Wilderness of the Mind

Country: Republic of Artsakh/Occupied Azerbaijan/It’s ComplicatedTime: Summer 2017Note: The Nagorno-Karabakh war—recently in the news for six weeks of intense fighting— is complex and has a complicated history, and there is much I do not understand. The following is simply a personal account of encountering an unusual casualty of this war. It was written before now, and so you might say “hey,…

When a dusty campground Christmas Eve in the Argentinian Patagonia takes a turn for the worse, we turn to the worst decade of pop culture for asylum.

Country: ArgentinaTime: December 2016, South American SummertimeTime to read: Quite a while, crocodileMusical pairings: “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” -Cyndi Lauper, “Proud Mary” –  Tina Turner,“Chantaje” – Shakira, any bad eighties playlist Brother and I walked from the bus terminal along the dusty streets of Villa Regina. This town in the Argentinian Patagonia—not the part with dramatic…

Cool, early morning light bathed the mountains of the Mojave desert as I drove alone, savoring the new sights and smells. I didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but the land provided one when among the beautifully bleak blackbrush appeared an oasis.

It looked idyllic, but I’d seen enough Stranger Thingsto be skeptical of whatever topsy-turvy-Upside Down-Mirror-Dimension was all up in…

Upon concluding I'd done nothing of interest—legal or otherwise—the Qatari officials began to ask me questions about my dating life.

JULY 2017: So there I was, minding my own dehydrated business in Doha, Qatar, a tiny country on the Persian Gulf whose only land neighbor is Saudi Arabia. I was I was here on a day-long layover as I returned home to the U.S. for work after a couple months away. The day dawned disgustingly warm as I walked out of the airport to on my layover 6 AM, and already 91 degrees. It would rise to 107° at…

Upon concluding I'd done nothing of interest—legal or otherwise—the Qatari officials began to ask me questions about my dating life.

JULY 2017: So there I was, minding my own dehydrated business in Doha, Qatar, a tiny country on the Persian Gulf whose only land neighbor is Saudi Arabia. I was I was here on a day-long layover as I returned home to the U.S. for work after a couple months away. The day dawned disgustingly warm as I walked out of the airport to on my layover 6 AM, and already 91 degrees. It would rise to 107° at…

Registration—be it a foreigner’s passport or a local’s carnet—is part of day-to-day life in Republic of Congo. It’s quite the hullabaloo in le America, now, the questions about who can demand whose ID and how far from a border it is legal to do so and for what reason—guess what, you’ve already made up your mind about that, and so we’ll talk about Central Africa instead, where no one cares what we…

Kentucky-Fried Questin’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C74VmXOO_Gs&feature=youtu.be

“Chicken for a year,” they whispered All the fowl a man could eat “Chicken, for a year?” I queried ‘Twas the word upon the street.

So to KFC I wandered There I went and hoped to win Chicken with the First of Fifty At the store’s reopenin’. Other people had been gathered Since before the sun had shone Five and two observant people Of the…

My brother and I learn about the Ba'aka pygmies during a trip to the Congolese rainforest.

The First Cut is the Deepest – Meeting the Ba’aka People of the Congolese Rainforest

Late one evening in the library, my brother Shawn scrolled through satellite images on Google Earth. The first-year medical student probably spent a little too much time looking at satellite images of exotic locales, daydreaming of what he might find there. This particular evening he was scrutinizing a remote…

The death of a cantankerous family pet unexpectedly evokes grief, sadness, and a chance to look back on an international society once created to ensure the bird's demise.

Perky Bird.

Even as the aged cockatiel lays there his open eye seems to still glare beadily, malevolently, curiously. Yesterday I’d entertained the thought that I, too, could be the amigo of this insane animal, bridging our years of mutual enmity.

But no, the tiny heart of the bird has stilled, and at last I am forced to admit I’d secretly liked it all along, this annoying, terrible and terribly…

2nd Grade 7 year-old: So, how old are you? Me: Eighty two. 7 year-old: Oh. An hour later, another teacher enters the room to get something and I recognize her from when I used to swim at a neighborhood pool, and we chat Me to teacher: Yeah, I think I was a teenager when your kids began swimming there. 7 year-old is watching nearby, eyes narrowed. After the other teacher leaves, he moves to confront me. 7 year-old: You were talking to the teacher, and she’s, like, thirty-nine. If you’re just a little older than her kids… then you’re not eighty-two! Me: My disguise has been discovered! **runs from the room**

Katrina, 2 min sketch

High School Typically the easiest job. The benefit is  people don’t really care about your existence, so they mostly do their own thing. The drawback is people don’t really care about your existence, and mostly do their own thing, regardless of what you do.

