Since childhood, stories of exotic creatures and primitive tribes have fueled my burning desire to visit South America and its legendary Amazon jungle. The purpose of this adventure is to turn ‘one day’ into ‘day one’!
The trip was intended to be a solo effort, but having recently met a dark-haired beauty with big brown eyes named Christine, it somehow only seems natural to invite her along in the off chance she may like to accompany me. To my delight she accepts, and after knowing each other for mere months, we are leaving our newly forged comfort-zone far behind, to explore the mysterious continent of South America!
Expecting arduous travels ahead, we limber up our exploratory spirits on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula; visiting the ancient Maya ruins at Tulum to master the craft of rest and relaxation on postcard perfect beaches. Sun, sand, sip, repeat; life is good. Little do we realize how things are about to drastically change!
Our plane arcs over South America’s majestic Andes Mountains, with the snowy giants clawing at the sky beneath us. Landing gear tastes tarmac at an elevation over 9000 feet in Quito Ecuador, and with gallons of anticipation and a dog-eared copy of a Lonely Planet travel book stuffed in the backpack, we sever ourselves from all that’s familiar, in search of ourselves and whatever may be thrown our way.
Sauntering about the cobbled streets of laid back Quito we befriend an inquisitive, blue and brown eyed llama. She has lovely thick eye lashes long enough to plait, and we decide to name her Dolly. Quito’s street markets exude an array of exotic sights and scents, and sampling some strange looking foods, we quickly learn that in foreign lands it’s often better not to ask what you’re eating. Case in point; we aren’t exactly squealing with delight to learn that Ecuador’s national dish of roast cuy translates to roast guinea pig!
Getting slowly accustomed to the thin air we bus to Otavalo, a town known for its Saturday’s market. This is the largest and most colourful market in all of South America, and causes the town’s normal population of 20,000 to swell to over 40,000, with many indigenous tribes converging to peddle their wares. Local Otavaleños are easily distinguished by their brightly coloured ponchos, felt fedoras, and bountiful bead adornments. After a good explore we return to Quito, stopping on the way for the obligatory picture on the Equator line and straddling latitude zero with one leg in each hemisphere.
Searching for information on the ethnic Tsachila tribe, we learn they are located 133 km west in the foothills of the Andes Mountains, near the town of Santo Domingo de Los Colorados. Getting there means acquiring both transport as well as an English speaking driver familiar with both the area and the tribes tongue. Delving into the task, we ferret out a guy named Amado who seems to possess the necessary credentials.
Snailing along in Amado’s angelic relic, he captivates us with intriguing tales; like the time a giant condor swooped down on his Andean village and sank its talons into his young donkey before carrying it off! We suppose this is possible, but can’t help but wonder if perhaps he’s concocted his tale as a diversion from the arse-clenching dangerous mountain roads responsible for ratcheting up our tension.
Feeling hungry, we make the blunder of stopping at a little shop of horrors masquerading as a food market. Decomposing carcasses of chickens dangle from meat hooks, and the countertops are adorned with severed pig heads and other lunch-loosening ‘mystery meats’ crawling with flies. This salmonella buffet could gag a maggot, and overcome with an urge to purge we bolt outside; having suddenly lost our appetites.
The unsurfaced road eventually fizzles into forest, and we abandon the car for a narrow squiggle of root-infested trail. Slaloming through a sea of chlorophyll towards the obscure indigenous village, we try not to choke on our anxiety with a rustling nearby in the dense jungle. Seeing branches moving and feeling the presence of the unseen, Amado says not to worry; it is simply the curious tribe people who mean no harm.
Eventually the thick green veil of undergrowth abates, revealing a large cleared area sprouting the bamboo and palm huts that are the object of our search. Amado tells us to wait while he approaches the tribe’s chief, who must be acknowledged before entering the village. After asking of the chief’s health and that of his wives, Amado returns with permission for us to approach. In doing so, many villagers simply vanish like ghosts into the oversized vegetation, as the Tsachila tend to shy away from contact with outsiders.
What a sight! This diminutive, eye-popping tribe has quite the mop on top, with paprika coloured hair plastered down with a mixture of grease and the red juice extracted from seeds of the achiote tree. Their bodies have a frightening war paint look, painted with red and blue horizontal stripes thought to protect against evil spirits. We wonder if the tribe’s unease may be a result of our cadaver-like skin!
