Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas! In honor of the holiday here are three of my favorite Nativity sets from the home of QuiQue and Beatríz the nice couple who gave us a place to stay in Cali. Beatríz has a wicked Nativity collection.

A nice Andean flair.
Some maíz husk.
A cute pocket-sized pottery.

General Updates

If you are also a visitor to Mark's blog you will have noticed by now that I don't update my blog as nearly as often as he does. Part of the reason is because I just don't feel like writing when we're at the computer and part of it is because sometimes I'll actually work on a post, maybe add some pictures, make it all nice and pretty for presentation like the school-girl nerd that I am, and suddenly Blogger is giving me some html error bullcrap and nothing is working and I have a freak-out moment in the internet café (which apparently is very embarrassing to Mark) and I storm out in a haze of annoyance and tears because 1: I've just wasted an hour or more of my time working on the damn thing and 2: I can't just scream and drop the F bomb like I'd like to and which if I did would help me feel a lot better. (Ironically enough as I just finished typing that sentence a computer in the corner just made a noise and a very audible and American-English sounding " Shit!" was heard.)

So because of my limited luck in the blogging world you will no longer be able to read about my stay at the finca because I deleted the post when it got smart with me when I tried to upload more pictures. Maybe one day when I'm feeling a little more lucky and a little more up to it I will try again to share the pictures. You also never heard of how, in trying to avoid paying for an 18 hour bus ride from Armenia to Santa Marta, we ended up riding an orange truck for 31 hours.

That's right, 31 hours. I think the sheer fact that riding in an orange truck for that long left me so exhausted, confused, angry, and emotionally distressed, that I couldn't even bring myself to think about the experience let alone write about it.

We've been in Cartagena now for 3 days (I think) and the whole vibe of the trip has changed. It very much feels like a place we would like to end the trip on except that we still have a butt-load of time left and this city is kind of expensive. It's definitely the prettiest place we've been. Cartagena definitely knows that it's economy is very much tourism and because of this beautiful wooden balconies strewn in colorful flowers dangle above you and you can see street sweepers working almost 24/7 to keep these Old Fort City streets clean and charming.

The only problem is that we haven't found a nice place to just sit and enjoy a breeze and juice while reading like we did in Santa Marta. First of all in Cartagena there is no breeze. It is hot as balls here. Also there is supposed to be an area where nothing but juice carts exist. When Mark talks of such a place his eyes water and his lips turn up in a hint of a dreamy smile. Every morning before I'm even allowed to think of eating breakfast Mark grabs my hand and practically runs over to where these juice carts are supposed to be. But alas, they are not there and he just looks so sad. I fear that after a few days of this I might start to hear him whimpering in his sleep.

So for now we'll do with the juices we can find (I myself am a maracuyá en agua kinda girl) and we'll read in the sometimes air-conditioned Juan Valdez Café (tasty coffee and granizados but even I would like to find a nice local shop) but I'm hoping that there is more to love in another part of town called Bocagrande because we tried to go off the beaten path and when leaving our hostel, instead of turning right into the Old Town we turned left into just a local neighborhood, and we quickly decided that maybe always turning right is the better thing to do.

Things that go Bump in the Night

Around 5:30am my stomach decided that it was not done revolting and I walked into the bathroom in a half sleep stupor. Given the fact that all of the rooms here are air-conditioned with a shared vent one can hear everything in the other rooms. As I sat there doing what I will politely leave up to your imagination, the conversation leaking (poor choice of words?) through the hole in the ceiling became clearer to me. My ears, in their eagerness to understand anything in a country where they don't understand anything tingled at the sound of a male, American, quite possibly a New York accent, mid 20s.

There was the mumble of a Colombian female.
New York Male: I want to ask you a question.
Silence. Some TV. Some unidentifiable mumbling.
NYM: Do you understand what I'm saying?

Me thinking: No you idiot, she doesn't speak English.
CF: Mumble mumble. Possibly in a flirtatious fashion.
NYM: I'm going to write down my email. I want you to email me.
CF: Mumble mumble.
NYM: Email me and I'll send you my phone number. Here this is my work email. Work email? Work?

Me thinking: Why don't you say correo electrónico de trabajo? Even if that's all wrong she'll kinda understand. Damn...do you really not know any spanish?

