Minca mirrors the stars.

It is the closest thing I’ve found to Macondo. Momentum is stymied by a mystical force. I didn’t seek out Minca for further introspection. But I’ve come to find that’s what the Universe has asked of me.

The town is sleepy as though its downed a bottle of nyquil or two. Its inhabitants fall into one of two camps: Colombian families rooted in place or chain-smoking, twenty-something Brits from Bristol, passing through. The marijuana is dried, cheap, plentiful and infested with seeds. The temptation lingers to take a prolonged nap. Eat mushrooms and wade in the river, to disappear beneath a waterfall. Resolve fades easily here; nothing is urgent.

And neither are you.

My favorite restaurant sits on the corner. A Lebanese restaurant I’ve yet to visit. Nelly’s Dilemma plays on the patio delightfully loud and often. Permastoned dogs bask in the sun. At the corner of every dusty road, at the center of every bridge. Their bellies tubular - banana like in how they bend to accommodate a scratch. They are intensely friendly, often chubby and sleeping.

Minca is a slow-brewing stew of backpackers, families, coffee farms, hostels, eco-tourism outfits—and me. Most stay for a long weekend, en route to Tayrona or beyond. I’ll be here nearly a month in all.

Something to write about. Someone to kiss. Not necessities, but pleasantries—the pursuit of which defines me. Pleasantries drew me to this town.

Minca is rarely the destination, but a permanent stepping stone. Living somewhere that exists to receive people coming to or from, makes it easy to become adrift. The power, electricity goes out for hours with regularity. It’s a beautiful—if not ideal—place to work from.

Minca is like the rest of the world.

In that there’s nothing lurking in its shallows, waiting for you!

To happen upon it and be transformed. Which I’d secretly been hoping for. And that’s its charm, behind each beautiful landscape. There you are too. This has been part of the problem for me. You can only out-run yourself for so long.

I gesticulated, sitting at the table. Commanding order, attention. I was talking to two women (of course.) Melanie and Michala. The latter pronounced as though you have a cotton ball. Caught in your throat.

Melanie and I had met that morning. Just after I arrived in Minca—lugging seventy pounds of bags up a mountain en route to an eco-hostel. She had a belly button piercing that suggested Tucson, (she is actually from Seattle.) Perky in the way of someone who enjoys two cups of coffee and exercising before 8 a.m.—a trait I recognize in myself. It’s easy to make assumptions about these types of people—mostly because they’re always true.

We had just sat down. Having escaped the DJ that was playing a level above. Serving ambient beats to a gathering of 20-30 tired, worn and sleep deprived beat seekers. Tall, angular gringo bodies—Nordic. British. Mostly in their 20’s. Their dusty backpacks resting in the shade under their patchwork straw huts. Everyone around me seemed cooler and more new-age.

Though it was highly unlikely they were as familiar with Wolfgang Amadeus, as I.

Losers.

We shared gin and tonics while she ate shrooms, my voice a steady metronome of garden-variety reaffirmations. One of my many unsung talents. In Melanie, I had a companion. In me, she had a friend—a shaman, of sorts.

As the music wore on - the enthusiasm of my companion began to wane. The mushrooms she’d consumed gave way to a queasy stomach and anxiety. Meanwhile I felt nothing - out of the ordinary. After four grams and a chocolate, the high was non-existent. The minor league shrooms being sold on the town’s main-strip couldn’t make a dent. My tolerance stood tall, like Manute Bol.

Trying to salvage what was left of her trip, we went downstairs—searching for solid ground beneath her feet. A reprieve from the wildly meh, unrelenting DJ. Relief from her increasingly fraught psychedelic experience. Being stuck with me would prove to be horrifying or euphoric - with no in between.

She hadn’t eaten; I was only peckish—ancillary details. We sat down.

I immediately noticed that there was no hummus on the menu. The two of us sat at the table, engaged in hedonistic, unhinged dialogue. She being a libra, me being born on the cusp. It showed. How excitable she had been. Upon finding out that we had been in Barranquilla for Carnival at the same time.

