So again I think it has
been a few weeks since my last update, I think the last rant came
after the 60hr journey to get to Lima. I remember hoping that I would
never go through a journey like that again. Needless to say two days
later I was embarking on a 78hr bus journey to get to Bogotá to meet
up with my German mate Florian. I looked into a flight and at that
notice the cheapest that I could find was going to run me £600.
How's about noooo, okay scotty. I began to think about the logistics
of getting there, the border crossings, the wholesale lack of Spanish
as a dialect. When I began to read about the border crossings the
fear set in and I questioned whether I was up to it. But I had come
this far and in retrospect it was a good experience. I decided that
if I could make a journey like that with only the most basic of
Spanish at my disposal then I could make it pretty much anywhere
across this continent. The first thing that really struck me was how
little anyone here speaks English, and how much effort it was going
to be on the organising front. Granted this has never been my strong
point, and it took me a couple of days to plan how I was going to get
to Bogotá – but even then my plan was full of holes. I knew a
basic route and I managed to make an impossibly frustrating phone
call to a bus company that was heading to Puiria in the north of
Peru. Beyond this I thought that I could take a nights sleep in Quito
(Ecuador) in a couple of days – as the lonely planet advises
against taking buses at nights. It was a pretty flaky plan but I had
written the names of some towns in the various countries, which was
probably the minimum that I could do.
I did not really have a
great feeling for Lima. I was in the supposed nicest part and it was
still a bit of a dive. In fairness I say this about pretty much every
city I have ever been to, but as I left the outskirts the poverty and
reality really hit home. Huge shanty towns made up of tiny huts
littered the horizon. Then shit got even more real when I realised
that the road had been cut into some huge mother fucking sand dunes,
which must collapse every time it rains. It was pretty nerve racking,
these huge sand banks a meter from the bus window and a 200ft drop
into the pacific ocean on the other side.
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| View from the bus window - road has a pretty solid base I imagine |
This bus was a 15hr stint
and I after watching a couple of films in Spanish I was given my
first taste of the lovely Spanish music that gets played on these
journeys. It is impossibly bad. The music itself is this continually
upbeat combination of pipes, harmonicas and god knows what else.
Apparently they also sing about heartbreak and other such topics but
always just continually to these upbeat songs. The best analogy I
could draw is imagine burying your dog to the match of the day theme
tune. For 15hrs. Anyway, things began to get tough around 8hrs in
when I realised that there were not going to be any scheduled stops –
aka no burns. There was a toilet on board, I gave it consideration
but the smell of that toilet was worse than any lack of nicotine. I
was also getting pretty hungry, then at 7am some pikey looking bloke
got on the bus with a basket of what looked like buns that had been
run over. I did not know what he was saying so I waved some money at
him and in exchange I got a squashed roll with a cold fried egg in
the middle. Mmm yummy. The alternative
to eating it was holding it and looking at it, so I ate it.
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| The Peru / Ecuador border |
We arrived at around
9am and the place was shit, so I booked onto the 9.30am to Lajo,
Ecuador The scenery was pretty much desert until approaching the
Ecuador border. I was the only westerner on the bus which made me a
bit nervous about the border crossing, but it was all pretty smooth
going. They could tell that I didn't have a clue what they were
saying and I suspect that they could not be assed asking questions
any more than I could be assed listening to them. Once in Ecuador as
we reached the Andes the scenery was pretty incredible stuff. I
arrived in Loja at around 6.30pm and it was too dark to contemplate
anything but another bus – it genuinely felt like the safest place
to be after standing in the bus terminal for 10 minutes. So I booked
the 9.30pm to Quito arriving at 9am the next day. By this point I
could no longer feel my legs and I was in some perpetual state of
confusion, so it was quite welcome that they use American dollars in
Ecuador I had no spare capacity for currency calculations. So
another 12hrs of upbeat weird music and I was in the capital. I was
so tired and fed up that the thought of getting into the city and
finding a hostel made me immediately stumble my way through another
bus reservation and onwards another 5hrs to the Columbian border at
midday. I had to have my bag between my legs because some fucking
goon turned up with a double mattress to store on the bus. Nice one.
