I

The last time I saw Alejandro Leaño before visiting his native country, was in the confines of a marble-textured elevator inside a whitewashed condominium at Surfside. My waning days of summer vocation in Miami, slowly lingered, hung by a thread, and as expected passed one hot, lonely, July afternoon. I was to set out back to gray Chicago, filled with alleys, Mexican grocery stores, ugly brick walls; where I had spent part of my American childhood. My bicycle, accompanied me on the thirty-two hour bus journey through the thick American rural puzzle. The next four months I spent in quiet pondering, planning for my next endeavor. Almost regularly me and my Colombian friend talked on the phone; all the adventures we had in south Florida seemed to rejuvenate, even grow in my memory. Our correspondence exaggerated our mutual triumphs and experiences, while slowly transforming our entire relationship from a human friendship into a romantic, albeit false dream. Before coming to visit Alejandro in Colombia I had a very strange disquietude about Alejo being the same person my failing memory imagined. I was afraid that I electronically blew myself up into a calm, reserved person whom Alex would find quiet different in real life. And so after finishing my customs, immigration and baggage claim at Bogota's El Dorado Airport, only one more pause remained before I would once more meet my internetically lost friend. Stranded in a small foyer with large glass windows to the outside, I stopped to survey my surroundings and take one more breath before entering the unduty-free Colombia. Hundreds of faces peered into the windows - I was afraid of opening the door and diving into the mass, so unfamiliar and foreign. And when I did step into the open - Alejandro, tall, paler, anxious, called my name. How reserved his voice sounded, and how strange it was to once again see him, as if we've never left each other's sight on that sad, waning moment inside the elevator of summer.

II

I have for a long time had a nervous discomfort of going to public restrooms and this was especially the case on Greyhounds and airplanes. So the first thing which I decided to do upon landing at El Dorado airport was to go visit one. Our plane had been delayed 2 hours because of navigational malfunctions, I was dizzy, confused, and what's more - squeezed by the 2400 meter altitude. As I stumbled, dumb and bewildered into the small doorway under a "Hombres" sign, a broken bottle greeted me. Its contents were the second to approach me, and the third was the small, neat woman which was slowly, unceremoniously cleaning up the mess. Why was there a woman in our bathroom, and why is no one else paying any attention to her? That was my first real impression of Colombia, albeit false, but very memorable for being my first encounter with the other side. As my plane landed that night, for the first time I was hit with the obligation to question myself as to the reason for this trip. Simple enough I wanted to see my friend Alex, I wanted to learn of the ways of his people. But I knew there was more, because unwilling fear finally released itself on the tarmac. I could not deny it the other prevalent reasons - I wanted to feel danger, but not only to feel it for myself, I wanted others to fear for me. I wanted to stand out, and I wanted heroism. But innocently wishing for this in your home is one thing; it was time for me to stand by my dreams. I wanted out, I did not want to face the reality of being here, but I did not have the money for a quick way back. It was getting close to midnight, and after overcoming problems of getting my inmigration stamps, I was quickly on my way to the north of Bogota where I would spend the nights of this adventure. From the back of an Explorer, the dark, sleeping city seemed an industrial wreck. Dirty store fronts, shacks, rusty cars. The mountains which were promised to me did not seem to exist, and all reminded me of a Midwestern slum. What I saw was misleading, like all roads leading to an airport, this one was similarly dull. My first acquaintance with my bed was strangely cold, I had still not gotten used to the new room temperature and I occasionally woke up to look out the window. The McDonald's across was fully lit and illuminated the little structures around it. I am in Colombia, I repeated to myself many times, trying to achieve the proper mood.

III

It was drizzling the day of my first drive through the city. We left quite early for fear that all our plans would not be accomplished in the days given to us. Meeting my friend's grandparents was the next thing to do, for they were the ones who would show me Bogota, and in a couple of days their large, spirited farm. They were the first people I was introduced to in Colombia, and the ones I will always remember most. After usual Colombian formalities we drove off toward the city center. I looked out the window, as if catching quick and delicate butterflies. In search for new experiences and views I constantly rotated my head toward all angles. I was still innocently nervous, Colombia's reputation had not worn off in my mind, and I tried not to make eye contact with anyone in passing vehicles. Cars where everywhere. Like rats, they seemingly climbed over each other just to be blocked by one of the multitude of busses. Busses and bussetas were everywhere. In all colors, and models. Small red Mercedes' lined the avenidas - and ones which looked like American school busses stopped at every wave of an arm. With colorful, attractive, but dizzying designs they filled the air with black, dense smoke. I noticed small Volga and Lada taxis zigzagging through busy streets, their drivers intense and furious. Everything seemed strangely familiar, but noticeably different. The grass by the side walks seemed different; shorter, thinner, greener. Every corner had auxiliary police or solders patrolling and pacing. Many buildings had their own armed guards, and bullet proof riot-control vans were parked by more than one intersection. The city overpowered me. I was not ready for so much busyness, so much intensity, the pollution and the altitude smoldered my body. And how amazing it was to see people occupying, even enjoying walking. The roads were all terrifically jammed, yet the sidewalks were enjoying even more company.

