The Better Road. . .I Guess.

We are in Popayan, Columbia. We came by bus, on a narrow mountain road, which had no guard rails and at times a side that dropped off two thousand feet to the tiny thread of a river. My Dwarf hates mountain roads and so my right arm was filled with finger nail indentations. So here we were, on our way to San Augustine and the wondrous ruins no one can explain. But a 11,000 foot mountain stands between us. My first time there, the view from the bus was so terrifying my dog jumped to the other side of the bus, and snarled at me. It doesn’t help to learn a bus went over the side about a week before killing all aboard. And now the ticket master’s telling her, ‘ It will be okay. A bus went over the side a week or so ago. They’ll be careful for few more weeks. Everyone is scared,’ didn’t help. So we have another cup of the best coffee on earth and lo and behold, are told there is another bus route, which skirts the mountain! But this road is very bad. My Dwarf wonders how bad it can be if the other one has buses that go off the side and kill people. We are told this one is so bad it takes twice as long. The road is in such terrible condition that the bus cannot go very fast. We buy tickets. Another cup of Heaven and we’re ready, Freddy!

Next morning, two hours out, a rear tire blows and there’s no spare! The driver pulls it off, jacks us up, hails a truck going the other way, and says he’ll be back. We find a shady spot and I’m up for a good long nap. So’s my Dwarf until the gun fire starts. It’s machine gun fire. Lots of Blam Blam Blams! And then a helicopter sweeps in and starts spraying machine gun fire and rockets about half a mile to our right. Everyone huddles down. Six hours we are stuck on the road, listening to the army battling insurgents. Eventually the driver comes back, changes the tire and 11 that night we reach San Augustine. Our room has green mold on the walls, and the covers are damp. Next day we find a good hotel and hire horses for the trip to the ruins. The ruins are another Travel. This is not about the ruins. Or about a French doctor who has joined us. It’s about a bus trip. Actually a bus trip to end all bus trips! Gunfire is nothing!

We complete our adventure and climb on for the return trip. The bus is small and loaded with Israelis. One of them had met us when we arrived and I gave him a nasty shove off. His friend strikes up a conversation which became a nineteen year friendship. So it goes. Then the driver stops in the middle of nowhere. I look out and there’s this huge wall of red mud stretching across the road and disappearing into the jungle. Hay un rumbes, we are told. We are skirting a volcano and there is an earthquake that brought down a wall of mud. We have to take our baggage and scale it, knee deep in the muck, to get the bus waiting for us on the far side. Oh boy oh boy! We only have a couple heavy back packs and two hand carries! What the heck! We climb down, walk over and begin the ascent. The red mud sticks like Elmer’s Glue to our feet. Three steps and each foot weighs forty pounds. Three steps is all anyone can manage. As we stand gasping, we slide back two. The summit begins looking like . . . .Who knows . . . . Haven’t climbed a red mud mountain. So we end up dragging the suit cases through the red mud, sinking in up to our calves and screaming angry bad words, in about nine languages! But we all get to the top.

Going down is simple. Two steps and we suddenly sit on our butts and down we go! Whoopie! Sure! Oh how this mud stinks!!! And it will not come off! No matter what. Everyone has a red butt. I take off my boots, get out my knife and scrape off enough so I can raise my feet when I walk. Do the same for Marilyn. We are back on this other bus. There’s double the passengers. The Israeli leans on our seat and convinces his buddy that we aren’t the rudest people on earth. We will spend days together. Oh! Our French doctor stays and takes the big blonde away from the Israeli. He claims it’s a matter of National honor!!! Then, he’s off to join Doctors Without Borders. We have his Paris address. It’s stolen in Peru. We always hoped to run into him again.
And that’s how that goes too. I’ll do the ruins and the horse ride later.