The poetry of Travel, but maybe not

Driving swiftly through the plains outside Bogota then  painfully and slowly winding up and down Andean Mountain roads, my mind becomes pressed to the horizon. The mountain peaks pierce the sky; a nose, an elbow, chins and  young perky tits. I laugh. I know the last description makes minds shift uncomfortably, but let's be honest, all human beings have them, whether they are sizable or not. They are the source of nourishment for one just out of the womb, so important, givers of life!!!So say it, "Tits! breasts! Boobs! chachas! Don't you feel just a little better? So stop interrupting me with your uncomfortable inward reactions to my poetry!! . I must poetisize on. ( You say that's not a word? )

The further we head out of the mega city the more open the face, more amiable the smile of those on the side of the road. City and Cement are behind us. My back pain has me stretched out on the back
seat, with my feet propped above the car window. My view now is of sky, white with clouds, cotton and fuzz. From the front seat their conversation drifts back to me. Gringo and indigenous, share thoughts, share lives, share impressions of the drive. Passing under on overhang called the Devil's nose, our friend speaks of this place as having many demons as its residents. More man chatter. Questions, misinterpretations, guffaws.

We slow to a crawl up a steep incline behind a slow truck. I sit up for a bit to see roadside stands filled with brown zapote ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manilkara_zapota) cut in half bearing their bright orange flesh. Mangoes and papayas hang along side them just as intensively orange and ripe.

As we approach a small town the motorcycle to truck ratio increases, A small ranchero, ranch style house painted daffodil yellow brightens the solemn features of the grey old man that stands out front purposelessly watching the traffic go by in a haze of diesel fumes. Windows rolled down, humid, wet,  tired, sticky hair on neck, in face, all over the place. Tall green bamboo mark cool river's edge.
Clouds begin to bully the setting sun from its last appearance. Peacocks tied to an umbrella table along side the road. WHAT? I didn't get why peacocks either! Were they for sale?...we drive on.

Front seat conversation drifts to hunting, poison frogs, arrows and Chiguiro ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiguiro ) for dinner.  Don't forget to cut out the part of meat that has the poison in it before you cook it. This leads to a tale of a man who kills son with poison arrow when drunk, took 20 minutes for son to die.  Which leads to talk of his own cow being poisoned with frog venom but was cured with human urine. What? yeuk, maybe I don't want to listen in to the man talk from the front seat.

The mountains raise again, shacks tiptoe on the precipice of deep gullies. Jeeps piled high with plantains, people and live animals. That means we are nearing Pereira. From the front seat we are given a lesson in plantain farming. It takes 9 months for a plantain palm to bear its bounty. I think I remember that in the villages around Mount Kilimanjaro, women would plant them when they became pregnant, to help them keep track of their pregnancy. The present and past collide in the most unusual ways at times.

Clouds lower their powdery paws upon the mountain around us. Darkness soon follows and a humid chill fills my bones. We are at the peak, and we wait, and wait and wait for hours as the heavy night truck traffic shares one lane with us after the most recent mud slide. Boulders mark a muddy path down the mountain near us.

Late, tired,  damp we arrive at our destination. The house awakes my memory though my body may already be in slumber. The floor under my feet, the same as our Moshi house, so long ago in Africa. The constant whir of the fan over head as I sleep, brings me into dreams of childhood, and Land Rovers, long dusty trips, and stewed plantains.

I wake hot, salty damp skin, night clothes clinging. This morning will wake my ears to words, nasal, , quick tongues to my deaf ears. Epena, Chami, Katio so little tie the three together yet to hearing they are but one. Linguists amaze me! Indigneous languages confuse this old worn out mind. Am I really to learn yet 4th new language at this foggy old brain? In all honesty I doubt I'll get very far!

Our indigenous friend joins us rested. Breakfast's story is of the boy born from the calf of a man, a ladder to heaven, flying, and a people who eat only steam because they have no place in their body to evacuate. Oh boy, this is going to be a long day, but a good one !!! Saca Buma!!