Chapter 8: The missing links

The city streets are littered with amputees, their feet and arms gone along with the old infrastructure of Medillin. The movement of the Zona Rosa leaving them even further displaced. Lying on their backs and huffing glue, hobbling along the sidelines of my peripheral vision, best kept in the graces of god than the pennies of men. I guess. One of them wildly whips a cane at me from the ground and howls. We are all missing something here. Theirs is just more visible than mine. In a country where landmines still kill 3 people a day and take the limbs of many more we seem to glide by them like hovercrafts ripped out of the back pages of a boy-scout magazine.

Our two legs propel us to the dolce donut shop with ease. I know immediately when Ben leaves me to check on the train that something is gonna go wrong. I sense small danger and sugar-glazed goodness. When he doesn’t return for almost 25 minutes I start to go thru all the scenarios of what I should do (sell his stuff/claim his identity/hack his facebook account/eat donuts forever/go for help.) Finally he returns, he had gotten a good old-fashioned shake down by the cops for walking too fast. He had his multi-tool knife with him and they took him down a long hallway to meet “the captain” who snarled and dismissed him with the wave of a hand. I believe the policia who nabbed him were disappointed with their lack of bounty for he had already entered into bargain mode.

            Prostitution is legal down here and the old gringos make me sick with it. Women and the talk of them are in the air everywhere. It’s hard to find a place to escape, and even harder not to loose my tongue or worse my fists. Luckily we have the most beautiful hostel room overlooking the city. We will hold up here for a whole week.

            In Colombia it’s hard to decipher exactly what a shop sells or does. I walk by one where an 80 year-old lady sits behind a desk with an alarm-clock on it and a pig shaped stuffed animal. Nothing else in the room, and I have to decide if I should ask her to make me breakfast. Today I don’t. Tomorrow I will. In a land of no menus, chances are for 5000 Colombian Pesos ($2.50) she will whip me up something with potatoes in it, as long as I have exact change. It’s expected.

            I have decided to only learn my Spanish from the South American politicians I watch on TV. I have decided to free the prostitutes into a hot air balloon. I have decided that the best way to work out is with the concrete buckets of cement on the corner with the locals. That’s where Ben is now. I have decided to make a music video in Colombia. I have decided to turn the landmines into Mexican jumping beans.

            What I haven’t decided though is what I want out of all this and how I should feel about drinking milk out of a bag. Everything comes in bags down here.

When I left out on the big adventure I thought it was a means to an end. A goal in and of itself. Now that I am on it though I realize that even the big adventure needs a purpose too. So from the city of 5 names before this one and the master plan. Medillin dubbed the most violent city in the world up until 2003. What better place to let these ideas miss limbs, clash, and war until one prevails with all the beauty of this city. All the heart of this country. I haven’t had much to eat yet today and therefore no descriptions to give you as we head north and then eventually south to put our feet on the end of the world. Let me just say it’s well worth the price of it. Even in a dark night of the soul. My campaneros. I miss you. 

Chapter 7: Kill The busdriver and the Australians

         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.


      

Chapter SIx: The Botero Yogurt

She had a body like a bag of yogurt that in two days time I would learn resembled a Botero painting of the Mona Lisa almost precisely. Young, fat, and white European. Just because I explain the skin don’t think I got in it. I did not, but she was with us when we entered the bar after it was closed. The soon to be fired bartender insisted that we help ourselves and so we did. Sometimes crime can hold you like a familiar hug in times of loneliness, so the four of us drank and swapped stories until the sun came up. I know a man named Kevin suffered from elephantitus of the ball-sack in Panama. He in turn knows I’ve been shit on. I slept in my clothes next to Ben and woke up in Colombia laughing.

Colombia seems to have four kinds of enforcers, the military, the rebels, the policia, and the street security. Police impersonation is a common thing but I can always smell a cop. They always have a tell. It’s a little threatening to see 17-year-old kids walking around with machine guns but so far they seem to only stare at my tattoos with vague interest. We will see how they become at the roadblocks when I obtain my motorcycle.

