Category: Colombia

Posted on

When meeting strangers in Bologna: A Ducati Love Story

Baci: (n) kiss, buss, osculation (the act of caressing with the lips (or an instance thereof))

In many places in the world, excluding the USA, there exists a kind of chocolate called Baci. I had my first in Italy, and they are pretty darn good. They all come with phrases inside like “Each kiss is a discovery.” Each city, street, and person you find in Italy is a discovery also.

Rome is a busy place. As such, sometimes it is hard to find a place to stay when you are on a budget like mine. Come the weekend, my choices ran too slim and I decided to roll out and finally see one of the things that I had missed with Joanne: The Ducati Factory!

Ducati is a household name with my friends and I, being the gearheads that we are. The thought of being in Italy without making it to this place was not acceptable. So I scheduled my tour time (very important), hopped a train, still with no place to sleep for the night, and took off for a city named after lunch meat; Bologna.

The train station is something of a U shape allowing uncooperative taxi drivers and buses to loop through and pick up the incoming human traffic. It was on the far side of this U that a determined young woman marched up to me and starting asking me something in Italian.

For some reason, instead of asking her if she spoke English, I asked her, “Hablas Español?” Surprisingly enough, she did.

In a few minutes it came out that she was actually from Colombia and we both spoke fluent English. Her name was Paula, and we were also both in similar situations for the weekend, took off on a whim and had no place to stay and no plan. We checked our bags in the luggage area and took off to find an internet connection and a place to sleep.

Even before we found the Bed and Breakfast we eventually stayed in, our mutual love of motorcycles led us to join up for the trip to Ducati. We booked a double room at some place whose name I have forgotten and took off exactly on time for the tour.

Unfortunately, “exactly on time” is about 15 minutes late by Ducati standards.

All tour attendees are encouraged to arrive 15 minutes early. This actually means, if you are not there 15 minutes before the time your tour is scheduled, your tour will leave without you and you will have to come back another day.

Luckily, we caught our tour as they left the factory and got to see the museum and all the shiny wonderful toys that it contained! Paula kept having to pull me off of them before the Tour Guide saw me.

Afterward, due in no small part to my darling partner, we were able to jump in with an all Italian speaking tour to route through the factory and see the way things are handled. It was like entering Santa’s Workshop.

Unfortunately, much as I imagine Santa would, Ducati insisted that no photos were allowed in the factory. Thus, even if I had taken photos inside, which I would not because I am a straight laced law abiding citizen, I could not put them up here for everyone to see. Sorry.

It’s impressive how easily public transportation comes together when you have someone who speaks the local language with you! With the help of a man with the hairiest nose on Planet Earth, Paula and I hopped a couple buses and rocked on back to the Bologna city center to pick up our bags from the train station and drop them at the BnB before grabbing some well deserved food.

Bologna is a great place for seeing Ducati, Ferarri, Lamborghini, and eating bologna (obviously), and a food somewhat less evident, tortellini. That being the case, we decided to roll out and get some local fare and brave the nightlife with a dubiously accurate map and our less than perfect communal sense of direction.

There is something satisfying about eating pasta at a restaurant named “Tony’s.” It is even better when that place is in Italy. We settled in for a couple big bowls of tortellini at Tony’s and asked our decidedly Nordic looking waiter where the cool kids were hanging out at on a Friday night…

At the time we set off for the night, we had no idea how confusing the side streets of Bologna truly would be. We spent most of the night walking around and talking to one another, laughing at what a pair of lost tourists we were. Had we known how the night would turn out, we probably would have done exactly the same thing.

Adversity never seems that way when you are in the company of friends.

While walking back down one of a thousand beautiful little streets, Paula looked quizzically at a bird and asked me, “Why is that bird still awake?”

It’s moments like that which can bond souls. We laughed until we cried.

The following day was something of divide and conquer. We spent most of the morning being lazy in bed or nursing coffee, when we finally decided to get out of dodge. Paula liked the idea of seeing Florence and I felt like making dinner. We reserved seats with In Tavola and even had the foresight to book a place to sleep before we took off to accomplish some errands we needed to nail down before we caught the train; I went to Dainese to pick up some kit , and she wandered off in search of pictures.

Pictures seem to become a part of daily life while we travel. They wrap up the train station, a view from a window, or the smile creases in a face for reminders; some means by which we try to translate the crash and climax of this transient world to those who weren’t there and could never understand… but Paula gives it her best and takes it to the next level. Check her blog out here.

Florence was almost exactly like I remember it, though unique in some ways with a new partner; new discoveries.

Check out all the scandalous details of our cooking shenanigans at In Tavola here. After a fabulous night of food, we wandered around the city, soaking up the experience, taking pictures and eventually stumbling back to the hostel for some much needed sleep.

