Captain One-Eye's prostitution problem

“We don’t sign contracts or any of that nonsense. Here, you give your word and shake hands. If you keep your side of the deal, no problem. If you don't? Problem.” Saying this, the salty Colombian sailor made a shooting pistol gesture with his hand, squinting the eye that wasn't covered by an eye patch as he took casual aim.

Our passports weren't ready, nothing to do but come back later, but the Cartagena heat was enough to melt the most ardent of itineraries, and what would be a better use of time than lolling around a crumbling yacht harbor, listening to an eye-patched sailor anyway?


He was explaining that Colombia is a culture of honesty. “If we make a deal, and I cheat you? Que me jodes. If you cheat me...” a shrug of the shoulders. Clearly there would be no other option than reliable-calliber justice, if you cheat Captain One-Eye.



He went on to explain that this was the problem with Obama and the prostitutes.


“Obama and the whatnow?” I asked, having been completely out of touch for 5-to-50 days.


The scandal of Secret Service members contracting with prostitutes in Cartagena had broken a week before my arrival in the city. In the US everyone was (pretending to be) shocked that Secret Service agents, single young testosteroney men pursuing a cinematastic career that is remarkably boring despite the constant possibility of death and/or glory, who suddenly found themselves in a place like Cartagena, had gone dancing and come back with hookers. How astonishing!


In Colombia, on the other hand, no one cared a whit that they had gotten hookers. That was uninteresting. The scandal in Cartagena was that they hadn’t paid up as agreed.

The story was that the agents has misunderstood the price, so when the time came to pay up, some of the agents reneged on their agreement. This was unacceptable to el Capitan. “You get a woman, you pay the woman. If you don't understand what you agreed to? That is your problem, you agreed.”


He sat back in his seat, disappointed at the failure in etiquette. I felt embarrassed for my countrymen, and apologetic. “I'm sorry Captain, I'm sure next time they'll be paradigms of moral virtue, and pay for their prostitutes like good, respectable men.”




Did I mention you encounter other perspectives when you travel?

Captain One-Eye wants to show you something

I hear “yacht harbor” and think elegant buildings, fancy facilities, and perhaps a cravat or two tied around the neck of pretentious men who call themselves “Captain” and still expect to be taken seriously. With the possible exception of the nickname, nothing on that list was in Cartagena’s yacht harbor.

Unfortunately I don't have any other pics
of the yacht harbor itself.

Instead of marble counter tops and basin sinks in air conditioned bathrooms, there was a porta-potty next to the dusty concrete slab, where our cracking plastic lawn chairs were clustered under a well-punctured tarp. Around us were heaps of bent and rusty rebar, spilled like intestines out of the shattered ribs of half-built concrete pillars that stood in the sun, resolute and confused.

They had been part-way through the construction of a new bar/restaurant when the money ran out and the project was halted. Four years ago. Now it was a construction site with no construction.

A few people moved among the boats, but nary a cravat was to be seen. The young wore bikinis or board shorts, and had tan skin glowing almost orange on lithe bodies. Their elders wore faded Hawaiian shirts barely buttoned over paunches that hung over belts, and had the blotchy wrinkled skin of people who have spent their lives in the direct sun, curly chest hair bleached golden by the elements and eyes squinted shut against years of reflected glare.

A swarthy fellow with an eye patch came over to talk to us. Yes, an eye patch. The Australian father and son I’d shared a ship with didn’t speak much Spanish, so One-Eye zoned in on me as the translator as he pitched us a van tour of the city. When we didn’t bite, he moved on to apartments for rent, then to evening tours to “El Titty Bar.” We all just kind of looked at him on that one.

Captain Eye Patch’s Tour to El Titty-Bar? Almost worth it, just to be able to say "I did that."

Somehow from his Hawaiian shirt he produced a small case of emerald and silver jewelry, which sparkled in the patch of sunlight he expertly placed it in. QVC can’t make ‘em shine like that, but again, none of us were buying.

I was curious what the next pitch would be, from him or any of the other half dozen world-worn men sitting around, eying us like hyenas considering a bleeding zebra, when out of the cracked concrete Serengeti came Rudy, our captain, our lion, to save the day.

One-eye greeted Rudy, his body language clearly showing respect, but even a lion can’t stop a salesman.

One Eye: “My jewelry is very fine. Rudy knows. He bought my jewelry, isn’t that so?”
Rudy: “Yes. A long time ago.”
One Eye: “A long time ago.”
Rudy: “When I was a tourist.”
One Eye: (Gives a long appraising look, then laughs and shakes Rudy’s hand.)
Rest of us: (Glad we didn’t buy anything.)

