Southern comforts

Snow place like Park Slope for the holidays. . .

 Hello from snow-covered NYC!  I am missing the sunshine and warm smiles of Colombia (hay que ir al sur, for many, many reasons).  I spent my final days in Ibague visiting la familia that I got to know in Cartagena.  They gave me a delightful tour of the town, complete with a taste of the nightlife, spectacular views from the top of a mountain, and LOTS of food.  I was worried I wasn't going to be able to fit into my pants by the time I left.  We had a great lunch at an open air place and stopped at a road stand for some merengon on the way back (delicious!).  It was fantastic to see my friends again and I hope that we'll be able to see each other again someday soon, in Ibague, Cartagena, Cary, or even Dhaka!

Climb every mountain. . .

Ana at work on the strawberry merengon.  She hasn't reached the age where "sharing" is a concept yet!

Delicious breakfast!  Tamal, cheese, the famous bread of Ibague, and a full cup of hot, frothy chocolate.  After eating this, I want to go right back to bed!

Hard to believe that was just a few days ago, now that I'm packing up my bags here to head east for a new set of adventures.  I've had a few days here to catch up with friends, take advantage of the myriad food options, catch a really bad movie (cough, no strings attached, cough) go for a long run in Central Park (evidently drinking beer on the beach does not count as training), and do a little bit of work to prepare for what's next.  Been working on downloading a year's worth of books onto my kindle--suggestions are most welcome.  Right now I'm in the middle of Sex at Dawn and Songs of Blood and Sword. 

My "office" these days is just the essentials--a notebook and a good cup of coffee.  This was at Mud.http://www.themudtruck.com/spots.html

I've posted my pictures from Colombia here.  Thanks Camilo, Margara, and Andrea for sharing your shots.

High in Dhaka for Wednesday is 81*F.  Life is good.  Yellow curry, here I come.

Medellin and Duke basketball

(since as my Uncle Craig says, everything comes back to Duke basketball, I wanted to add that combination into google in case it wasn't already there ;). 

Spring is in full-bloom at the French Garden in the Museo de Castillo (Castle Museum)

Medellin is considered the city of “eternal spring.” For many it represents the most beautiful city in all of Colombia. Once the murder capital of the world, it has redefined itself now and boasts an efficient metro system, lush green public spaces, and a variety of museums.

I was fortunate enough to have significant assistance in seeing Medellin from two friends, Sebastian and Daniel, and one acquaintance, Alex, that I made in Medellin. Alex was part of a group of (VERY friendly and curious) students touring a museum in the Parque de los Deseos (Park of Desires/wishes) who accompanied me to the nearby Botanical Garden once class let out. As my stomach started to take over my priorities, he suggested that we head uptown to where his brother worked as the food there was delicious. It was a bit of a journey; we took the metro back up to where I was staying (El Poblado) and then hopped on a bus that took us up into the hills overlooking the city center, to a neighborhood called Las Palmas. Alex is talking a mile a minute and I can barely take in the scenery as I try to keep up.

We finally reach El Chuscalito, the restaurant where his older brother, Sebastian, works. They are really close and seem to have their own way of communicating via staring at each other and nodding occasionally; it’s kind of fun to watch, and it gives me a moment to appreciate the tranquility that the hills provide. Alex selects a bandeja paisa for me, and before I know it I have a huge bowl of soupy beans and a plate of blood sausage, chorizo (regular sausage?), chicharon (fried pork deliciousness), fried egg, avocado and rice in front of me. It’s a lot of food, but in my morning wanderings I had forgotten to get breakfast beyond a coffee at Juan Valdez (delicious but much more expensive than the guys in the park), so I am up for the challenge. I wash it all down with what’s certainly emerged as my favorite Colombian drink: jugo de lulo (en agua). It is so sour and awesome.

With Sebastian at El Chuscalito

At this point I split off from the brothers to head back into the city (the metro line makes this crisscrossing fairly simple and economical). I want to see La Candelaria, the old section of town, to see how it compares to that of Bogota. Ever since reading Jane Jacobs’ Life and Death of Great American Cities, I’ve been fascinated with the planning and use of public space. Medellin is a perfect place for causal ethnography, and once I pop my head into the cathedral and appreciate again what I’m starting to see as a pattern in these late 19th century cathedral in the use of exposed brick in the interior, which creates an effect that I really like, I move onto the fountain to sit, watch and listen. There’s a skit being put on a two mimes standing by a few feet away. I make eye contact with one of them and he motions to offer me some marijuana. I decline and try to avoid further eye contact. The park is full of benches, but it’s hard to find a free one. There are a lot of couples, some with children, and also many elderly people who have also come to sit and enjoy the energy of the park. The food and drink options are plentiful—everything from orange juice to coffee, to ice cream, to chips, candy, etc. And of course, single cigarettes; while seemingly banned in most restaurants and bars, still a very popular vice.

A lot going on at Parque Bolivar

Instead of retracing my steps back to the metro, I head down through the pedestrian walkway at the southern end of the park through a commercial district. Medellin clearly has a more seedy side as well, as the dimly lit nightclubs and casinos indicate. I opt for a corn arepa with cheese, and while it’s warming up, have an opportunity to talk with a guy who works there. He’s alone in Medellin, from the coast, where he left because of ongoing violence. A reminder that I’m seeing a carefully orchestrated side of the country that certainly doesn’t tell the whole story. I learn more about that the following day, when others share stories of being held up and mugged, or being on a bus that got boarded. My experience in Colombia was uncategorically positive, but it’s clear that I’ve been lucky (as well as smart, according to me).

Arepa de chocolo con queso--Yum!

Sebastian has Friday off and offers to show me around. We begin our tour in the shiny new neighborhood that’s appropriately called Las Vegas, and we visit the Carrefour there. Carrefour, though often compared to Walmart, is a lot classier than the latter; most have a bakery and café where you can sit, use free wifi, and talk. Sebastian is a natural tour guide; as we pass the wine display, he mentions that until the last year, wine wasn’t very readily available in Medellin. I comment that as a tourist, I only see a snapshot of a city and therefore can’t appreciate the trajectory; it requires conversations and explanations from locals to add that depth to my experience. How lucky to stumble on two brothers who were born and raised in the city to show me around.