FYI: Sogiorno Pitti has low ceilings. not much of a problem for a Medellina, but somewhat dangerous to tall Americans.

We wandered around the city taking pictures of peoples dreams and speaking of our own.

It was a brilliant weekend, but it eventually had to end as Paula and I both had to head off to school on opposite ends of the country. I’ve spoken before about my love of Colombia and meeting people like Paula and Mauricio has only deepened my appreciation of the country and people.

This amazing weekend of mine would never have happened if this lovely woman didn’t have the courage to walk up to a total stranger and strike up a conversation. The simple act of saying hello took the both of us on a weekend of comedy and adventure and brought two individuals, born on different continents, together and made them more than the sum of their parts; friends. So many days of the week, we walk past person after person without noticing them; without seeing a smile on their face, or a lost look that indicates we can be of help to them. I can only express to you how much better my time in Italy was because of Paula and her brilliance and hope that her beautiful example makes the world a better place for you as it has for me.

Wrap Up:

Plan ahead for Ducati. Check the schedule online or on the phone for tour dates weeks in advance if you can.

Show up 30 minutes early for your tour time slot. That will put you there a few minutes before they leave.

Trains are the easiest way to get to and from Bologna. Buses are the easiest way to get around within.

Talk to strangers. It’s worth it!

Posted on

The Jungle Plan: Ecuador and the Rio Negro

Dancing is not my forte. That being said, I actually like dancing, or at least the idea of it, quite a lot. Hence, my reason for coming to Cali; to take salsa lessons. Cali has become the beginning of so much more.

The Guest House Iguana in Cali is a welcoming place filled with all manner of people. The overweight “vegetarian” who, despite having been here two days, doesn’t know if the shower has hot water. The requisite Scandinavian. And a mad diminuitive monster of a man, covered in tattoos from far away places and tribes, none from a gun, but rather wooden spikes and hammers, needle sharp copper rods, and other equally foreign objects. Jimmy, sporting last years mutton chops and no shirt tells me his plan:

“We go to Quito, meet a local who knows a little bit ab out the river, I’ve got a map, but there is a 7 way split that I’m not quite so sure about, buy a boat, some rifles for us, ammunition, and gifts for the tribe and then we’ll set off up river.”

This is the plan. It is some of the most primitive medicine on the planet; drinkable psychotherapy, Jimmy calls it. It is possible to find local men who will supply it in a safe location such as a living room where you can drink it and experience it. I encourage you to read the article in the link and see if that sounds like something that should be done in a living room. There is a tribe that will allow certain individuals to visit, provided adequate gifts of medicine, food, ammunition, and whose shaman will induct said visitors into the experience of ayahuasca. The idea is spend at least 5 days there, enough time to go through a couple of sessions with the shaman and perhaps go blowgun hunting with the men of the tribe; the tribe who as recently as the 1950’s was still actively practicing head shrinking. The tribe is not the only group out there… this is where it gets sticky.

The Rio Negro is the only way into their lands. This is tribal held land that is not policed or patrolled, prone to all kinds of nasties. Much of this land and the river are in conflict, as which tribe actually owns it is contested. This is effectively a warzone.

The key points are as follows:

  1. Boat: must be purchased or rented in Ecuador
  2. Guide: Jimmy has a map, but even he agrees we need more
  3. Guns: I don’t want to have to convince a jaguar not to eat me without one
  4. Gifts: So the tribe won’t eat us
  5. Sanity: this really isn’t in question…

There is no way in hell I am going to let this opportunity pass.

p.s. salsa is hard.

Posted on

Adventures in Bogota.

There are pink striped girl’s pajama pants on the floor of the bathroom. I really can only image why.

Bogota mornings are cold. Colder than any I think I have seen so far. I didn’t bother to take off my underarmor or undershirt until some time after I arrived at the Platypus Hostel. The Platypus is pretty nice and has a number of people here, ranging from this pretty severely homeless looking French guy who actually lives in the dorm here full time, to a hardened New York girl who is only here for 4 days.

Dallas is from Australia. Dallas and I are off in search of the Museum of the National Police. There is a problem in some of the dodgy areas of Bogota that men dress up as fake policemen and harass tourists and elicit money as bribes, etc. Dallas and I are staying in a marginally low rent district. Dallas and I are approached in the street by two very young looking policemen.

After some mangled Spanish and confused looks, one of them invites us (in English) to go to the Police Museum; the place we were headed in the first place. Luck of lucks, We get an escort to the museum and a fantastic English speaking guide named Jason. Jason was a member of the Jungle branch of the National Police that went through the FARC controlled jungle areas of Colombia hunting Guerrillas. Jason was in the jungle for about a year before they found out he could speak English and transferred him to the Museum. Jason enlisted when he was 18. Jason is 22.

