Climbing and other cycling

The difference I feel now and on other European bike trips is that now I feel at peace with my surroundings, that things are different, that I have the skill to fit in, but that things are different enough that I finally have the solitude to think, despite the warmth and vivacity of my surroundings. I think of getting a flat at this city, that city, I think of what my job would be (as a cover for my writing), I think of the produce in each city, how hard it would be to cycle outside of the city, the running, whether there is sunlight or rain. I have never considered these things in Spain, Portugal, France, or elsewhere--the last time was in Hungary and Bulgaria.

So Moraline was correct about these things, that I needed to break the sea that was frozen inside of me (Menger). I have returned to the mindset of the man in his early twenties who rejected the matrix of American culture, and instead set off to make it on his own in Central and Easter Europe. But he made the mistake of returning to the United States, from his position of familiarity in Eastern Europe, to hollowness and material dependency of the United States.

Now the topic of this post, cycling and climbing. You win the country you cycle through, you gain slowly through patience, effort, and risk, risk of injury, risk of mechanical failure, risk of running our of food or water, risk of sunburn (do not underestimate this unless you understand the multiple days of bicycle touring, word to the weekend warriors), risk of flats, risk of automibiles who use the your shoulder to pass in the opposite direction, risk of beautiful women and their siren songs.

Ibague, the road to Ibague from Calarca. The mountains were draped in green vegetation. I rode in my 3rd and 4th easiest cogs during the climb, in the granny triple. I listened to Metallica on my phone to offset the constant onset of motorcycles, automobiles, trucks, and buses. Military is present everywhere in Columbia--Galils are the rifles I have been seeing. A soldier told me I would only have descent after this peak--it is the tallest in Colombia--the Lion of the Rivers was correct.

I rose above the valleys and gorges. I wanted to give up many times--how could it be this hard for one minute, ten minutes, one hour, 3.5 hours? I became more aggressive and realized this was a military operation, special forces, fuck the ascent, it must be killed, each pedal stroke is the enemy, and I am the leader on this mission and I must lead the forces against the realm of the dark ninjas. The King, Ernesto, and Miguel would be depending on me.

I cannot remember much about the climb. Party shuffle came on in my phone and Britney Spears' Circus came on, and I realized that, she too, was a a beautiful woman, and I would dance with her and make love to her.

And then the descent. You have to be careful in Colombia because both lanes, including your shoulder, are fair game for oncoming traffic. You might want to own that switchback because you are faster than cars in your direction, but what about the motorcycle, car, or bus in your lane coming in the opposite direction? If you know this and you get smashed, it is your doing (not concept of fault here, just doing). Death provides no second chances, only a sealed permanence.

The green moss, plantanos, bananas, coffee crops, flowers, fruits, and grasses covered the descent. Ramshackle inhabitants popped up here and there, some selling fruit, some selling juices, some selling grilled meats. I stopped in a town square, bought a large papaya so ripe I cut it in half with the back of a spoon, and ate its flesh on a bench as 2 boys, a man, and a woman interviewed me. I came here on an airplane? I am riding my bicycle? Do I eat soup and meat and other things while I am riding? So I really drink 7 liters of water per day. I asked the boy help me fill my bottles with my Platypus and he was very satisfied with his effort. The woman, once severely suspicious of my purpose in her village, her pueblo, suddenly expressed concern and compassion for my well being.

Soon I had to go--I shook everyone's hands (to their surprise, I was alive, I had hands, I did not return in a space ship), and pedaled off, with more descending, more descending until Ibangue.

Ibangue seemed more industrial than Albenia, and I was exhausted and found a place for 40.000 that clearly should have cost 20.000 but I was given a triple--no complaints--it fit my needs perfectly. I have learned not to fret about finding a hotel in a strange town without plans or an address. There is a main drag--generally worth passing by, but sometimes, as in Armenia, you can find something. It is interesting about Armenia--Moraline had written a name and an address and when I arrived at the spot and paid my 19.000 (which made me understand why this was to Moraline's liking), I realized it was a dump with thin walls and much noise. But I soon hit the streets and realized Armenia was one of the greatest experiences of my existence, the density of human activity nearly bringing my stoic glare to tears.

