Surprise

The boys have gone back to The States and I am on my own again. Over the past three weeks, we hauled it all over Colombia, never staying in one place more than two or three nights. Now that I am on my own, I plan to find a slice of tranquility and plop my belongings down for a while. After nearly eight months of travel, I am starting to tire of packing and unpacking.

Mompox, a Unesco world heritage site, is the small and remote colonial town that I choose. Below you can find pictures of this too-cute town and its precious cemetery. Beyond the pictures, this post will not be about Mompox itself, rather an incident that occurred on the way to Mompox.

The bus from Cartagena to Mompox is supposed to take eight hours, though the distance is just over two hundred KM. At this stage in the game, an eight hour bus ride is not a twelve or eighteen hour ride, so how bad could it be?

I wake as the sun is raising and make my way to the bus station where I purchase a direct ticket. Ahh, direct… love the direct busses. Taking a seat on the bus, I am comforted that though it is a long journey, at least it should be relatively painless.

I fall asleep almost at once, dosing in and out as the bus winds its way over bumpy twisting mountain roads. We stop after three hours and I jump off to pee. After attending to nature, I head to the gas station to purchase an empanada that clearly sat too long soaking up oil in the fryer. It is delicious. Then it is back on the bus.

Only an hour and a half later, I wake out of my post empanada coma to find that the bus is stopping. This is strange, usually they don’t stop this often. As it turns out, we are at a bus terminal in a town that I soon learn is called El Banco: a town that cannot be found on my Lonely Planet map of Colombia. I assume that we have just stopped to pick up a few more people. This assumption is killed on the spot as I watch every other passenger grabbing all possessions and getting off the bus.

In my broken Spanish, I ask a woman passing my seat if we need to change buses in order to continue on to Mompox. Instead of answering, she tells me to come with her. This is somewhat typical, no one wants to explain, they just want you to follow. I too grab my bags and exit the bus after my fellow passengers. Once off the bus, I am told that the bus will go no further. I am able to understand that there has been massive flooding and the road to Mompox is underwater. If I want to continue, I am going to have to take a boat and then a taxi/back of a truck the rest of the way. No biggie, but I am not going to get ripped off. I calmly hand my bus ticket to the driver and inform him that I have paid full fair to get all the way to Mompox for that price. At my point, the woman who I followed off the bus indicates that she too has paid the full fair and expects the same. For some reason none of the other passengers are asking for a refund.

After some chatting, waiting and negotiating, the bus driver hands the woman beside me a wad of money. In a kindly hospitable way, the two of them have decided that she will take charge and make sure that both she and I arrive in Mompox for the amount of money the driver has refunded from our tickets. Now that I have a designated nanny, I decide to introduce myself. Josephine informs me that she is a nurse at the hospital in Mompox and she is happy to help me find my way there.

The bus driver points us down the road. Josephine and I walk for a few blocks until we reach a fish market. I do my best to make my way through the crowd with minimal fish slime contact. We arrive at a small dock with four river boats lined up side-by-side. A dock worker grabs my backpack off of me and loads it along with Josephine’s luggage atop the roof of the boat. With shaky steps and the overly enthusiastic assistance of several other dock workers, I take a bench seat on the boat.

Then the waiting game begins. Josephine informs me that we will have to wait until the boat fills with passengers. Unsure of how long that might take, I determine to take this opportunity to enjoy this random slice of life Colombia. We wait. I watch a fisherman throw catfish from the floorboards of his boat to the wooden platform of the dock. Many of the men are wearing mid streaked, knee high rubber boots. After about a half hour, three more passengers arrive and put their luggage on the boat. We keep waiting. I notice a fairly good looking young man at the end of the dock. His hair is gelled into spikes, surely the cool look that impresses the ladies. He is dressed in the ever-popular American Eagle shirt and slightly baggy jeans. My heart smiles as I notice that he is holding the hand of a little boy who can’t be much older than two years old. I assume this child is his little brother. I can’t help but think how nice it is that these two brothers spend so much time together. Furthermore, this young man must be more mature than he looks. Not many 18ish year olds would be caught spending so much time with a younger sibling when they could be out raising hell with friends.

My gaze drifts as four more passengers arrive. Josephine and I chat about the heat and I take note that I have sweated through my shirt. We keep waiting. I have donned a Zen attatude about the whole situation. Waiting and traveling go hand in hand.