The museum is relatively cool, but the highlight is definitely getting to play with all the exhibits. This museum would be nowhere near as much fun in the USA.

Neither would the courthouse.

The Platypus hostel where I am staying is almost always full. Call ahead if you want to stay. If you don’t need wireless, this is all you could ever ask for. Jasper was supposed to show up today but I haven’t received a reply to my email or seen a sign of him.

Yesterday I emailed Jasper before taking off to see a little bit of the city and the gold museum. The gold was sure glittery, but it was the writing on the wall that stood out to me.

I’m starting to get a little antsy for more, new, and different. I love Colombia, but it’s getting time to move again. In looking online I found another Aires ticket; this time for $4. The taxes were about $40, but it is still worth the 9 hours of my life I will save by skipping the bus.

As I am planning to climb Monserrat with a number of pilgrims tomorrow as they make offerings or some such in the morning, I book the flight for the afternoon; 3 p.m Sunday. Here are a few pics from the city. I like it, and after some down time, Dallas and I go out to find a local hang out spot, a nearby plaza that fills with local youth and street perfomers at night. It’s election night, so I think it will be hopping.

It is rad, the place doesn’t disappoint and there is a New Yorker running a great coffee bar there that breaks the law and serves us some irish coffee while the country is on lockdown prohibition.

Morning comes a little later than I had anticipated, and I find out that the pilgrimage road, which is too dangerous to walk during the week, is actually closed from some rain damage, so I get to skip the whole “robber” aspect, and just take a cable car up the mountain with everyone.

Five of our intrepid band, including two other Americans, leave for the mountain. I immediately start harassing the locals, as I just happened to have a white bandana in my pocket, which just happened to be the uniform of the cafeteria workers at the top of the mountain. The girls were horrified and the manager was not amused.

Today, the gigantic fruit market in Bogota is also a gigantic flower market, when all the local flora growers bring their wares in to town to sell them off. This late in the day, it is a little less than spectacular, so if you are planning on going to this, go early to see the best and brightest. Public transportation busses are quite easy to catch. Look for the ones with the “P. Quemao” sign in the window; bus ride costs about $0.75 USD.

We did miss a lot of the flowers, but Dallas, I, and the rest of the crew buy up some fresh fruits and veggies to make lunch with and head back to the hostel, buying bread and pollo along the way. Halfway through lunch, Jasper shows up.

I have to leave to catch a plane soon, but it’s great to see a familiar face, so we take some time to catch up and I grab a taxi to the airport; which, by the way, is where all the famed beautiful Colombian women actually are… working at the airport.

The flight is fast and easy. When exiting the airport at Cali, grab the collective bus to the City bus terminal for about $2 USD. Then from there catch a taxi into town for around $3 USD. This will save you the $12+ USD fare for taxi from the airport to town.

Next stop: Iguana territory.

Posted on

Eating Giant Ants in Bucaramanga, Santander

Santander has been a running joke between me and a friend Jason in Arizona since we had to travel there for work a few years back. Bucaramanga is in the Santander district of Colomba.

When we arrive at the station, Carlos even goes to a store and buys me a container of fried ants and we eat them together along with a couple of guys from Holland. They taste rather like popcorn at first, then get a bit of a mineral or iron aftertaste. Also, one may wish to have a drink around as the pieces of the exoskeleton tend to linger.

I am staying in the worst part of town. Suprisingly, the hotel room is relatively clean and quiet. I need to pay the guy, so after stashing my bag, I take off in search of a cajero, and ATM. On the way, I manage to pick up a short bald guy named Bernardo and he gives me a guided tour of the city, entirely in Spanish, and then takes me to the ATM and to a good cheap restaurant for a gigantic steak and yucca. What an opener.

In the morning, now that I am actually in Bucaramanga and I have all the ants I could possible eat, I don’t really know what to do with myself. I do know that I am in desperate need of a haircut, so I wander back to where bald Bernardo’s barber, being part of the tour, is located.

I will reiterate, I love the barbers south of the border. I may never go to a salon again. The level of detail these people put in with that effing scary blade is startling. Once I am beautiful again, and covered in hair, I decide to walk around and find some food. There is a great place called something like Nutricom that has a fantastic lunch spread and an English speaking busboy for about $3. I just happened to be walking down a street and liked the placement of tomato on the sign.

Relatively unimpressed with Bucaramanga as a city, I am resigned to getting my bag and catching an all night bus to Bogota tonight. All over Colombia people stand around hooked up to cell phones on chains like some form of telcom octopus and charge people to use the telephone. A well placed call to Carlos, who works for a bus company, tells me that I can show up at the terminal every hour on the hour all night and catch a bus to Bogota.

