Anywho, he came with me to Pasto, where I have some friends (Melisa and her boyfriend) that I met cause Mom works with their relatives in the Calgary library. So we showed up at 5am after a god awful bus ride. I bargained to get the bus tickets for $12.50 instead of $16.50. I thought it was a sweet deal, but the my seat wouldn't stick in any position and there wasn't very much space for my legs. So there I was, sitting upright cause the lady behind me had a kid on her lap and kept pushing my seat up. Of coarse the lady infront of me also had a kid on her lap, so her seat all the way back. No inch of room to play with! Thank god it was only 9 hours - anymore woulda killed me. I couldn't have slept more than 30 minutes during the overnight trip, so Mat and I checked into a hotel and slept a solid 7 hours before getting up to meet Melisa.

Meli, her boyfriend Santo, Mat and I went for a scavenger hunt around town looking for a Santo's tent. His friend had the tent, but we first had to locate his friend's girlfriend to track him down. We tried several houses and talked with several old folk just chilling on the sidewalk, but to no avail. We even went into the Urgency Room - not to be mistaken with the Emergency Room. No, if your problem is an emergency you must procede down the road to the hospital. An urgent problem though, hell come right on in!

We never actually found the tent. Hopefully it'll show up before the weekend when we go camping. Eventually we gave up and went to the university, where we bumped into a punk rocker friend of Santo. The five of us chilled on the pasto (grass in English) in Pasto where all the uni kids enjoy the pasto experience.

All over town, and especially at the uni, was graffiti saying something roughly like "Gringos get out of Colombia" and "No Yankee bases in Colombia". Colombia's capitalist president Uribe (and corrupt as fuck with his hands in the coke mafias and paramilitaries) wants to set up some US military bases in Colombia. Beats me why. Funny though, being a foreigner with a North American accent walking by slogan after slogan telling sepos to get out.

Later we found ourselves waiting outside the house of another one of Santo's friends - Fabio. We waited on the stoop with a big bag of contraband norteño - cheap brandy from Ecuador - for several hours before Fabio finally showed up. He arrived just after La Negra. She says her name is too hard to pronounce, so everyone calls her Negra. Man, she's one of the craziest girls I've ever met! ADHD is the easiest way to describe her. It puts in all the right stereotypes you ought to imagine. And she's never serious either - even when she's telling you about her problems two minutes after meeting her.

Later on Santo passed out, so naturally Fabio wrote on his face with everyone's help. After waking up from camera flashes he and Meli went home. La Negra was buzzing mad like normal, but Mat and I needed to crash, so we took off to the hotel.

written by  ryanmyers on September 30, 2009 from Pasto, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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Yesterday Felipe, a real Colombian gentleman who I met last month in Manizales, and his girlfriend Carolina showed me around Cali, the salsa capital of the world. Normally Cali is incredibly hot and humid - that Latin heat I always imagine - allowing the local girls to flaunt the work of the world's best plastic surgeons city, but there was a fresh breeze. I suppose to cool everyone down from election day. It also helped that no one can buy or sell liquor (legally) on election day, leaving the normally lively streets empty.

Felipe and Carolina took me to a park with a comedian who thankfully used a lot of physical humour. Hell, I don't need Spanish to understand what a different guys look like at the urinals. heh heh, nah, just a rotten sense of humour! ....so yeah, he was hilarious.