IV

We made our way from the cordillera to the low lands by the small frightening serpentine roads in order to view the Magdalena. "Get your camera ready!" my friend Alejandro yellow to the back of the Explorer. We progressed out of a curve, and there it was; dark, hairy from thorn bushes, a cliff overhanging our path was revealed. And quickly again it disappeared as we sped by yet another twist. And in my mind, which was not able to quickly decipher the image - it really was the Nose of the Devil which I had the mysterious chance to drive under.

V

After more than nine hours of travel time, I was more than ready for what Bogota had to offer. And as we landed, I nervously looked out the small, square airplane window - this is what Colombia is supposed to be like. All my dreams and reservations about this land would be revealed upon touchdown. Viva Colombia! Those were the words that shook a Continental's 747 that was carrying me into forbidden territory. It was night, I saw sparse and lonely palms. A few oddly parked American Airlines' jumbojets. I saw no war. And war did not see me.

VI

One night I had trouble sleeping, and I dreamily revisited the events of the day. At around three, out of the dark street under the eucalyptus, I heard a single gunshot. So close to where I was, the explosive noise made my muscles tighten in an instinctive spasm, as that of a frightened cat. And then, yet closer, another shot. And in a minute, the pattern repeated. I was out of my mind; someone was probably murdered, right outside of our building, but not just killed, but ruthlessly, violently assassinated. Why not with one hit, but four? Was one not enough to end the life of a misfortunate man? And then so many thoughts ran through me; I felt vulnerable to this new place, felt that I was on my own now. Then I felt the guilt; why could I have not saved this lost life? At the sight of long awaited daylight, Alejandro walked into my room; startled and still full of excitement I told him of the night's events. He laughed, and I lay there, not understanding. I was informed that it was not gunfire, but the guards' signal, and many laughs were to be provided on my account in the coming days. I had never heard gunfire before, and for a long time after that night, the sounds appeared to me in many different forms. Old trucks, industrial machinery, caughing.

VII

As soon as we left the city, the conditions of the roads deteriorated. Pot holes, sharp curves and the steepness of the Andes provided for a more than typical third world road. We went up and down; the clouds occasionally passed level with the road, and temperature changed upward with every meter of altitude that we lost. Occasionally we passed small roadside towns, where children ran beside our car selling granadillas and plantains, while piglets hung from carnerias - lifeless, roasted, Colombian.
We were heading eight thousand feet down from the mountains in order to arrive in Girardot, a town resting on the banks of the Magdalena River. The thought of seeing this major South American waterway engulfed my imagination, and so my hosts offered to drive me there. Although the trip took much time, and was to be through dangerous territory - this was my only opportunity to see non - Andean Colombia. The road had many horses, donkeys and bicycles, yet what made it hellish was the enormous amount of busses. Like in Bogota, these colorful cheerful busses spit out dreary smoke and crawled like Brazilian sleuths. The one lane highway made it necessary to get into the opposite lane and pass a plethora of vehicles. The cars coming toward us in their rightful lane flashed their lights, honked, but eventually had to stop when we could not fit into the traffic on our own side. And this continued for three more terrifying hours. When we finally reached the foot of the sierra we were engulfed by jungle. Endless green trees and vast density was around. The hot temperature was unbearable and my quest for adventure grew to new heights. My hosts and I stopped for almuerzo. I was given a typical farmer's meal - churrasco, potato and plantain. Times five. Ouf, what a scent is produced when the smell of South American food is mixed with the gentle aroma of the jungle. My innocence and the relative protection I enjoyed in the capital was now of no use. The guerrillas were just over the hills, and so was Girardot.

VIII

Happy, and filled with typical food; Alejandro, his grandfather, Marco, and I continued our way through the narrow streets of Tabio in order to reach the farm. As usual, children ran beside our Mazda on the elevated side walks, and bicycling country folk wizzed past, rubbing elbows with my door. And then I saw the corner of a building which so resembled a photograph I once saw in a book about Peru, I knew I had to get out of the vehicle and take a pic. And as soon as I stepped out - the car rolled back, and my foot screamed with suppressed agony. That is how stick shift cars like to operate, and how I don't like to spend my winter vocation. My poor Spanish did not help my situation, and I could not get my foot released from the car's grasp. Now my objective was to prevent the driver from completely over-running my foot, bones and all. Helpfully Alejo, in good timing helped to slowly direct the car off me and I was able to never the less take the picture.

