Crossing the Equator

After retreaving Jim' passport (yes, Jim's passport, to my relief and Jim's horror) at the bus terminal in Pasto, we were off toward the Ecuador Frontier.  To our chagrin, the GPS doesn't seem to work for Ecuador so we knew we were in for an interesting navigational experience.  I keep trying to describe the mountainous terrain we are traveling through, with both its astounding beauty and driving difficulty; I'm sure I miserably fail in my attempts to give an accurate picture.  We are in awe and frustrated at the same time.  Driving to the boorder, we spent most of our time at 10,000 feet and above.  Contrary to our US western environment, people thrive here at this altitude.  The weather is similar to that of San Fransisco...a bit wet, cool, and very, very green.  

The border crossing went surprisingly well, compared to our gut wrenching experiences in Central America.  No Coyotes... with professional immigration and customs officials on both sides.  The only glitch was being taken by the money changer on the street when I changed my Colombian Pesos for dollars.  He pulled out a huge wad of dollars and quickly calculated the exchange.  It was later that I realized he pulled a fast one on me and shorted me 20 bucks.  They use US dollars in Ecuador and we discovered where all those Susan B. Anthony dollar coins went to that we all refused to use back home.

A few observations about Ecuador:  1)  We immediately noticed that the drivers are slower and seem safer here; 2) the roads are better; 3)  the people look different than the Colombians...shorter, darker, more indio looking; 4) the highway tolls are much cheaper, $1 a pop.

We were warned that  there was some major holiday bieng celebrated in these parts and that we might find slow traffic.  A four day affair that likely has something to do with Carnival, we surmised.  That proved to be an understatement, as every town larger than a village was teeming with folks from all parts ready to live large.  People dressed in their best tradional garb, drums, music of all kinds, and hordes of vehicles clogging every street, bringing traffic to a halt.  They seem to be fixated on throwing water on each other with small buckets, after being gleefully squirted with some sort of soapy, foamy stream from aerosol  cans. As the Little Red Truck crawled past the revelers I rolled down my window to get a closer look and took a full shot of foam in the head.  With the texture of shaving cream, it stung my eyes like soap.  I could have jumped from the truck and settled the score, but I let them have their little victory.

Our goal was Quito, about 300 miles from Pasto...a long, long day.  We never intended to travel at night, but we are finding that 200 to 300 miles a day in these mountains requires driving into the night, with 10-13 hour days common. It took 2 hours in bumper to bumpper traffic to drive past the town of Otavalo,

a medium sized community know for its world class Saturday market.  A quick glance at the calendar revealed we were one day off.  We neared Quito, the capital of Ecuadore with a population of millions about 9pm, decending to 9,000 feet in dense fog.  We knew the metropolis was there...we just couldn't see it.  After initially passing it, we doubled back on the Pan Am and entered the city, not knowing how to find our hotel.  The proven technique of hailing a cab and then following it to the hotel worked again, and we finally settled in to our amazing botique hotel in the center of the historical district at 10pm.  With no resaurants open at this hour, our proprietor took pity on us and made us a cheese sandwich.  There is no heat in any buildings in Quito, so we were glad for the down comforters supplied.

Mountains and More Mountains

The drive from Medellin was a marathon and we made it to Cali, with Jim at the wheel for 11 hours.  Leaving Medellin, we climbed on slow, winding roads for hours behind dozens and dozens of very slow freight trucks and busses.  The mountains of Colombia are gorgeous and never seem to end; our speed averages about 35-40 mph, and our driving skills are challenged passing the trucks around hair pin curves in the driving rain.  

Although I have flown into Cali several times, I have not spent any time in the City.   St. Maria, our GPS, did a fine job of guiding us into the City directly to the hotel about 10 pm. Cali is not what you would call an attractive city, so the following morning we did not spend any time looking around.  I'm sure it has it's attractions, but they sure weren't apparent to us.  As we were loading the Little Red Truck (LRT) in front of the  hotel, we were approached by a gentleman, looking very local, carrying a bunch of mops and brooms to sell.  We were about to politely say "no gracias" and turn him away, as we do the hundreds of locals that approach us daily to sell everything from fruit to candy to drinks, etc., but he merely said "wow, Utah plates, did you drive all this way?"  He introduced himself as an American and said he was born and raised in the US , but had been living in Cali the last 14 years.  "A little trouble back home, so here I am", he said.  We interpreted that to mean he skipped the country after trouble with the law, but we were too polite to ask for details.  After a pleasant chat, we sent him on his way with his mops and brooms, and no, we didn't buy.

