Bond and Kate's Excellent Adventure

Now that I have made all of you aware of the safety of Colombia, I feel I should at least inform you of some of the things that there are to do there. As you know my visit began in Cartagena. I booked a room in the “new” town ina nice hotel called Hotel Da Pietro. After a couple of days of paying $80 a night i quickly realized that other accommodations were necessary. I went to the “backpackers slum” just outside of the walls to the old town and found a tiny room for $15 a night. Most were spent visiting museums, walking around the old city, and trying to avoid the sweltering heat of my room. The old city was walled by the Spaniard in the 1600 to protect the city from pirate attacks. It is absolutely stunning. The narrow streets are set up in a sort of maze with blind corners throughout. The affect is the old town takes a few days of wandering before it is navigable. Once I had the old town down, it was time to go. I had talked to some people at the hostel who told me that Medellin was a very nice place to visit. I had four days before I had to be in Bogota to meet my friend Kate, Medellin was on the way, why not. Because I spent so much money on my first couple of nights stay in Cartagena, i decided to go cheap and take the overnight bus to Medellin. It was a 14 hour trip. Off I went to the bus station. Throughout, my travels through Central America, bus was the mode of travel. I knew that I wanted to get on the first class bus, the problem was which one was the first class. There were 20 or so different bus company kiosks scattered around in the bus station. Once I had wandered around for about twenty minutes or so I met a French girl who had been traveling around Colombia for a couple of months. Jill (her name shortened, I won't insult her and try to spell her real name) was headed to Medellin as well and was nice enough to point me in the direction of the bus. The bus was around two hours late and once it did finally arrive it was nearly full. I was instructed to take the seat behind the fully reclined man. By fully reclined, I don't mean a few inches like an airline seat, I mean lazy boy reclined. I had to enter the seat at a 45 degree angle and his head was perched in my lap. After a couple of hours I was ready to slap him. I tried every trick in the book to get him to give me just a little leg room. I tried pushing, drumming, wiggling all this seemed to do was make him more set on keeping his seat reclined. All Jill could do is look back at me with pity. We stopped a few hours later and several people got off. I sprang into action and took a nice seat in the front of the bus. The rest of the trip was uneventful.
The city of Medellin is set in a valley surrounded by mountains. It was dark when we arrived at the top of the mountain and began the spiraling trip down into the valley. From the top of the mountains Medellin looks like a very small place. It is similar to flying over in an airplane. Small dots of light were all that could be seen. As we descended we arrived in the outskirts of town the light started taking shape. This being my first time to Medellin I thought that this was the actual city. I really began to question my decision to come. Shanty towns and sheet metal buildings were all that could be seen. People on every corner poised to jump any gringo who came across their path. Fortunately, we continued through the shanty town and eventually to one of the most modern bus stations that I have ever seen. It was more like an airport than a bus station. A fleet of taxi waited to wisp me off to my hostel. The name of the hostel is Tiger Paw. It is owned by a couple of American expats one of whom was a big Clemson fan. I held my tongue about the Alabama game this year for fear of being tossed out on the street. The hostel is centrally located in town and is very close to Zona Rosa, which is an area with several restaurants, bars and nightclubs.
My two days in Medellin were spent touring around the city and talking to people I met at the hostel. I met one guy who was Colombian born, raised in the US and had been in the shipping industry for several years. He had returned to Colombia and decided to open a restaurant. After a long discussion and several beers he persuaded me to come and have a look at his restaurant. I told him would be by the next day for lunch. The restaurant was in a shopping mall across the street from the newly constructed Bancolombia headquarters. Even with the location, I didn't have the heart to tell the guy that he would be closed in less than a year. IT just goes to show thought that even in foreign countries, it is all about location. The food was not very good either.
In my short time in Medellin I also befriended a group of guys who had been living there for about a month. There were two Canadians, an Irishmen, and an American. good group of guys, but their trip had stalled in Medellin because of the women. It is difficult to tell this side of the story without sounding like a chauvinist, but there is something that has to be said about Medellin. It is home to some of the most beautiful and friendly women in the world. The women are the main attraction in Medellin. Yes, Botero is from there and there are several different fine museums, but there are many people on trips similar to mine who never make it out of Medellin because they fall in love with the women of Medellin.
