It is always easier to go up…than down

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

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

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

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

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

Overlooking Quito, the new Gotham City

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

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

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

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

Chick fight in Otavalo, Ecuador

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another day at Purace National “Water” Park

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Into the Wild

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Round 2 with Dr. Feel Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thief in the hostel caught

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

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

Interrogated at Timbio

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

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

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

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

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

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

Projecting the path of a tumbling boulder

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

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

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

Oh where oh where can the trail be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicken fighting Mr.Tyson…the biting horse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did I end up here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hijacking the San Cipriano trolley

June 3rd, 2009: Running late for a day trip to San Cipriano, I chose the lazy route to the bus station by hiring a cab instead of doing a brutally easy 3 km walk. The taxi that I flagged down was driven by a twelve year old looking boy who must have borrowed his father’s cab after picking up his comatose body from an early morning at the bar, conveniently tossing his lifeless body into the truck. The five minute ride turned into a somewhat enjoyable 30 minute metered tour of Cali, taking me all throughout the city exploring areas which I would not even have even thought about going. During my tour, I would periodically gaze at the taxi meter…slightly concerned as the numbers continued to grow. Not sure if he understood my original instructions, I kindly repeated to the driver where I needed to go - mumbling something I could not comprehend, he drove faster.

The meter did not take a break, but kept moving, climbing higher and higher. “Am I going to have to pay this,” I thought? Immediately I began to look through my Latin American Spanish phrase book, to say something about the taxi fare when it was time to pay. When the driver finally made it to the bus station, the meter read $9.50. Compensating for traffic, the trip should at the most have cost me $2.50. So, I smiled as I gave him $3.00 (just in case I was wrong in my calculations) and used my new phrase that I learned as we were touring around town, “That’s too expensive.” The expression on his face looked as if I took a sucker away from a child, as his head lowered and a small whimper escaped between his lips. Slowly, I left the cab…hoping he wasn’t going to create a scene since my phrasebook book didn’t contain enough words to properly defend myself.

After getting out of the cab…I quickly located a microbus that was leaving toward the village of Cordoba. Jumping into the front seat, I was officially on my way with a full frontal view of my driver’s madness. Every so often I would check my seatbelt to make sure it did not somehow disengage as we swiftly moved along the road as the driver performed the signature blind curve passes with finesse and still had enough concentration to honk and lock eyes with at all women who were old enough to bear children. Sitting there, I was hoping the sign of the cross that the driver made before we left, along with some of the other passengers…was enough spiritual strength to get me to the village. A few hours later, the microbus swerved over to the side of the road in some obscure location and the driver signaled to me that we were at Cordoba, saying nothing, just looking at me…starring.

As three fair skinned people exited the microbus – it was obvious that we were the tourists. Six local trolley conductors were dispatched toward our location, doing a full on Olympic qualifying sprint, making it across the road risking life and limb as if we where home base during a brutal game of tag. Rapidly trying to explain to the other two individuals from Britain, that we need to negotiate as three people, not two - they failed to listen…leaving me to fend for myself.

The San Cipriano trolley is nothing like the trolleys you would see on the hilly streets of San Francisco, with the Rice-a-Roni advertisements plastered to its sides. It is powered by a moped bolted to a wooden platform connected to metal wheels from what resembles old school roller skates with the back tire of the moped lying on the rail road track. The passengers either sat or stood along the wooden bench that went along one side. Being that there is no traffic control system, the trolley is a highly mobile contraption that can be quickly removed on and off the tracks in case another trolley is coming down the tracks or even worse a train.

The Brits, made a poor choice agreeing to the first hyper inflated tourist price. I was able to negotiate my trip to be much cheaper but it ended up not getting me anywhere since the conductor who was taking the others, ended up securing the only trolley set up for transportation. Jimmy, my conductor with no trolley, signaled to me to get on anyways, but it ended up not being that easy. As soon as I would get close to boarding the trolley, the grouchy conductor would make the ugliest face and would accelerate moving forward, yelling, “NO” - making it impossible for me not to laugh.

After doing this a few times the two individuals began to yell at each other, as the conductor slowly moved away leaving us both behind. Off Jimmy ran down the tracks chasing him, as the moped’s engine screamed as he tried to get away. The moped did not having enough power to outrun Jimmy, as he easily caught up – as I anxiously waited for a fight to unfold. Nothing happened besides a few exchanged words…no rocks thrown, no sticks wacked over anyone’s head, no gun was pulled, no exciting fist or knife fights, no eyes torn out of the sockets…just some extremely boring words being exchanged. Now…why travel if nothing exciting ever happens? Eventually, I thought something was worked out since I was permitted to get on. As I sat on the bench, the conductor gave me a pissy look, yelling, “YOU WIT HIM OR MAY?!” Realizing that I was not getting on for the price I originally negotiated since Jimmy was not in no means a decision-maker or a fighter, I folded and paid $1.00 more than my originally negotiated price, settling the labor dispute.