With permission, I now find myself in a somewhere south of sane scenario of standing inside the jungle hut of the tribe’s shaman. My boyhood dreams are becoming a reality! The dirt-floored hut contains only a few odd items; including knives, feathers, live birds, unrecognizable herbs, and a pile of the red berries used to colour their hair. We also notice a few cooking pots, which to our relief, are not large enough to fit a human!
Our intriguing tribal visit concludes with the tattoo-like ritual of marking our hands with the blue-black dye of the Jagua fruit, meaning we’re welcome to come back to the village for as long as the dye is present. Back in Quito, we unsuccessfully try scrubbing away the dye using everything from soap to nail polish remover, but our jungle tattoo will last for over two weeks until the skin regenerates itself.
Our departure from Quito is via what’s billed as ‘Train Ride to the Sky’; a 288 mile roller coaster ride on the Autoferro, which is a one car train looking much like a bus. Riding the rails through the cloud piercing Andes Mountains is certainly not for the faint hearted, with ‘Old 94’ clinging to the side of throat-lumping gorges through a series of switchbacks cut out of solid rock. Built in 1899, this was billed as the ‘most difficult’ railway in the world. Periodic gushing over the mountain scenery helps offset the cold, filthiness, and butt-bruising wooden seats of our ‘well experienced’ transport.
Seeking better photos of the awesome landscape, a Spanish guy and I sneak out the back door and clamber up a ladder up onto the moving train’s roof. Scrunched up among bunches of bananas and luggage, we clutch roof rails with one hand while working the camera with the other. It seems like a brilliant idea, but at altitudes up to 12,000 feet, the icy air quickly wreaks havoc with the blood flow to my extremities. I begin to stiffen up, and with a higher desire not to expire, I cupcake out, and climb down to get back inside the train before becoming a mummified carcass on the rooftop, to be discovered at the next station stop!
We pass by the villages of Yaguachi, Urbina, Sibambe, Milagro and Riobamba; all dwarfed by an endless swath of soaring mountains, including the legendary Chimborazo and Cotopaxi trying to puncture the sky. Twelve long, unforgettable hours later the Autoferro chugs into its final stop at a place called “Fumbuck”. Actually, it’s an unflushed toilet of a town called Duran; a collection of precarious looking shacks without laughter in the Ecuadorian hills, where the cockroaches don’t scatter in the daylight!
From Duran, we boat across a murky river to another town which is worthy of “Fumbuck-II” status. Angst-riddled Guayaquil is a seedy place rampant with crime, drug dealers, and other garden-variety riff-raft with major character deficits. Due to safety concerns around here all travel by bus is strongly discouraged, so we opt for a cheap flight to Loja. Sadly this means we’re now committed to two more nights before being able to untether ourselves from the unloveliness. In case you haven’t guessed, both ‘Fumbuck I and Fumbuck II’ are both towns we would highly recommend any travelers give a good leaving-alone!
After our flight, we hitch a bouncy ride in a dilapidated World War II jeep, over laughably inadequate roads into Loja. With a grin smeared across his bronzed Aztec face, our driver ‘Elvis’ should have come with a ‘stupid alert’; as in a very small number of seconds, he decisively dispels any generalized notion about his ability to drive sensibly. Bouncing about so hard that my buttocks have now relocated to an area normally reserved for my shoulders, I’m worried that henceforth I may have to unzip my fly to see where I’m going!
Lodging here in the Cuxibamba Valley is scarce, and we’re forced to settle for an uninspiring room above a small grocery store. We’re less than jubilant with the runt of a room, and the unpleasantness of a nipple-enhancing, cold water only shower; but with no other Loja options available it has to suffice for the night.
Divesting ourselves of Casa Disappointment today, we dubiously board a battered ‘chicken bus’ for the next leg of our tedious trip. After an ambitious Guinness loading attempt defying the laws of physics, the driver seemingly collects everyone in the village; jamming us all together tighter than two coats of paint.
