That’s All folks

“This post is gonna be like a vingette episode”

– Reid, On The Nature of This Post

Introduction

As I crossed into Colombia from Ecuador I was blissfully unaware that just two weeks later that very border would be closed. The world was still mine and I was finally ready to make a plan for returning home. I crafted an epic one: I would fly to Mexico City and meet my dad in Texas for a father son road trip home, arriving back in Canada 6 months from when I first left. To say I was excited is an understatement.

My father, as a photographer, would surely be excited to give the Mac selfie a shot (as they say, the tree doesn’t grow far from where the apple fell). As you are probably gathering, this was not to be. Parks, transport and borders all closed up. I got picked up off the street by police and taken back to my hostel for being out past curfew. Sometimes the universe gives you a small sign and other times it beats you over the head with a 2×4. With not much available to me, I decided to return to Canada, ready for that #quarantinelyfe. I offer these last few scattered stories and conclusions. Please enjoy.

3 Transport Stories in Colombia

To go from Mocoa to Cali requires 12 hours. I decided to do this as a night bus as per usual with long rides. I purchased a seat in the front row which normally comes with extra leg room. When the bus arrived it was more of a school bus and the front row had a guard fence for the entry stairs. Clearly the front seat was intended for a double leg amputee because I had to either man spread to the point of tearing my groin or turn my legs out in the aisle. The second option seemed like the appropriate one to take, but the seat reclining handle was designed to stick out and tear into your body like a scimitar. The design engineers clearly had an intimate knowledge of human centred design principals, yet chose to do everything opposite for the laughs.

I looked about the bus in search of any remedy to my situation. Turning around I saw the back row of seats completely empty, angelic light raining down upon them. I made my move, and soon learned why they were empty. Every millisecond I was launched out of my seat, unsure where I would land. I tried to lie down to minimize the launching, but had to endure my head jackhammering against the toilet door. As it turns out this road is uniquely bumpy, it is actually called The Trampoline of Death Road (and no, this is not a joke: https://trans-americas.com/trampoline-of-death-road-colombia/). So I was spoiled by choice: Sit in the back and maybe spew chunks upon the innocent, lie in the back and risk a spinal or sit in my assigned seat and very likely never use my legs again. What a great way to spend 12 hours!

Its really tough to decide whether this trip from Mocoa to Cali was more or less comfortable than the infamously windy road between Medellin and Santa Marta. If my life were a comedy, this bus ride would have been scored with an ironic rendition of the hallelujah chorus being played over a montage of people puking. It was really quite the experience.

Upon arrival in Cartagena I required a hostel near the airport so I could leave in the morning. The person I was chatting to ended up not being a taxi driver, but someone with a motorcycle. It was my last chance to say “porque no?” We threw my backpack on his lap and I crawled onto the back. We took off at a pace that really pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone. For the first time on my trip I got to assume the role of motorcyclist with a death wish. We cut savagely back and forth between cars, using the oncoming traffic lane and swerving out of the way from all those doing likewise. Each time we pulled one of these manoeuvres or got a bit too close to the rotating wheels of a semi I was very clearly reminded of my own mortality, and the fact that my tank top, shorts, sandals and helmet-lacking hair would provide less than optimal protection. To compound this anxiety, I witnessed my first accident in this situation. The culprits? Two motorcycles. After seeing this I had thoughts of bailing out, but instead I simply whispered in my drivers ear “cuidado”. This only brought a smile, chuckle and a roar from the engine. So I held a little tighter and tried to savour one of my final true South American experiences.

Aprendiendo Bailar

If you were trying to write the word California, but your modern attention span stopped you at four letters, you would have written “Cali” which is the city of Salsa (and I don’t mean cutting tomatoes and onions). I have done some South American cultural anthropology and have reached one conclusion: people here have a way of moving that can only be described as hypnotic. I have a way of moving that is typically described not by words but by sputtering gags and pained whimpers. Something had to change, so I went to Cali specifically to learn some salsa. Turns out I am actually an undiscovered salsa talent. I breezed through learning the basic steps as easily as a silverback gorilla spins in the grass.

