A la recherche de temps perdu
I left Santa Marta in a bit of a rush. Bursting at the seams and praying for a generous baggage allowance on the numerous planes I needed to catch. The bright morning was bleeding into my back to basics hostel dorm room. Flight day, destination the Caribbean. I really liked Martinique for all it's idiosyncrecies and I have always wanted to go back. Hate being regretful, don't want to spend my whole life thinking what if, but maybe there is always a what if...? I think there coud always be a what if, but I just didn't want this one. So, after years of thinking I wanted to go back, and never closing the door, I was finally realising some long and longed for lost dreams. Horrible hangovers in grey, bleak London, waking up on a sofa alone, my comfort would often be a Caribbean island that I felt connected to, and a boy.
In less that 48 hours we were to be re-united. No pressure.
But not before a lot of layovers in airports on other Caribbean islands.
One night in Curacao - somehow managed to make a friend at the airport and avoid paying an extortionate night in a hotel, which seemed to be the only option. Sudden and unwelcome change from the backpacker, cheap hostel, traveler delight that is South America.
One night in St Lucia.
Not much sleep and a night out in Gros Islets. I guess that's a whole other story.
I got to Martinique and had no idea where I was going to be sleeping that night or what really to do. French, dead and buried, I used to be able to speak this language. Everything was familiar but in a very distant sense. Almost dreamlike. Some details were as clear as day the same as before and others weren't. It was hard to tell the difference between what I had misremembered, what I had forgotten and what had actually changed.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Santa Marta
Santa Marta gave me freedom at last from my grumpy hanger-on. I escaped and left him lazy, grumpy, hot and sweaty in Cartagena. At long last. I wanted to go to the beach, try and find a boat to the Caribbean and maybe go to Tayrona Park. I also had to research the Plan B in the event I failed to find a boat, I needed the cheapest route to Martinique. Not easy, Colombia - Fort-de-France tapped into flight search engines were quoting $2000. I was in spitting distance of the islands, there is no way I need to pay that much. There was certainly a cheaper way. I was looking for ferries from Venezuela to Trinidad, apparently there used to be boats but they stopped running.
My journey to Santa Marta was pleasant, a small mini van type bus with a guy selling arepas deep fried and filled with egg and I'm not sure what else(another South American deep fried treat). Music and a film. Getting to this bus was a bit of a nightmare, following confusing directions we found a 'bus stop' for a local bus to the bus terminal. Fully loaded with my daily expanding backpack, I bought a fan and some new shampoo in Cartagena, how I found space for these small items with my backpack already bursting, I have no idea. The scorching midday sun was beating down on me as a waddled through the streets. Humidity was as ever up at full whack. The bus I got on was ancient, rickety, dusty, dirty. The steps where steep, the bus itself already high from the pavement, I nearly had to crawl on, my knees buckling under the weight of my backpack. Assisted, embarrassed, I climbed on and plonked myself down on a threadbare seat. Adieu Cartagena.
The best and worst thing about Cartagena were the horse-drawn carriages that circulated around the city's cobbled streets. They were horrifying, how can one horse pull all that? The carriages themselves were huge but loaded with a driver and a pack of toursists. Hardcore. The poor things in the searing heat and humidity of Cartagena, I couldn't bear to imagine how hard that physical labour was. Lined up in the squares or any small space, waiting for tourists, strapped in with their blinkers over their eyes. I searched for their pained expressions but couldn't see past the eye sheilds. At night in the hostel, I would sit out on the balcony with a book or my laptop. At intervals of no more than 15 minutes they would approach, turn down our street, hooves clapping along the cobbles in that stride of rhythm, getting louder as they neared the hostel and then fading again as they passed by. There was something romantic to me in the idea of these horses, the sound of their hooves on these old cobbled streets, like this had been happening for centuries. Hooves clapping down on the cobbles, these old streets, people like me sitting out on balconies under a starry hot night, only now the horses were ferrying around tourists instead of whoever they carried around before. Cartagena feels steeped in history, the chunky colonial balconied buildings, walled city, cobbled Streets, it's easy to let your imagination run wild.
The horrible contrast between the horses I imagined that coursed through the city before and those that run the tourist trail with their terrifyingly big carriages somehow encapsulated Cartagena, beautiful, historic but a modern day tourist trap. Romantic, if you are there with a lover, but you'll be sharing the romance with lots of other visitors.
Once on the bus I felt free, the hanger-on was a weight, he SERIOUSLY cramped my style. I was happy to be alone, sat in the bus watching the dry green vegetation pass by, small Colombian towns, water. Twilight broke and night started to fall, we finally pulled into the bus station and I once again had to find a hostel.
Santa Marta was dirty, like the worst parts of Cartagena but I kind of liked it. The only thing was, on my first evening I walked past a grotty old house on the way back to my hostel, I hear the desperate meows of tiny kittens, I looked inside the deserted doorway filled with rubbish and saw two little white kittens padding around barely able to see or open their eyes. Filthy. Failing over, weak and too young to walk. Screaming their little lungs out, searching desperately for their mother. Other cats were in this deserted doorway, but they were neither breast feeding nor female as far as I could see. I at first imagined that perhaps the mother had been run over but later came to the conclusion that they had been abandoned. I bought some tuna from a shop across the road but they couldn't eat it. I bought some milk but they dint know what to do with that either. They were not even weened. Locals walking by stopped and asked me what I was doing. Two boys stopped seperately to help me with my kitten saving mission and we talked for a while. To anyone who walked past vaguely interested I desperately tried to convince them to take them home. This failed. I didn't want to leave them meowing away in the doorway searching for their mother all night with other adult cats, mostly male. We managed to syphon some milk into their mouths and they fell alseep in our laps. Tiny, innocent and facing certain death, it was decided, Santa Marta was a kitten saving operation. Not an easy task in a town seriously over populated by cats, the local population seemed to divide into cat lovers and haters. The cat lovers all seemed to already have several of their own at home.
