Sexual intercourse with a donkey

December 3rd, 2009: Tomorrow I will be entering the north coast of Colombia. I am told that it is common for men in the sticks of this region to lose their virginity to a donkey and to continue having sexual relations with them. With this said, women seem to not think it is a big deal if they are with someone who has sex with donkeys.

So, if a man has sex with a donkey…could they transfer STD’s? If so, would it be a valid argument if you pass a sexually transmitted disease onto your wife, to say that you didn’t cheat on her but you got it from a donkey? Throughout my travels I heard of chickens and sheep, but a donkey? – it seems that a nice swift kick to the twins would put this activity to an end.

Expressing how it must hurt the donkey, my friend from the north coast laughed and asked if I have ever seen the appendage on a male donkey, insinuating that a man…even a man of porno star potential would not distress a female donkey.

In the border towns of Mexico, men will pay to see a donkey show involving indescribable activities with a woman and a male donkey. Now the question is…would women pay to see a female donkey with a man? If so, there could be a lot of money made out there, someone just needs to…do it.

Seat #13

December 2, 2009: Handing over my 1000 pound backpack to the conductor at the bus station to place underneath the coach, I was issued a receipt for my baggage, making my way to seat #13 as I comfortably sat down, pulling out my book and iPod awaiting my 10 hour journey to small town of El Banco, Colombia. I was extremely happy to finally get the opportunity to truly relax, since I arrived at the bus station 8 hours ago. It is not like I enjoy hanging around bus station for extended periods of time, I just decided that there was no reason for me to leave the station after an 18 hour bus ride to a town I have already been to. In addition to this, the first time I was here I was taken advantage of by an old crusty mischievous man in yellow automobile who was soliciting his services. Even if I did want to spend the night, I didn’t even remember the proper name of where I stayed except for the name I gave it…the Drug House - it was better that I didn’t leave the bus station.

Shortly after sitting down, I realized that someone else was issued a ticket for the same seat. A woman asked me if I could sit in her seat (my misinterpreted translation) so that her kids can sit together. Not minding where I sat since I already had an aisle seat, I happily agreed. The bus continued to fill up as the people were pilling on, soon to find out I was occupying a seat that belonged to someone else. Not understanding what was going on and to avoid playing a late night game of musical chairs, I waved for the conductor as he came down the aisle to see what the issue was. The issue was swiftly resolved as I was…kicked off the bus before it even left. Everyone seemed to be staring at me as I did the walk of shame down the aisle as I made my way toward the door. What a horrible time to find out that I waited at the bus station for 8 hours to discover that I somehow bought a ticket that was to leave tomorrow night at 10pm, not tonight.

Getting off the bus that had no more space, I was a bit frustrated since this company has only one bus a night that leaves for this destination…meaning that I might have to get a room for the night - defeating the whole purpose on why I was at the station the entire day. Quickly I made it up to the ticket counter as I successfully faked a smile informing the man who previously sold me the ticket on what happened. He tried to issue me a ticket on the full bus - not surprised of the expression that overtook his face. Having a whispering match between himself and his manager, they seemed to have an answer. Quickly they gave me my money back as the manager walked me over to the next ticket counter to a company that also transports people to El Banco, which thankfully happened to have some available seats.

When the ticket was placed in my hands for a bus that left in 20 minutes, I was able to take a deep breath -that was immediately lost as soon as I realized something important…I forgot my backpack in the luggage compartment on the bus that should have left 8 minutes ago. Painfully sprinting (another story) down 3 flights of stairs I made it to the security gate seeing my ex-bus through the glass window with its headlights on. Trying to clear security, the man wouldn’t let me through the exit point nor would the ticket agent let me through the entrance point since my bus that I just bought a ticket for has not yet arrived. My mind went blank forgetting how to say anything in Spanish, reverting to pointing and making silly shapes with my hands. I did not know the terminology to explain what happened, nor did I have the time to pull out my dictionary and look it up. Managing to speak some hard core Spanglish very quickly, I showed the woman a tiny crinkled piece of paper that slightly resembled a receipt for my baggage on a different bus. She kept shaking her head left and right when I needed it to go up and down. Eventually she let me through not knowing if she knew what I was saying or just saw the panic on my face. Clearing the gate I ran down the loading area, dodging porters and boxes that occupied my path to my bus that was slowing backing up. Hitting the front windshield, the driver stopped the rotating wheels and looked at me as if I was crazy. Showing him my receipt and pointing down he seemed to realize what was taking place as a smile came across his face.

Pulling out my luggage from the depth of the bus, I would not look up at the passengers in the window, too embarrassed on what just happened as the sweat poured from my face with my heart about to rip out of my chest and run away. Still in a daze, I could not help to think of my initial hesitation when I received my ticket for 13…seat #13.

Champion of the World

November 24th, 2009: I played the final match of a 7 game series of Yatzee tonight with my friend. After my running throws from the front door to the dining room table, the fake spit, obnoxious exaggerated shaking of the dice, yells of joy and my frequent use of the infamous double pinky curse…I came out victorious. With an ending score of 548 which involved 3 Yatzee’s - 2 of them where all 6’s… you would think that I made a deal with the devil.

Sadly, at the end of the game, I didn’t feel like the champ since my friend who lost acted as if she just lost an unborn fetus, misplacing all emotions. I was unable to comfortably play a few key songs by Queen such as, “Another One Bites The Dust” or “We Are The Champions” as I did yesterday thinking it was not wise to potentially push her to a point where my physical safety might be in jeopardy.

The circus lives!

October 24th, 2009: I went to the circus in Popayan tonight, warning my friend Martha that circuses are not what the use to be and that it will more than likely be entertaining due to how bad the shows are, not good. I was so…wrong. Some of the shows were amazing not to mention unbelievable. As others, I am not sure what word or words would describe it. Such as the act where a scantily dress woman would squat over a happy volunteer’s face in her little skirt rocking her hips in a motion that is usually done in a back sit of a car as he laid on his back with the young children watching – which was incredible that they could perform this show without parents creating an uproar.

There was a performance that a motorcycle rider would go quickly around in an enclosed metal hamster ball containing a man with zero brain cells standing there in the center. They should have given him a cigarette and a blind fold but he had nothing…as I previously said, not even a brain cell. To make it more exciting, later in the act the man exited the ball and they brought in another motorcycle. The motorcycles engines mechanical screams masked the screams that came from the audience. I forgot to breathe – it was that exciting.

