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It's all in the name, really: Cartagena de Indias. Probably the best-preserved colonial town in the whole of the Americas, and perhaps beyond. Likely setting of García Márquez's wonderful
Love in the Time of Cholera. A place I've dreamt of seeing for years and years. And we're here!
So, annoyingly, are the heads of state of almost every nation in North, Central and South America. Yes, it's the sixth Summit of the Americas. If you'd never heard of it before, the widely-publicised naughty behaviour of a few of Obama's trusted secret service agents - to summarise if you've been living in a dark hole these past few weeks: a group of these highly-trusted, black-suited, wraparound shade-wearing spooks thought it would be a good idea to contract the, erm, services of some pretty Colombian ladies for the evening...and then refuse to pay them - means you almost certainly have now.
A rather terrifying bus journey from Santa Marta - with a typical "don't-worry-I'm-invicible" Colombian minibus driver at the helm and even usually sanguine Colombian passengers looking horrified at his overtaking technique, or lack thereof - drops us off at Cartagena bus station after dark. Taxis can't take us to our
hostel as almost the entire old town has been completely sealed off for the benefit of umpteen presidents...let's not kid ourselves, it's for Barack isn't it? Do the presidents of Paraguay and St Lucia really need a entire
town shut down for their benefit? Didn't think so. Well, I don't mind a touch of inconvenience for Obama's sake. But for Argentina's
Cristina? You must be kidding!
Taxis being of no help at all, a bus ride and a short walk quickly get us to our hostel in Getsemaní, a
barrio right next to the old town and, as it so happens, Cartagena's red light district (no Men in Black in sight here, the whole hoo-ha actually happened before Air Force One even landed in Colombia). It's a lovely place of bougainvillea-festooned balconies, colonial churches and brightly-painted buildings - Cartagena certainly promises to be a feast for the eyes.
After a rather frustrating first day - during which the cordon-lifting time for the old town is constantly moved back - we eventually manage to step through the old city gates, and back in time. Cartagena is a truly exceptional place: hot and steamy, jutting out into the Caribbean sea,
its cobbled streets, palm-fringed plazas, psychedelically-painted buildings and verdant balconies exude its rich past. A past of slave markets, gold, galleons, cannons, fortresses and horse-drawn carriages. There is no denying that Cartagena is so well preserved, it's almost a giant, open-air museum. And yet, even within the UNESCO-listed city walls, Cartagena is no artificial tourist showpiece. It is a busy, prosperous Caribbean city which lives and breathes. For every immaculately-restored colonial palace and church there is a quiet back street of crumbling houses, their balconies overgrown and their paint peeling in the heat and humidity. For every shop selling tacky Cartagena-themed souvenirs there is a tiny cart, loaded with emerald limes and avocados, being pushed along outside it. For every overpriced cocktail in a swanky bar there is a can of ice-cold
Aguila to be sipped while sitting on a centuries-old cannon on the ramparts, watching the sun set over the Caribbean Sea. Yes, a feast for the eyes indeed.
Our figure-of-eight itinerary around Colombia now takes us inland. Our first stop is the eccentric town of Mompox - as strange, it turns out, as its name. Getting to Mompox from Cartagena requires some organisation and bit of luck.
A tiny, overloaded minibus (with barely functioning air-conditioning this time - seriously, make up your mind!) takes us from Cartagena to the riverside town of Magangué, some three hours away. There, a speedboat takes us a few miles up an arm of the Río Magdalena - Colombia's longest river - to a tiny hamlet on the opposite shore, where a
colectivo, a shared taxi, takes us the final hour and a half to Mompox.
The town's isolation - the nearest large town in any direction is many hours, and hundreds of miles, away - is in complete and bizarre contrast to its history. Indeed, centuries ago Mompox was a pretty important place: situated on an island in the Magdalena River, it was major stopping point in colonial days. Goods from Spain, having been unloaded in Cartagena, travelled up the river inland, passing through the city, which prospered. Today, the town is a forgotten backwater with a compelling colonial atmosphere. Take the cars, motorcycles and pylons away, and you might as well have jumped three centuries into the past. And it's not just the architecture, beautiful as it is. Life in Mompox moves slowly. Very, very slowly. Between noon and
three of four in the afternoon, it stops almost entirely as the town's population withdraws from the fierce heat of the Sun to their cool, shady courtyards. Siesta time. Things just about get moving in the late afternoon: a leisurely walk along the banks of the wide, lazy Magdalena, a game of cards in one of the town's countless plazas. By evening, just about all of Mompox's older residents are sitting in rocking-chairs (Mompox is apparently famous throughout Colombia for its furtniture) on the pavement outside their houses, watching the world go by as bats flit about in the skies overhead and electrical storms light up the horizon in every direction. It's a bit big, and a bit pretty, to be Macondo from One Hundred Years of Solitude, but it's close, and a perfect place to appreciate another facet of Colombia's faded colonial past after the sumptuous, manicured glory of Cartagena.
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