I was fortunate though, I had to be in Bogota to meet Kate so after a very short stay, I flew on. I got to Bogota at around noon, hopped in a taxi and headed for a hotel that I found in my travel book. A little side bar, to this point I have been traveling with the Frommers Guide to South America. If any one of you ever goes to South America, DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK. Yes, it gives you information on the towns and the locations of sites, but the hotel information is lacking and it is really difficult to decipher the prices. Rather than giving you the prices it gives you dollar signs. So $ is cheap and $$$$ is really expensive. The problem is that the signs change for every city so a hotel with $ could mean $20 in Medellin and $60 a night in Bogota. If you want $30 for a paperback book then I expect you to tell me how much it costs and not in dollar signs. Ok, sorry about that. I got to the hotel and payed a hell of a lot more for it than I intended. I met Kate at the airport at around 9 that night. Kate had the Lonely Planet guide to Colombia so the next day our first order of business was to find another hotel. We ended up in the Casa de Platypus, not to be confused with the Platypus Hostel, its sister hotel. The hotel is a converted hundred year old house with two very sizeable common areas and a common kitchen that I would dream of in my own house. We spent a couple more days in Bogota, got O.G.ed (over golded an I'm Gonna Get You Sucka reference) at the Museo de Oro, got drenched in Zona Rosa then decided it was time to head for the coast.
After much deliberation I decided that my memory of the bus from Cartagena to Medellin had subsided enough for me to get on another bus. To break up the trip we bussed from Bogota to a small town i the highlands called San Gil. It is the hub of ecotourism in Colombia and it the gateway to Chcaque national park. I zip lined and canyoned in Costa Rica so the only activity I was really interested in was rafting the class V rapids. Kate on the other hand wanted no part so after a short night of sleep we headed to the bus station again and the Caribbean coast town of Santa Marta. We caught the 5:30 bus from ???? to Bucaramanga so that we could catch the big bus to Santa Marta. Our driver for the first leg must have been late for an engagement because he drove the winding mountain roads like it was an indy car race. Kate actually dry heaved at one point. I think I am finally used to rough driving so it wasn't too bad for me. 17 hours after we started, we arrived in Santa Marta. It was high season Colombian travelers and the city was packed with funny hats, peddlers, and sketchy looking types. Even though we had had a rough few days of traveling, Kate and I decided to head on after only one night in Santa Marta. This trip was not quite as far though. It was a fifteen minute cab ride over the mountain to the sleepy beach town of Taganga. For me, Taganga was the diving hub of the area, for Kate it was a nearby beach, for both of us it was not Santa Marta We found a place (in the Lonely Planet Guide) called Hostel Techos Azules that seemed nice. If you ever go to Taganga you get there by going across the beach, over the rocks and up the hill its the one with the blue roofs hence the name. The hostel has a spectacular view overlooking the beach and town of Taganga. We got a great room with a nice balcony and steps away from the hammock laden open air cabanas. The caretaker, Johnathan, is a college student who is happy to speak at length in Spanish even if you can't understand what he is saying. The place is protected by Johnathan's three rottweilers, Blackie, Mama, and the puppy Blackie 2.
Once we got settled in to the hostel, Kate and I headed down to check out town and to find a place for me to finish my advanced diving certification. We went by one place offering a night dive for 70,000 pesos or $35 and I jumped at the chance to night dive again. I really enjoyed the dive, but the best part was one of my friends who I had met in Medellin (Colin the one from the US) was there to night dive as well. We spent the next couple of days hanging out with him and a Phd Engineer from Stanford named Laura.
While we were diving, Kate made another interesting discovery. All of the TV's in the hostel were tied in to the main satellite box in the lobby of the hotel. Kate was nice enough to mend a couple of my t-shirts that had holes in the armpits. While she was doing so she had the tv on for some background noise. 23 hours of the day the tv was set to international soccer. But from the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 became known to us as Porn Hour. We never actually figured out who it was, but someone tuned the TV to the porn channel during this time for the first few days. It was pretty funny. They would watch for a couple of minutes until someone walked into the lobby, then the channel would change back to soccer for a couple of minutes then back to porn. Our second night at the hotel, Kate woke me from my late afternoon nap to prove the validity of porn hour. It was great until some smartass Aussie stuck his head out the door and asked whoever was in charge of porn hour how to change the channel. Porn hour was over after that. Colin told us that he walked in and found a Norwegian guy watching the porn one day, the guy claimed that he didn't get this stuff on TV in his country, to which Colin commented “fair enough” and went on his way.
