Hmmm…which way do I go?

May 30th, 2009: Flying down the back roads the Jeep violently shakes, hitting the potholes that riddle the dirt road as I stand on the back bumper, holding onto the metal roof rack with the wind blowing through my 12 o’clock shadow…on my head. Looking over at 70 year old man and 14 year old girl…next to me, a gargantuan smile is fixed to my face as the tears of speed go running into my ears.

Stopping at the Valle de Cocora, we disembark the Jeep…and so the journey begins. This area is the home of the Colombia’s national tree, the wax palm - the world’s tallest palm, reaching 196.80 feet in height according to Wikipedia. Going with six others from the hostel, I thought today was going to be a day of following people, being able to take a break…not having to figure out how to get to the trailhead or even what trail to take. Moving at a pace I became so accustomed to over the years when hiking with kids, not to mention my ability to take an obsessive amount of photos…the gap between the group and myself became farther and farther each photo I took. The scenery was spectacular, slowing my pace even more…adding another 12 to 18 photos to my memory card every 3 to 3 1/2 steps I took.

While hiking, I failed to calculate how well I knew the individuals I was with. Leaving me behind as they sped up the hill, I was forced to make some big decisions when looking at the complicated trail signs in Spanish…not knowing which way I needed to go. Since I was not paying attention on what town we started in or even our route, I resorted to following them by looking for familiar shoe prints in the muddy areas to help me decide which path to take. The drier the trail became, the greater distances I would have to cover before knowing if I was going the right way. Hours into the hike I decided to follow a sign I did understand, leading me to someone’s house tucked away deep in the hills, which conveniently sold refreshments. Not having my Spanish phrase book for obvious reasons, my plan was to communicate with the individuals at the establishment by using the infamous, “charade method” to know if my pseudo friends passed by in addition to getting back to where I started…without backtracking. Right before reaching the house, the red glassy eyed Brazilian guy in my group was sitting on the trail alone, taking photos of flowers. He was more than likely left behind because of his frequent plant smoking breaks and his need to visit the house for some indigenous munchies. Relieved that I met him, I capitalized on his ability to speak Spanish - but even more so…he knew where we were and where we needed to go. Not in a rush to conquer the trail in record timing, the Brazilian would kindly wait for me when I would take my photos, as I would do the same for him when he took his…smoke breaks.

On the way down the hill we noticed there was a soldier in fatigues holding an automatic rifle standing amongst the trees. Thankfully, he was a member of the Colombian military and not F.A.R.C. or some other insurgent group. His function was to keep an eye on the town from above as Batman would Gotham city. After talking to him for a while, he showed us a short cut that followed a ridgeline down toward the town, taking us off the trail. Following the direction he pointed to, we ran into a camp where his unit was based. The majority of the soldiers seemed very young, standing there as if they were children dressed in military clothes…confused as for what day Halloween was.

Here we sat along the ridgeline, having a deep discussion about what most men in the military think about while in the field (besides food)…which is women – or course. Ironically, not far into our discussion on what Colombian city harbored the most beautiful women, we were asked if we wanted something to eat. Accepting his offer, I was excited to see how the Colombian M.R.E.’s (Meals Ready to Eat) tasted compared to the M.R.E.’s I had when I was in the military. One of the soldiers went into a makeshift tent and prepared an amazing meal, adding a little touch to the prepackaged meal by mixing some rice to the beans. Either I was starving or it was actually a good meal as my face hovered above the glossy green foil bag, as I inhaled the contents – only looking up when taking a drink of some Kool-Aid like beverage that was prepared for us. Even the item that resembled a piece of bread was good, even though it was more than likely made when I was in the military 18 or so years ago.

Departing the friendly group of soldiers that were young enough to be my kids – oh my - I passed an older soldier who was walking a German Shepherd up the hill, as the Brazilian guy I was with, cut sharply to the left off the path - obviously avoiding him. This was not because he was mentally damaged due to being attacked or molested by a dog at a young age…he was scared of not knowing the purpose of the dog – whether he was used for drug or bomb detection and whether the military capitalized on the dogs love for human chew toys when locating offenders. Since his smoke breaks were not the normal smoke breaks people have during their mandatory 15 minute breaks when gainfully employed…I could see the reasoning for being nervous around this well trained canine. Though, thinking he should not worry too much since there was a questionable plant growing outside the food tent, with the strong likely hood of it not being…a, wild plant.

On the way back to the hostel in Salento, I was able to secure a spot on the bumper of a Jeep Willie. The bumper was much smaller than the last vehicle, causing me to have one foot on the bumper and one foot wedged between the tire mounted on the side. In total, there were 16 people traveling on the vehicle made accommodate 6 comfortably: 4 people sitting in the front seat, 4 sitting above the front seat, 1 standing in the back, 4 people sitting on the benches facing each other and 3 others standing on the back bumper. Passing some of my fellow comrades as they patrolled the streets, they waved as I waved back, feeling I formed a better understanding of the Colombian military - happy that the separation from my original group helped lead me to every I was able to experience.

