Yes tragedy! But fret not, the feeling hasn't gone and I can go on, however my little mini computer, which I have been writing all of my blogs on, ended up being left by mistake on a bus through Honduras after an unexpected late night change in the middle of nowhere. This also resulted in me losing the 3 blogs I had already written and was planning to post soon.
These will be rewritten but the blog process will undoubtedly be more delayed that previously before.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Dodging the Darien: Land Ho!
We awoke in our sticky cabin gasping for fresh air, or any other variety of air that wasn't this. In spite of the many benefits of waking up next to a lovely lady, the bed in this cabin was either designed for one invariably large being or that of two dwarven folk stright from the hot mines of Mordor. In other words at best it was a bit of a squash, and as hot as a turkish bath. Like a recently pleasured man from a brothel we shot from our cabin to be once again bathed in glorious sunshine (which I doubt usually happens outside brothels), and had our first sight of land. The land was a collection of tiny palm fronged islands surrounded with coral reefs and clear blue water. After days on the boat we were all desperate for mooring so we could finally swim, yet time ebbed as the boat slowly coasted towards the islands. Eventually, we arrived and leapt from the boat like there was little or no tomorrow, splashing around and diving in to the warmest sea water I have ever experienced. After a while some locals turned up and dropped off some beers and fish for dinner, before drinking half of the aforementioned beverages and once again hitting the high seas. Johan and I swam off to an island with fishing line and hooks to make some rods, which turned out pretty well in the end. We grabbed a windsurfing board and set off to the coral reef to find Nemo, and then catch him. Sadly we found few fish that looked edible, and none who deemed our bait appetising, but managed to flail around in the water for a while watching the impressive fishies swim around the coral. We returned empty handed yet contented in time for lunch. Once again lunch was a total rain out, and the evening was spent slight sodden, however the numerous rums consumed after dark sent us merrily to our humid beds for another night.
The next day proved to be more of the same as we moved on to another paradise island, this time inhabited. After dealing with mundane immigration necessities we arrived at the larger island, leaping from the boat quicker than as if it had hit an iceberg. This time, while the locals prepared a fish supper, the girls went to explore the island while us lads decided to content ourselves with idle floating on the waves with various cans of delicious beer. My vessel, a rather flattering rubber ring, was perfect for such an endeavour, and many hours passed before we were called in to eat. That evening we were finally blessed with a noticeable lack of the usual dump of rain, enabling us to drink beer and rum on the beach around a bonfire whilst watching Yoshi, a cool Japanese fellow on our boat, do a fire-stick-twirly-dance-show-thing. A true castaway evening, and a great final night together on the boat. The next morning we would finally head for Panamanian shore and split off our separate ways. Although in some ways the journey had lacked some of the usually preferable comforts (chiefly space, being cool, and being clean), it had been a wonderfully memorable journey for everyone.
The next day proved to be more of the same as we moved on to another paradise island, this time inhabited. After dealing with mundane immigration necessities we arrived at the larger island, leaping from the boat quicker than as if it had hit an iceberg. This time, while the locals prepared a fish supper, the girls went to explore the island while us lads decided to content ourselves with idle floating on the waves with various cans of delicious beer. My vessel, a rather flattering rubber ring, was perfect for such an endeavour, and many hours passed before we were called in to eat. That evening we were finally blessed with a noticeable lack of the usual dump of rain, enabling us to drink beer and rum on the beach around a bonfire whilst watching Yoshi, a cool Japanese fellow on our boat, do a fire-stick-twirly-dance-show-thing. A true castaway evening, and a great final night together on the boat. The next morning we would finally head for Panamanian shore and split off our separate ways. Although in some ways the journey had lacked some of the usually preferable comforts (chiefly space, being cool, and being clean), it had been a wonderfully memorable journey for everyone.
Dodging the Darien: Stormy Seas
After a long, hot night in the sticky sauna of our cabin, we awoke to a different world from that which we had departed the previous evening. The sea was a still, oily mass of deep, clear blue, and on the horizon the sea merged seemlessly with the sky, to the point where we could have been floating through it (this sounds over exagerated or romanticised but wait until you see the photos). But the stillness was not to last as stormy seas approached.
The morning also marked the beginning of Johan's 30th birthday and smiley faced yellow balloons were put up all over the boat in anticipation of the evening's pirate party. As days go the majority of ours passed with few events, people lying bathing everywhere like the plague had hit, books being read, and the preparations for dinner. Thus far nobody had been able to shower in anything other than salt water and after a sticky night's sleep everyone was hoping for a shower. A shower us what we got.
As the sun began to set on deck, and the smells of cooking wafted up from below, black clouds formed on the horizon in every direction. Captain Guido, a genuinely insane Bavarian with many years experience began to look uneasy, lowering the sails and generally tinkering with a sense of urgency. Our Westward course was quickly changed to that of Southwest, before changing to Northwest as one dominating wall of black matched our course. Donned in pirate gear for the now dissipating Pirate Party, there was a mixed sense of both excitement and nervousness as the impending blackness closed in. A hard rain began to fall (also providing a well received shower!) and the boat rose and crashed back down into the sea. After a tension filled 20 minutes it became clear that we had managed to clip the edge of the storm, constantly flickering with flashes of lightning, and the mood began to lighten. The party had been pretty much washed out but the night had been far from dull.
Gradually people had begun to slip off to their respective cabins, and Johan and I settled on the deck for nightwatch, continually watching out for another storm cloud. When leaving Cartagena, Guido, the captain, had been warned about a Tropical Wave that would be heading along his usual route and had amended his course to avoid it. On the horizon to our right (the usual route) we watched the sky light up with extreme regularity and vivacity, thankful that we were on our amended course, while discussing music and pointing out cloud shapes (including Papa Smurf, a cow's head and an uncanny crocodile). In the heat of one debate on whether a cloud to our left looked like a nuclear fall out mushroom cloud or a lightbulb (with realistic flashy lightning), the captain came out and asked which direction the large black monster dead ahead in front of us was going. "it's not really moving much" I stammered in reply to his question of which I did not really know the answer to. In our haste to watch the exciting clouds all around us we had omitted to notice the impending darkness creeping right in our direction. As the black wall approached us, the usually warm wind blew cold and the waves grew harsh around us. Once again the captain redirected the boat to the north, but this time it was not enough to avoid the storm, and soon lightning was crashing all around us in the dense blackness that had swallowed us. With the boat moving at around 4 knots, which more or less equates to the speed of running our chances of avoiding it were always slim (have you ever managed to out manouver a storm on foot?) and it was to much relief when we cleared the storm with little incident. The next morning we would awaken to the paradisical San Blas and would have effectively passed the Darien Gap.
