Back in the "West"

We left the small, primitive town of Tierradentro, where we spent two days hiking the mountains to see underground tombs from the 3rd to 9th centuries. We stayed at the Hospedaje Lucern, and indeed there was a poster of Lucern, Switzerland inside. Our room there and in San Agustin was OK. The hotel owners were an elderly hobbitlike couple, absolutely adorable.

But we have now been in two hostels, one run by a Scottish couple, one by a Dutch guy, with immaculate kitchens, and smooth, consistent pillows that don't feel like clotted cream. The sheets stay tucked in. I feel like I'm back in the West.

But that's the wrong word. I always was in the West! I'm back in the North American - European - Australian paradigm. I don't know what else to call it, but it sure feels good when my head caresses the pillow at night.

Career Counseling

Jose is a 19-year-old who works for the hotel owner at our San Agustin family-run hotel. He's very friendly and helpful, and last night we started chatting. I asked if he was in college. He said his family couldn’t afford it (although public universities here are basically free), and besides, he didn't want to leave the countryside.

"What do you see yourself doing in five years?" I asked.

He told me his parents own a coffee farm just outside of town, and he likes helping to produce coffee, plus he earns more doing that than at the hotel. But he has also bought some land near his parents’ coffee farm, very calm and tranquilo, and he is building a cabin to rent to foreign tourists. He explained the design plan: three bedrooms, living room, TV, kitchen.

"Great idea!" I said. "I think more and more tourists will be coming to this area, and you'll be able to make a good living working with tourists."

"I also bought a bull recently," he added. The first of a herd.

"You’re really an entrepreneur!" I said. "My husband and I both work for ourselves too. Would you like my thoughts on how to be successful?"

"Yes!" He seemed very excited to hear my ideas.

I said, "In your tourist cabin, I'd skip the TV and instead offer wifi. If you were targeting Colombian tourists, it might be different, but foreign visitors are far more interested in internet access than watching Colombian TV. It’s funny, every hotel we stay in has TV, but a lot of them don't offer wifi. Yet tourists don't come here to watch TV. The quality of European TV especially is generally very high, so they might not find Colombian TV that great." I was wallowing in these last words, regretting saying them, thinking they might sound offensive.

Jose said he thought wifi would be hard to offer because San Agustin is so remote.

"True," I agreed, "but the capacity will come. And also," I said, "I'd learn some basic English." He made a face. "I know, it’s a pain," I said, "but not everyone who comes here speaks Spanish and it will give you an advantage." Just then a friend of the hotel owner came in and introduced himself, immediately plunging into English, telling me he was a hairstylist and guitar player. "I'm learning English at the college," he said, "so I can understand tourists."

"You're just the testimonial I was looking for," I said. "See?" I said to Jose. "He's studying English."

Later that night at the internet center I asked the girl working there about Colombian TV. I was feeling badly about sounding negative when I really I know zero about it. "We have a lot of telenovelas (soap operas)," she said, pointing to the TV screen perched high on a wall. Characters in elaborate 18th century period costumes were speaking melodramatically. "And we have one channel about the country and one about animals." She paused. "But really, a lot of telenovelas."

I woke up thinking about Jose’s vision and decided his cabin would even better with a terrace or balcony. Our hotel room has a nice window, but would be more attractive with a balcony to enjoy our morning coffee or evening copita. In the morning, I'll suggest that to Jose.

These conversations are so much fun. Knowing Spanish helps, and I don't minimize that. But even Barry, whose Spanish is weaker than mine, just jumps in. It makes me feel more involved to talk with people. We find taxi drivers, tour operators, and hotel staff are easy "targets" (!) And they seem to enjoy it too.

Marino

We are now in San Agustin, a remote town in southern Colombia. Just getting here ws a feat. Eight hours by bus to go 75 miles! The poor gravel road was the main reason, but the bus also had mechanical problems, which slowed us down...like about two hours. Fortunately our driver was also a mechanic. Despite the ride, I’m thrilled we’re here. We went on a jeep tour yesterday and saw the narrows of the Rio Magdalena, two waterfalls, and two sets of archeological ruins set on on beautifully landscaped grassy swaths that the ancients themselves designed.

But one of the best "features" of the tour was our driver, Marino, a cheerful, informative guy who likes working with tourists, and sharing the area he loves. The three Italians on the tour, Barry and I asked him about the guerrillas, his salary ($11/day, and not a taboo subject here), his family life. While gazing at a waterfall, I asked him what he does each day after the tour. "Wash the jeep," he reported. "Everyday? Inside and out?"

"Well, it depends on how wet the road has been that day."

At one point Barry and I were in the jeep waiting for the Italians. Marino had already once sounded the call, his usual, "Bueno, chicos, vamonos," to no avail. He asked us how you get people to come back.

I launched into my speech on credibility, the talk I gave throughout the 90s to professional groups. I said, "You have to get out of the car, walk over to them, speak with authority, and say, 'Guys, time to go.'"