The hotel manager wore a white tank top and a bandana around his neck and looked as if he had just walked off an Ambercromby and Fitch commercial. I feared he and his supermodel friends would rob me, but they did not and they had no intention to. Still, I hid the belonging I could not carry with me in my pillow and walked off to the supermarket, despite the fact the manager told e everything in the town was closed--he must have assumed I did not want to walk the half mile to the Carrefour, where I bought what I needed.

The city didn't have the exuberance of Albenia, but it was lively and packed with souls, and, like Albenia, I confidently ordered a quadro (two pieces roasted chicken, fried plantain, arrepa, two boiled and salted potatoes), para llegar, to go. I was an expert. I wrote some on the computer, which could not be plugged in as the room lacked a three pronged outlet. Still, I wrote, I ate, I passed out.

This leads me to the prospect of photography. It is slow uploading these photos, sorting through them, and the camera is intrusive, potentially dangerous, and mediates the direct experience of actually experiencing phenomena. Chrome has an ability to secretly take photos without the knowledge of his surrounding humans--I seem to be more obvious. And it led me to be at peace without a camera. I am here doing real groundwork--I will live here soon, I do not need the souvenier of photos. The compelling writing which transforms my thinking--Hemmingway, let's say--does not come in an illustrated version. So my best images are not in my camera, they are burned in the soul, and they now affect my vision.

An early start--hitting the road around 9--led to some early, refreshing rain. The Lion had said to ride to Guamo, but that seemed to early to retire for the day, and instead I rode to Natagaima, arriving at 3:30. Which is fortunate, because the sun retires at 6 in these parts, and Aipe was 30 miles to the south, had I wanted to continue. At 10 miles an hour, that would have been a problem.

The room had heavy metal train car like doors, and faced the kitchen stove when opened, and around the corner the billiards hall. Like Ibangue, cold water came from a simple plastic pipe from the top for the shower and the water was warm not because there was hot water but because the single temperature of the water was tepid but potable. No toilet paper, no towels, but soap. In Ibangue, no toilet seat, but a towel!

A large portrait of Jesus faced me, reminding me not to sin. I walked to the town square and bought an arrepa con pollo--a fat corn bread filled with chicken and hard boiled eggs and mayonnaise. I sat on a wooden bench and was given a plate and then a napkin when finished. I then moved three feet over for a cono, shaved ice from a block with red juice and condensed milk drizzled on the top. I then walked towards where the village roads turned to dirt, where the green and yellow and orange of the homes created a backdrop of men and women and children obvlivious to me and my bloated concerns--concerns, because I had not lived my life according to my own wants. Again, the feeling I would cry overwhelmed me. Wasn't this the simplicity of Bulgaria--why had I dragged R from such a simple paradise to my home country, where, because of my chasing money, I ruined things between us? Hadn't I already lived the smart life by age 23, only to destroy for reasons I had rejected by age 17? The feeling of losing so many years, waking up from a long coma, and finding yourself, once again, happy, but incredulously so. The vacuous predilections of American city women disappeared, and I considered the deep villages of the Andes, where my Spanish would never matter.

The ride to Neiva was long and hot because it consisted of rollers in the dry desert sun. I overpaid for two gatorades and yoghurts at a roadside stand, but it was restorative, and with the constant companionship of Metallica's Master of Puppets, I continued to attack the kilometers.

I found the perfect hotel with the cutest hostess who sang outside my door as I showered and rested before hitting the streets for yet another quadro, a roasted cord cob on the street, and a bottle of Poker beer (4% ABV, like lost Colombian beers). I ventured out far, keeping direction with my watch compass, the central church, and the main pedestrian drag. With no map and no address of my hotel, getting lost would be silly. I must tell Moraline that this, Neiva, might be the city, and it is fortunate this blog is completely private and not searchable, because Neiva is a hidden gem, less discovered than Buga. I fear to tell Moraline about the Americans who frequented Buga at Holy Water, but none will materialize in Neiva--it is too wild, too powerful, too unscripted for the backpacking crowd, as is Armenia. It is a perfect city, but there is still so much to explore in Colombia to draw this conclusion.