Final: Day 8: Bogota

Today is the last full day of my trip. I'm going to see Bogota.

I tell the hotel doorman that I want to see the Gold Museum downtown. He calls a white Renault Duster taxi cab for me. The driver is a woman (rare) and is wearing a smart suit and driving gloves.

Bogota is a large, sprawling city of eight million. It's very clean and I only saw two instances of graffiti. The first graffiti said "SMOKE WEED".

The Museo de Oro (Gold Museum) was much lauded, but I was not particularly impressed. I'm pretty sure 99.9% of the pre-Columbian gold was melted down and shipped off to the Netherlands to pay off Spain's war debts.

The long caterpillar buses outside, though, were impressive.

The Santa Clara church was fairly magnificent and a colossal waste of resources. All the tourists were French.

I then walked over to the central plaza.

Government crowd control barriers with Transparency emblazoned on them.

The other instance of graffiti I saw was political. This guy was not a fan of the current president.

I felt bad for this old timer with the faded red vest. He was selling photographs for five dollars. I thought he had a Polaroid. Nope. He had me stand next to the Simon Bolivar statue. He took a photo with a Canon digital camera. He then connected it to a Canon Selphy printer (inside a custom made wooden box) and printed out the photo for me. I was amazed and shook his soft hand.

I have ajiaco for lunch. It's chicken soup with cream and giant capers. There's also a corncob inside the soup. The corn was meaty and bitter. This is supposed to be the best example of ajiaco in town. It was bland.

The highlight of the day was the National Police Museum. This painting was in the lobby.

A saddle for female cops. They are supposed to ride sideways, so as to not mar their "youth".

Every portable walkie-talkie used by the Colombian police.

Every type of tear gas used by the Colombian police.

Every firearm ever used by the Colombian police. This museum is incredibly comprehensive.

The tile on which Pablo Escobar died. The dark stain is his dried blood.

I finished the day with a meal at WOK, a popular pan-Asian Bogota chain. The Thai basil chicken was easily the best meal I had in Colombia. I enjoyed the Chilean chardonnay as well.

Well, that's it. Thank you all for following along with me over all these years. I have plenty of notes and have started doing background research and hope to write a book detailing my journeys. It is my intent to weave the trips with all the major events of my life. I hope to give the audience a unique perspective on my travels, from a Chinese-American immigrant who majored in Latin American Studies.

Final: Day 7: Medellin to Turbo

I wake up at 3:15 a.m., take a shower, check out of the hotel, and take a cab to the Medellin North bus station. My bus leaves at 5. There is a young mother with four kids. The two middle kids are too old to ride for free. The bus driver chews her out for cheating the system and insists on her paying. She feigns ignorance and pays. After the driver leaves, she gives me a No Big Deal shrug.

All of the passengers on this bus are Colombian. We all paid and were entered into the computer ticketing system.

But 20 minutes out of the station, still in darkness, our bus stops at a random intersection. Five South Asian men hop onboard. They each have backpacks and look scared. They walk to the back of the bus. They don't make eye contact with the bus driver or his helper. They look healthy and are all fairly tall. Definitely from middle class backgrounds.

I suspect that they are migrants headed to the U.S. It is easy for migrants from Nepal, Pakistan, and Africa to fly to Ecuador without a visa, bus up to Turbo, and cross the Darien Gap by foot.

For some reason, this is my favorite shot from my trip. Sunrise.

I really wanted to talk to the men, but I was afraid to. I didn't want to get them in trouble. I didn't want to be presumptuous. I considered giving them my unopened package of Fig Newtons. I was dying to know more about them. I passed by them several times to use the bus restroom, but I stayed silent, like a coward.

During one of the rest stops, I surreptitiously snuck a photo of them. They are gathered around the cashier. I wonder where they are right now, or if they are still alive. I immediately deleted this photo, because I didn't want the Colombian military to find these photos on my phone at the upcoming checkpoints.

The eight hour journey was pleasant. We first traversed mountains and jungles. Shoeless Indian women wearing face paint got on the bus.

Once the terrain flattened, we saw rampant deforestation.