As I am handing the phone back, and before I can pay, the young girl running the booth starts speaking to me in Spanish. “Yo quiero hablar con usted,” she says. Translated, I want to speak with you, sir.

Laura doesn’t speak any English, she understands a few lines pertaining to age, nationality, etc, but won’t speak anything other than Spanish. Lacking anything better to do, I just sit down on the curb next to her and spend roughly the next hour chatting and entertaining myself with her and her customers. Laura makes about $10 USD a day and she works four days a week, 14 hours a day, and attends college the other three days. She is 16 and she lives on her own. Knowing what little I know about the economical and social forces at work here, I am astounded and impressed by her fortitude and willingness to work so hard for what she wants.

At one point, another young girl with braces (veeeeery common in Colombia) walks up to me and begins speaking in English. She tells me it is truly dangerous for me to sit out on the street like I am. She can tell I have a camera and probably have money judging by the shoes I am wearing and that even in Broad daylight I am running the risk of being robbed every minute I just stand here. She is gracious and sincere and I can’t remember her name for the life of me. Given her warning I decide to go put away my stuff and figure out the rest of the day.

I’ve traveled around the city a good deal and through each city have kept my eyes open for a type of teas called aromaticas. They are supposed to be the real deal with herbs and plenty of local mojo. Finally, on a whim I dropped into a shop across from the Sagrada Familia and they have them! This thing smells awesome!

Visiting the Sagrada Familia in Bucaramanga takes a little less time and a good deal less money than visiting the slightly more popular partially constructed church of the same name in Barcelona. It seems to have gotten it’s name from the actual statues of the sacred family perched over the doorway.

By now I have stashed my bag at another less dodgy hotel and am mostly killing time till Igo to the bus station to head to Bogota. I wander back through the bad section of town to chill out with the phone girl and practice my Spanish. We kick around a cafe for a while and she starts asking me to translate rap and reggaeton lyrics for her. She helps me negotiate the taxi to the station and I make it about 15 minutes before the bus leaves.

This bus is effing cold.

Posted on

Wherefore art thou, Medellinas?

The bus ride is cold. As wonderfully congenial as Cindy and the rest of our staff were at getting us on the bus, they did nothing to prepare us for the hyperactive air conditioning. By the end of the night, I had pulled on a pair of pants to cover my legs, was wearing two bandanas, one on my head and one on my face, and had added a long sleeved shirt and my rain jacket to keep myself warm enough to sleep. I wish someone had taken a picture. I looked like a crazy person.

The night was pretty long and every time I woke up it looked like we were driving through clouds. Around 8 in the morning, the conductor woke everyone up for a breakfast break about 90 minutes from the Medellin bus station. Jasper, my traveling partner at the moment, and I are not really enticed by the “cooked” offerings at the roadside café, so he introduces me to a strange oatmeal/milk drink that is quite tasty and will soothe an empty stomach.

The bus ride in to the city shows a Jason Statham movie all in Spanish. Again, you really don’t need to hear the words to understand it. I love action shows.

The Medellin Metro system is unlike anything I have seen outside of dominant 1st world countries. It is spotlessly clean, runs on time, and has everything I would expect from announcers to proper signage. It even has a line that runs directly from the northern bus terminal where we are arriving that runs directly through the Poblado district where we’ll be staying. Since Jasper seems to have such a handle on things, I’m just going to crash at the same hostel he had picked out.

Medellin is similar to every other city I have visited in that no one knows where anything is. At least the people seem to know what street they are standing on.

Black Sheep hostel is outfitted for everything. It is a little hard to spot, because the only signage is a tile in the garden wall that has a cartoony black sheep drawn on it. I almost followed Jasper straight past it.

Black sheep has plenty of computers, a couple televisions, lots of sleepeing space and good wireless connectivity and speed everywhere. Wonder of wonders: they have REAL HOT WATER. Not the strange electrical showerheads by a gigantic water heater (or 3) that puts hot water to all the sinks and showers. It’s a miracle; just like Black Jesus.

It is also absolute chaos. There are nearly 40 people leaving this morning, so Jasper and I are left to wander and chill out for an hour or so until the egress has been processed. The owner, Kelvin, sets us up in a 4 bed room with no one else in it.

In Medellin, often in the afternoon they have a phenomenon they call a sunshower. This is simply a short rainstorm that pushes in and rains for 30-60 minutes and then is pushed out again by the sun. It’s quite nice and with the aid of my trusty umbrella, I decide to go exploring in a Colombian sunshower. There are plenty of people out walking and I find that they are constantly willing to smile back and offer kind words.

Much of the Poblado district looks similar to other places I have been, but they have fantastic murals in places. This one in particular I went back to find and take a picture of it. It was just too wild not to share. I can not stop laughing.

