Parades are the kind of public events that often sound promising, but can easily turn into masochistic affairs. There are many ways this can happen- perhaps there are too many people, or the traffic is horrible, or it is absolutely impossible to see the parade.

Perhaps you find a good spot, but just before the floats pass, a few hundred late arrivals rush out in front of you. Of course these latecomers are all armed with massive iPads which not only block your view, but are also filming videos that no one will ever watch.

And on top of all that, your legs are probably tired because the parade is running late and you are roasting under the sun. This has happened so many times to Barret and I that when I told him about the Yipao Parade in Armenia he looked quite skeptical. “You sure you want to go? You know what parades are like.”

Truthfully I wasn’t expecting too much either, but I had seen some beautiful photos of the traditional “Willys” Jeeps overloaded with household furniture and I was a little bit enchanted. Barret and I finally decided to catch an early morning bus to Armenia. From there we took a taxi directly to Parque Aborigenes, which is the starting point of the parade.

It turned out to be the best decision we could have made because not only did we get there right when the parade began at 1pm, but we were in the shade of a cluster of trees and there was hardly anyone around. We could take as many photos and get as close to the Willys as we wanted.

These antique jeeps arrived in Colombia during WWII and were very popular in the mountainous coffee-growing regions because of their handling and cargo capabilities. Since then, they have become an endearing icon that is celebrated every October in Armenia.

Although, the Yipao Parade is just one part of Armenia’s week-long annual celebration (called the Cuyabras Festivals). There were many other events that took place that Saturday such as a massive artisanal market, a beer and gastronomy festival, and a book fair. All of the events took place in different locations, so after receiving multiple bad directions, we found taxis were the best way to go.

Of all the events though, the Yipao Parade was the big attraction of the day. There were four principal categories, with one of my favorites being the Trasteo Típico.

This is the category where, traditionally, families moving from one finca to another would pile all their possessions onto a jeep. Everything from furniture, to paintings, to bedpans, to plates and dishes were elaborately stacked and tied to the jeep. Cages filled with chickens, ducks and pigs were tied just above the rear fender.

I couldn’t figure out why this was the preferred location until I realized that if the animals went to the bathroom, their waste would just drop onto the ground. Good idea.

Another category with just as much creative decoration was the Categoría Libre. In this group Willys were decorated with everything from recycled bits of plastic to dioramas of traditional industries.

And the dioramas weren’t just static either. The coffee roasting jeep was actually roasting some small batches out back. There was another jeep that had some sort of volcano on the roof, and that too was smoking as it drove past.

There were brick-making, basket-weaving, fruit and vegetable displays. Some were very professional and others were just lucky their car was even operating under that much weight.

The word yipao specifically refers to the competition where Willys are loaded with as much cargo as possible. So the third category, Productos Agrícolas, is perhaps one of the most important for the parade. This is the group that loads as much weight as they possibly can onto their jeeps. The types of individual cargo categories could be things like coffee, plantains, or yucca.

The most impressive jeeps were the ones that spent the most time on two wheels. Sometimes the weight was so much though that the passengers had to get out and sit on the front fender so that the jeep could drive in a straight line. One driver had even modified his jeep so that his chair was where the roof should have been.

Of course there were also sponsored Willys that passed out freebies to the crowd. Cristal, a brand of aguardiente, was pouring free shots to people who ran up to their float. I thought this was particularly interesting as the floats that followed were in the most dangerous group – Piques.

These jeeps in Piques were loaded with just enough weight to make acrobatic feats possible. At first I thought the jeeps just spun in circles, but then I realized that the driver actually got out of the car.

Just imagine a crowd of people surrounding a spinning car (with corporate sponsorship) and no protective barrier between them. Then, in the middle of the spin, the driver gets out and jumps onto the front bumper. He leans back and scrapes his machete along the ground. It was absolutely nuts.

It was also totally captivating. Confetti and scratched roads were left in the wake of the acrobatic jeeps.

Barret and I actually ended up following the slow-moving parade along its route just so we could see some of the jeeps again. The nice part was that even in the busier parts of the route, it was still easy to get around and find a good view.

The Yipao Parade was definitely the best parade I have ever seen.

About: The Yipao Parade and Festival Program 2015

About: Armenia

I play volleyball with my SENA colleagues twice a week after work. The volleyball court is across the road from the campus and is reached via an underground tunnel. From here, the view of the school and the hills and the mountains that rise up behind is absolutely stunning.

Sometimes the view is so pretty, especially during a sunset, that I have a hard time concentrating on the game. For this reason, when some friends of ours wanted to hike the mountains nearby SENA, I was excited. I knew how scenic the area was.

We caught a buseta that went through Gallinazo and exited at a fork in the road. To the right was a hot springs complex and to the left was a narrow road that eventually led to the volcanoes and the páramo of Parque Los Nevados.

Aside from a few bicyclists and motorcyclists, the bumpy uphill road was quiet. As we walked the morning fog moved in. Birds called out from the surrounding trees and rivulets of water trickled down the side of the road. The landscape was so peaceful that it was easy to forget how much volcanic activity was underneath our feet. Nature can be deceiving like that.

When we stopped for water Barret heard a strange noise. It sounded like a lid bouncing on top of a pot of boiling water. He searched the side of the road until he found a small vent – a hint of the volcanic activity below. The gurgling was punctuated by a puff of steam that dissipated as silence fell. A few seconds later the gurgling began again.

After four hours of walking uphill, we reached our destination- La Gruta. Outside the grotto was a memorial to a group of Boy Scouts that were killed there in 2006. They had hiked up the very route we had just taken and were swimming when a surge of water suddenly appeared and swept them away.

The clouds hung low the afternoon of our visit. The waterfall was at the far end of the grotto and closer to the entrance was a pool of hot, steamy water that poured out of the rock face. The water that flowed out of the grotto passed under a bridge before heading down the mountain.