The hostel owner wouldn't let me bring them into the hostel, not even in a box. So we had to leave them to the mercy of fate that night. I woke up at dawn the next day and went to a bakery to buy some juice and ask for an empty box and took them to a vet. The vet said he couldn't help but gave me a syringe for free with which I could at least feed them.
I spent the day at a different hostel, where one of my travel friends happened to be, by pure coincidence we were both in Santa Marta. She was staying in a great backpacker hangout, appropriately named 'Dreamers', with hammocks, a pool and outside kitchen it was aptly named. We spent the day caring for the kittens and chatting, taking a break whilst they were asleep to go to the supermarket and make ourselves some fresh and tasty guacamole.
The kitten saga turned into a desperate nightmare. I took then to the supermarket and sat out with them offering them to anyone who was interested. Mild interest was always extinguished when they saw how young they were. I was told to just leave them and someone would come along and pick them up, but I didnt want to leave them to maybe get picked up, possibly starve, perhaps get eaten by rats, or godknows what. I was getting desperate. I needed to move, I was expected in Martinique. I needed to find a boat or book a flight.
Eventually, just when I was about to lose all hope, I walked into a vet's to replace the lost feeding syringe and the woman who worked there offered to take them. I hope they ended up in safe hands...really hope.
Kitten saga over, I had to continue with my search of how to get to Martinique. I was due there in a few days. I was going to have to fly. I spent the rest of my time in Santa Marta taking a relaxed look around the harbour, beach, shops and market. I hung out with some guys in my hostel, one of whom had been traveling in Venezuela and just crossed the border. I want to go traveling in Venezuela! But seriously.
Santa Marta gave me freedom at last from my grumpy hanger-on. I escaped and left him lazy, grumpy, hot and sweaty in Cartagena. At long last. I wanted to go to the beach, try and find a boat to the Caribbean and maybe go to Tayrona Park. I also had to research the Plan B in the event I failed to find a boat, I needed the cheapest route to Martinique. Not easy, Colombia - Fort-de-France tapped into flight search engines were quoting $2000. I was in spitting distance of the islands, there is no way I need to pay that much. There was certainly a cheaper way. I was looking for ferries from Venezuela to Trinidad, apparently there used to be boats but they stopped running.
My journey to Santa Marta was pleasant, a small mini van type bus with a guy selling arepas deep fried and filled with egg and I'm not sure what else(another South American deep fried treat). Music and a film. Getting to this bus was a bit of a nightmare, following confusing directions we found a 'bus stop' for a local bus to the bus terminal. Fully loaded with my daily expanding backpack, I bought a fan and some new shampoo in Cartagena, how I found space for these small items with my backpack already bursting, I have no idea. The scorching midday sun was beating down on me as a waddled through the streets. Humidity was as ever up at full whack. The bus I got on was ancient, rickety, dusty, dirty. The steps where steep, the bus itself already high from the pavement, I nearly had to crawl on, my knees buckling under the weight of my backpack. Assisted, embarrassed, I climbed on and plonked myself down on a threadbare seat. Adieu Cartagena.
The best and worst thing about Cartagena were the horse-drawn carriages that circulated around the city's cobbled streets. They were horrifying, how can one horse pull all that? The carriages themselves were huge but loaded with a driver and a pack of toursists. Hardcore. The poor things in the searing heat and humidity of Cartagena, I couldn't bear to imagine how hard that physical labour was. Lined up in the squares or any small space, waiting for tourists, strapped in with their blinkers over their eyes. I searched for their pained expressions but couldn't see past the eye sheilds. At night in the hostel, I would sit out on the balcony with a book or my laptop. At intervals of no more than 15 minutes they would approach, turn down our street, hooves clapping along the cobbles in that stride of rhythm, getting louder as they neared the hostel and then fading again as they passed by. There was something romantic to me in the idea of these horses, the sound of their hooves on these old cobbled streets, like this had been happening for centuries. Hooves clapping down on the cobbles, these old streets, people like me sitting out on balconies under a starry hot night, only now the horses were ferrying around tourists instead of whoever they carried around before. Cartagena feels steeped in history, the chunky colonial balconied buildings, walled city, cobbled Streets, it's easy to let your imagination run wild.
The horrible contrast between the horses I imagined that coursed through the city before and those that run the tourist trail with their terrifyingly big carriages somehow encapsulated Cartagena, beautiful, historic but a modern day tourist trap. Romantic, if you are there with a lover, but you'll be sharing the romance with lots of other visitors.
Once on the bus I felt free, the hanger-on was a weight, he SERIOUSLY cramped my style. I was happy to be alone, sat in the bus watching the dry green vegetation pass by, small Colombian towns, water. Twilight broke and night started to fall, we finally pulled into the bus station and I once again had to find a hostel.
Santa Marta was dirty, like the worst parts of Cartagena but I kind of liked it. The only thing was, on my first evening I walked past a grotty old house on the way back to my hostel, I hear the desperate meows of tiny kittens, I looked inside the deserted doorway filled with rubbish and saw two little white kittens padding around barely able to see or open their eyes. Filthy. Failing over, weak and too young to walk. Screaming their little lungs out, searching desperately for their mother. Other cats were in this deserted doorway, but they were neither breast feeding nor female as far as I could see. I at first imagined that perhaps the mother had been run over but later came to the conclusion that they had been abandoned. I bought some tuna from a shop across the road but they couldn't eat it. I bought some milk but they dint know what to do with that either. They were not even weened. Locals walking by stopped and asked me what I was doing. Two boys stopped seperately to help me with my kitten saving mission and we talked for a while. To anyone who walked past vaguely interested I desperately tried to convince them to take them home. This failed. I didn't want to leave them meowing away in the doorway searching for their mother all night with other adult cats, mostly male. We managed to syphon some milk into their mouths and they fell alseep in our laps. Tiny, innocent and facing certain death, it was decided, Santa Marta was a kitten saving operation. Not an easy task in a town seriously over populated by cats, the local population seemed to divide into cat lovers and haters. The cat lovers all seemed to already have several of their own at home.