We have sat at the dock for nearly two hours when we acquire the last two passengers required for departure. We all put our life jackets on. The bulky foam presses against the sweaty back of my neck and I am ready to get a little breeze off the water.

As the boat driver is untying the boat, the young man with the spiked hair kneels down on the dock beside us. His little brother sits down at his side. He begins to talk and all of my fellow boat passengers listen intently. My Spanish skills allow me to understand that he is named Jorje and he is indeed eighteen. I am proud of myself for my correct guess. He continues on, but I can no longer understand what he is saying. He lifts up his dark green t-shirt and I see that he has a large wad of newspaper stuck to his side about four inches from his belly button. The wad of newspaper is held in place by packing tape. Now this is strange, I lean forward a little trying to comprehend what is going on. Then with his left hand, he pulls at a piece of tape and the corner of the wad of newspaper. I can see the skin that it was concealing and there, right in the middle of the previously concealed area is a silver dollar sized, perfectly round hole.

“Oh shit,” I blurt out, as I notice slightly shinny, bubbly-pinkish- white matter oozing out the hole. My hands fly up to my mouth. Was that what I think it was? In a haze of shock, I realize that my fellow passengers are handing the man money. The newspaper has been returned to its prior position and his shirt lowered. Though I can no longer see the spot, the image is burned into my mind. There was no blood. The hole was cleanly made, likely by a surgeon. The most alarming thing of all was the bulbous glistening matter that appeared in that window through the abdomen. Josephine sees the shock and confusion on my face. She leans over and whispers,
“intestinos,” and then mutters something about how the man is very sick. I start to pull myself together. Okay, okay, I am digging in my purse. I can’t think straight. Before I can extract a bill, the boat is pulling away.

Further down the river, I have a moment to compose myself. I am ashamed at myself for my outburst and the look of disgust and surprise that the young man must have seen on my face. To top it off, I didn’t even pull myself together quickly enough to give him any money. Clearly he is deserving of a little charity.

This is not the first time I have come in contact with suffering and injury. On the scale of dead babies with oversized heads, paraplegics and lepers that I have come across in my travels (mostly in India), this wasn’t even that bad. But this is the first time that it has ever snuck up on me and caught me completely unaware. For the first time in eight months, I have been truly surprised.

My New Happy Place

The beaches at Tayrona National Park cannot be reached by road. Lane, Erik, Mick our new Ausi friend and I are dropped at the entrance. The path leads into the jungle. It is midday and the air is thick with humidity. I am sweating before we even set off. We have barely walked a minute when we spot a poisonous frog amid the foliage. It jumps away scared by our movement. We continue on down the path in single file. The sound of scurrying creatures echoes out from every tree root cranny. Each footfall meets a bed of squishy browning leaves. Leaf cutter aunts carve not just paths but hand-wide highways across the forest floor. We hike up, down, around and through the overwhelming density of life.

I find myself jumping from sandbag to sandbag in order to cross a river. We climb over giant grey rocks, their presence not allowing the growth of as much sky blocking plant life. Our first view of the beach stretches out before us. Soft yellow sand as far as the eye can see. The wind picks up and we comment to each other on the ferocity of the waves. Curling masses of water crash down against the beach. Signs warn that this first beach is dangerous. We must continue on. The sun strikes our skin leaving behind pinkening pigment. At least the wind evaporates a bit of sweat. We have passed the beach and find ourselves back in the jungle. This time it is not for long. We emerge again to find a tiny sandy bay with clusters of more rounded grey streaked boulders. I remember reading that the indigenous tribe that used to live in this area worshiped these rocks.

Back into the jungle. Two hours of hiking and we emerge to find a fully-fledged camp site. Tents spread out in every direction. A long house contains rows and rows of hammocks, where we will sleep. There is even a restaurant, a small convenient store and in true South American style a footbol field. This strange place will be our home for the next three days.

After ditching our stuff we head straight to the beach. The water is cool and refreshing against our skin. Sunlight streams through layers of water and reflects off small flecks of gold (actually mica) that float and swirl in the waves. Pelicans fly in V formation, their bodies skim the water’s surface. I wish I could stay here in this moment forever.

More Pics Of Tayrona:

Colombia's Desert Coast

Taganga is far from what I was expecting of a Caribbean Coastal town. The hills around the fishing village are desolate and covered in cactus and bushes with yellow flowers. The deep blue water contrasts with the dry brown landscape.

