The month of February brought an exciting adventure we affectionately named “Vanuary”. For thirty days, we drove and camped our way across 3,860 kilometers of often unpaved and sometimes harrowing roads through Patagonia in a 2 person camper van. Our road trip started in the rolling hills of Chiloé island before returning to the continent of South America. Once back on the mainland, we hopped on the famed Carretera Austral, a beautiful and ambitious road carved through and around the southern Andes mountain range. We drove the Carretera Austral as far as we could without too much backtracking and then crossed into the grasslands, or *pampas*, of Argentina. The desolate stretch of land held amazing surprises and eventually took us back to Chile and we followed Ruta 9 all the way to the end of continental South America.

We named our chariot “La Piñata”. A manual-transmission, Chinese-made, American-branded utility van, she was bright and colorful, seemingly made of papier-mâché, and tossed us around on the roads like innocent pieces of candy. We had our doubts at times, but she made it from Puerto Varas to Punta Arenas, Chile.

The contrast in the landscape surpassed even our high expectations. We wandered through an rainforest-like jungle with droves of ferns encroaching along the highway. Later, we walked along frozen boardwalks watching giant cleaves of ice burst from the face of a glacier. We swatted swarms of devilish horseflies as sweat rolled from every pore. Later, desperately clung to every layer of clothing we’d packed and we faced stormy winds and dustings of snow. We stood, jaws open, in awe of the greens and blues before our eyes. Later, we drove through a vast, barren nothingness, wondering how far away was the nearest tree.

There is contrast in the roads we traveled. Our first official night on the Carretera Austral, we admired at the beautiful quality of the paved road—unmatched by many highways in the United States, even. Later, we laughed the laugh that only near death experiences can produce. Whose idea was it to build a coastal road with no shoulder to separate you from hundreds of feet of frightening nothingness, all above a frigid glacial lake? Oh, and by “road”, I meant “narrow winding pathway with inches of loose gravel worn into ruts”. Of course, we were also dodging novice mountain bikers out for a deadly day trip there as well. All while driving standard with a tiny engine. I digress...

The contrast roads empty for hours to narrowingly escaping unpredictable turns of 18 wheelers or seeing a camper crashed into a ditch on our very first day (the passengers were safe). Never will I forget the painfully sharp contrast of when serpentine belts are functioning and spinning round and round in their serpentine-belt-like fashion as opposed to when they snap violently and leave you stranded on the road for eighteen hours. And the classic vehicular contrast of when tires have air and they have no air (for no diagnosable reason).

The contrast in our ability to communicate back home heightened as we moved further away from the more populous regions of northern Patagonia. We’d go days without hearing from anyone or sending any updates. In the grand scheme of human history, the fact we can talk with family thousands of miles away is unprecedented. Though by modern standards, the experience of being disconnected can be rare. The communication gods smiled upon us the day my sister got engaged, and precious cell service allowed us to congratulate the two lovebirds.

There are few moments in life which evoke more delightfully wonderful contrast than the fleeting moments right before a surprisingly hot shower at a surprisingly nice campground and the few beautiful moments after when I swear I’ve never been so clean in my life. Hiking everyday and living in a van will do that to you.

Often, we were alone. Sure, we’d have light and friendly conversations when we’d stop for fuel or a snack. We talked for hours over the rattle of the Chinese-quality van, and listen to music or podcasts when the unpaved didn’t completely drown out the sound. So we drove and we hiked and we admired and we ventured and we slept.

More often than we expected, we experienced a sense of friendship and familiarity difficult to find outside of your place, your home. From our first day on the Carretera Austral, we picked up the first pair of many pairs of hitchhikers. It’s a popular summer trip for university students to get themselves down south with a pack and possibly some climbing gear, hang a thumb out over the road, and wait for a ride. That’s the culture of the Carretera. The added weight to La Piñata with hitchhikers proved difficult to handle at first, but Lane always managed to maneuver our ungraceful whale of a van. When we drove with mochileros in the back, conversations developed into some mix of an English and Spanish lessons. We met so many kind people who shared stories from their lives.

Friendship also came in the form of a delightful couple from the UK, Jane and James. Before departing on our road trip, we met them at our hostel’s breakfast table, and we passed the entire morning chatting away. The next night, we cooked dinner together and talked late into the evening. It was a pleasure and novelty to make some new, genuine friends, as it’s harder to do so on the road than you might think. But eventually, we had to split ways. While we planned to drive the Carretera Austral and beyond, they would be biking it! Before departing, we exchanged information and plans, hoping we might all see each other again. Thanks to several detours off the main route we made, we met and camped with Jane and James twice over the next few weeks. Given the limited communication we had and our vast differences in pace, it’s a miracle it happened at all. We haven’t experienced the simple joy of “meeting up with friends” for so long, it just made our time of the Carretera Austral even more special.

The contrast in our surroundings changed not only in the majesty of Patagonia but the level of access and tourism throughout the journey as well. We’d hike entire trails without another soul in sight. Later, we squeezed La Piñata around trains of tour buses and weaved our way through throngs of other hikers to some of the most sought-after views in Patagonia.

I recognized change in myself regarding the way I approached our hikes. As time passed, I spent less and less mental energy worrying about how difficult a hike might be or how long it would actually take me versus how long it should take. Soon, I wasn’t batting an eye at hiking over 20km or worrying if we’d started the hike too late in the day. I just did it and appreciated how strong and powerful my body is.

Yet another way I delineate my life into the before and after Vanuary is my now-realized love of penguins. Reaching adulthood, most superlatives from childhood—favorite color, favorite, dinosaur, favorite ice cream flavor—fade away in significance as you learn to appreciate variety. Now as an adult, I can say I have a new favorite animal: penguins And thanks to Chile, I’ve adoringly watched 3 of the 18 species in the world in their natural habitats. We waddled alongside Magdalena penguins on Isla Magdalena and watched in awe as a small colony of regal King penguins tended to their fat babies in Tierra del Fuego.

Many of the fears I had when we committed to this leg of the trip were-unfounded. Together, Lane and I made a good team, ready to take on the challenges of road tripping Patagonia. The decision to take this trip catalyzed one of the most amazing adventures we’ve had since leaving our Colorado home. Now, I will carry those beautiful memories, peace, simplicity, and awe with me for the rest of my life.

Opportunities are in no short supply while traveling and making your plans as you go.  However, the process of identifying the next _thing_, planning, pursuing, and enjoying the thing don’t usually line up so perfectly as to not create some sort of gap, which itself requires planning and pursuing. During long-term travel, the inevitability of these  in-between times becomes a regular reality and adds a different cadance to life on the road. Sometimes, these times create much needed space for rest or they can surprise you in unexpected ways.

As we prepared to leave the vineyard, our minds focused on the next ambitious phase of the trip. We wanted to road trip through Patagonia, north to south. Driving a campervan across almost a 4,000 km expanse would be ideal, though we worried inspiration struck too late for us to reserve an affordable option. As I’ve learned repeatedly on the trip, everything works out in some way or another, and we found ourselves leaving the gates of the vineyard for the last time with a deposit on a month-long rental for a camper van. We had the van we wanted at a good price, all we had to do was wait about two and a half weeks. It’s strange thinking of weeks as being fluid downtime in our travels with little plans or intentions. With two weeks being a respectable vacation time in the US, calling two and a half weeks “disposable” feels wrong. So like always, we take a look around and make ourselves available and open to our surroundings.

Leaving the vineyard energized and ready to hit the road, Lane felt drawn to try something new. Our home at the vineyard sat just about an hour bus ride from one of the best surf spots in Chile, the coastal town of Pichimelu. Our first post-vineyard meal, we indulged in salchipapas—a deliciously-terrible Chilean favorite of french fries and cut-up hotdog. That’s all it is, yet it is everywhere and so very popular. We lounged in the glory of our comfortable B&B, and climbed up into a lovely reading loft with a view of the ocean and sunset. Lane secured a reservation for a surfing lesson in English, thank goodness. I absolutely love the water. I’ve spent lots of time in, around, and under the water. In most all situations—stressful or otherwise—I can handle myself around water. Nonetheless, Something about surfing made me nervous. I also couldn’t stop thinking of the frigid water temperatures we’d felt in northern Chile, and I didn’t imagine the situation was better down south. I nervously agreed to surfing lessons, bearing in mind the trip is all about trying new things. And honestly, what about the past several months of our lives hadn’t pushed me out of my comfort zone?

The next day, Ismael, our surf instructor, pulled up in a red truck loaded with surfboards, and cooling hopped out reveal bare, surfer feet. We hadn’t heard what a Chilean surfer bro sounded like until this moment, but we would be laughing along with his stories for the next two days. Ismael exudes a passion for his craft I haven’t seen in most people. He lives and breathes surfing, and he could recognize all his friends out on the water even though we stood on a cliff peering down towards ocean waves hundreds of feet below. He also tells stories and provides instruction with a level of animation and sound effects unparalleled by any kind of teacher I’ve ever had.

We piled into the back seat of the truck and greeted the other two surfing students we found inside. Chris and Keiko hailed from New York and also in the middle of a year-long trip around the world. Neither of us had met many other couple traveling long term from the US, so we excitedly swapped travel highlights, struggles, tips, and warnings.

Both Chris and Keiko put Lane and me to shame when we did our first surf lesson. Turns out they were from California originally and had both surfed a bit. We didn’t stand a chance, but we did our best to keep up. In between wipeouts, we talked and laughed over the waves. I never stayed on my board for very long, but wow, it was exhilarating when I did!

Ismael offered to take us out for another class the following day, and Chris and Keiko already planned to hit the waves again. We excited agreed, and I smiled at the fact I couldn’t wait to go surfing again.

The next day, after several hours of tiring and fun surfing attempts, the sun slowly sunk towards the watery horizon. Ismael waved us towards him and told us the final plan for the day. We’d paddle out beyond the largest waves and ride a big one to the shore. Excitedly, I climbed onto my board and did my best to maintain a proper paddling position as I tailed Chris and Lane out towards the open ocean. Soon, we were floating in calm water, a warm glow emanating from the edging sunset. We watched the experienced surfers near the cliff catch the final wave of the day. I often think back to this tranquil moment before one of the most exhilarating of my life.

Soon, Ismael gathered us round and asked who wanted to go first.

“I’ll give it a go!”, I heard myself yelling into the open air.
As I paddled closer, I asked whether I could simply ride the wave on my belly, holding my board like so. Ismael laughed and assured me this would be just fine. He held my board, steadying me in the water and he waited, judging the perfect wave.

“This is the best wave of your life!”, he yelled in my direction and both the excitement and the wave swelled.

“Paddle!”

So I did. Suddenly, I was careening towards the shore at the base of a huge wave. I screamed in delight and speed increase and the beach grew larger in my sight. Keiko worried I’d fallen when she heard the scream, but quickly realized it was just excitement. I rode the wave almost to the beach and wore a ridiculous ocean-induced grin on my face. I watched, anxiously, from the shore as everyone rode their waves one-by-one.

Ismael gave us hot chai as we shivered in our wetsuits on the beach, and laughed as he told crazy stories from his early days of surfing as a kid. A few years ago, he’d embarked on a round the world surfing trip and traveled to so many amazing places. Two things to note: he rode the best wave of his life here in Pichilemu, and he was very disappointed by Taco Bell in California.

Keiko and Chris were staying with Ismael, as he was a family friend, and Ismael invited us over for dinner that evening. He grilled fresh fish caught by his friend, and his girlfriend, Daniella, prepared a delicious salad. We talked and laughed through the night and multiple bottles of wine, appreciating the beautiful serendipity of travel.

Soon, we boarded a bus bound for Santiago. We enjoyed walking around, visiting museums, and eating well on our second trip to the city. On the first trip, we ate some of the best cheeseburgers and fries of our lives, so we couldn’t resist the temptation again. We also purchased two travel-worthy sleeping bags for our big van trip before catching a flight south to northern Patagonia.

Landing in Puerto Montt, snow capped volcanoes greeted us outside the terminal. We’d be returning to the city later before picking up our home on wheels. But first, a trip to Argentina (and a Chilean visa renewal) awaited us. We had nearly used up the 3 months allotted on our Chilean visa, so needing to leave and re-enter Chile before the start of our van trip led us to spending a pleasant and relaxing in Bariloche, Argentina. Bariloche is a Swiss-inspired town complete with plenty of Argntine flair spread along the shores of Lago Rio Negro.

We visited Argentina for the first for my friend’s wedding back in 2015. The country had seen lots of change and struggle since then, but we were excited to return. Argentina will always hold a special place for us. Our second visit to Argentina provided ample hikes, sunbathing on lake shores, and instead of rivers of Malbec (like last time), we excitedly indulged in Bariloche’s craft beer scene. Though we’ve had some good beer since we left Colorado, finding good drafts on our travels is harder than we’d like.

Our time in Bariloche prepared for van life in multiple ways. Hiking through the lake region in northern Patagonia left me even more confident we’d made the right decision to road trip Patagonia. And, my bargain Airbnb rental had acclimatized us to living in tight quarters (wow, online photos can be misleading).

We crossed the border back to Chile, knowing the roads south would bring us back to Argentina in a few weeks’ time. We gratefully checked into our charming hostel (with a normal ceiling), and relished sleeping in a bed before we converted fully to foam padding and sleeping bags.

