#Camilo finally had a reason to like this holiday | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves · 2 years

Note

Camilo would definitely go all out for dulce on Valentine's day

You are absolutely right, and because I know a lot of you guys like Camilo, lets have some of the heartthrob in the house tonight ;)

(Aka Camilo is just really good at spreading love ❤️)

He got up early that morning. Real early. To the point where he went to bed earlier the night before, to make up for the lack of sleep (at least six hours, he was terrified of getting bags under his eyes, especially today of all days). He did all of his chores, the dishes that needed to be done, floor that needed to be swept, before making coffee cake. That's right, HE was making coffee cake. Why? Because he wanted to show his awesome girlfriend that he was paying attention to her baking lessons, and totally not in it for stealing snacks and kisses.

"Woah. You're up early."

Camilo glanced to his dad, who seemed surprised that he was up before even Mirabel. He nodded as he passed him his cup, pouring him a cup of coffee, much to his surprise.

"Yep, I want today to go PERFECT. So it's why I swept, mopped, did the dishes, and I'm making breakfast, which should be done...now."

His dad gawked at him as he brought out all three trays of coffee cake. Two were large, and one was small, just for her and her alone.

"You've been baking and cleaning? Who are you and what have you done with my son?"

"Your son is currently trying to make today THE day for his girlfriend. I mean, this is the first time where I'm excited FOR this holiday!"

Félix chuckled as he gave his son a little noogie.

"Ah, you disciplined yourself for a WOMAN! I see! Castillo's are like that, wild and untamed, until they find JUST that perfect woman to tie them down and make their asses listen. Ay, I'm proud of you, mijo, c'mere, hug."

Camilo shivered as his dad pulled him into a side hug.

"Dad, I love you, but can we not do this when you aren't wearing a shirt?"

"Hey, I used to rub my dad's feet, be happy I don't make you do that."

He let go of Camilo, thankfully, just in time for him to see his mother coming down the stairs. The second their eyes met, rainbows infested the sky above them in an absolute frenzy.

"Mami! Good morning! I made coffee and breakfast!"

"Aw, mi little hombre! How sweet!"

She gave him his usual million and one kisses, before looking over at the breakfast, clearly surprised.

"Ay, look at all of this! It smells so nice too, I thought Julieta was baking!"

Camilo held the small tray smugly, honestly digging the praise.

"I did pretty good, thanks to Dulce. And don't worry, you got chocolate cookies chilling in the fridge- and you found them already."

Both him and his dad chuckled at Pepa already helping herself. His mom was an absolute chocolate fiend.

"Let me pour you some coffee for that, Pepi. So, what's on the agenda for you, loverboy?"

"First, stopping by her place to deliver her this absolutely perfect breakfast to show her I listen to her interest. I've been saving up my babysitting money so she can go out shopping during her break this afternoon, and when she's done for the day, imma swoop in to take her to a surprise picnic date, just in time for sunset."

Camilo had to cover the hot treat in his hands with his ruana, since his mom suddenly started to cry, causing it to pour over them.

"My baby is so SWEET to his little girlfriend! No puedo!"

Félix put his cup on the counter (as it was just water now) as he held his wife, lightly patting her back.

"Sounds like you have everything covered. Go do your thing, let us know if you need anything."

"Thanks, bye!"

He gave his mom a quick smooch before walking out of the Casita, before he walked into town, waving people hi, passing out random valentine's cards (he handed them out because he loved spreading love, but he kept them fairly generic for the most part), before stopping at her bakery. He opened the door with his shoulder, and walked up to the counter, ringing the bell. And there she was, the reason why his heart pumped, the person that made his heart flood with miraposas. She smiled as soon as she saw him, wiping powdered sugar off of her apron.

"Little early for you to steal some goodies, I'm JUST putting everything in the display case."

"I'm actually here to give YOU a little something, Mi pequeño conejito~"

He put the tray on the counter, and he watched as her face softened for him upon seeing it.

"You? Made this, for me?"

"Uh huh. I used your recipe and everything. I want my girlfriend to know I pay attention to her. Very close attention ~"

He let his elbows rest on the counter, in order to lean into her, till their foreheads pressed together. She had such pretty, mischievous eyes.

"I thought you hated Valentines day."

"Not when it means I get to make it about you."

She leaned in for a kiss, and he accepted it. Then the next one. Then the next one. And the few after that. Honestly, she had to push him away by his nose to get him to stop, and her cheeks were just on FIRE.

"Quit it, I'm supposed to be at work!"

"What, your mom in the back?"

"Oh no, she isn't feeling well today. By which I mean she spends Valentine's day in bed because she can't stand it."

"Sooo the flowers I got her would be a no go?"

She played with one of his many curls, and if he was a cat, he'd be purring over it.

"I wouldn't try it. Just give it to some other poor soul you conned into liking you."

"Could give it to Cecilia."

She looked so cute when she smiled like that.

"The kid you babysit? She's gonna go nuts, she has a huge crush on you."

"Tell me about it, she's already doodling our wedding plans. Dunno where I'm gonna get 'a dozen flute playing unicorns', but it's her day."

He tried not to pout when Dulce pushed herself back a bit, even if it was because she had to give someone their cake order.

"Well regardless, be nice to her, first crushes are hard."

"Hey I'm nice! Would a mean boyfriend give you this?"

He pulled an envelope out of his many pockets, before giving it to her. She looked into it, and gave him that classic 'you shouldn't have' look. You know the one. Where she cocks her head to the side a bit, where she tries not to smile, and she has to lean against something because she's so touched but just doesn't wanna admit it. That look. The look that just killed him.

"You shouldn't have. Really, this is too much."

"No no, seriously. Take it. When you go on your break, get some shopping done. Buy whatever that pretty heart wants. And when you close the place up tonight, imma have a big surprise for you!"

He started to walk a bit towards the door as people started to come in, most likely to get their baked goods to woo their own partners. She gave him a bit of a wave, and with that, he was out of there. He sighed, before pulling out the bouquet of flowers, and heading right to Cecilia's house. He knocked on the door, and was immediately greeted by her father, who was always pleased to see him.

