5 days ago
Thursday
Tuesday, 22 June, Quito, Ecuador
In Quito I’m CouchSurfing with Carlos, an avid World Cup watcher and occasional contract worker for Microsoft and seasoned CouchSurfing host who lives in an apartment I’d expect to find in the American suburbs. It is new and modern and the lobby smelled like pine fragrance. A receptionist sits in the lobby buzzing the residents when visitors come, and the giant glass windows are forever being wiped free of smudges. There’s a French girl staying here too, Fanny, who is about to go off to Machala (southwest Ecuador) for an agroforestry internship. The first night we sit in front of a World Cup game, drinking beers that Carlos and I have bought and Fanny's French tea and bread with a jar of homemade jam that she has gotten from someone at the foundation.
Quito is a long skinny strip of city bound on one side by volcanoes and on the other by forest. At night the edge of Quito is a softly undulating line of city lights, beyond which is darkness. Jets fly low over us and the tallest buildings have red lights on their tops to keep the jets from crashing.
Fanny and I go up to one of the bordering mountains on the TeleferiQo the next day:
Quito is a long skinny strip of city bound on one side by volcanoes and on the other by forest. At night the edge of Quito is a softly undulating line of city lights, beyond which is darkness. Jets fly low over us and the tallest buildings have red lights on their tops to keep the jets from crashing.
Fanny and I go up to one of the bordering mountains on the TeleferiQo the next day:
Otavalo: Photos
(chickens for sale)
(indigenous women at the market)
(the road up to Rose Cottage where I was wandering in the dark)
(snails for sale)
(hats for sale)
(i wasn't brave enough to get my blood purified at this stand)
(this is the way to carry babies, cargo, and....chickens)
(saturday market)
(downtown otavalo)
(i love the mix of half-traditional, half-american clothes, and bowler hats)
(corn stand)
(rose cottage)
Sunday, 20 June, Otavalo, Ecuador
Crossing the border into Ecuador is not hard, but getting from Pasto to Otavalo requires an entire day and what seems like fifteen different forms of transportation. A cab to the bus terminal, a bus to the border, a taxi across the border, another taxi to the bus station at Tulcán (the Ecuadorian side of Pasto) and a bus to Otavalo. On every form of transportation vendors try to sell me candy and chips and soda. The taxis are all shared, meaning that I must wait for other people who are going to the same destination as me to show up and wait too until all the seats are filled. (If I’d wanted to buy all the seats, I could have bypassed this option, but I’m trying to stick to my student budget)
The sun sets during the bus trip to Otavalo. Idly I watch the small towns pass through the smudged windows, and suddenly it occurs to me that our final destination is Quito, which is a long way past Otavalo. Hoping we haven’t passed it, I make my way down the aisle and ask the driver if he can let me off in downtown Otavalo. “Where are you going?” he asks.
“The Rose Cottage,” I told him.
“I’ll let you off right in front of it,” he says.
About half an hour later we enter a particularly desolate and foggy patch of highway that looks to be in the middle of nowhere, and the bus slows to a stop. I am wondering which fool it is that has to find their way from here when the driver gestures to me. “Rose Cottage.”
“What?” I ask. This can’t be it.
“This is the taxi stand,” he tells me. “You have to wait here and catch a cab to Rose Cottage.”
I don’t know what to do. Do I get out and wait for a cab? I don’t even see a cab. “Are you sure?”
The driver assures me that this is it and I get out, jogging across the street and dragging my overstuffed duffel bag behind me. I take my pepper spray out of my purse and tuck it into the palm of my hand, just in case. A cab pulls up. Whew.
“Where to?”
“Rose Cottage.”
“OK.”
We turn off onto a small dirt road, winding up a hill, and we are further from civilization than we were at the highway. My driver stops in front of a set of nearly vertical concrete steps leading up into blackness. “Here it is, just up there.”
“This doesn’t look like anything,” I said.
“Go up the steps,” he tells me. I hand him a silver dollar and get out and he drives back down the hill.