Vines heavy with lush grapes stretch out as far as the eye can see. A golden sun slinks behind layers of foothills only to be replaced by a harvest moon and a sky lousy with stars. There are cute wooden wine barrels and colorful bottles that catch the light stacked all around. You fill your wine glass whenever you need a quick refreshment. You wear a big, floppy hat, maybe with a ribbon, and walk through rows upon rows of vines watching the bounty grow before your eyes.

Isn’t this the image of what comes to mind when you think about what it’d be like to work in a vineyard?

Okay, well, parts of that are kind of true. Let me say the our romantic daydreams may be a little misleading. That doesn’t mean it’s a great experience. But the grapes aren’t going to just grow well on their own without some hard work, and your cute, floppy hat might look something like this:

Lane and I chose to do a workaway experience on a vineyard shortly after arriving in Chile. We wanted a way to slow down, reflect on our travels, decrease our spending, and decide what was next for us. We also weren’t super enticed by the idea of spending Christmas and New Year’s bouncing around hostels. Thus, the holidays seemed like the perfect time to figure out how to stay in one place and cheaply. Workaway is a volunteer program where you volunteer to work 5 hours a day, 5 days a week in exchange for free room and board. Workaway experiences can range from working on a small vineyard in Chile, like we did, to helping crew a sailboat in Indonesia. In Chile, and probably most of Latin America, workawayers are lovingly called “GGs”, or gringos gratis: free gringos. The vineyard where we worked employed a few people full-time but the relatively young vineyard isn’t big enough to support much more. So, a few volunteers help to close the gap in work around the property in exchange for a cozy place to live.

For about a month, we lived in a little house right next to the biggest vine fields. We took care of six crazy dogs, collected eggs from the henhouse, pulled countless weeds from the rows of vines, helped the vines grow in the right direction, helped to clean and fill a few thousand bottles of wine, and if we still had time, weeded some more. We also spent so much time basking in the sweet summer days of Central Chile, giving us some pretty crazy tan lines. Our muscles grew stronger. We stopped embarrassing ourselves with subpar shoveling techniques. We practiced Spanish. We spent time with several kind and interesting people. We drank wine—lots of wine—with winemakers and wine critics. We learned to appreciate all the planning, effort, and love that goes into making a good wine.

The owners of the vineyard, Matt and Ana, welcomed us into their home for a Christmas Eve with their families. Thus, we celebrated our first summery Christmas in Spanish. I asked Ana, who is Chilean, what she thought about Christmas in summer since she’s never had anything else. She assured me it still felt weird, and she wanted to experience a Christmas in winter because that just seems right.

On Christmas Day, we passed the hours next to our festive ‘Christmas cactus’ calling family back home with precious cell phone data due to lack of internet. We indulged in a bottle of especially nice wine and ate leftover homemade zucchini bread.

For New Year’s Eve, we feasted with another Chilean family. José, a super patient and kind builder extraordinaire of the vineyard, invited us to his home to celebrate. Among many other wonderful details I will remember from that night, my excitement when the family added ice cream to our champagne after midnight.

For all the other days in between, there are so many moments I don’t want to forget.

Cleaning hundreds of spider webs and sacs from the windows and decompressing with a glass of wine afterwards because it was pretty gross and scary. Some were definitely poisonous.

Driving the old Subaru Forester into town for groceries.

Picking the biggest zucchini I’ve ever seen from the garden for baking some holiday bread.

Passing the evening on the front porch with Miguel, our housemate, and learning about his life in Venezuela and how he met his photographer wife on flickr back in the day.

How the chickens often followed closely beside us when we were weeding so they could eat the grubs we dug up.

Running for the first time in a long time and feeling strong.

Reading an old copy of The House of The Spirits by Isabel Allende and feeling grateful I was reading this beautiful history of Chile...in Chile.

Spending evenings with wine-makers and wine-critics and trying to follow conversations so far outside the realm of our knowledge.

The one time Lane cooked fresh fish and it attracted so many flies in the house and the dogs were too excited by the smells.

Making my first silver ring with Ana and gaining so much respect for all jewelry makers.

The uncertainty of never knowing on a given whether we would have either too many eggs or if the hens would just take the day off.

Passing the way time always does—slowly when you're in it, too fast when you look back—our departure day arrived. We said warm goodbyes to the friends we’d made throughout the past month, both human and animal. Matt and Ana drove us to the bus station in town, and ensured we left the vineyard with a few bottles and welcomed us back anytime. I hope the future brings us back to the Colchagau valley, where we can flag a right down a dirt road, pass the Mil Estrellas hotel, round a few more turns, and arrive at the gate to the vineyard. We can pass through the gate again, see the new height of the young vines we nurtured, greet familiar faces, and give six big hugs to our six favorite dogs.

The old, vibrant port city of Valparaíso often leaves foreigners emanating praise for the lively city of graffiti-covered, hilly streets while Chileans express concern or even disdain for the place. For us, visiting Valparaíso involved plenty of time in the  artistic streets, as well as time relaxing in our apartment rental with coffee and good books.

Valparaíso serves the history and identity of Chile by its status as an important historical city—a major gateway to the outside world. For many reasons it’s identity morphed into an ecletic city, drawing artists and bohemians from around the country. An epicenter of art reflecting the spirit and struggles of Chileans. Wild imaginations and rebel run rampant in the streets. The energy—or equally, the angst—of the city may stem from the fact faded from status when the Panama canal opened, no longer to be the long-awaited refuge from circuling Cape Horn, the treachorous tip of South America.

Art and history take precedent over the city.  The story of a Valparaíso, at least from my brief experience, it better shown rather than written.

We return, by bus, to Pisagua a week later. We are unable to resist the temptations of shipwrecks and our first dive in the southern hemisphere. By car, the trip only takes an hour from Iquique to Pisagua. On the bus we rattle around for nearly four hours. When the bus stops in town, we clip into our backpacks and walk down the now familiar main street. Marcos greets us again inside La Roca, and we settle into our seaside room, same as before. The sun hovers above the horizon, signalling the near-end to long Chilean summer days. We confirm our diving plans for the following day with Marcos, and stare excitedly into the beckoning bay before us.

We eat breakfast the following morning, stomachs full of food and anticipation. Marcos moves through the hostel and dive shop with practiced routine, checking off the tasks for the day from an internal list in his head. The other divemaster, Dario, arrives and helps with preparations as well. To remember his name, just remember it’s almost like Mario. Mario, I mean, Dario, waves us down to the small dive shop to fit our equipment. It’s our first time diving in Spanish. We are excited, and perhaps a bit nervous at the challenge. He pulls thick semi-dry suits from a large selection and provides spoken and visually instructions of how to put them on. I’ve worn wetsuits countless times, but these bad boys are thick and I’ve never even seen a semi-dry suit. It’s an unforgiving and restrictive contraption, though I know I will be glad to have it in the cold water.

After way too much time struggling to get suited up for our adventure, the tanks and a few other gear bags are loaded into the small, inflatable yellow boat we will take on the water. It is towed by an ancient, dark green mini van decorated with scuba stickers. The radio has been torn out and wires hang in strange places from the dash. This van’s had a hard life, but always gets the job done… when it starts.

Marcos and Dario wave as we drive through town, stopped to exchange greetings with a few friends. We feel like a spectacle in our big van towing a bright yellow boat down the small main street. The pier is undergoing maintenance by a technical diver underwater, so it takes some effort from surrounding workers for us to get the boat ready to hit the water. Everyone around the pier gathers to be part of the action. I imagine Maros is somewhat of a celebrity in Pisagua with a boat meant for something other than fishing. Our friend from our previous visit Walter with the old-fashioned cameras, lingers around the pier camera in hand, snapping photos as the crew hoists the inflatable dinghy with a small crane and lower her into the water. I carry a full tank down rusty metals steps, and a construction worker helps pass the tank to the boat. I can’t help thinking this is already one of the most interesting diving experiences I’ve had. Usually I’m not speaking in Spanish, wearing a semi-dry suit, nor prepping from a fishing pier built over freezing water with a technical diver beneath us doing underwater welding.

As Marcos twists the throttle, the boat reaches plane position, or as much as it can holding four people and a ridiculous amount of equipment. I love the sound of the water along the boat, watching our wake push across the open water. The wind blows my face into a smile. Soon, we arrive at the first dive site. The jagged shore erupts from the water close by, and growing the first flat stretch of land is a large cemetery. The seaside desert environment melded all the crosses and wooden markers planted there to transform into the same faded and dry façade. I stare briefly at the cemetery, recalling our visit to this place on our first trip to Pisagua. It is beautiful and eery, and it marks locations of some of the most infamous events during Pinochet’s reign. It seems sadly fitting there is a shipwreck just within sight of the cemetery.

We force ourselves into our gear, greatly encumbered by the thick suits. We fall off the side of the boat into the chilling water. Marcos ensures we are ready to dive, and we descent. I’m immediately grateful for our days diving in Bonaire. Although this experience couldn’t be more different, I’m glad I feel practiced and can focus my attention of the feel of the new environment, managing my energy in the cold water, and navigating the unyielding currents.

From a wall of green water, the ghostly image of a ship begins to penetrate the monochrome view. I remember no sailors actually went down with this ship when it caught fire in 1883, during the War of the Pacific, so no aquatic ghosts to worry about. La Limeña was a large warship of the time, powered by a steam engine which turned giant paddles on both her starboard and port side.

Barnacles of all sizes cling to the foreign structures laying in contrast to the rocky ocean floor. Fish idly swim around us, and we swim past starfish with countless legs. As we float over different parts of the ship, I try to absorb the scale and grandeur of La Limeña. Marcos safely guides us all around the wreck, point and signing what we are seeing along the way.

When it is time to resurface, I don’t want to leave the wreck but I don’t mind a break from the cold water. We follow Marcos back to the boat, anchored nearby. I find it to be tricky getting back in the boat, but I manage it with one strong push along the side of the raft and plenty of help pulling me over the side. We marvel at we we’ve just seen, asking questions, and gesticulating excitedly as the result from one of the most uniques dives we’ve ever done. We secure the gear within the boat, and point the bow across the bay towards our next dive site. Marcos leads a winding course to our destination, showing off secluded beaches and strange rock formations jutting from the water.

Our tour continues after we wait for the nitrogen levels in our blood to decrease. We enter the water for a final dive. We pass colonies of sea lions, or lobos marinos (literally translated, “marine wolves”), and even spotting a few members of the rarer South American fur seal. The noise of the sea lions yelling at one another, occasionally fighting for a coveted sun spot on the rocks, startles at first. Suddenly, Marcos calls out “pingüinos”! Tucked into the gelatinous colony of sunbathing sea lions are three lonely Humboldt penguins. They stand proudly, seemingly gazing across the waterfront, awkwardly flapping their wings. From beak to webbed foot, they only measure 18” tall and look comical next to the giant beasts sprawled across most of the rocky surface. I’ve never seen penguins in the wild. I’m thrilled by our luck, and can hardly believe where we are and what we are doing at this beautiful, yet noisy, moment.

Marcos and Dario anchor the boat and we break for cookies and apple juices. I laugh out loud to the more ridiculous sea lion calls and when they lazily flop back into the water. Looking to the sea lions and penguins, I can hardly imagine how they maneuver their aquarian bodies up and over the towering rocks. Our snack break is further distracted by a school of the biggest jellyfish I’ve ever seen. Their peachy-white forms float silently beneath the boat. We stare in awe of the hundreds we see from the surface. I wonder how quickly they will pass.
The jellyfish disappear almost as quickly as they graced our presence and it’s time to descend once again. We gear up, perhaps a bit faster and more skilled than the last time. I don my hood, smiling because until today I’ve never dove in water cold enough to warrant one. Dario takes the lead with this dive, and Marcos helps us with final preparations before we fall backwards off the boat, reuniting with the chilled water.

Now I maneuver myself down to the desired depth much easier, understandings the weight differences of my equipment opposed to most every other dive of my life. At forty feet down, we settle on a bed of empty shells stretching out in every direction around the rocky towers that rise to the surface. Lane stand flat-footed at the bottom, arms crossed from the cold rather than disinterest.

A sea lion, emanating a grace almost unfathomable seeing them on land, sneaks behind Lane curiously and darts away. Lane couldn’t feel the water move and is none the wiser. I smile in the way you smile with scuba diving—teeth clenched to the regulator and my eyes revealing a sliver of emotion. Dario, our guide for this dive, leads us further into a granite-looking channel between two of the sea lion islands. We follow the current over a dancing kelp forest at the bottom of this purple channel. Sea lions, in numbers I can’t manage to count fly from the surface down to us and stare before swimming back up to relay news to their pals. We watch them for over half and hour as we swim and sometimes cling lightly to the large rocks on the ocean floor. Dario spots and introduces us to other sea creatures as we absorbs the craziness of this little spot of the ocean world.

We swim back from the channel, at times floating mercilessly with the current, the sea lions continue following us. Sometimes, I turn around to see one darting away. I’m never fast enough to sneak a peek of them following me. I am cold, but I don’t care. My left ear begins to ache in protest of prolonged submersion so I enjoy watching the sea lions play from whatever depth my body will allow. I am almost close enough to see their eyes in full detail—the layers, colors, and lenses making their marine existence possible. This channel of purple jagged rocks dotted with starfish, the rusty green kelp swaying, the silhouettes of the sea lions near the surface, and the bubbles swirling around a curious sea lion as she descends towards us is one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

Like so many times in Latin America, I yearn for the ability to express my gratitude for an experience more to the kind person who gave it to me. I hope my smile conveys what my Spanish cannot. Marcos gently laughs at our reaction to both the dives. He knows we now understand why he is here—why he loves this place. Marcos is a marine biologist of sorts and studies various aquatic populations along the coast. Depending on the season, he monitors the thousands of sea lions, schools of finger-sized fish, or the migrating whales, just to name a few.

