Cartagena, the Caribbean and Bogotá

Update: 12

Another day, another bus trip. Much like the others, this one wasn't great. It started off at 7.30am with the two of us sitting in the very rear seats which are notoriously the bumpiest. Tam moved to another and managed to fall asleep. I didn't and in hindsight I really should have. I wasn't at my happiest as we passed another bus that had run off the road and was hanging over the edge of a gorge, but I guess I was cheerier than the passengers we saw climbing out of the window and trying to get their luggage before it was lost forever in the Rio Cauca.

That said, I think I neared their discomfort when the little girl across the aisle from me, with sniper-like accuracy, projected travel anger on to my foot. I'm not an aficionado in the subtleties of vomit control, but my understanding of accepted protocol is that the instigator cleans up or, in the case of a child, the parent does. Not so in Colombia. Without even the slightest hint of concern, the mother looks at me, then my foot, shrugs her shoulders and moves to a new seat. Part of me expected her to put in just a token effort to clean it up. Nada. At the next stop, she picks the kid up and they leave the bus. So for the next 10 hours I engaged in the unusual method of killing time by watching vomit dry.

What made the whole thing worse was eight hours in, when my Coke (yes, we're in Colombia, but this was cola) fell on to the floor in its black plastic bag. The kindly gentleman behind me taps me on the shoulder and hands me a similar black plastic bag filled not with my Coke, but with a congealed gift from the satanic 8 year old.

I know I seem to be writing consistently about bus trips, I find this is where the action is.

***  

So half a day later and not overwhelmed with happiness, we arrive at Cartagena bus station. Cartagena for me was a bit like Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. Everyone raves about it and you feel like you're supposed to love it, but the whole time you are wondering what you're missing. It's hot and humid to the extent that you break a sweat just by breathing. It's filthy, you're constantly harassed by beggars, there are legless (both drunk and limbless) people sleeping in doorways and litter everywhere. Neither of us really took to the place so quickly made arrangements to get out of there.

Playa Blanca is a long white beach with very few amenities but far enough away from Cartagena to allow for some quality reading and hammock time. It is reached by catching a forty minute ride on a taxi boat from the market which in itself is a good reason to leave. The market is basically the water's edge where fishermen sell their catches and fishmongers scale and gut them amongst a pile of waste where pelicans pick up the scraps from old discarded tyres floating in stagnant muck. I won't elaborate on the woman I saw lifting her skirt and relieving herself but bear that in mind next time you're offered Caribbean camarones.

After a two hour wait in this "charming and historic city" as the guidebook calls it, the boat took off in a spray of sewage and, with mouths tightly closed, we made our getaway.

Playa Blanca was good and we both enjoyed it, but it took a while to get used to it. Most Europeans' Caribbean holiday experiences involve a smart hotel, a pristine beach, cordon bleu cuisine and air-conditioning.

Ours was similar in that we were in the Caribbean.

As we made ourselves at home in the two bedroom wooden shack with shared bathroom, our neighbours arrived. A good looking, laughing couple hugging and kissing each other. Both very friendly, they came over to us and, giggling, the girl says: "I'm just warning you, we didn't sleep a wink last night." Now I'm not sure if this is an indication of the level of depravity in my own mind, but for the next two minutes I was imaging whips and chains with screaming and acrobatics keeping us up, but it seems my lovely, innocent wife knew straight away that they were referring to the heat and mosquitoes.  I'm just glad I didn't say something that embarrassed all of us.

After a bit of exploring, we found that we could sleep up at the main house where a Kiwi couple and American guy were staying. This sounded like a good idea as the beds up there were on an open platform under a roof and likely to be cooler and, besides, we were keen to speak some English for a change instead of the usual conversations in remedial Spanish about where we're from and whether we have any children.

It didn't take long for us to get into the swing of things, basic as they were. The owner of "Wittenberg" is a religious nut who hands out booklets to all his guests on why Darwin was wrong and Creationism is right. Unfortunately he was away for the duration of our stay so I never got to have what promised to be an entertaining debate. I did manage to get my hands on some of his propaganda though, and have been using it for amusement ever since. I digress.... the point is, he was away which meant for reasons not clear to me, that there was no petrol to run the generator and so nights were spent talking by kerosene lamp light, no fans worked and no water pump worked. This meant that shower time was fun. Two litres of rainwater and an empty margarine tub. Manageable for a week but not your classic beach holiday. Still, it could have been worse.

Meals were surprisingly good. Plenty of fish and prawns (just tell yourself they were caught there and not bought from the market in Cartagena) and great salads. I did pity the vegetarians though who, one evening during a pasta shortage, were treated to mashed potato and a boiled egg. Granted, the boiled egg was peeled for them, but still, not haut cuisine.

This kind of basic existence did have it's benefits though, I mean nobody suffered from constipation. The bats in the toilet hut saw to it that movement was fluid.

Animal life here was impressive. Two twenty-something tourists, while playing cards at dusk on the beach were caught in what we soon learnt was a daily, albeit unusual, occurrence: mosquitoes in the cow paddock drove the cattle so crazy that every evening post sunset about thirty cows would stampede along the beach. This made swimming at night a hazard. If you weren't charged down by terrified bovines, there was a good chance you'd be reminded of their presence by the presents they left in their wake.

Picture mosquitoes evil enough to drive a herd. Now imagine what they would do to delicate human flesh. Britain's strongest repellent was no match for these things. They even bit through clothing.

The beds at Wittenberg were comfortable, although the top sheets weren't used so much for covering you but more for mopping the pools of sweat that formed around you a few minutes after you'd laid down. I know the beds were appreciated as, the night after Dan (our American mate) left, I woke up to breathing in his bed next to me. A bit rattled, I fumbled for my torch and was met by the two beady eyes of the flea-ridden campsite dog staring back at me. I mentioned this to the religious freak's helper who shrugged her shoulders and said that there's nothing they could do to stop the dogs going up there. It seems this was a regular event. It also explained all the other little bites that everyone had but were too small to be attributed to mosquitoes.

I make it sound worse than is was. Wildlife aside, the beds were pretty much on the beach and the seawater was warm and clear. Hammock, sun, beach (admittedly with cow pats), good company and good non-vegetarian food made for a fun week.

When we finally had to get back to Cartagena to fly (yip - we're done with buses) to Bogotá we'd made five new friends and suddenly the place didn't seem so bad. On our first night we hadn't wanted to leave the hotel, but on our last we were salsa-ing late into the night drinking Cuba Libres in a bar that reminded me of somewhere Ernest Hemmingway would have loved. On the first floor of an old 16th century Spanish building with slowly turning ceiling fans opening onto a long balcony overlooking a park, the walls were covered with black and white photos of famous singers and musicians jamming in clouds of smoke.

***

It took an hour and no vomit to get to Bogotá by plane which, contrary to what you might think, is a very pleasant and pretty city. Built on the side of tree covered mountains, it's the third highest capital city in South America behind La Paz and Quito. The historic downtown (La Candelaria) is clean and has some very impressive old buildings. It also makes a great place from where to send postcards to your mates who didn't believe you'd ever have the courage to go there.

The highlight of this weekend, though, must have been the reunion of  Tam's birthday partiers from the Galapagos. Bruce, you remember el Diablo, made the effort to meet up with us here and Chris (on his way to Venezuela) arrived yesterday too, so the four of us have been comparing stories and catching up and, well, I guess I'm hung over today.

We're in the air now, heading south to Lima in Peru. Looking back, Colombia has been a great experience. Two months ago we were worried about going and thought of flying into Bogotá for a few days just to catch our connection to Lima. As it turns out, we've bussed the length of Colombia in 21 days and we weren't even kidnapped once. 

So, this week, we head into Inca country. I'll keep you posted.

Take it easy.