Rudy and One-Eye talked yacht harbor shop (and gossip) while the Australians and I sat in our growing puddles of sweat, waiting to see if our passports had been processed, so we could stop being illegal in Colombia...

Why did that pirate just confiscate my ball?



Mannequins in Cuenca are creepy.

It wasn't until four hours into the day's travel, one flight done, one more to go, that I solved the mystery of all the weird people in the new Bogota airport. Yeah it's a new airport, but why the facepaint, eye patches, and bobbly headbands?

Traveling for long periods you tend to forget things like holidays. Which is too bad, because I normally love Halloween.

In my experience it's not very big overseas though. I only remembered it in 2008 by the one kid in a dinosaur costume on the street in Belgrade, and last year in Belgium its only manifestation was a party whose posters subtly promised a prominence of bikinis in the crowd.

I'd pondered going all-out on macabre zombie makeup and bloodstains, then boarding the plane with an utterly nonchalant lack of explanation. That would have been a better idea 12 years ago though, before airports lost their sense of humor.

All too often they've also lost their kindness, but not yesterday.

Our check-in guy was so damn helpful and friendly that I just sent an email to his company saying so. (Do check-in staff work for the airline or the airport? He had a logo on his sweatervest...)

Then there was the staff in Bogota. They were helpful. Over and over and over and over...

Remember the soccer ball K earned by doing public aerobics in Quito?

It's been with us ever since, in a series of plastic bags on every bus and in every hostel. The plan was to deliver it to the orphanage outside of Cuenca we were supposed to visit four months ago, but we couldn't get in touch with them, so just kept carrying it. We will finally visit the orphanage the day after tomorrow. Two days.

Did you know you can only take a ball on a plane if it's deflated? Otherwise it might explode, scaring the pidgeons we have apparently become when we fly. When we flew out of Guayaquil in August they had a needle in security for just that purpose.

We never did reinflate it in Curacao, despite our oceanic water polo intentions, and it was still flat when we took off from Curacao. In flight it magically reinflated. I understand the lower pressure would make it look full while we were flying, but shouldn't it have gone back to empty when we landed?

I am clearly not a physicist, and the damn thing was too inflated to pass muster in Bogota.

I stuck a paperclip in it but no air would come out. The guard tried a pencap to identical noneffect. They said to send an airline staffperson to take custody of it. The first three ladies made excuses for their laziness, so we tried our gate staff, who sent us to another gate who sent us to another gate where my new favorite person, Ernesto, tried valiently to help us, going back to security with us.

We'd have to check the ball in as luggage, under the plane, which meant going to baggage check, which meant leaving the secure part of the airport, which meant entering Colombia formally, which meant going through customs and immigration, twice.

We did all that, checking my watch regularly reassuring ourselves that I hadn't changed the time zone, so that couldn't have been our plane that just took off. But that's a nervous feeling. It's for a bleeping orphanage, for god's sake! I always feel like orphanages are kind of...corny. Too much. But this time it was real! Orphans! Need a soccer ball!

After 4-5 miles of airport hallways and two dozen staff, we were at the right place...but couldn't check it without its own bag, which they could not provide.

We carried that ball from June until Halloween, dozens of crowded buses, hours of crimped fingers holding it, and we lost it, failed, two days before delivery. Son of a ball-popper.

The silver lining is that 99% of the staff we dealt with was friendly. Bogota just opened a new airport, and they have yet to aquire the cynical bitchiness so common elsewhere. May those yellow sweatervested ushers maintain their smiles for as long as possible.

We'll buy a new ball in Cuenca tomorrow. Coulda thought of that earlier I bet.

A mountain and/of my opinions.

I adore the internet's ability to connect people, and deeply appreciate everyone who reads the things I post on here, so if you get offended by (perhaps unorthodox?) religious opinions, maybe skip this one and come back when it's about traveling or food... I don't mean to offend anyone, though I also don't think that's quite the grave affair we seem to think it is nowadays...but anyway, that's yet another topic.

One of our last pending items in Bogota was to take the cable car up the remarkable hill/mountain that looms landmarkishly over the city, Monserrate. Unfortunately the cable car was closed for maintenance, so we took the less nerve-wracking funicular railway, which was still a matter of ascending roughly 1,729 feet (based on the interweb’s figures for Bogota & Monserrate’s relative elevations, the actual distance must be a bit less since the base of the railroad is already uphill a bit) and watching the view go from good to great.