I am always looking for some good photo ops, but not today…I knew that the slightest mistake in some of these acts would have been resulted in a seriously injured circus employee who made me once again believe that the circus can still be the, “Greatest Show on Earth.”

During one of the clown acts the speakers in the background were putting out some uncensored music from Too Short, teaching the fine young kiddies how to pronounce the necessary street terminology school kids are taught in Oakland, California…such as the words shit, bitch, pussy and some other fine obscenities. I was looking around to see if anyone else was realizing what was being said but everyone seemed oblivious to the vulgar language as I laughed.

Originally I wanted to see the lion show but after watching them perform…I no longer want to witness another one. They looked so sad as the animal beater was cracking his whip – he doesn’t hold the right to be called an animal trainer. It would have been enjoyable to see some upcoming footage for the TV series, “When good animals go bad” but it didn’t ended up not happening…tonight.

After today’s shows I have complete faith that the circus is not dead and shall continue to live with performances such as these.

I officially dedicate today to be…

October 16th, 2009: Staying at a family’s house outside the town of San Jose de Alban, I had the opportunity to make some bread…by hand. Never again will I barter for bread trying to get it $0.50 cheaper of the already ridiculously low prices. A 55+ year old woman and myself took turns spinning this wooden non-electric kitchen utensil between our hands, looking as if we were attempting to start a fire at the bottom of this humongous bowl with a billion egg whites.

Pretending that it was not that difficult, I was exhausted thinking that this woman had some nicely hidden muscles behind her excess flab. I can control how I look, but unfortunately it is not possible for me to control how much sweat is to be released and the ability to keep my baby soft hands from getting blisters. Today I am grateful that I was raised in such a physically lazy society that kept one of these wooden hand mixers out of my draw of kitchen utensils. I officially dedicate today to be…Electronic Kitchen Appliance Day, to appreciate the inventors of time and calorie saving appliances.

Off the beaten path

October 16th, 2009: Shortly after arriving to San Jose de Alban, which is a small rural farming community in southern Colombia, I was invited to the local pool for a swim. Every move of mine at this body of water was clearly being watched, feeling as if the pastiness of my skin was drawing some extra attention. After a while, someone eventually sat near me as I could see that he wanted to say something. Saying, “Hola” broke this invisible barrier between us as almost everyone cleared the pool, surrounding me. There I sat with about 20 people as I spoke some impressive Spanglish. I must say…I am definitely off the beaten path.

I was invited here for 5 days to write a piece about this new agro-tourism project that just began giving tours. The activities range from eco hikes, visiting local farms, learning about rural life in Colombia and about the sustainable farming practices that they do as well as learning more about how coffee, panela, fique and other products that are cultivated and processed here.

The argo-tourism project’s itinerary is similar to a famous quote from the film, Forrest Gump that has been slightly modified, “This tour is like a box of chocolates…you never know what your going to get.” This experience has no set itinerary, it all depends the season and the activities that members in the association are doing that day.

No longer do I need to try to peer into the house of some local during my travels trying to get a glimpse on how they live without bearing the harsh label, “Peeping Tom.” This argo-tourism project out here has given me the opportunity to see what goes on in a small Colombian community not yet infected by tourism, but is patiently in line waiting to be.

Facial Leak

October 14th, 2009: Waking up in the morning on the top bunk, I look down and see a young Israeli man in a thin sheet curled in the fetal position looking as if he was left to die in base camp at Mount Everest. I felt bad because I was nice and warm under my blankets next to the window which I opened last night - which is not a common thing for me to do but a situation arose that it became necessary for my own survival.

Waking up at about 2am, I noticed a smell. Thinking that it was a strange smell, I inhaled again, having trouble identify what it was. Thinking that it was kind of late to be eating, I discovered what was going on underneath my bunk as soon as I was coherent enough to understand what was being said. The girl below me who was drinking earlier seemed to have consumed too many beverages as she sprung a leak in her bed soaking everything in a 1.5 foot radius around her facial opening.

The Israeli helping her is the definition of a true gentleman because he wanted nothing from her since he already swapped spit with another girl from a few beds down, not to mention on who would want to swap anything with someone who obviously needed to brush her teeth and the pull the mess out of her hair besides a rapist? He did not just help out vomit girl last night by assisting her in covering the moist bed with toilet paper but also gave her his blanket so she would be warm after discarding her soiled blanket in the corner of our room. I need to write his Israeli mother for raising such a fine son. As for myself…when I was hearing what was going on, I relied on my iPod to muffle unwanted noises - I have little sympathy for over consumers. The odor was so strong that putting the blankets over my head didn’t filter the odor, opening the window as I went back to sleep…hoping that she didn’t fill my shoes or backpack that laid next to her during her uncontrollable outbursts - figuring that it was too late now to do anything about it. What have I done to be around so many people that perform this type of activity at such close proximity?

The BBQ Belly

October 10th, 2009: Wanting to save some money and to test our stomach strength, my friends and I went to dinner where the locals ate. The street was lined with BBQs making it difficult to decide on what table to sit at. I ended up making the selection by not the cleanliness of the tables or by the amount of people that occupied these tables…my decision was based solely on the size of the guys’ belly that was controlling the grill. I figured that a guy who supports a third trimester and controls the BBQ has to possess a PhD in art of Barbequing.

When our meals arrived at our table, it was time to test my selection process. Taking a bite, my method was confirmed, the meat was cooked to perfection. So when in doubt, go with the biggest belly…the BBQ belly.

Vomit Sandwich

October 8th, 2009: Sitting on a bench seat on a 3 hour boat ride from Isabella Island to Santa Cruz Island, I was fortunate enough to seat between two people with stomachs that didn’t appreciate the rough sea. I originally thought the man to my right was eating something due to the smell that drifted over to my nasal passages and when I looked over, I realized that my guess was slightly off since he wasn’t eating anything but was producing something that was eaten. Looking over to my left I came to the realization that I was involuntarily involved in a real life vomit sandwich as a woman had a black bag sealed to her face making a deposit. Handing the woman a moist wipe the side of her face, I closed my eyes as I turned up the volume to my music, hoping my hearing damage will be minimal as I tried to muffle the noises around me.

Iguana crossing

October 3rd, 2009: A guy who blatantly ignored an iguana crossing sign was punished today for his inability to read pictures as he went over the handle bars as the bike toppled to the ground when trying to avoid hitting the large mobile speed bump as it sprinted across the gravel road. Quickly looking back to see if anybody saw him, I was there and unfortunately could not contain the noises that came from inside. Learning from him, the next time I see a deer crossing, pedestrian crossing, duck crossing or even a turtle crossing…I will slow down and will be ready to take evasive action.