Today's drive was a complete surprise...our goal was to get close to the border of Ecuador, and we figured it would be a relatively easy, uninteresting drive in the lowlands.  But nooooo, after the first hour, up, up, up we went back, back into the high mountains, with everything that goes with them...eye poping beauty, narrow windy roads, and the endless stream of trucks.  As darkness set in, we reached the town of Pasto, a surprisingly large city of over 300,000 people.  Set at about 9,000 feet in elevation, we are chilled in our sandals and shorts.  For the next two hours, we did our best to act out an old Laurel and Hardy movie by getting lost in Pasto's spaghetti bowl of narrow one way streets, with heavy traffic, and hoards of pedestrians and motorbikes.  It seems that St. Maria, the GPS, does not understand the concept of one-way streets...that means that 50 percent of the time, she is lying to us, and that means trouble driving in a large Colombian metro area at night.  The good news is, the upset Pasto motorists and pedestrians will never see us again.  

We managed to make it to a Pollo Feliz chain restaurant and regroup over a cheap meal, and with wifi service, found the address of a hotel who's address we could punch in to the GPS. Upon leaving, it seemed natural that the course of events would include the LRT not starting, demonstrating the same problem we encountered in Mexico. So, with a pair of two kind security guards, we pushed the vehicle until it started by compression.  Eight minutes and another wrong way drive down a one-way street later, we found a good hotel...sanctuary!  

Once safely in the hotel, I checked my emails, only to find out that I left my passport in Cali, at our previous hotel.  At hearing the news, Jim's deep sigh and silence demonstrated his kindness and restraint after a long, grueling day on the road.  I merely retreated to my room to write this entry and put and end to a long day.

On the Road Again

Jim and I were on the road again after a two day process of getting the truck away from Seaboard, the shipping company, the Port Authority, and Colombian Customs.  Jim did a masterful job of getting the truck on the ship and on its way from Colon, Panama, to Colombia.  We met up in Cartagena and spent the next day playing tourist in this facinating and beautiful city.  Jim had been here for a couple of days by the time I showed up, but seemed to be happy to be the tour guide for me.  We mainly hung out in the historical section, and it is certainly worthy of a longer inspection than we gave it.  

We started the process of retreaving the truck by following our detailed  instructions of where to buy Colombian auto insurance.  Unfortunately, we arrived at the office at 12:05 pm, to witness everyone leaving the building for a 2 hour siesta.  Back at two, we were greeted by female agent at front desk who we were sure to be the sister of the Soup Nazie from Seinfeld.  We succeeded in securing the insurance in spite of our language barrier and our snarky comments under our breath.

Off to the shipping company to claim the Little Red Truck...we had resolved that we would roll with the punches and not get frustrated...yes, were ready to relive the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan with this transaction.  Not to be disappointed, we immediately learned that the shipping payment had not been recieved, and the company could not proceed any further.  But in spite of this setback, we learned that we could start the process with the Customs office.  So, off we went in a taxi to the other side of the bay to see the Colombian officials.  

Not to bore you with the details, but the next day we were able to get the truck and get on the road....stern emails back and forth with the agent, back and forth, back and forth between customs, Port Authority and Seaboard, form after form, over and over again, taxi after taxi ride...more fees paid...

Entering the truck, we discvered that the cab had been ransacked, likely by the stiffs that put it in the container in Colon, Panama...leatherman gone, a mall amount of cash gone, some tools gone...papers strewn about...but our Dashboard Jesus prevailed, greeting us upon our entry.

But as with most tragedies, there is always someone who has it worse...two other chaps, an Argentine, and a Canadian, who shipped their autos with us were burgled much worse...the interiors of their rigs were ransacked.

