Otavalo, Bogotá, Cartagena. Two countries, three cities and a robbery.


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South America » Colombia » Bogota
November 25th 2012
Published: December 3rd 2012
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The last couple of weeks have been..... eventful, to say the least.
Let's start at the beginning, before the robbery, before Colombia, even.

Otavalo, the town with the biggest market in South America was interesting, hilarious and a little frightening at one point. We stayed at a hostel called Rose Cottage, about 3km out of town, up in the hills. It is a beautiful property, run by a gorgeous (and mildly insane) Ecuadorean woman named Rosa. She usually lives in London with her family, so we were very lucky to have her there with us, driving us around in her beat up 4WD (and getting lost), cooking us breakfast and telling us... well, everything!

On our first day, we decided to go and see the market on a regular weekday, as we had heard it can be pretty overwhelming on a Saturday, and we were serious about making some purchases. Rosa recommended we walk into town by the river, which is accessible from her property, however she knew there were some aggressive dogs down that way, so she said, "here, take this big stick". So off we go, on a lovely walk along the river, Rehgan carrying a big stick. About 2/3 of the way there, we encounter said dogs, running along beside and in front of us, snapping and growling. I, having had experience with aggressive dogs before, put by head down and just kept walking, thinking, if I ignore them they'll leave me alone. I was wrong. One of them ran up behind me and bit me quite savagely on the inside of my knee. Luckily I was wearing jeans, and even though the skin was broken, the dog's teeth didn't actually make contact with me. As soon as he bit me, I yelled "Babe! The stick!!" And we walked side by side with Rehgan waving the stick randomly/threateningly in the air until we were past these nasty buggers. Eventually I had to sit down and assess the damage. We had nothing with us to clean the wound, so I hobbled the rest of the way into town and burst into tears in front of a poor pharmacist who pushed all manner of drugs and cleaning products at me until I found some I wanted and stopped crying.

The markets were good, and yielded everything we were after. The rest of our stay in Otavalo was uneventful in comparison, except for the night Rosa forced us all to dress up in Carnaval masks and dance around to Samba music. Oh, and we ate guinea pig. Tastes like chicken. Seriously.

So, from Otavalo, we went for a serious bus mission to Bogotá, Colombia. This involved about 5 hours of bus on the Ecuadorean side and another 24 on the other side. A few hours into this journey, we were stopped at a bus terminal in Pasto, and we were pretty tired and indecisive about whether we wanted food, but eventually decided to get off the bus and see if there was anything in the terminal that took our fancy. We shoved our bags under our seats and I took my purse with me as we scooted into the terminal for probably less than two minutes to discover nothing interesting to eat. Rehgan went back out and stood at the head of the bus while I grabbed a bag of Doritos, and we both stood at the head of the bus and ate for a few more minutes, then got back on the bus to discover our bags had been stolen. I had a mouthful of Doritos that turned immediately to dust, and the half eaten bag still dangling from my hand, when I looked at the transit policeman who'd just got on the bus to check ID. "Mi bolsa, es no aqui!"

All our most valuable items were in those bags. My camera, Rehgan's iPod, iPhone, credit cards, all his arty ideas formed around the day of the dead in his notebook, and of course our passports. We decided then to continue on to Bogotá rather than stay in Pasto, as there was more likely an embassy in Bogotá. We then got to spend the next 22 hours on that bus, feeling like our world had crashed in on top of us, me clinging to the one thing I had left, my purse. Luckily, in it, I still had my credit cards and all the cash we had been carrying, so we were not without anything at all.

We arrived at our hostel in Bogotá, met up with Michael (who was an absolute rock through the whole ordeal), and the staff did absolutely everything they could to help us. We discovered an email when we arrived from someone claiming our passports and credit cards had been found and the staff at the hostel had a friend in Pasto that could go and collect them, and send them by overnight courier to Bogotá. If only it was that simple.

The girl in Pasto had no real inclination to help us until I offered to pay her $50 to do it, but she's a university student and could only go in between classes. Colombian bureaucracy is the worst I've ever encountered. The police at the terminal wouldn't even tell her if the passports were there without a notarized letter of authority from us. We had the girls at the hostel do up a letter which we took to the Notaria, so they could witness us signing it, but unfortunately the only ID we had was copies of our passports and my drivers license. The man there came back to us and said "we need to see the original passports". I'm like, "you do see how this is not possible, yes?" Anyway, I turned on the tears and they did it for us eventually.

So, unfortunately our experience of Bogotá was limited to police stations, money transfers, and running back and forth between the
Andrés DCAndrés DCAndrés DC

The deathly mojitos
Notaria and the hostel during the day, and going out for amazing food and drink in the evenings. We did do a really interesting graffiti tour run by an Aussie expat, who took us around the city for about 2 hours talking about all these beautiful murals done by some incredibly talented artists, and the stories behind them. It was one of the most enjoyable city tours I've ever done. A couple of interesting facts about Colombia, it has the second largest number of displaced people due to war and poverty, second only to Sudan. It also has the largest divide between rich and poor in the world. In Bogota, the southern suburbs are filthy, grey and crowded with the lower classes, which we saw on the way in on the bus and the northern suburbs are a beautiful playground for the elite residents. This was so evident when we went out for dinner in north Bogotá, the restaurants were so plush and decadent, the food and drinks were the most expensive we've found so far on this trip.

Our last night in Bogotá was really messy, at a steakhouse called Andres DC. We started and finished with one of their famous mojitos, and were absolutely rorted. We met up with Fraser who is a teacher in a bilingual school in the northern suburbs, and he spoke about some projects that they do at the school with the kids, where they go down to the southern suburbs and help to build little houses for the people there. The population of Bogotá is apparently ever-growing especially in the south as people who have been driven from their homes in the rural areas by the FARC and other rebel groups come to try to find work and shelter. It's very sad.

