Perhaps expectations were just too high. Rookie mistake. Can't expect every Colombiana to look like Shakira I suppose....but where are the fake bosoms the size of footballs? Where are the huge collagen lips? Where are the blank expressions that only overuse of botox or my Spanish can induce? Nowhere is the answer. Nowhere to be seen. Screw you, Lonely Planet - screw you indeed...
We pitched up to Cali after a disgusting ten hour bus journey. There was a stomach churning six hour portion where the driver obviously thought it would be just magical to show three horror films back to back - the first involved multiple stabbings and stonings of Westerners by crazy little Burmese orphans, while the next was a double bill of inbred cannibals chopping up teenagers in increasingly inventive ways. Being on that bus is possibly the closest feeling I can imagine to torture. Too hot, cramped in like a battery chicken because the buses are designed for tiny South Americans, bombarded by gruesome, seriously disturbing images when I looked up and when I looked away the screams and various sounds of slaughter made it impossible to sleep. A truly disturbing time, was in no mood when we arrived in Cali - felt like punching the driver, or spewing in his face...
Despite that we both got an instant good vibe from Cali - it's a really relaxed and friendly city. To shake off our bus ride we found a little shop and sat on the kerb with a few cervezas and watched the happenings on the street corner with some of the locals. It's funny when you sit back and process where you are in the world - on the planet - shooting the breeze on a Colombian street corner with a cold beer. Couldn't be more relaxed. It's surreal to imagine these things, but not quite as surreal as our trip to San Cipriano the following day.
San Cipriano is a lost town in the rainforest not far from Colombia's Pacific coast. There are many trails for hiking and a really good swimming river, but these aren't the reasons we went there. The town is near enough inaccessible by road, so the locals have set up an ingenious system for transporting themselves, their produce, and the occassional scruffy little tourist along an old railroad track. A wooden cart on train wheels is attached to the front wheel of a motorbike while the back wheel sits on one of the rails. A local jumps onto the bike and in the blink of an eye we're click-clacking along the railtracks, rainforest on either side, over a questionable looking bridge and past tiny little shacks before stopping seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and then climbing down into the village below. This small part of Colombia was once a slave colony, so the entire population of San Cipriano are descendants of African slaves. This makes it unlike any other part of the country. To my eyes it was more like what I imagine parts of Rwanda or Sierra Leone to look like: in fact just south of the village is a gold mine which stretches for about three miles along the road. in my little head it could have been a site for mining conflict diamonds. The roadside is a constant hive of activity - big African women carry their sifting plates up to the next panning site, excited children scurry about trying to help. Jeeps full of mud-covered, jet-black men fill the road, darting around the buses defying every idea of overtaking logic. Up hills, blind corners, three abreast....it all goes.
Leaving Colombia on a high after a few more beers on our favourite street corner, we nightbussed south. South south south we go like a pair of sparrows - to the Ecuadorian border. It was from this bus that I saw possibly one of the best pieces of graffiti ever. A big statue of Jesus met us on the way into the uninspiring town of Pasto - some bright spark had sprayed "Hip-hoppers" on the Messiah's magical cloak. With the intricacies of Spanish-English translation, understandably our young friend had missed one of the P's from the word 'hoppers'. I'm still not sure what I like more; the idea that it was an innocent spelling error resulting in one of the best-placed graffitis in history, or a deliberate attempt by the church to bring Gentle Jesus to the forefront of the hip-hop world... "Yeah, this one goes out to hip-hopers all over the world. Brrrrap!"
The Ecuador/Colombia border is surprisingly relaxed - in fact me and Woody have avoided all overland customs checks since Costa Rica. Makes carrying that kilo of coke and Woody's uzi a lot less stressful anyway. So we made it to Quito by lunchtime. Lunchtime in Quito, on a Sunday, in the middle of a thunderstorm. We were the only people around. 'Ghost Town' by The Specials lingering in the air. Strangely, Quito is kind of like a Latin American version of Edinburgh, especially with the rain. Less Hearts fans. Doing better on the ol' electric transport front as well. Cobbled streets, some attractive old architecture and at almost two miles above sea level much colder than any other place we've been so far on this trip. While exploring the city some little ding-dang thought it would be brilliant to drop mustard on us from a balcony. Amazingly, the mustard managed to hit the rucksack, trousers, shoes, t-shirt and Woody's hoodie all in a onesy. I'd really like to believe that someone just had a misjudgement with a hotdog (hey, we've all been there) and it's a big unfortunate accident... The sheer mustard coverage does, however, point to an act of juvenile delinquence. We must've looked like a right pair of knobs standing in the doorway of what looked like the Ecuadorian Woolworths rubbing mustard off clothing various, before a bump of heads put the icing on the cake and defeat was admitted. Yes, quite possibly we are the two biggest losers in Ecuador.
Spirits did not stay low for long and we set out to scale the dizzying heights of the Basilica de Voto, whose towers sit at 260 feet. These towers are reached by traversing rickety bridges and climbing outside ladders up to the top. The risk assessment people obviously haven't made it as far as Quito yet. An afternoon's climbing reaped huge rewards in fun, and hilarious photographs.
The obligatory visit to the Mitad del Mundo, where the official Equator lies was a success. "Now I'm in the Northern Hemisphere.......Now I'm in the Southern Hemisphere.....Now I'm in the Northern Hemisphere" and so on. The subsequent climb into the mountains just north of Quito was quite literally breath taking. At such great altitude the air is thinner, and the sun is more powerful. At time of writing I suffer a burnt noggin. Look like flippin' Joe Pesci from Home Alone...