Finally, with a grinding of the gears and a lurch, the bus begins moving and we think we’re on our way. Au contraire; it stops once again. You see, chicken buses can never be full. There will always be space to cram in Mrs. González along with her 6 kids, bundles of veggies, and assorted smelly livestock!
Heavy blue smoke belches out the bus as it thuds over the savage washboard mountain roads. Inside, we are uncomfortably immersed in a chorus of squawking chickens, bawling kids, squealing cuy, rattling windows, and the malodourous stench of a disgruntled pig endeavoring to trot through a sea of bodies sitting in the aisle! All scrunched in, we glumly endure rubbing shoulders with locals and livestock for hours, until finally arriving at the isolated village of Vilcabamba, where we eagerly seek a shower to scrub the bus off our skin.
Vilcabamba translates to ‘place of longevity’, and according to NatGeo is home to some of the world’s oldest people, with many living well past 100. Ambling about town, our eyes find many faces looking as if they were carved into an apple left to shrivel in the desert for a decade. Factors believed to contribute to longevity here are the high altitude, eating little or no red meat, hard physical work, and the elders being held in high social esteem by the others in the village.
After a couple of days relaxing in this restful village, it’s time for the less-than-exotic, spine-jangling bus trip back to Loja; where we grudgingly arrange another dubious overnight bus. Our plan is to cross into Peru by land through the sketchy ‘frontera’ town of Huaquillas, even though there are warnings NOT to use this border crossing. Tonight may be Halloween, but as it turns out, there are certainly no treats in store for us!
Aboard the bus, we hunker down in our seats in our own private little world of weariness and woe, falling asleep on our backpacks. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning our sleep is shattered when we’re rudely awakened by two militia men prodding us with the ‘business end’ of their rifles, demanding to see our passports. Talk about a lousy bedside manner! Groggily, we fumble around and hand them over. One of the chest-out tough guys then startles us by drawing a forefinger across his neck in the ‘slit throat’ gesture! As our bus trip resumes, Christine and I are both confused and troubled by this act of intimidation.
Arriving in the desolate border town of Huaquillas at 05:30 the next morning, we warily wander about town in darkness until locating the dingy Immigration office. Sprawled on the sidewalk waiting for it to open, we learn that our next destination will first require crossing the border, and then sleuthing out transport to a town called Tumbez; where we should be able to snare another bus bound for Lima, Peru.
When the office opens, people wander in and receive clearance. We, however, are detained and motioned to sit down at the far side of the room. Half an hour later I approach the desk, but with an arrogant sullenness and a scowl, the dickhead in charge looks up making a brushing away gesture with the back of his hand as if I were a fly. Baffled, I approach again a short while later, only to receive the same rude treatment.
I glare daggers at the abdominous bulk in charge of this unfolding crisis who is a clear front-runner to be inducted into the A-hole Hall of Fame. His molasses-coloured eyes have the warmth of an injured cobra, and he’s slouched back with his feet up on the desk having some kid shine his blunt-toed boots. Uglier than the gargoyles of Notre Dame, he has a massive bald head, heavy jowls, a nose like a mutant eggplant, and a body so hairy he might be prone to hibernate in winter! No doubt about it, he is simply a shiver looking for a spine to run up, and blessed with all the charm of a constipated camel!
With my anger now soaring to unhealthy levels, and abandoned by common sense, I aggressively approach his desk, and with my face in his, smash my fist down demanding to make a phone call. With feral eyes, a savage sneer across his pockmarked face, and the veins in his neck engorged to resemble stalks of rhubarb; the knuckle dragger reaches under his desk and pulls out a sinister looking assault rifle, pointing it directly at me. As long terrifying seconds roll over us, I wonder if the bastard might actually pull the trigger!
Instead, the Sultan of Surly guns me down with taxidermy eyes, growling something in Spanish and jabbing the gun at me; motioning in no uncertain terms to sit back down. Christine’s eyes are owlish, especially given threatening gesture on the bus. The tension is palpable, and I’m now regretting getting into a pissing contest with this two-legged skunk! With my bravado faded, we sit in speechless gloom, pondering our fate.