The hostel owner wouldn't let me bring them into the hostel, not even in a box. So we had to leave them to the mercy of fate that night. I woke up at dawn the next day and went to a bakery to buy some juice and ask for an empty box and took them to a vet. The vet said he couldn't help but gave me a syringe for free with which I could at least feed them.
I spent the day at a different hostel, where one of my travel friends happened to be, by pure coincidence we were both in Santa Marta. She was staying in a great backpacker hangout, appropriately named 'Dreamers', with hammocks, a pool and outside kitchen it was aptly named. We spent the day caring for the kittens and chatting, taking a break whilst they were asleep to go to the supermarket and make ourselves some fresh and tasty guacamole.
The kitten saga turned into a desperate nightmare. I took then to the supermarket and sat out with them offering them to anyone who was interested. Mild interest was always extinguished when they saw how young they were. I was told to just leave them and someone would come along and pick them up, but I didnt want to leave them to maybe get picked up, possibly starve, perhaps get eaten by rats, or godknows what. I was getting desperate. I needed to move, I was expected in Martinique. I needed to find a boat or book a flight.
Eventually, just when I was about to lose all hope, I walked into a vet's to replace the lost feeding syringe and the woman who worked there offered to take them. I hope they ended up in safe hands...really hope.
Kitten saga over, I had to continue with my search of how to get to Martinique. I was due there in a few days. I was going to have to fly. I spent the rest of my time in Santa Marta taking a relaxed look around the harbour, beach, shops and market. I hung out with some guys in my hostel, one of whom had been traveling in Venezuela and just crossed the border. I want to go traveling in Venezuela! But seriously.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Cartagena
One word to summarise Cartagena - sweaty. The humidity levels must have been through the roof. The first morning, stepping out into the street, sun beating down, in search of some breakfast we were sweat central in no time. Water, please.
Cartagena is stunningly beautiful within the city walls, colonial balconied building with columns and arches create a maze of streets. It was too easy to get lost, I was never not disorientated wandering round. It's expensive and possibly not that backpacker friendly but would be the PERFECT place to go on a romantic getaway if you stayed in one of the boutique hotels.
On our first night we got a taxi from the bus to one of the hostel's in my guidebook. It was full so we found somewhere across the road which the hanger-on HATED. It was definitely not the best but for me it was FAR from the worst place I've spent a night. After interminable hours spent on the bus I didn't want to search around so we agreed to find somewhere else the next day. The main priority being, as ever for me, to unload backpacks, take a good shower and then search for a cheap but good meal. We wandered around a little to see what sort of food we might be able to get that evening. We were immediately attacked by some guy called Marco who spoke good English with an American accent. He wanted to sell us coke. We said we weren't interested in buying any coke and he then offered us weed. We didn't want that either. He wouldn't let us go even after we declined his offer, he talked and told us about his need for money for his girlfriend and daughter at home. A desperate drug dealer, not cool. We eventually got rid of him and found a grotty looking place to eat because they apparently did curry. We also couldn't find anywhere else. It wasn't the best 'curry' but not the worst either.
I was keen to stretch my legs but grumpy hanger-on was in a mood and just wanted to go back to the hostel, he thought Cartagena was a shit hole, we weren't in the nicest of places but I had high hopes for a day-light excursion. He hated the hostel and was going to let it ruin the evening when we could have been positive and wound down after the long bus journey. He is a hostel nightmare. I have stayed in a mixture of all sorts of different places - all singing, all dancing backpacker hostels with bars and tour companies, cheap nasty places and average hostels where you get more of a mixed crowd or possibly friendly family owners. The cheap nasty places are a great way to save and appreciate the nicer backpacker places. I also like to feel like I'm not always just hanging out with hoards of other travelers in bars, there are bars at home with those kinds of people in.
Grumpy hanger-on was so miserable that Cartagena consisted of lone walks around the city and not much else. I made a pilgrimage out to the marina, only to discover they wouldn't let me in, I was hoping I could somehow get a boat into the islands and find my way by water over to Martinique. Cast out like a fraud or a mischievous tramp, I couldn't get to the notice board to see if anyone was looking for crew to sail anywhere in the Caribbean, this was most frustrating. I thought ANYONE could get into certain parts of any marina and have a look at notice boards, boats, the water etc. Boat hitchhiking is fairly common place - what's with the exclusivity Cartagaena?
My series of walks allowed me to soak up as much as I could of Cartagena, we opted out of getting the boat across to Playa Blanca. This was a mistake, it does look stunning but also seems slightly backpacker infested. The best thing about Cartagena was the architecture. The city wall, balconied colonial centre and the fort just outside the city walls. Walking around the bougainvilleas and climbing plants that were blooming, stretching out across the sides of the city buildings catching the sunlight. Got some photos, will post once I've resolved my laptop issues.
For some reason while in Cartagena I was desperate to find a touristy t-shirt with parrots illustrated on the front. I failed, I saw such t-shirts in Leticia and SHOULD have got one there. I NEED a Parrot t-shirt. In Bogota I saw some bag with a cool illustration on the front referencing the fact that parrots mate for life.
