adventures from down south - kipmaddog

weeww and i never though b.o. go this bad......
Bogota, Colombia
I wake up in a bed that is made for a smerf and a blanket that is made for a small hairy dog. I am in Particia´s casa. Patricia, or Pato, which ever you prefer lives in the northern district of Bogota. She is a fellow couchsurfing whose house I am staying at presently. She lives by herself in a three bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a building I seem to get lost in everytime I leave her place. I have been up since 7:30 in the morning, I don´t know whether its the altitude or my my eagerness to begin my mental documentation of my philosophical journey through south america. Patricia is sweet and caring and reminds me of a grandma´s warm-heartedness. She might as well have been giving me cookies and milk and a large, itchy knitted sweater that morning. Instead she takes me thoug the city, Colombian-style.
When you wait for a bus in Colombia, there are no timetables and the bus does not stop at designated stops. Approaching the horizon one spots a bus heading at you at 50 mph in a crowded street. The bus swerves in between traffic as it makes its way toward you. Oh yeah and there dosent appear to be any lines in the road. Traffic appears to be a giant tour de france, as cars cut each other off and other race ahead. We flag a bus down, it hits it breaks and as we step on the bus, the bus takes off before you can take you second step up into it. RAGGEATONE music blasts from the speakers near the driver. One doesnt put one´s money for the fare in the slot. You actually hand it to the bus driver, and this one was driving, breaking change, and holding all of the money from the xisting fares in one hand as the other grasped the steering wheel. And were off...... I sit in the front and immediately eyes are stuck on me...I know it every Colombian behind me has their eyes stuck on me thinking "who the hell is this 6 foot 3 gringo with a flock of seagulls haircut?" and I am thinking "why is everyone looking at me like I have a pimple the size of a large mole in the middle of my forehead?"
I have never been much of a meat eater, yet that has all changed in a matter of a a day. A woman slaps down a plate of steaming hot food in front of my mug and I dig in. I have no clue what it is, Id say there was X meat, Y meat, and Z meat, with a fried egg, rice, and an avocado..I shovel the food down and dowse it all with enough hot sauce to kill whatveer is in this shit so I dont start peeing out the rear end on day 1.
That night we are walking through the center of the city with some fellow couchsurfers doing a bit of charit work. I am the man carrying this huge cooler on my back which contains a sweet tea-like substance called aguapanella. There are about ten of us and we split off into two groups, one cooler in each group and about 100 pieces of pan each. Hmmm...is this really such a good idea, strollling the streets of Bogota at 9 pm at night walking through dark alleys and pimp n. hoe street corners?? I block my doubts and we carry on. Along the trek we gave out the beverage and pan to homeless, single mothers with three teeth lying on the side walk with a baby in their arms, men with no arms, no even able to collect the change people give them, and the general homeless. I have never done anything like it before and it was quite a warm-hearted experience.
At the end of our treak through the city I am walking along with fellow couchsurfers and all of a sudden I see this shadow creeping up behind me. immediately I feel something brush the Dekline backpack I am carryng. I flip around like a damn soldier on the battlefield and this shaddy looking fellow backs off me super quick and pulls the brim of his hat down over his face...as if this fool was james bond. Anyway, he was trying to snatch somehting in my backpack and yep ill put a tally up on the board for my first time I was almost pick-backpacketed. Ha!. i suppose there is a first for everything...and I was quite lucky there wasnt seconds or thirds that night. the rest of the night went quite smooth.......i will continue.. i must go because i am about to find the house of my second couchsurfer and it is going to be dark in about an hour.....yikes!
written by  kipmaddog on July 16, 2009 from Bogota, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south

the thug life, bogota style
Bogota, Colombia
Walking through the streets of el centro in Bogota, I feel as though a muffler of a car is shoved down my throat and the driver happens to be flooring the damn engine.I stop at a street side vendor and tell him puedo tener un arrepa de pollo biiaaaatch! He says queso solamente. Gosh, I need some damn protien man, I been walking your streets, can´t a brother get some nutrients for his musculos! I settle for a cheese arrepa. My body better get used to all of this bread and meat. I need to stay regular and to be honest that is not going to happen. My diet has consisted of meat, meat, bread, meat, cheese, meat, and more bread. Man, do I love being healthy! Next, i hike up to the NE to an older district called ¨Candelaria¨. It´s the oldest part of town I was toldd, and its quite apparent. Rustic buildings line, narrow cobble stone streets, old men drag their old legs down the street, hunched over old wooden canes, and children play at will, giggling as I walk by. After 30 minutes of trugging around the Candelaria district on a giant uphill slope, I stop in a restaraunt and ask for the almuerzo economico. The cost is 4500 pesos, about $2.50 (USD). A steaming bowl of green soup is slopped down in front of my mug by an old man, with a droopy, wetahered face, and a charlie chaplin'_like mustache. It tatses like a mixture between split'pea soup and chicken noodle soup with a douse of pineapple juice. The soup warms me. In between each spoonful i take a sip of juice and its also green. I have no clue what the hell it is....once again...it´s thick like a smoothie and tatses like gatorade.
The cold, dry air lifts my soul, as light sprinkles hit the pages of my diary. I am whitnessing the most panoramic view of a city these eyes have seen. Somehow 5 million people have been able to cram into this small space down below. I am about 2,000 feet above the city and I have just ridden the mosarati up to the tallest mountain in the city. What a place for spiritual bliss and meditation. i was expecting the dali lama to come walking by any minute telling my something by beginning ¨My son......¨. And now my legs no longer feel the effects of the walking from the morning. Taking an orange gonola_like cart up the mountain, 25 people are crammed into this cart and driven to the top. At the top sits an ancient church. It begins to rain and a cool, dry air chaps my face. i seem to be the only gringo up here...hmmmm. what a suprise! I like it that way though.....no meat_heads, dudemanbros, fukin_aers, or famous stars and strap wanna_be tough guys. Behind this vast expanse of the city sits mass of green, lush mountains. I was told that in Colobia, even as high elevation, there are absolutely no seasons. .....I see why.. Its now the middle of so_called winter and the trees are so green the look artifical.
written by  kipmaddog on July 17, 2009 from Bogota, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south

tiajuana is disneyland compared to this sector of town........
Bogota, Colombia
Jimi Hendrix blues, "Born Under a Bad Sighn" cranking into my ears........i pound the keys..
I stop by an internet cafe and hit up some fellow couchsurfers for a possible place to crash in San Gil, my next stop. From what I´ve heard, San Gil is a bitchin little town of a couple thousand people, wedged in the center of green, lush, rolling hills. The town is about a 7 hour bus ride through the colombian Andes, directly northeast of Bogota. I call a couchsurfer named Deisy. She is a girl whom a dude I went to middle and high school with hung out with in Medellin (A town north west of Bogota about 10 hours. I plan on going here in about 2 weeks, nut I must get a head start and make plans way in advance, for the Colombians are almost too laid back and one must plan weeks in advance). I use a cellphone from a booth on the street. All over Bogota, cellphones ready for use at street vendors booths. You slap 200 pesos or about 18 cents into the palm of the street vendors hand for every minute you use is early 1990´s cellphone (zach morris style big). she answers, but speaks practically no English. I do my best to understand her and in the end I am victorious. I inform her that I will be in Medellin in two weeks for La Festival de las Flores, or the flower festival. To the average beef-cake, meat-headed, dude-bro, in San Diego, this would translate to a sketchy invitation to a homosexual parade. To the Colombians it is a celebration of the colorful beauty of nature.
My next decision is to transfrom my soul into Bear Gyrohls and attempt an "adventure" through the entire downtown city of Bogota. I must travel by foot, in an attempt to make it to Ivanosio´s pad before it gets dark, and the shadyness of Bogota will be kicked up a notch or two. He told me it woul dtake 45 minutes. No problem I think...Well actualy there is a small problem, I sure as hell am not Colombian (by blood, some might think by apperance) and I have no fricken clue how to navigate through the city yet. I pass through a large financial district with large, metallic buildings. Colombian buisness men walk by reeking of cheap aftershave and mobing wool suits from the 1980´s (in the U.S.). i pass young colege kids wearing Metallic and Guns n´ Roses t-shirts (music must be about the sound and not the lyrics...the lyrics are in English for cyring out loud!) I pass through dirt choked slums, where prostitures stand on street corners in Courtney Love-like outfits and lipstick that looks like it was put on by a two-year-old. It starts to rain and I pull up the collar around my tattered wool sweater and press on. 45 minutes into my journey and hey ivanosio, man, I still haven´t made it, are you suprised? I sure as hell am not! I have no clue where I am. I think back to every American stereotype of Colombia ans SHIT, reality hits me...I am in downtown Bogota, it´s raining, and to put the icing on the cake, it´s going to be dark in 45 minutes. I suppose arriving at my destination should earn me a blue ribbon, a trophy, or maybe even a purple heart from some get r done american military general. Another hour goes by, heaven shines it´s light upon me, and I make it! Wait there´s the fitness center, where Colombian women mob neaon spandex outfits from the 80´s, and wannabe Shakira¨s stare at themselves in the large rusted mirrors. I stumble into a local Colombian hangout on the corner near Ivanosio´s house, prop my feet up on a stool, and order a cold one for 45 cents. Nearby two weathered looking old men play a board game and sip steaming Colombian coffee. Middle-aged women sit next to me dressed up in wacky neon outfits and bright pink lipstick. They sip someting called ¨Nectar Cub¨, I have no clue what the heck it is. They pour the liquid out of HI-C like juice boxes into Ny-Quil-like plastic cups. The light rain patters the window and I take a sigh. I am the only gringo in here and I love it.
written by  kipmaddog on July 18, 2009 from Bogota, Colombia
from the travel blog: adventures from down south

rollercoaster bus ride, farm life, despues paradise in 79 degreee water
San Gil, Colombia
After Ivan drops me off at the bus station, i go walking confidently, chin up, chest out, eyes on the horizon, into the Bogota bus terminal. You see, one must always act like you do this on a daily basis. If not, herds of youngsters hound you selling decorative bracelets, packs of middle-aged men come at you screaming "Santa Marta Aqui!!", Medellin Aqui!"...yada yada.. These men want you to go with their buses. You see, they get a cut for the kaniving manipulation of an invitating you to their bus. If one does not play their cards right, one could easily pay double the price that a local would pay for an average bus ride to their city of choice. I pay my fee of 30.000 mil pesos or about 14 US Dollars and sit to wait. My bus leaves at 1145 at night, and its now 845. I sit, take my sweat boots off, peel my sticky socks off my feet and crack open a Howard Zinn book. Howard Zinn is a historian, political scientist, and in a nutshell he is a liberator of the unspoke, the underdogs, the stepped-on people of all societies. In a nutshell he argues, why we must admire national heroes from 1st grade that are actually tyrants, murders, malicious greed-filled, war-mongerers, and wealthy landowners who set out to fulfill their own interests? Instead why not look to humanitarian-like people, cures of diseases, and donators of the good cause? Freedom, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness..If a government does not meet these minimal standards for the masses of people, then it is up to the people to use the means necessary to make sure that these needs are met. You see a government is only in place to fulfill the needs of the people..... He goes on with more interesting points but the main conclusion is that the Declaration of Independence actually states that it is up to the people to make sure their needs are met, not the government. The documen tthat our general rights and liberties rest on to this present day and people must come to recognize what they have a right to. They must not only have an opinion, but turn that opinion and or intellectual knowledge into a form of action...anyway interesting shit....
After a 7 hour bus ride through the night to a city called San Gil, I arrive. The entire bus ride was filled with roller-coaster-like turns, pot-holes in the road the size of a small kiddies swimming pool, and what seemed like mass amounts of drunk-drivers on the road. By the way, along the journey, my bus driver actually side swipped another bus, and straight up scrapped against it, and all one could hear was the sound of one of the 2 busses mirros exploding in the night. The lady sitting across from me screams, "Vamos rapido!" yeah, no shit lady, ill be lucky to make it out of this one alive! I wasnt able to sleep at alll through this madness. Th bus driver pulls up to San Gil just at sunrise and drops me off. Last night I had contatced a fellow couchsurfer named Andres. He said I could stay at his place, a farm located up in the Colombian hills of rolling, lush and green jungle. I walk about 2 miles with a good 45 pound pack to the main part of town. I call Andres, and he tells me to call him back around 930. At the moment Im dizzy and fog-eyed. I havent slept in 24 hours (lets jut say as an understatement it was partly the bus-ride!) i walk to the center square where there is a large fountaun. I fall asleep on a bench as morning and the heat progresses. I wake up 2 hours later to a mass of locals in the center square. toothless old men are sipping coffee, vendors are setting up their stations of jewlrey made of cheap fishing line and scrapped beads, children are playing with the birds I am so damn delirious, I need to find a place to crash now! I throw my pack up on my shoulders, take a breath, and set off for 2 possible hostles. I think, how do i know this guy Andres hasnt changed his mind? If he has, Im screwed. I make my way up 2 incredibly steep hills...Both hostels are booked. I walk back down to my bench and does off again. I soon wake up, cotton-mouthed, and trek over to a place to call Andres. He tells me to wait there and he will pick me up on his motorcycle. Andres shows up 45 minutes later and Iknow immediately this is one of the most kind man I have ever met. His grin is from ear to ear, he is laughing as he talks to me, and I almost feel as though this man was paid to show this form of kindess. I soon learn I am wrong. He is a simple man who lives on a farm with two dogs, and his daughter. He is an Electrical Engineer and teaches at a smnall university in town. He throws my pack on his motorcycle, I strap on a helmet, and were off to his place. I have never ridden a motorcycle before. With the wind nipping at my clothes, my arms around Andres waist, I experienced a feeling of comlete useless helplessness. Riding a motorcyle, at least for me as a first-timer, felt like the feelin gone would get in the face of a bear in the woods, or in the face of a robber at ones door. I was helpless, alive and the motorcycle was taking me through life. I had no control over whether we crashed or someone hit us as we halled-ass through winding roads. We turned off on a dirst road and followed it one mile up into the rolling hills. Andres house is located on a farm. He has an electric shower, two dogs (one of which needs to go to rehab for her addiction to fetching sticks), one motorcycle,and that is all he needs. A realization came over me that this main had the most basic, bear-necessities, and he could not stop laughing or smiling all day long. That night I lay in his hamoc, not a light of civilization around, thunder approaching on the horizon... Soon it began to rain, and slowly dozed off to an enternity of noise-less comfort.
After a 14 hour day of ridning buses I eneded up on the Carribean coast. Yes, pirates do live here, they like to drink rum, and they have gold teeth. I arrived in Santa Marta at 11 at night, at least the bus station. I ended up walking 5 miles with a 45 pund pack through the stickiest heat I have ever encountererd. I encountered a local boy in an alley along my journey who ened up walking with me most of the way to show me my hostel. I awoke this morning to a liter of water, 5 oranges, two cups of coffee, and a piece of bread for about a dollar fifty. Now I feel like Hemmingway in THe East Of Eden...just went for a swim in almost 80 degree water, took a nap, layed in a hammock, and cracked open a Spanish novel....I am living a life of Kip Madden.
written by  kipmaddog on July 21, 2009 from San Gil, Colombia

Pirates of the Carribean 4
Santa Marta, Colombia
For my own peace of mind and others readin.....I got the right cable for the camera, pictures will be up in the next day or so. Woke up to fresh slices of papaya I knabbed off a street vednor for 40 cents, a cup of steamming Colombian coffee (negra of course), and a piece of bread that more or less tasted like a buttery criosant. Today I met two girls while reading in a hostel. One of them was a shorter half Japanese half Peruvian lady. The other was a an Irish girl with a lightly freckeeld face. They both happen to live in California; quite the small world! They were young, giggly, and didnt seem like they had traveled much even though they had claimed to have been all over much of South America. They kept complaining that they needed to shower every half an hour and much of the food wasnt good enough for them. Overall they were quite niave and much too idealistic.I hope they dont ened up in a situation where they need to call mommy and daddy at home. Every city they planned on going to was made out to be like a vacation in a 5 star resort in the Bahamas: "We¨ll buy dresses , get our nails painted..." im thinking, listen, you are traveling off of mommy and daddys money, through a third world country, wearing pink flip flops, flashing your camera around in barrios pobres, and could be on the next missing persons list if you are not careful! Not that Im a jerk, but you girls need to cut the mall-girl attitudes and tuffen the heck up.
That night I went into a local eatery on a hot sticky night. It was at least 95 degrees, I felt like I was in a steam room, but instead of the fresh smelling eucalyptic oil, its carne saturating my pores.
Along with some other people from the hostel, I prop down in a cafe on one of the busiest street corners in Santa Marta. A wild-fire -like grill is roaring 10 yards away , as 40 plus chickens roast on sceewers. I begin to pour sweat. Im thinking, "if im in this shit-hole for more than another 15 minutes, im going to see stars and faint."
I was sweating more fluids than I could drink. I walk up to order and a the workings of a Colombian brawl were in the works. An old man, eating with his family had apparently gotten in a dispute with the chef right before we arrived. A two year old child had more teeth than this dude. All of a sudden the old man stumbles out of his chair, the smell of rum and stale cigarette smoke on his breath, and swings a right hook! The chef ducks, luckily the old man was too drunk and couldnt hit a damn thing. Immediately all hell breaks loose. the old man starts spitting an cursing at the chef. The chef attempts to Bruce Lee jump over the counter, cooking thongs in hand, reading to beat the crap out of this old man, and make this 2 toothed old man become a one toothed man. All I hear is abunch of "pinchi mierdas!" 3 kitchen girls try to restrain the chef as the old man continues to taunt the chef. Theres a look of a blood thirsty pit-bull in the chefs eyes, and im thinking, if this chef gets over the counter, shit is going to his them fan. Luckily the cops show up (yes, in Colombia they do have some order) and it works out. From what I could make out of the Spanish it appeared as though the old man felt the chef had jipped him on his portion size and he didnt want to pay the full price for his meal.
Well, in Colombia, they speak Spanish. However, depending on what part of Colombia you are in the dialects of Spanish are different. An appropriate analogy would be to compare the different dialects of Californians, to midwesterners, to people in the south, to someone living in the ghetto in New York City. So right, now I am staying in Santa Marta, righ ton the coast. In Bogota, the spanish was slower and easier to understand. However, on the coast, there are Spanish words that do not exist in translating dictionaries. The Spanish from Bogota drives a ford pinto, almost out of gas. The people of the coast, or the Castellanos ( i think the splleing is right?) Spanish, drives a well-greased ferrari engine. My Spanish felt on the level of an intellectual in Bogota, here I feel like a retard.
written by  kipmaddog on July 23, 2009 from Santa Marta, Colombia

