Colombia: In The End

Mexico City

March 18 2015

In the end, Colombia exceeded my expectations.  I'd expected to spend time in Bogotá, take a few days trips out of the city, have dinner with Sandra, but that's not what happened.

Sandra's generosity was overwhelming.  She gave me the gift of seeing far more than the capital and its environs.

There are many things I will remember and many reasons to return.

I will remember the kindness and politeness of Colombians and how often I heard Si Señor, Gracias, para servirle.  What makes the people of some countries nicer than others? I observed this last autumn in Spain and Portugal.  The Portuguese were uniformly pleasant; the Spaniards, however...too much rudeness, too much aggression.

I will remember elegant stands of cypress and long allays of eucalyptus as we drove through the beautiful countryside of the state of Boyocá, the brilliant blue of the the altiplano.

I can still see mist climbing the high mountains of the Andes, the sun not yet burning off the thin cloud cover as we drove the highways early in the morning.

I will relish the cool, fresh, clean air of the high Andes and hold dear the new friend that I've made in Colombia.

In the end, I had forgotten the vast, open space of South America, the sheer size of the continent, the distance between cities, the beauty of the altiplano and the Andes.

I had forgotten the richness of Andean and indigenous culture, the convergence of Pre-Colombian culture with the 21^st century.

Thank you, Sandra. Thank you for making this a wonderful trip. I truly am impressed with Colombia and its people.

I will return!

Colombia: El Tren Turistico de Bogota a Zipaquira

En el tren histórico de Bogotá a Zipaquirá: Un viaje con mi padre.

Me siento feliz cada vez que viajo en tren. Llegan a mí recuerdos preciosos de papá, cuando de niño, yo pasaba días con él en las estaciones donde trabajaba.

Pasaba los días explorando las estaciones de tren, escondiéndome en los vagones vacíos, sentado en la oficina de mi papá o ayudándole con los inventarios. Me encantaban esos días. Todavía esas memorias siguen frescas en mi mente.

Al final del día, cuando llegaba un tren con destino a Plattsburgh, mi papá me ponía en las manos del conductor para cuidarme.. Mi papá conocía a todos los empleados y él sabía que yo estaba seguro.

Al final del día, justo cuando llegaba un tren con destino a Plattsburgh, mi papá me colocaba en el lugar del conductor. Como él conocía a todos los empleados, sabía que yo estaba a salvo.

Ya bien en la locomotora o en algún asiento en los vagones entre/de los pasajeros, de todos estos momentos, mis favoritos eran cuando andaba (¿de caminar o estar?) en los cabúses. Siempre que llegaba a casa, mi mamá estaba esperándome.

Lo anterior que relato fue hace muchos años. En la actualidad no hay muchos trenes de pasajeros y dejar que un niño haga lo mismo que yo hice sería probablemente ilegal. Debido a estas gratas experiencias, cada vez que tengo la oportunidad de tomar un tren la aprovecho.

De este modo, muy temprano en la mañana del 14 de marzo, vi a mi amiga Sandra para tomar juntos el tren histórico de Bogotá a Zipaquirá (un viaje de 50 kilómetros y 9 horas).

Yo supe que el día sería muy memorable y también sabía que pasaría el día con el espíritu de mi papá. ¡No me decepcioné! Me sentía lleno de emoción. Podía sentir la presencia de papá en mí. Estaba muy contento cuando salimos la estación de ferrocarril de Bogotá a las 8:36.

El tren se movía muy lento, a no más que 25 kilómetros por hora. Estaba disfrutando un tren clásico con una antigua locomotora a vapor y diesel, con vagones de los años 50 y 60 amorosamente restaurados. Este semejaba a un tren de mi infancia.

Nos movimos lentamente a través de los vecindarios de la ciudad, pasando “casas” de madera y lona, mismas que los indigentes han construido. Dentro del tren yo disfrutaba de un momento de lujo, mientras afuera, los pobres estaban vivían vidas muy diferentes. ¡Qué pena!

El tren seguía su viaje lento a través de los suburbios de Bogotá. Pasamos por campos de vacas, ovejas y jardines llenos de papas. Pasamos por casas muy modernas y casas hechas de ladrillos, por cierto muy feas y no del todo acabadas -casas sin color y sin carácter-, en otras palabras, casas muy similares a muchas de América del Sur donde existen diferencias gigantes entre ricos y pobres.

Había una banda papayera a bordo, música típica de Colombia. Los músicos viajaban hasta Zipaquirá y pasando un cierto tiempo en cada vagón. Hubo un cumpleaños y me sorprendí al escuchar “Las Mañanitas.” Pensé que la canción era conocida solamente en México. La banda cantó tres canciones en cada vagón, música muy similar a la de “banda” en México. Pude haber escuchado mucho más pero eran ocho vagones y la banda canta en cada uno de ellos.

El tren siguió hacía Zipaquirá, una ciudad muy famosa por su antigua mina de sal donde los mineros en los años 40 construyeron 14 estaciones de la Cruz y una catedral dentro de una montaña.

Las minas habían sido usadas desde la época de los Muiscas, los nativos de Colombia en los años anteriores a la Conquista. Los indígenas habían explotado las minas, no obstante todavía existen reservas inmensas.

En el corazón de la montaña fue edificada una catedral al interior (enorme). Se inauguró en 1954. De la entrada de la mina a la catedral hay una distancia de 500 metros; dentro se albergan 14 capillas de las estaciones de la cruz. Cada estación fue esculpida en piedra o ha grabada en la pared de roca.

La catedral está ubicada a 200 metros bajo la tierra y es una iglesia católica. Más de 3,000 personas usan la iglesia cada domingo para asistir una misa. La catedral de Sal de Zipaquirá es considerada como uno de los logros arquitectónicos y artísticos más notables de la arquitectura colombiana, otorgándosele incluso el título de joya arquitectónica de la modernidad. La importancia de la catedral, radica en su valor como patrimonio cultural, religioso y ambiental.

Las minas ya tenían tradición de santuario religioso por los mineros antes de la construcción de la catedral, la cual fue dedicada a Nueastra Señora del Rosario que en la religiosidad católica es la Patrona de los Mineros.

Cuando terminamos nuestra visita, tomamos un camión al pueblo de Cajicá, a 15 km de Zipaquirá donde esperaba el tren. Tuvimos tiempo para tomar fotos y comer un almuerzo típico de Colombia: costillas, arroz, yuca y banano. Había visitado una panadería más temprano y cuando salimos del restaurante regresamos para comprar un postre. Elegí un pudín de guayaba con un merengue encima -lo digo enserio, ¡fue uno de los más deliciosos postres en mi vida!-.