Finally getting out of Cordoba we headed to San Cipriano. Around each corner, I would envision me jumping off the trolley to avoid being tangled up in the carnage of a head on collision with another trolley or train. The farther we went into the jungle…the higher the price became to get to San Cipriano and back. Kind of late to be negotiating I thought. The Brits, kept agreeing to each raised price as I did the opposite and kindly objected, sticking to the originally agreed upon price once on his trolley. At the vertex of his madness, he told me $19.50 each way when $2.00 was the going rate. I tried to enjoy the scenery as we moved along the tracks, but it was difficult as he would not stop trying to see how much more he can legally rob me without physically assaulting me. Thinking about casually pushing the conductor onto the tracks and hijacking the trolley, I refrained.

The conductor was obviously not going to make me get off the trolley, nor was I going to pay the ridiculously inflated prices. I was willing to spend the night and would negotiate with someone else in the morning if paying his prices was my only way to get back. If the prices were still not reasonable…I decided I would walk back following the tracks and knife fight any one of the machete toting individuals with my enormous 3 inch pocket knife, but smartly run away from the gun toting F.A.R.C. members who wanted to obstruct or delay me from going to Cali. The conductor eventually accepted the price we originally agreed on - but not wanting to make anything easy, he now wanted me to pay upfront for the ride back to Cordoba. This was an obvious, “no” and this too he accepted after his angry rants.

My initial impression of San Cipriano was not the greatest, partially due to what I had to do to get here. This region had a completely different feel than any other spot I have been to so far in Colombia. This feeling I was experiencing, is difficult for me to describe. Perhaps it was because I felt locked into a village with no easy way out and even worse, in an area in which a smile didn’t exist. Not that they were not happy people…it just wasn’t easily visible. I could have tried to see how many people were happy by getting the village people together to sing some songs...starting off by singing, “When…your…happy and you know it clap your hands.” But…this probably wouldn’t have worked.

After having a decent lunch in a kitchen that would have been nice not to see, the Brits and I hired our very own machete touting guide and headed off to visiting this beautiful region I came so far to experience. An immense variation of the shades of greens filled the dense jungle we explored. Hiking along crystal clear stream, we reached a swimming hole that rested at the base of the small but peaceful waterfall. Temporarily escaping the heat we emerged ourselves into the cool refreshing water, swimming underneath the thick canopy of the jungle. Here we were able to take some waterfall photos of each other that will eventually be lost amongst the thousands of photos taken throughout this trip – or deleted due to the embarrassing glow of my white pasty skin, not understanding the huge resistance my skin is putting up to the suns poisonous rays. The peacefulness of seating beneath the falls too floating around in water unfortunately dissipated as soon as I heard a screech rip through the air. The girl I was with was attacked by some sort of fish leaving a blood blister on her leg. Being thankful that this was not a region for piranhas, but still not wanting to get bitten…my legs quickly fluttered back and forth as I swam so that the fish couldn’t grasp on to me. Making it to the bank on the other side, I stealthily held my…goods, to block any of unauthorized sampling from the local fish as I exited the water.

Finished with swimming, we started to make our way back to the village. Along the trail, we came across an unmarked ant crossing - not just an ant crossing, but a high speed super highway ant crossing. These ants are not the type of ant that is easily bullied or easily ignited with high powered magnifying glasses, they were Raspberry Crazy Ants. In large numbers such as this, they have been known to asphyxiate small animals. The ants viciously covered the feet of the others in front of me... making it difficult to see their once white skin, as they were being bitten. Seeing this quickly unfold, my body moved instinctively before I could even tell it what to do, running on the tips of my shoes passing the Brits, stopping farther down the trail. Banging my feet on the ground, I was able to break the grip of most of the ants that were on me, swiping the others off with my hand and zeroing in on the ones that made it higher up my leg with my finger, smashing them into my skin. The second biting experience within minutes, I came to the conclusion that the jungle seems to be the home to a large variety of grouchy creatures…big and small.

Having to head back to tracks to be picked up, I was hoping the conductor was there at our agreed time and extraction point. Arriving 15 minutes early, I was yelled at with words I did not know or care to know, by the big grouchy creature, my conductor. I smiled, when he struggled to place the motorbike onto the track, as I pretended to help…grabbing onto the trolley giving him 5.68%. Asking for a photo he grunted and a head nod was given, which translated into, “sure I would love for you to take my photo – which side would you prefer?”

Making it safely back to Cordoba, I trekked up the hill to the main road, stopping the first bus back to Cali. Exhausted, I sat down with my oversized legs in the aisle due to the bus being built for hobbits. Moments later I was peacefully sleeping, having wonderful dreams about the conveniences of having my own car…and pushing my grouchy conductor onto the tracks, hijacking the San Cipriano trolley.

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.

