Greetings earthlings,

The time has come for this wandering alien to return to his home planet of ice and snow.

The first email summary of my South American adventures was issued June 2006, the second email June 2007. This is the third and final instalment of a trilogy to integrate the itinerary with journal and photo notes.

Asunción, Paraguay

After two months in Buenos Aires I departed June 6, 2007 for Asunción, the capital city of Paraguay on the banks of the Rio Paraguay. While Paraguay is piddly in size to its neighbors it is 14% larger than Germany with a population of 6 million, 1.2 million of those living in the capital Asunción, 65% of the population being mestizos of mixed Spanish and Guarani Indian descent. Paraguay joins Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia in what I call “Indian nation-states.”

In Asunción the first oddity one notices is almost no tourists. The second oddity is how cheap it is. Asking for $400 CAD at a bank machine is the equivalent of 2,000,000 Guaranies. (“What is the fastest way to become a millionaire? Leave Canada.”)

Doing a bit of research I came across an article stating Moscow competes with London and Tokyo for most expensive capital city on earth. 143 places below Moscow, for the fifth year running, is Asunción, the cheapest capital city on earth.

Cheap it is. While there are no sexy tourist attractions like a Rio de Janeiro or Buenos Aires it is a quiet city to kick back in for a while, particularly after the pressure-cooker crowds of BA. Simply to get out of BA’s noisy hostels into a quiet and private hotel room was bliss.

Concepcion & Filadelfia

The Jesuit ruins of the south did not interest me. But aspects of the north and west quadrants of the country did. On the morning of June 20 I boarded the boat Cacique II bound for the city of Concepcion, a thirty hour chug up the Rio Paraguay.

In Concepcion I inquired about boats going further up the Rio Paraguay to Puerto Bahia Negra, the far north of the country. With six days to the next scheduled boat I bussed to the community of Filadelfia in the west, a town founded by Russian-German-Canadian Mennonites in the remote, semi-arid region called the Chaco. A region which constitutes about 60% of Paraguay.

I was curious to know if it would be possible to explore the Chaco’s interior, similar to the kind of rainforest hiking done in Peru and Bolivia. It didn’t take long to negate this idea. Filadelfia is a windy, dry dustbowl wonder. Walking the voids called streets one eats a lot of dust.

Hiking in the Chaco would be unbearable with its high temperatures, open landscape and thorn-infested ground-level plants -- as opposed to a rainforest canopy soaring overhead to limit nasty floor growth, providing shelter from the sun. There is no infrastructure set up for treks, no companies. It would have been plan-intensive and time consuming -- therefore expensive -- for a single individual to gather the equipment and supplies to get a trek off the ground. A vehicle would also be necessary to traverse the vast expanses, carry supplies and water, further inflating cost.

The highway from Filadelfia continues west for another seventy km, hits the military checkpoint Mariscal Estigarriba, no further communities to the Bolivian border. I stayed a single night in Filadelfia, bussed back to Concepcion to prepare for the boat ride to Bahai Negra.

During the journey to Concepcion I was annoyed by the military at a check stop. They pulled me off the bus, patted me down, inspected pockets and money-belt, rifled through the backpack, loudly and impolitely barked questions.

From stories read online I expected this kind of treatment. Paraguay gets so few tourists that every foreigner is suspect of criminal activity. I swear the commanding officer was smashed drunk, spitting in my face as he threw questions at me. I was the only one to get searched, of course.

In Concepcion on a Saturday night I met a couple youths who escorted me to a variety of clubs. Somehow ended up twenty kilometers out of town at a gas station partying in a crowded parking lot. For curious wife-shoppers, I don’t know why but the chicas of Concepcion are prettier than Asuncion or Filadelfia -- but at least the Mennonite girls make good yogurt.

Boating to Bahia Negra

Bought a hammock, blanket, groceries. On seeing boat Aquidaban, my floating home for the next five days, I wrote: “Tuesday. Holy @#º\ this boat is hilarious. It’s farmer joe times one hundred. Does this thing even float?! …

… the first level is packed to bursting with vegetables, fruits, foodstuffs, building supplies, motorcycles … 90,000 Guaranies to sleep in a hammock … this makes the Peruvian ferries look first-class … the first hour alone is worth the price of fare! … chained the backpack to a post underneath the hammock … the cook washes the dishes and cooks with river water … Wednesday. Imagine my surprise waking at 4am to a freezing cold …

… unloading supplies in many of the small Guarani Indian communities, ranches … rice, meat and stale bread for supper again … Thursday. The land on the right side of the river is now Brazil, around me is the Pantanal, the world’s largest floodplain … Friday. Docked in Bahai Negra. We unload supplies, immediately turn around for Concepcion …

… pulling out of Puerto Esperenza was awesome! Half of the town boarded the boat, we’re no longer empty. Great pictures … Puerto Leda, a military post with Japanese engineers present …. Saturday. A fellow in one port brought aboard a capybara for sale, 8000 Guaranies. I could have bought a capybara for $1.60 CAD! I was tempted to buy then put him on a leash, walk him around Concepcion …”

“If there is one book to approach the scope of Atlas Shrugged it is Les Misérables. Many of Hugo’s ideas are Rand’s, yet he expresses himself with tenderness and compassion while Rand is hard and abrasive. Hugo’s characters could be real beings, Rand’s are talking ideas.” (June27)

“Precedents create easier subsequents.” (June28)

“To have all wealth intangible, in my person, in the form of experience and thought. For wealth in the form of possessions is a prison, a deception, a sweet lie of externalized stability. A cage with golden bars. … it drains you in maintenance, dilutes you, spreads you thin. … A concentration of power.” (July2)

Ciudad del Este

From Concepcion to Asunción for a couple days, arranged a package to ship home, lightening the backpack in anticipation of entering Brazil. From Asunción to Ciudad del Este, the booming tax-free border town with Brazil.

Here I joined a free forty minute tour of the Itaipu dam, currently the largest operational hydroelectric power plant in the world. The Itaipu dam is a joint project of Paraguay and Brazil.

The total length of the dam is 7235 meters. It is 196 meters high, equivalent to a 65 story building. With 20 generators its maximum generating capacity is 14 gigawatts, supplying in excess of 90% of Paraguay’s electricity and 20% of Brazil’s (2005).

By comparison when finished in 2011 the Three Gorges dam in China will be 2309 meters long and 185 meters high. While physically smaller than Itaipu its maximum generating capacity with 34 generators will be 22.5 gigawatts, surpassing Itaipu.

However if the Three Gorges dam was fully operational now it would only support about 3% of the total electrical consumption in China, falling short of the 10% designers anticipated in their original plans. Such is China’s economic growth.

Iguazu Waterfalls

From Ciudad del Este I momentarily crossed Brazil to re-enter Argentina to see the second largest waterfalls in the world, Iguazu.

“Geography & Rank: The Iguazu waterfalls consists of 275 falls along 2.7km of river. Individual falls reach up to 82m in height though the majority are about 64m. The Garganta del Diablo or Devil's Throat, a U-shaped 150m-wide and 700m-long cliff, is the most impressive of all, and marks the border between Argentina and Brazil.

The Iguazu falls are ranked second largest in the world. By comparison Victoria falls in southern Africa is the largest curtain of water in the world, more than a mile wide and over 108m in height. The water falling over Iguazu in peak flow has a surface area of about 400,000m-sq while Victoria in peak flow has a surface area of over 550,000m-sq. By comparison, Niagara has a surface area of under 183,000m-sq.

Victoria's annual peak flow is also greater than Iguazu's annual peak -- 9.1 million litres per second versus 6.5 million -- though in times of extreme flood the two have recorded similar maximum water discharge (in excess of 12 million litres per second). Niagara's annual peak flow is about 2.8 million litres per second.”

Argentina has trumped Brazil in its presentation with catwalks built over the river to the edge of the falls. Standing on the precipice of the Devil's Throat looking down into the swirling mists is an eerie and awe-inspiring feeling, similar to peering into the roaring crater of an active volcano.

Getting soaked while walking catwalks around dozens of waterfalls in a sub-tropical forest environment is an intimate and fun part of the Argentinean experience. Brazil supposedly has the better “full context” view of the Iguazu falls but after two days of being drenched I decided it was enough, being “waterfalled out.”

Brazil: Florianópolis to Curitiba

On July 8 I stamped into southern Brazil bound for Florianópolis. Due to Brazil’s reputation for violence I expected to see an instant war zone. Instead I was surprised to see nice farms and houses in a peaceful countryside. “There is obviously little poverty in this sphere of Brazil.”

I thought Florianópolis would be a big town at most. Found a full-fledged island city, a multi-colored candy-scraping skyline resembling a mini Hong Kong. Popular for its beaches, seafood and quality of life (first among Brazil’s provincial capitals) unfortunately I arrived in the dead of winter, stayed two days bussing around the island, admiring the richie-rich homes.

To Curitiba, a city of 1.8 million, known as one of the best examples of urban planning worldwide, particularly for its transit and road system. I wandered downtown for the first day, feeling like I was in Calgary (Canada). An advert seen: a globe earth on top of an ice cream cone.

The next day I visited the Oscar Niemeyer Museum complex, also known as “The Eye” due to its design. Famous for his “modern architecture,” Brasília (Brazil’s capital), the United Nations headquarters and other items, I took the time to learn a little more about him.

Ultimately Fidel Castro says it best: “Niemeyer and I are the last Communists of this planet.” (Only two left to go!) I find Niemeyer’s architecture superficially pleasing at best; ridiculous, useless and a complete waste of space at worst.

Finished sightseeing in Curitiba with an elevator ride to the top of the Torre Panoramica (tv tower) for a bird’s view of the city, a stroll through the botanical gardens.

São Paulo I: Stats

Here I took a deep breath and bought a bus ticket for São Paulo. As a Dutch traveller wrote in a hostel guestbook "I arrived in São Paulo somewhat paranoid ..."