As mentioned in my previous blog, the Darien Gap is a vast roadless expanse of forest and marshland lying between Panama and Columbia. Although there are a few accounts of people passing through the Darien, it is as uncommon as it is dangerous. In addition to the natural impassability (boggy mashes clad with Mosquitos, surging rivers stretching for miles across your patch etc.) the population of the gap is almost solely cocaine traffickers and Columbian guerillas, neither of which being known for their warm hospitality when encountered (unless you count the fact that both may strongly insist on you staying with them for a while!).
For that reason stormy Caribbean seas, were nothing but a minor inconvenience in comparison to the alternative. All that was left for us to encounter was the palm fronged islands of paradise before the second leg of our journey began.
The morning also marked the beginning of Johan's 30th birthday and smiley faced yellow balloons were put up all over the boat in anticipation of the evening's pirate party. As days go the majority of ours passed with few events, people lying bathing everywhere like the plague had hit, books being read, and the preparations for dinner. Thus far nobody had been able to shower in anything other than salt water and after a sticky night's sleep everyone was hoping for a shower. A shower us what we got.
As the sun began to set on deck, and the smells of cooking wafted up from below, black clouds formed on the horizon in every direction. Captain Guido, a genuinely insane Bavarian with many years experience began to look uneasy, lowering the sails and generally tinkering with a sense of urgency. Our Westward course was quickly changed to that of Southwest, before changing to Northwest as one dominating wall of black matched our course. Donned in pirate gear for the now dissipating Pirate Party, there was a mixed sense of both excitement and nervousness as the impending blackness closed in. A hard rain began to fall (also providing a well received shower!) and the boat rose and crashed back down into the sea. After a tension filled 20 minutes it became clear that we had managed to clip the edge of the storm, constantly flickering with flashes of lightning, and the mood began to lighten. The party had been pretty much washed out but the night had been far from dull.
Gradually people had begun to slip off to their respective cabins, and Johan and I settled on the deck for nightwatch, continually watching out for another storm cloud. When leaving Cartagena, Guido, the captain, had been warned about a Tropical Wave that would be heading along his usual route and had amended his course to avoid it. On the horizon to our right (the usual route) we watched the sky light up with extreme regularity and vivacity, thankful that we were on our amended course, while discussing music and pointing out cloud shapes (including Papa Smurf, a cow's head and an uncanny crocodile). In the heat of one debate on whether a cloud to our left looked like a nuclear fall out mushroom cloud or a lightbulb (with realistic flashy lightning), the captain came out and asked which direction the large black monster dead ahead in front of us was going. "it's not really moving much" I stammered in reply to his question of which I did not really know the answer to. In our haste to watch the exciting clouds all around us we had omitted to notice the impending darkness creeping right in our direction. As the black wall approached us, the usually warm wind blew cold and the waves grew harsh around us. Once again the captain redirected the boat to the north, but this time it was not enough to avoid the storm, and soon lightning was crashing all around us in the dense blackness that had swallowed us. With the boat moving at around 4 knots, which more or less equates to the speed of running our chances of avoiding it were always slim (have you ever managed to out manouver a storm on foot?) and it was to much relief when we cleared the storm with little incident. The next morning we would awaken to the paradisical San Blas and would have effectively passed the Darien Gap.
As mentioned in my previous blog, the Darien Gap is a vast roadless expanse of forest and marshland lying between Panama and Columbia. Although there are a few accounts of people passing through the Darien, it is as uncommon as it is dangerous. In addition to the natural impassability (boggy mashes clad with Mosquitos, surging rivers stretching for miles across your patch etc.) the population of the gap is almost solely cocaine traffickers and Columbian guerillas, neither of which being known for their warm hospitality when encountered (unless you count the fact that both may strongly insist on you staying with them for a while!).
For that reason stormy Caribbean seas, were nothing but a minor inconvenience in comparison to the alternative. All that was left for us to encounter was the palm fronged islands of paradise before the second leg of our journey began.
Dodging the Darien: Sailing from South America
The day had come, the journey split into two legs was about to reach the end of its first. The sun blazed down onto the Cartagena docks; sweat dripped down our faces as we carried the sum total of our travel posessions onto 'Seeadler', the three sailed boat that was to take us to Panama. As will be addressed in the second section of 'Dodging the Darien', although South and Central America are connected by land, the Darien Gap is an impassable mass of jungle and the only real way to pass between the two is via air or sea. As air would break my overland plans, the Caribbean Sea would have to provide my passage.
After loading up our stuff onto the boat and collecting provisions (Rum) for the journey, we set sail for Central America. From Rio to Cartagena through South America had taken 6 months at a lethargic pace, and had had many highs and lows in multiple senses of the word. As the boat slipped away from the slowly disappearing coastline of Cartagena the high spirits on board barely hid the pensive mood of each person reflecting on their own journey. For one or two on board this marked the last leg of their own adventure, but for all this provided an obvious point to look back over people they had met and places they had been. For me this had been one of great contrast: travelling alone and as a couple; sipping cocktails against the backdrop of a setting sun at the seaside and standing in awe under the dominating presence of cracking glaciers; Sandboarding down dunes in the middle of the desert and standing on top of the world just under 5000 above sea level (just under 2/3rds of the way up Everest); Standing alone in a landscape of Patagonian nothingness and partying in heaving crowds of Argentinians in Buenos Aires and Rosario. In fact there is so much I could list that this could go on for a very long while.