I met Mr. Does Equis, "The most interesting Man in the World"
Taganga, Colombia
I stumbled across the Dos Equis man, or better known as the most interesting man in the world. Sitting back, calm and relaxed with narrow intelligent eyes, salt n´ pepper hair, and smooth porclain-like skin, with a simple ordinary name of Brian. With only the bottom of his shirt buttomed and his khaki pants rolled halway up his calfs, this man gave off the aura of a sophisticated Ivy League graduate, the confidence of a gigalo, and the weather-worn secrecy of a retired CIA spy. Somehow this dude was sitting in my hostel, crossing the same space, at the same time. He was amongst a hostel of youngsters, yet he appeared to be 50. He was rapping it up with a local man who owned the place. Slouched back in a chair, slowly nodding his head as he spoke to the owner, he conversed. It was something in his eyes that intrigued me. In them appeared to be reflections of a harsh past not too many war vetrans can compare to. I started conversation with him when I he over herad me speaking to someone about a city, Cartagena, which is quite near Santa Marta. "Cartagena", he looks at me....you want to go there? Ive been there a couple of times he says with confidence. I had been there for maybe 60 seconds top and immediately I was sucked into the layed back, weathered, sophistication this man emitted. I knew he was in a category of people I had never met before. He went on to tell me he made a living making maps. He made maps for GPS systems and he was able to travel the world doing it. He soon began to tell me a number of stories that an ex "blood" from LA would have. Locked in a paddy wagon in Mexico City about to be excecuted for simply being in the wrong part of town at the worst time. Or when his girlfriend tried to stab him. Or when he was kidnapped near Rioacha Colombia and escaped. Or when he became responsible for the largest drug bust of any foreigners in the ancient town of Cartagena. This man was a humanitarian, bulldog for the good cause and had a stream of endless stories that could go on long after the last embers of the camp fire vanished. Or on that day I met him, both of his neighbors were shot point blank in the temple at noon, 10 blocks away.
I am highly interested in teaching some English in exchange for being taught Spanish in the town of Medellin, an artsy, somewhat sophisticated town tucked in the green hills of the northwest of Colombia.
Secondly, I might volunteer in Ecuador, outside of Banos. There are kids. They are poor, malnourished, might need a little help from a white boy from San Diego, and will get some of it if my patience dosent run dry with the little rascals!
written by  kipmaddog on July 24, 2009 from Taganga, Colombia

Culture is progress
Santa Marta, Colombia
I have been taken by a waterfall of exhilarating tastes: tradding coins for empanadas and arrepas in the streets....tasting homemade, salty Colombian soup followed by meat and more meat....juicy papaya in the hot afternoon sun.."fast-food", Colombian-style: a mess of people in red plastic chairs, sticking out on a street corner in the middle of the night, making sumani pizzas with hotdog toppings...juice green and chunky, looking like barf, yet tasting like a two glasses of heaven in one...learning to eat meat like its a dman vitamin (at least 1-2 times a day)...sleepless bus-rides, smeeling exhaust, with neck cramps and crying babies......body jerking with the switch of the rusty clutch into 2nd gear..staring out at the sea, 7 floors up..walking through alleys of quiet streets, the shade of night pulled tight...
written by  kipmaddog on July 25, 2009 from Santa Marta, Colombia

The city made in defense of ´pirates
Cartagena, Colombia
Cartegana is a highly diversified architectural town, tucked right along the Carribean coast. During the time of Spanish colonial rule, the city was used as storage grounds for large amounts of gold that the Spanish Conquistadors found in the area. Over a couple of years Cartagena became known as having the largest stockpile of riches along the entire Carribean coast. Soon, word got around and pirates began to steal the gold and send black-flagged fleets to Cartagena to rape, pilage and burn all that they could. In defense, the Spanish enslaved many of the local indigenous peoples and built large walls, say 60 feet high, so that the pirates would have a tough time attacking the city. Every 100 feet, sticking out of these large stony walls were cannons, aimed and ready to defend the Spanish gold. SO, in present day when one is walking around Cartagena many of the buildings have a Spanish-colonial look to them. They are colored in dulled yellows and oranges. Balconies overlook the thin, narrow streets below. All in all the city is built like a giant labyrinth-maze, sort of fortress. King Arthur could have lived here.
I arrived in Cartagena at about 11am, after a 2 hour bus ride from Baranquilla. Boy, was I glad to leave that hellish couchsirfing expereince, the only bad one so far, thank moses. A nerdy-weirdo who couldnt hold a conversation with an orangatang. Mickey was his name and he was dating a 20 year old Colombian girl whose family desperately wanted her to marry him (gee, go figire....citizenship baby!). I"m sure sshes dump his bald ass before they even left the Catholic Chapel after the ceremony. He claimes, as I was using his computer, that he could hack into just about anything and it was quite easy to obtain personal information, passwords of any kind. He could read someones most personal stuff, if it was ona computer he claimed. He knew how, but couldnt prove it to me, nor did he seem like he wanted to. i left it at that. He ddint speak a word of Spanish and his girlfired hardly spoke a word of English. This intenfified the wierd factor. Hmmmm 50 year old, computer nerd, who didint leave his house for days, was in Colombia dating a 20 year-old girl. They could hardly communicate, at least verbaly. for crying out loud! On top of all this he says that his Visa was expired and yet he was still living in Colombia. He gave me another one of those..."o yeah, its possible, but Im not going to tell you how".... Yeah right buddy! He was like Napolean dynamites dad, yet more dorky. His voice sounded like a robot. When he looked at you, you felt like you were looking into the small black eyes of a crow. I would say, "So Mickey, what do you do for fun?" He"d respond by saying, "I dont know, why do you want to know so bad?" (im just trying to make conversation a-hole!). 10 more minutes of silence would go by..."so, Mickey, if I need to go to the store, where would be the closest one?" He"d say "its close..and why do you want to eat right now?" Right, so to get to the store I just go to "close" and ill be there...thnaks for the directions dude!! Id ask him for a pot to cook something..Id go up to him and he would be playing video games, drinking cool-aide, eating cheetos (keep in mind hes 50 years old) he would ignore me for a good 2 minutes, as I stood there waiting for a response, hed moan or grunt, turn to me and go "WHAT?!!"...yeah sorry buddy, i interupted your wall-street trading online (aka mariocart for this tool).
I have never met someone so weird
I ended up getting the hell out of there. I packed all of my clothes that night and went to bed quite early. I was up at 530am and wrote a note, puttin git on the bed, thanking him for officially creeping me out of my skin. I B-lined it out of there without verbally saying good-bye.
I had one of those novel moments, which im sure most everyone who goes to school can relate to. Remember your first day of school when you are a kid........You get to school on your very first day and you dont know anyone. You have on the dorkiest outsfit, that your mom made you wear beacuse she thought an embarrassing first day of school was all one needed to break the nervous ice on the first day. All of the kids are standing around nervous and expecting to find a pal.you kind of just turn to the guy or gal nect to you and say "hey, do you want to be my firend?" Its not a matter of credentials, interests, sexual preferences, hobbies, or resumes... Being someones friend is just a matter of turning to the person closest to you, popping the question, "do you want to be my friend?", and booooom, you were mates. Well, keeping that in mind, I walked into Casa Vienna, a hostel in a seedy district known as the Gestamani district in Cartagena. The outside of the building was a sun-bleached red and in small letters read "Casa Vienna". You push a buzzer, which serves like a door-knob. This is connected to the front desk. You push it, the attendant peeks their head out from behind their desk, they give you one look over and zzzztt, the door buzzes open and you rin. I walk in panting like a thick-haired dog on a warm summers day. I pay the dude and he shows me to my room. I walk in, and boom, just like on my first day of school, theres my future pal. I happen to have that, confused, cant find my sun-glasses and they are on my head the whole time-sorta look. There was only one other guy in my room. H ehad the extact same look. I turn to him. he faces me, and zabam, we were friends. This dude went by the name Ezekial. He was from Argentina, liked architecure (he was an architect by trade though). We both gave each other the look of a loner and zaabam, we struck up conversation that would never end becaus eof the excitement we were exchanging for having a cool pal to chill with. Within minutes wer were cracking jokes, high 5ing, and talking about the adventures to come. We eded up walking the entire historical district of Cartagena. A hot stickiness enclosed the whole town that day. As we walked we kept switching to the other end of the street, in an attempt to stay walk in the shade.
For every person visiting Cartagena, there are 5 vendores. Whever you are in town, within 5 minutes of being in the public eye, somene is houding you for a buck or they are trying to tell jewelry or give you a massge (the girls, yo). After awhile, saying No Gracias gets to be quite repetitive and tiresome. So after exhausting all of my "No, Gracias", I began to not even respond to people, look at them, or even acknowledge that the person was in my presence. Apparently in Colombia two things happen as a result of this. Firstly, by not responding, some vedores take it as you didn hear them or you ddnt see them. So by not resonding, one could keep walking down the street, turn around and baaaam, there would be 8 vedores that have been following oyu for a mike. Secondly, for some people it is taken as highly offensive if you dont respond. The Argentina fellow informed me of this, as a guy came up trying to sell soccer jersey"s. He was houding the crap pout of my as Ezequial and I rest at a park bench with a brew. After 2 minutes straight, of him going hey amigo, hey amigo, hey amigo, hey amigo (like a damn nat buzzing in my ear) he threw his hands up, gave me an intimidating glare, and cursed at me. The Argentin informed me the guy said he wanted to give me a woopen for not ebing respectful. I thought this was quite hilarous...people harrass me all day long on the street and if i dont give them the time of day and acknowledge that they are bugging the crap out of me...this is offensive to them?!!! Ha, they would have to deal with my offensive behavior then.
For two days I joined up with some Austrilians and went to playa blanca, off of the coast of colombia. it was paradise, easliy comparable to the best beaches of hawaii. there were no bathrooms, it was hot. lots of mosquitos, and we slept in hammocks. there was no town or covilization for at least 30 miles in each direction. lots of readin, lounging, and story-telling.
Im not in Medellin, where I plan to teach English if I can find some willing students.
written by  kipmaddog on August 1, 2009 from Cartagena, Colombia

this could be the heart of colombia
Medellin, Colombia
medellin is a town of 2.5 million people, resting in an enormous, lush valley, in pretty much the center of colombia. as one approaches medellin by bus, one cuts through these giant green mountains, downward to an open valley below. once the town of medellin is in ones sight, it loos like a giant open hand: there is a cluster of barrios in the center of the vally, looking like an giant palm. Then there are about 5 barrio groupings that trickel away from the center of town like 5 fingers of a hand. this town almost looks like a ski town in the rockies, minus the pine trees and elevation of course.
this town is a bit cleaner, and more maintained than the others I have visited in colombia. public transportation is efficient, there are several universities, giving this place an air of sophistication. this own also has a metrocable, which is this giant gandola looking box car. the metrocable runs from one side of the city to the other and fits about 8 people at once. i happen to ride the thing for the first time with a couchsurfing mate named santiago. we rode it at night, about 60 feet up, all of the city lights shining bright below. the meterocable gives one a birdseye view of the city and one is able to see the contrast between the rich and poor. we head over one mountain on the other side of the city and immediately, i realize that nobody should go in these neighborhoods below, at any time of the day. you dont eneter these bad boys unless you live there yourself or you no someone that lives there. these neighborhoods look like hoovervills: they all have a cardboard color to them. some of them have roofs and some do not. families of 10 or more live in these 1 bedroom apartments. it was really hard to believe that actual people lived here. the buildings looksed more like prisons, than houses. there is only one area of town that is like this. all one needs is a little common sense and it is quite easy to avoid these areas of town.
i am staying with a guy named santiago. he works the graveyard shift at a charity organization. during the day he sleeps like a bear. he lives with 3 girls. they all study at the university and have been helping me a great deal with my spanish. i plan on staying here for quite sometime. first on my agenda is to become fluent in spanish. i will stop at nothing. i will drive my brain engine into the ground until i master this secret language. i plan on meeting up with a medical student in about an hour. hes going to teach me spanish and im going to improve his english. its as simple as that.
i need more time to write. i have been so occupied by a new a new culture. i never though buying a mango or trying to make a phone call could be so diffucult at time. i will become the master of a new latin reality though. once i settle in a bit, the writing will come
written by  kipmaddog on August 2, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia

medellin, where its spring all year long
Medellin, Colombia
I awoke the other morning realizing that everything in Colombia is built for people five foot seven and under. I was thinking: everytime I am in a public place I am bumping into someone, hitting my head on a damn door frame, getting stuck in a computer desk at an internet cafe, or having to sit sideways in just about every mode of public transportation. Just after this though occured to me, as I was leaving Santiago"s apartment (the happy-go-lucky, yet quite loco Colombian I am staying with for the time being)....BAAAMMM...there goes my head one more time, smacking a wooden pillar that hangs down by his front door. Man, these Colombian architects need to accomodate tall, gangly, large-headed people too. The day was Sunday, and as I left his apartment building it appearded as though there was a giant dog parade. A couple thousand people were walking the streets, in a giant parade-like line, all with a dog. It appeared as though there was a giant Colombian dog parade (wow, the people at dog beach in ocean beach got nothin gon these folks). Every person was walking at least one dog, some had two or three. Boy o boy though, was there a bit of poopey-doopey in those streets. Maybe the Colombians dont believe in carrying plastic bags when they take dogs for walks. Since this is a city known for flowers, I assume that they just let the crap slowly make its way towards the soil, and BAM, they got perfect fertilizer. Nutrients for some of the the best looking flowers in the world. Ha!
I was going to teach my very first english lesson today. His name was Cesar and he happened to be a medical student at a local university. I met him at the hospital estacion, a metro stop nearby. He looked nervous, but underneath it all he had intelligent eyes, and a permanent little grin on his face. I had posted an a request on couchsurfing to see if anyone wanted to learn english in exchange for some spanish lessons. Cesar took the bait and today was our first meeting. He took me to these botonaical gardens. These gardens were absolutely incredible. It appeared as though someone had down-scaled the amazon rainforest and placed it in the center of Medellin. There were lush, green plant with their leaves in full-extension. Boy, these plants were alive, one could almost see the chlorophyl in the leaves.
We plopped down on the nearest bench and I began to go over the basics..nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, greeting, present tense, past tense, future tense, the alphabet. All of these brought back memories from kindergarden and my teacher Mrs. Sofe, helping me make pronunciations through my pudgy cheeks. Cesar seems to be digging every minute of it. He was a medical student in a local university, but apparanetly his grades were good enough to allow him to go to Harvard in two years. The only catch was that he needed to learn English within those two years. I would be his first teacher. It me me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to give these guy a tool which he would utilize for the rest of his life. He wanted to learn English like a toddler wanted to learn to walk. Even though I was his teacher, I had to let many of his wrong pronunciations, slide by, uncorrected. He was so damn determined, that he would blab words that were neither English or Spanish. I wanted to give him some confidence though. He didnt need a damn german nazi as an english teacher, especially on his first round. Round two though and I will definitely have to get my ruler out for a couple of slaps on the wrist!
Its 85 degrees all day long, with constant sunshine. All of the people are constantly grinning and smiling. Salsa music is blarring from just about every corner of the city, day or night, rain or shine. One"s diet consists of a whole lot of grease and a whole lotta fruit to ocunter to grease. Most everything that isnt fruit in colombia is fried. Empenadas, arrepas make up the bulk of th grease. Most Colombians seem to have one of these bad boys with every meal. Empenadas are like the american version of a hot pocket, only they arent filled with a bunch a preservatives, made to last until the next ice age. they are fresh, little bread pockets filled with your choice of meat, egg, or cheese...with maybe some diced onions in these sucks...boy o boy are they good. Arrepas look like english muffins. they are made from corn and filled with cheese. Both of these tasty treats are gulped down with a whole lotta hot sauce. and there you have it: the bulk of a colombians diet. the rest of the diet is completed with fruit. mangos, papayas, and about 50 other kinds of fruits that does not exist in the states. ill get the names of these sweet colorful treats some day soon.
written by  kipmaddog on August 3, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia

The Pad
Medellin, Colombia
It"s the smell of powdered laundry detergent, the sound of blaring bayonato music, and the clunk of the large tin door that hits me as I first enter. The kitchen is a opaque white. Two walls in the livingroom are blue, the other two, yellow. I step in, the tin door slams behind me, sending me a shiver as it echoes loudly. The living room is about 10 feet by 20 feet, the size of a large bathroom in a masterbedroom of an expensive house in the States. There´s a small maroon couch, large enough to fit two people, and a television, the size of a large luchbox, resting on a plastic crate. And then, there´s my bedroom for the next week or so: a tattered black and white matress, hugging the space where a blue and yellow wall meet in the living room. It"s got no roof and no walls.
There are 6 people living here including myself. First, there"s Norbey Pineda, well he actually goes by Santiago. The dude is 23 and a vetran of the Colombian Army. He"s tall and lanky like me and has always got a smile spread across his long face. The man works the graveyard shift at an orphanage, and usually sleeps during the day. This man is my main couchsurfing host. Then, there is Monica. She"s a short, black-haired, restaraunt worker who likes to take 30 minute showers when there are 6 people living in the house. Then, there is Laura and Alejandra. I say Laura and Alejandra because if you see one you see the other. If one laughs, then the other laughs. They are insperable, laughable, energy-maniacs, who share a small bedroom together. The bedroom is the size of a closet and has just enough room for a bed. They also happen to share this bed, by the way its a twin. Yeah, so its damn small. Lastly, there is Julian. Julian shares a bed with Santiago. Julian is intelligent (yes he wears glasses), loves to blast salsa music from his old, high-pitched speakers, with way too much treble.
When you are living in a small apartment with 5 other people there are many limitations. I dont go to sleep until the last person has gone to sleep. I also dont go to sleep until the last person has finished playing their last bayonato or salsa song. In addition, there is only one bathroom for 6 people. Amazingly, the bathroom has no door on it, but shutters that belong on a window. The only problem with these shutters are that there is a 2 inch gap between every cross-board. The kitchen happens to also be literally 6 feet from the toilet. So, whoever happens to be making rice and beans can not only smell their food but have their noes haris singed with another unpleasant smell. On top of this whoever is in the kitchen (there is usually always someone) can hear every single noise going on in the bathroom. With a house of mostly girls, and my stomcah full of greasy Colombian food, most of the time I just walk down to a local market and order a water. At least then I will have a bit of privacy. I am sure that all of these experiences, good or bad, are chisleing my mind and body into a bodafide experience machine. Soon, there will be nothing I have not seen, other than possibly 8 PEOPLE in a little apartment sharing one bathroom. Well, I"ll leave roon for that in the next destination...........
written by  kipmaddog on August 4, 2009 from Medellin, Colombia