CF: Mumble mumble.
Me thinking: Dammit! Can't you speak clearer maybe I'll understand a word or two.

CF: Mumble mumble.
NYM: Write me an email and write me in Spanish and this guy here will translate it for me. Okay? Tell her what I'm saying man, tell her to write me at this email here. The bottom one, it's safer.

Me thinking: Safer? And where did This Other Guy come from.
In my half fog I'm realizing that I'm listening to some ending moments of a seedy event in the other room. I now glad that we're changing hotels the next day.

NYM: Tell her to write down her email here. I want to have her email.
Me thinking: I can't wait to tell Mark! This guy sounds like an idiot. She's not a penpal, she's a prostitute! Ugh...American men.

I head back to bed with a new understanding of why the mattress' are covered in plastic only to learn that Mark was awakened by the other half of the coversation happening in the hallway. (http://bubbler.wordpress.com/)

As soon as the gross party next door departed the maid turned on the TV full blast (customer service another non-existent thing here) and proceeded to clean the room. Mark complained about the odor of bleach coming into the room (Ah! Toxins! We're all going to die!!!) and I told him that with the services these rooms apparently provide we should thank God that they use bleach in the first place.

Parque Tayrona

So, long ago when I read in our guide book about Colombia's beaches I became a little disappointed. Beaches in Santa Marta and Cartagena weren't known for their cleanliness and so I had ruled out swimming in the Caribbean. (They're generally littered with glass and garbage as the culture here has never been taught why garbage cans and sanitation departments are good for everyone's salud. Actually when walking down the street it's impossible to find a garbage can but it's normal to see everyone just toss their crap on the sidewalk right in front of you.)

But then I heard of Parque Tayrona. It is a national park. Not free to get into, not situated in the city, and there seems to be a bit more awareness of litter there so the beaches are supposed to be some of the most beautiful beaches one will see. After we mentioned to Mark's cousin we wanted to see it he more than insisted we go. "¡Muy lindo! ¡Muy MUY lindo!" With his energetic advertising for the park we decided we would go and after schlepping through the wilderness to the Lost City we decided what better way to reward ourselves.

After the Lost City we hung out in Santa Marta for two days at my insistence while my broken feet healed. I had planned on three but after Mark got really grumpy and threatened to send me home on my own we headed out. We rode the mini-bus and arrived at the entrance, paid our fee, and rode a really old gas-guzzling Chevy down a road to the beginning of the trails. I had decided I would be more positive for this 1/2 of our Colombia trip. No more mopey me! This is an adventure! It lasted about 10 minutes until I realized that I had tricked myself into believing that what I thought of 'national park' is not what Colombians think of national park.

In the guide books it says that after the road you can walk down a trail to Cañaveral, or go left and further down to Arrecifes, or the good swimming at La Piscina, or even further where the gringos go, Cabo San Juan la Guía. We headed left to Arricifes and we found...more mud. More f*cking mud. We were hiking again! I hadn't packed as light as I should have if I knew we woud be tromping through more mud. I tried to keep quiet and not-so-mopey until I fell. I announced that the first place we'd reach would be the place we would stay.

We arrived at Arricifes, ate crappy over-priced sandwiches and booked two hammocks for one night. It was pretty expensive but I was glad to be done. Or so I thought. We relaxed in our hammocks for a bit, changed in the nice bathrooms, and headed to the beach. We arrived to find absolutely no one there. Immediately we knew that everyone knew something we didn't know. Up ahead we saw 'with-it' Colombians walking, so we followed. And followed. All this beautiful beach and you can't even swim at it, the currents are way too dangerous. I wasn't going to try either, I've never seen waves breaking as fast or loud in my life.

We finally arrived at what seemed like a nice little bay. Not much sand but who cares! We settled against a fallen palm tree. Mark broke out his giant book and I tested the waters. Only to be immediately knocked down and dragged along the bottom burning my ass on the Caribbean sand. We continued on. After more hiking and scrambling over rocks and yes, mud, we arrived at La Piscina. Ah! Here it is. The beach you can swim at! We dipped in only so far as the waters seemed slightly peligro here as well. We hung out wondering how hiking through jungle just to get to the beach is relaxing.