The night is cool and misty. A single streetlamp illuminates the bottom of the steps. I can hear its electrical humming. Shouldering my backpack, I climb past the patch of light and see just enough of the top of the hill to know that I am not where I am supposed to be. The only thing up there is a crumbling, boarded-up building and an ancient playground with a swing set and slide. Beyond that the hills extend into the blackness and I don’t know if there are other houses there or not. When I reach the top of the stairs, the humming stops and the streetlight goes out. It is pitch black and silent. The only sound is my own breath and the crunch of my feet on the ground. I pull out my iPod, holding it as low as I can so I can see where I’m walking, but there isn’t anywhere to walk to. My chest tightens and I try not to panic. Maybe I can sit on those steps for the night. Perhaps the playground means that this is a school.
I put down my backpack and sit on the steps. Shit. This is bad, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I lean back for a couple of minutes, telling myself that the night is going to pass no matter where I am, and I can sort it out in the morning.
All of a sudden I see a building illuminate further up the hill--every light coming on at once. I jog down the steps and up towards it, feeling my way through the dark, and I hear footsteps.
“Hello?” I say, softly.
I hear a female voice. “Who are you?”
“Is this the Rose Cottage?” I ask.
“You scared the crap out of me!” I hear her say. “The electricity went out a few minutes ago, and I’ve been fiddling with this damn fusebox trying to get it to come on again.”
I am so excited to find it, and not be alone in the dark anymore. We go inside the lodge, which is cozy and warm. A stir-fry sizzles on the stove and a couple of other travelers sit around a long table in front of a game of Jenga. I recognize two of them from the Casa Blanca and I can’t believe that just a few minutes ago I was wandering alone through the fog in a deserted playground. And that is how I get to Ecuador and the Rose Cottage, which, in the daylight, is lovely.
Otavalo is famous for its Saturday market. Early in the morning there is the animal market and the rest of the day you can buy anything from clothes and picture frames to snails and chicken feet and elixirs to clean out your kidneys.
In Buenos Aires, you don’t really bargain. In Ecuador, it’s an art. The rule is that the vendor will quote you a price. You offer half, they refuse and you both settle on somewhere around three-quarters of the price. The process is always the same, so it feels strange to act as if the words are just occuring to me for the first time. Say I’m looking at a pair of knitted alpaca socks.
“How much is this?”
“Four dollars. Cheap!”
“Oh, okay. They’re very nice but a little expensive. I think I’ll look around.”
“How much will you give me?”
“Hmmmm.” I turn the socks over in my hands. “Two.”
“Two? No. Those are handmade. Three-fifty.” (They aren’t handmade. I see the same ones in every stall.)
“Three.”
“Three-fifty.”
“No, thanks anyway. I’ll just go see what they have over there at that stall.”
“Wait, wait! Three’s good.”
She wraps the socks in newspaper for me and I add the bundle to the bunch of things I will mail to my family tomorrow.
Ecuador is quite a bit cheaper than Colombia. The set menu (almuerzo) at a regular restaurant where locals are eating costs around $1.75. For this you get soup, rice and meat, and a fresh juice. Lots of people tell me of getting sick of rice and chicken, but I’m liking it so far.
The sun sets during the bus trip to Otavalo. Idly I watch the small towns pass through the smudged windows, and suddenly it occurs to me that our final destination is Quito, which is a long way past Otavalo. Hoping we haven’t passed it, I make my way down the aisle and ask the driver if he can let me off in downtown Otavalo. “Where are you going?” he asks.
“The Rose Cottage,” I told him.
“I’ll let you off right in front of it,” he says.
About half an hour later we enter a particularly desolate and foggy patch of highway that looks to be in the middle of nowhere, and the bus slows to a stop. I am wondering which fool it is that has to find their way from here when the driver gestures to me. “Rose Cottage.”
“What?” I ask. This can’t be it.
“This is the taxi stand,” he tells me. “You have to wait here and catch a cab to Rose Cottage.”
I don’t know what to do. Do I get out and wait for a cab? I don’t even see a cab. “Are you sure?”
