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Published: October 15th 2010
Saturday 4th September to Monday 6th September, 2010. When Adriana had insisted that I change my planned destination for the next two nights of my trip from Cali to Cartagena she hadn’t really explained why, just said that it would be preferable for me and in the absence of any specific ‘things to see and do’ plans I had no reason to question her. She certainly never gave me an inkling as to exactly how much different Cartagena, the jewel in the crown of Colombia’s 1000 mile Caribbean coastline would prove to be from Bogota. Talk about chalk and cheese.
Bogota, South America’s third highest capital city at an altitude of 2600 meters is afflicted with all the weather patterns associated with such an elevated location that reminded me very much of home. Chilly, depressingly dark and overcast but most of all with a propensity to piss down at a moment’s notice. Cartagena on the other hand is hotter than hell, an oppressive tropical heat accompanied by an energy sapping humidity that within seconds had initiated the formation of a small and fast flowing river down the crack of my ass.
The people too, almost as though from
two unrelated countries hundreds of miles apart are completely different, the indigenous, frantically scurrying rat race folk of the big city transformed over the length of an hour’s flight into the Caribbean influenced, dark skinned, almost horizontally laid back occupant of the coastal town which, allied to the scorching heat ensures Cartagena’s everyday life proceeds at a snail’s pace compared to the bustling capital. I was to discover all this first hand on my arrival but before that happened there was the small matter of getting there.
When I’d stood over Antonio as he’d booked my flight five hours earlier I must have still been thanking my lucky stars that I’d managed to escape the clutches of the knife wielding, drug riddled cab driver and made it back to the hostel alive or at the very least that I was still in possession of my valuables. I must have been because I had obviously been paying little attention to what he was saying. I’d registered that my flight was at 3.25pm, that it would cost me approximately 170 US dollars and that there was a confirmation number all of which I’d scruffily scribbled onto a scrap of paper and
stuffed into the darkest recesses of my wallet but other than that…?.
Consequently, when I approached El Dorado International airport and the cab driver asked me in eggshell English which airline I was flying with I had absolutely no idea how to answer. Shit. I racked my brain as I tried to recall whether Antonio had actually mentioned an airline but there was nothing there, the only name constantly springing to the front of my mind being the carrier who’d taken me to Colombia from Los Angeles, Avianca. At a loss for anything better to say and in a tone more fitting for a question as opposed to an answer I suggested them. No big deal I reasoned, if it wasn’t them I was quite sure I could manage to haul my small rucksack across the concourse to the correct one.
My response didn’t seem to go down to well with the driver who in a manner that led me to believe he’d experienced this scenario numerous times before exhaled a loud and exaggerated tut giving a look that could kill in his rear view mirror as he did so before spinning the car round in a tyre
screeching 180 degree turn throwing me hard against the door in the process and speeding off from where we’d just come.
Five minutes of tense silence later I approached the pretty girl behind the check in counter and handed her my passport. She tap tapped on her keyboard for a few seconds as a look of puzzled bemusement washed across her face and then tapped some more before lifting her head wearing a crinkled brow look that told me something definitely wasn’t right. Half expecting the words “Computer says no” to come from her mouth she spoke;
“Mr Roberts, I have no record of your booking. Are you sure you booked with us?”
Of course I wasn’t sure but realizing I had precious little time to feign either innocence or ignorance I immediately explained that I wasn’t because my friend from the hostel had booked the flight on my behalf. I asked her which other airlines flew to Cartagena and she scribbled five names onto a piece of paper in response, consulted her colleague as to whether she’d missed any from her list and turned it to face me. I recognized none of them.
With just
fifteen minutes to go until check in deadline she must have recognized the slumped shouldered look of despair that swept over me as she hurriedly explained that I was in El Dorado’s hub Terminal used solely by Avianca, that all other domestic airlines operated out of the main terminal building situated a couple of miles down the road and that I must get a taxi there immediately and hurry, hurry, hurry. I picked my bag up thanking her as I did so, turned and fled and spent the next five minutes in a ‘follow that car’ movie style cab ride that thankfully ended in me handing over my passport as the ‘check in closed’ signs were about to be raised.
Having had ample time on the flight to regain some modicum of composure I emerged from the picturesque terminal building in Cartagena and was immediately overcome by an unfamiliar tacky skinned sensation that was to remain for the next two days. I removed my sweaty trainer’s, donned the trusty flip flop’s and hailed a cab to the Casa Viena Hostel in the residential Getsemani District of old town Cartagena.