So we had a flight booked to Cartagena and we were hoping to have our passports by that stage, but due to the disinclination of the girl in Pasto, or the excessive paperwork, they were not going to arrive in Bogotá on time, so we got them sent to Cartagena, and hoped we'd at least be able to take a domestic flight with just the copies of our passports. We arrived at the airport with heaps of time to spare, then discovered our flight actually left from a different terminal that was a really slow shuttle bus ride away. Turns out, because I was the one who'd filed the police report, my name was on it, but Rehgan's was not. This was a problem, so she took us down to the police on the terminal and got them to do up one with his name, then, my ticket, which had been kindly booked by Michael, was under my married name but my passport/police report is still all under my maiden name, so I had to get a police report with my married name on it. Then the printer at the police station was out of order, so we ran around to the copy place to get the reports printed. Our plane was due to leave in 5mins, Michael already on it, and we're faffing around getting these ridiculous reports printed that said we were who we said we were. The funny thing is, the police didn't ask for any ID, no questions asked, just print a report with my married name and my passport number, no problem. We made it onto the plane with a minute to spare, and I just collapsed into a heap.

Cartagena is really muggy. A massive change from the high altitudes we'd been experiencing so far. The airline lost my backpack, and one of Rehgan's smaller bags as well. We checked into our hot, stuffy, mozzie ridden hotel and went straight to the couriers office where we thought our passports would arrive. They told us they would be coming via postales which was another office. So we went to the postales and they couldn't help us unless we had a reference number. So back to the hotel and I'm in Rehgan's underwear because I have no clothes of my own, my bag doesn't arrive until 1am. We manage to get a reference number from the guys at the hostel in Bogotá, and we go back to the post office again in the morning to be told the reference number is incomplete, and to try the other courier company across the road.

Step aside for just a moment. By this stage, Rehgan and I are at our wits end. Rehgan's Spanish is not great, and it gets worse when he's under stress, as does mine, but I was trying to hold it together long enough to communicate with whomever we were dealing with, and to decipher the information I was receiving. We would walk away from these places with empty hands and no real understanding of where or when our package would arrive and Rehgan would try to get me to go back in and confirm or ask again, but I barely knew what I was saying let alone what they were saying back to me. So I spent a fair bit of time crying in the streets whilst Rehgan was freaking out beside me. Our health deteriorating to the point where I was cracking a fever during the nights, I could barely eat without feeling nauseous, Rehgan was bringing his food back up every second meal and we both were spending far too long in the bathroom.

We finally confirmed which company the package was sent with and which office it would arrive at (the first one we went to) so we went back and showed them the reference number, they said "a las doce" which means at 12 midday. So we go back at 12:30, the office is closed for lunch, and we go back again and after a bit of a faff around they say "mañana, a las doce" which means, tomorrow at 12. I burst into tears and say "Regressamos a las doce, mañana, ok? Es muy importante!" (We will return tomorrow at 12, ok? It's very important!) Everyone in the office stopped and looked and it went dead quiet. By this stage we had checked into a good hotel with air conditioning, pool and awesome helpful staff, and we went back and they managed to track our parcel online with the courier company (which we had tried to do but failed). We could see it was still in transit (overnight service my arse) and in the morning we checked again and it said it had arrived. Those people at the office saw us coming. They had the package there on the counter ready for us. "Can we see some ID?", "it's in there!!" (pointing) I eventually got to open the pack there in front of the courier girls and they finally realised why I'd been so upset. She said to me, with a look of shock, "you've been traveling around Colombia with no ID?"

So we finally had a day to enjoy Cartagena with Michael. We went to Volcan El Totumo, which is a hill that spews up warm soft slimy mud out of its crater. You climb up the side, and the locals pull you in, lay you down and start vigorously massaging you. You have no choice but to succumb. The mud is apparently about 80m deep, but it just suspends you on top. You are then pushed aside and have time to just slop around in it for a while. You can stand straight up in the mud, and you never sink lower than your chest. It was one of the strangest and most fun things I'd ever done, possibly made more fun by the fact that we'd gotten our passports back that morning. You then climb out and walk a short distance to the lagoon where another local woman grabs you, pushes you down into the water and starts throwing pots of water over your head, washing the mud off every part of you. She even makes you take your pants off so she can wash them, sticks her finger in your ears. Again, you are completely helpless. I just sat there in the water trying to catch my breath as she threw pot after pot if water over my head and face. Eventually I look up and her daughter of about 4 years old is standing there helping to wash me and babbling away at me is Spanish. I think the bath is as much of an experience as the mud. Michael went home the next day and Rehgs and I borrowed bicycles from the hotel and rode around the wall of the old town, then spent the day relaxing by the rooftop pool. We made our way to Taganga the following day for some diving and the hike to the Lost City. Next time! Xx

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3rd December 2012

My experience in Bogota
I visited Bogota for a short visit. larkycanuck.com/2012/02/22/the-hunt-for-el-dorado/
3rd December 2012

Hi guys, it\'s hard to believe all of that was in just a couple of weeks. While we can just picture you both upset & freaking out in Cartagena, we can also hear the fun, excitement and wonder at all the things you are experiencing. Keep on making memories together and enjoy every moment. Take care, love Mum & Geoff xx
3rd December 2012

Bravo
What a pair of troopers you are - well done in dealing with such trying events. May the rest of your adventures be filled with stress-free times and closely held passports. Safe and happy journey. Love C
12th December 2012

OMG
What an amazing adventure...I love reading about your trials and tribulations..no doubt you are getting stronger by the day. Stay with it and as someone else said - as much in the moment as possible! Especially on 21 December! New time for everyone. Mucho love to you both xxxx

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