Chapter 9: Motorcycle dance boats

Just when I start to wonder why one of the men in charge of running the boat has been staring at my foot tattoo for so long I realize he’s passed out with his head in my legs direction and BOOM we’re off. Speeding down the Caribbean Ocean in a boat meant for 8 but packed with 30 an hour away from any other shore. Why did I bring my laptop I wonder as water drifts and fights over the edge onto my bag. Because I had no idea what I was getting into that’s why. Leaving this island is nothing compared to how we got here. Let me start halfway up the top, it takes us back to Medillin.

Have you ever had a girl you’ve never met before in a strange country you’ve never been before come up and ask you into your ear if you will “fuck her to your new record?” Have you ever slid down into the Colombian ghetto of oblivion with makers and drunks writhing to the music, with a couple of journalists twisted on cheap rum?  Have you seen the mansions with yachts, made music videos on the side streets of hostels. Had a man insist you dance with his wife with as much offer as threat, then invite you to dinner. Had the locals chase each other down in the streets over you. Been left alone without a language. Decided art lived above love and cities died over strangers. Been invited to stay, been coerced to play. Racked up a bar tab like a shopping list for Ethiopia.  Been treated well and had to leave because that’s what you do, even though you want to keep on, you cant stop the big adventure for anyone or anything. That’s the only rule.

In Medillin after all the taxes are said and done, there’s only two categories. There’s no wanna-be-cool-hipster-dj-drug-deal-rich-kid-shes-a-whore-beef. There’s just this. Either you dance or you don’t. And if you don’t dance may the good catholic lord come down and break your legs himself before they do. I can fake my way thru getting up fine off a motorcycle accident and it looks just like it when I do. So I Just move the hips, swing em all the way to the airport where we fly into the Caribbean city of Cartegena instead of taking the 13 hour bus ride. Halfway thru the sky and my anxiety kicks in, what have I done, where’s all the money, who was that man. It stays with me for the first 16 hours of the new city and I have to retreat for the night to lock myself in my hostel room that looks more like a prison cell in purgatory. At least I’m alone in here though. At least it’s away from the pushers and pimps.

Cartegena is beautiful at about a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity.  Lets just make the joke and say it’s breathtaking. I have to choke down air like rock salt. Everyones trying to sell you something and saying no just doesn’t work. You have to be as diligent about not buying as they are about getting you to. Walk the thin line between offense and violence. The city itself is separated by three walls that divide each old section. Giant colossal ancient protectors from flood and war. They seem to be batting a low average for success. Rain rips thru the streets and battle scars are everywhere. The food is fruit, rice, and fish. I can deal with that. An old fortress towers above the city where the virgin statues normally go. It is pretty here, reminds of New Orleans, but I have to keep reminding myself that IT IS PRETTY HERE. I see obstacles.

We hear about an island to the north that can maybe hold off a little of this heat exhaustion till we come to our senses. We decide to test our navigational skills. We take a taxi to what appears to be the seediest part of town, where our taxi literally just cuts-off/blocks-in a bus on the road while it honks vigorously and we attempt to get on it like bad movie hijackers. Small negotiations and the driver agrees. The bus rides us for about two hours into the jungle thick where a young man assures us we should get off with him and he can help guide us walking to the closest ferry. Like idiots not sure where we were headed we’ve brought all our packs with us and my loads sitting at about a hundred pounds plus my laptop bag.  We walk thru a small village where the man appears to make jokes with the villagers about us. After about fifteen minutes we get to an old bullet ridden sign that says ferry with a sunken barge on the other side. A large platform pulled by a fishing boat comes along and a few trucks carrying cement get on. We lower our heads in the despair of two men who have passed the point of no return and follow the trucks on foot. They charge us a buck and the barge begins to float cross river. As we approach the other side we see a large gang of 17-year-old banditos on motorcycles and the man on the boat shouts over “I’ve got two, which of you wants em first.” At this point the sentiment between Ben and me goes from “this is what the big adventures all about” to “Ohh fuck.”

On the other side the kids fight to get at us each one on his motorcycle telling us that they can get us the rest of the way to the island with our backpacks if we just jump on, it will only take an hour. My immediate thought is that as soon as we get on the bikes they will split us up and that will be that. But after talking it over for a split second we realize at this point there’s not much choice…we are this side of the river crossing with nobody but us, them, two truck drivers, and a gruff medieval looking ferry captain. None of the above could give two shits if we live. We mumble a tentative yes and off we go on the backs of motorcycles carrying two backpacks a piece on our shoulders. Thru mudslides, dense forest, off road terrain. Stops and starts where we loose sight of each other for miles, but In an hour there’s a heavy sigh of relief. We can see the beach. They charge us 7 bucks a piece, shake our hands, and disappear as we walk the rest of the way. Fuck that was close. Fuck that was plenty. Fuck.

The waters is beautiful, the beach is the white typical sand this region is famous for. We stay in hammocks and eat fish and fruit the locals sell to us. Its good. Life passes by between naps and salt water. Nothing makes you miss a woman more though than being stranded on a beautiful island with another man. We tire after two days of the quiet sun being sucked up into the end of the earth and hitch a boat ride that brings us back around to a captain sleeping at my foot tattoo.

Back in Cartegena we have to decide if we head north for a 6 day hike thru the jungle or set to the seas for five days aboard a cargo ship for the San Blas islands just to the side of the Panamanian border. The mosquitoes will chew the rest of my either way. Just a walking carcass for their itch.  Choose your own adventure, from the thick. My campaneros.