Thursday, January 15, 2004
Christmas in Columbia-Part II
We were the first to start stirring in the morning, but we had still overslept a few hours and needed to hustle to the bus terminal if we were going to get a seat (as opposed to standing room only) for the ride to Medellin. Out of the taxi and onto the sidewalk with our bags in hand, we are swarmed by plain clothed men thrusting bus tickets in our faces listing off Columbian cities of popular destination.
?Medellin??
?Si, si, vamos al autobus ahora!?
?Cuanto cuesta??
?No importa, ahorito listo?vamos!?
?Si es importa?cuanto??
?$9.?
?7??
?Ahhh?claro?vamos el autobus esta lista.?
As promised the bus was almost fully packed with people and the Christmas presents they received that morning. Before we jumped on and claimed our seats I asked the women in the front seat how long the trip would take. She assured me no more that 7 hours and that we would make a few stops along the way.
Chugging the last of my liter of agua con gas I find a seat up front with an old lady while Jim settles into a seat in the back next to a women with two children sitting in her lap. It is a small bus, more like a super-large mini-van with huge windows?and no bathroom.
As I munch on a ham and cheese sandwich I bought at the terminal before boarding Jim hollers to me from the back of the bus?
?We should have got some beer for the ride?!?
?Yeah. She said we are going to be stopping in a few hours, we can fuel up then.?
Pulling out of the bus depot and into the holiday traffic a wave of ?Father-Son & Holy Ghost? gestures comes over the riders?including the driver who then kisses the rosary that hangs from the rearview mirror. This is equal parts comforting and disturbing to a man that does not prescribe to the theory of divine intervention when it comes to arriving at your destination in one piece.
6 hours later we have not stopped, in fact we are winding through the steep canyons of the Sierra Madres faster than ever. With every bump in the road and jab in the ribs from my neighbor I curse the bottle of water I downed before jumping aboard. It hurts and I am starting to think of ways in which I can relieve my bladder without asking the driver to pull over. What is most surprising is that nobody else, including the children, seem to care that we have not stopped for food, water or bathroom breaks. They sit calmly, quiet children in lap, mile after mile while Jim and I are on the verge of jumping out of the rig. Lonesome, gringo motorcyclists crammed into long-haul mass transport?no es bueno senor.
I start to eyeball my empty water bottle and estimate the degree of shock the women next to me might experience if she finds me refilling it when the bus starts to slow up. It has been raining pretty hard for the past couple of hours so I figured maybe we came upon a wreck or a stretch of washed out road?either way I was getting out to contribute to the flood regardless.
Through the front windshield I could see some activity ahead. A burning tire in the middle of the road, a pile of rock and a bunch of twisted branches; someone putting out the word that there is trouble up ahead. We roll along in the pitch dark and rain for a minute or two more when I notice that the fellow passengers are getting fidgety. I look back at Jim and he too is uneasy. You see, we got warned about these very roads and assured everyone that we would not travel them at night?but here we are, squirming in our seats peering into the dark Columbian jungle through the fogged windows of the Super-Van.
Finally the bus comes to a stop and the driver stars to speak with a man that has come out in the rain to meet us... Reaching over the old lady next to me to wipe away the fog I catch the glint of a heavy caliber bandolier strapped cross-chest around a camouflaged figure circling the bus. He passes through the flood lights and I get the picture. Barrette, rubber rain-poncho, crisscrossed machine gun bullet belts from shoulders to waist, and a huge weapon?not your typical M-16 deal either?this rig was something to be mounted on a helicopter. BIG, capable.
The driver starts to shout at the man he is speaking to through the window and we lurch forward and speed into a muddy lot and come to a skidding standstill. We are in guerrilla territory; the road is blocked, being diverted into a pasture?raining and black.
Do I hide my passport, what can I do here?
NOTE TO SELF: OK, I limp, bad?If I am suffering from some renal failure than causes me to sit every 20 feet they will take someone else to ransom off? Damn, that would be Jim and I need a riding partner. Got it! If I am deaf and traveling with a deaf friend that might be too much hassle for them to want to deal with?but what if they trick me??Hey Xavier, teines hambre??!?
Screw it, I got a bad limp and am dying of diarrhea?
We are sitting in the dark bus. The driver has jumped out and not returned. I feel confident that we are not being hijacked as everyone else is calm?but then again that might be their trick to escape kidnapping if we are in fact in guerrilla hands. After about five minutes I am done with sitting on a parked bus. If they want me they are going to take me, but I am getting off to piss. I get up and move to the front of the bus, Jim expresses his concerns and I express mine and demand they open the door. The door opens and before I can make my move the family in front of me jumps out into the driving rain and muddy lot. I follow them as they start to run to an open air shelter across the yard of puddles.
