Colombia

1989—We went through Colombia by bus, and through the mountainous regions rather than anywhere else. It was an experience in itself—the bus ride alone deserves talking about.

Going up through the Andes on the bus with a maniacal driver—a few times we brushed the edge of death with him. I remember one time very clearly, where we were on the edge of the road next to a very steep drop. At night, no less. The passengers were told to be calm—hah!—and to get out of the side of the bus that was nearest to the drop. I'm still around, so nothing happened.

We had regular stops on the way, for food and facility usage. One of the things was, people had to have their own toilet paper. I remember once when I or my brother forgot it behind, and then went looking for it shortly afterwards, only to find that someone had nicked off with it. It was obvious who it was— a woman sitting behind us a few seats back—and when my brother and I offered to steal it back from her, my mother was most emphatic that we didn't. At the time, I couldn't see the logic behind that. It was ours, and damnit, I was going to claim it!

The border authorities were very sticky-fingered. On the first trip down, the one with my father, we were taking an electric knitting machine with us to Peru, and it was only because I'd heard the guardia talking about it that we managed to keep it. Hearing them talk about the package, I quickly grabbed my father, who then did his best rendition of a foreign gringo, and my mother explained to them that it was an electronic keyboard. I don't see why she didn't just say what it was … but it stands. They left us alone after that. It doesn't pay to molest foreigners, and my father was unmistakably non-Colombian.