There’s always a sense of relief when entering a
hostel for the first time and realizing it to be a good one and this one it immediately became apparent was just that. Family run and ideally located in the heart of the Getsmani neighbourhood with the added bonuses of free internet, fridge stocked to capacity with beers and a comfortable lounge filled with sumptuous couches and whirring fans ideal for escaping the oppressive temperatures and meeting other travelers, it was perfect. I was shown to my bed, an upper bunk in an eight bedded dorm and retired to the lounge.
Visiting a foreign country with no grasp whatsoever of the local lingo can as I’ve grown to discover on occasion prove to be a problem. I got talking to Marcus, a surprisingly affable young German lad who’d taken a month out of his life back home to teach soccer to the local children and who told me during the course of our conversation that his best friend back home in Germany was from Liverpool and it felt nice for a change to be able to talk in my native tongue knowing I was being fully understood.
By some strange twist of fate we realized we were both
hungry and made arrangements to go for dinner at a nearby half star restaurant although unfortunately for us both a Canadian couple, soon to expose themselves as a know it all, painfully dull as dishwater Canadian couple overheard our planning and expressed their desire to join us.
The restaurant, situated just a handful of yards from the hostel doors was furnished with the sort of dirty white plastic patio tables and chairs you would find in the B & Q end of summer sale and populated by just a couple of equally scruffy middle aged men sat alone on opposite sides of the room who were busily shoveling staple Colombian cuisine of rice and beans into their mouth’s as if competing in some ‘eat your weight’ speed trials.
As I was handed the laminated menu I immediately knew dinner was going to be interesting. I’d already ascertained during our chat that Marcus spoke four languages fluently, five if you included Scouse and the Canadians had wasted no time letting us know all about the proficiency of their Spanish but I decided not to seek the assistance of either and to go it alone.
There were no Benidorm
style translations on the menu here, simply the multi worded names of ten or so dishes which contained just two or three words that I recognized. Pollo (chicken) was one, carne (meat) a second and salsa another and perhaps a tad over cautiously on the reasoning that there’d be minimal chance of contracting a life threatening tropical disease from a simple tomato based sauce I pointed to it and enquired what it was.
The wide eyed grin that crossed the waitresses face immediately told me she didn’t have the foggiest idea how to respond but in a valiant attempt to assist me she poked out her tongue and dabbed her finger against it. Where I come from the word salsa is used to describe a spicy, hotter than the norm sauce and combining my knowledge of the word with her mimed gesture led me to an inevitable conclusion.
“Ah, spicy” I said, nodding my head at the same thinking how agreeable a nicely piquant sauce would feel in my empty stomach. I nodded some more, this time raising my eyebrows and smiling as I did so and in a response that told me she’d got the message her
grin blossomed into a beaming smile. She collected the menu’s, scribbled onto her notepad and left.
It was only when she’d disappeared through the hanging beads into what I hoped and presumed to be the kitchen and Marcus had asked if I’d ever eaten tongue before that I began to doubt the wisdom of my selection. The next ten minutes, unsure if he was putting into practice some cruel Liverpudlian humor he’d adopted from his friend passed hellishly slowly until the swish of the beads announced her return, still beaming and skillfully carrying a large tray at shoulder level.
My plate was the last to be delivered to the table and with the tray still held above eye level the tension was unbearable. I swore I heard a drum roll as she skillfully scooped up the plate and in one expert move slid it to a standstill in front of me and with my head remaining in its looking up position my eyes slowly swiveled down to their target. Oh my ! Marcus wasn’t joking after all. Amazingly the plate contained not a single bean, just a handful of soggy and flaccid fat chips, an ice cream scoop
of rice and a huge purple, rubbery looking mass doused generously with what looked like the leftovers of a Vesta curry meal.
The others, by now having ceased laughing at my unfortunate choice of platter were already tucking into their own meals and so reminding myself of my ‘I’ll try anything once’ philosophy I prepared to attack. Based on looks alone I was expecting a battle similar to that of felling a Seqoia with a hacksaw but instead as I rested my seemingly blunt instrument against the lifeless lump it surprisingly slid straight through. The fork, no doubt feeling left out decided seemingly of it’s own accord to join in the fun and wasted no time in harpooning its fleshy victim and transferring it to my lips. I closed my eyes, sucked hard and waited as the mass disintegrated mousse like in my mouth before releasing to great relief a beautifully savory taste. Lovely.
When dinner was finally over it was just after nine o’clock and being Saturday night still a long time before my bedtime so having finally recovered from the jaw dropping realisation that I was actually still breathing and not in the back of an
ambulance en route to the emergency room I announced my intention to explore.