Dripping wet and nervous I run into none other than a bunch of Columbian soccer fanatics glues to a small TV mounted to the ceiling of the bamboo clad café. They don?t notice me, so I excuse myself to retreat around the back of the building. When I return Jim is now off the bus and making friends with the children from ours and the other diverted busses.
?These are the good guys, no worries. Apparently the FARC has been sighted up the road and an alert was sent out to stop transports through the pass.?
I look at the men, heavily armed, drenched and peering off into the jungle from the edge of the reed overhang.
?So what?s up? We stuck here for a bit??
?6am the road reopens?get comfortable.?
?Holy shit man?we are here all night! We got 11 hours, what the hell are we going to do for 11 hours WE? everyone here, til morning...?!?
?Yeah.?
?OK, lets buy all the beer they have and claim a table to crash under before the soccer game ends and people start getting bored.?
?Good call, bro.?
With as little explanation as the bus driver abandoning his rig, the owner of the manger comes out at midnight and with a wrench and unscrews the TV from the ceiling right in the middle of some Bruce Willis joint. The 30 or so other night owls persuade him to leave the lights on as people are playing cards and reading the newspaper. I look up from the table of drained beer and rum bottles to notice that the military men have left to patrol the jungle around the shelter?a bunch of 20-40 year old dudes looking for something to due til dawn.
As the story goes, I made an unsolicited statement to the rest of the stranded that?
?Gringos can drink and fight better than anyone in the world.?
Generally not the way to make friends with the local folk, but this bold, rum fuelled proclamation reignited a waning evening.
An empty cup quickly filled with Columbian money (over $50 U.S) and I was committed to a shot for shot battle against a skinny, chain-smoking, baseball cap wearing guy that assured me that I was about to be humiliated.
?You are in Columbia sir, this is my country.?
?Yeah, and I am gonna drink you sick and take your countries money? bro. Hey, Jim?is this a bad idea man. Are we gonna get in trouble when I clean them out??
?Totally a bad idea, but you are in. Pace yourself?HEAHWEH!!!?
The pot was pretty large by Columbian monetary standards, but the fluid reserves to complete a proper shot-for-shot drink fest were not. Bettors and non-bettors alike contributed all their rum, Agua Diente, etc to the cause, but it was not enough. We drank the place dry. The owner?s nephew was still amongst those without beds and he agreed to pull a 12er of beer for me to finish the completion but this suggestion was pooh-poohed as people decided they wanted to take their money back complaining?
?Americans drink the beer like water?!
With only two of us actually competing for God, country and a bunch of pesos, I suggested that me and senor skinny just arm-wrestle it for the bounty. Once again?
?You are in Columbia, you will never win??
SLAM! I take the pot.
But this opened up a whole other genre of competition, one in which the entire castaway crew wanted in on...the cup is filled with money again?I remove my sweaty jersey for battle.
3am, I have torn my arm from my body but managed to defeat everyone willing to take on the anvil. Everyone?s shirts are off, prostitutes are gathering, guerrillas are on the move and the gringo has roped the dope in the jungle. Pockets stuffed and head full of sugary booze I give be up the table wondering if I will make it through the night sleeping under a table in the jungle surrounded by men that I just cleaned out?Worth a shot, not giving it back!
Jim is up. He flexes and demands a challenger. After about 5 quick victories the big boys decide they should step in and claim some glory for Columbia. As grips lock and rules get redefined for the 50th time of the night, the man-competition commences. The legs of the table start to wane, the grunts grow louder but the arms don?t move. Jim found himself a worth arm-wrestler.
The chanting starts?
?Columbia, Columbia, Columbia, Columbia?!!!?
I whisper in to Jim that it might be best to let them have it.
?Screw it!? Jim goes for a slight reposition to throw the stalemate and smashes his challengers arm down with excessive force, lifts it and slams it again and again demanding he be heard between each gratuitous pin.
?U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A!!!?
I am thinking the worst at this point, but the crowd roars with laughter, celebrating Jim?s machismo. Gringos in some of the world?s most dangerous jungles?balls without brains. Brilliant!
With just under 2 hours of shut eye, a child from the bus, whom slept on the bus through the rumble in the jungle, comes to alert us that the circus is on the move. Peeling ourselves from the table top of the café we see the rest of the boys are already gone. Onto the bus and into our seats without a word spoken?we are but an hour away for the Lost City of Babes, may we continue our winning streak with the support of the locals?