Altercation with a hostel manager

September 30th, 2009: I had an opportunity to speak to a hostel manager today. Perhaps she was having a bad week, year or even life. Maybe this explains why she is alone. Her physical appearance can’t be criticized since it was her parents fault for recklessly bumping uglys’ but her internal ugliness is her own doing. This altercation stemmed from being charged a room rate for two people. They wanted to charge me for a friend who was at that moment thousands of feet in the air on an iron bird flying back to the United States from Quito which she arrived at the day before.

The housekeeper, who was clearly mistaken, claimed that she saw my friend leave my room the morning in question. The manager asked me what does she supposes to do, when she is being told her employee saw her. Her voice became elevated as she began using ghetto like gangster gestures momentarily throwing me off guard since I am on the Galapagos Islands, not Compton, California. Translating what she told me, I wanted to verify what she was saying. Asking the manager if she was calling me a liar…she paused for a brief moment…and said,”yes.”

Ten dollars seems like a really small amount but it was that she didn’t believe me and accused me for being a liar - I am not claiming that I am a saint or that I never lie. Not to mention $10.00 could cover a future room night or even a payment in full for woman to tell me, “Me love you long time” (Full Metal Jacket). Her mother happened to overhear our conversation and thankfully stepped in to help settle my bill.

Please, pick me up or run me over

September 28th, 2009: Seconds away from renting a quality bike for the entire day…I hesitated. Instead of choosing a higher quality bike, I decided to look for something more…economical. Finding a shop that rented bikes for $10 a day instead of $20, I quickly said I will take it before even looking at it - only remembering my other bike experiences after the words exited my mouth. The old gentleman went in the back of the office and disappeared for a little bit. I am not sure if he had to steal someone’s unlocked bike that had the notion that nobody would ever steal such a “piece” to coincide with my special price, but out came something with two wheels and a seat. I am happy to say that the bike did have functional brakes. Paying the $10, I was not asked sign anything, give them a name or even tell them where I was staying – as I previously said…it was probably stolen and the guy didn’t want the bike to be traced back to him if I was stopped.

Riding down the street on the bike which happened to weigh much, much, much more than myself, there was a lot of chatter coming from all over my economical tubular mode of transportation. Disembarking the bike I thoroughly made a delayed inspection and noticed that my headset that was loose…and a twisty thing next to the crank…and…and the main bolt that connected the rear shock to the bike also needed to be tightened. This work was all performed by my 10 little friends since I did not have anything that resembled tools except these fingers of mine.

I quickly learned on what gears not to go in when standing up due to the chain wanting to skip or leave the crank completely. There were also some gears that my chain did not like to shift into and would only listen to me if I would hold its links and manually place it on my desired gear of choice. I was still happy with my bicycle selection since I never liked having all those easy choices on what gear to go into anyhow.

Asking a woman for the directions to Puerto Chino beach, she looked at me as if I was crazy and waved her hand forward about 30 or so times to stress on how far it was. Smiling, off I went up the first hill that lasted for about 10km with a few miniscule downhill sections. I vigorously peddled for about the first 0.5km and it felt as if I walked the remaining 9.5km since it was easier to push the 140+ pound bike up the hills than to ride it. The remaining 10km were almost completely downhill, rewarding me for making it the first bit without quitting. I clearly remembered the condition of my bike and the haphazard maintenance I performed earlier in the day, choosing not to go too fast in this long downhill section incase my headset or some other important item decided to leave my bike without my permission.

As I was dropping down to a lower elevation, I was unfortunately completely aware that I was going to at some point, push my bike back up everything that was I passing. Calculating the time it was going to take me to get back to where I rented my bike, I figured it would be well after closing time. I decided to worry about it later, figuring that it will all work out and kept gliding down the road.

Making it to the National Park center that helps restore the tortoise population in San Cristobal, for some odd reason I locked up my potentially stolen bike in this abandon parking lot and made my way inside. Hiking on a trail that wrapped around the park I came upon several gigantic tortoises. Whenever I would approach too closely to one of these prehistoric looking reptiles, they would make this noise sounding as if this was the noise Steven Spielberg was trying to reproduce when Darth Vader would breathe.

Eventually, I made it to the end of the road. I spent more time on the mediocre beach than I should have because I knew that a long 20km road needed to be conquered in order to get back to my hostel. Leaving the beach, I began pushing my bike up the steep endless incline. The thought of how long of it took me to get down from the midway point would not leave my head. Playing some music on my iPod, I was hoping that it would help muffle my gasps for oxygen and to somehow keep me from passing out from exhaustion and dehydration. Prior to my bike ride I made the executive decision that I was not going to bring water. This was a well thought out moronic decision since I usually never drink it, and secondly, I couldn’t fit it in my camera bag. Each step up the hill became harder and harder as my body somehow began to operate on its own as I continued to move forward.

Exhausted, I wanted to just lie on the road so someone would stop and pick me up or just end my misery now and run me over – whichever came first…but the roads were silent. Swaying left and right along the road, I tried a variety of positions pushing the bike realizing that the weight was not going to change. Passing a small town with a house selling drinks I stopped for some ice cold thirst quenching lemonade. When sitting here, I decided that I was not going to ride my bike all the way back to town. Thinking that it would be nice to take a taxi, the cost from where I was would be about a $35…which I was not yet willing to pay. My plan was to hitch a ride, with a backup plan that if I had to take a cab…I would tell the driver to take me as far as $5 would get me - hoping my tears and pleas would get me to at least the midway point. From there, I would be okay since it is mostly downhill.

Finally, some cars passed by me going in the other direction…giving me hope, as a smile slowly came to my face. I knew they were going to have to come back my way at some point. I continued to walk just in case I was not able to get a ride. Still swaying, I noticed that I had the ability to move slower than the tortoises that I saw earlier today. Hearing a car coming up the hill in my direction, I got off the road and imitated the face of Puss in Boots (Shrek). It worked! A pickup truck pulled over on the side of the road as I somehow found enough energy in me to lift my bike in back without a crane. The woman told me that they were going town but it was going to be slower than a cab. Of course this was not an issue, as I sat in the back seat with a huge smile on my face. The smile was so big and was there for so long, I thought I was going to be left with some permanent stretch marks by the end of the trip. Up every hill my smile was somehow getting bigger, eventually looking like the smile of the Joker (Jack Nicolson, Batman).

