A Different Breed

     Perhaps you, too, know someone who makes you feel like you've spent your life sitting on the curb, watching life march by, while he or she was leading the parade.

     That's how I feel about Román, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in Colombia. I wasn't totally taken with him at first and he seemed to feel the same about me. But, once I realized I had erroneously judged a book by its cover (again!), we became good friends. He served in the same department (state) and would pass through our apartment occasionally.

     Román was as fluent in Spanish as he was English, but neither was his native language though you'd swear they both were. He'd been born in Ukraine but his family fled to Argentina when he was a baby. They had hoped to get into the U.S., but that didn't happen until he was in high school, when they moved to Pittsburgh. He was probably a “sponge” his whole life, absorbing everything he could, especially in the natural sciences, languages and culture. Did this come from being a refugee, or was it genetic? His parents were both well-educated and Román now has  2 bachelors degrees, 3 masters and a PhD. He's covered great swaths of the world, but not as a jet-setter. Many of those miles were covered by foot, bicycle or motorcycle, and always to explore and discover.

Head for the Hills

      One of my most memorable adventures was visiting him at his final work site, the one for which he had extended his time in Colombia: the Cueva de los Guácharos in southern Huila. Guácharos are also called “oil birds” because of the high amount of fat in their bodies, especially the young. People would catch them to use for cooking oil or torches. (Yes, gruesome.) They live in caves, especially in South America.

      I was working in the Pitalito area, in the region  where the caves are located, near the end of my second year in Colombia, and Román's third. He met me there early one Sat. morning to head to the caves, along with his dog, Smith.

Palestina

We squeezed on to a  mixto bus headed to Palestina, a village straight out of the old west. There we picked up a horse and some supplies and headed up the first of several hills.
  
   One of the first veredas we passed was one I had visited two years earlier when shadowing a Colombian instructor. The house we'd stayed in didn't look as poor as I'd remembered it. Was that because I'd learned to appreciate the beauty in spartan life by then, or because the sun was shining, which it rarely did during my first visit? I'd be stopping at a neighboring house on my way back from the caves for a follow-up visit from a leadership course I'd taught in Pitalito the previous month.

Beauty of the Beaten Path

       The entire area is naturally beautiful, but the higher we got, the more beautiful the mountain forest became, lush with a variety of trees and bird calls. We took turns on the horse and stopped a few times when Smith lagged behind. He seemed to be getting sick. At one point, after a dust-up with the horse, he crawled into some bushes and wouldn't come out. After going back several times to find him, Román finally decided he would catch up when he was ready; he knew the way home.
     At about the half-way point was a house Román called “Howard Johnson's.” It had a hitching post and benches and the family sold pop and beer to passers-by. He emptied two bottles, then half of mine.

Taking a break at "Howard Johnson's"

     By the time we finally reached the cabins near the caves, the hike had taken about six hours. We unloaded the horse and Román went off to check on a project. I headed to the make-shift “shower” rigged up in a nearby stream. It was ice cold but felt wonderful to get semi-clean. Later, three other Volunteers, Dusty, Dave and Ed, doing research for INDERENA (Colombia's National Institute of Renewable Resources and Environment) arrived from the caves. We shared a dinner of beans, rice and lively conversation.

Román with a wounded guacharo

      Dusty was a semi-professional photographer so he and Román  left at 4 the next morning to set up cameras in the caves to photograph the birds when they came back at daybreak. They're nocturnal, relying on echolocation to forage at night for seeds and fruits of various trees. The fellows returned to the cabin with a wounded bird about 8 a.m., so we got to see one up close. They took blood samples and photos, then we all trekked back to the caves after breakfast.

      The walk itself was gorgeous and the caves were spectacular. We spent the morning exploring, slogging through streams and mud, then scaling walls and ledges to get closer looks at nests. The dim light, bird shrieks, guano, water coursing from walls and streams, plus rocky, uneven terrain made it a challenging but exciting environment.

About mid- afternoon we went back to the cabin for more beans and rice. It was Sunday dinner so Ed, brought out a can of meat to add to the beans. Vegetables and fruits were rare here and lasted just a few days when brought in. No wonder Román had scurvy at one point. He learned to go to the market when he got to Pitalito and “pig out” on fruits and vegetables.