The driver assures me that this is it and I get out, jogging across the street and dragging my overstuffed duffel bag behind me. I take my pepper spray out of my purse and tuck it into the palm of my hand, just in case. A cab pulls up. Whew.
“Where to?”
“Rose Cottage.”
“OK.”
We turn off onto a small dirt road, winding up a hill, and we are further from civilization than we were at the highway. My driver stops in front of a set of nearly vertical concrete steps leading up into blackness. “Here it is, just up there.”
“This doesn’t look like anything,” I said.
“Go up the steps,” he tells me. I hand him a silver dollar and get out and he drives back down the hill.
The night is cool and misty. A single streetlamp illuminates the bottom of the steps. I can hear its electrical humming. Shouldering my backpack, I climb past the patch of light and see just enough of the top of the hill to know that I am not where I am supposed to be. The only thing up there is a crumbling, boarded-up building and an ancient playground with a swing set and slide. Beyond that the hills extend into the blackness and I don’t know if there are other houses there or not. When I reach the top of the stairs, the humming stops and the streetlight goes out. It is pitch black and silent. The only sound is my own breath and the crunch of my feet on the ground. I pull out my iPod, holding it as low as I can so I can see where I’m walking, but there isn’t anywhere to walk to. My chest tightens and I try not to panic. Maybe I can sit on those steps for the night. Perhaps the playground means that this is a school.
I put down my backpack and sit on the steps. Shit. This is bad, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. I lean back for a couple of minutes, telling myself that the night is going to pass no matter where I am, and I can sort it out in the morning.
All of a sudden I see a building illuminate further up the hill--every light coming on at once. I jog down the steps and up towards it, feeling my way through the dark, and I hear footsteps.
“Hello?” I say, softly.
I hear a female voice. “Who are you?”
“Is this the Rose Cottage?” I ask.
“You scared the crap out of me!” I hear her say. “The electricity went out a few minutes ago, and I’ve been fiddling with this damn fusebox trying to get it to come on again.”
I am so excited to find it, and not be alone in the dark anymore. We go inside the lodge, which is cozy and warm. A stir-fry sizzles on the stove and a couple of other travelers sit around a long table in front of a game of Jenga. I recognize two of them from the Casa Blanca and I can’t believe that just a few minutes ago I was wandering alone through the fog in a deserted playground. And that is how I get to Ecuador and the Rose Cottage, which, in the daylight, is lovely.
Otavalo is famous for its Saturday market. Early in the morning there is the animal market and the rest of the day you can buy anything from clothes and picture frames to snails and chicken feet and elixirs to clean out your kidneys.
In Buenos Aires, you don’t really bargain. In Ecuador, it’s an art. The rule is that the vendor will quote you a price. You offer half, they refuse and you both settle on somewhere around three-quarters of the price. The process is always the same, so it feels strange to act as if the words are just occuring to me for the first time. Say I’m looking at a pair of knitted alpaca socks.
“How much is this?”
“Four dollars. Cheap!”
“Oh, okay. They’re very nice but a little expensive. I think I’ll look around.”
“How much will you give me?”
“Hmmmm.” I turn the socks over in my hands. “Two.”
“Two? No. Those are handmade. Three-fifty.” (They aren’t handmade. I see the same ones in every stall.)
“Three.”
“Three-fifty.”
“No, thanks anyway. I’ll just go see what they have over there at that stall.”
“Wait, wait! Three’s good.”
She wraps the socks in newspaper for me and I add the bundle to the bunch of things I will mail to my family tomorrow.
Ecuador is quite a bit cheaper than Colombia. The set menu (almuerzo) at a regular restaurant where locals are eating costs around $1.75. For this you get soup, rice and meat, and a fresh juice. Lots of people tell me of getting sick of rice and chicken, but I’m liking it so far.
