Brokebus Mountain

The return trip from paragliding became its own little adventure.

First, we waited by the side of the road to hail a bus heading back to Medellin.

Once on the bus, Martin took a seat near the front while Clint and I found two adjacent seats near the back where we found ourselves surrounded by rambunctious kids.

About ten minutes into the ride, the bus stopped in the middle of the road for no apparent reason.

Clint noticed the adults getting off, so we did too, as there was now an effort underway to push the bus.  It was on a flat to slight decline, but despite our efforts, it wouldn’t budge.

A guy was under the rear axle between attempts, fiddling around trying to fix the problem.  Meanwhile, Clint was being accosted by the kids from the bus.

I was about to give up home, and suggest we take the next bus headed in our direction, when ours was suddenly rolling along again with the help of all the guys.

We all jumped on, and motored ahead.  In the back of the bus, the kids were still super excited.  Their energy was endearing, and we both took out our cameras to get some photos.

Another ten minutes or so, and they shook our hands and left the bus with goodbyes and waves from the side of the street.

As we continued, a teenage guy seated in front of me picked up where we left off while the bus was broken down, in English.

He was talking positively of Medellin and Colombia, in particular the beautiful women (as is often the case!).

He said he likes to talk this way about his country whenever he meets foreigners in the hopes that word will get out to the rest of the world that the vast majority of Colombian people are good.

It is a refrain I have heard over and over again, and this blog is my effort to help spread the word, even if it means a continued increase in tourism, and the inevitable changes such a trend will bring (both good and bad).

The ride concluded at the northern bus station, where we transferred to the metro.

A few stops into the ride, an older woman who was seated struck up a conversation with me.  The line of questions was comically direct.

Where am I from?  (USA).  How long am I in Medellin?  (2.5 months)  Am I married?  (no).

By then, it was clear she wanted to return home with me!  The Colombians around us, along with Martin and Clint, were snickering at this exchange.

Unfortunately for the woman, complimenting my blue eyes was not enough.