The high school medical anatomy class finishes a quiz. Student: Can you put on some surgeries for us to watch while we’re working? Me: Your teacher shows you these in class. Student: Yeah, totally. Me: I have no way of verifying the truthfulness of this claim. Imma go with no. Student, sighing with disappointment: Ohhhkay. It’s probably for the best, though. People sometimes pass out when they watch nose surgeries, they put a chisel up the nose and pound with a hammer… that tends to get ’em. The next class comes in. Me: Does Mr. C show y’all surgeries? Class: Yes. Me: Oohkay then.

I asked another class about Mr C, who apparently shows all kinds of amputations, ACL surgeries, removal of a hairball from the stomach of a woman addicting to eating her own Herbal Essence-infused follicles, the extrication of a fist-sized kidney stone from a bladder…

Student 1: Sometimes I can’t watch. Student 2: We’ll be dissecting something in class and he’ll cut off a piece, like he did with this cow lung one time, and He flung it at the whiteboard and yelled “Look, it sticks!” and then just left the slice there all class period. We get blood on the whiteboard a lot.

“He flung it at the whiteboard and yelled ‘Look, it sticks!’ and then just left the slice of cow lung there all class period. We get blood on the whiteboard a lot.’

#justsurgerythings

That part about sticking a chisel up someone’s nose and whacking it with a hammer? Apparently it’s accepted rhinoplasty technique. Which, disappointingly, does not involve a live rhinoceros.

  Middle School A middle school dance class is practicing for a multicultural dance assembly when someone nabs the audio jack and blasts Justin Bieber’s “Baby.” Me: There is no way this song is still relevant. Middle schoolers sing word-for-word to the song. Me: It cannot be. The Ludacris rap section begins, even bystanders get down. Ludacris and Tweens: “When I was thirteeeen, I had my first luuuv!” There was nobody that compared to my baaaaby— And nobody came between us, no one could ever come aboooove…!” Me: noooo

Elementary If you’ve slept sufficiently, elementary and especially kindergarten are enjoyable: busy,  hilarious. Also, cruel.

Me: Hello class! My name is Mr… I lose my train of thought and hesitate a split-minute too long. Kindergartner: Potato! Kindergartners, losing it completely: Hahahaha! Mr. Potato! Me: What? No, it’s— Kindergartners: Potato! Potato! Mr. Potato! After weakly struggling to restore order, I retreat to the teacher’s desk and sulk quietly. Me: My name is not Mr. Potato.

#organic

Kindergartner: Your shirt has lots of birds on it. Me: That is because I am secretly lots of birds taped together. Kindergartner: …

A student teacher is leading the kindergartners in reading three-letter words aloud. I am reading with them, but have not yet been introduced. I am sitting next to Señorita Sassypants, a bright, outspoken and conniving child. Class: B-at. J-am. C-at. H-am. Me: Bat. Jam. Cat. Ham. Señorita Sassypants: Wait, how do you already know all this stuff? You don’t go here. You’re not a student!” Inclusive Child, (same height as my waist):  Wait, wait, you go here! You can be a student, too!

Kinder 1: Why you wearing fancy shoes? Me: These here are my dancing shoes. Kinder 1: Why you wearing dancing shoes? Me: So I can dance away the blues. Kinder 1: …Huh? Kinder 2: You’re Team Rocket!?

Hairy Otter and the Rage of Elsa, Conte on Paper

Six-year old: When you learned to walk, you were one year old. Five-year old: Actually, I was five!

Who gets to draw the Purple Froople?

Visiting Music Teacher to kids: Who gets to draw the Purple Froople?

Fergalicious, an ideal name for your weasel

Child: I want to draw the Chocolate Womple! Visiting Music Teacher: Nina, your Stroiper looks amazing. Me to me: The heck is going on in hereMy brother also subbed kindergarten for a bit. Here’s two experiences of his: Brother: Okay guys, I am going to tell you about a scary story about a time I had a run-in from a bear. Before he even begins the story, several students crawl beneath their seats. Brother: Where–what are you are you doing? Students: We’re scared, teacher! Brother: Look, you can’t be under there. Everyone get back up. They do. He tells a story where various noises and surprises happen and the students think it is a bear, but it ends up being a stick, or a squirrel, until… …Well, the next thing that happened was as I laid in my hammock was the bear came up and pushed my hammock a little. And then I screamed, and looked out of my hammock, and it ran away into the woods! I had to change my pants after that. Student 1: Wait, why did you have to— Student 2: IT’S ‘CAUSE HE PEED HIMSELF! Students, shrieking with laughter at the implied urination, fall on the floor and roll around, at last fulfilling the ancient AOL messenger prophecy, “ROFLOL.”

