Cycling in Cali

It is crunch time. With only two weeks to go until Sarah and Victor arrive in Cartagena for the wedding, it is about time I practice my Spanish and learn a few dance moves. And what better place to do so than the groom's hometown - the salsa-capital of Colombia? The groom's cousin, Mario, has graciously welcomed me to stay at his apartment. He is an avid mountain biker and my first day here he dragged me along for a gruesome 2-hour uphill ride to Los Tres Cruces - a outdoor church/gym/juice bar overlooking the city. After a few more hours navigating those hilly trails, I was thankful for the opportunity to pray. But you definitely didn't see me sprinting for the weights.

Manizales to Cali

Five hours into my journey from Manizales to Cali, my bus hit a motorcyclist. The motorcyclist survived, but it will take a skilled surgeon to reattach his foot. We waited for a few hours on the side of the road until another bus, half the size of our previous one and already full of passengers, came to our rescue. It was a cramped ride. I had the good fortune of sitting on the lap of a fairly plump woman who smelled like oranges. The man next to me wasn't so lucky. Squished in between the ceiling and a pile of luggage, he had to endure the entire journey with his head halfway out the window.

Volcanic Valentines Day

I spent Valentines Day hiking at Parque de los Nevados, engulfed in clouds at 4850m. My hiking companion, a Gaelic football champion, set a brisk pace for the two-hour climb to the glacier at the top of the mountain. Our guide talked like a chipmunk and clearly despised the fact that her job required physical exercise. She followed us from shouting distance, incensed that we didn't want to turn back after thirty minutes with the rest of the group. A nice afternoon soak in the hot springs helped us forget all about the bad weather and the lazy guide.
A postcard photo taken by Juan Giraldo shows what the views can look like this time of year.
At this elevation, you don't think about love, you feel it. Your heart beats harder and your head feels lighter and your knees swoon at just about anything. Who needs a boyfriend when you have mountains? It reminded me of this truck I saw while trekking in the Himalayas in northern India. Pure Ladakhi poetry.

Spring Break

It was during my week-long stay in Medellin, the "City of Eternal Spring", that I learned to live a double life. By day I admired Botero's best paintings and sculptures, threw carnations at the annual bull fighting tournament and explored the city´s bustling neighborhoods via the clean and efficient Metro. I played the unassuming role of a sweet young tourist - reading The Motorcycle Dairies at outdoor cafes and spending time with children at the local library.
But Medellin's nightlife holds no place for that innocent girl. By nightfall I traded in my leather sandals and sun hat for shiny silver heels and a low-cut dress. Suddenly a suave cocktail-sipping vixen at nightclubs from the set of Miami Vice, I mingled with the rich, powerful and surgically-enhanced offspring of Pablo Escobar. The freshly-tanned, grungy boys at the hostel transformed as well. Suddenly they were wealthy corporate tycoons - buying $100 bottles of liquor for their Colombian beauty queens. Still, the gringas weren´t completely ignored. In addition to lines of coke and shots of rum, one Latino suitor even offered me a new set of breasts. From dancing midgets to sinks made of dead horse heads - every nightclub seemed to offer more surprises than the last. But eventually, when the morning light was bright enough, our chariots transformed into pumpkins, gowns into rags, castles into $8-night hostels. My fellow travelers and I would stumble back into our bunk beds, as the young men recounted their attempts to snog Colombia's next top model. One day I will return to this amazing city, where the weather is almost flawless, delicious French pastries only cost a dollar and the people are warm and inviting. But for now, it is time to turn in my Paris Hilton costume and audition for another role in this Colombian telenovela. Maybe they need a new peasant girl on a Juan Valdez coffee farm.

Carnival en Barranquilla

Barranquilla, Colombia´s fourth-largest city, usually doesn´t hold a lot of interest for travelers. But for one week every year this maze of bland concrete buildings transforms into a colorful, raging street party. The only way to witness a bigger party in South America is to attend Carnival in Rio. Emma, a delightful Irish girl I met on the beach, accompanied me to the rum-filled festivities. After two nights of non-stop salsa dancing and drunken debauchery we reeked of flour, foam, sweat and greasy street food. By some miracle, we found a hotel room the last day and were able to shower and change into our black dresses for the final parade - a funeral procession for Joselito Carnival. Crowds lined the street, taking pictures of Colombian beauty queens dressed in their most provocative mourning attire and weeping for the death of their beloved party. I wanted to weep with them, but, like these good Catholic people, I believe in resurrection.

Parque Tayrona

During the past week I rented a hammock for $6 a night and slept in a national park next to the Caribbean ocean. My daily schedule included sunbathing on secluded beaches, feasting on fresh fish and reading Truman Capote. During the evenings my fellow backpackers and I played cards, drank plenty of beer and danced near the bonfires. Tough life.