"Or," Barry said, "you can just do this." He reached around Marino, over to the steering wheel, and beeped the horn. All three Italians immediately jumped, turned around and started towards the jeep.

We burst into laughter. "It was him, not me!" protested Marino, a little embarrassed.

What I See That She Does Not

The noise of traffic. Not just the same din, but every particular beep, the roar of acceleration, the screaming trucks and buses pounding down the streets. The rap music in our hostel. The voices of backpackers paying their bills. The Spanish heard and spoken. Yellow waitress caps. Sweet breaded pastries. Scrambled eggs with onions and tomatoes. Milky coffee. Narrow sidewalks. People walking. Cleavages. Clouds giving way to sunshine. Rain clapping down on rooftops and then gentle as leaves dropping. A baby cries and cries and just as suddenly stops. Raucous voice, cooing voices, plaintive voices. Rust orange and Latin pink and green resurrection green. I wonder what was the last color Arabella was aware of when she took her final breath? Was it red, like the ruby ring Mother gave her in childhood? Was her mind all aswirl and fuzzy those last seconds, or did she have a pointed focus? Was she leaving or arriving? Departing or embarking?

Dusk, night, lights on, lights off. Potted palms. The shock of sewage as it hits the nostrils. Ants, mosquitos, dogs. Ice cream. How can all these things be so alive and real and pungent, yet she is not here to inhale them? Not only is she not here, in those last moments she seemed so ready and willing to let go of them all. How? She left behind so much!

She wouldn't be here in Colombia if she were alive. She'd be in New York City, exposed to the same mix of dogs barking and strewn trash and dawn emerging. But she's not in New York City. How can this be? Over a year later, I still ponder the mystery.

Volcano!

Yesterday was one of the most physically challenging days of my life. We climbed a volcano called Purace, in yet another national park near here. (I'm impressed with the number of national parks Colombia has. Every area we've visited has had a park).

We took the 5:00 a.m. bus from Popayan, got off at 6:30, and walked half an hour up a gravel road to the park headquarters. All national parks in Colombia charge foreigners 19,000 pesos (or about $12) entrance fee, but we learned at the last national park we visited that if we bring our passports and can prove our ages, we are eligible for the senior discount.

The park ranger had climbed the volcano with his father since boyhood, and was enthusiastic. He even walked us five minutes along the trail to get us going. "Have you climbed summits before?" he asked. "Oh yes," we reassured him. "Lots of times!"

Easy words. From the very beginning, I found it hard going. I had forgotten that simple physical reality known as elevation. Popayan is at 1760 meters, the park headquarters where we started at 3350, and the volcano crater at 4760. Translated into feet, Popayan is at 5800', the park headquarters 11,000', and the crater at 15,600'. So we would be almost 10,000' higher than what we were used to.

We were not alone. At 5:30 that morning (two hours before us) a group of 33 from Cali had set off together, and a French couple started more or less with us.

The countryside was gentle and farmlike at the bottom, becoming increasingly steep, desolate and rocky. Sometimes I felt like I was trudging, one foot after the other. We had to rest at various points. It was hard work!

We reached a plateau, the low point of the crater rim, around 11:00 a.m., and then walked around the crater to the high point, watching rocks tumbling down the crater creating balls of dust as they accelerated. We could see vistas from both sides: the crater on one side, and sweeping valleys on the other.

As we started down, three people we had passed earlier reached the crater. One of the women burst into tears and got hugs from everyone. I think she was just overwhelmed by how challenging it had been. I kept thinking of her on the way down, wondering if her ecstacy at reaching the top might have dulled her awareness that descending wouldn't be much easier. It wasn't easier for me-- just a different kind of challenge. The upper stretches of the volcano hike were very steep and slippery. Plus I had developed an altitude headache that didn't fade even back in town, and we both felt nausea, though neither of us got sick.

We had just missed the bus when we got back to the park entrance, but as is our experience in countries like Colombia, you can forage rides this way and that. We got a ride in a van with a huge family (grandparents in the front, parents in the back, children of all ages from a baby to kids to young adults, plus us, all somehow sandwiched in the middle). That got us to a town about 40 minutes from the park, where the father pointed to a guy across the street and said, "He'll give you a ride!" Sure enough, our "pirate" taxista drove up and down the main street of town beeping, busking for passengers, finding two other adults and a kid, and drove us the last hour to Popayan for $3 each (well, that's what we paid, I suspect the locals paid less).

Back at our hostel, I took an ibuprofein, had a shower, then lay in bed wearing Barry's noise-cancelling earphones (well worth their weight here!). Two hours later, I was up for an Italian dinner.

Conversation in a Shop

In Popoyan, as in other Colombian towns, shopping streets seem to be categorized by what they sell. On one block are the shoe stores, on another the fabric shops, on another stationery, on another kitchenware.