I mailed off some amazingly expensive postcards and went grocery shopping for the next couple days at a store similar to Wal-Mart called Exito. I have discovered how I will become filthy filthy rich. Cranberries sell for over $120,000 pesos per kilogram. That is over $60; about $30 a pound. All I have to do is create a demand and start shipping them down. Playboy Mansion, here I come.

Jasper has left by the time I return so I decide to set out, unsuccessfully, in search of a barber and coffee in the city center, Parque Berrio. The city center is decidedly unremarkable; except for this guy.

The only coffee to be had is from some strangely homeless looking guys walking around with carts and a thermos of brown liquid balanced atop. No, thanks. The super bonus surprise for the day is watching all the naked hobos bathing in the run off on the river banks while riding the Metro back to Poblado; sorry folks no pictures this time.

The night is pretty chill around Black Sheep. Some movies are played, the same 4 people that have been on the patio since I arrived are still sitting on the patio discussing something. I choose to make some guacamole out of the excellent array of vegetables I purchased earlier.

It is a hit, as usual. Jasper makes the comment that I will never lack for friends or company anywhere I go as long as I produce this guacamole. It is my own personal brand of How to Win Friends and Influence People. Also, they sell avocados here that are nearly the size of my face. I decided to experiment with two kinds of chips: SuperNacho vs. TacoNacho. Behold!

The morning brings lovely breakfast in the form of granola and lactose free milk that I found in Exito. There is a pot of coffee and a large container of sugar and ants next to it. I’m going to Bucaramanga soon specifically to eat large fried ants, so I figure, “who am I to turn my nose up at this?” Sugar and sugar ants alike go into my coffee. I am the Medicine Man.

Not that I don’t love Medicine Man Coffee, but Jasper has some friends at a hostel around the corner that really has what is called “onda” or a vibe. Pit Stop Hostel has exactly that. There is a bar on the premises, the girls working there are much cuter than Kelvin, there is a swimming pool; the list goes on. It really has some nice finishing touches that make it a more enjoyable place to be. The price is a little bit cheaper too, so the two of us move our stuff over there before taking off on an adventure.

Today, I am going to tag along with Jasper to check out the cable car that runs above the city. It is supposed to be quite a sight and even goes to a park of some repute at the top. As you can see, it is one heck of a view. We met a couple tour guide kids that tag teamed their story out, some wild taffy puller, and all manner of things.

The park at the top has been under construction for some time and, from what I can tell from talking to the locals, this section has only been open for 2 weeks. There is a lot going on, and some works well, and some does not. Jasper and I find a map that shows waterfall nearby and take off in search. Somehow I thought it would be bigger.

On the way back, we found a Boy Scout camp and several members of the Armed Forces out patrolling, assumedly to keep an eye out for FARC. They were pretty cool guys.

I am constantly bathed in warm smiles and half understood conversation. I start talking to some random old woman and she happens to have several friends nearby from South Carolina. They are native Colombians, but live in the US now. When they leave, a diminutive woman comes up and sits down with me and just starts talking away. She and her similarly dressed friends are members of a 50 and over women’s group that does nature walks and exercises together. Pretty rad people. They loved the two gringos.

Medellin is spoken of in every place in the world as a city of strikingly beautiful women. The rumor goes that the city is simply filled with them. I have not found this to be true. Perhaps it is because with very few exceptions, I have not historically been attracted to Latin American women. Not to say that the city is ugly. It is by far more attractive in populace than anywhere I have visited thus far in my trip this year.

The mayor, alcalde, here is doing some great things. They started a number of urban renewal projects in some of the most dangerous barrios in the city. Starting with this fantastic library, but continuing on to so many other things, including frisbee with some of the local kids.

In an effort to soak up some of the nightlife and people watch, Jasper and I head back to a Thai restaurant near Poblado and settle in for some grub. Jasper’s vegetarian Pad Thai is by far the best thing that hits the table. Also, 3 for 1 drinks will catch up with you, regardless of how strong they are.

Jasper and I spend the rest of the night wandering around this center of activity with bars and restaurants and a quite nice coffee bar and he tells me about what it means to be South American and in a place like this. This is a haven for conspicuous consumption. A South American person would not come to Juan Valdez Coffee and grab a cup to go. They would come here as a special trip and get coffee and sit near the sidewalk to be seen drinking said coffee. This sort of thing is a luxury. These relatively affordable restaurants are a place to go “be seen” and “be fabulous” there is no rush here, and if you look from the street a restaurant seems to be packed, but once you enter, it is only because everyone in the place has been seated right next to the sidewalk, while every other table in the place sits empty. This sort of thing blows my mind. I sit back and take a little time to evaluate my own behavior in life and see where I do similar things, either unconsciously or otherwise.