We were skint in Cartagena but I managed to find a great veggie place that was also a kind of commune offering yoga classes. The food was amazing and just what I needed to counter-act my diet of empanadas. Lentils, salads and soups. With fresh juice for 8000 pesos. A steal. I love eating food that is guilt-free, cheap and delicious.
One word to summarise Cartagena - sweaty. The humidity levels must have been through the roof. The first morning, stepping out into the street, sun beating down, in search of some breakfast we were sweat central in no time. Water, please.
Cartagena is stunningly beautiful within the city walls, colonial balconied building with columns and arches create a maze of streets. It was too easy to get lost, I was never not disorientated wandering round. It's expensive and possibly not that backpacker friendly but would be the PERFECT place to go on a romantic getaway if you stayed in one of the boutique hotels.
On our first night we got a taxi from the bus to one of the hostel's in my guidebook. It was full so we found somewhere across the road which the hanger-on HATED. It was definitely not the best but for me it was FAR from the worst place I've spent a night. After interminable hours spent on the bus I didn't want to search around so we agreed to find somewhere else the next day. The main priority being, as ever for me, to unload backpacks, take a good shower and then search for a cheap but good meal. We wandered around a little to see what sort of food we might be able to get that evening. We were immediately attacked by some guy called Marco who spoke good English with an American accent. He wanted to sell us coke. We said we weren't interested in buying any coke and he then offered us weed. We didn't want that either. He wouldn't let us go even after we declined his offer, he talked and told us about his need for money for his girlfriend and daughter at home. A desperate drug dealer, not cool. We eventually got rid of him and found a grotty looking place to eat because they apparently did curry. We also couldn't find anywhere else. It wasn't the best 'curry' but not the worst either.
I was keen to stretch my legs but grumpy hanger-on was in a mood and just wanted to go back to the hostel, he thought Cartagena was a shit hole, we weren't in the nicest of places but I had high hopes for a day-light excursion. He hated the hostel and was going to let it ruin the evening when we could have been positive and wound down after the long bus journey. He is a hostel nightmare. I have stayed in a mixture of all sorts of different places - all singing, all dancing backpacker hostels with bars and tour companies, cheap nasty places and average hostels where you get more of a mixed crowd or possibly friendly family owners. The cheap nasty places are a great way to save and appreciate the nicer backpacker places. I also like to feel like I'm not always just hanging out with hoards of other travelers in bars, there are bars at home with those kinds of people in.
Grumpy hanger-on was so miserable that Cartagena consisted of lone walks around the city and not much else. I made a pilgrimage out to the marina, only to discover they wouldn't let me in, I was hoping I could somehow get a boat into the islands and find my way by water over to Martinique. Cast out like a fraud or a mischievous tramp, I couldn't get to the notice board to see if anyone was looking for crew to sail anywhere in the Caribbean, this was most frustrating. I thought ANYONE could get into certain parts of any marina and have a look at notice boards, boats, the water etc. Boat hitchhiking is fairly common place - what's with the exclusivity Cartagaena?
My series of walks allowed me to soak up as much as I could of Cartagena, we opted out of getting the boat across to Playa Blanca. This was a mistake, it does look stunning but also seems slightly backpacker infested. The best thing about Cartagena was the architecture. The city wall, balconied colonial centre and the fort just outside the city walls. Walking around the bougainvilleas and climbing plants that were blooming, stretching out across the sides of the city buildings catching the sunlight. Got some photos, will post once I've resolved my laptop issues.
For some reason while in Cartagena I was desperate to find a touristy t-shirt with parrots illustrated on the front. I failed, I saw such t-shirts in Leticia and SHOULD have got one there. I NEED a Parrot t-shirt. In Bogota I saw some bag with a cool illustration on the front referencing the fact that parrots mate for life.
We were skint in Cartagena but I managed to find a great veggie place that was also a kind of commune offering yoga classes. The food was amazing and just what I needed to counter-act my diet of empanadas. Lentils, salads and soups. With fresh juice for 8000 pesos. A steal. I love eating food that is guilt-free, cheap and delicious.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
La Zona Cafetera
The coffee region and a little town called Salento in particular were getting great reviews from other travelers. So before heading up the Caribbean coast for the final stretch of the trip, me and the grumpy hanger-on went to Salento for a whistle-stop visit.
The region is indeed beautiful and Salento was a charming little colonial town. The mountain scenery was stunning, sun dappled, lush green, mountainous but not as monstrously high up and imposing as the La Paz and Cuzco. The kind of place were you can enjoy being in nature, tropical produce growing bountifully, wide open space, breath-taking views.
Upon arrival, it was difficult to find a hostel that was clean and open. We ended up arguing over where to stay, I wanted to check into a hippy hostel, install my hammock, cook and smoke weed with the Latin American traveler crowd. I didn't get my way, I even proposed we stay in different places, I needed to economise and my hippy place was half the price of his one. The frustrating burden of compromising with someone you barely know and don't really want to travel with. Not cool. I gave in, grudgingly and we installed ourselves for the night, the place was nice, with a panther-like pet cat and a sunken garden. But we showered and headed out straight away to find some dinner.
Fortunately we bumped into a relaxed Australian guy who had been in the hostel I stayed at in Bogota. We ate empanadas bought from a street vendor on the square and went to play a strange game involving sand pits and explosives. We united with a hoard of other backpackers, some of whom we had met in Cali and we all tried our hands at this game. You had to launch metal disks at triangular targets in the sand to set of a small explosion. We played or hours along side some locals, we paid nothing other than the price of our beers and the owners seemed happy to replenish the little triangular targets every time someone hit them and set off the explosion. I was surprised when I hit the target on almost my first attempt, but then sadly spent the rest of the evening failing to even toss the disk into the sand pit or anywhere near where it was supposed to go. It was as though there was a magnetic force-field whenever it was my turn, I tried to drink more Aguila beer to loosen up - a technique that can work when evenings turn into pool table drinking sessions. My attempt was in vain.