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| Load your double mattress on there ked |
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|
When I arrived in the
pretty grim town of ipales it was getting dark – and it was the
first time that I began to feel a bit scared. Everyone was staring at
me but no one was interested beyond that. There was no one trying to
hassle me or 'help' me. I had read on the internet that I needed to
get a taxi to the border, and not knowing the word for border I just
muttered Columbia through a drivers window and off we went. I feel
nervous about getting into most taxis over here. Not only are they
these shitty little yellow cars that I have never seen, but I am also
never sure if I am actually going to arrive where I have asked them
to take me. The border crossing was a little nerve racking, lots of
shifty looking characters acting shifty, waving wads of cash at me
for some reason. Show offs. It was okay, but not an experience I
would recommend. Another death ride in a taxi to the nearest town
called Tulcan to see that this place was as soulless as ipales, so I
went straight to the bus terminal and booked a night bus to Cali.
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| Camera does not do it justice |
Again, the scenery was unreal when I woke in the morning. The road
circumnavigated the Andes, rising high high into the landscape – it
really was a sight for very sore eyes. When I arrived in Cali it
looked very nice, but I was now within 20hrs of Bogotá so I thought
fuck it, may as well just carry on. This journey was a little more
real. We were boarded several times by police with torches,
camcorders and guns. I had taken a valium to sleep so I was fairly
relaxed about it, but when I took out my camera to take a photo the
guy next to me quickly intervened and gave me the international sign
language for bad idea (slit throat sign). On our first stop this same
young guy disappeared into the toilet and came back somewhat
rejuvenated. He was sniffing a lot and tapped his leg incessantly for
the final 4hrs of the journey. Welcome to Columbia.
By the time I arrived
it was around 10pm and dark. I opted for another death taxi and by
night the place looked horrendous. All I could see was graffiti,
garbage and crack heads. All Florian had given me was the name and
address of the hostel, I did not see anything else I would need. The
driver could not find the hostel and I could tell he was on the verge
of just dumping me somewhere – but other than giving him the
address there was not a lot I could do. After an hour of driving
around these terrible streets off the back of a 78hr journey he
finally located the place and I asked the owner if he had any Germans
staying there. 'No' was the answer. Tidy. I had a little walk around and I felt out of breath after about three steps - it wasn't until a few days later that I found out Bogota is at 2600m above sea level.
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| Celebration / Protest |
The hostel was pretty
gash and when I woke up there was a kid opposite me who looked like a
Mongolian version of Ronnie Corbett. In a week I did not see this guy
leave the hostel once. I was about to take a dump when one of the
bedroom doors opened and to my relief me and Florian were stood face
to face trying to work out if we were who we thought we were (last
time we met I had a shaved head and he had quite long hair – now
almost the opposite on both accounts). They had not gone to bed until
6am – something that I have grown pretty well accustomed to over
the past few weeks – so we grabbed some breakfast and I went for a
wander around on my own whilst he got some more sleep. To be fair the
place looked a lot nicer by day. The area was set against the
backdrop of a huge mountain and by light the graffiti looked pretty
awesome. This area of the city was made up of quaint little colonial
side streets and it had a nice feel, other areas were pretty damn
ghetto. I wandered into the central area and I stuck out like a sore
thumb – I was the only person in eyesight wearing shorts. A few
people touched me, which on the whole was a disturbing experience. I managed to walk into the middle of some protest or celebration - it was hard to tell which to be honest - but there were a lot of horses and a lot of people shouting "gringo"at me.
When I got back to the
hostel Flo introduced me to his mate Obi, and then he told me that
another two guys that he sort of knew from Munich were staying
upstairs – and that two of their friends were also arriving in a
few days. These guys are all on 3-4 week annual vacations – so for
the past couple of weeks I have basically been on a German lads
holiday. Pretty, pretty, pretty cheap. Columbia is not as cheap as I
was lead to believe by the 2009 version of the Lonely planet. I
reckon prices have as good as doubled in the two years since that
publication, as tourists begin to return following years of bad
press. I have not really felt threatened since being here, but it is
not a good idea to walk the streets alone in the big cities after
dark. I did this a few times in Bogotá and I walked a bit faster
than my usual 0.5mph.
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| La goon |
After a few days of
partying flo and obi headed off to San Andres, the £450 return
flight priced me out, so I hung around with the German boys for a few
more days in Bogotá, went to some big lagoon and then we headed
north towards the Caribbean coast, to a party town called Teganga.
The bus took 16hrs, and
when we climbed on board the back 8 rows or so had already been taken
by some big family type arrangement. I reckon some of these people
might have been family friends without kids, because they seemed way
too happy to be about to face 16 hours on board a bus with their
young children. They were constantly making each other laugh and
joking around with the children. There was a real variety of people
of different generations, even some old woman was getting involved in
the banter. It was great watch them all laugh and joke together,
constantly shouting and singing. That was for the first 5 minutes of
the 16hr journey, after which it became really quite annoying.
