Leaving Medellin

My last hours in Medellin were a little chaotic. When you arrive in a city with the intent to hang around for a while you take your time visiting the tourist sites... 5 weeks in and I had only ridden one cable car and visited Parque Arvi (Dutch and I had planned to return with the girls [L, his girlfriend and her roommate] to do some horseback riding but it never happened, plus we fled Medellin for a few days after L's baby-daddy put a hit out on Dutch, that didn't help). 1 different cable route, Pablo Escobar tour, day trip to El Penol, many museums, Jardin Botanico, etc all still on my To Do list.

I scurried to El Penol on my 2nd to last day, bolted across town to the other metrocable, and squeezed in a stroll around the botanic gardens before sunset as it began to rain. I decided the Escobar tour was kind of bullshit. Not sure how I feel about someone making money off one of the most violent people in human history, I'll look up pictures of his shit on Flikr and google images instead.

Dutch and I often talked about "the future", future plans to finance further travels, what we were going to do when we got home, if we would ever go home, how he was going to get to Caracas for his flight home in the next few days. But we never directly talked about my leaving, even on the day I left. We had cooked up some fish for dinner at the guest house, our conversation just the same as any other day. I bought one last $1 DVD off the street for some evening entertainment, Prince of Persia--only... the street people fucked up, the disk really had a 40 minute Assassin's Creed mini-movie marketing/promotion thing on it.. at 8pm it was too late to find the vendor on the street and threaten him with physical harm.

I normally bought my dvd's from the same guy near Parque Berrio, 2 blocks south of the metro line about 20 feet away from the corner near a bunch of fruit and vegetable stands. One day I was flipping through the flicks when I thought I felt water (or something) land on my head, as I reach a hand up to feel my head the guy responded with the Spanish equivalent of 'aww shit, those fucking kids are at it again', a few kids lived on the 2nd or 3rd floor of the building and would periodically spray people with squirt guns. So we all lined up with our backs on the brick building wall hiding behind a slight ledge between the 3rd and 2nd floor, and continued our conversation for a few minutes before poking a head around the ledge checking if the coast was clear.

This guy didn't have the best selection of DVD's but he had the worst limp I have ever seen (probably hit by a car or motorcycle accident). Plus when we talked he didn't treat me like a cash-cow gringo nor was he hostile towards me. Normally a single dvd would cost about 2 mil but after I talked to him a few times he would sell me one for 1 mil (.50 cents). If the DVD didn't play on my laptop I could come back and switch it without and grief or fear that he wouldn't be there. Honestly, it was just nice to come around the corner and see a familiar face-- give him a wave, stop by and say hey, chat about the day, pick up a movie for the evening, and continue my stroll. Plus if I was giving my money to a shady guy on the street I felt better about giving it to him than a perfectly healthy young male who could be working in construction or something, or maybe it was just white guilt.

The People you Meet : Part 1

This will be one post of many detailing someone I met in hostels in Colombia and Venezuela. During my time there I wondered why I spent so much time agonizing over my destination, when the most influential factor of your trip is the people you meet.

Profile 1: J

I knew J for 2-3 weeks before I knew his name. When you meet 5+ new people everyday you eventually forget to introduce yourselves, or you hear them say their name but it never sticks in your mind. I never found out his last name, but maybe that is for the better.

J is an American expat living in Colombia on and off for the last 15-20 years, he has spent the last 7 years in Colombia (other than little trips).

His Colombian experience begins in Bogota, where he ran various small businesses and managed his stock portfolio. He made a few hundred dollars a day with his stocks in the early 90's, this allowed him to live in extreme luxury as Colombia was extremely cheap at the time.

When he went to top-tier Bogota restaurants, he would often tip more than 50 USD (possibly more than the weekly income of a typical waiter), so when he occasionally showed up without a reservation on the busiest nights, the employees would run into the back and bring out a table just for him and his guest.

Eventually his small businesses attracted (his "baller" lifestyle was also to blame) the kind of people that required him to pay a monthly "you want to do business here, you pay us" fee. The perks of shelling out to these people that threatened physical harm was that they periodically asked J if anyone was hassling him. One time J said yes, these guys are hanging out front and follow me after I lock up.

The next day was the last day on Earth for the "leader" of the thugs giving J a hard time. No one ever heard from him again, and a body was never discovered.