Everyone is talkative all day. People are walking up to us just rattling off whatever English they know. One young man walks up to Jasper out of the blue and says, “It was my pleasure” in heavily accented English, and then he walks away. As with most of my travels it seems that it is the young and the old that I really click with. Everyone in the middle of their lives, concerned with career/family/etc, seems to be uninterested or too busy to really make the attempt. This is not always the case, but it seems to be a majority thing. Regardless, Jasper and I both feel like rockstars today. I truly hope to be able to carry this feeling of camaraderie through the rest of my travels and even back to the U.S. eventually.

It is a long night of discussion and I finally get to bed late. Later than I should to catch an early bus tomorrow for Bucaramanga.

As it turns out, I do not make it to the early bus. I barely make it out of bed in what might still pass for the morning. Lucky for me, there is still some cereal leftover and a tiny bit of milk. The same cannot be said for the chips. Someone over the night ate all the remaining 2 bags of chips, drank most of the milk and ate some of the cereal. Lame.

For a total of 16,000 pesos, or a little over $8 USD, I managed to get 4 breakfasts, 2 for me and 2 for Jasper, and 2 dinners, Guacamole and chips, and feed an unknown person a rather large amount of food and make fast friends over guacamole. There is truly something to be said for having a well kept kitchen in the hostel. That is a fantastic money savings, when many single meals cost about half of that total.

Time to head to the bus. Again, on the way to the metro and all the way on the metro, jasper and I are attracting anyone and everyone who can speak a lick of English or simply wants to talk to the gringos. I’m heading out to Bucaramanga because I hear they eat giant fried ants there. Anyone who eats giant ants is a person I need to meet. Jasper is off to Mamisales, but forgot that he needed the southern bus terminal until he was at the north bus terminal with me. We say our goodbyes and it just so happens the bus is leaving 5 minutes after I purchased my ticket.

The ride through the mountains is excruciating. The driver is absolutely flying down these twished mountain roads and I am about to puke the entire time I am awake. I manage to fall asleep about 2 hours into the ride and am awakened when we stop at the three hour mark.

Talking to people is awesome. I walk up to a guy and ask him the name of the town we are in. He then proceeds to answer me in English, and asks me to sit next to him on the bus. For the next 6 hours, Carlos Mario and I are back and forth in English and Spanish speaking of everything we can possibly formulate into words; economics, good baby names, paintings, drug trafficking, tourism, FARC, the political system in modern day Colombia, education, simply everything. Carlos gives me his card and tells me if I ever need anything in Colombia that I should call him. I could not have asked for a better day.

Posted on

Exit Panama, Enter Colombia.

The heat of the day doesn’t fade completely during the night, but 100 feet from the ocean as I am, the evening is quite palatable. Fresco, as the locals say. The howls of the street have dwindled to almost nothing and in the far corner of the hostel away from the others, I can almost imagine that anything about my life is normal right now. Almost.

Sleep is broken. I feel a little funny. I think it has something to do with the barista that was sneezing and wiping her nose repeatedly while giving me coffee and change from a $20 bill. Panama’s official currency is the US Dollar. They mint their own coins, but there are exactly the same as US coins, just different pictures. I think they are called Balboas, after a fuzzy wuzzy who magicked the religiousity of the public transportation or something.

It’s not long after taking out my earplugs I am prone to sleeping with that the howls, jeers, and inarticulate guttural belching of the locals wafts up to my window along with the scent of urine from the street. Funny thing about Panamanian Spanish. Everyone seems to have completely lost the letter “S” from their vocabulary. Odd thing to lose in a language whose name begins with that sound.

I just saw a guy with a Tarheels shirt walk by.

I’ve taken up trying to do a video diary once a day. Keep up on things… have a record of just how disreputable I look. I won’t be doing it this morning as, even though the light from the window is decent, the noise of the men whose full time job is seems is standing, shouting, and urinating in the street below, is a bit too loud for me to hear myself on the recording.

Onward! I have a full day planned. Today is to be my last day in the United States of Panama. I need to go procure some westernized goodies at the oversized mall/bus terminal before I head down to the uncivilized aboriginal South America; such as it is. I should probably stock up on toilet paper. The more I look around, the more I realize I have become too dependent on Target to operate effectively in the outside world.

First things first; I need to mail some things back to the States since I won’t need it in South America and I don’t feel like lugging it around. The front desk girl at my hotel doesn’t speak (or even like) English, so I get my big bag packed, grab my day bag and head out.

I wander up to Luna’s Castle, the reigning hostel in this region of the world for good reason. I swing in and ask the front desk girl where the nearest post office is to mail some things and she obligingly writes the address down on a piece of scratch paper. Walking outside, I find an equally obliging cab driver who agrees to drive me there. He does so, I pay him, I get out, he drives away.

Today is Saturday.