Curing the sick and givin em" a taste of S.D.
Two of the girls in the apartment had been sick for quite afew number of days. Now that I think of it 5 days to be exact. They were not seriously sick, only moderately with a slight cough that didnt seem to go away nor get any worse. I felt obligated to give them some remedies to kick that gosh darn ole" cough. It wasnt that I felt that they couldnt do it themselves, but whatever they were doing sure as heck wasn"t curing the hacking beast that lurked inside them.
I was out the door, money in my pocket, 25 dollar cellphone I had purchased, travel wallet, with a metallic chain leash drooping off of it and climbing to a ring on a front pocket belt loop, and money inside the wallet to get these girls some lemons for the tea I would soon make them. In additon, this would be a guacamole mission. My hosts had asked me what the food was like in San Diego. I said that we truly had some dynamic, multi=cultured, eateries in our corner of California. Most of all though, San Diego had something called Mexican food. I have also often heard that the so=called Mexican Food in San Diego was better than the Mexican food in Mexico. I"ve never been to the heart of Mexico though and tasted the difference. So, I suppose, its just a rumor for now. Anyway, I spit out the magic word, "guacamole". They had had guacamole before, but their guacamole was a more liquid filled, salsa=like substance. Ours was a chunky, gree, ripe=filled mess of flavory thickness. They had to try it. That was thats.
Getting off of the Metro, I pushed my way through the crowd of Colombians who"s laid=back life=style reflected the way that they walked. WAit I thought, am I just some panic=sticken American, in a rush for no major reason. After all, since I had been in Colombia, I hadnt seen any road rage. Or are do these COlombians need a swift kick of humanitarian love to speed up their pace.
I went to this place called The EXito. Its a giant yellow building that more=so looks like a giant cab, rather than an actual building. They have the basics: rice, potatoes, meat, fruit, and vegetables. An aisle with chips and snacks exist, but the is only one aisle and its about 25 feet long. This is contrasted with say, 2 aisles at your local Vons, with assorted snacks on both. Both aisles are also about 50 feet long. And Medellin there are 2.5 million people......
I left the Exito and made it home with two avocadoes, both looking like they were both injected with steroids. Along with these bad boys, I had 3 tomatoes, 1 onion, some garlic, garlic flavored salsa, and two limes to give it some zest. I also, got 3 lemons for the girls. I rushed home through the evening dusk and made it home 20 minutes before they all had to leave again. I boiled som ewater, added some huney which they already had, dropped on etea bag, and steamed it all off with the boiling water...... I gave the tea to the girls, they looked amazed, like to witch docter had brewed these. With in a couple mintutes of having finished my tea concontion their coughs were silenced. YES....
I then dug the green, rich goop out of the avacados, which yeiled about 14 ounces of love. I then cup up the onions, tomatoes, skiped the garlic becasue one of the girls wasnt a fan. The girls fryed up some of what they called platanos verdes. I hated bannanas though, yet they claimed these were similar to bannanas, but they were vegetables. They were kind of like the banannas cousin, only less mushy and pastey. They would sllice up the platano verde into disks. they then would flatted the disks to the size of a thin pancake. they would slap these on the frying pan and within minutes you had fryed platanos verdes with a chunkified aromatic spread of Guacamole. It wasthe perfect harmony of cross=culturalizing tastey foods. They absolutely loved the guacamole. A simple snack was turned into dinner. The girls coughs were gone, everyone was content, and they had tasted some San Diego love.

Heres some more thoughts
The real trick of a tourist walking the downtown street of any Colombian city is to not look like a tourist. I had this look down quite well. Walking at a pace that isnt faster or slower than the person next to you, you must never make eye contact with anyone, especially in any downtown distcit. If chances are you fall victim to making eye contact with the various pimps, prostitues, street vendors, or child peddlers, you immediately become their fresh meat to pounce on. Locking eyes with any of these suspicious looking folks meant that they were going to attempt to sell you something that you probably didnt want or need. These buzzing flies wouldnt leave you until you said "no gracias" at least 7 times. I didnt seem to have a problem with these walks of life though. I had my walking system down and I wasnt going to change a thing about it.
I meandered my way through exhaust filled streets, greasey arrepa stands, children in tattered clothing asking for 100 pesos, and old men sitting on plastic buckets chain smoking their ciggss as they tapped their foot to the same salsa record they have probably been listening to for the past 50 years. Soon I made my way to the Museaum of Modern Art. It was a small building next to a ,ibrary. I walked to the second floor and asked the women if I needed to pay. She claimed it was free and boy was that saucey for me. I had a day of cost=less fun ahead of me. There were photographs of close=ups of old men cracking a smile through their dry lips and coffee stained teeth poked through. There were pictures of women standing in open fields with nothing but open blue Argentinian sky behind them. There were also many Cubist=style paintings of naked women, old men with Irish looking hats, and children rosey=cheeked and grinning. I only saw 2 other people in the museum the entire time. boy, I must have caught this thing at the right time. Since it was morning, I suppose the Colombians were still resting their heads from all of the liquor and dancing the night before.
I then headed to the library, which was practically connected to the Museum. I sat down in an fluffy, orange chair, and peeled open an Edgar Allen Poe Collection of short stories. The only catch was that these stories were written in Spanish. Rackin gmy brain for a good hour to get through maybe 3 pages, I was fed up. Not angry, ready to storm out of the library because I had no patience with my flimsey Spanish skills, but moreso a gratification. I had put my time an effort into this language and maybe 30 percent of the text made sense. Then again, it was Edgar Allen Poe. The dude can be difficult to read in English sometimes.
Later that day I met up with a girl named Deisey. She was a friend of an old friend of mine who I knew from high school. She was a local with a great smile. I approached her with one of Santiago"s roomates, Julian. We all made our introductions and soon we were off to two more museums. On the way to the first we appsed through a pigeon filled square known as the BOtero Plaza. Botero was a famous COlombian artist. He was overweight and he loved to paint his subjects like he viewed himself I suppose: overweight. The statues were large and black. The reminded me of human blimps made of stone. There were masses of pigeons everywehere. ALong with the pigeons there was a lot of do=doo. The do=doo happen to be everywhere expect the statues. Hmm.. I suppose they had a professional pigoen=crap cleaner who shined and buffed the overweight statues each morning before crowds of people came to view them.
We entered to museum and I had to use the bathroom. Being in a public place in COlombia and needing to use the bathroom does not mix. I asked a woman where it was, she blabbered something in Spanish, which I understood as, "down below". I got to the door and it was locked. I would have to be a big boy and hold it. Arrgggg...cant these Colombians at least have a bathroom that functions...
There was mostley Picasso and Rembrant in these museums, with a tid bit of Botero. We all stood gawk=eyed slack=gawed at all the great art. Deisey and her friend took lots of pictures. We all had some great laughs. And Im out......

public bathrooms in the midst of the festival
The Feria de Las Flores is a yearly event that takes place in Medellín once every year. The event initaially took off in the early 1950”s, when a small group of gardeners wanted to show off their fine flowers to the rest of the city and possibly the World. Medellín is known as the city of spring. As I walk the crowded streets, I now know why. The temperature is about 75 to 80 degrees all day long, with the ocasional down-pour of showers every couple of days. Sitting tucked in a giant valley, Medellín is the ideal place for gardening, especially for growing some of the finest flowers in the World. Over the years the festival blossomed into a celebration of not just the fine flowers that Medellín”s womb produces, but also Medellín culture as a whole.
Presently, the parade lasts 9 days. Befote I left for my trip I had no idea I would be in Medellín, during the time of the second largest festival in all of Colombia. On Friday, I headed out to the festival with my fellow comrades. This day happen to be the largest day of the festival. There was a giant parade to be planned in the afternoon. Affter slamming some chicken, arrepas, and potatoes, we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for the festivities to pick off. Oh yeah, today also happened to be Colombias Independence Day. So, in addition to all of the crowds of people that were going to the festival, most of the people in Medellín didnt have work or school. We got off the bus, where the main part of the parade was to take place. Boy, were there herds of people. I happened to be a bit taller than the average Colombian. Therefore, I was able to scout the premises in every location of the parade. I had a birds eye view of the whole damn thing, and the crowds of excited Colombians didnt seem to have an effect on my enjoyment of the parade. We had about 8 people in our group. We found some shade and posted up, waiting for the parade to go by. I thought it over a moment and predicted that this parade would last about 20 minutes.. there would be flotas and maybe some music and that would be that. I was quite wrong. There were people lined on both sides of the streets…thousands….The sound of music began to get closer. People began to chant louder and louder. All of a suden an explosion of Colombian culture came marching down the street. There were old, indigineous men with hand-made wooden crates on their back. These giagantic crates were filled with flowers. It was like they were carrying a small garden on their backs! These giant gardnes must have weighed about 50-80 pounds. SOme of the men must have been at least 75 years old. They were al decaed out in tradicional COlombian apperal. Cowboy looking boots, a weathered cowboy looking hat and a sash thrown over their shoulders. They were struggling along like snails, but they their consistent pace never seemed to come to a halt. Then their were old women warrying gardnes on their back. Hunched over like turtles, the women struggled along, as crowds of people threw flowers into the air and fans ran out from the side-lines to help the old women that were struggling with these giant wooden cates full of flowers. Then there were music parades, with a jazz band first. Then there were herís of beutiful women comino by dressed in bright, sparkly outfits dancing to tradicional salsa music. There were old Colombian cars being driven by, but only on the back 2 wheels. The front 2 wheels happened to be lifted about 5 feet off of the ground so the car was being driven at about a 25 degree angle.. Quite interesting..I guess it was the Colombian system of hydrolics I was whitnessing. Then there were little kids dressed in tradicional COlombian dress. The young girls stuck out the most, wearing cut little red bandannas, a large white dress with flowers stitched down the sides. Then there was a parade of diablos, or devils. Herds of people were dressed in devil-masks, with pointing horns, and a KISS-style tounge coming about 4 inches out of the mask. For the next 3 hours, there was a non-stop parade.
The flower gardens held every color of the rainbow, every shape of plant, and enough nutrients, that they seemed burn your eyes when you looked at them it was like a moment when the sun hits a mirror or a pane of glass and it blinds your eyes…quite the same effect.
The old men and women werent getting paid for their ultra-marathon walk through the streets. Through squinted eyes, the old men and women trecked along, carrying tradition on their backs for all of the young to see. One day it would be the next generations turn. It was like they were carrying an olympic tourch for the next crowd, or the next generation of people to embrace.
First of all COlombians dont relieve in drinking water. I swear, their bodies are built like camels. Every COLombian I happen to be with never drank any water. I would always sem. To get really thirsty during the day, especially during the parade. As I looked around though none of the people were drinking water. When I hapen to order a water from a local vendor an offer it to one of my friends they would always refuse. So, I was the only one drinking water at all times. This meant that I was the only one who needed to go to the bathroom. Since Colombians never drink water, they never need to go to the bathroom. Therefore, there was nly one damn bathroom for the entire parade.
The bathroom story:
2 hours had gone by. I had had to use the bathroom for the past tour, but I didnt want to first of all loose the boys and second of all I didnt want to ditch out to find a bathroom during one of the most important events of the year. 15 more minutes go by and now there are pinds stabbing by bladder. I dont have to sort of go. I need to go right no won this tree or I am going to explode. Thats it I ve had it…I turn to Santiago and say hey man I really got to g oto the bathroom. The whole group of people I am with eras me. They all turn and look at me like I”m an infant crying because I need my pasafier or I need to take a nap because I am cranky. Gosh, I think, to the average COlobian using the bathroom was something you did onec a day, that was it. Santiago seemed a bit irritaed. He didnt want to leave the parade, but he agreed to take me to the bathroom. We got to the bathroom alter a good 25 minute walk. The bathroom was a small gray builing, in the middle of this old, closed parking lot. We got there and got in line venid about 65 people. This bathroom was coed and there were about 4 stalls in this bad boy. That was it. Now, its about 5 oclock. About 50 minutes go by and Santiago and I are towards the front of the line. This bathroom was reeeeeking when we got to the front. We were about 5 people back and I could see into this bathroom now. In the center was like an corporate office style desk with a man sitting venid it. We made small talk with him and he claimed to be the owner of the bathroom. Yet, on the outside of the bathroom it said banos publicos, or public bathrooms. What kina of man wons a damn bathroom I think. I look back and see about 65 more people venid us in line. Santiago makes it in the the bathroom. It is a small building about 15 feet by 20 feet, with 4 stalls. There were two doors to get it in. They looked like 2 garage doors. There was one to enter and one to exit.There were no Windows of any kind. So, if anyone closed the sliding garage-like doors they place would be closed. Just as I am looking at these garage-like doors, the owner gets up from his desk in a hurry an trys to close these doors. He didnt sem. To care that people had been waiting in line for a good tour to use his bathroom, which did i mention, you had to pay him to use it. All of a suden it was like a riot went off. About 40 people venid me rush from venid me like a giant herd of elephants. The owner continues to try to close the door. People push over the owner and evrone trys to crowd into this small building. I mean hey, they didnt want to go poopey on the sidewalk. They were human beings and they needed to use the bathroom. Then it gets aggressive. The owner gets pushed over…people begain to thrown their fists in the air, cursing at this guy. I am the only gringo in here. Shit, I think its over, I am about to be part of a Colombian bathroom riot…its over, the police are comino and im getting jumped. The owner gets trampled by the people. I am uncontrollably pushed into the bathroom. Santiago escapes. One of the doors of the bathroom is violently closed on one side. Then I hear the snap of a lock. I panic. More people push againts me. I cant breath. 50 people are in theis 15 feet by 20 feets room, along with the accumulation of human feces from the day. The owner gets up, old ladies begin cursing at him. Old men make attempts to give the bastard a right hook to the FACE. All of a suden I hear a clic of a lock. One of the doors is locked. Me and 3 guys try to open it..its locked from the outside. Great, now I am guilty by association…get me the heck out of here..im going t odie in here i know it……All of a suden I see 10 police officers through the other door. They rush the door. The owner escapes and all of a suden the other door closes. I hear the snap of a lock. Ooooooooooooooo my gooooooood!!! I am locked in here with 50 violent Colombians. What the heck is this crap??!!! We all start screaming and yelling, pounding on the doors. 10 people on each side make an attempt to open the doors. The cops locked them from the outside though. I panic again. Its been 15 minutes in here. There is seriously enough oxygen in here to las tus maybe another 40 minutes tops. The cops had locked us in here like a bunch of cages animals. Nobody was listening to out cries. Nobody responded to our blood-curdling screams. AN old lady began to cry next to me. 5 more minutes go by. There are so many people in this room I could barely turn my head. 10 more minutes go by and all of a suden somehow someone had busted open one of the doors. I see Light. People begin trampling each other to get out. At this moment I dodnt care what happens. I will trample anything and everything to get out of here. I jump over people..crawl to the floor and like a running back running through defensive line-men I make a break for it. I make it under the 3 foot opening. On the outside their are police officers and Santiago…violently shouting at one to tell them his American friend was locked in there and you guys better open that damn door…or esle!!!!! I see Santiago..i am seriously happy to be alive and we run out of there like a bat out of hell. If I ever saw that bathroom owner again..I wasnt going to go in his stall..I would go right on his FACE…I thought it over and realizad this a-hole was to cause of all the problems. He wanted to close a public bathroom when about 100 people were standing in line to use it. He didnt politely ask peeople to move when he began closing the doors…he just did it and didnt care if one of the doors happen to close on some small child or old lady….comedy……

cartagena (added a bit late)
Cartagena, Colombia
Shirtless men sit poised in white,plastic chairs, under colorful colonial balconies of red and green. Evening approaches and families gather the side walks to give the day one last look over before they have to retreat into the hot sticky air of their small shared house. Colorful fruit lines old wooden rectangular crates, as vendorspeek up at you through their sun-weathered eyes. Two men sit on wooden crates in the middle of the sidewalk, playing a game of chess, as their buddy sits behind them and gives a hoot n" halla!
When walking the streets of Cartagena, you must keep one eye in front of you and one eye peeking over you shoulder. In front of one, taxi drivers are zooming by in small yellow Hyundia"s waiting to see which pedestrian will become their next SPLAT on their windshield. Pedestrians are simply speed bumps to these guys. And behind one, shadows creep up, brushing by your back pocket and small kids pull on the tail of your shirt wanting 100 pesos. And all around one, the streets were filled to the top with a churning soup of Colombian culture...at least in Cartagena. This is where the scum-bags, toothless vendors, blaring bayanatte (slower version of salsa) screeches out of old crack speakers, old men sit lining the sidewalks, and women stand in brightly colored clothing rocking a baby back and forth in one hand. This is where the ripe, pulsating vein of Colombian culture constantly pumps. And if one wasnt too careful, they could miss it all, soon retreating back home thinking a ferry ride around the bay in a brand new boat full of white-skinned gringos was what Colombian culture was all about.
written by  kipmaddog on August 9, 2009 from Cartagena, Colombia

a moment in the life of a medellin ganster
It"s not just being in Colombia; it is so much more. Curiously perspective eyes target you as you dodge endless stares, only soon to be encountered by more. The walls on the street get darker. Exhaust sticks to these walls as they fade into black. You"re now in a seedy part of town wishing you were in the opposite side of the Globe, in a different time and place. But wait, you press on.