Students shriek with laughter at the implied urination.

Brother is passing the school snack to students. It is pineapple, which many have not tried before. Brother: It’s pretty good, right? Students nod and continue eating the unfamiliar fruit. Brother:There’s lots, if anyone wants to eat more. Students return for seconds, then many for thirds. As the children eat, the pineapple begins to tenderize their mouths. One girl sticks out her tongue and begins to touch it, wincing. Frightened child: My—my tongue hurts! A number of things happen simultaneously. Several other students also conclude they are hurt, dying, even. Yet another student screams out as two students run for the door. Take Action Children: Hold on! We’ll go get the principal! Sprinting for help, they almost escape before Brother is able to catch up, contain the breach, and calm the frightened students by persuading them to drink water. The Great Pineapple Crisis has been averted.

Let us now return to dumb and mean things kids say.

Child playing doctor during playtime: **approaches fellow child on tiny couch, places stethoscope on Patient Child, listens, and begins to panic as a diagnosis is made** Doctor Child: She has the contagious!

Big Treble in Little City, Conte pencil on paper. Artist: Señorita Sass

I am demonstrating an intentionally bad magic trick for Señorita Sassypants. I put my face in profile and pretend to pull a pencil out of my nose. Señorita Sassypants: You didn’t pull that out of your nose. There’s no boogers on it.

“You didn’t pull that out of your nose. There’s no boogers on it.”

Me: Rats! You got me. But check this out. I select a white crayon and twiddle it in my hands and slip it into my lap when SS’s concentration wavers. I drop it to the floor and it rolls under the table, where I put my foot over it. Me: It’s gone. Bam. Magic crayon. SS searches my hands and sleeves, finding nothing. She begins to search the floor, frustration building. She peers beneath the edge of my shoe and spots the crayon, which she seizes triumphantly and holds aloft, sneering. Me: Uh, it must have teleported! SS, drawing close to my face: No, you hid it there. This crayon isn’t magic. You’re not magic. **snaps crayon in half, tossing the fragments of wax and vaudeville showbiz dreams to the floor**

JajsKe, Ballpoint on Paper

Time for dinner: Platinum Edition

Inclusive Child: Do you know Cat? Me: The despicable animal? IC: No, my friend from church. Me, rolling with it: Oh, right. Our mutual friend, Cat. IC: You know Cat? Me: Yaaah. About yea tall **gestures about three feet in the air** likes running… and… pizza.” IC: Wow! You know Cat!

Inclusive Child, giving me the sideye: Are you a kid, or a dad? Me: I’m not a dad. IC: So… you’re a kid? ‘Cause you look like a dad. Me: …Yes? No! I’m not a dad, but I am an uncle. In fact, I have four– IC: An uncle? I—I thought you were a kid!

Señorita Sassypants peers in my ear while I sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor. Señorita Sassypants: The inside of your ears are disgusting. Me to me: I have just had my personal hygiene questioned by a child. I have never before felt so insecure.

elixir of life

2nd Grade Me, joking: Hey, look, it’s those purple glue sticks! Makes you kinda hungry, yeah? Child 1: Yeah. I haven’t had one in a while, though.  They’re not bad. A little minty.

“Hey, look, it’s those purple glue sticks! Makes you kinda hungry, yeah?” “Yeah. I haven’t had one in a while, though. They’re not bad. A little minty.”

Me: Wait—I was just joking— Child 2: Yeah, minty is a good way to put it. But they sort of give you a headache. Child 1:  Just a little one. Me: A headache. Do you… eat these often? Child 2: Not that much. Child 1: Like, not that much, I mean, I’ve only eaten them twice this school year. Child 2: Twice for me, too. Me: It’s barely October.  Child 3, wandering over: Are we talking about eating glue? Me: You—you’ve also— Child 3: It’s pretty good. Kinda minty, but there might be little bit of a headache after. Me: …ohhkay then. Hours pass. All the students have left for the day. A purple glue stick sits temptingly on a semicircle table.The pursuit of knowledge and flavor beckons. It’s labeled nontoxic, after all… “Hey, that is minty!”

Then… the headache.

For more ridiculous school conversations, do check out the original Tales from the Trenches: Conversations of a Substitute Teacher.  Then, go hug a teacher. And put money and chocolate syrup into their bag so they can have a good Monday.