Sebastian then takes me over to the Interactive Museum (science, aimed at kids. . . .of all ages), but it’s closed through 2012 through renovations. We settle instead in the Parque de Pies Descalzos (Barefoot park) and get a guided tour with an animated and quite knowledgeable park ranger. She shares with us that the design of the park was heavily influenced by Asian philosophy and principles. We take our shoes off to appreciate the different mediums of the park—rocks (ow!), grass (oooh), sand (hot!!), and water (ahh). We’re asked to use all of our senses (save taste, thankfully) to stimulate our brain and help up relax. We stroke the bark of a tree, crush up a leaf and a flower to smell them better, wander through a maze with our eyes closed, and give ourselves a several station foot massage while learning about reflexology. It’s a lot of fun and at the end I feel like I have a new set of feet. I’m also quite comfortable with my feet in the Jacuzzi-like pool and stay there long after the tour has adjourned.

Only thing missing are the pandas at Parque de Pies Descalsos

We make our way to where Sebastian and Alex live. It is an older neighborhood; their parents bought a house there over 20 years ago, and it has all the tell-tale signs of a family neighborhood—kids playing in the street, bikes parked outside, laundry hanging from the windows. It also has a spectacular view from the roofdeck onto the other decks and beautiful exposed brick buildings, it oddly reminds me of Beacon Hill and I find myself wondering how Charles’ projection screen (and choice of movies, for that matter!) would go over here.

But enough of that, we’ve got a basketball game to play. We head down to the courts where the volleyball team is just finishing up, and we manage to slide onto the court just ahead of the soccer team, therefore claiming it as ours. A few friends of Alex and a guy walking by join us, so we have a brisk 3 v. 3 game going on. I’ve been in Colombia long enough that I’ve gotten used to speaking Spanish all day, but nonetheless, in any conversation, I’m clearly still at a disadvantage because it takes a lot more effort for me to formulate and express thoughts than pretty much anyone I’m talking to. As a result, I’m also not “myself”. Or rather, Maria in Spanish is a different Maria than the one that most of you know and love. I realize when I’m on the court that I’m relaxing into the game; it’s a level playing field because basketball is the same for all of us. A layup is a layup. Hardly profound, but I feel more like I’m truly being “me” during the game—true to my Dukie roots, I start whooping during shots and yelling all sorts of commentary (AIRBALL, AIRBALL) as we play. We play two games, both are close and I won’t tell you who actually won (probably the team that wasn’t running its mouth the whole time). I will be very sore for the next two days because of my insistence on boxing out on rebounds and having had the guys come down on me pretty hard a few times. Well worth it.

What a view!  From the roof of Alex and Sebastian's house

I head back to my hotel to shower up and eat dinner before meeting back up with the guys later than night. Around 10:30, I hop into a cab and hand him their address that I’d written down—“this is wrong”, the cab driver tells me. I have written down that it’s 112th st near Guayaba (guava). It turns out be to 12th st near Guayabal. While I’m aware of all the terrible things that can happen, and certainly hear stories about people doing bad things, it was this type of interaction that I found to be the norm in Colombia. I share the few landmarks that I remember with the cab driver and he’s fairly certain that he knows where I want to go. I have a number written down, so when we get close and start looking, he says that if we aren’t able to locate it, he’ll give them a call to get the precise directions. I feel safe and accompanied as we search; the driver is patient, not at all annoyed to be driving around a fairly disoriented gringa, and clearly knows the neighborhood well. All the while, he’s telling me about a Colombian journalist “Pirry” (links to Wiki in Spanish) and asking about Boston, which he thinks is home to more paisas than any other city in the U.S. Finally, I see Daniel standing outside of the house and give the driver a heartfelt thanks for delivering me there safely and efficiently. And then get laughed at roundly for thinking that I was going to Guava st (clearly I’ve been drinking too much lulo juice and it’s gone to my brain).

It’s a typical night out in Medellin. We head over to an open air bar, playing the standard mix of salsa, merengue, reggaeton, vallenata, and bachata (Aventura is very popular here). I ask all sorts of questions about dating and romance in Medellin. As a sociologist, I get to approach these topics with a scientific curiosity (with varying success). How do you pick up a girl at a dance club? Evidently, with some head motioning and intense eye contact, kind of how pitchers and catchers communicate. Couldn’t you just go talk to her? Ha! (That “joke” got the best reception of any I’ve told yet). I learn the term “amigos con derechos” (friend with rights) to describe the person that one is dating in a non-serious relationship. I also learn that these guys think Monica is the hottest character in friends. We have a particularly hilarious exchange when Alex mentions that in a dubbed movie, Samuel Jackson says “Miercoles” (Wednesday) instead of “Mier. . . .” (word that translates into our s-word) and it takes a little talking in circles to explain that in the English version, Jackson probably didn’t say, “Oh, Wednesday!” as a curse, nor does that make any sense. In fact, it makes as little sense as saying, “Oh, sssssugar!” or “Oh, Shhhherlock!” in Spanish. Nonetheless, we start saying “Azucar” (sugar) as our choice curse word for the night. Cultural exchange at its best. They are open, having fun kicking back to the beer and aguardiente combo, and happy to share, although at the end of the night, Daniel finally puts me on the spot. Maria, we’ve been talking the whole night. It’s your turn, what do you think of us, Medellin, Colombia?

Thanks for throwing me a softball, Daniel. Azucar! Is my first thought. What to say, and in Spanish at that. 2011 is the year of trying to be honest though, right? So I go for it:

In Medellin it seems that you can find beauty on almost any corner.

The hardest part for me of working in global health is maintain my faith that humanity is good, because it’s that belief that underpins all the work that I do. If you look around the world, it’s easy to find examples anywhere of abuse, violence, corruption and other evidence of the bad. It’s the good that sometimes feels more invisible, and I needed a reminder on it as I jump into a new job across the world. And I don’t think I was conscious of that when I came to Colombia. And yet, at every corner, it’s been what I’ve found here. From the people I met in Bogota, to the family that adopted me in Cartagena, to Camilo and his friends that took me to Cabo de la Vela, to my cab driver tonight who didn’t take me for a ride. At every turn, I’ve been forced to make a decision on whether to trust or not to, and here, my decisions to trust have been rewarded by an opportunity to meet a lot of good people and feel the warmth of the world, and Colombia has restored for me that sense of faith and hope.
They nod; they understand—the fact that I can both formulate and communicate a thought like that speaks to the depth of the impact Colombia has had on me mentally and lingual-ly (my English on the other hand is suffering these days). I’m happy, gratified, that I can express to some degree the deep gratitude I’m feeling to these strangers that have let me have a brief window into their lives. In the balance of karma, I’m working up quite a debt.





