Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Christmas in Columbia-Part 1
After just a couple of weeks in Quito, Ecuador I started to feel as if I were under house arrest. I made all the viable day trips into the country, walked almost every street in the light of day and in the dark of night, have eaten at every budget restaurant and know the people on the street by name.
After a month however any desire I had to leave the hostel was gone. Money gets spent when you take to the street so we have started to cook our own meals in the hostel’s decrepit kitchen and drink our wine from a box. In fact, the only consumable that has increased while biding my time in Quito are cigarettes.
A routine developed- watching TV, checking email, getting drunk over dinner and sleeping in…on the whole not a terrible way to spend a vacation, but I prefer the fresh gusts of air and thrust of a motor pushing me into my seat as I ride the road to into the known.
I need to get moving again.
4 days before Christmas we recognized that we had lost the opportunity to spend the holidays in Lima, Peru with a climbing buddy of Jim’s.
Head sunk Jim pulls open the door to the hostels common room. The walls are lined with 20 ounce Pilsener bottles and the floor is caked with soggy cigarette ashes. With the owner away in the U.S visiting family the state of things deteriorated rapidly, I don’t even notice anymore.
“The bike won’t be ready for another week man.”
“So, we are here for Christmas and most likely New Years then huh?”
“X you should just start without me and I will haul ass to catch up with you in Peru or Bolivia.”
“Screw that man, let’s both get out of Quito for a few…no interest in sitting in some bordertown motel with the truckers wishing we were somewhere else…with our people.”
Lars, a German machine gunner turned globetrotter and Wade, a British guy teaching English in Columbia are already drunk. They are here by choice, but are quick to suggest we get out of the country for a spell. With a rare showing of excitement Wane starts laughing and clapping…
“Listen mates, there is a city in Columbia that has the most beautiful women you’ll ever see. Medellin is the lost city of babes. I tell ya, you will be flooding your trunks man. Place is a spot dodgy though. You cross someone and you’ll find yerselves shot. They wake in the morning and ask themselves…’Who can I kill today?’ But the babes, mate…OOhhhh!”
Five hours later Jim and I are holding tickets to Bogota arriving Christmas Eve and departing the 2nd of January. We are back on the move! My bike and gear go into storage at the hostel and we check out the next morning at 4a.m. We are traveling light and fast. One small shoulder bag with 2 changes of clothes, toothbrush, camera, wallet and passport.
The flight over the mountains and into Bogota took less than two hours and before long we were in a taxi winding through the modern city streets looking to find a highly recommended hostel near the center of town.
With our bags firmly gripped in our laps we keep giggling and reminding each other…
“We are in Columbia dude…hehah.”
“Sure are.”
Back in Quito we both made the decision not to tell our folks that we were heading into the kidnap capital of the world so as not to stress them over the holidays. We both called a couple of friends giving them our itinerary in case something did go wrong, but for the most part we were flying by night and would continue to do so until we were back in the relative safety of Quito. Note the lack of activity on the site.
The hostel had no sign, just a Platypus painted on the flaking wall and a security camera eyeballing us as we scanned the alley for signs of FARC rebels and seedy characters. With the buzz of the magnet lock we where led into a caged corridor. When the door to the street was securely locked the door into the hostel’s little courtyard buzzed and we were in.
Shuffling quickly across the open-air courtyard a skinny man welcomes to his bohemian garden.
“Did you guys loose your luggage?”
“Ha, no…no, the less you have to carry, the less you can loose.”
He squints with a slight look of confusion as if to imply our cautious nature was a waste of positive energy. Indeed we were safe as can be behind the electronic gates and thick doors, but we had no intention of hovelling up in a hostel of the next 9 days. We were itching to get out into the thick description of Columbian culture…did I mention the Lost City of Babes laying some 500 km to the northwest on the other side of the Sierra Madre mountain range?
Once settled into our dorm accommodations we took to the street for some empanadas and to find a phone to call my old friend Isabel from Wesleyan that was in Columbia visiting family for the holidays. The plan was to meet up later that night for Christmas Eve dinner at her aunt’s house on the outskirts of the city.
Back at the Platypus the party was in full swing. The 20 or so guests from all over the world were busy getting drunk and stoned in the yard on free beer provided by the owner who was hosting a free tamale wrapped in banana leaf dinner for the lot.