We zoom across the water and unload, then beach the boat nearby. I am covered in sand, my hair pointing in every direction, and am I so incredibly happy. We return to_La Roca_, where Marcos’s wife is holding their two-year old daughter, Emma. She is sweet and friendly, with curly, black locks framing a gentle face.

After a meal and a bit of rest, I find Marcos inside. He meets me at his desks and helps me to record all the data for our dives to add to our log. He gifts me a poster and small pamphlet detailing the fauna of the area. I think it’s a wonderful thing to travel and meet so many people so passionate about so many places, ready and willing to share them with you. I am grateful to find one such place and one such person in this small seaside desert town.

As Marcos answer a few more questions, Emma rushes into the room, cookie in hand and cooing for attention. We laugh and Marcos scoops her in his arms, sucking a cookie crumb off her cheek. He tells me how she loves the water and always wants to visit the beach in town. I think how beautiful Emma’s childhood will be in this treasure of a town tucked away in Chile: learning to dive on shipwrecks, amongst sea lions and dolphin pods, and counting the whales with her father.

As grateful as am I when people introduce to the place which captures their heart, I am ever more grateful when people trust and welcome us into their daily lives.

We only know about the tiny town of Pisagua for a scrawny paragraph in our guidebook. We think it might be an interesting and worthwhile stop towards the end of our road trip through Northern Chile. We have a few days before we need to return the truck in Arica, and the guide book made it sound interesting enough. We decide to set aside one night for Pisagua before traveling south to Iquique for fuel. The place witnessed many dark events during Pinochet’s dictatorial rule throughout the 70s and 80s. The guidebook also touts the unique charm of this tiny town, so we decide to check it out.

We drive through a valley funneling towards the sea. The sandy, earthen valley walls tower so far above our heads, I crane my neck to see the sky. Eventually, the dramatic coastline reveals herself in all her intimidating and impressive beauty. Far below us sits a small town, almost the color of the desert herself, save an ancient blue-and-white antique clock tower. Below the clock tower, a peculiar, sickeningly bright yellow building. We later learn this local eyesore contains the new hospital, a stark contrast from the dilapidated town.

We follow the direction on Lane’s phone through an almost empty main street. Multi-story buildings from the turn of the 20th century with elaborate wooden façades line the road. These structures reflect the former grandeur of Pisagua during the Chilean nitrate boom, quietly but firmly asserting the importance and power the city once held as a jewel of the pacific coast. Now, they only allude to forgotten decades and beauty no longer becoming of the modern world.

Rolling past a few closed restaurants and storefronts, I spot the dirt road leading to our destination. We park on the empty street, unload our bags and venture towards the gate of La Roca, The Rock, the single place to stay in the town and for miles around. I find the name a bit boring, but later I understand the charm when I see part of the hostel built around a protruding rock, big enough to be a landmark in earlier times.

Marcos, the owner, pokes his head from a second story window saying he will be right with us. As he bounds down the stairs with a toothy and genuine smile, he explains the contents of a large aquarium to our left. As we peer the deep green water, we both listen. We each take very different ideas away from the Spanish conversation, so we still have no idea what lurked within the murky, green water. Lane thinks he understood something about vegetarian piranha.

Marcos tells us about both the space and the town as he walks us to an available room. I wonder whether there are actually any other guests. The room includes an ocean view and we thank him and hand over the necessary bills to pay for our stay. He points to the key already waiting in the door, welcomes us again, and reminds us he will only be upstairs should we need anything else.

We place our bags in the room and we walk to the creaky deck across from our room and enjoy the view of the ocean. Pisagua sits in a small desert cove, surrounded but the dramatic Chilean coastline. We see the whole town from the vantage point, slightly elevated from most of the remaining buildings. We leave the hostel, headed towards the famous old theater in town. It was built over 100 years ago, and somehow it’s still standing despite the ravages of time. We read in the guide that you can get a key the theater from the police and explore this venue from a era gone by on your own. The young officer in running shorts and a t-shirt, painting the inside of the office a fresh white, tells us the librarian now has the key. A small boy riding his bike outside the library informs us there is wifi right outside the library, but the building itself will not open again until next week. So, no theater visit.

We proceed through town towards a clean yet incomplete boardwalk along the rocky coast, providing a vantage point for spotting sea lions. The quality of the boardwalk surprises us. Considering the population of the town might be about three hundred people on a good day, the boardwalk is new and well-built and seems strangely placed. Throughout the small towns in Northern Chile, we’ve seen many projects like this: public works projects invested in small towns with dreams of the tourists yet to come. I wonder what the locals think of projects like this, or whether they would have liked the money to be used another way. I think it’s a complicated conversation to have in Spanish, so the thought only rattles around in my head.

A pack of dogs we will come to recognize rush past us in a barking freezy. A man singing to himself walks around with a full plastic bag, and a Chilean flag flung over his shoulder. We walk past a birthday party, children playing in kiddie pools and slip ‘n slides. The adults stand around laughing, enjoying the music, and don’t mind the presence of two strangers walking through town.

At the end of the boardwalk, we reach stairs lined with the tsunami evacuation route signs pointing up. We climb the stairs, skirting around two small children laughing and chasing one another to the coast. We pause at the overlook at the top of the stairs and search the water’s surface for more marine creatures.

The town narrows as we continue up the coastline hills. In the top corner of the town, past the last occupied houses, we see a large, decaying building, comically slanted to sea. There is no gate preventing our entrance, so we climb the questionable stairs to the even more questionable building. Lane reaches the landing first and reads the faded description mounted on the door. Rather than an official historical plaque, some local student’s school project had been stapled to the weathered door. It’s an abandoned hospital, built in 1906.

We cross through the gated entrance, revealing large rooms to either side and a small courtyard leading separate small buildings. We enter the smaller structures, always with caution. The rooms are empty, save a few eery details on the wall—evidence of later occupation by squatters and bored teenagers. One wall boasts a collage of old photos. Baby shoes separated from the baby doll hang below a window on another. We pass part of the afternoon walking from room to room, calling out to the other when we see something strange.

As we step back through the main entrance and towards the ocean, I jump after sensing and seeing a figure to my left. An old man with leathery, desert-worn skin stares beyond the horizon then makes brief eye contact with us before we descend the stairs. We think he may be living there at the moment and had waited patiently for us to leave his home.

We eat dinner at a friendly joint, one of only two open restaurants. The owner, a large woman with a large smile, talks with us and leaves to prepare our food. The giant kitten on her shirt back stares at us as she turns around. The fish is fresh, and the salad refreshing. A line of construction workers from the coastal highway file in. They greet us with smiles and greetings of “buen provecho”, the courtesy given to anyone ever eating in Latin America.

Walking back through town, a truck stops with a rolled down window and asks us if we know what is happening at the theater tonight. At first, I think he means the theater which is currently locked. But he doesn’t. He tells us he’s an actor with a state-sponsored cultural production, and they are hosting a performance at the community center in half an hour.

We walk to the theater late that evening. The woman organizing the event spots us in the small crowd and introduces herself, telling us about the governmental efforts to bring art to rural communities in the country. With a smile and chuckle, she asks us why we are in Pisagua, and welcomes us to the show. We find the play to be the most Chilean Spanish we’ve understood, as the theater requires a new level of annunciation and projection. The performance is a one-man show reflecting on the history of Chile told through one family during the nitrate boom and collapse. The actor would later tell us the events are loosely based on his own family.

We talk with the small crew after the show. They ask if we want to take a picture, so we happily oblige. The actor doesn’t think his black shirt with some crazy wolf design is appropriate for a photo with fans, so he prompts whips off his shirt, turns it inside out and then the photos are taken. We compliment the musician on his work as well, and leave the theater.

As we return to the hostel, the lights flicker out. Marcos, the owner, explains this is likely due to a few pesky birds. We grab our headlamps and head to deck near our room. We meet Paul and Paulina, a handsome, young couple visiting from Iquique—only about an hour’s drive away. We speak with them in both Spanish and English and we leave them to enjoy their weekend getaway.

The stars are phenomenal, especially now with only a few scarce lights still powered in town. I decide to attempt night photography, and Lane returns to our room, away from the cold sea air. Marcos meets me on the deck and I ask his about how he got here—to this strange and beautiful place apart from the rest of the world. He says he’s from Iquique and moved here five years ago, and it’s a beautiful life living next to the sea. And he enjoys the work of the hostel. We volley a few more questions and responses back and forth before we both decide it’s time to go inside.

The following morning, we wake to a bright sky, and follow a short sidewalk lined with sea shells to the breakfast nook. Marcos serves us a traditional Chilean breakfast—bread, cheese, ham, butter, marmelade, and instant coffee. We cozy up next to the large window facing the ocean and eat contently. Soon, a man in a bright blue polo with a cueball head and round glasses joins us at the table. He speaks easily with Marcos, his warm, friendly smile emanating. His voice is soft, in a warm way. His accent is different and we learn he is originally from Argentina.

We chat easily with Walter, grateful for his easily demeanor and patient with the pace of our questions. We learn Walter travels across Chile with a multitude of antique film cameras, documenting old places and the people living there today. Immediately, I’m fascinated and excitedly ask if I can see some of the cameras. We make plans to do just that after breakfast.

The magic of Pisagua continues collating right in front of me. I sit on the deck writing in my journal. Marcos barrels out of the back door, binoculars in hand, and energetically calls for me to join him. All I catch the first time is something about dolphins, and he passes the binoculars and directs my eye to the pod. We watch them swim and play for quite a while, and they zigzag the bay. I ask questions and he answers. Throughout our stay, I will learn Marcos’s English is spectacular, but he honors our effort in speaking Spanish . Assuredly, it would be faster and less confusing for him to switch to English. Nonetheless, he only does this when I really struggle with a thought, and I appreciate the kindness in the gesture.

Walter joins us on the deck with a giant beauty of a camera. We learn the wooden box he built himself, through the lens is entirely originally. My eyes widen at a pace equal to that of my smile as I admire the craftsmanship. He invites us each to lift the small blanket sitting atop the camera, and peer through the lens. I find this incredibly exciting. I understand I’m simply seeing a blurrier version of the beautiful scenery in front of me, but seeing it through a lens used so long ago, once a pinnacle of technology, makes me smile uncontrollably. At this moment, I wish I knew more exclamations and words of excitement, but my vocabulary is fairly limited there. Walter chuckles at my exclamations in both English and Spanish and well as the crazy smile on my face.

Recalling his process of developing his film we discussed over breakfast, he invites us back to his room to see it in action. Negatives hang from a line stretched wall to wall, and any flat surface is stacked with equipment and cameras. He shows off the dark room is built in the bathroom. A small lamp is strapped to the sink, and a red solo cup is spliced and taped around the lamp to make it red.

He shows us some of his work from Pisagua. We recognize a few buildings, and I marvel at the portraiture. He gives us a copy of one portrait, and scribbles his information of the back of it as well. We continue excitedly chatting, returning to the deck. He checks on two prints currently absorbing sunlight and we watch them come to life. As best I can, I tell him how photography is important to my family, how it was a love of my grandfather’s, how my mom will be excited to see some of these pictures from meeting him and his gallery of ancient cameras.

The morning nows fades into midday and I know we need to return to the road, if only to get more fuel to be able to return the rental truck in two day’s time. Before leaving, I ask Marcos about the scuba diving in the area. When we first arrived, we had no idea the hostel doubled as a dive shop, but the combination further delighted and intrigued me. He assures me the diving is great, some of the best in Chile, and it is the main reason he left Iquique. He tells of the numerous shipwrecks waiting under the surface and the colony of sea lions nearby. The opportunity sounds incredible. I try to sound contemplative and say we may consider returning, though I already know I want to come back without a doubt.

The souped-up Volkswagen pickup truck humming underneath us, we drove outside of the city into a small, unassuming valley ready to begin our first real road trip since leaving the United States. Our first stop on the journey introduced us to oldest known mummies in the world—thousands of years older than the oldest Egyptian mummies. The creation of Chinchorro mummies involved a complicated and extensive removal of all organs and tissues, with the skin placed back over the bones, surrounded by sticks and grass to give shape back to the body. A black clay mask and sometimes a chest plate was placed on top of the carefully prepared mummy.

Hunger and the prospect of eating subpar camping meals for the next few days brought us just down the road to a little restaurant with name roughly translated to “Little Dead Boy’s Snack Bar”. It’s highly recommended, at least for the area, so we dropped in for lunch. Afterwards, a large, colorful, and sprawling cemetery caught our eye. We spent the better part of an hour seeing how Chileans in this part of the country buried their loved ones for the past 100 years. It would be first of several hauntingly beautiful, unique cemeteries we visit in this part of the country.

After leaving this incredible museum on the edge of a grand desert, we drove along a steep and winding road leading ever-higher from the coast nearby. For miles, the landscape is unimaginably barren, except for the rampant eighteen wheeler barreling down the highway—the main thoroughfare between Bolivia and the ocean. We edged ever closer to Bolivia. Though this trip, like our travel in Peru, brought us close to the border, we still never crossed.