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 7:23 PM
?Medellin??
?Si, si, vamos al autobus ahora!?
?Cuanto cuesta??
?No importa, ahorito listo?vamos!?
?Si es importa?cuanto??
?$9.?
?7??
?Ahhh?claro?vamos el autobus esta lista.?
As promised the bus was almost fully packed with people and the Christmas presents they received that morning. Before we jumped on and claimed our seats I asked the women in the front seat how long the trip would take. She assured me no more that 7 hours and that we would make a few stops along the way.
Chugging the last of my liter of agua con gas I find a seat up front with an old lady while Jim settles into a seat in the back next to a women with two children sitting in her lap. It is a small bus, more like a super-large mini-van with huge windows?and no bathroom.
As I munch on a ham and cheese sandwich I bought at the terminal before boarding Jim hollers to me from the back of the bus?
?We should have got some beer for the ride?!?
?Yeah. She said we are going to be stopping in a few hours, we can fuel up then.?
Pulling out of the bus depot and into the holiday traffic a wave of ?Father-Son & Holy Ghost? gestures comes over the riders?including the driver who then kisses the rosary that hangs from the rearview mirror. This is equal parts comforting and disturbing to a man that does not prescribe to the theory of divine intervention when it comes to arriving at your destination in one piece.
6 hours later we have not stopped, in fact we are winding through the steep canyons of the Sierra Madres faster than ever. With every bump in the road and jab in the ribs from my neighbor I curse the bottle of water I downed before jumping aboard. It hurts and I am starting to think of ways in which I can relieve my bladder without asking the driver to pull over. What is most surprising is that nobody else, including the children, seem to care that we have not stopped for food, water or bathroom breaks. They sit calmly, quiet children in lap, mile after mile while Jim and I are on the verge of jumping out of the rig. Lonesome, gringo motorcyclists crammed into long-haul mass transport?no es bueno senor.
I start to eyeball my empty water bottle and estimate the degree of shock the women next to me might experience if she finds me refilling it when the bus starts to slow up. It has been raining pretty hard for the past couple of hours so I figured maybe we came upon a wreck or a stretch of washed out road?either way I was getting out to contribute to the flood regardless.
Through the front windshield I could see some activity ahead. A burning tire in the middle of the road, a pile of rock and a bunch of twisted branches; someone putting out the word that there is trouble up ahead. We roll along in the pitch dark and rain for a minute or two more when I notice that the fellow passengers are getting fidgety. I look back at Jim and he too is uneasy. You see, we got warned about these very roads and assured everyone that we would not travel them at night?but here we are, squirming in our seats peering into the dark Columbian jungle through the fogged windows of the Super-Van.
Finally the bus comes to a stop and the driver stars to speak with a man that has come out in the rain to meet us... Reaching over the old lady next to me to wipe away the fog I catch the glint of a heavy caliber bandolier strapped cross-chest around a camouflaged figure circling the bus. He passes through the flood lights and I get the picture. Barrette, rubber rain-poncho, crisscrossed machine gun bullet belts from shoulders to waist, and a huge weapon?not your typical M-16 deal either?this rig was something to be mounted on a helicopter. BIG, capable.
The driver starts to shout at the man he is speaking to through the window and we lurch forward and speed into a muddy lot and come to a skidding standstill. We are in guerrilla territory; the road is blocked, being diverted into a pasture?raining and black.
Do I hide my passport, what can I do here?
NOTE TO SELF: OK, I limp, bad?If I am suffering from some renal failure than causes me to sit every 20 feet they will take someone else to ransom off? Damn, that would be Jim and I need a riding partner. Got it! If I am deaf and traveling with a deaf friend that might be too much hassle for them to want to deal with?but what if they trick me??Hey Xavier, teines hambre??!?
Screw it, I got a bad limp and am dying of diarrhea?
We are sitting in the dark bus. The driver has jumped out and not returned. I feel confident that we are not being hijacked as everyone else is calm?but then again that might be their trick to escape kidnapping if we are in fact in guerrilla hands. After about five minutes I am done with sitting on a parked bus. If they want me they are going to take me, but I am getting off to piss. I get up and move to the front of the bus, Jim expresses his concerns and I express mine and demand they open the door. The door opens and before I can make my move the family in front of me jumps out into the driving rain and muddy lot. I follow them as they start to run to an open air shelter across the yard of puddles.