I wandered into one of the kitchen shops. Almost immediately I was approached by a salesperson, saying, "A la orden?" (meaning, "At your service.") In general, in Colombia I find customer service to be very good. Someone immediately approaches me, I rarely wait. This is not the case in Mexico, where people often wait patiently for service.

In the kitchen shop, soon after I was approached, I was asked the usual questions:

How long are you in Colombia?
What do you think of Colombia?
Where have you been so far?
Where are you from?

People here are friendly and curious.

I answered all the questions. Then the guy I was talking with called to someone else, telling him to come on over and practice his English with me.

The new guy came over and we chatted for a bit. Then he said, "Which is more polite to say, "Get lost!," or "Beat it!"?

"Neither one is very polite," I* said. "Who would you be saying it to?"

"My uncle," he said, pointing to the first guy who had called him over. I wasn't sure he understood my question, since he and his uncle seemed on friendly terms. "I guess you might use one of those phrases with a very good friend," I said dubiously, thinking about how guys treat each other with a rough banter that women never use.

"But what would be a more polite way of saying it?"

"You might say, 'Please give me some space,'" I said, translating it into Spanish, adding "That's an idiom."

Now I wonder, where did that question come from? I wish I had asked.

People are so open here! Especially in Popoyan, where I suspect few tourists come. I said to Barry last night, "This is the kind of town where a tourist will pounce upon another tourist and say, "You speak English! or, "You're from somewhere!" There's a kind of innocence all over Colombia, but especially here in popayan.

Noise

So we leapt across the country, from Cartagena in the north, to Popayan in the south, a town that our Lonely Planet guide made sound like a whitewashed romantic village. (I am a bit cynical about the Lonely Planet.) It is true that Popayan's historic district is painted all white, but it is not particularly romantic. It is thronged with people, cars, and motorbikes that scream at you with loud beeps. Streets are narrow, built for horses (which you still see here); sidewalks are even narrower. Colombia does not dedicate large portions of its centros to pedestrians, as Mexico does, and traffic rules.

If there's traffic noise outside, there's usually music inside. So I'm sitting here, even in the hostel where we're staying, wearing Barry's super-duper earphones that block out a lot of noise. It's astonishing, the difference. Noise is the one external stimulus I seem to have no power over; I get so agitated by it. Last night, in our former hotel, I barely slept, between the traffic noise and coffee.

I remember meeting a couple in the Bay Area years ago who told me their dream was to retire somewhere in the calmer, less competitive underdeveloped world, away from high-stress Silicon Valley. "Calmer? Are you kidding?" I said. "Cars without mufflers? Noise? Crowds?"

I asked Barry his engineer's opinion on why there is so much less noise on U.S. streets. "American streets are wider," he said.

"But in Old Town (where we live in Eureka) they're narrow," I argued. Still, we have less traffic in Eureka than we've seen in most Colombian towns, and cars move more slowly. Motorbikes, the poor person's mode of transit, make a lot of noise.

I do not know whether Latinos love sound intrinsically, or have just grown used to it. I do remember a Spanish teacher in Oaxaca years ago telling me that while she went through her daily activities, she had to have some kind of background sound, silence was unbearable. I'm the opposite. I'm probably one of the most a-musical people I know. No wonder this part of the world brings up challenges for me!

The World Is Getting Fatter

I've been surprised by the number of heavy people I've seen since we arrived in Colombia. I'm used to it in the USA, England (where we visit semi-regularly, because Barry's family lives there) and Mexico (which has one of the highest diabetes rates in the world), but I did not expect it here. But many many folks we see, both Colombians and tourists, are overweight. As the book title says, "the world is getting fatter."

I was especially surprised a couple of weeks ago, when we met two Swedish women in their twenties. The Swedes I've met during my traveling career seemed to always come with lithe, fashion-magazine bodies. In my mind, it was part of the Swede "package." But these two (though they had the blonde hair, true to the package) were as pudgy as everyone else.

Last night an Argentine family arrived at our hotel. Both the parents and the husband's cousins were heavy.

Like Mexicxo, Colombia excels in fried street food. I haven't sampled much of it because most of it is meat-based. But it sure looks delectable in that fatty, greasy (yum!) way. But Mexica and I assume, Colombia has always offered fried food from street vewndors, so just the existence of it doesn't make the case for greater obesity. In Mexico, the growing overweight of the population is much discussed in the media, and in fact, Mexico City has just embarked on a bicycle-rental program. I have not seen any such concern in the press here.

At least it's not just a problem in the States.

Cartagena

We had heard Cartagena was the most beautiful city in the Americas. So of course, we came. The drive from the bus station to the city did not make it look extraordinary. But after we settled in, we started walking around, and sure enough, it is beautiful, and very reminscent of New Orleans. Pastel-colored buildings (paint colors softer than Mexico), balconies with trellises, narrow streets, old buildings, courtyards, tiny walkways that appear out of nowhere. Plus, of course, the old city walls that we had to walk on.

