Paradise City (Part 1)

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Somewhere along the line, wiseass software developers such as myself made a resolute decision to include progress bars at the bottom of web browsers to indicate how far along it is in downloading the requested web page. This decision was made either in total ignorance or sardonic mockery of the average Wi-Fi connection in a South American hostel. Which is why, seated cross-legged in a huge, over-stuffed armchair at the Palm Tree Hostel in Medellín, I have spent the past six minutes staring like a fool at the colorful little bar on my screen that cheerfully reports 75% success in downloading my email inbox while the rest of the window shows nothing but a blank hypertext void – on the fourth attempt.

The sound of laughter pulls my attention up from the screen. Across the large room, there is a dinner table next to a set of French doors that open onto a small courtyard with an artificial pond and a few hammocks. A group of Europeans and Americans are gathered in the courtyard and spills over through the open doors and around the table. Most are younger than me, a few are my age, and a few are even older. They are mostly speaking English, but a few break into short bursts of side-conversation in Italian. I've been here all day and haven't spoken to a single one of them short of a friendly nod of acknowledgement.

What the hell is the matter with me? I'm always so shy around new people. I know I'll end up over there hanging out with them eventually, so what's the problem?

Before my brain runs off on a self-analytic tangent of character flaws, my eyes are pulled back to the screen. It isn't just the previously blank screen that grabs my attention – but a single block of bold text that never fails to reroute neurotransmitters and briefly quicken the heart rate. It is a 21st-century rival to crack cocaine.

Inbox (2)

Both emails are solutions to looming problems.

The first, I realize with a widening grin, is an elegant and perfect answer to the question of what to do for Christmas. But we'll get to that.

The second offers passage to Panamá.

Getting to Panamá from Colombia is easier said than done. The Pan-American Highway that runs from Alaska to the southern tips of Chile and Argentina is broken in only one place – the Darien Gap. The Darien Gap is a 50-some-odd mile chunk of jungle that completely covers the tiny strip of land that connects Central America to South America. This is a no-man's land through which no roads pass. Travelers do occasionally cross the gap on foot or ATV, but many have gone in and never come out. If the jungle doesn't kill you, there are plenty of armed rebel groups hiding from government forces and/or smuggling drugs north. If unlucky, you may stumble across one of these groups and find yourself the focal point of a few AK-47's. They may hold you for ransom. They may shoot you on site. Still others claim to have charmed their way into the rebels' graces and were given assistance in crossing the gap. It can go any number of ways.

If I'm ever diagnosed with a fatal disease, I'll come back and walk across the gap just for the hell of it. But this time I'll take a pass.

The other two options are to take a plane or a boat. Many take the short, relatively cheap flight to Panamá City. But this would be to break a rule I already broke in getting from Lima to Iquitos. So of course I'll take a boat.

Taking this route poses a few additional problems. Most people will find a boat in the port city of Cartagena on the northern coast that will take them to the canal zone not far from Panamá City. This route takes them through the San Blas islands – but we'll get to that, too.

The problem is choosing a boat – or rather, a captain. There are dozens that make the journey. Some are drug-runners. Some are spectacular alcoholics. Some are con men who will shove a few passengers onboard and into deplorable conditions and ignore them for the remainder of the voyage. Some are all three.

Pirates.

I've researched this carefully and have been prepared to hunker down in Cartagena until I find the right moment. I know where to hang out and who to talk to. The trick is to wait – weeks if necessary – for the right ticket.

The thing is I don't really want to spend so much time on this. It's mid-December and I really need to get moving. Cash is running out and I need to get wherever the hell I'm going. So I had done plenty of research to at least narrow the choices down to two candidates.

But it turns out one of them won't be sailing again until February. Worse, I met an English girl last week who just happened to have come south on the boat that was my second option.

"It wasn't just that he was drunk, he was scary drunk," she said.

When a good Manchester girl uses a compound adjective like 'scary drunk' – herself working on a seventh Club Colombia longneck, you listen.

So I've blown my first day in Medellín looking for other potential options. The quick and courteous email response I am now reading has me all but convinced that I've found one. It is from a Spanish captain named Javier. He has a sailboat that he runs back and forth every few weeks with a maximum of five passengers in addition to himself and his girlfriend.

He explains that there is one catch. The boat does not leave from Cartagena. I'll have to make my way up to the northern extremity of the country – not far from the Darien Gap. This is a remote area and can be a bit difficult to get to.

That's a bonus, Javier, not a catch.

Even better, since we are closer to the gap, we spend much less time in choppy open water, and an extra day and a half cruising the islands.

Sold. I have a good feeling about this one.

I click the Reply link to reserve my spot on the boat and the lying progress bar resumes its antics.

I look up at the group in the courtyard again. All I have to do is go over there and sit down, wait for the chance to say something relevant, and I'm in. But I won't. Not tonight, anyway.

Ciudad de la Eterna Primavera

In the morning, I hit the pavement.

