Fun Facts About Colombia

This is me right now, loving Colombia. We´re in Taganga, a tiny town up north where goats roam the streets and you can buy a meal that will feed a hungry, discerning person for $2 involving fried plantains and shredded fish.

Yesterday we took a motor boat so small it was silly out to Parque Nacional Tayrona. We saw flying. fish. I thought those only existed in certain Super Mario games, but hey, go figure.

The Parque... I mean, here´s the pics I got of it. Whoa. And those don´t even have the beach in them. We´re headed back out tomorrow morning with hammocks and minimal gear to camp in the palm trees, straight guerilla out there into the beyond civilization.
I was reading my travel guide (shocking, I know) about the history of this place and I´m going to play the same game with you as my poor travel buddies. It´s called ´Look How Crazy The Country We´re In Is´. Enjoy.

Did you know! Colombia had a civil war (one of many that´s rocked the country) in 1948 called ¨La Violencia.¨ It killed 300,000 people.

Did you know! In 1982 Colombia elected Pablo Escobar to Congress. His gang, the Medellin Cartel, had it´s own political party and two newspapers. It took 1500 special forces 499 days to track him down and kill him. That was after he was done sponsoring legislation, of course.

Did you know! Guerillas (guerillaing for a vast array of causes) control 40% of the country.

It´s crazy how beautiful the people in this country are for the absolute terror they´ve been through over the last... I don´t know, forever.

Entrada en Colombia

Holy moly, you know what is crazy? Carnaval is crazy. A festival that happens just about everywhere in the Latin American world, Carnaval is the final blowout for Catholics before the sobriety and sacrifice of Lent. Although prude colonial authorities crushed the bigger celebrations of Carnaval in the 18th century, mid size and smaller town were left alone to get all wacky and debaucherous and carnavalear uninterrupted. So it was that I landed smack dab in the middle of Colombia´s most renowed Carnaval, in Barranquilla. Here´s our welcome to town on the left, a full band playing tunes for us as we get our bags from the airport. There were also hot girls in bright costumes handing out drinks in neon plastic cups. Before we´d even headed through customs, people.

This is a town for lives for one week of the year. Gozala la vida, vive la vida. Everything shuts down from grocery stores to banks for four straight days and the gente head rush to parks and main streets for massive, crushing walls of party. There´s massive parades of people covered in feathers and shiny colors and spray foam flying through the air and kids covered in paint and over everything, a big old pounding cloud of cumbia, Colombia´s musical get-down of choice.

So when in Rome. We met some amazing people (the photo above is of Jay and Pat, our new Aussie buddies who rock at life) and ate food off the streets for days and abused our health in general. Ran into a bummer on the third day when the hustle-bustle-crush of the main square suddenly turned into more crush than bustle- a wall of about 20 people, kids included, rushed Jay and I, sprayed foam in our faces and by the end of it we weren´t too shocked to figure out that our pants pockets had been unbuttoned and emptied.

That was a little bit unnerving, but when I thought about it after I realized better to get felt up by little kids in a busy, sunny plaza for forty bucks than held up at gunpoint in a subway somewhere. South America: Dangerous, But Only For Your Wallet. Colombians, by the by, are some of the nicest people I´ve met so far.

Have now fled the busy city streets for Taganga, a fishing town of around 3,000 on the Caribbean coast. This place looks like nothing I´ve ever seen before, cacti on cliffs over ocean. We´ve picked up an entourage of six from Team Carnaval, and we´re all looking forward to some R & R after the heaviness of the festival. There´s hiking in the grasslands on white rock paths to be had, long afternoons on the beach, jugo on the calle principal, etc, etc. Should be a good time. Here´s most of the crew, by the way, Erik, Courtney (my long lost bestie from our days studying in Madrid in college), yours truly, Pat and Michelle. Beautiful days we´ve been having in South America. xoxo, cd

On a Hostel Break

I finally left the Luna´s Castle/Mondo Taitu vortex today. It was sad to say goodbye, but my early morning flight did give me some time to think about a certain exchange some unknown defecators graffitied out on our ¨random trivia¨wall in one of the bathroom stalls at Luna´s:

¨Did you know that 90% of American travelers spend most of their time in their hostel?¨

¨Obviously you had to be spending the same amount of time to even know that, dumbass¨

¨Why the hostility?¨

I´m guilty as 90% of my ilk are charged. I spend a lot of time in hostels when I travel, even taking into account the fact that I work in them from time to time. I like them. I like the colorful art, the free Internet and coffee, the cheap beer and expensive laundry service. I like the inspired ennui of their scene and the constant transience, by way of contrast. I like the intense personalities of strangers picked to live in a house and have their lives gawked at by other strangers.

Don´t get it twisted, I also love traveling and finding out of the way, locally endemic bits of idiosyncracy. But I don´t think it´s wrong to travel in part to find other travelers.