At the top there are some expensive restaurants, tourist kitsch stalls, and a church dedicated to “the Fallen Lord” finished in 1657. He’s quite literally “fallen”, with the statue above the altar showing a collapses Jesus struggling to lift himself off the ground. The church is a place of pilgrimage, so I inherently respect it…but I just can’t quite understand the desire to worship pain and suffering.

I hear the words about sacrifice, but I just can’t internalize the idea of someone else’s suffering making my sins...what…okay? Is the entire Third World a modern day Jesus for us First Worlders who want to drive our SUV to the grocery store to buy meat farmed in inhumane conditions on the other side of the planet?

I see the Divine in redwood trees, the smiles of proud parents, solar eclipses, orgasms, coral reefs, a child’s laughter, giving a good gift, and a great meal with friends around the table. Hell, I even see it in a smoggy vista over a sprawling city. They can keep the agony, pain, and suffering, I’ll take the relaxation of giving or getting a good massage.

But anyway. The view was indeed beautiful, and ghastly, as the mind tries to assimilate the reality of that many people living like that. And Bogota is only the world’s 25th largest city, by population. That means there are 24 other cities larger than the smog-hazed eternity stretching to the horizon below.

I simultaneously felt two emotions rather profoundly. 1: A sense of helplessness for our planet’s environmental future. 2: An iron-clad resolution to enjoy and love the world (and all its saints and jackasses) as much as I can while it all crashes and burns.

From colonial mansions to vomitous toilets.

We ended up spending the better part of two different weeks in Bogota, but kept busy walking, taking pictures, eating, and switching hostels every day or two in a compensatory form of interior vagabondery.

For K’s first day in South America we stayed in the luxurious Casa Platypus, a restored colonial piece of awesomeness with creaky wooden floors (in a good way), impressive water temperature and pressure in the stone-floored showers, and attention to detail unmatched by any  hostel. Rolled and soft towels on the bed. Nice blankets that don’t smell as funky as the last 37 backpackers to use them. Complimentary soap and shampoo and a TV which we even considered watching. Bedside tables on BOTH sides of the bed, which is more important than you think. And a better breakfast of eggs, cereal, fresh fruit, and hot beverage.

We met an Austrian couple on their honeymoon, a French professor with permanent scuba-mask marks on his forehead, and an American expat who wasn’t actually staying there, but haunted the place trying to sell English lessons to the staff of young women…(and yes, that ellipsis means I think he was looking for more than pupils…)

It is prohibited the psychoactive-substance use in the hostel. 

Casa Platypus was impressive in all respects, including the price, so on Day 2 we switched to Hostal Explora. It’s more like a Hosteling International place, with coldly clean rooms that feel a bit like human storage. The common room is a chilly rear patio enclosed by cold brick walls and covered by a tarp…and it’s cold. The hallways are bare of decoration…and cold. The showers have warm water…but the bathrooms are cold.

Can you tell my main problem? But it’s a new hostel, just beginning under the efforts of a consortium of friends, and they have good plans to improve it, so by the time you get here it could very well be warmer. But for now staying there requires a nearly continuous flow of hot tea.

Hostel Sue had some good
courtyard artwork.

We didn’t meet anyone in Explora, so moved to Hostel Sue, despite how weird of a name that is in a Spanish-speaking country. It was a good mid-line of fiesta, not so body-odorous as some (like the famous Cranky Croc) but much more conversation than our day at Explora.

I suspect Sue has a deal with a local Spanish school, as there seemed to be a lot of studying going on during the day, and studying-abroad-type partying at night. The staff barbecued rows of juicy sausages and grilled plantains by the tray, which we peeked at enviously over our bowls of fairly bland spaghetti, not knowing how to get included in the flavor options.

Hostel Sue was pretty mid-level for parties in that most of it moved out to the “party bus” around 11:00 so us old people got to sleep at a good hour, but we did have the familiar pleasure of a morning trip to a bathroom splashed with vomitous liquids, cigarette butts in the sink, and…do you really need a third item?

We were on the third floor in Villa de Leyva.

Then it was a week in Villa de Leyva where Hostal Parque Narino felt more like a family home (in a good way) with a Colombian aunt and gay Colombian uncle, with their inexplicable two year old daughter who was precious to the very edge of overkill. (Little creature knows how to work the impish smiles…be careful of that one.)

We had one night in a budget hotel whose only memorable feature was the open floor space where we finally had our first morning yoga session. That was a day with good chi, lemme tell ya.