A las 4:00 abordamos el tren para regresar a Bogotá. La misma banda que anteriormente tocaba nos entretuvo. Sandra se durmió; yo, todavía estaba emocionado y un poco triste porque nuestro día en el tren histórico estaba terminando.

Ya no hay muchos trenes en las Américas. Han pasado mucho inverneos del día cuando el autor Americano, Paul Theroux, salió de su casa de Boston en los años 70, se encaminó a la Estación de Sur, tomó un tren a la frontera entre México a Panamá y, posteriormente tomó una serie de trenes de Venezuela a Ushuaia, Argentina. Su libro, La Trochita, escrito en 1979, es un clásico del género de la literatura de viaje.

Dos horas más tarde llegamos a Bogotá. Fue un viaje de 50 km pero, también uno de 60 años en el tiempo. Fue un día maravilloso, en el cual compartí mi asiento con mi amiga Sandra así como con el espíritu de mi padre.

Fue un día excitante, lleno de memorias, emociones, de días pasados. Pero, sobre todo, un día en el presente, un día para compartir, un nuevo recuerdo con mi amiga Colombiana.

Al regresar a casa tuve la sensación de un cansancio, pero se trataba de un cansancio satisfactorio. Le di gracias a Dios por el día y casi de inmediato me quedé dormido.

Gracias a Salvadore L., Carlos C., y Wikipedia

Colombia: Tourist Train from Bogota to Zipaquira

Bogota, Colombia
March 14, 2015

Whenever a train ride presents itself, I grab the opportunity—especially when it's a historic train with a classic engine and vintage coaches.

I have precious memories of times with my dad when I was a child. He worked for the D & H Railroad. He didn't have enough seniority in those days to stay in Plattsburgh, so he'd often drive to train stations up to an hour away. Sometimes, during the summer, he'd take me to work with him. I'd wander the train yard, explore the trains that were sitting on tracks, play in the warehouse or just sit in his office.

Often, at the end of the day when a train came through on its way to Plattsburgh, he'd put me on board. He knew all the men who worked the trains, so safety wasn't an issue. Sometimes I'd ride the engine, or sit in a coach seat. Once I remember riding in the caboose.

When the train arrived in Plattsburgh, my mother was always waiting for me.

That was more than fifty years ago, but the memory of those days is still clear and vivid.

Today, however, there aren't as many passenger trains in the US, and it's not likely someone like my dad would be allowed to put his child on board. So many regulations that exist now, didn't exist then.

Thus it was that early on the morning of March 14^th, I met Sandra once again and we headed to Bogotá's historic, 19^th Century Train station and boarded the “Tren Historico” that would bring us from the capital to Zipaquirá, 50 kilometers to the north.

I knew that the day would be memorable, but more importantly I knew it would be a day spent with the spirit of my father. I knew the day would be a good one.

And I wasn't disappointed!

I was very excited. What train enthusiast wouldn't be. The train had a classic 1930's engine and vintage coaches from the 1950's and 1960's. These were the trains of my youth. Immediately, I could see that the trains had been lovingly restored. The windows opened the way I remembered—snaps on the bottom of each side that slid up. The only thing missing were the holes in the toilets that let waste fall out onto the tracks. Not a good idea then and certainly not a good idea now.

The train moved slowly out of the city—no more than 30 km an hour. We slowly slipped out of the center and into suburbs. Homeless people had set up shelters of wood and plastic near the tracks. It was a disturbing contrast—those who had were sitting in the luxury of this classic train, and those who didn't have were watching us pass by.

There was band on board that played music typical to Colombia—papayera. It sounded pretty Mexican to me, but was unique to this country. They'd play several selections then move on to another car. I was surprised to hear them sing “La Mañanitas.” I thought that birthday song was specific just to Mexico.

The train moved on towards Zipaquirá—a small city famous for its cathedral excavated within the heart of an old salt mine. We passed fields full of cows, goats, sheep and the occasional llama, a reminder that I was in South America. We also passed countless fields of potatoes—a major crop in this part of world.

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By 11:00 we'd arrived and boarded a bus that would bring us to the mines. Three hours later we would meet the train in the town of Cajicá where we'd re-board and return to Bogotá.

The mines had been heavily exploited by the Muiscas—the Pre-Colombian people who lived in the area before the Spanish Conquest. Even though it has been well-excavated, there are still vast reserves within the mines.

It was during the early 1930's that miners first built a small sanctuary within its vast interior as a place for their daily prayers asking protection to the saints before their work day had started. In 1950 construction began on a bigger project that became known as the Salt Cathedral. It's one of Colombia’s great treasures and is dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary, the patron saint of miners.

From the entrance, it takes about 30 minutes to walk the 600 feet below street level to the actual church. Along the way, miners had carved out the 14 stations of the cross. Some of the crosses are carved out of marble, others out of salt. Some are carved directly into the wall, Along the way strains of Ave Maria can be heard. Colombia is very Catholic!

It's really quite moving.

When we emerged back into the sunshine, we caught a bus that brought us to the small town of Cajicá. The trained had repositioned itself and we had time to stroll through the town, take photos, and have a reasonably leisurely lunch. More meat. More rice. More yucca. More fried plantains. I mean, really...where do these people get their vegetables? I was rapidly moving into vegetable withdrawal and wanted nothing more than a salad.

After lunch, we wandered back up the street towards the center where we'd seen a pastry shop. Not that we needed anything, but earlier I'd seen this guava pudding concoction that looked very appealing.

And very appealing it was indeed. It was a rich guava cream, covered in the richest meringue I've ever eaten. I was actually sorry to finish the dessert and a return visit to Cajicá is on my list of the top five things to do when I return to Colombia! It was really one of the most memorable desserts in my life.

At 4:00 p.m. we re-boarded the train for the return trip to the capital. The same band entertained us. Sandra fell asleep. Poor thing. She'd been on the go for almost a week and I knew she was in sleep deprivation. I was still excited, but a little sad as well. This wonderful trip was coming to an end.

There are not many passenger trains in Central or South American anymore. The few there are tend to me tourist-related like the one we were on. We were a long way from the day when the American writer, Paul Theroux, left his apartment in Boston in the mid 1970's, walked to South Station, boarded the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago, changed trains and headed for Laredo, Texas where he crossed into Mexico and rode from there all the way to Ushuaia, Argentina.

Theroux's journey brought him through multiple countries, all on a train. When he was done, he wrote one of travel literature's great classics—The Old Patagonian Express. I really must reread it.