The City Gives Me A Beat To Tap My Walkin Shoes....
I walked into a dimly-lit, Victorian-style, theater the other night for a bit of theatrical amusement. The event taking place was known as the Teatro de Los Cuentos, or the theater of short stories. A friend and I walked down some stairs to this theater which was underground. We were 20 minutes late, but we slid in the backdoor under a large velvety curtain, and found a couple of seat tucked in the back of the theatre. On stage was a large wooden tree, made as a prop. The tree appeared as though it were in some Tim Burton film; most specifically, Nightmare Before Christmas. The tree had a ver spook, halloween feel to it. Then there was a man costumed as a frog, or rana, a women who was freaked out of her skin by the frog, and a women who was doing the narration. I said theatrical amusement, because all of these plays were were supposed to be layered in Colombian jokes. The Colombians got them. I did not. However, this aspect was even more amusing to me becaus eupon every punch-line of every joke the whole audience would start spewing laughter and I would be laughing my ass off at the fact that I was the only one in the audience who didnt seem to be getting these jokes. On top of me not getting the jojes because of the speed in which the dialogue was layed out in the first play, I felt as thoug heveryone around me knew I didnt get them. I owuld have to time my laughter for when everyone else laughed. This didn tnot work all of the time though and many times when it appeared to me as though the perfromer had said somehting funny, I would throw my head back and start laughing. Within 2 seconds, I would realize that this wasnt the right time to be laughing; nobody else was. I would have to cut my laugh short, make a serious face and pretend to be bracing myself for the next joke. It was all so much of a comical process.
Anyway, during the first play, the narrator read the story while the other 2 characters acted. The entire play there seemed to be a constant struggle between a woman wanting to avoid this frog and the frog wanting to be with the women. I didnt understand a lot of the Spanish, but it appeared to ¨me as though a prince had been truned into a frog and he was trying to get back with his long lost lover. The only problem was that the woman didnt recognize the frog as her prince charming. The entire play this grown man hopped around, in a ctachers position, saying "ribot". I could just imagine someone at an outing asking this gentleman what he does for a living. Yeah, I"m, a professional frog actor he says....
The next act was a a band playing music behind a woman, who looked like Shakira. The music started cranking and she threw her head back to give the audience her best concept of what goo music should sound like. She put in a good effort, but the music was crap. It reminded me of an 8th grade talent show. After every song the band would dissapear behind the curtain and she would sit in this spakly red, corvette-diner-style chair and tell the audience her best rendition of a humerous cuneto. I figured that this was the wrong place for a wannabe Shakira to be craving attention. She was a good looking girl, but there was nothing that appeared original or well developed. Like i said she had looks, but looks were something people were born with; they weren"t chiseled and dreamnt over like a fine act in a play.
The next act was a Spanish Comedian, performing here in Medellin. He wore dark, loose clothing and appeared to have drank a couple gallons of coffee before he got on stage. As his act prgressed his wirey, Albert-Einstien hair, continued to frizzle out. He was Robin Williams long lost Spanish brother. Within minutes he had the entire audience laughing, excpet me. Well, I wasnt laughing at his language, but his mannerisms. My Spanish has vastly improved in the past month,but when a comedian is vomiting words out of his mouth at the speed of light and an umff of strong Colombian coffee, the jokes slide right by you. What I could laugh at though were his mannerisms. The guy paralleled Charlie Chaplin, but only to me. Charlie didnt need words for people to get his act and this guy was dido. His body was so consumed in mannerisms, that even if I didnt understand a word of his speech, his Charlie Chaplin gestures were able to convey his message.
The next evening I met a friend of mine, Deisey at a seceret documentary premier. We took a cab to a part of town, which I knew I wasnt made for extranjeros, especially someone like me from the United States. I swallowed my fear and pressed on, partly because I knew the parts of town that werent recommended in the tourist books had an untouched aspect of culture that hadnt yet been documeneted in a Loneley Planet or via internet. And also partly because Deisey assured me that she had my back. She was 5 foot one and weighed a hundred and ten pounds though? We got dropped of in front of an faded white building. We were 20 minutes late she told me. Some of the windows were barred up, some with cardboard and some with wood. We entered. Inside, there were about 25 people,including about 5 girls. Everyone was wearing some sort of camoflouge, and they all appeared to be REVOLUTIONARIES from the time of Che Guevera. I walked in and felt like a naked man running through the middle of a pre-school. I was at least 6 inches taller than everyone and my old-faded jeans and white t-shirt appeared to be way too fansy for these people.
Light shot out of projector, onto a wall in a small room. Deisey and I pushed our way to the front, did a quick army crawl, and lay on our backs, ducking so everyone could see over us. We watched the flick from here. The film was done by an indigenious Colombian man who sat 3 people to the right of me. As 25 of us watched his documentary, he filmed our faces,our reactions. His camera continued to pan the audience. Shit, I thought. He would catch my face on tape, show it to his revolutionary boss and I would have a possey of 100 pissed off COlombian rebels with AK-47´s on my ass because I was from the corporate, head hauncho of the world.
Overall, the documentary was quite interesting and contained a lot of rare footage that seemed like quite a task to cover. All in all the film was about the new Colombian president trying to oust and annhilate indigenious culture of COlombia. However, the indegenious were the ones who under SImon BOlivar took their land back from Spain. NOw the new president was trying to not incorporate indegenious farming, crafts, textiles, and general cultural passions into the economy of present day Colombia. On top of this,the indegenious lands were being taking over by corporations wanting rainforest land, and vital natural resources that were on the indegenious land. The main message was, hey COlombia is what is is today because of our fight against Spain and now we are loosing it again to our own people of the higher classes. There were a lot of riots, AK-47"s in the film and justificatory speeches by the current president on how it would be beneficial for the indiegenious to adjust to a new time, a new world order. When I left the showing I felt like I had been to a Seceret Poet´s society meeting that was only advertised by word of mouth. I made it out untouched and definitely acquired a novel experience. Afterall, experience is life´s best teacher. Isn"t this wisdom?

The city known for Breast Implants and Silicone Butt-cheeks
Colombians are some of the most curious people I have met in this lifetime. everywhere I go I get a stare. I dont know whether its the fact that I am taller than most of the locals, they like to curiously check out anything and everything that comes into their path of vision, or maybe a combination of both. Either way, they are very perspective people. Whether its ordering an empenada at a street stand, or buying a metro ticket. Everytime I look to my right, left, or over my shoulder, there someone is, staring at me bug-eyed and slack-jawed. The Colombians stare is quite a bit different from the average Joe. When you meet eyes with your staring prey, they dont just look away timidly. They continue to look you over until they are satisfied.
Today, I was at an internet cafe. A gentlmen sits down next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him staring at me, about 3 feet away. I think, "do I have a red dot in the middle of my forehead..." I look away and continue typing. 2 minutes go by and I glance back in his direction. Believe it or not the bugger still isnt satisfied, but he is curiously looking at me like I were from Mars. I look back at him, lock eyes and give him a friendly smile, all the while thinking, "listen dude, what in farfed-nooggens name do you want, huh...." He continued to stare at me like I slept with his wife and he was here to punish me by staring. I continued to type, ignoring this mad-dogger.....
The day began with a BANG: a cup of black coffee, tinto style, and a glass of Maranquilla Juice. After an icy cold shower in the ole apartment, I walked briskly to my usual spot to order some steaming brew. "Uno Cafe", I murmur groggily to the man cressed in all white behind the counter. He fires back, "pequeno or largo". I tell him largo. The large coffes here are twice the size of a minature dixie cup..in other words fricken small man. On top of this they are in a plastic cup. By the time the steaming coffee cools sown to sip, you dont need sugar or cream to give it flavor. Instead you get a taste of platic because the cups they use are for cold water and I dont think they have realized this. Plastic flavored coffee must be the norm. I post up on an old wooden stool at the greasey cafe and wake-up to the flow of mornign pedestrains walking the streets, mostly buisnessmen and college kids. I then get the urge for a Vitamin C boost to start the day off right. I order some Maranquilla Juice. Maranquilla is a fruit and it home to Colombia. It"s round and yellow, like a lemon. Only, this fruit is not pourous, but smooth like supple skin. On top of this, the fruit is light as heck, so upon first lif, it appears as though you were ripped off. the fruit seems hollow. NO, in fact this is just an illusion. You werent ripped off, the fruit is just light. Yu slice it open and inside are about 200 large looking tomatoes seeds. The man behind the counter scoops these seends out and slaphes them into a blender full of ice, a spponful of sugar and about 4 ounces of milk. He hits, blend, 60 seconds go by and the then poors the mixture through a strainer to get the seeds out. SHABAM, you get Morning Glory in a glass. Nothing like an extra step in you stride, hey. The final product is a mixture of flavors between mango and orange, with an ectra ounch of tangy citrus to top it off.
After fueling up, I was off on a solo mission through the city for the day. i didnt have to teach English today, I was well rested, and on top of all this there were a whole lot of bored Colombian street vedores waiting for my foreign presence. I was off to first find this independent theater that played a bunch of rare, international flicks in Spanish. This would give me an opportunity to view an artsy, tru-cinematic masterpiece, and a chance to sprinkle a bit more Spanish into my memory.
After getting hit by a taxi, getting lost, and sweating through my shoes, I made it to the theater. Back-tracking, the taxi hit and run wasnt so bad. I was walking on the edge of the sidewalk, on a narrow street and BAM, I feel ike someone hit me with a hammer in the hip. A yellow side mirror explodes into a mist of plastic and metal. The frantic bastard keeps driving his one-mirrored taxi. The pain wasnt so bad, nothing a couple beers couldnt fix. It was moreso the suprise factor and the fact that the damn guy didnt have the courtesey to stop. It was as though it was part of his regular routine: hitting pedestrains and speeding away. I bet he had about 50 replacement mirrors under his cheap, fake leather seats. He"d loose another mirror tomorrow, speed off and pull out a replacement as though nothing really ever happened.
When I got to the theater I tried to walk in and a man stopped me, askin gme what the heck I was doing in English. I"m going to see a flick, I tell him. He then goes into this question-filled tirade about waht movie I wanted to see, what time, why, and what was I doin gin this part of town? I assume he didnt encounter too many Gringos. I was going to see Che Argentinio at 4 pm. It was now 2 pm, so I had about 2 hours to kill. I did some writing in a cafe and then strolled the streets passing: six foot three prostitutes hissing at me like snakes ( which you couldnt tell if they were male or female), old men wavin sheap electronics in my face, leathered faces crawling the sidewalks for losse change and bread crumbs, other old men gathered on street corners sipping strong brew....
I made it back to the theater at 4. The only other person in the theater was an old women. This was the solace I needed: fresh air-conditioned, breathable air and a place to rest my tired bones. The flick was inspiring and at times almost tear-jerking. Men will fight through hell based on a principle some will never come to except. All-in-all, there was quite a bit of goofey looking facial hair, silver-stared Marxist caps, and beautiful jungle terrain.
Later that night I met a friend for some arepas, a sweet-corn, pancake-like bread with thick gooey cheese spread over the top. Its was high in calories and just what I needed. Before we ate I sat at Parque Barrio station to wait for my felow compardreia. I"m sitting there 25 steps up from this large public square. Ten minutes go by. There are about 100 people down there: ventrlioquists, magicians, bums, cops, 14 year old girls half-naked in skimpy tube-tops, and me. the steps I was sitting on only had about 5 other people spread out across them. About 50 yards away I see this kid, he had to have been maybe 17 years old. I looked over in this guys direction because I had an inkling he was a bit of a mad-dogger. I was quite right. He was parting the crowd with his stare, which was directly on me. The kid happened to be decked out in all camaflouge, high, shiny black boots, and an AK47 strapped over his shoulder. He looked like he was part of the Colombian National Guard. He continues to stare at me like I am Pablo Escobar"s son (Pablo Escobar was the head hauncho of of the largest cocaine production organization in the entire world. At the time Pablo was in power in the drug world, Colombia was responsible for 85 percent of the worlds cocaine. He is now dead. Medellin is the city in which he was found and shot to death). Anyway, this kid is about five foot five with a chip on his shoulder. I coninue to stare back at him. If this kid has a problem he can come and talk to me about it. I was simply sitting innocently on public steps waiting for a friend at 8 oclock at night. He makes his way through the crowd and walks towards me, maddogging me the whole way. When hes 10 feet away 10 stairs down, I look away like I just happened to be panning the crowd with my stare. Side-tracking, some of my friends here call me the Pakistani or the Isreali. Apparently to these Colombians, I look like I"m from the Middle East. Wow, thats great...racial profiling in action. Maybe he thinks Im a terrorist I think..ha! He walks up to me and is standing directly over me. He asks me how old I am. I tell him 23 and my b-day is in 2 weeks. Maybe he wants to celebrate. He then grabs my small bag I have with me, he searches it for about 5 minutes, shaking my writing pens and flipping through the pages of my spanish-english translator. He finished tells me to stand up and asks me where Im from and what Im doing here. I was pissed off at this point beacause I happen to be the only one he was harrassing from what I could see. I throw out my smart-ass comment and tell him the most obvious answer "estoy sentado" (or sitting down...what does it look like im doing dude?). He then searches me, from my shoulders to my ankels, including the comforting twig and berries pat pat! He finishes and asks me for my documents. I had him a wadded up ball that was the copy of my passport, which I had stuffed in my pocket. He looked a little frustrated that he had to unravel the paper. He looks at it, gives a little yelp, smirks, and hands it back to me. He then says absolutley nothing and walks away slowly, searching nobody else as he walked away. I figuered he was on a total power trip trying to excercise his "power" on someone who happened to be curiously looking in his direction. He seemed bummed he couldnt pin anything on me. Ha, tough pickens youngster....

Shakin wit fright in an ole elevator
Only 150 pesos for a phone call, I think to myself, as I walk up to the elevator and press the up button. I t gloes red as i wait for the elevator to come down to floor 1. The number panel says 15, so I sit on a step and wait for the elevator to make it down to 1. I sit and wait 2 minutes....floor 11, 10, 9...finally the elevator sounds home as it hits floor 1. Ting.....the white elevator doors open and two young COlombian dudes with heavily jelled fro-hawks step out. they brush by me as I stand up. I walk into the elevator without company, like a lawyer working over time and walking out to his car in a vacant parking lot, to find he is the only one there.I press button 11, where my apartment is. It gloes up red and two seconds later the doors shut. I"m the only one riding in this elevator as it creeps slowly...floor 1-2. 3-4. The lights are dim and the comeras that were inside the elevator were stolenm last week. The transition from 4-5 seems a bit rusty as I feel a shudder throughout the frame of the elevator. In an instant, this shudder heightens, and the elevator rattles to a stop at floor 5. Damn, I think, I almost made it to floor 11 (where my room is), now someone is going to slow me up here on floor 5. I was in a hurry and didnt want any of the hundreds of kids living in the building to be playing tricks with the elevator buttons. 25 seconds go by...the doors dont open, the elevator stays at floor 5. Hmm, I think, maybe the elevator is simply responding slow to the push of a button from whoever was outside the elevator. 60 more seconds go by. I looks to the right of the closed elevator doors and the panel that is normally lit up red with whatever floor the elevator was going to at that present moment, was blank! I push the button for floor 11. It doest light up a bit, but laughs at me, staying blank. Bastard, I think! 60 more seconds go by, and all of a sudden like a bucket of icy cold water down my spine, it hits me! Shit! Im stuck in an elevator in COlombia at 9 oclock on a Sunday night. Salsa music is blasting from every room in the building and I"m sure the last thing these rumba-ing colombians are going to want to do on a Sunday night is bust some gringo out of an elevator. They probably couldnt even hear my pathetic cries if I cried for help I think. I go into Zen mode and tell myself not to panic. 2 minutes go by. I hear nobody and the elevator isnt moving. I dig through the mess of lint, waded maps, and gum wrappers in my pocket and pull put my cheap cell-phone that I had bought in Cartagena. I try to call Santiago. Damn!!! Im out of minutes! Scratch that option. The lights in the elevator begin to flicker on and off. I feel like Im in some Hollywood horror flick. 2 more minutes go by... this is not good I think...im losing it....clastraphobia...wait maintain ZEN mode I telll myself...dont panic.
I think: if I have to spend the night in an elevator (if the oxygen supply lasts), then so be it. I pull the alarm to the elevator now. It sounds off like an ambulance siren. Damn, thats loud. I plug my ears. The alarm sounds for 2 more minutes. There is no reply! I begin to loose it, pounding my fists on the door like some cage fighter, violently screaming "necisito ayudar!" There is no answer. I tell myself, if the power goes out in this elevator, I"m not staying in here! I think of the beginning of Speed 1 with Keanu Reeves, when the terrorist plants a bomb on the elevator full of people and attempts a high-end high-jack. I"m not staying in here I tell myself. The alarm continues to sound, I hear nobody coming. I jump up, trying to break the ceiling panels. However, they are not like the typical elevators in the States, where it is possible to move them with a slap of the hand. The ceiling dosent budge. The damn thing is bolted down by heavy industrial size bolts. Scratch that option. I now try to pry open the doors. I get the inside door open and stick my hiking boot between the two doors to hold it open. I then try to pry open the second round of doors. It doesnt budge. I take a sigh and let go of the doors I was holding open with my hiking boot. Its now been about 20 minutes. I take another sigh, and lean against the fall, excepting my faith: I"m staying in this elevator for the night. That is that. I may have to stay in here until the only 2 security guards for the entire 2 apartment blocks with a total of 10 elevators, realize that in one of the ten, there is a damn gringo stuck inside. I think: they"re probaby getting a crack out of this. Muuuhaaa, the States had prisoners at Guantanamo ay and now the rest of the world was getting their revenge, starting with the latinos. A gringo in an elevator....muuuha mmmuuha muuhaaa. I stand up and now planned on pounding the doors until someone comes beacuse surely, the alarm wasnt getting anyone"s attention. There were 50 boom-boxes with cracked speakers, blarring slasa music with as much trebele as the speakers could handle. 5 more minutes go by and like a message from the COlombian Salsa God, I hear a tapping below the elevator. All of a sudden the elevator shakes. I feel like I am dropping, only not smoothly, but like someone is manually cranking the metallic cable attached to the elevator. I hear metal on metal. The doors open a crack and two giant crow-bars poke through the crack in the doors. They widen and I see light from the hallway. Then I see a security guard, who was probably drinking rum in his security booth, while giving salsa dancing lessons to the local town poney girl, appear. I go stumbling out, glad to be alive. I literally get on a knee and hug the mans leg! Andres was his name and if I had a child in the future, I was going to name sure as heck going to name it Andres. SEcurity guards were now above Civil Rights leaders, celeberties, and famous politicans of the world. The man saved me from anight in an elevator. I thanked him over and over. He began to laugh uncontrollably at how shook up I was. To him, this was probably the most excitement he"d see all week. I left and climed to floor 11, using the stairs this time...maybe even forever in any builing in COlombia that had an elevator. I didnt want to take any chances this time, nor in the future. I"m sure Andres would forever remeber the gringo he busted out of the faulty elevator and I would forever remember my first time to ever get stuck in an elevator was in COlombia. This was what the human connection was about. This was traveling: laughing at the frightening moments with a bit of becoming spine-tickled and short of breath at the joyous ones.

Tippin the hat to Medellin
I slept one night to the hacking and grunting that had been going on every night for the past 17 days in my couchsurfing apartment. I awoke and took my last shower in that icy stream that had no shower head, but only a rusty old pipe. I took one last glance out the 11th Story window, seeing the wet laundry that was handing from all of the rusted metal balconies. The sky was as it usually was: crystal blue, with thunder-head clouds looming in the dinstance. I took one last stroll to my favorite empanada stand, ordering two, washing it all down with a whole lotta" garlic spice and fresh guacamole. I said one last "muchas Gracias" to the old man behind the counter. He had probably owned this stand for a good 20 years and would continue to serve some of the best empanadas in Medellin for years to come. And then it hit me as I walked away from the stand: this was what traveling was all about: leaving your mark on every person you met. YOu didnt have to make an impression, undertsand their language, or their culture. The human connection was indivisible, traveling through a timeless ether you couldnt quite put your finger on at any one moment. Whether you liked it or not, a simple meeting of the eyes or brush of shoulders in a passing crowd was all that you needed to make this connection. You gave them a bit of you presence and they injected a bit of their presence into you. I would leave my mark on the people of this city. The next traveler would come along and tag their presence after me. YOu didnt have to do anything grand or spectacular, but simply be present in a special time and place in the world, all the while carrying your joy from the people you met on your journey, like an uncontrolable wildfire, engulfing everyhting in its path.