Time to properly label my pills…

May 23rd, 2009: Getting over some stomach ailment from the forced consumption of all the unprocessed sewer water, I needed to get out of my self induced incarceration at the hostel the past few days. Deciding to put my body to the test along with the pharmaceutical industry’s ability to create effective drugs, I officially went on strike against the white porcelain bowl - which more resembles an international hair magnet - and headed out to explore the surrounding area.

Since it was my first day going farther than 20 feet from my bed…I decided I would take some anti-diarrheal medication to prevent any potential accidents on the trail. Prior to leaving for South America, to make more room in my gargantuan backpack, I emptied all my oversized pill containers into smaller more space conscious bottles. I thought…consolidating wouldn’t be a problem, especially when you have a prescription in a bottle that fills 1/34th of the container and is as big as two D batteries.

Taking a minibus to Barichara, I explored the familiar setting of most of the smaller colonial towns in Colombia. From Bariachara I did a 10K hike through the hillside to reach this fascinating small town, Guane. I was so much of a risk taker, I didn’t even bring a dog/human poop bag or toilet paper.

Making it the entire day by a tooth of the zipper, I thought the pills were a success - until I was ready to take some more. Looking more closely at what I took, I discovered it was not anti-diarrheal medication, it was…Benadryl… extra strength. No wonder my butt didn’t itch - today was my lucky day. I think it is time...to properly label my pills.

Exploring the Underworld

May 20th, 2009: I have managed to do some caving over the years and today was another cave I will unfortunately forget about as I grow older and more forgetful as I sit in front of the TV watching the A-Team marathon on Nickelodeon at 3 am with the other bed wetter’s. The caves I have explored ranges from the ones with the beautiful lighting, exquisite signage and nicely placed dining facilities/souvenir shops, to the basic hole in the ground that you take a head lamp and wander off into the abyss. Today, I made it through a cave system in San Gil that was somewhat different than what I was use to...it was extremely wet and muddy – a child’s and a grown man’s dream!

I think my fascination for crawling around in the underworld began when I was a child playing in a nearby sewer system that fed into the local creek. Back then we would put on our rain boots, grab the emergency flash light under the kitchen sink and explore the network of tunnels running underneath our city. Thinking about it…we never really made it that far - that is...until my 20's. This was partially due to the urban legend (thanks to my Dad) that the rats that lived here were known to grow to the size of a small dog – not a Chihuahua or Mini-pincher…much much bigger. You must remember…in a child’s mind, everything is to the extreme.

Doing a small stroll out of town and crossing an open field, we reached a wooded area which helped camoflague the hole we were about to enter…no ticket booth, paved sidewalks or postcards to show that I was here - nothing. Igniting our batteries on our trusty headlamps, we entered the mouth of the cave by making our way down an iron ladder. Once inside, the cities of cockroaches and other insects gathered by the masses to welcome us to their simple, yet comfortable living arrangement. Here we followed our guide as would a pack mule for about a 2 ½ hour trip exploring a small portion of this network.

Our guide explained the creation of the formations that we came across in Spanish, of coarse…but what was being said was no interest to me – neither were the silly names of the formations that some drunken South American must have come up with one night after 4 or 5 too many beers. My goal was so simple…it was to crawl around and get filthy – without having to explain why a 36 year old man that is pushing 40, is looking as if he just had his first experience in the mud.

The amount of mud was staggering. On a few sections I would squat and slide on my feet down the huge slopes, navigating myself through moguls of mud with my finger tips, digging them deep into the sludge when needing to slow my decent. The cave system was nicely organized by having sections filled with water ranging from the depth of one toe to almost the ceiling of the shaft, to conveniently self manage the accumulated mud that built up as we moved deeper into the shaft.

Unfortunately – for everyone else that is - with no restrooms in this caving system, I was forced to…improvise when it was necessary. This is where the deep water would nicely shadow the awkward movements I made through the tunnels, as I perfected my multitasking skills.

Having Army flashbacks, I low crawled through long stretches with the jagged ceiling closely hovering above me to remind me to keep my head down and checks low. Without being outside it was extremely apparent to tell that is was raining by easily noting the water level was getting higher and higher by observing the incredible shrinking ceiling. Toward the end of our exploration, the water temp seemed to drop and the air even felt uncomfortably cooler. Nothing probably changed except for my mindset. When heading out of the cave, I knew what cold bodies of water that needed to be crossed and about how long it was going to take. Unlike hydrospeeding, I did not have to be as mentally alert…easily making it to a warm destination in my mind as soon as the auctioneer decided to show up - convincing my body I was warm and continuing to enjoy what the cave had to offer.

Getting back to the hostel I began to feel a growing pain…lots of growing pains – perhaps it would be more accurate to call them…”growing older pains.” My body felt like a mass of loosely connected bones and unresponsive muscle. At this moment…the majority of AARP members would easy be able to overpower me for my wallet, spare change or acts of indecency. I now walk holding my lower back being thankful for: my backpack that conveniently converts into rolling luggage, saved muscle relaxers from a previous injury and the ability to support the signature old man shuffle…with style.