"Camilo! Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I got a little something special for Cecilia. She home?"

"Course- mija! Camilo is here for you!"

Cecilia looked up from her spot on the couch, and immediately gasped, before running up to him, jumping on the balls of her feet.

"Cami! Are those for me?!"

"Yeah! I mean it is Valentine's day, thought I'd spread some love. Here!"

He put the flowers in her hands, and watched her squeal excitedly, before running into the kitchen to show her mom. Camilo chuckled, waving off her father before leaving. Valentine's day wasn't so bad, all thing's considered. He made his way back to the Casita, and headed right for the backyard. Abuela, Isabela, Dolores, and Mirabel were standing there, just like they agreed.

"Okay, glad you're all here, I need this place to look just PERFECT."

Each one of them had a reason for wanting to help. Dolores, because she was his big sister, Mirabel because she loved helping, Abuela wanted any chance to pair up her grandkids with someone, and well. He bribed Isa a few pesos to be here honestly. Isa cleared her throat.

"Language."

"What? Oh right right. Needs to look 'bussin'. Better?"

"Much. Now, we doing classic valentine's day?"

Dolores shook her head, a slight scowl on her face.

"It's what I'D like, so absolutely not. I like the exact opposite style as Dulce."

"EXACTLY-see, sis gets it. The vibe I want is 'valentine's day, but realistic'."

"I immediately know what you mean."

Abuela looked confused as Isa and Dolores went off one way, leaving her with Mirabel.

"I do not understand?"

"I'll show you Abuela, come on!"

Camilo was about to help them, when Agustín poked his head into the situation.

"Camilo? Osvaldo is outside for you."

Camilo rolled his eyes as he met him in the front. Osvaldo has a cart LOADED with stuff, and Camilo groaned. Right. Gifts from admirers that he just didn't give two shits about. Osvaldo grinned as he got off his donkey.

"Swear your gifts keep getting bigger and bigger kid! Where should I put all of this?"

He was about to tell Osvaldo to burn that shit for all he cared, when he noticed Luisa in the distance, doing her usual chores. He kept his voice low, in case she could hear him somehow.

"Listen, this stuff isn't labeled, right?"

"No, that'd be way too much work, honestly."

"Good-give it to Luisa, tell her it's all for her. Really play it up. Oh minus these pretzels, I will be taking THAT."

Camilo swiped the bag before motioning for him to go on. Camilo hid in the doorway, watching Luisa's face just LIGHT UP upon receiving her truckload of gifts. Sure, people admired her plenty, but Isa and Camilo were kinda the one's people really tended to fall for. But since only one person mattered to him, it didn't make sense to hog it all for himself. Call him cupid, I guess. He headed for the kitchen to check on Julieta, who offered to help him pack their picnic.

"Camilo, there you are- could you help me? I'm trying to read the recipe you gave me, but I can't read it."

Camilo looked at the paper he had given her. He loved Dulce, but her 'ideal picnic food' list was absolute chicken scratch. Sure, she could decorate a cake, but god forbid she writes something you can actually read. He scratched his head in thought, when he just shred the paper entirely.

"Screw it, we're winging this. I'll help."

Camilo went to the sink to wash his hands really quick, and making sure his hair was tied up, immediately looked into the fridge.

"We'll keep it simple, two, three things at the most. We got onions, we can do french onion flat bread, maybe? I think we got time to make that-"

He paused the second he felt her hand on his shoulder. She had such a soft, caring look on her face, as if this was for her.

"You like her, don't you?"

He chuckled as he patted her hand gently, nodding.

"I do. She's...great. She makes me happy every time I see her, and I think about her a lot. She flusters ME, and I'm not used to it. I like it. I want her to know she's more than just a girl, you know? Er, why are you crying?"

Julieta sniffed as she whiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her free hand.

"You just. Remind me of when Pepa told me she loved Félix. You had the exact same face as she did, and it brought back so many memories. You are your mother's son, through and through. Ay, you kids grow up so fast, it's not fair."

She had to take a second to breathe, and after taking a second to fan her face, she nodded, letting him know she was okay. Julieta was far more composed than his mother, and she was never upset for very long. Camilo chuckled, nudging her with his shoulder.

"Hey, we're supposed to be happy, tìa! None of that mushy stuff on me! Come on, let's get cooking!"

And cooked they did. French onion flatbread, carrot cake, and even sandwiches with blueberry jam and grilled chicken (seriously, underrated food combo, his girlfriend was a genius for coming up with it). The whole time they cooked, he danced with his tìa, laughed with her, and just. Enjoyed himself. He helped her clean up, and brought the fully loaded basket to the backyard, whistling loudly at the decorations. Strung up lights against the giant jacaranda tree, a big, red table cloth for the table, and flowers. So many flowers decorated the place, all of them white, brown, deep red, none of them quite like the other.

"Woah. You guys out did yourselves here."

Abuela dusted her hands, looking over at the work they had all just finished doing with a sense of uncertainty, and pride.

"The youth today have such odd tastes. Not traditional at all. But as long as she likes it."

"I do."

He turned to look at the voice, and there she was. A black and white summer dress, and her white dreads finally down for once, giving her a relaxed appearance. He suddenly felt pretty under dressed, what with how good she looked.

"Dulce! I was about to go get you!"

"You've been running around all day, figured I'd save you the effort. Especially since you did all of this for me. I knew you were gonna do too much."

He felt a bit bashful, rubbing the back of his head as he slumped a bit.

"Is it uh. That obvious?"

"Definitely. But it's sweet."

Abuela grinned at Camilo, before carefully ushering the girls out of the scene.

"Come come, give them some privacy!"

Dulce chuckled, her smile only growing more when Isa made an explosion of sunflowers pop over her head. So many flowers, she had to push it a bit out of her face to see him.

"Your whole Family is too much. Surprised there aren't foreworks."

"No, but we got fireflies!"

They both glanced at Antonio as he flooded the area with fireflies. Camilo and Dulce gave him a thumbs up, because that was cute and sweet of his little brother, before Abuela ushered him back inside. His family put so much into this, it was time for him to put in his own work. He gestured towards the table dramatically, clearly amusing her, given how she was trying not to laugh.

