A day in the woods

I awoke Monday morning replaying a thought I had on my balcony Sunday night- “I don’t have a damn thing to do today”. Admittedly, I have never been the 9-5 type, and might make a run at the Guinness Book of World Records for fewest total hours worked by age 30 for a debt-free, non-junky; but even for me a completely empty Monday was off-putting. Trying my best to take advantage of a city that is undeniably a place to live and work, not be a tourist, I hopped a bus into the surrounding hillside to explore. I headed toward Santa Elena, a flower-filled pueblo popular among college Paisas as a place to go eat psychedelic mushrooms. Shroom-less and not really sure what I was looking for, I got off at the bus stop that most closely resembled civilization. I felt out of place to say the least, even more so than I am becoming accustomed to in Medellin. I meandered over to a local-filled bar trying to pretend I had a clue what I was doing, though wearing sandals and carrying a soccer ball made it quite obvious to everyone that I didn’t. I quickly sucked down a black, sweet liquid that claimed to be coffee, and asked if there was a hike or a soccer game nearby. Though intrigued by my optimism for a pick up soccer game in the middle of nowhere (in my defense there was at least a soccer field), I was pointed back the way I had came by bus as to where the tourists go to hike. Still not sure what kind of jewel of nature I would find, or even expected, I made my way off the main drag with the lone goal of finding a nice view overlooking Medellin by sunset. I walked along a paved but narrow road suitable for cars, that quickly became far more suited for horses or dirt bikes, and eventually narrowed so much that I wondered how I would fare on my dark return. Knowing I was within meters of a beautiful view, and now minutes of a setting sun, I picked up my pace in hopes of both achieving my previously stated goal, and not spending the night alone in a Colombian forest. Seconds after I had talked myself out of desperately going off the path to bushwhack to the view I was sure was on the other side of a few sets of trees, I finally came upon a beautiful clearing. To my surprise given the hour I had walked in utter solitude, there was a group of local teenagers there that recommended a faster way to get back to civilization, and smartly left before the sun dropped behind the city. I was not so smart, and wanted to revel in the completion of my day’s accomplishment, so I sat mapping out the different barrios in which I had once lived in the distant grid of the lit up city. Eventually I came back to the reality that even the local kids wanted some light to guide their way home, and started to head back.

The decision of whether to cautiously return the way I had come knowing it was to be long and dark, or to follow the advice of some kids who could be waiting for me in the bushes, was my first of many challenges in getting back to the glowing city below me. I opted with the more adventurous, and hopefully shorter route. A half hour later and with the stress of a worried parent just below the surface of an adventurous smile, I was questioning my route….. my choice of the day’s activities….and why I even came to Colombia at all. I then mercifully saw another person walking towards me who assured me that I was on the right path and the comforts of the pueblito were just 10 minutes away. My stress subsided like that of the parent whose child has called with a plausible lie of their whereabouts. No more than 2 minutes later, after specifically asking if there were any forks in the road, I get to a point where I either cut through someone’s farmland or continue on a ever-diminishing trail. Since there was an intended absence of barbed wire big enough even for my huge Gringo body to get through, I opted to go towards the farmhouses. I was happy with my choice as leaving the brush of the forest yielded a slight bit more light, but quickly began to question my judgment when about six harmless but loud dogs came running at me. Worse than the dogs was an awful shriek, not moo, of a cow in the yard that made it very clear to me that this was not a path frequented by many. This was one mad cow that I was afraid of. I quickly retreated and promptly explored my other option only to get myself confused (and thankful not to be shrooming), and almost so turned around that I couldn’t even get back to the salvation of a crazy cow. Feeling I had a better chance riding this bucking cow to safety than bushwhacking my way back to Medellin in the dark, I returned to face my newly acquired Cow-phobia. Again I was put to ease by seeing another more cow-savvy person, and again I was told I was almost to town.

Here is the cultural rub. Something I know and have joked about, but can’t seem to recognize when in the moment. Latinos are horrible with directions. And I mean this with no racism or stereotypes, nor do I mean they can’t follow directions or get themselves where they need to go. It has to do with giving directions. First, no one will just say they don’t know. Their desire to be helpful, friendly and give you the answer you want to hear screws not them, but the one they are trying to help. The direction asker is subjected to the 50-50 directional whim of which hand they point with, then a 1-60 even odds chance of the number of minutes it will take you to walk. My Colombian girlfriend once gave detailed directions to somebody to a place I knew she had never heard of. When I asked her why she sent the poor sap on an impossible goose chase, she said, “I didn’t want to be rude”.

So, now at least an hour from the “10-minute point”, through a heard of angry cows and killer dogs, skirting barbed wire fences and taking multiple different turns I was on a paved street and could smell the empanadas coming from town. That is why I was so surprised to eventually pop out at a corner store that was said to be a 15-minute bus-ride from town. Utterly confused as to where I was, where I went wrong, and what the hell the people that had given me directions were smoking, I stopped fighting it, got a juice and waited for the bus. Given the experience I had, the spot I was standing and the growing suspicion that maybe I really was shrooming, I thought the chances of a bus passing were about as good as the chances of Kobe opting to pass instead of shoot a three to win. But as is my luck with these random adventures, a mystical bus pulled up and I asked the bus driver in desperate and accented Spanish
“Where are you going?”
He replied “where would you like to go?”
“To Medellin” I optimistically stated.
“Lets go to Medellin, then”

I got on the bus, put my headphones back in, and contentedly gorged myself with those tiny caramels that you used to get by the handful at Halloween. Life was good.