Unfortunately for me, Marcus elected to retire leaving me with just the company of the two Canuck’s who by now were bickering painfully between themselves like two elk’s preparing to lock antler’s, a surefire warning to be careful of who you choose to travel with if ever there was one. I told them I was just going to take a walk around the old town hoping they’d take the hint and take their petty squabbles elsewhere but sadly like a couple of lost sheep they opted to follow.
To me the main benefit of travelling alone is that it allows you to do as you please when you please and it was only after delivering two further not so subtle reminders which, by application of the greatest amount of self restraint imaginable neglected to contain any of the words ‘off’, ‘just’ and ‘fuck’ that my companions finally gave up the ghost and announced that their night was over.
Relieved and alone again I spent the rest of the evening strolling around the narrow 16th century streets of colonial old town Cartagena until a huge electrical
storm that had been threatening to explode all evening forced me to seek the refuge of a bar nestled on the corner of a quaint little square. I chatted to a local lad named Nelson and watched from the open doorway as a couple of street girls attempted to seek refuge from the stair rod deluge across the road, the sky remaining lit by a natural lightshow second only in magnificence to that of a Muse concert for a full half hour.
I woke the following morning with a strong desire to explore some more and having spent the morning and half the afternoon doing just that I started to feel the first pangs of starvation flooding over me. Have you ever been in the situation when you’re ravenously hungry and try as you may you can’t find any food. ? Well, by mid afternoon that is exactly the predicament I found myself in.
What started as an occasional grumble of the stomach was after a couple of hours sounding more like the oncoming of another storm and I was just considering heading home to seek out some more tongue when I turned yet another corner to find
a pretty little bistro welcoming me.
Chalked blackboards advertising fayre on offer are usually in my experience the surefire sign of a decent place and this one, open fronted, crowded and looking like it’d been dragged straight from a Parisienne backstreet looked particularly welcoming. A waiter dressed in traditional billowing starched white shirt and black trousers was standing in the middle of the street outside smoking a cigarette and mistakenly assuming him to be hawking for trade I approached him.
“Do you have a table for one” ? I asked
“Of course, follow me” he replied in almost perfect English, flicking his cig into the air and immediately taking off towards the doors as he did so
As we entered the building there seemed little chance of finding any standing room let alone a table but intrigued I followed as he weaved his way like an expert slalom skier through the tiny gaps between tables of the busy main room and down the narrow photograph lined corridor past the toilet’s and the kitchen doors before eventually leading us out into a picturesque cobble floored, open topped courtyard. This would do I thought. The courtyard was furnished
with several tables and chairs, just one of which was occupied but he made a bee line straight to a small table on the far side that had a dinner place set for one and promptly sat down, waving his hand and smiling as he did so to the vacant space opposite.
“Please, join me.”
I was quite taken aback not only at the realization he wasn’t actually a waiter but also at his audacity of assuming I’d like to dine with him but surprising even myself I still did as I was asked as he motioned to a ‘real’ waiter lurking in the wings to set a place for his guest.
Luis was a character. A full of beans fifty five years old married father of five he was keen to know all about my real and adopted homeland’s not to mention accept the opportunity that had presented itself to offer me his wares. Within five minutes of our meeting he rocked onto one cheek of his arse and with me thinking he was about to deliver a loud rasping fart reached into his trouser pocket, plucked out a tightly packed ping pong ball sized, cling
film wrapped lump of marijuana with his index finger and thumb and carefully placed it down in the manner of a Vegas croupier on the table alongside his knife.
“You want smoke”?
Jesus Luis, I thought, nervously glancing around me willing him to put it away as I did so. My Lonely Planet had told me all about Colombian prisons and the severe penalties for being found in the vicinity of drugs of any kind and the prospect simply didn’t bear thinking about. I thanked him explaining I didn’t indulge and breathed a sigh of relief as he placed it back from where it came before immediately following up, smile crossing his face as he did so, with another question.
“Want charlie. Ninety nine per cent pure”?
Cocaine, Colombia’s most famous export is it seems easier to get hold of than it’s second most, coffee, and this was about the tenth time in less than twenty four hours in the City that I’d been asked this question. It was usually by a shady looking, whispering native who’d appeared from seemingly out of nowhere before disappearing cuckoo like from whence they came and in what was by
now becoming my standard response I simply shook my head. If nothing else Luis was persistent,
“You want a girl ? I know the best place for girls”.
Bloody hell, this guy doesn’t give up ! When I’d finally managed to convince him that I didn’t want narcotics, hookers or anything else, just the opportunity to eat my belated lunch, we dined and I left him half an hour later wiping down his chops in preparation for his full bellied, late afternoon visit to the local knocking shop !