Back in Bogota we went to Hostel Platypus, where I meant to go the first time. We were in a quiet second building up the street which had typical hostel bathrooms of wet floors, hairballs in the shower, and a toilet that doesn’t really flush so much as just make lots of noise. The room was large, though retained an odor sharp enough for even me to detect, and I am traveler-blessed with a surprisingly dull sense of smell. (Poor K is cursed with a remarkably sharp olfactory sense. Good for gardens, bad for traveling.)

Platypus had a nice laundry area, but it wouldn't stop raining.

The wireless internet didn’t work though, which was a disappointingly big problem for us, so we went looking for another one, stopping for breakfast on the way. Turns out the breakfast place has a hostel upstairs, which was clearly aiming to be a home-away-from-home type place, and succeeding heavily…but not necessarily in a good way.

The place had an overriding sense of closeness, as in the staff is all up in your biznis the whole time, asking how you are and where you’ve been every time you come in the door, frequently stopping by to see if you need anything and give you recommendations about what to do (which you then feel semi-obligated to actually do), and generally making you feel like you’re back in high school and your parents suspect you are lacking in motivation, and are perhaps even doing the marijuana.

The hostel mom puttered around saying things like “have you seen my glasses? I just can’t see anything without my glasses. Have you seen them?”

Plus the walls were paper thin, such that we could hear the neighbors’ every word, shift, and fart, and the bathrooms were communal by gender, so there were people wandering around on the other side of the half-wall while you’re showering or on the toilet.

The peak for me though was the breakfast. It was a decent Colombian hostel breakfast, with eggs and coffee or chocolate, which was fine the first morning, but for the second we wanted something else so went out. When we got back the little hostel mom gave us a hurt look that we’d gone elsewhere for breakfast. A guilt trip! From the hostel staff for eating breakfast somewhere else! That kind of cracked me up while simultaneously making me want to pull out my hair.

We looked at a couple more, one with two available rooms, the front of which was no good for K since it was right next to a bus-busy street, and the rear of which was no good for me since it had no window. The next was nearly good enough despite the lingering cigarette smell in the kitchen and common room (“we’ll just stay outside or in the room”) and the slightly sex-tourist room décor (think geisha posters and pink lighting) but then the manager hit on K. No thanks.

So we came back to the clean and stable ice hostel at Explora. I drink so much tea here I need to pee every 15 minutes. In fact, my bladder just notified me that this blog is finished. Adios!

Walking, eating, and not getting shot in Bogota.

I said that last blog was making me hungry and I wasn’t kidding. I posted it, joined K who was waiting somewhat patiently in the hallway for me, and we went looking for a vegetarian restaurant, getting lost along the way but not minding on such a beautiful day and in such an interesting neighborhood.

Chorro de Quevedo is an unexpectedly Bohemian enclave on the southeastern edge of the Bogota’s downtown, with quality street art on half the walls, bright Latin American colors on the other half, and a narrow strip of rough cobblestones that always seems to have inexplicable puddles in odd places. There are funky little shops, handmade jewelry by the ton, and a selection of establishments for tattoos or bongs.

There are artists, “artists,” and people who do art wandering around, as well as normal people and lotsa young ‘uns, who may eye your clean hair resentfully/judgmentally. We passed one open door and I glanced in to see a middle-aged man sanding a guitar in the dark.

Walking up there last Friday night a drunk 16 year old excitedly said hello to K and I before asking to be in a picture with us, with all his friends laughing and piling in. I enjoyed the somewhat bizarre moment, albeit with my hand on my pocket (wallets are too obvious).

The veggie place we were looking for may or may not exist, it’s hard to tell in the scrambled egg street plan of that part of Bogota (I tried to explain the mangled beauty of Bogota’s layout, but it quickly became too much of a rant, even for me) so we ended up at a middle-eastern place called Fairuz.

Holy chupacabra, Batman. The food there… Wow. Uh. (shiver) Grunt. Bwah. Shoosh. Guuud. Barumph.

If we hadn’t been sitting in the middle of the narrow restaurant I would have licked my plate spotless. It was the type of place where I don’t use the napkin because I don’t want to lose any of the flavor, and try futilely to eat as slowly as possible to sustain the experience.

Universidad Externado de Colombia

Feeling positively sublime after that gastronogasm, we wandered up through the surprisingly beautiful campus of the Universidad Externado de Colombia, then up a steep street of stairs to a nice-looking church that promised an impressive vista over the city.

