Random Acts of Kindness

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We have seen The World, and it's massive. Huge! It's 644 feet long and 98 feet wide and is occupied by the kind of people whose idea of a property crash is striking an iceberg. And when we saw it, it was floating (somehow) out of Cartagena harbour like a morbidly obese person attempting to negotiate a rather small door. The fact that the world's most frivolous housing estate was blocking our view of the sky in one of the most picturesque cities on earth (we couldn't see the sky for the world - is that profound or just ponsey?) was a sign that we had arrived in a city that even the moneyed hoity toity consider worth a visit- and it's been a while since we were in one of those places. But we know our place, which for the first night was a chamber in the Marlin Hostel, which was just about big enough for one of our rucksacks and had no windows. It was too much like the kind of rooms you get in Asian hostels for our liking, with a fan the exact same circumference as the ceiling itself, which would remove hands should you be careless enough to attempt to take off a t-shirt under its vast, wobbly, metal blades. There was no need for a room like that in a town like Cartajena, and the following day we sniffed out a much more appealing hostel just down the road.

Cartajena is simply beautiful. Well, the bit that all the tourists go to is anyway. We choose to ignore the mountains of litter and streams of poverty that lie outside the walls of the old city; those on the cruise ships certainly never see them. Instead, we focused on the pastel coloured colonial buildings that make up the old city, the city that was battered time and again by the British, but stood firm, enabling the Spanish to continue twiddling their pointy beards long enough to hoard gold out of South America and send it back home to the welcome hands of their various kings. Lets face it, that's all the British would have done anyway, although we couldn't help wondering what would have happened if Sir Francis Drake's mighty cannon had penetrated the Spanish buttresses - would we now be playing cricket in Bolivia, watching the ball sail out of the ground time and again in the high altitude air? Would South America be covered in railways? More likely South America would be forced to export its coffee and its gold and all its other assets...so no change there then.

But lucky for us that the Spanish kept it. Otherwise we wouldn't have the beautiful coloured buildings to admire, the plazas and the music. There would probably just be roundabouts. And so we pottered, since that's what one does here, don't you know. We pottered and pottered and after a good coffee, we pottered some more. Of an evening, we would grab Chris, our German chum who had by now become part of the family and who proved very useful for providing conversation - something which after 21 months had well and truly run dry between the two of us - and take a bottle of rum to one of the squares where everyone seemed to gather to watch one another watch one another. Everyone was there, from kids to grannies, a terrifyingly mangy dog, alongside numerous policemen chatting up the teenage girls. The terrifyingly mangy dog, who's ears resembled Bill Beaumont at the end of the Five Nations (back in the day), was last seen being hit by a police van and limping off down an alley while everyone ignored its cries. The life of a dog is not a good one in these parts, but in spite of Ant's efforts to befriend every dog we encounter, we sadly accept that in some circumstances all we can do is reluctantly turn a blind eye.

After our second night being entertained by rum in the square, when we grew bold in our consumption and giddy in our heads, we took our hangovers to an unlikely place which provided a remarkable cure: a mud volcano. Yes, a mud volcano. Just go with it, picture it and you'll probably be right. About 20m high and with a pit about 4m by 4m, people plunge into the murky grey mud and get rubbed by men (they call it a massage but it's definitely just a vigorous rub. The prettier and blonder you are, the more vigorous it is, so Ant got the full treatment). And then you just sit there, admiring your fellow muddy people and contemplating the silliness of it all. We ignored the hairs floating around and the inevitable gallons of snot that contribute to the slop as a result of over eager fools who submerge their entire heads and are then forced to use the 'footballer’s handkerchief' to eject the unwanted mud from their nostrils. And after an hour or so of grubby floating, we gingerly slipped and slid our way to a river where there was a bevy of women whose cleansing fingers eagerly awaiting our mucky bodies, especially those hard-to-reach bits. But whether it was the mud or simply shyness, Ant's understanding of 'get everything off' didn't translate quickly enough to prevent a chorus of ridicule from the ladies, including Jenny, who showed no mercy whatsoever and made Ant wish he was still hidden under a grey mask of mud.