We've just returned from a rambling tour of small Andean villages south of Quito. An amazing experience which I'll try to write up when the chance presents. High levels of devastation due to flooding and landslides at Machu Picchu and the surrounding area in the south of Peru mean that the Inca landmark is now probably off the cards for us. Have no fear - we'll err on the side of safety, but the journey continues like an unstoppable rhino of delight....
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Hey, how ya lookin' southbound...
No sign of Michael Douglas jumping around with shotgun in hand or seducing Kathleen Turner in his white linen getup, the suavé that he is. No sign of the pair of them sliding down muddy waterfalls or running from Colombian druglords. Maybe most disappointing of all, no sign of wee Danny DeVito tootling around in his little beige Renault 5...
Despite the lack of Romancing the Stone evidence, Cartagena still captured both of our imaginations as soon as we arrived and took a taxi into the centre around midnight. Here we are in Colombia, mixing it with the big boys...
The old town of Cartagena sits, like Troy, protected behind a huge wall, due to varying levels of nonsense from pirates and the Spanish in years gone by. As we drove along past the wall, lit up churches and ornate looking towers peeked out over the top, firing up a thirst for our first explore on Colombian soil.
Wandering around the twisty streets, leafy plazas and amazing looking buildings the next day was a perfect way to absorb some of the energy of the city. Of course our arrival in a new country would not be complete without a television appearance of some sort, so after five minutes of talking to to a tourism officer about the grace, passion and heart of Colombia he asked if we'd like to record an interview about our feelings towards the country. "Only been here about ten hours and spent most of them sleeping but yeah, sounds hilarious..."
I don't know whether it was Woody's in-depth appreciation of Shakira's back catalogue (both English and Spanish versions) or the illustrious career of Pedro Nel Gomez, or my knowledge of Colombian singing sensation Juanes and his hit single "La Camisa Negra" ("The Black Shirt". G. Weir, I will be eternally grateful for your musical enlightenment - the tourism officer couldn't believe his ears when I gave him a few lyrics). Either way, he wanted to capture us for posterity. So there we are, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls, in the middle of the square talking the biggest load of nonsense about how we thought Colombians were all really lovely and how we basically thought that Colombia was the best country since sliced bread........or SlicedBreadovia as it was formerly known.
Took a stroll up to Castillo San Felipe which is a huge fort overlooking the old tow, complete with cannons and a series of spooky tunnels. I'm convinced this is where Kathleen Turner smashes that guy's head in with a lantern and feeds him to an alligator. Rachel, not so much... We headed back to the old town and up to the high city walls where we sat on a cannon and had a beer looking out at the sunset over the waves as kite-boarders glided along the water, occassionally whipping into the air when the mood so struck them. Cartagena: Making romance easy since 1533.
After a couple of days in the city we were hungry for a taste of Colombian countryside - so naturally we headed for another city. Santa Marta, the jumping off point for visits to Parque Nacional Tayrona, and more importantly the birthplace of fuzzy-headed football legend Carlos "El Pibe" Valderrama. Convenience was the main factor in our stay here, as we could sleep cheap and day trip to Tayrona and the little beach town of Taganga. Conveniently it was also Woody's 26th birthday - making her a Cougar and a cradle-snatcher, and me a grave-robber and toyboy all in one fell swoop. Perfect.
Tayrona sits on the Caribbean coast and as well as being rich in wildlife has one of the sexiest beaches I've ever laid my little peepers on. Crashing waves of pure blue surround strange circular rock formations that you can climb up on and survey the deserted beach for a good mile to the East. Definitely one of the most peaceful places I've ever been in my entire life, although perhaps this was heightened by the drama of the preceding hour or so...
Walking, the two of us, through the forest, minding our own business when surrounded we were by about a dozen little Geoffroy's Tamarin monkeys. Unnervingly, these strange and inquisitive creatures stared down at us from the trees with beady eyes, surveying our every move. Having seen how irritated these wee guys can get when they were trying to grab my camera at the wildlife sanctuary in Boquete, I was aware that there were no cages and I doubt a bite from one these chaps would be all sunshine and Skittles. But they were cool - they just got bored of our white little faces and eventually scampered off. No sooner were we round the next corner than we were faced by some other charging mammal. At first we thought it was a wild boar in for the kill, but turned out 'twas only an agouti (big guinea pig) galloping along the path with its head down. There was a shriek (either from me, Woody or the agouti) and it abruptly changed direction, vanishing in seconds. Down the next hill we encountered a huge spider, about the biggest I've seen with my own two. As Woody quickly changed lenses and snapped away, I gave serious thought to poking it with a long stick to see what would happen. In the end I thought it unwise - it looked fast with sharp legs and I reckon a bit of a mean streak.
