It’s my last night in San Gil, the adventure capital of Colombia.  I’m staying at a hostel that came highly recommended by Lonely Planet, called Macondo Hostel.  It is owned and operated by an Aussie ex-pat and it has not disappointed.  My room is very comfortable, the common areas feature hammocks, couches, communal eating areas and a full kitchen.  Better than all that, it has a great vibe to it.  Everyone I’ve met here has been friendly, open and helpful.

My first night (after being chased by what I’m assuming were rabid dogs on steroids) I slept really well, the bed is simple but comfortable.  I did wake up at 6 AM, to the sound of what I’m assuming was someone shoeing a horse.  I decided to make the best of it, and the wifi was super fast since everyone else was sleeping so I watched a bunch of Archer on Netflix and just enjoyed.

It’s 6 AM and the noise won’t stop

Time for breakfast.  I went to a place called Gringo Mike’s for breakfast.  As you can imagine, it was mainly gringo food.  I ordered coffee, and they brought out the whole french press, which was a great start to my day.  A breakfast burrito with guacamole and smoked bacon.  It came out, and it was HUGE.  At least two fists.  And fat, Sicilian fists.  Remembering my vow to eat very carefully, I cut it in half and took my first bite.  I instantly knew, I would eat the entire thing.  It was a creamy, flavorful, and that bacon.  So good.  The food in Colombia has been great, but it’s been a lot of the same flavors for the past 2 weeks.  It was one of the best burritos, not just breakfast burritos, I’ve ever had.

I briefly thought of the consequences of rafting with a 2-fist burrito in my stomach and took the long way back to the hostel.  The streets here are just as hilly as San Francisco, so 20 minutes later and I felt OK.  I started getting ready for rafting and realized that we needed to have shoes that ‘won’t fall off your feet’ and I only have my sandals and hiking shoes, which would probably not dry until I got back to LA.  The hostel host told me there are a whole bunch of extra shoes and clothes that people leave behind.  I scored a pair of pure white crocs that fit perfectly and a pair of baggy cargo shorts.  Perfect!  Time to go.

14 of us piled into a small building where we had to sign disclosures and seal with fingerprints.  Mostly the different groups of people kept to their own groups.  I befriended a couple from the Netherlands that is traveling through Colombia for 3 weeks.  The atmosphere was one of quiet excitement.  Papers signed, time to get on the bus for a 90 minute ride to the river.  Our van really bonded.  Two Irishmen, the Dutch, some blokes from England all traveling a similar hostel circuit through Colombia and/or South America.  We all exchanged stories of our past, current and future travels.  Almost everyone would be traveling for several months.  It was great to hear all stories from people that have travelled the world.  The good and the bad.  One of my favorites was someone taking a job on as a fisherman in Australia and the tortures of being at sea for weeks at a time and the variety of nefarious characters you meet in such circumstances.

We arrived at the river and the reality of doing a 15km class IV/V rapid trip set in.  The guide gave us sobering instructions.  He described in detail the various ways one could be injured, safety protocols and rescue procedures.  I had my life jacket on at this point, and I could feel my heart thumping hard against the jacket.  It was a 20 minute course, and at the end we all locked eyes with a familiar ‘oh shit’ look.  It was interesting to see how people interacted.  Everyone was eager to help each other and the guides.  A nice departure from the ‘do everything for me attitude’ of some tourists.

The trip was great.  The rapids were challenging and scary, but not too bad.  I almost fell out of the boat once, but the guy next to me caught me.  Later on, I would return the same favor.  The most fun rapids were when you would row right into this wall of water and the whole boat and typically your mouth would be flooded with water.  There were also several locations where you could hop out of the boat and swim for a bit.  It was fun to just let the current carry you down river and just float.

At the end of the trip, there was a small table set up with some chicken, mangoes, pineapple, and some refreshing and necessary beers.  We all stood around, ate with our hands and relished the food.  There were chickens walking around, and to be honest it felt a little strange eating chicken as other chickens watched.  I felt judged.  I still had three pieces though.  There was a moment where one particularly enterprising chicken grabbed a scrap from the garbage and ate it.  ‘Cannibal chicken’ will be the name of my death metal band.