“Greater São Paulo suffers from colossal problems of scale. The metropolis grew from 31,000 inhabitants in 1870 to an estimated 19 million today, spread over 8051 square kilometers, the fastest long-term rate of urban growth in human experience. … breeding vastly greater pressure on the capacity of an incipient urban society to organize. …

… 9,027 murders were reported in 1999 … In São Luís cemetery, in the southern periphery, graves are dug in advance on Saturdays and Sundays … Buses are called cash machines, or "24 Hour Banks." In 1999 there were 10,698 bus robberies, or one every hour.” (Bruno Paes Manso, Fernand Braudel Institute of World Economics).

“São Paulo, Brazil’s richest city, the world's fourth-largest metropolis … Alphaville, a walled city where the privileged live behind electrified fences guarded by a private army of 1100 … the number of Brazilians living in São’s more than 300 walled communities doubled to 1 million over the past five years. …

… helicopter lift-offs average 100 per hour. The city boasts 240 helipads, compared with 10 in New York City, allowing the rich to whisk to and from their well-guarded homes to work, business meetings, afternoons of shopping, even church. … Brazilians are armoring and bullet-proofing an estimated 4000 cars a year, twice as many as in Colombia.” (Anthony Faiola, Washington Post Foreign Service)

“São Paulo's crime situation is rated CRITICAL.” (The Overseas Security Advisory Council, Feb2006)

As I summarized on the photography page:

“Brazil's brutal violence levels, particularly in its megacities, is world famous. One article states Brazil's 2007 murder rate is 23.8 per 100,000 people. Doesn't sound like a lot until you extend that ratio to Brazil's 190,000,000 population. 190,000,000 / 100,000 = 1900 x 23.8 = 45,220 murders per year.

By comparison Canada, with 33,400,000 population, had 605 homicides in 2006, 58 fewer than in 2005 (1.85 homicides per 100,000 people). The United States, with 300,000,000 people, had 16,900 murders/manslaughters in year 2005 (5.63 homicides per 100,000 people).

Brazil has 63% of the US population yet 2.7x more murders. Guide-book Lonely Planet writes the monthly murder rate at the end of the 90s in São Paulo was in excess of 700; since 2000 that rate has been halved. Rio de Janeiro is currently operating at a rate of about 250 murders per month.”

“In 2006 46,660 people were murdered in Brazil, a reduction if compared to 2005 when 47,578 were killed. The year of 2003 still holds the record for total number of murders in Brazil, that year alone 51,043 people were murdered.” (Wikipedia, Crime in Brazil)

São Paulo II: On The Ground

First thing I did was to ensure a daytime arrival. Departed Curibita 6am, arrived São Paulo bus station about 1pm. Immediately dived into the metro and surfaced in the suburbs (Praca da Arvore) to find a reputable hostel ($20/night), avoiding the hotels downtown.

With the pack off my back, lighter, faster, looking more like a local, I returned downtown via the metro to Republica station. Bought a huge city map. Scored a win by arriving at the Edificio Italia at 2:57pm, three minutes before the 41st floor viewing platform opened to the public. An initial twenty minutes of sunshine allowed me to capture the skyline of the city, one of the largest in the world.

“If São Paulo city were a country it would be among the 50 largest economies in the world: in 47th place, ahead of Arab countries like Egypt, Kuwait and equal to New Zealand.” www.brazzilmag.com

Back on ground level it was easy to see why central São is potentially dangerous: thousands of homeless people, packs of young kids roaming. I followed pedestrian streets to the theater, main square Praca da Se (filled with homeless), the cathedral. With light fading, the business crowds rapidly thinning, night girls already selling, I descended into the metro. It being Friday 6pm I took three minutes of video footage of the metro, doing 360 degree rotations to capture trains arriving and departing one after another on multiple floors. Leaving centro to rape itself for the night I made a retreat home.

“I have seen poorer environments in the world (Pakistan, India). I have seen richer environments in the world (The West). But the spread of extreme poverty mixed with extreme wealth as displayed in a city like São was a new precedent. It was an intense precedent, one I found worthy of my time and observation. Brazil is the most eye-opening country on this continent to date. …

… One stat I found to emphasize the stunning gap in wealth is 130,000 people, or less than .75% of the population, own 54% of the country's GDP. Another source says 10% of the population holds 80% of the country's overall income. Along with this Brazil is famous for the indifference of its rich and the passivity of its poor.”

First thing I did Saturday was visit MASP, the city’s art museum. As usual, with the exception of a European collection of paintings, it was another pathetic South American art museum. I exited to write: “Did I get my $5 worth? I am undecided, so I guess not.” … and … “As soon as I exited the art museum I came across murals of an underpass, some great graphics. What the?! A city paint truck is spraying over the murals! %&$Ç !! The good stuff they erase, the shitty stuff they hang in museums! What a bunch of %•”@}´Ç !!” Wandered central for six hours, taking pictures of homeless people and city-scapes.

Sunday was a six hour walk of the zoo, highlights being the maned wolf of central/west Brazil, an army ant farm in glass tubes, the Abyssinian ground hornbill of Africa, a rhinoceros hornbill of SE Asia, and the harpy eagle of South America. Metro-d to the Liberdade district, home to the largest Japanese population outside of Japan. Lunched on sushi.

Stumbled on murals which inspired me to wander the streets looking for more. Found wicked images, some of them twenty to thirty feet high (along freeways). A couple times I retreated from streets with too many homeless, one having a small community living under a bridge.

Monday I followed a multi-kilometer underpass looking for murals as a way to avoid the unrelenting rain. Found and photographed dozens of pictures, stepping around sleeping homeless people and cardboard homes to do so. Tuesday rode the subway lines to their end stations to glimpse the suburbs of São. Once out of central the lines run high above ground along elevated platforms, allowing one to survey the landscape.

At night, a handful of kilometers away from my hostel, a plane overshot the runway, slammed into a building, killing two-hundred individuals to mark Brazil’s worst air disaster.

Written to my sister: “I was a good four kilometers away when that plane exploded in São Paulo. Jesus was keeping me safe, I know he was. He let those 200 people burn in hell but he kept me safe.”

Wednesday browsed the city botanical gardens, bought a bus ticket for the following morning. Destination: Rio de Janeiro.

Rio de Janeiro: The Marvelous City

Pulled into the Rodoviaria Novo Rio 1pm (bus station). Researched hotel options. District Catete sounded like the safest, best budget option, located in southern Rio. While it is recommended to take taxis everywhere due to public bus robberies I jumped on bus 170 to Catete.

Looked into five hotels with their rooms and prices. Decided on The Monterrey (Arturo Bernardes 39), 30R for a single room (i.e., a closet) with sink, bath next door. Walked around the neighborhood to identify grocery stores, Internet options, restaurants, Metro stations / bus, the street scene. Found it all too friendly, very few street punks about, much to my liking.

Day two was a walk from district Catete to its beach, along Botafogo beach, to Sugar Loaf. (“This is like Guilin-China with an ocean beach. … Like the first sight of the mosques of Istanbul I am sitting down for a while to burn this moment into memory forever.”)

Spent five hours on top Sugar Loaf. Captured images of Rio’s spectacular natural curves at night using slow speed exposure. By 9pm there was only a half dozen tourists on the mountain for a crystal clear night, caught the last tram down the mountain with staff members.

Day three. Metro-d to Botafogo station. Walked through two tunnels, emerged onto Copacabana beach. (“Rio: land of a hundred helicopters … military patrols fly thirty feet over the water’s surface, over the heads of swimmers.”) Walked its length plus Ipanema beach. At the end of Ipanema beach viewed a first Rio favela (slum), its name being Vidigal, stretching over the top of the Sheraton Hotel.

Day four. Walked the Botanical Garden for five hours inspecting specimens. Day five. Walked from Catete to Cinelandia, viewed the Cathedral and Petrobras' rubiks cube -- the headquarters of Brazil’s largest (oil) company.

Jumped on the Bondinho (tram) to neighborhood Santa Teresa, to find a vista to familiarize myself with the peculiarities of Rio’s terrain. On a public bus I was aware of a favela on the other side of the Santa Teresa hill. Exiting the tram, up the hill I walked.

I didn't get over the hill to look southwards to Copa and Ipanema -- didn't need to. For I was amazed to see favelas smothering the hills as far as the eye could see. Descended two roads of Santa Teresa until the 'street transition' became too uncomfortable (i.e., my spider-sense started tingling), street punks appearing, turning around to ascend to safer ground. Made for some interesting pics. From Santa Teresa cut down into Central, along Av Brazil, Av Presidente Vargas, to the waterfront.

Metroline 2

Taking a page from São Paulo one morning I had the idea to ride the metro into northern Rio, the part of the city tourists -- even many locals -- rarely see. Metroline 1 runs the south and central. Metroline 2 penetrates the poorer and more volatile north, most of the nastiest favelas and gangs located here.

As the Metrolines are privately owned, operated and policed I planned to stay on the train for the full duration, take no photographs (act like a local), change trains at the end, turn around. I was not sure what to expect as Metroline 1 is entirely underground. What was Metroline 2 like? Only one way to find out.

The first station Estacio is underground. Then, like São Paulo’s lines, the metro breaks into the open air and is progressively raised off the ground to become a series of elevated platforms. The ride is an incredible visual of favelas, dozens of them climbing and circling the hills.

I sat looking from behind my sunglasses in awe at some of the harder slums, particularly along the black-sludge-water canals, seeing scenes of poverty that equalled Pakistan and India. (“But it is Rio's reputation for violence that takes the intensity of this viewing experience to new levels.”)