But what a remarkable hangover cure! If only there was a mud volcano to hand every time we needed a bit of a pick-me-up. The preferred option when there's no mud volcano is a dip in the sea, and although the sea's a bit minging around the city, there's some appealing islands, Islas Rosadas, nearby, where we took ourselves, and Chris, for a night out of town. After a stop at an aquarium where the owners were amazed that we didn't want to watch the dolphin show (this blog does not condone animals in captivity swimming backwards with rubber rings on their noses ), we made it to Isla Grande...the big island. And after the last of the tour boats left, we sought out some hammocks (about a quid each) and settled in for the night. Our host, or Hammockman as he shall henceforth be known, took care of our every need (more rum), while we discovered the joys of plankton at night. Usually appreciated only by whales, plankton became our new favourite thing when we went for a night swim and the sea around our bodies glowed green. The effect was remarkable and had only been experienced once before by Ant when he went swimming in Silloth near the Sellafield nuclear power plant. It made our excursion well worthwhile and was a genuinely unexpected highlight. Seriously, if you get a chance to swim in plankton, do it, it's great!

The joy of swimming in plankton was nearly matched the following morning by waking up with the sea literally a stone's throw from our hammocks. Not only that, but Hammockman had been round and raked the sand underneath us! What a gesture! Sure, you might expect your bed to be made in a hotel, but when you're sleeping on a hammock on the beach, you really don't expect to have the sand raked! We relaxed on our raked sand - OUR raked sand - until the tourist boats returned to whisk us back to town. For a few hours either side of the night, the beach had been beautiful, quiet and virtually our own, and we wished we'd banked on a couple of nights there. But we had things to do. Chris left the following morning, bringing an end to three weeks of acquaintance, strengthened by the bond formed in escaping from Venezuela together. And we knew we had much more of Colombia to see in our final couple of weeks.

We had one region in particular which had us both drooling in anticipation - the Zona Cafetera. Of course we all know that Colombia is famous for its coffee, (which when you think about it is a stimulant much like its other major export) and we had images of sinking back into wicker chairs, supping away at the finest coffee known to man, overlooking green fields with row upon row of coffee plants. And that's more or less what we did. But not before an over-night stop in a 'love hotel' in Medallin. You may, esteemed reader, remember that we had sampled the delights of a love hotel before, in Guayaquil, Ecuador. The signs are simple. Each room has a stereo to drown out the noises, the sheets are often plastic and the rooms are charged by the hour. On this occasion, just like the last, our arrival was greeted with raised eyebrows and a quick check of the tariff to remember how much to charge for a whole night. But we didn't mind too much. We weren't in the mood to hang around cities, even though Medallin has the joint honours of being home to Colombia's sexiest women and the greatest drug lord himself, Pablo Escobar. With all due respect to Pablo, we didn't see the point in visiting the grave of the man who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of his countrymen, and so we left early the next morning, heading for Salento in the heart of coffee country.

And do you know what? The funniest thing happened. We had nearly arrived in Salento, changing buses in Pereira, when we dropped into a cafe for a bite to eat. When the waitress came and removed the bill from our table, we assumed she wanted us to pay at the counter, but we were then told that a guy who was leaving had just paid for us. Unfortunately, in the confusion, we met his smiling gaze with stares of confusion rather than looks of thanks and gratitude, as we were still trying to figure out what had happened - we had been victims of a random act of kindness. This was a first, as would be expected. But it underlined our growing feelings that Colombia is a country very different to many others we had visited, and certainly very different to people's perceptions. Still shocked, we trundled through the rolling countryside, over those beautiful, coffee-covered hills we'd dreamt of, before arriving in Salento; a prettier town you couldn't dream of. By now, the warm, fuzzy feeling had taken over and was there to stay.