And then, the Banana Axis. Miles and miles of plantains (big) and bananos (small; what we call bananas).

And a couple of torched buildings from the recent protests against new toll booths. We only passed by one military checkpoint, and the soldiers there just waved us through. This is in contrast with the Panamanian side of the Darien Gap, where we had to get out of our bus and be searched every few kilometers by SENAFRONT soldiers.

I am dropped off in the middle of Turbo. Whereas Medellin was 50 degrees when I left this morning, Turbo is 90 degrees with 90% humidity at 1 p.m. I need to get to the end of the Pan-American Highway, which I unilaterally designated as the entrance to the Turbo airport (which has a dirt runway). How do I get there?

As the bus driver hands me my bag, I ask about taxis. He tells me Turbo only has motorcycle taxis. Shit. I am not getting on a motorcycle, especially without a helmet.

I stand on the sidewalk, frustrated. As the bus pulls away, I see across the street a yellow taxi. How lucky. I wave and yell at the cab driver. I throw my bags in the back seat and sit in the front. I can barely understand the cabbie's accent. Half the consonants are silent and the other half are heavy and emphasized. We immediately have a heated discussion. I only know he is not angry at me because he also lightly pinches my left thigh at certain points of the conversation.

We are fighting because I am not allowed near the airport. I certainly cannot take photos there to document the end of my trip. Fifteen years ago, the Colombian military took over the Turbo airport. It became a base of operations to fight the guerillas. I plead with the cabbie to at least go there and try. He yells at me some more.

We approach some orange barricades. We park and walk past young soldiers who have no idea why this chino wants to take photos. We end up in the officer-in-charge's office, past the orange barriers.* It's a bare concrete room with openings in the walls, but no windows. His desk and chair are the only furniture. About a dozen young recruits surround us, gawking. I plead with him to allow me to take a photo of myself next to the orange barriers, which I designated as the end of the Pan-American Highway. He is also perplexed by the request. But the rules are the rules. And with so many of his underlings listening in, he wasn't going to allow strange outsiders to get their way. Dejected, but happy that I tried my best, we walked past the orange barriers and the cabbie took the photo below.

I finished the Pan-American Highway. 14,741 miles. Eleven years.

*This reminds me of my interactions with an officer on the other side of the Darien Gap. I arrived in Yaviza and had to let the military know of my presence. I went to the base to check in. The officer-in-charge was sitting on a dais, above my head. I told him the hotel that I wanted to stay at in town. No, he said, for it has a cockfighting ring.

With the photo taken, I was ready to go to the Apartado airport to fly to Bogota. My driver moved to Turbo when he was ten from Medellin. He is proud of Turbo and insists on me taking a photo of the giant concrete crab sculpture at the beach. I refuse. In retrospect, I think that made him sad. He showed me his house, where he lives with his wife and three boys. It is a relatively nice place facing the sea.

We drive through towns and banana fields to get to the airport. He is very proud of his Medellin-assembled Renault Clio.

This is that toll booth I had passed in the bus. You can make out a dozen police officers at the booth, poring over the debris. The local authorities agreed to not collect tolls indefinitely.

Here is the cabbie, dropping me off at the airport. He was my last driver.

The airport was spooky. There are about a dozen flights a day. There is one cop/soldier for every three passengers at the airport. Security is tight.

ATR-42 to Bogota!

We land in Bogota, and it's almost freezing. The cab ride to my hotel was unexceptional, except the driver asked me if Chinese people ate rats.

I splurged and got a room at the Four Seasons. I'm celebrating. I've never stayed at a place this fancy before. When I walked into the lobby, the staff knew my name and greeted me. The whole place spelled like a lavender-infused spa.

Tomorrow, I explore Bogota.

Final: Day 6: Medellin

I wake up, stand up, walk a few paces. I am pain free. I luck out. My fall last night did not injure me.

This is the view out my hotel window.

I stroll down for my complimentary breakfast buffet. There's even an omelet bar. I don't know how to say mushrooms to the cook. Every guest at breakfast is either wearing a smart European cut suit or tailored business casual. There are no women here. A lot of flowers must get bought and sold here.