I did not understand why we were moving so slowly along the gravel roads until we pulled over. The passenger in the front seat handed a guy sitting in back with me a plastic bag and one rubber glove. “Huh?” I thought. The man left the vehicle and crossed the road to pick something up…road kill. Putting the bird into the bag, he got back into the truck as we continued our trip back to town. After a while the bag seemed to be getting quite large with rotting birds and other small critters. I could not figure out why he kept coming inside the truck with the bag of death instead of placing it in the back of the pickup. Happy that I don’t have a good sense of smell, I sat there…continuing to smile thinking about all of the peddling I was wasn’t doing.

Eventually, I made it back to town as I painfully rode my bike, returning it to the shop I rented it from. Handing it over I felt as if I was just released from some prisoner of war camp as I wanted to kiss the ground knowing that is was over. Sitting down at my favorite local dive, as my legs throbbed… I was extremely grateful for being picked up…rather than run over.

BIG mistake in my choice of words

September 27th, 2009: Feeling like drinking something different than my usual glass of blackberry juice with breakfast, I decided to try expand my horizons. Thinking that pineapple juice would be nice choice, I casually asked for, un hugo de pene – realizing at that moment I just asked for Penis juice, wanting to stab myself with the butter knife that sat at my table and laugh at the same time. Thankfully the owner understood that I did not want to drink his personal protein fortified juice and said, “ok, un hugo de piňa.”

Exploring the Galapagos Islands

September 24th, 2009: Today was the last day of an 8 day organized boat tour of the Galapagos Islands and first day of my 18 day independent exploration of the 3 inhabited islands. Already taking perhaps over 5000 photos, I was told that I took more photos than Japanese people…by a Japanese woman. Yes, on this trip I don’t think that I had to worry too much about raccoon eyes from my sunglasses but I did have to be concerned about camera eye…looking like spot. The itinerary on the boat was so full and after curling my 10 pound camera all day, by 9pm, I had no energy left to write, change clothes or to even shower as I sprawled out on my tiny bed, dead to what was going on around me.

Most of the wildlife that roamed between and on the islands would just go about their business as you would walk or swim by them treating you as if you were just another animal not in the food chain. I needed to be alert when walking on the trails since if I was not aware of where I was stepping, I could have easily squashed a pile of tanning iguanas or tripped over a female sea lion that would engulf the path with her fatty body exposing her impressive leaking sandy nipples. Crying baby pups would fill the air as they scooted across the beach looking for their mothers that all dressed the same making it difficult for them to be located. At times the momma sea lions would lash out at the little rogue titty suckers that were true coinsures of milk trying to sampling the makings of the other parents.

I am not the Sea Lion Whisper but I could swear that some of the unhappy mothers seemed to be wishing that their children had some nice white furry coats so that someone would club them and take away their responsibilities as their children would eventually become some designer jacket, wallet, or a domesticated pet’s chew toy.

There is too much in my journal to try to figure out what I should and shouldn’t expand on. The few photos that I posted pretty much tells the story of the trip to the islands.

Most backpacker will skip this trip due to the expense. I try to explain to them that if they are traveling alone, to think of the overall price being half off. I say this because if they decide to go later in life and are married, the trip would cost twice as much. If I missed this trip, I would have missed out on one of the top ten trips in my life.

The Flying...Doucheman

September 16th, 2009: Today I made a trip back up to the 15,180 feet high parking lot on Mt. Cotopaxi, but this time with a bicycle tour company called the Flying Dutchman - strange because none of us on the tour were Dutchman…not even our Ecuadorian guide. I saw this company here my first time I made my way up to this magnificently scenic parking lot. Yes, this is the reputable company that I originally deferred to experience the cheaper bicycle tour with the faulty bikes down a different mountain.

We started our journey in this snowy parking lot that did not resemble the windblown mountain I previously recall. It was obviously the same mountain but with a different face. This time I was able to see the entire mountain without me having to use my imagination before it pulled the clouds back over itself to hide.

Heading down the mountain the snow dissipated as the elevation decreased. Thinking that I was going reasonably fast, pushing my body and bicycle to its limits, a blur flashes by me. This blur ended up being my guide, a flying…Douche - destroying my vision that I was the fastest person on the mountain with the least amount of brain cells. The race was on. Going faster and faster, not listening to my brain, I was slowly catching up. The speed I was obtaining was becoming more and more uncomfortable. With just enough space to make one of the tight turns down the wide gravel road, I almost unintentionally tested the safety rating of my bicycle for a head on collision into a hastily made dirt bank that strongly resembled a wall for those automotive crash test dummies.

I realized that by riding a mountain bike around the city for half of my life does not technically qualify me as a downhill racer. Pulling off to the side of the road, I stopped the race that my competitor never knew started. I looked back up the road pretending to wait for the rest of my group as my I caught my breath and let my shot of adrenaline work itself out of my system, accepting defeat by the Flying… Doucheman.

The "Jar"

September 4th, 2009: Barely being able to hold in what NEEDS to be steadily held…I run to the toilet, fumbling with the seat trying to wipe someone else’s past residuals. Unscrewing the top of the jar, I hold it with one hand that is wrapped around a small plastic bag, lining it up as helicopter pilot would lineup a container of water to drop in a specified location to douse a fire - or in my case…to fill up a cup. Missing the cup could be catastrophic…depending on how far off that I might be. Filling it up as if it was from a faucet…I skillfully top of the jar before topping off the toilet.

Proud of my accomplishments, I headed down stairs to get directions to the lab. Standing there as the travel agent is pulling out a map of Quito to show me where I need to go…I noticed an extremely strong odor, discovering that the jar is failing to do it’s job as it rested deep inside my shoulder bag. Does she now know why I need to visit the lab, or does she think that I rudely seeped out a big one without waiting to leave her office?

Getting my results back later in the day, I discovered that my body was rudely attacked by a bacterial infection and a parasite that is only found deep in the jungle – so I did end up with an unexpected souvenir. After an 8 day battle, a visit to the doctors and some hired help from the pharmaceutical empire, I was able to exit my sleeping bag and leave the fortress with more of an appreciation of what a good day is. Today, my constantly changing definition of a good day does not have to involve seeing whales, monkeys or by performing some adrenaline filled activity…it is a day without any new medical complications, medical challenges and by not having an umbilical cord to a porcelain toilet – now this…is a good day.

