Day 3

We were warned that today would be the toughest day of the hike, so we got up early to hide from some of the jungle heat and to make our way to the City before lunch.

The walking was precarious and more than once my feet slipped on rocks that weren’t meant to be walked upon by shod feet.  We creeped along the side of the river, high above the water, balancing on tiptoes and clinging to hanging branches.  We climbed up and through fallen trees and over boulders and fences and we crossed the fast moving river nine times before our guide said that only one crossing remained.

There was a mystical sort of silence when he said it and I think it had something to do with the finding of what had once been lost.

And find it we did.

We crossed the water and right there on the other side, the steps began and one by one we walked up the them, trodding carefully on each and every one that had been laid so many years ago by a people that thought the strength of the Earth could be soaked up through the soles of their feet.

Then, there was the city.  A city lost no more.

Day 4

The end of a long day.  There’s the quietest rain falling, the sun is nearly gone, and I’m trying desperately to determine how to best write while a gentle Colombian breeze rocks my hammock.  I hear the fire crackling and the cook is standing over it singing to himself as he stirs the frijoles that will fill us all ’til morning.

I cannot believe that I am here, but the blister on my toe and the smell of a four day sweat remind me that, yes, today is real and I am in it.

Day 5

Done.  We left late from camp and stopped to play in a sceret swimming spot.  We dove and jumped from ungodly heights and got eaten alive by mosquitoes and the like for nearly an hour before we made our way up and out of the hidden spot to eat watermelon and start another climb.

Straight up at no less than a 45 degree angle for over an hour.  Found a nice rhythm today and the group stuck together well in a clip clop of booted feet.  We stopped again when we cleared the shade to yell across the mountains– each of us dripping, but somehow content.

Back at Day 1 camp now and after my a nap and my second bucket bath, we’re playing chess in the candlelight.

Day 6

We were in no hurry today and slept in until a tardy 7:00 a.m.  Before breakfast we walked across the sun-soaked mountain and down toward the sound of moving waters.  There, hidden in the trees, was a waterfall.  We carefully climbed barefooted down the side of it- the six of us and the family that gave us a place to hang our hammocks.

I stood there in the spray and laughed at the way nature’s surprises and wonders can turn the burliest of men into giggling, playing boys again.

Breakfast of arepas and eggs, packs loaded, waves, kisses, and hugs goodbye.  Then, the start of a long walk home.  A long, steady climb, sweat, sharing water, resting at the top, chatting like friends that have known each other for six lifetimes rather than six days.

Day 1, end

Dear Jesus,

Please help me not to do bodily harm to my friend, Jill.  This torture is all her fault.  Amen.

Got up early, met the crew and guide.  Jill and I volunteered to ride los motos to the pueblo as there wasn’t enough room in the Jeep for all of us.

The Colombian man I was smashed against asked me over the course of the 40 minute ride if I’d have his babies.  I informed him politely that I neither spoke Spanish nor had sex.  Muchas gracias y bug off, creepster.

Oh, and dear Jesus, Could you please forgive me for all the curse words I said today?  That’d be swell.  Amen.

The mountains are gorgeous and we are, by all accounts, in the middle of nowhere and I am, by all accounts, sure to die before this is over.

Still, we are here and Day 1 is finished.  Hammocks are hung, we’re all laughing, and believe it or not, excited about tomorrow.  I bow out at a ripe 7:30 p.m. and wave like a Southern belle at the rest of the crew still sitting at the table.  ” ‘Night, Profe,” they say to me as I climb beneath my mosquito net and let a much needed sleep take me over.

Day 2

Another day of nothing but climbing.  Straight up into the Sierra Nevadas.

Reached our campsite by early afternoon and went down to the river for a swim and a nap on a sun-baked rock.  A group of 18 men and women all over the age of 65 just arrived to bunk with us.  They made the two day trip we just finished in about six hours.  I do not hate them.  I do not hate them.  In fact, it’s impossible to hate them.  Their zeal and humor is downright contagious.

Dear Lord, help me not to be old and ornery at retirement age.  Instead, let me think about hiking into the middle of nowhere with a bunch of other crazies even if I don’t actually do it.  Amen.

I’ve lived by myself for the past umpteen years and I like it that way.  I like my own space and working on my own schedule (in my pjs if I want to) which I guess is hard to believe because I’m a people person, too.  Just not a people-in-my-space sort of person.

So, here I admit it:  I was a little nervous about Robin coming.  I live in a studio apartment.  That’s one room, folks.  Even the bathroom is so small that I leave the door open because claustrophobia takes over if I get all closed up in that tiny space.

Now, you take that small space and put two people in it and things can get a little iffy.  But the truth is, that week with Robin here was quite possibly my favorite week of the past two years.

We went out to eat every single night and I went to soccer games and finally hiked the Nevado.  We sat in our pajamas and laughed for no reason at all and we talked about how life isn’t the way that we planned it, but that maybe that makes it better.  We caught up on fifteen years gone by and promised that we’d catch up again before another fifteen are gone. And I’m looking forward to that.