Down the road from the bridge was the only building we had come across on our four-hour hike. A man walked out from an open door and asked us if we wanted a cup of aguapanela or an arepa. We had brought our own food, so we declined and continued walking until we reached a small outdoor hot springs.

We passed through a metal gate and asked the caretaker if we could eat lunch atop the sloping hill. Below us was a small concrete pool filled with thermal water and the remnants of a second pool. A long green hose poured cool water into one end of the pool while piping hot water flowed into the other end.

When a group of four left the hot spring, we walked down the grassy slope and changed into our bathing suits. The afternoon was foggier than ever when we got into the water. My cold feet began to tingle and my tired shoulder muscles slowly relaxed.

Every now and then I saw the caretaker strolling the hill above; he was a poncho-clad silhouette in the fog. If it weren’t for the steep terrain, I would have thought we were in the British moors.

On the way back down a jeep pulled over and offered the four of us a ride back into town. We jumped in and tucked our legs up on a hard plastic kennel. Metal beams crisscrossed the ceiling of the jeep and I crouched down so that my head wouldn’t hit the roof every time we bounced over a rock. Including us, there were nine adults, one baby, and one dog in the car.

It felt like we were hitching a ride in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from the nearest city. However, within the hour we were dropped off at a gas station across from the Manizales bus terminal. Moments like that are when I feel very lucky to live in Manizales.

The entrance to Ecoparque Regional Alcázares-Arenillo was hidden at the end of a neighborhood cul-de-sac. Of all the nature reserves in Manizales, this one is one of the quieter ones.

A large bamboo tower stood close to the entrance and contained two small rooms where the park wardens lived. At the very top was a platform with pleather chairs and a beautiful view of the valley below.

Every now and then the park hosts paranormal nights, and this was the reason my friends and I visited the park after work on a Monday. After watching the sunset we moved towards the growing pile of firewood. Twenty-somethings began arriving with motorcycle helmets in hand and many of them had also brought bags of candy and peanuts to pass around the campfire.

Once a large enough group had assembled, the main speaker introduced himself. He wore loose jeans and a white shirt that stretched across his belly. Because he had been a priest for twelve years, what followed was a very bizarre blend of mysticism and Catholicism.

After recounting a moment where he had been dragged back to earth after flying through a rainbow-colored tunnel towards the gates of heaven, the speaker turned the conversation to one of the most dangerous markets in Manizales.

La Galleria is famous for its cheap deals and rough atmosphere, but it apparently also known for its witch market. With regards to this I learned that casual sex is dangerous because socks and underwear can be compromised. Anyone with bad intentions could wash said items and use that water to make manipulative potions.

And what would be the best method to avoid this? This is obviously where Catholicism came into play as the answer was to avoid sex.

Scopalmine- aka Devil’s Breath- was also mentioned and it’s a much more credible threat because it actually a drug that erases memory and turns people passive and acquiescent. In fact, it was used during the cold war as a truth serum.

Scopalmine resembles cocaine but it need only be blown into one’s face for the drug to take effect and the victim to be susceptible to outside influence. It can also used for the infamous paseo millonario– which is when friendly strangers drag you arround town for a quick visit to all the best ATMs.

The discussion got even more interesting when the floor opened up for a Q&A. I had taken it for granted that all the others were as skeptical as me, but I soon realized I was wrong. Not only was the audience all ears, but they started asking some wacky questions.

Do babies have a direct celestial connection to God? -They do.

Why don’t the babies remember their direct celestial connection? -They grow up.

How can one get though depression? -Pray the darkness away with real emotion, none of that fake stuff.

What colors are in my aura? -White, grey and red.

About two hours into the evening there was a ten minute break after which the speaker was going to attempt to call up a spirit. My friends and I decided to leave because as a rule of thumb, we only like to raise the spirits on the weekend. And we were hungry

The campfire stories were not at all like what I was expecting, however it was interesting to experience the superstitious side of Manizales. I don’t think I will ever look at dirty bras the same way.

How to get to Ecoparque Regional Alcázares-Arenillo: Catch a blue buseta that lists La Aurora as a destination. Get off at Calle 5 & Carrera 22 – this is just outside downtown Manizales and the Plaza de Toros.

October 31st came around before my zombie costume was finished. All I had was a ripped sweatshirt and an arm’s length of pantyhose intestines. I could have worn it as is, but I wasn’t feeling that enthusiastic and I was also worried I’d be overdressed.

Although Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, I haven’t celebrated it too much the last few years. It just never feels the same when I’m in a new town. That is definitely the downside to living abroad.

I was on the verge of staying in for the night and watching Netflix when my friend came over. She was keen to dress up but as unprepared as me, so we decided to paint our faces. Barret was of course chosen to be the artist. He swiped his finger into a cheap pot of white cream and smeared it across my friend’s cheek. It looked like wet toothpaste.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Barret was trying to paint a skull, but the result was more like a melting KISS face. My friend was too polite to admit how terrible it looked, but I wasn’t. It was awful and I knew my zombie makeup would look just as bad, but I still went for it.

Even though the paint was so oily that it never dried, it was still surprisingly difficult to wash off. We decided to scrub the disasters off our faces and go out for patacones. Cable Plaza was packed with costumed people.

We ended the night at JSB. It is a tiny bar tucked among a string of louder venues. During the day it has an expansive view of the city and in the evening there is a steady rotation of jazz music. The music collection is entirely on CD and there were maybe a thousand cases on display behind the bar. I felt like I had walked into the 90s.

It might not have been the party of the year, but it was exactly what I needed to get over Halloween homesickness.

During the ‘winter’ in Manizales, it is not uncommon to have sunny mornings and afternoon showers. The dove gray clouds creep over the mountains and sink down into the valley later in the day. Some people might not enjoy the rain, but I don’t mind. Not only is it beautiful to watch the clouds roll in, but it also is a good excuse to see a movie.

The only independent cinema in Manizales is located in the neighborhood of Milan. It is a pretty tree-lined neighborhood on the ridge of a mountain. Currently there’s a lot of sidewalk construction, which detracts from the serenity, but it will make for a nice stroll when all is said and done.