"I do believe the lady has a seat waiting for her?"

"Well, aren't we a gentleman tonight?"

She gave a mock curtsy, before helping herself to the table. He sat down next to her, putting the basket down and starting to empty it. He got distracted halfway through though, looking at her. She was just. Something else.

"You...look really great. Beautiful, honestly."

"Well thank you. Not everyone gets to shapeshift and get looks like this in two seconds."

"I don't even think shapeshifting into you could do it justice."

He did just that, looking down at himself. He wasn't a pervert, but honestly, not bad boobs here. She snorted, giving him a good shove on his shoulder.

"Stop doing that! You know I think it's freaky!"

"Oh I'm sorry, would THIS suit your fancy?"

He turned into Mariano, keeping his chest puffed out like the douche the guy was. She gave him a look, strumming her fingers up his chest, before poking his nose.

"Nah. I like Camilo a lot more. He's cute."

He turned back into himself as he served her a plate of all the stuff him and his tía made.

"I'm glad, because as much as I dislike the guy, he's not bad to look at. And I know it'd be easy to just be like 'hey why don't I date the handsome guy too?'. And I know it'd probably make you smile, but-"

He was cut off when she leaned into him, putting her head right under his chin. She was SO warm and soft, and she smelled like cinnamon and spice and everything nice.

"You make me smile, just by being you. You and your weird ass family are great, but you try so hard. I don't NEED all of this fanfare to like you. But I think it's nice of you, trying to make me feel special to you. So gracias, mi hermoso camaleon~"

She craned her head up just a bit, and kissed at his neck. Something about that spot, or something about soft her lips were, just took him so much by surprise, he accidentally turned into his mom.

"Oops."

She pulled away from him, and started to snicker.

"W-wait, you turn into your mom when you get shy? Oh my god! That's so cute!"

Camilo turned back, and he knew his cheeks were red as hell, but that he could NOT fix.

"I do not! I just. Accidentally turn into people sometimes! You can't prove anything!"

They were blinding by a flash of light for a brief moment, turning to see the culprit. Pepa, with the camera. She was giving her boy a double thumbs up, before being ushered back inside by Félix.

"Well NOW I can. I'm getting a copy of that picture."

"Dios ayúdame..."

#not transformers #encanto #asks #i had too many ideas i had to write them all down #point is #Camilo finally had a reason to like this holiday #and yes i headcanon that certain emotions accidentally makes him shift into different people #it gets awkward at times when you kiss your bf and he accidentally turns into his mom

13 notes · View notes

chimpanzeemusic · 6 years

Text

We wandered along the edge of the deepening canyon. With every step, the stream’s chill, clear waters cut ever more deeply into the volcanic basalt that formed the ground beneath our feet. Gusts of wind pulled on the storm-twisted shrubs and tawny shocks of long grasses, pausing to tug at our jackets before rushing down to join the water cascading steadily into a valley hazey with distance. We stopped and squinted again at the black and white map we’d printed off at a cafe and compared it with a picture we’d taken of a map on a sign the day before. Somewhere in Colombia’s Los Nevados National Park, we guessed we were in the Valle de los Perdidos. What we didn’t have to guess was that we were lost.

As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains. On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

Some days prior we’d arrived in Bogotá on a Sunday, and on a holiday, Dia de la Virgen. Consequently, the city of eight million souls had felt almost deserted. We’d known immediately what we wanted to do in Colombia: we sought the páramo, the high-altitude tropical grasslands so characteristic of the Andes. We managed to find the National Parks office downtown and discovered when they opened (a day later) and when we returned that their own maps and information on their parks, well, sucked. National parks in America arebasically chock-full of maps, info and trail routes you can grab from a visitors’ center with as easily as you’d find a drinking fountain. As a side note: thank you, America, for having drinking fountains.On another note: thank you, Colombia, for having syrup chicken.

DCIM101GOPROGOPR5318.

There was enough information to figure out which parks were closest to us and Bogotá, and with the help of some outdated guidebooks we’d sniffed out in a secondhand bookshop we’d ultimately selected the promising slopes of Los Nevados National Park. The bus ride to the town nearest its base was a thrilling introduction to one of South America’s most beautiful and often shunned countries possessed of all the amenities a world traveler could ever desire. “Hey, Shawn, look, they have food here! There’s bananas! Also, rice!”

They even have those beefed-up weasel things!

Indeed, the casual charm of nearby Ecuador and the ever-Instagrammable llamas of Macchu Picchu—paired with Colombia’s decades of rebel insurgencies and drug wars— seems to have dissuaded many travelers from visiting Colombia. Things have been on a slow chill-out since 2012, though, and a final peace accord was ratified on November 29, 2016, like, at least a week and a half before we bothered to show up. Correspondingly tourists are a flockin’. Flockin’ tourists. All up in Colombia’s bizness.

Passing through the larger city of Ibague, we finished our bus ride in Armenia. Armenia, Colombia, is incredibly like Cotopaxi, Colorado and Cuba, New Mexico (both of which I’d seen in the weeks prior) in that it scarcely resembles its foreign namesake. Fascinating, I know. Somewhat more interestingly, According to a Wikipedia article without any sourcing, “it is believed that the name [of the city] was changed to Armenia after the country of the same name, in memory of the Armenian people murdered by the Turkish Ottomans in the Hamidian Massacres of 1894–97 and later the Armenian Genocide of 1915–23.”

The tourist office informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go.

We stopped at an hospedaje in Armenia and ferreted out some basic topographic maps of the national park with Google-fu. The next morning, we took a minivan uphill to the small town of Salento, which we walked around in search of additional information. The tourist office—according to old blogs, a good source of mountain intel—now informed us hikes into the páramo could only be done with a local guide, and so they’d gotten rid of all local maps that showed us the way to go. But if we wanted, they explained, they knew a guide who could take us where we wanted to go, for a reasonable price. We said thanks, said we’d keep them in mind, and marched off to the mercado, where we bought some bread and apples. Back in the main square of Salento we hopped aboard one of the many tourist jeeps that regularly ferried tourists uphill towards the famed Cocora Valley, an Instagram-famous land replete with wax palm trees whose lofty fronds once soared above the rainforest canopy and now stood vigil picturesquely above grassy, denuded slopes of grazing cattle.