Anywho, I got back to the hostel early and read a little before deciding to conk out. Just as I was about to turn off the light this guy walked in - the only other person in my dorm. He sounded North America when he said hi. Oooh, I was excited. Maybe another Canadian!
Hey, I'm Ryan.
I'm Mat.
Where you from?
Canada.
Where in Canada?
Edmonton.
Where in Edmonton?
Downtown.
No way, I'm from St. Albert!
Really! I'm from St. Albert originally!
It turns out Mat went to school with Meghan and knows Tara in addition to several of my friends. I've even partied with his younger brother several times. Finally, someone to talk hockey with!

written by  ryanmyers on September 28, 2009 from Cali, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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Anywho, I hauled my buldging bag from Casa Grande to the highway and stuck my thumb out at oncoming traffic - finally putting my money where my mouth is. ....although, that phrase doesn't really apply to hitchiking, does it? After a short 15 minutes a yellow Jeep stopped. I ran over and threw my bags in the back. Unfortunately they were only going 15 minutes up the road to the small village of Huacachina. The 50 year old lady in shotgun had beautiful eyes behind her giant shades and armpit hair poking out from her white summer dress. She wanted to practice her English, so she spoke to me in English and I replied in Spanish. We chatted this way until their destination just outside Huacachina. I waved the yellow Jeep goodbye as it disappeared on a jungle road.

Not even a minute later a mototaxi stopped and told me to come with him into town. I tried to explain that I was hitchiking, but he insisted on taking me. It took me a while to realise that he wanted to give me a lift to a better spot to get picked up. I felt bad for assuming he wanted me to pay.

In town I saw the yellow Jeep again and chatted with the lady. She asked me if I believe in god. I said no, I believe in love. To her they were one in the same. For me, not so much. Nevertheless, she and her man were done their business in Huacachina and were heading further up the road, so I caught a lift with them as far as they were going. At this point I waited a couple of hours, watching mototaxis, buses and the odd car zip by. No one stopped. Eventually I flagged down a bus to Riohacha, the last town of any size before the border.

I checked into the cheapest hotel I could find and passed out from the heat. My room wasn't far off looking like a jail cell. It was just big enough to fit a bed (without a sheet), fan, toilet, sink, shower and a TV strapped to the ceiling. The toilet-sink-shower combo was separated by a brick wall, probably to keep the smell from the toilet away because there was only running water for a few hours in the morning - and only from the sink. To properly flush your crap down the toilet you needed to fill up a bucket of water. The bucket didn't fit in the sink, so you have to use a bowl to fill up the bucket. The same bowl I used to shower in the mornings. ....well, by shower I really mean rinse the sweat off. In this heat there is no escaping sweating. I imagine the locals accept it because it's simply a part of life. They know no other way.

I really only stopped in Riohacha for one reason - to take out money. Usually it's easier to just take out cash from an ATM after you cross the border, but not in Venezuela. The official exchange rate is incredibly inflated at 2000 Bolivares : 1 USD. The practical exchange rate is 3x better at 6000 Bs : 1 USD, which can only be granted through the black market. Growing up I always imagined the black market to be some giant Arabian market with shifty eyed venders selling anything and everything from nuclear warheads to stolen Picasso paintings to babies (for adoption, slavery or eating - ya know, whatever the customer wants them for). The only thing that matched reality was the shifty eyed vender. At the bus station in Maicao (Colombia's border town) a kid brings you through a few doors until you get to a room with one guy behind a desk. Unlike the Colombian-Ecuadorian border money changers, these guys were legit. Their calculator gave me the rate I wanted and I was on my way.

I took a shared colectivo to Maracaibo with a family of Venezuelans from Caracas. The kid who helped me exchange my money told me the colectivo had AC. He lied. There I was, jam packed with 6 others for supposedly 3 hours in a gigantic rusty station wagon. All cars in Venezuela are giant and most are rusty. I can't justify the rust, but the size is cause it costs only 1 USD to fill up a full tank in a big ass car.

Crossing the actual border was probably the easiest one I've crossed so far. I just had to fill out a photocopied form, recieve a stamp and then was on my way. No x-ray of my bag, no search of my stuff, no nothing. Back in the colectivo, however, the reality of the situation arose. Apparently one of my co-passengers overstayed her visa to Colombia by a few days, so every checkstop we passed gave her a hard time. It wouldn't had been a big deal, except that we passed well over 10 checkstops within the first hour passed the border. Each time she argued with the cops which ended with her bribing them. Eventually our driver - a fat man with a sleazy moustache - said to give him the money and he'd do the bribing. I was happy cause he was much more efficient at it. And the officials didn't even care to look at the rest of our stuff once they had the bribe.