As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains. On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

Some days prior we’d arrived in Bogotá on a Sunday, and on a holiday, Dia de la Virgen. Consequently, the city of eight million souls had felt almost deserted. We’d known immediately what we wanted to do in Colombia: we sought the páramo, the high-altitude tropical grasslands so characteristic of the Andes. We managed to find the National Parks office downtown and discovered when they opened (a day later) and when we returned that their own maps and information on their parks, well, sucked. National parks in America arebasically chock-full of maps, info and trail routes you can grab from a visitors’ center with as easily as you’d find a drinking fountain. As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains.On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

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There was enough information to figure out which parks were closest to us and Bogotá, and with the help of some outdated guidebooks we’d sniffed out in a secondhand bookshop we’d ultimately selected the promising slopes of Los Nevados National Park. The bus ride to the town nearest its base was a thrilling introduction to one of South America’s most beautiful and often shunned countries possessed of all the amenities a world traveler could ever desire. “Hey, Shawn, look, they have food here! There’s bananas! Also, rice!”

They even have those beefed-up weasel things!

Indeed, the casual charm of nearby Ecuador and the ever-Instagrammable llamas of Macchu Picchu—paired with Colombia’s decades of rebel insurgencies and drug wars— seems to have dissuaded many travelers from visiting Colombia. Things have been on a slow chill-out since 2012, though, and a final peace accord was ratified on November 29, 2016, like, at least a week and a half before we bothered to show up. Correspondingly tourists are a flockin’. Flockin’ tourists. All up in Colombia’s bizness.

Passing through the larger city of Ibague, we finished our bus ride in Armenia. Armenia, Colombia, is incredibly like Cotopaxi, Colorado and Cuba, New Mexico (both of which I’d seen in the weeks prior) in that it scarcely resembles its foreign namesake. Fascinating, I know. Somewhat more interestingly, According to a Wikipedia article without any sourcing, “it is believed that the name [of the city] was changed to Armenia after the country of the same name, in memory of the Armenian people murdered by the Turkish Ottomans in the Hamidian Massacres of 1894–97 and later the Armenian Genocide of 1915–23.”

The tourist office informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go.

  We stopped at an hospedaje in Armenia and ferreted out some basic topographic maps of the national park with Google-fu. The next morning, we took a minivan uphill to the small town of Salento, which we walked around in search of additional information. The tourist office—according to old blogs, a good source of mountain intel—now informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go. But if we wanted, they explained, they knew a guide who could take us where we wanted to go, for a reasonable price. We said thanks, said we’d keep them in mind, and marched off to the mercado, where we bought some bread and apples. Back in the main square of Salento we hopped aboard one of the many tourist jeeps that regularly ferried tourists uphill towards the famed Cocora Valley, an Instagram-famous land replete with wax palm trees whose lofty fronds once soared above the rainforest canopy and now stood vigil picturesquely above grassy, denuded slopes of grazing cattle.

We decided the Cocora Valley would best be enjoyed as the downhill section of a loop, and so we instead set off towards up the first bit of the loop, a side canyon leading to a placed boasting to be the Casa de los Colibris—the Hummingbird House.

As we advanced beneath lumbering packs, we attempted to avoid stepping in water and mud, which Shawn was able to do for a grand total of three seconds when a stream-embedded log capsized underfoot. We eventually made it to a hummingbird sanctuary which was full of, like, day-tripping Europeans drinking tea and stuff. As we sipped the warm, sweet cinnamon tea we’d purchased we happily discovered an old topographic map affixed to the wall. The caretakers told us the páramo was still several hours uphill. Unfamiliar with the path and just a couple hours from dusk, we decided to stay the night and resume our trek early in the morning. We paid them a couple of dollars and slept on the floor of a wooden building still under construction, doors left open to the mist that crept in as the sun set.

COATI TIME!!

Out on the trail the next morning, we passed two men folding a tarp in a trailside clearing in the early light. Dressed in knee-high rubber boots, shorts and t-shirts, one wore a white beanie, the other donned a bowler hat and carried juggling pins. Just then, a group of European trekkers descended in boots slathered with mud. Their Colombian guide seemed upset when he learned we were on our own. “You need a guide,” he said sternly, “the National Park guard at the park border won’t let you pass on your own.  Also, not only could you get lost in the fog, you could die.” We shrugged at his empty warning—we’d died inside long ago. The group then continued onward, the guide apparently forgetting to ask our Colombian companions where their guide was.

Alone again with our new Colombian friends, we learned their names and talked a little bit more. Somewhat dismissively, I decided they seemed friendly, buena onda chaps but people I’d likely never see again, being the expert hiker and Fast-Walker-Up-Things I so obviously was. We bid them good-luck and good-bye, and good-walked all up the trail at a good pace.