Money put to good use

September 3rd, 2009: Finally broke down and went to a doctor that did not just know how to perform medicine but how to speak English too. It was well worth the $40. Why didn’t I go sooner instead of expecting miracles by having my body to do it on its own, without the pharmaceutical empire? I was given a jar to fill to help my doctor figure out what type of weapons that are going to be needed in my cleansing, I think he must have forgotten about what type of sample he wanted upon further examination of this jar of mine. I don’t know how that is going to work…the opening of the jar is as large as a big mouth bottle of Mickey’s Malt Liquor.

The Man in a Cocoon

September 1st, 2009: Sliding into my chilly cocoon that strongly resembles a sleeping bag, my body violently shakes as I painfully reach to grasp my blanket to cover myself from the outside world. Laying there I look as if I am going though some withdraws from a cocaine addiction I never even had a chance to start. My body seems to be in a full blown battle that started its defensive days earlier.

I feel as if every inch of my body was mercilessly clubbed by a heartless Eskimo wanting my pasty white skin for a new face not to mention that my eyes seeming like my optical cords were painfully shortened by an inspiring doctor who read the most recent edition of “How to harvest optical cords for Dummies.” To look somewhere besides straight ahead…I had to use Mr. Frankenstein’s effective technique of rotating my body in my desired direction to see.

I must have looked quite amusing as I staggered down the streets of Quito to get some soup today at the local market. Perhaps this is the source of my problem. Not wanting to eat at restaurants, I have been consuming loads of calories from the individuals with their BBQ’s and fryers along the street, where you can pick up a meal for roughly a $1. I know the meat sits there all day and unrefrigerated, but I eat this not just for survival but to toughen up my soft westernized stomach. After so many times of getting sick I would think that by now I would have callused my stomach lining enough to eat raw sewage, stones and other appetizing items I find along the way – like a goat I suppose.

Thinking that my body was performing a deep cleaning…discharging everything that was good and bad, I had confidence that in time it would defeat this intruder. I am attempting to keep the doctors and the pharmaceutical empire out of this...not knowing how many weeks of travel will be lost from the cost of such a visit and how I am going to explain everything in a language I am not yet proficient in without a translator.

In my cocoon my mind is easily tricked to think it was camping. Wonderful thoughts battled my physical reality. The sleeping bag was a counter measure the invading forces were not ready for. Mentally I laid there growing stronger, getting me through another long cold night on the battle field. Maaahhhh.

Canoeing upriver…joy

August 28th, 2009: Today I went canoeing upriver, questioning my ability to manage my money. I no longer want to pursue the brief thought of buying a canoe and heading down the Amazon in its entirety. What a nightmare it would be if I took the wrong route and had to paddle upstream. Do people actually get joy out of paddling upstream? Of course there are a few selected individuals who would get pleasure from this…perhaps if you are the fitness guru, Tony Little or one of his followers, but not me. I could possibly do this trip down the Amazon if I had a longboat with a small engine, a seat with 100’s of those obnoxious massaging balls on it, but most importantly…two bought friends that can do all the paddling in case there were some engine problems.

I was exhausted, looking more like a paddling dead man as we made our journey up the river. The men with girlfriends conveniently switched paddling duties so they can relax and enjoy the scenic surroundings. If I knew this was going to be the case I would have found a temporary girlfriend in Quito before coming here. Everyone had girlfriends on our canoe – excluding myself and our guide that was busy doing the most important part…steering.

As time passed by, one of the girls must have seen how each time I paddled, I was putting less and less power behind it with my twig-like arms. She kindly asked me if I wanted her to take over paddling for a bit. At first I said no, but inside I was saying, “please don’t accept that blatantly obvious courtesy no and to just ask me one more time!” Time seemed to be moving as slow as we were. After 1000’s of calories were carelessly burnt, the girl asked me again if she could take over, where this time there was no hesitation as the word, “okay” slurred out of my mouth.

There was another canoe filled with a group of young Israelis who were obviously at one point in their lives in the military. Stopping underneath a branch, we held onto each others boats as we were looking at a tiny-tiny-tiny snake that was resting in the branches above us. A harmless gardener snake could have wrestled this snake to its death. The snake started to make its way to our boats hanging farther and farther down the branch as the Israelis quickly tried to move out of its way…then panic filled the boats as a man began to yell, claiming it spit something at him. Quickly we dispersed as I laughed watching what unfolded. Perhaps I should have been nervous…but it looked so small. I guess I don’t read enough Snake Fancy magazines or visit the zoo enough to know how dangerous the smallest things can be around the Amazon.

The village...Shaman?

August 27th, 2009: Today we went to see an habitual drug user who labeled himself as a Shaman. I suppose it is much better than labeling himself as an addict. According to an ancient 1998 Oxford paperback dictionary, a Shaman is someone who is a witch-doctor or priest claiming to communicate with gods, etc. Yes, it is highly probable that the Shaman is going to see and communicate with things like fictitious spirits and pink elephants due to the miniscule amount of healthy brain cells he has left from drinking the hallucinogenic liquid cocktail known as ayawaska for the past 20 or so years.

I passed on the opportunity to try a bottle of this concoction which he was conveniently selling out of his hut. I personally don’t want to drink anything that you must expect to throw up from and could possibly cause you to involuntarily defecate on yourself – I must also keep in mind that the underwear I am now wearing needs to last me a couple of more days.

But, if I truly wanted to vomit and be known as poo-poo pants, I could have accomplish this for a low price of $0.00, by simply lifting up his mothers dress – I would then obviously immediately vomit anything I might have eaten in the past few days and then quickly get the shit beat out of me by her toothless husband.

When it was time to pay the Shaman his $2.00 fee for seeing him in his getup and hearing him say something in Spanish during his ritual - I handed over my money to a woman to pass on to the young entrepreneur. I hope he didn’t think that I skipped out on what I owed him…which could potentially result in him putting some sort of curse on me, as he sat near his homemade beaded necklaces and bracelets that were for sale.

After leaving, nobody that I talked to on our boat really believed in his abilities to place curses on people. I then asked, “If you don’t believe, could you put a curse on your mother and not think twice about it?” – this…they wouldn’t do.

Piranha fishing

August 26th, 2009: Being taught the technique of Piranha fishing in the Amazon Basin by our guide Tarzan, I thought it shouldn’t be too hard to catch one of these meat eaters…hoping that I would be able to break my dry spell of 24 years not catching anything except for women that I eventually released or those that I lost along the way. The technique seemed to be quite simple…all I had to do was hook a piece of meat on the line, drop it in the water, scream a bit and vigorously move the tip of the rod around.

