The Dream to Medellin

Post date: Jul 25, 2010 10:46:07 PM

7-24-10

I left Cartagena this morning to hypnotize another poor gringo wanderer. Felt good, as always, to distance myself from all the attachments I’d collected there. Hard goodbyes only mean you lived well, but every heartache is a chain in disguise. Pick and choose your chains, I suppose. And I think today was the first day I started and finished the day of riding without getting lost! It helps that there were only two roads to take from my hostel to my hotel; it doesn’t mean I’m getting any better at navigating these streets with no names.

About one or two hours into it, the bike started to spit popping sounds every so often. It had done that earlier in the week. At first I thought it was salt from the ocean. Then the bike wouldn’t stay running, and then it wouldn’t start. Checked the hoses and air filter- all good. I had pulled over unknowingly 40 feet from a motorcycle repair shop, so I pushed it over there and proceeded to work. The mechanic appeared after I’d decided the air and fuel seemed okay. We agreed the spark plug was suspect. I gave a kid a bill to run and get me a spark plug from down the street. He returned with the plug and change. He handed me the coin, and I immediately returned it. It was worth the expression on his face. I think the skin on his body from head to toe stretched somehow with pride. I can’t help but wonder if that made his day, if that was the first coin he’d ever earned. The bike started right up after the spark plug change, so we bolted the bike back together. I gave the mechanic some money even though he didn’t ask for it, then took a picture with him. He was quite happy about having his photo taken. So, today I learned what causes misfires like I had, sluggish operation like I had, and how to visibly inspect the quality of the spark in the plug.

I also erred on the side of caution today. The sun set early, and as much as I wanted to camp at a reportedly abandoned shack (I asked someone in a car who was there for no apparent reason) on an awesome river (which had free drinking water, thanks to my water filter), I moved along and got a hotel after some tight turns on the dark highway. Didn’t feel like chancing the extra 150 miles to Medellin in order to save $10, so I plopped down in a hotel with only one room that has a key, where the water sometimes doesn’t work, and where the bed is as stiff as earth, literally. But, safe. It’s a small town that doesn’t see many tourists; the locals don’t pester you. I was able to get my river fix as I strolled down the street to the bridge over the river I’d followed the last 40 miles. Even if I’d had a pole, the water was too swift to fish, I think. But these are Indiana fishies. These are South American fishies.

7-25-10

I am rewarded for my patience and “safety first” mindset; today I had the best ride I have had since I started riding six months ago, and I would have missed it if I had pushed through to Medellin in the dark. I’ve been through the mountains, the desert, the rainforest, the plains, the beaches, through rain, snow, and heat, and this morning’s ride tops them all. It wasn’t exactly the fog-imbued visibility of only 100 feet at the start, or the rain that followed, but the sun on the green hills afterwards that lit me up inside. That, and the excellent, dry mountain roads. At the time I was wondering how I could put into words the things I was feeling, because what made this ride so spectacular was not just the scenery and road conditions, but some mysterious awakening within me. Deep inside. Way Deep.

The pictures can partially tell the story of the scenic riding, but more interesting to write about would be the spontaneous flashbacks I kept having, one after another, without warning or effort. I began the day feeling sad for no apparent reason. Out of the rain and fog I came, and with it something inside me rolled over. My body became loose, soft, like a child. There was something about 25 South, 50-100 miles north of Medellin, that sparked memories of my early childhood, my prepubescent childhood. Memories that I had cherished and consciously held on to up until my teens but had somehow slipped away with the accumulation of new experiences and new priorities. And new lies, new deluded ambitions, new self-imposed illnesses… how much of one’s adulthood can truly be summarized as such? As my adulthood rinsed away, I could remember the family’s trip up to Michigan, the smell of the public swimming pool in our trailer park, the joy of running barefoot down the street to visit Grandma or Scottie, the heaven that was Lucky Charms and cartoons on Saturday in the trailer as the morning light shimmered through the gauzy curtains, the smallness and pliability of my young body, my unassuming and curious mind, the first time when I consciously recognized what I enjoyed doing time and again- smelling fallen walnuts beneath willow trees hanging over the riverbank while dad set up the catfishing poles down-a-ways… And so many more memories that now escape me again. But I also relived dreams I’d forgotten. So often while growing up I would have these epic dreams of bounding over green hills on some great adventure. The views were panoramic, awe-inspiring, bright. Sometimes I had friends with me. In the dreams it was simply, “I am going, it’s a big deal, I’m in love and am loved, I am free, there is no reason to fear.” So, as I was riding along this highway, I started to cry. It sounds cliché, but I felt, like the Enigma song, a “Return to Innocence.” Every corner I witnessed something that triggered an old memory or a vision from one of the dreams. I realized then that I was IN THE DREAM that I’d been having over and again all my life! I cried, then laughed, and cried some more, and I breathed the kind of breath that is so rich that you feel the oxygen seeping into your blood. I reclaimed here some of my lost childhood, and who would have thought it would be in the mountains of Colombia? The strangest thing was that everywhere I looked within a 50 mile stretch of winding road, it felt like home, and I had to remind myself that it was Colombia.

It couldn’t be just me, either. Everyone I saw in the streets were smiling. There is something about that area that touches people. Maybe it’s the altitude (joke). I stopped several times for pictures, and at one particularly gorgeous view of a valley of rolling pastures with lazily laying, chewing cows, two men observed me with curiosity. I motioned at the beauty and told them this was my favorite place in all of Colombia. They smiled, and we tried to communicate in Spanish. Then Javier, the homeowner at that viewpoint, offered me something to drink. I at first declined, saying I don’t drink alcohol, but then he offered hot chocolate, so I graciously accepted. His wife brought out not only that, but also eggs in rice, pita-like bread with cheese, and some marinaded beef. It was phenomenal, especially since I had skipped breakfast. Of course it has to go this way, right? After all, it’s my DREAM! Javier showed me pictures of his family, said his son is a Military professional, his daughter is a nurse, his father worked on farms, and his mother was a school teacher. Javier transports milk and bread to and from the farms. The entire landscape is dedicated to grazing pastures. I half-joked that I wanted to live and work there, in Yaramul, and asked if there were many jobs. He said there are not, and that most jobs are on the farms unless you own your own business. I said that I would like to return some day with better Spanish and a local job, and Javier and a bunch of people who for some reason showed up at his house all agreed. They were such, such, such a pleasant bunch. Mountain-country people are better than city people. If only I didn’t have family or an insidious hunger for catfishing…

Oh, and this makes two days in a row that I did not get lost. I must be dreaming.