At the end of the day we had an over-priced but better tasting dinner. We tried to sleep with a bunch of young, weed-smoking Colombians yelling around us because apparently people laying in hammocks at night doesn't mean that you should, if not lower your voice, at least not yell. As soon as I did fall asleep a horse wandered up to the cabaña and began to eat out of the garbage, keeping me up.

The next day we had breakfast and headed out to Cabo where hopefully we would have a better time. I'll leave out the details but basically we hiked some more and arrived to find a restaurant and a beautiful bay. Our choices were hammocks literally hung like sardines in a can all along the restaurant or hammocks across the beach atop a pile of rocks. Though beautiful it was way more expensive and way further from the bathrooms so we went for the hammocks in the restaurant.

Immediately I didn't feel well so I laid down thinking I just needed a breather. Mark went off to hike to another set of old rocks that are really historic blah blah blah. I was happy to send him off on his own and I'm sure that he was thrilled himself. As I laid there trying to rest I could hear the tide changing and people laughing and screaming with glee and frolicking in the water. I wanted to go so bad. I was here! At Parque Tayrona! But what was this? I felt queasy and do I have a fever?

2 hours passed and Mark returned. He glanced down at me, felt my forehead, and handed me a large bottle of water. I did indeed have a fever and no thank you I don't think I'll be joining you for lunch. I hoped that I would at least get a nice tropical fruit juice but the restaurant didn't serve juice. They didn't serve juice, they only served a few hours a day when they turned their generator on, we were packed like sardines in hammocks without nets, the bathrooms were disgusting. All for only 1 peso less than the really nice place from the night before. (allbeit I did get sick from the really nice place)

I spent the entire day laid up in my hammock trying not to get sick and chugging water. Eventually in the evening Mark got me out of the hammock and I sipped a warm Coke. I went back to my hammock and didn't arise until the next morning.

We decided to cut our trip short as neither of us had slept well for two days now and for all this relaxing we were supposed to be doing we both felt exhausted. We hiked to the midway point where I let myself had a plate of fruit salad and a juice, the first things I'd eaten in twenty-four hours. We walked for another hour through trails of mud back out to the road. I was digging deep for energy and Mark wasn't feeling to well himself.

We finally reached the asphalt road that we had taken the gas-guzzling Chevy down. This time there was no transport the way back and we started walking. What should have been an hour of a long but pretty walk turned into an 1/2 of us walking, 10 minutes of me sitting with my head between my knees, 5 minutes of me puking up my fruit salad and juice, and about another 1/2 hour of walking.

We were both thrilled when we finally reached the exit. Soon after the bus back to Santa Marta arrived. On the way back the National Police stopped us and made everyone get off the bus. They inspected our (as in Mark and I) bags while the head guy chatted us up telling us he had a friend who lives in New Jersey and that we probably got sick from drinking the water. (Not possible as we only drank bottled water but one does wonder: when you're eating from restaurants that only turn their generators on to serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner what happens to the refridgeration all the other times???)

We checked back into our usual Hostel in Santa Marta, showered, attempted to sleep, and took turns desecrating the bathroom as now Mark is sick as well. Ah...

La Ciudad Perdida

According to an Englishman I recently met, trekking to La Ciudad Perdida (The Lost City) in Colombia is apparently the only thing to do in Colombia. However, having spent some time wandering the country I would disagree with him. (I would also roll my eyes and hope he doesn't see) But even if trekking there was a sort of badge of accomplishment I was totally uninterested in going. Before we even left the States Mark and I had said we weren't going to do it.

One day last week while here in Santa Marta I must've hit my head on a hard surface, or perhaps I was drugged, or maybe it was the INSANE heat that made me delirious and I actually vomitted the words "Maybe we could go to La Ciudad Perdida" and Mark of course realized my mistake and jumped at the chance. I was nervous that I couldn't do it. Mark said I could. "Fat people visit Machu Picchu, Jamie. You can do this." We inquired when the next trip was leaving and to my dismay it was the very next day. So we scrambled around getting last minute things done and packing our bags and last Saturday on December 8th we headed out.