The scene was something else- A pimply Asian man was crouched over the infected, open soared leg of a British guy who got mauled by egg-laying bugs in the jungle the week before. Slowly waving his hands over the rotting flesh he was humming as he cast some invisible healing powers onto the sick limb. A tall blond Norwegian and a rowdy bunch of Brits smoked a huge joint around the dry fountain as 4 Columbian girls on holiday in Bogota danced around in circles, kissing each other and laughing hysterically. In the dinning room the heads speeding on cocaine hopped from story to story chain smoking hoping to build up an appetite by dinner time. In a few hours I would be a guest at a proper Christmas dinner with Isabel and her family so I nursed my beer and quietly appreciated the Columbian Christmas spirit build.
With dinner being served at around midnight Jim and I decided to show up at 10pm to avoid any awkward downtime before appetizers and cocktail hour. Following Isabel’s advice I stopped off at a liquor store and picked up some of Kentucky’s finest as a gift for our hosts. It had almost 3 months since I last sat down for a family style dinner and I was a bit excited to eat heartily, drink some fine spirits and talk up a storm…albeit in Spanish.
Despite the open windows letting in a warm breeze and our thin cotton dinner attire, the mood was that of a traditional Christmas gathering. The small fur tree twinkled, the fireplace mantel displayed various incarnations of Santa, the candles burned and the food continued to flow from the kitchen on huge platters. Seven of us ate enough for 15 and slowly slipped into food and whiskey induced stupor. We were all very happy.
“So, why don’t you and Jim join us up in Barranquilla on north coast for New Years?”
“Thank you Mr. Vega, but we are planning on spending some time in Medellin before making our way to the beach.”
“How will arrive there…air?”
“We were thinking we could catch the bus in the morning, save some cash…”
“Bus, huh…hold.”
Isabel’s cousin flips open his cell and makes a call. As if checking the times for films on 800-moviefone he punches his way through the phone menu for a minute then informs us the road to Medellin is safe to pass until January 2nd, but not after the 2nd. Apparently the Columbian army is patrolling the roads aggressively during the holidays to fend of Xmas raids my FARC forces.
Waddling out the door licking our chops at 4am Jim and I catch a taxi back to the hostel.
“Ok man, we’ll knock out for a couple of hours and make our way to the bus station by 9am…should be in Medellin by mid afternoon.”
Jim muddles something and slumps his head against the taxi window. We are relaxed, falling asleep in a taxi as we speed through the empty streets.
It is Christmas morning.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 5:25 PM
After a month however any desire I had to leave the hostel was gone. Money gets spent when you take to the street so we have started to cook our own meals in the hostel’s decrepit kitchen and drink our wine from a box. In fact, the only consumable that has increased while biding my time in Quito are cigarettes.
A routine developed- watching TV, checking email, getting drunk over dinner and sleeping in…on the whole not a terrible way to spend a vacation, but I prefer the fresh gusts of air and thrust of a motor pushing me into my seat as I ride the road to into the known.
I need to get moving again.
4 days before Christmas we recognized that we had lost the opportunity to spend the holidays in Lima, Peru with a climbing buddy of Jim’s.
Head sunk Jim pulls open the door to the hostels common room. The walls are lined with 20 ounce Pilsener bottles and the floor is caked with soggy cigarette ashes. With the owner away in the U.S visiting family the state of things deteriorated rapidly, I don’t even notice anymore.
“The bike won’t be ready for another week man.”
“So, we are here for Christmas and most likely New Years then huh?”
“X you should just start without me and I will haul ass to catch up with you in Peru or Bolivia.”
“Screw that man, let’s both get out of Quito for a few…no interest in sitting in some bordertown motel with the truckers wishing we were somewhere else…with our people.”
Lars, a German machine gunner turned globetrotter and Wade, a British guy teaching English in Columbia are already drunk. They are here by choice, but are quick to suggest we get out of the country for a spell. With a rare showing of excitement Wane starts laughing and clapping…
“Listen mates, there is a city in Columbia that has the most beautiful women you’ll ever see. Medellin is the lost city of babes. I tell ya, you will be flooding your trunks man. Place is a spot dodgy though. You cross someone and you’ll find yerselves shot. They wake in the morning and ask themselves…’Who can I kill today?’ But the babes, mate…OOhhhh!”
Five hours later Jim and I are holding tickets to Bogota arriving Christmas Eve and departing the 2nd of January. We are back on the move! My bike and gear go into storage at the hostel and we check out the next morning at 4a.m. We are traveling light and fast. One small shoulder bag with 2 changes of clothes, toothbrush, camera, wallet and passport.