Before long, we came across the National Park office, inhabited by a kind human being and a raucous, tethered dog. We didn’t ask this kind sir if two Americans needed a guide, and neither did he. Instead, he gestured for us to sign our names on the trail register and he told us about a time when he’d spied the elusive Andean sun bear, a shy species that eats a nutritious variety of bromeliads, grubs, and Michael Bolton fans. He told us one of the greatest difficulties in managing the park was the presence of families who had been settled on the high plain a generation or two ago, and now they had always lived there, darnit, depending on cattle to eke out an existence. The cows pooped everywhere, he complained, and their manure tainted many of the streams and rivers the cities below depended on for water, including the brook that ran nearby. Cows, I concluded, are terrible people.

We’d packed some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel whey stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating.

Wheezing, hungry and sun bear sighting-less, we busted out our grub for lunch, consisting of the last of our bread and apples from the Salento mercado  and some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating. “This is delicious,” remarked Shawn, and I agreed. We’d packed enough for the duration of our journey in the páramo, some three dozen 250-calorie packages of coagulated-whey America.

Whilst we feasted upon this chocolaty bounty, we were joined by Camilo and Andres, who apparently hadn’t been trailing too far behind us. After chatting for a bit. we started up the hill again, this time together. The trail was a downright slog, ofttimes covered wholesale by deep patches long blob areas of mud. Resistance was futile, and before long our shoes and legs had been assimilated by the mountain.

Weary hours passed as we made our way beneath the drab green cloud forest canopy, each tree trunk and branch covered in a profusion of feathered, silvery lichens, ruddy mosses, and bright fungi.

The 50% Great Worm

Abruptly, the thick forest gave way to amber sedges and tufted grass. Interspersed among the lower vegetation were curious plants, solitary stalks the width of a child’s wrist growing anywhere from several inches to several times the height of a deer in platform shoes. Topping these stalks were leaves covered in fuzz, a soft, green flannel. These curious plants, these frailejónes, indicated we had reached the páramo.

Camilo, Andres, Shawn and I rejoiced as we followed the trail up tawny ridges, marveling at the views and shivering as the alpine winds–no longer slowed by trees–tore at us and our belongings.

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At length, the trail led us to a farmhouse and hospedaje, the first of two in the area. But we had a tent we’d lugged up the mountain, darnit, so we advanced on to the second hospedaje, leaving Camilo and Andres behind.

begone, peasant…

A European sort excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

The hospedaje was a bit further than it’d been made out to be. Even if we’d wanted, they didn’t have any available rooms with beds—a European tour group presently infested these—but they did have a toilet, and this sneaky fancy-person house feature nabbed us right in the comfort organ, pzang!  For a couple dollars we set up our tent in a room consisting of a concrete floor walled off from the wind. Our shoes were a mess from the day’s mud slog, so after a scrub in a tiny rivulet we hung them by their shoelaces on the eaves of the house, where they dripped and swung in the stiff nighttime wind. We talked a bit with the other guests; one guy who told us the national park was under threat of huge mining developments and another sort who excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

View from the hospedaje, and a distant valley to be explored some other day

We woke up before dawn and set out for some hot springs a number of miles away. The hike was visually nice and not too chilly. As we walked, we breakfasted on a protein bar each. We’d now eaten them for three straight meals, and they didn’t seem to be as good as we first remembered them.

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We dropped in elevation from our spot the night before, passing through frailejónes and emerging onto a flat, grassy plain. Uphill to our right, a 20 m waterfall slipped over orange-ish rocks, indicating geothermal activity. Ahead of us, the trail seemed to go through the center of the wide plain and through a herd of cows.

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We walked for a while, the trail petering out. We continued gamely, figuring it would re-appear as is often the case with less-used trails. It didn’t, but we headed anyways in the general direction we thought we were supposed to be following and walked along an chill river which deepened into a gully, then a gulch, then grew into a canyon.  We kept the canyon to our left side, still keeping a lookout for the trail. Ahead, the canyon could be seen descending far, far, below. It didn’t look impassable, but it also seemed… wrong.

The canyon begins to deepen

It was almost as if OKAY LOOK WE GOT LOST AND I THINK THIS HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED I HAVE RUN OUT OF FANCY FEAST DESCRIPTION POINTS FOR THIS OTTER MEMORY AND IF I KNEW HOW WE HAD GOTTEN LOST WE WOULDN’T HAVE DONE SO so anyways we finally halted when a steep ravine cut across our path from the right, and consulted what little information we had. A future version of ourselves would have a GPS-enabled smartphone with offline locating-powers to divine our location, but present-us had a small paper map, some grainy pictures and a desire to not lose any more of our hard-gained elevation. Maybe… eating would help us think. “Hey, do you want a protein bar?” I asked my brother, waggling one temptingly in front of his face. “Ugh,” he said in revilement, and rose to leave instead. “You might be lost,” he continued, “but I was just a little disoriented. The trail is up that way.” He pointed up the ravine towards Tolima above. “Good thing it’s not foggy.”

