How nothing can manifest itself in tantas palabras.

Colombian kindness is something of an extreme -- which is why, lost in the smiles and invitations of best-friends-at-first-words, I keep wondering if I've encountered the Latino Jeffrey Dahmer.

Take, for example, the following conversation:

Them: "Hey, wanna come to our farm today?"

After glancing over my shoulder, "Are you talking to me? Hi, I'm Patrick."

I did follow one stranger from center city Cali to his home, somewhat impressed by his connections in education, mostly blinded by optimism thanks to the pounds of pastries I was lugging down la quinta, thus paralyzed by an inability to invent a good excuse. Exiting the night through his front door, I had to toe my way through an unlit room to descend into black nothingness, all the while waiting for the ax blow that would send me crumpling into the pre-dug grave at the foot of the stairs. As it were, we sipped limonada with his kids. (I might've liked ice cream, but anyone not named Escobar encounters a lose-lose delimma: Ron con pasas or educating the kids? Educating in hopes the tots might achieve a status making $6 pints a dinner table reality, of course.)

No word exists to describe the utter tranquility and felicity I feel here in Cali, Colombia, but I'll try two: Pastries; Boobs. And my three mile plus walks across the city to my newly favorited panadería, QuintaPan, are amply rewarding in both, even if my traffic-jammed digestive tract has been cramping the blissful dream. Do you think pregnancy is more like constipation or the other way around? (Either way, I've never been happier I'll never have to deal with pregnancy.)

There are yet a few sights to see in Cali, but occasionally launched by sugar-high into checklist traveler mode, I've knocked off landmarks and gorgeous city lookouts La Loma de La Cruz and La Iglesia de San Antonio, as well as La Estatua de Sebastián de Belalcázar. I attended a Colombian death metal show with a hostel friend and a bottle of aguardiente -- what pleasure reacquainting myself with unkempt facial growth, pummeling double bass and the half-tickler, half-bestower-of-blindness nature of longhair whipped 360°! (I awoke the next morning and discovered my neck was still celebrating: woohoo, whiplash!) As for lessons in maintaining perspective, call it anti-penny-pinching, it's definitely worth the extra US$0.20/kg for a higher quality papaya.

The generosity lavished upon me by the hostel-running folks, Jessicas #1 y #2, and, especially, the unparalleled Kelly and company is -- given my highly-negative karmic balance accumulated over countless years of squashing bugs; spreading early-morning-hate by unleashing acid-farts in the Geo, windows rolled-up, to discourage innocent neighbors from ever again requesting a ride to school, depriving me of precious seconds of sleep; terrorizing mi hermanito every time he threatened to beat me in video games, chess, sport...administering beatings even for the out-of-his-control, say if mom served him a slightly larger cut of meat or a greener sprig of broccoli -- quite undeserved. And yet here I am, being indulged in Colombia, sipping icy cerveza and blowing potent puffables in UniValle, la U, spitting Spanglish with Kelly. There's nowhere I'd rather be. How greatly do I esteem these friends? For an early morning wake-up to bike with Kelly to the tranquil, refreshing Rio Cali I hesitated not a second to skip what, I promise, would have been my first trip to a whorehouse -- and Colombian hookers are like the slot machines of your fantasies: beautifully crafted, requiring minimal input for guaranteed Jackpots.

So there's life, brought to you on my ganked-but-recovered tank of an iBook G3. "¡La perdiste!" I heard, spinning around to see two Colombians fleeing down the block with my 7-year-old "Beefy Butt Muffin", which they'd snatched off a hostel-front table while I was turned and distracted by conversation. Arms akimbo, through clenched teeth I forced a few obscenities as they disappeared around the corner, the wick of shock burning out as I Usain Bolted from standstill to roadrunner, my sandals clapping across pavement, through traffic, for a five block pursuit that ended when, after enough rage-saturated "¡Hijueputas!" and "¡Ayudame!"s, pedestrians began to take notice and approach. The panic prompted in the dumbass ladrones who ran towards crowded streets culminated in the tossing of my iBook onto cement -- a crash that actually restored regular function in the popout DVD tray.

Well, time to pound pavement again, Señora Sweet Tooth's calling for the QuintaPan pastry reup; eating pastries out the ass...if, well, currently not out the ass.

Since I'm already going to hell...