I´m scrolling back through the faces on the scores of digital photos I´ve taken on this trip and realizing what a lucky, lucky girl I am. So shoot me, I hang out in hostels. Can you blame me?

Like, there was this one time, back in late November, when I had to drop off a friend at the San Jose, Costa Rica airport who I´d been traveling with and vibing off of for awhile. Sad times, particularly since it was yours truly´s 24th birthday. I got on the theft-prone busride for the cloud forest of Monteverde with a heavy heart and just a little blue I´d be spending my special day among strangers.

But here´s the thing about travel, and travelers. I walk into Pension Santa Elena, a sprawling hostel that looks more like a funky mountain restaurant from the entrance and ran smack into a big, happily international birthday party. Like, there were silly hats, a cake with frosting and everyone was singing that song I needed to hear.

Turns out Rory from Manhattan was turning 24 that very day, and before you could say ¨pura vida¨ I had a crew to get older with. We drank Imperial and were serenaded at the bar by one of the staff members´ reggae group. We had no need for introduction cause here we were, in Monteverde, Costa Rica, and if you think we needed any other connection to play with each other, you´re crazy.

I´m still in touch with some of the birthday partiers- they´ve got an open invitation to hang in Portland, just like the one I´ve got for when I get to their various home locales.

Some people feel most at home in the neighborhood they grew up in, or at the office, or on the basketball court. Its a place where they have things in common with other people, where they´re one of the gang. My corner of comfort in this world is the open road, and when I attack this thing with these six month travel-binges, I find the characters I pick up along the way are infinitely relatable, extensively compatible.


P.S. Erik and I just made it to Baranquilla, Colombia. One more stamp on the passport, one more continent to conquer. Carnaval hits this town by storm tomorrow. Wish me luck, I´ll be the one covered in facepaint and glitter. And stay tuned. Miss you all. -CD

A Friggin' Armadillo

Speed-walking down Cerro Anchon, the jungle-covered hill with great views of Panama City's Easter egg colored projects and the brick roofs of Casco Viejo, Molly and I saw a friggin' armadillo. A. Goddamn. Real life. Not stuffed or cartoon or caged. Armadillo. I was born in Texas and I've never seen an armadillo before.

It ran under a bunch of brush before we got a real satisfying look at it, so we poked it with sticks. It's shell was super hard. Just when I'm feeling all locked down, like there's nothing new under the sun in PC, something crazy like that just goes and happens.

Look!



Footballs with heads, indeed.

P.S. This is the view out of our back window, so wild.

Back en el Capital

It's crazy, but Panama City starts to feel like home. Kind of surprising, really, that out of all the stopovers on this wild ride, PanaMAH is where I wound up hanging my hat for a spell.

It's crazy because of the streets that alternate between smelling like fish and urine, the crackheads who try to sell you broken wine glasses on the corner, the high decibel perverts in passing cars and the crippling humidity that wrecks havoc with my current war on commerical deoderant products. I've seen cats here so mangey and ugly that even I don't want to cuddle them. So you know it's serious.

But it's also Casco Viejo, my favorite, rag-tag, rummage bin, take a picture or you'll miss it, brokedown palace of a neighborhood in all the world. It's where I can get new dresses for $3. It's where fresh fruit juice sells for less than the sugary stuff in the grocery stores and, sobre todo, it's where Luna's Castle is. My hostel-away-from-home.

Luna's is a big, old mansion built into Panama City's original sea wall from hundreds of years ago. You should see this place. Unecessarily high celings, dark wood floors and window-balconies that stretch easily ten feet high. Thanks to the artists that pass through on a regular basis eager for a free night or two, we've got art like you wouldn't believe, canvasses covering every wall. There's a fort and a movie theater and, oddly, more fellow Oregonians than you can shake a stick at.

So we find our moments of beauty in a city that sometimes resists. And at the end of the day, what is Central America- a deserted beach in the middle of tourist paradise or a big, gritty mess of human community? Easy, right? It's Panama City.

Back When I Didn't Have A Blog

From bottom to top:

Climbing up the strangler fig tree in Monteverde, Costa Rica (visit #1)

I heart colored zinc in the land of surf, Mal Pais, Costa Rica

Craazy mushrooms in the Orchid Garden, Monteverde (visit #2)

San Jose Contemporary Art Museum, Costa Rica

The Devil in Bocas del Toro

Clearly, I couldn't make it out of Bocas without some collateral damage. Lost my digital camera (already #2 of the trip!) on my last night out... devil, I'm telling you. Luckily, the one photo I'd managed to download is pretty appropos of this blog post. Here's Tomo, my beloved Aussie coworker holding his not one or two but three to-go beverages from the bar in the wee hours of 80's power hour night. Enjoy.