It had been an astounding day. While I shared my seat with Sandra, there was actually a third person in our group in the form of the spirit of my dad. How could I ride a train like this and not have him with me? It had been two trips, really—the physical 50 km. trip to Zipaquirá and Cajicá, and it had also been a metaphorical trip—a trip back to my past, back to the days when I went to work with my father, back to my boyhood.

Such a precious day!

Colombia: Villa de Leyva--el Desierto Alto de Boyacá, Colombia

Villa de Leyva, Colombia

13 de marzo de 2015

Latitud 5º 39' N

Aún ahora las palabras “Villa de Leyva” generan en mí un rango de sensaciones. De todos los lugares que visité en mis seis días en Colombia, fue el lugar más especial.

Decidimos dedicar un día a este pueblo y sus alrededores.

Villa de Leyva es un pueblo de 5,000 habitantes, muy pequeño, pero lleno de cosas por hacer y ver. Fue fundado en 1572 y desde entonces ha sido un lugar popular para vivir y descansar. Es casi un ejemplo perfecto de arquitectura colonial perfectamente preservado. Localizado a 2,140 metros sobre el nivel del mar tiene un clima muy agradable; es seco, ya a su vez es saludable y amigable.

Por supuesto, hay museos e iglesias, pero quisimos pasar el día afuera. Era un día típico—cómodo con nubes blancas en contraste con el azul profundo del altiplano. El día brillaba.

Hace 120 millones de años, Villa de Leyva, estuvo en el fondo del mar. Y la región es conocida por sus fósiles marítimos. Es uno de los mejores lugares en Colombia para encontrar fósiles.

Fuimos a un museo que contiene un fósil de 12 metros de un Kronosaurus— un réptil que se parece a un cocodrilo. Este fósil era un “bebé.” No puedo imaginarme a los adultos.

Había un museo con muchos más fósiles de hojas, flores, serpientes, amonitas y dientes de tigres.

Después de visitar el museo, tomamos el camino a un lugar que se llama “Observatorio Sola Muisca” o “El Infiernito”--un nombre usado por los españoles para asustar los nativos. Hay más de que 50 monolitos clavados en la tierra, de carácter fálico, funerarios y astronómicos.

Hace 2,000 años, este sitio fue usado por los Muiscas para determinar las estaciones del año. Los monolitos fálicos fueron usados en los actos culturales celebrados en honor al sol.

Me encantó este lugar, localizado a 4 km de Villa de Leyva, y 300 metros arriba del valle. Fuimos las únicas personas que estuvieron en el observatorio. Había un silencio profundo, yo podía escuchar el sonido del viento, el cacareo de los gallos y, ocasionalmente, un coche subiendo el camino en la distancia. En frente de nosotros, podía ver los senderos al subir los cerros y vi también las faldas de las montañas. Podía oler el aroma de los eucaliptos el sol de mediodía.

Pude ver muchas variedades de árboles de Boyacá—robles, sauces, pinos y muchos tipos de cactus.

Estaba muy contento de quedarme en este lugar, pero era tiempo para seguir nuestro día en Villa de Leyva. Manejamos al Convento de Ecce Homo. Es un edificio de adobe y piedra, fundado en 1620 por los dominicanos. De nuevo, fuimos los úniicos y tuvimos acceso a todo el convento.

Los frailes se fueron del convento hace muchos años. Hoy es un museo y un hotel. A mí me gustaría pasar varias noches aqui. Con las vistas, el aire fresco y el silencio, sería un buen lugar para descansar. Los jardines estuvieron llenos de flores—nochebuenas, jamaicas, bugambilias, margaritas, geranios, adelfas y amarilis. En una latitud de 4º norte con un altidud de 2,200 metros, casi todo puede crecer.

Hay dos curiosidades en el convento. Primero, el piso en la entrada está construido con cientos de fósiles de flores, hojas y amonitas. Dentro del convento, hay una serpiente fosilizado de cinco metros. ¡Es fascinante! 

Pero, las nubes amenazaron una tormenta y podíamos sentir gotas de lluvia. Salimos por Villa de Leyva. Pasamos granjas de patatas--el cultivo más común aquí. También había granjas con cultivos de maíz y tomates. Pasamos burros, cabras, ovejas, vacas y colmenas.

Esta parte del mundo no conoce las estaciones del año, no conoce tiempos de frio o de calor. Los días son iguales todo el año—casi 12 horas de luz y 12 horas de oscuridad. Probablamente las granjas pueden producir más que dos cultivos en un año.

Llegamos a nuestro hotel en tiempo para tomar un descanso corto. Esa noche, caminamos al centro del pueblo, a la Plaza Mayor. Elegimos un restaurante con un balcón donde disfrutamos una buena vista de la plaza y los edificios antiguos.

Al final, empezó llover—una lluvia poderosa resonando contra las piedras en la plaza y goteando de los aleros del techo del restaurante. Fue casi mágico.

Esperamos hasta la lluvia terminara y regresamos al hotel.

Pude haberme quedado más tiempo en Villa de Leyva, subiendo los senderos, andando en bicicleta en los caminos alrededor del pueblo, buscando fósiles.

Pero, tenia seis días en Colombia y no había suficiente tiempo de quedarme en esa hermosa comunidad. Aunque Villa de Leyva era mi tipo de pueblo era tiempo salir.

Supe que regresaría!

Colombia: Villa de Leyva--the High Desert of Boyacá, Colombia

Villa de Leyva, Colombia                                                                                                                 March 15, 2015                                                                                                                               Latitude 5.63º N

Even now, the words “Villa de Leyva” bring back a flood of warm, lovely memories.

Sandra and I left Bogota with the idea of spending one night in this lovely old colonial town of 5,000 people. But as things change once you get to a place, we actually spent two nights in a splendid, old hotel that had been beautifully restored. It was mid week and we were the only guests. Wednesday would be “Villa de Leyva” day, so we started early.

Just outside of town, and up, were two museums containing a wide variety of marine fossils. Imagine. We were close to 8,000 feet in altitude and yet the museum we visited housed an almost perfectly preserved fossil of 12 meter baby Kronosaurus. There were other fossils in the museum—ammonites, imprints of leaves and grasses, crustaceans. 130,000,000 years ago, before tectonic shifts, Villa de Leyva was a sea bed. This area of Colombia is noted for its easy availability of fossils and has been a center for research for some time. Across the road from this museum was a research center that was used by interns studying Paleontology. We were given a tour in both English and Spanish.

From there we climbed higher up the road to a 2,000 year old grouping of monoliths. I'd never seen a monolith in my life until last October when I visited three sites in Portugal. And now, this...a continent and an ocean away.