The city has the same faded beauty I remember from New Orleans. Each corner offer a zillion photo opportunities. Lovely.

One of the things we notice, all over Caribbean Colombia, is the increase in black people. But what´s also noticeable is the ease between races. We had read in our guidebook that there is very little racism in Colombia, and I pick up on that physically. It's wonderful to be in a community where I don't sense hostility.

Yesterday Barry suggested we eat lunch at an Indian restaurant he had spotted. Indian? I was pumped. One thing we have not seen anywhere in Colombia is ethnically diverse restaurants. So we walked from one end of Old Town to the other looking for it, headed down a little corridor off the street to the restaurant, and sat down at a patio table, only to discover it was a restaurant called ¨"Caribe de las Indias," a play on Cartagena's name. Nothing to do with East India! Instead it was same old: rice, a patch of lettuce, and fish. And a Club de Colombia beer that we split, and mango juice. (Not too shabby, even if it wasn't aloe gobi!)

The Fantasy of Stopping

So I mentioned in my last post that I told Barry I was ready to stop.

After several weeks of traveling on buses and shopping for hotels, just stopping for awhile sounds idyllic. My fantasy is this: Barry and I find a comfortable, pretty town, with a simple place to base ourselves. Maybe it's a hotel room with kitchen facilities. Maybe it's a studio apartment. We take walks, we swim, we write, I shop for food and cook, we meet folks, we invite them over for a drink or a meal.

It sounds cozy. It sounds comfortable. It sounds like Eureka!

I miss our cozy apartment in Eureka. Enjoying our late-afternoon glass of wine, looking out at our neighbor apartments. Dipping down to the hot tub once, twice, or several times a day. Cooking up one of my one-pot stews, while Barry watches the Simpsons, three yards away. (Funny. I love our life in Mexico, but right now it's the coziness of our life and home in Old Town that call me). We are at the midway point of our trip. We've been in Colombia for three weeks, and we have another three weeks to go. My mind doesn't absorb this information easily. Three weeks? I think. What on earth will we do all that time?

I know what we'll do. More of the same, pretty much, and the same is good. It's just that at a certain point, my mind rebels. What is all this for? I ask myself. What's the point? What good is it doing anyone? Remind me again, why am I in Colombia?

It was your decision, I tell myself (sternly). You can't blame Barry (God, how I'd love to!) An old drama, blaming him because I'm in some country and I forget why I'm there. But in this case. I chose the country and I chose the dates. Damn!

I always go through this. It's nothing new. And oddly, though I say I want to stop, I'm often the first of us to say, "Let's move on."

The only remedy is to take the next step, whatever that is. Right now the next step is to wake Barry, who is in our dark room and won't wake by himself, and doesn't like to sleep late.

OK, that's what I'll do. Go wake him, make us coffee, go to the store for yogurt, come back, we'll have breakfast, then stroll around Cartagena (which reminded me last night strongly of New Orleans, where I went to college), and surrender to the day.

Santa Marta

We spent four days in Santa Marta, a city of mixed blessings.

We found a hotel we liked, with both a private balcony and a nearby expanded balcony, a kitchen, and very warm hotel staff. Location: a block from the beach. Price: $18 for the room.

The beach was urban. Every morning, during our pre-breakfast swim, we could watch all kinds of marine activity in the harbor. The last morning we watched a cruise ship slowly "stroll" in. Dramatic! I far prefer an interesting, active beach to one which is supposedly beautiful, but where nothing happens. There was a nearby yacht harbor and a pier under construction (I dove off the rocks, but the pier itself was off limits).

Interesting places abound around Santa Marta. One day we went to Minca, a small village in the hills outside of town, not really on the tourist circuit yet. Sat on the verandah of the newest hostel (bought five months ago by an English couple), enjoying a cup of coffee overlooking the valley below. Walked to a swimming hole out of town, which we had to ourselves! A cold pool next to a waterfall-- we could swim over to the falls and be carried back by the force of the water. Delicious.

The next day we took the bus to Tayrona National Park, hiking along muddy paths and beach to our goal, a famously beautiful beach called Cabo San Juan. Beautiful rock promontories and lookouts, yes. But, no freighters or tugboats to watch. It was us and everyone else. Miami Beach. The previous day, sharing a cab with three young women from Argentina, they had said we had to see Cabo San Juan, we couldn't miss it! But we know spectacular beaches all up and down the California coast, including beaches in Humboldt, so maybe I'm spoilt.

Anyway, as I was saying, Santa Marta was a mixed blessing. It's a very gritty city. packed with street vendors, usually mobile, walking or wheeling around selling liquids, spotty fruit (sorry, but the mandarins in the supermarket are fresher), pastries, etc. I see all this street selling as a sign of greater poverty in this part of Colombia, but Barry thinks they must be making a living or they wouldn't be doing it. The city is also noticeably dirtier than the interior part of the country where we've been, with more litter and ramshackle housing.