The thugs either completely avoided eye contact with J or called him by the nickname they used to call their leader--kind of awkward for J as he thought the leader would be beaten or maybe just threatened.. not whacked. Oops. From this point on he was a little more careful what he said to the guys he was paying for protection.

J was(still is) also subject to money grubbing women asking for some cash to tide them over. Nearly everyday we sat in the lounge area of the guest house talking for an hour or two. Every conversation was always interrupted by text messages or phone calls from different women asking to borrow $$. He had it worse than I ever did, although the girls I was talking to were from 19-27 while his were 30-45 (he's an older guy), so maybe that has something to do with it.

I cannot remember the name of the popular drug/mix that is often used to rob people in Colombia. Once the chemical is on your skin you will experience a rohypnol-like reaction, this is when the robbers either clean out your pockets or take you to an ATM for some withdrawals. Instead of putting it on a business card and having J touch it, he is pretty sure he had it sprayed in his face (and subsequently breathed it in). He remembers walking down a street, and then he wakes up in the hospital a few days later. For the next few months J experienced periodic memory loss, yikes.

One night J was out with some friends at a small mob-run casino. His possibly drunk/buzzing/doped up buddy got into an argument, pulled a gun and actually shot and killed a guy. A small crowd developed on the street in front of this casino/bar, a crowd containing J and his friends.

Normally.. if you just killed someone in public.. wouldn't you leave the scene?

"When the cops came they didn't touch us, they were paid off. Do you know how I know they were paid off? -- I paid them off."

There's more, I'll continue J's profile later.

A Day in the Life : El Centro Medellin

After moving into my place in Prado Centro L and Dutch took me knife (switchblade) shopping, I have never even owned a knife before. If I was ever going to use it it would probably be at night, and most of the clubs here pat you down quite rigorously as you enter.. so I would have to be careful not to get it confiscated.

While traveling along the Caribbean coast Dutch mentioned one of his friend's has an "office". The friend that owns this office is the one who just went to prison for getting caught killing someone. The only other details I had about this place was that "it will be the saddest place you have ever seen, people hanging out laying around tripping out" and that L wanted to lure some semi-homeless girl to the office so she could taser her in a 'safe'(or maybe 'controlled' is a better word) environment.

Dutch and I meet up with L at her place in El centro before we went to the knife shop they normally use. I don't know why we went to the office but it was on the way, this might have been a little 'initiation' or something.

In front of this 2 story crumbling cinder block building some of the office owner's buddies were selling coke etc. If you needed a place to dope up, you went upstairs.
L introduces me to a few of these people, one of them blurts out, "aww man, I used to live in New York City. Taxi driver, lived there for 11 years."

I barely stop myself from asking why he left NYC, shit he probably got deported. I'm thinking don't bring it up, don't bring it up.

"..So, uh, why did you leave?"
Fuck.

"aw yea I would go back. I would go back in a second, I loved it there" He replies, giving me a good view of his crack teeth. He has major yellow and brown discoloring on his shriveling front teeth, with the root starting show on one of them.

Oh phew.. I think this guy misheard me, he probably hasn't spoken English with anyone lately. -- or he didn't want to talk about his deportation.

"Shall we go in?" Dutch says, "You ready for this?".

On our walk to L's apartment he told me if anyone in the office hassles us they're dead. "Oh, so someone will fuck them up a little?" "No, they'll just kill them on the spot if they step out of line".
L has status with these people, so we're supposedly untouchable.

Someone shouts up the stairs that people are coming up and it's cool, don't freak out.

"Oh man it smells" Dutch says as he begins up the stairs, L follows, and I'm the caboose.

The first thing I notice are the walls and the ceiling covered with a wetness you get with concrete and humid rooms. At 6' 4" I'm also hunching over so I don't drag my head on the ceiling. My elbows are curled in towards my body creating a stance that looks like I'm boxing, with my fists level together out front.

As I come up the last few steps I see that there aren't any lights up here, nor furniture (excluding the wooden bucket I discover a few minutes into the future in a smaller room used for shit and vomit). The only light source in the room is sunlight streaming through the cracks and holes in the crumbling cement ceiling (I'm sure that's stable...).