Many miles and a few ancient ruins later, we rolled into the sleepy town of Putre. This village serves as an access point to exploring the national parks in the region. Despite our late arrival, we spent the remaining hours ‘til sunset walking through the town, popping into a few small shops, and simply enjoying the views.

The next morning, we hit the empty road and headed towards the national park, Parque Nacional Lauca. As soon as we began approaching the border of the park, towering volcanoes grew from the horizon. On average, the elevation of the park falls somewhere between 14,000-15,000 feet. We would excitedly stop the car and I would move a little too quickly snapping photos, and instantly be gasping in the thin air. A series of dirt and paved road led us to the small, small town of Parinacota. We browsed, and eventually bought, the best made and softest alpaca sweater we’d seen in all of South America.

Chatting with the woman who sold us our great find, we asked if it might be possible to see inside the local church. We’d learned from the show that the church housed an infamous table. It was said that the table could move on its own at night, and whoever’s doorstep it appeared at in the morning was doomed to death. So it was decided to keep the table tied to the wall. She affirmed it was a beautiful church, but the only key inside was in the pocket of a local man currently visiting Arica for the day. That was always the excuse whenever we were looked for someone. No está, fue Arica—they’re not here, they went to Arica.

By the end of this trip, it would feel as if everyone was always in Arica. Although we didn’t get to see inside the church, that didn’t mean the excitement in town was over. A SUV with the Chilean equivalent of the FBI slowly pulled into the plaza. Three people in suits exited the vehicles and waved at us while we stared in confusion as they walked towards the church. I half-expected TV cameras to be set up around the plaza preparing to film the next episode of some cop drama, but I suppose we were seeing a real investigation. Unfortunately, I still have no idea what they were looking at, and they soon moved on from the town. Probably back to Arica.

The next few hours involved some wonderful combinations of alpacas, lakes, and volcanoes. Oh, and so many flamingos! We’ve now stumbled into two areas of the world lousy with flamingos and it’s been a fun surprise.

We returned to Putre than evening for a fun night back at the hostel, and prepared for another drive the through park and beyond. It was Thanksgiving and we settled in for some tomato soup, toast, and olives paired with Gatorade. Sure, it wasn’t the best food we’d had for Thanksgiving dinner, but it will be one of the most memorable.

The following day we drove into into Reserva Natural Las Vicuñas—the nature reserve for vicuñas. Vicuñas are llama-esque, four-legged creatures with their own unique cute factor. Unlike their better known cousins, they’re completely undomesticated and roam free in family herds. Outside of the reserve, they are sometimes captured and shorn for their ultra-soft fur, which sells for thousands of dollars. Seriously. A scarf we saw for sale in Peru cost $3,000.

Driving south, we encountered a few nearly-ghost towns. There were a handful of small stones houses overgrown by high-altitude grasses invading the downways. Perhaps a house or two would be occupied, but these towns sat mostly vacant. We were told that the villagers were working in towns and cities, and they would all return to their waiting houses to celebrate certain festivals important to the town and culture.

Our destination, provided we had enough diesel in reserve, was the enormous salt flat waiting at the southernmost end of the park. Upon arrival, we were disappointed to see a mining operation completely eclipsing what we could see of the flat. This felt like another nature-related disappointment, as we had already spent the past several hours of our drive searching for viscachas near the road. The viscacha, a rabbit-like creature related to the chinchilla, habitually sun out on large rocks in the altiplano, so we hoped we would see at least one from the road. We pulled off at a ranger station in hopes of asking for directions, and instead we found no people but a whole family of viscachas!

Our good fortune continued when we got back in the car. We drove to the opposite end of the salt flat from the mine, where we watched a variety of wildlife while standing against the harsh afternoon wind. Flamingos slowly waded and fed through the small pools on the flat. A herd of vicuñas traveled along the edge of the flat. Next to the herd, a mother Darwin’s Rhea—a giant bird, kind of like an emu—dashed across the flat with thirty baby birds following close behind. A distracted fledgling of the group wandered too close to the vicuãs and was met with some angry stamping. Frightened but unharmed, the little bird scurried away and ran to rejoin his family.

High from the beauty of the landscapes and the wildlife we’d seen, Lane reviewed the map, made a few more fuel calculations, and turned onto a even rougher, dirtier dirt road than what we’d been driving all day. At least one of the maps we possessed showed a somewhat “straight shot” to the next now, so off we went!

The road, which doesn’t show up on Google Maps, took over three hours to navigate. Without a doubt, we have never driven in such isolation before. If heart-racing drop-offs on much of the road weren’t unsettling enough, the seemingly endless miles of nothingness would do the trick to totally freak you out. As Lane expectly negotiated the rocky hairpin turns, he would excitedly proclaim, “WOW, I’ve never been this far away from civilization, we are in the middle of NOWHERE”. I calmly tried to insist, while nervously white-knuckling the door handle and screaming internally a little, we could discuss the crazy nothingness of our surroundings once we arrive at something. Yes, a much better conversation in the security of our hotel room. If we got to a hotel…

Eventually, we rolled into a tiny, but somewhat occupied town, of Codpa. The village sat in a narrow valley traced with steep, narrow roads each sitting above a lush, greenery. Lane actually found us a good deal on a room in the town a few nights prior and after some confusion we found the lodging. We unloaded our bags, hiked down to the main house, and, despite our best efforts, we couldn’t find the owner. I overheard a few kids laughing a little further down the trail, so I reviewed the Spanish sentences I would need to muster once I found them. Four children giggling while gathering eggs from coops twenty feet above the trail where I stood. I called up, hand cupping my mouth and said something like this, “Hello, do you know where the owner of the hotel is?”. The children looked to one another and returned their attention to me coolly.

“The owner isn’t here”
“Do you know where the owner is?”
“She’s in Arica” (see, I told you everyone is in Arica)
“Oh, can anyone help us? We have a reservation”
At this point, I’m sure the children were confused given that they were the only ones around and we not the owners of the hotel, so no, there wasn’t around to help us.

Despite our months of travel, we’d experienced very little in the way of rooming issues. We were perplexed as to why the owner wouldn’t be here despite our reservation days before. A quick look back at our emails revealed the answer. Apparently it doesn’t help much when reservations are made for the day after you actually planned to arrive. Oops.

Thus we traversed the narrow roads around town trying to find the few remaining lodgings to stay the night. Surprise, none to be found. Along the way, we did meet several friendly locals who seemed confident the owners were just a few streets over in houses we could never find. Alas, the most expensive hotel was open and ready for guests. A guy with long hair and a respectable beard, wearing the kind of lightning and wolf t-shirt found at gas station, ushered us into the office. Unfortunately, we dropped about $100 for this room—by far our most expensive room of the trip so far. Given the waning daylight, we knew staying here was the smart decision (even if the advertised swimming pool was currently bright green).

This strange desert resort has also gone down in our RTW-trip superlatives, as Shockiest Shower Ever. Each time you wanted to adjust the water temperature, the current discomfort of the water—freezing or scalding—needed to be weighed adjust the discomfort of a pulsing and seizing forearm from being electrocuted. It’s not unusual for showers to not be properly grounded in Latin America (what a great way to wake up in the morning!), but this one really gave you a jolt.

For dinner, I borrowed some dishes from the resort and prepared our patios table while Lane refilled the truck with diesel from our jerry-cans and washed away the desert with his shocking shower. Reviewing what should be left from our major grocery haul back in Arica, I calculated we would actually have a decent dinner’s worth of food remaining. Unfortunately, a few key ingredients of this dinner were mistakenly left behind at the hostel in Putre. So we settled in for a dinner of banana, Nutella-ish substance, and a packet of delicious almonds. From the patio, we watched the owner and his hippie-presenting son assembling a large Christmas tree from lights, the kind with a center pole and a string of lights stretching the the ground. I laughed, remembered it’s almost Christmas as the sun sets on our summer night at 9:00pm.

The next day, we gratefully eat the typical Chilean breakfast provided—instant coffee, fresh juice, round bread served with your choosing and combination of butter, marmelade, cheese, and jam. We spent the morning walking through small town of Copda, our home for about twelve hours. We visited a small church with many holes in the roof. At first I feel saddened by this evident disrepair, then I remember a few holes in the roof isn’t as much of a problem as we are in the middle of the driest desert in the world. Locals seem a little confused by our presence, but, honestly, we see very few people at all. We climbed an overlook of the town next to a giant cross and Virgin Mary statue and decide it’s time to depart for our next town.

The dirt road we’d grown so accustomed to abruptly met asphalt and we welcomed the speed and comfort it provides. We zoomed down the Pan American highway (or “Pan Am”) while I think about how crazy it is being here, on the Pan Am with my husband, driving a big manual, diest truck, with a decent grasp of Spanish in our heads. Just one of the many things I never imagined when we got married. For the last thirty minutes towards our next destination, I turned on a Freakonomics podcast episode about cheeseburgers. This was a huge mistake as suddenly we craved nothing but cheeseburgers and I doubted our chances of finding a decent one anytime soon. We drove down yet another insanely steep Chilean coastal road towards to the small coastal town of Pisagua. Oh Pisagua. Such a strange, yet magical place. Full of hope and suffering, struggle and peace. Our visit—and subsequent return—to Pisagua is a story worth it’s own post.

After Pisagua, we hopped back on the Pan Am highway, aimed south towards a legendary ghost town and the first gas station we’d seen in days. We’d run out of diesel in jerry cans, and gas stations are only found in the large cities. Making sure you have a full tank is crucial when driving this remote part of the world.

A ghost town, Humblestone, loomed ominously near the highway as we excited took the exit. The company town is one of many artifacts left behind of Chile’s nitrate boom starting in the 19th century and spanning a good portion of the 20th century. Northern Chile rose and fell from prominence by the money and power created by its nitrate mines. The historic site allows a peek into the evolution of the town as well as daily life. We explored old family housing, the hospital, dentist, theatre, and countless other beautiful structures slowly eroding under the harshness of the Atacama sun. Given my love for all things antique, a nearly intact antique town was a dream come through. I took way to many pictures.

That evening brought us to another astoundingly beautiful, steep Chilean coastal road leading to the city of Iquique. It’s supposed to be one of the best places in the continent, if not the world, to paraglide—if this gives you any indication of how dramatic the drop from the desert to the beach city might be. I snagged a great deal on a hotel, and for $13 we stayed on the 19th floor of a beautiful hotel right next to the beach (parking included). We found dinner just a few blocks away and hungrily devoured cheap shawarma and falafel from a small restaurant, happy for our first big meal of the day and first good meal since we left Arica.

Although the journey to Iquique had been a long one, the Pan Am would lead us straight back to Arica to return the truck, after a stop at the gas station of course. So we headed back. Lane and I have always loved road trips, and I think in some ways we fell in love on long car rides across Texas, and further in love on trips throughout the US. As we drove out of are Iquique, paragliders swirling alongside the highway, we revelled in the freedom of these past days. Not being tied to a Latin American bus schedule—I use the term “schedule” with hesitation—brought us a levity sometimes difficult to find while on the road. So we enjoyed the comfort and familiarity of our long drive, soaking in our mutual love for road trips and each other, and steered the car north.

A few bus rides separated us from our first overland border crossing of the trip. The almost absurd vertical sprawl of Chile appealed to us. At least route planning might be simpler now that the pesky east and west directions were more limited. After a confusing stopover at the bus station in the last Peruvian city of Tacna, we finally scrambled together the Spanish instructions we received from about four different people, we found the correct bus and boarded with all our luggage in our laps for the quick drive to Chile. Besides the security dog sniffing out a granola bar with a singular dried raisin on top which was tucked into Lane’s backpack, the border crossing proved simple. Traveling just a few miles into Chile, the change between the two countries felt almost palpable.

We arrived at small border city of Arica. The long beach stretching along the city provided a view of the Peruvian border, weather permitting. And by weather, I mean waiting for the intense fog which accumulates each evening as the cold ocean clashes against the heat of the encroaching Atacama Desert to burn away from the intense morning sun. We’re told by locals that in “the city of eternal spring”, it has only rained two days in the last 10 years. Otherwise, it’s nearly the same weather day after day: clear, hot, and sunny.

Our guidebook recommended Sunny Days hostel, so we booked a few nights anticipating the need to begin wrapping our heads around this new country. Ross, the Kiwi who’s made Chile his home for almost twenty years, welcomed us into the front room of the hostel. It’s a large living room complete with a dining table and feels like walking into your grandparents’ home with the number of travel memorabilia and family photos carefully arranged on each wall.

The first few days called for relaxing at the nearby beach and transitioning from tolerating to enjoying the icy water—courtesy of the Humboldt current straight from Antartica. We marveled at the fresh selection of vegetables right across the street in the market. Huge drums of delicious olive and pickles lined the rows, and we made a practice of visiting the market each day. We climbed to the cerro above the city, a pivotal battle site for Peru and Chile. We toured the wharfs buying fresh seafood and chatting with the fishermen. We laughed at the enormity of the sea lions playing in the bay.

Although we slept only a few miles away from the Peruvian border, we focused our efforts on learning about Chile and how we might approach the seemingly endless coastal country. I knew we wanted to spend time in Patagonia, though I already felt worried about the encroachment of high-season in Chile. Without meaning to, we were living in a perpetual state of summer. The passing of the Southern Hemisphere’s spring didn’t feel particularly different than what came before and after due to the moderate weather we’d experienced for most of the trip.