We climbed for a while, seeing nothing besides sweet fuzz-plants and weird moss.

Then, movement, up ahead. Two figures picked their way into the ravine—one with a beanie, the other with a bowler hat and juggling pins: Camilo and Andres.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled. They seemed pleased, but not surprised to see us. They’d also lost the path for a bit, but had stayed closer to the mountain above and hadn’t gotten lost. As we chatted, I noticed what appeared to be a twisted piece of aluminum, two feet long, torn jaggedly at the edges and bearing many small rivets. Curious.

We left the ravine together, Shawn and I trudging from exhaustion. The trail would rise and fall several times and traverse some marshy, sulfurous areas before finally cresting a ridge somewhere around 13,500) feet elevation.

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We dropped and walked around a bend and beheld a green carpet of verdant grass far below us. A handful of small corrugated-roof buildings clustered alongside two small pools which steamed visibly. We had arrived at the hot springs. (12,795 ft elevation)

We sat in the warm waters of the pool and soaked as the the sun set. We’d hiked up the hill above the settlement fifty feet at a time before we’d collapse to the grass, breathing ragged with exhaustion. “Why… why are we so tired?” Shawn muttered querulously, “The elevation… maybe?” We were somewhere around 13,000 feet, so this was certainly part of it, but it didn’t seem complete. I was doing better, overall, and this gave me an idea. “Shawn, how many of those bars did you eat?” “Bars?” “The protein bars.” “Oh. Gross. Um, one in the morning, one later… two?” ‘You’ve eaten 500 calories today. I’ve eaten 750.  We should be eating maybe… 3,000 calories each up here. That’s why we can hardly move.” Indeed, though our bodies desperately needed food, our minds had concluded nauseously we they wanted nothing to do with our Gatorade-endorsed mainstay. Unfortunately, it was also all we had left. We weren’t in danger of running out,  but actually stomaching the things was becoming most unpleasant.

View above the hot springs, our green tent can be seen below. Note where grazing takes place.

The view from the top of the ridge had been tremendous, but the simmering waters of the springs were better. It was easy to forget we had been too weak to reach the very top of the hill, and more relaxing to consider the mysterious pictographs we’d seen on the rocks partway up the slope. The caretaker didn’t know how old they were, but by their faded condition it seemed people had been visiting this area for a very long time. What kind of world had it been, then? Did people live up here? How far had the cloud forests extended below? Had there been pizza? What about syrup chicken?

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The springs themselves had certainly been changed. The water was piped from slightly above the settlement to a series of two pools. The first was a sitting-depth pool the size of a large hot tub and very warm indeed, the water exited this pool and dropped about ten feet until it reached a larger, more tepid pool below, probably 20 feet/6 m across. The water here ranged from 3-6 ft deep, the floor a slick bedrock in places. The edges of the pool were made of long bands of riveted aluminum.  Investigating further, we noted these same pieces of metal could be found supporting various parts of the spring pool complex and its surroundings, including the walkway between the pool and the mud-daubed structure above it. Two shedlike areas were full of scrap metal, all made of the same riveted aluminum.

They were pieces of a wrecked airplane.

They were pieces of a wrecked airplane.

As I’ve written this overly long, boring account I’ve wondered about the identity of this plane. When did it crash? Who did it carry? Where were they headed? I tried to suss out its identity online, and followed many wrong leads before learning there had been many, many crashes in Colombia. Eventually, I found a site that explained there were had been 55 crashes in Colombia from 2000-2015, and 414 total crashes since 1920. This site helpfully mapped out the more recent crashes, and of these just one was anywhere near the hot springs, near La Venecia on the map below.

The site of the crash is less than a day’s walk from the springs.

This particular plane crash was flight FAC-1659, a Vietnam-survivor Douglas C-47 Skytrain apparently used in anti-rebel fighting.

Military plane—->leisure pool?

Further e-search into its demise begins to reveal conflicting information—supposedly crashed on an 11,200 ft tall mountain called Cerro Montezuma: actually a mostly-flat area 4,400 f/1350 m in elevation, but actually it crashed on its return to the airbase, and actually it crashed in either the Serrania de la Tatama or the Nevado del Tolima mountain areas, which are in completely opposite directions a hundred miles apart. Was this our mystery plane, carefully packed mile by mile in manageable pieces by horseback to the springs, or was it the remnants of some other hapless flying machine?

I have no idea. When I would try to find the caretaker the next morning to ask him where he’d come across the metal, I’d learn he’d gone into the hills.