Sitting on the boat pensively, as the waves lapped against the hasteless vessel, I also sat wishing that I could know how many of the many miles I had travelled, how many hours I had spent in in transit (at an aroundabout guess it's 500 hours or 20 full days), which doesn't necessarily make that much difference but is still nevertheless interesting, quantitatively measuring the last six months of my life. On these travels my life had become our life, as two and a half months had been 24/7 with Emily, which in relationship terms of time spent together likely equates to just under a year. In fact in a recent conversation we worked out that we had never spent more than 6 hours apart since setting off from Cuzco in early August.
Hours passed and the sun set spectacularly over the sea, which surrounded us as far as we were able to see. The oval shaped moon shone fleetingly off the otherwise black waves and we began to settle into the routine of being on the boat, which was a necessity since we had 48 straight sailing before reaching the San Blas Islands. A few hours after sunset the captain's autopilot began to play up and I, while the autopilot was being fixed, was given the task of steering the boat due west for three hours before settling down with my new buddy Johan (a dutch guy who I paired up with from the off) to do four hours of nightwatch. Emily had begun to feel seasick, slipping off to a sleepy slumber in the baking cabin below, while Johan and I sat at the stern of the boat playing guitar, and singing whatever maritime themed songs came to mind. 2am came as the moon set below the water, encompassing the world into a shroud of utter blackness, and we were replaced by the next nightshift before slipping away into our own bouts of darkness.
After loading up our stuff onto the boat and collecting provisions (Rum) for the journey, we set sail for Central America. From Rio to Cartagena through South America had taken 6 months at a lethargic pace, and had had many highs and lows in multiple senses of the word. As the boat slipped away from the slowly disappearing coastline of Cartagena the high spirits on board barely hid the pensive mood of each person reflecting on their own journey. For one or two on board this marked the last leg of their own adventure, but for all this provided an obvious point to look back over people they had met and places they had been. For me this had been one of great contrast: travelling alone and as a couple; sipping cocktails against the backdrop of a setting sun at the seaside and standing in awe under the dominating presence of cracking glaciers; Sandboarding down dunes in the middle of the desert and standing on top of the world just under 5000 above sea level (just under 2/3rds of the way up Everest); Standing alone in a landscape of Patagonian nothingness and partying in heaving crowds of Argentinians in Buenos Aires and Rosario. In fact there is so much I could list that this could go on for a very long while.
Sitting on the boat pensively, as the waves lapped against the hasteless vessel, I also sat wishing that I could know how many of the many miles I had travelled, how many hours I had spent in in transit (at an aroundabout guess it's 500 hours or 20 full days), which doesn't necessarily make that much difference but is still nevertheless interesting, quantitatively measuring the last six months of my life. On these travels my life had become our life, as two and a half months had been 24/7 with Emily, which in relationship terms of time spent together likely equates to just under a year. In fact in a recent conversation we worked out that we had never spent more than 6 hours apart since setting off from Cuzco in early August.
Hours passed and the sun set spectacularly over the sea, which surrounded us as far as we were able to see. The oval shaped moon shone fleetingly off the otherwise black waves and we began to settle into the routine of being on the boat, which was a necessity since we had 48 straight sailing before reaching the San Blas Islands. A few hours after sunset the captain's autopilot began to play up and I, while the autopilot was being fixed, was given the task of steering the boat due west for three hours before settling down with my new buddy Johan (a dutch guy who I paired up with from the off) to do four hours of nightwatch. Emily had begun to feel seasick, slipping off to a sleepy slumber in the baking cabin below, while Johan and I sat at the stern of the boat playing guitar, and singing whatever maritime themed songs came to mind. 2am came as the moon set below the water, encompassing the world into a shroud of utter blackness, and we were replaced by the next nightshift before slipping away into our own bouts of darkness.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
A Taste Of The Caribbean
Cartagena, the last city on the South American leg of my overland adventure, is a hot, sweaty humdrum of life by the sea. It also happened to be the signal that we were now leaving the relative coolness of the Pacific coast and genuine coldness on the spine of the Andes, which had encompassed so much of my trip from Southern Argentina upwards.
We arrived on our air conditioned bus, stepping out into an early morning oven, and it was only 10am! We flagged a pickup truck taxi shoving the bags, Alex and myself into the back, and the girls (Emily and an Israeli) into the front. As we passed through the midmorning traffic to our hostel Alex and I sprayed each other with water from a bag (it tends to come in bags in Columbia) in the hope of some slight respite from the heat.
After dumping our worldly goods (not including my walking boots which I stupidly left in Medellin) by mistake, a group of us (Alex, myself and some other dudes) went out for a coffee and wander in the old town, while Em popped off for a swim in the sea. The old town was a gorgeous mix of rugged, run down and unarguably charming colonial buildings which looked like they had come off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. We walked to the wall, partially crumbling and clad with rusty cannons looking out onto the water, for a little breeze, getting our first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea that Emily and I would soon be sailing to Panama on.
Five or so days passed within the still, sweaty walls of Cartagena preparing for our sea voyage to Panama. After a little wrangling and a few dummies being thrown from the proverbial pram by the ubiquitously insane sea captains, we chartered a 10 man sailing boat with a Bavarian lunatic captain at the helm. We met the 6 other passengers, who all seemed great, and went through the usual process of changing money, sorting out travel bags and storage bags required before leaving the shores of South America.
This also meant saying goodbye to Alex, who had pretty much accompanied us throughout Columbia and was an awesome travel buddy. He was to head off to Tyrona National Park to the East a few days before we sailed North-West-(ish), and would be sorely missed by us both. But thus is the way with travelling and as time goes by people leaving becomes an acceptable norm on the road. Columbia too would be sorely missed after flying up the rankings of 'best country so far', which in South America was to be the final addition. The beautiful landscape, overwhelmingly friendly people and generally raw nature of travelling there had, in itself, been simply wonderful and unforgettable. The following day would hark the end of one adventure and the start of another: the small but adventure-packed Central America beckoned across the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea.
We arrived on our air conditioned bus, stepping out into an early morning oven, and it was only 10am! We flagged a pickup truck taxi shoving the bags, Alex and myself into the back, and the girls (Emily and an Israeli) into the front. As we passed through the midmorning traffic to our hostel Alex and I sprayed each other with water from a bag (it tends to come in bags in Columbia) in the hope of some slight respite from the heat.