We walked past rickety wooden buildings of all kinds of colours, past old men in ponchos, straw hats and wellies, kids expertly cantering through the streets on ponies and the familiar sound of accordion-led music emanating from most houses we passed. Here, the music isn't even offensive, in spite of the usual determination to blow a speaker or an ear drum with decibels levels usually only experienced in military arenas. And when we arrived at the Plantation House, a hostel run by a very friendly English chap called Tim, we found peace and tranquillity...and free coffee on tap! We visited Tim's latest acquisition, a few acres of farmland growing coffee, bananas and practically anything else that takes root, which is a lot. Tim's plan is to lease out lots of ten coffee plants, so that the owners will have their own supply sent to them direct from Colombia. Imagine the conversations in Kensington: 'Yes, I bought Harvey his very own slice of a Colombian coffee plantation! He's absolutely over the moon - what else can you get for the man who's got everything? Harvey! I say, Harvey! I was just telling Elizabeth about your present...'

We're considering it.

This area's also home to Colombia’s national tree, a ridiculously tall palm tree which ought to be known as the 'bloody massive palm tree'. And so we took ourselves off for a walk in the nearby Valle de Cocora to witness this freakish tree, and to visit a cafe where hummingbirds are lured to feeders promising sugary water, giving people like us the rare opportunity to actually photograph the deceptive little buggers. That night we returned to Salento to experience a novel game which tragically would be far too illegal for Britain, but was loads of fun. Like Boules, the aim is to throw a metal ball at a target, but in this case the target is a clay pit occupied by explosive-filled wraps of paper. The highest points are scored by landing your ball within the explosive circle, but it's far more fun landing it right on top of one of them, setting off an explosion loud enough to make your ears ring for a good minute or two. God damn Europe and its prissy health and safety rules.

Still seeking out thrills and spills, Ant took himself back to the valley the following day, this time on a mountain bike, and nearly found the ultimate buzz by encountering a jeep around a corner on a particularly fast bit of downhill. What the jeep was doing on the correct side of the road when Ant was on the wrong side is anyone's guess...! Still, no harm done and shortly afterwards we were back in the bosom of the Plantation House, sipping more coffee and taking in the surroundings in the safer confines of a couple of chairs.

By now we were country dwellers, and the prospect of hauling ourselves into action again and towards another city wasn't appealing. But to get to our next stop, San Augustin, we had to head for Cali, a city renowned for its plastic surgery. Ah well, if you're in need of a reason to head to a place, it might as well be to gawp at the extraordinary collection of enhanced boobs and bums strutting around the place. But seriously, some of them look so ridiculous they might as well have shoved a pair of chickens down their bras for all the staring they attract. And the bum jobs! Have you ever seen a bum job? It's absurd and amazing and alluring and repulsive all at once. You want to touch it and slap it, but you fear getting too close to it in case it side-swipes you across the street and into an onrushing pair of boobs. For the girls lucky enough to have a bum job AND a boob job (and the girls in Colombia start off from a pretty healthy base level), they waddle round like S-shaped ducks, whilst the other mere mortals nearly crash into lamp posts staring at them. If that's the effect they set out to achieve, then we salute them. Cali disputes Medallin's claim to be home to Colombia's best looking women, but come on...seriously! Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder, and in Cali the eyes of the beholders are usually on stalks.

Cali left a lasting impression on us in our brief time there, and fulfilled Jen's much needed shopping fix. Because in spite of the obligation of the traveller to experience the local culture, there is also the obligation that a woman has to shop. And who could deny Jenny that? Oh yes and we also visited the zoo. It´s well known to be the best zoo in Columbia, to which we initially thought, "well there´s not much competition", but actually it was surprisingly good.

So anyway, we ignored the Salsotecas (giant salsa discos) of Cali and hopped onto a teeny weeny bus which trundled up into the hills, past vast landslides caused by the recent rains, squeezing us out with our crushed limbs nine hours later in the delightful town of San Augustin. Like Salento, San Augustin has the feel of a town that modernity forgot, and was once more we found a place where we could sit and contemplate our belly buttons. San Augustin's claim to fame is its ancient archaeological sites where anthropomorphic statues stare into your soul from their ancient eyes. We spent Ant's birthday riding around these sites on horses, which, for once, were pretty speedy. Being his birthday, Ant felt no shame in shouting 'Yah!' as he jabbed at his steed's sides and galloped into the distance with his faux-cowboy hat catching the branches of low hanging trees. If only a pair of tight fitting undies had been on the birthday present list. Not since the age of 10 has Ant had such a clean-living birthday - a certain sign of old age.