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| Teganga |
Teganga was a pretty
cool little place but there were a lot of annoying people trying to
be hippies, basically rich but dressed in clothes that look like
pyjamas. My other minor issue was that in addition to Spanish I also
do not speak German. When the 6 of them were together I kind of felt
on the fringes, as there was not a lot I could contribute. When in
smaller groups it was cool, as they would speak English, which was
not only gratefully received but also very impressive. But it was to
be expected, it is not as if all of my mates would start speaking
German if there was a German in our group. It was not a real problem
for me, as I was spending long, lazy days in a hammock reading and
practising my Spanish, but at night I began to feel a bit conscious
that I was the only one not talking... They are all top top guys, and
each made an effort to talk to me in English on nights out – but I
sensed that I was probably also a bit annoying for them at times
because someone would always feel that they had to make a translation
of a joke or story that was told in German..
Being on this lads
holiday reminded me of being away with my own mates. We would go to
bed at some awful time, get up at midday, argue about what to do for
the rest of the day and then just begin drinking again amidst some
half-hearted suggestions. I am actually the youngest person amongst
this group, somewhat of a first on my travelling experiences. It is
reassuring to see that it is still acceptable to go away partying
into your late thirties. These boys could seriously put the booze
away – they are Bavarians, it is just what they do. The other
problem with a group of seven is that it is almost impossible to make
travel arrangements, as each wants to party of whatever on a
different night – so three of four would be packed and ready to
leave at 9am whilst the other three or four have not gone to bed yet.
After two of three attempts we finally managed to leave as a team and
headed to Santa Marta, en route to some place well off the beaten
track called Palomino, a tiny beach in the Tayrona National Park.
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| Palomino |
For some reason the
only ATM in Teganga did not take my cash card. so I ran up a tidy
little debt of a cool half million pesos. Once we got to Santa Marta
I maxed my daily allowance to pay Christian back and got a little for
myself for Palomino. After the 2.5hr bus ride we got off at Palomino
and I was a little surprised by what I found. It was literally a few
shacks along the road. We had to walk through a sort of palm jungle
for about 20 minutes to reach the beach, but when we got there I
realised what it was all about. The beach was stunning and deserted.
There were a few doss houses along the beach front – offering very
basic dorms or hammocks to sleep in, or you could pitch your own
tent. We took a place that was recommended to the Germans, which was
also owned by Germans – so a bit more German thrown into the
equation. The beach had much more of a feeling of the Pacific about
it as opposed to the Caribbean – huge waves crashing against each
other and nothing on the horizon but a feral pack of dogs. These dogs
always make me think about bully. Sometimes when I see a dog I first
wonder what its reaction would be to being put inside a computer
case.
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| How a dog in a computer case should look |
I think this probably forms my initial benchmark when assessing
the worth of any particular dog (although I also like to take a
moment to picture them in a flatcap and sun glasses). I repeatedly
get told off at restaurants for feeding the stray dogs. I can
understand in part as some of the customers find them a nuisance, and
if they are getting fed then they will keep coming back. But here I
discovered the angle of the conscious owner, who actually likes and
look after certain dogs. They put out the scraps of food into a bowl
some distance from the restaurant, so if some douche bag like myself
feeds them then they have to essentially shout at their own dog –
also making them feel bad. I have seen some pretty maingy looking
dogs here. Usually they hang around in packs then you will see one
with mainge that has been totally ostracised and lies there on its
own, pitifully trying to keep the thousands of flies from its various
wounds and sores. It makes me feel terrible – far worse than seeing
some advert for starving African children. I then have a moral battle
to fight. Is it better to feed these dogs – give them a moment of
happiness – or is this just prolonging their misery? As horrible as
it sounds I think it is better to just let it starve and end the
misery. No one is going to help them, and it is not like there are a
lot of vets around even if someone was willing to touch the
godforsaken thing and go to the expense and time of healing it. I
think this kind of struggle is only really restricted to dogs. When I
see a gimpy chicken hobbling around on one leg I can barely contain
my laughter. I could probably attribute this to a summer working in a
chicken factory – maybe sawing the feet off these horrible
creatures desensitised me somewhat. I don't want to see them suffer
in some battery, but I also won't lose any sleep about it.
Palomino was a strange
little place. Utterly deserted but when I took a stroll at night I
came across some weird tribal dance taking place on the beach. It
seemed pretty inappropriate – a load of young adolescent girls doing some weird sex-dance whilst some old weird looking guy
chanted at them. I don't know what the craic was, but it made quite
uncomfortable viewing.
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| Lynn these are sex people |
After a couple of nights on this beach it
quickly became obvious that I was running out of cash, and fast.