Dripping wet and nervous I run into none other than a bunch of Columbian soccer fanatics glues to a small TV mounted to the ceiling of the bamboo clad café. They don?t notice me, so I excuse myself to retreat around the back of the building. When I return Jim is now off the bus and making friends with the children from ours and the other diverted busses.
?These are the good guys, no worries. Apparently the FARC has been sighted up the road and an alert was sent out to stop transports through the pass.?
I look at the men, heavily armed, drenched and peering off into the jungle from the edge of the reed overhang.
?So what?s up? We stuck here for a bit??
?6am the road reopens?get comfortable.?
?Holy shit man?we are here all night! We got 11 hours, what the hell are we going to do for 11 hours WE? everyone here, til morning...?!?
?Yeah.?
?OK, lets buy all the beer they have and claim a table to crash under before the soccer game ends and people start getting bored.?
?Good call, bro.?
With as little explanation as the bus driver abandoning his rig, the owner of the manger comes out at midnight and with a wrench and unscrews the TV from the ceiling right in the middle of some Bruce Willis joint. The 30 or so other night owls persuade him to leave the lights on as people are playing cards and reading the newspaper. I look up from the table of drained beer and rum bottles to notice that the military men have left to patrol the jungle around the shelter?a bunch of 20-40 year old dudes looking for something to due til dawn.
As the story goes, I made an unsolicited statement to the rest of the stranded that?
?Gringos can drink and fight better than anyone in the world.?
Generally not the way to make friends with the local folk, but this bold, rum fuelled proclamation reignited a waning evening.
An empty cup quickly filled with Columbian money (over $50 U.S) and I was committed to a shot for shot battle against a skinny, chain-smoking, baseball cap wearing guy that assured me that I was about to be humiliated.
?You are in Columbia sir, this is my country.?
?Yeah, and I am gonna drink you sick and take your countries money? bro. Hey, Jim?is this a bad idea man. Are we gonna get in trouble when I clean them out??
?Totally a bad idea, but you are in. Pace yourself?HEAHWEH!!!?
The pot was pretty large by Columbian monetary standards, but the fluid reserves to complete a proper shot-for-shot drink fest were not. Bettors and non-bettors alike contributed all their rum, Agua Diente, etc to the cause, but it was not enough. We drank the place dry. The owner?s nephew was still amongst those without beds and he agreed to pull a 12er of beer for me to finish the completion but this suggestion was pooh-poohed as people decided they wanted to take their money back complaining?
?Americans drink the beer like water?!
With only two of us actually competing for God, country and a bunch of pesos, I suggested that me and senor skinny just arm-wrestle it for the bounty. Once again?
?You are in Columbia, you will never win??
SLAM! I take the pot.
But this opened up a whole other genre of competition, one in which the entire castaway crew wanted in on...the cup is filled with money again?I remove my sweaty jersey for battle.
3am, I have torn my arm from my body but managed to defeat everyone willing to take on the anvil. Everyone?s shirts are off, prostitutes are gathering, guerrillas are on the move and the gringo has roped the dope in the jungle. Pockets stuffed and head full of sugary booze I give be up the table wondering if I will make it through the night sleeping under a table in the jungle surrounded by men that I just cleaned out?Worth a shot, not giving it back!
Jim is up. He flexes and demands a challenger. After about 5 quick victories the big boys decide they should step in and claim some glory for Columbia. As grips lock and rules get redefined for the 50th time of the night, the man-competition commences. The legs of the table start to wane, the grunts grow louder but the arms don?t move. Jim found himself a worth arm-wrestler.
The chanting starts?
?Columbia, Columbia, Columbia, Columbia?!!!?
I whisper in to Jim that it might be best to let them have it.
?Screw it!? Jim goes for a slight reposition to throw the stalemate and smashes his challengers arm down with excessive force, lifts it and slams it again and again demanding he be heard between each gratuitous pin.
?U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A, (SLAM) U.S.A!!!?
I am thinking the worst at this point, but the crowd roars with laughter, celebrating Jim?s machismo. Gringos in some of the world?s most dangerous jungles?balls without brains. Brilliant!
With just under 2 hours of shut eye, a child from the bus, whom slept on the bus through the rumble in the jungle, comes to alert us that the circus is on the move. Peeling ourselves from the table top of the café we see the rest of the boys are already gone. Onto the bus and into our seats without a word spoken?we are but an hour away for the Lost City of Babes, may we continue our winning streak with the support of the locals?
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 7:23 PM
