Carnaval Time

February in some choice places in South America is a special time of year for one reason - Carnaval. Most famous in Rio, Carnaval is a five-day long decadent street party that builds up to Ash Wednesday, with parades, floats, silly costumes and enough quantities of booze to submerge East Anglia. Fortunately, the second biggest one (and much less touristy and commercial, and therefore, more fun) is in Barranquilla on the northern coast of Colombia. It is absolutely mandatory to have fun, and I was already all too aware how much Colombians like a party. Myself and new travel buddy Sheriff from Pennsylvania (thus named by friends and he even has a sheriff-badge tattoo), decided it was unmissable. It proved to be exactly that. Barranquilla has nothing to offer the conventional tourist, except during Carnaval, but even then we found ourselves to be novelty items. There were other gringoes there too, but we were a drop in the ocean compared to the thousands upon thousands of local "revellers", to borrow the ugly word that News of the World journos always use to describe UK festival goers. Subsequently everyone in Barranquilla wanted to talk to us, dance in the streets with us (I was taught the "one-foot skank" dance by a 50-year-old gentleman on the last day) and pelt us with flour and spray foam. Everybody has flour and sprays at Carnaval, and everybody gets covered by the end of the day, but we were walking targets for the locals. On a bus on the first night everybody was weeping with laughter at us, for no reason I could fathom other than we were gringoes. At another bar, the intimidating Goliath of an owner treated us like long-lost sons and sat with us for hours, plying us with free aguardiente and slapping us on the back and roaring with laughter like Henry VIII might at a drunken banquet. We ended up spending the whole weekend with various locals we'd met. They were almost too keen to hang out with us. One morning after another heavy night, an amigo called Elkin we met the night before phoned Sheriff at half nine in the morning - even though he knew we had only been in bed about two hours - and called another ten times after that to see if we were coming out again. If someone did that in England I would issue a restraining order.

The only downer of Carnaval was being robbed of my phone and some cash on day two. But there was no way I was going to allow the fun to end. The highlight of the party was on the last day, when we got to follow the last parade down the street as the skies darkened. Not that the spectacle ends when the parades stop - that is when the fun really begins. It was madness from start to finish - the moment we arrived in Barranquilla we had a taxi driver who was absolutely annihilated on rum. He was not to prove an exception to the rule. By the end of Carnaval I was jaded. My hilarious plan of pretending Carnaval was still on - including running around like maniacs, spraying people with foam who were now going to work and no longer in the mood - was shelved. Thank God Carnaval is only five days long otherwise I would be dead.

Before Carnaval I had another two weeks of voluntary work at the day centre. By the end of the four weeks I felt I had made some kind of impact and that it had all been worthwhile. On the last day, I brought my camera in for some pictures, and the kids went wild. Everyone wanted their picture taken individually, but as there were 47 of them that proved difficult. When the pictures had been taken I was nearly flattened in the stampede I had created, as they were all desperate to see photos of themselves. Although I enjoyed the experience, the thought of actually being a teacher fills me with abject horror. To think I once considered this as a career move. Teacher friends - I don't know how you do it!

After Carnaval I met up with Amparo in Taganga - where I was for Christmas and New Year - for a few days of post-Carnaval relaxation. We went to Tayrona National Park (where I had been flayed alive by mosquitoes the time before), where we spent a lovely couple of days exploring the unspoilt beaches and forests.

At the time of writing I am back in Medellin for a few more days before my Colombian adventure comes to an end. I am overstaying my visa by a week or so - for which I had to wait for hours to get my passport extended in the Medellin Immigration Office. They wouldn't let me in when I first arrived as I was wearing shorts. Luckily Amparo was with me and I went and changed into her jeans. To say they were figure-hugging on me would be an understatement. They were enough to make Russell Brand balk. She cut quite a dash in my baggy, below-knee length shorts as well. I realised sadly that I would be leaving Colombia having spent 99 days here. If only I had booked my flight a day later...

On Sunday I fly to Rio de Janeiro to meet la-di-da Primrose Hill types Mike and Kelly for a few weeks, taking in southern Brazil, Iguazu Falls, Buenos Aires (again) and Mendoza. Its going to be amazing I'm sure, but I will be so sad to leave Colombia. Brazil is going to have to be something very special indeed to match it...

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