Two days later I again rode Metroline 2 to its last station. Knowing many of the stations were elevated over the streets this time I cautiously eased myself out of the train to look over the platforms and observe life below. Walked both sides of each platform looking for vantage points to take pictures of nearby favelas, then jumped on a train to the next station. Only at the final station, Pavuna, did I briefly exit the Metro to stand on a pedestrian walkway for a better photo opportunity.

The Metroline2 stations in order: Estacio, Sao Cristovao, Maracana, Triagem, Maria da Graca, Del Castilho, Inhauma, Engenho da Rainha, Thomas Coelho, Vicente de Carvalho, Iraja, Colegio, Coelho Neto, Acari-Fazenda Botafogo, Eng Rubens Paiva, Pavuna.

“The first five stations were either underground, too low on the ground to view anything, or lame in platform viewing potential. The intensity picked up substantially with Del Castilho. … I did not feel threatened at any time. Was I watchful? Of course. I let 95% of the passengers exit the station before photographing.

In fact I felt so sneaky that the Metro guards worried me more than the locals for fear they would suspect I am up to no good. One guard did approach me. He politely explained the Metro is private property, not to be photographed. I clarified to be photographing districts, showed the pictures, he smiled, said no problem.

Station Del Castilho surprised with its Walmart … Vicente de Carvalho surprised with its Carrefour (a French-Walmart) and McDonalds … when the train left Colegio station I wrote ‘decent neighborhood,’ then was shocked to see a very nasty slum only two blocks up the rail.

… Iraja provides an excellent viewing platform. … Between stations Acari and Eng Rubens the rail cuts through a sharp valley. While the Metro is surrounded by high walls one catches glimpses of pure shantytown, slapped together dwellings of plastic, wood, cement, whatever materials can be found. Unfortunately too difficult position-wise to photograph from a speeding train.

In all, while the reputations of the favelas are deserved for certain elements I believe there is an equal amount of fear that is undeserved. Looking at the street life below oddly contrasts with the perpetual war scenes and stories of blood, guns, drugs smeared across Rio/World press. For the street appears as normal as any other street scene.

Mom and kids walking the sidewalk, furniture stores spilling their wares into the street, lively fruit and vegetable markets, kids jumping about in playgrounds, people going to and from work. From the Iraja platform one looks at two and three story buildings across the street, kids flying kites on rooftops (similar to Pakistan).

… Amid the sporadic bursts of violence, which is spread out and diffused over millions of individuals, life goes on as usual. How much worse it gets beyond station Pavuna I cannot say, for I imagine the fringes of the city to be rawer in nature, poorer, more desperate.”

Corcovado & ‘Helpee’

My arrival in Rio coincided with the Pan American Games, July 13-29. Extra security was dispatched to make sure the games went without incident, police and military visible throughout the city. The day after the games ended I went to visit the Modern Art Museum for punishment. Closed.

I took to the waterfront, flipped through the newspaper. Looking around the park I noticed a lot of punks. Hmmm, I pondered, now that that games are over, Rio out of the world spotlight, are the police going to fade into the background, leaving the freaks to come out? Back to business as usual, recalling a Megadeth quote "killing is my business ... and business is good."

Being 110% alert everywhere I went in São and Rio there were only two potential incidents. The first, while retreating from the Museum park, two punks tried calling me over for a light. Knowing proximity -- minimum safe distance -- is key I kept on cruising. A third ran after me as I crossed a bridge, insisting I need to see something, to come back. Yeah, right.

A second incident occurred a couple days later, in the far south outside the ritzy Barra shopping complex. Going to cross a bridge I noticed a guy on the opposite site. Instantly went on alert. Something about him wasn’t right. He made his way across the bridge. I crossed the freeway to walk the opposite way.

Looked back. What the hell?! He is running across the freeway in pursuit of me! I said &%$@ this and turned on the jets to let him eat my dust, running some three or four ‘blocks’ distance. Boarded a bus (the bus waits of course), the guy is still following my trail, walked right beside the bus, I laid low. Five minutes later the bus finally left. He is in the distance swaying to and fro. (“There are some mad creatures in this jungle.”)

Deliberately holding out for clear sky I finally introduced myself to Christ The Redeemer (Cristo Redentor), the iconic statue of Jesus atop the peak of Corcovado mountain.

From 10:30am to 6:30pm, eight hours, I stayed with Jesus, walked with Jesus, photographed Jesus, sat with Jesus, ate with Jesus, cursed at Jesus, watched people pose and pray with Jesus. (“A Catholic priest even forced me to listen to Mass from 3 to 4pm. A few demons found it intolerable and escaped my possession of them.”) Spectacular views of Rio put to photograph. I was the last tourist of the night to be hugging Jesus, security telling me to get off the mountain.

From the peak of Corcovado is the only time I heard gun fire (not fireworks) in Rio. A military helicopter noisily circled a favela hilltop across from an apartment building for over an hour. It left. Then for five minutes distinctive machine gun fire could be heard. All quiet after that.

With so much Jesus in my veins I went in search of some evil to dilute the goodness. In 2000 I glanced over the quasi-legal sex industry of Bangkok, Thailand visiting complexes Patpong, Soi Cowboy and Nana Plaza. In like manner I visited Disco Help (pronounced ‘Helpee’) one Friday night, Brazil’s most famous venue of prostitution in the heart of Copacabana.

Excluding the entry fee of 22 Reals ($12 CAD), Rio’s Help was not as annoying as its high-pressure sister establishments in Bangkok. It was amusing watching men select their image of ideal woman to strut their stuff … “Holy f•$%@, the price of admission is worth it alone to see some geeks dance. Who let the nerds out?!”

Some 200 to 250 women were present, a handful being strikingly beautiful -- along the lines of Halle Berry and Naomi Cambell. Talking with girls and foreign men who could speak English, prices range from 100 to 300 Reals ($55 to $165 US) dependent on the length of time negotiated and the degree of one’s sobriety.

Early in the night I met a young lawyer from Mexico City, his first time in Rio and the first time he had seen so many exotic negritas in one place. I cautioned him to take it easy on the (hard-alcohol) drinks. Within two hours he was blind drunk, a hardened professional all over him like a shark to a minnow. I never saw him again, suspecting he was taxied to a favela, robbed of everything -- perhaps lucky enough to wake up alive. Rest in peace, Mexico.

(An article of February 2008 found on website brazzilmag.com states Rio’s governor has expropriated the building Disco Help resides, soon to remodelled into a movie and music museum. Rest in peace, Helpee.)

Niteroi & Rocinha

For the next two days I jumped on the bus to cross Guanabara Bay via the 13.3 km Rio-Niteroi bridge. Walking some ten kilometers from the city of Niteroi to Charitas was like a vacation from Rio: beautiful, clean, empty beaches, lounging fishermen, fantastic skyline view of Rio across the bay. I questioned why anyone would want to live in lunatic Rio when tranquil Niteroi is so close. Rio is only a ten minute boat ride away.

As favelas are potentially dangerous, impossible for outsiders to navigate I joined a reputable tour company to enter favelas Rocinha and Vila Canoas. Cost being 65 reals ($33 CAD) with Favela Tours created and run by Marcelo Armstrong. Website: http://www.favelatour.com.br/

Apparently city officials, ever-conscious of Rio’s image and to promote its ‘finer elements,’ have tried to censor Marcelo. 2007 marked his sixteenth year of business.

Part of the tour expense pays for ‘protection’ (to the gang of the moment) so everyone leaves the tours / tourists alone. “Para Ti,” a school of 63 children in Vila Canoas (2500 inhabitants), also receives 75% of its funding from the tour.

The ride through Rocinha followed a winding main road up and over a hill, through the favela, providing spectacular vistas of southern Rio. Briefly introduced to local artists. Ascended to the roof of an apartment building for an overview of the favela.

The only weapon seen was held by a teenager maybe sixteen years old in Rocinha’s market square. The machine gun appeared to be made of pure sparkling silver. The guide cautioned "No pictures of this, please." We did a walk-through of smaller Vila Canoas, it being a maze of twisting corridors, completed by a visit to school Para Ti.

I knew the tour would be basic so it delivered according to expectations: a glimpse into the internal workings of a favela from a reasonably safe platform.

Texture, text and context:

To explain a fundamental difference in terrain between megacities São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro: São’s favelas are far from its plateau (flat) center, on the city's perimeters, whereas favelas in hill-scaped Rio are interwoven everywhere -- central, north and south sectors.

Rocinha is the largest favela in Rio and Brazil with a population topping 60,000 individuals (a census put to rest the inflated estimates of 150,000+). Its location is in the heart of the richie-rich south, next door to Rio’s wealthiest neighborhood, São Conrado.

Estimates range from 500 to as high as 850 favelas scattered throughout the city, comprising 20% of Rio’s 6.2 million population (metro 12.6 million). The movie-famous Cidade de Deus, or City of God, is a smaller favela to the south of Rocinha. Jacarezinho in the north is Rio's second largest favela touching 60,000 people.

Typically Rio’s favelas fall under the control of one of three main drug-gang factions, the CV (Comando Vermelho), the TC (Terceiro Comando), and the ADA (Amigos dos Amigos). As of late 2006 Rocinha is controlled and managed by the ADA (the CV still claim it is theirs).

The term favela means shantytown. But favelas like Rocinha have progressed from shantytowns to urbanized slums, with many houses having basic sanitation, plumbing and electricity. Normal businesses like banks (the two branches have never been robbed), drug stores, bus lines, cable television, Internet cafes operate. While main streets are easy enough to navigate the unnumbered internal labyrinth of the favela makes it impossible to deliver mail. Post offices are located along main streets. Unemployment in Rocinha is estimated at 17%.

The gangs are reputed to maintain a high level of control over social behavior, prohibiting street crimes such as rape, muggings, and break-ins within the favela. In the past governments have not officially recognized the existence of favelas, forcing them to be self-supportive. In the absence of government the gangs have stepped forward to provide basic services, things like day care, medicine for the sick, money for the poor, build schools and asphalt roads. The downside to the gangs is, of course, rival warfare between gangs and with the police.