Once all the checkstops passed our car broke down. The driver assured me it was just a little problem. We drove at 10 km/hr for a good 45 minutes before it finally died. At this point our driver flagged down a cab for the family. I had to wait another 15 minutes before he could finally flag down a ride for me. I finished of my journey to Maracaibo in the back of a relatively new Ford pickup - not the ideal entrance into a city that has a reputation for crime and is not safe to go out after 5pm.

The truck dropped me off a few blocks away from the bus station, where I was to wait 8 hours for my night bus to Merida. At the bus station a pregnant girl shared some candy with me. First she asked me where I was from, then how long I've been travelling and finally if I have already had sex on my trip. Funny sequence of questions from a funny girl.

I almost missed my bus to Merida because I forgot to bump my watch forward. Thankfully the grumpy lady who sold me my ticket saw me and ran to the bus with me. She came with me not to show me where the bus was, but to secure me a seat. The first bus we tried was full, as was the second. It's a shame cause they were nice buses. The third bus was rickety as hell, so sure enough it had room.

The old man beside me didn't speak Spanish, he mumbled it. I couldn't understand a single word that guy said the whole trip. He never moved his lips, I think that was his problem. No biggie cause there's no need to chat on a night bus. Instead I tried to sleep while the leaky roof dripped water on my arm every time I started to drift off.

Once on the road we had to stop at 2 different checkstops. Here, not at the border, was my bag first x-rayed. At 2am we pulled into a gas station to fuel up and get some snacks. What looked like a routine stop turned into a 3 hour repair session. I stood outside the rickety bus and watched bus load after bus load of passengers get off and then back on their comfortable buses, then drive off into the darkness.

Finally, as the sun was rising, we all loaded our tired asses back on the bus towards Merida. Of coarse, my bus didn't go to Merida. I needed to catch a city bus for the last 45 minutes of the journey before reaching the beautiful Merida, nestled in the Andes. Beautiful Merida and her cool nights.

written by  ryanmyers on September 14, 2009 from Merida, Venezuela
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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Now everything has calmed down drug war wise and Jota is looking after some beach huts on the Carribean coast. He's living what we'd call the easy life, but he figures he's earned it after busting his butt in exile for over 9 yrs. Last year two Canadian brothers from Burlington entered his life and after falling in love with the place proposed setting up a surf school, which they officially did so this January by weasiling their way into a student visa.

In Santa Marta some sepos running a new hostal told me about the surf school, so I decided to check it out. I have only surfed once before, 9 yrs ago in Byron Bay on a longboard that you could safely take your family from Cuba to Miami on. With my lack of experience I chose to learn myself the ways of the board and after two days on the waves managed to catch many and wimpily stand up on one. Picture a kid first learning to walk - that's how cool I looked! ...except probably not as cute with my mullet. No worries though cause I caught the jist enough to want to try again when I get to Central America.

To be honest, I'm not sure what my Venezuelan experience will be like. There is one city which is supposed to be safe, so I'm gonna take 2 days to get there. Along the way I'll see if there are any cool places to stop off at. If it doesn't feel right then I'll probably leave within a week and jump back into Colombia.

As for jungle animals, I saw some big ass toads and tons of mozquitos n' sandflies. I can't imagine the correlation is coincidental. Now my feet are polk-a-dotted and puffy. Oh, there were also some beautiful butterflies and in the rivers there were fishies that liked to nibble on your sandfly bites. That was a little disturbing, yet oddly cute. Other then that there wasn't much fauna. The flora, however, was as abundant as it gets. Every tree was a host to 5 or so more species of plants, including vines, mosses and ferns. In the Lost City it really looked like a scene from Indiana Jones.

written by  ryanmyers on September 9, 2009 from Riohacha, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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The following three weeks, however, have disillusioned me. A Chilean girl I met actually warned me this would happen. The corruption, drugs and inflated gringo prices found in the main tourist areas has been getting to me. To be honest, I got used to being a novelty. Everywhere I've been (even the European influenced Argentina) I've been a novelty. In Colombia though, I've felt like a walking target. A lot of people in tourist areas aren't keen to chat and charge me prices that are outrageous in comparison to the cost of living in Colombia.