Bogotá is a giant colonial city of skinny streets and long winded turns. The buses barely slow down to pick you up and the music never sleeps. The song only changes slightly as you move from bar to room to bus to street. 2640 meters above sea level on the Eastern side of the Andes Mountain Range. A giant church and statue of the Virgin Mary tower above it to the north of the city. Illuminated they guide the way back to the hostel at night where the bathroom is so small that both your head and knees press against the wall while you sit against the toilet. The beds are clean, the bar is cheap, the hammocks swing, and the internet works. Shots of the local aguardiente cost about a buck and its a strong anise liquor. Today we head a few miles up the crease of the Andes Mountains to a local church where they make the stuff out back infused with coca leaves and cinnamon.               

Breakfast here seems to consist of eggs, two different breads, and hot chocolate for you to dip your cheese in. Up here by a village in the mountains we eat blood sausage and potatoes and you can see out over the entire city from here. The ghetto sprawls and spills from the west down into the south. Bandits patrol the roads on the mountain next to us so we don’t hike that way. A train can be seen that goes straight thru a tunnel in the range. A little girl of only about 7 breaks my heart with a smile. We stop to drink tea here.

 Me and Ben decide we need to add a butcher knife to our family. Shopping lists are made as we prepare for our 7-hour bus ride into San Gil where we will repel 60 Meters down a waterfall and sleep in the shade of it. But tonight we will drink this bottle we bought on the mountain and sing songs to the moon in the streets. Down here amongst the beggars, glue junkies, and women we howl.  Up on the right stuff. Gone with the first glimpe. Like Boteros artwork both boisterous and unaffected. Both inspired and unsuspecting. I guess kinda like that young girl. We move fluid like a bag of yogurt.

From the longest mountain range in the world. From the birthplace of coffee and cocaine. From the fingertips of the big adventure. 6 bowls of carne asada soup and a couple bottles of Club Colombia beers later. From the thick my campaneros. I see you and raise you one. 

Chapter Five: Nobody Knows What They Wont Say

What had happened to us in Austin? Stuffed like sardines into tin-can rooftop pools. Laughing at the overemotional women of sin. 105 degrees of heat. I overhear someone saying “Its hotter on the roof because we’re closer to the equator.” I disregard it into some sort of frozen sweet-tea margarita.            

My night in El Paso had been without much incident. Wandering the streets close to the freeway where plastic bags served as eerie incandescent leaves on bushes and cacti alike. Never discriminating. Running my hand across the border fence into Mexico where it reminds me of recess schoolyard fights. A Mariachi band that goes on at midnight drowns out the song I’m writing in my head. I sleep riddled with coughs so punctual they double as an alarm clock. I have a rash on my arm, it itches and worries me. I wake up on time because of both.

Billy and Mark pick me up from the Austin airport. I can already tell this is gonna be as good as bad news gets. We grab Corey from Steve’s house and head straight for the one thing Austin knows best besides BBQ and skinny chicks. Cheap Tex Mex and beers.  Summer and Murph come to join us and I can see the shit-show in their eyes. Gonna have to cut dead weight before too long. Alliances will have to be destroyed then mended down the line. Future trips for peacekeeping missions.

No exact details can quite be discerned from this weekend. A small checklist of debauchery that allowed for ample room to survive. Best-case scenarios were achieved. We allowed each other the room to maneuver when we bled in the water. When we normally would have surrounded and exploited the small weaknesses (i.e. I need to go home, or I cant do another one) like a team of sharks on a bender motorcycle.

Small white in the morning, Closed eyes at a table, toilet breaking secrets in the bathroom, wounds from fire, air raids on the mini bar. These are just a few of my favorite things. Singing voice not included. Sophia saved me from loosing and became a beautiful voice of reason. Bobby lost his shit and stayed the same. Mark still amazes me with his fearless relentless drive at insane recreation. Billy is always last man standing and has more philosophies than chest hair. It’s a lot. Corey made the trip what it was for me. A thick line in the sand.

 Austin was the closest feeling to home I was gonna get for a while. Mexico City showed me that. Truckloads of cops who never turned their sirens off. The strange mix of commerce and revolution. One of them always advertising for the other. The women were beautiful, the language barrier extensive. I wandered and wandered, sometimes like a roadrunner sometimes like a beast. Roamed and combed over the city walls looking at the graffiti. Eating tacos in the dark. I was scared I might get arrested if I pissed in the street but I did it anyway. I constantly apologized to strangers under my breath. I’ve been quiet since I got here....waiting to see Ben in Bogotá. Impatient to learn this language already. Jokes are my only line of defense against the staring eyes of foreign predators.