It is 5:45 and the sun is beginning to set. From my vantage point on the shore, I am in perfect position to watch the fishing boats return home for the day. The carved wooden boats are as weathered as the men who captain them. Deeply lined faces reveal toothless grins as they great each other on shore. Once their boats are properly tied, they retrieve plastic bags bulging with the bulbous bodies of their day’s catch.

A child walks by, with one hand grasping a large fish under the gills and the other holding a string leash loosely tied around a skipping puppy’s neck. The fish’s tail brushes the sandy beach as the child makes his way along.

The sun has gone below the horizon. It is time for me to make my way back to the hostel. Time for dinner. The dirt path leads up a hillside. I fallow a young man who carries a boat motor over his right shoulder.

Nicely done Colombia.

A Religious Experience

Medellin Colombia is much larger than I expected it to be. The city can’t be contained by the valley where it originated. Buildings have creeped their way up the sides of the surrounding hillsides. After an all-night bus ride, I am glad to be at the hostel. I decide to spend some time in the hammock instead of venturing out into the afternoon rain with Erik and Lane. We have plans for the following day and I intend to be well rested.

The next morning, we meet a friend of one of Erik’s friends who lives in Medellin. Adriana meets us on the steps of a museum that houses Fernando Botero’s artwork. With warm smiles, we introduce ourselves to Maria, who is in her early forties and works nearby. It is always fun to have a local show you around town and we are lucky enough to have Adriana as our tour guide for the morning. Our first stop is her work. We enter a shop where they will take any picture, scan it into a computer and then transfer the image to a coffee mug, mouse pad, t-shirt or well anything. Adriana explains that this is the first job she has ever had. She has worked there for 3 years. After the tour of her place of employment, we depart to ride the gondola up the side of the mountain to get a great view of the city. The ride gives us plenty of time to chat. Adriana is a single mom with two daughters who are 14 and 18. Her husband was killed four years prior. When I ask what happened to him, Adriana tells me that he was shot. Oh, I am so sorry. Was it an accident? She informs me that it was no accident, he was murdered. I decide not to press the subject further. On our way back down, we are met by Maria’s older daughter, Paulina. Adriana informs us that Paulina will show us around in the afternoon. Before taking her leave to return to work, Adriana makes us promise that we will come to her house for dinner that evening. We agree.

That afternoon Paulina shows us around the city and takes us to the aquarium. As the day comes to a close, we agree that the three gringos should go back to the hostel to buy bus tickets for the next morning and to shower before dinner. We plan to meet Paulina at the subway stop nearest her house at 7pm.

We arrive at the subway station to find that is a rather large stop. Rain is pouring from the sky. There are two entrances and after searching both twice, we cannot find Paulina. Luckily we have the families address written down. We decide to hop in a cab so that we are not wandering the streets of a strange neighborhood at night in the rain. I flag a taxi and ask him if he is familiar with the address written on the paper I hand him. He nods enthusiastically and assures me he is. We load in the back of the car. The driver proceeds to execute a five point turn in the middle of the road before we head off in the opposite direction. The windshield wipers of the car are working overtime as the driver speeds up to gain momentum as we drive straight up hill. The city blocks in this area of town look as though they were built on terraces with the houses clinging to the hillside. The steepness of the streets is comparable with those in San Francisco.

After a few moments it is clear that our driver does not know where we are going. We drive up a steep slope only to go careening down one parallel street one over. When the house is not found at the end of that street, the driver allows the car into reverse, he backs the car up ten feet up hill then floors the gas to build momentum for the next uphill section. The pavement is wet and slippery and the car only makes it half way up the next city block. Looking over his shoulder, he puts the car in neutral and releases the break. Gravity pulls us backwards at an alarming rate and I thrust my hand to the dashboard to brace myself. I turn to see where we are going and notice that the back window is entirely fogged over. Comforting. We hit the flat section of street and then roll backwards up the pervious hill. The car makes it almost to the top when the driver switches gears and we jerk into forward motion. This time as we descend, the driver floors the gas peddle. We fly. I feel like I am on a roller-coaster ride with the streets acting like a strange half pipe. This attempt is successful and we make it to the top of the next hill. However, we do not find the address. The driver releases the break and again we are rolling backwards. Once at the bottom, I hand the driver the paper again and ask him to call Maria’s house line for directions. This cab doesn’t have seatbelts and I am tiring of rolling down the hills backwards and seeing my life flash before my eyes. The driver complies and has a long chat with Adriana on his cell phone before putting the car back into first gear. After a few more minutes and at least three more half blind backward free falls we arrive. I am so glad to get out of the cab that I don’t even argue when he overcharges us.