A third element is now on the rise, it being private militias hired by favela inhabitants to kick out drug-dealers. One estimate says families pay $7-$14 per month. Two news articles quote 90 to 100 favelas (of 600) are under private militia control. Many law enforcement and government officials, including Mayor Cesar Maia, think compared with the drug-gangs the vigilante-militias are the lesser of two evils.

Due to escalating social problems and violence Rio, São Paulo and the wealthier citizens of Brazil are being forced to recognize favelas and their inhabitants. As of 2007 Rocinha is the first favela to gain distinction as a legitimate neighborhood. Plans are to invest tax money to help improve the living conditions of its inhabitants.

Rio: Parting Notes

From a third and final run of Metroline 2:

“There is a favela immediately beside the Thomaz Coelho station. While taking snaps a nearby newspaper boy warned me (for my sake, not as a threat) not to take pictures or I will be shot. I respectfully nodded, jumped on the Metro to the next station. Many drug-gangs have lookouts posted to warn their members of police raids and any other monkey-business.”

Glimpsing the City of God:

“Buying contact lenses in a southern mall, knowing the Cidade de Deus favela is only a couple kilometers away, I jumped on a highway express public bus to zoom by for a look. From a brief passing it pretty much looks like every other favela (i.e., a hardened shithole) except it is on flatland, not a hillside. I just had to glimpse the internationally famous favela. The bus continued into the north to connect with Del Castilho metro station, cutting through Rio's second largest favela, Jacarezinho. This one rivals Rocinha in size -- you get a great view of it on the metro. It is a monster.”

Parting notes:

“I am trying to get my head around this city. It is fun -- yet deadly. It is astonishing -- yet ridiculous. It is fantastic -- and fantastically stupid.”

“The apartments at the rear of Copacabana, facing the favela, sell at a huge discount for fear of its occupant sitting in his / her living room watching tv and being shot by a stray bullet. This is no joke as people, including children, get shot by stray bullets every year in Rio. Particularly true when police invade favelas and are reported to think fast and shoot faster.”

“My final act was to buy a detailed, colorful wall-map of Rio de Janeiro for $8. … scoop up some sand from Copacabana beach … Metro'd to the hotel to pick up my bag, bused to the Rodoviária (bus station). Having a cola from a Rodoviária platform, waiting for the bus to depart, I looked at Jesus shining brightly in the night -- as do the favelas on the hills, seemingly reaching up to pull a savior into their midst. For the rest of my life I can now say I have strolled and dined in famous Rio de Janeiro. Baby, I'm a star.”

Ouro Preto to Brasília

To the town of Ouro Preto (“Black Gold”), site of a gold rush in the 17-18th centuries and Brazil’s best preserved colonial city. Leaving Rio for Preto was like crossing from China into Laos, a huge de-pressurization. “I can relax again.” … “For the first time in an eternity I paid for entry into a historical church. You know I must be in an excessively good mood to do this.” A gorgeous town of curving hillside avenues to wander at whim.

To Belo Horizonte, third largest city in Brazil, population of 2.4 million (metro 5.3 million). Internationally famous for little except the birthplace of heavy metal band Sepultura, BH was a return to calmer city environs like Curitiba.

It was here I found the exceptional street mural titled “Mentira,” or Lie(s), with its deranged Pinocchio. “The best piece of art I have seen in Latin America, museum or the street, from Mexico to Argentina.”

To Brasília, the capital city of Brazil, seat of the Federal government, population 2.4 million.

“President Juscelino Kubitschek (JK) ordered the construction of Brasília, fulfilling an article of the country's 1891 constitution stating the capital should be moved from Rio de Janeiro to a place close to the center of the country. Lúcio Costa won a competition as the main urban planner. Oscar Niemeyer was the chief architect of many public buildings. Roberto Burle Marx was the landscape designer. Brasília was built in 41 months, from 1956 to April 21, 1960 when it was officially inaugurated.”

“Brasília is located in the Cerrado, the largest savannah in South America, 1.9 million km² in size. … Most of the Cerrado is located on large plateaus … The Cerrado borders on all of Brazil's major ecological regions, including the Amazon basin to the north, the Chaco and Pantanal to the west, the Caatinga to the northeast, and the Atlantic forest to the east and south.”

Sights in Brasília included a tour of the National Congress, the Metropolitan Cathedral (which contains a copy of Michelangelo’s Pieta, one of only three in the world officially authorized by the Vatican), the TV tower viewing platform, the JK Memorial museum (“JK became convinced of one thing, either the capital would be transferred during one term as president or the construction would never be completed”), the zoo, a visit to satellite-city Taguatinga and satellite-slum São Sebastion.

“Pain might not be pointless if you could only turn it into something.” … “If evolution is growth by trail and error, how can errors be wrong since they contribute to growth?” … “Let the future look out for itself, like everyone else. It was of age, wasn’t it?” (James Jones, From Here To Eternity)

Cuiaba to Porto Velho

In Brasília I decided to keep trudging west via Cuiaba (a city at the exact center of South America), Porto Velho, Rio Branco, (return to Porto Velho) up to Manaus -- bypassing the poverty-riddled northeast quadrant of the country (“I’ve seen enough favelas. Like I need to see and walk through worse.”)

A couple hours outside Brasília there was a building façade with large lettering “ASS de DEUS.” I burst into laughter. The building was a church whereby an innocent Portuguese Christian (and/or painter) shortened the word “assembléia” to read “ass,” intending it to be “Assembly of God.” The “Ass of God,” however, made for a better partial translation. Unfortunately the bus was moving too quickly, I missed the picture.

In Cuiaba I checked prices for seeing more of the Pantanal, the world’s largest floodplain (often called the world’s largest swamp). Expenses were no where near the $33 per day, all things included, of Peru and Bolivia. Suspecting city Campo Grande would be no less expensive, this being Brazil -- South America’s most expensive country -- I left.

Back in 2005, when doing preliminary research of South America, the Pantanal was a priority for me. Fast forward to 2007, after two three-week treks in the Amazon rainforest, and the Pantanal does not hold the same appeal. Combined with an unsexy variety of options to see it, high expense, I decided to gamble on the possibility of a third rainforest trek out of Manaus.

Caceres for two nights, where I inquired into the possibility of (supply) boats cruising through the Pantanal. Nada (the highways have put the boats out of business).

“Mankind resembles a jungle, a supergrowth of shortsighted morals designed to hamstring every individual before he or she can move a pinky finger. To get you with fear and guilt coming in, to get you with guilt and fear going out. A global cluster-fuck of competition to subdue your soul. Grab your machete and start swinging …” (Sep10)

In Porto Velho purchased a boat ticket for a four day float (Sep14-17) on the Madeira river to Manaus. “On the boat I slept next to a spaz-mama and her three monkeys for the duration. The music blasted from 7am to midnight. Even with earplugs I couldn't hear myself think.” … “upon waking it took thirty seconds to see a pink dolphin” … “sixteen raft-houses roped together heading downriver, dredgers looking for gold” … “seen four pods of dolphins today” … “Manaus at first sight: dozens of mid-sized ferries, cargo ships, water taxis, floating docks.”

“Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things from them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.” … “genuineness: abstinence from that artificiality which uses up the soul in the effort of pretence.” (John Steinbeck, East of Eden)

An email question: “I was wondering about the trips to the Amazon rainforest. Did you just show up or did you book back home for these amazing three week trips at $700 US each? Any info will go a long way for a future trip to South America. Thanks.”

My reply: Both treks I just showed up, talked to local tour shops as to potential itineraries. I would never book a tour from home as it is essential to 'be there,' to negotiate in person. Too many factors to consider, one of the most important to meet the guide, to ensure he is experienced and mature. A lot of these companies like to rely on young punks.

First one I did was negotiated in Iquitos, Peru, with Amazon Adventure Expeditions. Tour started some 300km to the south of Iquitos and we made our way toward the Brazil border via canoe and foot. This is Indian territory. Slept nightly in a hammock covered by a bug net, topped by a plastic tarp. As the main guide was young (26) it seemed like I paid them to come on vacation with me. A solid introduction to the rainforest but this tour was strongly eclipsed by the second.

Second tour was negotiated in Rurrenabaque, Bolivia. Fluvial Tours. These guys kicked ass. Main guide age 47. Superior customer service. More pristine jungle terrain too; no man's land, carving a trail as you go. Built camps nightly out of trees, vines and two plastic tarps (to waterproof us top and bottom), plus bug nets.

Both tours hunt as you trek -- largely due to preference but also carrying three weeks of food is impossible. Get to eat some exotic creatures -- monkeys, rats, pigs, birds, etc. Or if killing animals isn't your game simply negotiate for less trek time and carry food. Average trek time is 4 to 7 hours per day.

I will look into a third tour in Brazil, either in the Pantanal area or to the north of Manaus. I expect this tour to run in the $50 a day bracket, about $1000US for three weeks.

While I did not get sick during the two tours I lost a significant amount of weight. As I am slender to begin with, not a big eater, it takes me months to gain weight back. Both tours were done in areas that have no malaria (yet tons of mosquitos). (June 5 email)

Manaus

In Manaus I shopped different companies for a third and final three week rainforest trek. Various routes were proposed: Rio Urubu, Rio Negro and Rio Mamore being the mains.

The lowest offer by a reputable company was $60 US per day (Amazonas Indian Turismo). From there the prices went ballistic, up to and beyond $150 US per day.

Unlike the treks in Bolivia and Peru I could not find a single area of rainforest here with no malaria. One guide, age thirty, said he had it eight times.

A few days later companies started letting me talk directly to their guides, bypassing the middleman. Prices came down to $50 US per day but all the trimmings were cut to the bone. For example, one guide and me. Nobody else. Canoe and paddle, no motor or gasoline.