Our attention quickly gravitated to the opportunity in closest proximity—renting a vehicle and driving in the altiplanos rising from the Atacama Desert. Our hostel friends further encouraged the idea with their recent trips through the desert of planned excursions. We’d loved the freedom endowed by having our own vehicle, though our nerves questioned our ability to manage the isolation of the landscape before us. Basically, Arica is the capital of the northern region and the only gas stations in the entire region—an area the same size as New Jersey—are in Arica. Sure, you can buy water and a few other supplies in the spattering of towns out east, but we wanted to come prepared. You can’t count on tap water anywhere around here as well. Due to the extensive mining in the region, it’s just not safe. For the first time, we were completely dependent on bottled water and planning our how much we would need for the journey through the driest desert in the world—a part of it, at least.

After a few budget calculations, we rented our vehicle of choice, booked a few nights at our first hostel, and excitedly waited for our journey to begin. Before departing, we met a friendly Rocky Mountain couple hailing from Montana who just returned from a trip through the altiplanos. They assured us the trip was well worth it, and sold us their spare jerry cans. Joshua and Stephanie assured us the trip would was worth it, and completely manageable. We would also learn they were obsessed fans of the travel show, Departures, just like us. The show visits this region of Chile, and this was part of the reason we each found ourselves here. It seems only fitting to recieve advice from other Departure-lovers as we prepared for the trip.

The 4WD truck we reserved turned out to be the same model rented by the mining companies in the area. Needless to say, it felt a little over-the-top give our needs, but also pretty cool. Loaded into our Volkswagen truck (they make trucks?), we drove to the BIGGEST GROCERY STORE I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE. We’ve spent the past several months walking through grocery stores in some level of moderate confusion and without any expectations of what we will or will not find. Thus, this store was unbelievable. I would have been surprised to even see something this massive in most places in the states. Overwhelmed, we wandered through the aisles in shock grabbing items from our list as well as brands from back home and a few items we didn’t think we would see again for months. We stared at our cart, perplexed, shrugged it was probably enough food for a week and headed to the gas stations. We filled our pair of jerry cans with diesel, and we were ready to hit the road!

After the high of hiking the Inca Trail and giving ourselves a few days to rest and process the experience, something just felt misaligned. We received bad news from home and homesickness snuck in. Plans we made in Peru fell through or never materialized. Slowly, and then all at once, we felt like we didn’t know what we were doing or where we we going.

Completing the Inca Trail represented the end of the second chapter in our travels, the first being our time studying Spanish and traveling through Mexico. We didn’t know what this third chapter would entail, but we felt comfortable with the uncertainty–until we didn’t. This combination of internal feelings and external forces left us tired and aimless. We tried to reason through what distances made sense to travel within the country, what experiences fit our budget, and which experiences didn’t seem exploitative.

After waiting around in Cusco for a while for a trip that never materialized, we decided to visit a few more towns in southern Peru. As many interesting opportunities as there were further north, we didn’t feel like such a roundabout path to Chile was all that justified. After all, Peru provided us with a highlight of our trip—hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. So despite our floundering and uncertainty, our visit to this interesting country was certainly a success.

In these weeks of uncertainty and processing, we still experienced many incredible corners of the country. Below are a collections of snapshots from out time in the south. Some big moments, and plenty of little ones that make each day swell with gratitude in the privilege of traveling with my love.

With a lack of energy and enthusiasm to continue our travels in Peru, we set our sites elsewhere, hoping a more extreme change in scenery might to the trick. There is so much of Peru we have left experience. Maybe we will return in the future, try it again. Nonetheless, we packed our bags for the last time in Peru and hopped on a series of buses southbound. Time for Chile.

In third grade, I remember pumping my arms, running full force to the end of the soccer field. Our grade was tasked with running the mile that week in gym, undoubtedly my least favorite activity in my least favorite class. Breathing heavy, I willed myself to round the corner finishing my third lap. Everyone else had completed four. I was the only one still out on the field, and I wasn’t even close to finishing. Our unpleasant gym teacher collected a few cones marking the trek and waved me inside understanding there was no way I would finish the final lap in time for dismissal.

As I grew older, this pattern continued. The pattern of inability to keep up with everyone else in physical activities didn’t really stop me persay from doing what I wanted to do, but it always interfered. This wasn’t from lack of trying or fitness. I was born with _pectus excavatum_, meaning I had an inverted sternum, which compresses the chest cavity meant for the lungs and heart. I had major corrective surgery to fix my sternum when I was young and it certainly improved my condition—I shudder to think what my abilities would be like without the correction. But even after surgery, my lung capacity is about 50% of what it should be, meaning I take in about half of the oxygen other people do when they’re hiking or running or swimming.

Despite how strong and in shape I’ve felt at different points of my life, there is always the disappointment and embarrassment that comes with this limitation. In most instances, I try not to let this control the decisions I make regarding what activities I choose to do. But the reality is that no matter how much I train for something, I will probably never be as good as someone who has full use of their lungs. I was so elated after I finally broke ten minutes to a mile in a jog, I called my parents. I’m not sure I’m up for marathon training.

I wanted to hike the Inca Trail—the high altitude trail through the Andes to the ancient Inca city of Machu Picchu—for years, and we quickly decided it would be a staple of our trip. I researched, I fretted, I emailed, and I booked. We secured permits for the Inca Trail! Oh God. We are hiking the Inca Trail...with guides...and other people...in a group...for four days.

I generally start hikes mentally prepared to be at the back, knowing I won’t be able to manage a conversations while we hike up an incline. Last time I did a group trek in Antigua, Guatemala, I was at least a hour behind by the end of the first day. As we made our final ascent to the top of the Guatemalan volcano the following morning, I was nowhere near the group. I was counting out ten steps and collapsing to the ground to rest. I made it, but will little time to spare and very annoyed guide impatiently watching over me.

Since beautiful and grueling hike in Guatemala many years ago, I had moved to Colorado and now hiked at high elevations all the time. Even in the last year before the trip, I completed some of the most difficult hikes of my life thus far. We always started earlier than we needed to, and usually Lane would hike at his normal, full-sized lung pace. We would meet for breaks. I knew what to expect from him, and he knew what it meant to hike with me.

But our guides wouldn’t know any of that. Our group wouldn’t either. I could already feel the embarrassment of starting the trek. I would look decently fit and healthy. Our trekmates would learn we were from Colorado, and they would joke how this should be no problem for us. I would shrink from embarrassment knowing that wouldn’t be the case for me, knowing we tried to spend the first months of our trip at a high elevation so I didn’t complete lose the acclimatization I gained while living in Colorado. At the very least, I would have my subpar acclimatization.

The first few months of our trip passed. I exercised regularly, knowing a strong cardiovascular system and body helps. I appreciate the walking we did across many high cities. Couldn’t let my lungs get too lazy on me. Soon, I was exercising in Peru and reviewing the distances and gains on the Inca Trail. I would reference them to those hikes we had completed. “This day shouldn’t be as bad at that hike as Glacier National Park, right?”, I would ask Lane. “I’m pretty sure the 14er from last summer was longer”, I would reassure myself.

Anxiety for this trek tried to bubble over, but I continued pushing it and favoring more measures of confidence. I knew I could hike the trail, I didn’t know how much slower I would be and how awful this disparity between my appearance and my ability would make me feel. This could be a very long four days.

We started the trek. Yes, people did make jokes about this being an easy hike for a Coloradan, and I suppose it is. Lane had no problem taking the lead every single day. I made slow, but steady, pace just like I always did. We took lots of breaks to learn about Inca culture along the way and visit a myriad of other ruins along the way. I struggled my way through the uphill sections and gleefully plowed through the downhill ones. People complain about their knees going downhill, but I just love it! More oxygen for me, please!

Each of the four day trek was stunning. The ominous Andes stood high above us, shrouded in low clouds and fog. The details and intricacies of the forests wowed. We walked through quiet, little towns. Our guides, Mani and Nilton, never disappointed with their stories and information. Our trekmates were absolutely incredible, and we loved making new friends around the world. We laughed through many meals together, swapped stories, and revelled in this amazing life experience.

On the fourth day, we lined up in the dark awaiting the open of the trail to the Sun Gate. Somehow, I ended up directly behind our guide in the front, so I hiked hard and fast to the rhythmic breathing I had near perfected over the past few days. The sun rose over the mountains, and we crossed our fingers the clear morning would still be waiting for us at the Sun Gate. After a fast-paced hour, we climbed the “Monkey Stairs”. Imagine how a monkey might climb stairs, and that paints a pretty good picture. Just another short walk, wind one more corner, and we would be there!

As soon as a passed through the Sun Gate, the small patch of fog hanging over Machu Picchu lifted and the site revealed its glory to all those waiting above. Finally be there at the top, I surprised myself. I imagine seeing Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate would be one of those incredible moments in life where you feel both in exactly the right place and dumbfounded at how lucky you are to have been there at all. The feeling that resonated most strongly with me at the end of this journey was a powerful mixture of pride and relief. The linger worry in the back of my mind was now gone and I would only remembered the hike as an unforgettable, beautiful, and terrific experience. Sure, I struggled but I made it, and I had a damn good time doing it. I cried not from seeing Machu Picchu (I would do that later as we got closer), but from that elated relief and happiness.

Excited to finally be at our destination, our group finished the last stretch of the hike, stopping plenty of times for photos as Machu Picchu grew larger and larger in front of our eyes. The scale, craftsmanship, and precision Machu Picchu nestled within staggering mountains make the incredible setting. We wowed at the stonework, listened with wide eyes to stories of construction, the legends, the “discovery”.

For a few amazing hours, we walked through ancient doorways, marveled at the details, and caught of breaths after breathtaking views of the city within the valley. The scale and the majesty of Machu Picchu’s location is what is often lost in photos. It’s a difficult perspective to capture, and the city itself captives like few other places in the world. It’s easy to become distracted with these structures seemingly growing from the mountain below.

I remember feeling this was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever photographed.

This final day of the Inca Trail trek is a long one. A few hours of sleep the night before, and you are awake and hiking to the Sun Gate. Then a few unreal and overwhelming hours in an ancient wonder of the world. A break for lunch, then catching a train...to catch a bus. By my estimates, it’s a long and exhilarating 17 hour day. From the lack of sleep and the thrill of seeing an ancient wonder of the world, this last crazy day can make you feel as if you’re in a dream.

Reminiscing on our time on the Inca Trail, those feelings of insecurity surrounding my ability are replaced by the beautiful views, amazing people, and the knowledge I made it, little lungs and all. I don’t know what my next big physical challenge will be, but I take solace in the fact I will carry with me yet another accomplishment, another marker of proof I can do it.

For dinner, we ate a bag of chips and chugged a bottle of pineapple juice at the airport while waiting for our Airbnb host. Finally, we had arrived in the Caribbean island of Bonaire! Traveling from Bogotá, Colombia to the midpoint island of Curaçao was stress-free enough, but we narrowly caught our flight from Curaçao to Bonaire thanks to a timezone mishap. From the chaos of the last few hours, Colombia already felt distant in our minds. While purchasing our “meal”, I felt somewhat confused rambling in English and using US dollars as I chose a well-balanced selection for us to eat. I guess indulging in Caribbean cuisine will have to wait until later. Our Airbnb host picked us up from the airport, and we drove the dark island streets back to his home. We had a private room in a shared house. I think there were three other people living in the same house. This place was the most economical housing we could find for our time on the island, though living with a few dudes, some of who preferred to walk around in only underwear in the Caribbean heat, bought Lane and I back to not-so-fond college roommate memories.

After collapsing on the bed in our air-conditioned room, we breathed a sigh of relief we were finally here and ready to dive, dive, dive!

When I was about five or six years old, I remember eating my dinner in the living room enthralled by a PBS documentary. The show followed scuba divers on some under the sea adventure. They kicked fins past incredible scenery and otherworldly creatures. I excitedly asked my parents what these super cool people were doing. My mother informed me they were scuba diving, and if I ate my green beans to get stronger, maybe I could do it one day too. That “one day” turned out to be a little more than ten years later, and I’ve been hooked ever since. I learned to dive in Texas, which may not present the most amazing scenery, but it provided me the practice to become a confident diver. I’ve spent enough time in dark, muddy waters learning how to handle myself, so when I get the opportunity to dive in pristine, blue water, I am ready to go!

Our first morning, we hopped in our Chinese manufactured, manual-transmission rental truck and began navigating the seemingly endless roundabouts on the island on Bonaire. There are no stoplights on the island, only roundabouts. We pulled into the recommended grocery store to buy some snacks for the day. By far, our favorite purchases—which we would make repeatedly throughout the week—was a stack of delicious Dutch stroopwafels and the best coconut water ever to grace this green earth. The coconut water was 3 for $1.50, and we drank our weight in coconut water while on the island.

We arrived at our dive shop, ready for our refresher course. Our instructor, Kylie, hailed from Houston and had spent a few years teaching in the very same water where I learned to dive. We decided it made sense for Lane to take a course about diving with Nitrox that day so we would match in qualifications. We spent a few hours learning about Nitrox—air with a different ratio mixture of oxygen and nitrogen—to allow us to dive safely with less surface time in between dives. After some good ol’ fashioned learning, we parted for a lunch break, greatly anticipating our first dive of the afternoon.

