landed on in the center. With the mud feeling firm I saw a branch peacefully resting on the trail and fortunately within my reach. Jumping off the wooden platform, I landed with great accuracy onto the branch as would a squirrel jumping from a tree. Unfortunately for me, landing on it perfectly didn’t do me any good…it was a trap strategically placed by Mother Nature. My foot was immediately consumed by the mud – running on the top of the mud as Jesus did…in…Rome, I made it to the shore with little damage and my shoe in tacked. The mud only briefly making it just past the rim of my waterproof shoe…I could not complain on the lack of severity of my mistake in judgment.

Hearing the waterfall in the distance, getting closer and closer as we were trudging through the mud, I was getting excited to see this water show that was calling me. Reaching the top of the trail I could see the mist going horizontally into the jungle, violently being carried by the wind. Here was my first view of the mighty San Nicolas. The water barreled off the top as I looked up seeing the beauty of water being rerouted by the rocks during its decent. Trying to take photos without getting my camera completely wet, it was impossible – even when holding Martha’s poncho over my head for protection. I continued taking photos, figuring the risk of breaking my camera was not as great as the risk of forgetting this moment.

Leaving the waterfall, we caught a ride to the Lagoon by the means of standing on back of a Jeep’s narrow back bumper. The bumper holding less than half of my feet and my hands supporting an awkward grip on the roof rack, I was of coarse in some sick way…happy. As time passed, I looked over at my friend…slowly seeing her fake smile going limp. With her hands looking uncomfortably contorted on the bar, she quietly tells me that she was getting tired and didn’t know if she could hold on any longer. Advising Martha to adjust her grip, we continued down the road as the rain pelted us from above. Not looking like she was having much fun, I asked her if I should tell the driver to stop. With a dazed look, she says she is okay - clearly going to hell for such a blatant lie. I was not sure if she was just cold or at the point of unintentionally letting go so as a precautionary measure, I swung my leg around placing one leg between her legs and grasped the bar outside her grip with my arms under hers - confidently telling her that I would not let her fall – thinking, I probably will and that I too will be joining her in hell.

After a long bumpy ride to the trailhead at the Lagoon, we made it without any injuries… just a lower core body temperature than we are comfortably use to. Walking down the trail, it quickly ended. Breaking off into several different paths, they all looked muddy, wet and not extremely inviting. Wanting to make it to the lagoon, we left the trail jumping from one grassy island to another, as if we were playing doubles in a life size game of Frogger with only one life left. The closer we came to the lagoon, the firmer the ground felt with the mud and water slowly disappearing. We were walking on what seemed to be an enormously beautiful sponge that held so many different colors as they weaved between each other holding us up from the elements below us.

Done with exploring for the day and not wanting to seem like a quitter, I informed Martha we might be going too far out…reminding her we needed to get back to the road before dark. She wanted to make it to the edge of the water more than myself. We continued to move on, until…Mother Nature assisted me in my desires.

“Help me!” Martha yelled as I snapped my head around, seeing her on the ground. After several false cries for help with minor sinking’s, I casually laughed as her poncho covered the reason for her request. I slowly began to make my way over toward her. Her poncho moved during her struggle on the ground, exposing her leg. I then realized that her entire leg was missing as if it was taking off by a piranha with a glandular disorder - she broke through the sponge! Remembering how she told me she can’t swim…I had to quickly react. Treating the moss as a sheet of ice, I decided to lie on my stomach. Making it to Martha, she laid on the edge panicking, as she thought she was going to be completely consumed. Reaching into the opening of the moss, as a doctor would reach into the abyss to grab a breached child, I grabbed her leg and attempted to pull her out - my grip slipped. Reaching in again, it too slipped. My fingers were swollen like bloated waterlogged earthworms from the cold wet weather…not properly functioning and failing to listen to my commands. Reaching in for the third time…I managed to get her leg out, pulling it up for its first breath. With Martha’s boot dangling on the end of her foot, I managed to get it on…successfully performing my first sponge rescue.