Spanishdict.comming "raquitica" I discovered a Colombian friend was describing her appearance in a Facebook photo as "rickety". A solid minute into cackling in my otherwise empty hostel dormitory, I realized I couldn't actually recall rickets specifics. Thank Al God Gore for the internet!

There's really no way to feel good about yourself Google Imaging "rickets". Let's just make the generalization that querying Google Images for the diseased and disabled -- while already engaged in stomach-clenching laughter -- reflects a serious deficit of soul and compassion. (After reviewing the previous sentence, I'm pretty sure the timing of that laughter is insignificant. You're a monster regardless.)

And when the Google Image search results unleash a gleeful gush of tears while you rock back and forth on your bed like a capsized turtle, legs hugged to your chest, congratulations, you've accomplished indescribable despicability.

But, c'mon, let's be honest. Not laughing? How?
My path to hell has been paved by "curved bones" and "big, lumpy joints".

Leaving Cali has proved impossible. The inability to rouse myself long before hostel Check Out has preserved my aversion to productivity. Gorging on weighty fruits for breakfast. Running or hiking a bit, then embellishing the jockstrap fragrance leaking from my 10-bed dorm, decorating bedposts with my sweat-soaked clothes.
Lil Boosie keeps me mean muggin' on treks toward downtown and Panadería Quinta con Quinta, and every day at dusk a different arepa-plastered griddle coaxes pesos from my pockets. Occasionally arepas de choclo, sliced, pancake-yellow sweetcorn discs sandwiching rectangular blocks of white cheese. More often, the over-buttered bliss of your typical arepa con queso, the melty-cheese midsection stretching from hand to your chomping mandible with more elastic resiliency than any Peter Parker production. For a splurge, the mighty arepa con todo: looking like a giant Chick-Fil-A or Bojangles biscuit, bleeding Salsa de Aji instead of Texas Pete, layers of oil-penetrated napkins and tinfoil wrapping prevent fillings from spilling, buttery-yellowed dough discs enveloping bulging meats and cheese, a chicharrón, pollo, y res protein orgy.

Tuesday, at least, I contorted my gringo frame to mount a mini-bike for a great if knee-ravaging afternoon ride through Cali to countryside and El Río Pance, where Kelly, Paola and company introduced me to chicha de maíz and refreshingly cool waters. Sans sunscreen and subjected to UV-Index 10 rated rays, my cheeks just pinkened. Phase 1 of Conversion completed. Phase 2: Accent.

But if girls have stopped noticing me for my browness, homeless guys prove keener. And as general policy, regardless if you indulged or declined his requests for change, it's probably never a good idea to lend a homeless guy your iPod; if you're lucky -- and if sufficiently crunk off Boosie you're foolish enough to call bluff on his violent threats: "¿Conoce la guerrilla? Estoy con ellos. Yo mato a gente." -- all you'll have to do is trade him your arroz con leche to get it back.

Though choosing death might've hurt less.

Cali: Where sleeping makes you feel like a sellout

The Cali Routine: Party through the night, wake up sometime the next afternoon, track down a rice & bean heavy plate to eat, sleep again, wake up for a feast of arepas...otra vez, sigue la rumba.

Cali is the proclaimed Salsa capital of Colombia, a city renowned for spicy women and raging nightlife -- and, I can confirm, afternoonlife as well. My unconscious knack for arriving in cities at the beginning of major festivals landed me in Cali at the opening night of the XIII Festival de Música Petronio Álvarez 2009. Thus the Cali routine.

During the festival, which ran Wednesday, August 12 through Sunday the 16th, nights began at the Plaza de Toros. Nightly displays of coastal culture -- music and dance spiced by ubiquitous unmarked plastic bottles of licores típicos y guaro vended throughout the venue and circulating through the crowd -- enveloped everyone, the entire mass of humanity pressed into stadium seating afoot, gyrating, swaying, and screaming, but with the natural latin rhythm that escaped transmission to the gringo. (Probably some karmic reverberation for all those centuries spent conquering and enslaving and brutalizing...) Always afterward we attended the alleybound, 'til-dawn after-parties -- el remate -- lugging and chugging various spirits and pre-rolled puffables to barely navigable center-city alleys packed by encircling swarms fluidly grooving, cheering, and chanting to handpatted drumbeats.