The remainder of our time in San Augustin was passed sitting amongst the plants and trees of our casa, soaking up the hippy vibe that hung around the place, playing scrabble and ignoring the fact that another long bus journey awaited us the following day. This would be our last days of chilling in the Colombian countryside, and we were determined to enjoy them at a slow pace.

The dread of long journeys isn't usually the length itself, it's the constant fear that taking public transport in South America generates. And we weren't let down when we made our way from San Augustin to Bogota. Inevitably, the minibus was driven by a man of around 30 with a driving age of 15. He thought the road was a computer game, and relieved his boredom by hanging his head out of the window and watching his front wheel roll along the lines in the middle of the road. This of course meant that he had no awareness of the oncoming lorries which were forced into the verges with a honking of horns, at which point our esteemed chauffeur became aware of them and redirected his attention, momentarily, to the road. Somehow, as so often seems to be the case, we made it to the big, sprawling, smoggy outskirts of Bogota. Finally, after all this time, our final destination. Well, not quite. Because all the museums and interesting places are closed on Mondays we hightailed it straight back of town the following day to have a look at the immense underground Salt Cathedral at Zipaquira, then onto yet another stunning town, Villa de Leyva. Just like Salento and San Augustin, Villa de Leyva positively creaked charm from its wooden beams and cobbled streets. This one last sneaky peak at rural Colombia once again proved that this is a country which we need to return to. It doesn't so much cry out to be revisited, as quietly beckon you from under its sleepy Stetson. We visited some dinosaur fossils which could conceivably have been witnessed alive by some of the people who live here, and then we floated back towards town, and back to Bogota.

And that, dear friends, is where we are now. We really have come to our last stop, our final destination. No more rural towns, walks or rides on bikes and horses. No more beaches, mangy dogs or scary bus rides. Just the streets of Bogota and a couple of planes separate us from you. From where we're looking, the streets of Bogota are pretty charming, and an attractive place to spend our final few hours. But now it's time to come home. We've been gone for plenty of time, and now it's time we returned to whatever lies in store in England. It's been a pleasure and a joy sharing these stories with you and we hope you've enjoyed reading them as much as we've had having them. See you soon. Ant & Jenny xxx

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Photos

Big Flag or Little Ant
Guess which country we're in.

The World
It's a small place.

Playa Blanca
Let's overlook the fact that Ant looks worrying like his dad in this one.

Cartagena
Ooooooh, lovely.

Muddy Jen
In the mud volcano, Cartajena.

Mud Volcano
If it blew, it wouldn't be dangerous, just messy. Cool.

Flamingos in Cali
Like all the women of Cali, the flamingos has silicon implants which made their bodies look huge compared with their legs.

Jen After a Spray Tan
She couldn't come home without a tan.

Massive Palm Tress
The Peter Crouches of palm trees, near Salento.

Salt Cathedral
Apparently the Salt Cathedral houses the world's largest underground cross. Are there many?

Villa de Leyva
One of the 'largest plazas in the Americas'. Apparently. So there you go.

Zebra Head
Ant's spray tan was a disaster.

Coming Home
Just 8933km to go.

Statue With a View.
High above the Rio Magdelena.

Face Off
Jen vs the 3000 year old Eagle Woman Snake Thing.

Birthday Boy
Ant with his high speed steed (and a chapped arse).

Comments

[Mel]

I can't believe it's over!
You guys had better be as entertaining when you get back as you have been at a distance. I'm going to miss reading this blog! xx

[Diana Paola]

Hey im from Cali and i dont look like a famingo!!
I love reading your traveling blogs..but dont say things like : all the women in Cali...not all the woman in cali my friend go under the knife, that is like me saying "all white men have the campesino tan"

[Ant and Jenny]

Fair point Diana. Sometimes we did unfortunately slip into using stereotypes, which are never helpful.