On our third night in Taganga we met up with a group of Irish twoo named Jenny, Matt (one of the Jenny's brother) and Dave (the other Jenny's boyfriend.) They talked us into going to Tayrona National Park. To get to TayronA we had two choices there was the 1 and ½ “BOAT RIDE OF DEATH” on a fishing boat from Taganga or we could take 20 minute bus to Santa Marta, a 1 hour bus from Santa Marta to the entrance of the park, a 10 minutes jeep ride to the trailhead, then a 2-3 hour hike to the beach. We opted for the hike. The trip to the trailhead was pretty uneventful, a full chicken bus, a ride in a rusted old Landcruiser with a man with no nose, and the option to pay $30 and ride a horse to the beach. Those of you who have been reading my blog know that when horses are involved, I choose to walk. Kate didn't really have a choice. So we set out with a couple of rather unfriendly Israeli girls in tow. We had been warned about the trail from the people who told us about “THE BOAT RIDE OF DEATH” and it wasn't much better. “Hot, humid, and knee deep mud” was the description. They left out knee deep mud mixed with horse urine and horse manure. Kate and I had not planned to stay the night, but when we finally arrived at the swimmable beach at noon, we knew that we were not going to turn around and head back in 3 hours to catch the last bus to Santa Marta at 6. All of the $15 a night hammocks were taken so we had to go with the $50 a night tent with the damp mattresses instead. Finally, at around 1 we were able to enjoy the beach. The beaches look like they are taken fro a magazine or a movie. White sand beaches, turquoise water, palm trees, and no buildings to ruin it. It was truly amazing. Our Irish friends made it by around 3 and we spent the rest of the day hanging out with them.
The rain started that night at around midnight. It had been still before that with no breeze whatsoever so the tent was stifling. The rain was welcomed at first. When the downpour came at about 2 and the tent started to leak. It was a little less welcomed. By nine when the rain still had not stopped I began to wonder how I was ever going to get out of this place. We hiked in on a dry day, there wasn't a cloud in sight and the trail was still muddy and slippery. By the time the rain had subsided, all of the horses were gone. That left us with only one option. The boat ride was described to me by a quite shaken Australian girl as “the closest I have ever come to death.” The Irish had to bus and hike in because the police in Taganga stopped the fisherman from taking them the day before saying “we already lost two today.” The thought of trudging through mud, horse urine, and horse manure was enough encouragement to make me willing to go through the danger and expense of the boat ride. But, there were no boats either. I wasn't willing to spend another fifty bucks for a horrible nights sleep so when the rain slowed Kate and I packed up and headed on our way. We were crossing the soccer field when we were stopped by a guy asking if we wanted a ride to Taganga. I quickly agreed. The anticipation was the worst part of the trip. There were a couple of occasions that made me slightly nervous, but for the most part it was fine. We arrived with no problems in about 1/3 the time it would have taken to get back.
As many of you know, when I drink rum, my mouth tends to get me into commitments that I may not normally do. Usually it involves cooking some sort of elaborate meal in the middle of nowhere. This time it was cooking a Louisiana meal in a decent sized city in celebration of the Super Bowl for the Irish and whoever else in the hostel wanted to eat. No problem. That is unless you are me and you are cooking anywhere other than the US. Yes, the gastrointestinal bug got me again. It started with heart burn, so I took an antacid, but it progressed into a full blown outbreak right at the time I was supposed to cook for everybody. The last time I was sick and cooking I was on the upswing of the illness, this time it hit me while I was cooking. I was making gumbo and the smell made me nauseous. But fortunately, once again I had a sous chef who pulled through. Kate actually made everything. I came down occasionally to check on the progress, but she did it all. Apparently, everybody really enjoyed the food too. I wasn't well enough to show my face and the quarter hourly trips to the toilet were pretty exhausting as well. Thank God Kate was there because there was no way I could have pulled that one off.
Funny enough, one I could take my antibiotic I was better. So the next morning I woke up and went diving. I risked the bends because Kate and I were flying back to Bogota that night at 10:30. Luckily, I had just enough time because I didn't have any problems with the flight. The next morning it was time for Kate to return to the States. I spent the next few days wandering around Bogota. I probably walked about 20 miles in two days I didn't have a plan or an agenda so I just wandered. In my wanderings I found my two favorite things in Bogota, the Botero museum and Lechona. The Botero museum was a gift of Fernando Botero's 100 million dollar collection of his own art pieces and those of other great artists including Picasso, Monet, and others. The museum was free and I spent several hours there while I wandered. The second discovery was Lechona. Lechona is a whole pig seasoned with various herbs and spices, stuffed with rice and yellow peas, and roasted in an earthen oven for 12-24 hours. The end result is a smoky, tender, delicious pork with rice and peas that have been cooked by the dripping fat of the pig. The skin is a mahogany color and has the most delightful crunch that just tops off the dish perfectly. I found the Lechona street vendor the day Kate left and had it for lunch and dinner every day until I left Bogota. The cost for a portion and a drink was $2.50. Other than Lechona I found the food of Colombia to be really bland and really boring. Put it this way, I ate Mcdonald's for the fist time of the trip in Bogota. After much deliberation, I resisted the urge to go back to Medellin and headed for Quito. That is the next story.

Until next time,

Vagabond

Colombia why the hell are you going to Colombia?

Once again I have lied to all of you. I said last time that I would give a summary of all of the places that I had visited from the end of the last blog on. About an hour and a half and a half page of writing I got bored. All of those places were very interesting and I had a great time. The problem is that I cannot write that way. As difficult as it is to write on the tiny little keyboard, it is ten times worse when you can't keep your eyes open to write.
All of that said, I am beginning again here in Colombia.
I arrived here about three weeks ago from Panama. My initial plan was to take a sailboat from Panama City (Panama not the Redneck Riviera.) From what I had heard from a hippy painter from New York who was vacationing in Bochete, The ride was a pleasant one. After further review, I found that the cruise lasted four or five days with a three day stop at San Blas Island off the Panama Coast. And there was a hostal in PC that could set the whole thing up for me for about $350. My research into flights led me to believe that the cheapest flight to cover the 400 or so miles from PC to Cartegena would cost around $400 dollars and connect in Miami. The cruise seemed to be a much better option and a much greater adventure.
I arrived in PC a few days later and headed straight for the hostal to book my trip. It was owned and operated by a couple of Aussies. When I ask them about the trip, a look of caution fell over their faces. Apparently, the Carribean is pretty rough this time of year and there was only one boat going to Cartegena any time soon. When the ride was described as “paying $350 to puke for three days” I decided that alternate plans had to be made. Those who know me know that I am not a seaman and even in the lightest chop, I am hanging my head over the side in a matter of minutes. I was so disappointed that I considered foregoing the visit to Colombia all together so that I could buy a plane ticket that seemed to be a better value. I told the Aussies my concerns and they immediately said, check out Aires Airlines. I had never heard of Aires and it did not show up on any of the searches that I conducted at travel web sites. $150 done, Colombia here I come.
I arrived in Cartegena at about noon. Not knowing a soul, able to speak very broken Spanish, and all that I had ever heard were horror stories about kidnapping and car bombs by the warring drug cartels and the rebel armies attempting to over throw the government. I expected to get off the plane, be handed a flack jacket, and hail mary. There wasn't much encouragement from home either. I was directed to the State Dept. web site by my mother. Others sent me warnings via newspaper reports and second or third hand information. The Airport wasn't too encouraging either. Aires flies primarily double prop planes, each of which makes a few stops in there route, sort of like a flying bus. When the plane landed, I was the only one of the 30 or so passengers to get off. I was standing on the tarmac and was quickly ushered tocustoms by one of the Aires employees. It was about a quarter of a mile from where I landed to customs. Not that the airport was that big, but that was how far away we landed. I guess you pay extra for the proximity to the terminal. There was no one in Customs except for 2 immigration people, 5 soldiers and a Rottweiler with a leather Hannibal Lector Mask over its face. When I approached the immigration people I discovered the little Spanish i could speak was irrelevant because Spanish in Colombia is spoken at a rate that would impress the bald guy from those 1980's commercials. (Think about it, he was the one who talked really fast.) After several no se and no comprendos (Spanish for I don't understand what you are saying to me) the immigration guy just waved me on out of frustration. It was a similar experience with the soldiers who were manning the customs table. After 15 minutes I was through.
Bear in mind that to this point, I had been travelling on the GAP tour. For two months, I had every destination habitation and meal planned for me on routes that had been tried and tested by thousands of other people before me. This was my first destination of my independent travels. Everything else was training camp.