The Bolivian and Peruvian companies had the sense to make three and four man teams for safety reasons. My concern in Brazil: what if my guide bites the big one? Obviously I am to paddle downstream somewhere, anywhere, by myself, slicing away chunks of his salted corpse for food; (which I would do but) give me a break. “These guides give me the creeps … cutting costs leads to freelancers which increases risk.”

At this point I decided to look into public ferries to head up Rio Negro as part of a two to three week round-trip from Manaus to Barcelos to Sao Gabriel da Cachoeira to Manaus. I spent multiple hours on two days going from central Manaus (meaning ticket sellers in front of the market, tourist info, guys outside the main port building, one agency, taxi drivers) to Porto de São Raimundo, and back again.

Everybody gave me conflicting information. “This is truly a South American experience: 1 tells me go to 2, 2 tells me to go to 3, 3 tells me to go to 1, neither 1 nor 2 nor 3 fucking know, nor do they care while they all penny me to death as I chase my tail in circles.”

“And how was the Amazon in Brazil? When I asked for a three week rainforest trek the shysters in Manaus tried selling me a ‘survival expedition.’ I was like ??! Stop watching so much tv, please.

They talked unimaginatively and repetitiously. To try and break the automatic ‘package-tourist’ presentation I had to educate each company representative “this is what I have done, how can I add to it?” -- and still they didn’t get it, going on about lodge kitchens, alligator night spotting, yadda yadda. Wtf do I care about these things?!

They showed me lame-boring pictures, I yawned. I showed them pictures -- their mouths hung open to ask ‘What the hell is that?!’ Enough said. Why pay a 100% to 600% markup in trek prices for less bang? I left Brazil.” (Oct29 email)

For two years I had plans for a trek here, but for multiple reasons once again, by the time I arrived in Manaus its potential no longer appealed. Purchased a ferry ticket to the tri-border area of Tabatinga (Brazil), Leticia (Columbia) and Santa Rosa (Peru) for 268 R (Sep29 – Oct5, six full days).

… “It’s a beauty of a ship, three decks -- the highest being cabins and a sundeck, second for hammocks, kitchen, bathrooms, first for cargo.” … “jumping ship to walk villages as cargo is unloaded” … “suntan lotion applied for another day of happy sun, blue sky and white puffy clouds, gospel music rocking the Amazon. Praise Jah!”

… “the longer I sit looking at this forest, its communities, its lone bush-families, I think this is an animal’s paradise, human and non-human.” … “The Indians may not have money but with so much natural wealth money is largely irrelevant. A little cash to address illnesses, to build a cheap house. It beats the pre-conceived and pre-packaged synthetic lifestyles of professions and possessions.”

An email question: "I am curious to know how you perceived the Brazilian people?”

My reply: “Brazil’s demographics: approximately 190,000,000 million countrywide, 49.7% of these are white (94,430,000), 49.4% are black or mulatto (93,860,000), 0.5 are Asian (950,000), 0.4 are Amerindian (519,000).

The Euro-descended whites are holed up in the south, till recently comfortable behind police lines. They are cash abundant.

The Afro-descended blacks are holed up in the northeast. They are cash strapped. Only now are the whites realizing to ignore the blacks indefinitely is going to be impossible. Too many of them are drifting south.

The Indians in the west, the Amazon region, have it best. 519,000 Indians have the whole rainforest to themselves, minus the odd city like Manaus. Fruit falls from trees, animals stare into your shotgun to say ‘eat me,’ fish jump into nets.

If I wanted to be Brazilian I would move in with the Indians, find a wife, build a mansion for $10,000, and rub my fat bastard of a belly while I started up a mini-me production line.

This in a nutshell is how I see Brazil and its people.”

The Venezuela Question

An email question: “what about traveling from Manaus into Venezuela?” My reply: Chavez can suck my second nut like Castro is sucking the first. (Oct29 email)

A barometer of Chavez’s wonderful socialist revolution of peace, love and equality: since Chávez took office the murder rate has almost tripled, from 4,560 in 1998 to 13,200 in 2005. Venezuela’s 13,200 murders in 2005, population 25.6 million, makes for 51.5 murders per 100,000 individuals.

… By comparison Colombia’s 2005 murder statistics totalled 17,726; with a population of 43.4 million this makes for 40.8 murders per 100,000 individuals (down from 62 per 100,000).

… It is reported Caracas is now Latin America’s most violent city, with its murder rate topping 100 per 100,000. … Venezuela takes first prize for most violent country in South America, eclipsing the low-level multi-decade conflict of Colombia. For ongoing house-cleaning efforts President Uribe of Colombia wins my respect, Chavez does not. http://web.sumate.org/documentos/Venezuela%20en%20cifras%20oficiales.pdf

“Total murder statistics for Venezuela suggest at least 16,000 are being killed each year.” (Aug 2007 article http://www.isn.ethz.ch/news/sw/details.cfm?ID=17988).

At the tri-border area I camped in Leticia-Columbia for a night. A second night in Tabatinga-Brazil to catch a 6am speedboat to Iquitos-Peru, ten hours.

“The Emergents: Vampirical Chameleons & Secularized Messiahs. Dedicated to Liberty: my child, my wife, my mistress. Category: Travel.” (Oct7)

Return to Peru

In Iquitos I said hello to the boys who arranged the first rainforest trek. “Danny guided me to Night Monkey Bar where, lo and behold, I glanced over at the window table to see Gary. Gary looked at me in amazement. Sitting with a French girl he had just been talking about our trek, the girl nods in confirmation. Too funny. He pulled out an album to show pictures of our trek. He has some good photos! He has not done a trek in over a year, … studying Networking …”

On October 12 I decided to fulfill a desire to see the rainforest from the air, boarded a plane in Iquitos bound for Lima.

“During the flight I wondered to myself “If you parachuted through clouds would you get wet?” … weaving waters through a carpet of green … observing past river-scarring patterns on the rainforest floor … The best part was seeing the snow-capped Andes without a cloud around. … the Andes are like a sudden clump of rock, not very wide at all (compared to the rainforest). … Upon descent Lima, of course, was buried in clouds.”

Landing at the international airport completed a twenty-two month loop around South America. The airport looked smaller than I remembered. … found a hostel in the upscale district of Miraflores … “Walking the streets people look at me as if I am a Rock God. Hard to be displeased about the attention.” … Bussed to central Lima for a look, walked many of the streets I did twenty-two months ago. After megacities like Sao Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, I was amused at how small everything looked. “It didn’t look like this when I started my South American tour.”

“I had a bit of a panic attack at this point and wanted to bolt for the bus station. I asked myself “What am I doing here?!” with a central issue being one of inspiration. Lima, as a city, is not inspiring.

By comparison cities like Shanghai, Rio de Janeiro, Istanbul -- these are are epic-styled cities. All one has to do is step outside to be awed. (Even Quito has its beloved volcanos gently smoking around it.) In literary terms they are similar to the tale of Satan approaching and questioning Jehovah in the Book of Job.

Lima, however, is a city designed by mental-midgets. A sprawling, repetitious two-story slum. In literary terms it is a comic book or cartoon, kinda along the lines of Mr. Magoo.”

My return to Lima did manage to positively rewrite my conception of the place. I no longer think it is all slummy Centro and Rimac. It's actually a decent place to vegetate and accomplish absolutely nothing for a couple weeks on the cheap. “In Brazil I was visiting ATMs every other day to pay the expenses. Here I see an ATM once every two weeks.”

Return to Ecuador

On November 6 I stepped on the first of three buses for a forty hour bus ride from Lima to Quito. Good riddance to garbage-pile, beak-nosed Peru. Ecuadorian drama started at the border as I did not get my passport stamped from a 2006 exit. In thirty seconds the two officers had me busted. So much for a new passport.

"You cannot enter Ecuador," one officer matter-of-factly stated. Me: !!! I expected a hefty fine at worst. I did not expect to be barred from the country. I stuck to the story "But I've never been in Ecuador. My old passport was stolen." Embrace the lie and deny, deny, deny.

After five minutes of letting me sweat it out the second guard then casually said something about $200. Because fines start at $200, going up to $2000, I had expected to pay more. So upon mention of a mere $200 my heart leapt for joy while I played a grief-stricken tourist. Add to this $200US is now 20% cheaper than last year (CAD-US exchange rate) and paying the fine was a breeze. Externally: oh woe is me! Internally: tee hee!

By hour thirty into the bus trip, in fits of sleep, the ache in my legs had me dreaming alien leeches were eating my kneecaps. But at long last, upon waking at 6:14am, outside the window were the familiar valleys of green as we passed the entrance to Cotopaxi park.

No more of Lima's dry, colorless desert. Here is patch-work farmland, snow-covered mountain peaks, people nestled in the life-abundant folds and crevices of the earth. “No matter if it be the 2850 meters of Quito or the 4150 meters of La Paz I'd rather be amidst the ripped muscles of this landscape than a monotonous, lifeless desert. It is simply more inspiring.”

Stayed in Quito for a month and a half enjoying the tranquility of the city, its gentle climate, inexpensive quality living, good nightlife and grub.

For Christmas and New Years made for the coast observing cities and towns Santo Domingo, Chone, Puerto Viejo, Manta, Puerto Lopez, Montañita, Guayaquil, and Babahoyo.

In 2006 my time in Ecuador was spent entirely in the wealthier mountain towns-cities. I was surprised to see so much poverty in the coastal towns. “All one needs to do to verify how poor is count the number of Kingdom Halls built by Jehovah’s Witnesses. Those wily Witnesses with their empowering Elder system are winning the hearts of alienated Roman Catholics by the thousands.”