We decided the Cocora Valley would best be enjoyed as the downhill section of a loop, and so we instead set off towards up the first bit of the loop, a side canyon leading to a placed boasting to be the Casa de los Colibris—the Hummingbird House.

As we advanced beneath lumbering packs, we attempted to avoid stepping in water and mud, which Shawn was able to do for a grand total of three seconds when a stream-embedded log capsized underfoot. We eventually made it to a hummingbird sanctuary which was full of, like, day-tripping Europeans drinking tea and stuff. As we sipped the warm, sweet cinnamon tea we’d purchased we happily discovered an old topographic map affixed to the wall. The caretakers told us the páramo was still several hours uphill. Unfamiliar with the path and just a couple hours from dusk, we decided to stay the night and resume our trek early in the morning. We paid them a couple of dollars and slept on the floor of a wooden building still under construction, doors left open to the mist that crept in as the sun set.

COATI TIME!!

Out on the trail the next morning, we passed two men folding a tarp in a trailside clearing in the early light. Dressed in knee-high rubber boots, shorts and t-shirts, one wore a white beanie, the other donned a bowler hat and carried juggling pins. Just then, a group of European trekkers descended in boots slathered with mud. Their Colombian guide seemed upset when he learned we were on our own. “You need a guide,” he said sternly, “the National Park guard at the park border won’t let you pass on your own. Also, not only could you get lost in the fog, you could die.” We shrugged at his empty warning—we’d died inside long ago. The group then continued onward, the guide apparently forgetting to ask our Colombian companions where their guide was.

Alone again with our new Colombian friends, we learned their names and talked a little bit more. Somewhat dismissively, I decided they seemed friendly, buena onda chaps but people I’d likely never see again, being the expert hiker and Fast-Walker-Up-Things I so obviously was. We bid them good-luck and good-bye, and good-walked all up the trail at a good pace.

Before long, we came across the National Park office, inhabited by a kind human being and a raucous, tethered dog. We didn’t ask this kind sir if two Americans needed a guide, and neither did he. Instead, he gestured for us to sign our names on the trail register and he told us about a time when he’d spied the elusive Andean sun bear, a shy species that eats a nutritious variety of bromeliads, grubs, and Michael Bolton fans. He told us one of the greatest difficulties in managing the park was the presence of families who had been settled on the high plain a generation or two ago, and now they had always lived there, darnit, depending on cattle to eke out an existence. The cows pooped everywhere, he complained, and their manure tainted many of the streams and rivers the cities below depended on for water, including the brook that ran nearby. Cows, I concluded, are terrible people.

We’d packed some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel whey stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating.

Wheezing, hungry and sun bear sighting-less, we busted out our grub for lunch, consisting of the last of our bread and apples from the Salento mercado and some snazzy Gatorade-brand protein bars, a strange colloid of high-tech Rice Krispies and caramel stuff generously lacquered in chocolate-flavored palm oil coating. “This is delicious,” remarked Shawn, and I agreed. We’d packed enough for the duration of our journey in the páramo, some three dozen 250-calorie packages of coagulated-whey America.

Whilst we feasted upon this chocolaty bounty, we were joined by Camilo and Andres, who apparently hadn’t been trailing too far behind us. After chatting for a bit. we started up the hill again, this time together. The trail was a downright slog, ofttimes covered wholesale by deep patches long blob areas of mud. Resistance was futile, and before long our shoes and legs had been assimilated by the mountain.

Weary hours passed as we made our way beneath the drab green cloud forest canopy, each tree trunk and branch covered in a profusion of feathered, silvery lichens, ruddy mosses, and bright fungi.

The 50% Great Worm

Abruptly, the thick forest gave way to amber sedges and tufted grass. Interspersed among the lower vegetation were curious plants, solitary stalks the width of a child’s wrist growing anywhere from several inches to several times the height of a deer in platform shoes. Topping these stalks were leaves covered in fuzz, a soft, green flannel. These curious plants, these frailejónes, indicated we had reached the páramo.

Camilo, Andres, Shawn and I rejoiced as we followed the trail up tawny ridges, marveling at the views and shivering as the alpine winds–no longer slowed by trees–tore at us and our belongings.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5601.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5608.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5598.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5612.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5615.

At length, the trail led us to a farmhouse and hospedaje, the first of two in the area. But we had a tent we’d lugged up the mountain, darnit, so we advanced on to the second hospedaje, leaving Camilo and Andres behind.

begone, peasant…

A European sort excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

The hospedaje was a bit further than it’d been made out to be. Even if we’d wanted, they didn’t have any available rooms with beds—a European tour group presently infested these—but they did have a toilet, and this sneaky fancy-person house feature nabbed us right in the comfort organ, pzang! For a couple dollars we set up our tent in a room consisting of a concrete floor walled off from the wind. Our shoes were a mess from the day’s mud slog, so after a scrub in a tiny rivulet we hung them by their shoelaces on the eaves of the house, where they dripped and swung in the stiff nighttime wind. We talked a bit with the other guests; one guy who told us the national park was under threat of huge mining developments and another sort who excoriated us when we told him we’d flown to Colombia and would be flying out. We took no offense, knowing without having to ask he’d walked slowly across the entire Atlantic seafloor from Western Europe to arrive.

View from the hospedaje, and a distant valley to be explored some other day

We woke up before dawn and set out for some hot springs a number of miles away. The hike was visually nice and not too chilly. As we walked, we breakfasted on a protein bar each. We’d now eaten them for three straight meals, and they didn’t seem to be as good as we first remembered them.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5664.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5670.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5693.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5685.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5693.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5703.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5670.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5685.

