I shake my head while reading, finding no comfort in the fact that this particular act of violence occurred outside of Bogota, rather than Cali -- our destination. As is the case with most large Colombian cities, the government and police control Cali. Venture past the outskirts of the big city, however, and the roads give way to unimaginable lawlessness. Here you're likely to run into leftist rebel groups like the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (the group suspected of murdering Elvia Cortes) or the National Liberation Army. If you manage to slip past them unmolested, you'll probably be stopped by right-wing militias who've been known to slaughter those who they believe support the leftists. Then there are bandits, and of course the drug cartels ...

When a passenger call light blinks on, I place the newspaper on the adjacent seat and get up to answer the call. The last six rows of seats are empty, save for one male passenger from Arizona. He asks for another Budweiser. When I return, I ask what brings him to Colombia. He hesitates. His eyes flicker suspiciously as if he were a stockbroker deciding on whether to give insider information to a stranger. Suddenly, he breaks into a big smile. "I'm going to get married," he says. He whips out a photograph of his fiancée. She lives in Cali and is drop-dead gorgeous. I stare at the photo a couple of seconds longer than I should. Judging by the number of attractive local women on the airplane, however, it seems that beauty is abundant in Colombia's third largest city. The women sitting in 14-C,16-A, 21-A, 21-E, 22-B & C, and 25-D, E, & F could easily be finalists in the Miss Universe Pageant.

My Lonely Planet guide to South America claims that Cali has the most beautiful women in Colombia, and Colombia has the most beautiful women in all of South America. I take another look at the photograph and agree with LP's assessment. Las calenas, they are called. After another sip of beer, Mr. Arizona tells how he and his senorita hooked up.

The fiancée, it seems, had registered with an agencia matrimonial, or marriage agency. The same agency to which Mr. Arizona belongs. He tells me that Cali is rife with similar organizations. He heard about marriage agencies on the Internet. "You fly down, look through a book of photos, pick the woman [or women] you want to meet and the agency arranges an introduction," he says. "The rest is left up to you." Mr. Arizona goes on to tell me that some women are looking for a green card, others are looking for excitement. Most are hoping to find true love. He confesses that on a previous trip, he fell head over heels in love with his very first date. But after subsequent meetings she confessed her true feelings. "She told me I was too short."

I wish him luck with his marriage, then walk toward the aft galley and begin a conversation with a passenger from Oklahoma. He is not traveling to Cali to meet women. He is coming for sport. As it turns out, he is a wrestling coach for the U.S. Olympic team. The Pan American Games are being held here in a few days, and a few spots remain open on the U.S. freestyle and Greco-Roman wrestling teams. "The team to beat is Iran," he says, in a soft-spoken Oklahoman twang.

"Iran?" I say.

"Iran. They've got one of the best wrestling programs in the world."

A few minutes before landing, I walk through the cabin to do a seat belt check. The man seated in 10-C does not have his seat belt fastened. I suggest that he do so, but he doesn't respond. I look at his face more closely and notice that his eyes are wet. I ask if he is OK and he shakes his head. No. He is definitely not OK. I drop to one knee and listen to his story. As it turns out, he is traveling to Cali for the funeral of a friend. His friend, a young Colombian man, was driving a Ford Explorer near the better-watch-your-ass zone on the outskirts of the city. He was killed for his automobile by leftists rebels or right-wing militias or members of a drug cartel. Maybe it was an independent car-jacker. Nobody knows for sure. The funeral is tomorrow. The murder, he says, will probably go unsolved.

I squeeze his shoulder and look directly into his eyes. He really appreciates the fact that I am taking the time to listen. He does not say this, but I can tell by the sad smile that struggles beneath his moistening cheeks.