After dumping our worldly goods (not including my walking boots which I stupidly left in Medellin) by mistake, a group of us (Alex, myself and some other dudes) went out for a coffee and wander in the old town, while Em popped off for a swim in the sea. The old town was a gorgeous mix of rugged, run down and unarguably charming colonial buildings which looked like they had come off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. We walked to the wall, partially crumbling and clad with rusty cannons looking out onto the water, for a little breeze, getting our first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea that Emily and I would soon be sailing to Panama on.
Five or so days passed within the still, sweaty walls of Cartagena preparing for our sea voyage to Panama. After a little wrangling and a few dummies being thrown from the proverbial pram by the ubiquitously insane sea captains, we chartered a 10 man sailing boat with a Bavarian lunatic captain at the helm. We met the 6 other passengers, who all seemed great, and went through the usual process of changing money, sorting out travel bags and storage bags required before leaving the shores of South America.
This also meant saying goodbye to Alex, who had pretty much accompanied us throughout Columbia and was an awesome travel buddy. He was to head off to Tyrona National Park to the East a few days before we sailed North-West-(ish), and would be sorely missed by us both. But thus is the way with travelling and as time goes by people leaving becomes an acceptable norm on the road. Columbia too would be sorely missed after flying up the rankings of 'best country so far', which in South America was to be the final addition. The beautiful landscape, overwhelmingly friendly people and generally raw nature of travelling there had, in itself, been simply wonderful and unforgettable. The following day would hark the end of one adventure and the start of another: the small but adventure-packed Central America beckoned across the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea.
Chasing The Dead
Medellin, the city that once brought corruption, drug trafficking and violence to Columbia, and in many ways the world, now brings style, panache and a relentless party scene to the northern portion of the continent. A city fledgingly growing in tourist popularity, it would become evident that the scars of the past were still healing and that museums wouldn't be necessary when so many locals could vividly remember Medillin's colourful past.
We arrived in darkness at an empty bus station after a long and rather spectacular journey ascending through coffee plant clad mountainsides. Emily, Alex and myself booked ourselves into a dormitory in the most popular party hostel in the city. This was the first time that Em and I had not got a double, but this hostel's were so expensive that we decided to go for the bunks for a few days. We were very keen to get a party on the go and started drinking immediately however we were so tired that the night ended early.
The next day we were planning to visit the grave of Pablo Escobar, the most notorious and famous Cocaine trafficker in history and once one of the most powerful and influential men in and around the Columbian region. We arose late and after a large brunch, caught the train to the graveyard on the Medellin equivalent to the tube. Near the end of the journey I took it upon myself to do some acrobatics for the already curious population of the train and hang upside down from the overhead bars. After a round of applause from those in the vicinity, we got talking to two groups of locals, who once informed of our destination not just told us the way but went out of their way to join us and show us the grave. As we reached the grave, the already darkening sky let loose an unflinching torrent of rain (Medellin is well known for it's once or twice daily downpours) and after taking photos we took shelter under a sporadically placed canopy outside. After visiting the grave, conversation, in Spanish of course, turned to Escobar and how he was contrastingly perceived by the people of Medellin.
In short the story of Pablo Escobar reads like something from fiction and is not as clear cut as the bad guy does bad things, rises to fame and riches and then is caught/killed. Most people know that he was a billionaire cocaine trafficker who was the worlds most wanted man for years before being shot dead by a Columbian task force in his own neighborhood. However, after rising to power he built schools, medical facilities and housing for many of Medellin's poorest people. His vast resources also gave him control of all levels of Police, Judges and Government officials (of which he became one himself for a while). Those who stood up or spoke against him would usually turn up dead within a very short period of time. With much help and encouragement from the U.S.A Escobar's empire was slowly chipped away by a secret and irrepressible Police task force, and a vigilante group of victims' families/friends (named 'Los Pepes') who in turn assassinated those who aided him. This consequently created two distant poles of opinion among those he encountered: one group seeing him as a Robin Hood character stealing from rich Americans and giving to the poor Columbians; another seeing him as the Devil himself.
As we stood huddled under the canopy, one of the friendly group of locals explained this polarity, telling of why many Columbians saw him more as a hero than a cold blooded villain. At this point another man coincidentally co-huddling from the rain told us in a passionately chilling but warm and friendly way, considering the topic, that Escobar was a devil and a killer. He went on to show us his disfigured arm telling us that it had been done by Pablo's men as a result of him helping the aforementioned 'Los Pepes' group against Escobar. We left warmed by the yet again unwarranted friendliness of the Columbian people but chilled by the afternoon rain and the stories we had heard at the graveyard. The night passed quietly in the midst of another downpour.
The following morning we once again arose later than planned but with much to do. The main plan today was to continue the Escobar trail and visit the prison that he had at one point built and voluntarily incarcerated himself in. As per usual in Columbia there was absolutely no tourist information whatsoever and we left with only the name of the train stop and of the prison itself ('La Catedral'). We arrived at the train stop and eventually managed to divulge the fact the we would need to take a bus and then walk 30 minutes from one of the drivers. 15 minutes later, Alex, Emily, a Korean named 'J' and myself left the bus and started walking up the side of the steep valley under the direction of the driver. We walked for around half an our before flagging down a jeep in the opposite direction to be told that it would be another hour walking up the snaking mountainside road. There was only another hour or two of daylight remaining and we became concerned that we would not be able to reach La Catedral without help. We sat by the roadside under the watchful eye of a scabby dog waiting for some form of assistance to appear on the road almost unpopulated by vehicles. As it happened, much to our surprise, and very luckily, a pickup truck (ish) with a large empty wooden cage presumably used for sheep or large vegetables appeared within 10 minutes. The driver was more than happy to provide our passage, and dropped us off close to the prison. I say prison but that is not exactly the case and requires another delve into the story of Pablo Escobar.
After being publicly caught out on one of his many crimes, Pablo Escobar became wanted by the Columbian government. After much negotiation Escobar gave himself up on the condition that he would only be tried for one minor crime (getting immunity for the rest including shooting down a commercial airline) and that he could design and build his own prison. As ridiculous a set of demands as that sounds, the Columbian government accepted in a bid to stop him bombing government buildings and assassinating everyone in his path. Once inside his meticulously designed palatial mansion, the Columbian government decided to do a U-turn on their agreement and ascended the steep hill to arrest Escobar. However, as it turned out, Escobar had also included hidey holes, automatic weapon storage areas and escape hatches (well wouldn't you?), and when assailed disappeared into the night.
The prison, as hinted before was no longer exactly a prison but after Escobar's demise had been ripped apart possibly, for various reasons, by those who contrastingly hated him and loved him. The site was then given to the church and now, painted in bright oranges and greens, looks out over the spectacular views of a city that both benefited and suffered under its previous inhabitant. We walked back down for a while, eventually managing to flag a returning taxi to the bottom of the mountain.
That evening Alex, Emily, myself and a number of other people from the hostel managed to acquire a taste of the Medellin lifestyle that is touted so passionately as the best in Columbia. Many drinks were drained in quick succession and an inebriated Emily and I watched on as the rest of the boys clamoured into the masses of Columbian girls in hope of taking home a local beauty. Unsurprisingly the next day was basked in a shroud of hangover, and the day was spent watching TV before leaving on (hopefully) the last night bus of the trip (due to the much smaller size of Central America). The three of us settled down in the cramped bus for a night of broken sleep before awakening to the hot hot heat of Cartagena.
We arrived in darkness at an empty bus station after a long and rather spectacular journey ascending through coffee plant clad mountainsides. Emily, Alex and myself booked ourselves into a dormitory in the most popular party hostel in the city. This was the first time that Em and I had not got a double, but this hostel's were so expensive that we decided to go for the bunks for a few days. We were very keen to get a party on the go and started drinking immediately however we were so tired that the night ended early.
The next day we were planning to visit the grave of Pablo Escobar, the most notorious and famous Cocaine trafficker in history and once one of the most powerful and influential men in and around the Columbian region. We arose late and after a large brunch, caught the train to the graveyard on the Medellin equivalent to the tube. Near the end of the journey I took it upon myself to do some acrobatics for the already curious population of the train and hang upside down from the overhead bars. After a round of applause from those in the vicinity, we got talking to two groups of locals, who once informed of our destination not just told us the way but went out of their way to join us and show us the grave. As we reached the grave, the already darkening sky let loose an unflinching torrent of rain (Medellin is well known for it's once or twice daily downpours) and after taking photos we took shelter under a sporadically placed canopy outside. After visiting the grave, conversation, in Spanish of course, turned to Escobar and how he was contrastingly perceived by the people of Medellin.
In short the story of Pablo Escobar reads like something from fiction and is not as clear cut as the bad guy does bad things, rises to fame and riches and then is caught/killed. Most people know that he was a billionaire cocaine trafficker who was the worlds most wanted man for years before being shot dead by a Columbian task force in his own neighborhood. However, after rising to power he built schools, medical facilities and housing for many of Medellin's poorest people. His vast resources also gave him control of all levels of Police, Judges and Government officials (of which he became one himself for a while). Those who stood up or spoke against him would usually turn up dead within a very short period of time. With much help and encouragement from the U.S.A Escobar's empire was slowly chipped away by a secret and irrepressible Police task force, and a vigilante group of victims' families/friends (named 'Los Pepes') who in turn assassinated those who aided him. This consequently created two distant poles of opinion among those he encountered: one group seeing him as a Robin Hood character stealing from rich Americans and giving to the poor Columbians; another seeing him as the Devil himself.
As we stood huddled under the canopy, one of the friendly group of locals explained this polarity, telling of why many Columbians saw him more as a hero than a cold blooded villain. At this point another man coincidentally co-huddling from the rain told us in a passionately chilling but warm and friendly way, considering the topic, that Escobar was a devil and a killer. He went on to show us his disfigured arm telling us that it had been done by Pablo's men as a result of him helping the aforementioned 'Los Pepes' group against Escobar. We left warmed by the yet again unwarranted friendliness of the Columbian people but chilled by the afternoon rain and the stories we had heard at the graveyard. The night passed quietly in the midst of another downpour.
The following morning we once again arose later than planned but with much to do. The main plan today was to continue the Escobar trail and visit the prison that he had at one point built and voluntarily incarcerated himself in. As per usual in Columbia there was absolutely no tourist information whatsoever and we left with only the name of the train stop and of the prison itself ('La Catedral'). We arrived at the train stop and eventually managed to divulge the fact the we would need to take a bus and then walk 30 minutes from one of the drivers. 15 minutes later, Alex, Emily, a Korean named 'J' and myself left the bus and started walking up the side of the steep valley under the direction of the driver. We walked for around half an our before flagging down a jeep in the opposite direction to be told that it would be another hour walking up the snaking mountainside road. There was only another hour or two of daylight remaining and we became concerned that we would not be able to reach La Catedral without help. We sat by the roadside under the watchful eye of a scabby dog waiting for some form of assistance to appear on the road almost unpopulated by vehicles. As it happened, much to our surprise, and very luckily, a pickup truck (ish) with a large empty wooden cage presumably used for sheep or large vegetables appeared within 10 minutes. The driver was more than happy to provide our passage, and dropped us off close to the prison. I say prison but that is not exactly the case and requires another delve into the story of Pablo Escobar.
After being publicly caught out on one of his many crimes, Pablo Escobar became wanted by the Columbian government. After much negotiation Escobar gave himself up on the condition that he would only be tried for one minor crime (getting immunity for the rest including shooting down a commercial airline) and that he could design and build his own prison. As ridiculous a set of demands as that sounds, the Columbian government accepted in a bid to stop him bombing government buildings and assassinating everyone in his path. Once inside his meticulously designed palatial mansion, the Columbian government decided to do a U-turn on their agreement and ascended the steep hill to arrest Escobar. However, as it turned out, Escobar had also included hidey holes, automatic weapon storage areas and escape hatches (well wouldn't you?), and when assailed disappeared into the night.
The prison, as hinted before was no longer exactly a prison but after Escobar's demise had been ripped apart possibly, for various reasons, by those who contrastingly hated him and loved him. The site was then given to the church and now, painted in bright oranges and greens, looks out over the spectacular views of a city that both benefited and suffered under its previous inhabitant. We walked back down for a while, eventually managing to flag a returning taxi to the bottom of the mountain.
That evening Alex, Emily, myself and a number of other people from the hostel managed to acquire a taste of the Medellin lifestyle that is touted so passionately as the best in Columbia. Many drinks were drained in quick succession and an inebriated Emily and I watched on as the rest of the boys clamoured into the masses of Columbian girls in hope of taking home a local beauty. Unsurprisingly the next day was basked in a shroud of hangover, and the day was spent watching TV before leaving on (hopefully) the last night bus of the trip (due to the much smaller size of Central America). The three of us settled down in the cramped bus for a night of broken sleep before awakening to the hot hot heat of Cartagena.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Stopping For A Coffee
Salento was a name that we had heard a few times from other travellers on the route north through Ecuador and Columbia as a great place to chill and enjoy a coffee. That, as we were soon to realise, was to be the understatement of the trip and after hopping on a bus in Cali bound for Armenia (strangely enough not the ex USSR ruled state on the juncture of Eastern Europe and Asia), we were on a local Collectivo (non direct bus) to Salento. The lush green hills ubiquitously spotted with dark green coffee plants rolled by as we trundled through the countryside for an hour before arriving in Salento. At first impressions it appeared a small and friendly town, spotted in the middle of a vast countryside of hilly coffee plantations, but after luckily meeting the friendly English owner of the hostel we were looking for (in the wrong direction) we started to get the impression that it was to be so much more.
We checked into the Plantation House hostel and talked with the owner for a while about what there was to do in the small town. He suggested that we go for a wander and then have a coffee at Café Jesus (the name of the owner) before heading out to play a curious local game in the centre. We ate well and then popped around the corner to try on of Jesus's famous coffees. The coffee itself wasn't just great but amazing: rich, perfectly roasted and less than a week since it had been lovingly plucked by Jesus himself (once again the coffee owner). We stayed for a matter of hours knocking back the most amazing expressos and brandy coffee's that I imagine that I will ever have the pleasure to taste and left grinning. What's more, everyone in the town stopped to say hello and welcome us to the town, hoping that we enjoyed our stay. We were starting to wonder what more we could possibly ask for in a place.
We returned to the Plantation House to pick up enough people to constitute two teams for the local game that we were about to participate in. Upon arriving we were guided to the children's section by an amused group of locals, who then went on to explain the rules of the game. In short the game requires each person to throw metal shotputs into a clay bank, rimmed with a metal ring and small packets of gunpowder, which explode when hit. In theory the game seemed simple but in practice was far more difficult than anticipated, and we definitely showed the crowd of highly interested (and slightly inebriated) onlookers how useless a pack of Gringos can really be. Once again the locals were extremely warm and especially made us feel at home, and after a similar reception at the local billiards hall it was becoming clear that Alex, Emily and I were beginning to fall in love with Salento, Columbia, and the warm people we encountered pretty much everywhere.
The next day we set off on an hours walk to a local plantation owned by an old man named Don Elias, although after getting a bit lost we were quite late and ended up doing the tour with his slightly grumpy wife. Still, her slightly damp mood could not dampen ours as, after being shown the process of how they grow and prepare the coffee, we were about to have a cup that had been picked and dried less than 24 hours prior. We were very excited to say the least and trotted home content under the approaching shroud of nightfall. After two wonderfully chilled days in Salento we were about to enter the contrastingly mental world of Medellin. Exciting times were ahead.
We checked into the Plantation House hostel and talked with the owner for a while about what there was to do in the small town. He suggested that we go for a wander and then have a coffee at Café Jesus (the name of the owner) before heading out to play a curious local game in the centre. We ate well and then popped around the corner to try on of Jesus's famous coffees. The coffee itself wasn't just great but amazing: rich, perfectly roasted and less than a week since it had been lovingly plucked by Jesus himself (once again the coffee owner). We stayed for a matter of hours knocking back the most amazing expressos and brandy coffee's that I imagine that I will ever have the pleasure to taste and left grinning. What's more, everyone in the town stopped to say hello and welcome us to the town, hoping that we enjoyed our stay. We were starting to wonder what more we could possibly ask for in a place.
We returned to the Plantation House to pick up enough people to constitute two teams for the local game that we were about to participate in. Upon arriving we were guided to the children's section by an amused group of locals, who then went on to explain the rules of the game. In short the game requires each person to throw metal shotputs into a clay bank, rimmed with a metal ring and small packets of gunpowder, which explode when hit. In theory the game seemed simple but in practice was far more difficult than anticipated, and we definitely showed the crowd of highly interested (and slightly inebriated) onlookers how useless a pack of Gringos can really be. Once again the locals were extremely warm and especially made us feel at home, and after a similar reception at the local billiards hall it was becoming clear that Alex, Emily and I were beginning to fall in love with Salento, Columbia, and the warm people we encountered pretty much everywhere.
The next day we set off on an hours walk to a local plantation owned by an old man named Don Elias, although after getting a bit lost we were quite late and ended up doing the tour with his slightly grumpy wife. Still, her slightly damp mood could not dampen ours as, after being shown the process of how they grow and prepare the coffee, we were about to have a cup that had been picked and dried less than 24 hours prior. We were very excited to say the least and trotted home content under the approaching shroud of nightfall. After two wonderfully chilled days in Salento we were about to enter the contrastingly mental world of Medellin. Exciting times were ahead.
Burnouts and Party Droughts
Unfortunately partying was not to be our given activity. Before catching the bus Emily had started to feel sick and I wasn't exactly feeling too dapper. The particular bus that we had chosen was definitely not the wisest due to it stopping to pick up every single waif, stray and waiflike stray that it could find. The journey that would usually take around 1.5 hours took three of which around half way through Emily broke into a fever and began shivering and breathing heavily. We arrived after what seemed like a lifetime, hailed a cab and secured a room to go and die in. I popped to the shop to grab a few provisions, checked us in properly and returned to the room to sleep for the next 24 hours. The next morning I was in a similar state with stomach cramps, dizziness and a terrible headache. Emily was beginning to recover but also still feeling bad, and the next few days were spent in semi convalescence, eating little and watching films on Emily's computer.