Adriana and Paulina meet us at the door. I am hungry and excited for some traditional Colombian cooking. Upon entering, I am a bit confused. The apartment itself is very nice. It is painted a cheery yellow color, the sofa is modern and the hard wood floors are polished. The strange thing is that there are rows of plastic chairs lined up in the living room to face the kitchen. Furthermore, there are over a dozen people milling about the room, some have even seated themselves in the chairs. Lane, Erik and I are directed to sit on the couch and Paulina tells us that we will start in a moment. I look at Erik and Lane, we don’t know what to think. We are all unsure of what is going on. I look around and do not see a dinner table. I can see the stove and there is only one pot atop it. Aren’t we here for dinner? Not wanting to be rude, I introduce myself to a little girl and her mom who are sitting in the chairs nearest the couch. Paulina brings over pineapple juice for the three of us and we accept it gratefully.

For the next few minutes, we look around smiling and trying unsuccessfully not to look like clueless foreigners. Suddenly five more people make their way into the living room and take seats. The new arrivals great others in the room. Adriana stands up and positions herself between the living room and the kitchen. She is joined by another woman and a small boy. The room grows silent and all the seated guests turn their attention to her. The lights dim and it is the little boy who speaks first. His eyes are pinched tightly closed and his hands are clasped. I notice that everyone in the room has bowed their heads. I glance at Erik and Lane, we all bow our heads and clasp our hands. Maybe this is the pre-dinner prayer? The little boy’s words come more quickly, then Adriana starts praying over him, speaking a separate string of words. The other woman at the front of the room prays out loud as well. Before we know it, the whole room is praying separately with eyes closed. We sit and listen, trying to remain as respectful as possible. I can understand a few of the words, but the speed and number of people speaking is too much for my limited Spanish skills. Suddenly the room grows quite and contemporary Spanish Christian music is turned on over a stereo system. The lights go back up. I allow my eyelids to part the smallest amount so that I can see what is going on. The whole crowd begins to sway and hold their hands palm up in the air. We, the three gringos, determine that it is appropriate to open our eyes and we also sway along. I would not call myself a very religious person, but I am enjoying watching the events unfold. After the music, there are more prayers. Then Adriana reads a passage from the bible and gives a short talk. After the talk, she asks if anyone has questions. Several people do, though I can’t understand what they are asking. After all questions are answered, Adriana says a prayer for each person in the room. She gestures at each guest in turn. When she gets to us, she prays that we travel safely and that we find God wherever we go. More music, more collective praying and then the lights snap on and Paulina arrives with a tray full of cups of coffee. It has been an hour and a half since we entered the apartment and I am now fairly sure that Adriana is a neighborhood preacher. I am not sure however, if we will be eating dinner.

Now that the service is over, several of the guests leave. However, it looks like most are inclined to stay to talk with the three gringos. Our attendance at the prayer session has somehow removed reservations about us. All shyness has gone out the window. Before we know it, we are treated like members of the family. A little girl introduces me to her stuffed dog while another one strokes my hair and asks if it is always so straight. Paulina flirts with Lane and a little boy climbs all over Erik. The CD in the sound system is switched and we are listening to reggae tone. Grandma decides to come out of her room to see what’s going on. Then the dancing begins. The little kids go first followed by Paulina and her younger sister who manage to convince Lane to join in. I am enjoying the opportunity to practice my Spanish with the remaining guests. We enjoy ourselves so much that I lose track of time, until Paulina pulls the three of us aside and makes us sit down in front of arapas piled high with barbeque chicken, mozzarella and avocado. We feel strange because we are the only people eating, but Paulina assures us that everyone else has eaten and that we should go ahead. Not wanting to offend anyone, we dig in. The food is delicious. It is after we have eaten that Paulina takes orders for the rest of the room. We feel guilty that we were fed first, but there was no way we could have refused the food without offence. The night flies by and before I know it it is 11:30pm and time to make our way back to the hostel.

I had very different expectations about how the night would go, but Adriana and her family have reminded me once again that going with the flow and allowing the moment to take whatever form it desires tends to work out. I will forever remember my religious experience in Medellin Colombia and the warmth of Adriana’s beautiful family.