We suited up in our rental gear at the dive shop and watched towards the beach. Yes, just walked from the dive shop! This is the great thing about Bonaire: there are roughly sixty dive sites along the island you can access with your truck and simply walk into the water. No boat required! This was absolutely amazing. We could dive all week on our own schedule, untethered to the whims of a dive company.

We practiced a few important safety skills in the water, and I could feel my confidence and excitement returning with full force. We descended, following Kylie all around the reef, trying to process the immense amount of life in front of us. After surfacing an hour later, we quickly decided we needed to complete one more dive before the sun went down. Kylie suggested a few good dives sites close to our Airbnb, so we loaded the truck with all our equipment and drove south.

Honestly, I felt somewhat apprehensive about this next dive. It was to be our first time diving without anyone else but ourselves. We would be on the island for over a week, so I wanted this to go well. And it did! With another beautiful section of the reef explored, we surfaced just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. Happy and content with our first day in Bonaire, we rested easy, ready for the next day under the water.

Scuba diving is difficult to describe. It’s beautiful and amazing and doesn’t translate well to other experiences I’ve had. Lane teases me that scuba diving is “underwater bird watching”, and well, there is some truth to that. This joke was reinforced by the countless retirees we dived with throughout the week, each excited to talk about what fish or sea creature they saw. But, it’s so much more than that. At the risk of sounding too obnoxious about scuba diving, I will be brief.

It was music to my ears as we surface swam out to a pier dive, and Lane yelled “TURTLES!!!” before descending below the surface. We would spend the better part of half an hour keeping our distance and watching sea turtles graze and play with one another, sometimes gathering speed and landing on an unexpecting friend. Earlier, we had been stopped in our tracks by a family of caribbean squid, seemingly sizing us up as we did the same to them. We swam alongside schools of fish that formed an underwater river, stretching as far as you can see. This was especially beautiful around sunset, as the water above us turned a golden hue and the fish formed an image of the milky way.

Stopping in front of coral for a few minutes always illuminates the vast array of miniature life living in the crooks and crevices of each structure. We spotted eels on nearly every dive. Small, bright yellow eels hid beneath the colorful coral, while giant moray eels peeked out of holes or swam barreling past us to find a new hole. We hovered above the biggest lobster we’ve ever seen scampering along the reef. We swam deep to 100 ft or more.

Sometimes we’d reach a sandy floor at the bottom, other times we only make a dent in a tall reef wall. One of our favorite dives was to a sunken cargo ship used for drug smuggling, now covered with life and mystery.

Although we are always together, it’s also time to yourself. Underwater communication is, well, difficult at best. So you observe, you swim, you think, and you enjoy the peace of the ocean.

After more than 20 hours under the ocean in a week, we finally returned on dive gear and set our sites on seeing more of the land part of the island. The northern section is a huge national park established back in the 60s and predates most environmental protections in the Caribbean. The park is vast and the road is rough. The journey provides numerous opportunities to park the truck and walk around admiring the rugged northern coastlines, vastly different than the conditions where we dove. The coast is scattered with a few lighthouses once used to save lives from the very reefs we so enjoyed. Wild donkeys and goats dart across the road through a forest of cactus. A few lakes in the region are also home to families of flamingos!

Returning to the familiar southern half of the island, we drove past the mountains of salt (still a major export of Bonaire) building up on salt pan that stretches for miles.

No matter how memorizing the landscape may be, the remnants of the Caribbean’s dark history is never far from the surface. Whether it be in the museum in the national park or along the main coastal roads, reminders of slavery in Caribbean are everywhere. The opportunity to travel through countries and learn about their history from them with their own cultural lens continues to be a powerful and leveling experience.

Next, we boarded a small plane to return to Curaçao to spend a few days on the island we had only briefly visited. Curaçao, also a former Dutch colony but now an independent country (but still part of the the kingdom of the Netherlands? It’s confusing) has had a long, deeply intertwined history with the colonization and independence of the Americas.

We toured the oldest continuously active synagogue in the Americas in Curaçao’s historical center. We walked across the famous bridges on bikes and along picturesque Dutch canal houses. On our way to the beach, we passed a few women beating on drums under a gazebo, perhaps practicing for an upcoming performance. We spent a whole day floating in the waters of a public beach as children ran laughing along the shore and their parents barbequed chicken on the beach.

For dinner on our last night, we parked our bikes outside of a restaurant masquerading as a house. One of Lane’s friends, born in Curaçao, recommended the place when we asked where we should eat. The owner was extremely friendly, ushering onto the back-deck with a view of fishing boats still bringing in their catch. A family laughed heartily eating dinner next door. The teenage son absentmindedly tossed fishing line, sans pole, into the water as he chatted with visitors. I watched a school of minnows swim in circles beneath our feet. The cook brought us a heaping platter of various tropical fish to share for dinner. We devoured the entirety of the food before us, happy with the meal. The owner laughed when Lane handed him wet dollar bills as payment, soaked from the day we had spent at the beach. We rode our bikes through twilight as soft rain began to fall.

An afternoon flight the following day would take us back to Bogotá, Colombia. After a few days in the nation’s capital, we would continue south in our South American adventure.

Dear Salento,

I can’t believe we almost missed you, almost ignored you completely. You are so beautiful, so calm, so refreshing. Thank you for all the good times, and all the good coffee. We will never forget you. Thank you for being our favorite.

A fan,
Kate

After some fast-paced adventures in San Gil coupled with illness, we longed for quiet, calm, relaxing days. Salento, nestled in the foothills kind of between Medellin and Bogotá, proved to be just what we needed. We booked a week at a small hotel run by a generous attendant and frequented by a number of friendly cats.

Much of the week involved relaxing at our lovely hotel, working on personal projects, as well as catching up with friends and family. We would wander around town, enjoy a cup of coffee, browse the local shops, or walk up to the mirador which boasts a beautiful view of the city and surrounding valley.

Our first coffee shop of the trip turned out to be a favorite. The owner was incredibly kind and knew everything about Colombian coffee. Their baked goods were all homemade, and absolutely incredible! I don’t even really like carrot cake, but this one forever changed my opinion of this vegetable cake. For more knowledgeable coffee connoisseurs, we indulged in a Chemex of honey-processed, light roasted arabica grown and roasted just an hour’s walk away.

While enjoying our coffee, we saw some familiar faces. Two friends from our tour in Medellin just happened to walk into the shop. Once our brains all processed this chance encountered, we sat swapping stories for the next hour and discussing plans for the next few weeks. We also decided our time in Salento wouldn’t be complete without a round of tejo (the Colombian game of cornhole but with explosions, described in previous post) with our friends, so we arranged to meet the next evening. They brought along another couple who were in there second year of travel, and we all tried our best to chuck the tejos into the bed of clay. Everyone but Lane successfully hit the small paper triangles containing gunpowder, and cheered obnoxiously with ears ringing after each explosion.

The dogs in Salento go straight to the top of our list for cutest and coolest dogs. We would see the same ones throughout the week. Often, they looked like they had places to be and would be walking around town with more purpose than us. We even had a few dogs walk with us over the course of several miles on our way back from tour on a coffee farm. We named the dog who in front of us “Adelante”, and the dog in the rear, “Detras”.

A highlight of our time in Salento proved to be the hike through the Valle de Cocora. Coffee isn’t the only plant giving this region notoriety. This swath of the country is home to the tallest palm trees in the world and Colombia’s national tree, the wax palm. The night before we planned to head out on the hike, we purchased a few snacks for the trail and packed our rain gear, weary of the rainstorms that seemed to happen regularly. We woke early the following day to secure a seat in the first Willy heading to the valley. Surplus 1950s Jeep “Willys” are the primary mode of transportation for tourists and locals alike in the valleys of Salento. Most of the original parts have been swapped out for locally made replacements over the past 60 years, and each one is adorned with bright colors and a unique animal hood ornament representing the owner or their family. Colombians manage to fit about a dozen people inside, with room for 3 to 4 more hanging off the back. It makes for a very cozy—yet surprisingly comfortable—ride on the dirt roads.

We loaded ourselves and our daypacks into the first Willy headed to the valley in the morning. Once inside, we met a friendly Swiss geographer and mountaineer named Alex. He planned to hike much further into the mountains for acclimatization, and intended to scale a few pretty large mountains larger in the month. Arriving at our stop, we all climbed out and waited underneath an awning deciding how long we should wait it out for the onslaught of rain. In this interim, we met two friendly French travelers and we all waited around chatting before finally deciding the rain looked innocent enough and walked towards the trailhead. Lane, Alex, and myself continued on.

The hike begins by winding through field of cattle tucked in the valley below the palm giants. Once reaching the edge of the forest, the trail begins to climb through vast greenery. Alongside the trail runs a pristine river, introducing the opportunity for several beautiful river crossings. The sun cascading through the canopy eventually lessens as the surroundings transform into a cloud forest.

At halfway through the trail loop, there is a small detour which shouldn’t be missed: a hummingbird sanctuary. The detour not only provides a unique opportunity to dazzled at dozens of hummingbirds, but it also serves a place for hikers to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, sit, relax, and chat. I drank my coffee in stages as I was constantly pulled away to try capturing another picture of the hummingbirds. I was up to the challenge, though the hummingbirds put me in my place—photographically speaking. With enough time and patience, I managed to capture a few!

After coffee was consumed, we thanked Alex for his company—and the loan of a helpful hiking pole—before we parted ways. We would continuing along the well worn trail, while Alex would be venturing to a hostel high and deep in the mountains.

We continued to the highest point of the trail, and managed to soak in a view more views of the mountains before the thick fog rolled in completely obscuring views for the rest of the hike. Walking downhill with another dog-friend, we began to see palms rising out of the mist closer and closer to the trail. The fog was both eery and beautiful, providing a unique view of the surrounding forest. I continued snapping pictures of the surroundings until the rain started up again, and we quickly donned our rain gear.

Descending further down the trail, we walked out towards what we thought would be viewpoints for the valley, but instead stumbled onto a grove of those giant wax palms. Despite the cold and rain, I couldn’t stop smiling at the beauty and strangeness of the landscape. I was so enthralled by the views, I carefully took my phone out a few too many times for a photo before securing it back in my waterproof jacket. Turns out the pocket isn’t waterproof if it isn’t completely zipped. Spoiler alert—my phone would not survive the night.

As the rain continued with increasing force, we ran through the palm trees, stopping to look up towards the distant leaves and water droplets clouded our vision. We barreled down lush hills, zigzagging through the palms, delighted to see the fog lifting at the bottom of the valley. Slippery, thick mud soon replace the soft grass beneath my feet. Ever so slowly, I edged my way down the last switchbacks of the trail really hoping the mud wouldn’t lead be sliding face first into a wet pile of horse poop. After a few close calls and hundreds of tediously precise steps later, I joined Lane at the bottom on the hill and we walked towards the Willy stop in town.

We managed to secure a seat in the front of a Willy returning to town, grateful we wouldn’t be hanging on to the back of the Jeep in weather like this. Crowning the stick shift sat a Jesus portrait encased in plastic globe. Adorning the rearview mirror were other religious artifacts and small tokens representing the city of Salento. I talked with our driver José in Spanish, periodically assisting in wiping down the windshield to clear away the fog. As we bounced along the road, he told me the Jeep was from 1954. I complimented the hood ornament, a valiant horse guiding our way.

A few days later we packed our bags, thanked our host, and walked towards the colectivo bus stop, I felt grateful for our time spent here. We we both rested and ready for our next adventure, many bus stops and a few flights away.

The bus stopped in front of what I believed to be a restaurant. As the time approached 11:00 at night, not much was open including the supposed restaurant or nearby buildings. Not exactly the bus station we expected, but Lane quickly identified we were in walking distance from our hostel.

Until this point, we’d had a fairly mixed experience with hostels. Sure, our stays had been fine, but more accurately described as barely cheaper than many Airbnbs and usually had a few awkward moments. Whether it was the owners or the guests, we hadn’t yet felt welcome.

Determined to finally have a good, fun, old-fashioned hostel experience, we booked a week at a well-reviewed hostel in San Gil, Colombia. These next several days bore the potential for lots of excitement, as we greatly anticipated our time in the “adventure capital” of Colombia. I breathed a sigh of relief when the front desk didn’t ask for the rest of our payment up front, as I didn’t think we possessed enough pesos to cover the remainder of the bill. I filed away a mental note to resolve this before it became an issue tomorrow. After a long day on yet another bus, our patience and interest in our new destination wore thin, it became apparent the best course of action was simply to settle into our private room and sleep for the night.

I am certainly not at my best mentally or physically after twelve plus hours of travel. Usually sitting in a bus seat for so long with a slight underpinning of uncertainty if you are actually going where you hope you are going wears on you. I become insular and each decision is calculated against the immediate benefit or resulting comfort versus its repercussions later. Do I really want to drink that cool, refreshing Coca-Cola when I will just need to pee again while we are driving through the winding, wildest section of road? There’s no “fasten seat belts” sign on a bus, well no seat belts usually, so you really have to employ your own judgement when traversing your way to the bathroom.

After a decent night’s sleep, we wandered out for some breakfast and fresh coffee. The plaza filled with dancers, clowns on stilts, and the morning began with a lively energy. San Gil often started the mornings with this kind of energy. After wandering around town for a while, we returned to the hostel ready to begin planning our week in San Gil. When we arrived, Lane wasn’t feeling well and I would bookend our trip by getting sick before we left San Gil. Luckily, we had healthy days in-between our sicknesses and enjoyed plenty of the adventures offered by the adventure capital.

