Old Birds Can Fly

I am not a pretty sight.  My upper arms are bruised red, blue, and black, less visible, yet just as painful, is a bruise on my chest, and my legs hurt when I walk.  Although I am in Colombia, this damage is not the result of a violent mugging, it is self inflicted.  These are the consequences of being an overly ambitious, yet slightly inept, paragliding student.

Bucaramanga, Colombia, is among the world's top paragliding destinations, providing thermals in the morning, and ridge soaring in the afternoon.   As we arrived at the launch site it was hard to decide what to watch, the panoramic view of the city below, or the sky, filled with primary colored parachute wings.  Some pilots were enjoying relaxed cruising way up in the air, others demonstrated aerobatics, and the more adventurous swooped, with great speed, inches off the grass.  Richie, the raspy voiced paragliding school owner, described his operation, and I knew that here, I could finally fill the gap in my flying experience.  I enrolled in a ten-day course.  At the hostel which is part of the school, I met  an international group of students, all of them in their twenties.  Although I chose to commute rather than sleep in the hostel, I got to know and like this friendly group.  I grew especially fond of angelic Ellen, who is always ready to help, and Susan, who, spent seven months in Israel, and chatted with me in colloquial Hebrew.

Due to wind conditions, I ended up practicing the takeoff routine for three and a half days.  The practice consists of  attempting to raise the wing, and then maintain it in the air.  However, it inevitably collapses to the ground.  As this happens, two helpers would rush to my side, and assist in rearranging the wing for the next attempt.  This luxury arrangement, turned out to be less than ideal for me, because it provided almost no rest time.  As the hours and days progressed, my quadriceps were overworked trying to move forward with great force,  my chest bruised while pushing against the harness, and my upper arms were damaged by the straps as I was trying to raise the canopy over my head.  Unfortunately, it would take more practice, before I will learn how to 'finesse it' (Richie's term) rather than apply brute force.



Finally, on the fifth day, I took my first flight (and two consequent ones).  I had a very enjoyable experience in the air.  Even though in principle, a paraglider is not that different from any of the other aircraft I piloted, it is the first time that I controlled one by shifting my weight.  The feel and the sound of the air rushing past my face added an extra dimension to the flight, a sensation that in some ways was similar to windsurfing.

At the end of that day, I realized that I may have miscalculated what a seventy one year-old body can do.  The difficulty lay not learning the skills.  Aside from my usual flexibility challenge, I could perform almost as well as the younger set. The difference was the extended recovery time which my body required, but did not get.  Day by day, I was feeling more pain and getting more tired.  The allure of flying kept me going, but on the sixth day (a bit sooner than God) I decided to stop and rest.  I accomplished the main part of my goal.  I could quit now, and without (too many) regrets, continue happily on my travels.

For a video of my first Takeoff, click the link below.
First Takeoff (video)

Monguí High

The old buseta groaned up the mountain, its gears loudly clashing at every curve.  With us, a busload of children, on their way home from school.  At the outskirts of town, one by one, a little voice politely chirped
"Stop here, please", and the driver, as is usual on Colombian buses, dropped each child at his destination.  The frequent stops, made the ride much longer than the distance warranted, but as we were soon to learn, in Monguí  no one is in a hurry.




Monguí, is known for its beauty, and as we  got off at the main plaza (Simon Bolivar, of course), we understood why.  At an altitude of three thousand meters, the sun is strong, and under the clear blue sky the church and the large square shone like a jewel.

We strolled the cobbled streets, admiring the small colonial houses whose doors and windows in vivid green, accentuated the white-washed walls.  Red flowers overflowed from second floor balconies, and provided a balance of color.  With this post-card beauty all around, it was easy to ignore the altitude effects, that is, until a street would incline ever so slightly upward, and we would need to slow down to catch our breath.

Mongui not only preserved the colonial architecture, but also its simple way of life.  At the creek, we encountered a boisterous group of boys, who proudly demonstrated their skill of catching trout with their bare hands.  Panting our way back up to the plaza, we shared a narrow alley with a donkey, carrying milk pails from a nearby farm.  The milk is to be sold by the cup-measure, at the village store.  Unfortunately, the fun in this idyllic village was soon to end.

A pack of dogs, wildly chasing each other up the the alley, passed by us.  I was framing a snapshot when I heard Adi scream.  One of the bigger dogs, hit her leg as it ran.  Adi does not like dogs, and I believe, that this close encounter, broke her spirit.  Her calls of "Hey, look how wonderful..., Look how pretty..." diminished in frequency, and then stopped.  She moved slower, and complained of a headache.  Our plan for the following day, was to rise early, climb to an altitude of  four thousand meters,  and visit a spectacular páramo (An eight-hour hike), but it became clear that the plan needs to be reduced to a short walk around town.  At dinner, she had no appetite, and as the evening turned into a freezing-cold night, we crawled under several wool blankets, and fell into a fitful sleep.   In the morning, Adi was a sad sight, her skin pale, and her lips blue.  After coffee, she returned to bed, wearing both her sweater and warm jacket under the blankets.  I realized that three remedies are required to cure her altitude sickness: 1. Elevation (lower); 2. Temperature (raise); and 3.  Love.

By the time the bus descended to Paipa, (Elevation  2300 meters), Adi's lips were pink again.   In this popular hot springs resort, historic Hacienda de Salitre. is considered the best hotel, and I decided that what was good enough for Simon Bolivar, should be good enough for us.  Indeed, the place was charming.





The hotel staff, attired in seventeenth-century colonial costumes (minus the wigs), escorted us to our suite, which included a private pool, fed by the town's natural hot springs.  We promptly immersed ourselves in hot salty water. As for the third remedy, let us note, that the next day we were both happy and ready to resume our travels.

More Bogota Walls

Bogota's street-art is hard to resist.

This artist came back from china and placed his inspiration in the alley near our hostel.

"Bastardilla" (A small female bastard) often advocates women's rights.  This portrait is more than two meters high.

Another female artist.  The work is titled (outside the frame) "Building the impossible".  Note the Escher structure.  I am not sure how she reached this second story level.

The shoeshine man is part of a series of street professions commissioned by the city council.

Walls Talk

I am sure that we were not the first tourists to arrive in Bogota with some apprehension about drugs and violence.  However, soon, we realized that, at least in the more visited areas, it is an almost normal city.  Bogota may not be the world's prettiest capital city, but it is perhaps the most decorated.  A few years ago, the government decriminalized street art, and the town is now flourishing with murals produced by artists from all over the globe.  Hardly any surface is left blank and some of the art is really beautiful.  Few of the paintings are decorative, however most carry a social or political message.  Our Graffiti-Tour guide, an Anthropology professional, helped us interpret the themes.  'Life in Colombia is not easy, and Uncle Sam did not make it easier.'

I did not realize that Bogota is an adventure destination until I saw signs in Hebrew, displayed in front of youth hostels.  I was thus reminded of the cyclical nature of the tourism business.  A new travel destination will be first discovered by post-army Israelis.  A bit later, European backpackers will arrive.  When the Americans come, that destination will loose its allure, and the Israelis will be searching for the next adventure spot.  Asians are usually the last wave of adventure seekers before the destinations turns mainstream, and accommodates all travelers and tour groups.  We, an Israeli/Korean not-so-young couple must have caught Bogota in the middle of the cycle.  Neither Israelis nor Koreans were anywhere to be seen.