We licked our wounds and hit the road by 1 pm with high expectations.  Finally south of town we bid farewell to Sir Francis Drake, Blackbeard, and what was left of the Spanish treasure fleet and happily entered rural Norther Colombia.  Our happy mood quickly changed to dispair when we encountered the beginnings of an all day/night Latin American style protest...frustrated local youths ignighting tires and lumber in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in all directions.  Three minutes earlier, we would have been in the clear!  The cops and the army came, but seemed uninterested in restoring order...they were intent on just letting the masses have their say and their fun, while not letting things get violent. 

We were force to turn around and retreat to a cheap truckstop style motel ( for 20 bucks), where we opened a bottle of wine and licked our wounds, celebrated our victories, and resolved that tomorrow would be a better day. Unfortunately, no WiFi, our lifeline.

Tomorrow turned out to be a 13 hour epic drive  of 300 miles to Medellin,  winding from sea level to 9,000 feet, displaying driving and navigationsal skills neither of us knew we had.  Finally, in Medellin, lost , tired and frustrated, we hired a taxi driver to just take us to a decent hotel, with the Little Red Truck Following behind.

From the Sky to the Beach

It's Feb 22nd, and Im about ready to head to the airport, about one hours drive up on a plateau above Medellin.  Last night, we were delivered back to town, driving through a huge thunderstorm through the mountains.  Driving in this country is a terrifying  and this drive was no exception.  Driving rain, steep, winding road with dozens and dozens of diesel trucks inching up the road, with Rubin impatiently passing on blind curves.  At times, we encounter a diesel on the blind curve, and sometimes are forced to take the curve sandwiched in between the two trucks with inches seperating us on both sides.  Rubin smiles and takes these close calls in stride as routine maneuvers. Chris, one of the Canadians and I are in the back of the van, with plastic cups held high, collecting the streams of water pouring through holes in the roof of the van.  

Once back at the hostel, gratefully alive, it was time to pay off the bet I had with the Canucks on the USA/Canada Olympic Hockey game.  After being gathered up after the last flight near La Pintada, we were able to catch the last minute of the game via live internet at the open air restaurant with wifi.  The game meant much more to them than it did to me, and I was happy to pay off the bet with a few beers.  The Canucks are off to Cartagena today too, for a week of sailboard lessons before they meet more Canadian buddies for another paragliding tour of central Colombia.  They are a good bunch of guys, and we part with the idea of me heading up to BC and Alberta to fly in their neighborhood in the future.

My last night in Medellin was not a pleasant one.  I got stuck in a full 10 bed dorm room with with Euros of 20something vintage.  Due to a hip injury sustained on my last landing, I could barely climb the ladder of the top bunk...no air, loud music, guys streamin in and out...our neighborhood is Party City.  Nothing left to do, but slam home a sleeping pill and get through the night thinking that someone of my age should not have to do this,  but sadely, there were no other options tonight.

All in all, the break paragliding in Colombia was a good and satisfying experience.  Jim has been going through difficulty with the truck shipping arrangements, and is now in Cartagena waiting for the truck and me to arrive.  As he says in his emails, shipping a truck has been very frustrating and everyone seems to make it a much harder experiencethan it needs to be.  The consensus of those I speak to, it's because no one reall gives a sh#* (cares).  I hope Jim is in a good mood when I arrive...I am.  I seem to have reached reached an equilibrium, where I am comfortable with my surroundings and conditions...and everything that comes with low budget Latin American land travel.

  Damasco, a 270 year old villiage high in the mountains, established by the spanish to exploit locals for gold mining.

Tour de Colombia

By now, Jim is back in Panama City after a well earned and hopefully satisfying "vacation" back home in cold and snowy Richmond, Utah.  He, at this moment, is no doubt is up to his elbows in bureaucracy attempting to get the Little Red Truck in a shipping container and on it's way to Cartagena, Colombia.

