Feria de Cali

On boxing day, Kevin and Rachel flew north to the Caribbean coast, where I would meet them a few days later. My plan had been to spend a few more days in the coffee region, but when I learned that Cali’s annual celebration of music and dance falls on the last week of the year, a change of mind was all but inevitable. So, rather than relax in one of the most beautiful regions of Colombia, I took a four hour bus back to a sprawling, unpopular metropolis. And I’m glad I did. I had the time of my life.

While most night clubs are crowded with people who seem to be looking for something, Cali’s clubs - and during Feria, it’s parks, streets, and riverbanks - are full of people who seem to have found something. Salsa is sport in Cali, where the fans are the players, and the athleticism and passion rival anything you’d find in a soccer stadium. If you end up in the wrong spot on the dance floor, you’ll get run over without a hint of an apology. And you can ask anyone to dance - regardless of the conversation or relationship they’re in the middle of. Caleños are enthusiastic, friendly, and eager to share. Nobody seemed to mind showing a gringo the basics, so I got more than a handful of lessons. But the results weren’t good. Like over-coaching a golf swing, everything went to shit. One woman became exasperated. “Oh god! Forget I told you anything.” she implored, “Please don’t think. Just dance.” But on one cared that I appeared to be a lost cause, I continued to accept and extend invitations, with a nary a sideways glance.

As I’ve grown slightly tired of hopping from one tourist sight to another, I’ve found it’s people that still energize me. So Cali, devoid of anything to do or see, but overflowing with joie de vivre, was just what I needed. It was unusually hard for me to leave.

Christmas

After a lifetime of tradition and mom’s holiday cookin,’ Christmas means family. So I was glad to have Kevin and Rachel around - a touch of home. And if I had to pick a place to make merry without my own flesh and blood, Salento turned out to be an excellent choice. It is a quaint town in middle of Colombia’s famous Cafetera, a favorite among foreigners and vacationing Colombians alike. So the streets were full, and the parks, shops, and restaurants came alive.

We spent most of the day hiking to the strange and stunning Valle de Cocora, a grassy valley studded with the world’s tallest palm trees. After a six hour trek, we had time for little more than a late lunch, a peanut butter brownie sunday, and a bit of window shopping, before ambling up the hill behind town for sunset. Even from that modest summit, we could see miles of lush, rolling hills, each covered with coffee plants and banana trees. As the last threads of daylight unravelled into a starry Christmas night, we walked back down the stairs and along the busy pedestrian drag towards the central plaza.

A band had set up along the sidewalk, and a large crowd was gathered to sing and dance. Kevin and Rachel stopped for a moment, then left for a shower and a change of clothes. I stayed behind, enjoying the music from the fringes - a happy spectator. But I didn’t blend in, a recurring problem which has made me an easy target for many a busker. On this occasion, the lead singer said something about extranjeros, flapped his bent arms like a chicken, and finally pointed at me. Someone nudged me, and suddenly I was in the center of the crowd. The band pleaded for a Colombiana with brave toes, and a pretty woman emerged from the fray, as if by magic. When the music kicked in, I had no choice but to start dancing in front of what felt like all the world, which stopped to watch and take video. I hacked roughly at the beat, but the assembly cheered every time I seemed to get it right. The largest roar came when I accepted the woman’s invitation for a second dance - and a third. In the end, I spent almost an hour in the thick of it, laughing at myself and smiling. It felt like a perfectly South American Christmas - an embarrassing highlight.

Medellin

I got to Medellin, “the world’s most innovative city,” with a chip on my shoulder. I was secretly hoping to like Bogota better, having spent two months there before first stepping foot in everyone’s favorite Colombian city. But Medellin has an undeniable appeal. It is progressive, the climate is perfect, the setting is dramatic, the women are beautiful (only the women, apparently), the people are friendly, and the city has a fascinating, though tragic, recent history.  At it’s peak in 1991, Medellin had 381 murders per 100,000 people - the most on record anywhere. For comparison, the current global murder capital sees much less than half of Medellin’s mark. The hawkish crackdown that eventually turned the city and country around was controversial, but productive. 15 years later, Medellin is fighting the drug war with strategic “democratic architecture” projects; trains, gondolas, libraries, parks, and public art. The focus has been on poorer neighborhoods, and the results have been outstanding - a clean, safe, modern, and vibrant city. The nightlife is also legendary, though we were too tired from days overloaded with sightseeing to give the bars and clubs much of a chance.

I came to Medellin looking for things not to like, and had a hard time finding any. I missed some of the grit, professionalism, and diversity of Bogota, but nonetheless left Medellin eager to return.