Medellín is a large metropolitan area of a little over 3 million people. It is easily the industrial center of Colombia and boasts a healthy cultural and educational tradition. After the second World War, several plans were laid to further modernize both the city and Colombia. But in 1948, the assassination of a promising presidential candidate named Gaitán marked the beginning of La Violencia – a period of violent political instability in which conservative and liberal factions battled for control of the nation. This strife lasted into the early 60's before petering out and the efforts to build a solid economy were renewed.

But within a decade, Colombia would see the rise of the major drug cartels that would plunge it back into murder and corruption for another twenty years.

By far the most powerful of these cartels was the Medellín cartel run by Pablo Escobar – arguably the most infamous drug lord and one of the most ruthless men in modern times.

By the time a bullet (CIA or Colombian we'll never know) tore through Pablo's brain at his hideout in 1993 , the drug wars of the 80's made Medellín one of the most dangerous places on Earth.

Since then, Colombia has struggled to escape from beneath the hangover and reputation handed down by most of the 20th century. The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) – a Marxist rebel group that operates primarily in rural areas and took over the drug trade as soon as the urban cartels were dealt with – obviously hasn't made this very easy. But improvements have been made, and Medellín is fairly far-removed from these newer problems. It is poised to make great strides in fulfilling its dreams of the 1940's.

A symbol of these endeavors lies less than half a mile from the hostel. A fairly extensive elevated metro system has been constructed throughout the city and connects many major areas. I climb the stairs at the nearby station, buy a ticket, and pause at the large system map mounted on the wall at the platform.

My main goal for the day is to visit Antioquia Museum. The museum houses one of the best collections of work by Fernando Botero – a world-renowned abstract artists and son of the city of Medellín. Botero is famous for his stylistic exaggeration of physical features which are sometimes referred to as "fat figures".

The day is young, so I plot out a few points on the metro map and make a loose plan to walk a loop around a chunk of the city that will more or less get me close to the museum in the afternoon.

The train arrives and I step on. Being fairly new, the train is quiet, modern, and immaculate. It glides out thirty feet over the city and the morning sun cascades in through the windows. Well-dressed commuters chatter softly or poll through messages on a cell phone. The ambient temperature – like outside – appears to be precisely identical to that of the surface of my skin.

No wonder Medellín has earned the moniker of the City of Eternal Spring.

I take the train several stations and switch to the Metrocable – a cable car that carries passengers to the top of a small mountain in the north of the city. At the top is a working class neighborhood called Santo Domingo. Here the vividly painted shops and houses are rustic and more tightly packed. The view of Medellín is fantastic.

For breakfast, I stop at a stand where a man is cooking arepas on a gas-powered griddle. Arepas are made from ground corn and can be best described as a cross between a corn tortilla and a Southern-style buttermilk biscuit – if that makes any sense. Deceptively dense, an arepa with a bit of butter can fuel the average person for the better part of a month.

After walking around Santo Domingo for a while, I take the cable car back down to the city. From there I start walking south more or less in the direction of the city center.

Medellín is interesting. The decades of stop and go economic growth has left it with a curious mixture of urban sprawl dominated by traffic-laden highways and pockets of dense residential neighborhoods where the sound of engines gives way to the bustle of pedestrians and push carts. Trees have been planted wherever possible – for me a sign of true civilization.

Not being a completely flat city, there are still other areas where a large, green hill rises up out of the cityscape. A winding road leads up into the thick of it where you can find clusters of houses and shops lost to the rest of the city.

I indeed spend most of the day getting lost throughout the city without feeling much desire to get anywhere in particular. Wandering around for hours on end is a hobby of mine.

However, by 3:30, a wide avenue I've been following more or less in the right direction has veered off to the east and shows no sign of turning back. I stop and look around. I'm standing in front of several row houses guarded by tall, iron gates. As far as I can tell, continuing east won't take me to any intersections where I can make the necessary turn. Backtracking will take another hour at least.

Behind me, a man in his sixties unlatches the gate of one of the houses and walks out to a sedan parked at the curb. He opens the passenger-side door and rummages around in the glove compartment. When he pops back up, I put on my most polite facsimile of a high Castilian accent.

"Excuse me, sir."
"Yes?"
"I'm trying to find my way back downtown, but it seems like all the roads I take go off somewhere else. Can you tell me the best way to get there?"
"Oh. Where do you want to go?"
"Well somewhere around the Parque Berrío stop on the metro."
"That's....far," he says, putting his hands on his hips and looking off toward the city center.

I'm used to this. It's no more than three miles, but people who drive think everything is far. Give them a corner store three blocks away and they'll drive it every time.

The man turns back and looks me up and down.

"Tell you what, I'm just about to go out. I'll give you a ride."
"Oh no, that's not necessary," I say in protest.

The man holds up his hand in a halting gesture.

"It's really no problem. I was just about to take my niece home. It's on the way."

As if on cue, a woman around my age backs out of the front door of the house rattling off reminders and minor supplications to someone inside before a final "chau chau!" and closing the door. She turns and walks down the short sidewalk and begins chattering to her uncle in the same vein. She stops outside the gate when she notices me.

"Oh, hola."
"Hola, buenas", I reply.
"We're going to drop this young man off in the center, he's from out of town," says the man, indicating me with his hand.
"Oh, ok," the woman says. "Where are you from?"
"The United States," I say.