My eyes adjust and I see about 50+ people laying on the floor all over in filth. We have to step over their bodies to pass through the hallway which leads to a larger room also packed with more people on the floor. This larger room was darker than the hallway, I see and hear the flick of a lighter against tinfoil in the corner.

After checking the place out someone from a corner in the dark shouted in a deep slow voice, "Norte Americanos..." L later said they thought we were looking for whores to fuck. We decided it was time to leave and made our way to the stairs, once again hopscotching over the mass of bodies covering the floors in every room and hallway, hoping no one stabs me in the leg with a knife or a needle. Once again I was the last one out, delicately walking down these dark steps trying not to touch the walls HOPING (again) no one grabs me from behind. If they had, the stairs were too narrow for me to turn around, I would have been fucked.

A few years earlier L saw the husband of the school administrator her roommate works at fucking two hookers up here. In the ass. Without a condom.
He also has 2 young children, if it matters.

As we walk into the bright sunlight and along the sidewalk L and Dutch shoot me inquisitive glances. "..So.. how was that?"

When I first met L I didn't think she liked me very much, I probably looked like the hundredth gringo trying to fuck her roommate. But after this day she was much, much warmer towards me. When Dutch took the Brits up there they looked nervous as hell, she even had to pat one on the back to make him chill out. My facial expression for the entire thing was the exact same; nothing, and I guess she likes that. L's daughter, S (4.5 years old), has expressionless eyes, and L has been heard saying that's how she wants them, expressionless and cold.

Bogota

I have a lot of things I want to write about but I have been feeling extremely lazy the last few days. I am in Bogota now with a flight home on the 25th... not sure what I am going to do with myself when I am home, but hopefully it will be constructive. I honestly dont feel like being a tourist anymore, and I wonder if I should have spent the last 3 months going through Bolivia, Peru, and Argentina (maybe I would still give a shit about museums, or maybe I would be even more burnt out, who knows). That way everyday I could have a new city in front of me every few days, and maybe feel like I actually accomplished something during my time in South America.

I never even made it to the Coffee region in Colombia! Fuck. I am also regretting never making it to Giron, Villa de Leyva, and San Gil. I will tell myself that this might be a good thing, as it gives me something new to do when I come back to Colombia in the near future, but I dont think its working.

Back to Santa Marta after La Guajira Peninsula

I wrote this 3-4 weeks ago and never got around to posting it.. It became irrelevant when l met up with Holland in Medellin last week and the Brits came the day after. However, they have all gone to Manizales and beyond for the hot springs and shit down there, so yea.. I guess it works again.

Last night we lost the Dutchman. We were planning on parting ways once our bus arrived to the terminal in Santa Marta (from Riohacha), however as we were getting off the driver told (screamed over the sound of traffic) Dutch it would be easier to get to Medellin from Barranquilla, so with a moments notice he jumped back on the bus as it began to pull away. A bus employee was also hanging onto the outer edge of the door, shouting something about Marijuana, it was quite chaotic.

It was during this crowded and confusing exchange I realized how different the rest of my time in Colombia and elsewhere will be from the last 3 weeks. I met Dutchman my very first night at the Northstar in Bocagrande, Cartagena, 99% of my trip thus far has been with this insane stranger at my side. Today I am still with familiar faces, the Brits and I are spending one more night (we ended up staying 2 nights because it's an awesome place) at the Brisa Loca before they head off to Taganga, and I Bucaramanga. In the lobby area we stumbled across another Brit the other Brits traveled with for a while in Venezuela, ha, so he’s back in the group once more.

Once the Dutchman left all Spanish conversations became my responsibility. If I learned one thing from Dutchman it was that Colombians lie, a lot, and on purpose.

Before packing our bags in the taxi’s trunk we made sure he knew where the Brisa Loca was, Si Si, he assures me. All is well, the Brisa Loca is right in the center of town across from the main square, and is the most popular hostel in all of Santa Marta, surely there would be no issues..

After 15 minutes of driving the cab stops in front of Pollo Loco, a fried chicken restaurante.
Aqui aqui! He shouts and starts to unload our bags.. uhh what?
Senor, senor… this is not it I explain. He points and says Pollo Loco. Yes, we see the massive sign. We need La B-r-i-s-a L-o-c-a. He gestures towards Pollo Loco one more time furiously nodding his head. No no no.