No one was within a stones’ throw of us. Save a short blonde woman walking toward us. Holding a pack of cigarettes.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

She appeared mouselike. Someone sane to watch over the insane.

My attention was scattered—distant and consistent was the noise. The hostel’s guests putting off another night of sleep. A nightly ritual here, carried out with such ease. A ritual that is increasingly rare in your thirties.

A time when such opportunities aren’t as abound—or as thrilling as they once were. Which doesn’t ring as true when you’re single. Thirty-four and without a home. Sleep-deprived and wholly unsure of what, exactly, you’re looking for.

For the time being - that proved to be breaded, fried mushrooms. Oily, delicious and served aside a sea of sour cream (?) Winning the affections of these two women. My interests are simple and elegant. I bore into both, though I cannot say one took precedence over the either.

Michala - Must have thought the two of us were insane. A couple from Florida on a bender. The possibilities were endless, but all of them required that we were from Florida. In reality we had met a mere four hours earlier. And I had quickly assumed the role of her vacation Shaman. A friendship formed over the fact that we’re both a bit insane.

Melanie and I played a ridiculous game. Guessing Michala’s origins in response to her spoken sentences. She sounded just like Celine, Michala from Austria. We spoke of lovers abroad. A striving-Walmart brand Regaaeton star that flooded her DM’s from sunrise to sunset. Requesting nudes. A digital crumb to satisfy her amores prescient need for sex.

But behind her perky, burning man facade - Melanie was spinning out of control. If only for the evening:

“Guys. I need to go spend some time somewhere where its dark and by myself.”

It appeared that the decrepit street - sourced shrooms had won. She left to find the dark. She left to find the space. Space away from anything with a pulse that threatened to bend her mind. Melanie - departing from my life as quickly as she’d arrived. En route to Palomino tomorrow. Returning to Seattle the following Friday.

I felt slightly sad… and opportunistic from these events. I wonder if she has more shrooms. Arrived in my mind, with jarring clarity. We hugged, i wished her well. Another budding friendship, encounter - gone. All too soon.

But what remained was Michala, and as I’d come to find Michala was fascinating. Wry and insightful. Sudden and surprising, her past life. An Ice fisherman. How sudden and thrilling it can be. Being absorbed into someone else’s life. Simply from moving from one seat to the next. Or having not sat down at all.

Michala and I remained at the same table as once before. Though with Melanie gone, the energy had shifted.

Glancing down at my plate. Bits of fried mushrooms remained. Its brethren elsewhere swallowed by the sour cream (?) sea. Looking back, it’s funny how quickly we found refuge—in what we like and don’t like about men. And women. I took quick aim at my disdain for “brunch ladies”

“Women with large floppy hats. Who enjoy getting gussed up to take pictures next to half eaten croissants. Their designer bag, sitting by idly. strategically placed and stressed over.”

“Bad tattoos! Dreamcatchers, etc"

“Mustaches!”

“Men who wear tight pants!”

We went on like this, comparing notes. While she bit into her veggie burger that was leaking. Tzatziki. Pausing - only to tame her dinner. Or paw at a watermelon flavored cigarette.

Michala was in the midst of a three week solo trip. Twenty six. For an Austrian - surprisingly tan. Her staying at Casa Loma made sense. On second pass she appeared less mouselike then she once had. But simply calm and not on drugs. Her face, body lacking any sort of constraint. Such are the inflictions of vacation, travel.

She wrote for a german hip hop magazine. In my eyes she’d justifiably cured cancer. It was at that time that I’d come to fear that I’d miss her. Even though we’d just met.

I’d come to miss her - in the way that I’ve come to miss Denver. Even though - we’d hardly met. And in doing so I’d come to discover what I covet most. The subliminal spaces and times spent with erstwhile folk. Who know nothing about us - outside of who we really are. The time and the space that we shared. That we couldn’t otherwise duplicate. Without the two of us.

We discussed everything and nothing of value. The worst dates we’d been on. I told her about a date I’d been on in Venice, in which my date’s ex joined us for drinks, and an hour later, they left together. I asked her for a watermelon flavored cigarette. To keep me company while I sifted through the entire file on my love life.