After an early breakfast Mark and I were packed into the back of an old Toyota Landcruiser with previously mentioned Englishman. Excited to be heading off (me? excited?) we ended up sitting in the airless vehicle and the driver and our guide decided that now that their baggage (read: gringos) was stowed they would chill on the sidewalk and drink coffee for about four minutes.

We finally headed off, stopped in the nearby fishing village of Taganga and picked up an English couple who would complete our trekking group. Though I won't name names suffice it to say that two people had the same name, one person's name was the nickname version of the other person's name, and the fifth person wasn't too far off or exotic either. All in all we made a very non-diverse group.

We drove and drove through small pueblos while our guide and the driver talked dirty about women. I didn't understand everything they were saying but I understood enough to know that I was glad I didn't understand.

At one point we began our ascent into the mountains on a road so off the beaten track that it was not only unpaved but it had massive holes and ruts, at times you would skid in the mud and almost fall down a moutainside. This road was so insanely dangerous that I was AMAZINGLY shocked when we reached the top and low and behold there was a whole village of houses and people! What are these people doing here!!!

After a quick meal of bologna sandwhiches (an apparent favorite of Colombians) we started off on our 6 day trek through the jungle. Of course as I expected I quickly fell behind and for 6 days would spend entire days falling through the jungle and reach the top of a climb with everyone standing around waiting for me looking miserable. Which of course would make me feel (more) miserable.

DAY ONE started off with me positive and excited. It was Fern Gully meets Indiana Jones meets Romancing the Stone meets The Goonies. We were walking through gentle rivers and over rocks and passing pretty flowers. At one point we passed a group of people returning and many of them looked happy. Almost as if they had some spiritual moment at the top. And then there was 'the last guy'. He was the me. He was way behind the rest of the group and he looked like the living dead. Immediatly I was hit with some kind of fear. But it was Day One!

I marched along. Then the mud arrived. This was no mud any of you can ever imagine. This is mud South American jungle style. The kind that never sees the sun of day so it never dries. The kind that you know (or that I later realized) is actually part mud part mule piss and poo. Mud that covers the entire trail. Mud like that children's song "Can't go under it. Can't go over it. Can't go around it. Gotta go through it." And so through it you go. You try and find the more solid mud. You slip, you slide, sometimes you fall, sometimes your foot gets covered (or all the time, whatever) and once you even lose your shoe to it.

After the mud we started our steep climb in the rain and mud. It was really hard for me and I stopped so much that the word 'often' wouldn't do it justice. At one point in the rain and mud and endless walking walking walking I slipped and literally tumbled downhill and landed feet over head. Mortifying doesn't do that justice either. This is when I started to really think maybe I had made a terrible mistake. Eventually we made it to our first stop where we would spend the night. After a dinner the hammocks and mosquito nets were put up on the rafters and we all gingerly got in. One would hope that with the level of exhaustion I was feeling I would nod off to sleep right away but instead I lay there, listening to Mark snore and cold because I didn't pack socks, and cried as quietly as I could knowing that I had 5 more days ahead.

DAY TWO we woke up to the sounds of a huge amount of baby chicks walking beneath our hammocks making their baby chick sounds. This was the day we learned that our guide will tell us what time we are leaving, will wake us up if we are not already up, and we'll all hurriedly get ready only to wait and wait and wait for him. Another group had told us that if you mention to your guide (and pay your guide) that you would like to see 'the cocaine factory' he will take you to a sort of lean-to in the woods and show you the beginning processes of how cocaine is made. Along with some household kitchen items and some scary acid chemicals you not only are amazed at how you too can probably make coke at home but you are also amazed at the stuff in it and the fact that people put this stuff up their noses. He eventually ended up with a chalky paste that some Colombians, if they use the stuff, smoke. Otherwise the paste is sent off to another 'manufacturer' and turned into the powder form. Those are apparently the people who make the big bucks.

Day two hiking commenced with more mud and more mud. We descended for what seemed like forever and all I could think was about the return trip and how we would have to come back up this. Eventually after I continued to hate every second of this hike and after I inevitably fell again we arrived at our stop for the night. A jungle camp for the National Police. What?! Tons of Colombian soldiers in the jungle heat just sitting around dressed in their military green, their guns everywhere, the smell of feces wafting in from the hut with the toilets. It rained and rained and rained that night. We sat in our hammocks and waited for dinner as the sand flies had some good snacking on my ankles. After dinner we headed off to sleep and were told by our guide to sleep with our valuables in the hammock with us that night. So in the place with all the guns and the military we were protecting our valuables...from the military.

