I really believe that, as human beings, we have an innate need to explore, to see what's around the corner.  Jimmy Chin  I don't climb mountains. I am far too lazy and unmotivated for that. I prefer my athleticism to take place on the back of a horse or under the water. Mountains scare me; they're places where planes crash, they're places where people are lost forever, they're places that might spew lava and ash for days. However, I know people who do climb mountains. One of those people is my brother. I know nothing about climbing resumes but he has one and I'm pretty certain it's impressive. In fact, January 2018 will see him climbing Aconcagua near Mendoza, Argentina. At 6,960 meters (22,837 feet) it's the tallest peak in the Andes and the tallest mountain in both the southern and western hemispheres. This mountain is the real deal and I'm very excited for his adventure. While I may not climb mountains I still find them awe-inspiring. I love to read books about climbers and watch the films. One that has really made an impact on me is "Meru", recommended to me by my brother and made by Jimmy Chin, whose quote I used to introduce this post. If you ever had any questions about what makes mountaineers all around bad asses then this film will answer them. So, as I stood in the shadow of Chimborazo in Ecuador, huffing and puffing at the effort of simply standing upright, I began chatting with a young Greek woman. As she swigged from her bottle of aguardiente and drug deeply from a cigarette she casually mentioned, "It's not so much a technical climb, this one. It's just the altitude." Chimborazo is Ecuador's highest mountain. The elevation at its peak is 6,263 meters (20,548 feet). We were nowhere near the peak but in the tiny town at the volcano's base where climbers gather to acclimate to the altitude and its effects are still very real. And while people come from all over Ecuador and the world to climb Chimborazo someone like me might ask why? If it's not technically difficult and not even close in terms of altitude to the higher peaks of the Andes what's the appeal? Chimborazo is not only stunningly beautiful but it has a special distinction to it that I was not aware of. Despite the numbers this dormant volcano is actually the highest point on the planet. Due to math, physics, and other things that I don't understand, the fact that the Earth is a sphere, and that Chimborazo is only one degree south of the equator it benefits from from the few extra kilometers added at the bulge of the equatorial region. This means its peak is the furthest point on Earth from the Earth's core and the closest place on the planet to outer space. Generally Chimborazo is surrounded by clouds. Like most mountains of its height it makes its own weather. On a rare day it can be seen from Guayaquil, 140 kilometers away. But, like I said, that's rare. The day before we arrived Will had a brief, early morning glimpse of it but by the time I woke up the clouds had gathered. So as we made our way down a dirt road to the campsite I struggled to see it even though we were so close. What if I had to spend the night at 5,000 meters and clouds ruined everything? But, almost as if Chimborazo knew we were coming, the clouds began to scatter not along after we set up camp and there it was. All I could do was sit there and gawk.

It's also very, very cold. As if the snow weren't an indicator, right?

At that point the sun was just a short time from setting directly behind us and I knew if the clouds stayed away the light would be exquisite. And I was right.

Dark came quickly and we retreated to bed, ibuprofen and water flowing like wine. But you shouldn't drink wine at altitudes like this as I learned from our failed attempt to see Cotopaxi, Ecuador's second highest peak. And because we were at the base of the tallest point on Earth we felt it only fitting to watch "Meru" again. It was a good choice. When you're not acclimated to altitude like this sleeping is hard. I woke up at 4am and couldn't go back to sleep. The sky was dark with clouds and I wondered if I'd be able to see anything with the arrival of daybreak. However, I was wrong. I got one last shot before the clouds swirled in.

We left shortly after and I was exhilarated to breathe properly again and for my headache to go away. However, as I often do on this trip, I was more grateful for the experience.

 

Dates hold little significance for me these days. Unless I have to catch a plane, I have a deadline, or something is already booked and paid for on my credit card I pay little attention to dates anymore. I have no need to; I mark the passing of time in very different ways now.

However, days for me are a little different than dates. I have a routine that takes place in more or less the same order every morning. I wake up, hopefully have a relatively accessible and clean place to pee, I put on water to boil, grind coffee, and open my computer.

I brace myself for potential bad news, first from family and then from the rest of the world. I’m far away and I worry too much. But my family is well and the rest of the world? Well, my cursory glances at the news continue to reassure me that the Republic hasn’t burned. At least not completely.

Then along came October 2, 2017. The opening of the computer part of my morning ritual showed me that the flames are rising. More than fifty people dead and five hundred injured at an outdoor concert in Las Vegas. How the hell does that happen? Why am I even asking that question anymore?

This isn’t about gun control. Hell, it is not even up for debate with me. Those who know me know my stance on the issue. But what some of you might not know is that I grew up in the country and guns were a regular and normal part of my life. I learned at a very young age how to clean a gun, how to properly load and shoot a variety of handguns, rifles and shotguns, and I’m still a very good shot, or at least I was the last time I went to a gun range.

So while I spent yesterday like most people did, watching the Facebook arguments and reading the “What We Know Now” articles I had no way of knowing that October 2, 2017 was about to get a whole lot worse for me.

CBS was among the first site to report that Tom Petty was hospitalized, brain dead after suffering a heart attack the previous evening, probably about the same time the gunshots were first fired in Vegas. Soon other reputable news sites reported that he had been removed from life support and was dead. Facebook exploded. Videos of everyone’s favorite Tom Petty songs flooded my feed. I scoured the links being shared, still not quite sure what was going on. But what I did know was that I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t accept that one of MY guys had died. It’s not time yet.