Then came the piece de résistance, the real birthday treat for Woody. In my blurred memory I can only remember seeing a sort of muddy hive-like structure in the ol' peripherals, before feeling a shooting pain on my wrist and hearing Rachel utter the immortal words "Oh Jesus fuck they're in my hair! Run Todd, run!" At this moment my trusty flipflops decided to relieve themselves of footwear duties (flipflops in the jungle - learn your lesson, Whiteford) and as I stopped to fix them I felt another nip on my arm and one on my chest. I looked down - I didn't see bees or wasps or hornets, just flies. We couldn't tell what they were, little black demons - the Devil's ladybirds. They looked exactly like ordinary houseflies but with a set of pincers, like a mantis, and barbs on their legs which dug in upon landing. These flies could not be swatted off, they had to be pulled (with not inconsiderable force) from the skin, whereupon they would sometimes leave their dirty little legs or heads still lodged in! What followed was a cross between the leeches scene in 'Stand By Me' and any episode of 'The Three Stoodges'. Frantic slapstick violence in the removing of insects and clothes simultaneously (as I held Woody's top to my ear I could hear the sound of buzzing from within, like a miniature hive) yelping and many an utterance: "Ow, oh you fuckin' wee bastard!" We ran up the hill, taking the rest of them with us still stuck on our clothes before escaping the majority and mercilessly killing the rest. Rachel threw her top away in the bushes, and in true 'Stand By Me' style I had to reach into my lucky reindeer boxers and remove one intrepid explorer before he did us both a mischief. Who knows what the people standing atop the hill thought of us when we came panting up, red faced, half naked with scratch marks and tousled hair... Happy Birthday Woody - from me to you!
To continue the birthday weekend we headed to Taganga. Despite sounding like a James Bond villain, it's really rather nice... It's nothing but beach town, but with a cactus filled clifftop walk we were able to find a quiter beach to swim away from the hordes. We both agree that the walk back along the cliff in Taganga was the hottest we've ever experienced in any country. "No, Mr. Bond - I expect you to fry"... We had a fair few birthday beers before heading back to the strange little city of Santa Marta for a birthday meal courtesy of Linda Whiteford (fanks mum).
Santa Marta is a weird little town - on one street there's a really attractive square with good trees and interesting statues and all sorts of tributes to the founder of the town Rodrigo de Bastidos (which I think we've accurately translated as Roger the Bastard) and then on the next street over there are some of the weirdest prostitutes known to man. One night we were having a few birthday beveridges on the beachfront when a loud gunshot - more of a "crack" than a "bang" - echoed out on the other side of the street. A group of young boys scattered, but not before a policeman dutifully ran over and bopped one of them on the face. As this character was being taken into custody a huge crowd formed. People were literally sprinting from streets away to come and see what had happened. There doesn't seem to be the same sense of respect for authority as there is back home - this cop had no control of the crowd as they hassled him and each other until his backup arrived. Scary stuff.
Colombians are a strange bunch of people so far. Some seem to find us amusing. Some really can't be bothered with us at all. Some will smile and say hello. Some seem to go out of their way to be rude. Some are helpful above and beyond. Some wave us away without a word. They ALL stare. I'm generally of the opinion that Rachel could walk down any street on the planet and be stared at - she tends to have that affect on red-blooded males and lesbians, so it doesn't surprise me that in hot blooded Latin America she is an object of desire for many. Imagine Woody walking down a crowded street in slow motion, with the Isley Brothers' "Who's That Lady" playing in the background. Men fall off bicycles, women walk into lamp posts, open mouthed children drop ice creams, all craning their necks to get a look. Seriously, that's us walking down a Colombian street. What does surprise me is the sheer volume of stares, the length of the stares and the complete lack of subtlety that we both are experiencing. I genuinely don't think we look that out of place - we're lighter than some Colombians and we're darker than some others, we do the same sorts of things "Hey, we're all on a bus! Hey, I'm drinking a beer! Hey, we're riding on the subway!" It can be a very disconcerting thing. It bridges the gap between being a bit irritating and making you feel nervous - a sensation I like to call "Parannoying". Of course, it's their own culture and we're visitors here to experience that, but so far it seems that Colombians all love a good ol' stare and they don't care who knows it.
In more uplifting news I've found a cheap alternative to Irn Bru - for Colombia at least. It's a little sugary delight called Colombiana and it's pretty close. Definitely not the real thing. In fact, at this point it's kind of like offering a tweaking junkie a cup of coffee...But hoep remains strong for a solid alternative. Nature will always find a way. I think it was Jeff Goldblum who said that.
An epic bus journey brings us to former cocaine capital of the world Medellin. Coke kingpin Pablo Escobar ran his powerful cartel from here, before going on the run for 499 days - finally he was tracked down here and killed in 1993. He'd have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for those Medellin kids....
Despite the rep, Medellin is a vibrant, cultural city and has been a great place to spend a few dizzles. It sits in a valley, which is spectacular on the way in on the bus, and seems to sprawl as far as the eye can see up the valley walls. We took a cable car up over the barrios for a great vista of the city - never seen anything like it. Red brick houses are crammed in all over the place, leading your eye eventually to the cathedrals and skyscrapers of the city centre, before back to the red brick barrios on the other side, fading into the distance. Generally enjoying the relaxed atmosphere here, rare in a city of almost 4 millions. Dipped our feet in the Parque de los Pies Descalzos - a park designed with the express purpose of relaxing your feet with a mixture of marble, sand and cool water pools. Just the ticket, all this flip flop nonsense is taking its toll. Strolled around the botanic gardens, visited the Museo de Pedro Nel Gomez where there was an excellent exhibition of Colombian portraiture photographs. Found a Scottish pub of all things, but no real Irn Bru - false advertising if ever I've seen it.
Southbound we are, down the continent we go like a pair of sparrows flying South for the winter. Next stop Cali - plastic surgery capital of the world and for that reason apparently home to the world's most beautiful women. Yeah, then we'll see who's a person that stares and who's a person that........doesn't really stare.........all that much......