DAY THREE was rough. I was tired. My feet were starting to have open sores. I was falling all the time. It was really hot. I cried while walking for the first hour. Everyone was beginning to doubt I would last. The guide told me that he thought I should hire a mule for the fifth day when we headed back because he didn't think I would make it. That day we were to hike for 8 hours. I was already a cracked shell but I was offended and so I said I didn't want it. Mark said yes.

We stopped for fruit and I wandered off to a shady spot like a wounded dog.
I was perplexed. How could Mark think I could actually do this hike? This post can't even begin to describe how unkempt and dangerous and hard this hike was. He wandered over to me and asked if I could do it. There was another hour to go crossing a river and then there were 1,200 mossy stone steps ascending to the Lost City. I asked him how he could have let me come on this hike. That I shouldn't be there. That I didn't care if fat people visit Machu Picchu, this was hard. He apologized and said he had no idea how rough it was going to be and that he agreed, if it was that hard he wouldn't have suggested I go. Somehow him saying that made me feel better. He asked if I could make it. I couldn't say yes but I wasn't going to give up. I had paid $230 to go on this trip from hell. I sure as hell wasn't going to get it back and I sure as hell wasn't going to wait at that Army Camp either. We crossed a river, some parts were very deep and the current really strong. The steps to the city rise out of the river. Almost eerie. We climb and climb. The steps are the easiest part of the whole thing. They are small and slippery and if you fall consider your existence done but they are the easiest part. We arrive at the city.

DAY FOUR we wandered around the city. It was once home to a native group that no longer exists, wiped out by diseases brought on by the Spaniards. (Is anyone else really bothered by the fact that Spain has killed so many people by diseases???) They lived in huts built on stone terraces connected by stone paths and stone stairways. All brought up the mountain from the river on their backs. It is huge. Truly a city. As a trekker you really only get to see a small fraction of the terraces. In the 1970s a father and son team of treasure looters came across the abandoned city and found gold. Intricate beautiful pieces of gold. People were double crossed, murders occured and eventually, with all this ancient gold on the black market the Colombian government heard about this 'Lost City'.

The native peoples who still live in the area who are descendants of the Lost City inhabitants claim that they always knew about it's existence and have come to the city for years. I believe it. I also believe that as packs of people tromp through their villages every day they are not happy to see you. It doesn't help when the guide is an uneducated teen who swears they don't mind, who doesn't know the accurate history of the city, and who says that the indeginous people don't have a tribal name, they refer to themselves as 'the indeginous'. We later learned that they are the Kogui. (This wonderful guide also laughs about you falling with his brother and is always the last one ready so that while you sit around for an hour waiting for him whatever energy you had to start hiking that day is gone).

We spent two nights in the city. The first was quite nice. We celebrated Mark's birthday by sitting around a candle flame and watching the dramatic deaths of every bug that flew into it. The guy in the English couple made great running commentary. The second night we were booted out of our private cabaña when a group of 28 (way too large to enjoy the trip I think) arrived with the rival tour company. We moved to the upstairs of the caretaker's hut and slept on gross mattresses. The next day Mark and another guy were covered in bed bug bites and my clothes were infested and I received bites the next day when I had to put the clothes back on. (The plus was the six week old male puppy named Shakira who napped in my lap and made me want to steal him. Or ask if I could buy him.)

DAY FIVE we woke up really early in order to head out early as we would be hiking for 8 hours. We would hike to the Army camp, have lunch, and then continue down to where we stayed the first night. Everyone was ready by 7 as we had all discussed. Everyone but the guide. Someone asked the guide if we could start knowing we would need extra time. The guides do this trek so often and are just young punks that they practically run down hill anyway so they would've caught up. He said no, that it was too dangerous, so we could go ahead to the last terrace and just wait for him maybe take some pictures. We did that. We went ahead to the main terrace and waited. At one point when I looked back across the valley you could see the guide just hanging out and not packing up at all. I announced that I was going ahead, that I was tired of dealing with their crap, and that once they see we haven't waited they will amazingly be ready to go. Mark and I headed out and the Englishmen followed. It was no surprise when five minutes later our guides were rushing behind us.