This is in no way meant to diminish the deaths that occurred on the Las Vegas Strip. Senseless death in any form is just that, senseless. Cruel, harrowing, and beyond comprehension. But, despite the fact that it took the news outlets hours to actually confirm his death the simple fact that it was imminent brought up some powerful memories for me.

Memories of Tom Petty and guns.

The 1980’s were a confusing time musically. The staid rock and roll of the 70’s was contending with punk rock on one side, glam rock on the other, and had new wave right on its heels. MTV was in its infancy and 8 track players were not uncommon in the Ford pickups that rolled into my driveway, the boys behind the wheel feigning casual disinterest, a cheek stuffed with Copenhagen, and something cool blasting from the tinny speakers.

In the little corner of my 16 year old world music was everything. It defined your style, it designated who you would hang out with, and ultimately it would be a representation of you. New trends had trouble taking a foothold in the country during the 1980’s — little has changed in that regard — so we listened to what it seemed like we had always been listening to.

Rock and roll.

Rush, Yes, REO Speedwagon, Foreigner, Black Sabbath, and more would roll out of those speakers when we went out. Free from parents and always hoping to be one step ahead of the cops we’d drive out to the lake carrying our music along with us. In many ways it was all we had.

But there were also the guns.

Those Ford pickups I mentioned almost always had gun racks mounted in the back window of the cab and those racks were rarely empty. But in those days of carefree recklessness and guns galore I rarely paid any attention. What else are you going to do with empty beer cans but line them up for target practice?

However, one memory of that time lives in my head, as tangible and real as anything I have ever known and the soundtrack of that memory is Tom Petty and gunfire.

It was another summer day at the lake, hot and still, cicadas screeching at the cloudless sky. I was clad in cutoffs and an artfully ripped up T shirt from a .38 Special concert. My legs were long, lean, and brown and my dusty bare feet were swinging as I perched on a tailgate and swigged from an icy cold something. Coors or Budweiser would probably have fit the bill. A song came on and I began to sing. I knew all the words by heart.

It was American Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

And as gunshots and laughter rang out behind me I sang, tipsy and beautiful and so impossibly young.

“After all it was a great big world, with lots of places to run to.”

It was than one line, in one song, written by one man who had no idea how much that song and that line in particular would change me. One girl. One girl who wanted more than life in the country. More than getting pregnant, marrying one of the boys shooting at beer cans behind her and staying there in that small town.

That song has been my touchstone since that hot summer day, so long ago. Every word rings true for me and those words speak to my wanderer’s soul. They also take me back to a time in my life that was so deceptively simple; I needed nothing more than music and my friends. But I always knew that somewhere in that quiet and still place in my heart I had more in store for me. And I was right.

So as I reflect on October 2, 2017 I mourn in so many ways. So many people who should have had a great time at a concert were terrorized and died instead. And one other man, hundreds of miles away in Malibu, suffered a heart attack that would end his life as well. A life that intertwined with mine in so many ways and I’ll continue that dance as long as Tom Petty is on my playlist.

 

I am that American girl.

We’ve been in Ecuador since this past Friday morning, August 4th. We crossed the border on the one year anniversary of the launch of this trip. Border crossing days are hard and I kind of go on autopilot; the drill has generally been the same throughout this whole trip. We turn in Moby’s paperwork and get ourselves stamped out of one country then get ourselves stamped into the next country and repeat the process of securing legality for Moby.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to drive across borders in Central and South America it goes something like this. First, you wait. Either there’s a slew of commercial truck drivers also waiting for clearance or it’s breakfast time or coffee break time or some other very good reason why there’s no one at the desk. When someone does appear there are copies to be handed over of everything: title, registration, drivers’ licenses, and passports. Then all the information is entered into a computer and hopefully we receive an official document with all the correct numbers, correctly spelled names, and accurate dates. This can be tedious.

However, the process of entering Ecuador was surprisingly easy. Instead of copies the agent simply took photos of all of our documents and Moby’s license plate. Within a few minutes the photos were merged with our entry file and our TIP (temporary import permit) spit out of the printer, all t’s crossed and i’s dotted. It was a miracle. Fortunately enough, border towns are rarely anything special and it’s not as if the simple fact of moving a few hundred feet changes anything.

As we rolled away I had no “So this is Ecuador!” epiphany. I just noticed that we’re still in the Andes, everything still looks like my beloved Colombia, and I have a lot to say about that. So here are some more of my notes from our time spent in this fascinating, frustrating, and oh so intriguing country. 

 

Getting Around

We use Google Maps to navigate our way through this journey. For the most part Tammy (our name for the tiny lady who lives in Will’s phone) does her job well but there have been times when she’s put us on dead end dirt roads, had no idea that streets were closed for a festival, and other things that has us cursing poor Tammy. But sometimes she makes us laugh. One day we were going to McDonald’s for lunch outside of Bogota. Tammy got us there but as we were preparing to turn into the parking lot she said, “Turn right on Em Cee Donald’s.” That’s right, the m and the c were enunciated followed by donald’s. We got a good laugh at that one.