Tejo

By an act of the Congress of the Republic, Tejo is the national sport of Colombia. Some version of it has been played here for over 500 years. The premise has evolved, and the modern version almost sounds like a joke, but it’s serious business: throw a two kilogram metal disc 15 meters at a clay pit studded with explosive packets, and get points when it goes boom. It’s free to play, you pay for the beer, which is obligatory. 

Kevin and Rachel had just arrived in Bogota. For an authentic Colombian welcome, I took them to a local dive with cheap beer, mud floors, concrete walls, a video jukebox playing traditional music and a Pamela Anderson slideshow, and six ragged canchas de tejo in an airy back room. It’s a tough sport, and our inexperience showed immediately. As a group, we were inaccurate and weak. Even our best shots often bounced off the clay, so we began experimenting with our technique. Kevin decided to add arch. A lot of arch. His next shot careened into the battered wooden back stop, but not before smashing through the fluorescent light fixture delicately suspended 12 feet above the pit. The resulting crash seemed to make more noise than any explosion of gunpowder, and fine shards of glass peppered the red clay below. For an awkward beat, all eyes turned on Kevin, who suddenly looked something like a frightened turtle. The room erupted with laughter.

We were allowed to carry on undisturbed, but we struggled to make a competitive game of hopelessly timid throws. Needless to say, Kevin’s shot suffered the most, and I won in a landslide. Our final tab came with a smirk; three beers, a coke, and two fluorescent light bulbs.

Kevin and Rachel

Time, indeed, flies. Kevin is one of the most recent additions to my inner circle of friends in LA - it sometimes seems like we met yesterday - but seven years have passed since we first joined the same soccer team. We’ve travelled together extensively since then; I’ve been in more countries with Kevin than any other person. He broke his arm just before our trip to Southeast Asia in 2009, and had to ride on the back of my motorbike around Thailand. He was there for my 30th birthday in Portland, where he tried to throw a football through my mom’s panoramic window, and nearly drowned tubing down the Sandy River. In New York City, he sat next to me at a US Open quarterfinal while I danced on the jumbotron in a banana suit. But everything fell apart in Latvia and Sweden, where, after two short weeks, neither of us could say a word without aggravating the other. I was hesitant to travel with him again after that, but we talked it out and agreed to give it a go. His visit to Colombia was our chance at redemption. 

Kevin started dating Rachel almost two years ago, and the two of them are now subletting my apartment in LA. Rachel is also an avid traveller and may actually deserve credit for making their visit happen. I made a couple of suggestions, but generally let the two of them set the itinerary. After some indecision, they settled on Bogota, Medellin, Salento, Santa Marta, and Cartagena. I planned to skip Santa Marta, spend a few extra days in the south, and catch up with them again in Cartagena for New Year’s.

The Road Back to Bogota

After the climb, Tim and I had planned for a big night out in Quito before splitting up. But we had to reevaluate when John, the owner the climbing outfit that put us on the mountain, pointed out that Quito was well out of Tim’s way. We were hesitant to spend a night in Riobamba, until John said, “I’ll tell you what. You guys have been cool. Why don’t you crash at the house tonight and we’ll BBQ and grab some beers.” Nothing could have sounded better, and that was before we knew that John grilled the best steak this side of Argentina.

The next morning, Tim headed south to Guyaquil. I stuck around for a few hours to finish a freelance project from John’s dining room table, before heading north. I’d heard nothing good about the six stops I had to make between Chimborazo and Bogota. Of course, with low expectations, it’s no surprise that I enjoyed them all. Highlights were Community Hostel, where I met a good group of people and ate dirt cheap meals worthy of a five start hotel, and dancing in Cali, the world capital of Salsa. The latter felt a bit like subbing into a professional soccer game after learning to toe-punt, but it was a lot of fun nonetheless. 

Upon returning to Colombia, there were immediately reminders of why this country is so popular. When the driver of the eight hour bus to Cali addressed his passengers, he got a unified “buenos tardes” in response - as if from a class of third graders on a field trip. The police officers that boarded the same bus at a routine checkpoint were talkative and friendly instead of serious and intimidating. Strangers often smiled at me as I passed them on the sidewalk.

Then, finally, I was back in Bogota, anxious to see familiar faces. It felt like a homecoming. 

Chimborazo

In the lead up to Chimborazo, we met several groups who’d attempted it, and their reports were grim. It was an unrelenting and grueling climb, they said, and none of them had reached the summit. Statistically, our chances of success seemed to settle around 20%. Lea had considered joining us, but bailed after the negative reviews (and tension with Tim) began to pile up. In truth, I had second thoughts as well. I wasn’t excited about spending so much time and money with such a bleak forecast. But Tim was unshakeable. Arrogant, almost. He was convinced that we were more determined and more prepared than those that had failed before us. Never mind that we were less fit, and that I’d never worn crampons.