Fast-Forwarding the blog a bit: Armenia, Salento, and then Cali with Ricardo, the climber from Chile...
Salento, Colombia
I took a bus from Medellin to Armenia. The city has been destroyed by many earthquakes. I got in late and wasnt able to catch the bus to Salento. I stayed the night in a dingy motel. I awoke the next morning and took a bus to Salento. Salento is in Zona Cafaterra, the most popular coffee region in all of Colombia. Picture vegetataion of all kinds: pine trees, palm trees, coffee groves, and rugged mountains, all squashed together in one region. Thats Zona Cafaterra for ya. I met a Chilean dude name Ricardo. He has been traveling fro 5 months down from Mexico City. We decided to head to Ecuador together. We met 2 spanish guys in their early 30"s. They were bald, had wacky facial hair, wacky personalities, were quite the intellectuals, and were quite the party animals. They liked to rumba and travel to world. We all went to a coffee Plantation in the morning and saw the whole coffee production process. We then picked our own coffee beans and tried the freshed coffee these here taste buds have ever been exposed to. Later in the day we took 10 guys in a jeep and headed up some mountains to the Cocora Valley for some adventure hiking. We saw lush mountains, waterfalls, and sexy palm trees. Ricardo and I rode on the roof of the jeep for about 20 kilometers...nuts!
We said goodbye to the Spanish dudes and headed to Cali for the night. We took a car that offered the same price as the bus. We danced for 1 night in Cali (it is the salsa capital of the world). We then decided to pack up and head to Popayan. We are now in Popayan after a near death experience in a bus, through winding roads of COlombian back-country. We have been getting along great. Hes adventerous and is incredibly spontaneous like me. Tomorrow we will head to San Augustine, then Ecuador.
written by  kipmaddog on August 20, 2009 from Salento, Colombia

rappin some beats in a high andean town in ecudor
Otavalo, Ecuador
Thirty hours of sitting in the last two back seats in the bus. The motor is right under your ass and your wedges in a child like seat right next to the bus bathroom, smelling whatever anyone had for dinner, while trying to shut your eyes, fighting off the claustrophobia of the high-chair size seat your sitting in.
Waking up, to your bus, hugging the side of high elevation andean mountains, looking through the window to see snow-caped peaks and a 1000 ft. drop off the side of the road.
The windows fog up, the glass is icy, and all that is in one"s sight are the high elevation, Andean vilages lining the bottom of snow-caped mountains.
Braided black ponet-tails shoot out from under black wool, Sherlock Holmes style detective hats, while thick wooled black panchos cover their leathered skin.
Children grin, bright-eyed and cheerful for a simple smile shot their way.
With it"s opening icy chills, dry air, and the intriguing aura of genuity, carried out by generations of andean peoples, Ecuador truly is the land of enchantment.
written by  kipmaddog on August 23, 2009 from Otavalo, Ecuador

Colombia, We Are Officially Over Gurl.....Ecuador, here I come babe
San Augustine, United States
Ricardo and I took a bus to an archeological town in the middle of Colombian country-side. The town goes by the enchanting name, Saint Augustine. Yeah, at first it seems like a town definitely haveing to do with Catholicism with the word Saint in the name. After 6 hours on a high elevation dirt road in a bus, we made it. St. Augustine, quaint and colonial, provided us a hostel at the top of the 2,000 person town. The hostel had a very Lost Boys, camping in the jungle sort of feel to it, even though we werent in the jungle. The owner reminded us of a mystical shawman living in the jungle. He liked to wear elaborate, colorful jewelry and talk about invisible spirits. St. Augustine had ancient, indigenous peoples, dating to 3300 B.C., that were extremly cannabalistic. What is left of the culture are these massive Stone heads, mounting the outside of burial tombs. The burial tombs were filed with riches, along with the dead. All of the human carvings has these long, vampire-like fangs, carved into the mouth. The fangs represent the cannabalistic side to these crazy bastards.
Ricardo and I hiked around the archeological park all day, snapping photos and getting some decent nature walking in, your welcome, Jon Muir, where ever you rest! We did laundry before we left for the park. When we returned from the park, the raining was pissing down all over our clothes. Darn, once agan we"d have to travel with a backpack full of mildewed clothes. We didnt have time to wait for the sun, we would just have to keep smelling like bums. The positivity would have to prosper. Our clothes would have the mildew syndorome, no question about it.
Nect, we were headed to Otovalo, a town known for its famous Saturday markets. We would travel about 24 hrs. to Otovalo from St. Augustine. Otovalo had the largest Market in all of South America every week. We left St. Augustine in an offroad jeep at 3 pm. That jeep took us flying through winding roads in Colombian backcountry to a town called Pipalito. We then took a bus from Pipalito at 530 to Popayan. We got to Pipayan at 1130. We then crashed at the bus station a but, waiting to catch a 1am bus to ipiales, a border town between colombia and ecuador. the security guard harassed us with his constanst maddogging. he looked quite bored. we were his only subjects to test his security guard skills on. i got on the bus and recieved the worst seat in the bus. ricardos was equally as bad, but a bit better since he was able to sit near to window. our seats were next to each other, but in the wee back of the bus, right nect to the bathrooms. ahh, icing on the cake! the seats were also made for the size of infants, so it was quite hard to not sit down and then upon wanting to stand up, one gets stuck. The motor hummed away, endlessly through the night. everytime someone would go to the bathroom, i"d get a whiff of whatever they had for lunch and maybe a door slam to the right knee. we didnt sleep all night. we arrived in ipiales at 9am. it reminded me of a more deserty version of tijiuana, with less people, yet far more apparent poverty. people were strewn across sidewalks. the pace was fast once you stepped out of a cab and the air gave me an uncomfortable feel. we then took a cab across the border, no search of any kind was included. we simly got a stamp on our passport and a bienvedidos once we got to ecuador. we then took another bus at the ecuadorian border to a town called tulcan. we then took a 3 hour bus ride to octalvo. we arrived with our eyes bloodshot, hair matted, mouth dry, and smelling like 3 bags of nacho cheese doritos. octovalo is 9000 feet high. we havent noticed the elevation much though. we scrored a sweet pad in the middle of town for 6 bucks. its got beds for once, hot water for once, and silence for once. oh yes, and we thought tosay was friday, but it was truly saturday. we planned on going to the market all day saturday, but we ddint know that at 3pm, we only had 3 more hours left until the market was closed.i gentleman informedus that it was in fact saturday, not friday, and we onlyhad 3 hours to catch the market. we viewed traditional ecuadorian men with the traditional long poneytail, with a black hat covering it up, and leathered sandals to cover the cauloused feet. ricardo and i scored some handwovenm giant andean designed, traditional cloth pants for 5 bucks. there were about 30 blocks everything from wool caps, and jewlry, to wooden sculptures and ecuadorian rugs
written by  kipmaddog on August 24, 2009 from San Augustine, United States

Visiting the town of Banos:also known as "bathrooms"
Banos, Ecuador
A man with a short,trimmed mustache leads you toward the back of the hostel. All you have is a pair of trunks on, or for you females the newest and cutest bikini. In your right hand is a towel. In your left hand is a cerveca, extra chilled. Ricardo and I happened to be the subjects of this experiment. We got to where the man was elading us and there they were: the steam baths, Ecuadorian style. Ricardo and I put our stuff in a small,brick changing room. We grab a towel and a brew and are lead into the steam baths. There are 3 steam baths in all. Each one is about 4 and a half feet high and about 4 and a half feet across. A wooden bench is mounted inside the cement enclosure.The 3 walls surroundingyou are cement. You sit on the bench. The mystical Ecuadorian man pulls a wooden board up to your neck, with a hole cut out for your neck. Fresh euclypstic (aahhh, spelling?) leaves are at the floor of your enclosure. The man closes the wooden top and the steam is turned on. You go through about 7 rotations of sensual, euphoric, bliss of intense relaxation. Every 5 minutes the man would return to our stations. He would then take us out my the arm, one-by-one, in case we got dizzy. He would then give us wash cloths dipped in icy wate, sourced from the waterfall of the nearest mountain. We would rinse in cold waterfor about 3 minutes and then we would get back in the boxes. Steam would be let out again, the box would fill with steam, as your neck reted on the wooden board, and the only thing sticking out, your beat red face. After 35 minues of this the man led us to this other cement box. we had to stand facing him. He then proceeded to shoot us with a high powered hose. The water was cold as heck and the power of the water tore at the skin. YOu felt limp as a noodle. We dragged ourselves out of there like slugs.
Steam baths are quite popular in this regionof Ecuador. I don"t reckon its a historical practice. Banos is equipped with some natural hot springs, but I think the Steam baths we engaged in were some creation of a brilliant minded Ecuadorian Mystical Shaman.
written by  kipmaddog on August 24, 2009 from Banos, Ecuador

Out of the Chaos, Back on Track for Now...
Pacasmayo, Peru
Days have been passes haning barefeet off the end of wooden piers, dipping fishing line into the cool green water, as splintered, colorful boats bounce with the Peruvian tide. For the past couple of weeks finding steady internet access has been like looking for an In-N-Out Burger in Colombia, nearly impossible.At the moment I am in Pacasmayo Peru, waiting for surf. I am traveling with this French couple I met in the north of Peru. Currently we are at a surf hostel called Los Feroles. We are all staying in a room together. There is Ceceile, an aspiring student of medicine, who has the bed by the window. She likes poetry, romance novels, and bread. Paul, the other link in the french pair, is sleeping below me in bunk beds. I have the top bunk and he"s below me. Paul is a student of industrial design. He is only 23 years old, but he has traveled through India, all of south east Asia, Europe, and now South America. I just happened to meet these folks back at a town called Mancora. I happened to be heading in the same direction as they were and we thought we might join international communities and head south through Peru, as an American-French Triplet. When they first met me they asked where I was from and I told them California. When I asked them they said France, not Paris. They thought this was quite funny because I ddint respond saying the United States. They felt I should say the United States and not California. I tried to explain to them that California was a different culture from the rest of the united States and for this I feel as though I should tell people California and not the united states. They really get a crack out of this.
There is a small kitchen at the hostel. To relly save money I"ve been boiling my own water for coffee each morning and using the instant, stir in coffee. Then I might make a large bowl of rice and crack 2 eggs over the rice. this is breakfast. For lunch I might eat 3 or 4 tangerines, a can of tuna, and a huge bowl of pasta. For dinner, I "ll have a vegetable of some kind, bread, more rice or pasta, maybe some potatoes, and maybe some soup. everything is very cheap, very basic. People may laugh at such a simplistic diet, but each day I"m spending about 5 dollars on food, including maybe a beer or 2.
The hostel is one of the only ones in town. It has about 6 rooms. In this town the only tourists are surfers. So at this hostel the only occupants are surfers. The cost is 25 solas a night or about 8 dollars. So overall, one is able to maintain quite a cheap budget here. there are 2 dogs that run around the hostel frantically. 2 families live on the hostel. During the day the kids come out to play in the grass. I sit there with a book, or maybe I"ll be cooking or nappin. Currently, there are no waves. the first swell is bound to hit in 3 days. I dont feel motivated to wait it out, but the benefits would be mind-blowing. 100 yrds away is the beach. When you get to the beach you look out to your left. About a mile down the beach is the giant point that bends about a half mile out into the ocean. At the end of the point sits an old, archaic light-house. When the waves are good a set comes in and hits the reef on the outside of the point. The wave jacks up and breaks, and immediately turns into a mile long ride. The wave is a left. It is fast, chunky, and barelling. The bottom is perfectly flat. The sand dunes, from the cliffs near the beach continually blow sand into the ocean, filling in the holes on the bottom, making for a perfectly flat surface for the waves to form over.
At the moment, we are just killing the time until the swell gets here. With some books, guitars, ping-pong table, foose-ball table, and points of view from all over the world that make for some of the most incredible conversation, I think we are quite alright waiting here for the next swell to arrive..
written by  kipmaddog on August 31, 2009 from Pacasmayo, Peru

and the waves just keep on comin!
Perugorria, Argentina
Well, presently the day has been spent napping and nursing my wounded shoulders. Damn, a pain just jotted down my shoulder as I write this. They must hurt.
The morning was filled with a 30 minute walk from our hostel, Los Feroles, to the surf break, "El Faro", also known as the gangster of all left-handers. It"s got punch like a wave coming in at Blacks"s and point-wave style similar to breaks in Baja. We awoke at 7 am to San Francisco like fog outside. The ground outside our door was damp and sticky. The air felt maybe 55 degrees. Let"s just say it was a bit "nipply" out. We gathered up our United Nations of a surf gang: Brazil, Japan, Germany, Australia, France, Peru, and the United States. It was quite the crew. Every morning lately we have all been coming out of our rooms in the early morning hours, groggie-eyed and sleepy, yet eager to see the days swell. We brew coffee and eat sweet bread before the adventure. And boy is it an adventure to get to this wave, which is a fast, punchy left coming off the end of a point. The outside is peaky and punchy. Once one makes it to the inside after having already been on the wave for 1 minute, one hits the inside. The inside section turns into a steep barallel, reforming for maybe another 200-1000 meter ride, depending on swell direction, wind, and so forth.
We would all leave camp and make our way to the point, which was where the surf break is. The walk was gruesome. This beach allways had a weird side-shore, off-shore, kind of wind. So when we would walk you would have to hold onto the board with 2 hands. The ground was covered in large, sometimes mossy rocks. Traversing the rocks was a task in itself. WE"d get to the surf break finally. Imagine a large desert point from the sahara desert. Now, place that in Peru, along with some amazing waves. The point jutted out about 1 km, with no houses or buildings of any kind. Just the howling wind, the blowing sand, and the soothing sound of crashing waves. The point could have peen a painting for one reason in particular. On the end of the point was a white lighthouse. The top of the lighthouse had a black roof that hung down about 3 feet from the top. There was also one window at the top. Everytime I surfed I always looked back, imagining an old PEruvian man in a Sailor"s cap, peering out the window towards the sea. The lighthouse most definitely gave the point an eery feel to it, especially along with the upper 50 degree water, heavy fog, and chilly breeze.
the days have been spent reading books from other surfers, laying back amomgst wide, soft hammocks and starring at the sky. The town is small. One can walk through it in 1o minutes. Past the auromatic bakeries serving fresh assorted bread, the old ladies selling carne asada skewers with one potatoe on the end for 50 cents, or something that took quite some getting used to: the stores closing every day for 2-3 hours. I suppose they have similar style to the Italians and Spaniards in this sense. Siestas must be the most highly vauled time of the day. 10-4 over and out..........
written by  kipmaddog on September 10, 2009 from Perugorria, Argentina

Elevation, baby!
Cusco, Peru
The day began after a 21 hour bus ride from Lima, Peru. I could have flown from San Diego to Japan faster thn I could have taken a bus from Lima to Cusco. When I stepped off the bus in Cusco we had climbed from sea level at Lima to around 10,000 feet in elevation. I hailed a cab and had him take me to a hostel at the top of town. We sped over coble-stone streets, past white, colonial-looking buildings. I flipped the cabbie some coins for the ride and stepped into a hostel at the top of the city.
Cusco is situtated in a cradle-like valley. Rocky mountains surround the valley. In the late 16th century Cusco was home to the Incas. One day, Francisco Pizarro charged into the valley of Cusco along with a gang of about 57 other Spanish Conquistadors. They were equipped with Guns, Steel, Domesticated Horses, and Disease. These land pirates had gotten word that the Incas had enough gold to make a large mountain. So the legend goes. The Incas main "base" was Cusco. Led by Attapultatec (spelling might be a bit off), the 200,000 plus Incas in the valley welcomed Pizarro and his troops with open arms. Within a couple of days the Spaniards had taken Attapultatec hostage (eventually killing him) and raped, pilaged, and burned the town. So, 50 plus Spanish soldiers were able to defeat hundreds of thousands of Inca warriors. Even though the Incas heavily out-numbered the Spaniards, the introduction of steel, guns, domesticated horses, and foreign disease, were too much for the Incas to handle. The result: the Spanish murdering hundreds of thousands of Incas, the Spanish acquiring the gold, and a story to tell present day tourists.
The first day in Cusco was carried out at the pace of a Sloth. I didnt want to do anything rash after having gone from sea level to about 10,000 feet in 21 hours. The altitude would bite me in the ass if I pushed things the first day. I met an Israeli fellow from London named Paul. A large majority of the afternoon was spent sipping Matte tea, talking philosophy, and politics. Paul is a 25 year old lawyer from London and damn, can that man put up a decent argument on any topic ranging from the best Cook Book to buy to what is the best land mammal. I mean anything.....well-trained dude.
We walked the cobble-stone streets and people watched most of the day. Cusco had the air of a romantic, Venice-style city, and the grounded history of ancient Rome. I was eager to let this city sink into my senses and give me a true feeling of what this city could offer to the passing traveler....
written by  kipmaddog on September 18, 2009 from Cusco, Peru

