One lazy Sunday when I was younger, I was with three friends playing cards, just hanging out. It was still morning, but you could tell it was going to be hot, and we began to gaze at the mountains longingly. My hometown, Cali, spreads out below the Farallones mountains, which are beautiful to look at and just as beautiful to explore, an easy hike or ride in clean air away.

“Let’s go for a bike ride,” one of us suggested, and the others immediately agreed.

We hopped on our bikes and started across town, toward the path that leads into the hills from La Buitrera. On our way we ran into some other friends who were also on their bikes, and they enthusiastically joined our group. Now there were six of us. We cycled for a while, then took a break and sat down on the grass, getting out our cards and some weed to smoke. The air was crisp and smelled of green; the sun was warm, not hot, on our faces.

Then, out of nowhere, a man in rubber boots appeared, giving us a stern look. “You’ve seen the crosses along the path, yes?” he asked. In Colombia, there are lots of wooden crosses everywhere. Where there’s a cross, someone has died. “Well, you’ve seen them?” he said. “That’s what happens to kids who behave the way you do up here. Get out.”

We were quick to wrap up our stuff and get on our bikes. This guy had disturbed us, not so much with what he’d said but by his looks. Rubber boots like that in the countryside, in the fields, in Colombia, usually means guerrilla. A bit shaken, we gladly rode on.