“Will, a man who cared little for what are called the solid things of life and greatly for its subtler influences.” … “only those who know the supremacy of the intellectual life -- the life which has a seed of ennobling thought and purpose within it -- can understand the grief of one who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting struggle with wordly annoyances.” … “the creeping self-despair which comes in the train of petty anxieties.” (George Eliot, Middlemarch)

New Year in Montañita, a laid back town of good restaurants, nice beach, popular for its surf. Watched a great fireworks display, dozens of paper mache people and animals being set on fire, surfers riding the first waves of the year, fiesta all night long. Goodbye 2007!

“I thought you never gambled?” … “At cards for money, never. With life? To the limit.” (James Clavell, Gai-jin)

A couple nights in Guayaquil, Ecuador’s largest city of two million, re-confirmed why I dislike the city. (“Guayaquil residents are reported to love their city, but ugh, if it could speak even a dung beetle would rave about its life and home.”)

Moved on to Babahoyo, a town I had fun wandering through, floating river houses, houses on stilts, kids jumping off pedestrian-bridges, a weird cat laying in the middle of a busy sidewalk (like a dog).

A return to Quito January 10th to March 23.

The Mirror is temporarily taken offline: “Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Glitches in the software programming of the Supreme Self may occur, sparking periods of temporary insanity. The Multiplicity, which is getting more crowded every day, then runs riot.

The unexpected birth of a charasmatic new avatar, Tungurahua, tried to seize the moment and -- to protect Tsiktsik -- made it imperative for the Vampirical Chameleon to declare martial law for a period of time to settle the hyperstimulated and volatile masses.

The crisis has been contained, republican rule has been restored. We resume our regularly scheduled programming of individual liberty and apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you or your loved ones. That is all.” (Jan21)

“I realized this morning the above Newsflash was the first time ever I saw the VC as a President of a republic rather than dictator of a dictatorship. This is verrrry interesting -- and a huge step forward. Though it is fragile and volatile at this point a new psychological order is emerging. Hmmm, perhaps this will help you to understand ... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archetype” … "Archetype, traditionally defined in the field of psychology as the idealised model of a person or personality." (Jan22 email)

Dustin Hoffman: “Your own sense of artistic impotence … every art has to have its failure quotient … least favorite word: shoulda-coulda-woulda … you find a way to make an audience for yourself … I know that life is short, whatever time you get is luck … going to temple to learn our craft … an actor is not going to know everything, you do what you can … every role you do is an autobiography, drawing from youth-family experiences …

… I am 68 years old, there are things that have not changed in me so I know they are real … 20s, it’s the question mark decade, you will never have that luxury again … for anyone to say they are successful and no luck was involved they are a liar …

… In acting you try to admit to more than the lesser crime. You want to get down to the deeper crimes of your self. … Acting, or any art, is doing maybe what you are incapable of doing in regular life. We’re flawed, that’s the name of the species, flawed, flawed, flawed, flawed. We’re human. If we sit on a radiator and it’s hot we jump off of it. Well if we sit on something that is hot, or we touch something that is hot about ourselves that we don’t like on a deep level, not even conscious, we get off of it. And when we are working it’s somehow (like) shaking hands with the devil.” (Inside The Actors Studio, interview)

Personalizing Hoffman’s words for myself: “In life I want to embrace and understand more than the lesser crime, to get down to the deeper crimes of self, personally and in terms of the species. I want to shake hands with the devil.” (March 1)

Desiring a break from Quito I travelled Chugchilan, Sigchos, Guaranda, Banos, Tena, and Otavalo, returning to Quito for a final stay April 2-29.

Colombia

Selective Research Notes

Independence: 1810, recognized 1819. Area: 1,141,748 km2 (about 1/9 the size of Canada), 26th largest in world. Estimated population 2007: 44 million. Colombia is the third-most populous country in Latin America, after Brazil and Mexico. Thirty cities have a population of 100,000 or more.

One of the highest urban populations in the world, increased from 31% of the total population in 1938, to 57% in 1951 and about 70% by 1990. Currently the figure is about 77%. … Colombia now houses the third-largest displaced population in the world, with only Sudan and the Congo having more.

Ethnic groups: 58% of the population is mestizo, or of mixed European and Amerindian ancestry, while 20% is of European ancestry. Another 14% is mulatto, or of mixed black African and European ancestry, while 4% is of black African ancestry and 3% are zambos, of mixed black African and Amerindian ancestry. Pure indigenous Amerindians comprise 1 percent of the population.

The guerrillas (FARC / ELN) and the paramilitaries (United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, or AUC) are engaged in a power struggle over control of territory. The paramilitaries are carrying out a kind of reverse agrarian reform, expelling peasants to take over the land. … Colombia has four major industrial centers -- Bogota, Medellin, Cali and Barranquilla.

There is no country on earth that has made me think about it as long and in such depth as Colombia. Colombia’s numbers by themselves will make no sense; there must be a point of familiarity. The US and Canada will do.

Countrywide murders for Colombia 2007: 15,400 (citizens only, not including combat deaths). Population 44,000,000 makes for 35 murders per 100,000.
Countrywide murders 2006: 17,206
Countrywide murders 2005: 17,726
Countrywide murders 2003: 23,013
Countrywide murders 2002: 28,837. Population 41,008,227 makes for 70.3 murders per 100,000.

By comparison the numbers for the United States are:

Countrywide murders/manslaughters 2006: 17,034. Population 301,000,000 makes for 5.7 murders per 100,000.
Countrywide murders/manslaughters 2005: 16,900

For Canada: 2006: 605, 1.85 homicides per 100,000. 2005: 658, 2.0 homicides per 100,000.

Crunching the numbers. First of all I trust the US numbers more than I do Colombia's. Each year in Colombia I think there is an additional few thousand individuals who are slaughtered, shot, macheted, gutted, etc., and then thrown into pits like road kill -- and they never make the official police counts. But let us use what we have.

Colombia has 14.6% of the US population yet has 90.4% of its murders. Put another way, Colombia has 1/7 of the US population but 6x the murder rate. If we extrapolated Colombia to have an equal US population of 301,000,000 its murder rate at 35 per 100,000 would be the equivalent of 105,350 individuals per year (301,000,000 * 35 / 100,000 = x, x = 105350). This is "safe" Colombia in 2008.

With murder as the greatest possible crime one can commit against an individual you can be guaranteed all lesser crimes, such as theft, assault, etc., will be equally high -- or higher -- in proportion to population.

The latest city specific numbers I can find are: Bogotá's kill rate is 23 per 100,000. Cartagena is 22 per 100,000 (275 murders in 2006 using population 1,240,000). Medellin 29 per 100,000 (2007 article). Cali 65 per 100,000 (year unknown).

How can I justify travelling Colombia? It is simple: half lunacy, half rationality. In 2006 while in Ecuador I watched President Uribe's re-election. While travelling other South American countries over the course of two years, literally using them as a training ground, I waited for confirmation of Colombia’s improving trend. I got it.

Uribe has two more years to go. While I would like to be optimistic about Colombia's future I am wary of Latin American politics: two steps forward, three steps back. Is Colombia's next president going to continue improvements? Is it different for Colombia this time around? I don't know. So I am sliding into Colombia on the tail end of Uribe's terms to take a look at the country.

Quito to Popoyan

April 29. After circling South America it is time to break new ground and make for the border of Colombia. I know the border guards sometimes want to see proof of onward passage so I used Expedia and Paint to fake a flight ticket from Bogota to Canada, plus print financial records for my bank account and credit card.

To my surprise it took six seconds to stamp out of Ecuador, five seconds to stamp into Columbia. Not a single question asked. Sixty day visa.

Caught a 800 peso bus to the bus terminal in Ipiales. First guy to greet me there asked "Pasto? " You bet. 5000 pesos, leaving immediately. This is efficient.

Outside the Pasto bus station I checked into a 12000 peso hotel for the night. The rule of travel for Colombia is: day time buses only, no night time. Two reasons: one is for safety, the other is to view the landscape -- half the reason I travel.

Found a Citibank ATM in Plaza de Narino, pulled 700,000 pesos. Viewed Volcan Galeras at 4200 meters. Not a single bag search so far on this side of the border. No corpses littering the road, no masked bandits, no FARC guerillas -- but bring on the amputees -- guys with one arm or one leg, one arm and one leg, no legs, wrist and ankle stumps. Walked central for a few hours. Retreated come 8pm for a good night's sleep.

April 30. On the bus to Popayan, one of two cities distinctly cautioned by both Canada and Australia: "We advise you to reconsider your need to travel to the cities of Cali and Popayan and most rural areas of Colombia because of the uncertain security situation."

On the way I noticed a pickup in military presence. The motorcycle soldier-groups seem to conduct roaming activities, setting up in one place for a while then moving up/down the highway. Also noticed during a restaurant break a soldier recording a jeep's license plates, driver's name, as the latter turned off the main highway onto a secondary road.

Comparing the countryside of Ecuador to Colombia: Ecuador has the highest population density per square kilometre in South America, while Colombia’s rural landscaping is the opposite extreme -- empty.

Made Popayan by 3:30pm, jumped off the bus in central, walked five blocks, checked into the first decent place I came across, Hotel Pass Home for 20000 pesos a night. Beautiful family run hotel. I laughed because she had bibles open in every room. I take it John Chapter 1 is a favorite. Orientated myself with a neighborhood walk, bought supper, internet, retreated for the night come 9pm.

May 1. Visited two historic-colonial casas. On the way to the first casa I noticed people lining the streets, holding candles, waiting for a parade to begin. Thousands of people are in attendance. A deeply passionate Catholicism prevails. These days back home the only thing you can get people to parade for is gay pride. "Jesus is dead; long live the penis!"

After the parade I ascended El Morro de Tulcan, a hilltop for viewing the city. I eyed this hill yesterday but too many punks with beers were about. Today, however, families dominate. Up I go to snap pictures, Popayan being much smaller than I originally thought.

