Mother H

Sideways and thruwards,
Forwards and onwards

There were jungles, beaches, and leaf-cutter ants,
Sand in my ears, backpack, and pants

Sunburns on my chest in the forms of Picasso,
This pace - our minds- we cannot slow

We drank the juice from a coconut husk,
and ate jungle fruits on the beach at dusk

Corals, fish of rainbow colors in great sums,
Could anyone in right mind be caught in the doldrums?

The heat was oppressive and the humidity high,
We fought the ocean´s current, thought we might die

Golden monkeys their throaty calls we did hear,
In our hearts´ was a little feeling of fear

We crossed to Venezuela, a "Little Venice",
The poverty, crime, and danger we could not miss

Finding a hostal, alot we did spend,
In this country, paying lots of money seems to be a trend

"Gringo, Gringo, Gringo," he called,
The look on my face was less than entralled

Where I came from, where I´m going - I have a vague notion,
Feeling in need of some regular motion

To Caracas we go, on a road by the sea,
The final stop on this long journey.

We pulled ourselves out of Salento after some much needed relaxation time. Our travel pace has been rigorous thus far, never staying more than 3 nights in any one place, but this seemingly endless cycle of packing, finding a bus, riding the bus, disembarking, finding a hostal, eating, and trying to catch sleep amidst the constant bustle of wherever we are has left us tired. I think this hurried pace is largely due to our currently restless mindsets. We´re both thinking about our nearing separation and what awaits at home - good and bad.
I´m anticipating American personal space (although personal space of any country would be appreciated). All the locals seem accustomed to constant interaction with one another and are not at all bothered during the long bus rides by the blaring radios, amped television sets with poor reception, and constant searching for ring-tones. Pilar and I always seem to be the ones asking for change in a given moment and no one seems to mind our impostions, they just seem pleasantly accepting of any situation presented to them.

Medellin, like Cali, had little to offer us other than the corpulent figures of Botero´s paintings and sculptures. The cities have not held our interest because of the inherent difficulites of getting around within them and because of their, generally, more dangerous setting. So after a couple of days we bought tickets to Cartagena, a bus ride that proved to be one of the most difficult thus far.

The ride was supposed to be 12 hours but we arrived sometime after the 17-hour mark because of a nasty accident and, then, our bus breaking down in the middle of the night. I was in the somnabulic depths of a sleeping pill experiece when, at 3:00 AM, we were required to disembark and change buses. Pilar led me aboard the new bus like a doe leading a suckling fawn. We tried to catch some rest but were constantly awakened by some thoroughly hammered Colombianos, returning from a festival, that stayed up the whole night drinking rum from styrofoam cups and chanting well-known Colombian tunes. The same morning, after giving up on rest, I reached a boiling point with the partygoers after they started smoking within the frigid, hermetic bus cabin. I tried talking trash in spanish although, eventually, I just spoke English to them as they stared dreary-eyed and uncomprehending at me. Pilar calmed me down and they cursed me in a number of ways.
Sometimes I just want to hole up and not talk to anyone, but Pilar pulls me out of my shell and reminds me that I´m not here to read books and play mind games - I´m here to experience another place and its´people.
Finally, we arrived to the Texas-like heat and humidity of Carribean-side Cartagena, a beautiful colonial town that claims UNESCO status for its´historic seaside fortress and accompanying structures. Pilar is seemingy approached every few moments by lusting Colombian men that offer various one-liners, propositions, and pantomimes. Apparently, my presence does little to convince them that Pilar is spoken for.






We snuck into the Hilton hotel and soaked up the pleasing luxuriant atmosphere after wondering around for awhile and visiting the sight of 18th century catholic inquisitions.

Onwards to Santa Marta.