Oh, and when we use maps.me (another navigation app) the tiny lady who spews out directions is Kiera because she has an Australian accent and on the odd occasion that the Spanish lady talks to us she is called Lorena. Sometimes you have to make your own fun; the simple act of travel doesn’t always just hand it to you.

 

Roadside Attractions

When we were driving to Valle de Leyva we found a wide spot in the road to pull over and get out for a minute. It was a long drive that day and we had already made uneventful stops. However this one was different. There was a small building near the place where we pulled over but no real sign of people. So we’re standing on the passenger side talking and I spied a young Colombian guy coming down the hill toward us, machete in hand. We were both prepared to bolt back into the truck but when he reached the ramshackle barbed wire fence he put his machete down before climbing through the wire. He approached, hesitant greetings were exchanged, then he asked if we wanted hierba, or weed. We kind of laughed and politely declined and he went back through the fence, picked up his machete, and disappeared up the hill. Will looked at me and said, “That was courteous of him to put down his machete.” Yes, yes it was.

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Our stops aren’t always at friendly campgrounds populated by fellow travelers and renditions of “Kumbaya” by a roaring bonfire, although that does happen occasionally. More often, especially when we’re driving with a far off destination in our sights, we stop wherever is convenient and looks safe, although that’s relative. And we’ve found that, in Colombia, these places are generally restaurants. They typically have large, flat parking lots, clean bathrooms, and wifi. If we order food or beers we can usually stay as long as we want for no charge.

But the free factor isn’t why these restaurants make excellent stopping points. It’s the owners and staff members that make these restaurants some of my favorite places we’ve ever stayed in Colombia. One night in San Gil we had actually planned to stay at a hotel but their kitchen was closed. We headed down the road to another restaurant and when we chatted with the owners over our meal they invited us to stay, so we did. When I drank all their wine el patrón hopped on his motor bike and went to get more. Another time we had to leave a campground because they had no water, not even for the toilets. We drove to a restaurant and set up shop. The owner was a lovely lady and we chatted a lot. I mentioned that Colombian style lentejas (lentils) are my favorite dish. They didn’t have any but, again, someone races off on a motorbike and returns with what I wanted. Since lentils take a long time to prepare they weren’t ready until the next day but the lunch I had before we left was divine, including the lentils.

 

Things We Do

I’ve always been a voracious reader but, as you can imagine, I read a lot on this trip. Much of my reading material consists of previously read and loved novels by Stephen King and YA books about horses. Will, on the other hand, reads a great deal of nonfiction and will occasionally recommend a title to me, knowing I probably won’t read it. However, after he talked up a book called The Outliers I decided to give it a go. Wow. It’s really, really good. The basic premise is about the many different factors at play when we look at what success is and is not. My favorite part was about how a flight crew’s culture can cause planes to crash and some of the reasons Asian people tend to comprehend mathematics better than westerners (since I can count in Mandarin I already knew part of the reason why). It’s a really great read and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did.

(We don’t do any affiliate marketing. If you buy that book through the above link Amazon gets all the money. They need it, you know. They just bought a super expensive grocery store chain.)

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After a year on the road we’ve finally incorporated podcasts into our lives. I honestly don’t know how we survived on music alone this whole time. Podcasts make me feel smarter and we then have stuff to talk about over dinner because, frankly, there are times when we don’t have a whole lot to say to one another. Talking about politics has gotten so dreary.

My favorites thus far are Lore and Stuff You Should Know. Lore is basically every spooky myth, legend, or true story you’ve ever heard cleverly written and narrated by the smooth talking Aaron Mahnke. Stuff You Should Know is exactly that. I never fail to learn something new each time we listen to an episode. The ones about the Galapagos and the controversial use of solitary confinement in prison are two that I found really interesting. Plus, the hosts of SYSK have a great connection and banter that make each episode more fun. The episode about porta-potties is a great example of this.

If any of you have any recommendations for other podcasts please drop a comment below and help fuel my new addiction.

 

Nature Stuff

Describing Colombia from a natural beauty viewpoint is damn near impossible. It reminds of the film “Contact” and the part where Jody Foster’s character finally goes through the wormhole. As she stutters and stammers into the microphone attached to her helmet she finally says, “They should have sent a poet.” That’s how I felt nearly every day in Colombia. It’s so beautiful, so majestic, so abundant, and so dumbfounding that I felt, well, DUMB! There’s no way to describe what it looks like when you’re high in the Andes. So high that you’re shivering in hastily thrown together warmies wondering how the hell there can be bananas ripening on trees and hummingbirds lazily making their choice from hundreds of flower varieties. I know a few poets and I hope they see this portion of the post. Ladies, get your asses to Colombia and do it some justice.

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One of Colombia’s most visited areas is Cocora Valley, located about 100 kilometers east of Bogota. Parts of the area are as high as 9000 feet and located there in the cloud forest is a grove of some of the most unique trees on the planet. The wax palms of Cocora are Colombia’s national tree and can reach heights of 200 feet. Of course we had to see this miracle of nature. But do we go to the park like everyone else? Of course not! That’s too easy.

Will found a spot on the map out in the middle of nowhere and as we made the turn onto the dirt road to get there my stomach dropped. It dropped even further as we lurched along this rutted, washed out track that has collapsed in places, leaving our wheels precariously close to the edge.