We spent the evening hanging out with Camilo and Andres and discussed plans for the morning. “You guys staying tomorrow?” I asked. “Well,” Camilo said, “We thought there’d be more people here. We thought maybe we’d do a little juggling for the crowd to offset the cost of coming here. But it’s just us. And we still have to earn enough for our bus fare back home somewhere.” Indeed, it was just the four of us, besides the quiet, but enigmatic caretaker, who had told us at times there were dozens of people camping at the springs. “We’re just going to go back the way we came,” said Andres, “make it home by the evening. What about you?” “Our flight leaves in two days, so we’re taking off tomorrow as well.”

We spent the rest of the evening companionably. I choked down a Gatorade bar. Shawn demurred. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

The next morning dawned cold, clear and beautiful, with few clouds, illuminating a mountainside frailejónes in rosy morning light. I returned to the tent to find Shawn awake, but reluctant to leave his sleeping bag cocoon. “Is my swimsuit out there?” he asked. “Here,” I said, and handed him frozen swim trunks. Shawn glared at the fabric Frisbee and considered for a moment. Looking outside and seeing the coast was clear, he ran across frosted grass a short distance to the pool and jumped in, swimsuit in hand. “Thawed at last,” he said as he pulled it on.

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After the tent had dried in the sun, we reluctantly left the spring behind for the last time. As we packed up our stuff, we came across our protein bars. They weren’t bad, per se, they just needed to be eaten in reasonable quantities. I had an idea. “Hey, guys, would you guys be interested in trading for any protein bars?” “Sure,” Camilo and Andres responded. They didn’t really need the food, but now they were headed back down to the city they had more than they wanted. Trying a bar might be alright, though. I returned with four of our eight remaining bars, trying to be generous. After a minute they emerged from their tent with a massive bag of roasted, shelled peanuts, a couple pounds, maybe, and handed them over with a smile. This bag of legume loot even had candied toffee peanuts mixed in. It was a treasure, a thing most crunchy and sweet. We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

******

After we’d said our goodbyes to our friends—for real, this time—we’d taken off to the south, leaving the high mountain plains behind and entering the cloud forest. Energized and enthused by our peanut bounty, we walked for hours.

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We reached the small town of El Salto (elevation 3376 m/11076 ft), and waited by what seemed to be some kind of hospedaje. After an hour or so, a lady returned and informed us the beds were $3 dollars each, or we both could stay in another room sans beds for $2.

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An oddity of traveling in another country is that regardless of the coin you bring, you quickly acclimate to whatever the going rate is for things. Dollars stretched reasonably far in Colombia, and so Shawn and I began to debate whether or not we had the money to pay for such a luxury as a bed. By the time we concluded that yes, in fact, the two extra dollars would not ruin us, six Colombian teenagers on a hiking trip (an energetic teen guiding them) had nabbed the beds and guaranteed our spot in a room with bags of potatoes and wet saddles and bridles hung out to dry, eau de shoe complimentary. The landlady informed us that a meal was just a few thousand Colombian pesos, a couple of dollars. It seemed expensive, but anxious for variety we decided just to go for it. As we warmed alongside the teenagers sitting on kitchen benches raised by the wood-burning stove, we marveled at just how good rice, red beans and a fried egg could be (we’d later learn we were charged more than our Colombian friends… oh well).

We awoke the next morning just in time to see the dawn’s light warmly suffusing the southern slopes of Volcan Tolima. Returning to our humid mud room, we concluded our evil plan to pitch and dry our tent by sleeping in it inside had failed. As we aired it out in the sun that soon crested the valley ridge, the teenagers arose, chattering excitedly about a waterfall they planned to visit that day. Their leader was particularly enthusiastic. The hike would be quick, he claimed, not more than an hour. Skeptical, we concluded even if the expedition went overtime we’d probably still have plenty of time to make the descent to Ibagué, our bus back to Bogotá, and our flight to Peru in the wee hours of the morning.

The descriptively named waterfall of El Salto (you guessed it, “waterfall”) lay just downstream of the town that bore its name. The ringleader/tour guide of the boys had previously visited, but as his flitting attention span, tremendous amounts of energy and scant patience took us several times through thick forest to the cliff’s edge near the head of the waterfall our confidence in his abilities began to wane. Nonetheless, the path to the falls’ base was at length discovered, and after a steep descent using mossy trees and rocks as handholds we arrived.

The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache.

