I’m almost hitting the month-and-a-half mark of traveling and it’s starting to hit me that I’m running out of time! We landed in Bogotá, Colombia yesterday. Whilst in Panama I met so many backpackers coming up from Colombia and telling me I had to experience it for myself.

So, I am now struggling to plan my journey here. I have about eleven days to see this city (the third largest in the Americas), make my way to Cartagena on the coast, and Medellín in between. I’ll have to come back to fly out of Bogotá to Costa Rica where I’ll then meet some friends from back home.

Suffice to say, I feel rushed. I finally got to documenting some stuff from the past couple of weeks and realized I spent nearly a month in Panama! No regrets. I loved the country and the city, where we spent a big portion of time, and moreover the people I was with.

I was, however, appalled at my experience at the PTY airport yesterday. Their security confiscated my salsa picante.

It was particularly devastating because I had received these two small bottles from a new friend. I met him through Jason, my new homie from the Bay Area (Vallejo by way of Oakland) and had bonded through watching the NBA Finals at of all places, Hooters, drinking $1 drafts and eating french fries with hot sauce. Jason brought his baby and they were both decked out in Warriors regalia.

As it turned out, my new friend had lived all over the US including the Bay Area and distributed this hot sauce. You can’t get it there anymore. At the end of the night, he opened his trunk and handed me two bottles of Salsa Roja. I’m not a huge hot sauce fan but you can imagine how amazing of a gift this was. I got to watch the Warriors win with true fans.

Flash forward to the airport. By now, there were 3 or 4 workers huddled around the scanner. I knew shit was about to go down. I also knew the bottles were not at the 100ml limit, so I questioned the worker. “¿Por qué no?” The response? “Es picante.”

I couldn’t really argue with that. My spicy hot sauce could be used as a weapon. I watched, powerless, as he gently placed my bottles of sauce into the bin. A little bit too gently. I pictured this dude glazing his chicken lunch on his break later.

I went to my gate and asked the flight attendant if this was a real rule. She said that as long as it met the liquid capacity, it should have been fine.

I was in a late boarding group so I decided to return to the security gates if not to speak to a higher-up, to give them shit in my broken Spanish. I clearly had a lot of time.

One of the original conspirators came over and said, in a raised tone, that there had been a warning on the signs. I couldn’t recall. For salsa? I’m imagining it in my head now: NO knives. NO explosives. NO Samsung Galaxy Notes. NO salsa picante.

Whether or not there is truly a rule that bars passengers from bringing hot sauce on a plane for fear that they will use this for purposes of terror, I would love to know.

The middle-aged man sitting next to me on the plane was the next person to hear about my hot sauce incident. He advised, “Well, hot sauce is dangerous. When I was younger, I had too much and ruptured something. Had to get surgery.” He was headed for a motorcycle trip with his buddies for a long weekend. Reminded me that this Sunday is Father’s Day.