      After Sunday dinner, we went to another cave, but were delayed almost an hour at the entrance when Dusty spotted unusual butterflies to photograph. It was a veritable field day for this group of naturalists. The cave required crawling through a claustrophobic narrow space, but opened to a huge cavern. A couple of the fellows used ropes to get the camera to treacherous ledges for photos of every aspect of the caves, birds, nests,  guano, etc. That, too, was fascinating to watch and would contribute to the extensive written research Román was doing.
     It was getting dark when we finally headed back to the cabins. The fellows shook trees to get some seeds for the wounded bird as we slipped and slid along the muddy path. It had been an unforgettable day.

Heading to the caves

      On Monday morning, I convinced Román I could handle the walk back down the mountains by myself. The other Volunteers would be heading back to Pitalito in a couple days and would take my little suitcase on the horse. I took enough for the visit to the womens group at the vereda later that afternoon and a night in Palestina. His advice as I left was not to stop when going uphill—and don't look up to see how much farther. Right… I, waved, turned to leave and immediately ripped the leg of my pants on some barbed wire. Great. But, that was soon forgotten as I became totally absorbed in the stunning surroundings and sounds as I walked. It was so beautiful I wanted to celebrate somehow – so did in my head, grateful for the experience.

      A few miles later I rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a 3-foot coral snake. What an idiot to think I should do this alone! Fortunately (yet sadly), the snake was dead. A short while later I surprised myself by drinking two bottles of pop when I stopped at “Howard Johnson's.” When I got there, the owner's little boy was screaming in pain. He had fallen and hurt his arm. His father asked me to look at it. I always felt  uncomfortable in such situations because people assumed I knew more than I did. Though I taught first aid, I was not trained in medicine. I felt the boy's arm and there didn't seem to be a break. The father wrapped a small, seemingly useless, bandage on it, but it seemed to comfort the boy.

      The trip down took about an hour longer than I expected (this was downhill, after all, and I didn't have a horse and dog this time) but I arrived in time for the meeting with the women and, thankfully, they had a wonderful lunch prepared. For once, I truly had earned it! After the meeting I walked on to Palestina where I checked with the police about Smith (they hadn't seen him), then fell into a deep sleep on a thin cot at the hotel.

Still Missing

      Smith never did show up at the caves that weekend and I'd asked the few people  I passed on my way down but no one had seen him. When I got to Pitalito the next day, I went to the radio station, per Román's request, to put a paid notice out that he was missing and who to contact. Our fingers were crossed, but it wasn't looking very hopeful.

      A few days later a woman left a message at the residencia where I was staying in Pitalito to say Smith was in a vereda called Tabor. I immediately went to the radio station to get the message on air for Román.

      Two days later, Román showed up at the residencia when I returned from a meeting in the country. I asked if he had found Smith. He had; but when they were on their way down the mountain to Pitalito that afternoon Smith died. It was so shocking and sad. He buried him in a coffee field. He was devastated. Smith had been a gift from another volunteer and the two had been best buddies. I wished I could have kept him company that evening but, somewhat ironically, I had a date with a veterinarian to go to—and I'm not making this up—a séance. Who could pass up such an opportunity? The vet been out vaccinating cattle all day but we arrived just in time (they don't allow anyone in once the séance begins). It, too, was another fascinating experience.

Postscripts: Román spent almost a year at the caves doing research and writing numerous papers on it. When he finished and was in Bogotá just before leaving, all his work was stolen from the Jeep he was using. That, too, was heartbreaking. If he were doing it now he could have saved back-up copies in so many ways. I doubt it meant a thing to whoever broke into the car looking for valuables. Little did they know how valuable the papers were.

      When he left Colombia, Román bicycled all the way back to the U.S. (I told you he's a different breed). Many months later, when I was working in El Salvador, I got a postcard that had been forwarded from Colombia. It was from Román, written in the very same office where I finally received it.
     One day, about six years later, when my husband and I were working on the house we were building in Oregon, a motorcycle came up our rural driveway. It was Román. He had just finished a job on an oil rig and was headed back to school to earn one of his many degrees, after motorcycling across the U.S. and Canada, visiting friends along the way.