Brief on my brief time in Taganga

Murphy's law of blogging: the more fun things that you find yourself doing, the less time you have to blog about them.  So take my few days of radio silence as a sign that I'm busting with things to share.

Just getting back to Bogota after my time in Medellin and then the "New York" of Colombia, Ibague, where I had a reunion with la famila in Cartagena and my new friends from Cabo de la Vela.  In my effort to stall a bit to find the time to write these adventures up in the manner that the they deserve (i.e. on the plane in a few days), I offer a few more pictures from my time on the coast to entertain and fill in some holes (while purposefully leaving a few others :).

View of Taganga, a small fishing (now also tourist) town that's next to Santa Marta.  Enter with caution, I met several gringos who had gone there and yet to find the ganas to leave!

 A hostel situation, for sure

Bracelets to remember the trip FOREVER.  As there were four of us with matching bracelets, I made a Captain Planet joke (Earth! Air! Fire! Water!) and guess what, everyone got it and laughed!

We go out to a club that's open air and overlooks Teganga (As Andrea indicates here)

It's a lot of fun.....

 

 And when it closes at 2AM, we continue on over to the Israeli hostel, where the party routinely continues until dawn.

 And everyone know that what happens at the Israeli hostel stays at the Israeli hostel! Oi Carumba!

The sound of silence: Cabo de la Vela

Disclaimer: I know that this is long, but it was a crazy and amazing experience, so I don’t want to sacrifice the details that made it so special. If you must skip through it, at least look at the pictures, since the scenery was what we came for!

I REALLY want to explain the concept of "icing" someone, but my "this is one of those concepts that will not translate on any level" radar has gotten much more sensitive.  Uribia at 10AM on Saturday morning.

The road to Cabo takes us from Colombia to the Guajira—the “rough, untamed” wilderness of a peninsula. We stop to get gas from a couple of guys that have set up a bootleg shop on the side of the road with gas smuggled in from Venezuela (because it’s so cheap there). Our driver is telling us about the ways of the Wayuu, and in particular the views on marriage (it’s essentially the act of exchanging many goats for a family’s daughter; he himself has two wives and two kids with each). We stop an hour or so later in Uribia, and I’m ready for a break from the cultural lesson (which for the record, I think is more reflective of individual ideas of the role of the sexes than anything else). Camilo offers to buy a round of Smirnoff ice and something about the ridiculousness of having such a yuppy drink at 10AM in a village that feels like something out of the 1920s in Mexico (or what I imagine that would be like) compels me to say yes. When in “Rome.”

Our highway soon turns into sand. The Guajira gets all of its agua dulce (fresh or literally “sweet” water) in the winter, so we have to maneuver around the lakes that have cropped up but will evaporate off over the coming months. The landscape is stunning; pools of water, scraggly brush, crystal blue ocean on the one side and a mountain range on the other. We of course nod off to sleep, fairly immune at this point to twists and turns of the rugged terrain.

The extent of the villages or "ranchos" that we see en route to Cabo de la Vela after leaving Uribia (This picture and all that follow in this post were taken by Andrea--thanks marica!)

The road at several points has road pulled across barring our path. Kids demand candy before turning the rope loose and letting us pass. While it’s “cute” in some respects (lonely planet has a little section about the “candy bandits”), it’s also a sign to me of how underserved the area is. Most of the children are acutely malnourished—Fabian had pointed out to us that for most of these kids, the candy they got from us would be their only lunch. The lack of consistent water supply means that the fruits that are plentiful elsewhere are absent, and fish and goat are the only food sources that are easily observable. Goats are everywhere!

Speaking of which, the first thing we do in Cabo de la Vela is order goat for lunch. It’s served with patacones and a big glass of lemonade. We then move on to the business of finding a place to pitch our tent and hang the hammocks—we’re able to convince the lodge to rent us one of the spots in the “parking lot” (i.e. a huge walled in dirt area) usually reserved for drivers at a pretty good rate. Next step: beach! We head to nearby Ojo de agua, a cove that we have pretty much to ourselves and enjoy the warm water. There are few waves, and I’m soon distracted by the hills surrounding the cove. I grab my ipod and head up to the top to wander around with the mountain goats. It’s all fun and games until a see a pair of reptile eyes staring and me and almost leap off the cliff as a giant iguana darts away. I decide that perhaps it’s time to head back to my posse. Watching the sinking sun, we head over to the lighthouse for what’s considered the best view around. I have a theory that the sun sets faster here in the tropics (physics people, is this true??), which is my justification for why we miss the actually sunset and instead sit around enjoying the final light of the day, munching on “coladas”—the gooey coconut/sesame seed/anise/molasses (not all at once!) things that I’d been eying in Cartagena. When it’s finally dark, we stumble the 100 yards down the hill to where our driver is parked and head back to the hotel for a dinner of canned good sandwiches. Yum. I’m thankful for the sweet crackers. We head out of the beach after dinner and enjoy the almost full moon and hundreds, hundreds of stars that are out, given that we’re hundreds of miles from any significant town and in a region that for the most part lacks access to electricity. I can find orion’s belt, but the dippers allude me. Unproven theory number two of this blog post: the position of the constellation depends on your global positioning as well.

That thing sticking up on the cliff is me!

Sleeping in a hammock is divine. There are thankfully no bugs at night (flies and wasps during the day), and I love that when I drift out of my dreams and crack open my eyes, there is a brilliant night sky above me. It would be hard to go back to sleep, accept for the gentle rocking on my hammock in the breeze.



The view to the left of El Pillon de Azucar

Today’s itinerary is El Pillon de Azucar—a massive rock formation that sits between two coves with distinctly different sedimentary properties. One side looks like what I imagine the surface of the moon looks like; barren, rocky, plunging into massive waves as it meets the sea. The other side is smooth, red sand—it’s like someone had picked up the painted desert of the Southwestern U.S. and dumped it into the ocean. From the top, the view is intense. There’s literally no sign of human life in either direction. I felt like I’d stepped into the land before time. Here’s my cliché “I’m on a vacation to reflect and find myself “ moment for the trip. This was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life. I sat up on top of the rocks, alone, for at least an hour, just staring in awe. If my goal was to see something that made me marvel at the world that we live in and want to be a better person, it was accomplished there. When I came down, I feel like I’d had some sort of sublime experience, like a spiritual cleansing, or intensive meditation. Descending to the beach, I felt like I maintained a cloud of higher consciousness that created a sense of weightlessness or complete peace that’s pretty unfamiliar to me, whose adept at keeping all cylinders going at all times. Here, all was quiet. The poet Rumi has a verse that I love and recalled:

"Hear this if you can:
If you want to reach him
You have to go beyond yourself
And when you finally arrive at the land of absence
Be silent
Don’t say a thing
Ecstasy, not words, is the language spoken there"

And to the right. . . .