As we climbed the last stairwell below the church a stocky man in a private security uniform approached and warned us not to go that way due to the odds of being robbed at gunpoint. Hokey dokey, gracias amigo! I think he felt bad that we didn’t get to approach a beautiful piece of Bogota, so he came up the steps with us and stood by while we snapped a couple quick pictures, but he spent the whole time glancing skittishly at a seedy character on the corner opposite, who was definitely watching us back; the guard clearly was not comfortable being there with us.

We quickly headed back down through Chorro de Quevedo, but not before I heard our Protector radio in our presence and trajectory. The best part of that was that he referred to us as “vacas,” that is: cows. We had been chatting in Spanish and he looked at me a tad apologetically at that point, but man, if you protect me from an armed robbery you can call me any farm animal you like.

This blog is making me hungry.

During the first two months of this trip food was just another element of each day, enjoyable but not exactly essential; I lost 17 pounds between Managua and Panama City, and probably more during the boat week.

Then K joined me, and in Villa de Leyva I started thinking about the next meal as soon as we stood up from the last one. Last night we checked into our hostel in Bogota and went straight to the Mongolian barbecue place I’d noticed a block away. From there we literally went around the corner so I could get a slice of pizza. After that we took a lap and a half around the block before buying a slice of Baileys cheesecake and a towering three-level piece of chocolate cake ecstasy, which we devoured while drinking green tea (with pineapple) out of bowls in the hostel courtyard as the sun set and the sky turned blue overhead.

Did I mention I’m a social eater?

So since I’ve got food on the mind I’ll continue my trend of late and talk about food a couple more times. (We fly to Ecuador in a couple days, so travel stuff should be back then.)

That first morning we couldn’t find changua we ended up at a vegetarian restaurant called Casa Salud Natural which had a super laid back vibe, occasional weird Indian homeotherapeutic stuff on the TV, and a Hari Krishna cook with an excellent feel for spices. K’s favorite breakfast of fruit, yogurt, and granola came with a layer of quinoa on top, and I found myself staring at a Colombian tamale.

The tamale was good, but very different from what I bought outside Mexican/Guatemalan bus stations. Those were firmer, more corn-based, whereas this one was larger and almost gelatinous. I think the Mexican ones were roasted/baked, and the corn sheaf they came in was dry, while this one came in a banana leaf, still dripping from being steamed. It was tasty and filling, perhaps my two primary criteria for breakfast.

Another local specialty dinner was Cocido Boyacense (cocido = soup/stew, Boyacense = from Boyaca, this region of Colombia). It is a base of potatoes, turnips, (maybe yuca), beans (including lima), peas, tomatoes, onions, and a small hunk of corn on the cob marinated red by the sauce. It’s seasoned with garlic, cilantro, and cumin, plus a few other unknown ingredients (I need to take a Kitchen Spanish class…) Also comes with a little plate of rice on the side.

But the point of the dish is the collection of meats, which included just about every beast in the neighborhood (except dog, I‘ll probably make it to China someday…I have until then to decide on that one). I had a chicken drumstick, a lump of pork with a nice layer of jelly fat on it, a couple blades of tough beef, and a couple pieces of longaniza, a chorizo-like pork sausage.

It was very good, and again, hearty, and made a great dinner on a chilly mountain evening. But I suspect it could be better, and (as with the ajiaco) it made me wish I had a Colombian grandma to make me a proper bowl.

I couldn’t handle all of the pork fat, and tucked some into the palm of my hand (mmm, greasy) and snuck out the front door, then down to the sweet-eyed dog that hangs out on that street. He looked at me nervously as I approached and laid down the fat, but when we left the restaurant a few minutes later he was sitting upright, wagging his tail and grinning at me.

I tried to get his picture but the garbage truck pulled up and scared him off. (Note, if garbage truck driving was an Olympic sport, these guys would win, after those incredibly narrow colonial streets.)

The last food note (except arepas, which I haven’t fully deciphered yet) is Pekish restaurant, which is a required element of any trip to Villa de Leyva, as far as I’m concerned. It’s a little family-run place on a side street just as you enter the old part of town, with two small tables and the bite-sized kitchen right there. The food is excellent, and prepared with the type of care that only a family-run place with 4 things on the menu can accomplish.

The first night I had lamb souvlaki and K had the most delicious falafel I have ever tasted. The second time I gave in to a strange impulse and got the nachos, from tortillas they made by hand right then and there then fried up with homemade guacamole made to my spicy specifications, beans, and that good local mozzarella-like cheese. Both times K and I each got delicious juices from fresh fruit, made right then and there.