We dropped in elevation from our spot the night before, passing through frailejónes and emerging onto a flat, grassy plain. Uphill to our right, a 20 m waterfall slipped over orange-ish rocks, indicating geothermal activity. Ahead of us, the trail seemed to go through the center of the wide plain and through a herd of cows.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5715.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5717.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5719.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5715.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5717.

We walked for a while, the trail petering out. We continued gamely, figuring it would re-appear as is often the case with less-used trails. It didn’t, but we headed anyways in the general direction we thought we were supposed to be following and walked along an chill river which deepened into a gully, then a gulch, then grew into a canyon. We kept the canyon to our left side, still keeping a lookout for the trail. Ahead, the canyon could be seen descending far, far, below. It didn’t look impassable, but it also seemed… wrong.

The canyon begins to deepen

It was almost as if OKAY LOOK WE GOT LOST AND I THINK THIS HAS BEEN ESTABLISHED I HAVE RUN OUT OF FANCY FEAST DESCRIPTION POINTS FOR THIS OTTER MEMORY AND IF I KNEW HOW WE HAD GOTTEN LOST WE WOULDN’T HAVE DONE SO so anyways we finally halted when a steep ravine cut across our path from the right, and consulted what little information we had. A future version of ourselves would have a GPS-enabled smartphone with offline locating-powers to divine our location, but present-us had a small paper map, some grainy pictures and a desire to not lose any more of our hard-gained elevation. Maybe… eating would help us think. “Hey, do you want a protein bar?” I asked my brother, waggling one temptingly in front of his face. “Ugh,” he said in revilement, and rose to leave instead. “You might be lost,” he continued, “but I was just a little disoriented. The trail is up that way.” He pointed up the ravine towards Tolima above. “Good thing it’s not foggy.”

We climbed for a while, seeing nothing besides sweet fuzz-plants and weird moss.

Then, movement, up ahead. Two figures picked their way into the ravine—one with a beanie, the other with a bowler hat and juggling pins: Camilo and Andres.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled.

Enthused but tired, we slithered up to meet them with the sudden enthusiasm of weasels that have just encountered a roadkilled ‘possum—astounded, thrilled. They seemed pleased, but not surprised to see us. They’d also lost the path for a bit, but had stayed closer to the mountain above and hadn’t gotten lost. As we chatted, I noticed what appeared to be a twisted piece of aluminum, two feet long, torn jaggedly at the edges and bearing many small rivets. Curious.

We left the ravine together, Shawn and I trudging from exhaustion. The trail would rise and fall several times and traverse some marshy, sulfurous areas before finally cresting a ridge somewhere around 13,500) feet elevation.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5775.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5772.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5781.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5777.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5783.

We dropped and walked around a bend and beheld a green carpet of verdant grass far below us. A handful of small corrugated-roof buildings clustered alongside two small pools which steamed visibly. We had arrived at the hot springs. (12,795 ft elevation)

We sat in the warm waters of the pool and soaked as the the sun set. We’d hiked up the hill above the settlement fifty feet at a time before we’d collapse to the grass, breathing ragged with exhaustion. “Why… why are we so tired?” Shawn muttered querulously, “The elevation… maybe?” We were somewhere around 13,000 feet, so this was certainly part of it, but it didn’t seem complete. I was doing better, overall, and this gave me an idea. “Shawn, how many of those bars did you eat?” “Bars?” “The protein bars.” “Oh. Gross. Um, one in the morning, one later… two?” ‘You’ve eaten 500 calories today. I’ve eaten 750. We should be eating maybe… 3,000 calories each up here. That’s why we can hardly move.” Indeed, though our bodies desperately needed food, our minds had concluded nauseously we they wanted nothing to do with our Gatorade-endorsed mainstay. Unfortunately, it was also all we had left. We weren’t in danger of running out, but actually stomaching the things was becoming most unpleasant.

View above the hot springs, our green tent can be seen below. Note where grazing takes place.

The view from the top of the ridge had been tremendous, but the simmering waters of the springs were better. It was easy to forget we had been too weak to reach the very top of the hill, and more relaxing to consider the mysterious pictographs we’d seen on the rocks partway up the slope. The caretaker didn’t know how old they were, but by their faded condition it seemed people had been visiting this area for a very long time. What kind of world had it been, then? Did people live up here? How far had the cloud forests extended below? Had there been pizza? What about syrup chicken?

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5796.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5793.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5801.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5808.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5871.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5864.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5813.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5802.

The springs themselves had certainly been changed. The water was piped from slightly above the settlement to a series of two pools. The first was a sitting-depth pool the size of a large hot tub and very warm indeed, the water exited this pool and dropped about ten feet until it reached a larger, more tepid pool below, probably 20 feet/6 m across. The water here ranged from 3-6 ft deep, the floor a slick bedrock in places. The edges of the pool were made of long bands of riveted aluminum. Investigating further, we noted these same pieces of metal could be found supporting various parts of the spring pool complex and its surroundings, including the walkway between the pool and the mud-daubed structure above it. Two shedlike areas were full of scrap metal, all made of the same riveted aluminum.

They were pieces of a wrecked airplane.

As I’ve written this overly long, boring account I’ve wondered about the identity of this plane. When did it crash? Who did it carry? Where were they headed? I tried to suss out its identity online, and followed many wrong leads before learning there had been many, many crashes in Colombia. Eventually, I found a site that explained there were had been 55 crashes in Colombia from 2000-2015, and 414 total crashes since 1920. This site helpfully mapped out the more recent crashes, and of these just one was anywhere near the hot springs, near La Venecia on the map below.

The site of the crash is less than a day’s walk from the springs.

This particular plane crash was flight FAC-1659, a Vietnam-survivor Douglas C-47 Skytrain apparently used in anti-rebel fighting.

Military plane—->leisure pool?

Further e-search into its demise begins to reveal conflicting information—supposedly crashed on an 11,200 ft tall mountain called Cerro Montezuma: actually a mostly-flat area 4,400 f/1350 m in elevation, but actually it crashed on its return to the airbase, and actually it crashed in either the Serrania de la Tatama or the Nevado del Tolima mountain areas, which are in completely opposite directions a hundred miles apart. Was this our mystery plane, carefully packed mile by mile in manageable pieces by horseback to the springs, or was it the remnants of some other hapless flying machine?

