The Footloose American: Following the Hunter S. Thompson Trail Across South America by Brian Kevin
Authors: Brian Kevin
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earnestly. Then he showed us to our room, at the back of a hotel that was altogether empty, except for his pet duck, Lucas.
We were just unpacking a few minutes later, contemplating showers, when Ivan reappeared in the doorway.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said politely, as if he hadn’t just left us, “but I think there is someone waiting for you outside.”
Lucas the duck followed us back through the courtyard, quacking happily at our heels. The hotel’s front door was open, and Tony the DJ was standing outside, rubbing his hands together anxiously, like he was late for something.
“Ah, my friends, please come,” he said as we stepped outside. “It is time for you to meet the mayor.”
Thus began five long days as the honored gringo guests of the Hondans. Tony marched us downtown and into the mayor’s office, where a small, neat man in a sport coat shook our hands and posed with us for pictures in front of a marble statue of Bolívar. We got a tour of City Hall, and Tony introduced us to a handful of local functionaries, all middle-aged men with salt-and-pepper hair and broad stomachs, each one only more pleased to meet us than the last. A walking tour of the city had somehow been arranged, and before we could protest, we found ourselves trompingthrough the streets with a local historian who pantomimed colonial bayonet duels and insisted on taking our pictures in front of every church, mural, and statue in Honda.
When we finally returned to the mayor’s office, the head of the chamber of commerce was waiting there to tell us that our boat ride to Girardot had already been arranged. We would pay only for gas, he said, and the boat would leave in three days’ time. Until then, would we please stay and enjoy his beautiful city? Sky and I exchanged looks of weary astonishment.
“Are they going to give us thirty virgins?” he asked.
So we set out to enjoy the beautiful city. Both that night and the next we met up with Ricardo at a bar called Cirrosis—as in “of the liver”—where he introduced us to his nightlife posse. I drank a few beers with the young crowd and excused myself early, heading back to Ivan’s to read and sleep, but Sky stayed out and made friends, dancing with the local girls to bone-rattling reggaeton. On the second day, I followed a trail along the river, crisscrossing the bridges and watching the fishermen cast their nets, occasionally returning greetings from strangers who waved to me and cried,
“Hola, periodista!”
The following afternoon, a local news anchor and his wife showed up at Ivan’s and practically begged us to join them for lunch. They had once lived in Baltimore, loved all things American, and were eager to spend an afternoon speaking English.
Ivan, meanwhile, was the consummate host. One morning, he drove us in his jeep to some nearby ruins at a place called Armero, where a volcanic eruption had wiped out an entire town in 1985, killing an astonishing 23,000 people. He was thrilled when we mentioned that we’d ridden on the
Florentino Ariza
, the captain of which, he told us proudly, he had once advised on how to negotiate the rapids aroundHonda. Ivan genuinely seemed to relish the role of guide. When I came home early from Cirossis one night, he sat up with me in the courtyard, declining a beer and tenderly recalling his memories of the river as a child. From the time he was about six, Ivan said, he used to ride upstream to visit his grandfather’s farm. He remembered the excitement of piling onto a small boat with his auntie, squeezing in among the people, pigs, chickens, and bundles of crops. As a boy, he had always wanted to peer over the edge at the river, and to keep him from leaning out, his aunt had to clasp her legs around him like a vise.
“Sometimes,” he said with a chuckle, “we’d show up at my grandfather’s and my arms would be purple.”
As a young man, Ivan ran a small footwear company for a few years, successful enough that he could
We were just unpacking a few minutes later, contemplating showers, when Ivan reappeared in the doorway.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said politely, as if he hadn’t just left us, “but I think there is someone waiting for you outside.”
Lucas the duck followed us back through the courtyard, quacking happily at our heels. The hotel’s front door was open, and Tony the DJ was standing outside, rubbing his hands together anxiously, like he was late for something.
“Ah, my friends, please come,” he said as we stepped outside. “It is time for you to meet the mayor.”
Thus began five long days as the honored gringo guests of the Hondans. Tony marched us downtown and into the mayor’s office, where a small, neat man in a sport coat shook our hands and posed with us for pictures in front of a marble statue of Bolívar. We got a tour of City Hall, and Tony introduced us to a handful of local functionaries, all middle-aged men with salt-and-pepper hair and broad stomachs, each one only more pleased to meet us than the last. A walking tour of the city had somehow been arranged, and before we could protest, we found ourselves trompingthrough the streets with a local historian who pantomimed colonial bayonet duels and insisted on taking our pictures in front of every church, mural, and statue in Honda.
When we finally returned to the mayor’s office, the head of the chamber of commerce was waiting there to tell us that our boat ride to Girardot had already been arranged. We would pay only for gas, he said, and the boat would leave in three days’ time. Until then, would we please stay and enjoy his beautiful city? Sky and I exchanged looks of weary astonishment.
“Are they going to give us thirty virgins?” he asked.
So we set out to enjoy the beautiful city. Both that night and the next we met up with Ricardo at a bar called Cirrosis—as in “of the liver”—where he introduced us to his nightlife posse. I drank a few beers with the young crowd and excused myself early, heading back to Ivan’s to read and sleep, but Sky stayed out and made friends, dancing with the local girls to bone-rattling reggaeton. On the second day, I followed a trail along the river, crisscrossing the bridges and watching the fishermen cast their nets, occasionally returning greetings from strangers who waved to me and cried,
“Hola, periodista!”
The following afternoon, a local news anchor and his wife showed up at Ivan’s and practically begged us to join them for lunch. They had once lived in Baltimore, loved all things American, and were eager to spend an afternoon speaking English.
Ivan, meanwhile, was the consummate host. One morning, he drove us in his jeep to some nearby ruins at a place called Armero, where a volcanic eruption had wiped out an entire town in 1985, killing an astonishing 23,000 people. He was thrilled when we mentioned that we’d ridden on the
Florentino Ariza
, the captain of which, he told us proudly, he had once advised on how to negotiate the rapids aroundHonda. Ivan genuinely seemed to relish the role of guide. When I came home early from Cirossis one night, he sat up with me in the courtyard, declining a beer and tenderly recalling his memories of the river as a child. From the time he was about six, Ivan said, he used to ride upstream to visit his grandfather’s farm. He remembered the excitement of piling onto a small boat with his auntie, squeezing in among the people, pigs, chickens, and bundles of crops. As a boy, he had always wanted to peer over the edge at the river, and to keep him from leaning out, his aunt had to clasp her legs around him like a vise.
“Sometimes,” he said with a chuckle, “we’d show up at my grandfather’s and my arms would be purple.”
As a young man, Ivan ran a small footwear company for a few years, successful enough that he could
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