This change of subject in conjunction with the fact that the man is now opening the rear passenger-side door to let his niece into the car puts an abrupt end to my attempt to politely decline the favor of a ride.

The man gestures to the passenger-side door and smiles as he walks around the car with jangling keys in hand.

At what exact point did I lose control of this situation?

As we make our way through a minor traffic jam, the man – Gabriel – compliments me on my Spanish and asks me all about where I'm from in the States. His niece, Ana, is seated in the back and leans her arms on the two bucket seats while asking me about life in Spain.

Eventually the conversational tennis match converges on Colombia and Medellín. Have I been to the museum? Have I seen the massive display of Christmas lights on the river – Los Alumbrados?

They seem particularly interested in whether or not I've felt safe – they are quite aware of the reputation that Colombia has. Colombians in general are frustrated by this given the major improvements made in recent years, and they would like to see more people visiting the country. These two are certainly pleased to see a tourist in their city.

I assure them that I've had no problems and that, on the contrary, I've felt much safer here than many other parts of South America. I add that the Colombian people are easily the warmest I've encountered.

On hearing this, Gabriel and Anna are pleased beyond measure.

When, several minutes later, Gabriel pulls the sedan over to the shoulder of a busy avenue and points up a cross-street to where I will find Parque Berrío, I actually feel a little disappointed. I'd almost rather spend the rest of the day chatting with these two strangers than see some museum.

I thank them profusely for their help and they wish me a merry Christmas and a safe journey north.

I'll never see them again.

Parque Berrío turns out to be a spacious town square filled with colonial-era architecture and hundreds of people strolling through. It is dotted here and there with some of Botero's more surreal fat figures and gives the place a refined air.

I walk around for a while, take a few pictures, and find the museum. I look at my watch. Almost 4. I might as well come back in the morning and try again.

I leave the square and head toward the behemoth concrete structure of the metro that looms over the city. The road that passes perpendicular and under the metro has been closed off to traffic and serves as a huge open market. Masses of people are here – purchasing, selling, bargaining, just talking.

The buoyant roar of human voices and the cool of late afternoon fills the air with gentle electricity. I climb the stairs to the station and wonder – not for the last time – if Medellín might be a place worth loving.

The Drug Baron Detour

Next morning. Let's try this again.

I stand on the metro platform and wait for the train. I focus on the museum. No distractions.

The train on the opposite track pulls away. As the roar of its motion fades, the drowned-out speech patterns of the small groups standing in a line a few meters from me begins to resolve itself and exposes Anglo-Saxon roots. A blond head pokes out from the line of people and hovers over the track.

"Aren't you staying in our hostel?" the girl asks.

I am.

The blond head will turn out to belong to Cory. Cory is a student from the Boston area who has been studying in Venezuela and is now traveling around South America for a while.

I am off to the museum. They are off to Guatapé – a small town east of the city where a man-made lake houses one of the largest hydro-electric projects in the country. And, if memory serves, it was also one of the luxurious hideouts of Pablo Escobar.

That sounds pretty interesting. I say as much.

The tall guy standing closest to me, who will turn out to be Mike – also from Boston – suggests I come along.

I will never make it to the museum.

A few hours later, we stand at the base of La Piedra. This is a 70-million year old rock formation that towers 200 meters over the area and hides another 400 underground. It is, so far, unexplained by geologists. Stairs carved into the side take us to the top. It is a hell of a climb.

From the top, we can see the lake and all that has been built around it. I strain to catch sight of the shell of Pablo's house – bombed to smithereens in one government assault or another. But I never do spot it.

A few hours later, we flag down a bus on the deserted highway. It is our last chance to get back to Medellín.

A few hours later, I am standing in the hostel with a beer. In fact, a whole crowd of us are standing around with a beer.

Cory talks about living in Venezuela. She had gone there enamored with the idea of Chavez and his '21st-century socialism'. After being there a while, she saw what a disaster it was and became disillusioned with the whole thing.

"It's weird," she says. "I had to go to Venezuela to become a capitalist."

I find this funny. Granted, 20 minutes of listening to Chavez and his nonsensical ravings can send the best of us running into the loving arms of Gingrich or Thatcher. But then they start raving, so now what are you going to do?

I'm certain Cory's quest for social justice hasn't quite ended.

There is also Mike with lots of fantastic travel stories, and a few Italians with lots of fantastic Italianess.

There is the Swede – a middle-aged giant of nearly seven feet with a grey beard and long, scraggly hair down to his shoulders. He exudes kindness and serenity from behind his thick glasses and soft smile.

There is the college student from Chile. He wonders aloud if two weeks will be enough to make it back to Santiago if he wants to travel down one of the Amazon tributaries by boat.

The Swede and I exchange glances. We drag the poor kid over to a detailed map of South America hanging on the wall and begin educating him on the options he has for returning home and just how long they will take. He scribbles down names of towns and routes. He has some tough decisions to make.

These are excellent individuals. I pop open a second beer and notice the overstuffed chair from the other night – now empty.

See? I told me so.

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Photos

Guatapé
A dog followed us around for a while