Other than resting, I have three goals today.

One, I have to go to the bus station to buy my final bus ticket-- from Medellin to Turbo. Tomorrow, I will complete my odyssey. I take a tiny Hyundai cab. I ask my driver what the top industries in Medellin are, like a seventh grade teacher.

"Tourism, textiles, and women."

I was not expecting that answer.

There are two bus stations in Medellin, north and south. I arrived at the south station last night from Cali. I leave for Turbo from the north station. Before I buy my ticket, I go to the Western Union office to see if they will exchange my Peruvian soles for Colombian pesos. My poor customer service representative has a terribly botched nose job.

I get my ticket. It's crazy how a bus trip to the Darien Gap can just be printed out like this.

My second goal is to buy a plane ticket from Turbo to Bogota. After completing my trip to Turbo, there is no way in hell I am going to ride on a bus for another 18 hours.

I go to the smaller, domestic airport in Medellin. Fortunately, they have a flight on a prop plane from Apartado (30 miles from Turbo) to Bogota. In November 2017, the largest seizure of cocaine in history (12 tons worth $360 million) took place in Apartado. Neat!

Talk about bad judgment. This huge sign inside the airport commemorated tango legend Carlos Gardel's fatal plane crash at the airport.

I take advantage of the free WiFi at the airport and FaceTime with my wife. I start to cry as I see my son on my phone. I quickly hang up.

My third goal is to meet my internet friend BK and deliver an Amazon Fire Stick to him. BK and his partner are retired American expats who now live in Medellin. We have a fine lunch and he gives me a quick primer on everything Medellin. It is so nice to speak English with someone who also happens to know a bit about my life back home.

I want to note that inside our menu, there is an advertisement for shipping services to Miami. Okay.

This is my lunch. Potato, chicharron, plantain, egg, rice, dried beef and a bowl of beans and rice. I must say, Colombian food is a bit on the bland side. This restaurant is very popular with the chichi locals. The men and women here can all be models.

After lunch, BK and I walk around a little. As we head towards my hotel, I have the worst stomach pain in my life. It was the bus station soup from yesterday. I am about to explode. I ask to sit down on the side of the road, multiple times, trying to gather myself. I am sweating, dizzy, and a hot mess. I don't know what to do. And poor BK. BK watches as I speedwalk the last block to the hotel. I made it to my room, barely.

The next ten hours was touch and go. I packed two rolls of Pepto-Bismol chewable tablets. Being the cheapskate, I brought an opened box of Imodium. I just had three tablets left in the box. How do I ration these effectively? I just need to make it to Turbo, which is about 18 hours from now. BK emails me the whole time with words of encouragement, health advice, and offers to pick up meds at the pharmacy (no prescription needed!).

Fortunately, my symptoms subside by the time I fall asleep. Tomorrow, Turbo.

Final: Day 5: Cali to Medellin

I wake up, look out, and see morning traffic in Cali.

It's Wednesday morning and I have been riding buses since Sunday night. I am seriously ripe. I consider taking the day off and riding again tomorrow. But I mustn't. I have to keep pushing. So I feed myself a cup of soup at the Cali bus station. In retrospect, I firmly believe this soup ruined me the following day. But for now, it's my first hot meal in three full days.

I take a bus from Cali to Medellin. The nine hour ride ends up being more like eleven. For the first half of the trip, it's straight and smooth across ranch country. The second half is slow and twisty. The scenery is right out of 1980s Nightline stock footage about the Colombian cocaine trade. There are Daihatsu Tafts everywhere.

Our dinner break is at a random village. Cali and Medellin each has 2.5 million inhabitants, and this narrow two-lane "highway" is the only route that connects the cities. How does meaningful commerce even happen?

While everyone is eating, I walk around. Here is our bus.

Every mountain village has one of these Virgin Mary statuettes protecting everyone.

We don't get to the Medellin bus station until 10 p.m. I didn't realized how tired I was. I didn't realize how hungry I was (my only meal all day was that morning cup of soup). I didn't realize how weak my legs were from days of inactivity. I realized it when I got my bag from the bus's luggage compartment and stepped up onto the too-high curb.

