When I came upon that huge pile of trash with the broken furniture legs sticking out, it was quite dark outside and I thought one of those wooden legs was going to reach out and attack me. As if it would morph into a living branch arm thing and the nails and sharp splintered ends would pierce my helpless pedestrian flesh. Injecting me with tetanus and other horrible diseases or possibly end me right there on the sidewalk by a stabbing or slow strangulation.
I’ve been living in Colombia for several years now and I have a lot of stories to tell about this region, too many actually. Today, I’ll be writing about one of my wildest nights out in a lesser known city called Bucaramanga, which is home to an infinite amount of gorgeous Latinas. So readers, lend me your ears, get comfortable, take a few shots of your favorite whiskey or tequila and enjoy the tale. A tale you won’t soon forget! Let’s begin… I arrived to Bucaramanga alone, it was my first time in the city. A city that is located in the department of Santander.
“Damnit, I told you Joe, I’m the captain! Your only job is to scrub the decks, make sure everything is clean and in order and make sure we don’t run into any pirates, sharks or whales. You’re in charge of lookout. That’s it! You got that?” he exclaimed sternly, with a fire red face. “I know, that’s what I've been doing, but I still want to learn the technical stuff and the tricks of the trade too!” I demanded.
“Hello my good sir,” I said to the dorky-looking clean-cut guy behind the desk. He didn’t look up. “Hello!” I said again. He was too busy staring at a computer screen. And my final attempt, “Uhuummmm, good day, good sir!” louder this time, with a slight cough and an attempt at a British accent. I know I looked like a bum, but I figured if I sounded British, he may give me better service or maybe I was wrong. I hadn’t been to many hotels before.
That name. His name. It echoed in my consciousness as we crashed through the American landscape. A juggernaut of metal and mysterious goods, which for the life of him, he would not reveal, “Come on, just tell me what we’re hauling back there!” And his response was always the same, “Shut up and keep your eyes peeled for the coppers!” “I am, and I’ve been operating this stupid radio like you asked me to but why can’t you tell me, huh?”
I’d like to share a story with you all about a random person I met a while back. I know this doesn't necessarily have anything to do with art or traveling but it's a funny/scary story and it shows that sometimes you can sit back and listen to someone talk and then realize that they have something amazing to tell you! We just need to be receptive and let them entertain us...
I hiked and hiked and hiked and hiked until my feet were swollen with pink blisters and felt more tender than a chunk of chopped up Italian liver, but I didn’t give a shit and I kept going anyways. At this point, I was out of the wilderness and back on the main road. I kept walking and eventually came upon a gas station late in the afternoon. I went inside, drank some water in the bathroom, and washed off my tired grimy face with my Hobo hands. I saw the attendant at the front of the store and asked him,,
"Hello," I said, "What is this place?” "This is Amish country my boy, are you looking for the trail?” "Yes. I´ve been hiking all day and the trail ended and now I’m here." "Ok well you have to continue a bit further, past those barn houses there, then the trail continues.” He said while pointing at some big wooden houses that had several men working on top with hand tools; saws, hammers, and chisels. They all seemed to be wearing the same type of dully colored clothing and had big beards and suspenders holding up there well-worn trousers.
I found broken up leaves and various bugs crawling all over my body as I opened my eyes and realized I was in the woods, safely resting in my hobo refuge. I slept well. Not like in my own bed, but I had an immense feeling of liberation and I thought that anything was possible. I was dry, I was alive, I was hungry. I dug into my pockets and found a little bit of leftover granola and started to have breakfast. Warm water, granola and a couple of insects,
Who is Hobo Joe? Hobo Joe is a fictional series that will be appearing periodically on Tripoart.com Joe is a young guy who recently got kicked out of his family’s house because his terribly chosen friends stole and destroyed many of his dad's favorite irreplaceable possessions during one of the most insane parties of Joe's young life. Now he has to learn to live and survive on his own. He's smart and resourceful but also likes to live life like a wild man.
Reading the book On The Road (published in 1957) by Jack Kerouac reminds me of my own travels, that’s why I love it so much. It was heavily influenced by Jazz music and is considered a defining work of the Beat Generation. The characters in the book find entertainment in almost anything they come across, and if there’s nothing for them to do they just go out and ride, crisscrossing the country several times on a long mystical journey to discover the purpose of life.