Es un lugar para dormir, lo no es un restaurante x3
(It’s a place for sleep, it is not a restaurant)

We want to take all of our baggage to a fried chicken fast food joint?

10 minutes later explaining that it is a bright orange building in the main square of town we finally arrive, I know my Spanish sucks but I wonder what the fuck is wrong with this guy.

Below, a blurry shot of Brisa Loca from their terrace down into the court yard. And a bit of the dorm room.

Losing our Humanity

I have only been in Colombia/Venezuela for a little over a month and I am already seeing the changes it has had on me. Holland once told me his sister was worried he was losing his humanity in Colombia. I’m not sure what he told her that deserved that reply, I forgot, sorry.
When I first arrived in Cartagena I was overwhelmed. I can’t say it was culture shock, but I think a better term is disgust. I could not believe humans allowed themselves to live in such terrible conditions without making an effort to change it. Local Colombians throw their trash wherever they feel like it, just to walk around the same pile of trash the next day until they are literally walking through a path carved through trash that should have been in a garbage from day 1. The half completed demolitions and partial construction projects were more than an eye sore, many of these buildings looked like they could collapse at any time. It appears as though a local found it, ignored the leaning brick walls, tossed a corrugated tin roof on top of it and called it home.

I wondered if I would ever be able to tolerate such an environment as my “home”, and although I’m still not sure if I can call it “home” it only took a few weeks for the edge to wear off. I still notice all the shit, but now it doesn’t surprise me. I step over the human feces on the sidewalk with the rest of them and dodge cars crossing 6 lanes of traffic with a bored look on my face.

A few days before I arrived in Merida, Venezuela a (British?) girl was traveling from Caracas to take an adventure trip to Los Llanos organized by our particular hostel, a 4 day South American safari. Bus drivers on night buses and the big intercity buses are supposed to drive to their destination without picking anyone up. Supposed to.. Nearly every bus driver tries to grab more people off street corners to make more money they don’t have to report to the bus company, as there is no hard proof there were any more passengers once the bus leaves the terminal.
The bus driver stopped to pick up some more customers, instead of taking a seat, they took the bus hostage and held everyone up. When told to hand over all of her belongings this girl clutched her bag and hesitated. Boom. They shot and killed her on the spot, I don’t know where they shot her but I hope for her sake it was in the head. If she lay there on the bus dying from a stomach or chest wound, she would have too much time to regret the decisions that lead to her being on that bus.

About 5 days later (my third day at the hostel) a Frenchman showed up with just a small backpack. On his bus from Caracas they were all forced to take all their bags off and run them through a mobile x-ray scanner—a big truck/semi thing the Venezuelan military drags around the country. All of the bags in the storage below the bus were lined up in the median between the two directions of traffic waiting to be x-rayed. A motorcycle with two people on it rolls to a stop, picks up his bag and takes off, the VE military was too busy to be bothered and did not do a thing to help this guy.

Yesterday I witnessed my first motorcycle accident. No less than 5 minutes after leaving my hostel for the first time in Medellin to take a stroll and explore the area I heard the *baawwwk* sound of a tire losing grip and beginning to slide. I turn over my shoulder from the sidewalk to see three people in the air and hit the ground like rag dolls. I didn’t pay too much attention to how they fell because the motorcycle was flipping in my direction but stopped about 15 feet away.

Two of the people in the air were policemen.. strange, I thought. They both stood up, brushed themselves off and walked towards the woman on the ground. It appears as though the woman chose a bad time to cross the street and was hit by the two policemen on the motorcycle, awkward/bad luck. She did a complete flip and landed on her left hip/elbow only a few feet from the curb. A few seconds after landing, she opens her eyes, looks around and starts to push herself up only to begin screaming and screaming. She collapses and her eyes close, with no more movement for the next few minutes. The two police are now standing on either side of her. I know it is bad to move someone who may be really hurt, but they didn’t even bother checking her vitals or anything. A man steps out of a shop behind me, “Ella es muerta?” (or something like that). I replied that I wasn’t sure, and that she had just tried to get up a few moments earlier.
Two more cops show up, take a cellphone out of her pocket and soon there are 5 people (4 of them cops) standing in a circle around this lady all on cellphones, not actually paying her any attention.