But in the meantime I’ve got some pictures.  Pictures of two little girls that are on their way to all grown up.  Pictures of two friends that have seen more of the world than most people see in a lifetime.  Pictures of long, red curls and blonde ponytails and two pairs of saphire eyes.  Pictures that remind me that years don’t matter at all in the company of friends.

Her hair is as red and curly as I remembered and her eyes are filled with life just like they were when we had tea parties and danced in sequins on the front porch of a house in a small, small town. 

She’s taking it all in and giving her Spanish a test run and she’s sleeping in my one room flat at the moment. 

I’ve fed her empanandas and bandeja paisa and postre de milo and I’ve made her walk the length of the Avenida and hike up to 15,000 feet on the Nevado del Ruiz.  She’s heard live salsa music and danced with Colombian men in a the early morning hours. 

And last night, as we sat in our pjs and laughed like little girls, she told me that if she didn’t leave the apartment again it would still be worth the trip.

I know exactly how she feels.

It’s all invigorating at the onset.  There’s the planning or the lack there of and there’s the telling people that no, you aren’t crazy and that yes, you’ll be back.  Then, there’s the going and seeing and swearing that there can’t possibly be another place like this one on all the Earth.  There are pictures in frames and pages of words scrawled in journals and both are gathering dust on a shelf somewhere.

But every now and again a song or a sound or the way the sunshine hits the pavement sends you back to that place- the one that you saw so very long ago– and when it happens the memories come rushing back like streams in a spring’s thaw and that, too, is travel.

Travel.

It’s in the sights, of course, but it’s also in the airport waiting, the train hopping, and the bus catching.  It’s the smell of morning in a strange land and the taste of sweet tea when you come home again.  Travel is photographs and paragraphs and friends all over the world.  It’s trying to wrap up a lifetime of wow in a two dollar souvenir and agonizing over using modern language to describe ancient beauty.

Travel is all of those things and I’m making a life of it.

I’m sitting in my classroom staring at my bags and smiling at the way Colombian children say goodbye.  There are hugs and kisses and wide grins that let me know they might miss me just a little.

“Give saludes to your family from us, Mees!” one girl says while another makes me promise to bring back lots of green gum.  The boys hug me, too, and seem less bashful today.  Perhaps Christmas and a blonde headed teacher have softened them just a bit. 

There’s a giddy chatter that’s seeping in through the door as the kids are loading buses and I think I heard one of them speaking English. 

Life is good here, but I’m putting it on hold for the next three weeks or so. 

I’m going home.

Here’s to hoping that there are no emotional breakdowns this go ’round.

We’d wander around the Harbour and the city streets or lay in the grass talking about whatever came to mind.  Home.  Camp.  Kids.  Books.  Music.  Ice Cream.  It didn’t matter. 

Inevitably by afternoon we’d end up in a movie theatre somewhere.  I asked Lyle once why we always went to movies and he said, “When it’s dark and you’re eating popcorn and Kit Kat bars it’s easy to pretend you’re at home.”

I went to the theatre in Manizales yesterday.  No Lyle.  No Sisser.  Just some popcorn, a diet coke, and pretending I was home.

Catching some shut eye on the final leg, too.

And here are a few from along the way.

About ten minutes into our three hour hike through the Amazon jungle.

This was the easy part.  The 40 meter climb up the tree — not so much.

Sunset on the Amazon River. 

Is this really my life?

Yes, I had a fantastic trip to the Amazon.  It was all that I expected and more.  It was breathtaking and heartbreaking and awe inspiring and I have a journal full of things to share with you soon.

Yes, I said soon.

Because today, friends, is day four of the Virus o’ Death.

Or near death for those of you that might think I’m being dramatic.

I felt it coming on as our plane landed late on Friday night and by Saturday morning at 2:00 a.m. I was curled on the bathroom floor praying to the good Lord, whimpering for Momma, and cursing parasites, foreign countries, and salty tastes that bring on wretching.

Sunday and Monday were more of the same and today I finally went to the doctor.  (talk about challenging my Spanish vocabulary!)  I was poked and prodded and told I had invisible veins, but beautiful milky white arms.

Sisser would call me Casper or Pasty, but I rolled with it.  So did my stomach now that I think about it.

After three hours of an IV, a blood test, and another test you don’t want to know anything about, I am home.  Home with my inflamed colon, constricted gastrointestinal tract, a bag full of medicine, an order to stay home for another day and a Virus o’ Death that shall soon be defeated.

So, there.  Now you know why I haven’t written and hopefully your heart is just bleeding with sympathy.  I mean, it is, right?

Nonetheless, I’m off to the Amazon!

It’s October break here and three friends and I are headed out in the morning at a not-so-bright 3:00.  IN THE A.M.!

I have no clue where we’re staying or what we’re doing or what to pack or how my Spanish works in the wee hours of the morning, but I’m going.

And, I promise, I’ll blog it all when I get back.  (That’d be Saturday for those of you that check up on me.)

I’ll blog the Amazon, and how McDonald’s get props from me, and how blue paper thongs aren’t meant to be shared, and how I’m a sucker for the bad kids, and I’ll introduce you to a new bloggy friend.

Doesn’t that just make you guys all giddy with excitement inside?

I knew it would.