When visiting foreign climes my preference is for straying as far from the tourist populated areas and mingling with the locals as much as physically possible so it was quite a surprise later that evening to find myself sitting down for a Bratwurst dinner in a Bavarian themed restaurant accompanied by a young German lad, a Dutch veterinary surgeon, a Sandringham army officer cadet from Telford and a Cambridge University freshman.
Bizarre I know, not just the company I was keeping but to find a German restaurant offering simply sausage, schnitzel and beer located in a Caribbean influenced South American seaside town where just the previous afternoon
finding a restaurant of any description had seemed nigh on impossible. I’d never of believed it myself if I hadn’t actually found myself sitting there so I simply ate my sausage, drank my beer and thanked my lucky stars that Marcus was there to give a full step by step analysis of the menu thus preventing any possible repeat of the tonguing incident. Dinner over I spent the rest of the evening with Tom, the charming if bullishly over confident young scholar, a group of equally young Swiss travelers we’d met along the way and a handful of local night owls all competing to get the opportunity to practice their spoken English.
The desire for adventure remained when I woke on my final morning in Cartagena and with all day to kill until my 9pm flight when Marcus asked if I’d be interested in accompanying him to the market that he passed each day on his way to football I jumped at the chance. I’m still a little unsure as to whether his request was borne as a result of longing to be blessed with my scintillating company or simply as a back up safety precaution but frankly I
didn’t care. Neither for that matter did Cambridge Tom, intriguing me more and more by the minute with his tales of upper crust English living who asked if he could join us.
Fifteen minutes into a crowded, standing room only bus journey and Marcus announced we’d arrived at our destination. This was suburban Cartagena, Colombia as I wanted to see it. There were no tourists here and to judge by the looks we were getting as we walked the streets there probably never had been, just normal everyday people going about their normal everyday business. We headed towards where we thought the market entrance was and the further we ventured from the main road the more decrepit and run down not to mention smelly the surroundings became.
The reason for the ever increasing stench became apparent when we finally moved out of the sunlight and into the covered shade of the market itself. The size of a football pitch and maize like in it’s layout the place was a hive of activity, line after line of vendors offering identical wares to whoever would buy.
Almost anything you could remotely class as edible was on offer. Eyes, brains,
ears and intestine’s, vegetables and fly infested fish of all shapes and sizes were laid out on the floor and on makeshift tables with not a hint of refrigeration in sight. It was, with the exception of the noticeable lack of hygene similar to any market place anywhere in the world with the omission of one other thing; shoppers. I didn’t notice one during the whole of our time there.
The vendors appeared wary of us at first, like Amazonian tribesmen finding a group of intrepid explorer’s amongst their midst for the first time eyeing us up and down with caution but once the realization dawned that we came in peace the mood changed and (almost) all reveled in posing happily for the camera.
After an hour or so we finally discovered a way out and returned to the main road stunned at what we’d seen, to all intents and purposes another hidden world . As we were attempting to retrieve our bearings and realize exactly where we needed to be to catch the bus back to old town a concerned passer by addressed us all as one in Spanish. Marcus immediately turned to me with a look
of concern, “put your camera away man, there are some nasty people around”! A stark and welcome reminder that had all three of us watching our backs for the remainder of the trip.
Later that evening I said farewell to Marcus and Tom and headed to the airport for my flight back to Bogota and the following morning prior to returning to the States made a mad dash bus and cable car journey to visit Cerro de Monseratte, the famed religious sanctuary sitting atop Monseratte Mountain. Lonely Planet had informed me that exhilarating views of the city could be taken from the sanctuary on the top of the hill but low lying cloud restricting visibility to an arms length put paid to any hopes of that.
Having surprised even myself by recalling, when the cab driver had asked, the name of my airline carrier back home I left Colombian soil on Monday lunchtime just six days after my arrival, six action packed days that had seemed like weeks. My thirst for travel had, for now, been quenched and the itchy feet that had initiated the trip been, until the next time, well and truly scratched. Now all that
was to do was to rest up before the imminent arrival of Curly, Larry and Mo.
PS; 4 pages of pics.
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Cartagena; When I Went To Market.
Terry & Kate
non-member comment
Hi Matty
Hi Matty. See you had a wonderfull time in Columbia. Only you could have done what you have achieved, well done. Hope you are keeping well and still supporting Norwich City. Not much happening at this end. Kate is still working 2 days a week and I am taking it easy. Not seen anyone from Guilden Sutton lately but I believe it is not a happy place to be working at. Keeping blogging Matt as I love reading them. Tel