After a few days of seeing nothing further than the end of our road Emily, Alex and myself decided to go out to explore the city, in honesty was nice but not particularly beautiful, and after a little while we were ready to return back to our apartment for a well needed dose of Anchorman. Cleverly we decided that this would be perfectly complimented by 2 litres of white rum and some various mixers for Mojitos. This, which seems plainly obvious in the cold light of day, was actually a very stupid idea considering the fact that I had been vomiting less than 24 hours prior and Emily was still feeling crap. The next morning we experienced something of a physical regression to feeling dreadful, spending another day lying around feeling sorry for ourselves before rousing to watch the Presidential Debate on CNN whilst chowing down on a Chinese buffet (pun duly intended).
After five days in Cali we were more than ready to leave and Salento, a small town deep in the heart of the coffee district sounded like the perfect cure for a tough week in the city. What we didn't realise then was how perfect perfect was to actually be.
After a few days of seeing nothing further than the end of our road Emily, Alex and myself decided to go out to explore the city, in honesty was nice but not particularly beautiful, and after a little while we were ready to return back to our apartment for a well needed dose of Anchorman. Cleverly we decided that this would be perfectly complimented by 2 litres of white rum and some various mixers for Mojitos. This, which seems plainly obvious in the cold light of day, was actually a very stupid idea considering the fact that I had been vomiting less than 24 hours prior and Emily was still feeling crap. The next morning we experienced something of a physical regression to feeling dreadful, spending another day lying around feeling sorry for ourselves before rousing to watch the Presidential Debate on CNN whilst chowing down on a Chinese buffet (pun duly intended).
After five days in Cali we were more than ready to leave and Salento, a small town deep in the heart of the coffee district sounded like the perfect cure for a tough week in the city. What we didn't realise then was how perfect perfect was to actually be.
Sunday, 5 October 2008
Lost Souls and Hidey Holes
Another diversion, another 12 hours of bus time. We were heading to Tierradentro, an archaeological site hosting Pre-Columbian tombs and statues of animals, gods and men. This was also the closest that we would be going to the so called F.A.R.C territory, travelling to around 30km from the once front line (Columbia's equivalent to the Ghaza Strip) between the Government and the Guerillas. We boarded an early bus which would take around 6 hours, travelling out of the relatively grimey city of Popyan into lush green sub-tropical mountains.
The local bus stopped sporadically along the way picking up welly-clad farmers holding baskets of vegetables, buckets of milk and other various items straight from the ground/tit. The clouds rolled in and the weather turned surprisingly cold as the landscape began to resemble a wilder Welsh countryside, and we bumped along the rough gravel track. Later we arrived at a town called Izca to experience our first real police check, which involved them routinely toothcombing through the bus and everyones bags for drugs (us) and semi automatic sub machine guns (one would assume).
After returning to our seats we hit the road again to be dropped off at a random crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Luckily an old man and woman turned up in an equally old lorry and offered us a lift. We gladly accepted and spent the short journey happily chatting with the old couple. Once dropped, we found lodgings before schmoozing down to the museum, stopping for a brief chat with every local who passed. It was already beginning to dawn on us how friendly and happy to help everyone was, which was a large difference to the rather rude local receptions in Peru and Bolivia. The small museum was just that, small, but quite interesting, and since we had arrived too late to visit the tombs, we gathered a map and walked up to watch the sunset from a beautiful viewpoint hosting some of the aforementioned statues and some not so statuesque local children, keen to show us their trees climbing skills. We returned, ate well and retired early to enable an early bird start to the tombs the next morning.
In spite of a hard bed dipping as low as the current U.S. Economy, we managed to raise, pack and leave pretty early, breakfasting before climbing up through the forest to the first set of tombs. The guard at the top happily chatted about the chambers for a bit before giving us a lemon and letting us in for a peruse. These were not lit, so we used out torches to explore the perfectly preserved burial places. It's difficult to fully detail them, but they were fascinating, displaying carvings and paintings of no-one knows what (literally, since historians no nothing about these people).
The second set of tombs took around an hour to descend and climb to, and were lit well enough to really see the ornate pillars, bone holes and pottery. Sadly we had a bus to catch approaching and had to return to the village in time to get back to Popoyan. We arrived late and went to bed early after Emily began to feel unwell. The following day we would leave for Cali, where some overdue party time was required.
The local bus stopped sporadically along the way picking up welly-clad farmers holding baskets of vegetables, buckets of milk and other various items straight from the ground/tit. The clouds rolled in and the weather turned surprisingly cold as the landscape began to resemble a wilder Welsh countryside, and we bumped along the rough gravel track. Later we arrived at a town called Izca to experience our first real police check, which involved them routinely toothcombing through the bus and everyones bags for drugs (us) and semi automatic sub machine guns (one would assume).
After returning to our seats we hit the road again to be dropped off at a random crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Luckily an old man and woman turned up in an equally old lorry and offered us a lift. We gladly accepted and spent the short journey happily chatting with the old couple. Once dropped, we found lodgings before schmoozing down to the museum, stopping for a brief chat with every local who passed. It was already beginning to dawn on us how friendly and happy to help everyone was, which was a large difference to the rather rude local receptions in Peru and Bolivia. The small museum was just that, small, but quite interesting, and since we had arrived too late to visit the tombs, we gathered a map and walked up to watch the sunset from a beautiful viewpoint hosting some of the aforementioned statues and some not so statuesque local children, keen to show us their trees climbing skills. We returned, ate well and retired early to enable an early bird start to the tombs the next morning.
In spite of a hard bed dipping as low as the current U.S. Economy, we managed to raise, pack and leave pretty early, breakfasting before climbing up through the forest to the first set of tombs. The guard at the top happily chatted about the chambers for a bit before giving us a lemon and letting us in for a peruse. These were not lit, so we used out torches to explore the perfectly preserved burial places. It's difficult to fully detail them, but they were fascinating, displaying carvings and paintings of no-one knows what (literally, since historians no nothing about these people).