A short while later we notice a blonde girl wander in, conversing in fluent Spanish. I call out, asking if she speaks English. Affirmative: she is an American, teaching school in Peru. Relating our predicament, we ask if she can possibly find out what is happening. Acting as interpreter, Mildred determines our problem is that we have overstayed the departure date on our passports.
After Mildred pleads a good case for us, the villainous slob in charge tells her with a gruesome grin, that despite my foolish actions he is in a generous mood, and as a favor to her, he will not jail us if we pay him 4,000 sucres – a huge chunk of our travel kitty. This is more than baksheesh; this is extortion!
She strongly advises us to give him the money even though he will pocket it, because this same thing happened to a friend of hers, who was jailed for two weeks before getting any food. With no desire to forfeit our freedom, we begrudgingly turn over our cash before the pug-ugly fuckwit changes his mind. Huffing down the dust-clouded road we don’t dare to look back. Beyond grateful in putting the toxic town of Huaquillas behind us forever, we are of the opinion that if the earth ever gets an enema, this dunghole will be used for the insertion of the tube. It will be missed in the same way as a bad case of hemorrhoids!
With Mildred in stride, we taxi to the town of Tumbez to locate a bus bound for Lima. Chucking our backpacks in a cargo hold in the belly of the bus, we settle in for the tedious trip. All is well until several hours later when we’re stopped at another army checkpoint, with all passengers told to get off and take their luggage with them. The bus is then searched for who knows what, before we’re allowed to get back on.
As the bus is leaving I happen to notice my backpack still lying on the road beside the cargo hold, so I rush to the front of the bus and make the driver stop. As I get out of the bus to retrieve my pack, the sorrid sod stoops low enough to fuck a snake and spews out some drivel about marijuana to the soldiers!
Two soldiers then hustle me and my scuffed backpack off to a roadside shack, despite my protests of innocence. An exasperating search and Spanish inquisition follow, but with no ‘Devils Lettuce’ to be found, I’m free to go. I’m paranoid the bus has gone on without me, but mercifully it’s still there. With many more Peruvian miles to cover, I jump back on battling an overwhelming impulse to introduce my knuckles to the mouth of the evilly sneering driver and make him swallow his crooked tea-colored teeth!
Later, in the middle of the night, I go to the back of the bus to stretch out on the floor, to try and catch a few winks. Christine later wakes up and starts to panic when noticing I’m not in the seat beside her. It’s so dark she can’t see me, so she wakes up Mildred who questions the driver. Sinking to uncharted depths in the sea of spite, the scumbag tells her I got off in a town 40 miles back! Shocked, they perform a rigorous search, and are relieved to stumble across me asleep on the floor between the seats. After enduring this truly shitacular couple of days, we’re seriously starting to wonder about traveling in South America!
Profusely thanking Mildred for helping us out of a nasty jam, we abandon the bus in Lima, presenting the driver with a close-up view of my isolated middle finger while spreading colourful expletives like confetti; a scaled down version of my preferred action which is to kick the seven shades of shit out of him by means of a shoe colonoscopy! Our ordeal has left us truly exhaustipated (too tired to give a shit) and we quickly take the first room we can find, to shower away the sweat and road filth of a very shitty 36 hours of bus travel.
Christine has become quite ill with stomach problems, but luckily we’re able to find medicine that helps. After a couple of days ‘trot’ by she’s still weak, but fortunately feels able to continue. Unfortunately, her only memories of Lima are of her bed; and a savage bowl of soup with an inferno pepper nearly assassinating her taste buds and causing her eyes to leak! At this point, I’m sure she’s in serious doubt about agreeing to such an adventurous trip when she could be still relaxing on a beach under a thatched roofed tiki bar, enjoying exotic concoctions from half a coconut loaded with fruit salad and topped with cute little paper umbrellas!
Flying over the planet’s largest rainforest, we’re stunned by its immensity beneath the plane’s window; with the muddy, anaconda-like Amazon River circuitously snaking through the greenery. This is the mightiest river on earth; 6,500 km long and 240 km wide at its mouth, with its volume exceeding the combined flow of the next 9 largest rivers in the world. Over 8 trillion gallons flow out of the river into the ocean daily, which equates to over 6 million gallons a minute; enough water to fill two million bathtubs each second! I’m not sure which Einstein computes these stats, but they’re quite impressive, are they not?