Over two hours had passed by the time we returned to El Salto. Shouldering our packs, we passed a farmer digging a field by hand as we began to slog up the mountainside. The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache. The trail snaked back and forth across the slope, but for the most part carved straight up the mountainside. Foot traffic, cattle and water running along its length had slowly transformed it into a deep gash into which frustrated, motivated people had occasionally wedged timber in an effort to reduce the number of times plunging a foot into deep mud was a requisite, but cows, remember, are terrible people and had jacked up a lot of it.

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Muddied feet at last gained the pass at the ridgetop. Far beneath us, clouds obscured the view of distant Ibagué like dirty clothes hiding a dorm room floor—we’d see it eventually, but not without a day’s determined effort.

The hike from Ibagué had gained a reputation among online forums and blogs as an arduous, ugly descent but instead was one of the most beautiful hikes through cloud forest I’ve ever had.

Mountain descent to the famed city of Alternate Istanbul

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The other Istanbul

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At the base of El Secreto Preserva Natural

As we entered Combeima Canyon, cloud forest occasionally gave way to steep slopes of coffee. Waterfalls slipped into the river far below and we saw fields and houses perched precariously on the few flat areas.

As we descended the slopes from Tolima a strange copper-colored stream crossed the trail from our left, eventually disappearing into the forest. Did it harbor some fascinating microbe from geothermal activity, or were these mine tailings from the illegal gold mine we’d heard hid somewhere in the hills above Ibagué ? Shawn thought geothermal. I wasn’t so sure.

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After some time, we reached the outskirts of a town. Seeing a child playing among the barbed-wire clotheslines of a yard, we asked if we were headed in the direction of Ibagué. He responded, but with a heavy speech impediment we found difficult to understand. We continued to speak with him until his mother called him sharply from somewhere inside the house. Not long after, we came across another two children playing. Oddly enough, one of them also seemed to have some sort of mental or communicative disability. Their mother called them inside when she spotted us. I have no experience whatsoever in identifying developmental issues in children, but it seemed odd that two of three children we’d met had various conditions. I was reminded uncomfortably of the copper stream and the gold mine somewhere far above.

We spotted a man on the slope above us, who gave us directions at last. We confirmed them with a father and son busy at work planting a field that sloped steeply into the ravine below.

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Several more hours yielded the end of the trail. We caught a jeep in Juntas, the small town above Ibagué, riding past outdoor restaurants that looked to be a popular weekend spot for locals. Fun fact: A city just like Juntas was destroyed almost completely in 1985 when the eruption of Nevado del Ruiz (a volcano within sight of Tolima) unleashed a lahar of mud, ash and melted glacier.

One of the lahars virtually erased Armero; three-quarters of its 28,700 inhabitants were killed. Proceeding in three major waves, this lahar was 30 meters (100 ft) deep, moved at 12 meters per second (39 ft/s), and lasted ten to twenty minutes. Traveling at about 6 meters (20 ft) per second, the second lahar lasted thirty minutes and was followed by smaller pulses.

Over 23,000 people were killed, making it the fourth-deadliest volcanic disaster in recorded history and rendering the town of Armero a ghost town. Juntas, at the base of Combeima Canyon and the active Tolima, is at high risk of destruction. from Tolima. But anyways, here’s some recycled plastic art.

On the way to Ibague, we spoke to our fellow passengers, Colombians who had been doing a small modeling shoot in some abandoned buildings in the town where we’d joined them. We chatted amicably as we approached Ibagué . When we arrived, they gave us a general outline of the town and gave us a few suggestions of places they recommended and a few better left alone. We ate delicious food—reveling again in how little it tasted like Gatorade bars—until we remembered we had to catch our flight out of Bogotá later that night.

After a few frantic minutes locating a bus and purchasing tickets, we took turns showering in the public bathing rooms (maybe about 30 cents) of the bus terminal in an attempt to smell less like the mud and sweat of three days, using the small bar of soap to scrub some of the mud out of our clothes. After boarding the half-empty bus we made a beeline for the back and cracked open the windows, trying to set up our clothes and shoes in such a way that they might ride.

Though I’d like to pretend it is better, my memory is actually pretty bad, but I do remember this about our evening journey:

As the bus returned to Bogotá, the feel of the warm, humid wind drifting through the bus window and the rhythmic sounds of spinning tires on the wet highway wove a tapestry of sensation, wrapped us gently into sleep. Right. That’s beautiful prose and whatnot, but like much of the crap you read in travel blogs (some unintentionally here, hopefully mostly elsewhere)–overly romanticized, flowery and at least partly untrue. Luckily, oddly and surprisingly for us all I have a journal entry penned on this very bus, which in distressed letters scrawled thusly:

“The bus from Ibagué to Bogotá is stupid, smelly and shaky.”

An entry several hours from the plane from Bogotá to Lima elucidated.

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Shakira, Shakira.

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