I also had trouble with restaurants. When I travel I look forward to the evening meal as a time to relax and talk about the day. But the music was so loud in all the restaurants we went to that it was an effort to keep up conversation. The last day I made rice and veggies in the hotel kitchen and we ate up on the terrace.

People in the interior did alert us that the Caribbean is a very distinct part of Colombia, and to be careful of theft. I read an article in a news magazine saying that the leaders of the Caribbean counties wanted much more autonomy and power in Bogota. Quebec and the Basques were cited as models. I asked our hotel staff about an independence movement but they had never heard of it!

I told Barry that I was ready to stop for awhile, but Santa Marta didn't feel like the right place. I'm not sure anywhere on the Caribbean is the right place, just because of the heat and humidity. But we can't leave this area without going to Cartagena, said to be the most beautiful city in the Americas.

Onwards to Cartagena de las Indias, then (the West Indies, it means).

A Well-Earned Beer

It was a long day. We left our San Gil hotel--with our spacious airy room and the great hotel guy, Freddy-- and took a bus one hour to the nearby equivalent of the Grand Canyon--Parque Nacional del Chicamocha. I'm sure it's not as big as the GC, but it looks huge and has two rivers at the bottom creating not one but two gorges. We had hoped to do some hiking but it wasn't set up that way, especially not for only a few hours. So we succumbed to the 'teleferico' (an aerial tramway going down down down one side and up up up the other). The cable car ride was four miles long, from one rim to the other--one of the longest in the world, according to our brochure.

We were stuck on the other side for two hours due to maintenance work, but had fun on the return trip chatting with four guys sharing our cable car, who turned out to be old friends from grade school, now working for the Colombian military and enjoying a weekend reunion.I asked them the question I ask a lot of people, but I was particularly interested in these guys' response because of their profession: "What do you think Mexico should do to overcome its drug problem?"

"Professionalize the police and give them a lot of training, especially in counter-terrorism," was the main answer. They sounded very intelligent and convincing. I know from a colleague in Mexico that police are poorly educated, paid and trained.

Then we went to a sculpture in the park honoring the Colombian Revolution, designed and created by a Bogota sculptor and his team of 400 assistants in a period of three years. For someone as disdainful (or hostile, really) to nationalism as I am, I was surprisingly moved by the beautiful sculpted figures representing archetypal historic individuals fighting for Colombia's freedom 200 years ago.

Barry topped it all off by signing up for a three-minute zipline in the park, but I'd had enough adventures for a few days.

Then we caught another bus for another hour + to Bucamaranga, a city of about 1 1/2 million, followed by a taxi to the airport where we were to fly to Santa Marta, on Colombia's Caribbean coast. Colombia has several budget airlines and we flew one of them, Easyfly. The plane was 1 1/2 hours late, with no written or even oral advisories, so we were all sitting around cluelessly. When the flight did show up, the crew ended up having to order a replacement plane due to some kind of mechanical problem. At least we did take off, finally.

Another hour later, we landed at Santa Marta, the oldest city in South America. By now we had made friends with Jutta from Munich and Francesca from Alsace, France, so we all shared a taxi into the centro of Santa Marta. It was now about 9:00 p.m. On the drive into town, our taxi driver told us that the next day, the whole of the city would participate in a "Paro" (shutdown). All businesses and transport would stop as a protest against the corruption and mismanagement of the city government. With that news, three of the four of us decided to have the taxista (driver) take us on to the nearby fishing village of Taganga, where we had hoped to end up but not that night, since we were already tired. We dropped Jutta off at the hotel we had planned to go to, and headed off for Taganga.

Taganga wasn't far, but we spent a frustrating hour and a half going from hotel to hostel to hotel, looking for rooms and finding nothing, even though this is not theoretically the high season. The poor driver. Many of the roads are unpaved anyway, but after the heavy rains and flooding earlier this winter, you needed a 4-wheel drive to get through. He earned his pay that night.

Finally, worn out, we decided to drive back to the hotel in Santa Marta where we had left Jutta. She was sitting in the reception area and greeted us half-crying, half-laughing: moments after our taxi had left, she realized she had left her small backpack (with netbook and camera) in the trunk of the cab; she had been a bit freaked out realizing the street where the hotel was located, was swarming with prostitutes. None of us had noticed the extra backpack. Frantically she had emailed us, but had no other recourse, until, providentially, we returned.

While the taxi driver asked the hotel guy for some water, we all stood around laughing at the way the day had turned out and rejoicing that we all had a place to sleep. "God is blessing us all," I said to the taxista, as he headed home for the night.

The hotel rooms were cell-like and tiny, and we moved on the next day to a nicer hotel on a nicer street, but first we all went out for a beer on the beach. Never had a beer tasted so good!

