These pages are dedicated to the best friend I ever had: Juan Novoa
Juan with his wife and new born babe
During two of my three years in the Peace Corps in Colombia, I lived and worked in the isolated headwaters region of the Orinoco River.
The only way in or out was by
DC-3. I flew my horse Gitana out there, and spent my days traveling by horseback
through the still-virgin jungles and savannahs of that remote country. My favorite
traveling companion was a Colombian campesino, only slightly older than my 25 years.
Juan Novoa befriended me in spite of the vast differences in our backgrounds and
experiences. He was grateful for my efforts to bring empowerment, education, and
health to his abandoned jungle community. I was grateful for a tireless friend who
accepted this American stranger into his life, and who interceded for me with the
local populace whenever the going got tough.
My fondest memory of Juan was the night we spent traveling by horseback together,
hour after long hour, crossing the vast savannahs under a full moon in the cool of
the night, en route to a little thatch school we were helping to establish. Two unlikely
friends, a society of two in the moonlight, traveling at the pace of our horses'
gaits, in a timeless landscape.
The last time I saw Juan was when he bid me farewell at that little jungle airstrip.
It was 1974, and I was returning to the U.S. to re-establish my life there. We fully
intended to get together from time to time to nurture and maintain our remarkable
friendship.
In 1975, the DC-3 in which Juan Novoa was traveling crashed into the cloud-shrouded
Andes. All were lost.
Goodbye, my friend.