Despite the lack of Romancing the Stone evidence, Cartagena still captured both of our imaginations as soon as we arrived and took a taxi into the centre around midnight. Here we are in Colombia, mixing it with the big boys...
The old town of Cartagena sits, like Troy, protected behind a huge wall, due to varying levels of nonsense from pirates and the Spanish in years gone by. As we drove along past the wall, lit up churches and ornate looking towers peeked out over the top, firing up a thirst for our first explore on Colombian soil.
Wandering around the twisty streets, leafy plazas and amazing looking buildings the next day was a perfect way to absorb some of the energy of the city. Of course our arrival in a new country would not be complete without a television appearance of some sort, so after five minutes of talking to to a tourism officer about the grace, passion and heart of Colombia he asked if we'd like to record an interview about our feelings towards the country. "Only been here about ten hours and spent most of them sleeping but yeah, sounds hilarious..."
I don't know whether it was Woody's in-depth appreciation of Shakira's back catalogue (both English and Spanish versions) or the illustrious career of Pedro Nel Gomez, or my knowledge of Colombian singing sensation Juanes and his hit single "La Camisa Negra" ("The Black Shirt". G. Weir, I will be eternally grateful for your musical enlightenment - the tourism officer couldn't believe his ears when I gave him a few lyrics). Either way, he wanted to capture us for posterity. So there we are, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls, in the middle of the square talking the biggest load of nonsense about how we thought Colombians were all really lovely and how we basically thought that Colombia was the best country since sliced bread........or SlicedBreadovia as it was formerly known.
Took a stroll up to Castillo San Felipe which is a huge fort overlooking the old tow, complete with cannons and a series of spooky tunnels. I'm convinced this is where Kathleen Turner smashes that guy's head in with a lantern and feeds him to an alligator. Rachel, not so much... We headed back to the old town and up to the high city walls where we sat on a cannon and had a beer looking out at the sunset over the waves as kite-boarders glided along the water, occassionally whipping into the air when the mood so struck them. Cartagena: Making romance easy since 1533.
After a couple of days in the city we were hungry for a taste of Colombian countryside - so naturally we headed for another city. Santa Marta, the jumping off point for visits to Parque Nacional Tayrona, and more importantly the birthplace of fuzzy-headed football legend Carlos "El Pibe" Valderrama. Convenience was the main factor in our stay here, as we could sleep cheap and day trip to Tayrona and the little beach town of Taganga. Conveniently it was also Woody's 26th birthday - making her a Cougar and a cradle-snatcher, and me a grave-robber and toyboy all in one fell swoop. Perfect.
Tayrona sits on the Caribbean coast and as well as being rich in wildlife has one of the sexiest beaches I've ever laid my little peepers on. Crashing waves of pure blue surround strange circular rock formations that you can climb up on and survey the deserted beach for a good mile to the East. Definitely one of the most peaceful places I've ever been in my entire life, although perhaps this was heightened by the drama of the preceding hour or so...
Walking, the two of us, through the forest, minding our own business when surrounded we were by about a dozen little Geoffroy's Tamarin monkeys. Unnervingly, these strange and inquisitive creatures stared down at us from the trees with beady eyes, surveying our every move. Having seen how irritated these wee guys can get when they were trying to grab my camera at the wildlife sanctuary in Boquete, I was aware that there were no cages and I doubt a bite from one these chaps would be all sunshine and Skittles. But they were cool - they just got bored of our white little faces and eventually scampered off. No sooner were we round the next corner than we were faced by some other charging mammal. At first we thought it was a wild boar in for the kill, but turned out 'twas only an agouti (big guinea pig) galloping along the path with its head down. There was a shriek (either from me, Woody or the agouti) and it abruptly changed direction, vanishing in seconds. Down the next hill we encountered a huge spider, about the biggest I've seen with my own two. As Woody quickly changed lenses and snapped away, I gave serious thought to poking it with a long stick to see what would happen. In the end I thought it unwise - it looked fast with sharp legs and I reckon a bit of a mean streak.
Then came the piece de résistance, the real birthday treat for Woody. In my blurred memory I can only remember seeing a sort of muddy hive-like structure in the ol' peripherals, before feeling a shooting pain on my wrist and hearing Rachel utter the immortal words "Oh Jesus fuck they're in my hair! Run Todd, run!" At this moment my trusty flipflops decided to relieve themselves of footwear duties (flipflops in the jungle - learn your lesson, Whiteford) and as I stopped to fix them I felt another nip on my arm and one on my chest. I looked down - I didn't see bees or wasps or hornets, just flies. We couldn't tell what they were, little black demons - the Devil's ladybirds. They looked exactly like ordinary houseflies but with a set of pincers, like a mantis, and barbs on their legs which dug in upon landing. These flies could not be swatted off, they had to be pulled (with not inconsiderable force) from the skin, whereupon they would sometimes leave their dirty little legs or heads still lodged in! What followed was a cross between the leeches scene in 'Stand By Me' and any episode of 'The Three Stoodges'. Frantic slapstick violence in the removing of insects and clothes simultaneously (as I held Woody's top to my ear I could hear the sound of buzzing from within, like a miniature hive) yelping and many an utterance: "Ow, oh you fuckin' wee bastard!" We ran up the hill, taking the rest of them with us still stuck on our clothes before escaping the majority and mercilessly killing the rest. Rachel threw her top away in the bushes, and in true 'Stand By Me' style I had to reach into my lucky reindeer boxers and remove one intrepid explorer before he did us both a mischief. Who knows what the people standing atop the hill thought of us when we came panting up, red faced, half naked with scratch marks and tousled hair... Happy Birthday Woody - from me to you!