Thursday, 17 June, Pasto, Colombia
I roar out of Cali with my two biker roommates called Rick and Rob. My little red duffel is strapped to the back of Rick’s bike and I am on the back of Rob’s heavy, shiny black Harley. I have never been on a motorcycle before and I am terrified. This is no slow meander through the back streets of a small town: we are zipping in and out of Cali’s chaotic traffic, dodging trucks, cars and other bikes on a six-lane road. I’m wearing a small green helmet, the chin strap of which I nervously tighten until I can just barely breathe, and a rain jacket of Rob’s. Every muscle in my body is tense and nervous sweat trickles down my back despite the cold wind. I squeeze my legs around the seat as tight as I can and try not to move. I start to relax when we get out of town. Now we’re surrounded by shiny cattle grazing calmly in grassy fields and Rob reminds me that I can release my death grip on his shoulders. “My girlfriend falls asleep on here. You won’t fall off.” I take a deep breath and lean back. We’re an hour closer to the town of Pasto, our destination on the Ecuadorian border. The next seven hours are thrilling, and I’m not scared anymore. We only stop a few times to eat and take pictures and stretch our stiff legs. At the rural gas stations the workers come out and stare at us, admiring the bikes and Rick’s motorcycle boots. “From the US? We don’t get Harleys here. Too expensive. And look! Fox boots! Yes or no, am I right?”
When we arrive in Pasto, we look for a hostel I have written down. The numbers of the address don’t seem to match up with any of the numbers on the street we’re told is right, and we’re circling blocks trying to make sense of where we are. Rick, who is leading, turns up a side street. The street leads up a steep hill which Rick’s light, fast bike zips up with no problem. The Harley makes it most of the way up, but between the heavy frame and the two people on the back, we start to drift backwards. We walk our feet on the pavement alongside the bike faster and faster, but we can’t stop. After a couple seconds of rolling, we topple over and before I know it I am lying faceup on the street, feet higher than my head. Luckily, I don’t even get a scratch. I push myself up and see the faces of three young Colombian boys gawking at us, snapping pictures with their cell phones and firing questions at us. “What are you doing here?” they ask. “This is a dead-end road! What are you looking for? Where are you from? Is that a Harley? Do you speak English? What do you think of Colombia?”
I tell them that we love Colombia and that we’ve just gotten turned around. By now their families have come outside to see what the ruckus is, and I try to joke with them. “This is how we park in the US.”
When we righted the bike, we discovered that everything was fine except for second gear. In first gear, then, we finally found the hostel while traffic passed us on both sides. I checked into the comfortable but mostly empty hostel while Rick and Rob opted for a nicer hotel next door, a place with bike parking. One country down, four to go.
When we arrive in Pasto, we look for a hostel I have written down. The numbers of the address don’t seem to match up with any of the numbers on the street we’re told is right, and we’re circling blocks trying to make sense of where we are. Rick, who is leading, turns up a side street. The street leads up a steep hill which Rick’s light, fast bike zips up with no problem. The Harley makes it most of the way up, but between the heavy frame and the two people on the back, we start to drift backwards. We walk our feet on the pavement alongside the bike faster and faster, but we can’t stop. After a couple seconds of rolling, we topple over and before I know it I am lying faceup on the street, feet higher than my head. Luckily, I don’t even get a scratch. I push myself up and see the faces of three young Colombian boys gawking at us, snapping pictures with their cell phones and firing questions at us. “What are you doing here?” they ask. “This is a dead-end road! What are you looking for? Where are you from? Is that a Harley? Do you speak English? What do you think of Colombia?”
I tell them that we love Colombia and that we’ve just gotten turned around. By now their families have come outside to see what the ruckus is, and I try to joke with them. “This is how we park in the US.”
When we righted the bike, we discovered that everything was fine except for second gear. In first gear, then, we finally found the hostel while traffic passed us on both sides. I checked into the comfortable but mostly empty hostel while Rick and Rob opted for a nicer hotel next door, a place with bike parking. One country down, four to go.
Wednesday 16 June, Cali, Colombia
Cali, the town I share a name with. “Really? That’s your name? Your real name? It’s not short for anything?”
That’s what everyone asks me here. In the States my name isn't common, but it isn’t weird either. Being called Callie, in Colombia, I suppose is akin to being called Cincinnati or Portland or Los Angeles in the States.