Browsing through the binder of available tours, we started up a conversation with a few other backpackers in the common area. We discussed what actives might be best this time of year, and if we had done anything similar before. Turns out, we planned to do many of the same tours and discussed planning them together. As simple as it sounded, I felt a tinge of comfort thinking about having “road friends” for a few days. Because Lane and I are traveling together, it can be easy to retreat to the comfort of our relationship, and not invest as heavily in road friendships as much as solo travelers. Sure, we’ve tried but it is difficult. It felt like our time in San Gil may be just the opportunity we needed. Most of the time, you may only spend a day or two, perhaps only an afternoon with travelers you meet so a week with some of the same people was pretty novel for us.

So, we got to know Patrick. From Michigan, as he clarified on his hand where he was from, had worked in manufacturing and began traveling solo in Colombia. He planned to headed south, and would be meeting his parents in Chile for Christmas. They were excited for the trip to visit their son. Hailey, from the UK, was about our age and left her marketing job and had been traveling for over 10 months. She shared stories of her travels in Asia and her plans for South America.

The following day, we climbed in a van destined for a paragliding adventure with our new friends, and a group of other interesting travelers we would come to know throughout the week. There was Ilona from the Netherlands, early into her two-year solo trip around the world. We learned we may be crossing paths again in the future. There were the Belgians on a long holiday exploring Colombia. They met Ilona at the airport upon arrival and had been traveling together ever since. The rest of the seats were filled with other travelers we would see again throughout the week.

Neither of us had strapped into a harness before and run off a mountain before, so I was at least somewhat nervous. Once the van arrived at the platform, the guide relayed our take off and landing instructions, as well as what to do if you threw up while in the air. Based on size, the guide paired us with a pilot, and we stepped into our harnesses. One of the first ready to go, Hailey ran along the astroturf runway and quickly ascended over the expansive canyon. When my turn arrived, I ran as fast as I could though running has never been my strong suit. My feet quickly floating above the ground, and I stopped my suddenly futile effort. I didn’t say much to my pilot over the next half hour as we floated around, both because I was mesmerized by the view and because I didn’t want to distract my pilot with my mediocre Spanish. I delighted in see Lane float by me, though I carefully watched the maneuvers of his pilot. We later realized our pilots were more conservative than the others, so perhaps not as much to worry about. I heard paragliding was actually a very calm and peaceful experience, and I now agree. Once you get in the air, you simply float around and enjoy the view.

Canyoneering was next on our list. Hailey, Lane and I began the morning by climbing into an old, yellow, Land Rover with the owner of the adventure company, the guide, and the owner’s super adorable four year-old daughter. The hood of the vehicle boasted badass zebra stripes, so I knew this would be a good trip. The daughter, let’s call her Anna because I don’t think I caught it once any of the dozens of times she told us, quickly joined us in the backseat and proceeded to sing and tell us stories for the next hour and a half. Anna is one of the coolest kids I’ve ever had the pleasure of hanging with, so it was actually a lovely ride through the forest. Well, lovely and insanely rough and bumpy. I don’t think, in miles, we were ever that far from San Gil, but in terms of accessibility, we were hours remote.

Not far from the river, and the beginning of our canyoneering trip, the Land Rover overheated and decided it did not want to do car-like things like drive. We waited, somewhat anxiously, in the backseat listening to our two guides discuss the issue and possible solutions in Spanish. I wasn’t sure of all the details, but there didn’t seem to be an easy, obvious solution to all of this. Luckily (and strangely coincidental) enough, an old blue Jeep was idling at the bottom of the same hill. The local driver seemed nice enough and the guides chatted with him, and before I knew it, we were loading ourselves and the gear into the back of their old Jeep. I really wish I would have heard why he was waiting there, but it worked out well for us. Believe me, I know that sounds pretty sketchy but it was all fine and safe. As I looked back at the dirt road stretching both directions, I saw Anna was in her father’s arms looked rather devastated she was now separated from her new friends. Leaving them there seemed awful, but I sensed the situation was under control. Once the jeep drove us a bit closer to our destination, our guide thank him and we all jumped out and continued towards the river.

We climbed into our harnesses, fastened our helmets, and walked towards the river conveniently located basically in the backyard of this nice older gentlemen. Our guide warned us the water would be bit cold before jumping a few meters into the river. We followed along, and clambered our way towards the first waterfall. Believe me, I was having an absolute blast. Yes, the water was cold, but I love being in water and swimming/walking/scrambling through rivers. Everyone else not on the tour, AKA the nice older gentleman and his family, simply walked along a gentle sloping trail to meet us at the waterfall. I contain my laughter wondering how silly we must have looked fighting our way through the chilly river while the family watched us from the trail. No matter—totally fun and totally worth it. Anna seemed disappointed she would be able to join us for the rapel, but she excitedly and safely watched everyone get ready while she wore a helmet and harness herself.

I volunteered to go first, meaning I would descend the 40m waterfall while remaining calm, cool, and collected. We reviewed the basics of rappelling. At this moment, I mentally thanked my dad for fashioning a harness out of rope and introducing me to repelling when I was 9. We also completed some more legit rapels together when I was a bit older. I reminded myself I knew how to do all of this, and it was fundamentally quite easy, even if the mud and rushing water were new features. Beginning my descent and pushed through the first awkward few steps when you can to sit far back in your harness and let you butt just keep sinking until you legs are in line in the edge of the cliff. After than slightly awkward maneuver, I couldn’t stop smiling. The jungle surrounding the powerful waterfall gave my pause, and I briefly enjoyed this unique vantage point posed somewhere between these two stages of the river.

I must have looked like a cool, yet smiley, mess afterwards as the guide kindly gave me a waterproof jacket. Perched on a slippery, moss rock, I grinned watching Lane and Hailey descend the waterfall. We exchanged some high-fives and headed to the next waterfall. Our guide insisted we keep up the pace because the slight drizzle permeated through the jungle could quickly turn into a rushing river. ‘Nuff said, let’s hurry this up.

By the time we arrived at the next waterfall, the intensity of the rain increased. This rapel took us much closer to the path of the waterfall and proved to be even more fun that the last! The path was slipperier and contained a few ledges riddled with deep puddles, but this made it all the more interesting. After everyone safely arrived at the bottom of the falls, we began our climb back through the jungle to the house.

We were welcomed with a meal of chicken and potatoes and sat laughing with our guide while we dried off. A mist moved over the mountains, and the only noises around were the river, us laughing, and Anna trying to squeeze in a few stories. As the afternoon turned to evening, we said our thanks and goodbyes to the family and walked towards our next destination—a giant sinkhole where these crazy birds live and they all flight out at sunset. Fun fact: They are called “oil birds” and according to wikipedia, their feet as so small they are almost useful. Fun opinion: They sound extremely creepy swirling around in the dark, ominous cavern. Fun fact II: The adventure company owner has rapelled into the 300 ft sinkhole, and it took him about 2.5 hours to pull himself back out using prusik knots. (Thanks Dad for teaching me about prusik knots so I could feel cool in front of our guide).

Two hours in the now functioning Land Rover, and a very sleepy Anna leaned against me, exhausted from the adventures of the day and her dramatic telling of ghost stories, we were back in San Gil. We fell asleep happy and ready for the next adventure.

The next day, we crammed into the smallest tour van yet, ready to hit the river and enjoy some rafting! Over the last few years, Lane and I have rafted in Colorado and Alaska so we’ve seen the operations of a few different companies. I think our experience in Colombia has actually been one of the best rafting trips. I don’t mean to put river versus river, but the operation of the rafting team and their focus on safety was exceptional. The safety demonstration proved to be very comprehensive and we practiced several safety skills in the water. I had participated in many water safety exercises before, but I still found this overview to be extremely helpful and I think it made our whole team feel more comfortable in the water. Oh, there were multiple rescue kayaks floating along the rafts just in case.

Our guide, along with several of his colleagues were members of the Colombia national rafting team. If all goes well, they will be competing in the world championships this November. Unfortunately, the Colombian government doesn’t provide any funding to these sports teams, so I hope they met their fundraising goal. Lane and I each bought a hand carved wooden raft necklace to help with the cause! Needless to say, we had a wonderful day out on the river under the supervision of these professionals. As the only ones with any prior rafting experience, Lane and I snagged the front seats in the raft, our favorite vantage point. Maybe we will take some time on the trip to learn more about whitewater kayaking as well. It’s something we’ve always wanted to learn more about it, but cost along with other factors over the last few years kept the idea at bay. Perhaps “the trip” is the perfect time for it!

Thus, our days usually began with a van and a collection of travelers from around the world. Our days ended over a beer swapping stories of the day’s adventures with new found friends. Sometimes, they even involved a hostel outing to play tejo, Colombia’s favorite sport. It involved metal puck and gunpowder. We are certainly lacking in tejo skills, but it’s always fun.

y the end of the week, it was impossible to walk through the halls of the hostel and not see a friend. With the different paces of travel, this familiar environment can almost be elusive, but it’s oh-so-great when it happens.

If you read aloud in your head like I do, when you read Medellín, make sure the double “L” sound forms more of a “J” sound than a “Y”. That’s the only guidance I can provide right now regarding the Colombian accent. It’s a beautiful one and fairly easy to understand—please read as my comprehension didn’t drop drastically in comparison to Mexico. And comprehension level will vary quite dramatically given the topic of the conversation and the individual speaker.

So....Medellín. Our main reason for traveling there initially was a decision to bypass much of coastal Colombia and Medellín seemed like a good access point to explore further inland.  We purchased cheap tickets from Cartagena, and excitedly and somewhat nervously boarded a plane bound for this infamous city. All told, we would spend a little over a week there and it’s definitely a place I want to visit again. From our limited experiences in Colombia thus far, I think a trip to Medellín is important to better understand the complexities of this country.

For much of the 80’s and 90’s, Colombia, and Medellín especially, was ravaged by the terroristic rule of Pablo Escobar and the Colombian cartels. His cocaine empire destroyed lives all across the country and tainted the country with a reputation it still in some ways faces today. In 1991, when I was just a year old, the Medellín murder rate was 357 per 100,000 people. To put that into perspective for those who are my age and have no memories of this time, the situation in Medellín was unimaginably terrible. Comparing 1991 Medellín to the most dangerous cities today truly puts the horror in Medellín into perspective. The world’s most dangerous cities in 2018 (Los Cabos, Mexico and Caracas, Venezuela) each have a murder rate of 111 per 100,000 people. Try imaging all the fear and danger associated with the horror people currently experience in those cities and triple the violence. This is not to minimize the atrocities currently taking place in those city, but to try to add some context to the momentous shift seen in Medellín during my lifetime. At times, it’s difficult to even imagine this bustling, colorful, energetic city was the epicenter of a terrible war.

Our first room sat 19 floors above the street in the Poblado district. This lively (and gentrified area) is where you will find most travelers, expats, and young professionals of the city. The enchanting view from our high-rise balcony provided a panoramic view of the tall, red high rise buildings, the slosh of barrios, or neighborhoods, up against the foothills, and the green mountains seemingly protecting the city. Whether it be sunny skies, drizzling clouds, or a consuming night, the view shared a new and dramatic portrait of the city below.

Our friendly Italian host welcomed us unto his home and suggested a few trips we should make through the week. After settling into our room, we opted for a walk through the surrounding neighborhood in search of lunch. For about $3.50 USD per person, we dined in a small restaurant full of locals enjoying their lunch break. The meal spanned a few bowls and plates, and filled our stomachs. We spoke mostly in Spanish at that meal, in between hurried and hungry bites. We’ve tried to make it a practice to speak only Spanish for certain segments of the day, most often during mealtimes and coffee breaks. The news flashed on a TV mounted above my head, and our attention kept waivering back to it. No matter where you are, the news is often more unsettling than anything else, so we each quietly became a little more concerned about our time in Medellín.

Later we wandered to “El Social” for an evening beer and a chance to rest our legs. As the sun set across the city, the empty seats around us quickly filled and I was glad we had chosen such a revered spot.

Over the next few days, we began the mornings with good coffee, wandered the city for a while, and ended the evening with a solid draft beer. One rainy day, we tucked into a small mall and spent an afternoon trying to contain our obnoxious laughter as we browsed through the extensive collection of hilarious not-quite-right English shirts. Yes, we each bought at least one.

Another day, we boarded the ridiculously clean metro line which slices through the city above ground. The metro also connects to a system of cable cars constructed in an effort to connect barrios high on the mountain with the city below. If you take another cable car all the way to the top of the mountain, you will find yourself in a large national park. The trails are a bit confusing, but you can at least count on enjoying some of the most delicious berries.

Taking the metro downtown, we walked the Antioquia Museum of Art for hours. Our favorite exhibit sits on the third floor and contains rooms and rooms of Fernando Botero paintings, drawings, and sculptures. I actually recognized some of his work because it stands out in front of a theater in downtown Denver. Botero, from Medellín, is an internationally celebrated artist and an impressive philanthropist. A majority of the art in the museum was donated by Botero, including both his own works and more from other artists. Due to the number of donations, the museum actually had to ask the city to be located to their current building just to have the space to house their growing collection.

