Medellin

Post date: Aug 7, 2010 4:03:14 PM

One meets interesting characters in hostels. I have had conversations covering every topic with people from all over the world.

I met a 60ish man with a degree in transpersonal psychology whose “life is upside down.” He is going back to the states to get into rehab for cocaine and alcohol addiction after losing every penny to his name to a business partner who robbed him. After a few months of self-destructing abroad, he was finally turning himself in to the hospital. We discussed his deepest emotions and how to heal them, on the short term and long term. I think he may helped me more; it was a tremendous relief to offer someone compassion after focusing on myself for so long. Jot that one in my “to-do-more-often” list.

I met a journalist grad student granted study opportunity in Latin America, his area of expertise. He taught me about the art and profession of journalism. He is here to cover the biggest South American bicycle race. I had seen many bicyclists dressed in their competition spandex on the roads over the last several days. Alex and I also discussed objective reporting, feedback from readers, the difficulty of making it as an independent writer in this global phenomenon of free online information. He said that the person who discovers how to make money travel writing will be a wealthy person in hours because no one seems able to accomplish such a feat. Marketing writing is difficult when comparable information is obtainable in many other places. It would take a truly creative stroke, is my impression from Alex’s teachings, to make a very good living from writing. But for me, travel journalism might be the food I need to not only literally feed myself but also to satiate my love of interviewing the common man and his experiences. Field reporting is more than gathering facts; it is sociological and anthropological studying in the most intimate way. Journalism is like unsophisticated academia.

At 2am I met a boy selling gum, cigarettes, and lighters from his chest tray outside the still-bustling bars near the hostel. He is 12 years old, and he was trying to convince me that $1 is a cheap price for 10 pieces of trident. I laughed and encouraged him to try a party-goer. Shoulda spoke some more to him. I guess this list includes people not living at the hostel.

The shop I went to in Medellin told me it was easy to just pop off the plate concealing the balancer system, the suspected source of my bike’s vibration, so I went to it in the hostel’s garage. It was a nightmare. Apparently I took off the wrong plate, lost a couple quarts of oil, ripped the gasket, and had to fuss with reseating all the gears for four hours. Only to find, upon my research of the chore, that one needs an extractor, bolt holder, and some other specialty gadgets in order to properly examine the system. The Kawasaki mechanic said I’d find excellent repairs in Bogota.

I decided to leave Medellin before many of the main events in the Feria de los Flores in order to start the repairs the mechanic at the best Kawasaki shop said would best be accomplished in Bogota. The morning of my departure, I came to a blockaded road. The cars and trucks backed way up, but the motorcycles all wove their way through the gaps to congregate at the police-guarded cones. I could not fathom what the cause might be, so I stood there by my bike, munching on celery and peanut butter, when a flying throng of bicyclists raced onto the highway in front of us, chased by tattoed cars strapping down spare bicycles. Once they’d passed, the cones lifted, the police sped after the rear, and the we bikers followed. For 90 miles we cruised behind the slowest racers in the pack, going 10-40mph depending on hills and such. It was hilarious and vexing at the same time. Good thing I left early. I would stop every 30 minutes then zip along and catch up in 5. I whelped a “woohoo!” when they finally went straight while I veered down the exit for Bogota.