I quickly realized these fish were not the savages Hollywood made them out to be. Most of them were casually nibbling on the fleshy meat that was being dangled on the string, reducing the meat to a microscopic morsel without me being able to give them an involuntary lip or cheek piercing.

The fish with the beautiful pearly whites were definitely hungry as the others on my long boat were hauling the piranhas in as everyone would annoyingly make these, “ooh and aah” noises. Sitting there I tried to telepathically talk to the fish, begging them to just hold onto the hook for just 20 seconds or so as I would ever so gently pull them. I could feel that my time was coming hoping and I was going to be the one to pull in the piranha that could eat a small dog or freshly born child in a single bite. I could see myself years from now, looking at a photo of me holding a piranha in front of a longboat in the Amazon basin telling all my unborn grandchildren how I pulled the piranha in after a 4 second battle – turning into a 45 minute battle as the years go by.

At the highest point of my boredom, I began to lazily flop my rod in the water…giving up hope. Wanting to casually flip my hook to the front of the boat and yank back the rod to quickly silence the crowds chatter- knowing that it might be best to continue day dreaming… going through the motions of fishing. Moments later Tarzan stole the enormous piranha that was for some unknown reason, meant for me as he flung it inside the longboat, landing next to a guy who miraculously levitated back a few seats.

A large amount of time went by, giving me plenty of time to think…about the inhumanness of fishing. Not wanting to potentially damage the piranha’s frightening smile when performing the lip or cheek piercing with the rusty metal hook, I put down my stick and decided that I didn’t want to catch any fish today or any other day this week, next week or the one after that for that matter. This decision had nothing to do with me realizing that I wasn’t going to catch anything…if I wanted to catch a dozen piranhas, I could have done it - really - sniffle - sniffle.

The Amazon Basin

August 25th, 2009: After my feeble attempt to get some puss filed “seat soars” by traveling 8 hours on a local bus, 4 hours on a transport bus and 2 hours on a longboat, I made it to the Amazon basin unscathed. Today was my first day in the Jungle at the Cuyabeno Reserve and I have already seen everything that I came to see: Squirrel Monkeys, Cappuccino Monkeys, Wooly Monkeys, Monsoky Monkeys - deep breath - spiders, bats, birds, caimans, anacondas and an extremely large Mormon sized family of cockroaches in my very own hut – and this was only my first day of this 5 day adventure.

At sunset, we motored out to the center of this soundless lagoon as I watched Mother Nature’s use of undiscovered shades of reds and oranges that Crayola has not yet capitalized on as she skillfully used the sky for her canvas, quickly changing it as the seconds raced by. Slowly she took the sun away from us and generously gave it to someone else to see as they patiently or not so patiently waited for its arrival.

Now hiring: Toilet designer

August 22nd, 2009: I made it back to Quito in one piece, but as the evening went on…it felt as if I became a carrier for a mutated strain of the Ebola virus. There seemed to be a need for my body to dispose of everything I put in my mouth for the past week or two – it is nice to see that corn in not only capable of showing up again from the other end. I truly hate being sick…hate it. Thankfully I have no hair to hold back as I would stick my head near the rim of the toilet bowl which looked more a psychedelic carpet of pubic hair, which quietly rested on the rim displaying various lengths, coarseness and a multitude of exotic colors. If I could only have had a clean rest room that I could sit on the ground and hug the bowl – safely touching the porcelain without involuntarily picking up any loose fibers. Couldn’t some toilet bowl manufacturer design a toilet made for sick people? You know…one bowl to sit on to make your deposit and one to vomit in without having to make the decision on what to do first. Since water does not move fast enough down that hole to who knows where, looking at or smelling what came out on either end at close range could never possibly be a pleasant experience.

Man vs. Bull

August 22nd, 2009: Sitting high up in an arena, I look down and see a man standing in the center…a flamboyant man in his tight red pants with his pink cape strutting around the ring as if he was some hero, calling himself a matador. Staring at him from 12 feet away, stands a massive bull…heavily breathing with steam literally bellowing from his nostrils as blood flows down his back. He charges the matador as he quickly steps aside, the crowd yelling, “ole!” The bull does a series of passes, unfortunately failing to gore the man.

At the final stage of this execution, the matador pointed his sword at the bull…aiming the cold piece of steel that is about to skewer the gargantuan piece of meat, attempting to place the blade between it clavicles and through the aorta. The large crowd of adults, kids and babies becomes silent as if they all simultaneously had their larynx ripped out of their throats as they wait for the final blow. The matador lunges toward the exhausted animal, impaling the sword into its back, missing the sweet spot thus prolonging the bull’s death. The bull stands there, looking at him with a sword in its back as blood is dripping down his body…thinking, “I just wanted to stay out in the field today, why are you doing this to me?”

The matador was beginning to grasp that he has poor aim and the bull was not going to go down. Minutes go by as the sword begins to work itself free. He grabs another sword from behind the wooden wall and flips the ineffective sword out. Again he plunges the sword in its back, as the bull still does nothing. The Matador is no longer strutting around the crowd as people leak noises of disappointment. I was hoping he practiced Japanese traditions, realizing he embarrassed his family tonight and would turn the sword onto himself. At this point, even the blood thirsty crowd wanted the animal to be put out of its misery.

After being stabbed in the back not just once but three times this evening, the bull that must have been in excruciating pain, as he finally drops to its knees. The matador’s assistant quickly went up to the disorientated bull and drove a knife in the back of its head, rotating it…letting the bull go back to the field he was pulled from and to his friends that were about to join him after their barbaric execution.

More today than any day, I wanted to see a man get gored by the bull. Not a grazing wound that would cause a minor injury or major scar…I wanted to see the bull hit the matador so hard, that he too would join the bull in that field.

The greatest show on earth?

August 21st, 2009: The white lights dim as bass is being thrown out of the speakers that circle the center ring. Red lights are casted down from great heights directing on these three scantily dressed women that came out from behind a plastic tarp dancing in a provocative manner. Hideously out of sync – they reminded me of a child’s first dance recital…but who needs to be in sync when you are wearing 4 inch heels, a green sequence g-string bottom and top that was more like oversized pasties for their large plate sized nipples. Feeling like I was visiting a strip club, I wanted to make my way up to the front of the ring with some dollar bills…to help pay for their well needed dance classes. Unfortunately the front row was already filled with…children, since I was at the circus…which was once upon a time, known as the greatest show on earth.

Throughout the night, sock packing men and women in spandex supporting highly groomed eyebrows and wearing freshly applied Tammy Faye Bakker-style makeup jobs, were performing acts that could be done by any highly impaired street performer. The performances were not spectacular, great, breathtaking or anything but hilarious. Unfortunately since this was not their intent, I could only suck my checks in, painfully biting deep into my flesh to prevent me from laughing at what I was witnessing.