So much of Cali actually reminds me of the States. For fun Caleños go to the mall, to the pool, to the movies. The mall, called Chipichape, is actually one of the biggest tourist attractions, a small city of shops within walking distance of my hostel, the Casa Blanca. It’s all about nightlife and salsa here. People going dancing at the glitzy clubs remind me of the women in Milan: sparkle, tight clothes, animal prints, high high heels, tons of jewelry. Men here know how to dance and the women are famous for their tiny waists.
I’m staying at the Casa Blanca, a friendly, airy hostel run by a Danish motorcycle enthusiast and his Colombian wife. Normally I don’t know what to do with babies but theirs is probably the cutest I’ve ever seen, toddling around brightly speaking a mixture of English, Danish and Spanish. A couple of days ago I wrote to a few hostels in town asking if I could work in exchange for a free stay--my idea is to pause for a little while in Cali and see if I can pick up some salsa. So now I’m exchanging writing entries for Casa Blanca’s online Cali travel guide/blog for my dorm bed. Two entries a day, and for now my room has nobody else in it. I like this deal.
Mark, a British guy in my hostel, is taking private salsa lessons. I tag along sometimes, translating as a way of earning my keep. The classes are held in the top floor of a community center. The air hangs hot and still. The teacher, Jacqui, is loud and friendly and flatters me because she thinks I’m Mark’s girlfriend. She can shake her hips like nobody I’ve ever seen before. I try to imitate her sassy wiggle but never quite get it down. She tells me I have great rhythm, but I feel sure that this compliment comes with an unspoken parenthesis: (for a white girl).
I spend my days here writing blog entries and wandering around town and watching the occasional World Cup game (Brazil vs. North Korea on the big screen, for example). Nights I go out with whoever’s in the hostel. I’ve been to Kukamakara and Titirifue (the first two words in the Spanish version of Eeny Meeny Miney Moe) and Lola’s and Praga. I’ve got to have something to write about, right? I’m constantly underdressed in my grungy backpackers’ clothes, but love dancing too much to ever pass up a night out.
Four biker guys arrived at the Casa Blanca yesterday. They’re riding the length of the continent on motorcycles. I don’t understand what the hell they talk about half the time--the sulfur content of their fuel and the obscure bike parts that must be ordered from abroad--but they are also full of hilarious and vulgar stories from the road, stories of wipeouts and biker hostels and being looked at like aliens in small towns where there are normally no motorcycles.
That’s what everyone asks me here. In the States my name isn't common, but it isn’t weird either. Being called Callie, in Colombia, I suppose is akin to being called Cincinnati or Portland or Los Angeles in the States.
So much of Cali actually reminds me of the States. For fun Caleños go to the mall, to the pool, to the movies. The mall, called Chipichape, is actually one of the biggest tourist attractions, a small city of shops within walking distance of my hostel, the Casa Blanca. It’s all about nightlife and salsa here. People going dancing at the glitzy clubs remind me of the women in Milan: sparkle, tight clothes, animal prints, high high heels, tons of jewelry. Men here know how to dance and the women are famous for their tiny waists.
I’m staying at the Casa Blanca, a friendly, airy hostel run by a Danish motorcycle enthusiast and his Colombian wife. Normally I don’t know what to do with babies but theirs is probably the cutest I’ve ever seen, toddling around brightly speaking a mixture of English, Danish and Spanish. A couple of days ago I wrote to a few hostels in town asking if I could work in exchange for a free stay--my idea is to pause for a little while in Cali and see if I can pick up some salsa. So now I’m exchanging writing entries for Casa Blanca’s online Cali travel guide/blog for my dorm bed. Two entries a day, and for now my room has nobody else in it. I like this deal.
Mark, a British guy in my hostel, is taking private salsa lessons. I tag along sometimes, translating as a way of earning my keep. The classes are held in the top floor of a community center. The air hangs hot and still. The teacher, Jacqui, is loud and friendly and flatters me because she thinks I’m Mark’s girlfriend. She can shake her hips like nobody I’ve ever seen before. I try to imitate her sassy wiggle but never quite get it down. She tells me I have great rhythm, but I feel sure that this compliment comes with an unspoken parenthesis: (for a white girl).
