Times of Trouble: An Existential Crisis on a Colombian Highway

The thermometer on my dashboard reads 82 degrees Fahrenheit, my air conditioning is on and we are cruising along comfortably. My preferred grunge tracks keep me on course taking in effortlessly the curves of Colombia’s Route 45A, the thudding syrupy baselines transporting me to Seattle although we are hugging the two-lane highway journeying from the city of Bucaramanga and along the edge of the Chicamocha Canyon. 

The views are breath-taking and rugged. The Chicamocha Canyon is the second deepest in the world, descending 6,600ft and I am slightly ashamed to mention that even behind the wheel, the continual snaking and corners of this highway make me feel queasy. It’s an effort to avoid the monstrous carro mulaswhich clog up Colombia’s roads and then, taking foolhardy risks from time to time, I have to overtake slow moving traffic on perilously narrow sections, otherwise this six-hour journey will turn into a 10-hour odyssey. 

Purposeful walking 

At this moment the weather held for these Venezuelan refugees

A solo Venezuelan migrant heading south

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