Adrenaline
II.III.VII
ADRENALINE
As expected, tomorrow did come, and as hungover as we were, we had yet another trip to make. We took a plane to Bucaramanga, a city north of Bogotá where we’d start a road trip down south – a cascade of adventures along the way.
We visited Barichara, a Spanish colonial town known for its cobbled streets and whitewashed buildings with red-tiled roofs. We toured the town on a tuk-tuk like an old, retired couple just about ready to move to Shady Pines. Dubbed as one of Colombia’s (and the entire world’s) prettiest towns, it’s no wonder that Barichara charmed my socks off, especially with how organised and well maintained everything here is.
To further cement our status as an elderly couple, we then headed to El Santísimo, home to a 43-metre statue of Jesus Christ. Surprisingly enough, this one is bigger than the infamous one in Rio de Janeiro. Apart from the gigantic colossus that is the statue, we also got to observe a spectacular sunset while going around the hill, visiting all kinds of chapels in the meantime. Oh, and the night-time synchronised fountain show. That was cool too.
The following day, we headed further down south. Soon after, we reached Chicamocha Canyon, the second-deepest ravine in the world at a depth of around 6,600 feet. And I was about to paraglide over it.
See, I was never afraid of heights, but 6,600 feet isn’t ‘a height’, it’s ‘the height’. While I was busy hyperventilating, I was told that before taking off, I’d have to do three simple things: run, jump and sit. That’s it. The instructor would then do the rest. Easy enough, no? Seeing other daredevils mindlessly take off made me feel more at ease, even as the chasm loomed ever so dangerously in front of my eyes. One after the other they took to the air, and then it was suddenly my time to shine. I was hooked to the glider as I did my best to focus on the three simple steps: run, jump, sit, run, jump, sit, run, jump, sit. I did none of that. I was pushed, pulled, poked and prodded and, within the next three seconds, I already found myself in the middle of the air, wind in my face, the entire canyon below me. I let out a scream of freedom.
I pulled a Jack Dawson and yelled “I’m the king of the woooorld! Woo-hoo-hoo!” much to my instructor’s probable annoyance. I was free. Free from the ground that held me captive. Free from all my worries, my fears, my anxiety. The wind and I were one and the same. All around me were these magnificent vistas: the red and orange sides of the canyon standing high and mighty on every side, the confluence of rivers underneath me, the icy peaks in the distance.
My windswept eyes were tearing unapologetically, in part due to the emotional climax of it all. I was free. I was free from my earthly tether. Zaheer would have been so proud. And with legs up in the air like a woman about to give birth, I soon found myself on the ground once again. Nauseous, yes, but feeling more alive than ever.
Re-energised and ready for another adrenaline-fuelled experience, we went to San Gil, a city well-known for adventure sports. Here we did some white-water rafting over one of the rivers that feeds Chicamocha Canyon. Yet another first in my book.
For the last leg in this part of the journey, we had a chock-full day ahead of us. First up was a visit to the town of Guane. Very reminiscent of Barichara, here we roamed around the picturesque streets and visited a couple of museums.
Then, we somehow ended up back in Chicamocha Canyon, where we spent some time at the amusement park and zoo. For lunch, we had pepitoria, a traditional dish consisting of rice mixed with eggs, cheese and, wait for it… goat’s blood. I wasn’t gonna say no to an adventure now, albeit a culinary one. By then I had already tried hormigas culonas, fat-bottomed ants, which by the way taste like vomit and not at all like popcorn as I was told, so of course, nothing was going to stop me now.
All this travelling without one hitch. Part careful planning and part sheer luck. And luck? You can never count too much on it. Cause that pepitoria? It came back to haunt us, literally. As all couples do, we spent our four-month anniversary tagging each other out of the restroom. We braved through the jungle drinking anything from river water to stored water, which was suspicious at best, and we managed to get away with it. Ironic that our downfall would be a fistful of rice with goat’s blood.
But all’s well that ends well. After a few days of touring around and purging ourselves, we went back to Bogotá. From trekking in the middle of the jungle, paragliding over a canyon and rafting over the rapids, it felt like we had done it all. “Wow, I did all of that. Me. Maybe bed-potato Marius is no more after all, huh?” I thought over and over during the remainder of my trip. Plus, I was still alive. Planning all this stuff, I assumed at least one of them would have left me for dead somewhere. But I was still alive. I was more alive, in a way I never thought possible.