Inconsistent Internet in Pleasant Peru
Cusco, Peru
Sleeping in Cusco was cold as a witches titty.
Packs of tousists meandered amongst crowds of other torusists. They all had the same deal going. Camera slung over the neck, all of them costing probably at least a couple grand, floppy hat mated down on the head, the newest North Face wind-breaker, and all had looks of ambigiuty on their faces.
Of course, Cusco was quite known throughout the world as a toursistic hotspot, with archeological sites galore. These sites, for the most part are all quite accesible. Therefore, just about anyone, from anywhere can see them with come dough in their pocket. Simple. The real gravy is where the routes to the sites become difficult. thats where the crowd is weeded out, only the strongest and most determined can make it, and you get bitchin, over the top, in your face views, which for the average photographer, means pictures galore. My camera isnt quite at the quility level yet to be considered a proper tool for an enthusiastic photographer. Moving on...My point is I happen to find this mountain in Otevallaya (spelling?) that made my day and made me realize the power of discovering the treks which were off the beaten path.
Earlier in the day, I awoke at 7 am, packed up the clothes scattered across my room, hit the shower, and was out the door to meet Josh and his buddy at another hostel. They wanted to take motorcycles to Machu Pichu. TO me this didnt seem like a great idea. It had rained last night nd the trek would be 7 hours of winding mountain roads. I had breakfast I followed them to a shop just out of curiosity. The shops to rent the bikes were not open yet. They all said 9 am. The time was 8. They wanted to head to a town Aguas Calientes at the base of Machu Pichu and so did I . My gut was telling me though I would take another option: the buses. It would be cheaper and hopefully safer. They were lagging after a while. I told them I wanted to get the show on the road. We slapped high fives and I was off to Aguas Calientes and they would probably dick around for another half an hour before they left. They had to wait for the bike shops to open and they were set on taking the bikes, so I bummed outta there.
I hopped in a small bus of about 20 people and headed up a winedy mountain road. Snow caped peaks loomed in the distance like Incan Gods. On each side of the road there were fields with old ladies net over picking the dirt. There were no trackers. Mules pulled large metal rakes as the metal claws dug trenches in the soil suitable for farming. I met a young university student on the bus. We chatted for a bit, practicing English and Spanish. The bus was full of farmers, old ladies, and vaqueros. Quite a surreal experience.
I got to a small town and the bus let some of us off. The ride had been about an hour thirty, not bad. The next bus was quite the same, only the ride to the next town I needed to go to was only 25 minutes. I arrived at another small town. Now I needed to catch a bus to Santa Maria and then Aguas Calientes. This bus ride coming up would be 4 hours. I walked around the plaza, yet I couldnt find out where to wait for the next bus. I asked a woman in a store. She informs me to just wait in the small plaza in the center of this town and it will cruise by. Gosh the answers are always so noncholant and ambiguous. I waited near the plaza. A half hour goes by. I now walk to another mujera. Shes a vendor and I ask her where the bus to Santa Maria is. And what time. She tells me to wait in the plaza as well. I wait in the plaza. Another 30 minutes go by. Now its been an hour and the sun is beating down on me amongst the dust clouds hitting my face. I now go to the building entitled "tourist information". Boy do I feel like a tool. I walk in and ask the guy in Spanish where the bus stop is and what th heck time was the bus coming. He replies in English and tells me there is a bus in 30 minutes and to wait in the plaza. AAhhhhhhhh, ione more person tells me to wait in the plaza, there gonna have it!!
I wait in the plaza like a patient sick person in a crowded hosptial waiting room. I head to a cafe to order a sandwich de pollo while I"m killing time. The guy who brough it out to me starts asking me all sorts of questions about where I"m from and yada yada. I make small conversation with him and soon after an hour of conversation my patience is thin ice. there is no bus. pop the question once again and ask the dude for the low down. He tells me there wil be a bus in 30 minutes as well. I retort back to tell hm everyone has already told me that buddy, nice try sucker! No he says, they are wrong, and he then goes into this long rant in Spanish about why he is right. Alright buddy, I"ll test your theory, I"ll wait for 30 minutes, one last time.
I wait for another 30 minutes. I then wait for another 30 minutes, figuring that since it had begun to rain the bus bus that this guy predicted would arrive in thirty minutes would arrive in double the time. I soon realize that everyone has no clue if a bus is coming or not, but hey why not blow smoke up the travlers real end for some giggles? Around 3 pm after still waiting at the same cafe near the plaze, there is still no bus. I call it quites after someone informed me of the most logical explanation. IT had rained today, the road was quite dangerous, and someone had driven off the road. I would now saty at this small town for a large bedroom and a bathroom for 5 bucks. Tomorrow I would try to get to this damn town at the base of Machu Pichu.
written by  kipmaddog on September 21, 2009 from Cusco, Peru

Bout Time I Made it to Machu Pichu!
Aguas Calientes, Peru
After another entire day of traveling by bus through mountain passes, along steep turns with no guard railing I made it to a place called Santa Teresa. From Santa Teresa I hoped in a small mini bus with some Argentinian girls and some nieve, confused Lithiuanian women. For an hur straight we hugged a jagged cliff. Before we left to ride up the side of this cliff I had exmanined the quality of the tires. The were about as bald as the tires on a road bike. And this thign was goin to transport us safely? I doubted it. After an hour of a high heart rate, sweaty palms, and thanking whatever god was up there, we made it to a place called the hydro electric plant.
From the Hydro Electric plant I had to either walk 6 miles along train tracks to get to the town at the nase of Aguas Calientes. A town that goes by the name Aguas Calientes. However, if you had some extra coin in your back-pocket and you were feeling a bit sluggish, then the train would be the best bet. When I started walking th etrain tracks with the Lithiuanian women, we had about an hour before nightfall, yet the walk was supposed the take 2 hours. We started walking along the tracks, which meandered through dense, humid jungle. The mosquitos started to some out and our skin was a fat steak for these little insects. Eaten alive by these suckers would be an understatement. We were devoured. Darkness came. I had no flashlight. The indiglo light on my watch had to do.
After tripping and falling a couple of times on the old, loose tracks, passing through 4 pitch black tunnels, and listening to the gushing river down below us, we made it to Aguas Calientes.
The Lithiuanians were shy, had a very strange sense of humor, which meant to them I had an even stranger sense of humor. We checked into a hostel that night. I had planned on getting my own room. Yet, since the girls were sisters, and they were quite docile, I accepted their offer to just room with them for the night.
I made all of my last minute preperations that night: buying water, packign the right clothes, and reviewing my map of MAchu Pichu. In the morning I would plan on hiking 8km up a mountain of switch-backs to get to the base of Machu Pichu. For the less fit and maybe even less adventerous folks, they could take a bus to the top of the mountain, at the base of Machu Pichu. I wanted to walk it for pure pleasure. And to save the 8 bucks for the bus ride to the top.
The next morning we awoke at 3:45 am. This may sound crazy. But, if you were one of the first ones up get to MAhcu Pichu you could first of all see an emmaculate sunrise and beat the herds of day tarvelers, coming into Machu Pichu from Cusco via train. The whole point to stay at Aguas Calientes was to beat the herds of toursist-tool day travlers that couldnt tell up from down.
The girls were laggin gin the morning and not to be un-gentlemanly like, but I didnt have time for a bunch of time wasting, using the bathroom for 30 minutes in the morning, I feel sick kind of mates to hike with. I ditched them in the most gentleman-like fashion possible, wished them luck and set out to hike at 4am. I didnt have a flashlight and it was pitchblack. I was able to use the indigo on my watch but even this didnt prevent me from stumbling and falling on my face a couple of times.
I felt like my dad, in one of his 100 miles races in COloroado. I was passing heaps of people up the switch-backs in hopes of being one of the frist people to the top. If I got the a real shady, cliff*-like area, I would wait fro someone to catch up to me with a flashlight. Then I would follow them and their light until I could find my way out of the more sketchy areas of the hike.
We were hiking up a mountain through high-elevation, dense cloudforest. There were about 50 other people hiking up who had the same idea as me: they wante to be one of the first up to enjoy the sunrise at Machu Pichu and enjoy Machu Pichu in solitude. By 9 am there would be everyone and thei mom coming up to Machu Pichu and the entire experience of being in a sacred, historical place would be ruined.
A couple other travlers and I made into MAchu Pichu just before sunrise. WAlking into MAchu Pichu felt as though we were walking on clouds. In the ealry morning the entire area of MAchu Pichu was covered in dense, moist clouds. One could barely see the ground in front of them. And then, like a wizard cast a magic spell over the area, the clouds began the disspear. The sun soon rose, firey and yellow, cresting over a near by mountain. Then before my eyes, lay history some 500 years B.C.. Machu Pichu truly looked like a secret societ at the top of this massive, jungle mountain. CLimbing up the mountain and back down, one could not see anything if they looked up. It was as though their was just enough flatness atop this mountain to consctruct Machu Pichu.
Now, Machu Pichu isnt one particluar monument or stone building, it is an entire seceret city atop this jungle-infested mountain. Id say it was worth the trek yup there and the 20 dollars I spent to enter MAchu Pichu. The first couple hours I was there, I had whole, mini plateus to myself. Take life in , think about meaning the meanign of being here in such a well-preserved historical place...all of these thoughts Im telling myself as I walked around the grounds. By 845 though the buses started to arrive. Along with the buses came, 500 tousists, noeses covered in zink, floppy hats on, cameras slung over their neck, expensize titanium walking sticks in their hand. Viewing this was all humerous to me. I mean Machu Pichu was quite spectatcular, but people had the look on their faces liek they were devout Catholics about the meet the Pope. On a basic level all Machu Pichu is is a bunch of well-organized rocks, piled on top of some lush terrain.
At the time the heaps (Ive been hanging around too many AUstralians) arrived, I was ready to leave. I ended up hiking the whole way down solo, until an Australian dude caught up with me on th trail. He was one cool cat. HE was traveling around the world. He had just surfed all of Indonesia, and now he was motorcycling through all of South America. Gave some much needed advice on other areas of the world to explore.
I made it back to Aguas Calinetes by 11am. I got some food and chilled out a bit, resting my legs after the grueling hike. On the way back, I decided to take the train. It was a bit more expensive than taking the bus. But, it was first of all, faster, more comfortable, and more time efficeint. If I decided to take all of the rounds of buses back to Cusco, god knows when Id make it!
I was sitting, waiting for my tain to arrive, peeling a tangerine, when I noticed the frantic stout-looking dude. He came up to me panting. I recognized him from a hostel I had stayed at in Cusco. He gave me the low down and apparently he ahd lost his tour group and he was starnded with no money, bank cards, or passport. I felt bad for the dude, so I loaned him 200 solas which is about 50 bucks so he could make it bask to Cusco. He seemed like a decent guy and he was staying at the same hostel as me so I want too worried.
I made it back to Cusco that night and the big German fellow arrived a bit later with my money I loaned him. The legs feel liek they¨ve been hit with sledge hammers and I could sleep for days. What a damn jouney. Dusty, under-arms smelling like onions, and an appetite of a hungry lion, I made it to Cusco that night.
written by  kipmaddog on September 24, 2009 from Aguas Calientes, Peru

Arrequippa for some peace and quiet
Copacabana, Bolivia
Well, after some long-haired, large-mouthed Austraians recomended me to stay in this hostel in Arrequippa, I made it. Arrequippa is known as canyon country. Everyone in the United States thinks that the Grand Canyon is the largest in the world. Well, it is the widest, but not the deepest. Arrequippa, located in the southwest corner of Peru has the deepest canyon in the world.
I made it to Arrequippa at 7 am after taking an overnight bus. Once again these things are a bit hellish: bumpy, a kid puked on my shoe (not the first time) and the bus driver assumes he is Jeff Gordon on the Indie 500.
A kid of about 8 years old appeared to be the manager of the hostel. He let me in and gave me the most bitchin room in the hostel for about 5 bucks. Queen size bed, a hot shower, and a view from my window of snowy peaks looming in the distance. Ha, and people thought the Rockie Mountains were spectacular. Backtracking a bit: my whole plan was to go from Qusco to Arrequippa. Outside my window loomed the snow-capped peak called misty. The peak is about 18,000 feet. I came to Arrequippa to do this peak, nothing more. After all of my adventures with my father and mother through the Rockie Mountains of COlorado I felt as though I had to carry on the tradition of scaling massive peaks of the world. As a kid I was prone to altitude sickness. Now Im 24 and in the works of becoming a bona-fide stud. Seriously, you only live once.
Anyway, they wanted 65 bucks for a 2 day trek including a guide. I was planning on heading to BOlivia after Peru. Soafter a bit of contemplation and figurering out my finances, I decided to skip this mountain called "Misty" and head to BOlivia to attempt a 6200 meter peak. I know I wont die, so dont worry mom. If I get altitude sickness, I will simply turn around. If you do the math though this peak is about 20,000 feet and it is right outside the capital city of La Paz, Bolivia. I crashed out early in Arrequippa after striking up some conversation with some Europeans
The whole educational system in the United States, at least for universities, is totally out of wack. After talking to them they py 1/8 the amount of money I pay for university and many of their universities actually pay them about 600 Euros a month just to attend university to earn a Bachelors degree. They also only need one year to earn a masters degree. It could depend on the country, but I met this dude who was no brain-wave by any means and the dude got a bachelors degree in 2 and a half years and a masters in a year and a half.
I am in Bolivia right now staying at Lake Titticaca. The lake has a mystical, surreal feel to it. Old wooden boats row through various inlets and coves, as oldl men decked out in tradtional Charlie Chaplin Hats, row the boats along.
Since I am from the United States I had to pay 135 dollars just to enter Bolivia. The great thing is though is that Bolivia is the poorest country in South America. In 2 weeks time that 135 dollars will definitely even itself out.
The nights are freakin cold, like around 45 degrees, with no heater in the room. Lets just say Im wearing every article of clothing on my bad, including my grandpas underwear.
written by  kipmaddog on September 30, 2009 from Copacabana, Bolivia

Lake Titticaca and then the Craziness of La Paz
La Paz, Bolivia
I arrived at Lake Titticaca after an exhausting border crossing. I had to get about 6 different papers and stamps, a couple of pat downs by Bolivian Officers, and of course the 134 dollar enterance fee for U.S. citizens. but hey I"m not involved: the U.S. charges these poor Bolivians to enter the U.S. so for a bit of revenge, Evan Morales, the first indigenious president to be "democratically" elected, charges our asses the same. It would be worth it though. Bolivia was dirt cheap and in fact the poorest country in South America. Now if you want to get all academic there are many confounding factors, this "poor" quality could be measured by health, intelligence, values...but instead I think the elite would much rather use "material goods" as a proper measure.
I took a bus from Puno to Copacabana. Two 6 foot 6 Austrains sat behind me. they could have been the govinators"s twins.
I stayed at a small, family owned hospedeje for 3 bucks. My own room, hot shower, bed with wool blankets, and a balcony over the lake. What now. Although the hospedeje included hot water, when you wanted to take a shower you had to tell the old, gold-teethed, black-braided haired women to hit the secret valve in her bedroom. then her husband would come out and say all machismo like " mas rapido, mas rapido!" Meaning take the damn shower fast, you gringo. Im thinking hey, man, the sign says "hot water", it doesent say "hot water for only 2 minutes".
I walked the shores of the lake during the day. The temperature cooled to I@d say about 50 degrees by 330 p.m.
I met some local indians. Literally indians. but, they were Peruvian, hanging out in Lake Titticaca selling jewlry. I wrapped it up with them a bit in Spanish, talking history, th emeaning of their culture, and how similar they were to the Native American indians. These dudes took a liking to me and gave me a sacred stone from their tribe for protection against the evil spirits. I couldnt refuse the offer. The younger brother of the 2 strapped it around my neck and now I was protected!
Lake titticaca was truly magnificent. It emmited cold winds, desolate shores, and old wooden boats that the ancients once road in. These boats were wooden with each end (the front and back) curled up like the tip of freshly waxed mustache.
The night was unbearble cold. I had on 3 pairs of socks 3 pairs of pants, an under-shirt, t-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, 2 woolen sweaters, a beanie, and was wrapped in a sleeping bag. But, damn the cold kept coming. I awoke early at 630, eager to get some hot tea. I had a bit of breakfest, and took a local bus full of old women, toothless old men, and me, the gringo. We passed through snowy-peaks, and llamas, scattered across the road. We then had to take a ferry with our mini bus, across Lake Titticaca. I met some Argentinians selling jewelry. We chatted Spanish and then finally entered what looked like the craiest city in the world- La Paz. I drove in a cab with the Argentnians. there were no lanes on the roads. A wheel flew off a bus next to me while it was moving. Once again, a kid puked on my shoe. The city was the highest capital city in the world. There were bullet holes the size of quaters outside my hostel. the president was staying 4 blocks away. This city has no rules, no morals....police uniforms are actually sold in clothing stores. But hey, Im here for the cultural relativism.
written by  kipmaddog on October 1, 2009 from La Paz, Bolivia

Conquering the Mountain
La Paz, Bolivia
I had shopped around town for a bit. The word on the street was that there existed this god-like mountain called Huyana Potosi. The mountain was 6088 meters and supposedly, one of the easiest 6000+ mountains in the world. Sonce Ive been a kid I have always gotten altitude sickness, but have had this strange fascination with mountains, bid and tall. It seemed like some sort of ironic desire I had with mountains. The more they made me sick and queesey, the more I wanted them. Maybe it was the pure fact that I could handle ànything on this earth involving endurance, but the altitude always got to me. I couldnt handle this reality. It had to be overcome, some way some how.
In a flash ofamoment I made upmy mind to try the mountain. I had been in La Paz, the capital of Bolivia, for almost 3 days. The altitude was at almost 12,000 feet. I knew the key to success on any big mountain, was for me, a matter of aclimatizing. I strolled the streets looking for mountaineering agencies that woould provide uides for the mountains. The first one I went into told me it would cost 1050 Bolivianos (7 Bolivianos per 1 U.S. Dollar). The guy behind the desk was Swiss. He talked to me like I was a 5 year old boy. Now, son, have you ever been on snow? Yes, doyou know who you"re talking to? Im a Madden, Sir, with alldo respect. Now, he says, its going to be cold. Yeah, and a bear shits in the woods, too, did you know that...Im thinkin.. He went on for a good 20minutes laying down all of the precautions. After awhile, I told him look, Ill be fine buddy, I can handle anything. I told him I would think about it and be back by 4 pm with a decision.
Now Im walking back to my Hotel, yes this time I was staying at a cheap hotel. Most of the hostels in La Paz, reminded me of surrogate frat-houses, allequipped qith bars and about 50 drunken Irish and English people, gone out of their mind. I needed some peace. Right before I get back to my hotel, I see a sign offering a guide to Huyana Potosi. I poke my head in and there is this fat bastard of a Bolivian with gold teeth sitting behind the desk. You want to climb the mountain he says. Yeah, as a matter of fact I do buddy. Ok 670 Bolivianos. I did the math and realized I couldnt score a better dealin town. I slapped the money in his hand instantly, signed the waiver, which basically says, if you fall intoa crevace or off a cliff, they are not held responsible. He then ledme to a back room where all of there gear was to get sized up. He basically kicked in this door because the handle was broken. Inside the room was an old man who reeked of booze and after-shave. He looked to be a 40 year old man inside an 80 year old body. Lots of sun, altitude, booze, and bad food his whole life added upto be a horrible combination. After I tried everything on I had: 2 crampons, 1 ice axe, 2 gators, a pair of snow boots, a face mask, jacket, helmet, and snow pants. The gear was all crap and I now realized was the price was so cheap. The gear was probably used by 1970"s mountaineerers. It was all torn and tattered. I left the gear, grabbed a heavy dinner of pasta and some ambiguous sort of red meat and hit the sack. Tomorrow would be the day.
written by  kipmaddog on October 6, 2009 from La Paz, Bolivia