We went to bed early to wake up early and get a 4x4 into the country nearby to do a small hike where the rubber palms grow, planning on coming back in the afternoon to visit one of the local coffee plantations. Devastatingly, we never made it to the coffee plantation. I wanted to meet a coffee grower in a hat and poncho with a donkey. Instead after taking a wrong turn we got stuck scaling the side of the mountain for 8 SOLID HOURS. My body was BROKEN afterwards. Our determined sports scientist Australian was not going to admit defeat and was leading us further into the wild, but having been told that the walk was an easy circuit that took 3-4 hours I was thinking we should have already reached the start/finish. Luckily we bumped into a local who was marching down the mountainside with several horses and asked him for directions. We were told that we were indeed lost and miles away from where we were supposed to be. Defeated we turned around.
Thankfully the way back was mostly down hill, down a very muddy, slippery hill. We had no food, us since we hadn't planned on walking so long or working so hard. We were going to have lunch in the little village, breakfast had consisted of a coffee. A very good coffee, but not quite enough to sustain you through such a long and gruelling trek.
Admittedy, it was beautiful. Mountainside, riverside, we crossed over and walked along the stream at several points on bent over tree trunks and crumbling bridges. And for the entire journey we were accompanied by a friendly black dog, who we named 'dog'. I've done quite a few South American walks with random dogs.
When we finally made it back to the little village where we had started everywhere was shut so we couldn't even get water or a coffee for a quick pick me up and to rehydrate. The second problem was that the 4x4s which we had taken to get there were no longer in operation. Facing another long walk to get back to Salento, we tried to call a taxi but failed. Depressed and starving, we started dragging our weary feet along the tarmac. By the grace of God a kind Colombian family with a pick-up stopped and drove us into town. They dropped us off a block or two away from the center so the police didn't see. We stopped immediately at a little shop to buy empanadas and drinks. Empanadas feature quite heavily in my diet at the moment. With plenty of chili sauce. We ate the lot in a matter of seconds, we ate so quickly that we stopped at a second place to buy more before we hit the town center and sat down for some pizza.
We had to hurry to get the first of many buses on our mission bus journey all the way to Cartagena via Medellin. I was worried about the effect of the contrast of a day of hardcore hiking and a day spent sat on a bus would have on my confused body. I can be a fidgeter. Needing to fidget when you are stuck on a bus for 20+ hours is not fun.
It was so wistle-stop that I only had two cups of coffee in Salento but they were perfect and by FAR the best coffee I've had so far in Colombia.
The coffee region and a little town called Salento in particular were getting great reviews from other travelers. So before heading up the Caribbean coast for the final stretch of the trip, me and the grumpy hanger-on went to Salento for a whistle-stop visit.
The region is indeed beautiful and Salento was a charming little colonial town. The mountain scenery was stunning, sun dappled, lush green, mountainous but not as monstrously high up and imposing as the La Paz and Cuzco. The kind of place were you can enjoy being in nature, tropical produce growing bountifully, wide open space, breath-taking views.
Upon arrival, it was difficult to find a hostel that was clean and open. We ended up arguing over where to stay, I wanted to check into a hippy hostel, install my hammock, cook and smoke weed with the Latin American traveler crowd. I didn't get my way, I even proposed we stay in different places, I needed to economise and my hippy place was half the price of his one. The frustrating burden of compromising with someone you barely know and don't really want to travel with. Not cool. I gave in, grudgingly and we installed ourselves for the night, the place was nice, with a panther-like pet cat and a sunken garden. But we showered and headed out straight away to find some dinner.
Fortunately we bumped into a relaxed Australian guy who had been in the hostel I stayed at in Bogota. We ate empanadas bought from a street vendor on the square and went to play a strange game involving sand pits and explosives. We united with a hoard of other backpackers, some of whom we had met in Cali and we all tried our hands at this game. You had to launch metal disks at triangular targets in the sand to set of a small explosion. We played or hours along side some locals, we paid nothing other than the price of our beers and the owners seemed happy to replenish the little triangular targets every time someone hit them and set off the explosion. I was surprised when I hit the target on almost my first attempt, but then sadly spent the rest of the evening failing to even toss the disk into the sand pit or anywhere near where it was supposed to go. It was as though there was a magnetic force-field whenever it was my turn, I tried to drink more Aguila beer to loosen up - a technique that can work when evenings turn into pool table drinking sessions. My attempt was in vain.
source:www.brandsoftheworld.com
We went to bed early to wake up early and get a 4x4 into the country nearby to do a small hike where the rubber palms grow, planning on coming back in the afternoon to visit one of the local coffee plantations. Devastatingly, we never made it to the coffee plantation. I wanted to meet a coffee grower in a hat and poncho with a donkey. Instead after taking a wrong turn we got stuck scaling the side of the mountain for 8 SOLID HOURS. My body was BROKEN afterwards. Our determined sports scientist Australian was not going to admit defeat and was leading us further into the wild, but having been told that the walk was an easy circuit that took 3-4 hours I was thinking we should have already reached the start/finish. Luckily we bumped into a local who was marching down the mountainside with several horses and asked him for directions. We were told that we were indeed lost and miles away from where we were supposed to be. Defeated we turned around.
source:www.pwp.etb.net.co
Thankfully the way back was mostly down hill, down a very muddy, slippery hill. We had no food, us since we hadn't planned on walking so long or working so hard. We were going to have lunch in the little village, breakfast had consisted of a coffee. A very good coffee, but not quite enough to sustain you through such a long and gruelling trek.