When it was time for the big event, my short term memory quickly helped me forgot about the prior performances. I anxiously leaned forward on the bench trying to get inches closer to see…the great white tiger. The music was turned up to obviously muffle what everyone was about to say when out from behind the tarp staggered a small sickly looking animal. Trying to increase my vision by squinting, it did nothing but increase my imagination. The white striped creature slowly moved around the ring on a leash and at times dropped to its back, not moving at all. The children who clearly disregarded the purpose of the seats, stood there starring at this ill creature from the edge of the ring…silent. Right before the children were at the brink of tears, it was at that moment, the clown pulled off its costume revealing that it was a white tiger…born in a poodle’s body. I was disappointed that I didn’t see a white tiger but happier that it wasn’t one.

What happened to the circus…in all countries, not just in South America? When growing up they were amazing! They had real tigers, elephants, clowns and acts that what would steal your breath. Did PETA destroy the circus? Or could it be that affordable laser hair removal has made it almost impossible to see a bearded lady at the circus sideshow? Just like the rusty rides that sat outside the big top tonight…the circus is dying. It now draws of a bunch of bottom feeders claiming it will bring back a piece of your youth, but ultimately failing me each and every single time…until one day, I too will give up on what use to be…the greatest show on earth.

Now who said carnival rides are not safe?

August 21st, 2009: Standing in a dusty field next to the Pacific Ocean, my eyes rested on a rusty metal ride called the Ring of Fire. The metal was bent, twisted and seemed to be held together by some plastic bolts that were apparently made by Fisher Price. At the top of the ride, flaps a tattered U.S. flag, resembling the one that the Marines and Navy Corpsman famously raised during the battle of Iwo Jima. Clearly, the U.S. safety standards for carnival rides must have displaced this vehicle of entertainment to our southern neighbor years ago.

Walking around the carnival, I felt as if I jumped in my DeLorean with a flux capacitor and was taken back in time. Noticing the Toboggan ride, artistically this could resemble an expensive piece of modern art which has not yet been discovered. Until this happens, it is merely an antique seeming to be more terrifying now, than when it was new and fully functional. I am not sure if it was because of the eerie sounds that the ride made when the people were being lifted to great heights or if it was when the cart spun down the rusty metal rails, failing to make it up the last dip without the assistance of the operator…needing to push it up before the trialing cart collided into the other ones, creating a pile up or possible derailment.

To me, it seemed that there was a lot of potential work for a highly skilled carny mechanic. Never the less, I was proud to see that the U.S. companies who sold the rides were being conscience about the need to recycle in addition to helping…curb overpopulation in selected cities of Ecuador by the convenience of, accidents. Who said Corporate America is not doing its part to making this world a better place?

Whales love tuna

August 18th, 2009: My eyes were closed as my mind placed myself in another place to prevent myself from joining the others as tuna was projected off the boat and back into the sea after being held captive in their stomachs for most of the day. The ocean was producing some extraordinary waves tossing us around as we attempted to make our way back to the mainland from the Isle de la Plata after a tour seeing all of the amazing wildlife.

Wanting to see if the waves somehow miraculously evaporate, I slowly opened my eyes. As soon as my eyes fully opened, a humpback whale bought her 79,000 pounds of blubber out of the water as it breached right next to our boat. Everyone seemed to gasp, even those who were ever so kindly baiting the whales with their very own tuna scented vomit.

After taking about 200 photos of missed whale shots as they would quickly rise from the water for air and go back under, I decided to just observe what was taking place and leave the fading memories up my brain.

Clothes washing day

August 17th, 2009: Attractive women must to be banned from all laundry facilities. Being a backpacker it is necessary to wear your clothes much longer than you would normally at home. By not knowing people for more than three days at a time and by not traveling with a girlfriend…it is a commonly accepted practice to wear clothes for a multitude of days. When I handed over my foul clothes over to the beautiful woman behind the desk, I was utterly embarrassed when she held the plastic bag away from her as if the smell was going to attach itself onto her. I left the facility hoping she would not look too closely at the items that needed to be tossed in a biohazard bin, not a laundry machine, praying that the price I was paying did not include…stain removal.

Backpack almost ready to give birth

August 17th, 2009: My backpack is pregnant and it is about to give birth. I started this trip with a bag that was in its second trimester. Now…after 4 months of traveling, it has expanded at almost the same rate of a woman’s belly during pregnancy. When carrying my backpack, I am even experience similar difficulties of a pregnant woman such as having troubles standing up, back pain, moodiness and not wanting to walk too far. Though, unlike a woman…I have a choice to abort this excess baggage anytime I choose, even during the end of my third trimester. No trusty metal hanger or shop vac needed…just a simple plastic bag.

Having options…I have scraped all of my potentially disposable items to see how much smaller I can actually make the backpack. It ended up being about the size of two healthy twins. I can now pick up my pack without having to wear a lifting belt or letting out a somewhat entertaining grunt. It’s feels liberating, but…can I go through with it? Since my friend is visiting me from back home…I might wait for my bag to give birth and hand off my responsibility to her. As I type, I look over at the…twins. They somehow look at me as if it has a conscience, whimpering, questioning my decision. You know what? I think I need some sleep.

(I officially threw out in total…four receipts and a map of some random park. I now have the twins in a plastic bag which now clearly represents the placenta. Impatiently, I wait for my friend’s visit in 24 days)

Life without WiFi

September 19th, 2009: Currently I am living life without WiFi...meaning I cant post anything new that I wrote until I find somewhere that has it. It gets harder when the towns get smaller. Or I can get a bit crazy and live life on the edge by putting my memory stick into a dirty public computer, potencially giving my computer a virus or worm. I have not stopped writing so check back later this week.

Also...if you are reading my blog, please sign up as a follower. It helps me see that more than 9 people are reading it, this might motivate me a bit. If you dont want me to know you are reading it, be creative and sign up under some fictional name - thanks!

Over the top

August 10th, 2009: Feeling the need…for speed (some famous movie quote), I was cruising on a perfectly functioning mountain bike down a perfectly constructed paved road leading to the Jungle. Looking back over my shoulder for any potential cars that might be approaching me…I swerved ever so slightly off the main road for a brief second, going on the algae covered water runoff drain that ran parallel with the road. My front tire quickly buckling underneath me - time slowed down but not enough for me to be able to make any choices. My arms instinctively flew out in front of me, only having enough time to protect my left and right nipple. Somehow, I turned my head to the side and pulled my chin tightly into my neck…denying myself a prime opportunity to make out with the pavement as my head smacked the concrete.