We hiked across the river and over rocks and through dense trees. At this point my feet were covered in pussy sores and my body was a wreck. I fell three times before we reached the Army camp. Mark reminded the guide that I was to take a mule from the camp to the house (for $15). My feet were so bad that even I knew I should take the mule. We swam in the river at the Army camp and had lunch. A loud, shirtless man appeared with three mules. I mounted one, he occasionally rode another, and the third carried supplies.
For the next three hours we went down some rocky paths (terrifying), crossed some creeks, and most importantly we went up the never ending muddy climb that on day two I had worried about climbing back up. It truly was never ending. Even the mules were drenched in sweat and gasping for air, stopping often on the climb to breathe. There were no reins on the mule, just the horn of the saddle and for three hours I prayed to the gods that I wouldn't fall off and die when I was taking the mule to help me. However the wopping 6 times I've been horseback riding in the past at least left me comfortable in a saddle and I knew (for the most part) how to stay balanced. I arrived at the house 25 minutes before Mark and the Englishman who were the speedy ones. I instantly felt bad for having maybe ruining this trip for Mark. He was always in the back with me and if I hadn't have been around he would have always been in the front of the pack. I also realized that I traded my feet for my thighs and because I have such amazing luck when I stepped off the mule my right foot which didn't suffer from pussy sores as my left did, now had three ticks of various sizes embedded in my (swollen, hideous, and disgusting) foot.
After some tweezer time with the ticks, a cold water shower, dinner, and some reading, I climbed into a hammock. I should have been grateful. This was my last night. Instead I couldn't sleep. At all. I laid there for hours. At one point a massive cricket made it's home in the strings of my hammock (mosquito net or not) and his sounds were so loud I had to move my head to the other side.

DAY SIX we all just wanted to hit the road. I wanted out of dodge. We were all ready to go by 7 at least. But breakfast still hadn't been served and our guide wasn't ready (everone: surprised gasp). We didn't hit the road until 8:30 and by then the sun was blazing and this was the stretch with no tree cover. We climbed and climbed. This was the muddy nightmare that had welcomed us on day one. Though the sun had dried it enough to make the climb easier and less slippery it was a hard climb in an intense sun. I fell, I swore, and eventually I was out. Mark lifted my dead weight arm in the air and I had made it. I looked terrible and acted terrible while doing it but I didn't turn around.
All in all it was probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I didn't necessarily need confirmation to myself that I hate hiking but if I haven't figured it out after this then I have a brain of stone. My legs have been massacred by all sorts of bugs, I'll probably have scars. My left foot is swollen and has pussy sores in every spot any shoe will touch, I have a limp. Both of my feet are on fire from a fungus as my feet were constantly covered in mud and mule piss and poo. I have bed bug bites on my back. My right foot has cuts from my shoes and from where I ripped out three ticks.
Now that I've seen the city and met the people I've met and had the experience that I've had I can ask myself these questions: Are you glad you did it? Did you ultimately have a great time? Do you feel some sense of accomplishment? Did you get anything out of it? Are you glad you saw a place that many people will never get to see? Would you do it again?

No, Not really, Maybe if I try, a wicked case of athlete's foot that may render me unable to wear sandals ever again, Not particularly, Not in a million years.

Zoológico de Cali

At David & Johanna's wedding (which we were unable to attend) there was an 'Uncle' (as in he may not be literally an Uncle but in Latin terms you call your loved ones what you wish) who sadly fell ill during the reception. At first people thought he was having trouble with the altitude change but it turns out he was suffering from a pulmonary embolism. Otherwise known as serious sh*t. When QuiQue (Enrique) finally was released and sent back home to Cali David decided he would drive down and see how he was doing. Road trip!

All in all we drove to Cali and QuiQue wasn't even there. As soon as he was free of his shackles he went out. In his stead his daughter Jimena and her husband Alberto took us to a beautiful restaurant in the San Antonio (read:historical) district of Cali. Their goal was to give us a sampling of the typical comidas of Cali. Everything on the menu was fried and everything we ate was fried. Afterwards my stomach ached since eating lots of grease without a gallbladder isn't really a great idea.