Admittedy, it was beautiful. Mountainside, riverside, we crossed over and walked along the stream at several points on bent over tree trunks and crumbling bridges. And for the entire journey we were accompanied by a friendly black dog, who we named 'dog'. I've done quite a few South American walks with random dogs.
When we finally made it back to the little village where we had started everywhere was shut so we couldn't even get water or a coffee for a quick pick me up and to rehydrate. The second problem was that the 4x4s which we had taken to get there were no longer in operation. Facing another long walk to get back to Salento, we tried to call a taxi but failed. Depressed and starving, we started dragging our weary feet along the tarmac. By the grace of God a kind Colombian family with a pick-up stopped and drove us into town. They dropped us off a block or two away from the center so the police didn't see. We stopped immediately at a little shop to buy empanadas and drinks. Empanadas feature quite heavily in my diet at the moment. With plenty of chili sauce. We ate the lot in a matter of seconds, we ate so quickly that we stopped at a second place to buy more before we hit the town center and sat down for some pizza.
We had to hurry to get the first of many buses on our mission bus journey all the way to Cartagena via Medellin. I was worried about the effect of the contrast of a day of hardcore hiking and a day spent sat on a bus would have on my confused body. I can be a fidgeter. Needing to fidget when you are stuck on a bus for 20+ hours is not fun.
It was so wistle-stop that I only had two cups of coffee in Salento but they were perfect and by FAR the best coffee I've had so far in Colombia.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Cali
It wasn't entierly logical but having gone up as far as Medellin from Bogota, I then caught the bus back down and across towards the Pacific coast to see what Cali was like. Cali coffee, salsa, music, I had to visit.
I had teamed up but accident (more like he was following me but I didnt enjoy babysitting a grumpy, slow moving, English guy who was pretty much only motivated to drink vodka when night fell). I wanted to suit myself for the rest of the journey, I tried to shake him off several times but was utterly unsucessful in my various attempts. We fought and disagreed a lot and generally it wasn't easy or pleasurable. A nasty contrast to my other friends where we nearly always agreed, wanted the same things and worked well in a team to get from A to B and enjoy yourselves and each other's company whilst we were at it.
Cali was humid and sweaty, not at all pleasing to look at, in fact decidedly ugly. Once there, we weren't sure what there was to do. Salsa? There were some parks and waterfalls nearby but we stuck to the city centre. I explored in my usual fashion, even went running a couple of times. Nights in salsa clubs were fun, although I was intimidated by the amazing moves everyone had. In one place they even stopped the dancing for about 15 minutes whilst we watched a professional couple. I wish I could dance, not even like that just reasonably well.
I think my strange highlight of Cali was walking into the centre with some travel friends and not really finding anything to see or do, instead happening upon a small sunken square where there were several typewriters and men typing at them. We asked what they were for and were told that they were for love notes of messages for people, you could go to them if you wanted to tell your loved one something but didnt have the right words. This notion struck me both as brilliant and bizarre. For a personal and romantic note you need someone else to do it for you? This is a message from the bottom of my heart...haha. But at the same time it's hard to put certain things into words and do it well. The notion struck me as typically Latin and I loved it. I wondered how long this square had existed, how much money they made out of their trade and how much longer people would be typing messages and notes for clients and passersby. I wondered if this little scene reverberated around the country in other towns. The square of typewriters...
I found Chontodoro (a strange red fruit that tastes to me a little bit like potato but you eat it raw, just peel off the skin). I've never seen it anywhere other than Costa Rica before. I ate it EVERY time I saw a street seller offering it, knowing I could wait years or never get the chance to eat it again. In Colombia they eat it with honey or salt, it's tasty with either, both or by itself. In Costa Rica I ate it with mayonaise. When I have my own garden, I might try and cultiate my own chontodoro. I dont even know if it grows on trees or plants, I imagine it comes from some sort of palm but that is a WILD guess.
Met some nice people in Cali, got quite sweaty in the humidity and all the moments that I captured with my camera will be posted once I get my laptop issues sorted out.
Medellin
Medellin was mint. I can't say my days there were always jam-packed but they were mint. As a traveler in the city life was relaxed, the hostels I saw were great, one even had a pool, volleyball court and ping-pong table. Why, ever leave a hostel quite so well equipped? I was happy perched on the hillside in Poblado. My first day in Medellin was my last day with my friends I'd been traveling with since Bolivia, sad to leave them but excited about doing the rest of Colombia alone and wondering who I might end up traveling with next. In Medellin, we went out, we met Roberto Escobar, we took the cable car to ride out to the slums and see the city from the air, we went to the pueblo paisa, ate some really good local food, saw some Bolano sculptures, sat in some botanical gardens and generally had a pretty good time.
It was warm and huge, a city sprawling out across a bowl-like valley in the mountains, the slums even stretched over the other side of the hilltop, accessed by this impressive system of cable cars and even an outside elevator, so I'm told but I never saw it. Walking around the city, apart from in the center I was always climbing up or going down some sort of slope. Trying to take it all in, it seemed so varied, so much going on, a city you could really sink your teeth into. The never ending twists and turns of the roads and pavements always presented something different, a mixture of exotic vegetation, gushing pebble lined rivers and streams, orchids, tropical flowers and palms growing anywhere that wasn't covered in concrete, small and large buildings, traditional and monstrously modern. There was always a pleasurable juxtaposition of city architecture and nature blooming with all its force. The landscapes in Medellin were dynamic, sensory, absorbing.
And much like many of the other South American cities I visited so far (apart from La Paz and Cusco) the shopping in Medellin would have been great if I had had any money. My budget was less than shoe string at this point.