Kelly, awesome as she is, hasn't expressed the slightest annoyance at being enlisted as my guía turistica, cheerily walking me through the city; introducing me to slews of friends; taking me to both the nameless housefront areparía and the late-night panadería -- Quinta con Quinta, serving an assortment of gooey sweets and pan pizza -- that have sparked my latest foodie obsessions; helping me take down bottles and bottles of intoxicants; bearing my indiscriminate, inescapable butchering of the art of dance.

After a few more days in Cali -- hopefully waking at hours that, should my filled-pastry breakfasts ooze as much motivational energy as they do arequipe, I can at least entertain notions of productivity that might transcend my daily, loyal-customer-motivated cross-city walk to procure pastries and buttery, griddle-hot arepas rellenas con queso -- I'll need to hit another spot as quiet as Manizales (photos L & R), the tranquil, gringo-free mountain city that facilitated my 'tween-Medellín-and-Cali recovery: four peaceful days enjoying good running and reading, better fresh fruits, and the first attempt at watching Colombian cinema sin subtítulos ("Rosario Tijeras").

But, hell, I'm still in Cali. And I smell thick discs of maiz cooking on some streetside griddle, all buttery brown tanlines with cheese dripping down from the clamshell cuts that open the world of arepas sencillas to arepas-whatever-the-fuck-you-can-stuff-in-here. Maybe I'll order a fat-bursting, toothpick-speared choricito on the side, the perfect compliment to the grease-sponge plátano relleno con queso, an entire lengthwise-split plantain gapfilled with melted cheese -- en Cali conocido como aborrajado -- with which I'll be lubricating my intestines. Call it compromising with the digestive tract in the absence of frijoles.

I live for the funk, I die for the funk

Showers are highly recommended for humans equipped with unparalyzed hands and arms, all travelers included, your hippie-factor not being a factor. Because, yes, I find it highly offensive when we rub shoulders and, bam, suddenly showering me smells like I've neglected the hygiene of an entire half of my body for a month, such that I'm washing the sleeve of an otherwise clean shirt at 3am in the hostel sink. While pretty damn drunk on guaro.

Seriously, how do you neglect such simple practices as bathing, deodorizing and clothes washing to the extent that the lightest contact with you transfers stink? There's a reason every time you step toward me I keep backing away. The stench emanating from your body forms a stink force-field that wards off humans as effectively as a poison-tipped sword. Your scent: puro campesino. But you're not an impoverished latino laboring 18 hours a day in sun-smothered fields to provide the bare minimum for your family. You're on an extended vacation. You have the time and resources to shower. And apply soap. Daily.

Hot water showering is one of the activities I indulged in during my stay in Medellín. La Feria de las Flores continued with various expositions and concerts and processions daily, including the highlight flower parade, in which everyone from just-walking children to just-walking ancianos bore huge and elaborate wood-mounted flower arrangements on their weight-bowed backs, walking miles and miles over hot concrete through the gauntlet of thousands upon thousands of drinking, whistling revelers. A half-gallon of aguardiente made its way into our hands too many times, thanks to a group of underage Colombianos excited by the sight of gringos. How did we know they were excited? The giggle-infused shrieks, "¡Miren, gringos!" Five or six separate groups of Colombians throughout the day requested photos of the gringos, sometimes posing themselves in the picture.

Likewise, a few days ago, running shirtless through El Poblado, a tiny kid spotted me and diverted his attention from the ice cream man. (And you know diverting the attention of any four-year-old from the ice cream man requires something equally incredible as would have been required to divert the attention of Michael Jackson from, well, that same four-year-old.) Kid cocked his head at me, pointed, and started yelling for his distracted dad, "¡Mira, MIRA!" Now to transfer that reaction to of-age women.


During my 9 days in Medellín some friends and I caught a Medellín vs. Nacional futbol match, which was quite the rowdy spectacle. The profanity laced songs and choruses -- many of which suggested various sexual favors team Nacional could perform upon the Medellín crowd -- rarely paused, the whole Medellín section of the stadium constantly jumping, waving flags and banners and pumping their fists, hurtling invectives without discrimination, be it a maricón Nacional or hijo de puta hometown player who misdribbled or held the ball too long.