The nachos were good, but as always with nachos, they make a better appetizer than entrée, so get the falafel. Actually, get two falafel plates, and send me one. I’ll pay the postage.

Changua is chevere.

As I sat down to another breakfast of runny eggs and unbearably white bread (it’s really more like a cake of pure flour than bread…have I said that here before?) I said to K “we really need to find out what the locals eat.” If you order a European-style breakfast when you’re not in a European-style area…don’t expect it to be what you are familiar with. Makes sense, no?

So when I saw something called “changua” on the breakfast menu in Villa de Leyva I was ready to order it. Then I read the description, “a broth of milk, water, and egg” and my enthusiasm took a hit. Am I the only one who thinks that sounds fairly disgusting? I confess, I chickened out and went for the eggs and whiiiiite bread again.

But the next day! Dangit I was gonna eat changua! Or drink it. Or slurp it. Or whatever verb best described the consumption thereof.

8:00 the next morning we stomped back to the changua place. They don’t open until 10:00. Dang. We stomped off to somewhere else but they didn’t have it and we were getting cranky (you know how it is).

10:00 the next morning we stomped back to the changua place. They were open! Sat down. The clay-faced waitress came up and informed us that there was no service as the cook hadn’t shown up yet. We gave her half an hour then stomped off somewhere else…and found changua!

I ordered the complete “desayuno boyacense” breakfast (Boyaca is this department of Colombia), which had a type of local bread, coffee, and fresh juice in addition to the broth I was looking for. After all, how filling can broth really be? (I needed something hearty for our planned walk to the rock paintings.)

Then it arrived. A large charcoal-colored stone bowl filled with bubbling milky liquid in a marshland of soggy bread. It smelled a bit like hot wet laundry. Sheets and towels day. I let the temperature drop below boiling then started exploring the depths to find masses of white stuff in a variety of textures. Some were boiled egg, some were the Colombian white cheese that resembles mozzarella, and a lot of it was the soggy white bread (cut from a loaf, no Bimbo, thank God).

I would dunk the spoon into the white abyss, give a little cutting and scooping motion and lift it to see what I had caught. Then eat it to figure out what it was. That local cheese is the best I’ve found in Latin America. It makes me want to make enchiladas. And the gray stone bowls alone are a joy, and it turns out they are common in Colombia (we had them again tonight in the Mongolian place in Bogota).

I gotta say, I enjoyed my changua. It was interesting. It was…hearty. (I didn’t need the other parts of the breakfast, but I appreciated their presence for the variety of taste and consistency.) I am glad I tried it, and recommend you do too if given the chance, but I don’t think I’ll need to order it again any time soon.

In fact, I think I’ll stick to fruit salads for the next few days.

Saturday morning farmer's market in Villa de Leyva, Colombia.

Saturday morning farmer’s market. And holy cannoli what a market.

A couple days ago we walked past the market space and it was a bare concrete platform with a few shattered crates and some rotting cabbage leaves. We walked up there this morning, expecting a couple rows of stalls…what we found was an ocean of vegetables, fruits, and what-the-heck-is-that?

Around the periphery were the means of transport for the people who had come into town for market day, cars below in the gravel lot, and donkeys and mules above on the grassy hillside. I watched one rugged fellow in a dusty poncho get in a tussle with his mule, holding tight to the reins and sneaking his hand up and up and then lunging for the ear as the mule ducked its head. He was faster, gave the ear a visible twist, then lead his subdued beast off for the walk home.

I was overwhelmed by the people and produce, and still a little sleepy, so am disappointed with my pictures, but let me give you some idea of the variety. That I can recollect offhand, there were stacks of carrots, tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, yellow squash, green gourd squash, pumpkins, zucchini, fuzzy-spiky bell pepper things, toothless-old-man bell pepper things. 

Green beans, eggplant, beets, and gorgeous piles of avocadoes. A dozen types of potatoes from familiar brown to tiny red fingerlings, garlic, corn on the cob and loose by the grain, as well as bunches of unknown herbs and leafy greens.

Peaches, yellow mangoes, green mangoes, apples, strawberries, grapes, bananas, plantains, watermelons, blackberries, blueberries, papaya, at least four different types of oranges, cantaloupe, pineapples, limes, pears, plums, persimmons (I think that‘s what chontaduro are?), guava, passion fruit, cactus fruit, star fruit, feijoa, guanabana, chirimoya, uchuva, mamones, tomates del arbol, lulo, gulupa, granadilla, curuba, and mangostino, whose name is a combination of mango and lobster, because the meat inside looks rather like the latter.

