Flying and football

22/Jul/09
The Hostel Macando in San Gil offers outdoorsy tours of all kinds ranging from abseiling down a waterfall to whitewater kayaking and rafting, to paintball, hiking, biking, and paragliding.
My British chums, Neil and Richard and I chose the latter. We spent the morning lazing around, reading, using the internet, relaxing in the heat. At noon we boarded the van to take us up the hill.
After the guide wrestled the side door shut, we rumbled and rattled up a steep road which turned into a cobbled two-track passing through tobacco and corn fields, drying huts, barns, convenience stores, and the necessary coffee plantations shaded by banana trees.
At the top of the hill we parked in the shade of an enormous leanto under which hung hundreds of tobacco leaves in various stages of dryness, and unloaded gear from the van's roof rack. We hiiked briefly between rows of tobacco plants which are a sort of sickly pale green when growing, and came out on the cleared hilltop where the guides began laying out harnesses and parachutes.
The wind gusts pretty strong at the top of the hill. Condors sail on the breeze, and in the distance a few wing-shaped parachutes indicate another company's earlier start. A few shrieks of excitement drift over carried by the wind.
We go by weight, so Richard straps in first. As his parachute inflates, controlled by the pilot attached to his back, it sings like a flute, and then he's lifted up and out of sight. Shading my eyes, I watch until my guide beckons me over, and I hoist the backpack/cushion seat over my shoulders, and the pilot buckles us together. he turns to make some final adjustments--or so I presume for a split second until the nylon billows up and uplls us forward to the edge of the hill.
"Corre!" he says, and I take a few stumbling strides until my feet leave the ground and I stop pumping the air, feeling foolish. We soar up into the air, catching currents and zooming around a bit. I can feel innumerable minute adjustments as the pilot uses hands and feet and body tension to control the wing. We swoop over treetops, grazing so close I consider reaching a toe out to kick at a clump of leaves before Manuel flicks his wrist, and we catch an updraft, climbing so high so fast that I blink, and the forest looks like a thick carpet of various greens far below alongside patchwork fields of tobacco, corn, and coffee, and water reservoirs resemble teacups.
A young condor below us shows off his nature-endowed ability which we've had to manufacture through dextrous ingenuity. He tucks his wings and spins into a dive, leveling out and swinging up on a thermal, soon disappearing from sight above the parachute.
Manuel takes us for a couple of dips and turns before swirling up the same thermal. The distant canyon cuts across the land like a crack in the sidewalk, and Manuel says something.
"Que?" I shout, wind whistling through my ears.
"Spinning?" He repeats. It take me a moment to realize he spoke in English and was asking if I'd like to spiral down.
"Si, claro!"
He chuckles and twists us into an experimental circle pattern, checking the draft. Then suddenly I'm flung outwards, pinched by my harness, G-forces sucking at my stomach as we pivot around the parachute. Wind roars, tearing water from my eyes as the centripetal force strains the straps. I shriek in delight, changing quickly to a manly rebel yell as we circle down down down, leveling out over our takeoff hill and landing with a cushioned thud on the dry grass.
A bit dizzy, I nevertheless consider getting a solo certification at some point in the dreamy future. What a job these guys have: get paid to float on the breeze to the delight of the inexperienced.

Later that night we played soccer with some other guests at the hostel and a bunch of local kids. Five-on-five king-of-the-court with changeover after two goals. Reminded me of bball at the CCRB, and I shot a few hoops with the soccerball before and after the games. My team won nary a game, losing several times to the dynastic Other Gringos, or the second-best team comprised of Colombian youths. Soccer was fun, and I'd very much like to get better at it, but I must admit I was longing for some basketball.
The pitch was concrete, lit by stadium lights, all of which sponsored by the government which maintains soccer arenas in every neighborhood. This strikes me as delightfully civilized and conscious of the People.
I can't believe this is the first time I've played--or even watched live--soccer in South America. A week left and only now do I realize I could have been honing my skills all along if I'd given thought to the matter. Oh well; next time.