Cinespiral is the name of the cinema and it is a small venue with four screening rooms and a narrow lobby. There is no popcorn, but there are small bottles of Argentinean wine. There are screening hours, but there are not any specific films that play. Rather, it is the customer who chooses what they want to watch. It reminded me a lot of the DVD bangs in Korea with their libraries of movies and their private viewing rooms.

My friend Andrea and I went during the French Film Festival, so we browsed through a list of French films until we selected a diamond heist thriller called La Ultima Diamante.

Andrea is such a frequent patron that she put her movie ticket on a tab and then lead me through a rabbit warren of passages until we reached our screen. We had the whole place to ourselves, so we stretched out on the couch and made ourselves very comfortable.

Cinespiral isn’t the kind of place you visit if you want a massive screen and million-dollar sound equipment. It is however the perfect place to hide out on a rainy day.

“Do you want to watch another?” Andrea asked me as we were leaving.

I couldn’t stick around because I had some work to finish, but I knew exactly what I’d like to do the next time the clouds rolled in on a Saturday afternoon.

How to get to Cinespiral: Cr 23 #75-200, Milán, Manizales, Colombia

We were walking through a rural town when a boy named Andrés stopped us. It was a Wednesday afternoon and he and his friends were on their way home from school.

While his friends giggled, Andrés invited us to inspect the nest he had found and the two listless birds inside. He questioned us for a few minutes, before deciding that the nest was suddenly a burden and thrust it into my hands. “Could you put it back?”

I lifted up my sunglasses to get a better look at my new responsibility. Just then, Andrés saw the color of my eyes and shouted ¡Oh! ¡Tus ojos! He sounded like a chef who had just stuck his hand in something and wasn’t quite sure if he should lick his fingers.

My friends and I agreed to stick the nest somewhere and said goodbye. A few minutes later we heard the pitter patter of someone running down the street. It was Andrés. He had suddenly needed to visit his godfather who happened to live in the same direction we were walking. Whatever the excuse, I was happy to talk.

Andrés’ informed us that his godfather had a 3,000 strong pig farm. Despite such an important connection to the pork industry, Andrés was adamant that he preferred chicken. He then began telling another story a little bit too quickly for me to follow.

When he finished my friend Favi turned to me with cocked eyebrow. “Did you get that?”

“No,” I replied. “What did he say?”

“He said that if the pigs get too aggressive they push them into a wall so they’ll have a heart attack because they’re so fat.”

“Oh.”

Eventually we came to a fork in the road and we went right and Andrés left. We waved him goodbye and thanked him for his company. At the end of the bumpy dirt road was a B&B named the Secret Garden where our lunch was waiting for us. We ate on the patio and soaked in the peaceful rolling countryside.

About an hour outside of Bogotá, in Chía, is a famous restaurant-night club called Andrés Carne de Res. It’s the kind of place that’s in all the guidebooks and rounds off every Bogotá bucket list.

There is a second location in the heart of the Zona Rosa, but it’s not the original, so it’s not the most recommended. The problem was that I didn’t realize Chía was an hour away from our hostel, which had already been a nine-hour journey from Manizales. On top of that, the trip was punctuated with car sickness. The proper word for this situation is bolso!

When the four of us eventually arrived at Andrés Carne de Res, we were feeling a bit low-key. The restaurant, on the other hand, was a massive rabbit warren of hyperactivity. Not only were the decorations a lot to take in, but the scale of the venue and the whole customer experience was not something we were quite prepared for.

Because it was after 7pm on a Saturday, we each had to pay a $15,000 peso entry fee. This was in addition to the cost of the food, which by Colombian standards was pricey. After we were led to a table, we were handed a 80 page menu. It had its own index!

Once we ordered, we finally had some time to digest our surroundings. I’m not sure what the restaurant looked like when it opened in 1982, but the feeling I got when I arrived was that it was the lovechild of Etsy and Instagram. Everything just felt so curated.

There were employees that performed little skits throughout the dining area. A lucha libre match was being televised from another part of the restaurant. The tap water arrived in specially made bottles with decorative string around the neck. The ice chests had murals painted on them and the cups were branded. And I haven’t even begun to describe the decor surrounding our table and the ceiling.

It took awhile for the food to come out, but when it did it was delicious. I had been a little worried because a big menu usually means there’s just a lot of average food, but thankfully this wasn’t the case. Barret’s lomo, which was beef tenderloin encrusted with black pepper, was absolutely stunning and the salad we shared was a good companion.

When we paid our bill, a mariachi quartet stopped by our table to shower us in confetti, hang sashes around our necks, and pass out little bags of candy. The whole venue was building up to a crescendo, but we were ready to wind down for the night. Andrés Carne de Res was an interesting experience, but it’s definitely somewhere you need to be ready to commit the whole night and a lot of energy.

How to get to Andrés Carne de Res in Chía: From Chapinero, Bogotá the taxi costs $80,000 pesos.

How to get to The Secret Garden: Take the cable car to Villa Maria. From the park outside the terminal, catch a chiva (an old, brightly painted silver bus) and get off when the road changes from paved to gravel.

Villa de Leyva is a colonial gem several hours north of Bogotá. It was founded in the late 1500s as a retreat for the well-to-do and high-ranking officials. Because the town was not located on important shipping routes or near significant mineral deposits, the cobblestone town escaped the pressures of modernization.

Although Villa de Leyva has certainly been ‘discovered’, there is still more foot traffic than cars in the center of town. It is also possible to see a bridled donkey on a side street and know that it’s a working animal and not a photo prop.

One of the reasons Villa de Leyva is so beloved by tourists is because of its massive main square. At 14,000 square meters, it’s quite possibly the largest cobblestone plaza in South America. The white-washed buildings and churches surrounding the plaza were also beautifully preserved.

On the outskirts of town is an eccentric house named La Casa de Terracota. It was completed in 2012 by the Colombian architect Octavio Mendoza. In his own words, Casa Terracota is, “a project that transforms soil into habitable architecture, by simply using the supporting help of natural resources—e.g. the other three elements of nature (air, water and fire).”