Last week I went to the Lost City with Jimmy and some English folk which marked the change for me and my experience in Colombia. The tour itself was hot and sweaty with short, but difficult hikes. The city itself was amazing in its own right, but not at all like Machu Picchu. Only 10% has been uncovered, despite much more being already discovered. This is because the natives (who still frequent the paths and live traditionally) have deemed the rest to be sacred and want left as is. And even in the 10% that is uncovered and restored, there is thick rain forest vegetation that isolates visibility of any given spot to itself. A true imagination is needed to view the city as a giant center of an ancient culture.

Anywho, this wasn't the changing point I'm slowly closing in on - just a prelude to where I was and what was happening. Our group had 15 people, 11 of which decided to finish the hike a day early. Jimmy, 2 Aussies and I wanted to take our time and finish it in 6 days. After all, we paid for 6 days, so that'd save me a days accomodation and food.

During the second last day it was just the 4 of us at the final camp. Jimmy and I heard about a waterfall nearby that you can jump 10m off of into a small lagoon, so took off in search of it. A young guy clearing some land said his dad can show us the fall if we go to his house up the road.

At the mud brick house was an older man sitting in a homemade chair apparently doing nothing. Behind him was a few ladies casually mustering around. Jimmy and I - sporting a moustache and a mullet respectively - inquired about the waterfall and the old man went searching for someone to help us get there. I figured it'd just be by the river and easy to get to.

Another old and bearded man showed up. Alfredo was his name and the first guy was his brother. Alfredo put on his rubber boots (apparently standard gear that the locals wear in this region - natives included) and had us follow him down the steepest mud path you could possibly walk on before you'd call it a slide. Along route I started asking the old man as many questions about him as I could think of. I just wanted to chat with the guy after spending so much time with gringos. He mostly fed me short, direct answers. At the bottom we scaled an intricate path amongst the rocks that you'd only know if you owned the land. We arrived at the base of one of the most beautiful waterfalls I've ever seen. I'm sure this would never win a competition against Angel Falls or Iguazu, but these falls were Alfredo's private falls on his land. You can't take a bus here, pay a park entrance and snap some photos with your cup of joe. This set of breathtaking waterfalls were Alfredo's and can only be found if you introduce yourself to the man.

He told us to be careful on the slippery rocks, but assured us we could walk under the falls. What a rush!! Right underneath the falls it was hard to breath with the water surging past causing the air to scream by.

This wasn't the place to jump, just a place Alfredo wanted to show us. He had us follow him scaling the up the rocks to the jumping spot. When walking towards the area there was a log sticking out of the water that looked like a mother holding a baby. Not important, but seemed to echo the natural beauty found here. On both sides were rock faces going straight up for countless meters meeting by a single waterfall feeding the deep lagoon.

Alfredo told us we had to scale straight up the rock to get to the jumping point, so Jimmy started climbing as though to get it over with. To be honest, I don't think it was 10m high, but it was high enough that any hesitation to jump would surely leave you chickening out. It was high enough to get the adrenaline pumping too. Although, I think the secluded pristine setting added to the euphoria we felt after flying off the rock face.

After our first jumps our white haired friend stipped down into his boxers and dived in, swimming to the waterfall for a refreshing shower.

On the way back to the house Alfredo started chatting with us, telling us that he owned the land from the waterfalls up to the top of the mountain for the last 27 years. He showed us his out-of-commission fish farm, the chicken coop he's building and all of the fruit trees he has. He farms cacau and coffee. The latter we got to taste when we got back to the house and spent some time chatting with the family and joking around.