I did it. I made it out of Bocas del Toro- but not before it got into my bloodstream.

It's a sick little town, Bocastown. Under a mile cubed, couple main streets, the docks on one side and the airport's tarmac out to the sea on the other. Erik and I stalked Calle Principal, the busy stretch of civilizationl in a four-hour-a-day game of "Gringo Hunt," handing out flyers and making new friends all over the concrete in the name of Bar Mondo Taitu. It was pretty funny, rolling out of bed hungover, slapping on the day's game face and a cup of coffee and rolling out for another day working the Bocas corner. We got to know all the other streetside characters too, the "Jesus guy" sunglasses vendor who had an unsettling habit of holding my hand whenever we'd cross paths, the nice drug dealers, the shady drug dealers, the surfers heading out with their boards and, of course, the devils.

Carnaval's a big deal in Bocas. It's a wild street party, originally based on the coming of Christianity and celebrating the defeat of the devil. But Carnaval doesn't start until later this month. These days, when dusk falls on the small park in the center of town and the streets are full of tourists returning from beach jaunts and locals doing their grocery shopping, the devils own Bocastown.

There were two, one red and one black. They were probably of normal height, but made much taller by the elaborately frightening masks and costumes they wore and the whips they carried in their hands. They'd lash out at passerbys with them, one more boggling detail of Caribbean life to add to the tourists' list of things-that-aren't-normal. The local kids loved them and ran wild during the day aping the devils, whipping their friends mercilessly with little regard to the ambulatory traffic around them.

Devils everywhere in Bocas. Devils like the chitres that bite you invisibly on the beach and 80's night power hour at work and bars with water trampolines and diving boards into the ocean and islands full of people who are on a quasi-religious mission to avoid the word 'no.' Devils like a group of friends who you like to hang out with too much and one person you can't get enough of and no Internet access to update your blog with.

So I had to scoot, and believe me it was a tough desicion. I lent Erik temporarily to the allure of killer waves and low-budget lifestyle and took a little plane south back to Panama City, to the (relative) sanity of Luna's Castle. Planning a long postponed descent down to Columbia, possibly after another week staffing the reception desk here in my beloved Casco Viejo. Gonna dry out, get back into my yoga and reflect on what a crazy three weeks it's been.

I miss Bocas already. Till we meet again, devils.

mas fotos

The rest of my trip was cool too. A smattering of photos, one from each destino. Look at them from the bottom up cause for some technological failing on my part they're backwards.


Bottoms Up:


San Francisco- Nick Drashner thinking road trip deep thoughts on the Twin Peaks.


San Jose- Just a little color explosion in the most unremarkable big city ever.


Cahuita- Big Boy polishes his conch during catastrophic flooding in our mellow Caribbean cabinas.


Puerto Viejo- the Rockin' J's hostel umpteen hammocks for rent.


Cartago- hallucionegenic night glimpses of catedrales in center squares.




I sometimes miss you a lot,
CD








The rest of the trip was cool too, check it, I got pictures... in backwards order due to some incapacitation on my part, technologically-wise.

San Francisco
San Jose
Cahuita
Puerto Viejo
Cartago

Riptide

So I'm staying in Bocas another week. Erik and I had our backpacks on, had already said goodbye to everyone at the hostel under the sun, when I get the last minute wheeling and dealing from Dave, one of the spectacular owners. Stay on as a promoter? Free rent, bar tab and family dinners and live Bocas del Toro for 16 hours of work a week? I had paddled back into to shore so... close, but the riptide caught me and sucked me straight back out to sea.

Don't get me wrong, because sure I want new adventure. To hightail out for Boquete, or Dos Pasos, or hell, jump that direct flight straight on down to Buenos Aires. But really, this is my trip and I'm just trying to get the most of it that I can. I can hold steady in this beautiful bunch of islands for one more week and be happy.

The other day we caught the bus out to the other side of Isla Colon, to Playa Bocas del Drago. It's a skinny strip of sand, much diminished by the recent floods the Caribbean in these parts has undergone. Lots of palm trees and your occasional yellow bird of paradise. Tricked out boats from around the world docked in sleepy coves. A fifteen-year old Panamanian let me ride his beach cruiser because it matched my white, 50's style sunglasses.

But the special thing about Bocas del Drago is underneath the water. We were sloshing along in the clear, shallow waves and suddenly we were in a fairytale. A starfish garden- hundreds of starfish, bigger than your hand with complicated, nubbly patterns written on their reddish-orange skin. They were sitting on top of the sand, happy to have you pick them up and read about how amazing your life is in their soft underbelly.

So, whatever, I'm stalking Calle Principal this week, telling all my new friends about Bar Mondo Taitu's free hookah Sunday and Wednesday night 80's power hour. These things fall into my lap sometimes and I'm just going to keep breathing. Let the learning work itself out.