As much as Eric and I didn´t want to think about it, we knew that eventually we would have to come up with an exit plan for getting out of South America and make our way back home. It is an unsettling feeling to think that the adventure must end at some point and that the tugs of reality (i.e. money, energy, time, etc.) would snap you out of your invincable mindset. Still with the ever approaching departure date growing nearer, we weren´t about to cave in that easily. Early on in our trip, listening into the backpacker grapevine, we heard of a unique way of travel.

The small scrape of land connecting central America to South (connecting Panama to Columbia) is called the Darien Gap. On a map it is considered part of the Trans-American Highway but that is a common misconception amongst travelers. That ¨landbridge¨ is considered by most as one of the most dangerous passageways in the world. It is a major drug trafficking route and it is occupied by the Columbian Guerilla Army force called FARC. We heard many things about the crossing but what stood out to us was the statistic saying that you have a 50% chance of being kidnapped or killed if you try to venture through there. I am not asshamed to admitt that we weren´t feeling lucky on those odds. We would have to find another route.

For most travelers, the only other option is to catch a flight from Cartagena to Panama City. We didn´t have that kind of money. We discovered a means of travel that lent itself to becoming a true adventure for us. Traveling via sailboat.

Immediately, one would hear that word and dismiss it as too expensive, but we found that traveling by boat offered a unique way of leaving in style, surprisingly gentle on the bank account and an opportunity to live like pirates for a week.

Upon our arrival in Cartegena, one of the northern most cities in Columbia, we were determined to find a captain that could accomidate us. Finding a boat for passage isn´t as easy as you may think. At every hostel dozens of captains post offers but between sorting out the drunks ones, hearing the horror stories from other backpackers, and getting limited info on others, it forces you to be very picky. Five days out in the open ocean is a long time with a captain that you are essentially putting your safety in his hands. After a day or two of inquiring, we joined up with some new found friends Joslyn, Catherine and Ally we met and hired Captain Tom and the ¨Papillon¨ his stout 31 ft sailboat for the journey.

Friday night in Quito, an old friend of mine I met back in the states, Valen, invited Eric and I out to a famous Equadorian tradition. Bull fighting. I knew going into the fights, that they have been a subject of public scrutiny due the gory (possibly inhuman) death that occurred to the animals. I knew I was going to witness the slow death of a bull on display for public showing. But like many things in my life I feel it is important to experience something before I start judging it. This way I can give it the benefit of the doubt.

And it was exactly what one might imagine what it would be like. But so much more. The music and cultural tradition is intertwined with it. I don´t regret it for a second. So much of the fight and the events around it are based in superstitions. The way the madadors hat falls on the ground, the way the bull fights, how the bull is worn down by spears in his back. It may not sit right in my culture but it was very interesting to witness.

A visit to the second largest city in Ecuador allowed us the opportunity to go to the equator, actually both of them. Just north of town we took a series of city buses to the equator monument marking what we thought was the actual equator. The city built a huge tourism trap all around the big, red line that marks the center of the Earth. A funny thing though. As we were taking photos of it, a couple other tourists informed us that the actual equator (GPS accurate) was about 200 meters to the north of us behind the gates of another entrance fee. Once again businesses fighting over something as stupid. Not quite sure who to believe, we visited the second one anyway. Hopefully trudging back and forth between the two we crossed the equator.

As soon as we arrived we had a quick lunch and then headed out into the jungle for a hike. You never really realize how jam packed the Amazon Basin is until you go there. Pictures can´t really do it justice to show the density of it. Here plants grow over eachother in a thick, blinding green fashion. Insects are the dominant species here. Everywhere you stepped, there was something that crawled. Walking and dodging our way through, I kept thinking that every leaf or tree hid something that would fall on you. It was the thought process that I could get knocked off by anything on the food chain. The Amazon allowed every organism a fighting chance. Here was a level playing ground. Ofcourse everything was fine. You realize your being an idiot and you just need to walk carefully and make sure to avoid the hazardous plants or insects that your guide points out to you. We saw about a dozen different types of ants. Some where poisonous and some just looked that way. There were literally ant highwways on the jungle ground where you saw millions carrying big green leaves back to the homestead. Cool stuff.

Anna and her family were genuine in their offer for us to stay at their house and we followed them to their place from the port in Iquitos. Poverty is a hard thing to truely understand until you live it. They lived in what would resemble a broken down, two room shack. Rotten wood floors, cockroach infested, not running water, a hole in the ground as a toliet, and not much else. Yet despite having literally nothing, they opened their doors to us with warm happy hearts. They are a hapy family and not even being ¨pobre¨(as Anna warned us that they were) effected their attitude. I found it remarkable. As a thank you Eric and I made them a big American brunch for her and the eleven relatives that lived with them. They were a lot of fun and we were very grateful for their hospitality.

Our ferry would stop at remote villages from time to time to pick up or drop off goods and the occassional person. For many of these villages, the once a week ferry stop was the only contact with the outside world. With that the boat served them under many different tittles varying from mailman to food delivery to hardware store and much more. For many of the poor vendors along the shoreline it was an opportunity for them to come on to the boat to sell goods while we sat for an hour at each port.