Thanks for the (Cholera-Induced / Mostly Hallucinative) Memories, Cartagena de Indias

My last 5 days in Colombia, I stayed in scenic Cartagena de Indias.

Cartagena is known as one of the most coveted colonial fortresses in Latin America. Immense amounts of wealth passed through its harbors; hoards of pirates attempted to break into the walled city at every turn.

In today’s Cartagena, the wealth continues to flow--though it's not coming from pirates, the sugar trade, or Spanish expat nobility.

Instead, Cartagena has maintained its wealth thanks to its status as a truly unironic, slightly-dilapidated ~Caribbean vacation destination.~ It is filled to the brim with many, many, many very affluent Brazilian/Argentine tourists that deeply enjoy the city's array of resort-life attractions, such as: dillipidated horse-drawn carriage rides!  Third-degree sunburns contracted while basking next to rooftop pools! And, of course, the delectable fare at Hard Rock Cafe Cartagena!

Evidently the Hard Rock enterprise is not, in fact, bankrupt. The 90s really are back, y'all.

Unfortunately when I myself think of Cartagena, I will remember neither its pirate-fighting past nor its lovably-skeezy-resort-town present. 

Instead, I will forever connect Cartagena with that one time my life almost came to an early and abrupt end. Sad but true: Like many a Spanish colonizer before me, within 48 hours of landing in Cartagena, I came down with a very severe tropical virus. 

I spent my last 4 days in Colombia quaking in my bed, sweating/bleeding/hallucinating/vomming/crying with a 103-degree fever; unable to feel my hands or feet; skin peeling off to reveal a large, spotted rash; physically unable to go to a pharmacy/doctor and get medicine… aaaand 100% alone. With no idea whatsoever what my ailment was or how to treat it.

I could turn this post into a large litany about illness abroad; travelling alone; viral infections of the tropics; etc etc. This is true.

But I cannot under-emphasize this point: I came back from the BRINK, friends - so I’m taking a different route.

... I’m taking a route of glory-jesus-HALLELUJAH.

.... I’m taking the route of  HELLLLL-YUS-I-AM-ALIVE-LET-US-TAKE-IT-TO-THE-STREETS

.... I’m taking the route of THANK YOU DEITIES ABOVE, because I am feeling the spirit of #YOLO like Drake himself never could believe. Testify & believe.

Below, I list out the many bright stars of sunshine that pulled me through the Plague of Cartagena.

Bogota Bike Brawl

When I entered Bogota, I knew basically three things about the city: 

1. it is in the mountains!
2. it has a large Fernando Botero museum!! 
3. their local chicken stew ajiaco is delectable!!!

BUT... that was it. I wish I was kidding. Preparation is not #mythang, child.

Being so very in-the-dark about what I was supposed to do in a city that is - fun fact - gargantuan (the size of all of NYC's 5 boroughs combined!), I did what all uninspired tourists do: I decided to try out a local bike tour.

The name of the tour company I chose was straight-forward, Bogota Bike Tours. I thus assumed I would be lead past the major Hits of Bogota, maybe learn a fact or two, and finally, 90 mins. later, be on my way to consuming a delicious empanada.

Alas: the Bogota Bike Tour was not to be anything like a leisurely pedal down a paved, Euro-centric Colombian version of the Ringstraße.

I walked into the BBT "office"  - really, an open-air garage with bike parts strewn about everywhere - and a tiny Colombian man named Emilio immediately forced a mountain bike, helmet, and (most disturbingly) various ankle/elbow/wrist guards at me. I hadn't even registered or paid for the tour. Heck, I hadn't even fully stepped foot into their garage. This was the first of many signs that I was in for something a bit more intense than I anticipated. A heh heh heh.

Our guide was a grizzled, late 50s, ex-pat journalist named Mike. (Note: Since journalists in Colombia have been notorious targets of assasinations for at least the past century, this is not a profession for the weak of heart.)

Mike had what looked to be a large, chemical burn on half of his face. Also, he carried a half-destroyed macrame camera bag so tattered that he had stuffed a large black garbage bag inside as a "waterproof lining."

 But really, a picture is worth a thousands words, right? All you need to know about Señor Mike:

Crazy-eyed does not even begin to describe...

His first words to us: "Hey guys, my name is Mike. I've been living in Bogota for 6 years, in Latin America for 15. I'm from California but I haven't been back to that godawful place in over a decade. ALRIGHT ENOUGH SMALLTALK LET'S GO." And then he sped away at warp-speed. At this point, I had barely strapped on my helmet.

And still, off we went. 

A small selection of amazing non-guide-book-approved sites we visited in Bogota, after the jump.

The Cossack Bloodline Knows Nothing of Defeat & Other Pleasantries My Parents Told Me

Many people have reached out to me recently to gather my opinions on the current immense struggles of my Motherland. 

In case you have been living under a beautiful, non-Ukrainian rock: Thanks to Putin/Yanukovich post-Soviet-bloc "democracy," the particularly-Ukrainian brand of *FUN* has recently become quite renowned.

Sand-bag-barricade-building in negative 10 degree weather in order to avoid being shot at by anti-EU, pro-Russian military forces amid an endless snow pile in the middle of Kiev = **FUN!!!**

One thing that I try to emphasize for my frandz that ask me what I think about the Euromaidan and the general onslaught of death, struggle, and disaster in Ukraine is this: Listen, for virtually my entire life–Ukraine has been in a shitstorm. But that doesn't mean I don't feel that shitstorm in the deepest reaches of my soul; for better or most assuredly for worse.

Take this recent text exchange with my father, himself born in the USA:

My "soul"! My soul. 

Why oh why can't my soul reside on a beautiful beach somewhere instead, you and also I ask??!!?!?!? 

\\\\\(((((Extended Sigh)))))))//////

More musings on the particularly-FUN form of tormented ethnic identity, after the jump.