In addition to having the best view in the world, the ocean at this particular beach was great. The waves were modest but occasionally grew to the size that one could catch it and ride it in. Years of swimming at the beaches in North Carolina make me a pro at this game; more than once I caught Camilo shaking his head and laughing as I grabbed wave and wave.

Zen there, done that

After lunch, we girls decide to head into town to procure more bread to accompany our canned goods. I’m also starting to suffer from mango withdrawal so am hoping to find some sort of fresh fruit option. “Town”, by the way, is the strip that if described generously spans 3 blocks and consists primarily of cabanas and hammock spots that have cropped up to serve the expanding demand for the area. It’s still fairly small, but there are a few kite fitting outfits and other activities that indicate that Cabo de la Vela’s allure is clearly gaining international fame and interest.

While looking for bread, a guy invites us to his hammock/tent site for a bowl of fish soup. There, I meet two guys tuning their guitars. We try to figure out if we know any songs in common. I sing “Rivers of Babylon” and they pick up the tune, we work our way through the chorus of “I shot the sheriff”, they teach me Phil Collin’s “Another day in paradise” since they have the lyrics lying around, and we finally hit upon “Stand by me” and sing that a few times. It’s a lot of fun, and saves me from having to each much of a stew that looks a little fishy to me (in all ways).



This might have been a good moment to get moving. . . . .

We are now running late—our ride to the lighthouse was leaving at four and it’s well, 4:30 and we’re about 5k from the hotel. Luckily we manage to hitchhike a ride with police coming by in a pick up truck. They leave us at the fork in the road (they are headed to the Pillon de Azucar and I’m tempted to accompany them!)! We hail another pick up truck that’s en route to the lighthouse and get them to drop us off at the hotel so we can grab the boys who, rather than being in a state of rage at our tardiness are instead. . . . lying in the hammocks drinking beer. Yay for being on vacation. We head off to the lighthouse by foot, stake out a spot on the cliff below, and manage to arrive about 10 minutes before the sun sets—clear improvement over the day before. But, once the darkness settles in and we decide to head back, we are well, still on foot and without any light other than the very close to full moon. Besides the occasional brush with a cactus or equivalently spiny plant (crocs would have been a huge improvement over flip flops just in this one instance), we make it back in approximately an hour. Andrea, Camilo, Margarita, and Ivan sing song after song and I just get to smile and listen. How’s that for a new image of Colombia? Wandering through the dark in the desert singing ballads, with the biggest fear being a run-in with a thorny bush.

Catching some final beach time on Day 3.  Main beach in Cabo de la Vela.

Captain’s log: Day 3. There is no fresh water available for showering, so my hair at this point has a consistency not unlike cardboard and cannot even be convinced into French braids (my go-to when my hair gets nappy and I can’t or don’t feel like washing it). Margarita’s hair, which is naturally curly, has some super awesome “crespo” (afro curl) going on. We have enough fresh water left for the ladies to scrub ourselves down sparingly, to then cram into a car with our salty and sandy male companions and head back to Riohacha where we’ll head to Fabian’s. We arrive and have the following dialogue:

Fabian: Kids, I have bad news. We have five more people arriving tonight.

Maria turned Pollyanna from sunshine and beach time: No prob. We have a tent and can pitch hammocks in the backyard. But that probably means that we should shower up now before they get here.

Fabian: more bad news. We’re out of water until tomorrow.
Maria: Cool. Well as we haven’t really showered for three days, what’s the harm of one more?
[Puzzled look] Fabian: Mari, are you ok?

I smile and nod, glad and grateful that this light feeling has persisted even as we more ever closer back to the “real world”. I can’t believe that I’m so close to ending my adventure down here—I feel like it’s just beginning!

So conclusion: still salty, we went out for hamburgers, walked along the boardwalk to see how it was at night, and when we returned, hung hammocks in the back yard and called it a night. Minus the roosters crowing (Spanish roosters say ci-ciri-ci, not cockadoodle) ALL NIGHT LONG. Maybe the answer to all the questions in the world is—bird, bird, bird, bird is the word. . . . .

Good news--the adventure has continued in Medellin, where I've been since Wednesday.  Will be introducing a new cast of characters to you next time!

From Sola to solardarity: the road to Riohacha

VERY cold coconuts (thanks Andrea for the picture!)

Many people have asked why I’m here in Colombia and furthermore, what I’m doing in Colombia by myself. Why Colombia? The truth is that I had relatively few requirements for planning where to go: I wanted somewhere warm where I could speak Spanish and eat good food. It’s raining season in large parts of South America at the moment and there’s a direct flight from NYC to Bogota (a mere 6 hours!). I made the decision while trapped at ORD in Chicago en route back to Boston after Thanksgiving based on the information in Wikitravel. There you have it.

The why take a trip by myself is a more complicated one. In the last year, I’ve realized that I’m actually an introvert—I relish time by myself and when I carve it out for myself, I find social interactions much more rewarding. Traveling for work, usually alone, gave me the opportunity to get used to being in foreign situations by myself and the confidence that it could be both safe and fun. In my last few months in Boston, I knew that I was running on fumes and skimping on “me” time in my efforts to balance work with saying goodbye to friends, eating as much JP licks as humanly possible, getting beat up by Rachel and Melissa at Somerville Boxing Club, and that I would need some serious self-care in order to be productive in Bangladesh. The idea of wandering through new cities through the day, interspersed with reading and writing, sounded amazing. Also coming alone gave me the luxury of truly not having any plan—I made a reservation for a hostel in Bogota the day before heading down here. That was the extent of what I had prepared.