Why play Russian Roulette when you can play Colombian Tejo?

May 30th, 2009: As the five of us walked into the bar I could mentally hear a record scratch as silence swept the room…even though it was brief, I could tell the locals were not use to seeing the bleached white cracker folk in the bar that often. We found this place by the great directions we love to get in small towns…go two blocks down the hill to the fire station, take a left and go down a bit, veer right, then left and veer right some more and it will be on the left hand side - it doesn’t have a sign but you should see it…if it is open. The reason for our quest was to play with a fine blend of sulfur, charcoal and potassium nitrate - also known as gunpowder. Playing with gunpowder can be foolish if it is a game of Russian roulette…but the Colombian game tejo, is much safer – injuries are not typically life threatening…just typically painful.

Tejo lanes (sort of resembling a horseshoe pitch) seem to be placed in the back of the bars for obvious reasons. On these lanes a heavy metal disk is hurdled great heights and greater distances through the air, with the intent to have it stick into the center of an angled clay filled box – or perhaps, a former loved one standing too close. The center of the clay box has a package of explosives resting on a metal ring, flush with the clay. When the metal disk makes contact with the gunpowder, sparks emerge ripping away from the packaging and an explosion is released, startling the drunken patrons briefly into soberness. There is a point system, but that didn’t interest me much…my goal was solely to hit the middle – explaining on how I could never remember my score.

The locals were extremely helpful on explaining the rules and getting us started. Being beginners we were so fortunate to have the luxury to be able to use the weaklings’ court. This court is about a third smaller than the full size lane which is meant for just the experienced drunks. Even though being on a smaller lane…ours was much more hazardous to sit or stand behind – yet we were the only sober ones. We had zero skills – let me emphasize zero skills - explaining why we would miss the clay box quite frequently, bouncing our beginners disks across the dirt as if we were skipping stones indoors – quickly clearing the sober tables near us.

This bar game didn’t cost anything to play except for the informal rule of needing to drink. So as you can see, this game could potentially involve a massive amount of drinking. How the lanes are right next to each other and how high and long this heavy piece of metal has to travel, it is slightly frightening on when other tejo players are facing you and throwing in your direction. This is especially true as you need to compensate for when the box splits into multiple boxes while the night ages and more and more brain cells are massacred by the alcohol.

Tejo, might be the game that is going to help save our economy. It could help get the unemployed out of the house by giving them a new yet exciting way to network, boost the governments tax revenue from the spike in alcohol sales, increase the need for emergency room employees and assist in advancing new and exciting treatments for gunpowder burns and head trauma patients. Tejo, anyone?

No Lassie...not my arm!

May 29th, 2009: When you see a collie, anyone who is not a communist would think of the TV star, Lassie. She was a friendly dog that could leap grassy hills in a single bound, saving the annoying little boy Timmy from death on a daily basis with such ease. So when seeing five ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­collies running around between the hostel and coffee plantation, I had not one speck of fear in me - if anything…I felt safe.

While walking back to the hostel after an interesting coffee plantation tour with my pot smoking guide - who lit up throughout the tour during his version of a smoke break - some of the dogs wanted to play catch with the fallen sticks along the dirt road. Either I was not throwing the sticks far enough or high enough but when my arm was following through with what I thought was a stellar toss, Lassie made a spectacular jump, completely ignoring the stick and caught…my forearm. Holding it, but not moving or making any ferociously vocal noise…she just simply stood there looking at me with a blank expression as my forearm rested between her teeth. Did she want to play I thought? Why did she suddenly switch from the stick to my arm? Was she not getting the stick thrown to her as much as she liked? The other tourist I was walking with had a panicked look when I gazed over at him as the dog was attached to me – but, the vision of Lassie was so imbedded in my mind…I couldn’t panic, even if she did decide to perform some out of water piranha action on my limbs. Holding it uncomfortably hard for about 6 seconds too long, perhaps out of boredom…she decided to let me go.

As the dog now no longer wanted the stick and kept looking at my forearm…the North American Biscuit, I raised it up in the air to keep her away. I kindly informed the Lassie imposture that I was unfortunately done playing and that I wasn’t going to throw anymore sticks or feed her any more body parts as I strolled back to the hostel – arm still in the air.

Later that night, I overheard the collie’s parent saying that one of the collies couldn’t be trusted so he keeps her at the coffee plantation and away from the guests. They all look the same, so I would struggle identifying who was who if there was a lineup up at the town pound, except for knowing that one of them...will never be, Lassie.