Another hour in the van and talks of Burning Man (US and Africa version) travel and DMT and we were back at the hostel.  Luckily the hostel has a proper laundry machine, so I was able to actually wash all of my clothes.  Unfortunately they don’t have a dryer, so I’m hoping they dry soon, because I am forced to walk around half naked until I get my clothes back.  It will be nice to have clean clothes though.

Horseshoes, bocce ball, corn hole.  These are all games that I seem to excel at.  Or, at least I like to tell everyone I excel at them.  I like to think that I inherited my Grandfather’s talent for backyard drinking games.  According to legend, my Grandfather threw 5 ringers (in horseshoes a ringer is a perfect shot and awarded the most points) in a row.  On his sixth turn, he declared “I can’t miss” faced backwards and said “here, look.” and threw another ringer.

My response to the explosion heard round the world.. A shot landed in the center ring and the gunpowder didn’t explode. A case of bad luck, or bad gun powder. Either way, it wasn’t enough.

In Colombia, they play Tejo.  Which, is similar to horseshoes, but instead of a shoe, it’s a small, heavy metal disc.  And, the throw is far.  20 meters.  And, gunpowder is placed around the ring.  So, a ‘ringer’ is marked with an explosion.  Typically, Tejo is for locals only and tourists are only allowed to observe.  However, Sean, (Macondo Hostel) has a solid reputation here and brings his lodgers for a go of it on Tuesday nights.  It’s free to play, beers are 2k pesos (1 dollar) and the explosions loud.

As we all learned the game, we were historically bad.  The first half of the first game, I wasn’t even close.  It didn’t help that different Tejo weigh different amounts.  As the first game I continued, I selected and protected my tejo.  An admirable tejo, with a small yellow paint smudge on the upper left corner.  It served me well.  And our team, with little thanks to me won the game.

On to the championship game.  Our competition was stiff, and we found ourselves in a 5-5 game.  Let the trash talking begin.  I planted a seed of doubt by asking the team ‘Have you had to play from behind yet’ and scored the next two points.  7-5, this is where a teams character is tested.  8-5.  And I could feel the wind being drained from their proverbial sails.  Perhaps I pushed the trash talk too far.  Tom, a Brit traveling for 6 months in Colombia stepped up and threw a perfect strike.  The explosion resounding throughout the building.  3 points and a tie game.  The shot heard round the world.  My next shot landed in and bounced out of the ring.  Bad luck.  And we never recovered.  We ended up losing 11-9.  I hung my head with a smile.  And maybe a slight buzz.

That buzz carried into a slight sluggishness the next morning.  I decided another breakfast burrito and coffee was in order.  And, a warm cinnamon bun.  I spent the rest of the morning relaxing and reading awaiting departure for my next adventure.  Paragliding.  A 15 minute flight off a nearby cliff.

3 of us piled into a pick up truck and the adventure began.  The steep, winding roads were no match for our driver.  We flew through corners, passed slow vehicles on blind curves and drove to the peak on a narrow dirt road.  We reached the top and it was another stunning view.  Maybe it was the elevation, or the lingering hangover, but it literally took my breath away.

I sat, headphones in looking out for 30 minutes while the other two people completed their flights.  Before i knew it, I was being hurried over to the parachute and strapped into a harness and the pilot.  Then, we were shuffling our feet and we were suddenly off the ground.  Paragliding doesn’t feel like a roller coaster or even bungee jumping in that there is never a feeling of falling.  It felt like flying.  The wind picks up the parachute and carries you into the air and the pilot directs you towards thermals, (warm streams of air that stream up from the ground and into the sky.  The thermals push you higher into the sky where you can stay or float in a different direction.  I realized I was flying.  I felt like a hawk, soaring through the valley and scanning the horizon for signs of life.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  Not during the flight and not for an hour after.  It was pure joy.

I have one more adventure in San Gil.  I’ll be doing a short excursion to explore a local cave.  After that, it’ll be time to board another bus and head to Barichara.  A small colonial town about an hour away.  I know that I’ve really enjoyed a place when it’s hard to leave.  I’ll miss my little room here.  I’ll miss the friendly receptionists here and having Sean provide expert advice and suggestions.  My biggest takeaway from San Gil is to be the one that helps.  Whether that is helping carry the boat, organizing Tejo games or sharing a beer.  The things we admire in people, we can be those things.  One explosion at a time.

Enjoying hammock time