I, on the other hand, am in a finca in Santa Fe Antioquia, Colombia, a charming colonial town established by Spaniards too long ago for anyone to relate to.  I'm the odd man out in a group of four Western Canadians that, true to their

caricature, say, "eh?" at the end of most sentences.  They are old friends of 20+ years, and are having a great time with each other.  Most of their conversations are about mutual associations and experiences, and inside jokes, which I am not a part of.  They do treat me well, and are as hospitable as they can be toward an American that crashed their party.

We are on a five day tour of paragliding sites within a three hour auto radius of Medellin, and I must say, the flying has been interesting and spectacular.  Some observations and thoughts:

-I've experienced what it is like to be in the air in a gust front of a thunderstorm, trying to land.  Thankfully, all turned out safe and sound, using a cool head and some luck.

-I'm learning, or relearning, the pricncilples of patience, and focus, as conditions in the air change and I am forced to adapt and make the correct decisions to remain safe.

-The Colombian people are generous and kind.  Today, I sank out half way to the landing zone and had to make an unexpected landing on a steep semi-forested mountainside.  A local flyer saw me, and voluntarily landed on top of the ridge above to tell me there was a launch just up the hill from me that would allow me a second flight to town, rather than a long walk down the mountain.  

-Colombia, because of it's drug history, gets a bad rap.  This country has treated be well, and is beautiful.

-Although I do miss my home and my loving family, I am thrilled to be here, and I feel alive and exhilarated.

The first photo is by me in flight.  Spectacular waterfalls, eh?  The second is from launch overlooking the town of  Cocorna, with a soccer field the landing zone.

Who'll Stop the Rain

Two days of rain have put a halt to paragliding bliss in Medellin, and I have been forced to find more history, culture, and amusement in the City while I wait for a change in the weather.  I have arranged to join a paragliding group of four Americans guided by Rubin Montoya, a prominant pioneer of paragliding in the area.  They leave Monday for a 5 or 6 day itinerary in North Central Colombia that include sites that have world-class cross country flying potential...too bad I'm not a world class cross country flyer.  This schedule requires me to hang around in this area for a few more days, rather than move on to Bucaramonga to another flying site; but the wait will be worth it.

The rain allowed me the time to get a haircut, in an effort to become more aerodynamic.  The usual game of Charades allowed the two of us to communicate, and "Raul the Butcher" did his best.  Alas, I still look like an old Gringo...with freshly trimmed eyebrows, I might add.

I set out today to take the Metro to both spurs that transform the train to aerial trams.  The City Planners were wise enough to realize that a metro train running through the middle of the City did little to help the poor who reside on the steep mountains on both sides of the City.  So they extended the public transportation system to include aerial trams that can deliver the people to the other forms of public transportation in the valley...brilliant!

What a delight to find that as I arrived at the top of the mountain where the urban development ended, a new continuation of the tram as been completed that can take one another mile or so over the mountain and through dense highland jungle to Parque Arvi, a national park of about 10,000 hectres (20 acres in a hectre?) .  Lush and beautiful, this natural area is a jewel.  Consistent with my luck, as I embarked on a exploratory hike, it started to rain bucketfuls, and killed all my fantacies of discovering lost civilizations and fighting wild animals with sticks.

The rest of the afternoon was spent riding every inch of the Metro and the other tram, just to say that I have done it.  

Second Verse, Same As The First

The goal today was to go back to San Felix, and once I figured it out, the 2 hour foot, Metro, and bus trip was a snap.  Knowing it was Monday, I figured the crowds to be low, but was surprised to see only one other dude there...we had the place all to ourselves.  So, sitting on the grass, we engaged in a pantomime conversation about the weather and flying conditions...a lot of pointing to the sky, waiving arms and our respective babbling, which neither of us could understand.  Im going to be great at Charades after this trip. In the end, we communicated.  Translation:  We should have been here earlier, watch that line of cumulonimbus clouds heading our way, if it doesn't rain, the shade will kill the thermals, so lets wait it out.  Two hours and a nap later, I awoke to see the Colombian setting up for launch.  Being the less than assertive pilot I am, I watched him go first.  But in the end I had a satisfying, if not smug smile on my face as I outclimbed him by 1000 feet.