The grouping was about the size of two football fields. Twice a year—in March and September, when the monoliths cast no shadows, the monoliths were used to determine the time of year to start the planting season. Some of the monoliths were phallic in shape, so there must have been some ritual associated with renewal and it is thought that religious festivals occurred. There is even an almost perfectly preserved funeral mound.

What is most interesting is that this grouping was almost identical to ones I saw near Evora, Portugal, last year. Fascinating how parallel ideas emerge more or less at the same time civilizations away from each other.

Again, we were the only people there which made the place even more appealing.

It was noon and the sun was warm and inviting. We took advantage of the nice day and walked the trails around the site. We were in a large valley and all around us were mountains that easily topped 10,000 feet. The air was dry and I could tell the area around Villa de Leyva was arid. Cactus grew in abundance. There was a deep silence to the place.  Off in the distance, I could hear an occasional car climbing the narrow road. I could hear the crow of roosters from a nearby farm. The smell of eucalyptus permeated the air in the midday sun. All around us were large numbers of cactus, willows, oaks and pines. The place just oozed atmosphere.

In front of us lay the valley floor of Villa de Leyva. Rising up from the village were the trails and winding paths that zigzagged up the hills and mountains.

The whole place was rather magical.

But the day was waning and storm clouds were moving in and there were still two more places on our list—The Convent of Ecce Homo and the small village of Santa Sofia.

The convent was founded in 1620 by the Dominicans and was only recently vacated. Again, we were the only visitors, and we were in no hurry to leave this spectacular place. What greeted us as we entered the building was the floor to the entrance that was “paved” with hundreds of 130,000,000 million year old fossils—leaves, flowers and ammonites. Inside, was a 15 foot fossilized serpent. Simply amazing!

Since the departure of the brothers, an external addition has been made to the convent. There is now a hotel on the grounds with beautiful gardens surrounding the few buildings. Oleander, hibiscus, poinsettia, geranium, daisies, and amaryllis were in abundance. At this latitude and this altitude almost anything can grow. What a beautiful place this would be to spend a few days. Add a bike and it would be a great place to take off on the many trails that criss-crossed the area.

But it was late afternoon and we could see storm clouds building in the mountains before us. We still had one more place to visit—the little village of Santa Sofia, further up the road. We arrived at the end of the school day and heaps of kids were mingling in the town square. They could be kids anywhere—sitting with their friends, young couples making out, younger kids playing football.

Sandra went off in search of something. I found a bakery and bought some yet again tasteless Colombian bread and a bottle of juice. I sat on a bench in the square. It was sprinkling lightly but I was under a tree and the rain didn't affect the wonderful view of kids playing and interacting with each other.

Being the only gringo in the lot, I attracted a bit of attention. three boys approached me wanting to practice their English. It was bad, but I had to admire them. Most kids that age are loathe to open their mouths.

By now it was getting darker and at this latitude night falls quickly. It was only a 12 kilometer ride back to Villa de Leyva, but it was raining and we both felt better to leave before nightfall. On the way down I had an opportunity to observe, more closely, the numerous farms that dotted the countryside. Many of the crops—tomatoes, potatoes, corn--thrived in large “greenhouses” made of plastic. I'm not sure why they were covered the way they were. Perhaps the sun was too strong. Perhaps hailstorms had the potential to ruin crops.

Once back in Villa de Leyva we rested before walking into the center for dinner. We were the only two guests in a nice restaurant that overlooked the vast square. Again, it was a meal full of carbohydrates—a piece of meat, yucca, fried plantain and rice.

During our meal it began to rain—heavily. I don't think this is a common occurrence in this part of Boyacá. All the staff gathered on the balcony to watch rain splash the square. It was a lovely sound as it bounced off the roof of the restaurant.

By the time we were finished eating, the rain had stopped. The lights of the village glistened against the wet cobblestones. It was a beautiful sight.

No sooner, it seemed, had we arrived when it was time to leave. Villa de Leyva was a place that beckoned to stay longer, explore its trails, ride a bike to Santa Sofia, search for fossils.

But our time was limited and we had to leave. Sadly. But this town had my name written all over it and I knew I'd be back—sooner than later.

Colombia: Bella Bogotá y Más Alla

Bogotá, Colombia

12 de marzo de 2015

¡Que par de días! Viajamos un hora fuera de Bogotá cuando partimos hacía los suburbios y entramos al campo del departamento de Boyacá—el departamento más cercana a la capital. Tuve la sensación de estar manejando a traves de la cordillera de Vermont en los Estados Unidos, durante un buen día de verano, pero esta figuraría para mi la única similitud entre mi país de origen y Colombia. Estuvimos en el altiplano de America del Sur, a un altitud de 2,700 metros sobre el nivel del mar y rodeados por montañas que se elevaban a cado lado: valles profundos y verdes se abrian. Largas hileras de eucaliptos forraban los pequeños caminos que daban al principal. Una selección vasta de cactus salpicando el paisaje.

Era una introdución bella a los regiones rurales que tuvieron origenen Bogotá.

Había llegado a Bogotá dos días antes de la ciudad de México. Mi amiga Sandra me encontró a las diez de la manaña del día siguiente. Nos habíamos conocido en Uruguay en 2009 y ahora ella quería mostrarme Colombia y dejarme con una buena impresión de su país.

Pasamos la mañana en el bello jardín botánico (mucho más grande de lo que esperaba). Ya que estábamos en el trópico a una elevación mayor a cuatro grados del ecuador había una variedad asombrosa de plantas. Los jardines estaban llenos de margaritas silvestres, rosas, palmas y aves del paraíso—plantas que no se desarrollan juntas en la mayor parte de los lugares en el mundo. Me impresionó a esa bella ciudad.

Invité a Sandra a comer y conocí así por primara vez la cocina Colombiana sin embargo no me impresionó: carne, y tres carbohidratos: arroz, yuca y banano frito.

Esa tarde visitamos el Museo de Oro—el más grande de su especie en el mundo. En cada sala había una imponente selección de artefactos pre-colombinos; estoy seguro que éstos era representaban solo un ejemplo pequeño que quedó después de que los españoles fundieron el oro que pudieron eoncontrar. ¡Ya pude imaginar lo que no sobrevivió de la Conquista!

Supimos cuando estabámos en el museo hubo, un temblor de 6.6 grados Richter. No lo sentimos (un buen testimonio de la construción del edificio). Supe sobre este evento al recibir dos emails y una llamada de México.

Al salir del museo los padres de Sandra estaban esperándanos. Su papá y yo tuvimos una conversación muy agradable. Me mostró los sitios y edificios antiguos en Candelaria, el centro historico de Bogotá. Fue muy fácil comprenderlo al hablar español. Posiblemente aquella era ya quetenía mucha experiencia hablando con extranjeros cuando trabajaba en Avianca—la aerolínea de Colombia.