It turned out that this road only gave us a brief glimpse of the palms before we parked in a grassy, wide spot in the road. I fussed and fretted about the possibility of being too close to someone’s coca plantation (a not unusual fear) and what sort of wild animals we’d encounter (a vicious rabbit/pika hybrid). But there’s something to be said for being that far away and that remote in a country like Colombia. It’s humbling in its vast wildness.

 

You all know that Colombia lured me in with a siren song so sweet I don’t think I can ever unhear it, although I didn’t hear it at first. The robbery in Barranquilla left me so shaken I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything but disgust and fear in this wild and unpredictable land. But that’s a big part of the charm. From the street art of Bogota to the untamed Andes and, best of all, the intelligence, tenacity, and kindness of the people Colombia surprised me every day.

 

I’ll be back. I’m sure of it.

 

We have mere days before we cross our eighth border and leave Colombia behind for Ecuador. It’s virtually impossible to express just how much Colombia has snuck her tentacles around our feet so they drag with palpable weight. We’re coming down to the wire on the time we can legally be in the country. We’re about 90 miles from the border and will cross on Friday August 4th, one year to the day that we began this trip.

Colombia is many things. It’s a country that was brand new to both of us, so big that after months in countries that could be traversed in one day that when I saw the first sign indicating Bogota was 800 kilometers away I was floored. So we spent our three months in cities and wild campsites. We went on tours and drove the winding roads through the Andes, a death defying feat to rival anything we’ve encountered so far. We’ve talked about coming back, maybe renting a house for a few months so we can see the things we missed.

There’s so much I can and will say about Colombia but I think I want to start this series with my observations on the legacy of Colombia’s most infamous citizen. Before “Narcos” I think most of us knew who he was but not the extent of his power or the ferocity with which the CIA and the DEA went after him. However, Pablo Escobar and his rise to power was a symptom of much larger problems that had been taking place in Colombia for some time, and when the US becomes involved things rarely work out.

I’m no expert, but I’ve paid attention, asked questions, read books and magazine articles, and thought about the man and the country who loves to hate him and these are my stories.

When Does Violent History Become Entertainment?

When “Narcos” first hit Netflix we were still living in Mexico. The fact that show became a huge hit was not surprising; we all love stories about anti-heroes who won’t hesitate to blow up a plane but shed a tiny tear of compassion when they buy a soccer field for a poor neighborhood. One of our biggest questions was, how long does the mainstream media need to wait to dramatize true events in history, especially those that see a direct involvement by the United States? We decided 20 years seems to be the norm. M*A*S*H* came out in the 1970’s, about 20 years after the Korean War. The slew of Vietnam films in the 80’s and 90’s were also at about the 20 year post-Vietnam mark. Maybe it just takes a generation (20 years) for the wounds to sting a little less and the misguided glory to shine a little more bright.

I also find it very interesting that the two television shows targeting US audiences and focusing on the cocaine smuggling trade in the 1980’s are “Narcos” and “Miami Vice”. The polarity is astounding.

Capitalizing on Terror

Speaking of “Narcos” I’ve found it to be no surprise that Colombia has seen quite the uptick in “Pablo Tourism”, and many of the locals and some members of the Colombian government are not too happy about it. Pablo had estates all over the country, many of which are tourist sites now like Hacienda La Manuela, his bombed out villa in Guatape. You can go play paintball there if you want, or you can stay the night, like we did. We also took a Pablo Escobar tour of Medellin which was about as disappointing as it can get. It was basically a rerun of the television series while being crammed in a van. Seeing his gravestone was an interesting experience but when we pulled up to the curb of the residential home where he was shot on the roof I didn’t even get out of the van. I felt badly for the people who live here now and how their street is one of the most visited places in Medellin. There’s serious talk about these kinds of tours being banned. I’d tend to agree. You’re better off just watching the show if you want the sensationalized version or read one of the many accounts of his life and death in Colombia.

When the Landscape is Your Biggest Foe

The Colombian Andes are no joke. I had no idea what to expect when we found ourselves in the thick of them, sheer drops of thousands of feet, headaches from the altitude, and narrow roads that are the only route through. But they’re impossibly beautiful, filled with thousands of different kinds of trees and plants, all of them indescribable shades of green. But as Will likes to point out, topography wins and loses wars and Colombia is very similar to Afghanistan in that regard. These mountains hide the remote enclaves of guerrilla and paramilitary groups like FARC, ELN, and M 19. The government and the military have been dealing with them for more than 50 years. A civil war of nearly half a decade creates the perfect scenario for someone like Pablo Escobar to slip in and take advantage while everyone is scrambling to keep up with everyone else with guns, drugs, and landmines who can quietly disappear into the Andes and be nothing more than a shadow in a matter of seconds.  

The Court of Popular Opinion

Depending on who you talk to in Colombia you’ll get vastly different opinions about Pablo. When we were at Hacienda Napoles we met a Colombian-American man whose family emigrated to the US in 1973. His remarks were dripping with hatred and he gloated over the many photos of Pablo’s corpse on display there. Then, a few minutes later, I asked our tuk tuk driver how old he was and what he thought of Pablo. He is 25, told me both his parents worked for Pablo in some capacity, and if Hacienda Napoles was not there or if the government had closed it to the public the little town he lived in would have nothing.