Me and my long term travel buddies finished on a high note, the Escobar tour (another tour, but not your average tour) followed by some incredibly tasty and at long last healthy sushi for dinner which we enjoyed in the comfortable hostel with the pool as the sun sank low in the sky and they prepared for their last night bus which would take them to Cartagena for their last couple of days in South America. The Escobar tour was a visit to various sites around the city where Pablo Escobar operated, the cemetery where he and his family members are buried, an empty building which the Medellin cartel used that was covered in graffiti messages such as 'Escobar is not dead,' and to Roberto (his brother's) house! Being inside Roberto Escobar's house, meeting him and his dog Chocolate was obviously the highlight of the tour and possibly my entire trip. He was a timid and extremely polite man in his 60's who welcomed us, showing family photos of his parents, his siblings and his brother, his old racing bike (he was a professional cyclist, career was blighted by his brother's reputation), some of Pablo's cars. He showed us the scars on his sofa where armed kidnappers had broken into the house and opened fire, failing in their attempt to kidnap but leaving bullet holes in the sofa and part of the wall behind. There was also a secret hiding place, a false wall behind a shelving alcove in the living room. I was quite surprised when he disappeared behind the rotating section of wall. The visit was an experience, absorbing, a living breathing museum. Roberto's sight and hearing is severely impaired from when he was sent a package bomb which exploded in his face whilst he was in prison. We had our photos taken with him and got to ask some questions and were encouraged to buy photographs and dvds, all of the proceeds going to children with AIDS in Colombia, a charity he had set up. It was fascinating to be standing in front of him, wondering all of unimaginable things he had lived through. He seemed friendly, gentle, perhaps due to his partial vision and bad hearing. He is neither proud nor apologetic for what his brother did, but one thing is for sure and that is that they were close and he knew about all of the cartel's activities. Escobar is in some senses a bit of a Robin Hood figure, detestable because he bought bloody violence and shame to the country but popular because he wanted to improve people living in poverty's lives, he wanted his country to advance, he believed that no one should be born into to or have to live through the kind of poverty he had been born into and known as a child.
I noticed the poverty bursting out of the cracks in the concrete of Medekkin. The taxi I took, the early morning I arrived at the bus terminal, in the bright light driving along the riverside I could see traces of people who were living in the numerous urban caves, sheltered by the lip created by the road above. My friends had arrived at night a few days before and confirmed they saw kerosene lamps and candles burning in these street side camps. One night we went out locally, got a bit drunk with a guy in my hostel, had no idea where the others had gone but hoped to find them and dance, continue the party. Instead we wandered around some bars and then sat in a square. Some young children came over to us to try and sell us cigarettes, chewing gum, sweets. The first boy was probably 8, his sister a little older. We talked to them for a while, concerned and curious as to why they were on the streets like that late at night, where were their parents? Both had died in an accident, they were trying to get enough money to get home and to pay for their night in the shelter. We asked how much and gave it to them. They stayed with us for a bit, perhaps feeling safe, comforted before they set off on thier long journey. It was an abrupt jolt back to reality for me. What had started as a fun night of drinks and salsa ended with us going back to the hostel with heavy hearts.
I need to volunteer. I also need to learn how to salsa!
I have some cool photos of Medellin BUT I just killed my laptop and until I get some cash together to get a hard drive I am surviving with a machine loaned from a friend. This experience has taught me that we can't live without computers or internet for long these days and that I should back a few important things up.
Medellin was mint. I can't say my days there were always jam-packed but they were mint. As a traveler in the city life was relaxed, the hostels I saw were great, one even had a pool, volleyball court and ping-pong table. Why, ever leave a hostel quite so well equipped? I was happy perched on the hillside in Poblado. My first day in Medellin was my last day with my friends I'd been traveling with since Bolivia, sad to leave them but excited about doing the rest of Colombia alone and wondering who I might end up traveling with next. In Medellin, we went out, we met Roberto Escobar, we took the cable car to ride out to the slums and see the city from the air, we went to the pueblo paisa, ate some really good local food, saw some Bolano sculptures, sat in some botanical gardens and generally had a pretty good time.
It was warm and huge, a city sprawling out across a bowl-like valley in the mountains, the slums even stretched over the other side of the hilltop, accessed by this impressive system of cable cars and even an outside elevator, so I'm told but I never saw it. Walking around the city, apart from in the center I was always climbing up or going down some sort of slope. Trying to take it all in, it seemed so varied, so much going on, a city you could really sink your teeth into. The never ending twists and turns of the roads and pavements always presented something different, a mixture of exotic vegetation, gushing pebble lined rivers and streams, orchids, tropical flowers and palms growing anywhere that wasn't covered in concrete, small and large buildings, traditional and monstrously modern. There was always a pleasurable juxtaposition of city architecture and nature blooming with all its force. The landscapes in Medellin were dynamic, sensory, absorbing.
And much like many of the other South American cities I visited so far (apart from La Paz and Cusco) the shopping in Medellin would have been great if I had had any money. My budget was less than shoe string at this point.
