A bus ride in Colombia is rarely boring, with the exception of the night buses (when you feel locked inside a cold, dark, quiet crypt-on-wheels.) Even after five weeks in Colombia, almost every ride offers up new novelties, wonders and the chance for a conversation. A recent ride in the South, from Popayán to Ipiales, took eight hours and traversed at least four different climates. We left Popayán, a beautiful old whitewashed town famous for the upcoming Easter celebrations, and sped southward. The climate in Pop is extremely pleasant, up in the mountains around 5000ft - warm days and cool evenings. But by the time we stopped for lunch we had descended through a series of valleys, and stepping off the bus the heat hit me like a hammer. I sweated through lunch and dozed as we started to climb again, entering an arid landscape of high, humpy mountains covered in sparse scrub and cacti. The sun was strong but the air was cool and dry. I alternated between listless staring, listening to classic rock on my iPod and reading a book about the Sicilian mafia (several hundred pages that can be summed up in two words: extortion and murder.)
This particular route has a bad reputation in Colombia, cutting through territory controlled on and off over the years by FARC, the most infamous guerrilla group. They're responsible for many of the hostage-taking headlines that have contributed to the country's tarnished security image. Towards the end of the journey we neared Ipiales, even higher and cooler than Popayán, only a few miles from the border with Ecuador.
A small man sitting beside me struck up a conversation. He must have gone up to Pasto (the next city north) to do some business for the day, because he was all duded up like a slapdash Mr Potato Head of casual formal. Brown shoes, dark slacks heavy on the pleats, a plaid shirt under a paisley tie and an oversize beige blazer. After making small talk, during which he advised me to tell people I'm from Argentina instead of the US (too much of a target), he started in on a familiar line of questioning. Is San Francisco a country or a state? It's a city, I said, in the state of California. What about Houston? Also a city, but in the state of Texas. I ran through the whole United Sates equals fifty states thing. He nodded slowly. But Boston's a republic, right? No, a city in Massachusettes. Huh. He asked me about Obama, about the population, whether we grew potatoes, the climate. I enjoy these conversations of genuine interest, and it makes me realize how confusing all the names and words flashing on the news must seem. I also wonder how many Americans can name three cities in Colombia. I thanked him for our chat. Later, in the plaza, a soldier frisked me for the first time in Colombia. Maybe the FARC situation is heating up again. . .
This particular route has a bad reputation in Colombia, cutting through territory controlled on and off over the years by FARC, the most infamous guerrilla group. They're responsible for many of the hostage-taking headlines that have contributed to the country's tarnished security image. Towards the end of the journey we neared Ipiales, even higher and cooler than Popayán, only a few miles from the border with Ecuador.
A small man sitting beside me struck up a conversation. He must have gone up to Pasto (the next city north) to do some business for the day, because he was all duded up like a slapdash Mr Potato Head of casual formal. Brown shoes, dark slacks heavy on the pleats, a plaid shirt under a paisley tie and an oversize beige blazer. After making small talk, during which he advised me to tell people I'm from Argentina instead of the US (too much of a target), he started in on a familiar line of questioning. Is San Francisco a country or a state? It's a city, I said, in the state of California. What about Houston? Also a city, but in the state of Texas. I ran through the whole United Sates equals fifty states thing. He nodded slowly. But Boston's a republic, right? No, a city in Massachusettes. Huh. He asked me about Obama, about the population, whether we grew potatoes, the climate. I enjoy these conversations of genuine interest, and it makes me realize how confusing all the names and words flashing on the news must seem. I also wonder how many Americans can name three cities in Colombia. I thanked him for our chat. Later, in the plaza, a soldier frisked me for the first time in Colombia. Maybe the FARC situation is heating up again. . .
Here are a few of my favorite roadside shots (donkey cart, where are you?)
Goat truck
Working a potato field near Ipiales
Hitching a ride on the Panamericana
Boiling tar in Boyacá
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment