On Being On Safari

On the first day of safari while having lunch next to a pond filled with hippos, it hits me that I am in Africa. Actually, it hits me more that I am on safari and having my first group travel experience. There are eight of us: two guides, two older doctors, a computer scientist, his Science PhD wife, my mom, and me. We are all American except for the two British guides, and I wonder when I will truly feel like I am in Africa.

This morning I come close. We begin our Botswanan experience in a basket store. Botswana only has one art-form which is basket-weaving. Johnno, the older Brit guide, tells me this is the closest I'll get to seeing Botswanan culture before heading out to the bush. The store represents a 200 woman basket weaving cooperative and I am excited to see a group of ladies sitting in front of the store. What turns me on most about traveling is social interaction. I love talking to people from different cultures. I love how different people are and how similar we all are at the same time.

We spend about an hour at the basket store. The lady doctor in our group lost her luggage and had to go to town to get some supplies. My mom, myself and the two doctorates are in the basket store killing time. As everyone browses the many designs, I chat it up with the basket lady. I ask her about business and she asks me about the States. She speaks good English and teaches me a little Setswana. After a while, I go outside where the group of women are sitting and one is weaving. "Dumelang bo Mma!" I say greeting them in Setswana. They greet me back and laugh as I try to sound out other phrases. My mom and I are having fun getting our first taste of Botswanan culture.

The lady doctor returns from her shopping spree in town and browses the basket store. I take this opportunity to observe my traveling companions. My mom's laugh rings out as she plays with a baby on a woman's back. The doctorate girl who is not much older than me is silent. They all look uncomfortable and I don't think I have seen one crack a smile yet. Johnno has cracked a few jokes and I think my mom and I will end up in his car for most of the trip. I hear the doctorate girl ask our other guide questions about basket weaving, the huts that surround us and the clothes the women wear. She was just over near the women and I wonder why she doesn't ask them herself. After a couple more minutes, we all load into two cars and we're off to Moremi Reserve to begin the safari.

* * *

We are two days in a mobile camp in the Moremi Reserve. We have a five-star camping experience with a staff of 7 cooking, serving our food, cleaning our tents and filling our bucket showers with hot water. I wasn't expecting to be camping like this and I am happy we are. We can't be any closer to the bush. There are bones in our camp from an ancient kill. At night, the sky is white as complete darkness accentuates billions of stars. We watch zebra graze 100 meters away and fall asleep to the reverberating sound of lion roars.

We wake the next two mornings at 6am to coffee boiling on the campfire. It is still dark and cold, but the excitement of the game drive is warming. We see a lot in Moremi. We see all kinds of antelope, eagles, giraffes, zebra, and hyena. On the way back to camp one afternoon, we spot a tree full of vultures about 200 meters from our tents. Johnno tells us this is quite the find because there is only one reason vultures congregate. We drive toward the tree and find three lions lazily sleeping next to a bush. Tucked neatly under the bush, but not completely out of sight is a half-eaten zebra carcass.

We watch the scene for awhile. A jackal circles at a safe distance. The lions continue to sleep. Suddenly, on the other side of the bush, we see the small head of a mongoose pop over the grass. He has smelled the zebra and moves in silently to steal a few nibbles. When we pulled up to the scene at first, Johnno laid down some rules for riding in his car. We must speak in hushed voices as to not disturb the animals. We can never get out of the vehicle unless we start singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" in which case we will be forced to walk back to camp. He strictly prohibits waving good-bye to the animals because they never wave back. He also will not tolerate any Disney-fication of the animals because as he says in a British accent, "It's all rubbish." As the mongoose sneaks a snack of the zebra, however, two of these rules go out the window. He begins to narrate for the mongoose. This will become a habit of Johnno's which just leaves my mom and I doubled over laughing until we cry. Johnno is hilarious and his narration seems to break the Disney rule and definitely causes us to break the quiet rule because we can hardly contain our guffaws.

* * *

After Moremi, we head by boat to Camp Okavango which is a lodge located in the Okavango river delta. Botswana is arid and does not receive much rainfall. The water-ways of the delta are fed by rains falling in the Angolan mountains. It takes six months for the water to reach Botswana and it creates an amazing web of swamps, creeks and islands. This part of the delta is green and beautiful. It boasts the largest number of lions including a pride of 7 male lions which is very rare. We lovingly refer to this pride as the gay pride, but the scientists don't find this funny.

At Camp O we get to go on a walking safari. We take a boat to an island and are very lucky to walk right up to a herd of buffalo being stalked by 4 lions. The lions are only watching the buffalo and we are not lucky enough to witness a kill, but it's cool to see the lions stealthily move closer and closer. Our walking guide Robert leads us away from the lions out into the bush. We see cape buffalo skulls and a hippo skeleton. A family of wart hogs grazes away on bended knees. Robert walks right up to the wart hogs and playfully oinks at them. They hardly pay attention.

A breeding herd of about 30 elephants comes out of the trees in the distance and makes its way toward us. Johnno also leads hunting safaris and knows quite a bit about tracking animals. He says that if he finds a set of elephant tracks that move in a straight line without any signs of stopping to eat, a human has no chance of catching up to it. Elephants hardly change their stride, but steadily move onward. The briskness of an elephant's pace becomes clearer as the herd gains on us. Robert quickly moves us to a cluster of bushes so we do not look threatening to the mama elephants. It's obvious that Robert is being more cautious with these gigantic animals than with the lions. By reputation, elephants are far more aggressive than lions, or better said, they are more easily threatened.

Our time at luxurious Camp O is relaxing. Our tent is a game drive all unto itself. We have 2 sparrows nests, a hornets nest and about 20 bats sleeping in the tree outside our door. At dusk, the bats wake and swoop all around eating bugs. At one point a bat flies too close to the sparrow's nest and is knocked out of the air with a squawk. It falls onto our porch and my mom and I are scared it is injured, but it gets up and flies away. Night falls into a cacophony of lion roars and hippo moos. After 2 days, we are off again by plane to Khwai another game reserve.

* * *

The drive from the air-strip to the mobile safari in Khwai is where I get to know more about Johnno and Africa. It is a long drive over dirt roads under a hot sun. Johnno's second passion is history and he satisfies my hunger for cultural knowledge. We get into jovial arguments over how much blame can be laid on the British. Johnno scolds me for my anti-colonial beliefs. "You can't fault the British," he says, "because then you would be blaming the Scots, the Irish and the Welsh and I know you don't think they did anything wrong. It's the English you hate, so get it straight." Johnno is English and throws any wise-cracks I give right back at me.

He teaches me a lot about Botswana. He tells me Botswana is the wealthiest country in Africa. With only 1.7 million people and the size of Texas or France, the money from diamonds go a long way. Botswana also makes quite a bit of money off of safaris and hunting safaris in particular. Hunting permits are expensive and then any animal killed carries a trophy cost, elephants being the most expensive. I came to Africa believing the African elephant was endangered which Johnno quickly corrects. In the 80's, he explains, Kenya had a huge problem with poaching which caused Kenya's elephant population to dwindle. Animals rights groups joined the campaign to stop poaching in Kenya, but Southern African elephant populations have always been strong. The population grows at 3% a year. Evidence of elephants is everywhere. We see groups of elephants everyday, as well as, tracks and the destruction left in the wake of their feedings.

Johnno also schools me in my African history. Studying colonization and African-American history in college, I came to Africa thinking I knew a thing or two about injustice and oppression. Johnno tells me stories, from the English point-of-view, that make me think. The British brought roads, he says and a fairer justice system. He says the Botswana government was modeled after the British one. Botswana was never a colony, only a protectorate for 40 years to protect Botswana from South Africa during the apartheid years. It's one of the reasons Botswana is so wealthy: it has a fairly honest government. Botswana isn't all money and diamonds though. 37% of the population has AIDS and the average life-expectancy is 33. I think about Robert our walking guide and he seems like an anomaly. I think about a conversation I had with Jacob, one of our camp staff, who told me his mother died a week ago and I think that chances are it was AIDS related. I guess money doesn't cure everything.

I don't know if I believe everything that Johnno tells me, but he definitely makes me think. I realize I had come to Africa with a very black vs. white mentality. Johnno reminds me of a truth I believe in. I believe that the majority of people are good people and want to do good things. Johnno reminds me that this also applies retroactively, that while bad people did bad things during colonization, there were also good people doing good things. He asks me why I would think there were less good people living back then than today. He says one of the things he hates most about white people today is their guilt. He says guilt doesn't do anyone any good and that charity only makes beggars out of people. He has seen it in Kenya. The charities give people things for nothing until the people expect to get everything for nothing. He believes the best thing that can happen to Africa is that they get over the past and move on. I don't entirely believe him or agree with him, but I listen. He is expanding my view of the world and I am developing a small crush on him. I start to crush on him despite the fact that the is almost 50 and despite the fact that he is English.

Kwhai isn't all about history though. It is in Khwai that we experience the most amazing of all of our animal sightings. In Kwhai we see two different packs of African wild dogs. The African wild dog is basically the African wolf. It is the rarest of Southern Africa's animals. Only 3000 live on the entire continent and about 750 live in Botswana. Our interaction with packs is quite intimate. The first pack we see in the morning. Chatter about their presence had cackled across the radios in the cars. Johnno, my mom and I are the first car to spot them and have them all to ourselves for at least 10 minutes. They are beautifully speckled animals and totally indifferent to human presence. They walk right up to the car, sniff around and go on their way just as about 8 cars pull up.

The second pack we have entirely to ourselves. Our other guide spots them sleeping under a tree. They lazily get up, walk to the road and lay down in between our 2 cars. They lounge around for a while until the alpha female decides it is time to move. They walk right past our car and one stops to check us out. He sniffs the air and then rolls around on his back before following the pack. We follow them until they stop abruptly in the road. An impala is grazing ahead of us in the bush. The dogs stand silently, waiting. A breeze comes through and the impala perks up. The dogs are ready. In a flash, the impala is spooked and takes off. In the blink of an eye the dogs are gone after the impala. As much as I would like to see a kill in action, this will not be my day. I am satisfied all the same as we pull over. The sun is setting producing yet another spectacular African sunset. Our guides open the bottles of wine and we all marvel at our luck.

* * *

My mom always said that when people come back from Africa they have a glow about them. She wanted to go to Africa to see what that glow, that eye-twinkling was all about. We both admit that while Africa was amazing, we don't feel changed. Maybe it was the 30 hour trip home, CPT-JNB-IAD-DEN-ABQ that took all our energy from us. Maybe, for me, it's because I have seem too many places to be so easily awed. Maybe it's because I am in love with another country that I am not so easily wooed. I am happy I met Africa though and she deserves a second date, but I don't lust for her. Her animals, her falls, her bush are all intriguing, but next time I want more conversation, more culture, more intimacy.

Africa stays with me though. About a week after coming home, my mom and I are walking her dog through the bosque. We have walked through the bosque a dozen times, but this time it seems so very much alive. We see a shed snake skin, huge crickets and a hawk. I have a deeper appreciation for animals after being to Africa and a handful of new stamps in my passport. I also come home with so many more questions and an even grayer view of the world.

Surviving Zimbabwe

Aaah...wonderful, smiling Zimbabwe. After days and days in Africa, in the Botswanan bush, I finally hear drums. Africa, where the first heart beat, the drum beats on, like the Zimbabweans keep on keeping on.

We are still on safari. I am still on my first organized travel tour group and I happen to be with four scientists. As an artist, it becomes painful to hear science being used to take the fun out of everything. I am tired of being scolded for anthropomorphizing and scoffed at for daring to think that animals can have fun. Even the allure of bungee jumping off the Victoria Falls Bridge is tainted by talk of maximum velocity and trajectory.

I finally come to feel sorry for the scientists at the Boma restaurant in Victoria Falls, a touristy spot featuring game meat and dancing, drumming. This display of dancing, drumming, community-building Zimbabwe-style inspires the scientists to talk economics yet again. "Can they really make a living being dancers?" one asks. Maybe that is the trick, that is their mistake: they can't see the people. They only see poverty.

My mom orders a Diet Coke that costs $240,000 Zim dollars and dinner costs over $3,000,000 Zim dollars. It seems ridiculous, almost funny, these prices, but speaks to the economic strife of the country. Yes, there is reason for the scientists to care so much for economics while they are here, but they discuss, pity and complain in the same breath. They relate stories of the current Zimbabwean president and his insanity that they saw on CNN from the comfort of their Manhattan home. They shoot sad, condescending faces at the waiters at the restaurant lamenting their situation. "These poor, poor people," they say.

Then they complain, the armchair liberals. They complain about aggressive street-vendors and the amount of tourists in Vic Falls. After spending at least $10,000 USD each to go on an American-organized safari, they complain about staying at a foreign-owned hotel. "I feel bad most of my money is leaving the country," says one. When told about the local library's need for children's books, another one balks at the idea of spending $45 USD to send a box of books over. I thought they wanted to help these poor, poor people, but $45 seems like too much to spend to help them out. They don't even talk to the people. They keep the CNN images seen from sofas in their living rooms and feel guilty. These Americans feel guilty about a situation they didn't even cause. Instead of interacting with the place, its people, they only frown and cleanse their hands with anti-bacterial gel.

The Zimbabwean people don't need pity. They need clothes, shoes, pens, paper and they ask for it all, but in trade. Zimbabweans have a reputation of being honest, hard workers. They trade. They do not come with their hands out, they come with their wares...and what beautiful wares!! Our days spent at the Vic Falls market are by far the most memorable of the trip. After Botswana, a country of only one native craft, basket weaving, I am blown away by the myriad of Zimbabwean artistic expression. Yes, all this art is aimed at tourists, but in a country in the midst of financial collapse, tourism feeds the starving artists and their starving families. Supposedly, it is illegal to use US dollars in Zimbabwe, but some one looks the other way in regards to Vic Falls. I imagine Vic Falls is the best to be if you are Zimbabwean thanks to tourism. Employment is plentiful and constant. US dollars make acquiring goods possible over the near-by borders of Zambia and Botswana. Tourism, I believe, is saving this part of the country.

My mom and I go to the markets with bags of clothes. We go to the ladies market first. Batiks, wood carvings and stone sculptures all available for a couple pieces of clothing and a few dollars. We talk to the ladies selling batiks first. As I open my bag of clothes I am surrounded. These ladies get first pick and like typical women, they are choosy going for the best clothes. The whole negotiation process is filled with laughter, tough bargaining and integrity. We then head to the men's market down the street. Each stall has a name: "Discount Store", "Chicago Bulls", "Walmart". Everyone tells us their name almost immediately and I start to think it may be a custom like receiving gifts with two hands instead of one. We hear names like Truth, Lucky, Gift, and Good Price. My mom and I laugh and tell them we know their mothers didn't name them Good Price. The men tell us their Ndebele names and everyone giggles as we butcher the sounds. One guy looks at us and says, "See? Just call me Good Price and I give you good price."

Despite the reports coming out of this country, I don't feel any desperation from these people. Yes, they are poor and looking at their outward appearance their poverty is apparent, but the dignity of their character is unavoidable.

Zimbabweans proudly declare that they are survivors. They are a proud, persevering group of people who seriously never cease to smile. One Zimbabwean even declares that Botswanan people aren't as happy as Zimbabweans because they have more money. "Money doesn't bring happiness," he says. These are people who are not jaded, not by their situation, nor by the tourism that surrounds them. When my mom and I return to the market the next day, a man starts walking next to us, smiling as he follows us. It takes us a minute to notice, but when we look at his hat, his smile grows wider. "Nice hat," my mom says realizing it was one we traded yesterday. The man just starts laughing and gives my mom a one-armed hug saying, "Nice to see you again."

I leave Zimbabwe missing the laughter, the smiles and the short lessons in the Ndebele language.
I leave Zimbabwe awed by their art, music and spirit.
I leave Zimbabwe believing in the people, believing that they are surviving and will continue to survive with unbroken spirits.

I return home to my comfortable, spacious American home wishing I could explore more of Zimbabwe without fear of impending political unrest. I look through my photos and tenderly unwrap my souvenirs, but it all seems inadequate. I am disappointed in my purchases just like I am disappointed in my photos. The images fail to capture the true feeling of the places I have been, just like the few sculptures, batiks and carvings I brought home fail to capture the magnificence of the creative spirit of the people. I feel stupid once I am home for passing up the chance to buy one or two more sculptures because I was worried about spending an extra $15 or $20. At home, though, the money doesn't seem as important as the ability to give this uniqueness to others as a gift. I guess I have to be content with the memories and the few pieces of creative expression I do have.

Oaxaca y la Temporada de Lluvia

Oaxaca during rainy season is a sight to see. For about eight months out of the year, Oaxaca's climate is as unchanging as any other high-altitude desert. Days are hot. Nights are cool. Every day is dry. Many people think deserts are boring. The brown landscape seems to be dead and dessicated under the unmerciful sun. I lived in Oaxaca two years ago during the driest part of the year which is April and May. Water was scarce and the water company was saying the wells were dry. Everyone was waiting for the rains to come, but I didn't. I left to moist, cool San Cristobal. This year, though, I am here for rainy season and I am glad. Many travelers hear "rain" or "rainy season" and head the other direction. Oh, but to see nature rejoice in what it waits all year for is quite the event.

The mornings are fresh, chilly, yet steaming as the sun dries up the puddles on cobblestone streets. Afternoons heat up, dry and deserty, like the Oaxaca of other months, set below a white and blue calico sky. As the sun goes down, thunder cracks imitating the inaudible sound of breaking heat. First, faintly across the valley, the rumble rolls in ahead of grey-black clouds louder and louder as the day darkens. Amazing lightening shows can be enjoyed from any rooftop. This is life lived in a valley. It's like a natural stadium where the sky is the stage.

As the storm blows closer, thunder builds with momentum. The heat gives way to gusting winds bringing in raindrops refugees before the stampede. Drop by drop, tip-tapping the metal corrugated roofs, this is only the beginning. A small moment passes, minutes where the evening is shrouded in shadow and half-basking sunlight. Then, as if on cue, a soft shuffle explodes into a BOOM! so strong one's chest reverberates with the thunder's echo. BOOM! FLASH! As if waiting to be formally announced, the sky opens up to baptize everything with furiously happy rage. The rain is the main attraction.

All evidence of urban breath, smog, even urban noise cowers away in the face of the season's daily exercise. People run for cover, stay inside, give thanks as the rain falls hard. From under certain roofs the sound of a million raindrops falling on corrugated metal can drown out even wall-shaking thunder claps. Conversation is muted, TVs are silenced and the only thing to do is watch and listen with marvel. Life pauses during one of these storms. The pouring, drenching rain only lasts about fifteen minutes, climaxes and only a cuddling drizzle wets Oaxaca. Sweet dreams are had falling asleep to the sound of rain only to wake up to a sunny fresh and chilly morning in which the ritualistic ceremony will repeat itself once again.

Everything about the rain is truly magnificent. The smells it carries from the mountains on its winds, the immensity of its cacophony and release it abates. Oaxacans love rainy season. Rainy season is when a desert comes of age and presents its beauty, its charms and fertility. Dry river beds fill with muddy torrents. Dormant cacti lazily bloom into fleeting flowers. June bugs come out of hiding. And the hills cupping beautiful colonial Oaxaca appear to have been painted, reupholstered, every ridge, nook, cranny, and ravine is blanketed in the soft green fuzz of life.

Rainy season may not be the ideal tourist season nor may it be all that spectacular to someone who is not intimate with deserts' nuances. However, to those who live here or to those who know desert locations, rainy season can feel like the unveiling of one of nature's most delicate masterpieces.

Colombia: a la orden

When I was planning my travels this time around, I had an itching to see more than just Mexico. Being fluent in Spanish, I had logically decided to explore South America. My original plan had been to fly from Mexico to Peru, go to Machu Picchu, Bolivia, the Amazon, etc. However, as I was doing my research, I found so many gleaming reports about a less-traveled yet equally stunning country. Infamous, feared and often misspelled, people who had actually been to Colombia had only good things to say about their experience.

Shrouded in a 20 year old reputation for drugs, violence and civil unrest, Colombia does not find itself as a steadfast blip on the traveler's radar. South America is absolutely crawling with backpackers. As gigantic as South America is, many, many backpackers come and travel all around. Some start in Peru, others in Brazil or Argentina and start collecting stamps in their passports from there. This was one of the things that turned me off of my original plan of going to Peru. As I talked with more and more travelers, I found that the backpacker routes in South America are so heavily trodden that I realized I could see any of these countries at any age. While I am young and adventurous, I wanted to see a country that is not as easily accessible, not as well marked and possibly dangerous.

Aaaahhh, Colombia, sweet, gentle, misunderstood Colombia. The reality of life here in Colombia could not be further from the image of its reputation. In my two weeks of traveling around, I have never once felt like I was in danger. I have not heard any reports of massive violence, guerrilla attacks or coups. I have only seen cocaine once in a bar and was never offered it. I found Bogotà, the capital to be a clean, refreshing city and the Caribbean coast a warm and friendly place.

The people of Colombia are well aware of their reputation. They will tell you, as well, that ten years ago Colombia was a different place. Ten years ago, there was violence and less safety, but now, one can feel confident traveling around. The people are very friendly, tolerant and welcoming. They appreciate the tourism because it is a sign that there is no fear, that maybe they will one day escape their terrible reputation.

I have quite enjoyed my time here. This country has everything you could want. This place has all the sights one sees in Peru, Bolivia, Brazil, but in one country. There are snow-capped mountains, deserts, Amazon jungle, white sand beaches and ruins. Most people I meet do the four-day trek to Machu Picchu along with the millions of other people who visit it every year by train and even helicopter. Colombia has a breath-taking set of ruins as well called Ciudad Perdida. "The Lost City" is one of the most pristine archaeological ruins in the world. One can only reach Ciudad Perdida by hiking through the jungle. The trip takes five days and from what I hear, once you arrive, you have the entire ruins to yourself.

Through my travels, I have met a lot of people who are searching for the reality of places, "real Mexico", "real Peru", etc. I say if you want a "real" experience, go to Colombia. There are definitely people traveling here and there are touristy places, but Colombia is definitely not as heavily visited as other parts of South America. Colombia, known for its emeralds, is a gem itself. It is a lively place off the beaten track with music, dancing and warm invitations. It is also relatively safe. Robbery and petty theft arer obvious risks anywhere in the world and the same applies here. However, I have not heard any horror stories of muggings or anything happening here in Colombia. That does not mean that they don't happen. I am only saying that I have heard more horror stories about people traveling in Venezuela than here in Colombia.

Hostel Platypus Bogotà, Colombia, http://www.platypusbogota.com/

I stayed at Hostel Platypus my first time around in Bogotà. I followed the Lonely Planet's advice as well as the hostel's claim to be "the best hostel in South America". After staying there for five days, I can safely say it is not the best hostel in South America. Hostel Platypus has all the services a traveler could need: free coffee all day, laundry service, Internet, beer, phone service. German, the owner, also could not be more helpful or friendlier. While I was there, the hostel celebrated its birthday. There was free food, drinks and music.

The problem with Platypus is that the hostel occupies three separate houses on the same street. I was staying down the street from the main house. That was actually pretty cool. It is like living in your own place with a bunch of other people. The problem is that there is no hot water. In a chilly city like Bogotà, hot water is essential. The lower house also has a sitting room with a TV, but it is the most uncomfortable sitting room ever. Instead of couches or comfy chairs, there are wood chairs. One of the great things about hostel life is being able to hang out. Platypus is seriously lacking a good place to hang out, even in the main house.

Hostel Sue Bogotà, Colombia, http://www.hostalsue.com/

A great alternative to Hostel Platypus in Bogotà is right next door. My second time around, I stayed at Hostel Sue. Hostel Sue is also Colombian owned and has two separate houses to stay in. I stayed in the main house that was definitely more social and has hot water. The people who were staying at the hostel when I was there were more long-term travelers. Whereas at Platypus, there were a lot more people passing through, at Sue the people are staying around for longer.

The rooms are nice and it feels more like a home. It also has free coffee all day, FREE Internet, laundry service, etc. Hostel Sue also has a TV room with couches, which on a rainy day, like the day arrived, was a gift. It can be a little loud however.

Casa Viena Cartagena, Colombia, http://www.casaviena.com/

Casa Viena is probably the most popular hostel in Cartagena. It is often full and does not take reservations. If you show up and there are no beds, they will help you find other accommodation. The staff is very friendly and has a lot of information about the area. They can also help you arrange a boat from Cartagena to Panama. The dorm room is air-conditioned at night and they have private rooms.

Those, however are the only redeeming qualities of Casa Viena. There have to be better places to stay in Cartagena. Unfortunately, I did not have the time to go looking around for other places to stay. Casa Viena is cramped and hot. The location also leaves something to be desired. It is located a couple blocks outside of the Old City in sleazy part of town. I did not think the neighborhood was especially dangerous, but it is dirty and not beautiful. Also, while Casa Viena can organize a boat to Panama, this can also be easily done at the dock without their help.

La Casa de Felipe Taganga, Colombia, http://www.lacasadefelipe.com/

Hostel Platypus may claim to be the best hostel in South America, but La Casa de Felipe IS the best hostel in Colombia. This hostel also has all the services a traveler could ask or including breakfast service in the mornings. Breakfast does cost extra, but for a measly $5000 COP you get your choice o eggs, bread and good Colombian coffee. The staff is extremely nice and helpful. The grounds of the hostel are what set it apart from all other hostels. There are dozens of hammocks strung around four patios with plants an shade. There are dorm rooms an private rooms all reasonably priced. Also, although Taganga has been taken over my groups of Israelis, La Casa de Felipe does not attract many of them.

The only downside to La Casa de Felipe is that it is not located right on the beach. It is about a five minute walk uphill from the beach, but this is a small price to pay or the tranquil and splendid atmosphere. It is also fun to walk through town, saying "hi" to locals and getting to know more than just the beach. La Casa de Felipe does take reservations and they are recommended.

Colombia: en Tours

As a solo traveler and without very much time, I left the comfort of being a traveler to become a tourist. With only two weeks in Colombia, I realized I had not given myself enough time to truly get to know and understand this dynamic and multi-dimensional country. I gave myself a week in Bogotà and a week to discover the Caribbean coast. My tour of the Caribbean coast included Cartagena, Taganga and Parque Tayrona. Cartagena was definitely the most touristy of the three because it is frequented by Colombians and foreigners a like. Taganga would be a close second. This small beach town has been overtaken by Israelis in the last four years and at certain times of year, tourists may out-number the locals. Parque Tayrona is a national park and is therefore only frequented by visitors.

In the interest of saving time and keeping myself on schedule, during my week on the coast I did two tours.

Volcan de Lodo el Totumo (Mud Volcano)
This was one of the places that I had read about before coming that I knew I wanted to visit. The Mud Volcano is located about an hour outside of Cartagena and was definitely worth the visit. Bathing in a cool mud pool that bubbles up from the ground is an unrepeatable experience. Supposedly, the mud bubbles up from a spot 2,300 meters deep. Over time, the mud has formed a small hill that you climb to sit in a man-trained "pool". Fortunately, the mud is not hot, it is actually quite cool.

Arriving at the volcano, we were instructed to strip down to our bathing suits and sandals and hand our cameras over to a local who's job is to take pictures of us covered in mud. We started our climb up the 200 ft pile of mud and at the top found about three Colombian men standing in the pool of mud waiting to give us massages. I climbed down the ladder into the mud and was told to lie back. The sensation of floating in thick, cool, grey mud is indescribable. Unlike in water, where you have to tense certain muscles to stay afloat, the mud just cradles you. After lying down, I was pushed over to a masseuse that completely covered me in mud. They start by covering the face to protect it from the sun. The massages are nothing particularly special, but they are relaxing.

After the massages, I just sat in the mud with the other people from the tour. When I first saw the pool and the masseuses, I didn't think that the pool was that deep. The masseuses were up to their shoulders in mud and I assumed that they had been standing. Once I was able to explore the pool on my own, I realized that they were floating, standing up. It was a surreal feeling. I could bounce up and down, but not sink. Later, talking with another traveler, we wondered what would happen if someone were to jump into the mud. Once submerged, would one be able to swim to the surface? Or would the mud just swallow a person?

None of us wanted to get out. It was fun just sitting there, but the feeling of mud weighing down my bikini bottoms was a little too similar to that of having had fecal accident. We all climbed down and headed to the lagoon to be washed off by local ladies. My idea of how this part of the trip was going to be was much more exotic than how it was. I had pictured a beautiful shaded lagoon and a more ceremonial washing. Instead, we were assigned a bathing lady and told to sit in the water as the ladies poured water over our heads. They did have us take our bathing suits off and washed them as well, but it took the lagoon bathing and at least two more showers to get rid of all the mud.

I had fun at the mud volcano, joking with the people there. It was fun to fake-throw mud at the clean people and dance around to shake off excess mud. The actual area around the volcano is very primitive. The bathrooms are outhouses and there are only two stands that sell drinks and snacks. There was no entrance fee either, however, none of the services are free. After you are rinsed, everyone who did something for you comes looking for a tip. I talked to some people who found this annoying and I agree to a certain extent. We were told the minimum to tip was $2000 COP ($1 USD), but I gave the masseuse, the camera man and the bathing lady each $5000 COP ($2.50 USD). The one tip that I thought was a little ridiculous was to the guy who held our sandals in a bag. I didn't give him as much as the others. It would probably be less annoyin and possibly more effective if they charged a flat rate for all the services and then divided up the day's profits.

Some people complain about giving these people money. Some people even complain about something as little as $2000 COP ($1 USD), which I will never understand. Driving to the volcano, the extreme poverty of the area was painfully obvious and here are Europeans, Americans, Israelis complaining about having to tip these people $1 USD vs. $2 USD and I just don't understand. I don't understand how people with money, with resources and privilege can justify denying others that live without.

The tour I did was with Casa Viena in Cartagena. You can reach the Volcan de Lodo on your own, which would be cheaper than doing the tour. I personally did not think the tour was worth it. It was nice to have an air conditioned van take me there and back, but the guide didn't give us any information and wasn't all that nice or friendly. However, the tour was convenient and economical.

Parque Tayrona

From Cartagena, I headed to the Caribbean sea. After asking around, I was told to go to a small fishing village called Taganga. Tanganga is about 15 minutes from the larger city of Santa Marta which is about five hours from Cartagena. People had warned me that the beach in Taganga was not spectacular, but the town was happening enough to give a solo traveler things to do at night. Taganga is also the jumping off point for the infamous Parque Tayrona.

Founded as a national park in the sixties, Parque Tayrona is 12,000 hectares of beaches and jungle. The entrance to the park is about an hour east from Taganga and easily accessible by public transportation from Santa Marta. From the entrance to the park, you have to walk about an hour to reach the first beach called Arrecifes and from there it is about a fifteen minute walk to each following beach. There are also horses available. Most people go to Tayrona and camp. There you can rent hammocks or tents and each little camping spot has a restaurant with food. I met a lot of people who had spent days and even weeks just hanging out and exploring the endless jungle and Caribbean beaches.

Due to a lack of time and the fact that I am traveling alone, I did not want to camp at Tayrona. I actually wasn't planning to go at all. I only had three full days in Taganga and I wanted to make sure that I got my beach time in. However, everyone was telling me how beautiful Tayrona was. More than one person claimed it was the second most beautiful beach in the world. This is quite the claim, but when I asked what the first most beautiful beach was in the world, no one seemed to know. On my last day in Taganga, I decided to go on a tour to Tayrona. I can see why people go and camp there because one day is not enough to see all the beauty in the park.

There were two things I really enjoyed about the tour. I originally had been dreading the hour and half walk through the jungle to get to the beach. It wasn't so much the walk itself, but the heat that pervades on the Colombian coast. It also seemed like a lot of wasted time, three hours total, that could have been spent tanning on the beach. The walk through the jungle was actually my favorite part. It was beautiful and it isn't that often that I get to walk through an actual jungle. The trail was easy with a few ups and downs, but nothing too strenuous. We had a guide who was an old guy from the area and I kept pestering for Colombian history, which he happily obliged.

The other aspect of the tour I enjoyed was the fact that I was the only non-Colombian in the whole group. I went to the park on a Sunday of a holiday weekend, so the Colombians were out vacationing in full force. Of the eighteen people in our group, I was the only whitey and the only single person. I don't think the other people really knew what to think of me at first. There was, of course, the question of whether or not I could speak Spanish, but when I was pestering our guide with questions, they all started to warm up. I ate lunch with a couple from the city of Medellìn. They convinced me that when I return to Colombia, the first place I should visit is Medellìn. The Colombians were from cities from all over and obviously had money. It was nice to see them out traveling.

The one part about taking tours that I don't like, however, is being on someone else's time-table. Having to adhere to a schedule is obviously intrinsic to touring, but it still bothered me. For one, the day we went was cloudy and as we ate lunch it started to rain. When the rain started, I wanted to go. All I wanted to do was sit out in the sun and swim, but with a cooling rain, those two activities were less than fun.

It ended up being fun anyway because I wasn't alone in the desire to go early. About twenty minutes before we were supposed to meet up to head back, a couple from Baranquilla started rounding everyone up. The lady told me that with the rain there was no point in being there and she was ready to head back to the bus. She took control and got everybody back on the trail. I was right there with her thinking, so I just got behind her and started walking. She booked back to the bus without looking back. We did the hour and a half walk back to the parking lot in under an hour. This lady wasn't fit, or skinny, she was just determined to get back to the bus. It was cool we talked as we huffed and sweated our buns off through the jungle. The rest of the group showed up a half hour later and were asking if we had ridden horses back. We just laughed and said we flew.

I definitely recommend Parque Tayrona as one of the spots to hit while traveling in Colombia. Just bring a friend, or lover, or group of people to have fun with.

Sudando en Taganga, Colombia

I thought I knew what it meant to sweat when I went to Indonesia 7 years ago. I did a jungle trek in Bukit Lewang, Sumatra, Indonesia, to see the orangutans. I trekked through tropical rain forest, up and down hills and in all the pictures my skin gleams with perspiration. I could have sworn to you that I was sweating to the point where it ceased to be salty and all that dripped off my body was purified water. I never thought I would sweat that much again. I never thought I would experience heat like that, but then again, I never really thought I would come to Colombia.

Needless to say, it is hot in Taganga, Colombia. It's not so much an opressive, humid heat as a constant, unabiding characteristic of the place. One sweats just sitting still, swatting flies away from one's food or waiting for a cooling breeze. It feels good in a way, like a ritual cleansing. A heat like this is only bearable at the beach with the ocean only a few meters away.

I came to Colombia for only two reasons. One reason was to come to the Caribbean and the other was to dance. Aside from being known for their violence and cocaine, Colombia is also known as the cradle of Cumbia, as masters of Salsa, as a nation that dances. Colombia is a wonderful, peaceful, undiscovered jewel in South America. The people are friendly, warm and I hoped that in a small town like Taganga, I would find a small salsa bar and a boy to dance with.

When I first arrived, I went on the hunt. I was looking for Colombians my age to shoot the shit with, to show me around and to take me out. Immediately, en la calle, in the street, I found the artesans. Artesans are easy people to meet. They are usually hippies who like to hang out and have a good time. I met Yury, a Jesus-look-a-like hippy from Bogotà, Diego a quirky young kid from Medellìn, Andres from Bogotà and his Canadian girlfriend Crista. Crista has been volunteering here for five months and was my guide to the locals. She said everyone was really nice and going out dancing would not be a problem. I had asked Yury earlier if he knew how to dance, which he of course said he did, but that doesn't say much because no self-respecting Colombian man would answer "no". Crista confirmed though that Yury did like to dance and we made plans to go out the next night.

I had my doubts about Yury from the beginning. He is one of these super hippies. All he can talk about is spiritual, new-agey crap. He's the type that can't joke around. For example, he asked me how old I was and when I told him I was practically a grandma with my 28-year-old-almost-30 ass, he of course comes back with, "Age doesn't really matter because time doesn't exist. We are just big balls of light, blah, blah, blah." Don't get me wrong. I am just as spiritual as the next closet hippy, but he wasn't saying anything I didn't know already. It was the same crap about indigenous people and hallucinagens, the Mayan calender, minimalism and Carlos Castaneda. I only mention all this because Yury had sort of attached himself to me and was destined to be my dance partner. The more he bored me with his lack of humor and his philosophical mumblings, the more I began to give up hope of having a night of uninhibited movement and rhythm.

The night we went out, Yury, Andres, Crista and I went to the beach so they could drink before going out. Crista and Andres were busy being all cute and cuddly and I was stuck listening to Yury's wisdom. During the course of his sermon, he's all, "Oh by the way, I love to damce, but I am not an expert or anything. I mean, I know the salsa steps, but fancy turns are not really my thing. I just like to move to the music." This was a blanketed way of saying, "I don't know how to salsa dance." My heart dropped and I was ready to go home, disappointed and defeated.

Just as I was about to say my "Ciaos", however, quirky, crazy Diego showed up wondering where we all were. He was ready to dance he said. I told them that I was going to go home, that I didn't feel like going out. Yury, of course, gave some crap like, "Life is for enjoying the moment, the present." Diego just looked me straight in the eye and said, "If you come out, I promise you the first dance." I looked the kid up and down and gave him a look like, "Is that a threat or an honor?" He just met my eyes again and said, "I'm from Medellìn," like it was supposed to mean something. I later found out that it certainly did.

So, I went out with them to a bar called El Garaje which is actually an old, small parking lot tranformed into a cool little bar. The dance floor is under the thatched roof of a palapa and there are trees to sit under. As we walked up to the bar one song was ending as another one began. It was a classic, popular salsa number. Diego turned to me and offered me his hand, dragging me onto the dance floor.

The heat under the palapa was intense in a steamy, communal sense of the word. There weren't many people dancing, so Diego and I had plenty of room to move. Sometimes it's hard to find your rhythm with a new dance partner. Everyone has their own style and Diego and I fit perfectly together. All I wanted to do in Colombia was dance until my feet hurt, dance until the sun came up, dance like it was my last day on Earth and dance we did.

Within minutes we were drenched in sweat. It was almost difficult to get through the turns because our hands would slip, but we connected nonetheless, missing turns, but never missing a step. It was hot. Salsa dancing is so provacative. The woman always has to be ready to be led through the turns. The man guides her with soft touches on the shoulder, the arm, the small of her back. When the man turns, the woman's hands always have to be ready to held again, to be taken. I only noticed how wet we both were when he would turn and I would let my hand slide along his back as he came full circle. Salsa songs are also so long that just when you think you have a had enough, when the song slows to almost a whisper, the horns start up again into yet another creshendo. And all those bodies on the dance floor, especially in Colombia, where everyone knows how to dance, has an intoxicating effect.

I felt like a super-star, like a Latina, like I passed the test. Diego would only dance with me. At one point some other guy asked me to dance, but Diego immediately cut in and whispered that none of the other girls danced as well as me. Poor Yury was left alone with Crista and Andres. He would only get up and dance to the occasional reggae song. I was lucky Diego showed up or it would have been a short, sad night. At one point, a traditional Afro-Colombian Cumbia song came on, drums beating with typìcal call and response lyrics. Everyone started clapping and singing and swinging their hips. Dancing is an unbelievable therapy. It is a drug unto itself. By the end of the night I was soaked. I could not stop sweating. My skirt was practically falling off of me because of the weight of its wetness. Diego was the same and we would just keep giving each other slithery, slidy hugs.

I don't think I can ever go back to living in the States. I can't give up this heat, this machisimo, this electricity. Ladies, Latin America is where it is at to feel like a woman, to feel like you are alive and strong and beautiful. Latin America is passion and music and revelry. I don't think I can ever go back to white boys again. They are just not in touch with their passion, with their masculinity, with their base. Here, in the heat, in the freedom of poverty, I feel at home.

Morelia, Michoacàn

Having spent a fair amount of time in Mexico City in one of the most popular hostels, I saw my fair share of backpackers come and go. As a seasoned backpacker well-versed in southern Mexico, I found myself giving a lot of advice, a lot of the same advice. It seemed that 95% of the backpackers I talked to were following the same route. They all wanted to know how to get from Mexico City to Oaxaca, then from Oaxaca to San Cristobal in Chiapas, on to Palenque and from there either to the Yucatàn or to Guatemala. Some of those headed south had come to D.F. from the north and had visited Guadalajara, Guanajuato, Zacatecas, etc., but most arrived in Mexico City and were immediately headed south.

It's not that I can blame them. Southern Mexico is spectacular. Oaxaca and San Cristobal de las Casas are two of my favorite places, but northern Mexico also has a lot to offer. Guanajuato, is one of the most breath-taking cities I have seen. It is also a young city, much like Oaxaca, and emits a certain electricity. Guadalajara is another northern city, as well as, Zacatecas that I have not visited myself, but have legendary reputations. Both those cities are high on my list of places to visit, however there was one city and state that I had been hearing so many good things about, they took priority. The state is said to be home of the most varied natural beauty in the whole country; untouched coast, mountains, lakes, forests, the migrating Monarch butterfly, and a charming capital that has been known to captivate.

Morelia is the capital of the infamous state of Michoacàn and it is where I have been exploring for the last week. This undiscovered gem of a city is definitely worth the visit, especially for those travelers who are seeking "real" Mexico, meaning some place off the tourist route. Morelia is definitely a middle class city, but the kind that will continue to be middle class whether or not you choose to visit it. Whereas it is evident in a city like Oaxaca how much its livelihood is dependent on tourism, Morelia goes on about its business. Walking down the streets here, no one cat-calls me, there are hardly any wandering vendors and only a few tourist-centered businesses. If you are seeking a truly Mexican urban experience that has not been diluted by tourism, Morelia is the place for you.

The city is centered, like most Mexican cities, around the Cathedral. The Morelian Cathedral, however, is a sight unto itself. The obsession the Spaniards had with building churches is unreal. Every Mexican city, town and village has at least one massive religious structure. The bigger the city is, the more churches it contains. The Cathedral in Morelia, for example, took over 150 years to build. It seems, though, that for fear of not having any place to worship during that century and a half, the Spaniards took it upon themselves to build a church on every block. This fascination with creating an endless array of sacred edifices is almost pagan in its zeal and is not unique to Morelia. It is no wonder that Mexican Catholicism and faith has a life and character all its own.

This particular Cathedral, however, is made of pink sandstone, sports 2 bell towers, a dome and an intricately decorated exterior that will keep you staring for hours on end. Every night at about 8:30pm, the building is illuminated and every Saturday the illumination is accompanied by fireworks. The Cathedral is not the only impressive architectural piece. Around every corner there is another relic, another artistic reminder of colonialism. It is absolutely amazing what the Spanish accomplished and built (on the backs of slaves) without steel, glass and technology.

I digress and apologize. It's just that Morelia has charmed me visually and has made me think about the history in this place. This walkable city is its own history lesson. There are also guided walking tours and trolley tours available at the Zocalo. A must do is a walk down to the Aquaducto at the end of Av. Madero. This is abeautiful part of the city with fountains, trees and a pedestrian walkway. Apart from the historical center, this would be another place to look for real estate.

Besides architecture, Morelia has a lot to offer. Centrally located, Morelia is 4 hours from the beach resort towns of Ixtapa/Zihuatenejo and the undiscovered Michoacano coast. It is also only 4 hours from Mexico City, 3 hours from Guadalajara and an hour or two from quaint little towns. Morelia also boasts an airport that receives direct flights from Houston, TX, via Continental Airlines.

I am actually surprised that Morelia has NOT been discovered in the same way that San Miguel de Allende or Lake Chapala has been discovered by retiring Gringos. Honestly, Morelia would be the absolute perfect place to retire. The weather is warm, but not too hot, and dry, but not a desert. The city accounts with all of the services a Gringo would want: good restaurants, Wal-Mart, affordable real-estate, movie theaters, coffee shops, and shopping.

There is no lack of things to do. Besides week-ends at the coast or in Guadalajara, from November to March, the Monarch butterfly reserve is open and hosts millions of butterflies. The cute, quiet lake town of Patzcuaro is always inviting and the lake itself is home to communities that are the true cradle of Day of the Dead celebrations. People actually come from far and wide on November 2nd just to see the cemeteries around the lake in all their splendor. Uruapan is another town that is less than 2 hours away that has a gorgeous national park and ancient ruins. Morelia is also hosting an LPGA championship this weekend, so there must be a golf course nearby. They have a professional soccer team as well.

I actually do not understand why anyone would retire to a place like San Miguel de Allende and not here. I met a Gringo and his son who recently bought a house here in the city. It is a 4 bedroom house located 5 blocks from the Cathedral with a front office space that is already being rented for $250 usd/month. We are talking prime, down-town real estate that needs a little work with a price tag of only $120,000 usd. It is truly a steal.

All that being said, I must say I am a little bored. Morelia's energy is a little more low-key than I would like. Places like Oaxaca, Guanajuato, Xalapa and San Cristobal attract a younger, hipper, more electric crowd. It's hard to explain, but the over-all ambiance of Morelia seems perfect for people of a certain age who want to be entertained, but in a relaxing way. There are definitely places to go out in Morelia and its peaceful vibe might have more to do with the lack of tourism than anything else, but it just does not have that "happening" feel. I do like Morelia though and feel it is only a matter of time before the snowbirds start taking notice.

All in all, if you are planning to explore northern Mexico, Morelia, Michoacàn, should definitely be on the itinerary no matter your age. This is the place for you if you are looking for something off the tourist path and if you want to experience that elusive "real" Mexico.

For the backpackers: I stayed at the lovely Hostel Morelia (Mariano Elizaga #57, www.hostelmorelia.com) It is only 8 months old and has not made its appearance in the Lonely Planet. It is part of Hostelling International and is very nice. The couple who runs the hostel is young, from Morelia and happy to give out any needed information.

Amistad

Everything in life can turn into an addiction. There are things that are addictive by nature, like alcohol, drugs, sex and smoking. There are also very ordinary, everyday things that become addictions, like shopping, eating, watching TV, video games, love. As a Pisces, a dreamer and hopeless romantic, I am no stranger to addiction. Right now, my weakness, my quiet obsession is travel. I have been pretty much working and living to travel for the past three and a half years and I cannot imagine my life without it.

Lately, I have been questioned by friends of mine who don't travel, trying to understand this incessant need. Why? Why do I feel the need to be abroad, to move, to explore? Seriously, you can really only see so many ruins, museums and colonial churches before they lose their over all flair.