After focusing on her for a bit you could see she was still breathing, she opened her eyes a little after I noticed this. A big crowd of people appeared right behind her, with her cheek on the cement she was facing my direction ( on the other side of the road). When her eyes first opened they darted around, her body completely frozen. After glancing up towards the sky (probably looking for the murmuring voices behind her) she looks at me. Her stare hits me right in the eyes and she holds it for a few seconds before closing her eyes again. She does this two more times, more eye contact.

I won’t pretend that, “Oh man, Colombia has made me so hard brah” because I really did not feel good about meeting her eyes, but the whole situation felt so casual. A guy on a motorcycle had parked right next to me, he saw the crash too, started saying something about his bike. I was looking for a park when the accident took my attention, I asked the man where the park was and he gave me directions. We stood around a little longer but left before an Ambulance showed up.
I wonder if the woman lived, I mean if you’re hit in the pelvis/stomach by a motorcycle with two people on it at 40 mph, do a side-flip and hit your pelvis/stomach on the concrete again… there are probably some internal issues.

Later that day I found myself accidentally walking through a part of Medellin with a lot of Motorcycle shops. I stopped and took a peak at a Kawasaki store and went to the street bike section, with the image of those people rag-dolling through the air the motorcycle looked a little less appealing, but I had spoke with a Swede in Merida for a while about his 1000 GSX-R and I was starting to get hooked again.

I promise I'll write today... err tomorrow, yea, I'll do it tomorrow.

For over a month now I have tried to start writing shit that happened in Cartagena and the first few weeks of my time in Colombia. I have even written new posts about things that had just happened only to find myself physically unable to sum up the effort to dig up the 'old' memories.

I blame at least half of this laziness on the heat in Cartagena/Mompos/Santa Marta. You couldn't even think without sweating.

The first morning in Cartagena, Colombia was to be spent at the international film festival watching El Secreto en Sus Ojos (the secret in your eyes) an Argentinian film that was supposed to be really good, with Holland, Argentina, and West Coast USA (I seem to remember where people are from better than their actual names).

The night before our Hostel's owner had a party for his girlfriend who just returned from visiting her home (Spain) and invited a ton of his friends to hang out at the hostel. At the time it seemed pretty cool, you just arrived and you're already mingling with a local crowd. It was a lot less cool when they kept hanging out the next few days taking up all the spots on the couches, watching shitty tv, and hogging the computer.

Anyways, within the first 8 hours of life in Cartagena I had already encountered a really hot Colombiana. I did not spot her from across the street or through a shop window, she was sitting on the couch across from me, staring.

A lot of the black/really dark girls on the coast seem to have really light gray eyes, I think this was the first time I had seen this great combination. A bright yellow top thing with 4in heels and shoooort black shorts never looked so good.

"Hey man" the 25 yr old hostel owner says to me, "you should go talk to her". I don't understand what it is about me that makes other guys think I need help (see my Bucaramanga - Zona Rosa post) but I thought it was pretty obvious that that was what I was already moments away from doing.
Before I can reply he has decided to change plans, and calls her off the couch and introduces us.

Earlier in the day I showed him how terrible my Spanish is/was (it's still pretty rough), so he knows I can only carry a conversation in English. This friend of his, ONLY speaks Spanish. The whole night felt like a cruel joke. All in all this was a great motivation maker for improving my Spanish.

The next morning I chill around the hostel looking for the guys to go to the movie and they aren't in sight. Damn. I end up taking the 30 minute stroll down Bocagrande's beach to El Centro, the old Colonial part of Cartagena with this very unique 55+ yr old Black lady who was really into Ebonics. She has been all over Latin America (especially Cuba) so I actually did enjoy talking with her.

In the evening I run into West Coast USA.
"Oh here you are now" she says.
"Hm? I should be saying that to you"
"What do you mean, you stood up Holland."
"What? No way, I was here at the time we said, where were you?"
"I went out in the morning and Holland stayed behind to pick you up"
"Well god dammit, I don't know how we missed each other."

Holland and I both thought we were stood up, the next day we were both sitting around the hostel looking for something to do. The beach is our best option, and gets our votes.