The mail is not open in this, or any other Central American, country. I have to assume that this is common knowledge to the front desk girl who simply forgot. I have to assume that this is common knowledge to the cab driver who was only too happy to take my money. The day starts off at a $6 deficit for round trip cab fares.

Ok, time for breakfast. Café Coca-Cola provides yet again lackluster food, but quickly and for a low price. Quite dependable, really.

Upon return to Luna’s Castle the same girl is running the front desk. I smile.

“Well, that was fun, but perhaps I should have been more specific. Now, is there a post office that is actually open today where I can mail this stuff?”

Her eyes get very wide and she suddenly sits up very straight; her game of Farmville temporarily forgotten.

“Oh, no! I forgot it was Saturday!” and I know she is telling the truth. She is kind enough to look up another shipping place and verify that it is open this morning.

DHL, here I come. Only DHL is not in the place that she told me it would be. A couple more cab rides and I arrive at the DHL office to be told that I can ship these few books back to the states for the low low price of $123.83 USD. Eh, no thanks.

$13 in cab rides so far, with nothing accomplished. I’m not having much luck with the public transportation in Panama City. I have a nerve pinched in my back to the left of the spine and in between my shoulder blades. This is a recurring thing, I need someone to crack my back. The chiropractor once fulfilled this need. There are none to be had, but there is an ad for massages on the counter at Luna’s. I am informed Laura, the massage therapist, will be in around noon so I settle in to wait; researching hostels and housing in Cartagena, Colombia as I do.

I made a dozen or so inquiries into couchsurfing in Cartagena yesterday with no success. I did get one reply, however, directing me to inquire with a hostel named San Roque. Luckily, they have a room ready for me and are awaiting my arrival at all hours. Honorable mention for my round of phone calls goes to Casa Viena who despite not having any room told me I could show up and they would help me find a place. That is what a backpacker hostel is all about; that tiny little feeling that even though you are a million miles from home and anyone you know, you are not alone.

When researching hostels in another country, I have found two somewhat unpredictable sources of information that have been a big help. Couchsurfers, and TripAdvisor.com user reviews. You are never guaranteed a hit, but often there is detailed, solid information to be had. The grain of salt to take with the trip advisor reviews is that when some people hit a hostel for the first time without knowing what to expect, they will give a big negative review, but they are easy to spot. Just look for a line akin to: “They didn’t even give me soap” or “I had to pay to rent a towel.”

I have three pairs of earbuds now after a recent trip to the mall. They cost $1, $5, and $12 respectively. They are each worth about what I paid for them. Amazon.com doesn’t ship to Colombia, so it appears I may be without any good headphones for some time. Oh, that reminds me. Go Craigslist.

Last night I jumped on Craigslist, after the disappointing smashed camera incident, and found someone selling a spare canon lens for $20. It’s not new or beautiful, but it works and will certainly do in a pinch. I’m still not going to use the Rebel as a daily picture taker, but it’s good to know I have it if I need it.

In my search for a daily camera I have come across the Olympus Stylus-Tough. Anyone who knows me knows that I am extremely hard on cameras. In my heyday I went through 7 cameras in about 12 months. Not good. I figure if I drop a little extra money on a camera that is designed to take a lickin and keep on tickin, I may be well rewarded.

Still no Laura.

The front desk attendant, hilarious though I never catch her name, calls Laura to find out what happened. Then puts me on the phone with her. This is unprecedented customer service. Laura won’t be in until after 1 p.m. so I have some time to kill. Time to catch a cab to the mall to purchase the Stylus-Tough. A quick check of my finances reveals that I am good, but not great.

Upon arriving at the mall, I head straight for a shop I bought earbuds at, Multimax! They have the camera in stock, though it is a bit overpriced. I decide to go for it, but notice one thing. It doesn’t use the memory I have. I would need to buy all new memory cards to go with it as well. That’s a deal breaker. I spend a few more minutes walking around to other stores and cannot find a suitable substitute, so I head back to Luna’s to get my back cracked.

Laura is great! One of the most genuinely friendly and warm people I have met. She knows all manner of tricks and really enjoys her massage. I learn she is from Texas, is the General Manager for Luna’s and also the barber… barbera… barbaria… she cuts hair. My muscles are in heaven by the time she is done. Unfortunately, she just doesn’t put enough muscle in to crack my back, and the pinch is still there. Ah well, it’s getting on in the day and I need to do some more shopping.

Walking the Albrook Mall quickly turns into just walking. I never find a suitable camera or anything else on my list for that matter. Panama City is a small place for taxi drivers. I saw the taxi driver who took me to the closed post office this morning later in the day. He even had the balls to ask me if I got my stuff mailed. Also, after bargaining with a certain cabbie in a red hat, he called me something like “duro de piedro” hard as a rock since I wouldn’t take his crappy prices. I saw him and negotiated three more cheap rides from him today. Eventually, arranging for him to pick me up and take me to the airport.