Making it out of the marsh with many carefully planned steps and a much better route than the one that brought us out there, we needed to get back to the town center to find out if we could get a place to stay for the night. Walking along the road, we tried to hitch a ride without the signature “thumb sticking out on the side of the road” method – since my hands were occupied, making fists under my wet gloves, looking like I had no fingers… trying to keep my hands warm. We were painted with mud that the rain could not wash off, no matter what the angle or speed, preventing us from getting a ride in the nicer vehicles that passed us along the road. Walking and walking and walking, we became more and more silent the colder we became. I began hoping the cars that passed us who didn’t give us a ride…would break down or fly off the road - none of my hopes came true.

A small pickup truck in the distance was coming down the muddy road. Waving it down, the truck stopped. Going to the window, a woman gave me the sign that is was okay to jump in the back…in the back of the narrow pickup that was fully loaded with flattened cardboard boxes, covered with a thick plastic tarp. This load exceeded the height of the cab and clearly exceeded the weight capacity of this circus sized pickup truck. Not sure how we were going to get on, I ended up making a step with my hands for Martha as she squirmed like a slug to the top. Sliding along the plastic she laid on her stomach holding onto the plastic covered wooden 2x4 that went horizontally along the back of the cab. Using the wheel well, I was able to get a few toes on the tire as I boosted myself up, wiggling to the top. With my right hand, as I laid on my back…I was able to grab with my highly nonfunctional finger tips, a vertical 2x4 that was tightly covered in plastic.

Whatever the rush was, the pickup took off down the winding muddy road riddled with water filled creators and ponds. Still raining, we were on the first known mobile slip in slide – it was not yellow, nor would Mattel ever endorse such a liability. The vehicle would quickly steer right and left avoiding the obstacles with no railings to prevent us from slipping off. Making it more of a challenge, I could not rest my head on the roof due to it making a banging noise as it would strike the roof each bump, confusing the driver thinking we wanted to stop. After a about a 20 minute ride we made it to a bus stop…transferring to the next town to find a room for rent.

Finding a place to stay, I laid in a rented bed at someone’s house above a restaurant… with a smile fixed to my face…thinking that having a car and good weather would have definitely ruined, this perfect day.

Round 2 with Dr. Feel Good

July 10th, 2009: Once again I am laying on the table, knowing what was is about to happen before Dr. Feel Good even had a chance legally feel me up…I mean…down. The antibiotics did nothing but reduce my bank account and give me more time to appreciate how great it feels when I am healthy. Now “it,” my abscess, is well into the third trimester, resembling a pink ping pong ball that can’t be played with. If not resolved quickly, this medical issue has the potential to give me the unthinkable…anal stretch marks.

Bringing a different friend this time to translate…I had him pinky swear that he was not going to step from behind the curtain even if the doctor insisted on showing him what was going on. The doctor positioning herself in my back blast area with some sharp instrument – I don’t think it was the hanger I previously imagined, but perhaps a sterile machete or butcher knife…winding up, she impales me – mentally I asked her if that was the best she could do – somehow, she heard me and did it again. Hearing a popping noise, the abortion was officially on its way as “it” leaked on the white linen sheet below me.

I held onto the table as if it was a body board and began to perform some air kicks on the table as I lifted my legs up and down rocking my hips left to right as she squeezed the tender area to fully extract the unwanted debris. My sweat glands were turned on high, as sweat dumped down my face pooling on the vinyl table as I internally scream for help, as verbal cues of pain involuntary leaked into the outer world. Looking over, I can see that the curtain separating the room was doing an exquisite job providing privacy as I see a woman sitting in the corner of the other exam room, staring at me as she takes in oxygen.
Time seemed to once again slow down when all I wanted was it to forget about me.

When the doctor was finished with the procedure, some gauze was placed between my hairy checks and held by some industrial strength medical tape to easily delay me from wanting to prematurely take it off. Now where are the male menstrual pads when you need them? Leaving the doctor’s office, I was gratefully walking normal again…no longer looking as if I was about to transport an enormous amount of products across the border.

Thankfully, I was convinced to go to the doctor office and to not do this myself. It didn’t break my savings account since the first appointment cost me $15.00 and the second one cost me a whopping $5.00 for the procedure. Why can’t it be this cheap in the U.S. to visit a doctor…or even a vet?