We told Melanie we’d go looking for her in the shadows. An hour had passed and we’d hardly thought of her. You can only smoke watermelon cigarettes and re-visit the past for so long. With this in mind we went searching for her.

We went upstairs, to the dance floor. To the DJ and the shadows which fell on the floors horizons. We didn’t find Melanie. But we found gin n’ tonics and began dancing. I bopped like a slinky, in unison with the tropical house (?) music. In a manner that wasn’t of memory, of my tendons and muscles but wholly new and foreign to me. The ways in which my body moves in response to music, expanding as I spend more time in foreign lands.

The night was aimless. Apt for Minca. With nowhere to go, to be, outside of where we stood. The DJ’s set over, Michala frustrated. Twenty-six, all dressed up with nowhere to go, watching her vacation days disappear. She hurriedly approached the staff trying to stream music from an aux chord. Her passion made me hot and bothered.

Michala wouldn’t be getting her own DJ set. But there were rumors that one of the staff owned a bar—he’d be leading us there later, down into town. Somewhere below, where we could keep drinking, dancing, besos.

I was waiting for the women to get ready. Waiting to see if they’d decide to make the trek. Which would ultimately dictate my evening. Killing time, I chatted with two blokes—young guys from the U.K. Older renditions of Crabbe and Goyle.

Absently, I thought about how much time I’d spent in my life waiting for women. Looking off onto the town below. In some capacity I knew I’d be waiting my whole life.

But the party wouldn’t continue. The trek up and down the mountain had proved too laborious. The three of us sat in the dark, talking—mostly about our sexual preferences, strange encounters mixed in. A non-linear conversation fueled by nicotine, gin, and the prospect of a kiss that might never arrive.

We were trying to salvage Saturday night. We were fighting back yawns. Michala, her vacation dissolving. Everyone on a different itinerary, each of us with different stakes. There would be no future hike to a waterfall. This was all we were given. Nights like this never quite deliver. They only ask you to stay up long enough to see if they might. My bones were weary. My bits becoming less interesting to me. I was staying up in hopes of a story to tell—an occurrence as common as the fall of rain.

What I find most difficult about travel is saying goodbye to the people you meet along the way. I find this gets more difficult as you age. As a backpacker this is inherently easier. You’re young, more idealistic and removed of life experiences to tell you otherwise. But you’ll find as you mature, the people with whom you connect with are are fewer and farther between than you once believed.

The people whose lives intercepted yours, at a unique moment in time. Snapshots, fragments, jokes that you’ll soon forget. That will fade until you’ll come to remember that person with a smile. And then you’ll think about them. Where they are in the world. What came of their lives.

My brief time moonlighting as a backpacker, my brief stay at the eco -hostel was over. Scarfing down fried mushsrooms, smoking cigarettes with younger women. There’s only so long you can live like this.

But I felt an undeniable melancholy. I also felt jealous. Of the 20 somethings still asleep in their straw huts. Who grew up in countries that prepared them for the consequences of multiple cigarettes. Their non-existent hangovers.

I wish I had my own memories of backpacking South America in my 20’s to draw upon. Which I’ll never be able to capture. Their's an inherently different experience from mine. The exuberance and possibility of life that painted their journey. The searching, curiosity and longing that shades mine. A particular sense of wonder. Seeing something for the first time. A quality - I witnessed in their eyes and not mine.

You can’t outrun yourself forever. In Minca I see facets of myself so clearly. The part of me that is content with disappearing. How easily I succumb to the gravitational pull of a town that moves with the cadence of molasses. But only for so long. For a certain kind of person Minca personifies a particular type of escapism.

Its a fitting book end to this chapter in Colombia. It may not be the most exciting, or memorable. But I anticipate it will prove to be the most essential. I imagine it will be the leg I look back on, as being most impactful. Returning to California next week, my mental health and physical body are remarkably healthier than when I’d left.

My time in Minca has mirrored the stars. I arrived as the planets slipped into retrograde, and my steps were slowed by a sprained foot. My movements halted, I found joy in its beauty, peace in existing. In the stillness I’ve been afforded. An underlying excitement, gratitude for the ways in which my life has changed.

Besos,

Enrique