The whole ride to Tocumen International Airport, my cabbie was singing whatever song came across the radio at the top of his lungs, stopping only to ask me questions I couldn’t understand and to hit on the girls at the tollbooths. The evening air is lovely and it feels good to be leaving Panama.

Cool thing about Panama City airport, you can take water through security with you. Even open water bottles, as I did today.

I did see some interesting things today. Ghetto Santa. One legged man jumping around in circles in traffic looking for tips; perhaps that’s how he lost the first one. Lookalike to my playmate ex-girlfriend. Some beautiful views of the Pacific Ocean. A duty free store that charges more than the regular stores by a rather LARGE margin. The effects of crack on Panamanians. Even star shaped fried bananas.

I have to give a big shout out to Aromas café in Casco Viejo. That restaurant consistently served up fantastic food fixins for decent prices and stellar customer service. Try the Pollo a la criolla and you will not be disappointed. You may even sing the cooks praises, like I did. But you may just want to leave that up to me. I am quite the praise singer.

The trip to Colombia is nowhere near as difficult as everything I have read made it out to be. A little patience and a little smile combined with a lot of money will get you into the country. I paid over $230 for my ticket. Somewhere over $60 of that was just fees. One of our traveling partners was able to purchase his ticket online (I received a message saying I had to go to the airport) for around $150. There is a rule somewhere that governs this sort of thing but I don’t know what it is.

You can carry a total of 20 kilos or 44 pounds in your checked baggage. You are allowed 10 kilos, or 22 pounds in your carryon. In most modern planes, I don’t think this is an issue. As our plane from Panama to Colombia was an old propeller style plane, I think this whole weight thing may have come in to play.

Immigration is cool once again, as long as I best guess everything, they skate me through. Customs official takes one look at me and doesn’t even touch my bag, he simply waves me on through. Getting into Colombia was one of the easiest border crossings I have done.

The heat and humidity are amazing. It’s 11:30 at night and I am sweating. The ride to the hotel unveils that the taxi drivers here are the same as everywhere else. Prostitutes are plentiful and Colombian women seem to be much fatter than their Panamanian neighbors. As the Film Festival is just ending, there are a number of foreigners out mingling.

Wandering around Getsemani at night is technically a no-no. The guy at the hotel says as long as I don’t go down a certain street then I will be ok, but he doesn’t clearly define what that street is. I’m pretty sure I’ll be ok. I wander from club to club and manage to talk to a couple of Europeans, but everyone else is either dancing or otherwise engaged. I understand why everyone stays up until 3,4, even 6 a.m. Because that is the only part of the day that is enjoyable. Even the late evening is just too stupid hot.

It’s quite pleasant around 3 a.m. by the time I tuck myself into bed. I don’t get up until after 11 the following morning.

Two years and two weeks ago a person very close to me was killed. Today is his birthday. I spend the next couple hours just thinking about what this means and will spend the remainder of the day in contemplation. This doesn’t mean I should stay in, though.

Today is a day of experimentation. As I have had woes with cameras and would still like to figure out a way to preserve some visual record of these travels, I have decided to see what I can do with my dive camera and a mini tripod. The rest of the pictures from today are from that setup. Let me know what you think.

One thing I saw on the way into town last night was a big castle on the hill outside town; lit up like a Christmas tree. I’ve decided to go up there today and take a look.

This castle was built a while ago and has a wild tunnel system running through it. It is cramped and ugly, and the deeper you go, the more slick the floors get. There are sections of the tunnels that have lights, and there are large sections that are unlit. If you have a flashlight in your pack (thanks, Joe) like me, this is not a problem. It is super creepy though.

Walking around town, I am reminded of Pamplona. One can tell this city was built on Spanish influence. Strange that a few blocks after thinking that, I came across three hombres dressed like runners! Also, note how unccomfortable this photographer looks.

After weighing in on a long running chess match, I decided to go get some food. Only problem is that 90% of the restaurants are not open on Sunday. I really need to start paying more attention. If you are ever in Getsemani, Cartagena, give the coffee at Hostel media Luna a pass, twice today it seems to have fueled a headache for me. But definitely go down calle triplita y media and go to Restaurante Coroncoro. They make a fantastic horse steak. Yeah… horse.

Jasper is a guy of unknown origin who I met this afternoon while eating breakfast before the castle. Jasper has come up from southern chile and argentina over the last 6 months going in reverse up the same route I will be going down. He and I rapped for a good length of time and I decided to catch the overnight bus to Merellin with him tonight and save the cost of a hotel and save myself the 12 hours of sunlight that the day bus would eat up. Here goes.