The flight over the mountains and into Bogota took less than two hours and before long we were in a taxi winding through the modern city streets looking to find a highly recommended hostel near the center of town.
With our bags firmly gripped in our laps we keep giggling and reminding each other…
“We are in Columbia dude…hehah.”
“Sure are.”
Back in Quito we both made the decision not to tell our folks that we were heading into the kidnap capital of the world so as not to stress them over the holidays. We both called a couple of friends giving them our itinerary in case something did go wrong, but for the most part we were flying by night and would continue to do so until we were back in the relative safety of Quito. Note the lack of activity on the site.
The hostel had no sign, just a Platypus painted on the flaking wall and a security camera eyeballing us as we scanned the alley for signs of FARC rebels and seedy characters. With the buzz of the magnet lock we where led into a caged corridor. When the door to the street was securely locked the door into the hostel’s little courtyard buzzed and we were in.
Shuffling quickly across the open-air courtyard a skinny man welcomes to his bohemian garden.
“Did you guys loose your luggage?”
“Ha, no…no, the less you have to carry, the less you can loose.”
He squints with a slight look of confusion as if to imply our cautious nature was a waste of positive energy. Indeed we were safe as can be behind the electronic gates and thick doors, but we had no intention of hovelling up in a hostel of the next 9 days. We were itching to get out into the thick description of Columbian culture…did I mention the Lost City of Babes laying some 500 km to the northwest on the other side of the Sierra Madre mountain range?
Once settled into our dorm accommodations we took to the street for some empanadas and to find a phone to call my old friend Isabel from Wesleyan that was in Columbia visiting family for the holidays. The plan was to meet up later that night for Christmas Eve dinner at her aunt’s house on the outskirts of the city.
Back at the Platypus the party was in full swing. The 20 or so guests from all over the world were busy getting drunk and stoned in the yard on free beer provided by the owner who was hosting a free tamale wrapped in banana leaf dinner for the lot.
The scene was something else- A pimply Asian man was crouched over the infected, open soared leg of a British guy who got mauled by egg-laying bugs in the jungle the week before. Slowly waving his hands over the rotting flesh he was humming as he cast some invisible healing powers onto the sick limb. A tall blond Norwegian and a rowdy bunch of Brits smoked a huge joint around the dry fountain as 4 Columbian girls on holiday in Bogota danced around in circles, kissing each other and laughing hysterically. In the dinning room the heads speeding on cocaine hopped from story to story chain smoking hoping to build up an appetite by dinner time. In a few hours I would be a guest at a proper Christmas dinner with Isabel and her family so I nursed my beer and quietly appreciated the Columbian Christmas spirit build.
With dinner being served at around midnight Jim and I decided to show up at 10pm to avoid any awkward downtime before appetizers and cocktail hour. Following Isabel’s advice I stopped off at a liquor store and picked up some of Kentucky’s finest as a gift for our hosts. It had almost 3 months since I last sat down for a family style dinner and I was a bit excited to eat heartily, drink some fine spirits and talk up a storm…albeit in Spanish.
Despite the open windows letting in a warm breeze and our thin cotton dinner attire, the mood was that of a traditional Christmas gathering. The small fur tree twinkled, the fireplace mantel displayed various incarnations of Santa, the candles burned and the food continued to flow from the kitchen on huge platters. Seven of us ate enough for 15 and slowly slipped into food and whiskey induced stupor. We were all very happy.
“So, why don’t you and Jim join us up in Barranquilla on north coast for New Years?”
“Thank you Mr. Vega, but we are planning on spending some time in Medellin before making our way to the beach.”
“How will arrive there…air?”
“We were thinking we could catch the bus in the morning, save some cash…”
“Bus, huh…hold.”
Isabel’s cousin flips open his cell and makes a call. As if checking the times for films on 800-moviefone he punches his way through the phone menu for a minute then informs us the road to Medellin is safe to pass until January 2nd, but not after the 2nd. Apparently the Columbian army is patrolling the roads aggressively during the holidays to fend of Xmas raids my FARC forces.
Waddling out the door licking our chops at 4am Jim and I catch a taxi back to the hostel.
“Ok man, we’ll knock out for a couple of hours and make our way to the bus station by 9am…should be in Medellin by mid afternoon.”
Jim muddles something and slumps his head against the taxi window. We are relaxed, falling asleep in a taxi as we speed through the empty streets.
It is Christmas morning.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 5:25 PM
