About halfway through the 90-minute journey, Adriana reached behind the pilot’s seat, pulled out a mask attached to an oxygen tank, and passed it to Francisco as he flew. Ana Cristina and I, in the back, looked at each other, panicked. We were but a couple of hundred feet above snowy, arrowhead peaks. Though the interior of the plane was no bigger than a Honda Civic, the noise was tremendous and, while Adriana and Francisco communicated through headsets, Ana and I were unable to speak with them during the flight. Once we landed, the tiny plane dropping quickly and bouncing down the runway like a gnat, we learned that Francisco took oxygen as a precaution once he flew above 12,000 feet. “I’m the only pilot in Colombia who has just one eye and also has had a heart attack [Soy el único piloto tuerto e infartado en Colombia],” he liked to boast, demonstrating once again that you can’t buy love, but you can bribe your way into renewing your pilot’s license.