To continue the birthday weekend we headed to Taganga. Despite sounding like a James Bond villain, it's really rather nice... It's nothing but beach town, but with a cactus filled clifftop walk we were able to find a quiter beach to swim away from the hordes. We both agree that the walk back along the cliff in Taganga was the hottest we've ever experienced in any country. "No, Mr. Bond - I expect you to fry"... We had a fair few birthday beers before heading back to the strange little city of Santa Marta for a birthday meal courtesy of Linda Whiteford (fanks mum).
Santa Marta is a weird little town - on one street there's a really attractive square with good trees and interesting statues and all sorts of tributes to the founder of the town Rodrigo de Bastidos (which I think we've accurately translated as Roger the Bastard) and then on the next street over there are some of the weirdest prostitutes known to man. One night we were having a few birthday beveridges on the beachfront when a loud gunshot - more of a "crack" than a "bang" - echoed out on the other side of the street. A group of young boys scattered, but not before a policeman dutifully ran over and bopped one of them on the face. As this character was being taken into custody a huge crowd formed. People were literally sprinting from streets away to come and see what had happened. There doesn't seem to be the same sense of respect for authority as there is back home - this cop had no control of the crowd as they hassled him and each other until his backup arrived. Scary stuff.
Colombians are a strange bunch of people so far. Some seem to find us amusing. Some really can't be bothered with us at all. Some will smile and say hello. Some seem to go out of their way to be rude. Some are helpful above and beyond. Some wave us away without a word. They ALL stare. I'm generally of the opinion that Rachel could walk down any street on the planet and be stared at - she tends to have that affect on red-blooded males and lesbians, so it doesn't surprise me that in hot blooded Latin America she is an object of desire for many. Imagine Woody walking down a crowded street in slow motion, with the Isley Brothers' "Who's That Lady" playing in the background. Men fall off bicycles, women walk into lamp posts, open mouthed children drop ice creams, all craning their necks to get a look. Seriously, that's us walking down a Colombian street. What does surprise me is the sheer volume of stares, the length of the stares and the complete lack of subtlety that we both are experiencing. I genuinely don't think we look that out of place - we're lighter than some Colombians and we're darker than some others, we do the same sorts of things "Hey, we're all on a bus! Hey, I'm drinking a beer! Hey, we're riding on the subway!" It can be a very disconcerting thing. It bridges the gap between being a bit irritating and making you feel nervous - a sensation I like to call "Parannoying". Of course, it's their own culture and we're visitors here to experience that, but so far it seems that Colombians all love a good ol' stare and they don't care who knows it.
In more uplifting news I've found a cheap alternative to Irn Bru - for Colombia at least. It's a little sugary delight called Colombiana and it's pretty close. Definitely not the real thing. In fact, at this point it's kind of like offering a tweaking junkie a cup of coffee...But hoep remains strong for a solid alternative. Nature will always find a way. I think it was Jeff Goldblum who said that.
An epic bus journey brings us to former cocaine capital of the world Medellin. Coke kingpin Pablo Escobar ran his powerful cartel from here, before going on the run for 499 days - finally he was tracked down here and killed in 1993. He'd have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for those Medellin kids....
Despite the rep, Medellin is a vibrant, cultural city and has been a great place to spend a few dizzles. It sits in a valley, which is spectacular on the way in on the bus, and seems to sprawl as far as the eye can see up the valley walls. We took a cable car up over the barrios for a great vista of the city - never seen anything like it. Red brick houses are crammed in all over the place, leading your eye eventually to the cathedrals and skyscrapers of the city centre, before back to the red brick barrios on the other side, fading into the distance. Generally enjoying the relaxed atmosphere here, rare in a city of almost 4 millions. Dipped our feet in the Parque de los Pies Descalzos - a park designed with the express purpose of relaxing your feet with a mixture of marble, sand and cool water pools. Just the ticket, all this flip flop nonsense is taking its toll. Strolled around the botanic gardens, visited the Museo de Pedro Nel Gomez where there was an excellent exhibition of Colombian portraiture photographs. Found a Scottish pub of all things, but no real Irn Bru - false advertising if ever I've seen it.
Southbound we are, down the continent we go like a pair of sparrows flying South for the winter. Next stop Cali - plastic surgery capital of the world and for that reason apparently home to the world's most beautiful women. Yeah, then we'll see who's a person that stares and who's a person that........doesn't really stare.........all that much......
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Why is the rum always gone?
Blasted back through Costa Rica in a day. First day back wanted to pick up some momentum "let's have it" so headed straight to Boquete, Panama. It was one of the highlights first time round, and with South America beckoning with a wink and a smile we were champing at the bit to get going again. So we walked and walked. Through the mountains, we passed a few sleepy villages and one or two Ngobe Bugle indians picking coffee at the roadside. Feeling the tropical sun on our skin once more we cooled our feet in an ice cold river (Boquete is elevated, so it's warm but the water is freezing) and had a plate of strawberries with lemonade for lunch. It was a good day - a great day, but travelling can do strange things to your brainbox. Boquete was familiar - we had already seen the beautiful surroundings, the native people and had enjoyed it fully. I'm not too sure how to express this without sounding like it's taken for granted, because I'll always look back on Boquete with great memories of an incredible Panamanian experience, but essentially we didn't want to be there. We wanted to be on the way to Colombia. Make no mistake - we've not forgotten how special this trip is, and how lucky we are to be here: we're blessed, blood...
Background: We had planned to sail to Cartagena from Panama - a five day voyage passing through the San Blas islands, something we were both really excited about. We had entrusted the booking and organisation of this journey to a hostel owner who had guaranteed us passage to Colombia at the start of January. The long and short of it is that we had to chase this person constantly for information. We were restless - after all time is a-tickin', and we were only being breadcrumbed little bits of information at a time. Turns out that passage is not something that can ever be guaranteed. It's not an exact science; sailboat captains can be impulsive and unwilling to give fixed dates for departure (information we were not privy to back in November when this person had said he'd sort it). It's like trying ot guarantee the weather. So this person was really a bullshitter of the lowest (or is that highest) order. The buck was passed so we blew through to Panama City to find more concrete answers. Me and Woody conducted Columbo style investigations - me with a beige trenchcoat and Rachel with the glass eye. Both with confused expressions - "just one more thing...". After a frustrating day of few answers we decided to opt out and fly. Not before a couple of days of desert island paradise on San Blas, which had played a big part in our initial boat-based excitement...
San Blas is a collection of over 300 desert islands in the Caribbean off Panama. The indigenous people - the Kuna Yala - own San Blas and allow tourists to stay on their own islands, enjoying their own slice of paradise for a modest price. We travelled in a convoy of pickup trucks over the steep and muddy rainforest trails, to a strange ska-punk soundtrack which fitted perfectly. I'm not sure why, but I think there's something most excellent about travelling in convoy - maybe it's the kind of military style movement or some sort of gang mentality. I don't really know, but I just think it's a bit special - or maybe 'tis me who is a bit special.....needs. Anyway after getting an absolute soaking on the dugout boat over to the island (seriously we would not have been more drenched if we swam) we were immediately taken aback by how beautiful Isla Senidup was. All the usual clichés - white sand, aquamarine sea, blue sky. If you draw a desert island from your secret mind, you usually get a mound of sand, a few palm trees and maybe a hut or two (for the more imaginative). That's Senidup. A classic desert island paradise. The island can only be about 200 metres sqaured in size. We had our own little straw hut with a little bamboo table and bed, and a floor of sand. Snorkelling in the clear water, relaxing on the beach and generally just getting a bit harmonic were how we filled our two days there. Also managed to get a bit of football with some Kuna boys. The Kuna are a fascinating people - they endured violent suppression by Panamanians (including the Panamanian police force) until the early 1900s when they stormed a police outpost and began a revolution. They were given their own 'comarca' formed by two provinces in Panama and their own flag (strangely, it's similar to the Spanish flag but with a dirty great swastika in the middle). The women wear huge amounts of bracelets on their arms and legs - one lady told Rachel it takes her over an hour to put them on in the morning - they have their own language and an independent currency based on bartering and swapping. Woody and I also got the pirate vibe we'd been looking for - added to by the abundance of rum on the island. We paid the price on the way back over the choppy seas with our fuzzy rum-heads from the night previous!
So on that high note we bid farewell to Panama, and indeed to Central America. For tonight we fly to the romantic city of Cartagena, Colombia, for the next leg of our globetrotting expedition....bring us that horizon!
Background: We had planned to sail to Cartagena from Panama - a five day voyage passing through the San Blas islands, something we were both really excited about. We had entrusted the booking and organisation of this journey to a hostel owner who had guaranteed us passage to Colombia at the start of January. The long and short of it is that we had to chase this person constantly for information. We were restless - after all time is a-tickin', and we were only being breadcrumbed little bits of information at a time. Turns out that passage is not something that can ever be guaranteed. It's not an exact science; sailboat captains can be impulsive and unwilling to give fixed dates for departure (information we were not privy to back in November when this person had said he'd sort it). It's like trying ot guarantee the weather. So this person was really a bullshitter of the lowest (or is that highest) order. The buck was passed so we blew through to Panama City to find more concrete answers. Me and Woody conducted Columbo style investigations - me with a beige trenchcoat and Rachel with the glass eye. Both with confused expressions - "just one more thing...". After a frustrating day of few answers we decided to opt out and fly. Not before a couple of days of desert island paradise on San Blas, which had played a big part in our initial boat-based excitement...
San Blas is a collection of over 300 desert islands in the Caribbean off Panama. The indigenous people - the Kuna Yala - own San Blas and allow tourists to stay on their own islands, enjoying their own slice of paradise for a modest price. We travelled in a convoy of pickup trucks over the steep and muddy rainforest trails, to a strange ska-punk soundtrack which fitted perfectly. I'm not sure why, but I think there's something most excellent about travelling in convoy - maybe it's the kind of military style movement or some sort of gang mentality. I don't really know, but I just think it's a bit special - or maybe 'tis me who is a bit special.....needs. Anyway after getting an absolute soaking on the dugout boat over to the island (seriously we would not have been more drenched if we swam) we were immediately taken aback by how beautiful Isla Senidup was. All the usual clichés - white sand, aquamarine sea, blue sky. If you draw a desert island from your secret mind, you usually get a mound of sand, a few palm trees and maybe a hut or two (for the more imaginative). That's Senidup. A classic desert island paradise. The island can only be about 200 metres sqaured in size. We had our own little straw hut with a little bamboo table and bed, and a floor of sand. Snorkelling in the clear water, relaxing on the beach and generally just getting a bit harmonic were how we filled our two days there. Also managed to get a bit of football with some Kuna boys. The Kuna are a fascinating people - they endured violent suppression by Panamanians (including the Panamanian police force) until the early 1900s when they stormed a police outpost and began a revolution. They were given their own 'comarca' formed by two provinces in Panama and their own flag (strangely, it's similar to the Spanish flag but with a dirty great swastika in the middle). The women wear huge amounts of bracelets on their arms and legs - one lady told Rachel it takes her over an hour to put them on in the morning - they have their own language and an independent currency based on bartering and swapping. Woody and I also got the pirate vibe we'd been looking for - added to by the abundance of rum on the island. We paid the price on the way back over the choppy seas with our fuzzy rum-heads from the night previous!
So on that high note we bid farewell to Panama, and indeed to Central America. For tonight we fly to the romantic city of Cartagena, Colombia, for the next leg of our globetrotting expedition....bring us that horizon!
Monday, 11 January 2010
American Christmas: It's backpacking, Jim - but not as we know it...
Back in business after a few weeks holiday! A fantastic festive fortnight filled with delicious hearty meals, talk of a wintery homeland and long-forgotten pleasures like hot showers, cable TV and of course Irn Bru - crack in a can...
Obviously this wouldn't be complete without a dollop of drama, which took the form of a cancelled flight for our compatriots in London, and delayed the family reunion 24 hours - really only making it sweeter in the end. Something has to be said about the car we hired upon arrival - a flame red Dodge Charger; a brute, a beast, a hulk - an Incredible Hulk - the perfect American muscle car for stomping around Florida in! In fact it was such an animal that Peter - the Sheriff himself - could not put a leash on it and within an hour we were pulled over for galloping down the highway with too much gusto (if there even is such a thing). I think the reason we were let off lightly is because the cop was driving the exact same car. Only a fellow Charger driver can understand the untameable heart that pulses underneath the bonnet of the beast...
For the fortnight two of Dorothy and Peter's friends gave us use of their house in Naples, Florida, and it was a lap of luxury. The house was beautiful, overlooking a huge lake with a fountain and palm trees with Christmas lights. We even had our own Christmas palm tree in the living room where we placed our budget presents next to those that people from home had generously sent over. The house also smelt amazing - a clean and delicious smell that has been absent for most of the last three months...
And so began two weeks of jinglin' good Christmas cheer. Dot and Peter had obviously done their homework - every day we were treated to a new fun experience in one way or another. We had Christmas dinner and bucks fizz on the beach while dolphins swam in the background and we played charades. We walked through a swamp nature reserve; woodpeckers, lizards, spiders, snakes and an alligator all to be observed there. We saw in Scottish New Year with champagne and Irn Bru at 7pm before watching fireworks on the beach and seeing in the U.S New Year with more champagne (no Irn Bru). We whizzed over the everglades in an airboat, feeding marshmallows to alligators and even holding a baby one. Good times...
Feeding us up like champions, Dot and Peter were more than generous in taking us out for meals - Woody got her fix of mojitos and fresh fish, while I generally stuffed my dirty little face - with some Southern fried 'gator tail thrown in for good measure somewhere along the way. Every meal brought with it a brand new American as apple pie waiter, ripe for the imitation. My favourite was David, a smiley, robotic giant who began each question with "Hey folks! I wanted to ask you..." Cheap laughs, but who cares when you're stuffing your dirty little face.
While we were in Orlando we were lucky enough to theme park it up to the max. The adrenaline of the rollercoasters in Islands of Adventure, the amazing film sets at Universal Studios, and snorkelling in wetsuits in Discovery Cove were so much fun, but the outstanding highlight was swimming with dolphins. A lot of people say that it's a really spiritual experience, but I think it's prob'ly about as much fun as a person can have in a wetsuit. There's not much more to it than they're really smart, relaxed animals around people - which makes them easy company I suppose. Wetsuited up like a couple of Stretch Armstrongs me and Woody took to the water, petting our dolphin Tyler and hugging and kissing him (like, in a totally non-gay way) before grabbing his fin and jetting off through the water. Powerful animals they are; they can shift your bones through the waves without even batting an eye. Almost as powerful, in fact, as the Dodge Charger...
Despite the fact that Woody and me lived in complete comfort for two weeks, free from the perils of bag lifting, accommodation hunting and rice'n'beans eating we still couldn't shake off some gypsy habits formed in the three months beforehand. These habits usually manifested themselves in the taking of copious amounts of free stuff wherever we could find it. So much so that it verges upon an abuse of the word 'free'. For example any 'free' tasters would be taken advantage of completely, turning into free lunchtime. A breakfast buffet turns into a 'fill your rucksack up for later on' buffet. Any spare pens lying sround would instantly become 'free pens'. And so on... These habits are fairly standard backpacking stuff, but in Naples it must have looked a but weird when we had just had a huge meal (fit to burst) and we're standing at the door shoving handfuls of chocolate mints into our cheeky little pockets. When Dot and Peter were delayed in London we checked into a hotel to stay the night and meet them the next morning. It was a pretty nice hotel. Tell you, we went through that hotel room like a swarm of locusts - "What can we take away with us? OK, got shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, soap, sugar, coffee, pens, mouthwash, mugs, shower curtain.....TV remote!" It's a nice kind of stealing though. Feels more like an Oliver Twist kind of stealing than a 'fund my crack habit' kind of stealing. Yeah, much better. Maybe hide the silverware for the first few weeks 'pon our return...