Once again completely blown away by my own raw talent in a new field I decided to level up for subsequent lessons. Things here were different. Our Cha-Cha-Chas were much more rapid and the dips, dives and ducks came at me quick. The difficulty was compounded by the fact that I could understand nothing the instructor said in this high stakes environment. “MANOS” she would shout. “CON MUCHO FUERZA” she shouted again, all the while blistering my corneas with a deeply penetrating stare. Normally I might consider that this indicated I was doing something wrong, but filled with confidence from my beginner class I knew this was not possible.

Armed with an arsenal of approximately 7 moves I hit the club “La Topa Tolandra”, one of the most famous salsa clubs in the city. Its a neat place where dancing partners are exchanged every song, and the songs go well into the night. Upon entry I want into high alert, ready to perform first aid if required. The gals were being whipped around in such a frenzy I was certain they would pass out from the extreme G-forces they must be experiencing.

Of course I was no different. My few lessons completely prepared me to be a total stud here. People were chanting my name and I had to put the ladies in a queue for their limited opportunity to dance with me. Yessiree I had found my calling. Unfortunately, when exiting the club I suffered a tragic yet classically comedic pratfall.

I struck my head on the corner of a salchipapa stand, permanently destroying my brains’ finely-tuned salsa centre. In that instant the world lost one of the great body movers it had ever seen. When I return home I’ll never be able to display my skills, and even to ask me to display them would be considered extremely rude. I’m sorry, but definitely not as sorry as all of you must be.

Spanish Practice And English Learning

In Cali I made a friend from Quito. He spoke not a lick of English, but at the time in Cali we had speakers of both english and spanish. We got back together in Medellin for two days, and swiftly realized the difficulty of communication (especially with my lack of translator app). In spite of this, we found a way to connect and form up a friendship. I am not used to being the one with better language skills than someone (and truthfully mine are still worse, he speaks portuguese also), so this was my chance to really work. We travelled the city together, saw the sights, ate and drank together.

At one point he found an American dime on the metro floor and picked it up to show me.

“Dime?” he asked, proud of the word. I agreed, and decided that every moment is a good moment for an English idiom lesson. So I launched into the alternate meaning of Dime. In my original (and terrible) spanish:

“Si, pero Dime tener una otra sentido tambien. Cuando tu veo una mujer muy hermosa, ella es una Dime.”

He nodded his approval, and I mentally high-fived myself for being such a gifted educator. Something was lost in translation however, because from that point on he would elbow me in the kidneys, point to someone walking and whisper “Diez centimos.”

While technically the same concept, I find there to be a huge difference between being called a Dime, and being called Ten Cents. But maybe thats just me.

Medellin’s Healing

Medellin; if you’ve heard of it it’s likely for the wrong reasons. Previously known as the “world’s most dangerous city” and the home of Pablo Escobar, Medellin (and the country overall) has done a tremendous job of reinventing itself. As recently as the 2000’s some of the barrios were outright war zones, child soldiers were utilized and car bombs occurred. If you flash forward to 2020, a common draw for tourists is the “Pablo Escobar” tour. Understandably the residents have mixed feelings on this. On one hand money is money, but on the other hand Escobar is directly responsible for the deaths and disappearances of many. This is one industry I chose not to support, and instead visited the museum commemorating the victims of cartel and FARC violence.

There is a lot of sobering imagery in this place, but overall the vibe is one of healing, renewal and celebrating peace. One particular story stuck with me.