Al final del día manejamos hasta al pie de Monseratte, una montaña de 3,152 metros de altura dentro de la ciudad. Tomamos un teleférico a la cumbre. La ciudad brillaba desde abajo. Dando fin de manera espectacular nuestro día en Bogotá.

Estaba cansado per a la vez contento regresé a mi habitación. Apenas tuve tiempo de desempacar cuando ya era tiempo de volver a hacer maletas. Sandra me avisó que estuviera listo a las nueve de la manaña al día siguiente. Ella había tomado cuatro días de vacaciones e íbamos a salir de la ciudad.

Desde un par de semanas antes de salir, había renunciado a ejercer cualquier control de este viaje. Sandra tenía un plan y con solamente seis días en el país era lógico dejarla tomar la batuta. Ella conocía Colombia y sus lugares más importantes.

¡Al final lo logró!

Después de una hora de camino salir de Bogotá la tierra se abrió. Estuvimos a 2,400 metros y aún veíalas montañas levantarse a cada lada del camino. Viendo periódicamente montañas terminaban y convirténdose en valles. Habían granjas pequeñas, con casas hechas de adobe a lo largo muchos kilómetros. Ahora tenía una sensación de que el otoño estaba por llegar. Ese clima era muy confusoo en esta tierra que parecía no tener.

Había vacas por todas las partes. La gente caminaba a lo largo del camino cargando grandes cubos de leche. Carretas de caballos que llevaban cantidades aún más grandes de leche. Estábamos en un lugar con muchas vaquerías y nuestra primera parada era el pueblo de Ubate, “la ciudad de leche.” Sandra detuvo el coche, caminó a una tienda y regresó con un puñado de quesadillos, un queso suave, con un sabor similar al queso del mozzarella, lleno de una pasta dulce de guayaba. ¡Dios mios! Un mordida conviertió en un admirador.

De Ubate manejamos a través de un campo muy, muy hermoso. Vivo en un parte del mundo con cambios estacionales, debo revelar que tuve que acordarme dónde estábamos: en un inicio pensé que trataba de un buen día de verano, después que era un día con en visperas de otoño pero en algunos momentos tuve la sensación que era un día de primavera en el norte de mi país.

Por la tarde, habíamos llegado al pueblo colonial de Chiquinquira, famoso por su Virgen del Rosario. Esta Virgen ha sido considerado la patrona de Colombia desde 1829. Desafortunadamente, la iglesia estaba cerrada porque el temblor del día anterior había dañado la estructura del edificio. Estabábamos decepcionados de perdernos este sitio importante para la historia de Colombia.

Chiquinquira era un buen lugar para tomar un descanso. Paramos en una panadería y compramos pan, sentados en una banca de un parque disfrutamos la luz del sol bajo un cielo azul del altiplano de Colombia. Fue el respiro

perfecto.

Sandra estaba determinaba a darme una buena impresión de Colombia y estaba haciendo un buen trabajo. Era fácil porque Boyoacá era un departamento muy bello.

Después de la comida, manejamos a Raquira, un pueblito famoso por su cerámica de barro. El pueblo emanaba encanto porque las fachadas de sus tiendas pequeñas había sido pintadas en colores terracotta cálidos y brillantes. Los colores eran muy vibrante porque era el final del día y el cálido sol salpicaba contra los frentes de las tiendas.

Fue dificíl irse. Habría estado contento de quedarme aqui por un dia. Era un pueblo encantador y lleno de color local al sol de la tarde. Había gente sentada en las escalaras de las tiendas, parejas agarrándose de las manos y un hombre joven tocando la guitarra.

Así que, nos fuimos. Poco después, Sandra anunció que tenía hambre. Parramos en Sutamarchan y, de nuevo, me puse en sus manos. La dejé ordenar la cena. Estaba empezando a ver una patrón: un plato massivo, lleno de carne—dos tipos de salchichas (¡guácala!), costillas y trozos grandes puerco. También había montón de patatas deliciosas amarillas y pequeñas. Y, de nuevo, más arroz, yuca y bananos fritos.

¡Como deseaba una ensalada!

Cayó la noche y el camino se deterioró. Sandra era ahora una conductora incómida. Villa de Leyva—nuestro destino—estaba a una distancia de más de 20 kilometros. Más de una vez paró el coche para pedir dirreciónes. Sin falta, los Colombians estuvieron educados y amables. Siempre dejaban lo estaban haciendo, acercaban su coche, y señalaban a Sandra la dirección correcta. ¡Quedé muy impresionado!

Los dos estuvimos muy contenos de llegar a nuestro destino. Estaba agradecido de tener una compañera agradable y una forma de transporte. Pagué por un buen hotel que tenía un ambiente colonial.

Esa noche caminamos al cento del pueblo colonial de Villa de Leyva, nos quedamos en la Plaza Mayor y disfrutamos de un helado. Pero me dolía mucho mi rodilla por la caminata de más que 15 kilometros del día anterior. Solo queria dormir.

¡Pero qué día había tenido!: nuevos sitios, nuevos lugares, y lleno del sabor del colonialismo Colombiano. Reflexioné esto brevemente, y sin darme cuenta, me quedé dormido.

Colombia: Beautiful Bogotá

Bogotá, Colombia

March 12, 2015

What a pair of days! We were an hour out of Bogotá when the suburbs of the city finally gave way to countryside. I had vague feeling of driving down the spine of Vermont on a fine summer's day, but that's were any similarity between home and Colombia ended. We were on the altiplano of South America, 8,000 feet above sea level, and surrounded by mountains that towered on each side of us. Often, deep green valleys opened up. Long allays of eucalyptus lined narrow roads leading off the highway. A vast array of cactus dotted the space in between.

It was all quite lovely and a beautiful introduction to the landscape that emerged out of the capital.

I'd arrived in Bogotá two nights earlier on a four hour flight form Mexico City. My friend, Sandra, who'd I'd met in Uruguay in 2009, met me promptly at 10:00 am the following day to give me the grand tour of the city.

We spent the morning in the beautiful botanic gardens—far larger than I expected. Because we were well within the tropics, and only four degrees from the equator at an altitude of 8,300 feet, all sorts of things were growing in this more-than-temperate, benign climate. The gardens were full of field daisies, royal palms, roses and bird of paradise—plants that simply cannot thrive together in most places of the world. It was a perfect introduction to this beautiful city.

I treated Sandra to lunch and was introduced to Colombian cuisine. It's not impressive—meat, and three carbs: rice, yucca and fried plantain.