My "plan" in action: half-eaten empanada.  Zipaquira (near Bogota)

Camilo, along with a few friends from his hometown of Ibague, was headed to Cabo de la Vela on Guajira peninsula from Cartagena. The Guajira juts out the top of Colombia and in contrast to the lush green hills and jungle that fill most of the country, has a tough desert climate and is home to the Wayuu people, an indigenous group who to some degree maintain their traditional cultures and remain isolated from mainstream Colombian society (in part due to the lack of infrastructure and inhospitality of the region). He invited me to join them, promising me tales of sleeping in a hammock on the beach, beaches with red sand, and other things that sounded pretty awesome. While I hesitated to say yes immediately, I knew that I was sold on the idea, despite the craziness of agreeing to accompany a perfect stranger into what sounded like the middle of nowhere. There are few things stranger than the truth sometimes.  And while you can't plan for the unexpected by definition, I definitely think that you can approach travel with an open mind and be prepared to take opportunities that present themself fortuitously.  Camping on the beach in a remote desert didn't sound like something I personally would want to brave on my own, but with four Colombians?  Better cultural and lingual immersion options can scarcely be conceived.
After accompanying la familia to the airport, with long goodbyes and lots of hugs (Ana even gave me a kiss goodbye!), we began our journey to Santa Marta, another town further east along the coast where Andrea was waiting for us. We took a van to Barranquilla, Shakira’s hometown (loca, loca!), where we then essentially stood on the entry ramp onto the highway and flagged down a bus to Santa Marta. We asked, are you going directly? Si, si, hop in!!!. We do, only to then stop pretty much immediately at a rest stop for a good half hour. And then proceed to stop several more times on a “direct” trip. It’s dark by the time we get to Santa Marta and Andrea has been sitting at the bus terminal for several hours. Our journey for the day has one final leg—another van to Riohacha, a town that’s considered (by lonely planet and hours), fairly underwhelming, but a good home base for the trip to Cabo de la Vela. After our late night out in Cartagena and a day of travel, I am unable to keep up with Andrea’s rapid fire Spanish and proceed to drift off to sleep, occasionally waking up with a start when the trip’s many bumps, turns, and hard stops practically throw me out of my seat. It’s about 11PM when Camilo nudges me to get out of the van as we’ve arrived in Riohacha.
Camilo and his mother had discussed the details of where we’d stay in Riohacha, but I hadn’t caught all the details. As we hopped into a taxi (this final final leg of the journey), I inquire for further details. La famila evidently has ties to a network of missionaries around Colombia that offer free lodging to other missionaries and friends as they come through the area. We qualify. Fabian, our host, lives in a modest house with his wife, sister, and three kids. They kindly lay out three mattresses on the living room floor for Andrea, Camilo and I. Before calling it a night, we manage to walk up the street to a dive where we score the last pieces of Hawaiian pizza (with has shredded chicken and sticky dried pineapple—actually surprising tasty), some fries, and questionable meat. As I lay my head down on the pillow, my final thoughts are on the fact that this is, without a doubt, an adventure, and I am thrilled to have the luxury of truly, truly going where the wind takes me without questioning or imposing some delusion of a master plan for the journey.

Andrea's forgiven us for arriving so late the day before.  Beach cures all.

Margarita arrives early the next morning. Spanish first thing in the morning is tough, though as Fabian’s wife pours cups of coffee for all of us, the blood in my head begins to move around slowly. Camilo’s cousin, Ivan, was taking the bus from Bogota, which would take about 24 hours, so he was due in that afternoon (mind you that it’d be less than a 90 minute flight, just as a reference point for the quality of the roads). We explore Riohacha and begin to bargain for transport/lodging out in Cabo de la Vela in the meantime.
Riohacha is gritty. Later when trying to explain the difference between Delhi and Dhaka to Andrea (who lives in Brussels and has traveled extensively herself), I compare Delhi to Bogota and Dhaka to Riohacha. It lacks the cosmopolitan sheen and resulting diversity that the former cities have. I later see the rows of “slum” housing, homes of people largely displaced by violence, made of plastic and sticks/boards and am further reminded of the sprawling shanty towns that have sprung up all over Dhaka. Overall, Riohacha pulses with an undiluted, in your face dose of urban life—with the speed, sweat, and noise that you just can’t get anywhere else. At the precipice of the Guajira but the major entry point from the rest of the country, it’s a blend of traditional culture, fledging and niche tourism infrastructure, and typical Colombia. And it’s fascinating to watch all those pieces interact. I’m enthralled as always by what goes on in the public spaces—the requisite main square (a change from Plaza de Bolivar, this one is Parque Jose Prudencio Padilla) with its statue and old church, old men sitting around with thermos selling shots of tinto (I happily shell out 10 cents for a hit several times a day), others selling coconuts with a straw, with giant machetes to cut them open once you’ve finished the water so that you can eat the meet, and locals with guitars playing Vallenato, a regional style of music with ballads with gentle, rocking melodies. There’s a boulevard on the beach that stretches quite a ways; women are selling crocheted purses with colorful geometric patterns. We idly “window” shop as we make our way out to pier, for a closer look at the ocean. I personally like the vibe the town gives off; I like the local old dudes sitting on the boardwalk who want to share all sorts of random facts about the town and the Guajira, the laidback friendliness that’s ubiquitous, and the option of getting some fresh mango on pretty much any corner. It’s also amusing to me that everybody’s got a guy to call when we mention that we’re trying to get to Cabo de la Vela on the cheap. Ivan arrives, exhausted from an epic bus ride, we grab a round of beers as a group and hatch a plan to secure a ride for the following morning, Salud!
There are a few beaches near Riohacha that are supposed to be fun for swimming. We hope a taxi to Mayapo beach and spend the afternoon catching waves there. The water is water and fairly clear, and it’s just us and a few families. After the “ugly” beaches of Cartagena, I am beginning to see why Colombians have such high standards for their beaches.