A daytrip to Sante Fe de Antioquia proved an unforgettable excursion too, another beautiful Colombian colonial town, this one located a few hours bus-ride outside of Medellín. The main draw is the historic Puente de Occidente (right), a wooden suspension bridge and one of the first constructed in South America. Of course we ended up stepping down from the bus kilometers before town, in front of an entirely normal bridge (left...still set against beautiful scenery, eh?) that both a bus employee and a local insisted was the monument we'd come to see, instead of just admitting they weren't sure. AKA Classic Latin American style. (Paul has coined as the new default evasive response, "My father's name is Daniel.") But for that mishap we met and chatted up two cheery, gun-toting military teens, one of whom is also performs as a clown for children. (Can you guess which one?)


Somewhere in there was crammed a noteworthy pastry binge. Astounded by the variety and quality of cheap pastries available at the neighborhood Exito, a Colombian Wal-Mart, I at one point consumed consecutively dinner and breakfast of puro pastel. (As has been noted by many traveling friends, I'm weird. Especially in my singular-in-focus food binges. Beans or peanut butter & banana sandwiches for days on end. My daily vitamin-cramming sessions, consuming pounds of mangos or sapotes, sometimes a whole pineapple, in one session. Chugging liters of milk every few days.)


A simple man with simple tastes, I guess.

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More from SANTA FE DE ANTIOQUIA:












More from LA FERIA DE LAS FLORES:
(Clockwise from top left: An outlet in the sidewalk, beside a wall, defining random; many plantains stoking my hunger for tajadas con carne molida; a man arranging and painting a many-times oversized flower display for the Pilsen beer company; normal police for a flower parade)

God in the Building

Medellín, "la ciudad de la eterna primavera," is probably what would happen if I were God and commanded with designing the proverbial 'heaven on earth'. Second to Playboy, the valley-bound metropolis has the most beautiful women per capita in the world. And maybe with a higher occurrence of plastic surgery. I can't even confirm that the women here have faces.

With the great luck that has kept me from accumulating felonies and prison terms, I arrived in Medellín at the beginning of La Feria de las Flores, an annual festival that envelops the city, drawing paisanos and foreigners alike for the week-plus duration (of officially or unofficially guaro- and cervecería-sponsored events). Take, for instance, the many-thousands-horses procession, highlighted by drunk men hootin' and hollerin' and staggering into the paths of trotting, frothing behemoths, risking trampling for photos beside mega-busted morena Barbies.

Plush barrio El Poblado, where I'm staying, and the nearby Zona Rosa party district are clean and manicured, frequented by the primped and silicon-pumped and their money-breathing, highest-bidder escorts. A quick Metro jaunt can carry you through city center, past highrises, shopping centers and expansive parks; over grungier avenues teeming with pedestrians navigating the maze of "¿Que busca, amor?"-screaming street-vendors and outlet-hawks; to packed and stacked city sectors where ramshackle configurations of junkyard materials pass for homes.

Besides meeting Kelly, a beautiful and oh-so-fun girl from Cali -- the sole reason I'm not leasing an apartment in Medellín...yet -- and kickin' it with Paul and the chévere crew of chicks and dudes inhabiting our 80-bed hostel, my days have mostly been defined by peanut butter, banana & raisin sandwich breakfasts; bandeja paisa lunches; bean-binge dinners; beer, rum, and guaro hazed nights.


But I've learned to dance electronica -- Maybe you'll sneer, "What's there to learn?" But you've never seen me dance -- and spit Colombian slang thanks to the Kelly and the Cali click, with whom I also hit Medellín sites Pueblita Paisa, a great city mirador, and Parque de Los Pies Descalzos.

Paul and I bussed to La Piedra de Peñol -- a 200m tall black rock oddity exploding skyward amidst an otherwise low-sitting, verdant expanse, the boulder some monstrous deity skipped so expertly across the oceans it hopped to land and lodged on contact. Arresting views of lush greenery dissected by winding blue slivers of lake await atop, after a 649 concrete stair ascent toward the heavens.

(Upon returning to our hostel and awaking my computer from sleep, I found ilovecocks.com prominently displayed in the Safari browser, courtesy of my hooker-loving British friends Craig and Danny, who, after my recent club confusion, have taken to interpreting my every comment as a homosexual Fruedian slip. Though sometimes, as when giving Paul instructions on drinking milk from a plastic bag -- "Just put it in your mouth, then squeeze it or suck it or something." -- I make it waaaay to easy.)

¡Ay parce, que chimba Medellín! Pues, ya me voy a aproximarme a Cali, ¡y con razon!