The next morning David packed up the cousins and we headed to the Cali Zoo. Before we left Jimena told us that Cali's zoo was very popular and that it was a really great zoo, a sister zoo of the San Diego Zoo which as you know has quite a reputation (how many zoos can you put in a sentence). Therefore I was very excited. I've always enjoyed going to the zoo even though I'm aware that zoos are in fact jails for exotic and sometimes not-so-exotic animals. Seeing these beautiful animals in small cages when they should be roaming plains is sad. This I am aware of. I'm also aware that ocassionally without a zoo the animal wouldn't even exist anymore as the human species enjoys shooting things just because they move. So in a nutshell: off to the zoo we went.

A few observations: The Mariposario was nice because I've never been able to walk amongst butterflies. I've never seen so many parrots in my life and had no idea how big they get. I've now seen Condors up close and they are massive. In a Colombian zoo expect to see a buttload (a gross understatement) of monkeys and expect a monkey to wipe poo all over the cage glass until you can't see him anymore and expect for your reaction to be 'That's awesome'. Sometimes when you're drinking your bottle of water at a kiosk and a giant male peacock, intense colorful feathers and all, walks right by you it will be quite a shock.

This is until you realize that all the peacocks just strut along the pathways of the zoo like if they're just stepping out to run to the grocery store. A North American Grizzly bear should never, NEVER be in a zoo at the equator. An animal that is native to Alaska and other chilly temperatures should not be kept in an open air pen in a city that never drops below 85 degrees on a cool day. He looked like he was dying.

But one last thought on the Cali zoo. I understand that your expecations of how things work have to change when in another country but sometimes I think that there should be a standard.

I think that animal pens should be well caged and shouldn't literally be just a stone wall you can hop right over and walk up to, for example, a deer or llama (not that this happened while we were there but we just felt so... in the pen). But I don't believe they should be well caged for our safety (though that would be nice) I believe it should be well caged for the animal's safety.

There is obviously a lack of education concerning the welfare of the animals here. We're looking into the pen of a wild boar and while the wild boar grooms its wild boar buddy he nestles into a nest of potato chip bags. You have people banging on the window and disturbing animals instead of just observing them. You have people (gasp) feeding the animals pieces of empanada because they are just so close. There are no garbage cans along the walking path to encourage putting your trash anywhere but where the animals live, there are no signs saying how consumption of human food can really hurt these animals. All in all I found it really hard to believe that this zoo works together with the San Diego Zoo.

After the zoo we headed back to the house to gather our things and said goodbye to who we could find (QuiQue still missing). We headed back to Armenia to begin another week.

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Random things I haven't mentioned

After two days in Bogotá when we first arrived I was rummaging through my luggage, already cursing the things I realized I should've never packed when I came across these.
Two large and heavy stones. I have a foggy memory of these rocks belonging to my sister as technically does the luggage since she bought it years ago during her trip to France. In true Matias fashion she must've decided against throwing them out and stuffed them in a bag to forget about them for decades. They made it all the way to Bogotá where I pondered if they were worth anything before tossing them in the garbage not wanting to carry around an extra ounce of weight.

During one of our last nights in Bogotá Mark and I wandered up to the 'nice part of town' also known as the Zona Rosa. Everyone was nicely dressed watching their children play in nice clean playgrounds drinking Juan Valdez Café (essentially a Starbucks, I recommend the Granizada de Café con chocolate. It kicks a frappucino's booty).

The whole place was the lovely equivalent of Bronxville or the hip playground in Greenwhich Village where Sarah Jessica Parker takes her weird looking kid to play. Anyway the point is that we walked by a boutique and one of the mannequins had these ginormous pearls on and I insisted we take a picture. However in true fashion of reminding me where I am (as in not Westchester) an armed Seguridad Privada that is almost as omnipresent as is the military green clad Policía Nacional came out and asked me to please not photograph the window.

Off I went into the night wondering what New York would be like at Christmas if armed guards told all the tourists at the Macy's Holiday Windows to please stop taking photos or risk being shot.