The doctor I saw in Medellin was a very smart, well educated woman in her mid-thirties. She told me that when she was growing up her well to do family had a ranch near Hacienda Napoles. One day, as a young girl, she cut her thumb open pretty badly. The only doctor in the area was Pablo’s personal physician, so he stitched her up. I asked if she remembers meeting Pablo and she said no, but that her parents were frequent guests at Hacienda Napoles.

Then I was talking with an older Colombian woman and told her I was reading a book by Colombia’s beloved Gabriel Garcia Marquez. She assumed I was reading Love in the Time of Cholera but when I told her I was reading News of a Kidnapping which is about the journalists kidnapped by the Medellin cartel to protest the fact that the US was demanding extradition of its members she gasped and put her hand to heart and told me to never say his name. I felt like I had just been slapped by my grandma.

Obviously I can’t speak for everyone in the country nor would I dare to but my observations indicate that younger Colombians have a very different and somewhat positive view of Pablo Escobar and older Colombians see him as a stain in the fabric of their nation that may never wash out. And Colombians who live in or have spent significant time in the United States? Their opinion seems to be something like he should have been culled at birth.

Oh, and even though they hate the show they also hate the fact that a Brazilian actor who had to learn Spanish for the role was cast as the lead in “Narcos”. Our tour guide in Medellin was particularly incensed by that.

When Pablo Tourism Becomes a National Embarrassment

If “Narcos” had never been made Colombia might be a different place today. Yes, tourists might still visit his grave but there would be no Pablo tourism industry and there would be nothing like what happened a few months ago.

To better illustrate how many residents of Medellin and the country itself have nothing but loathing for Pablo Escobar we can look at the reaction sparked by Wiz Khalifa when he played a show in Medellin back in March of this year. He later posted photos on Instagram of himself at Pablo’s grave smoking a blunt. All of this ended up on the rapper’s Instagram feed and Colombians lost their shit. Even the mayor of the city demanded an apology and Twitter in Colombia blew up in outrage. If Pablo tourism in Medellin and elsewhere are nice things this is why we can’t have them.

 

It’s hard for a country to distance itself from influential figures who have helped shape a nation’s identity, and Colombia is no exception. Like it or not Pablo Escobar will be aligned with Colombia for years to come and that would have happened even without the success of the show or the rise in Pablo tourism. But while other countries deal with moronic presidents who clearly have no idea what they’re doing there’s no denying that Pablo Escobar was the tipping point on an already listing boat, he was in the right place at the right time, and he was a shrewd and ruthless businessman who would stop at almost nothing to create a product that was in high demand.

And where was that demand in the 1980’s and 1990’s? That’s a question that answers itself.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not often that we have a day that just sort of unfolds magically, each piece falling seamlessly into place and offering up a big picture that we didn’t expect but relished because it sums up everything we love about this trip. This might sound trite because there have been so many unlovable things we’ve experienced since we began overlanding nearly one year ago.

This past Saturday was one of those perfect days.

You might have never heard of Guatape, Colombia. Or maybe you have because a boat sank there this past Sunday, leaving several people dead. Guatape lies only a short distance outside of Medellin. It sits on the shores of Peñol Reservoir which is so strikingly beautiful that it’s no wonder the residents of the city flock there on the weekends and holidays.

And one of Medellin’s most notorious residents had a fondness for Guatape as well. So much so that he built himself a grand villa perched above the lake and didn’t neglect to add staff quarters, horse stables, a helipad that doubled as a futból field, and a bar and restaurant for entertaining guests. And since all villas need a name he called it Hacienda La Manuela, after his daughter.

Of course you know who I’m talking about. It was Pablo Escobar.

If you’ve seen “Narcos” or know about the history of the man himself then you should be familiar with Los Pepes. A vigilante group with shady connections to Pablo’s rival cartels, Los Pepes managed to breach the heavy security at La Manuela and placed dynamite in one of the bathrooms, blowing the place to bits in 1993. This revealed walls that were filled with cash, guns, and drugs that were quickly confiscated.

Pablo was killed eight months later.

A week ago we visited Hacienda Napoles, Pablo’s other estate in Doradal. This is the site of the infamous hippos and their escape and subsequent rampage through local rivers, and it’s also home to many other animals and a water park. The Colombian government seized it after a lengthy battle with those members of Pablo’s family who were willing to appear in court. Things took a different route with La Manuela.

No one in the Escobar family wanted to step up and try to claim this property so, according to Colombian inheritance laws, the property would then land in the hands of the caretaker, if one existed. One did, his name is William, and he now owns La Manuela.

Today, boats from Guatape descend upon the small dock below the restaurant, people take a tour of the dilapidated mansion, and play paintball amongst the ruins of the staff quarters. Locals arrive by boat or jet ski to have a drink and a meal from the restaurant. It’s part tourist site and part local watering hole, but the ruins of the mansion are rarely far from view and the energy there is palpable.

On Friday night we camped outside of Guatape but we knew that we wanted to visit La Manuela on Saturday. The looming question was, how do we get there? Do we park Moby and take the boat or do we try to track down the dirt road that leads there. After several battles with Google Maps we found the route. I was dubious; dirt roads have that effect on me. Will, on the other hand, was determined.

“I just have this romantic notion of camping out there.”

So on a romantic notion we headed up the hill and began the seven kilometer journey on a washed out, bumpy dirt road that we hoped would culminate at La Manuela. And 45 minutes later it did as the rocks and dirt changed to smooth pave stones. We had arrived.

