It didn’t take long for me to become a huge fan of Colombia.  It’s making a serious run at the title of best country on this trip.  We still have a week to go though, so we’ll see if it’s a finisher too. 

Took awhile to get here, as that bus trip over the border from VZ was comically slow.  The route I took was via Maracaibo, an oil town in the Northwest corner of the country.  It was about 10 hours to there, and then the next, I don’t know, 5? 7? hours was a slow slog through a succession of police checkpoints, bribery stops, and enough speedbumps to warm the heart of even the most protective of suburban moms.

At most police checkpoints we merely had to slow down before being waved through; others they did a cursory check of the luggage area.  Once in awhile though a gun-toter would come aboard and check passports or papers.  Only 3 of them asked for bribes.  Actually, let me re-phrase that, only 3 times were the requests serious enough that the locals deemed them bribe-worthy. 

It was nice to have a bribe liaison otherwise I’d have been clueless.  When a particular cop or national guardman was deemed bribe-worthy, one of the passengers would collect 2 or 3 Bolivars from everyone on the bus.  Mostly these were short little stops , but one time we waited about a half hour because some guy didn’t have papers, but also didn’t like the amount the cop was asking for in order to look the other way.  We were at a stalemate.  So everyone stood outside the bus smoking cigarettes until finally the cop either got bored or our guy ran out of cigarettes and the thing was resolved and back on the bus we got. 

No, this wasn’t us.  There seem to be two types of South American bus drivers…the plodders and the mad passers.  The former woudl like to be the latter, but they’re stuck in a beater with little power.  The latter will pass at any and all chances…pedal to the floor, rounding a corner, with another bus coming the other way being the optimum time to do so.  They have this unyeilding faith that they can always squeeze back just in time. 

But, as you can see above, all of us overestimate ourselves at one time or another.

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At the border, after paying the departure tax (with all the mini-bribes and fees, it’s like taking the I-95 from NYC to DC, just minus the Easy Pass), then you get off the bus, make your way by foot to get stamped out of VZ…

And then walk the no-man’s land over to here to get stamped into Columbia…

Once there you get back on your bus on the Colombian side, provided it’s still there.  Our bus ened up picking up a couple dudes who had been left behind when their bus left them.

Another 3 or 4 hours later I was in the coastal city of Santa Marta, along with Kevin and Ragu, the Canadian guys.

Here’s home for a couple days…

And here’s dinner…

I don’t want you to think this trip is an endless stream of boozy nights, but yes, I have had to tip the occasional beer for research purposes. 

This was one of those research nights.  I mean, if a Colombian beachtown doesn’t call for a cold beer, then I don’t know what does.  And a cold beer calls for some music.  And some musica en Colombia calls for…

…that’s right…

Shakira, Shakira…

Thus after a little wrangling, the discoteche (I use that term liberally) manager let me take over the sound system for a few songs.  Cliched or not, I was in Colombia and my night wouldn’t be complete without some “Hips Don’t Lie“.

As you can see, Kevin too was doing a little research of his own to test Shakira’s claims.

I think he’d be the first to attest to the fact that Colombian hips in fact do not lie.  Rather, they slap their palm on the bible and solemnly  swear to tell the the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

FYI…I vetted this picture with Kevin before posting in case their was a Toronto girl out there who might not appreciate the verisimilitude of Colombian hips as they pertain to her boyfriend. 

Also, I figured if he passes the site on to his parents–who are probably worried about their son and Ragu travelling through Colombia–they can rest assured that their son is alive and well…obviously, very well. 

(Somewhere in Canada right now is a proud father…but he’s also probably thinking to himself, why, WHY didn’t I go to Columbia when I was 24 and single?).