Immediately enveloped in a brow-mopping humidity after stepping off the plane, we quickly hitch a ride into the once booming rubber capital of Iquitos. It’s late in the day, and after an exasperating search for lodging, we pounce on a room so punily-proportioned even a pygmy would find it claustrophobic. After paying for it in Peruvian cash and unpacking, we realize the lodging is a mega-fail in quality control.
It turns out to be destination infestation, with creepy little bugs everywhere, including in the bed! Still not fully recovered from her sickness, Christine is on the brink of tears as she tucks her lustrous raven-black locks into a shower cap for protection, and pounds at the sheets trying to obliterate anything moving, before reluctantly ‘crawling’ into bed! Man, do I know how to show a gal a good time, or what?
I’m comprehensibly bushed, but seeing her in the shower cap completely cracks me up, while she on the other hand, seems to have suddenly had a sense of humour bypass! Still, my ‘True North’ earns high praise for her amazing intestinal fortitude under these exasperating circumstances. I do, however, have a niggling sense I’m now in deep trouble. This is not exactly a mint on your pillow kind of place, and the unromantic night absolutely guarantees I won’t have to worry about her hurting herself in her frenzy to disrobe!
Surviving the nasty night, we don our sandals before sharing a cold shower and tap dancing on any of the insects we can’t drown! We just can’t wait to get the Hell out of this abysmal place and see what the gritty jungle town has to offer. It turns out we don’t have to wait long to find an outlandish Amazonian anomaly.
With dawn coming on we step outside our hovel into an incomprehensible scene, scary enough to have a statue shit itself! Christine and I exchange incredulous glances as the street has morphed into a morbid sea of black; blanketed with the corpses of luckless dead beetles in numbers beyond imagining!
Having a limited interest in entomology, we strap on our bulky backpacks giving us the look of a pair of upright tortoises, and with the exoskeletons of the abominable beetle apocalypse crunching underfoot, we vacate the premises trying to fast forward out of this Twilight Zone. Knowing we will forever be ambushed by the mental scaring, has us thinking that while at the pharmacy in Lima collecting medicine for Christine, we should have also picked up a double dose of ‘Tryforgettin’!
We come to a seedy old bar which appears to function as the official sunblock of Iquitos, and duck inside for a cold swallow beneath a huge Casablanca fan chopping up the morning light. Foraging information from early swilling patrons, we unearth information about possibly visiting the indigenous Yagua tribe, along with a remote jungle camp accessible by boat where we may be able to stay.
Our geriatric riverboat chugs along the Amazon River, at long last dropping us off at a spot where we must transfer to a smaller boat to travel up one of the shallower tributary rivers. The primitive camp, which will be home for the next two days, is better than expected. Obviously, there’s no electricity, but it does have kerosene lanterns for after dark, mosquito netting, and even a makeshift shower rigged up in a tree with buckets dumping down tea-coloured water straight out of the murky river. Ahh life’s small mercies!
We have to pinch ourselves that we’ve actually made it into this Amazonian rainforest, over two million square miles of perhaps most lethal jungle on the planet. With darkness striding forward, the shrill and insistent loudness of jungle insects going about their nightly business makes our first night in camp a humbling experience. My preconceptions are confirmed; boredom will certainly be a non-issue here!
With a wish to fish, we hire a local with a dugout canoe. Almost immediately things turn tense as a hefty crocodile plunges off the rutted river bank into the river beside us. Our primitive fishing gear consists of a barbless hook created from a piece of wire and a few feet of nylon line tied to a tree branch. However, in the teeming river we easily catch many red-bellied piranhas, which before we arrived, obviously had alternate plans for the day. It takes only seconds to realize that any river skinny-dipping is definitely a non-starter!
Our primitive dugout contains a few inches of rain water from a recent shower, and pissed off piranha we’ve already caught are frenetically finning about in it. To the amusement of our flip-flop footed guide, Christine and I repeatedly throw our feet up in the air, performing a Canadian version of ‘Riverdance’ whenever one of the jaw-gnashing piranhas skitters past! First we hoped the fish would be biting, but now it’s the opposite as the fierce carnivore’s bite force is equivalent to 30 times its body weight; clearly the champ of chomp!