Here it was along with my first threat of violence.  I saw a car wreck from about 2 feet away outside of the old soldiers pavilion on revolution road. Debris smacked into the crotch of my Levis. I whistled at it like it was a gorgeous girl. Someone smiled at me. And just like that I had told my first inside joke. No language required. Only incident.

From my chicken crossing the road to yours. From ten thousand miles away. From the banks of the largest city in the world. 6 cubana tortas and a few pig skins later.

I’ll see you in the thick.  My campaneros. 

Chapter Four: The Patron Saint

            As I get into El Paso I realize I have sun-stroke mixed with a cold in 105 degree weather. Basically I realize I’m fucked as I have to be in Austin in the morning and in good shape to see my friends and better shape to fight them off. There’s only one quick cure I know of. This is it. I fill the bathtub in the room with scalding hot water. I go to the store I buy a pint of Jamison whiskey and 2 gallons of water. I force myself into the tub and drink all of the above over the course of 30 minutes. I sleep face down.

            When I wake up I seem to have knocked some of it. Enough that I might get thru the weekend in decent shape if I take it easy the first day.

            The show at the Buckhorn held the resume as a low-end natural disaster…a flood that would just ruin the minor aesthetics of your home. It turned out overqualified and looking for a different job. A rattlesnake on hash. The new band, the lack of any practice, no sound check, and a venue meant for sitting…these elements aided and abided instead of pitted against. (ç arrow to abided, spell check makes unintentional truths) “ abetted” but both really.

            I had a good time. The thick was produced in small fashion from a shoestring and some glue basically.

            I almost flipped out on my plane ride into Houston. I find myself in panic mode when it comes to the deprivation of senses. Maybe I will seek out isolation tanks in short doses. My ears wouldn’t pop and I couldn’t breathe. (due to the head-cold)  I was sitting in the outside seat and I could see the man inside of me (inside joke) beside me…frustrated by my flurry of home remedies. I buckled my elbows, plugged my nose, spit, stretched my jaw, and popped my toes...to no avail. When the waitress asked me what I wanted to drink I asked her for a piece of gum. When I grew tired of myself I read two magazines. When I landed I pursued a smile.

            In one hour I will be in Austin, I will see Billy, Mark, Lindsey, Murph, Corey, Steve, Summer, Bobby, Sophia…just for starters…we will make a short stick out of a long weekend. We will ride it like a fucking witches broom.

            God help me in Mexico City. Dear lord may I be sober and without the haggard degradation of a 1950’s romance writer. May the path of my heart be strong (thanks grandpapa) and willing to change. May I be blessed by the patron saint of espionage and fine dining on the cheap. Whoever you are. I consider you my campanero. My saint detective. Doing the field work. I owe you one. Next round cowboy. I't's on me. Atlas.

            

Chapter Three: Helgramite Bite

            So here I am at Teddy Roosevelt’s ex hunting lodge. 180 acres of wild untamed territory bordering the Gila Wilderness. The first and still largest wilderness area set aside in the continental U.S. The original badlands. The gunfighters daydream. The thick.

            This ranch used to belong to the Lyons. A rich crew of rowdy take-care-of-business-men. The owner however, a certain Thomas Lyon, like many men of success and gusto in his day met his match in the form of a large caliber bullet to the gut, behind the back alley of a tiny bar on a dusty night in El Paso Texas. Every night is dusty in El Paso but at least back then the winds didn’t sweep thru the power plants and smoke stacks before they hit you.            

            The land put up for auction was bought by ex music mogul Frank Werber in the early 70’s and he now lies buried with a bottle of good cognac and a fine ruby atop one of the 300-foot mesa cliffs that surrounds the properties deep canyon. His legend still fresh in the minds of those I travel with. I find a walking stick with his name on it.

            It’s his son and my close friend Ari Werber who drives me out to the property tonight. He picks me up from the Buffalo Bar where the cute little Hispanic bartender has just finished telling me she doesn’t like white guys, but for me, she’ll make an exception. While I find her offer appealing my heart pulls me elsewhere. I let the body follow.

            Its funny back in Oregon on most occasions I was considered a Mexican, but not here. Not at all. Comments are flung around the bar like “Is this gringo with you?” Turns out I am. If you give the shit back to em you don’t get left with a handful.