Ivan, Margarita and I at Mayapo

When we get back to Fabian’s, I notice a sign in the house across the street that says “se vende paletas” (we sell popsicles). Always ready for a snack, I go to investigate and yes, for a mere USD 0.15, you can get a fresh strawberry popsicle out of a housewife’s freezer (I sound like a broken record when she tells me the price, 300 pesos? Just three hundred? Not three thousand (i.e. USD 1.50)? I have trouble with numbers sometimes, especially because everything’s in the thousands usually. The zeros keep tripping me up, especially when I’m tired or a price is vastly different than what I’m anticipating. Looking at the balance in my bank account when I withdraw money is pretty fun though—multiplying by 1,800 (the number of pesos to a dollar) makes it look a lot bigger than it actually is!
We head to Carrefour (to which I’ve only been to in China and therefore associate with awesome displays of crazy animals, including live ones, for sale) to stock up on food and water (we’re going to the desert, remember) for the trip. This is sociology in action. We buy lots of food in cans—tuna, beans, hotdogs, corn, peaches. We have a long debate about whether to get sweet crackers or regular ones (and eventually get both). We have a bottle of pisco and are split down the middle (Margarita stayed behind to catch a nap and was therefore unable to be the final vote). Passionfruit or mango juice as a mixer? Both are in powder form. I am completely distracted by the intense array of powdered juice choices. They include blackberry, mandarin, LULO (!!!!!!), and other fruits that I’ve not yet tried. Amazing. I pull out a moneda and we toss it to see who wins (if you’re ever betting using a Colombia coin; bet on heads. I’m pretty sure that they aren’t evenly weighted as we got heads 100% of the time). With a cooler, several liter bags of water, our powdered passionfruit juice, assortment of crackers, and canned goods, we catch a taxi back to Fabian’s.
My dinner of a strawberry paleta is rounded out by a cup of oatmeal, saltines, and homemade soda at Fabian’s. It was good that we had a light meal, as we were now a group of five and had four mattresses in a line to share. Again, once the lights went out, I got to smile my big goofy grin at the inside joke of my “sola” vacation turning into a massive sleepover with a very fun group of new friends. And tomorrow, onto Cabo de la Vela!

Tell me we don't look ready for an adventure!  Sunset at Mayapo

Cartagena: the walled city

One of many fun statues in old town, Cartagena

Cartagena has inspired locals and travelers alike for centuries. It’s been well preserved and continues to enchant with its narrow allies and mosaic of mainly three-story buildings built through the various eras of architecture. One must brave the heat; midday it gets up to the 90s and is mercilessly balmy, with few options for seeking relief of the natural (shade) or manmade (AC) variety. The beach is banal, if any beach with smooth sand, gentle and warm waves, and throngs of happy people can be described that way. Though the constant march of walking vendors can get a little tiresome, it’s also pretty awesome to be able to get almost anything without having to move (and clearly I’m talking about food, not jewelry or chucharias—knick knacks—and such). Fruit salad, arepas, empanadas, a full lunch of fried fish, rice, patacones (smashed green plantains made into a patty and fried), gooey things with coconut and sesame seeds that I don’t recognize. . . .the options are endless. So endless that I’m often too overwhelmed to get beyond my staple of mango (but even then I have to choose green or ripe!! With salt? Lime? Honey? Picante? Condensed milk?). So banal, but still fun. The Colombians describe these beaches as “ugly”, but you have to understand that it’s a relative comparison to the other, super stunning beaches that Colombia has to offer. So take it with a grain of (sea) salt. And maybe some sand for good measure.

Rough on the eyes, I know

I fell under Cartagena’s spell not so much during the day, but at night. One night Camilo and I managed to pry two chairs and a couple beers away from the workers playing chess on the beach and enjoyed the cool night’s breeze, almost full moon, and the sound of the waves. I’m pretty sure that I could happily sit in that same spot every night for the rest of my life and never get tired of the sweet smell of the beach and the air caressing my hair. But, the next night we moved down to the old city, where the old walls have been converted into a bar (Café del Mar), where you can sit either in open air bar, which we did on Tuesday, and enjoy the 6000 peso (USD 3) beers, or climb up onto the walls themselves (which we did on Wednesday) and grab a drink from the guys passing by with coolers and containers of all sorts of foods and drinks (there a beer will run you more like USD 1). There’s a lighthouse out in the distance that we stare at for a while, wondering in the way that restless nomads do what the view is like from there (and if there, would we be wondering about the view from Café del Mar).

One of Camilo’s roommates is an Argentinian, and she’s on tour with 7 female friends from Argentina. They swoop into the scene, dressed to the nines, with a bottle of aguardiente (similar to Sambuca and the national liquor of choice), speaking the polished Castesssshhhhano that Argentinians do, and get the party started. We head off to check out some of the local dance clubs (remember that it’s a Wednesday night at 10:30PM)—I feel like a bit of an ugly duckling next to these glammed up girls in my flip flops and jeans, but music is a democratizing force. The dance floor welcomes anyone who has ganas de bailar. I have been taking advantage of the opportunity to get some free dance lessons from the locals and before long am “spinning like a top,” per Camilo (that is a compliment; I asked for clarification). When dizzy and tired from a workout to cumbia, reggaeton, salsa, merengue and techno, we are asked to leave at closing time, we retreat to the city walls to enjoy music blasting from a cell phone by the light of the moon. The sun is practically rising by the time we finally head back to Boca Grande, where I’ve now officially been invited into the circle of trust and am staying with Camilo’s family in a two-bedroom (three if you include the living room) apartment (we are nine heads!). While cramped, it was actually a lot of fun—having enjoyed many beach trips with my cousins all piled into bunk beds, it was fun to see what another family’s version was like. My favorite details: everyone (including me) took a siesta in the afternoon (which enabled the late night!) and we had oatmeal (in cups and crackers to dip in it) for dinner. I tried to explain grits to them; they looked pretty skeptical about cornmeal being boiled and resembling oatmeal in any way. Obviously my Spanish is not perfect yet.  I guess I'll have to stick around a bit longer. . . .

View from outside the walls at dusk

There are a lot of Cartagena’s “musts” that I didn’t do. I didn’t actually ever make it into the castle. Nor did I visit the house of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Or the mud pit that lies outside of the city that someone at my hotel in Bogota recommended, or the nearby beaches of Isla Blanca and Varu that the Colombians rave about. To be honest, Bogota had a vibe that I liked much more, despite being less flipflop friendly. Bogota felt like a place to live; Cartagena a place where all were there to visit de paseo and party hard. But Cartagena marked an inflection point, and the beginning of an adventure worth telling with all the salacious details that made it so fun. So stay tuned. . . .

How to speak Colombian, and other tidbits

To sound convincingly Colombian, one must use the term "marica" frequently (roughly translates into "dude" in its usage).  Example, "Hola, marica!" or "Marica, vamos a la playa."  If you are a gringa, you can get a good laugh out of folks by using it to open and close a sentence: Marica, tengo hambre, marica.  Using terms like "Chimba" (adj; meaning REALLY good or bad), bacana (cool), and chevere (also cool) and adding super in front of adjectives for emphasis will also help.
I should note that "marica" in other countries is a bit of insult, so this is really a guide for how to speak in Colombia only.