IX

Maids where everywhere. Young, old, pretty, and less so - in all genres, styles and stereotypes. Like the guards at every street corner, women served every residence I visited. Olga, the 18 year old girl who lived and worked at the Leaños' apartment from Monday through Saturday was as different from anything I was used to as Bogota's altitude. Her reserved, meek, obedient persona, and equally conservative physical appearance (sheltering a hint of undiscovered beauty) mystified me. I was ashamed and could not watch her washing my dirty clothes, nor once my mud bathed shoes. I was uncomfortable having a girl no older than myself, spread my bed sheets, and refold everything, morning after morning. While I enjoyed my leisure - she worked. And that is how life goes on in the rest of the world, while the US bathes in oblivion. I hardly ever said a word to her, except for the usual praise for the meals she served, or quick, hesitant good-byes. After all, how do you have a conversation with a girl who could easily be in your graduating class, but in reality hand-washed your underwear the previous night? My last day in Bogota, I saw her returning from a Christmas weekend in a neighboring village. She wore a trendy little coat, a trace of makeup. So much prettier than in the usual white apron (I must admit that that too provides much fantasy). How is she outside Alex's apartment? Many nights I spent laying in my bed, under an itchy blanket guarding me from chills thinking of the busy day I just completed. And despite many acquaintances' doubts - survived. I also thought about Olga a few walls away. What was she thinking? Was she dreaming about entering the Medical School she so wished to attend? My friend Alejandro's attitude toward the maid differed from mine; in my silent relations with her, he was of a traditional, slightly class sensitive set of mind. The quiet Colombiana and the system she represented was my subtle entry into the realities of equatorial life.

X

The day in the lowlands was full of exhausting details, events, sights and smells. As soon as we arrived in Flores and settled down in a small colorful restaurant after standing on the bridge across Rio Magdalena - all I could do was quietly intake the atmosphere and chew on chirimoya. Technically, the atmosphere itself was humid and miserable. The sandy street in front of me and the people who pointlessly traversed it seemed unaffected by the heat; their misery came from poverty, and the stalemate of their lives' time. Venders occasionally noticed us and with their solemn eyes offered papaya, or mandarins and often, something reserved for tourists - guilt. A quiet Negro man washed our Chevy's windshield, kids kicked a ball into an aqua painted corner, and another man came off the bridge. As he entered the area directly across from me, I noticed the words printed on his rugged, black cap. "Chicago White Sox". More than 2000 miles from my hometown Chicago, in a small, forgotten town across a river, one man, unknowingly explained to me the meaning of globalization.

XI

If Amsterdam is a Mecca for cyclists - Bogota is the Jerusalem. Maybe this is an over exaggeration, but the thousands of daily bicycle commuters, long stretches of cycle routes, and ciclovias make the capital a great place to discover on two wheels. The story which I tell most often to my American friends of my trip to Colombia is about what happened during my first ciclovia. Early Sunday morning Alejandro and I got on our bicycles and after picking up Juan Pablo - Alex's friend, we began our ride south toward La Candelaria. Ciclovia is a weekly event during which the main arteries of the cities are closed to cars and hundreds of recreational cyclists take over. After we reached Plaza de Bolivar and I once again looked at the colonial part of the city, we began to head home. But instead of riding on the road open to cyclists which we took earlier; my Colombian companions decided, for no clear to me reason to take Avenida Caracas. In the LP Colombia guide book I read that this avenue used to be a polluted, traffic filled, insane road; however it has changed. An occasional car and the new Transmilenio buses whizzed past us with surprising speed in their assigned lanes. The air was moist from the morning fog, the dirty colored buildings made the atmosphere melancholy - and suddenly we were stopped. The three policemen that surrounded us were in very tight and formal uniform; tall shiny boots, white helmet, and similarly colored gloves. In fact they might have been solders as it is hard to distinguish between the two - both are in great abundance around Bogota. They lectured and quickly became more abrupt and rude, but despite my efforts to pretend I was understanding - the only word I comprehended was "papeles" which they demanded many times. Alex told me they wanted our licenses and proof of purchase for the bikes. And as we didn't have such ridiculous papers we were threatened to go to jail for stealing bicycles. I thought that at that point my adventure would sharply escalate - well if I survived the Colombian jail experience that is. My companions thought otherwise, and when I told them jokingly that I didn't mind going to prison for some adventure - the two took it seriously and were annoyed. Next, the cops demanded sechulas. At that moment more panic; none of us had any identification and all I could find was my American high school ID. After examinating it for an incredible amount of time, one of them came close to me and very quietly asked "¿What your name?" All I thought about then was if any other students' ID cards had saved them from a trip to a South American prison.

A new thought every week...