            An hour and a half drive down the East fork of the Gila River passed the grapevine and over 10 river crossings that can sometimes (not tonight luckily) come up as high as to reach the windshield of the SUV. We pull in with about 3 hours of moonlight left and a big Sweed named Hans (who refers to himself as a Swedish nigger, I do not)  is here to greet us. An old sailor who’s owned his own Sailboat Company, an outsider. He has traveled the world many times and come to rest out here alone wrapped in the comfort of this place, his memories, and white boxed wine on ice. Once he hears I’m headed into Colombia he begins to reminisce almost immediately. He tells me “I was there almost 35 years ago, it’s fucking disgusting.” But he’s referring to the passage of time, and not the time he spent. I can’t help but empathize with his jealousy. Excitement rushes in. Washes over the fear. Images gush of hilltops, 22 rifles, and small Colombian cigarettes. Passing a bottle in a language yet unknown.

            We pass the evening after dinner in mostly silence lying in the hot springs till the moon disappears and then another hour after that. The dark, the small wind, the naked. They mix but never quite settle in. I think it takes a couple days. I sleep outside on a cot beneath a small apricot tree. Knife in hand. Ready for Javelinas.

            Its long clear New Mexico nights like tonight that make you think bright lights and pollution are a conspiracy to keep you from seeing the unexplained night skies. The twinkles, flashes, and twists. The sudden movements and ebbs of lights are undeniable.

            There are four empty lodges on the property with the exception of the Sweed and us. In the morning while Ari and Kaelin make breakfast I find an old Silver City newspaper stuffed under some dirt and tupperware. On page 2 it reads in nervous short spurts. In old style newspaper writing equipped with a paperboy fast-talk accent.

“It is reported that Dutch Charlie a noted foro bank player, was riddled with bullets by another gambler in Kingston last week. Also Bob Ford, one of the participants of Jesse James “removal” was recently acquitted of the murder of Wood Hite, at Platsburgh Mo.”

The Silver City Enterprise Thursday Nov. 16^th 1882

            Out here its easy to see the world just as this newspaper describes it. It’s even easier to see it the way the Indians saw it. Geronimo was born not a few miles from here. Cliff dwellings can be found hidden around the property along with artifacts of mundane and war abuses. And except for the height of the river, this canyon has stayed much the way it was a thousand years ago. You can still gun a man down on your property without much cause or trial. Unfortunately I just lost a friend in that exact manner. I digress.

            We hike a couple miles up river to see some Indian pictographs left in the rock walls. Kaelin gives me Spanish lessons as we go. We come across a Helgramite, which looks like a centipede but with less legs, bigger, and crab like pinchers for a mouth. She assures me that it does not bite. So like most things I do, against my better judgment I grab it. It tares a small chunk of flesh from my knuckle. And I tell it the only Spanish sentence that seems to have stuck so far. “La noche esta en panales” come on I say “The night is still in diapers” Not yet my darling. Not yet. From my heart to yours. One pan of green chille enchiladas and two bowls of homemade ice cream later. See you in the thick. In El Paso. In Austin. In San Antonio. In Mexico City. In Bogotá. On the outside.

            It’s the same boyish spirit that wants to poke things till they bite me and then romance them in bad Spanish that allows me to pack up my life and leave it like I have. Its also those same antics that have left those who I hold dear far in the distance. If I set fire to the balance beam just maybe I wont have to walk it anymore. Till next time. My companeros. 

Intermission: Speculative Scars

Here was the plan: I was gonna take the dog ( a dingo named Chica) and mountain bike up the north side of the property passed the ponds, two little mountains over, and trespass on a Mimbreno Indian burial ground where I used to collect broken pottery and arrowheads.

Here were the facts: I had never really ridden a mountain bike before. I didn’t exactly remember where this Indian ruin was. I didn’t bring any water. Chica’s constitution seemed meek at best considering all the smoke that filled the air from the surrounding forest fires. Oh and did I mention I HAD NEVER RIDDEN A MOUNTAIN BIKE BEFORE.

Here’s what happened: I didn’t make it. Chica made it about half as far as me and turned around. That really set the tone.

Here’s the moral: Dogs are assholes. They’re selfish, and they cant be trusted.