Internet Cafes in La Paz
La Paz, Bolivia
You walk into an internet cafe. By the way, you"re in La, Paz Bolivia. The sign out front says "internet". You go in and ask to guy in your most broken Spanish if he has fast internet connection. No problem my friend he says. Alright, buddy I"ll try your "internet" cafe, but have already been to like 5 and the computers functioned like the first Mac"s from the 1980"s. You sit down. There are keys on the keyboard, but there are no actual letters on them. In fact in appears as though the dude who owns the cafe, cut out magazine clippings of all letters of the alphabet and used scotch-tape to tape the letters down. YOu sit down, the screen stays blank for a good 5 minutes if your lucky. You usually always have to go back to the counter and say in your broken Spanish, hey dude, my computer is not on and if Im being charged by the hour, you better get thiis thing going and stop talking to yourone of many senoritas on the phone. He says tranquillomy friend. Sit down and Ill have it on. YOu sit back down. Now when the computer turns on, it sounds like a damn lawn-mower engine getting started. YOu sit for another 5 mintes. Finally a screen pops upwith icons. You then go to your yahoo mail account for example. Then the screen starts glitching and flickering. It then takes another 5 minutes to upload your email. Frustration starts to build. But, then again, you tell yourself that you are in BOlivia. Alright, I"ll have some patience. Then you get to your email and you start to type, replying to say an email from your dear old mother who"s been worried sick about you. And, if you"re not an Einstien at typing, you usually have to look at the keys and not the screen when you"re typing. Then after 5 minutes of typing you realize that the "n" key didnt work during the 5 mintes you were typing, nor did the "comma"key, nor did the "o" key. Ahhhhhhhhhh. You then give up on the email since most of the keyson this key board dont work. You then think, alright, have some patience, I"ll try uploading photos. YOu plug in your connection device, set your camera on its aother connection device. Now the screen starts flickering. The whole F-ing computer shuts down. YOu look at your camera and for some reason 50 photos have mysteriously dissapeared. You"re sweating bullets and steaming at the ears from frustration. You stomp your way to the counter. Listen buddy.your keys dont work, the connection is slower than the first computer invented, and mine just shut down. Where is a faster internet cafe you ask him. He replies, "AMIGO, THIS IS THE FASTEST INTERNET CAFE IN ALL OF LA PAZ (and this is the capitalcity of Bolivia?)..........YOu pay him his money for his crap computer and realize internet is quite hopless in Bolivia. This time, I had to bribe the Bolivian Bill Gates tolet me use is laptop to even post this..........Well, thats Bolivia for ya.....
written by  kipmaddog on October 7, 2009 from La Paz, Bolivia

The beginning of the climb
So I walk out of the hotel at 850 sharp. I briskly walk to the agency to meet the manager at 9 am sharp, so he told me yesterday. I stand out front of the agency, its closed. So closed that iron gates are still holding tight to the ground in front on the door. 905 hits. Where the hell is this guy Im thinkin. I skan the streets. They"re lined with crushed beer cans and peanut shells from the night before. Apparently, the night I needed the most sleep there happen to be a Bolivian fiesta. The kind where they closed down the streets, chaos and music all involved. So much for sleep that night. Now, 915 hits. The agency"s rot-iron gates are still closed. There is nobody there to meet me. Is this a skam Im thinkin. I gave the guy the money yesterday and he told me to meet him at 9 am sharp and there is nobody here, in fact the damn agency is not even open yet. Im pacing around, frantic. I might have been ripped off I might have not, but in all actuality there is nobody here and Im here hydrated equipped qith sugary drinks, snikers bars, and crackers for the summit attempt of Huyana Potosi, at 6088 meteres, by far the largest moutain this here body would ever attempt.
5 minutes go by and out of the corner of by eye I see a frantic, over-weight man in a sweater that fit him when he was a bit lighter. Now his belly just buldges out from under-neath the red wool. He comes up to me short of breath and gives me a golden smile, with all of his gold fake teeth glistening in the morning sunlight. He"s got a bag in one had with some sort of vegetable sticking out of the top of it. Im assuming this is the food that was included in my package deal. Damn, talk about organization buddy. Wait I think, this is bolivia, everything is always 30 minutes behind schedule.
The man greets me with a hand-shake, a proper good morning salute, and a are you "listo" question? Yeah Im thinking, lets get this show on the road. He frantically runs to the back room, grabs my gear, hands it to me, and I try to stuff it all down my bag along with snacks, camera, and 8 liters of water. Damn, I better drink this water Im thinking as I sling the bag onto my back cuz this bag going on my back, up that mountain, is going to be more than tiresome.
We walk out to the street. There"s a gray toyota car parked out front. He says this is the vehicle that will be taking me to base camp. I nod my head, say o.k. and he hops into the cab with me. Im in the back seat and we"re flying through traffic. Supposedly my guide is waiting for me along with an Isreali guy. It would me the Isreali guy, me and the guide in our group. Apparently the Isreali guy booked a 3 day summit attempt, hoping to spend the first day at base camp, aclimatizing and practicing with his crampons and ice axe on a glacier near base camp. I just booked a 2 day trek to be more economical and with the thought in my head that it couldnt me to hard to hammer an ice axe in the snow. I had read plenty about Everest and this gear didnt seem too hard to master.
We start driving uphill out of La Paz. Immediately we are stopped in gridlock traffic. Apparently today was also some kind of Bolivian festival. the streets were packed and our taxi wasnt going anywhere. 15 minutes go by and we finally start to move. The streets are packed with cheerful, roudy BOlivians, some are even drinkin brew, yet its 945 am.
Our taxi oulls off some side streets, goes through some blind intersections, and we make it out of the valley of La Paz finally! The agency manager gets out of the front seat and tells me hes done tagging along. The cab will take me the rest of the way to base camp. He hands the cabi the food, gets out, tells me the cabies name is Pedro, and briskly walks down the street. ALright Im thinking, kinda strange, but I"ll go with the flow. The cabi speed off to the outskirts of La Paz. We climb higher and higher out of the city. We then pull over. The cabbie informs me he"s got to get some bread for me and the Isreali guy. I sit and the cab and wait. Literally 20 minutes come by and he comes out of the store with 10 pieces of bread in a black bag. Damn, dude, did you buy the whole store? 20 minutes for 10 pieces of bread? We speed off. The neighborhoods begin to look, seedier, more run down. The peoples faces look darker and more bleached by the sun than the people in the interior of the city. We then hit dirt road. And the ride starts to get bumpy and dusty. Still the cab speeds over dtiches in the dirt and large rocks. The sun is out and its probably 75 degrees. I roll the window down, and start pounding fluids. I start pouring sweat from the heat. Just as I realize how damnhot it is, the cabbie looks over at me and tells me to roll all of the windows up. Why, Im thinkin? Before I can ask why he says he dosent want the interior of his car to get dirty. Im thinkin, dude, you striclkly drive mountaineerers to the base of this mountain over dusty roads, day in and day out, what the heck do you ecpect? I obey his orders and roll up the windows. There are less houses, less people on the side of the road. The dirt road streches to the horizon and just peaking over it, looming in the distance, is a snow-capped peak. That must be the mother of all mother of mountains that Im going to conquer. There it is, you"re mine sucker, Im thinkin.
I begin to pour sweat and really want my damn window rolled down, yet he says "no" when I ask. COme on budy at least some A.C. or something to cool me off, Im about to climb the highest mountain of my life for crying out loud. Im wearing a small t-shirt and pants sweating. He"s sweaing thick, black jeans, and a wool sweater. He"s dressed for the snow and its fricken hotter than heck out. Do you realize that all the dust is coming in your vents too buddy? I dont actually tell him, but wonder if he has a clue why even if his windows are up, his car is still dusty.
We now begin to pass small villages. Women and men are plowing the fields nearby. Llamas are roaming the road along side our cab. We sontinue to climb up this dirt road, make it over a hill, and then the beast comes into sight, looming snowing and glistening in the sun. We drive another 30 minutes or so on a dirt road and then hit a police patrol checkpoint. The cabbie waves casually to the cop at the check point and we stroll by slowly. The cab looks over at me and says since he drives the this road everyday, the cops know him and they never stop him. Great buddy, I dont really care, can we please get some air in this sweat-box!
We begin to talk after 45 minutes of silence. He tells he he has a family and he was born and raised in a village just outside of La Paz. I ask him about the mountain. He says its easy and hes done it several times. As we get closer to the mountain and the details of the mountain start to become more clear in sight, I realize that this mountain sure as heck dosent look easy. We drive for another 20 minutes out so and pass by yellow looking lakes on our left. He tells he the lakes are yellow from all of the mineral deposits coming off the mountain. O.K. good, I think its not just all of the urine from the people of La Paz accumulated into one giant "lake". We finally arrive at the base of the mountain. Well actually we arrive at the base of about 1000 meters of pure rock pilings. the real mountain was snowy and looming behind these rocks. The cabbie and I get out and walk up to this small, gray, stone-building. We walk inside. There is nobody in there but an old wrinkled face Bolivian women. There is no guide and no Isreali dude. We sit and wait in this small buidling for about 5 minutes. Then, in comes walking this purple-faced, blistered-lipped Bolivian equipped in mountain gear. Sweet, thiis is my guide, He looks rough and tumble. Just what I need to conquer this beasst. He"s out of breath though and after 60 seconds go by, in comes a blond-haired woman. She"s red-faced, looks exhausted, and definitely isnt an Isreali man.
My cabbie busts out some swift Spanish and from what I could understand, this wasnt my guide. This guy had just taken this women from Canada up to the summit earlier that morning. Then he says that my guide and the Isreali guy already had hiked up to the next camp. they saw them 3 hours ago, higher on the mountain. The guide says that apparently, the gold-teethed, beer-bellied tour agency manager had called my guide and told him I was sick, bed-ridden, and there would only be the guide and the Isreali dude.
I start to get pissed. Why on earth would this dude phone to base camp the morning I was supposed to meet the guide and tell them that I was sick, bed-ridden and couldnt make it? We go over some plans, We try calling to the second camp, where my guide and the Isreali guy where, "supposedely". The phone"s dont work. There is no reception. I look at the other guide and say look man I didnt come all this way to have my guide ditch me, my tour agency lie and say I was bed-ridden. I wasnt going to turn around, not now. I was ready: mentally, physically, and spiritually. I look at the other guide as my cabbie is standing at my side and say look man tell me the way to the second camp and I"ll go up the the second camp solo, carrying my food for myself and the Isreali guy, along with my dead-weight of a backpack. The guy look st me like Im craxy and basically says its about 2 hours of hiking up scattered shale and grantie rocks. I dont care I say, Im going up. Then in a flash of a moment, my cabbie suggets he will leadhe to the second camp. Well, thats a plan, lets do this!
The cabbie looks in no shape to be climbing a mountain, but he takes the large bag of food and we set off through thick, icy wind and fog. The visibility is about 10 meters and somehow, this billy-goat of a cabbie sets off at a gruelling pace, appearing as though he knew the mountain like his home neighborhood. There is no real trail, only rocks, slighly darkened by some substance that appeared as though it served as a marker for the trail. We"re at about 14,000 feet and already I"m gasping for breath. I feel like I have a sock in my mouth and Im trying breath throuhg it. The cabbie continues to climb the rocks, in freakin dress shoes! Im follwing behind, having no idea which direction we are going, the fog is that thick. After 1 hour and 15 minutes of exhausting climbing, my cabbie tries his phone to call my guide. Somehow, miraculously he gets through. He talks for a but, gets off the hone with my guide and repeats the same story that the other guide said at base camp. He had no clue he was suppose to meet me, he thought it was just him and the Isreali guy. At this point, things seem so out of wack and disorganized, that I"ll I can do is laugh. Thhe cabbie informs me that the guide ould climb down from the second camp and meet us.
So, as nice a guy as he was, the cabbie with food in hand says he will continue to climb with me and show me the way until we see the guide in sight coming down to meet us. We begin to climb up large, mossy rocks. Fog rolls in thick like in a harbor of San Francisco. The cabbie sets off at a booking pace. The only problem is I have a bag weighing about 45 pound son my back. My sweat soaks through my shirt and the cabbie stes off, light-weighted and adjusted to the altitude. I mean, come on, he"s Boivian, this altitude buisness is in his blood.
We keep climbing up rocks. There is no real identifiable path up the mountain, so out of constant anxiety that this man was leading me to the middle of nowhere, I kept askin ghim if he was sure we were headed to the base camp. He kept replying in such a relaxed manner that I was sure he was pulling my leg and he was leading me in the complete wrong direction.
After a few hott, hollars, and whistels, my cabbie some how comes into c otact with my guide. My guide had been climbing down from the camp to meet us halfway. Where we were at that point was most definitely not halfway. ÇBut my guide appproached us with a toothless grin, cheery-eyed and greeting me with incredible warmness for the altitude we were at, 4900 meters.
I thanked the cabbie ,the cabbie handed the guide my food and out of sincere genuity. the guide took my pack, slapped it over it 5 foot tall frame and set off, leading the path like a damn high-altudie billy-goat.
I followed the guide from behind. This time without the pack, things were a bit much easier. Finally the fog parted and there it was: "base camp" if you may call it that. It was a large wooden- like cabin, with a sign on the front saying 5100 meters. Next to the "cabin" ws a large blu, tarp, which resembled a large tent. Apparently this is where the guides did the cooking for the climbers. I got to the front door of the cabin. The fog had dissapated quite abit and now I had a clear voew of the path I climbed and the path I would soon climb later that evening, leaving at midnight. The cabin seemed to be the part, or seam between the large mossy rocks and the beginning of the snow. Above the cabin was bithing but pure snow and ice. At the top of this icy pile lay the summit of Huayana Potosi.
I walked into the cabin. It had an icy chilliness to it. The time was probabaly 3"clock and it was maybe 45 degrees. By the way the cab had no heaters, so the only differenece in the feelng of the temperature contratsed between the inside and the outside was simply the protection from the. wind. The guide took my pack, threw it on the cabin floor and invited me to sit in the room.The room only had a large 30 foot long picnic-like table and slogans written on the wall from fellow climbers such as "the worst thing that ha ever happened to me in my life was when my fiance of 6 years left me for her boss. Climbing this mountain was a close second". Seeing phrases ssimlar to this one broke up the seriousness and brevity of the situation which lie ahead. I joined the Isreali (the dude I"d be climbing with later that night, along with my guide), a dutch girl, and 2 Chinsese dudes for soem cups of Coca Tea, soup, and bread. Tis the diet of a mountaineerer in Bolivia!
We all said our hellos, ate and then weer told to take a nap in the attic room, which was built above the common room. The 2 Chinsese guys had theyr own guide and the Dutch girl had her own as well. The Isreali and I would with the last guide. I was glad he was ours. HE was whimisical and could not stop grinning. The guided instructed us to take a nap on the floor of this room. Keep, in mind the only sleepin gbag I had was one my friend Jon gave me. He used it in theheat of Nimibia in the southern part of Africa. Keep in mind, we weer at 5100 meters when the guides casually told us to take a nap. At that poin tI was at the highest I had ever been in my life. Along with the cold, I sat there on my back shivering, unable to sleep from the altitude. I kept looking over at my fellow climbers. evereyone elese was sound asleep in their Antarctic-like sleeping bags like bears in the middle of hibernation. Boy, was I envious.
2 hours went by. It was 5 o"clock. the guides made us more soup, a bit of pasta, bread, and of course plenty of tea. We ate and the food was crap. Altitude was casting its spell over me and I felt quite uncomfortable at all moments.
The plan would be to now crash out until 1145 pm. then we would put on all of our gear, hike to the edge of the snow, put on our crampons, our rope harnesses, turn on our head lamps and grad our ice axes like they were our life preservers. Well, they surely would be, if anyone of us ended up in a tricky situation.

And the summit attempt.....
I"m awoken, well not really awoken, since sleep never came. The only thing that truly did was the howling of the wind and the iciness in my toes as I lay in my thin sleeping-bag, trying at every moment to sleep and get comfortable. Well, yeah...that didnt exactly happen.
The two Chinsee guys alarms go off. It"s midnight, we"re at almost 5200 meters and the sound of the alarm meant that today was do or die! It was the dinner bell for the summit attempt. We would lace up our boots, strap on our crampons, zip our jackets up tighly against the nipping wind and attempt to summit Huayana Potosi at just shy of 6,100 meters.
So, the 2 Chinese guys head down the wooden ladder to the floor below. Along with them comes the girl from Holland, the Isreali, and me, the tall gangly gringo.
We pretty much woke the guides up. As soon as they heard us preparing our gear, sipping tea, and eating bread, they came stumbling out of their rooms: groggied-eyed, yet with cheery grins. "Are you ready?", they question. YEah I"m ready man. I could tell they slept past their alarms and they we"re trying to play off like they had been waiting up for us to get up.
We all put our gear on. And on me/with me I had 4 pairs of socks, a pair of crampon boots, 3 pairs of long-underwear pants, and then a layer of snow pants. On top of that I had on my lucky Che Guevara t-shirt, my other lucky blue t-shirtthatI had previously nicked off of a good buddies x-girlfirend, one long-sleeved t-shirt, 2 wool sweaters, a water-proof snow jacket, 2 beanies, 2 pairs of gloves, a head-lamp, a backpack full of sugary drinks bread, 2 liters of water, 3 snickers bars, and of course that camera of mine. I mean I sorta did need proof to show whoever I would tell in the furture: that I summited a 6100 meter peak in Bolivia. Now what, biatches! Bring it! Well, to me at least, that was a feat, if completed, would need some much need bragging leverage.
WE walked out into the night. All that could be heard was the gust of wind rushing over the top of freshly powdered snow. The moon was full and the air had a crispness never experienced before. We took in some extra gulps of air and walked through pilings of rocks to the beginning of the snow. With our crampons in hand, and after 3 minutes of walking we reached the snow and trapped our spiky crampns on. For the sake of my future self, as well as others, a crampon is a flat metal plate of spikes, which one straps to the bottom of their snow boots. The crampon is used to scale ice, and snow, a pretty much a vertical angle. They we"re like ice picks under your feet. One felt like one was walking on the moon. An experience one had never felt, over-came one. Along with the altitude and that fact it was 1230 at night, it all made for quite an interesting experience.
The guide handed us harnesses. We put them on with our icy fingers, and then looped a rope through a metal clamp which was attatched to the harness, looped the rope through the Isreali guy, and then the guide raped the rope a couple times around his small frame. And if we fell, this little man would be catching me from a fallen death? We turned on our head-lamps and set off determined as ever to conquer the peak.
The dutch girl set off with her guide just ahead of our 3 man team. The Chinese guys were behind us with their guide. And so it began...
THe first part was a steep bank of snow. We hiking straight up it. If you could imagine: stand a sea-level with a blind blond on, a sock in your mouth, and walk just fast enough to put one foot in front of the other touching each heel to each toe, on each step. Thi is the pace and feeling we were going at.
I had my head down, staying calm, trying to focus on my breathing. The guide led quite a slow pace. We would thank him later that day for saving our asses from crashing and burning before we reached the summit.
We continued up the snowy bank. The only horizon we had was simply more of snowy peak. We could see no peak or summit, only more, much more, of almost vertical snow bank.
After an hour of walking we finally reached the top of the snow bank. Then a fzoen chilliness tickled our spines as the beast loomed in the distance: there it was, the peak, just waiting for us with open arms and an all invite agenda.
As we began the next part I began to realize I was getting myself into a mess of treacherous mountaineering. We arrived at a couple crevices: large icy hoes rangin from 20 meters deep to 50. Some of thm even looked bottom-less. The guide would jump over a crevice, say about 2-3 meters wide. He would be on the other side of the hole, giving the Isreali guy and I an encouraging tug on the rope. "Jump", he"d say in his broken English.
You gotta be out of your F%$&-ing mind man!!!!!!! Jump? Yeah, and I"m Jesus. He"d continue looking at us seriously and say, no really jump. The first one had one praying if one wasnt religious, sweating out of nervousness, and loosing all laws of logic, reason, and thought. One just had to act off of instinct and do the thing!
Soon we were hopping over crevices every 10 minutes and the slope took on a steepness that one felt like one was crawling on one"s hands and knees. The guide instructed us to have our ixe-axe in one hand and dig it into the slope at every step. The other hand held the rope we were all connected to. We always held the rope on the down-side of our slope and the ice axe in the upper-end of the slope, in the other icy hand.