Billy Bucking Bad Ass

May 29th, 2009: Arriving in the small coffee town of Salento, I kept hearing from the other backpackers on how great the horseback rides were. Not too keen about horses – a trust issue – I decided to go against my better judgment and take one for a spin around the countryside. When our trail guide pulled up to the side of the hostel, we were officially introduced to a mob of some vertically challenged horses. This was good – less distance to fall - unless they have a short horse complex and some good bucking power. I don’t smoke, chew, listen to Bruce Springsteen on a daily basis, wear tight jeans or enjoy drinking Budweiser…nor, do I pretend or inspire to be the Marlboro man, so I was not ashamed to ask for a horse that enjoys a good game of Follow the Leader.

A few minutes into our 3+ hour horseback ride, I thought something was wrong with my horse’s shoe since he was lagging so far behind the others. Leaning over looking at his hoof, I tried to see if I could spot a loose shoe flopping around. There seemed to be no obvious issues. If I was a gambler, I would have placed a bet that he was gravely ill or injured. When the others would get too far ahead, I would out of necessity, painfully give my horse some body blows with the back of my heels complimenting it with a loud self made tapping noise. My kicks or noises did not phase the horse. Kicking him harder…moving the strikes up and across his body hoping to locate a soft spot, he continued to ignore my requests showing no signs of even thinking about speeding up. After about 20 minutes of the horse’s defiance, the guide decided to swap horses. I didn’t want to at first, but it was too late…he already dismounted his horse and was standing by to take over mine.

Getting on my new horse Billy, he turned his head glaring back, giving me..."the eye." My vision of a relaxing trip, resting back in the saddle, suddenly...vanished - though a new sense of excitement was introduced to the ride. Off we went leaving a cloud of dust. I attempted to slow him down, pulling back on the reigns. Not working, I tested his ability to perform verbal commands as I barked the simple four lettered word, “WHOA!” - obviously, he did not understand English. Seeing a blur go past me, I realized it was my...first horse? He must of had...a 20 minute stomach bug.

A smile cracked through my face of terror as I thought, “I am actually on a real horse – a real short horse…but a real horse.” My simplified definition of a real horse is one that doesn’t bury their nose deep into the anus of the lead horse and every so often, wants to test the rider for dominance.

Billy did not seem to be that friendly with the others. His lack of social skills had me out casted from the rest of the group. Whenever someone would come close to us, “Billy Bucking Bad Ass,” would decide to perform a two legged back kick in the direction of the offender – sometime multiple kicks. As he performed his tantrums, my right hand naturally locked to the horn of the saddle as I would ineffectively pull back the reigns.

Pushing his need for dominance, Billy kicked my guide who I thought held a permanent smile. His face quickly transformed -inverting his smile he reached for his rope that was coiled along his saddle. Raising the rope in the air, giving a war cry...he came at my horse - my slow motion button was engaged. Coming at us, we quickly moved sideways stumbling down the hillside as Billy was attempting to escape a well deserved beating. My eyes, looking as if I was an owl, I yelled at the guide in a language he seemed to understand, “NO – NO – NO - NO – NOT NOW!” Seeing my fear, he controlled his brief but justifiable anger and stopped short of contact, letting my horse go without any disciplinary action. Asking me if I wanted to switch back to my previous horse due to...bucking Billy’s poor attitude, I hesitated for a brief moment and said…no. Saving my horse from a brutal beating, I would have thought he would have given me thanks and praise by not kicking anyone else anymore...silly - silly - silly me.

Tensely sitting in the saddle, the trails would exhaust me just by seeing Billy doing all of the work as he would power up the gigantic hills, slide down the loose rocky trails and plow through the rushing steams. The fancy foot work over the rocks and boulders was quite impressive. Without being issued a helmet, it was slightly nerve wrecking doing this without using any protection. I should make an investment in my health and just buy one. I could wear it everywhere…on the horses, in the buses, taxis, rivers and even strolling around town to help protect my head from low ceilings and mischievous birds.

Riding ahead of the guide, the trail broke off in two directions. Deciding to follow the horse that was in front of me, I went to the left. The guide was yelling something but by the time we stopped, we were resting on a narrow trail that hugged the river that was about 16 feet below us. His yells became more frantic…we all looked at each other with lost looks on our faces. Disembarking his horse, he ran past us to the front horse and pulled the horse down the trail as the rest of us followed…finding out later that we were on a extremely weak unstable part of the riverbank - reason 1,104 to learn Spanish.

I really like these short horses. Perhaps I will be doing this again sometime soon in a different area, but now with just a bit more confidence. After riding Billy Bucking Bad Ass…I am not sure if I will ever be happy on those pony rides at the annual State Fair.