While we're walking 1.5 blocks to the beach (Bocagrande is only 3 blocks wide, our hostel is in the middle, no matter which way we walk, we get a beach) Holland gets a phone call from his girlfriend in Medellin. One of their friends was shot a few times earlier that morning (dead), and the night before, one of their other friends shot and killed some guy and was caught by the police. In one phone call he lost two friends, less than 20 steps from the hostel.

He paused a little after the conversation, filled me in on the details and then we continued to the beach. At that moment I should have understood it was likely we were going to have more conversations like this, I was naive though and chalked it up to a one time event. I was wrong..

Bucaramanga - First Sight

Sitting on the beach at midnight with an obnoxiously drunk blonde American girl, 2 cute Peruvian girls, and an Australian guy passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth I realized my nightlife experiences in Colombia suck so far. I mean, this moment is nice I guess. People probably fantasize about it, but it's not exactly "nightlife", just some alcoholics on the baby bottle on the beach. And maybe that isn’t a really fair assessment because I had only been “out” legitimately twice, my second and third night in Cartagena, and I’ve almost been here a month! I did enjoy those two nights out however I only interacted with people I had met at the hostel and went to the bar with, which is ok, but at some point I should really make an effort to talk to Colombians too.

Two days ago I took a night bus from Santa Marta to Bucaramanga, which put me at my hostel’s doorstep at about 5:30am. I slept for 2-3 hours and started the day exploring my new neighborhood. I found a little empanada shop run by a really nice and chatty older lady, plus the chicken and cheese empanadas were the best I’d had in Colombia. 3 empanadas and a Tropical Hit later (coming to a total of about $3 US dollars) I came across a guy selling fresh pineapple slices. And by fresh I mean he cuts the entire thing up in front of you, a clear plastic bag the size of my foot full of pineapple chunks with a toothpick as a utensil set me back .55 US cents, this morning keeps getting better.

Semana Santa is this week, it has just begun and it’s already pissing me off. I have to leave Colombia within the next three days, but if I wait to the last minute the buses may be full and I’ll end up overstaying my VISA, something I would like to avoid.

I booked a 2am bus to Cucuta (the closest border town) which is supposedly a 7 hour ride; although the same bus with the same company leaving at 6 am only takes 4 hours… I wonder if we are making many more stops. I checked out of my hostel today and now I’m just hanging around until 2am to take the bus, which saves me cash by not having to pay for a place to sleep tonight.

Mompos

T (the Dutch guy I have been travelling with for a few days) and I were standing in the corner store near La Casa Amarilla about to pay for our Mango Hits(fruity drink) when the power went out. Little screams rose up from the crowds in the streets practicing for Semana Santa. We used light from the one working headlight on a moped idling in the street and a store flashlight to find the proper coins and pay for the drinks.

“You wanted to punch someone in the face in your lifetime?” I joked, “well here’s your chance, we’re probably going to get mugged” as we step into the dark toward the hostel.

We stopped in the street and took a quick video to take in the complete darkness. In the streets the only light came from a few more mopeds, I noticed the store we were in now has a back up generator running.

Two uneventful minutes later the power returns and we arrive at our hostel. The night security guard has locked the door again and left his post so we stand impatiently, waiting for the guy to do his only job and let us in.

Earlier in the day or maybe it was the night before a sweet elderly couple joined the small “crowd” in La Casa, now our total gringo population reached 6. As we walk towards our rooms and the kitchen I see everyone is showing their serious faces, with their hands planted on their hips.

The older Canadian lady looks to be in shock of some kind, standing awkwardly and staring outward at us. As we get closer I can see red dripping from her face down her neck onto her chest soaking her white v-neck.

Did someone fall down the stairs when the power went out?

“Some asshole threw a mother fucking rock at my wife. If I get my hands on that son of a bitch I’ll fucking kill him” growls the mild mannered man that had an air of sophistication about him earlier in the day.

“Who the fuck does that?” politely asks the older woman, bleeding all over herself. “They threw a fucking boulder at me”.

The night worker comes down from the terrace overlooking the busy plaza outside with a chunk of cement larger than most grapefruit in hand. In unintelligible Spanish complete with numerous shrugs he appears to tell us his breakdown of the situation.