Events that make life what it is....
We soon approached a steep icy slope. This slope had much less snow on it and now it was a true test of the strength of our crampons. We needed durability in these babies, they could save us from a fall down the icy slope. This section was steeper, with less snow, so now it was a situation in which the crampons would beee fully keeping us mountained to the ground.
To confess, I am quite frightened of heights. This mountain I told was a gradual, "rolling" (which could have many interpretations, especially from the standpoint of a rugged Bolivian mountaineerer. We got to a point on the slope, where the guide instructed us to be super cautious and pay strick attention to the the techniquality of the slope. Soon we got to parts where the path was a literally 1/2 meter wide. Looking over the edge of the path was a vertical drop of 30 meters. Then the ground below was covered in crevices, or tiny slits in the glacier, just wide enough for a person to fit through, if they fell.
If I had to use the bathroom I probably would have gone. I"m in the middle, the guide is breaking the trail try to find the safest way up the slope. He" tugging on my rope, telling me to go. I"m walking like a baby who just learned how to walk. The Isreali"s breathe is carried towards us in the night wind. He"s 3 meters behind me.
I soon get to a point where my crampons are"t sticking in the ice. The ice is too loose. Next, I literally have to make a strong swoop with my ice axe, chisleing it a meter above my head. Next I pull myself up with the the planted ice axe. All the while I"m askuing myself "kip, what in the heck have you gotten yourself into?"
The Isreali was scared too, I could tell. He was playing it off quite well. SO was I. At least I was trying....I"m sure the guide was looking at us with a big grin....ha, newbies...
We made it over the slope finally looking down, at the Chinsese guys who were next up the slope. I could just tell, these guys weren"t going to make it. I purely made it up by luck or chance. The forces of the mountain were with me.
We kept on treking threw the night and next appeared to be a crevice/glacier field. Looming in the distance was vertical rock, maybe 500 meters high. Scattered across the rock were small patches of ice and long, teeth-pointing icecles. Somehow we were going to make it up the back side of that thing? I didn"t even want to ask the guide how we were going to make it up that. I honestly didnt want the answer. I would see it when I got there. Now I could start mentally preparing myself for the summit attempt.
The wind began to howl. Voices nor the sound of our oof our cruncing steps on the ice could be heard. All that could was one"s breath echoing throughout the body. We kept climbing all the while I"m grinning to myself thinking this is totally nuts: sky-divers had better odds than this.
Next I see a the technical part approaching at the base of the summit. I look at the guide, already knowin gthe answer and ask him if this next part is difficult. I thoght the last part was kamikazee and he looks at me and says yeah its a hearder than the last part. And its the beginning of the hardness of the next part. So in other words look down at your feet, shut-up, take a deep breath and hold on for craziness squared.
We started on a path with a couple more crevices to hop over. At first the guide was hoppin gover these like a well-springed cat on way too much cat nip. Now he was stopping at the edge of one, planting his ice axe in the ice, looking for weak spots and/or hidden holes. We would arrive at a crevice, he"d search for possible disaster-leading pieces of ice, finish his search quickly, and pounce like a damn olympian long jumper. He"d give me an encouraging jump. Flying through the air was an uncomtrollable ball of kinetic momentum, with no breaks and whose biggest enemy was gravity. I"d make it across, opening the eyes at the other side. Then the Isreali would go. He didnt seem like a thinking man, using reason as his guide at every step. He seemed to act off on instinct and jump without testing the snow. This was a way to abolish some of the fear of the moment.
We finally started rapping around the back siode of the mountain. It appeared as though we could see some sort of trail, splitting the rock slab in two and winding around the backside of the summit. This was the way we would take. We now approached a steep slope of half rock and half ice. The trail wound its way through this field. Soon we realized that the tricky part if using crampons around ice was that the crampons had no traction in the rock. I would try to plant my feet in what look like ice and I"d hit rock an inch down. However, I wouldnt figure this out until I put all of my weight on the foot and it would slip right out of the rock.
You"d stumble and fall. The guide would luckily have the rope nice and tight and catch you with a giant tug. You"d regain your balance and try for another section of ice that would hold you. This not only happened with the crampons but with the ice axe as well. I would find a sturdy place to plant the crampon and then next I"d hack at the ice to find a spot for the ice axe to stick into the ice. Sometime I"d do a pull-up on the ice axe and it would break out of the ice, sending me stumbling backward and the guide and the Isreali would catch me with the rope. Definitely an unrepeatable, one time life event.
Now was the time for untestable madness. YOur reason was out of the window long, long ago. ITwas 445 am and we had 45 minutes left until the top. Up ahead lay a trail of a meter wide with an unrelenting steepness. I was moreso of a crawl. Actually, it could have more acurately resembled climbing a tree. On my right was a drop of 500 vertical meters of strictly ice. To my left was about a 300 meter drop of pure rock and ice. The trail stuck out mayve 8 inches on each side of my feet, beyond that was gravity took one right off the edge.
The last part took us 45 minutes to go maybe 400 meters. The wind was howling at the top. All I wanted was to get the hell off of this piece of ice. At the very top there was no rock, just pure ice. When we arrived at the top, the victory and joy didnt hit me wuite right. It wasnt until later that I most appreciated such a feat. I was naseous, with a constant state of uncomfortability throbbing throughout my body. Flashing red lights in the body saying "kip, get the hell down, now, I mean it!"
The top area was so small there wasnt even really aplace to sit. It was all uneven jagged, chisled ice. there was room for maybe 7 people max. The guide planted 2 ice axes. He then wrapped the rope around both, then around his boady, then around my torso, and then the Isreali"s. Right.....so we cant even be at the top of this peak without being ropped in. I timidly hinched down for some quick pictures and cheery grins amongst our "team".
The sun rose 5 minutes later in a smiling ball of fireness reminding us we made it. this is what we had waited for. The sun rose slow and steady, lighting up the city of La Paz down below, in the distamce. Next came the lighting up of Lake Titticaca some 200 km in the distance.
Life had ammounted to this moment. I was standing on a peak of nearly 20,00 feet. the icy wind was in my hair. My lungs were flat. I had icy toes and fingers and boy did I feel like shit. None of that mattered for the next coupl eof minutes at the summit. This was my life and I was living it. Consciously choosing to be nowhere in the world in any time or place. I wanted to be here, on this mountain with the howling wind blowing against my eardrums. I had a perspective I had never experienced before. It was a birds eye view on all of the problems of civilizations.
Tragidies and jouyous triumphs of all walks of life now came into perspective as something that couldnt frighten or suprise me at that moment. I had risen above, taken it all in and seen the earth from a perspective of an old wise Socratic-like man, sitting in his throne, knowing truly how meaningless axieties, frustrations, and negative thoughts had no place in the world. There were some things in life beyond our control. Being on that mountain in that icy time and slapped me in the face with a realization that humans were fragile beings, we had to take every day one at a time and continuously be tickled with a giggle that we were quite lucky to be alive.

The beginning of the end: Argentina
Salta, Argentina
IT was 2 more chaotic nights in the city of La Paz followed by a night bus ride. We rode through the night on a road made of dirt, with an old man snoring next to me and the sound of the tires hopping over rocks in the road. Noise and vibration made the night into a sleepless busride. Soon only to arrive at Sucre, in the south of Boivia.
After 2 days of walking through street markets, basking in the sun like a Lizard, and chatting it up with some Aussies, I was ready for Argentina.
Another overnight bus, a chilly border crossing of walking through a wild-west like town with border stamps and glaring stares from the Argentinan police and I was across. After a couple more searches and dover-min pincher run-ins, our bus arrived in Salta during the late afternoon.
Salta was a hot town of parks, pick-pocketers and salami in 31 flavors. People switched from Coca Tea to Mate Tea. The accent of the Argentinan was softer and loftier than the Bolivian"s.
After Salta followed a 2 day expedition into the high deserts of Argentina, near the Chilean border, for some wine work at a town called Fiambala. After changing buses 16 and a half times and a couple wait by the side of the road experiences I was ready to get to this damn town. Most buses only went to this town on certain days and at particular times.
After a view of the town of less than 1,000 people, a talk the owner who informed me of my grandiose payment of 5 dollars a day, I was ready to scamper outta there and hit the next town. I figuered the effort was worth the sights. This town just wasnt my place and travel time was precious time. I wouldnt put it to waste. Not now, not ever.
Finally I arrived in Cordoba after 14 more hours of buses. Cordoba was a shining, materialistic city of shopping malls, buffed-up, plastic looking monuments, and 15 year old girls wearing 2,000 dollars worth of designer clothing that their daddy had bought them.
written by  kipmaddog on October 22, 2009 from Salta, Argentina

Homeland Security
Houston, United States
A United States custom worker in the Bush Houston International Airport points to a window where a middle-aged woman, appearing to be of Asian decent, sits patiently behind a counter.
One of the customs agents blurts out, "Sir, please step to window number 2."
"Righty-O, Captain", I whisper to myself.
I walk across the freshly buffed linoleum floor and arrive at window number 2, where the female custom official seemed to sit ready to pry her fangs into fresh meat.
I arrived at the counter in fresh South American attire: a scruffy, unmanageable beard, a native Bolivian Indian shirt with a green, yellow, and orange collar, with cross-stitchings going down the front collar, and my half shoe, half sandal zapatos called Sanuks (check em out!).
She gave me a look as if I was Tarzan"s son, who was back from the Amazon, smuggling an Anaconda and some Colombian Bannanas.
I handed her my passport and U.S. Immigration form and waited for a response. She looked them both over in a glance. She didn't seem too interested in the documents as to this man with a dusty backpack thrown over his back. The only interest that seemed apparent was her slightly-squinted, alert eyes reflecting a chance to practice her heckling techniques for solo traveler"s venturing through South America for a solid chunk of time.
"Ahhhhhhh, Colombia. Hmmmmm, I see," the agent mumbled to herself.
I hear her and ask if there if anything wrong.
She gives me another, "Ahhhhhh Peru. Interesting. Hmmmmm, I see," in the same wise crack mumbled rythmn as the previous time.
She then responds to my question by leaning back in her office hair, letting out a sigh, and a series of endless questions, directed towards myself.
"How much money did you earn a month while saving up for your trip?"
"You worked at a sushi restaraunt, you say. Well, why did you work at a sushi restaraunt?"
"What did you spend your money on while you were in South America?"
I answer all of these questions and many more without giving too much or too little information, but just enough to answer her questions with well-rounded responses. When it came to the question of whether I had worked for money in any of the countries, well, let"s just say I had to give a well-rounded response in the steamy form of B.S., entirely skipping the part about teaching English to local Colombians.
Her questions finally end and now I feel like the woman knows me better than my own brother.
I do also like boxer briefs over boxer"s, in case you wanted to know, lady.
She slaps my passport up on the counter, followed by my United States Customs immigration form. I am abot to snatch both of them up, off the counter, when she pulls out a massive sharpie marker and writes, "C-1", in thick black capitals in the upper portion of my form.
I don"t think of anything when I see the "C-1".
The label didn"t seem to spook me. It just seeemd like a label the customs offical writes on every person" customs form if they are arriving from an international flight.
My whole initial conception of the "C-1" soon turned into dense, cloudy skies. The woman signaled me to the left and immediately i notice the lack of participants from my flight. Looking over my shoulder, it struck me that I was on a solo mission to Secondary Customs. Now, this is the part where the hairs on your neck start reaching for the sky.
After winding through five swtich-backs of black, airport line dividers and around an opaque white wall, I swiftly arrived at Secondary Customs.
In this seperate serach unit of the airport stood 3 uniformed secuirty officers, all with freshly shaven flat-tops and greasily shined balck boots.
Well, If I was honest enough not to get me in trouble and aswered all of their questions like a coherent, law-abbiding citizen, this would all be a walk in a very small park.
Now the time has come: I stroll up to a counter dragging my feet on the linoleum floor as 3 pairs of eyes follow me like I've got something they want.
A middle-aged gentleman looks up from his counter. He looked quite bored as I walked over to his counter, but once I arrived, his eyebrows perked up and his sagging cheeks tightened up,
"Heya there son", he blurts out in his best Houston-accent.
"Hello", I retort back
I initially want to give this guy a whole bunch of attitude for hasteling me. I mean, I was clean as a whistle. Clean as a 6 year old going to school with a sack lunch and L.A. Gears. They weren't going to pin anything on me, only poke me with never-ending questions a higher-up government official had created in hopes of catching bearded scoundrels who looked like they had been living the good life for far too long. Well, sheeit, I was guilty: the good life was still pumping through my veins. This man had probably spent the last 5 months, sitting behind a booth, cleaning his fingernails with his new Swiss Army knife, sucking on some Dip in his side cheek, and reading the latest addition of "Guns and Ammo", while his wife nursed 4 kids at home in a small, weathered one bedroom trailer. What the heck, I'll throw him a way out of his bordom and let him test his skills.
He puts on a pair of rubber gloves and gives them the ole" snaparew by pulling on the ends, quite similar to the style of a doctor telling you to spread em' and cough.
"Hmmmm", he says.
"Says here son that you were in Colombia."
"Yeah, it does say that," I say.
"What business did you have in Colombia."
"Well, first of all I don't do buisness. Colombia was nothing but what Epirurus would call pleasure".
This thought dosent actually leave my mouth, but hovers in the back o my head like a hot cannon waiting to explode onto the target.
"Oh, just traveling", I tell him.
"Traveling. Well, what do you mean by traveling? What did your travels entail?"
Now I begin to heat up. I start giving him the most simple and at times one word answers to satisfy his questions.
"Walking and taking pictures in beautiful landscapes," I tell him.
"Yeah but how much walking did you do and was the camera in your possession at all times?"
He seemed under the impression that I would tell him my life story and since I was not motivated to do so, he seemed to think I was toying with him. I knew this from the sight of the flesh on his face, going from pink to ripe tomato red.
He"s already asked me twice in ten minutes if I brought back any tobacco or food products into the country. I tell him "no", both times. Hmm.. maybe he thought I"d switch my answer, so he asked me the same question twice. But then again he could have been a rookie, stumbling over his own interrogation questions.
He pulls out a book on Peru, turns it so that the spine is sticking up to the ceiling and flutters through all of the pages in hopes of some sort of contra band falling out.
"How was this book?"
I retort back,
"Well, I was in Peru and this book is a book on Peru, so it was quite informative."
"Really", he says.
"Yeah, really", I say.
Through the small spikes of his flat-top I could now see small beads of sweat forming on his scalp. Each time he leaned back down to pull something out of my bag, a small bead would slide through the symmetrical spikes and slip down through the cracks in his lined forehead.
After rummaging through colorful, knitted Bolivian socks that hadn't been washed since I last needed them for a towel in a rest-stop shower, a metal Mate straw used by Argentinians to drink their tea (Herba Mate), a rusted metal compass, and my daisey-duke, cut-off jean shorts, still starched by the salty Carribean sea, he looks at me and says,
"Son what are you going to do with your life in the next couple of years?"
I puff my chest out, give him a mad-dog stare and say,
"I"m going to Harvard Law School next year."
"Really?"
"What field of law?"
And I tell him well, since I've been young, my motivation has been vehemently driven in the direction of stopping police corruption, corruption within the ranks of all government officials, from congressmen to government anti-terrorist teams (such as the one you are on buddy!), and the defense of minorities of the world!
He quickly shoves all of my dirt-covered belongings and tells me I can go.
"Thats it. You don"t need anything more? No more questions."
He stares the other way.
"No, you"re fine. Please go", he quickly mutters under his breath.
written by  kipmaddog on November 15, 2009 from Houston, United States

This is what you call the Isreali Mob; I had to join!

Definitely a Backpacker

White Beauty on the way to Machu Pichu, via bus ride gone wild!

From front door of Hostel. The Night of Cusco...

Nighttime in Cusco

And we are driving up there, I nervously ask the bus driver?

Possibly make for a good painting

Hmmm..Coffee

Machu Pichu

Traditional Boat od the Indians around Lake Titticaka

Altitude has weird effects on some....

And all of this pain for this one moment: The Summit of Huayana Potosi

Sunrise from 6,188 meters

LLama on Machu Pichu

The Isreali checks his gear on the upper shoulder of the peak

The Bolivian Superman Mountain Guide

Heading down the mountain

"Yeah, I"ll take a rain check," I tell the guide

And Lets See Another.....

Lots of People Down There

Right At Sunrise After a Hellish Bus ride

In A small cart. its raining. and an emergency life vest aint workin if we fall

8 million People Down There!

Road cutting through green pastures

Land Ho Matey!

Fiery Dreamy Bliss

The greatness of couchsurfing!

Farm Life

This is my bitchin place in Rodadero Santa Marta

Carribean Sunset

Sweating Till I Aint Got No Sweat To Pour

Anti-Pirate Walls Built by the Spanish

In the narrow alleys of Cartagena´s old, artsy streets

Believe it or Not, This Mommasita has got a PhD and is a prof. at a local university. we hit it off well

About as Serious as this trip gets

looks like europe

pirate cannons

my habitat in medellin

another couchsurfing host

a fruity drink called salpicha

colombian cathedrals

shes hates getting her picture taken

this is santiago and natalia: two of my couchsurfing hosts

intimidation

the city

security guard carrying a sawed off shotgun.

the colorful botanical garden

CityScape

The Most Important Tool for Medellin Cuisine, particularly for grinding corn

Street Performer who didn"t blink for a good 5 minutes

Sculpture Art

A Rockin Concert During The Flower Festival

Spooooky

Looks like the 1930" in the U.S.

Julian, The Masterful Colombian Chef

A Bit of Art

An Irishman in Colombia

She"s playin hard to get

A Red Room

The Metro

Cathedral

Ferria de las flores

El Diablo

This Granny Needs Some Help

And Another Flower Man...

The Ferria

Go Buddy, Go!

Flowers

Hercules, Hercules

One Tough Son of a Gun

Yellow Men on Stilts

Santiago

Bannana Man

Poppin a Wheeley

Ferria de Las Flores

In the Hood

The Squad after a days work

here, boy....

the face

street art

This Man should be in theater

2 Spainards, 1 Chilean, and 1 Gringo

The Crew at a waterfall

Spanish Man wearing his grandma"s underwear

Spanish man taking a bath

Calvin Klein Model I met in Salento

Jeep Riding

Reaction to riding on the roof of a jeep through Colombian backcountry

riacardo likes to take pictures

Back of a cab in quito!

spaceship tower from our balcony

From our balcony