Back at camp the piranha are cooked, and along with potato-like plantain bananas, served to us for dinner. We find the feared fish most delectable, but our enthusiastic ingestion is likely because when it comes to piranhas; it’s infinitely better to be the diner rather than the dinner! Their weaponized jaws, looking like the work of a deranged orthodontist, have been plunked on the side of our plates as a memento of the day!
Tonight, in a rare Amazonian moment, a Jivaro Indian wanders into camp; apparently in exile from his original tribe after marrying a woman from the Yagua tribe. The chance of an encounter like this you could count on one finger, as the Jivaro are the famed ‘head-shrinkers’; an elusive warlike tribe retreating farther and farther into the untamed jungles in order to avoid contact with the outside world.
This tribal outcast possesses an eerie aura that has both Christine and I feeling about as comfortable as a pinched nerve. Still, I regret monolingual barriers resulting in a ‘nonversation’, as I’m certain it would be indisputably intriguing to ascertain the inner thoughts of a jungle inhabitant who likes to shrink skulls!
Insect life in here in the jungle is astounding, with multitudes of tropical butterflies the size of our hand fluttering about like self-propelled flowers. Combined with some of the most badass bug thugs I’ve ever seen, my inner Tarzan is thriving! Tonight, with the aid of a kerosene lantern, Christine is writing in her journal when a gargantuan insect looking like a motorized tree branch drops from the hut’s thatched roof onto the table she’s sitting at and creepily crawls towards her. An ear-piercing shriek reveals that giving up all her creature comforts for just plain creatures is not all that appealing to dear Miss Chris!
Gorgeous and seemingly unconcerned Green Amazon and Macaw parrots hang out in the nearby chaos of jungle vegetation, and often fly into camp to chaw at bananas left out for them. Another frequent visitor is the flamboyant and comical looking Toucan, with a beak so vast I can only imagine it would be akin to us walking about with a jai-alai racket stuck on our face. The Fruit Loops mascots are absolutely adorable!
A squawking pandemonium of parrots announces dawn as we ready ourselves for a jungle jaunt to try and reach the primitive Yagua tribe. With the unbounded possibilities that come with being in a rainforest, we’ve hired a guide and are armed with machetes, ready to chop at any indication of threat. Impressive vines cling like petrified pythons to awesome forest trees struggling towards the sky, and heavily laden leaf-cutter ants form a scurrying green highway lugging harvested foliage across the jungle floor to their nest.
Hiking several steamy hours through this botanical buffet is certainly an adrenaline pumping experience for any tropical junkie. However, Christine and I are starting to wilt in the stifling humidity, and with the abundant snarl of Amazonian plant tentacles whacking us about like we’re a couple of piñatas, I’m now more concerned about her using the machete on me rather than on any poisonous snake!
Suddenly we come upon the meager village, and it’s a scene worthy of an outbreak of exclamation marks!! Outside straw huts built on stilts, bare-breasted Yagua women with faces smeared in red paint, and straw-skirted men stare at us statue-still. Pet monkeys ricochet around the camp, and staked out in the sun to dry is a striking jaguar skin from a kill made by the tribe yesterday! My wide-eyed adventurer sidekick and I are wonderstruck by the primitive sights; not to mention the fact we’re actually in a jungle shared with jaguars.
The village chief approaches, wearing a feathered headdress and a blowgun in hand, to greet the ‘outsiders’. We present him with a small gift before entering the village. It’s fascinating to see the Yagua, who are only about four feet tall, carrying the six-foot blowguns so desperately relied on in their hunter-gatherer way of life. The blowgun darts are sharpened using piranha teeth and dipped into ‘curare’; a poison turning them from dangerous to deadly, as it paralyzes the prey and allows the hunters to move in and finish the kill.
Noticing me intrigued with the blowgun, the chief decides to demonstrate his marksmanship. With more control than an episode of ‘Get Smart’, he takes aim at a canary-sized bird perched about 40 feet up one of the trees. With his cheeks swollen like a foraging chipmunk, his energetic exhalation into the blowgun launches a dart that remarkably strikes the bird, dropping it to ground as old as it’s ever going to get.