I have no idea. When I would try to find the caretaker the next morning to ask him where he’d come across the metal, I’d learn he’d gone into the hills.

We spent the evening hanging out with Camilo and Andres and discussed plans for the morning. “You guys staying tomorrow?” I asked. “Well,” Camilo said, “We thought there’d be more people here. We thought maybe we’d do a little juggling for the crowd to offset the cost of coming here. But it’s just us. And we still have to earn enough for our bus fare back home somewhere.” Indeed, it was just the four of us, besides the quiet, but enigmatic caretaker, who had told us at times there were dozens of people camping at the springs. “We’re just going to go back the way we came,” said Andres, “make it home by the evening. What about you?” “Our flight leaves in two days, so we’re taking off tomorrow as well.”

We spent the rest of the evening companionably. I choked down a Gatorade bar. Shawn demurred. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

The next morning dawned cold, clear and beautiful, with few clouds, illuminating a mountainside frailejónes in rosy morning light. I returned to the tent to find Shawn awake, but reluctant to leave his sleeping bag cocoon. “Is my swimsuit out there?” he asked. “Here,” I said, and handed him frozen swim trunks. Shawn glared at the fabric Frisbee and considered for a moment. Looking outside and seeing the coast was clear, he ran across frosted grass a short distance to the pool and jumped in, swimsuit in hand. “Thawed at last,” he said as he pulled it on.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5860.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5873.

After the tent had dried in the sun, we reluctantly left the spring behind for the last time. As we packed up our stuff, we came across our protein bars. They weren’t bad, per se, they just needed to be eaten in reasonable quantities. I had an idea. “Hey, guys, would you guys be interested in trading for any protein bars?” “Sure,” Camilo and Andres responded. They didn’t really need the food, but now they were headed back down to the city they had more than they wanted. Trying a bar might be alright, though. I returned with four of our eight remaining bars, trying to be generous. After a minute they emerged from their tent with a massive bag of roasted, shelled peanuts, a couple pounds, maybe, and handed them over with a smile. This bag of legume loot even had candied toffee peanuts mixed in. It was a treasure, a thing most crunchy and sweet. We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

We’d just traded for peanuts, and it was glorious.

******

After we’d said our goodbyes to our friends—for real, this time—we’d taken off to the south, leaving the high mountain plains behind and entering the cloud forest. Energized and enthused by our peanut bounty, we walked for hours.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5886.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5879.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5904.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5896.

We reached the small town of El Salto (elevation 3376 m/11076 ft), and waited by what seemed to be some kind of hospedaje. After an hour or so, a lady returned and informed us the beds were $3 dollars each, or we both could stay in another room sans beds for $2.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5917.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5916.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5924.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR5931.

An oddity of traveling in another country is that regardless of the coin you bring, you quickly acclimate to whatever the going rate is for things. Dollars stretched reasonably far in Colombia, and so Shawn and I began to debate whether or not we had the money to pay for such a luxury as a bed. By the time we concluded that yes, in fact, the two extra dollars would not ruin us, six Colombian teenagers on a hiking trip (an energetic teen guiding them) had nabbed the beds and guaranteed our spot in a room with bags of potatoes and wet saddles and bridles hung out to dry, eau de shoe complimentary. The landlady informed us that a meal was just a few thousand Colombian pesos, a couple of dollars. It seemed expensive, but anxious for variety we decided just to go for it. As we warmed alongside the teenagers sitting on kitchen benches raised by the wood-burning stove, we marveled at just how good rice, red beans and a fried egg could be (we’d later learn we were charged more than our Colombian friends… oh well).

We awoke the next morning just in time to see the dawn’s light warmly suffusing the southern slopes of Volcan Tolima. Returning to our humid mud room, we concluded our evil plan to pitch and dry our tent by sleeping in it inside had failed. As we aired it out in the sun that soon crested the valley ridge, the teenagers arose, chattering excitedly about a waterfall they planned to visit that day. Their leader was particularly enthusiastic. The hike would be quick, he claimed, not more than an hour. Skeptical, we concluded even if the expedition went overtime we’d probably still have plenty of time to make the descent to Ibagué, our bus back to Bogotá, and our flight to Peru in the wee hours of the morning.

The descriptively named waterfall of El Salto (you guessed it, “waterfall”) lay just downstream of the town that bore its name. The ringleader/tour guide of the boys had previously visited, but as his flitting attention span, tremendous amounts of energy and scant patience took us several times through thick forest to the cliff’s edge near the head of the waterfall our confidence in his abilities began to wane. Nonetheless, the path to the falls’ base was at length discovered, and after a steep descent using mossy trees and rocks as handholds we arrived.

The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache.

Over two hours had passed by the time we returned to El Salto. Shouldering our packs, we passed a farmer digging a field by hand as we began to slog up the mountainside. The damp clay soil banking the trail had the precise color and texture—tragically, not the flavor—of a rich, fudgy dark chocolate ganache. The trail snaked back and forth across the slope, but for the most part carved straight up the mountainside. Foot traffic, cattle and water running along its length had slowly transformed it into a deep gash into which frustrated, motivated people had occasionally wedged timber in an effort to reduce the number of times plunging a foot into deep mud was a requisite, but cows, remember, are terrible people and had jacked up a lot of it.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6073.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6069.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6086.

Muddied feet at last gained the pass at the ridgetop. Far beneath us, clouds obscured the view of distant Ibagué like dirty clothes hiding a dorm room floor—we’d see it eventually, but not without a day’s determined effort.

The hike from Ibagué had gained a reputation among online forums and blogs as an arduous, ugly descent but instead was one of the most beautiful hikes through cloud forest I’ve ever had.

Mountain descent to the famed city of Alternate Istanbul

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6104.

The other Istanbul

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6139.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6126.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6179.

At the base of El Secreto Preserva Natural

As we entered Combeima Canyon, cloud forest occasionally gave way to steep slopes of coffee. Waterfalls slipped into the river far below and we saw fields and houses perched precariously on the few flat areas.