The Adventures Never End

Today we rappelled down a 200 ft waterfall! Insane! The cascading water was hitting us like bullets while we tried to keep ourselves on track. It only lasted about ten minutes in real time but I felt on another time plane. Afterwards I swam and dove in the pool below the waterfall.

Between whitewater rafting, caving, torrentismo (today's waterfall rappelling) and tubing down a natural waterslide--it's been a wild week.

Meanwhile an ancient family drama involving Barry's first marriage has resurfaced. It's surreal reading details online that go back 30 years, while we're here enjoying vibrant Colombia. Such is the internet, for better or worse. The drama is not getting to either of us. On the plus side, I called my 89-year-old dad on Skype just to hear his voice and that was wonderful.

And tomorrow, we head for the coast! Colombia has both an Atlantic Coast (beyond the Panema strip), and a Pacific Coast. We're heading to a beach city called Santa Marta. Had planned to bus it but due to heavy winter flooding, many roadblocks are making a long trip even longer, so we are splurging on a flight.

A Leap in the Dark

The last couple of days Barry and I have filled up on adventure sports: river-rafting (Class III rapids, sounded calm but was quite turbulent in places); tubing down natural water slides; and the best of the lot, caving.

We bought our ticket for the caving guide through the "Planeta Azul" extreme sports agency in San Gil, and took the bus to the nearby village where the cave is located. On the bus it started to rain. And rain. By the time we reached the village it was a downpour. Luckily the branch office of Planeta Azul was opposite the bus stop. I was hoping the rain would cancel, but caves are, alas, way underground and unaffected by water. Our young man guide, Wayeen (? I'm writing his name phonetically) met us at the office, we changed our clothes, stashed our backpacks, and sloshed through the bucketing rain and mud about four city blocks to a steep path down to the entrance of our cave.

Soon we were in the first "sala," where the bats live. I love bats. (Side note: in Palo Alto, Barry built a wooden bathouse that we nailed to the outside wall of my then-office (former garage), hoping to attract bats. No success.) Wayeen gave us a little lecture on bats, of which I don't remember much. I was more interested in the experience than information.

From the first sala, we scrambled up and down lots of ledges, to more salas, mud, and a tunnel that we had to crawl through. (I had forgotten how much fun caves are). In the last sala Wayeen pointed to a little rock bench for Barry and me to sit on, and we stayed there for awhile in the dark, in silence. I remembered the assignment my Drama professor at the University of Wales gave us: to return to class after the weekend, having found a place of complete silence. It was a trick question, of course, because no such place exists (OK, maybe in space). I realized sitting there that rarely does complete darkness exist either, except in a cave. It was totally black. No slivers of light, vague shadows, nothing.

We'd been exploring for about an hour. We clambered along some more and then reached the climax of our journey: we walked down about 20 steep steps of a ladder to a tiny platform, not much bigger than a square foot, where we were to jump into a dark pool of water. I was first. Wayeen shone his flashlight on the area where I needed to aim (outside of that area were rocks, which was not confidence-inspiring). It looked a long way down, and out. (It was 5 meters, 40 cm.)

I guess I'm one of those people who just does it. I remember jumping off an unfinished freeway ramp over Lake Washington, in Seattle, where people would hang out and swim in the summer. I walked up the side ramp to the top, stood on the ledge and just jumped. Ditto when I parachuted. Hand on wing, let go of foot, jump. This time, I said to Wayeen, "It looks far," and then, before he answered, I was midair. I must have had my eyes open when I hit water because I saw the lantern on my helmet bobbing in the beautiful blue-green water.

I loved it! I love jumping. (I also love diving, but "no se permite.") I could have done it again, it was so magical.

From there we were not far from the other end of the cavern (and by the way, a cave has one opening only; a cavern has an entrance and exit, we learned during one of Wayeen's lectures).

We hiked up and up and up steep muddy steps to the surface, the earth almost shimmering in its misty green. It looked mystical to me.

And that's what I was doing yesterday afternoon.

Getting Around

Getting around is easy: buses, colectivos (small buses), taxis, bicycles, on foot. We use a Lonely Planet guide to figure out where we want to go, plus recommendations from other visitors.

We find hotels by the above sources or by following our nose. In Barichara (which was recommemded by our book and by a British couple we met in our hotel in Leyva), I checked out all the hotels, and found them very full or expensive. Barry happened to meet Hanne, whose guest 'suite' we are currently occupying, in the coffee shop where he was waiting with the baggage while I was researching hotel options.

Mini conversations

We met a couple, he from Venezuela, she from Peru, but they live in Germany. He told us he couldn’t exchange Venezuelan currency at the border because the Ven. economy sucks. Peru, however, is “at the center of the four strongest economies in South America,” she told us, “Chile, Peru, Brazil, and Colombia. So Peruvian currency is very welcome.” In Venezuela you can buy US dollars from the government when traveling abroad ($1,000 for a neighboring country; $2500 for Europe), but that doesn’t get you too far.