SPLAT.

I trip and fall flat on my face onto the unforgiving concrete. I deal with injuries at work every day, so I've seen all the possible injuries from falls-- torn rotator cuffs, compound wrist fractures, etc. A small crowd rushes to me and asks me if I'm okay. I look over my body for blood and deformities. None. I pat myself all over. I'm fine. I know I'm exhausted and can't think clearly. I need to get to my hotel, rest, and re-evaluate myself tomorrow morning.

Final: Day 4: Ecuador to Colombia

It's 3 a.m. We are in the Ecuadorean Central Highlands, somewhere north of Riobamba. We get to a toll booth, and our engine stalls again. Then, the bus starts rolling back, as if to parallel park. We are stuck again.

I start panicking. The hazard lights are not on because the electrical system is shot. What if a tractor trailer rear ends us? What if a gang of toughs comes on board and robs us all? What if?

There's not much that can be done. So all of us passengers go back to sleep while the drivers figure out what to do next.

It wasn't until the next morning, when I got out, that I realized we were safe all along. We were parked right next to a police station. There was even an ambulance with paramedics on stand-by.

But still. How are we going to get out of this jam? Am I going to have enough time with this delay to finish my journey by the end of the week? Should I selfishly call a taxi cab for myself and be driven to Quito (approximately four to six hours away)?

No. I will stay with my compatriots. Eventually, this Ferrari-liveried bus came to pick us up. It was smaller and not as nice as our original bus, but we were relieved. Handsome Dad and Joker Dad stayed with the original bus. Responsible Dad would be our chaperone and accompanied us through the rest of the trip.

The Ecuadorean Central Highlands was quite bucolic. Lots of farmland.

Quito is a strange location for a capital. It's not in just one valley. You would have to traverse a number of steep passes just to get from one neighborhood to another. Commuting is hard on the brakes, much more so than even San Francisco.

North of Quito, I knew we would be crossing the equator. So I kept an eye on my phone.

It was around here, at 8,000', that we crossed the equator.

The Northern Highlands of Ecuador has a strong German influence. At a rest area, I went to a mini mart. An older German woman ran the place. She wore a threadbare brown sweater. You could tell it was a nice sweater when it was purchased decades ago. Despite her best efforts, the grinding poverty is obvious. She had the weathered look of descendants of those utopian settlements in rural Paraguay. Anyhow, the mini mart had a bottle of water and a bottle of sports drink on display. Nothing else. I wanted the water so she opened a rusted icebox and pulled a bottle out for me. It was very depressing.

And at dusk, the green bus dropped us off at the Colombia-Ecuador border. We stood in line for a couple of hours. Vendors made a killing selling food and drinks to the travelers. The crowd leaned young. I estimate less than 3% of us were 35 and older.

Once we got the Ecuador stamp on our passports, we walked across a bridge into Colombia. A white bus would take us from the border to Cali. We were ecstatic. Not only would we get to Cali, we would get there on time. Somehow, the green and white replacement buses made up nine-plus hours of delays.

As we left the border in the middle of the night, the crowd at the back of the bus pulled out a bottle of Colombian rum and a plastic shot glass. I had two shots. The skinny Chilean insisted that I have a can of beer. Someone turned on the flashlight feature of their smartphone, flicked his hand in front of the light, and gave the back of the bus a strobe light effect. People were dancing. A woman we called Tia, a middle aged woman who was traveling with her mother (who looked like Tia 20 years from now) and her daughter (who looked like Tia 20 years ago) sang beautiful, soulful folk songs about home and love.

I looked out the window and gazed at the stars. The Big Dipper pointed at Polaris, which was barely above the horizon. My head bobbed about as the driver drove over 35 miles per hour on winding mountain roads. I felt euphoric.

As a side note, buses customarily travel in convoys at night through this portion of southern Colombia. But our chaperone insisted this was not necessary tonight because of increased military patrols. However, whenever our bus driver saw a bus parked on the side of the road, he would stop to make sure everyone was okay.