So I arrived at the refuge on Chimborazo exhausted from the events on Cotopaxi, and unenthusiastic about the climb. I wasn’t thrilled to be facing a monumental challenge having just confronted another, very different type of test. But I wasn’t about to bail on Tim, and there was, of course, a part of me that was anxious to prove myself wrong. Indeed, I was excited to stand on top of that mountain, knowing its 6,310 meter peak is actually the furthest terrestrial point from the center of earth. But I wasn’t excited to fail.

Many experienced climbers report that Chimborazo is more difficult than many other, more famous mountains. Aconcagua, for example, is the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas, but it is usually conquered piecemeal - over nine days. Chimborazo is normally attempted in one night. The plan, ostensibly, was to begin the climb at 11pm, summit at sunrise, and return by noon.

What was supposed to be an epic test of strength, will, and endurance ended up being more a test of patience. After a week of trying to convince me we’d reach the summit, it was Tim that sputtered out, and at the relatively unimpressive altitude of 5,600 meters. Despite my pessimism, I’d planned to give the mountain everything I had. So, it was hard not to feel cheated when I was forced to turn around with plenty of gas in the tank.

I was frustrated, but had to remind myself not to blame Tim. The effects of altitude are unpredictable - elite athletes have been reduced to aching, stumbling mortals at these heights. And Tim deserves full credit for getting me out of my comfort zone, and introducing me to a new sport. I’m left to anxiously await the first time I beat a mountain.

Latacunga, Quilotoa, and Cotopaxi

Tim and I spent one night in Latacunga, where we met Lea, a soft-spoken German staying at our hostel. We became fast friends after she offered us each portions of her home-cooked dinner. We all had hazy plans for the “Quilotoa Loop,” and agreed to join forces.

Latacunga is a small city that got even smaller when Cotopaxi started erupting in August. Though scientists have said the likelihood of a major eruption is small, “the world’s most dangerous volcano” was still smoking during our visit, which made for a nervous night’s sleep. I awoke in a panic when a jet flew low over the city in the middle of the night, sounding remarkably like an eruption to anyone as disoriented and inexperienced with volcanos as I am.

The next morning, the three of us caught a bus to Quilotoa. We spent the next three days hiking between remote towns, through canyons, along the ridges of a volcanic crater, between tranquil, riverside farms, and hopping over cattle fences. It was a wonderfully scenic and peaceful adventure.

But the peace didn’t last. By the time we got to our next destination, an incredible hostel at the foot of Cotopaxi, a fissure had formed in our threesome. Tim and Lea started disagreeing on everything, just as Lea and I started to get closer. Rather suddenly, I found myself as the bridge between the two of them - an uncomfortable job, given the three of us were sharing the pint-sized “hobbit home.”

One night, while gazing at the stars from a giant “hammock,” Lea opened up. It turned out she’d been hiding a severe depression. Three years earlier, a traumatic experience abruptly interrupted her plans to spend a year working at a music school near Cotopaxi. Years of therapy had righted the ship, she thought, but traveling through Ecuador was ripping open old wounds. Lea seemed to be losing herself, and I was the only thing keeping her from falling off a “bottomless cliff.” For me, the experience was exhausting, frustrating, eye-opening, terrifying. I’m in the middle of one of the best and happiest periods of my life, so being with Lea felt like playing blackjack with a friend whose chips disappear just as mine double. How can the same deck of cards deal such different fates? The world is unfair, and those of us who have been spared its deepest cruelty can only feel sheepishly fortunate. 

That roller coaster was an untimely distraction from what was the nicest hostel, and one of the most beautiful places, this journey has taken me. Smoking volcanos. Rolling hills. Horses grazing on tall, green grass. Temperate forests. Waterfalls. Long hikes. Pardon the cliché, but I couldn’t help but marvel at how beautiful and ugly life can be. 

Montanita and Baños

Once upon a time, Montanita was just another small Ecuadorian fishing village - with some of the best waves in Ecuador. When its sprawling beaches and reliable swells were discovered, it was quickly overrun by surfers and party culture. I was a misfit, but might have had a great time with good friends and a bit of sun. Alas, I found neither, so I spent my time watching soccer and working at my computer over coffee and beer.

I caught up with Jeanette briefly, but she was pretty well wrung-out from five days of partying. She left the day after I arrived with a newfound group of friends. I’d enjoyed her company, but our differences in style, budget, and pace led us to split ways sooner than expected. Ten days of eating, drinking, sleeping (only literally), planning, and compromising with her also reminded me why I’ve enjoyed traveling alone. Sharing costs and responsibilities was great, but independence is addictive.