I love these mini-conversations we have.

Story of a Photo

I’m sitting at the top of the steps of a local church, holding onto Polla, Henne’s dog, who Barry and I are taking for an afternoon stroll. She’s curled up beside me, snoring gently.

I spot a woman down on the street taking photos. I grab my camera to take a picture of her taking a picture.

Suddenly a woman comes up to me, her eyes lighting up seeing Polla, and asks if she can stroke her. As soon as she does, Polla wakes up and jumps up and down. I wait patiently for this lovefest to simmer down so I can take my photo.

Barry wanders by. I say, “B, would you hold Polla?” He takes hold of her but then he and Polla are in the way of the woman on the street taking the picture. They saunter slowly out of the church and just as they’re out of sight, I think, “Actually, Barry and Polla in the foreground, the woman in the background—that would make a great photoi!” I call Barry but he’s on the other side of a thick church wall out of earshot.

But after all this, the woman is still there on the street, so I go back to my original plan and take the photo.

It turns out fuzzy.

The Best Hotel

My favorite hotels include the following:

--a friendly manager who likes to hang out and chat
--a spacious room with more than one bed so Barry and I can both sprawl and spread out
--lots of windows
--access to kitchen for early-morning coffee, journal writing and quiet time
--quiet
--wifi

The Ambivalent Traveler

For all the travel I do, you would never guess that I feel quite conflicted about it. All right, I said to myself recently, during one of my moments of malaise, let’s get at it. What is this about me and travel? What do I like, what don’t I like?

--I like all the walking and exercise we do, usually in places of extraordinary beauty.
--I like meeting people, both locals and other tourists.
--I get curious about the issues of the place where I’m visiting. I read an interview with the new Colombian president in the newspaper and was completely absorbed. I learned that the new Brazilian president is a woman, and a former guerrilla. I take more interest in reading about other places I’ve visited than I do at home: Lebanon’s rickety coalition government is even more vulnerable now that Hezbollah has resigned.
--I notice colors and shapes, light and shadows, and take photos.
--I love speaking Spanish.
--I read more, in general.

What I don’t like is the feeling that I’m self-indulgent, not contributing. In my paradigm, it’s OK to relax and hang out for two weeks—maybe three max—but beyond that is an indulgence, and self-centered. (For the record, we’re here for six weeks total, way beyond my permitted length). Then I feel guilty for not appreciating what I have given myself. “We shall be called to account for all permitted pleasures we failed to enjoy,” I read somewhere long ago.

I do get bored, and feel structure-less and goal-less, usually during the hot midsection of the day. But it doesn’t last for long.

My friend Diana, who like me, cohabits in two countries (Canada and Mexico) says she doesn’t see herself as “traveling” anymore; she just lives her life. Sometimes she’s living her life in Calgary, sometimes in Hawaii, sometimes in Mexico. I wonder, can I see travel as just living my life, rather than put it in a box that I then fight?

Conversation with a Spaniard

Had a long chat with a Spaniard from Malaga in the park the other day. He told me all about Spain’s woes, especially now that their bad economy is making them unliked by everyone else in the EU.

They're not particularly happy with any of their neighbors. They don’t like the French because they’re too snobby, and historically they’ve always looked down on the Portuguese for being smaller and poorer (“our little brother.”)

“What about the Moroccans?” I asked. “We can’t stand them. They move into places, take jobs, make a mess, have lots of kids. But they’re getting smart. They don’t want to pick strawberries for nothing, either. So the Rumanians are coming to take the low pay jobs and work in the greenhouses.”

“How do the Spanish feel about the Rumanians?”

“We don’t like them much either.”

Then David said Ecuadorians are also in Spain, doing the really low-pay jobs--cleaning hotels and child care. The latest trend is for Polish students to stay for the summer to earn money to pay their university expenses when they go back to Krakow and Warsaw.

"The Spanish like Ireland," David said to an Irish guy who had joined us. "It's cheaper to learn English there than to go all the way to the States, and they think the Irish are more charming than the English. But they don't go there for the beauty, just for the language."

Over the years, I have not found the Spanish very friendly. I guess it's not personal! Even though Barry and I have been to Spain several times, this was probably the longest conversation I’ve had with a Spaniard. He was friendly and funny even though the topic wasn't.

Early Impressions

--Roads—lots of potholes; spotty maintenance
--Streams and rivers look pretty clean
--Not much trash
--People look less Indian here than in Mexico; more a mix of colors, including black
--Healthy dogs
--Harder to be vegetarian on the road here—lots of meat, no beans
--Wifi spotty
--Women look refreshingly independent; many walk by themselves, not saddled with a crop of children, or with a boyfriend/husband in tow. And they even hike alone!