Couple quick updates:
1.  I am swinging in a hammock while writing this post.
2.  I've slept in a hammock the past 4 nights.
3.  Every shower I've taken in the last week has been using a bucket (my hair looks GREAT)
4.  Colombia continues to be more and more fun.  There's a saying here that "the only risk in coming to Colombia is never leaving."  I agree!

None shall pass, marica!

Summaries of Cartagena and Gujira forthcoming.  I've been out camping in the middle of the desert/beach and didn't take my computer with me, so I have some catching up to do.

"Family" "Vacation" in Cartagena

Sunday afternoon, I arrived in Cartagena, a city of about 1 million people that is the main tourist destination for wealthy Colombians and most international tourists. Its main attraction is the well preserved colonial architecture that’s contained in its charming old town area. But, as it’s popular and now is high season, it’s a bit of a scene. I arrived sans reservations (not highly recommended strategy in Lonely Planet, but what else is new), and asked at the tourist desk if it was possible arrange a short-term homestay. I was eager to follow up on the knowledge I’d gained of Colombian families from the movie El Paseo last week and force more conversation in Spanish. No such luck; I was handed a map and told to go to the neighborhood of Getsemani. Lonely Planet suggested this area too as most of the hostels are there, but Sandra from Hotel Platypus had written down a place she liked that was further out on the peninsula on Boca Grande. Decisions, decisions. I decide that since everyone on my flight is going to Getsemani, I might as well split a cab with someone. I see a guy with a giant backpack getting into a cab, so I say, “Are you going to Getsemani?” He stares at me hard and says, “No, I’m going to Boca Grande.” “Oh, alright. Want to split a cab? Me too.” Still staring at me, he sort of nods, and given that I’ve pretty much already jumped in, he has little choice. I didn’t consider that this being Colombia, there might be stories of women pretending to be working solo and slipping drugs to guys in taxis and stealing all their money. Instead, I just think the guy’s a little strange calling his mom every 5 minutes to give her an update about our location. Always nice to learn what vibes you really give off!

Turns out Camilo is here for a week of family vacation, and intends to use the time to tell his parents that he’s not moving home as anticipated, but rather staying in Bogota and hoping to head to Spain for school. He’s quit his job, recently broken up with a girlfriend, and a little disillusioned with the world. What better time to meet a gringa loca blowing through Colombia? He invites me to join his family as they go sightseeing that evening. The sociologist in me jumps at the offer.

Shoe-da, coulda, woulda

So I go from a party of one to a fiesta of nine Sunday afternoon. We fill two cabs to get down to the “zapatos”, a sculpture of two shoes that is a symbol of Cartagena. Camilo’s dad has his camera bag around his neck and is barking out orders for different permutations of the family to pose. I manage to wrestle to camera away from him for a few shots so that he too can pose. We then take a detour into a mall for a bit to escape the heat. Three-year-old Ana spies a booth selling watches and convinces her dad to buy her one with hello kitty on it. We then walk over to the castle, the largest that the Spanish built in Latin America, but don’t actually pay to go in, instead just take our pictures in front of it. Camilo’s family insists that I get in for several of the photos. I’m convinced that when they look at them in five years, they’ll have no recollection of who the blondie is. There are shots from the bay of me in between Camilo and his dad, others of me with his sisters, and then full family shots. And of course, they are all on facebook now. I can’t help drawing comparisons to El Paseo and laughing to myself (not really sure how to translate “inside joke”, so I don’t try).

Aren't we cute?  In front of the castle

After a long walk through the cobbled streets of the old part of town and dinner, they drop me off at my hotel. I’d greeted them all with handshakes that afternoon, but now feel we’ve worked out way up to the obligatory kiss on the cheek, so I do the rounds. They say, See you tomorrow! And leave me standing there, still slightly surprised at how quickly I’ve been adopted into the family. Only Ana maintains her suspicions.

Yesterday after a run and some fresh juice, I call la familia to see what we’re doing. My calls go unanswered! I am hurt; I thought we had a truly special connection. So I set off for old town on my own, to see the plazas in the day and potentially pay the entrance fee to the castle. The heat is amazing; I am sweating buckets within a few minutes and find myself ducking into designer stores here and there to get a break. Around lunch time I arrive in leafy Bolizar Plaza. I had noticed a lot of people in the area eating lunch out of Styrofoam boxes, and saw guys with plastic bags full of them that looked like they were selling them, and now I see the cart where they all originate. I wander over to get a better look at what they’ve got. A professor of history is getting his lunch at the moment, explains the offerings to me, and invites me to dine with him in the park (to explore the old city, he says, one must bring their plazaporte (passport in Spanish is passaporte.  Well done, sir)). He’s been living in Cartagena for thirty years and has written two books on the city, including one, I later find out, that has “scientific proof” for the existence of ghosts. He takes me through the gold museum for a very thorough understanding of the cultures of local indigenous groups, and then we take a walk through the old town. I learn that three American presidents and Condoleeza Rice have been to Cartagenas, see where Marlo Brandon smoked marijuana when they were filming “Burn!” in 1969, and where Bill Gates stayed, as well a more about the history; the waves go parallel to the coast in front of the old city walls because there are underwater walls built to wreck attacking ships, how during the inquisition a woman could be killed for speaking to a man other than her husband after dark, unless she had bars on her window which protected her chastity (you can imagine the faces I’m making at this point), and a lot about the architecture from different periods. “Prof” (as many greeted my companion on the street) and I spent about three hours together, stopping twice to buy plastic shot glasses full of tinto (strong black coffee) from guys that kept it in a thermos on a cart, and then I decided to peel off. But I have to wonder, does this happen in the U.S.? Do we adopt strangers spontaneously and show them around? Here people are anxiously for me to like, see, and understand Cartagena, and are willing to invest their own time in ensuring that my experience is positive. It’s not what I expected, but it’s certainly been a nice window into the lives of various Colombians, which I certainly find fun and rewarding.