The second set of tombs took around an hour to descend and climb to, and were lit well enough to really see the ornate pillars, bone holes and pottery. Sadly we had a bus to catch approaching and had to return to the village in time to get back to Popoyan. We arrived late and went to bed early after Emily began to feel unwell. The following day we would leave for Cali, where some overdue party time was required.
Finally A Real Challenge!!!
Columbia! Not even remotely your average tourist destination, which is why we're both so extatic to be have the opportunity to travel northwards through it. The home of cocaine, corruption, Shakira and modern day guerrilla warfare, Columbia has only recently become safe enough for backbackers to travel through due to ubiquitous gang warfare and virtual civil war. In fact Columbian government is still only in control of around of 70% of the actual country, however most of the 30% is dense jungle with little actual population (including wanted military commanders and suspected national terrorists). The reputation of Columbia as a raw, energetic and ocassionally hairy travelling experience is something that has been backed up by everyone who I have crossed paths with along my route North. This was a destination high on my list and something that I was very much looking forward to. The time had come for my final country in South America before sailing to Panama.
We awoke early to a humdrum of noise, loud talking and banging in our shitty hostel (from the rude and ignorant staff), checking out as quick as possible barely stopping to air our grievances. We hopped in a taxi and were whisked to the border to pass through immigration. After being offered an excellent rate by a street exchange person we asked to change the $25 dollars in our kitty, before realising that the calculator was rigged to show a lower value than mathematically correct. When found out the cheeky entrepreneur slipped off into the shadows to wait for another unsuspecting tourist. In a moment of inspiration Emily disappeared off armed with my calculator and the $25 to find another conman touting in front of a policeman. The conman tried to pull the same scam before getting loudly caught out by Emily and ending up having to give a better exchange rate than anywhere else. After getting the policeman to check the validity of the notes she returned triumpantly. We continued to await our Columbian entry stamp, whilst watching the other conmen bandy round the touchéd tout, laughing about how he had been stung by a stupid Gringo.
After finding the terminal we commandeered a bus heading North to Popayan, which would take pretty much the entire day. After leaving the typically rundown border town we found ourselves in a landscape totally different from that of before. The land stretched out far beyond us, a patchwork quilt of farmland golds and greens everywhere, as the subtropical greenery clung to the sides of dominant mountains everywhere. As the driver threw us around winding mountainside roads like he was Lewis Hamilton, we clung to our armrests hoping that his skill as a driver matched that of the talented F1 driver.
Hour after hour of hairpin bends passed and my own ability in holding my food down came into question as the enthusiastic driver swerved left and right to avoid potholes, pedestrians and other vehicles. For a change the bus did actually have a toilet if I did feel ill, however my pride was at stake and after five and a half months of similar journeys without any throwing up, I didn't want to be starting now. Fortunately as I started reaching the point where being sick seemed an inevitability, the bus stopped for a 30 minute dinner break. Maybe I could make it after all.
We arrived in Popayan, after spending the last 30 minutes of our journey watching possibly the most gory film ever made, which I am sure the little girl 2 rows down will be having nightmares about for some time to come. Like most South American cities after dark it had an air of being a little dangerous, which, considering the fact we were now in Columbia, was probably accurate. We jumped in a taxi, found a cheap hostel and spent the evening eating poor italian food and drinking beers with our new friend Alex (from England).
The following day passed uneventfully in Popayan, which was pretty uninteresting due to it's near total destruction in the earthquake of March 1983, and subsequent rebuilding. An early night was then had as morning after we were to leave on a bus out to Tierradentro: home to well preserved pre-Columbian burial tombs and stone carvings of animals and gods. We would also be heading close to what was, in recent years, the front line between the Columbia Government and the F.A.R.C.
We awoke early to a humdrum of noise, loud talking and banging in our shitty hostel (from the rude and ignorant staff), checking out as quick as possible barely stopping to air our grievances. We hopped in a taxi and were whisked to the border to pass through immigration. After being offered an excellent rate by a street exchange person we asked to change the $25 dollars in our kitty, before realising that the calculator was rigged to show a lower value than mathematically correct. When found out the cheeky entrepreneur slipped off into the shadows to wait for another unsuspecting tourist. In a moment of inspiration Emily disappeared off armed with my calculator and the $25 to find another conman touting in front of a policeman. The conman tried to pull the same scam before getting loudly caught out by Emily and ending up having to give a better exchange rate than anywhere else. After getting the policeman to check the validity of the notes she returned triumpantly. We continued to await our Columbian entry stamp, whilst watching the other conmen bandy round the touchéd tout, laughing about how he had been stung by a stupid Gringo.
After finding the terminal we commandeered a bus heading North to Popayan, which would take pretty much the entire day. After leaving the typically rundown border town we found ourselves in a landscape totally different from that of before. The land stretched out far beyond us, a patchwork quilt of farmland golds and greens everywhere, as the subtropical greenery clung to the sides of dominant mountains everywhere. As the driver threw us around winding mountainside roads like he was Lewis Hamilton, we clung to our armrests hoping that his skill as a driver matched that of the talented F1 driver.
Hour after hour of hairpin bends passed and my own ability in holding my food down came into question as the enthusiastic driver swerved left and right to avoid potholes, pedestrians and other vehicles. For a change the bus did actually have a toilet if I did feel ill, however my pride was at stake and after five and a half months of similar journeys without any throwing up, I didn't want to be starting now. Fortunately as I started reaching the point where being sick seemed an inevitability, the bus stopped for a 30 minute dinner break. Maybe I could make it after all.
We arrived in Popayan, after spending the last 30 minutes of our journey watching possibly the most gory film ever made, which I am sure the little girl 2 rows down will be having nightmares about for some time to come. Like most South American cities after dark it had an air of being a little dangerous, which, considering the fact we were now in Columbia, was probably accurate. We jumped in a taxi, found a cheap hostel and spent the evening eating poor italian food and drinking beers with our new friend Alex (from England).
The following day passed uneventfully in Popayan, which was pretty uninteresting due to it's near total destruction in the earthquake of March 1983, and subsequent rebuilding. An early night was then had as morning after we were to leave on a bus out to Tierradentro: home to well preserved pre-Columbian burial tombs and stone carvings of animals and gods. We would also be heading close to what was, in recent years, the front line between the Columbia Government and the F.A.R.C.
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