I gave the Rott a pat on the head and headed for a nearby cab. I had booked a room in a mid range hotel called Hotel Da Pietro in the newer part of the city called Boca Grande. I squeezed into the cab (the cabs here make a Mini look like an Expedition) and off we went.
It was high season when i arrived in Cartegena so the street were packed with scantly clad Colombians who were enjoying the sun and cool waters of their Carribean Coast. We arrived at the hotel, I checked in, I walked about a block and a half, grabbed a late lunch, went back to the hotel and stayed there for 18 hours. For 18 hours I did not do anything. Partly because I had been traveling for two months at break neck speed through Mexico and Central America and was exhausted: and partly because I was petrified of the evils that were lurking outside my door on the Colombian streets. I had drawn up scenarios of people scouting me out in my cab ride and just waiting to take me away.
After a night of rest and several hours of debate, I decided that I could no longer just stare at the wall of my hotel room. I decided to head to the fortified “old town” or Ciudad Antigua. The city had been fortified by the Spaniards in the 1600's to protect it from pirates when Cartegena was one of the primary colonial shipping ports. I figured a museum would be a safe place so I told the cabbie to take take me to the Museum of the Inquisition. It was recommended in my guide book so I figured it was as good a start as any.
The old town reminded me a lot of New Orleans (accept for the giant wall all around it) narrow cobblestone streets, stuccoed buildings with grand courtyards. It was beautiful. I spent the day wandering around the maze of buildings and plazas with a new discovery at every turn. The greatest thing about my tour was that it gave me the comfort to continue exploring.
After five days in Cartegena, I realized something. This place is no more dangerous than some of the places I have lived. Someone in my situation would have to go looking for trouble or have to be really stupid to get into a dire situation. Yes, there are people here that will kill you. No, you do not go to the impoverished neighborhoods in the cities. No, you do not wear your rolex out at night. But, if you are willing to open yourself to the people, they will take care of you like a family member. Colombians are fighting back and are winning victories every day against the people who once held them in fear. I imagine that it was similar in the days of prohibition and the control that the mafias had in America. Progress has been made and of all of the places that I have visited, I have not felt more secure than in Colombia. Yes, there are swindlers and pickpockets, but you just have to be aware. Not necessarily on guard, just aware.
Colombia has mandatory military service for all men (and women I think) after they complete high school. Graduates have a choice of one year of service in the police force or two years of service in the military. Because of the shortened commitment, many of the youths choose to join the police force. This mandatory servitude gives the country an ample supply of willing and able men and women to stand on nearly every street corner with machine guns. Literally, in the larger cities, there are police on nearly every street corner.
I guess my moral of this blog is to relay the fact that fears of Colombia are obsolete. My visit here has been nothing but a pleasure. The people are caring, hospitable, and generous. The infrastructure is modern. And the security is probably better than the US. So don't write off Colombia based on Hollywood movies or even State Dept warnings. I know that I say this about everywhere I visit, but truly Colombia is one of my favorite countries in the world.

I will continue to work on the synopsis of Central America and hopefully will finish soon. Also, I plan to fill all of you in on the places and cuisine of Colombia just know for now that my favorite city is Medellin, Beach town is Taganga, and food is Lechona.

Until Next Time (Sooner, I promise)

Bond

ps headed to Ecuador tomorrow, Country #2 in South America