A quick summary: On October 3rd of 1984 Luis Fernando Lalinde became a victim of torture, execution and “disappearance”. His mother, Fabiola, spent twelve straight years in search for her son. Her search became known as Operación Ciriri. I cannot explain it better than the plaque, so here it is:

Obviously, this search did not turn out in Fabiola’s favour. But she inspired many others and thus a movement of change. Today’s Medellin is completely different. It has given itself a facelift, and integrated its poor and rich neighbourhoods with one of the best metro systems I have ever seen. The people are friendly and welcoming. The city bristles with life.

A Bit of Nature

Colombia is spoiled by beauty. For instance, they have this enormous rock.

Getting to the top of this rock you receive the following view.

Elsewhere in the south, you might come across this beautiful waterfall.

And all over the place you will come across beautifully coloured cities.

There is much more. I made it to the very gates of Tayrona National Park, but it had closed. Elsewhere the worlds tallest palm trees exist. Within my friend and family group I think Colombia had the biggest prejudice against it. That’s why I’m hear to say it is a gorgeous and friendly country. Update your mental view of it and give it a shot.

Conclusions

“People say they travel to ‘find themselves’, well, I’ve been gone a long time and all I am is more lost.”

– Colin, a most unexpected friend of mine

On the last day before my sudden flight I stood in Santa Marta with my feet in the Caribbean Sea. The Caribbean had always been an unwritten goal of mine, to go from Patagonia up to the furthest reaches north. Now I had done it.

There is a feeling you get when you spend a day on planes travelling somewhere far away. After all the time flying, running through terminals and enduring layovers you reflect in disbelief upon your day:

“Did I really start today in Saskatoon? Now I’m here, and haven’t even slept yet?”

As I stood at the Caribbean I had the same feelings about the last four months. Had me and Andrew really slept on the beach in Rio? Had we really camped outside Fitz Roy? Had we learned to drive standard in the most stressful environment we could find? Had I really spent time as a bartender in the desert? Had I really travelled with Luma? Had I really been swimming with the Cayman in the Amazon? Had I really gone crazy during Carnival? Had I really ran from dogs to go climbing? How had I gotten here? It is all a blur.

As much as I would have loved to finish off according to my plan, I am very thankful for everything that did go right (and all the things that went delightfully wrong). Since Andy left I have not had a travel plan, so I suppose its fitting that as soon as I got one it blew up.

I met a girl who asked me “What do you think the purpose of all this travel is?” Honestly, I don’t think there is one. I am just an individual of privilege and I need to acknowledge that. I had a job that gave me money, parents that help me and encourage me to go and explore. There isn’t a big lesson, I’m just lucky and seized upon an opportunity. However, even if there is no purpose it doesn’t mean that you return the same as how you left, and I do have a little bit of advice for those that want to take their own adventure:

• Say yes to things. The plans and places that arise spontaneously are often better than what you could imagine.
• Eat where the locals eat. It might be a hole in the wall, but thats part of the fun.
• Most places are less scary than you think. Give them a shot.
• Don’t be afraid about spending a few days only in your head, without opening your mouth.
• If you have a friend you want to transform into a best friend, go travelling together.
• Meet as many people as you can. You’ll often have to be the first to say hello.

Emphasis should be placed on that last point. The next little bit is dedicated to some of “my people”:

There are many, many others. Of course there is someone missing from these. This whole thing started out 9 years ago. Sitting on my aunt and uncle’s couch in Regina, me and some idiot hatched a plan to travel South America. Hard to believe it has come and gone, but the stories will live forever.

For the next little while the question “where is Reid?” will be easily answered. I’ll be quarantined in my parents basement. The website has run its course, I hope people out there enjoyed reading as much as I (and Andy) enjoyed writing. I’m pleased to announce that the site reached all six inhabited continents, however writing proved less lucrative than I hoped, so I guess I’ll need to find a job. If you read more than one post, please leave a comment, I am interested in who the faithful followers were. Someday my adventures will continue and perhaps I’ll dust this old blog off. Time shall tell.

This has been Where is Reid.

Reid Patterson

Currently flying home, already wondering what is next.