Aside from the relatively low-cost of the construction process, there are several other benefits to using soil as a building material. The first benefit being the insulation properties of soil and the second being its harmonious relationship with nature. Imagine a house that could actually become stronger after being ‘cooked’ during a season of devastating wildfires.

While no one lives in the house, the rooms were furnished, wired with electricity, and the tiled bathrooms were connected to running water. I really liked how all of the textures in the house were imperfect and organic, but perhaps the nicest design element was the number of windows and skylights in the house. The warm afternoon light made the terracotta surfaces glow.

I’m not sure how durable terracotta homes are, but if one were available, I could see myself giving it a go. Especially in the desert- how wonderful to live without an AC bill!

About: Villa de Leyva

About: La Casa de Terracota

Colombia has so many holidays that people sometimes forget the reason they don’t have to go to work. Because I’m distracted by the profusion of holidays here, I often forget to celebrate, let alone remember, holidays in the US.

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that tends to slip under my radar, but it didn’t this year because one of my friends hosted a party. I really enjoyed cooking some traditional food and sharing it with people who were experiencing Thanksgiving for the first time.

In honor of the holiday, I decided to make a list of things I am thankful to have in Manizales:

– Friends: They’re awesome.

– Students: They keep my life interesting.

– Granadillas: My favorite tropical fruit.

– Arepas de choclo: The US equivalent would be a sweet cornbread in the shape of a pancake.

– Chuzos: My favorite late night grill in Cable.

– The view from my apartment: Love my volcano vista!

– Netflix: It works in Colombia and the Spanish shows are great language practice.

– Edilberto: The elderly neighborhood watchman always greets me by saying, “Mi preciosa, como amaneciste?” And then he kisses my cheek.

– Pop Shop: Last, but not least, I am thankful that a delicious ice cream shop opened up near my house in Cable. Lulu! Cocolimonada! Chocolate en chocolate! Yum!

About: Pop Shop

About: Chuzos

Barret was out on the balcony with a cold glass of beer. I laid down on the double bed and listened to the motorcycles drive by on the street below. I’d heard that sound before, years ago, the echo of small engines bouncing off brick buildings and fading into a maze of narrow streets. It’s the sound of a South American vacation.

During a four-day weekend, Barret and I had traveled three hours south of Manizales to a small town not quite on the tourist trail. Buga had a dry December heat and an influx of pilgrims visiting the Basilica del Señor de los Milagros. The plaza surrounding the church was filled with gift shops, old men selling lotto tickets and anyone else looking for a miracle.

The pews were packed on a Sunday afternoon and the line to pray at the feet of the black Jesus only shortened during mass. The revered Señor de los Milagros, famous for the color of its material and its skirts, was visible through a glass panel behind the pulpit.

Leaving the basilica, we walked out onto Calle 4. It was filled with relic shopkeepers eager to usher us into their stores.

Off of Carrera 14a was a museum dedicated to the basilica. The majority of the walls were dedicated to exvotos. These are offerings that the public gives in honor of blessings received. They came in a variety of forms – from marble plaques to letters sent with military medals or baby clothes.

Parque Cabal, a few blocks over, was filled with iguanas. A booth selling cholados was set up at the southern corner of the park. Manizales is too cold for shaved ice desserts, but not Buga. The ice was sweetened with generous portions of fruit and covered in condensed milk.

After dinner with a friend, Barret and I spent the rest of the evening on the hostel’s rooftop terrace. The afternoon heat lingered into the evening and the lights from the Basilica shone in the distance.

My friend had told me, “now that you two are here, there are three times as many foreigners in Buga.” She was almost right about that. Buga is a small town draped in Spanish moss, but there were a few other foreigners in the hostel who had already discovered its charm.

About: Buga Hostel & Brewery

About: Basilica del Señor de los Milagros

Día de las Velitas, Day of the Candles, is an important holiday in Colombia that celebrates the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. While some cities like Medellin and Villa de Leyva hold massive public displays, it is the kind of holiday that is best enjoyed in the barrios far away from the commercial centers.

While in Buga, Barret and I were invited to a family event in Divino Niño, a working-class neighborhood with pink and yellow candy-striped curbs. It was the eve of Día de las Velitas, which officially is December 7th, but the night before is often when the largest neighborhood celebrations take place.

The small candle shop across the road was doing business long into the night. The store to the right was closed, but the shopkeeper sat outside with his family and the stereo equipment he had bought for his wife.

He’d had been so proud of the present he’d given that it was played at full volume for two straight days. It drove the neighbors crazy but they reluctantly endured it. After an hour of sitting across the road, my ears were ringing.

From our curbside couch, Barret and I watched families stroll up and down the streets and motorcyclists dodge fireworks as they wound through the neighborhood. All the sidewalks for miles around were lined with faroles, paper lanterns.

The BBQ in front of us was roasting up the last of the chicken when a culebra was rolled out in the middle of the road. The firework is named after a snake because it’s a long string of explosives that happens to begin very loudly and finish even louder. The anticipation of the finale chased most sensible people inside.

At the end of the night Barret and I caught a taxi back to Buga Hostel. The closer we got to the center of town and the basilica, the fewer decorations there were. By the time we stepped out of the taxi, the neighborhood was silent. If there hadn’t been a few burnt out faroles on the sidewalk, the few other travelers in the hostel would have thought that I’d just made up the whole holiday.

About: Día de las Velitas

In Colombia the bills never arrive in envelopes. They are left in a pile at the main entrance of our apartment building, along with everyone else’s. It’s an odd thing to miss, but I really do like receiving mail. Even when it’s just junk and bills.

This Christmas was the first one I’d had at home in Virginia for the last five years. Of course I was excited to be around my family, but I was also looking forward to collecting all the packages and mail that had been sent there in our absence.

Barret had gone on a graphic novel buying frenzy before we arrived. He couldn’t wait to curl up in front of the fire with a beer in one hand and a book in the other.