Again, it’s these types of interactions that also point out the holes in my Spanish. I don’t have the little words that evidently form the basis of my extremely evolved and sophisticated modes of communication and humor: weird, awkward, riiiiight, really(?). Also 100% of the jokes that I made on Sunday went unrecognized (even when I introduced what I was saying by saying, there is a joke about that. . . ). Ouch. (another word I don’t have). Yesterday, when I eventually DID make contact with the family and joined them for an evening stroll around the harbor and lagoon, I tried harder. Camilo had outed me by telling them all that I’d seen El Paseo and thought it resembled their family (not exactly a compliment, as you can imagine). Luckily, they took that in stride and as a result insisted that we take even MORE pictures together. My favorite is one where we’re all standing on little pier in the lagoon and I’m in the middle with my arms outstretched in front and a super excited expression on my face. They said if I come back next year I can even stay in the apartment with them. So for all that I want to milk the situation for humor, they are unbelievably warm and a lot of fun to spend time with after a few days of solitude.

She only looks cute and innocent!

Ana, meanwhile, insisted that we weren’t friends. But on the walk, we passed an amusement party and she really wanted to go in. Camilo said, Ana, I want to go to, but it costs money and I don’t have any. She’s quiet for a second and then says, “Maria, have you seen my hello kitty watch?” I admire it. Meanwhile, she turns to Camilo and whispers, “does Maria have money?” Sneaky, especially for such a young age! I felt so used. If only I could make a joke about it. . . .

Back to the beach--don't hate the playa, hate the game (playa=beach in Espanol :)

Bogota: en resumen con carino

First, I want to give a big shout out to June Erlick’s book, Una Gringa in Bogota. I read it the week before I came down here and it was fantastic. She’s reflective and analytical without being long-winded and does a fantastic job keeping you at her side while she walks around the city doing ordinary things. Her stories offer insight the Colombian culture and Bogotan way of life, with her own perspectives, but she manages to avoid the Eat. Pray. Love. annoying factor.

So for sure my experience is framed by her book, which is best summed up as a 30-something year love affair with the country and in particular the capital city. She writes with the tenderness that only comes with a mature and deep affection cultivated over a number of years and having survived many changes. Mine is more of a blind date, three day weekend sort of romance at the moment, but certainly find Bogota to be a place that I wouldn’t mind investing in a longer-term relationship with. Thus, take my reflections below with a grain of salt, as they haven’t had time for much testing during my parachute in.

Up on top of old Mont Serrate

My first surprise was how walkable Bogota is. There are sidewalks everywhere and the crowds and traffic fairly peaceful, except at rush hour. Colombians are really all colors, and I feel pretty anonymous as I walk around, although I’ve been told that I’m fairly tall for a woman and my eyes, when I take off my sunglasses are a dead giveaway. Nonetheless, for the most part I can spend the day wandering while attracting only minimal attention. And there are plenty of fun spots to wander through. The city is huge—you don’t sense it when you’re in the old town (called La Candelaria as historically candles were made here), but once you head up to the top of Mont Serrate and take a look around, you see that it’s managed to creep up the surrounding hills as far as the eye can see. Skyscrapers are popping up, announcing the emerging growth in the financial and commerce sectors, and surrounding these upcoming districts are high-end apartment complexes and artsy restaurants. There are lots of these pockets hidden all over the place; instead of having a “Soho” or a “South End”, there are instead dozens of little places that you have to find, so wandering is quite rewarding in that way. For example, my first morning I headed over to the planetarium and the “Moorish” style Plaza de Toros. Up above it I noticed apartment complexes that I would later learn were designed by greatly admired Colombian architect Rogelio Salmona and greatly coveted. Walking still further up the hill, I stumbled on an area called La Macarena, which has become a bohemian hideout, with independent coffee shops and hippy hangouts. A friend took me uptown yesterday (which was a great chance to learn the bus routes—again, incredibly effective and simple compared to those that exist in many other cities worldwide), and showed me around Usaquen, a “town that was eaten by Bogota”. The old buildings have been preserved but filled with designer stores and cool restaurants; it is really amazing that you can walk through these narrow cobbled streets, passing stands with traditional Colombian crafts and fabrics, and then step into one of these beautiful buildings and be in proper Mercado with farmers selling fruits and vegetables I’ve never seen before (Lulo? Curuba? Yet to find a translation, but they are delicious!).

View of Catedral Primada from my perch (outdoor seating at El Corral) at the Gabriel Garcia Marquez Culture Center

I’ve been impressed with the importance placed on courtesy here. I’ve yet to see a rude interactions (although I stand corrected on my initial impression that there was no honking; Friday rush hour is cacophonous from the 3rd floor. . . . ), and I’ve watched the police telling a homeless man he has to move, disorganized queues to get on the bus, and shop owners with competing customers to see if I can’t catch one of them slipping up. They are courteous with me but usually not overtly friendly; I really have to make the first move and be pretty proactive if I want to break the ice. But, in the cases where I’ve been able to, it’s been quite rewarding. There is fresh fruit for sale on every street corner—green and ripe mango, pineapple, papaya, and bananas are the staples, as well as orange juice that they make to order. The going rate for a big cup of sliced and peeled mango (with honey or the works: lime, salt, and spice) is about 50 cents, so I have essentially alternated between dipping into bakeries for a steaming cup of café con leche and a tasty snack (corn arepas with queso are a favorite; empanadas are good too) and mango on the street. Just two blocks from my hotel, I found a fruit stand run by a very friendly couple. They are full of questions about the U.S., immigration policy, cold weather, the availability of tropical fruits, and all sorts of other things. I’ve gotten into the habit of heading there mid-morning to spend an hour or so just watching them work, meeting their regular customers, asking questions about their life and business, and getting an occasional bite of pineapple slipped my way (they are mainly amused by my constant sounds of delight at how incredibly sweet it is). It’s a privilege to have this kind of time, to do what some would call ethnography of a common space (Sidewalk style; a great read on Greenwich Village in NYC). It’s certainly stretching the bounds of my Spanish, but in a very healthy way. It was stretched another way when I was enticed out into the Bogota bar scene; there are a lot of universities in my area so I went dancing to one of them with a friend of a friend. Being coached in salsa, cumbia, and merengue in Spanish over the blaring music—you certainly don’t get that at most language schools.

Trying new fruit juices with Andres and Monica (who is taking the picture) at an upscale foodcourt in Zona Rosa.  Note that we're bundled up!

There’s more to tell, but the city beckons. I am leaving tomorrow for Cartagena; excited for the beach and warm weather, but more than a little sad to leave the city to which I’ve quickly grown attached. I’ll be excited to swing back through in another week or so. The abnormal amounts of rain have left some of the main highways impassable, so I may end up doing more of a hub and spoke model of travel (utilizing cheap airlines, at times) than my planned circular path. The joys of unplanned and constantly evolving travel.