Cali was enjoyable simply because of the lovely French-Colombian couple who owned our hostel. They helped us with all manner of things and were always eager to chat about the country. The city itself had little to offer other than a thriving salsa-club scene that we were too hesistant to visit and usually too tired. Also, I didn't want to make the locals look like simpletons with my cutting-edge, nuevo-salsa steps.
After a few days, we jaunted up to Buenaventura in a steamy bus with loose seat-cushions and angular seats. Buenaventura boasts the highest murder-rate in Colombia because of its´importance in the inter-continental drug trade. The only reason we went to the city with a homicide rate 24-times higher than New York metro-area was to catch a bus to the beach town of Ladrilleros. Other than having a sleepless night, we had no problems in Buenaventura and caught the boat during a morning of heavy rains. Although well off the beaten path, Ladrilleros proved to be expensive because of its´blossoming courtship with tourism. The town was soaked daily with tropical rains and every building and structure was rotting from the inside-out with mildew. Our little hostel room had the distinctive odor of tinned cat food. We visited the lovely beach with big breakers and reggaetone and had another sleepless night because of the constant sounding of the night-shift workers in the shop below the hostel. It again rained heavily the next morning, but we decided to catch a small boat to the bay to catch glimpses of migrating whales, we were incredibly close to humpbacks.


After being thoroughly soaked by the boat ride and less than charmed by the Ladrilleros, we went back to Buenaventura and then bought tickets onward to Armenia - a city on the edge of Colombia's coffee growing region. The driver of our micro stopped incessantly during the journey to load up on streetside sweets and grilled meats and would then ferociously assault the road and its´plentiful curves in order to make up for lost time. We arrived late and were wearily greeted at our hostel door by gaunt prostitutes wearing loose-fitting jean shorts.
Deciding to move along the next day, we took a micro to the small town of Salento in the Valle Cocora.

This is the most beautiful place I´ve seen so far in all of this 5-month journey. Daily precipitation gives the area a tropical aura, but the waether is always cool and pleasant. The gentle, cultivated hills are plush with fruit trees, coffee plants, and (excuse the Texan in me) healthy, fat cows. The ambiance is intoxicating.

We went to the plaza and I ate a fried banana with cheese, mushrooms, and tomatoes while Pilar looked for an elusive money-changer named Juan Luis. We hiked into the valley the next day and the landscape continued to be stun us with its´ fertility, beauty, and variety. Ascending from a dense, tropical creek-bed we caught glimpses of hummingbirds as the landscape became alpine-esque. We had pipe-dreams about making a life here.




Our hostel had visiting arrangements with a local farm, so after walking down for about an hour along a dirt road we found the estancia of Don Elias. The Don showed us his plethora of fruit plants (pineapple, mandarin, raspbery, and banana) and coffee bushes and delighted in answering our questions with an old, toothless smile. He and his wife prepared us coffee from the farm. Wow!

Onward to Medellin tomorrow.

Our time spent in Lima was much like the city´s weather, dreary. I spent most of the time in my head thinking about what I should do once I get back to the States. Five months seems to be too long for me to travel, I need to do something to keep my mind occupied, to feel like I´m advancing myself in a credible fashion. I´m lucky to have the luxury to take a trip like this, but sometimes it´s hard to focus on what I´m seeing because of my want.
Pilar and I tried keeping ourselves occupied in Lima by visiting the many museums and religious sites. I´d had enough of those too. After seeing Pizarro´s body in the Lima Cathedral I vowed to stay out of museums and churches for awhile. The rest of the time there is hazy. An exhibit on the varieties of the Peruvian potato, a ceviche seafood medley, a thousand fast food restaurants. Peru is being reeled in by global corporations and the hook is set in Lima. There´s even a Chili´s restaurant. I must say we were tempted to eat there for familiarity´s sake.
Western desires aside, we had no problem with the crime there, something we had been repeatedly warned about. Now that we´re in Colombia we have begun to think more about safety and crime. I´m not really worried about kidknappings or abductions, those things only happen to businessmen or more valuable travellers (right?) just petty street crime. When we arrived in Cali we strolled to a street market a policeman recommended to us. Once there we were convinced that a few men were shadowing us, apparently, we were correct because a nearby street cop chased off the men and later told us they were definitley thieves. We´re trying not to be to paranoid about these sorts of things because what, then, would be the point of visiting here? But it is tricky because there are almost NO gringos. I saw none our first day and five the second. I´ve had to forego wearing my stars and stripes Hawaiian shirt.

Other than our one fearful encounter, Colombia is fantastic. Warm weather, lack of other gringos, unbelievable landscapes, and excellent food (mostly free of gluten). There are ridiculous varieties of fruit for me to try.
Colombia´s reoutation has kept it off the map for most tourists, it feels like we´re having some very fresh experiences.