The turquoise greens and tomato oranges of the houses and huts that freckle the landscape slowly disappear into the dust as the violent green of the jungle overtakes them one by one. The vines and tall grasses raise up as if to strike the bus and sometimes do. The windows sealed shut, the AC blaring in the night, the drivers ranchera music pounding thru the skull. 3 hours outside of the capitol of Colombia with the worst hangover since Caligula sodomozed the Roman empire and then spit wine up their ass. On a 12 hour bus-ride down slow dirt that would make me re-think my entire trip. Serotonin depletion.
Two kiwi blokes I hope to the lord I never see again had kept us up drinking bottles of rum till the sun pissed in our eyes. I curse the day were born. I frown with great disdain upon the land they come from. I blame only them for throwing up 10 times in 12 hours. I finally get a dip of sleep to the thought I have to accept that my life will be like this forever, locked in this self made prison barreling down this ditch of a road at 6 miles an hour. Onward. Slowly forward.
We arrive in San Gil around midnight with the worried look of two boys who have just been beaten badly. Our room of 6 beds is empty except for us. We lie down to see if we can sleep away the scars. We can. In the morning we eat avocados and fresh pineapple juice and hike a few miles up the river to a local swimming hole. The water thick and muddy. The desire to swim gone with the midday. Thunderstorms roll in and cover the jungle in fog. A general feeling of "fuck" seeps into me. Holds the hand and breath of an outsider.
This small jungle town stares at me with every eye. Glares at me with every tooth. I long for the warm smile of someone I know, I can only seem to loose this loneliness between the pages of The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao. I sit to read and get lost. Ghost in the machine. Autopilot for pages.
We hike further into the jungle to a 180 meter waterfall. We meet two kids from Mexico City that we get along with and remind us of ourselves. We head out with them and the girls who run the hostel to a discotheque on the edge of town, its surrounded by armed military guards. The feeling pervades. Stairways make bedrooms. Hot heads make wall marks. Who knows what Ben did.
Its our plan to travel with the Mexico City boys up to Medellin but we grab the last seats on the bus, another 13 hour ride, this time at night so we don't loose a day or have to pay for a room in the city that night. The buses are plastered with religious paraphernalia and roadblocks so frequent merchants have set up permanent stores where the traffic backs up. You don't wanna look out the window into oncoming traffic, it will make you tear up, over canyon edges and fog semi's race at your nuts.
Finally in Medillin, I have fallen in love with this city. Only a few hours in, I will let you know how the affair goes. The jungle weaves in and out of it as does the beautiful architecture as it switches from colonial to art deco. From the longest bus-ride in the world. From the home of American heartbreak. From where they loose their minds and go AWOL. From the wild world of starches. 6 different kinds of potatoes, roots, and rice later. I see you from the thick as we head north towards the coast and Panama. My campaneros.
Two kiwi blokes I hope to the lord I never see again had kept us up drinking bottles of rum till the sun pissed in our eyes. I curse the day were born. I frown with great disdain upon the land they come from. I blame only them for throwing up 10 times in 12 hours. I finally get a dip of sleep to the thought I have to accept that my life will be like this forever, locked in this self made prison barreling down this ditch of a road at 6 miles an hour. Onward. Slowly forward.
We arrive in San Gil around midnight with the worried look of two boys who have just been beaten badly. Our room of 6 beds is empty except for us. We lie down to see if we can sleep away the scars. We can. In the morning we eat avocados and fresh pineapple juice and hike a few miles up the river to a local swimming hole. The water thick and muddy. The desire to swim gone with the midday. Thunderstorms roll in and cover the jungle in fog. A general feeling of "fuck" seeps into me. Holds the hand and breath of an outsider.
This small jungle town stares at me with every eye. Glares at me with every tooth. I long for the warm smile of someone I know, I can only seem to loose this loneliness between the pages of The Brief Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao. I sit to read and get lost. Ghost in the machine. Autopilot for pages.
We hike further into the jungle to a 180 meter waterfall. We meet two kids from Mexico City that we get along with and remind us of ourselves. We head out with them and the girls who run the hostel to a discotheque on the edge of town, its surrounded by armed military guards. The feeling pervades. Stairways make bedrooms. Hot heads make wall marks. Who knows what Ben did.
Its our plan to travel with the Mexico City boys up to Medellin but we grab the last seats on the bus, another 13 hour ride, this time at night so we don't loose a day or have to pay for a room in the city that night. The buses are plastered with religious paraphernalia and roadblocks so frequent merchants have set up permanent stores where the traffic backs up. You don't wanna look out the window into oncoming traffic, it will make you tear up, over canyon edges and fog semi's race at your nuts.
Finally in Medillin, I have fallen in love with this city. Only a few hours in, I will let you know how the affair goes. The jungle weaves in and out of it as does the beautiful architecture as it switches from colonial to art deco. From the longest bus-ride in the world. From the home of American heartbreak. From where they loose their minds and go AWOL. From the wild world of starches. 6 different kinds of potatoes, roots, and rice later. I see you from the thick as we head north towards the coast and Panama. My campaneros.
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