I, on the other hand, had made a late-night-last-minute wedding band purchase. Wwake 24 hour sale until midnight! I’d been out drinking with my friends when I saw this email, so of course I bought three rings.

The travel time between BWI airport and my house was about three hours. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so anxious to rip open a package.

BTW – they all fit!

About: Sam Bosma, author of Fantasy Sports

About: Wwake

I was really looking forward to having Christmas in Manassas at my parent’s house. It had been five years since I’d been home for Christmas and the first one in which all of us ‘kids’ had moved out of the house.

The house hadn’t changed too much, but it felt different not having my brother shuffle out of the room at 2pm wrapped in a blue robe.

It was also a lot more tranquil in the morning. My sister is infamously grumpy when she wakes up for work or school.

My hair. I HATE my hair. Uggh. UGGGHHH! Why can’t I find my comb? Everything disappears in this stupid house!

It’s a bit masochistic, but I could’ve handled a few more of her guttural morning salutations.

The only thing that hadn’t really changed was my sister’s dogged love for wacky decorations. It didn’t help that she had picked up temp work at a year-round Christmas store. She took home all the broken ornaments and repaired them with hot glue and glitter.

I had helped my mom to decorate the tree, but it didn’t quite feel complete until my sister anchored a giant paper vulture to the top of the tree. Then it really felt like I was home.

Between 1699-1780, Williamsburg was not only the seat of power in Virginia but also the most influential city in all of the colonies. For strategic reasons, the capitol was moved north to Richmond towards the end of the Revolutionary War and the cultural and political importance of Williamsburg waned. It wasn’t until the 1920s that preservation work began on what was once the most important city in the US.

Colonial Williamsburg was so much more immersive and larger than I had imagined. It is 301 acres of restored and historically furnished buildings. On top of that, employees in period costume lead tours, tidy gardens, run auctions, and stroll down the streets.

Within the historic district there are also period-specific shops, restaurants, gardens, and even private residences. There is no cost to stroll through the area, but an expensive day pass is needed for any tours.

Because it was about three-hour drive to get to Colonial Williamsburg, we arrived in the early afternoon and decided not to buy the day pass. Instead we picked up some hot coffee and enjoyed a long, ambling walk.

It was New Year’s Eve and the traditional Christmas decorations were still up. I loved the doors outlined with real boughs of pine and the wreaths decorated with leaves, apples, oranges, pineapples, and cotton.

The only thing missing in this wonderfully preserved town was snow.

About: Colonial Williamsburg

Aruba is a very arid island. The contrast between tropical Caribbean dreams and the desert landscape couldn’t be any starker than it is on the coast, where cacti grow straight out of white beach sand.

The sheltered SW side of the island is famous for its beaches and snorkeling. Barret and I spent our first morning at Malmok Beach, which is smaller and quieter than the resort beaches further south.

A large iguana lounged against a white wall while turquoise-speckled Aruban Whiptails scurried out from the shadows. One accidentally grazed the top of my hand with its soft underbelly and scratchy nails.

Along the coast pelicans swooped into schools of fish while small boats cast their anchor further out. The tour boat blasting dance music was named Putin Pleasure. I blinked twice and realized the palm tree logo in the font was meant to spell out Palm Pleasure.

The NE side of Aruba has pounding waves and a jagged coastline reminiscent of shards of glass. A good portion of this coastline belongs to the Arikok National Park. The relentless sun beats down year round and is the reason only stray goats cross this desert landscape on foot. A rental car is the best way to visit to Arikok.

The coastline north of the national park is unpopulated and largely difficult to reach without 4WD. The Bushiribana Gold Mill Ruins is one of the few buildings that sits along this stark coast and is accessible by a paved road.

The mill was built in the late 1800s and was in use until being replaced by the Balashi Mill on the other side of the island. Balashi operated until WWI, when the imported mining materials became impossible to secure. After the war, the neglected mill was in such a state of disrepair than no further production was pursued.

Close to the ruins is the former location of Natural Bridge. As its name suggests, it was a strip of land that spanned across rugged cove. Although nature eventually had its way and the bridge collapsed, tourism still prevails.

A wooden ladder has since been constructed which allows people to access a small, protected pool during low tide. My friends and I happened to be there during high tide and it was one of those moments where I could imagine the following day’s headline: Security measures to be proposed in wake of tourists being dragged out to sea.

Leaving the ruins, along the single paved road, was my favorite gift shop on the island. It was actually a wooden shed on private property, but it had a massive collection of driftwood painted to look like colorful fish. It was folk art at its purest and I didn’t see anything like it near the cruise ship docks.

The Alto Vista Chapel can also be found on the desolate NE coast. It was built upon the location of the island’s first Roman Catholic Church. While the building itself attracts tourists and Tuesday evening service-goers, the most compelling reasons to visit are the sunsets and the footpaths through the cacti-filled landscape.

Downtown Oranjestad, with its colonial architecture, is actually quite small. Aside from a spattering of museums, retail shops dominate the landscape. The National Archaeological Museum, which is free to the public, is located inside the former Ecury Complex.

The buildings, some of which date as far back as the 19th century, remained in the Ecury family until 1997. Today, the complex is a modern museum with a focus on Aruban Amerindian culture and the country’s colonial heritage.

Papiamento and Dutch are the two official languages, but Aruba is much more linguistically savvy than that. Because the island receives a significant amount of tourism from the US, English is very widely spoken.

Most of the ATMs dispense US dollars and stores usually expected me to pay in USD. I, of course, took all my money out in Florins and every time I went to the store I felt like the kind of tourist that wears a beret in Paris.

Spanish is also understood because of the close proximity of Venezuela and it’s hard not to notice that most of the independent groceries stores reflect Chinese ownership.

Outside of Oranjestad’s historical area, the majority of homes are one-story bungalows. They come in an array of colors and would not have been out of place during the 1950s.