I spend my days here writing blog entries and wandering around town and watching the occasional World Cup game (Brazil vs. North Korea on the big screen, for example). Nights I go out with whoever’s in the hostel. I’ve been to Kukamakara and Titirifue (the first two words in the Spanish version of Eeny Meeny Miney Moe) and Lola’s and Praga. I’ve got to have something to write about, right? I’m constantly underdressed in my grungy backpackers’ clothes, but love dancing too much to ever pass up a night out.
Four biker guys arrived at the Casa Blanca yesterday. They’re riding the length of the continent on motorcycles. I don’t understand what the hell they talk about half the time--the sulfur content of their fuel and the obscure bike parts that must be ordered from abroad--but they are also full of hilarious and vulgar stories from the road, stories of wipeouts and biker hostels and being looked at like aliens in small towns where there are normally no motorcycles.
Sunday, 30 May, Parque Tayrona
I’ve moved on now, to the Parque Tayrona. I have officially stepped into a postcard. White sand beaches, waving palm trees, the works. The campsites are only accessible by walking about an hour and a half (I felt like I was on the jungle trek again). There are two: Arrecifes, which is upscale and new, and Cabo San Juan, which is more ragged but has a younger crowd. I spent the first night in Arrecifes, which was almost empty! A beautiful but empty place is always eerie, I think. The beach is clear and turquoise, but the current is so strong that swimming isn’t allowed. I read on the beach all day (thank god I had World Without End, a 1300-page novel, to keep me occupied). At dusk I met a young couple from LA, a Colombian-born guy and his girlfriend from the East Coast who worked in TV. We sat on a blanket in the sand, looking at the stars and passing around a bottle of rum. I was happy for the company, and they were so positive and sweet. And that was my first night. The second day I hiked to Cabo San Juan, and hiked through a field of THESE:
Crabs! Enormous blue crabs who will sink their claws into a soft foam flip flop if you offer it to them and not let go even when you pick them all the way up off the ground.
I came to Cabo San Juan through a hilly jungle path lined with palm trees, and I heard it before I saw it. Multicolored tents were haphazardly set up in the scraggly grass and the hammocks hung heavy with grungy travelers. I saw sleeping bags and clothes and people everywhere, and everyone milled around on the beach and in the water in bikinis and cutoffs and board shorts with hair that hadn’t been brushed in days. The showers were communal and sand fleas vicious, but it was exactly what I was looking for. I set my backpack in a hammock and walked out to the beach, wading into the water and feeling my feet sink into the coolness of the sand. I heard the commotion increase back on land and saw tents coming down. Within half an hour, the three giant groups occupying the hammocks and campsite had left and once again I was alone. I felt my heart sink; I had hit my solitude limit the day before and just wanted to talk to someone--anyone! I took my book to the beach again and lazed all afternoon, alternating between the sand and my hammock.
At sunset I went for another wander through the empty campground and down to the empty beach. I watched the soft colors over the water for a couple of minutes and turned to head back to my hammock when I saw a group of guys who I immediately knew was from Argentina. I walked over to them. “A girl! There are girls on this beach! So far we’ve only seen guys,” they shouted. “People! There are people here!” I shouted back. I loved hearing the Argentine accent again (say what you will about it) and was relieved to come across other human beings. That night we dragged some plastic chairs to a table near the beach, hollowed out a pineapple, filled it with aguardiente, a Colombian anise-flavored liquor, stuck some straws in and passed it around. After a few minutes a bunch of Brazilian girls showed up too, and they knew the Argentines. Someone set up a stereo and turned off the lights and there we all were, barefoot in the sand, dancing with the mass of people who had showed up seemingly from nowhere.