Alfredo didn't want anything from us for the guided tour of his property. Instead he gave me the freshest cup of coffee in my life and introduced me and Jimmy to his family. What a cool dude.

This was definitely a highlight of my trip. Two days later offered me a second experience that makes me believe my experience in Colombia is changing.

Colombia beat Ecuador a the World Cup Qualifier game lengthening their chance at making it to South Africa. After that win they're tied with Argentina and Ecuador for the final spot. While walking back from the internet Jimmy and I heard some drums beating at an upstairs joint - the same drums we heard from our hostel when we watched the game. We stopped, looked at each other and both knew we were going there before either of us spoke.

Inside we were the only white folk and got a lot of curious looks for it - a good sign that we're welcome. I think these types of experiences are only possible when you have one, two or three people. Big groups are intimidating.

The band was all percussion and rocked!! The played afro-beats that'd make the most prude of people bobbing their head. The crowd inside was enthusiastic as hell and dancing in ways that would be inappropriate back home. Our waitress pulled us onto the dance floor to everyone's amusement - they loved it! We knew they were laughing at us, but it was to everyone's benefit and more and more people came on the floor to show us some new moves and dance with us. And we danced having a ball. But they kept telling us to dance, which we soon realised meant move your hips. Their version of dancing couldn't be described without words like gyrate or grind or hump - and EVERYONE danced like this!! The old men, the middle aged women, the fat lady and especially the 15 yr old girl. Man, she's going to be recruited to dance in a rap video shortly. Jail bait, that is.

As long as the band was playing, Jimmy and I kept the beer flowing and our hips moving. I'd be lying if I said I could remember having more fun dancing than there. They wouldn't allow otherwise. By the time we left we had a few drunks filling our table with drunk talk.

After our stint there Jimmy and I met up with the English to head out for the night. The first club rejected us, so I cut my losses and went back to the hostel happy with the night I already had. Man, that was such a weird combo - some of the most sexual dancing I've seen, yet it was also innocent fun.

written by  ryanmyers on September 6, 2009 from Santa Marta, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
tagged Waterfall and AfroBeats
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Yesterday I went to a soccer game with Harry and his buddy Joe. En route from the metro to the stadium we were followed like the paparazzi behind a naked Angelina Jolie. Except they didn't want pictures so much as coins and cigarettes. We met a couple of young locals and they accompanied us into the stadium and showed us where they liked to sit - way up in the cheap seats with the roudies! I was happy to be with some locals because some of the crowd didn't look too friendly. They continually asked us for smokes and coins (which baffled me because they all were sitting in the same seats as us - why beg to us??) and when I told them I don't smoke they looked pissed.

Throughout the game some more friendly people came by and chatted with us - explaining which players are good and that I am lucky I didn't come on Saturday wearing my red shirt cause I would have been beaten up. The opposition today had yellow and luckily Harry changed out of his yellow shirt just before we left for the game. Damn lucky! Joe, on the other hand, got it right. He wore green - like Los Nacionales, the home team.

Throughout the game everyone remained standing, continuously chanting along to songs that made it hard to believe the home team couldn't win. The yellows scored first, but that wasn't important because everyone chanted more fiercely with lyrics like "We have to win; We can't lose!"

After a while I realised why we were sitting where we were - the fumes from the pot everyone was smoking would blow out of the stadium with the night's nice cool wind. Plus, it was a great place for the boys to bark and whistle at girls passing by outside the stadium. Mmm, that's right, I haven't mentioned that yet. There was probably only 3 girls in the whole section. It was testosterone filled, so when a new girl entered the section all eyes turned as though we were all in a restaurant waiting for our food on empty stomaches. Eyes turned like the girl was the first plate of food being served. And in case you couldn't feel the testosterone, there was a mosh pit during the game too. Just to make it blatently obvious this was a manly event.