On Not Comparing

The day after we arrived in Colombia, we stayed in a town called Villa de Leyva. During breakfast at our hotel we met a couple, he from Berlin, she Colombian. I explained that we had flown here from Mexico, where we live part of the year. “The landscape of Colombia and Mexico are not so different,” the German guy said in Spanish, “but the people in Colombia are so much nicer.”

I chose not to argue with him. My reaction was too complicated to try to explain to a stranger, but his comment annoyed me and I took an instant dislike to him.

I am trying very hard not to compare Colombia and Mexico. It would be easy to, and some would say it’s the natural human twendency. (Buddhists say it’s the “mind” that compares; others would say it’s the “left brain.”) Wherever it emanates, I’m trying not to. I feel sad about Mexico's difficult state, and I feel sadder when I see how progressive Colombia appears, at a superficial glance, and I don't want to find Mexico lacking.

I do ask Colombians how they got from where they were not that long ago to where they are now, wondering what Mexico can learn from Colombia. Mainly, they say, a strong government/military took control. It is not much to go on.

“Is there corruption?” I asked Hanne. ”Everywhere,” she said. “It’s one of the hardest things to overcome.”

From what little we’ve gleaned, Colombia has one of the strongest economies in South America, lots of work opportunities, the guerrillas mostly if not completely under control, increased tourism, and much less danger. An Irish guy we met told us that up to four years ago, the Irish couldn’t travel to Colombia becaused the IRA had trained the FARC.

Barichara

We are staying in what feels almost like our private apartment in the home of Henne, a German woman, who moved here in 1964, when she married a Colombian. Now divorced, she has lived in this charming, sleepy little town for 14 years.

We have the spacious, airy back room with adjoining patio, facing the garden. We take our late-afternoon wine on the terrace by the open window facing the street. I told Henna I wanted to live here when I got old. “Everyone says that,” she replied, adding that houses are very expensive here.

Some Colombian films have been staged in dreamlike Barichara. The houses are all colonial white with green trim. Roads are paved with sensuous stone, the color of copper. It is beautifully quiet after nearby San Gil, a small but frantically busy town, Colombia’s Moab or Boulder, where eco-adventures of every type abound, along with noisy motorscooters and alarmingly fast cars, swerving around narrow corners.

Every morning we take a long walk before it gets hot; for the last two mornings we’ve climbed hills around town in hopes of finding the mirador (viewpoint) Henne promises us exists. The first day we walked to Guane, a village 7 km from here, on a rocky track created by another German in 1864.

We arrived in Guene around 5:00, looked for the hotel with a pool promised by our book (closed), and found a restaurant for a beer. It was post-comida so naturally there wasn’t much left in the kitchen; all the waitress could offer us was meat dishes. “Do you have fried platanas?” we asked. I’m already tired of them, but it’s one of Coloimbia’s predictable side dishes. “We don’t have any, but I can make you some.” “French fries?” “We don’t have any, but I can make you some.” We settled on French fries, but after a few minutes wait Barry said he thought he’d go wander around town before we took the bus back to Barichara.

I hesitated. Yeah, that sounded more fun. Maybe it wasn’t too late to un-order the French fries, though I’d seen the waitress leave the restaurant, go out, and return with what looked like newly bought potatoes. I wandered into the kitchen to ask if I could un-order the French fries. “Oh, no, we’ve started,” the cook said. “It’s just that I thought I’d look around town,” I said. “Well, you can come back and take them on the bus.” No, that didn’t appeal.

“How about we talk while the French fries are cooking?” I said to the waitress. She followed me back to the table, looking not very interested. I asked her if she was one of the descendants of the indigenas (Indians) who had lived here 100 years ago. Nope, she married a villager and moved here 14 years ago. Did she like living here? Yes, it was tranquilo. Was she able to buy all her food here? No, she bought supplies at the Barichara weekly market. Our conversation wasn’t getting too far.

But then a German couple showed up, also asking about food. They wanted bread and cheese, decided it was too expensive, the waitress offered a smaller portion for less money, they hesitated, then said no, she pleaded, they said no, again, she offered again, they said no. It was almost embarrassing witnessing this poignant exchange.

To my relief, they did order fresh orange juice. It arrived and Barry arrived and eventually even the French fries arrived.

Why Colombia?

Why Colombia?

Barry and usually go somewhere in Mexico during the month of January. But a friend from Guanajuato was headed here, and that piqued my interest. I’ve been interested in Colombia for awhile—I’ve always had an interest in countries in transition, that are struggling to redefine themselves after previous difficult eras. I knew Colombia’s internal difficulties had eased now that the drug war has traveled northward to Mexico.

What clinched it, though, was I found an airfare from Mexico City-Bogota-Eureka that was scarcely more than our usual Eureka-Guanajuato-Eureka. The airline stars were in alignment!

One thing I always seek in travel memoirs is the writer’s internal journey paralleling the external. I will aim to accomnplish here what I search for.

Meanwhile, the friend from Guanajuato changed her mind, but we were committed. Adelante!