After a few days of driving around the island, I thought about the couple at the airport that passed through immigration before us. This was their 28th visit to Aruba and they were excited to be back.

No matter how much I’ve enjoyed a destination, I’ve never felt that strongly about one place. I liked Aruba and I loved the desert sunsets, but the One Happy Island was a little too small and commercial for me. I’d dipped my toes into Aruba and it just left me curious about all the other Caribbean islands. Good thing we’d already planned on jumping over to Curacao.

About: Alto Vista Chapel

About: Bushiribana Gold Mill Ruins

About: Arikok National Park

About: National Archaeological Museum Aruba

Curacao is the largest member of the ABC Islands (Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao). It has a much more European feel than Aruba, which could partially be attributed to the beautifully preserved UNESCO area of Willemstad.

If you were to imagine a horseshoe pointing downwards, historic Willemstad would be the two ends. Both ends make for an impressive entrance to Schottegat Bay and are connected to each other by the retractable Queen Emma Bridge. Cruise ships, Venezuelan fishing boats, and oil refinery traffic pass through the bay daily.

We spent the morning walking through the Otrobanda side of the harbor before crossing the pedestrian bridge to Punda. The waterfront colonial buildings in Punda are probably the most common postcard image of Curacao.While they looked beautiful, the businesses housed a few too many tourist traps for our liking.

For something a little more interesting, we walked one neighborhood over to Nieuwestraat in Pietermaai. It was less touristy and filled with lots of delicious restaurants like Mundo Bizarro. Their vanilla lemon sorbet was incredible.

Curacao is also famous for the failed Valencia oranges that the Spaniards brought over during the early days of colonization. The island turned out to be far too arid and dry, so the trees were left to their own devices. It was only much later that someone discovered the wonderful aroma of the dried peels.

We were on our way to the Curacao Liqueur Distillery, famous for using the offspring of the original oranges, when we accidentally ended up outside the Zuikertuin Mall. I was trying to figure out where we went wrong when we noticed a large, open-air cafe.

There was freshly baked bread on the first floor and a cool breeze on the second. The backyard was filled with tall trees, peacocks and roosters. After some coffee and beer we did eventually find our way to the distillery, but it wasn’t as nice as our accidental find.

Christoffel National Park is on the north end of the island. It was an hour’s drive via a quiet road peppered with iguana sightings. Of the two trails available, we picked the coastal loop. Because of the early afternoon heat, walking the loop was prohibited. We had to drive to the sites, but that didn’t prevent us from seeing massive ice-blue iguanas under bushes and in trees.

Rounding out the north end of the island is a small town called West Punt, where Jaanchie’s was located. The first thing we noticed when we walked in was the birds. A hundred little yellow bodies darted in and out of the porch feeders. The volume of the birdsong was incredible and their rapid, jittery movement was mesmerizing.

We quickly discovered that Jaanchie’s is the kind of place you don’t want to rush. The beer is very cold and the only menu can be found in the owner’s head. When Jaachie’s ready to list the options, he’ll pull up a chair.

“Who are the couples?” Jaanchi asked before walking two fingers up Jen’s arm. “Iguana is supposed to be very good for couples.”

We each ordered a different dish and decided to share a plate of iguana, which ended up tasting like really good chicken wings. The meals were served in metal trays.

My goat stew was flanked by salad on the right and beans and rice on the left. The only seasoning on the table were three little bowls of diced onions, tartar sauce and mayo. Jaanchie’s has been on the tourist trail for decades, so its prices reflect that, but the food is definitely worth it.

Playa Abou (AKA Grote Knip) is a popular beach cove close to West Punt. The cliffs overlooking the crystal clear water are covered in cacti while trees and thatched pergolas shade the beach. The mustard yellow hue of the rocks reminded me of Australia.

That’s how I knew we’d found a little bit of heaven in the ABC Islands.

About: Curacao

How to get to Mundo Bizarro: Nieuwestraat 12, Willemstad

How to get to the Curacao Liqueur Distillery: Elias R A Moreno Blvd, Saliña Ariba, Willemstad

About: Christoffel National Park

How to get to Jaanchie’s: Westpunt 15, Westpunt Curacao

About: Grote Knip

The first thing people tell you about Mompós (or Mompox), is that it’s beautiful. The second thing they tell you is that it is difficult to reach. Difficult is even the name of a little vereda you pass through on the way to Mompós.

The Magdalena River that created Mompós in the mid-1500s was also the cause of the wealthy town’s downfall. The river that once brought economy to the inland island began silting up in the 1800s and forced large boats to divert their routes. The town was forgotten and later off-limits to tourists because of narco-terrorism.

At a Brasilia bus station in Ciénaga, a small town just outside Santa Marta, we talked to the ticket agent about the best way to get to Mompós. After a few phone calls (Oye – I’ve got some foreigners…), the ticket agent passed me a slip of paper with the name Fabien written across it. “Get off the bus at Bosconia and Fabien will drive you to Mompós.”

Good on his word, Fabien rushed us off the bus in Bosconia and began the long drive deep into the country. The dry fields were periodically striped with green grass. The communities were collections of dusty one-room houses with thatched roofs. Fabien took corners like he wasn’t anticipating any other traffic.

When we arrived at the Magdalena River, Fabien repeatedly honked his horn at the ferry. The ferry was large enough for only one normal-sized vehicle, and someone else had beat us to the punch. They slowly putted across the river on a platform made from welded metal plates and powered by a motorized canoe attached to the right.

It took about 25 minutes, but we finally crossed the river alongside a motorcycle carrying a family of five.  It was only ten minutes more till we reached the center of town. Mompós only receives a handful of tourists, so it very much felt like a sleepy, parched, riverine outpost forgotten by time.

In the morning, we walked along the albarradas – the brick barricades that protect the city from flooding. Men in blue canoes were in the middle of the Magdalena River, singing, calling out to each other, and bobbing in and out of the water.

I asked an older women what they were doing, and she told me they were panning for gold. She pinched her fingers together to demonstrate the size of the tiny flakes. Then she shook my hand and wished me well.