Good thing our hostel has a little fruit guide, otherwise I would have just said “uh…there were like…all the fruit I’ve ever heard of…then bunches more.”

We bought a bell pepper and two carrots for 25 cents, the same for a bag of 8 beautiful homegrown tomatoes. For 50 cents each we got an avocado the size of a canteloupe and a big bag of fresh local blackberries. For just over a buck we got a little pot of homemade uchuva (pic at left) and ginger jam.

One edge of the market also had durable items, like socks, pottery, ponchos, shoes, belts, kitchen supplies, bras and baseball caps. Then the upper edge was divided between sausage and meat grillers to one side, and bubbling pots of breakfast stuffs over wood fires on the other.

We took a seat at one of the latter among locals who ranged from helpful and chatty to politely ignoring us. We ate “pericos” eggs (not sure what the English word is, they’re sorta baked(or)grilled in a little metal pot with tomatoes and onions), rice, and for me a sort of stew with fatty little chunks of beef (maybe pork?) and (Spanish pronunciation please) “muta,” which were kernels of the thick corn prepared somehow-or-other until they are like a plump starchy sort of popcorn. It was delicious. Then of course two cups of the incredible real-cocoa hot chocolate that makes me want to weep tears of joy in the marketplace.

The wood fires were going strong, and by the time we left we were covered in flecks of ash and smelled strongly of woodsmoke. Leaving, my hands held bags of fruit and vegetables, my belly was full of fresh-cooked breakfast, and my traveler spirit was smiling fit to blind the sun.

Pre-Colombian petroglyphs in Sachica.

“It’s a pretty easy place to get lost…I don’t think there are any signs…there’s not really a path…what little path there was got pretty washed out last winter…there’s a bridge, but it’s missing some pieces…” With a description like that is it any wonder K and I set out this morning to discover the forgotten valley southwest of Villa de Leyva? But it was also described as a magical place with great energy and ancient paintings on the rock walls.

(They're not sure how old they are, but they pertain to either the Arawak or Chibchas civilizations, both of which date back to the fourth century AD.) (The Arawak language gave us the word barbecue which is pretty awesome cuz them hillbillies ain't got no idea they speakin' Arawakese.)

We walked along the same road we took to the aguas termales, marveling at how much shorter a distance is when you know where you’re going, and stopping to buy a pair of fresh peaches from a pair of brothers selling them out of the back of a pickup truck.

We passed the hot springs and headed uphill to the toll booth, where we asked if anyone knew how to get to the paintings. No one did, and they looked at us with baffled concern as we set off walking up the narrow winding highway, semi trucks groaning past an arm’s reach away, munching our peaches happily. Buenos dias!

We reached the top of the slope and were delighted to see a battered and bent sign for the paintings on a pole twisted nearly down to the ground. We left the highway and found the entrance to the valley, beginning our descent past a few silent houses. We passed the third and last motionless house to find that not all inhabitants of the valley are so peaceful.

Dogs, man. Frickin dogs. This one fella was not happy to see us. At all. I think we may have startled him, and he showed his ire with barks, growls, raised hackles and gnashing fangs. There are no pictures of him because my hands were busy picking up rocks to throw at him if necessary.

Luckily it didn’t get that far, and we left the nasty little bastard behind us as we continued into the valley.

We found the bridge, which was indeed missing the guard rails and several planks, though some had been replaced by rough-sawn chunks of wood. What was left was hardly confidence inspiring but we made it across without any broken limbs or action movie moments.

On the other side the path continued through lush green grass between the sere cactus hills. What looked like cows were grazing along the path, but we couldn’t help but notice their rather impressive balls hanging down. Hello…oxen? Surely no one leaves their bulls out to wander around? Sometimes I realize what a city boy I really am, despite my best intentions.

Walking through the valley was a pleasure, and TV-Liaison Lady was right, it is a special place. Villa de Leyva is hardly a metropolitan spot, but THIS felt relaxed. It was a whole new side of Colombia we hadn’t seen yet, and I am immensely thankful that we had the chance.

Not long later we noticed a rock wall piled under an overhang; we had found the paintings. It never ceases to amaze me when you arrive at what could be a significant tourist site and there is basically nothing there. No ropes, no cameras, no security guards, not even any other people. Just a couple more cowbulloxen who were barely interested in us, much less the centuries-old artwork on the rock above their heads.