As we descended the slopes from Tolima a strange copper-colored stream crossed the trail from our left, eventually disappearing into the forest. Did it harbor some fascinating microbe from geothermal activity, or were these mine tailings from the illegal gold mine we’d heard hid somewhere in the hills above Ibagué ? Shawn thought geothermal. I wasn’t so sure.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6242.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6264.

After some time, we reached the outskirts of a town. Seeing a child playing among the barbed-wire clotheslines of a yard, we asked if we were headed in the direction of Ibagué. He responded, but with a heavy speech impediment we found difficult to understand. We continued to speak with him until his mother called him sharply from somewhere inside the house. Not long after, we came across another two children playing. Oddly enough, one of them also seemed to have some sort of mental or communicative disability. Their mother called them inside when she spotted us. I have no experience whatsoever in identifying developmental issues in children, but it seemed odd that two of three children we’d met had various conditions. I was reminded uncomfortably of the copper stream and the gold mine somewhere far above.

We spotted a man on the slope above us, who gave us directions at last. We confirmed them with a father and son busy at work planting a field that sloped steeply into the ravine below.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6258.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6265.

DCIM102GOPROGOPR6248.

Several more hours yielded the end of the trail. We caught a jeep in Juntas, the small town above Ibagué, riding past outdoor restaurants that looked to be a popular weekend spot for locals. Fun fact: A city just like Juntas was destroyed almost completely in 1985 when the eruption of Nevado del Ruiz (a volcano within sight of Tolima) unleashed a lahar of mud, ash and melted glacier.

One of the lahars virtually erased Armero; three-quarters of its 28,700 inhabitants were killed. Proceeding in three major waves, this lahar was 30 meters (100 ft) deep, moved at 12 meters per second (39 ft/s), and lasted ten to twenty minutes. Traveling at about 6 meters (20 ft) per second, the second lahar lasted thirty minutes and was followed by smaller pulses.

Over 23,000 people were killed, making it the fourth-deadliest volcanic disaster in recorded history and rendering the town of Armero a ghost town. Juntas, at the base of Combeima Canyon and the active Tolima, is at high risk of destruction. from Tolima. But anyways, here’s some recycled plastic art.

On the way to Ibague, we spoke to our fellow passengers, Colombians who had been doing a small modeling shoot in some abandoned buildings in the town where we’d joined them. We chatted amicably as we approached Ibagué . When we arrived, they gave us a general outline of the town and gave us a few suggestions of places they recommended and a few better left alone. We ate delicious food—reveling again in how little it tasted like Gatorade bars—until we remembered we had to catch our flight out of Bogotá later that night.

After a few frantic minutes locating a bus and purchasing tickets, we took turns showering in the public bathing rooms (maybe about 30 cents) of the bus terminal in an attempt to smell less like the mud and sweat of three days, using the small bar of soap to scrub some of the mud out of our clothes. After boarding the half-empty bus we made a beeline for the back and cracked open the windows, trying to set up our clothes and shoes in such a way that they might ride.

Though I’d like to pretend it is better, my memory is actually pretty bad, but I do remember this about our evening journey:

As the bus returned to Bogotá, the feel of the warm, humid wind drifting through the bus window and the rhythmic sounds of spinning tires on the wet highway wove a tapestry of sensation, wrapped us gently into sleep. Right. That’s beautiful prose and whatnot, but like much of the crap you read in travel blogs (some unintentionally here, hopefully mostly elsewhere)–overly romanticized, flowery and at least partly untrue. Luckily, oddly and surprisingly for us all I have a journal entry penned on this very bus, which in distressed letters scrawled thusly:

“The bus from Ibagué to Bogotá is stupid, smelly and shaky.”

An entry several hours from the plane from Bogotá to Lima elucidated.

“Remember the stupid smelly bus from Ibagué ? I couldn’t really get to sleep. A maniacal child boarded the bus and began to entertain himself by opening and closing the window, grabbing my hat while I was wearing it, and singing. Perhaps believing himself to be the next Colombian pop star, this [nascent Shakira] kindly treated us to his own renditions of mutated songs. [Alas], this lad’s caterwauling left something to be desired. His voice was the musical equivalent of placing thirty-eight gerbils in a centrifuge: intermittent garbled shrieks and a decided disregard for social norms.”

Shakira, Shakira.

Will Trade for Peanuts: Three Days in Los Nevados NP We wandered along the edge of the deepening canyon. With every step, the stream's chill, clear waters cut ever more deeply into the volcanic basalt that formed the ground beneath our feet.

#adventure tourism #backpacking #colombia #Ibague #Los Nevados #national parks #paramo #rural tourism #Salento #trekking #Valle de Cocora #volcano #Volcano tourism

1 note · View note

nathjonesey-75 · 6 years

Text

Nine Years An Exile : The Dustbowl - Part Three

The nadir of the school experience which nearly finished me off would have had to have been the class assistant whom I only had for around two months towards the end of the school year – clearly without enough time in my classroom to know my habits and quirks. When I distributed subject or homework books to the class, I occasionally threw them lightly towards their tables – or for them to catch. The person in question reported me to the heads of department for throwing a book at a pupil, which at the time; having coped for 75% of the year without an assistant – made me think, I was fine without the new, excessive stress applied by the new addition. I wanted to walk out that day, but unfinished business is unfinished business. I had to finish the year, absurd humiliation or not – and thought I saw the end in sight.

Yet as personally demoralising as that was – the poison cream of a sour crop was the feeling of “we knew this was going to happen” around the city regarding its lack of care for safety. On a larger and more tragic scale than anyone would have wanted. Within touching distance of the finishing line – at the end of the final assessments, which were a new level of fatigue – the long end-of-May weekend brought events beyond heartache for so many. The Villaggio shopping mall disaster of Monday, May 28th, 2012. Inadequate exits in a criminally-managed venue with illegally constructed facilities - brought the deaths of nineteen individuals; thirteen children, three of which were our pupils. One of whom was my pupil, Almudena Fernandez-Travesedo and her little brothers Camilo and Alfonso, along with their friend Isabel Vela, whom I taught mathematics.