Embarrassed, I quickly rose from the cement and attempted to get back on the bike. Feeling as if I had a much too many beers, I couldn’t ride the bike. When the cars down the road slowly passed by me, I looked away just in case they saw what just happened. Blood dripped down my skinned palms and knuckles from when my body slammed onto the concrete. My head was throbbing and throat hurt from imbedding my chin into it. Wearing a helmet that properly fit was the key to gradually making it back on the bike. Wondering if I had a concussion, I didn’t immediately vomit or form a speech impediment…which for starters, was a good sign. Thankfully, as for the rest of my body, I was wearing so many layers of clothes it provided me with a nice cushion upon impact.

Turning my bike in…the lady noticed the blood on my hands. Seeming concerned, she asked me if I was okay. I told her I was fine, saying that I scraped it falling off a rock at the waterfalls…not wanting her to worry about calculating the astronomical costs for the cosmetic damage I did and did not do to the bike. I thought since I saw no major visible damage…there was no reason to make her work too hard – it was a holiday.

Next time…check the bike

August 5th, 2009: I took a mountain bike trip that was run out of my hostel today. The selling point was that it was $30 cheaper than their competitors costing me only $15. After seeing their competition when going up the mountain yesterday, I thought that I must have gotten a good deal.

Driving up to the top of Mt. Ruminahui we disembarked the vehicle at 15,180 feet. Once we took the bikes off the roof of the SUV, I was able to get a closer look at the bikes…realizing why we got such a good deal. The bikes were perhaps worth $15…a lot less if you calculated what needed to be fixed. The repairs I initially saw were things like a bent seat, handle bars and pedals. Prior to leaving for the tour, I didn’t notice that in the book describing this tour, someone added an arrow in front of the word bike and wrote, “shit.”

We headed down a dirt road on these… pieces, dodging the minor obstacles such as rocks, fresh cow piles and the makers of these piles. The ride was not difficult by any means - the problem was when I was approached my first corner at a high rate of speed. Applying my brakes softly at first, nothing happened…applying more pressure, the only thing that happened was that my front brake pretended it was working and back one worked so well, the tire wanted to come out from underneath me - now it is time for me to add another minor item that needed repairs…brakes. Not a problem if you were intending on just going straight on a flat level surface, but you see…this was a 3,630 foot downhill bike ride.

Not sure if I should go off the hill with the bike and pull a massive non-recorded last jump or just lay it down - I choose neither as I squeezed my brakes, skidding sideways on the loose gravel. When hitting the grass before the drop off my tire gained stability as I was just able to make the turn. The bike ride just became…a little more exciting. Now that I knew not too expect much from the bike, I was able to compensate the lack of stopping power by unwillingly wearing out several weeks of good use on the soles of my shoes by using my feet.

Stopping the bike, I decided to do a somewhat delayed equipment check. At one point during my bikes life it had disk brakes on the front but for some reason they were replaced with pad brakes that were purely aesthetics. Continuing our ride I was happy that I was not the only one that had a lemon… everyone had issues. Next time, I will have to think about…spending a few extra dollars.

(Bow your head - I was told that the following week someone actually went off the side on one of these “shit” bikes and had to go to the hospital due to some deep lacerations to his face)

Hiking at 16,170 feet

August 4th, 2009: Stepping out of the Toyota VI land capsule, I made one small step for man and one large step for mankind as I faced the elements on Mt. Cotopaxi. It seems as if I just walked in on a 1,000,000 plus year battle between the wind and the mountain as it rips over its surface, trying to peel its loose lifeless skin. With no trees to hug or bushes to hide under, I had nothing to keep me for being involuntarily lifted off the mountain as the wind pushed me around. Leaning deep into the wind I was able to walk in somewhat of a straight sober-like line until it would take a breath, falling forward as I leaned into what was no longer there. The small rocks tried to escape the mountain by sneaking in from the tops of my shoes, hoping that I would transport them to safety. Helping weigh me down, I was initially happy to assist a few refugees… until they tried to completely occupy my shoes. Not wanting to be selective, I dumped all of them on the side of the trail.

At about 15,180 feet, I thought I would have had more serious issues adapting to the thin air. Initially I felt as if each breath was a challenge and every movement seemed as if I was on my third and final set of resistance training at the local gym. The immense sound of the wind doing its war cry masked all other noises, preventing me from hearing the sound of my lungs struggling for air and the impact of my feet as it made contact with the snow and rocks. As time grew older…instead of being weakened by the altitude I began to feel extremely light and powerful. For some odd reason, it didn’t even seem as if I owned my body…it was a machine, moving to its destination. I experienced almost no pain except for when the wind performed an unqualified acupuncture session on my face with what felt like frigid needles. Either I was actually getting stronger as the trail moved us higher up the mountain or I might have been - just maybe…suffering from a lack of oxygen and didn’t know it.

After an hour of hiking, my group and I reached the refuge at 15,840 feet. Standing here, for the first time I thought that it would have been amazing climbing to the peak. When I say climb, it is more like a stroll since Cotopaxi is the place where you can see a pregnant woman with a bad fitting artificial leg and her 6 year old son strapped to her back summiting the top - as long as she has the $190…for each of them.

Intending to make it to the base of the glacier, we left the safety of the refuge and headed up the trail. As the elevation increased, the trail began to hide from us by going underneath the snow. Standing there naked, with no gear, I noticed the angle of the slope with dramatically increasing. I am not calling myself a mountain climber, but having watched enough Hollywood films to know that if there was a slip, we would be performing a high speed slide, without stopping until striking the jagged rocks sitting below us as bumpers in a pinball machine. Just as I internally thought that I really didn’t want to play follow the leader anymore, our guide turned to me and said that we could not go any further. Thanks beejesus…he reads minds - stopping our ascent at around 16,170 feet.

On my decent from the refuge, I felt the hood on my jacket filling with air, creating a miniature parachute carrying me down, as my steps were more like record breaking long jumps on the loose tiny stones. Reaching the Toyota VI capsule, I childishly called…shotgun. Slightly chilled, I climbed inside sitting in front with my hands resting on the vents…hinting to our driver that I was anticipating the hot air…that never arrived. I would like to think, it was broken. Today, Mt Cotopaxi…tomorrow, Mt…Rushmore.

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.