Me and my long term travel buddies finished on a high note, the Escobar tour (another tour, but not your average tour) followed by some incredibly tasty and at long last healthy sushi for dinner which we enjoyed in the comfortable hostel with the pool as the sun sank low in the sky and they prepared for their last night bus which would take them to Cartagena for their last couple of days in South America. The Escobar tour was a visit to various sites around the city where Pablo Escobar operated, the cemetery where he and his family members are buried, an empty building which the Medellin cartel used that was covered in graffiti messages such as 'Escobar is not dead,' and to Roberto (his brother's) house! Being inside Roberto Escobar's house, meeting him and his dog Chocolate was obviously the highlight of the tour and possibly my entire trip. He was a timid and extremely polite man in his 60's who welcomed us, showing family photos of his parents, his siblings and his brother, his old racing bike (he was a professional cyclist, career was blighted by his brother's reputation), some of Pablo's cars. He showed us the scars on his sofa where armed kidnappers had broken into the house and opened fire, failing in their attempt to kidnap but leaving bullet holes in the sofa and part of the wall behind. There was also a secret hiding place, a false wall behind a shelving alcove in the living room. I was quite surprised when he disappeared behind the rotating section of wall. The visit was an experience, absorbing, a living breathing museum. Roberto's sight and hearing is severely impaired from when he was sent a package bomb which exploded in his face whilst he was in prison. We had our photos taken with him and got to ask some questions and were encouraged to buy photographs and dvds, all of the proceeds going to children with AIDS in Colombia, a charity he had set up. It was fascinating to be standing in front of him, wondering all of unimaginable things he had lived through. He seemed friendly, gentle, perhaps due to his partial vision and bad hearing. He is neither proud nor apologetic for what his brother did, but one thing is for sure and that is that they were close and he knew about all of the cartel's activities. Escobar is in some senses a bit of a Robin Hood figure, detestable because he bought bloody violence and shame to the country but popular because he wanted to improve people living in poverty's lives, he wanted his country to advance, he believed that no one should be born into to or have to live through the kind of poverty he had been born into and known as a child.
I noticed the poverty bursting out of the cracks in the concrete of Medekkin. The taxi I took, the early morning I arrived at the bus terminal, in the bright light driving along the riverside I could see traces of people who were living in the numerous urban caves, sheltered by the lip created by the road above. My friends had arrived at night a few days before and confirmed they saw kerosene lamps and candles burning in these street side camps. One night we went out locally, got a bit drunk with a guy in my hostel, had no idea where the others had gone but hoped to find them and dance, continue the party. Instead we wandered around some bars and then sat in a square. Some young children came over to us to try and sell us cigarettes, chewing gum, sweets. The first boy was probably 8, his sister a little older. We talked to them for a while, concerned and curious as to why they were on the streets like that late at night, where were their parents? Both had died in an accident, they were trying to get enough money to get home and to pay for their night in the shelter. We asked how much and gave it to them. They stayed with us for a bit, perhaps feeling safe, comforted before they set off on thier long journey. It was an abrupt jolt back to reality for me. What had started as a fun night of drinks and salsa ended with us going back to the hostel with heavy hearts.
I need to volunteer. I also need to learn how to salsa!
I have some cool photos of Medellin BUT I just killed my laptop and until I get some cash together to get a hard drive I am surviving with a machine loaned from a friend. This experience has taught me that we can't live without computers or internet for long these days and that I should back a few important things up.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The time came to leave Bogota, regretfully. The next stop was Medellin. I opted to get the night bus so and tried to make the most of my final day in Bogota. I have long held fantasies of moving to this city and to experience life in one of the the worlds most notorious countries. Absorbing they art and literature scene of this cool city. Maybe one day.
Not before I ran into some hippy rasta guy and had a few beers with him (which I bought - getting sick of hanging out with guys who are skint and footing the bill for them and their waster drinking and drug habits). I at least got to sample the non-backpacker community of Candelaria, we spoke to a few passers by who he knew. It was a contrast to where I had been the previous night, super expensive, quite american feeling district filled with restaurants, shops and bars called Santa Rosa. I was impressed by it but it's not really my scene. We found ourselves in a bar at a 'couch surfing' night but the couch surfing bit didn't seem all that evident as far as I was concerned. It was a standard central london poser sort of meat-market dance drink and hook up sort of night. The lighting was good, the music was alright, the drinks were a rip off and I didn't want to kiss any of the boys at the venue.
So the following night in the lead up/count down to catching the bus. How to get there and exactly when to leave were becoming distant concerns as the beer took hold. This dude was trying to convince me to stay another night in Bogota, if I had fancied him the tiniest bit I probably would have but I needed to catch up with the mates I'd traveled through a lot of Peru with before they moved on to the coast and then back to the UK - they were in their last week.
After the beers I went to pick up my backpack and we caught a local bus across the city to the bus terminal and the next morning, tired and weary I was in Medellin. Hot, sticky, humid. A bright city of contrasts, shiny new impressive districts and poor grotty old ones. Hungry and tired I made my way to a hostel, the wrong hostel, I couldn't find my friends. I dont know where we'd be without Facebook messages.
Not before I ran into some hippy rasta guy and had a few beers with him (which I bought - getting sick of hanging out with guys who are skint and footing the bill for them and their waster drinking and drug habits). I at least got to sample the non-backpacker community of Candelaria, we spoke to a few passers by who he knew. It was a contrast to where I had been the previous night, super expensive, quite american feeling district filled with restaurants, shops and bars called Santa Rosa. I was impressed by it but it's not really my scene. We found ourselves in a bar at a 'couch surfing' night but the couch surfing bit didn't seem all that evident as far as I was concerned. It was a standard central london poser sort of meat-market dance drink and hook up sort of night. The lighting was good, the music was alright, the drinks were a rip off and I didn't want to kiss any of the boys at the venue.
So the following night in the lead up/count down to catching the bus. How to get there and exactly when to leave were becoming distant concerns as the beer took hold. This dude was trying to convince me to stay another night in Bogota, if I had fancied him the tiniest bit I probably would have but I needed to catch up with the mates I'd traveled through a lot of Peru with before they moved on to the coast and then back to the UK - they were in their last week.
After the beers I went to pick up my backpack and we caught a local bus across the city to the bus terminal and the next morning, tired and weary I was in Medellin. Hot, sticky, humid. A bright city of contrasts, shiny new impressive districts and poor grotty old ones. Hungry and tired I made my way to a hostel, the wrong hostel, I couldn't find my friends. I dont know where we'd be without Facebook messages.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)