We parked Moby at the top of the estate, which covers more than 20 acres, and walked down the hill to find el jefe. We entered the bar and as I told the bartenders I had a very special question they directed me to the man in the corner. He introduced himself as William, the caretaker who had inherited the property, and when I asked if we could camp for the night he shrugged his shoulders and said, “¿Por qué no?”

We were in. And as we sat down to order drinks I decided I had another question to ask him. Were we the first people to come rolling down the hill in a camper asking to spend the night? Just as I assumed he said we were and Will promptly dropped a brand new pin on iOverlander. Since there was a large tour group at the site we lingered over drinks until they left then we headed over to the gutted mansion to check it out.

 

 

 

 

But there’s more to this story.

It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of David Choe. If you’re not sure who he is you can learn more about him here. He’s a raucous, reckless artist who is besties with Anthony Bourdain and made a few million dollars after painting the murals at Facebook headquarters and taking payment in stock shares instead of cash. We buy his T shirts, I follow him relentlessly on social media, and yet I’ve never seen his work in the wild.

Until now.

We knew David Choe had visited La Manuela in 2011 because there was a Vice article about it. However, they mistakenly said the villa was in Cartagena and that he had “broken in”. Both of these are falsehoods. Cartagena is several hundred miles away from Guatape and the site has been open to visitors earlier than 2011.

Regardless, I was on a Choe hunt. We walked into the villa, carefully stepping over rubble and I tried not to bust my ass on the muddy remnants of tile. We poked and prodded our way around what was largely unidentifiable as a house, save the sinks that still stood in a bathroom and a staircase we actually weren’t supposed to climb.

As I rounded the corner toward the pool I spied it, one of Choe’s signature tags: the Chinaman. Flanking it was a hippo, and as I made my way into the room his calling cards were everywhere on the crumbling walls. Some had been painted over, some were intact, but I was impossibly giddy. I imagine this is what it feels like to find money, like they did when La Manuela’s walls came tumbling down.

 

 

 

We spent the rest of day hanging around at the bar, talking to a number of expats who live in the hills surrounding the reservoir, and snagged a mini boat tour from a man who lives in one of those houses. He was also one of the first responders when the tourist boat sank the very next day.

When we returned we ordered dinner from the restaurant we were surprised that the simple grilled chicken was oh so good. As darkness settled over La Manuela we moved Moby to the helipad, sat outside talking for awhile, then went to sleep under the cover of a cloudy sky and surrounded by what I’m sure are the many ghosts of this part of Colombian history.

 

This was our sleepover at Pablo’s place.

The radio silence on The Life Nomadic as of late hasn’t bothered me too much. I’ve been dealing with situations and occurrences that I didn’t expect but should have. After all, I’ve been around the travel block long enough to know that if you expect everything to be picture perfect you’re bound to have that picture shredded into a million pieces that lie at your feet, mocking you for being complacent.

Most of you know that poor Moby was broken into in Barranquilla, Colombia just one day after she was released from Colombian customs. That was two and half weeks ago and while I planned to write about it I’ve decided that I don’t want to. There’s not much more I can say other than the obvious.

We lost some important things and we need beefed up security, which we’ve already put into motion. That’s about all that needs to be said.

However, neglecting the blog is something that I’m concerned about. This blog has never been about money or scoring free shit; it’s been about sharing our experiences with people who like us and illuminating the not so glamorous aspects of this mode of travel. I think I’ve accomplished that but I need to write more, not just for you but for myself as well.

So I’ve decided to try something different and emulate something that some of my favorite bloggers do: a diary of sorts. My friend and all around badass Niall Doherty does this in a series he calls Mementos. Our friends Kathy and Kyle Watts share Five Things on their blog Wherever With You. I like this idea not only because it’s less daunting than staring down at a blank screen trying to will a full post from fragmented ideas but it also feels more personal to me, and I hope you agree.

I’m just going to call this Notes from the Road. A few things I notice, things I think about, things I see, and the way I feel. If it doesn’t work out then I’ll try something else. But for now, this is what I have for you.

• I loved Cartagena but not as much as I thought I would. We were fortunate enough to be spared the intense heat everyone warned us about and we found an amazing restaurant called Demente that offered up a French Onion Soup pizza that blew me away. A rich beef stock reduction took the place of tomato sauce, caramelized onions added the depth, ooey gooey provolone topped it off, and there was some brandy drizzled over it for good measure. The staff was friendly and efficient and the prices were just right. But seriously, that pizza was out of this world crazy good. 

 

• Travel is a great way to learn more about who you are and I have to remind myself that I don’t have to like everything. I’m not obligated to gush over every place we stay or everything we do. That’s the beauty of not relying on sponsors or paid posts as a blogger; I can say whatever the hell I want and The Life Nomadic is beholden to no one. That being said I now know that I do not like the Caribbean south of Mexico. We did Belize a few years ago and both of us agreed it was just okay. That’s pretty much why we skipped the entirety of the Caribbean on this trip. There’s no contract that says we have to go anywhere so we didn’t. Exploring the parts of Colombia’s Caribbean coast that we did simply cemented what we already know. So I guess a Caribbean cruise will never make it on our itinerary.