I was happy to see Los Nacionales win the game 4-2 - an exciting match too! Although our young friend told us the opposition lost before the game started. haha, that confidence seemed to be a norm amongst the fans. The bonus of the win was it'd make for a safer return to the metro.

written by  ryanmyers on August 13, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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Thankfully though, that was where the hike began. Today I learned why climbing Everest must be a bitch. The altitude alone can be a bitch and climbing uphill is never easy, but the killer was the relentless wind! When my Great Aunt Irene died there was an incredible blizzard, so we never watched the coffin let down. Instead we ran from the car to the funeral home gagging from the wind. That's what it felt like trying to breath here, except I was 5,125m above sea level and walking uphill. Sure, it was only a 1km walk with only a 300m increase in altitude, but it took close to an hour to walk it!

At the top the snow was fresh and I felt energized - on top of the world! Plus, the walk down (well, more of a skip) took only 10 minutes. :) The tour finished off by relaxing in some hot springs - you could tell it was the real deal from the wonderful sulfuric egg smell. I was a little shy to walk into the pool cause my torso is covered with 40 bed bug bites from Bogotá (I counted in the shower today). Once in the water though, all was good. Muy tranquilo.

written by  ryanmyers on August 11, 2009 from Manizales, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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The border between Ecuador and Colombia is notorious for scams and tricks, so when I arrived I was more cautious than normal. Some other Canucks I met told me that some thieves even dress up as cops to "inspect" your passport before taking off. In hindsight that'd be pretty impressive to pull it off considering the overwhelming police presence, all decked out in riot gear.

Over the my trip I've made it a habit to always ask several people what a good exchange rate or cab fair is ahead of time. I mean, the last person to tell you a fair price is the cabi or the money changer. Armed with knowledge that 2000 pesos to the dollar is fair, the money changers slowly offered me better rates from 1800 to 1900 to 1980 and finally 1990. The money changer pulled out a calculator from his fanny pack and showed me that US $80 times 1990 is roughly 132,000. That looked funny to me because 80 x 2000 is 160,000. The number should be relatively close, so I walked away, got my passport stamped and did my own calculation. It should be 159,200. I showed him how his calculator is magically wrong and that my math skills are old school, but sound. He reluctantly agreed and counted out my money. When I recounted the money he gave me there was only 132,000. I dunno how 25,000 kept disappearing. It must have been an honest mistake. Reluctantly he gave me the rest of my money and I hopped in a cab with some New Zealanders and an Austrian into the nearest town.

We dropped the Kiwis off in the centre and continued on to the bus terminal. The Austrian's guide book said US $1 is a fair price from there, but we were willing to pay $2. After all, we are tourists. But the driver was insistant that $4 is normal. He educated us that we are in Colombia now, not Ecuador. Thank you. The price of gas is much more expensive here and the 1km to the bus terminal is considered a very long ride for a cab. Interesting. After much arguing at the terminal he said, "Alright ask another cab driver!" Gladly, the Austrian walked up to another cab, turned to a local leaning on the fence and asked him. Sure enough, $1 to $1.50 is normal!! So we gave the sleazy cabi $2 that is more than fair and left. He didn't follow us or even shout at us walking away - and believe me, if there was a problem he would have!

Thankfully every other Colombian I've met since then has been incredibly nice and friendly. I even chatted with a friendly father and his son on the bus all the way from the border to Pasto. He told me to email him the next time I'm in town. And in all honesty, I'm still very happy to be in Colombia!

written by  ryanmyers on August 7, 2009 from Pasto, Colombia
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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I took the cheapest bus I could find from Lima to Tacna - a 17 hour bus ride. Sometimes I'm too stubborn and cheap for my own good cause whenever you take a bus overnight or over 15 hours you should spend a little more for the added comfort.