That afternoon we visited the Museo de Oro—the world's largest gold museum. Room after room greeted us with a stunning assortment of Pre-Colombian gold artifacts. I could only imagine what did not survive the Conquest. This, I was sure, was a very small example of what was left before the Spaniards melted down what they could find.

I didn't know it, but an earthquake had hit Bogota while were in the museum. I only knew about this from two emails and a phone call later in the day. I felt nothing—testament to the construction of this most important museum.

When we exited the museum, Sandra's parents were there to meet me. I loved talking her dad. He worked for Avianca, the national airline, and obviously had experience speaking with non-native-born speakers of Spanish. We walked through Candelaria, the city's historic center. His Spanish was easy to understand and he was a great guide through this interesting part of the city.

By now it was dark and after our walk we headed to the base of Monseratte—the mountain rising from city center. We rode the cable car to to the top then walked to the summit—at 10,244 feet—where views of the city went on forever.

I was exhausted and was glad to get back to the room I'd rented via Airbnb. I'd arrived the night before and barely had time to unpack then repack to get ready for our three day trip out of the city the following day.

I had long before given up any control of this trip. Sandra had a plan and with only six days in Colombia it made perfect sense to let her take the lead. She knew the country and she knew what tourists might want to see.

And in the end she did!

An hour out of Bogota the land opened up. We were above 8,000 feet, yet mountains towered on each side of us. Periodically the mountains would give way to deep, green valleys. Small farms, their homes made of adobe, punctuated the countryside. Now I had a feeling that autumn was on the horizon. This weather was most confusing in this land of no seasons.

Cows were everywhere. People walked along the sides of the road carrying large vats of milk. Horse drawn wagons carried larger quantities of milk. We were in dairy country and our first stop was the town of Ubate – “la ciudad de leche.” Sandra stopped the car, wandered over to a shop and came back with a handful of quesadillos—not quesadillas—a soft, mozzarella-like, new cheese filled with a sweet guava paste. OMG! One bite made me a believer! Like a Mexican paleta, this would be a highly exportable item.

From Ubate we drove through luscious countryside. I was always reminding my self of where we were geographically because my initial response that it was a fine day in summer, then a day with the promise of autumn, would give way to feeling as if it were a northern spring day.

By early afternoon we'd arrived in the quasi-colonial town of Chiquinquira, famous for its Virgen del Rosario. This particular Virgin has been the Patron of Colombia since 1829 and is highly regarded nationally. Unfortunately, the church where it was housed was temporarily closed. The earthquake from the day before had dome some structural damage to the building and repairs were necessary. We were both disappointed to miss this important site.

Chiquinquira was as good a place as any for a break. We stopped into a bakery and bought some bread, sat on a park bench in the park and enjoyed the early March sunshine under a deep blue altiplano sky. It was a perfect respite!

Sandra was intent on giving me a good impression of Colombia and she was doing a fine job. Boyoacá

was winning me over and I was enamored with what I was seeing.

After lunch it was a short drive to Raquira, known countrywide for its clay pottery. This small town oozed charm because the facades of its small shops had been painted in warm, bright earthen colors—all more vibrant because it was the end of the day and the warm sun was splashing against the store fronts.

It was hard to leave. I would have been happy to linger here for a day simply because it was charming and full of local color in the late afternoon sun—people sitting on the steps of the shops, couples holding hands and a young man playing his guitar on a park bench.

And so we were off again. Shortly into the ride Sandra announced that she was hungry. We stopped in Sutamarchan and again I put myself in her hands. She ordered. I was beginning to see a theme going on here: we were served a heaping platter of meat parts—two types of sausages, pork rib and chunks of pork roast—and a heaping pile of very delicious, small yellow potatoes. One had a distinct reddish tone—blood sausage. I found myself very carefully pushing those chunks away from anything that I'd eat. This was served, yet again, with rice, yucca and fried plantain.

How I wanted a salad!

Night had fallen, and the road deteriorated. Sandra was most uncomfortable driving the 20 miles more to Villa de Leyva—our destination for the night. More than once she'd stop and ask for directions. Without fail, Colombians, I'd observed, were polite and kind. They always stopped what they were doing, approached the car, and pointed Sandra in the right direction. I was very impressed!

We were both very glad to arrive at our destination. I was just so grateful to have a pleasant traveling companion—and a ride—that I sprang for a good hotel. I pad for two rooms in a small hotel that had an old colonial feel about it.

That evening we walked into the center of the colonial village of Villa de Leyva, lingered in the massive Plaza Mayor, stopped for ice cream. But my knee was hurting—a lot—from the more than 20 kilometer trek the day before. I just wanted to go to bed.

But what a day it had been—full of new sights, new places and rich with the taste of Colombian colonialism. I pondered this briefly and, without realizing it, fell fast asleep!

Colombia: Bogota Beckons

Mexico City
March 9, 2015

It's always good have a few good surprises thrown your way every now and then. And thus it was that last January, when I was surfing Interjet's “outlet” sales I came across a fare to Bogota, Colombia that was just too good to pass up. $240.00 roundtrip Mexico City—Bogota--Mexico City.

Why not, I thought. I certainly had the time and this year I promised myself that I would not be enslaved to either The Casa or to CAFEMIN. Three days a week and no more..and not even a true three days a week. Three afternoons a week and that was it.

So I booked the fight. 5:40 pm. March 9^th Six full days in Bogota and its environs.

And today I'm off. The first time back to South America since 2010 when my time there was very, very different.

It was the year my mother died. She'd been well when I left in January, but went into a sudden decline just as I was about to leave Chile to round Cape Horn on a two week cruise from Valparaiso to Buenos Aires.

By mid March it was clear I had to go home. God's Spirit had been speaking to me for a few weeks. So I made my way to Lima, caught an Avianca flight to Bogota and Air Canada to Toronto then on to Montreal.

My mom had been waiting for me. When I got home she stopped eating and was dead less than three weeks later.

So this visit will be far less stressful, although even getting out of Mexico city, with my far less cluttered life, was a challenge.

Many weeks ago I wrote the only two people I know in Colombia—Sandra whom I'd met in a hot springs swimming pool in Dayman, Uruguay six years ago, and John who I know from the island of San Andres. Both encouraged me to come.

What I did not expect was Sandra's invitation to take six days off from work and be my guide. She needed a vacation, too, she said. This was an offer almost too good to turn down, although I'm really not sure how it's going to be spending so much time with someone I really don't know.

We will see.

For now it's on to Bogota, on to South America and back to the Andes!

Lessons My Father Taught Me

One day this past Fall I dreamed of my father. It was a very real dream and lingered long into the day.