The afternoon heat was intense and sent most people indoors. Barret and I continued on in search of the Museo Cultura de Arte Religioso. It was closed, so instead we headed to the cemetery. The heat radiated off the bright surfaces and we began to wilt in the sun. The languid chapel cats had the right idea; it was time to find somewhere shady.

Mompós is a UNESCO listed site because of the preservation of the buildings and that fact that most are still used for their original purpose.

In the morning, if the shutters of the residential homes swung open, Barret and I peeked in. Through the decoratively barred windows and the cracked doors (and even the keyholes if one were so inclined) were glimpses of massive entrance rooms and sunny courtyards.

The furniture floated in the middle of the tiled room, like a dinghy lost at sea. Family portraits and religious paintings hung at eye-level and exaggerated the height of the ceiling even more.

In the evening, people moved their chairs out onto the brick sidewalks. There were lots of mosquitoes, but they seemed to only be bothering me. Bats swooped overhead and attended the evening service at Iglesia de Santa Bárbara.

Eventually the time came to leave Mompós. True to its reputation, it was a bit of a challenge. After our taxi ride ended at an unexpected picket line, we gathered all our luggage and walked around the wood, used car tires, and picketers blocking the road. We weren’t the only ones doing this, but we definitely stood out the most.

On the other side we each jumped on the back of a motorcycle and flew the rest of the way to the docks at Bodega. With the two backpacks he was carrying, Barret looked like a turtle wearing safety pads.

Of course no one had helmets, so the early morning breeze felt fantastic blowing through my hair. Even though I was wearing a dress, it never occurred to me to sit side saddle. In my attempt at modesty when getting off the bike, I burnt my calf on the exhaust.

At the dock we were handed life vests with the number 17 on the back before the little fiberglass boat jetted to Magangué. From there we boarded a collectivo door-to-door van service. These, of course, do not leave until they are full. So while we waited, I watched the busy intersection – the street touts and the horse driven carts carrying massive soda step pyramids.

Many hours later we made it to Cartagena. Our trip had been delayed by engine problems and Barret suffered the brunt of this because he was seated in the back without any AC. Along the way, the woman next to him grabbed his knee in a weird fit before passing out on her daughter’s shoulder.

I, on the other hand, sat in the passenger seat. The driver and I exchanged stories, shared snacks, and he reenacted a near collision he once had. I don’t think anyone in the van noticed the point in the story where we drove on the other side of the road.

It wasn’t the smoothest journey we’ve been on, but it was one of the most memorable and Mompós is definitely worth the trouble.

About: Mompós UNESCO inclusion

About: Mompós

Cartagena de Indias is a very hot Caribbean destination in Colombia filled with beautiful architecture and great restaurants. It was founded in the 1500s by the Spanish to protect their access and interests in the Americas.

When it was constructed, the fortified island was divided into an inner city for the wealthier class and an outer city for the artisan classes.

La Matuna and Getsemaní comprise the outer city. They are not as developed as the inner city, but Getsemaní especially has a lot of good restaurants (Cafe Lunático and Oh La La come to mind). The nightlife and open air dining in La Trinidad Square feels authentic and less contrived than some of the more expensive counterparts in the Inner City. The area also has some interesting street art.

Most of the budget hostels are located on Calle de la Media Luna, which is a bit rough around the edges, but the area is undergoing gentrification.

El Centro and San Diego, inside the inner city, have the lion’s share of historical sights, churches, museums, and government buildings. These areas are more expensive and filled with a lot more vendors, hustlers, and street performers. If rapping for tips makes one person money, soon enough there is a whole group of kids doing it. We were approached on two separate occasions by aspiring rappers and both name dropped Harry Potter when trying to describe Barret.

One evening, after several bottles of wine and amazing seafood at El Boliche Cebicheria, we decided to have one last drink in the Santo Domingo Square. Some restaurants were starting to pull their tables in, but there was still a fair amount of people about.

As we relaxing an older guy stopped by with a polaroid around his neck and a metal box with two jump rope-like leads. Grant and the waitress each grabbed a lead while he cranked a handle. Each turn produced a higher and higher voltage until the waitress shrieked and let go.

Because we were shaping up to be the last customers of the night, the electric shock vendor asked 10,000 pesos for the experience. Of course I said no and instead we bargained over the cost of a Polaroid photo. It was a deal after adding a stray dog and the opportunity to shock both of my travel companions.

Bocagrande is a peninsula just outside the walled city that is filled with high-rise developments and casinos. The coastline looks like a watercress sandwich with bite marks and on a sunny day the beach is swarming with families, umbrellas, and hawkers. The most aggressive sells in town are on the Bocagrande Beaches.

The options were limitless: wooden ships, lobster magnets, soda, cigarettes, airbrush tattoos, jet ski rides. Then there were the massage ladies. They carried little footstools and plastic pails filled with massage oils. The lower the sun sank the more aggressive they became and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

One woman squirted aloe onto her hand and started rubbing my neck. No thanks. No. No thank you. I said no thank you!

Ten minutes later another woman squatted in front of me and rubbed the top of my feet. The cool lotion actually did feel good mixed with the fine gritty sand, but I felt that if I said yes, I’d be taken for a ride. No thank you! No. Really- no thank you!

The biggest mistake we made was putting too much confidence in the bottled water. At least that’s the best explanation we came up with. Maybe it was bottled city water or maybe it was over-chlorinated. The only thing for certain is that we were feeling good after our big night out until we opened a new gallon of water. In Grant’s words, it was Superbowel Sunday.

There were a few false starts before we finally left the apartment later that afternoon for the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. Its placement just outside the city was strategic as it guarded the bay and the gate entrance to Getsemaní.

It was a steep walk up the fortress in the scorching sun and it was only when we’d made it to the top that we realized we didn’t have a map. Normally I’d head back down, but I was feeling a little weak and dehydrated.

Without any sort of guide, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at, but there were a lot of dark tunnels to walk through and the texture of the construction material was quite beautiful.