We are given the opportunity to try the blowgun, but we may as well be trying to catch a mosquito with chopsticks! Our embarrassing ineptitude proves we would quickly starve to death if forced to rely on this weapon as a source to gather food. The primitive Yagua appear genuinely happy bunch, in harmony with their environment, and we’re most grateful for the opportunity of our time spent with the fascinating tribe.
Vacating the jungle, we travel back along the Amazon River to Iquitos aboard an old river boat with all the speed of a sedated tree sloth. The withering heat and perpetual perspiration are taking a toll. Christine is lying limp as a linguini noodle on the boat’s deck, while I’m drooped over the rusted rails like a melted Dali clock, chumming the water with the contents of my stomach! Clearly, we two are through with Peru!
Stopping in the city of Tabatinga in Brazil to sort out visas for Columbia, we’re sardined into a scuffed VW bug. I’m thinking the yahoo driver needs a brain scan, as he crazily takes us off-road on a ‘cross country shortcut’ to the Columbia border. Liver-loosening thuds over the rutted fields cause the kangarooing car to stall out twice; with the passenger door repeatedly bursting open during our cartoonish car conveyance!
The river trading post of Leticia in Columbia is a hub for contraband and cocaine, and its sullen citizens and a hellacious 40 degree heat puts the kibosh any plans to stay. We travel on to the much maligned boil on the ass of Columbia called Bogata; murder capital of the world. On my birthday we hear the sound of gunshots fired near our modest hotel; but only hearing gunshots in Bogata, means you’re having a pretty good day!
At the airport, waiting for a flight to Barranquilla, four security men abruptly hustle us off into to a back room to perform a forensic search of our backpacks. Breaking a few items while rooting about for drugs, and seemingly disappointed at coming up empty, they put us against the wall for an insulting pat down. We later learn our routing through Leticia, Bogata, and Baranquilla, is the major cocaine smuggling route in South America! Hmm, it would appear my planning for this trip has been somewhat less than extensive!
Grabbing our backpacks and trying not to miss our flight, the interrogees bolt out through the doors like a pair of spooked jackrabbits. Running across the tarmac, Christine is terrified when almost blown over by the powerful jet engine blast of a nearby plane. In desperation we keep running after our plane as it slowly begins to taxi out! The front stairs are being withdrawn up into the plane, but in an only-in-Columbia moment, we manage to jump up onto the back stairs with our backpacks and climb aboard the moving plane without injury or arrest! Seriously, where else on this planet could this kind of ridiculousness occur?
Slithery with sweat and our hearts pounding, the action heroes arrive at our seats only to find them occupied! In no mood for pleasantries I irately force the squatters out and we collapse down into our seats, relieved to be one step closer to disinfecting ourselves from this self-induced purgatory. To say this alarming country is putting our newly formed relationship to the test would be a colossal understatement!
Biting our nails down to the quick in an angry lightning storm, we land in Barranquilla only to have our fatiguing day further downgraded because our next flight has been cancelled due to the plane being ‘broken’. Simultaneously rolling our eyeballs so far into the top of our heads we can see our hair roots, we scramble to locate a bus bound for the larger city of Cartagena, and will try extricating ourselves from there.
Both of us are now sick and at the mercy of our bowels courtesy of parasitic entities partying in our guts, but at least we’ve made it to the old walled city of Cartagena. With our tolerance of South America at an all-time low, we must wait two more days for an available flight to throw off the shackles of Columbia. Never will a departure be more welcomed, as we’re thinking of ways to have the grey matter in our craniums laundered, to cleanse our memories of this screwed up country; notorious for its cocaine, cartels, and chaos.
With South America now favorably in our jet stream, and weary of arduous adventures, we’re on our way to convalesce in Costa Rica; a country offering a welcomed transfusion of sanity that presents itself like a gift.
Reflecting on travels in South America, Christine and I both agree that it is a splendid place for intrepid adventure, providing one is prepared for the emotional turbulence involved. We feel fortunate to have encountered some truly extraordinary lands, people, and cultures. More importantly, the hardships experienced on this jangled journey have allowed us the opportunity of learning a great deal about each other as well as ourselves. I believe we are both better people for having met the challenge.
Mark Colegrave 1981