“You should call Richard, have you called him yet?” Asks another man we were traveling with. Richard is the British travel journalist who owns this place, he bounces back and forth to Bogota and is not in Mompos tonight. The night worker says some more bullshit about not being able to reach Richard but has not shown much effort in trying.

A few minutes after T(acting as Spanish interpreter) and the Canadians left for the hospital the police arrived. They glanced at the boulder and went up the stairs to see the blood on the stairs leading up to the terrace.




She has just returned from the hospital now, feeling a little light and giggly from a shot in the ass. We’re not sure what was in the cocktail but the painkillers are clearly working. After many more “fucks” her attitude is positive and she made it clear she was not going to let this incident ruin her image of Colombia. We’re all sitting around the kitchen exchanging favorite audiobooks and movies, smiling and chatting, it is incredible to think someone could have died in the hostel tonight.

The first day

I thought I would have plenty of time to curl up with my laptop and type away about Colombia, but by the time I’m back at the hostel and the internet is working I’m so worn out the last thing I want to do is use my brain.

I want to talk about the last few days right away, but it will probably be better if I start from the beginning.

1:30am February 28
After packing and saying goodbye to a few friends I attempted to get an hour of sleep before the 2+ hour drive to Chicago. No luck. We arrive safely to the airport, everything is good.

My cheerful mood is broken when the Spirit Airlines counter employee asks me for my return-flight details.
“No return flight, it’s just a one-way” I say, feeling a little proud and excited to have such freedom in South America.

“No Sir, that is not possible. Americans flying into Cartagena, Colombia are unable gain entry without exit transport information.”

“Wha…?” Bullshit! No one on the online forums mentioned this (that I saw) and neither did travel.state.gov

After some really stupid minutes I asked for a manager or someone to come over. Even after she talked for 5 minutes I didn’t get a straight answer if this issue was with Colombian immigration, or Spirit Air being toolbags.

Blah Blah Blah, if I want to get on this flight I have to get a bogus return ticket (they will only let me book it less than 90 days out as Americans can theoretically stay 90 days sometimes without any additional paperwork). If I bought a one way and threw the ticket away, and then bought another one way to come home it was about the same price as a refundable ticket. I guess it was good to drop the $600 on the refundable in case something happens. Either way, I’m pretty pissed off.

The flights down went fine, talked to my first Colombiana on my second flight. She was pretty nice and flirty but not my type, plus she was flying with her parents and her mom kept looking over and smiling. A little distracting.

We climb down the stairs next to the plane on the tarmac and man is it hot and humid, uhhg. The line for DAS (immigracion) took about an hour in the same blistering heat. The agent checks out my flight info with 90 days written on it, or maybe he didn’t even glance at it, it was hard to tell.
“How long are you staying?”

“About 90 days please, is that alright?”

“Yes, no problem”
*Stamps passport for 30 days.

You motherfucker.
Now I have to either bail and go to Venezuela before Medellin and Bogota and hope I get a 60 day tourist visa with that border crossing or get some pictures and a bunch of forms and spend 10 hours trying to extend my visa... every 30 days.

I hop a cab to my hostel and get ripped off on the price like every other whitey with basic Spanish skills. I asked 3 times to lock in a price before I got in but he would only respond with, “I give you good price, no worry”.
“No, tell me the price”

*Tosses my bag in the trunk and closes it.

Whatever. I get in anyways. On the ride he asks if I need an apartment or a beautiful girl about 10 times each. Pass, no AIDS please.

Once I check in at the hostel I get online and see if my parents can cancel the flight I charged on the credit card this morning since I had already passed through immigration. Good news, they were able to remove the charge without a problem.

4 months to burn?

Why not go to Colombia?

After reading and reading and reading and trying to determine what exactly I want to get out of a trip for the next four months I have finally chosen Colombia. Runners up are Panama, and Turkey.

I was all set to nab a flight to Istanbul when I noticed the flight price dropped $300 if I went a month later. And a round trip ticket to Central America right away was... that's right, $300. A "free" trip/new destination!

After my year in Korea (if I want to try another country at that point) I figure it will be easier (cheaper) to get to Turkey than South/Central America. Plus I want to visit with some friends in Germany at some point, the round trip from Turkey is really reasonable.

I picked up a 1 way, so if I am not feeling Colombia I can bail in April and still go to Turkey without blowing too much more cash than I was already planning on.