I was in high school and it was winter. One of my parents would always rise at 4:00 am to start their work day. This particular morning was dark and very early. A heavy snow had fallen during the night. My dad woke me to tell me to get dressed. I had a job shoveling the Regina Maria Retreat House property.

I got dressed—warm clothes, boots, hats and gloves. I was not pampered. Neither parent would have expected anything less of me that to get up long before daybreak, dress, shovel the city block then go to school.

I walked the 15 minutes to the house—trudging through unshoveled snow very deep snow. I let myself in, choked the snow blower, got it out and began the slow task of ploughing out their long drive, then four very long sidewalks.

The Retreat House occupied a full city block. The nuns paid be $1.50 an hour to work for them.

Maybe I finished. Maybe the nuns fed me some breakfast. That I don't remember. What I do remember is heading to school—Mount Assumption Institute--which was across the street.

I do not remember the school day, but I do remember returning to the Retreat House to finish the job after classes ended—four sidewalks, a huge driveway and several smaller walk ways.

That was my dream. It was as I had relived the entire day. I could feel the wet snow. I could see my father and I could hear him.

And then I woke up.

I was very far from home, very far from MAI, and very far from all that was familiar from those years long, long ago.

And I was sad, and the sadness stayed with me all day long. I found myself mourning my parents once again,found myself missing them, found myself feeling lonely and alone.

I was in Mexico City on the morning of that dream and happened to be heading to CAFEMIN. I shared the dream with my friend Sister Mirian who's always been my CAFEMIN contact and who, over all these months, has become my friend.

“A dream like that, Dan, when you see loved ones who died, means you know they're OK.”

I thought that rather different coming from a Catholic nun, but I wasn't surprised that she'd given me this information. I've felt all along that they are OK, and that has always made their passing a bit easier.

We parted, and then I cried, and then I was OK. The sadness lifted. It was just one of those temporary blips in life that remind us of our humanness.

The whole dream got me thinking of the things my father taught me and the things that have stayed with me all my life.

My father taught me to obey him, but rarely in a mean way. How many overly-enabled children today would get up at 4:00 am, not question the early rising, shovel an entire city block, go to school then finish the job? There are those who do, of course, but I imagine more would refuse the task.

And thinking of that dark winter morning, I thought of how my father reacted to weather. When he was in World War 2 he was fortunate to live in Honolulu. That forever altered the way he viewed the North Country. Somehow he convinced my mother to move the family to Florida. No more winter's for him!

Unfortunately, my mother was unable to tolerate the brutal Florida summers and within two years they moved back to New York.

Did he he miss those warm days, those snowless winters, that “forever summer” life he'd come to love? I don't know because I never thought to ask him and he never complained about being back in the north. I think he was like most men of his generation. They'd been to war, they saw things no human should have to see, they survived, came home, married and jumpstarted their old life. Somehow they compartmentalized the past and simply moved forward.

Later in life, as a young teacher, something happened to my car. I didn't have a lot of money, but my dad reminded me that I had a job and that the money I earned would pay for the repairs. “Be grateful,” he told me, “that you have a job to pay for these things.”

“Be grateful....” I can not tell you how many times in my life I have used that counsel when life has thrown me a financial curveball—times I needed a new roof, or a major car repair or whatever. I always had a job that would pay for those things, even if it took a year to do so.

What a valuable lesson!

There is much I learned from my dad—things both big and small. Things like learning to swim or ride a bike or hit a baseball. He taught me to ski and bowl. He taught me that, no matter whether I needed to or not, when I had access to a bathroom I should always use it. Oh, yes...thanks, Dad! I have never forgotten that lesson and it's come in handy hundreds of times.

For the most part my dad was a kind, quiet, non-judgmental man and I wish, so wish, I'd had him longer in my life. I'm grateful I did have him until I was 45 and that he had a full life until the very end.

I'm grateful he did get back to Florida in his later years.

And I am most grateful for what he taught me about dying. I never once heard my dad complain about his cancer or his fatigue or the fact that he knew he was dying. He simply accepted it for what it was.

Dad died twenty years ago today. Can it be that long? My skin has regenerated itself three times since then. Life truly does move on.

Never a Christmas passes when I don't pause and think of that year. Something will always trigger a memory. There was a time when it was painful, but now I think of the precious gifts of friends who came forth that year, and especially of the two “angels in denim” who stayed with us through the entire time. And I always give thanks for that quiet time on that Christmas afternoon when Dad was lucid. “I love you,” I told him.

“And I love you.”

It was great to see him again, even if it was in a dream. If time could be reversed, and I had to opportunity to be awakened again by my dad to shovel out the Retreat House, I'd gladly do it. We never know how precious a moment can be until it's long passed.

Iberia and Beyond 2: In the End. In the Very, Very End.

Plattsburgh, NY

November 27, 2014
Latitude 44.6953° N,

In the end, I traveled for sixty-two days visiting five countries/territories—Portugal, Spain, St. Maarten, Saint Thomas and Mexico.

In the end I would linger over the memory of sun-drenched days in central Portugal and the dry, golden plains of Andalusia and the long, lazy, sea-blue days of a trans-Atlantic cruise.

In the end, Portugal's cobbled, medina-like streets of Alcobaca, Tomar and Bathala would remain the very best part of of the trip.

In the end, the Norwegian Epic sailed 4, 685 nautical miles from Barcelona to Miami at a mere 16 nautical miles per hour. This languid days crossing the Atlantic, coupled with unending vistas of sea, sky and horizon were an extraordinary way to relax after five weeks of walking 10-15 miles a day on Iberian streets.

In the end,I've come to realize that, as much as I'd like to, it's just not possible any more to travel for extended periods of time. Maybe it's retirement, maybe it's because I can travel any time of the year that I want. Whatever. It just means a small change in how I travel. It doesn't mean the end of travel.

In the end, Mexico was overkill. It was nice to see everyone and it was wonderful to spend six days at my favorite beach, but it just wasn't necessary.

In the end, cruises are great, but for no longer than two weeks and probably no more than two a year. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Having said that, I can see a day when I'm no longer physically able to travel as I used to, and the cruise will be the only alternative. I hate to see that day coming, but it will.

In the end, I know I'm running out of time. So many places, age creeping up. Have to make the most of what time I've got left.

In the end, it was great, and I was happy to return home to the land of ice and snow, Thanksgiving, and the arms of loved ones.