 

• Did you know that in Latin American Spanish there are at least four words for earthquake? Terremoto, temblor, sismo, and conmoción are the ones I know and I’m sure that more exist in colloquial terms or regional slang. It’s also very likely that each of these words could describe a different type of earthquake. The more I try to learn Spanish the more I learn about English and this helps me realize that, while I may become conversational at some point in many various dialects, this language will always flirt with me and never put out. I’m okay with that.

 

• Sometimes when we’re driving and I look out the window at the passing landscape I feel like a kid again. Long family road trips come to mind and I’m always on the lookout for livestock, especially horses. As we left Central America behind and entered the interior of Colombia the obvious health of the livestock became exponentially better. Gone are the skinny, floppy eared, tropical cows and horses with a Henneke score of two or three, tethered to the side of the road and left to forage as far as their rope will allow. Here the horses are fit and robust, coats gleaming in the sunlight as they graze on actual grass. The cows have the Hereford or Angus body type but are covered in spots much more like Paint horses and less like typical cattle markings. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and who’d have thought I’d be gushing about Colombian cattle?  

• The very bad day in Barranquilla actually began as one of the most wonderful days we’ve had in awhile. We decided to play tourist and visit the mud volcano northeast of Cartagena. As we pulled up I immediately recognized it from season 28 of the Amazing Race. After we got good and muddy in a pit that was so weird I almost couldn’t do it we were rinsed off in a lagoon by Colombian women who had no problem physically removing our swimsuits so we could get nice and clean. After that we had a beer with some of the locals who told us that the filming for that scene in the show took two full days to shoot. It shattered my illusion of how the race is run but hey, it’s reality TV and I’ve been let down by it before. I also had gray mud in my ears for a few days but whatever.

• Last Sunday was the first time we’ve played tourist since Cartagena and honestly was the first time we’ve felt relaxed enough to do it. We went out day drinking in the little village of Valle de Leyva and signed up for a tour to see the 7 meter long fossil of a dinosaur, a winery, a monastery, and some other stuff. So as we sat in the back of a Nissan Patrol, wind whipping my hair, sharing a bottle of screw top, cheap wine like a couple of hobos I finally felt that spark that I had worried was blown out completely. No, it’s still there. We were happy on Sunday.

 

So that’s that. My foray into a new format. There will still be full blog posts but I love how breezy it felt to write this, effortless and yet a good reminder of where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re going.

 

Yeah, this is going to be fun.

We’re currently in Cartagena, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Moby and I thought it appropriate to take some time to reflect on the past nine+ months of overland travel. This is a summary of our journey through North America.

 

USA

For reasons I’m not going to get into here, we didn’t spend much time at all in the U.S. and much of the time we did spend there was spent gathering last minute supplies and doing last minute maintenance and vehicle preparation type tasks. We did have some stand-out moments though. As you may recall, the trip began in earnest in Salt Lake City, Utah as that is where Moby was stored while we finished our lease on our house in Mexico. From there, we headed east to Wyoming as there was some bureaucratic business to get taken care of as well as a quick visit with some family. It was county fair season and our first campground was right next to the fairgrounds in Evanston, Wyoming. We went to a tractor pull while there which was really awesome as it’s been a long time since either of us have lived in the U.S. and an event like this is uniquely American. It was surprisingly fun and enjoyable.

Once the government business was completed, we pointed Moby straight west. We passed back through Utah and then Nevada, Finally reaching the coast in Eureka, California where we stayed with some friends for several days. During our stay there, we were able to put some finishing touches on our home on wheels and we relaxed after what was a very hectic several days.

We left Eureka with Las Vegas in our sights. Cate had never been to Las Vegas before and I was a bit excited to be going there to revisit some of my favorite places. It was this leg of the journey where we first encountered what every overland traveler will eventually encounter and need to learn how to manage. Things will break, plans will go sideways and you must remain extraordinarily flexible. We had two breakdowns in one day and ended up sleeping in the Auto Zone parking lot in Barstow, CA. That particular overnight is the sketchiest place we have stayed thus far. We did eventually make it to Vegas and damn Vegas, you hot in August. Given our previous lessons in flexibility, we decided to move on to cooler climates after only one night in Vegas, so essentially we went hundreds of miles out of our way to have dinner. Dinner was very nice, though so it was worth it.

From Vegas, we pointed south towards Mexico. As luck would have it, a friend of ours was visiting San Diego from New Zealand so we planned a few days in the are to pick up a few more last-minute items and spend some with our friend. With all of that done, it was time to face what we then viewed as our first (of many) major obstacle on this trip, the dreaded border crossing.

 

Mexico

It turns out that border crossings aren’t nearly as much of a hassle as we had anticipated. I’m not saying that I enjoy them. They are not really much more involved than entering a country without a vehicle, it’s really only a bit more paperwork. Anyhow, with that done, we were in Mexico and finally felt like we could slow the pace a bit and take it easy. The northern part of the Baja peninsula proved to be an absolute delight. The weather was divine and since so many people go there in their RVs, the infrastructure for campers is quite robust. We probably should have spent more time in the north and had we understood just how hot the south would be, I’m sure we would have.

Heat aside, the southern part of the Baja proved quite interesting. It was here that we experienced our first bit of foul weather, and foul it was. We were camped in Loreto, which coincidentally was right in the path of hurricane Newton. We experienced a direct hit from a category one hurricane in our camper and ended up doing some stupid shit.