Needless to say there was not a cash point here, and all of the
German lads understandably needed their cash for themselves, as they
wanted to stay for a week +. So I was forced to make an exit, a 2.5hr
bus journey back to Santa Marta just to take out some ruddy bloody
cash. I really wanted to stay there for a few more days but instead I
have come down to Cartagena, where my boy Hugo arrives on the 2nd
for a month of travelling around with me – and also have the
Germans back for a night or two in a few days. It was nice to leave
in a way as I was getting mercilessly ravaged by mosquitoes, and I am
not taking any malaria tablets. It is basically like Frank Spencer
turning up for work on the first day of a new job wearing
roller-skates. This morning I beat my personal best and woke up with
59 bites. Good times.
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| Dinner |
I arrived in Cartegena
late, and as with any city, it looked bad by night. Weird people
wandering around whispering something about a bloke called charlie in
my ear. I spent today having a look round and it really is an
unbelievably beautiful city. The historic centre is a world heritage
site, and it is easy to see why. I am now trying to make arrangements
for Hugo's arrival – it really does take a lot of effort to make
plans here, but I am beginning to get to grips with the language a
bit better. I can say exactly what I want but when someone speaks to
me my mind freezes and I don't recognise a single word – so
conversations are quite one way. But everyone is very friendly here,
they talk to me, tell me how long they have lived here, tell me that
that love English football, pass me a card with a number on it and
then tell me to ring if I need cocaine, weed or hookers. I have
literally been given about 5 of these cards today – but on the plus
side one of these lovable rogues is going to take me to a cock fight
on friday – where I will finally get to see some chickens beat the
crap out of each other. Anyway, got to shoot, I have some phone calls
to make. Bay.
Early the next day we
got going again, and on the way I spotted a local guy smoking a
massive joint, so I stopped off to make a quick purchase. As soon as
I turned around I saw that two of the army guys who man the park had
been watching the whole thing from about 20 metres away, so I was
preparing myself for another 'fine' (as we entered the park they
spotted our rum and 'fined' us $5 to let us take it in. But I was not
too sure what the etiquette with this was, so as I went behind some
rocks I buried the weed. When I walked past they said nothing, so I
went back ten minutes later and dug it back up. I knew I was kind of
a marked man after this so I buried that weed in about 20 different
places over the course of the next 6 days. When we arrived after
another sweaty hike it was like paradise. Breath-taking beaches
sitting afoot huge jungle covered mountains. Our accommodation for
the first night was considerably worse. Row after row of hammocks so
close that when you got in you were touching the person next to you.
We had run out of rum and when I felt the heat of proximity I knew
that I was in for a bad night. I could hear mosquito approaching,
then the noise would stop right as they got to me, but I was so
wedged in that I could not even slap them away. There were also
several bats flying around in there which did not contribute to our
comfort. 
There were a few
Americans also in the Mirador so the next night I went and dug up the
weed and set about building a camp fire on the next beach along (a
short passage through the jungle). Just as I was getting her going
the military type people appeared out of nowhere and instantly walked
in my direction. It was the only time that I had weed on me, and my
bumhole began to twitch. For some reason I was wearing thin trousers
over my swimming shorts, and in the shorts pocket was weed, two packs
of burns (one as a wallet) and a lollipop. He patted me down and felt
everything in my pocket, which he asked to see. As I went in for the
first pack of smokes I managed to move the weed to the top of the
pocket. He felt me up again and this time felt the ball of weed and
asked me to take it out. I brought out my auxiliary burns and managed
to move the weed out of my pocket and round the back of my trouser
leg. This time he felt me again and only felt the lollipop, which he
assumed was what he felt before. When he walked away and started
searching the rest I tried to act calm, so I put a cigarette in my
mouth, lit it and almost spewed when I realised that I had lit it the
wrong way round. Smooth. They left empty handed and slightly dejected
that they did not pick up a haul. I was pretty god damn relieved to
see the back of them. The next day me and Hugo went on a bit of a
trek through the jungle to see some old ruins which was pretty cool.
The ruins themselves were turd, as is the case with ruins, but the
trek there was pretty cool, involved a bit of bouldering etc. It took
about an hour and a half to get up there, and when we arrived at the
ruins a few of the yanks were up there. I had seen a phone that
someone had put next to my camera, and knowing about Hugo's ability
to lose things I asked him on the way down if he had left his phone
up there, which he had not. I did not bother to ask anyone else.
Needless to say when we got out of the jungle someone realised it was
theirs and they had to go up and back again to find it. Whoops.