After spending my very last peso note on breakfast, I packed up and decided to leave. Turns out it was election day, and all ground transportation was shut down! The only option was to get back to Taganga by speedboat. It was thrilling the whole way:
Wednesday 26 May, Taganga, Colombia
I have finished the Lost City trek. Yippee!!! Here I am in the little town of Taganga, right on the water, a town of backpackers and diving certification centers. Rastas sit on the beach, calling out to foreign girls who make eye contact. Fishing boats with fading paint lie on the sand, their shadows occupied by scruffy stray dogs. Taganga has one main drag, right on the beach, packed with restaurants and convenience stores and arepa stands.
Arepas are a Colombian specialty that I’ve fallen in love with--grilled masa patties slathered with butter, cut in half and filled with cheese, chicken and sauce. Good ones are heaven in a little paper wrapper, but bad ones have the taste and consistency of hockey pucks. (If you’ve been to Colombia and think you don’t like arepas, you’ve just had an unfortunate one. Give them another shot.)
Taganga also has innumerable fresh juice carts, little wheeled kiosks with bright baskets of tropical fruit hanging from the tops. For a dollar, they’ll blend you up a thick smoothie with ice and sugar and milk if you want it. So far I’ve tried: maracuyá (passion fruit), nispero (vanilla-y, like it should be a Frappuccino flavor), lulo (tart like passion fruit), tomate de arbol (literally, tree tomato--but a sweet sort that doesn’t really taste like tomato) and the freshest mango juice you can imagine.
Laura, Santiago and Paola went on their respective ways, but Pedro, Arelis, Hugo and I stayed here. Last night Pedro and Arelis invited Hugo and me for drinks in their beachfront hotel room. Pedro had bought rum and Coke and ice and lemons to mix up cuba libras in thin plastic cups. Rain was pouring down, drumming on the roof and stippling the surface of the ocean. He told us that he was so happy Hugo and I were there, that we’d come to visit Colombia despite the dismal reputation it sometimes gets in the States. “It’s such a wonderful country, and I love it, and I’m just so happy you’re here and enjoying yourselves,” he told us. I was really touched by that, considering that Americans don’t always get the warmest welcome. I thanked him for his hospitality and tried, through my rum buzz, to think of a way to express my gratitude to this couple who had gone out of their way to welcome me when they didn’t have to, to thank them for wanting us there and buying us a grilled fish dinner and waving away the money we offered to pay them back. It made me sad that I know a lot of people who would still never go to Colombia. A lack of common sense will get you in trouble anywhere, of course, but they’re really missing out on a fantastic country with fabulous people.
Monday, 24 May, Lost City Trek, Day 5
I’m over my mini-meltdown--after wallowing for a couple of hours at rock-bottom, the last two days have been way better. My clothes were all soaked of course, but in the rational light of day I realized that I’d only have had dry clothes for about ten minutes a day anyway before getting caught in some sort of rainstorm. The important part is that yesterday we got to the ruins!
I won’t write too much about Cuidad Perdida. I’ll just say that I felt like Indiana Jones, crossing a river at four different places to get to a narrow, moss-covered stairway leading up into the jungle and finding, upon climbing those stairs, the foundations of a whole city with citadels, houses, a rich side and a poor side, a marketplace, the shaman’s house....
This is the Fountain of Youth. Omar told us that this ancient city was once a bustling and famous spot: people would come here and swim in the fountain’s rejuvenating waters, and see a shaman who could cure illnesses. When the shaman died, though, a new one was assigned his place. He didn’t know all the remedies yet, so the sick began dying. Rumor spread that the city had been cursed, so rather than die, the residents all evacuated and went to live elsewhere.
I won’t write too much about Cuidad Perdida. I’ll just say that I felt like Indiana Jones, crossing a river at four different places to get to a narrow, moss-covered stairway leading up into the jungle and finding, upon climbing those stairs, the foundations of a whole city with citadels, houses, a rich side and a poor side, a marketplace, the shaman’s house....
This is the Fountain of Youth. Omar told us that this ancient city was once a bustling and famous spot: people would come here and swim in the fountain’s rejuvenating waters, and see a shaman who could cure illnesses. When the shaman died, though, a new one was assigned his place. He didn’t know all the remedies yet, so the sick began dying. Rumor spread that the city had been cursed, so rather than die, the residents all evacuated and went to live elsewhere.
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