Iberia and Beyond 2: Zipolite, Mexico

Zipolite, Oaxaca, Mexico
November 12, 2014
Latitude15.6621° N
I know, and I have known, for a long time why I'm attracted to Zipolite.  It brings me back to the origins of my travels in the 1970's when residents of Greek islands rented out rooms in their cum beach towns had strings of wooden cabins running to the South China Sea, where monkeys were my neighbors and snakes hung from nearby trees.  It brings me back to Thai islands in the early 1990's when there was still huge parcels of empty land, where cows still grazed and where people lived in small villages.  In Mexico, it brings me back to the days, not that long ago, when Playa del Carmen 's Fifth Avenue--Avenida Quinta--still was a dirt road and where a thirty minute's walk north of the main beach brought you to the end of town, to wild Caribbean beaches butting up against the Mayan jungle, where palm trees grew close to the sea and where you could actually spend a day almost alone.

homes to tourists or into stables that had been cleaned and converted to guest quarters. It brings me back to the East Coast of Malaysia in the 1980's when fishing villages

Zipolite brings me back to the days before global tourism took over a place and converted those lovely beach shacks into expensive, chic boutique hotels, before tourism went amok, before the days when the whole world seems to be traveling at the same time, to the same cool places, before the days when you have to wait in line for your turn to take a photo or battle the hordes of Tokyo as they plow through a tourist destination.

Zipolite brings me back to the "hippie" days of travel when things were just a whole lot quieter, back to the days, almost forty years ago, when travel what done by far fewer people.

Zipolite is the wild west, that lawless corner of Mexico where just about anything goes.  You get a clue to this when you get into a taxi from the airport.  The driver will always ask you where you're going then may offer  to sell you ganja--marijuana.  Yeah, right.  It's a very good thing to stay on the good side of the law, whatever that is, in this place.

Warm blue days leads to warm clear nights.  The surf never stops pulsing--earth's rhythm in sync with the land around it.

I was in Zipolite to wrap up a two month trip, a trip that could be split into three chapters--Europe, the cruise and now Mexico.

After seeing Glenda off in Miami, I flew on to Mexico City.  For a week I happily visited friends, scoped out possibilities for the winter of 2015 and enjoyed the buzz the city offers.  But I'd also planned a more restrained end-of-trip--a week in my favorite Mexican beach town--Zipolite.

I love the Pacific side of Mexico, its wild coastline, water that's warm year round.  I love the dramatic backdrop of Sierra Madres that rise high above the coastline and crawl down the spine of Mexico. But mostly, as in the case of Zipolite, I love the sense of isolation this part of the coast provides.  It's just a hard  place to get to.  Eighteen hours by bus from Mexico City via Acapulco; twelve hours by bus via Oaxaca or a short 55 minutes by air from the capital.

Zipolite isn't much more than a three-street town, population 931.  Double that in winter when Americans and Canadians pour in.  It doesn't have a street light and I've never seen a cop.  Hotels have no TV, no air conditioning.  There's no bank and no grocery store.  Just last year an ATM machine was installed, but half the time it doesn't work.  There are maybe ten restaurants, a smattering of bars and three small tiendas.  It's so far south that it's always hot.

Just this year did the three streets get paved.  At each end of the street that runs alone the sea are a stretch of homes where locals live.  The streets are dirt and scrub palms, almond trees and bananas grow willy-nilly in sandy back yards.  Smaller hostels dot that landscape, dorm rooms for less than 100 pesos a night. Sometimes, instead of walking on the beach to Playa del Amor, my favorite place to spend the day, I'll stroll through these "neighborhoods." Laundry is always hanging on lines, children and dogs are always around.  Roosters crow.  There always seems to be a small bonfire somewhere.  It's always hot and usually very still in these parts of Zipolite.  Sometimes, on the hottest days, the rotting smell of decaying vegetation fill the air.

I love these walks.

Zipolite is Mexico's only true nudist beach.  Just about anything goes, but, as I've said earlier, it's always best to stay on the clean side of the law.

At this time of the year--mid-November--it only feels marginally  different from mid-July when it's a bit more humid, not that humidity is the issue it is on the other coast, the Caribbean side when it always feel sticky.  Only the arc of the sun is different.

By mid day of this marvelous week I'm always nauseous from sitting in the sun.  I have to seek out shade.  Almost no one sits in the sun, so the shady areas are always packed with people.

The Pacific fizzes green and blue.  There is no moon during this visit so the sea is somewhat calm. At other times, when the moon is waxing, the surf crashes on shore and is actually dangerous.  I never plan a visit during the full moon.  For three days, it's far to dangerous to enter the water beyond your knees.

There isn't much to do in Zipolite, all of which is fine with me.  Of course, I only come in the off-season, and off-off- season is even better.  This is the off season, before Christmas when town, as it does during Semana Santa, explodes with revelry.  Off-season is always, always better and off-off even better.

When I do choose to leave Zipolite, I wait on the side of the road for a ride in a shared taxi or in a camioneta--a large pick-up truck with a roof a seats on each side of the bed.  The truck will stop, give me time to crawl into the back where, if I'm lucky, I find a seat.  Otherwise I stand.

On a typical morning I can share space with a farmer transporting bags of corn, corn that's spilled over the floor of the truck.  WE have to dodge the ears to get to our seat.  There are always mothers on board with children.  Sometimes there are small cages with chickens in them.  If there was ever an accident we'd all be dead.

I love this about life in Zipolite, too.

In fact, I just love this place period.  There's a controlled lawlessness about the place and it's a perfect place to spend a week or two.  Beyond that I'm not sure.  I think life would be a great challenge.  There's the beach and the dazzling blue sky, the wild pounding surf and fine grained sand and a sky full of stars.

But that's about it.  I'm afraid I would lose my soul in a place like this.  Odysseus almost did when he met Circe.  I took him a year to leave the place and move on, but at least he got away.

There are no seasons, really, to demarcate time.  There's only the wet and the dry.  I think life would become monotonous and boring.  The town is to transient to sustain long-term friendships.  I think I would always be an outsider.

It's great for a week, though.  It's great for long, lazy days of doing nothing, of eating fresh fruit salad every mornings and freshly caught seafood at night. It's great to let the surf and sun ease away any tensions that have crept into busy lives.

I"m glad have no further allusions about the place.

On the last night I was there I sat on the sand at Playa del Amor waiting for sunset.  The bar above beach was playing a soft piano/saxophone jazz.  It was low tide and waves quietly lapped the shore.  There were only a few rogue clouds  hugged the horizon.  The sun, a fiery hot orange, slid through the cloud bank and slipped into the sea.  It was quite the splash.

A day later I flew back to Mexico City and a day later still home to New York, to Thanksgiving and to the land of early ice and snow.

Zipolite had been a remarkable last chapter to a remarkable sixty-one days away, but I was not sorry to see it end.

It would be good to be home.