4pm. Descended the hill, within two blocks I looked behind me to see two drunks 'casually' following me, by their dress I can tell they are country bumpkins. I immediately took to crossing the road. Halfway across I do another shoulder check. One is pointing across the road, seemingly justifying to his partner why they should cross the road. It just happens to be the direction I am now going.

Still in mid-cross I slow till they commit to crossing, then suddenly do a 180 degree turnabout, returning to the sidewalk I left. They keep on, me eying them, them 'not seeing' me. Back to central I go where the police are more predominant.

Internet for a bit. At 8pm I decide supper is due. It's dark, raining. I am a block from a chicken joint, cutting through a gas station parking lot, fifteen meters from a major road. Three city punks are also cutting through the lot. To avoid a crash-course I slightly altered my path.

I casually look at the lead punk as we pass some three meters apart. He's inspecting me intensely. Hmmmm, so noted. Ten paces each in opposite directions. I shoulder check. As I thought: the lead has tipped his two friends, all three are doing a quick 180 degree turn. They note I note.

As I walk through the front of the gas station lot they cut around back. I see them emerge on the other side. It is raining so I am moving at a good clip, no need to run, into the chicken joint I go. They disappear into the rain and night.

That one-second of eye-contact refined my take on Colombia. These boys aren't the soft Indians of Peru, nor the sloppy street kids of Rio. When I looked into his eyes I saw something different. He was hard. He was sharp. He caught onto that slight change of trajectory instantly, through the night and through the rain.

What saved me were my "Latino" colorings. It took him a few seconds to factor in the gringo elements. But he did -- and quickly. Fortunately for me safe distance was already established.

It was here I decided to implement the "Pakman." Years ago in southern Pakistan, an area more screwed up than Colombia has been or ever will be, I stopped shaving and dressed down so substantially that the locals were bewildered -- upon finding out I was a foreigner -- why I looked so poorly. One guy even offered to buy me a new shirt.

Yes, it is time for a lockdown mode, the return of the Pakman, needing every advantage I can get to "blend-in" while travelling the south. Predicting I can breathe a little easier when reaching Medellin or Bogota.

Cali to Medellin

May 2. I woke feeling as sharp as a razor. Walked the eight blocks to the bus station, jumped on a bus to Cali. Military presence picked up along the highway.

Upon entry into southern Cali, for a 45 minute drive along Calles 5 and 10 to the bus station, "I am back in (north) Rio. Homeless people everywhere. Hardened slum shithole streets."

Fortunately north Cali is a step up. Walked from the bus station to Iguana guest house, a bed for 14000 pesos. Nice ‘safe’ location. As always, throw the luggage into the room and begin scouting the neighborhood, central across the river: safety, food stores, restaurants, Internet, etc. Found a strawberry waffle and ice cream for 6600 pesos. Yum. Bought a city map along Av Sexta for 3000p. Bought supper, retreated home.

May 3, toured central and environs in the punishing heat. May 4. The zoo. Ever seen an ostrich sleeping? What an odd sight to see it sprawled on the ground. Visited the Iglesia de San Antonio for a hillside view of the city.

Read through my guidebook to determine a country itinerary going forward: Armenia, Medellin, Cartagena, Santa Marta / Taganga, Bogota. The rest of it does not interest me.

There are activities, landscapes and biological diversity in other South American countries that equal and/or surpass what Colombia has but in safer environs. From day one (2006) I thought this and I continue to think this. Until Uribe flushes all the cockroaches down the toilet it's a bare-bones itinerary in 2008.

May 5. An 11am walk along Av Sexta, all shops still closed (long-weekend holiday), snapped my temper. Grabbed my bag, hiked to the bus station and bought a ticket out of Cali.

Armenia, 17000p hostal by the bus station, wandered the town for a couple hours.

May 6 to 19, Medellin, the “City of Eternal Spring.” The most scenic bus ride so far, following a surging-river valley. Picturesque landscaping. This made up for grandpa sitting in front of me. He had a monstrous case of death-breath.

And the kid sitting beside me wouldn't shut up for the first two hours. For the last two hours he shut up all right, puke pouring out of his nostrils. Even with my stomach of iron the smell of puke sprayed on his clothes made me queasy.

12:22pm, a first glimpse of Medellin. First thought? "Now this is more like it!" Metro-ed to station Prado. Hotel Cristal, 34000 per night ($20), private room and bath. Threw down the bag. For three hours I circled the streets, observing, noting things of interest.

Looked into a dozen other hotels, found a better deal with Hotel Latino, 25000 per night ($15), more centralized, room twice as large, hardwood floors, stereo with cd player, tv, fan, desk girl is prettier, a single block from grocery store Exito, restaurants nearby, 24 hour Internet and a Citibank ATM within three blocks (pulled 900,000 pesos), two blocks from Metro station Parque Berrio.

Picked up a large detailed city map for 22,000 pesos. Photocopied the passport and visa. Ahhh, I quote the quote "luck is the residue of design." Retired for the night by 7pm. Next day I changed hotels, disengaged lockdown mode (i.e., Pakman status).

May 12. Decided to ride north to take pictures of the city from the elevated Metroline-A platforms. At station Acevedo I discovered what a Metro-cable is: a cable car system attached to the Metro line, extending up into the hills. It provides gorgeous views of the neighborhoods and city.

At the top I exited the station to walk a couple blocks. When asked the Metro security guard said it was safe to walk around. I figured "safe" was relative, in his case today it being safer than the 1980s and 1990s. I didn't wander off too far, turning around whenever punks on street corners appeared. By the end of the afternoon I had travelled the entire length of Metroline-A from north to south.

May 13. Visited the Museo de Antioquia, botanical gardens and Cementerio de San Pedro. Artist Botero isn't that far off with his "gordo" (fat) sculptures; that's the way most people are in the world.

Central Medellin is quite the visual. There have to be at least a couple thousand homeless people bedding down on sidewalks every night. Many homeless individuals resemble forest-like animals, scavenging for food in garbage bins and piles.

One walk in the evening I passed a guy sitting on the ground. You know the fat and gristle scraps cut and garbaged by a butcher? He found a large garbage bag full of that, pure raw scraps, and was feasting like a king on filet mignon in a classy restaurant. He thought he hit big-time pay dirt. A half hour later, when I re-passed him on the way home, his buddies had joined him. Goddamn sometimes I wish I could photograph these things.

Not even five minutes later I came across a small square piled high with garbage, a dozen guys busting open the bags and chowing down. These guys truly are animal status -- as in borderline (thinking) human beings. Their degree of abstraction is limited to about two to three seconds into the future and five meters in front of them.

While I consider them mainly to be simple creatures you never know when one might get a 29 peso / 3 liter jug of bad hooch, spiced with too much drano, and freak out while you are in proximity. … While I have had no troubles I do keep very aware of my surroundings at all times. And no, you couldn't pay me to be a blonde with blue eyes.

One day I met a resident-American who, after the secret-squirrel handshake, tipped me on the opening of a new Metrocable on Metroline-B. It is astonishing, five times better than the original, a bird’s eye view of poor neighborhoods, up one hill, down its backside, up another hill. Riding it three times, finally one day the weather was beautiful and I snapped some 200 photographs. It is the equivalent of flying over a Rio de Janeiro favela.

Cartagena-Zenu-Iberia

May 20, on the bus for seventeen hours to Cartagena. Stayed for three nights walking around the old city walls, colonial streets, gold museum, and Castillo San Felipe.

For me what is the definitive mark of a “culture”? How do I evaluate a culture? Its rationality. Everything else is a derivative. (May20) All cultures are not equal. Some cultures -- even if it be some parts of cultures -- are better than others. (June11)

Musem notes: “These Indians were brilliant!” The Zenu Indians lived on a network of rivers and marshes that were interwoven with artificial channels which drained off floodwater. They imagined their universe as a weave, a fabric on which living beings rested. … Their society peaked from 200BC to 1000AD. … floodable plains … the Magdalena, Cauca and San Jorge rivers flood the plains for eight months a year.

… They transformed the landscape in order to make vast areas of land suitable for homes, transport and the growing of crops, by means of an ingenious water control system. … The canal system came to cover 650,000 hectares. … canals dug perpendicular to river flows …

… when water levels fell sufficient moisture was left in the canals, and their beds were covered with sediments rich in nutrients. These were gathered up and deposited on ridges, which were thus fertilized and ready for crop growing … fish, turtle, other reptiles populated the canals making for extra food.

Travelling through Central and South America stirred my interest to learn more about Spain, particularly its boom and bust years (1500 to 1815). For all I have seen and read to date I cannot get over the idea that Spain is -- at best -- a second-rate European nation. James A. Michener’s Iberia (960 pages), a recollection of his years travelling in Spain, a country he considered his second home to the United States, provided some insight. Notes:

Spain’s incapacity to govern herself in the responsible English-French-American pattern is due primarily to her extended experience with Muslims, who fragmented their own holdings into a score of petty principalities and who prevented Spain from doing otherwise until the habit had become so ingrained that regional economic separatism became the curse of Spanish life, whether in the homeland or in the Americas. If is this dreadful heritage of anarchy that keeps the Spanish republics of our hemisphere (Central and South America) in confusion. (p227)

Spanish nobles suffered no limits to their power. In year 1400AD the arrogant nobles of major European powers were about equal in power. But one by one, England first, then France, Italy, Germany and Russia, underwent revolutions which cut nobles power, transferred that power to a new and educated middle-class, from which would come the political and industrial leaders of the future. In Spain this did not happen.