Next up was Baños, where I immediately met a trio of travelers with handlebar mustaches (Movember!) and a full itinerary. I piggy-backed on their plans, and quickly found myself in good company with plenty to do. It was fortunate timing; the next day was Thanksgiving and I was glad to have friends to celebrate with, by rafting down a river and eating hamburgers.

John, Jay, and James left the next afternoon, but a chance encounter with Tim and Kathleen, a German couple I’d met in the Galapagos, meant I still had friends in town. Kathleen was preparing to fly home, but Tim had an unknown handful of months remaining in his trip. Tim’s accent - German with hints of British and Australian - is somehow both sophisticated and comical. His shaved head and distinctly German mannerism further betray an enthusiastic and youthful personality. He is prone to making loud grunting sounds when swimming with sealions or photographing llamas, he doesn’t like rules, and thrilled at jumping off the top deck of the Aida Maria. When he gets excited, his eyes twinkle and his ears seem to perk up. He is, somehow, the kind of person you don’t want to disappoint. So when he asked me to climb Ecuador’s highest mountain, how could I say no?

Agreeing to climb Chimborazo meant signing up for a week of trekking at altitude to acclimate. So, suddenly, Tim and I had a ten day plan that would put us in various corners of northern Ecuador together. I was looking forward to getting back into the mountains. 

Aida Maria

My cruise was to depart from the easternmost island of San Cristobál, two hours away from Puerto Ayora by speedboat. It was a long trip; nearly a third of the 18 passengers got sick as the boat launched itself over giant swells, and when I finally boarded the Aida Maria I realized it had been entirely unnecessary. My friendly travel agent had failed to mention that our first stop was to be back on Isla Santa Cruz - we’d pick up the majority of our passengers from Puerto Ayora. The realization that I wasted the better part of two days and 300 dollars only intensified my trepidation that the cruise, ostensibly the purpose of my visit, could not possibly outdo my first five days. 

It didn’t - but it wasn’t far behind. The boat was comfortable - even if the seas weren’t - with plenty of good food and company, and an itinerary that revealed an abundance of exotic wildlife that generally lived up to the billing. But the tour mostly lacked the kind of super-sized moments that I thought would set it apart from the day trips I could have taken from Puerto Ayora. I briefly saw a manta ray from the boat, and just that mysterious glance, of a black, stealthy jet gliding elegantly beneath the surface, was breathtaking. Swimming with two sea lion pups was the most fun I’ve had socializing with anything that wasn’t human. And the giant tortoises were both strange and magnificent. Otherwise, what we saw was generally more delicate. I didn’t swim with blue whales or orcas, there were no Komodo dragons (one tourist had mistakenly suggested there would be) and the impressive albatross only migrates through a distant island we didn’t visit. 

To prevent overcrowding, the most appealing areas are rationed among boats via a strict permitting system. So our tour was a mix of first and second-rate destinations. The regulations are numerous; guides and boats are given harsh fines if they don’t observe strictly enforced rules, routes, schedules, and boundaries. The environmentalist in me thought it refreshing, the naturalist found it frustrating, but it wasn’t overly restrictive. The Galapagos are remarkable not just for the volume of wildlife, but for the fearlessness of the animals, many of which have evolved without predators. So at various points I found myself within arm’s reach, often considerably less, of sharks, turtles, iguanas, penguins, sea lions, fish, rays, eels and the celebrated blue-footed boobies. Generally speaking, the approachability of the animals is one of the biggest draws of the Galapagos. But it sometimes seems as if the animals have been trained, which together with our obedient “class,” watchful guide, the “employees only” islands, and well marked trails, sometimes left the impression of a field-trip to SeaWorld. 

There was still room for a bit of adventure, however. The Aida Maria arrived at a remote and beautiful snorkeling spot to some unsettling news. “I have to inform you,” said Rubén, our friendly and slow-talking guide, “there was a shark attack here earlier today.” We all looked at each other wide-eyed through foggy snorkel masks. “That’s all I know. You can choose to stay in the dingy, if you want.” He paused, then offered, “I didn’t want to tell you, but what if it happened again?” And with that, we splashed into the deep blue waters off the northern shores of Isabella Island.

Needless to say, floating on the surface like sitting ducks was nerve-wracking, especially when we spotted a pair of reef sharks patrolling the shallows. But it was the best part of the week; hugging a seemingly bottomless cliff that was peppered with wildlife, as we swam toward the turquoise waters of a shallow, turtle-filled bay.

I left the Galapagos two days later with a host of exceptional memories and a thorough appreciation of it’s unique splendor. Even if the main event was narrowly overshadowed by the undercard, it was still a lifetime highlight.