Colombia in 7 hours

Waiting on the bus in Bogota for San Gil, I have in my charge what seems to be a recalcitrant teenage boy, whose mother has asked me to make sure that he arrives safely to San Gil because he doesn´t know the terminal. I didn´t have a chance to mention that I also don´t know the San Gil terminal. She thanks me graciously, and makes signs of the cross on him. She jumps back on three or four times to tell him one more thing before the bus actually makes it out of the terminal.

The ayudante (helper) tries to play a dubbed DVD of Taken on the bus TV, but it doesn´t work, so he puts a corny Nicholas Cage action movie, complete with full frontals and decapitated limbs, and none of the prudishness associated with possibly damaging the virgin eyes of children.

We stop in small towns to pick up people waiting on the road. People get on the bus selling almojabanas and other cheesebread variety snacks for the ride. One girl gets on, and requesting
our attention, gives a 15 minute spiel on an all natural skin cream that solves all manner of superficial and internal ailments. She hands out a small old-school filmroll sized container to each passenger after a small demonstration of how to apply it. You can give her back either the bottle or $3000 pesos (about $1.50 USD).

Two hours in, the bus stops at a military checkpoint, where an officer boards. He asks for papers, and everyone shifts to reach for their cedulas (ID cards) before they realize he was only asking one guy at the back of the bus. The guy and the officer exchange words while the guy gives him his papers.

The movie stops. What follows is 5 hours of every Vallenato song recorded in Colombian history, and I think that I might be allright if I didn´t hear another Vallenato song for weeks.

If you´re not used to Colombian driving, the strategy is just to not look. The bus rides in the left lane, passing slower freight trucks. If the driver sees something on the horizon before he can pass, he brakes and merges, the trucks in the right lane obliging. A rosary dangles from the rearview mirror. Every few minutes he reaches up and wraps his hand around it. I join in his prayer.

Maninthesky obliging, we arrive well to San Gil terminal. I pass my recalcitrant teenager on to his sister, and flag a cab to the hostel.