In many ways, we enjoyed our time in Medellín like most other cities. As enjoyable and memorable as those experiences were, they are not why I’m glad we visited Medellín. As a foreigner, sometimes the best way to get to know a place can start simply with a good tour. We’ve found tour guides to be friendly, kind people passionate about teaching about the places they love. In Medellín, we joined in on two tours from Real City Tours. In a place with such a tragic and fraught history, these tours proved to be an effective way to hear real stories from people very willing to share them.

Both of our tour guides were about our age, and lived a childhood about as different from ours as can be imagined. Caro, our first guide, told us about walking to school with her little brother and counting bodies in the street. We would walk to a plaza in the middle of downtown, and she would tell us about the bombings or attacks that happened there, taking note of the city’s effort to transform the story of these public spaces. For example, buildings which used to signal danger to all citizens now house the city’s education buildings. She explained daily life as we see it now, and what is was before. She spoke powerfully of the selective memory of Colombia. When you are surrounded by so much death and horror, your community has a way of prioritizing seemingly small good memories (a Colombian winning one leg of the Tour de France in 1984), and not reserving the mental space for each bomb reeking havoc on the city.

Standing outside the metro station in the middle of downtown, she told us what this system of rails meant to the city and its people. It evokes an enormous sense of pride to the citizens of Medellín. The metro system was an investment in the city, in the people, and in the future. Before we’d even been told the importance and significance of this transportation system, we sensed something unique about it. The windows, the floors, the seats, everything is extremely clean. And not because no one uses the system. It’s jammed packed at rush hour, but seemingly spotless. You won’t find graffitti or teenager misbehaving on the metro. It’s a status symbol of the city and a tangible reminder of process for a people who’ve experienced too much pain.

She also cast aside the misunderstanding that poorer people in the city “like” Pablo Escobar. Sure, he built some houses and gave money to impoverished neighborhood all as part of bolstering his Robin Hood image. She couldn't comprehend how the story of him and her city was so simplified. “How many houses does someone build so that it’s okay he murders your family?”. She clarified that the only demographic who sometimes may be viewed as reviering him are young males who are trying to look tough and were born after the darkest years in the city.

Some of these younger men are also responsible for continued violence in the city. A popular place to visit is La Comuna 13. This barrio displays a different kind of infrastructure intended to help residents of the barrios be more connected to the center of the city. A series of escalators climb the hillsides increasing access for people of different ages and abilities. I have no pictures of La Comuna 13 because while we were in Medellín, there was violence between two rival gangs leading to multiple shootings in the streets. The gangs were in the midst of a violent battle for control. Caro suggested for none of us to go there. She reminded us, in some ways, this is still a city at war.

Later on, we met Diomero. He was our guide through a barrio just across the river from downtown. His objective was to help us thinking more critically about the transformation of the city—how much of these changes are simply part of a narrative sold to the rest of the world and what changes actually impact the most vulnerable residents. A leader for the community joined us on this tour as well. First, we walked through the few remaining houses which sit literally on top of the city’s former dump site. Of course, there were a terrible array of dangers and health consequences with this settlement. As a group, we discussed the government’s effort to relocate many of the residents from the dump and the numerous problems and struggles with this plan. The dump used to stand about 70m high, and now rises about half that distance above the river. Approximately 90% of the residents were relocating, and dealt with the consequences thereafter, while a few families remain on the dump site. Where a mountain of trash once stood sits a towering garden. The trash isn’t far below the surface, and the smell still wafts up from the soil.

In the barrio, children race their bikes through the winding streets. Neighbors pass the hours in small restaurants or playing board games in the park. Teenagers walk around in packs laughing at their inside jokes. There is one entrepreneur on a motorbike with a small, washing machine sitting on the back. For a few Colombian pesos, he delivers the washing machine to your home so you can get through more clothes in one afternoon.

We stopped for snacks, walked slowly and admired all the street art in the neighborhood. Diomero talked about all the good things, and the sometimes inevitable dark side—though some systems seemed to be working pretty well with minimal pitfalls. We learned about the social programs provided to families with early childhood education. He told us about the few success and more struggles facing grade school and higher education. He talked about the important role and influence of women in these neighborhoods, and how their persistence was often the catalyst and reason for positive change in these neighborhoods. We toured the unique art center at the edge of the barrio, providing a safe place for all people of the citizen to simply learn. Anyone, and I mean anyone, can volunteer at the art center for as long as they want. Maybe that’s something we will do one day.

At the top of the dumpsite-turned-garden sits a large greenhouse. It’s a symbol of hope in a literal sense, but the contents of the greenhouse are also tended to and sold by women in the neighborhood. Again, Medellín has taken a terrible place and transformed it into something positive. That doesn’t mean the pain is gone and forgotten, but it’s a way of moving forward and working to make things better.

As far as Diomero’s objective—helping us to question what the transformation of Medellín really means—I know I still have so much to learn. Talking with him personally on the train as we left the tour, he told us a bit more about the barrio of his childhood and the problems many people still face today. In addition, I learned more about an incredible person who was kind, open, driven, who vividly remembers the first word he learned in English and has big plans for his future.

Despite all the struggles still faced by Medellín, I couldn’t help but leave that city feeling amazed. I know situations could always be better and there are always more people who need help. This will always be the case. But there is something powerful and resonate about accepting and hold that fact in your mind, and comprehending all the positivity and simple beauty in Medellín today. It’s hard to not be hopeful for the future after you’ve seen even a glimpse of a city who has harnessed that hope and put it to action.

I love small airports in foreign countries. Not just because they are easier to navigate than their behemoth cousins, but because I feel way more adventurous when they roll stairs up to the plane and you make your way down metal steps and place a foot in this new and foreign place. This happened when I landed in Belize City back in 2013. A storm had rolled in above the city, and I clung to my hat and the wind and rain tried to steal it from my head. Despite the weather, I couldn’t contain a too-big-to-not-be-kind-of-embarrassing smile.

Walking down the staircase in Cartagena, Colombia proved to be pretty exciting too. Instead of rain, dripping humidity coated my skin. The heat felt nice at first — an indication we had now arrived in said new and foreign place. Customs took an uncustomarily long time, but we made it through. It always racks your nerves standing there while a jaded airport employee mysterious taps at the keyboard, glancing back and forth at your passport. They have all the power, and you just stand there.

Once we legally passed onto Colombian soil, we headed straight(ish) for the ATMs. It’s difficult to do much in a country without the currency. We tried to conceal our mini panic attacks as one, two, and then THREE ATMs provided nothing besides an error message in Spanish. Fourth time’s a charm here in Colombia apparently, and we carefully stowed away our hundreds of thousands of Colombian pesos (it’s pretty interesting that 1 dollar is about 3,000 pesos!)

The taxi ride (always negotiated before getting into the taxi) proved to be a bit more expensive than we expected, but still came in at about $4 USD. No problem there. After a few quick turns from the airport, we zoomed along the beach soaking in our first view of the Caribbean. Another turn revealed a giant fortress rising up in irregular shapes across the ground. It was too early to check in to our hotel, so we left our luggage and headed out to find something to eat. We’d woken up about 3:00 that morning, and hadn’t eaten anything since a pizza-for-breakfast in the Miami airport. We approached a small cafe where I manage to stumble through a few sentences in Spanish, asking the owner, Angelica, if they sold any food. As this was more of a hangout for beer, she kindly directly us a few streets over to a local restaurant. She assured us they provided delicious food at a good price . I listened attentively, trying to both remember the directions and keep up with what else she was saying in Spanish. Before we turned around to go, she complimented my avocado earrings. These earrings have proved to be a big hit with women in both Mexico and Colombia. Pro-tip for making yourself endearing to locals: buy earrings in the form of beloved local food and wear them every day.

Angelica knew where to go. A cold beer, an entire fried fish, and a mountain of sides awaited us at the restaurant. From our table, I could see the women in the kitchen fanning flames set under giant kettles filled with soup. Specks of ash and fire swirled through the air as they worked through the familiar tasks.

After our hearty meal, we continued the day with a series of naps which eventually led to us just deciding to go to sleep for the night and see what more Cartagena had to offer in the morning.

Eating breakfast the next day at our hotel, we joined in communal sigh of relief with a sip from our first cup of coffee in Colombia. It was delicious, bold, flavorful and nothing like the burning hot, too watery, instant coffee which we found to be inescapable in Mexico. After filling our daypack, we wandered out towards the historic, walled part of the city. We spent the next few hours admiring the bright colors of the buildings, fruits, and clothing. We alternated between walking through the streets of the city and on top of the wall itself. A long time ago, the wall was built to protect this important port city from the serious problems of pillaging pirates and foreign rivals. Apparently, the wall did it’s job for the most part and helped to protect the city’s inhabitants from outside violence on multiple occasions.

Not to say violence didn’t exist within the city walls. The people the wall was protecting engaged in some pretty awful stuff. Cartagena was the main gateway into South America for slave ships and auctioning, and it hosted the South American epicenter for the Spanish Inquisition. You can barely begin listing all of the atrocities against the indigenous people of the region. From what I could see, the city didn’t seem to be trying to hide it’s history. The people and city of Cartagena seemed to be committed to reflection and education about these dark events.

We ended the evening with a walk along the waterfront and devouring a few bowls of traditional Colombian soups. The ingredients sometimes seem strange at first, but always prove to be delicious. Our dinner conversation consisted mostly of what we would do with our time before we hiked the Inca Trail at the end of October. Our original, general plan was to spend the majority of that time traveling around Colombia, but now we were starting to come up with new ideas.

Our brief stint in Colombia already made us excited to see more of the country, but the Caribbean waters were enchanting us as well. While wandering through the city, we popped into a scuba diving shop to scope out diving prices for the area. We sat in air conditioned bliss listening to the options first in Spanish, and then confirmed them in English. We mutually thought the prices sounded fair and it was Caribbean, so that must be good, right? After leaving, we agreed we both knew nothing about scuba diving in Colombia so committed to preliminary research that afternoon. A few google search led us to islands off the coast of Nicaragua but still part of the Colombia—Andrés and Provencia. The diving looked good, but the distance got us thinking a little further out into the Caribbean.

Lane proposed the idea of visiting Curaçao, a independent island nation in the Dutch kingdom, not far off the Venezuelan coast. Earlier in our trip, Lane mentioned his childhood dream of sailing between Caribbean islands. We might not be able to do that this time, but we quickly became enamored with idea of venturing to an island and bypassing the dives here on the coast.

So, at dinner we weighed the costs and benefits of foregoing some time in Colombia for some time on a Caribbean island. It definitely wouldn’t meet our $100 USD/day budget, but...it seemed really, really cool. The brutal heat of the Colombian Caribbean coast created a stuffy environment for making decisions. Despite my Houston roots, I feel pretty acclimated to cold climates now and feel like I’ve lost a super power I once possessed—being in 100 degree weather with 1000% humidity and not thinking much of it. We decided to sleep on it, after all, we had just arrived in Colombia and it felt silly to already be planning our departure.

The next day, we headed to Castillo San Felipe de Barajes. This giant fortress, the same one we saw from our taxi ride, was constructed over the course of several decades to protect the Spanish colony from a British invasion. The Spanish in Cartagena had narrowly survived an assault by the British once before in an Alamo-esque, battle to the final stand. There used to be a much smaller fort on top of a hill and it was somehow enough for them to barely escape British conquest. After this extremely close call, the Spanish decided to expand the fortress into the massive structure it is today. The size and shape of the current fortress are unusual because the fortress engulfs both the original fort and the entire hill as its backbone. There are numerous secret passageways and networks of tunnels, false ramparts to trick and confuse the enemy, and enormous cannons to bombard and terrify any invaders. The engineering and design seemed to have done the trick; no one ever tried to invade Cartagena again.

After lunch, we worked our way through the Colombian naval museum (in Spanish) and I got to pretend I was in the Colombian Coast Guard.

After our full day of exploring the city, our conversation drifted back to diving in the Caribbean. Running some checks on flights, we realized it probably wasn’t going to be cheaper to access Curaçao and maybe it’s neighbor, Bonaire, from anywhere else. Getting to an island is always expensive, and this would be the most less expensive chance we would have. Flights were cheapest out of Bogotá, the capital. Perfect! We were playing to go there anyway, as it would most likely be the best place to fly to Cusco, Peru for our upcoming Inca Trail trek at the end of October.

This all started to feel feasible. Still a little nerve-racking, still expensive, but very exciting. The climates on both Curaçao and Bonaire sounded more welcoming than the Colombian coast, further enticing us. If we are serious about enjoying some island paradise in the Caribbean, maybe it would be a good idea to move inland and see what the mountains of Colombia have to offer. With a string of ideas that we didn’t know exactly how they would connect, we booked plane tickets to the city of Medellín, in the center of Colombia. We enjoyed our few days in Cartagena, but we satisfied and ready to move inland to cooler weather and higher elevation.

Now, a rough idea of where we will be until we step foot on the Inca Trail is starting to take shape. We are still giving ourselves plenty of time in destinations, and enjoying the benefits of moving more slowly. Less time on buses, less time packing and unpacking, and more time to get to know a destination. Looks like opportunistic travel is already paying off for us here in Colombia. Right now, we are enjoying the “eternal spring” of Medellín (a local reference to the mild weather), and we will be heading to the adventure capital, San Gil, later this weekend. Afterwards, we’ll head to Bogotá before we fly to Curaçao and Bonaire to dive like we’ve never dived before!