These past 2 weeks in Mexico City, I think I may have found part of the answer. Traveling for me is all about maintaining a social high. I love connecting with people from all over the world. I love living and loving fluently in another language. I thrive off cultural intimacy.
These past 2 weeks in Mexico City, I met a great little group of really exceptional people. I am not even sure if we are all that exceptional in our own right, but together we sure make one hell of a crew.
It's moments, however long or short, like these past 2 weeks in Mexico City, where the energy between people mingles in perfect harmony. It's those unrepeatable moments that just get me off.

I first arrived at Hostel Amigo at 7am on a cold dark Mexico City morning fresh from a 6 hour overnight bus from Oaxaca. I had boarded my D.F. bound bus at 12:30am the night before, the Wednesday before official Mexican spring break began. The bus station in Oaxaca had been packed to the point where one could hardly get to the buses. I felt sorry for everyone there. I could only imagine them on their crowded buses headed for Puebla, San Cristobal or the beach. I wasn't worried though. Just as I had suspected, there were only about 8 of us on our way to the big city, so we had the bus to ourselves. That's the trick of Semana Santa in Mexico. Don't go to the beach or any other tourist destination. Go to the big cities like Guadalajara or Mexico City. It's vacation time. Everyone leaves the cities.

Regardless of how much space you have on the bus though. Overnight buses are never refreshing. I arrived at the hostel groggy and went straight to my bed and slept. It wasn't until the next day, Good Friday, that I went to the bar, chatted it up with the hostel staff and noticed that the place had been overtaken by a group of Aussies. Now, don't get me wrong. Aussies do travel quite a bit, Asia, Europe, the States, but to have 20 or so random Aussies staying at the same hostel in Mexico City at the same time is quite the anomaly. Some would go and more would arrive so that for 2 weeks there was nice steady flow of Australians.

Everybody has their distinct travel style. I am more of a homebody traveler. For me, it's not about seeing as many sights as I can and then moving onto the next destination. I like to take my time in one place, get to know its idiosyncrasies and its idiots, for that matter. At Hostel Amigo, I met 2 Australians who shared my style.

Damien was ending his 3 month stint in Mexico, Belize and Guatemala by enjoying D.F. for a couple weeks. This was Damien's first trip away from Australia and he chose to come all the way to Mexico. His friends thought he was crazy to come so far and not speak Spanish. He said he couldn't have enjoyed himself more.

Nicole's trip to Mexico was a little more complex. She arrived Friday morning and was staying in my dorm room. Nicole went to Cuba 2 years ago and fell in love. She ended up marrying a Cuban and is in the process of trying to get her Cuban to Australia. The process is lengthy, bureaucratic and costly. Because getting residency in Cuba would hurt her husband's chances of escape, Nicole has to leave Cuba every 2 months. She comes to Mexico. Not only does she renew her her Cuban visa, but she shops. She buys razors, perfume, belts and license plate holders, smuggles them in to Cuba and sells them on the black market. I learned a lot about Cuba by hanging out with her.

Attracted first by our need for strong coffee, we would meet in the mornings at Starbucks. Nicole and I would go together and be joined by a sleepy-eyed Damien about a half-an-hour later. Other random travelers would come and chat, but the three of us became thick as thieves over hangover-curing lattes and hostel gossip.

One of the things that makes Hostel Amigo a great place to stay is their downstairs bar. Serving only beer and tequila to the guests, this is where even more friendships are made. The people who work at the hostel are also great people. Damien found his Mexican kindred spirit in one of the bartenders. Carlos is one of the lucky Mexicans who found his way to the US legally and even found himself a US passport. His impeccable English and his taste in rock music turned Damien into a fast friend. Carlos, Nicole and I became fast friends just because we were all cool in the same way. This is the beauty of traveling friendships. There are no pretenses and not a lot of time. Travelers are not weighted down by daily mundane tasks. People are more open to give and receive. Deep bonds are made as fast and lasting as unforgettable memories.

My original plan was to stay in Mexico City only for a couple of days, but the days and nights filled themselves with favors, drinking and conversation until weeks passed. I went shopping with Nicole to buy things for Cuba. I met other people with whom I went about exploring the city. Damien was enlisted to help Nicole with her largest purchase of perfume. He had the task of hauling the 50 kilos, literally 100 lbs, of perfume from the store to the hostel. Carlos had to help carry the suitcase up the stairs to our room.

Our nights were spent at the bar. On quiet nights, our crew would play cards or Nicole and I would dance salsa with Luis, Ariel, Javier, and Adrian, other hostel employees. We would talk about everything. Carlos even celebrated a birthday during this time. He unfortunately had to work the bar at Hostel Amigo's sister hostel, La Moneda. Hostel Moneda is not set up as well as Hostel Amigo and the bar is very boring. Damien and I brought him a cake and sat with him as he served the 4 customers of the night.

Not all nights were quiet, however. Like I said, the hostel was filled with Australians and Aussies certainly know how to party. For a couple of days, a group of 4 young Aussie boys were at the hostel. Two of them turned 21 a day apart. Those were two particularly wild nights at the bar. A lot of tequila was poured and beer bottles emptied. The bar was packed. As tight little cliques can be sometimes, the 4 of us wanted to experience the night together, so Carlos told us to come over to his side of the bar. Before we knew it, Damien and I were busy serving beers and taking cash.

Maybe it sounds silly, all of this love for fleeting moments of intimacy, but it really is a special feeling. I loved being behind the bar and working in unison with those 2 guys. I loved it that people actually thought I worked at the hostel and asked me how I got the job there. I served beers, gave travel advice and met a lot of people. Nothing becomes more clear when traveling than the fact that there are no coincidences. The simple fact that a certain group of individuals from distinct parts of the world end up in the same place at the same time is cosmic. Traveling also brings a certain sad truth to clarity as well unfortunately. The sad truth that all great things come to an end.

That is the constant of addiction, the constant high and low. The highest point of this binge came with Nicole's good-bye party. It was one of those nights where everything felt right and the love was flowing. Damien, Carlos and I were behind the bar. Nicole was on the other side of the bar doing what she loves, dancing salsa. There was a lot of hugging, kissing and giving thanks for having met people as cool as us. I don't want to get all New Age or anything, but it was one of those nights where the energy was pure, high and wholly positive. Everyone in the bar was present and exchanging ides and vibes. It was a great night that ended with Carlos telling Damien and I that the 3 of us had sold $4000 pesos worth of drinks, almost the highest amount of sales in the history of the bar.

Life is all about change though and nothing lasts forever. Nicole's good-bye party started the chain of good-byes. Even Carlos was planning his own good-bye party as he moves to the States to go to school. There always promises made when you give your farewells. There are promises to write, to visit, to never change. Sometimes these promises are kept. Sometimes they aren't and with these people, I can't tell you if I will ever see them again. This is when the high ends, the crash comes and traveling turns into an addiction. These moments of adios is when loneliness hits and the reality of travel appears. It makes me wonder. What is the definition of a "close friend"? What does it mean to be a "friend"? What does it mean to be "close"?