I shall never forget the hurried memorial ceremony at the family’s catholic church. Held on the following Wednesday, nine days after the deaths. Naturally, there was a huge overflow of attendees in support. Having to take a large bouquet of flowers to the family after the service and hug both parents was one of the hardest moments of my time in Qatar. As harrowing - was the following media silence and censorship of any coverage or direct focus on the reasons for the tragedy. Completely below the law. But the togetherness and support of parents, teaching staff and assistants in the final month of the term was a proud moment.

By then the experience of living in that land was more than tainted – I had already handed in my resignation (by February we had to indicate our plans for the following year) and had been offered a non-teaching job with my wife-to-be’s company, as a quality assessor, so my staying in the country was to only work as long as she wanted to stay. In another almost spooky twist of fate, on the penultimate week of the school year, on the home stretch – with my sponsorship apparently guaranteed for when I was to return, a married man – the job offer was withdrawn, due to lack of funds. This was a typical characteristic of Qatar – make plans before the financial guarantee, then a collapse of plans. This meant a final day scramble, asking the business manager to ensure the school’s owner would give me a pardon to return after the wedding, as my wife would be working – but I wouldn’t. Literally, five minutes before my final departure from the school, the owner agreed to allow me back into the country. Provided I did not work for another school. How kind. Almost like a Roman emperor, sparing the serfs. I had no plans to work for another school – my mind was as puddled with education as was the law forthright in Doha, so a break from teaching was an absolute must. I left school for the last time in the back of a taxi, thankful to Terry; the principal for ensuring I wasn’t going to live apart from my missus having just got hitched; but also flicking Vs at the school itself out of the back windscreen, against the faceless culture which had developed from my department’s management – and the way it had made me feel.

On a lighter note – one of the demographic populous which was always smiling, always in big groups – probably because they were possibly shipped over together to work for less than I was paid – was the ultra-chipper Philippine retail legion. They were retail. From McDonalds, to expensive Timex watch retailers, to the bar staff at the Irish Bar at the Intercontinental. Always smiling, never really trained in their jobs – but who would have trained them in customer service when no-one knew any? Their almost tribal togetherness (apart from their godliness) was something to be admired. Anyway, waffle over. My last – very last fatty, greasy KFC was on my birthday weekend seven years ago. Two hours before my wife to be arrived. It was she who trained me – off the stuff.

It was memorable because the one thing which had bothered me for the two years since moving there was why their spoken Ps were Fs – and their Fs and Vs - were Bs. Anyway, in my usual end-of-week exhausted “shove any old shite down my throat to fill me before beer o’clock” – I asked for the “Family Bucket”. I know – what a fat bastard. But, my logic was – after beer and for breakfast if needed, there would be relief food. The exchange rate was around £1 sterling to QAR 5.5 riyals. So - ten quid for a family bucket for the weekend. Thinking ahead.

“That’ll be pipty-pibe, riyals sirrrrr.”

I already had the grossly large bucket of Sprite in my hand and was sipping it when he asked me for the pipty-pibe. Except the straw was almost in my windpipe as I spluttered and choked with laughter.

“Cough…cough…how much? ...cough”

“Pipty-pibe riyals, sirrrr.”

Luckily, I handed him the notes from my shaking arm and limped out of KFC with the grease-bucket of chicken legs shuffling under one arm; Sprite bucket under the other. I’d only recently had an ACL reconstruction a week and a half earlier, so how I got out with any breath, or stability in me – I don’t know. I think I got home and was texting friends with my new favourite foreign phrase. Even today, the word fifty-five is often replaced by the pipty-pibe, in conversation (as is the equally-habitual Arabic swapping of verbs in simple questions – ‘how you are?’). Although now, having taught English as a second language – I am aware of the consonant complexities in East Asian languages – some don’t have Fs or Vs in their alphabets or pronunciation at all. For me, it was one of the golden moments of a bizarre few years of learning.

From a mental health perspective, it was the start of a shift towards a more real, and necessary self-critical outlook for me (as if I wasn’t self-critical enough in the first place). Living in a sandy space station; an ether world where values, approach and priorities are constantly questioned due to everything you’ve ever thought or believed – being given new contexts and reasonability. Then returning to your initial thoughts (such as “yes, the reason we have safety measures is because we’ve learned from past tragedies – and not to be total, lazy dickheads”); having been confirmed of their original validities. You see individuals in similar situations to mine, trying to avert the locked-down religious constitution and live, feeling any shade of normal which may be available.

For the next eight months, with the help of my wife’s generous tax-free salary, being able to listen to BBC 6 Music for inspiration and having sun - I sat and wrote a book (no, it didn’t materialise into anything special, but the experience and idea was nice), but struggled with where I was in the world. It all felt morally wrong, unyielding, socially and career-wise – plus didn’t fill me with hope as far as people were concerned. Hence writing the poem and being pushed to post it online so soon. There was no work available – not for the want of trying – but I saw that correspondence via email response didn’t actually exist. Almost as though it were a new phenomenon, with not everyone (outside major corporations) on board. Postal addresses had only just been created, so the circulation of mail was also in its infancy.

If I can advise anyone with expatriate life and juggling with mental health in this part of the world, it is to do your homework before moving there. More and more people do move there now, mistakenly expecting an extensive busman’s holiday. Cater for your own interests – if you are adventurous and embrace all cultures, including those with undemocratic social inequalities and corruption (with a pinch of salt) – it may be a blast for you. It is unquestionably more of a family environment than for a single person. I saw plenty of people having the times of their lives there. Most of the time, these were mothers in comfortable positions, enjoying seeing their kids grow in mostly safe environments (compounds of villas, usually with swimming pools, subsidised by their husband’s employers) with many other mothers in the same position. But like Marmite, or Vegemite (as I was about to find out); it isn’t for everyone.

#expatlife #mental health awareness week #culture clashes #depression #anxiety #bipolar #ocd #suicide #work #tragedy #health and safety

0 notes