Mild crookery aside it was a brilliant twelve days of Christmas, and thanks must go to Ros and Ian for letting us use the house. Legends the both of them. To everyone who generously sent over gifts or cards or generally sent some love our way - right back at you. Of course Dot and Peter, hope you enjoyed us stuffing our dirty little faces as much as we did! Thankyou so much for everything, you really made a brilliant Christmas. Much love...
Obviously this wouldn't be complete without a dollop of drama, which took the form of a cancelled flight for our compatriots in London, and delayed the family reunion 24 hours - really only making it sweeter in the end. Something has to be said about the car we hired upon arrival - a flame red Dodge Charger; a brute, a beast, a hulk - an Incredible Hulk - the perfect American muscle car for stomping around Florida in! In fact it was such an animal that Peter - the Sheriff himself - could not put a leash on it and within an hour we were pulled over for galloping down the highway with too much gusto (if there even is such a thing). I think the reason we were let off lightly is because the cop was driving the exact same car. Only a fellow Charger driver can understand the untameable heart that pulses underneath the bonnet of the beast...
For the fortnight two of Dorothy and Peter's friends gave us use of their house in Naples, Florida, and it was a lap of luxury. The house was beautiful, overlooking a huge lake with a fountain and palm trees with Christmas lights. We even had our own Christmas palm tree in the living room where we placed our budget presents next to those that people from home had generously sent over. The house also smelt amazing - a clean and delicious smell that has been absent for most of the last three months...
And so began two weeks of jinglin' good Christmas cheer. Dot and Peter had obviously done their homework - every day we were treated to a new fun experience in one way or another. We had Christmas dinner and bucks fizz on the beach while dolphins swam in the background and we played charades. We walked through a swamp nature reserve; woodpeckers, lizards, spiders, snakes and an alligator all to be observed there. We saw in Scottish New Year with champagne and Irn Bru at 7pm before watching fireworks on the beach and seeing in the U.S New Year with more champagne (no Irn Bru). We whizzed over the everglades in an airboat, feeding marshmallows to alligators and even holding a baby one. Good times...
Feeding us up like champions, Dot and Peter were more than generous in taking us out for meals - Woody got her fix of mojitos and fresh fish, while I generally stuffed my dirty little face - with some Southern fried 'gator tail thrown in for good measure somewhere along the way. Every meal brought with it a brand new American as apple pie waiter, ripe for the imitation. My favourite was David, a smiley, robotic giant who began each question with "Hey folks! I wanted to ask you..." Cheap laughs, but who cares when you're stuffing your dirty little face.
While we were in Orlando we were lucky enough to theme park it up to the max. The adrenaline of the rollercoasters in Islands of Adventure, the amazing film sets at Universal Studios, and snorkelling in wetsuits in Discovery Cove were so much fun, but the outstanding highlight was swimming with dolphins. A lot of people say that it's a really spiritual experience, but I think it's prob'ly about as much fun as a person can have in a wetsuit. There's not much more to it than they're really smart, relaxed animals around people - which makes them easy company I suppose. Wetsuited up like a couple of Stretch Armstrongs me and Woody took to the water, petting our dolphin Tyler and hugging and kissing him (like, in a totally non-gay way) before grabbing his fin and jetting off through the water. Powerful animals they are; they can shift your bones through the waves without even batting an eye. Almost as powerful, in fact, as the Dodge Charger...
Despite the fact that Woody and me lived in complete comfort for two weeks, free from the perils of bag lifting, accommodation hunting and rice'n'beans eating we still couldn't shake off some gypsy habits formed in the three months beforehand. These habits usually manifested themselves in the taking of copious amounts of free stuff wherever we could find it. So much so that it verges upon an abuse of the word 'free'. For example any 'free' tasters would be taken advantage of completely, turning into free lunchtime. A breakfast buffet turns into a 'fill your rucksack up for later on' buffet. Any spare pens lying sround would instantly become 'free pens'. And so on... These habits are fairly standard backpacking stuff, but in Naples it must have looked a but weird when we had just had a huge meal (fit to burst) and we're standing at the door shoving handfuls of chocolate mints into our cheeky little pockets. When Dot and Peter were delayed in London we checked into a hotel to stay the night and meet them the next morning. It was a pretty nice hotel. Tell you, we went through that hotel room like a swarm of locusts - "What can we take away with us? OK, got shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, soap, sugar, coffee, pens, mouthwash, mugs, shower curtain.....TV remote!" It's a nice kind of stealing though. Feels more like an Oliver Twist kind of stealing than a 'fund my crack habit' kind of stealing. Yeah, much better. Maybe hide the silverware for the first few weeks 'pon our return...
Mild crookery aside it was a brilliant twelve days of Christmas, and thanks must go to Ros and Ian for letting us use the house. Legends the both of them. To everyone who generously sent over gifts or cards or generally sent some love our way - right back at you. Of course Dot and Peter, hope you enjoyed us stuffing our dirty little faces as much as we did! Thankyou so much for everything, you really made a brilliant Christmas. Much love...
Saturday, 2 January 2010
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