Eventually we reached the southern end of the Baja and from there put Moby on a ferry to mainland Mexico. Highlights of the mainland included being invited to a cookout in Etzatlán, visiting the Monarch butterfly reserve in Michoacán,  Christmas and New Year’s on a nude beach and my personal highlight of the entire trip so far, a two-day mezcal tour in Oaxaca.

With about a month remaining on our time, things in Mexico got a bit unstable. There were nation-wide gas shortages and protests about the sudden increase in gas prices. These kinds of events aren’t necessarily outside the norm for Mexico and they have a tendency to blow over. We were close enough to our beloved San Cristobal that we could have just gone there and hunkered down for a couple of weeks, but in the end we decided to move on to Guatemala a bit ahead of schedule.

Guatemala

Guatemala was a new country for both of us and we didn’t really know what to expect. Our introduction to the country was underwhelming to say the least. We followed the well worn overlanding path to Lake Atitlan and ended up at the famed Pasajcap campground. This particular campground lived up to its reputation and we were able to easily understand why so many people seem to end up spending far longer at Lake Atitlan than they may have originally planned. This is that place that sucks people in. Trips stop here for indefinite periods of time. While we were still living in Mexico, we had hosted an overlanding couple in our house for a few days. When we arrived at Atitlan, they were still there and so far as I know haven’t left yet. That’s the kind of power that this special spot has. It sinks its teeth into you for sure. Also, the drive in was awful. If you just stay, you never have to drive back out. I liked the steak.

From Atitlan, we went to Antigua. We both really enjoyed Antigua. It’s a very charming town. Unfortunately, we ended up in a bit of a holding pattern there as we were waiting on truck parts (which ended up never reaching us anyhow). We did attempt to get out of town and explore a bit more of Guatemala, but that ended up in a breakdown on the side of the road. We ended up spending the night in a gravel pit and the next night in a mechanic’s driveway. We eventually were able to move on to Honduras.

Honduras

The original plan was to drive across El Salvador and Honduras as fast as we possibly could. Both countries have a bit of a reputation for violent crime and we really didn’t want to experience any of that. After having talked to others, however, we decided to give Honduras a little bit of a chance. That’s really all it ended up being was a very small chance. We were only in Honduras for ten days (and completely skipped El Salvador). A story worth mentioning, however, is that despite everything that we had heard about corrupt police we only experienced kindness. We were at a grocery store one afternoon and had done a poor job of parking (when in Rome…). We were waiting in line at the checkout when the police chief and his entourage entered and headed straight for us. I just knew that we were about to get a shakedown for our parking job. I was wrong. The policeman approached, introduced himself, commented about what a fan he was of our camper and gave us his phone number and told us that we were more than welcome to come stay at his house. Also, there was a nice craft brewery in Honduras.

Nicaragua

We had both been to Nicaragua before. We weren’t necessarily excited about returning but we weren’t dreading it either. It seemed like more an obstacle than anything. Traveling the way we are gave us a different perspective on Nicaragua though. We ended up having a great time at a little hostel right on the beach in the north of Nicaragua. We spent a night in Granada only to revisit a restaurant that we had eaten at before (and loved). We passed through Leon and of course spent some time in and around San Juan del Sur. Cate got in some saddle time and I enjoyed what I think is the best craft beer in all of central America at the San Juan del Sur Cervecería.

Costa Rica

We had fallen for the siren song of Costa Rica’s reasonably convenient airport before. In fact, that’s really the only reason we had visited Costa Rica previously. We decided that we didn’t like the country based on those prior trips but I vowed to keep an open mind about Costa Rica. I had a work trip and Cate didn’t want to spend the week alone in the camper again so she decided that she was going to fly back to Utah. San José’s airport seemed a reasonable choice. If it hadn’t been for this, we may very well have driven right through this Disneyland of a country. Honestly though, we did give it a chance and I came away hating the place more than I did before. If we ever find ourselves faced with passing through Costa Rica again, I intend to go around. That may very well mean that if we do end up driving back north after we reach Ushuaia, we would ship from Cartagena (or somewhere else in South America) to Veracruz. Central America has been a bit underwhelming, but Costa Rica really takes it over the top. I would avoid the entire region if for no other reason than to avoid Costa Rica.

 

Panama

It’s a bit tragic that Panama only grants temporary import permits for 30 days. This means that a good portion of one’s time in Panama ends up being used getting the logistics sorted out for getting out of the country. We would have liked to take things a bit slower than we did but them’s the breaks, I suppose. Anyhow, it was nice to return to someplace that we were quite familiar with. We visited with old friends and spent a bit of time at some favorite places.

Panama City is a bit of a chokepoint for people doing this type of trip and so we did end up meeting quite a few other overlanders while we were in the vicinity. Some were headed north so we got tips from them concerning current conditions in Colombia. Some were ending their trips and heading back to Europe and some were, like us, getting ready to ship south. The shipment process is something that has sort of hung over us since the beginning. It’s one of those things that you know has been done countless times before, but we hadn’t done it so didn’t really know what to expect. In reality, it’s really much like a border crossing just on a much larger scale. Make a bunch of copies, go to random buildings, listen to government workers grunt and go to wherever they point, hand over stacks of paper and wait. Anyhow, we got through that and Gretzky willing, we’ll get our truck back in the next couple of days and continue on.