Again Liaison Lady was right, there was a special energy here, probably because there was no one else around. You could stand under the massive shelf of brittle rock overhead and imagine camping here centuries ago, a normal person just like you (only without the Ipod) making a fire against the stone and painting faces, figures, and designs on the rock overhead. Was it religious or were they just waiting for the rain to stop?

We stood and marveled for awhile, then started the long walk back, filling out pockets with stones of varies sizes in case the asshole dog was still there. We approached the place we’d seen him before…then his house…then we were in his yard when I suddenly heard…nothing. Our quick steps took us past, and with relief and smiles we began dropping our arsenals.

Back up onto the highway, where we immediately got a priceless look from a passing motorist of “Who the…? What the…? How the…? Where the hell did they come from?!?” The whole day was perfect weather, overcast to protect from sunburn but nice and warm, occasional short bursts of light rain to tickle the skin.

I enjoyed the use of my new hat (I’m kinda in love with it) and we bought two more peaches from the brothers with the overflowing truck, then we were back, perfectly tired, digging into a replenishing meal with a perfect glass of red wine.

Gotta say it was a good day.

My Colombian debut

Went for a walk today. Made my ankle blister bleed again, and got on Colombian television.

We found a flyer in town for a desert garden that advertised a labyrinth, medicine wheel, and a variety of unknown Spanish vocabulary that sounded enticing anyway. So this afternoon after changing hostels, eating lunch in one of the most gorgeous inner courtyards I have ever seen, and doing some laundry in the hotel sink (sh! Don’t tell them!) we started walking.

It was a nice walk, with a great view down over the valley and up onto the slopes of the Cordillera Oriental of the Andes. I didn’t think a picture would do it justice, but stepped over to take one anyway, avoiding the little group of people in a white minivan who were mounting a rather impressive camera of their own.

I took my picture and K and I started walking again, only to be stopped a few steps later by a lady from the group running up and asking if we were tourists, and if so, where were we headed. The Pozos Azules? (Blue wells/waterholes/ponds.)

She explained that she was working as a local liaison with a camera crew filming a sort of Colombia documentary aiming to advertise the country to its own inhabitants and expats living abroad. Would we like to be in it?

The director asked us to walk up the road again, this time on film. Okeydokey, sounds fun! There happened to be a military checkpoint right there, two babyfaced young men with assault rifles, and the liaison suggested that if they were trying to improve Colombia’s image, putting 18 year olds with automatic weapons in the shot might not be the best approach. “No offense, guys.”

We walked up the road. Then again, slower, straight at the camera and passing to either side. Classy.

Then they taped a mic up under my shirt and asked me what I thought of Colombia and Villa de Leyva, and why. In Spanish please. A little harder, but also fun.

Then they drove us to the Pozos Azules, and filmed us walking up to a vantage point, K taking a picture, and asked her what she thought of the area. It was awesome watching her negotiate away from having to answer in Spanish, then answering with the camera and crew standing around her. The poor sound guy looked like he was going to have an aneurism when he had to clip the microphone onto the neckline of her dress.

Then it was down to the water itself, where they asked K again how she felt about the area. Next was my turn, sitting on the embankment, asked what I thought about the area and the water, then if I felt Colombia was unsafe and how I felt about that.

These two questions caught me off guard. To the first I said I thought it was beautiful, that we had similar places (in the US) but that I liked that there was no pollution there. In doing so I made up a new Spanish word for pollution. Oops.

Then for the security question I said we have never felt unsafe, and have met a lot of very friendly and helpful Colombians, but that we did take it into account, for example by avoiding long or overnight bus trips. As I said that the director’s face fell. Sorry mate, gotta tell the truth, you don’t turn around a country’s entire image in 8 years. He was a purist though, and no second chances or preparation, just honest reactions.

The director said he’d email me the link when it’s ready and tell me when it’ll be televised. I’ll try to link it here.

The Pozo Azul, beautiful, even though it's actually
just a man-made reservoir (Sh! That's a secret!)

While they filmed K expounding on how beautiful the area is, the liaison lady told me about the area and its sacred and semi-forgotten past, including the old entrance to the valley (before a paved road changed the route) that has a lot of ancient drawings on the rock walls. She described how to get there, adding that it was an easy place to get lost, there was not really a path, and what path there was has probably been destroyed by last winter’s storms. We’re going to try and walk there tomorrow. Wish us luck, otherwise our upcoming Colombian debut will have a whole different vibe…