After poking around for two hours, I wasn’t the only one who needed the bathroom. Grant and I looked for the most fortified building we could find and ended up in front of the old hospital. “Even better!”

Unfortunately, the hospital was only a theater with a historical documentary on loop. We walked in on the scene where the Spanish colonists were bayoneting the English; it was the perfect metaphor for my stomach.

About: the food and nightlife in Cartagena

About: Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas

How to get to the Museo del Oro Zenú: Centro, Cra 4, 33-26, Plaza de Bolivar, Cartagena

How to get to El Boliche Cebicheria: San Diego, Calle Cochera del Hobo #38-17, Cartagena

The butterfly-shaped mariposario is the most iconic building at the Quindío Botanic Garden, but it is just one of many sights to see. The 10 hectares of subandean forest is located in Calarcá and is easily reached by bus or taxi from the bus terminal in Armenia.

It’s not possible to walk through the gardens on your own as several of the buildings are only accessible with a guide. Therefore, the 20,000 peso entrance fee includes a 2.5 hour guided tour.

We began in the palm garden where Laura, our guide, pointed out several native palms and their uses. One had a tangle of above-ground roots that she said were perfect for catching unfaithful men in the night.

Another tree on the tour was predatory and grew around an established tree until it smothered it and cut off its nutrient access. After Laura pointed out the dead trunk squished in the middle, like a layer of cake frosting, she laughed. “I don’t know why, but it’s also called mother-in-law’s hug.” (abrazo de suegra)

On that note, we crossed a suspension bridge to a viewing hut behind a two-way mirror. We saw a humming bird singing, another one fighting itself in the mirror, and a small mammal whose name I promptly forgot. Colombia is celebrated for the diversity of its bird life. So while there were many signs with bird names, the furry little vertebrates don’t often get a mention.

We went back over the bridge and climbed up an observation tower. It was a nice view, but I could feel the structure sway quite a bit at the top and that was when I decided it was a good time to make haste.

There were two coffee shops at the botanic gardens. One was at the entrance and the other was by the bathroom and learning center. There were interesting displays on palm fiber art and a cactus garden with hummingbird feeders.

I also saw an interesting sort of organic chair that is made after a palm tree has been cut down. The remaining stump and roots are pulled out of the earth and resemble, on their own accord, the kind of chair that Beetlejuice would have liked.

After a short break, we learned about a civil engineering project that is connecting two sides of the Cordillera Mountains. Then we wound our way into an insect display where Laura pointed out a type of ant that was traditionally used for punishments. Imagine putting on gloves filled venomous ants!

The very last stop on the tour was the butterfly enclosure. Two professional photographers followed us around and took photos that were later displayed when we returned to the info center. I was terrible at convincing butterflies to rest on my finger, but one of the photographers rounded one up and stuck it on my nose.

Most people probably consider the mariposario to be the highlight of the Quindío Botanic Garden, but for me it was the tour itself. The guides were friendly, the information was interesting, and it was great for Spanish practice too.

About: Quindío Botanic Garden

What would it be like if people never died?

I realized it was not a new theme in literature, especially in romance, but it still got me thinking. How would the government work? What would motivate people? Would culture be identified by nationality, by epoch, or both?

What about despotic rulers like Hitler or babies that never stopped crying? Even if people never aged, would they slowly be worn down by natural elements? Not even mountains can escape this.

From my ideas I began to weave a story that explored the intricacies and darkest corners of eternity. The only problem was that the only way I could imagine presenting the story was in a graphic novel format.

I’d gone to school for photography and done some drawing on the side, but I wasn’t entirely convinced I could pull the art off. I went as far as to buy a pad of drawing paper and after completing page one I realized I would be 80 by the time I finished.

The idea was shelved for a few years until I stumbled across it again while living in Australia. The big difference being that now I knew a very good artist – Barret Thomson.

After discussing the storyline over numerous flat whites, we were excited to get started. I spent evenings at the NSW State Library, researching character backgrounds. Barret bought anthologies of historical costumes and began designing clothing and environments.

The more time we spent, the more time we realized was needed. In the end, we decided to take a sabbatical in Colombia so we would have more time to dedicate to getting the project off the ground. Not only has it been cost effective to live n Colombia, but it has also helped inspire the art.

The Goodlands is still a work in progress, but we are excited to say that we have finally launched chapter one and from here on out there will be an update every Thursday.

Happy reading!

For comic updates: The Goodlands Comic

For development blog updates: Tumblr

The first time I went to a salsoteca in Manizales I quickly realized that dancing was serious business. The women I was with picked a table next to the dance floor, bought a bottle of aguardiente, and kept their eyes glued to the main entrance in search of dance partners.

I’d thought us ladies would dance together until more people showed up, but that was not how it worked. There were only couples on the dance floor and they were always male-female pairs. People did dance solo, but it was more of the dance-next-to-your-table kind of thing while you flag someone down for drinks.

It took hours before anyone asked me to dance, but once someone did my feet were on fire. The thing that I liked most about salsotecas was the lack of pressure – a dance was a dance and I changed partners all the time, most of whom were well into their 50s.

Poor Barret, on the other hand, had a much harder task. He had to learn not only to dance but also to lead. Let’s just say we each had some squished toes. For this reason we finally took it upon ourselves to attend a dance class.

From my stay at Mountain Hostel in Palermo, I remembered there was a studio in the basement. The dance instructor wasn’t there when I dropped by, but I did see a notice for a free dance class (hostel guests) on Friday.

Barret and I went back the following Friday. We spent an hour trying out different styles of music and working up a sweat. I think Barret’s hips even loosened up a bit by the end!

The most important thing we learned though was that we both needed a lot more practice, especially if we wanted to be dancing salsa at our wedding. So we decided that our better-late-than-never New Year’s resolution was to take private dance classes and choreograph our first dance.

I’m so looking forward to tearing up the dance floor with Barret!

How to get to Mountain Hostel: Calle 66 #23B-91, Barrio Palermo, Manizales