I ended up sitting by a 37 yr old Peruvian who looked 27. He smiled and said "Shhhhh!" when he told me his age. I tried to chat, but it was obvious that my Spanish is still stunted cause we couldn't understand each other very well.

After the pit stop for dinner I noticed my bus buddy smelled like he just smoked an oregano cigarette. After a short bit with the lights off he seemed to be sleeping sound with the help of his herb. I, on the other hand, could not. The seat was stiff, the 4 young kids around us were crying, whining or banging on their seat and inside my stomache a little cramp was developing that needed some relief. If I was to sleep I had to relieve the pressure down below!

In the bathroom I encountered some bad news that made me freeze. The toilet wouldn't flush. I stared at the toilet and shook my head. There was a bang on the door, so I tried to flush again, but the water was out!! Seriously, what bad luck. Panicking, I found two plastic bags in my hoodie, scooped up my warm mess and hucked it out the window in two full loads!

Opening the door I saw everyone staring at me with their shirts covering their noses!! Ooowee, did I feel bad. Back in my seat I asked my bus buddy in a whisper if we were allowed to drop a deuce in the toilet and he burst out laughing. heh heh, that answers that question. While filling him in on what I did, one of the nose-covered suffurers from the back told the bus driver of my dirty deed. My bus buddy told me that meant I'd have to clean it up. Worse things have happened.

Thank god the next stop was only 15 minutes away cause I just wanted to get this over with. I went to the washroom and explained to the lady that I didn't want to pay to use the washroom. I just wanted a bucket of water and a crap load of TP. As soon as she figured out why I wanted that she burst out laughing. And, to be honest, cleaning the toilet wasn't that bad. I did most of the work earlier with my plastic bags. When I returned the bucket the washroom lady was laughing even harder. A bunch of the folk sitting near the back were there, so I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help but crach a smile.

Once on the bus again I slept like a baby.

written by  ryanmyers on August 5, 2009 from Quito, Ecuador
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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To be honest, I'm not hoping to spend much time in Ecuador cause I'm booking it up to Colombia to meet the self titled Harry "American Thunder Nutz" Kleeman. haha, I miss that guy! En route I decided to make a quick detour to Huancayo to visit Cecilia and brand spanking new baby. They are afterall my Peruvian family! Plus, it also served as a nice way to recouperate my body after a solid 2 days in buses and terminals. I remember dreaming in Huancayo of how it'd be like to return after some time on the road and to have different eyes. However, I never expected Huancayo to feel so much like ...home!

This experience was strikingly similar like family vacations to Saskatchewan. I recognized road stops, landmarks and was going to visit some people whom I'd like to see much more often. This sensation left me with nothing less than a confident smile. I truly forgot how it felt to have my bearings. To know where everything was. To not have to ask people where to find a bakery, bus station or a bank. And to know what street was coming next. I could walk around freely without the fear of getting lost! What's more is I could understand everyone! heh heh, that's right, I don't have to go home to get these sensations!!

It was a treat to have Cecilia's niece Ximena greet me at the door. She's an 8 yr old brat that can take it as well as she can dish it. It's much easier to make fun of her with my bigger vocabulary! Cecilia's mom, Jesus, was already cooking lunch for us. Ooowee, did I miss her cooking! Mm-mm!
And I got a great big hug from Cecilia. I was a little surprised to see her face so tired, but it quickly dawned on me that she did just have a baby less than two weeks earlier. I was especially excited to see Guillermo cause you could always tell he wanted to talk more, but the language barrier was, well, a barrier. So when he got home from work on his new motorbike we swapped stories of the last 5 months and chatted like old friends.

I also got my watch fixed in Huancayo, but the kid messed up the hands. When the minute hand points at 12, the hour hand obscurely points inbetween two different hours. So I don't know what time it really is now. I figure I should header and catch my bus though. heh heh, not like it'll leave on time though.

written by  ryanmyers on August 2, 2009 from Lima, Peru
from the travel blog: Ryan's First Sabbatical
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