… Between 1500-1815 Spain was governed by a series of kings who were not Spanish, thus most of the best administration jobs went to foreigners. The Spanish upper classes were deprived of the schooling in government which might have modified their insularity, arrogance and general incompetence. (p356)

Was it the Inquisition that crushed Spain’s creative life? Whereas all Euro-nations sponsored some form of Inquisition, with Spain’s less cruel than others, it was only in Spain that the institution lingered on. … The real tragedy of the Inquisition was that it helped create a closed society from which alien elements were expelled and into which no new ideas were allowed to enter. (p532) … most Frenchmen dismissed Spain stating that no rationalist could comprehend her, hence the saying “Africa begins just south of the Pyrenees.” (p661)

Taganga & FARC

May 23 from Cartagena to Santa Marta to Taganga (May 23 to June 5), a small horse-shoe bay and primary backpacker hangout in Colombia -- with beach, steaks, and mora fruit juice daily. It was in Taganga a friend alerted me with “as per the news FARC seems to be falling apart.”

I already knew about the March 1 raid by Colombian police and armed forces into Ecuador, killing Farc's second-in-command, Luis Edgar Devia Silva (a.k.a., Raul Reyes). I also knew Ivan Rios, another member of the Farc's ruling seven-man body “the Secretariat,” was murdered less than a week later by one of his bodyguards for a US $2.6 million reward.

These two kills were followed by May 20 when one of FARC’s most renowned fighters and its senior female commander, Nelly Avila Moreno (a.k.a., Karina), surrendered. She turned herself in because of army pressure and a US $900,000 price on her head that made her fear her own troops.

On May 25 FARC announced its leader, Pedro Antonio Marin (a.k.a., Manuel Marulanda Velez), died of a heart attack on March 26 at age 74. Alfonso Cano, a longtime ideologue for the group, is his replacement.

Colombian officials say 1,181 rebels have turned themselves in this year for "reinsertion" into Colombian society, an 8% increase from the 1,098 who surrendered over the same period last year.

Even more insightful is Nelly Moreno stating the leftist group is "crumbling" and she had no direct communication with top FARC leadership in two years.

Medellin Police At Play

June 6 bussed from Santa Marta to Medellin.

Western civilization: the constitutional framework I love (the republic, liberty); the lifestyle norm I do not … an asphyxiating propriety, sanitized … caught up pursuing synthetic values … (June1)

Quoting Thorstein Veblen, book Theory of the Leisure Class (1899): This conservatism of the wealthy class is so obvious a feature that it has even come to be recognized as a mark of respectability. Since conservatism is a characteristic of the wealthier and therefore more reputable portion of the community, it has acquired a certain honorific or decorative value.

It has become prescriptive to such an extent that an adherence to conservative views is comprised as a matter of course in our notions of respectability; and it is imperatively incumbent on all who would lead a blameless life in point of social repute. … Conservatism, being an upper-class characteristic, is decourous; and conversely, innovation, being a lower-class phenonmenon, is vulgar.

Let me get this straight, you want me to sacrifice the best years of life, youth, in an office so I can enjoy the worst years of life as a senior in retirement? … Wealth is not property and possessions. Wealth, for me, is one’s depth and breadth of experiencing and experimenting with existence.

No matter the prestige of the profession, no matter the accumulation of possessions and property, we are all going six feet under. We’re all going to be forgotten within a generation or two. Live life to the utmost of your ability today, not tomorrow. Live life for yourself, not others.

The “common-sense” mantra of sacrificing today for a non-existent future is simply another means to subdue your soul. (July27) … Keep re-inventing yourself. (July30)

“I love women but there is one thing I love more: freedom.” (unknown) … “I have yet to meet a woman who makes me want to give up all the others.” (unknown) … “No, I have not found any ‘Miss Right.’ Perhaps I love the adventuring pen too much. I think there may be only Miss Write for me.” (Oct 18 email)

One night in central Medellin, about 2am, I bumped into a crowd of people. A car is pulled to the curb, driver's door open. A man holds a black kid, the latter cut and bleeding. A white punk not being held (at first) is present, presumably a friend of the black kid. After ten minutes four police officers on motorcycles show up. Talking proceeds.

After five minutes of this, one officer now holding the black kid, another cop takes three large strides forward and -- with helmet on -- headbunts the black kid. I'm thinking wtf?! The kid's knees buckled but with help was kept up.

A couple minutes later this cop does the same to the white punk, BAM! -- headbunts him too. Upon sight of the first headbunt I took a few steps back. With the second I took a dozen more steps back. People are crowding in. As this seemed to be escalating instead of being resolved I said it is best to divorce myself from this scene. Crossed the street and walked the five blocks to my hotel for sleep.

Centro is an intense jumble of characters from the lower-strata of Medellin society. Sit on the raised cement blocks of the sidewalk and have a kid sleeping at your feet, multiple bar musics blasting. A dozen more kids asking for money and/or food, lifting drain grills to dig in the muck, rifling through garbage bins, for potential jewels of value. The homeless clear away a piece of sidewalk to bed down for the night.

Some old folks wander the bars asking for money. One tiny old wrinkled lady resembles a hobbit, barely four feet tall. Grab a seat in one of the bars and watch the cockroaches streak across the walls as a never-ending stream of battled-scarred characters interact, transact, soliloquize, and spaz out. Scores of police patrol the streets on motorcycles, in vehicles, on foot -- looking into the bars, running up and down hotel stairs, throwing drunks into vans, even headbunting thieves.

On Thurs-Fri-Sat nights you can watch people snorting coke from little baggies while sitting at tables, standing in hallways. On De Greiff between Carrera 53-54, along the hedge, you can watch guys smoking coke pipes.

At Carrera 53 y Calle 52 you will find glue-girls/guys. Sniffing glue from bottles is one thing; these youths use small black plastic bags as "glue-respirators," pour some glue in the bag, the bags expand and collapse as they breathe the glue fumes in.

It is astonishing to see a cluster of youths getting high like this, a cross between a horror movie and a surreal Dali painting. Some have eyes glazed over with tears, saliva drooling from their mouths. These images are permanently burned in my mind.

June 23 I went for a visa extension. In Ecuador it takes 90 seconds to get a free 90 day extension. In Colombia it took me two days, three pictures, two copies of the passport, two copies of the original visa, two copies of a (fake) flight ticket, fill a personal-details form in duplicate, pay a 63800 peso fee ($36 CAD) in a bank halfway across town, and give two full sets of fingerprints plus finger partials. For a measly 30 day extension. What a hassle.

Bogota

June 30, jumped on a bus for the district capital of Bogota. At first glance Bogota is nicer, cleaner, spacious than I expected. There are maybe two or three homeless people around my hotel compared to a couple thousand in Medellin's centro. Shopped for and purchased an airline ticket (one way Bogota to Calgary $700CAD, Air Canada).

Familarized myself with Bogota's streets. Wandered historic Candelaria. Archaeological museum. Botero museum. Casa de la Moneda. Iglesia del Carmen. Iglesia de San Franscisco. Gold Museum. Police Museum.

On July 2 at one point I noticed an unusual intensity in the air, many individuals watching tv. Learned fifteen hostages freed by the Colombian military, including Ingrid Betancourt and three Americans (FARC's most valuable bargaining chips). At night watching live tv footage I realized the freed hostages were broadcasting within a dozen blocks of my hotel. With FARC losing huge ground lately what a historic time to be in Colombia.

The military now appears to have the upper hand. For the first time more Colombian guerrillas deserted last year (2007) than died in combat, said Gen. Freddy Padilla, the armed forces chief. By official count, 2,480 rebels gave up, compared to 1,893 killed in action. Nearly half of the 471 soldiers and police FARC killed last year were land mine victims, the military says. http://www.timesrepublic.info/artic...ld/world261.txt

After eight days I bored of Bogota. So I jumped on a bus and spent the final days of the tour in my favorite Colombian city, Medellin.

Last Days In Medellin

It is a peculiar side-effect how the internal conflict of Colombia, in forcing 77% of its population to the cities, has preserved the natural beauty of the countryside.

Rode the San Javier Metrocable at night. Not even Walt Disney builds a better ride. Having the car to myself I quietly floated on high viewing the lights of the city spread on the valley floor, climbing the hills.

Music emanates from houses. The streets below echo the shouts, squeals and laughter of hundreds of children at play. Murky individuals are silhouetted in windows, by door frames, on pathways. A hundred-thousand lives in the mix. ... May Jah bless the beauty of Medellin forever and ever, amen.

Having a drink in the local bars I prefer those playing the music of campesino blues. The kind of tune with the tone of my dog left me, my girlfriend got run over, and -- as I gear up for a return to North America -- life just ain't proper.

I love the 'street-musicians' that run a stick across a cheese grader. They really get into it. I figure if I could earn $5 a day doing that it might surpass a wage of $100,000 back home after taxes.

Medellin is large enough to possess all the comforts yet small enough to not be a drab sprawl like Bogota, to retain a sense of intimacy, snuggled in the mountains, neither hot nor cold, just right all the time.

July 23 bussed to Bogota. Took last looks of South America and boarded a plane bound for Canada at 11:30pm on July 24.

My fourth and longest tour, South America, ends at 936 days, eclipsing my first trip in 1993-1995 by 284 days (moral of the story: think big).

Epilogue

When I left Canada on January 1, 2006 a large part of me suspected I was never coming back, that I would somehow be squashed like a bug by an adventure gone awry. It is eye-opening for me to contemplate 2405 days of travel, or 6.6 years, through 35 countries, and not a single day did I own insurance of any kind.

South America survived against expectations, I am now faced with the oddity of wondering what to do with the rest of my life. Put in perspective my grandparents and great grandparents consistently lived to 90 years and beyond. What I have accomplished by age 38 has more than surpassed my expectations envisioned at age 20. This leaves me another 52 years to tinker with, to experience, to experiment.

For the first month of Canada I am taking time to say hello to family and friends in Alberta and the Northwest Territories. Then I will search for and engage work to re-capitalize, re-build the bank account.

Where the adventure goes from here I do not know.