Colombia: Taganga

Americans. Dontcha just love 'em?

I'm sitting here at my hostel in Taganga having already had a long and tedious conversation with a 60-year-old from Montana about 'real estate' and how much money he made out of poor families when the recession hit.

Now I'm overhearing him and his two cronies discussing war, 9/11 and Eyeran (Iran, as we would say).

They're racist, myopic and generally a bunch of assholes (as they would say).

Anyway, in other news, I'm all set for my trek tomorrow to Ciudad Perdida. We had a fairly uneventful 3-4 hr bus journey to Taganga after a fairly eventful start to the day.

A bunch of crossed wires meant that I was waiting at one Exito supermarket for the pre-booked coach to arrive, while the coach and Gerard (my travelling partner) were at a different Exito. Some phonecalls and traipsing-around-in-the-heat-with-backpack later and we were united and on our way.

The coach driver spent approximately five out of every ten seconds physically turning his head to chat to one of the passengers sitting next to him. Now I'm all for people multitasking, but when you're careering along at over 80mph round fairly sharp bends AND with the worst backseat driver in the world (ie, me) in the back, just keep your eyes on the bloody road.

Thank God for iPods, window scenery and an ability to stay calm under pressure. Kind of.

Taganga is a dusty little fishing village that has embraced tourism in recent years and is the starting point for trips to the Tayrona National Park and the lost city trek, which we are doing this week.

We booked with Magic Tours after several recommendations and they seem competent enough, except for the guy who was taking our details (and our 170 quid) was more interested in watching Shakira on YouTube than filling us in on the minor details, such as the time of departure.

We will spend the days carrying our own stuff, so I have some decisions to make on what clothes/footwear/toiletries to take. The Going Out Shirt will stay at home methinks.

And that's about it for now. Not the most riveting text I've ever written, and if you feel you've just wasted two minutes of your life reading this then sue me. Or the Americans. They made me write it.

And apologies for no photos in this post. This PC has a weird operating system and doesn't seem to recognise my USB stick. In the absence of any, here's a picture of a book:

Colombia: Medellin and Cartagena

Dodgy internet connections. They're all the rage in South America.

I've just quietly fumed through about 17 unsuccessful attempts to buy a plane ticket online. On the 18th time, the purchase was made. I hate those situations where you've entered your credit card details, pressed 'pay'  and then the page hangs for eternity as you sit there, pleading with the Internet God* to make it work.

When it finally did work I felt like leaning forward and kissing the monitor. But I'm in a room with three other guys, and they might have thought I was weird.

The flight I booked is from Bogota to Quito for next weekend. Earlier I booked another flight from Santa Marta to Bogota, so now my route out of Colombia is sorted.

Anyway, back to the matter in hand. What has been happening since my last post?

I followed in the footsteps of the world's biggest drugs baron, ate enough barbequed food to feed a small country, got blasted by freezing air-con for 14 hours, did too much partying, and got the lurgy.

Sunday night was my final night in Medellin, and the hostel put on a fantastic BBQ:

I ate so much meat that I probably wasn't far off the onset of gout. Pork chunks, chicken legs, different types of chorizo, amazing steak, plus onions, salads, fried bananas, cheese and potatoes. Bleurgh. But good bleurgh.

The following day, a group of four of us went on a Pablo Escobar tour. Pablo, or El Patron - as he was nicknamed in his heyday - was named Forbes' seventh richest man in the world in 1989. He also enjoyed shooting policemen, building ostentatious buildings and getting the world hooked on cocaine.

The tour was great. We were driven round in a little van...

...by the guy who started the tour a few years ago, and his translator guide. She had only been doing the job for a fortnight but had expert knowledge of Pablo and Medellin.

We went to several properties that he built during the '70s and '80s, like 'Monaco' - his first:

All the buildings he built were white (with obvious connotations to the stuff that paid for them!) and in the 'Miami' style, with palm trees and blackened windows.

He moved out of 'Monaco' after the Cali cartel blew up a car outside it, killing two of his security guards and leaving his daughter with partial deafness. That was the first strike in a war between the Medellin and Cali cartels that went on for several years and reached its nadir between 1989 and 1991, when there were car bombs and assassinations on a daily basis.

We also saw some of his planes that were used to transport the drugs overseas, and visited the house where he was finally captured and killed - as he tried to escape across a roof:

In the picture are members of the FBI who helped the Colombians to finally capture El Patron.

Some of the stories we heard were bizarre. When one of the cartel was killed, his mates used to drive the corpse around the city, taking it to strip clubs and fancy restaurants - to give him a happy send-off... He also once offered to pay off Colombia's national debt, but only if the police decriminalised his operations.

We ended the tour with a visit to his grave:

After the tour, I took a trip to the botanical gardens but forgot that most tourist attractions close on Mondays. Gah! But there was a mini garden outside, that I took a few snaps in:

That night, Paul (a Manc) and I got a nightbus to Cartagena. The bus itself was pretty good. Comfy seats, fairly new, no strange smells and quite a smooth ride.

All good, except I happened to have a seat that kept righting itself to the normal sitting position once I'd put it back to recline. So I spent the night being blasted by freezing air from a broken airvent above me, while constantly having to move my seat back. I've had better journeys cramped up in a National Express.

After that, and with a heavy cold (brought on my an evil combination of multiple nights out followed by air-conditioned bus torture), I got to Cartagena, checked into my hostel and went straight out for something to eat.

If there was a doctor to administer a cure for a bad night's sleep and a flu-y head, and he was looking at a restaurant menu, this would be just what the doctor ordered:

Since that first day, I've spent the days lazily wandering around Cartagena in the scorching (32-35 degree) heat, doing very little and trying to get over this bug that I have. My first hostel had really surly staff, no comfy rest areas and was expensive. It looked pretty though:

After a couple of days, I was wandering through a slightly more rough-and-ready area of the city called Getsemani and came across the Media Luna hostel. It has a pool (woohoo!), is housed in a beautiful old building and has little things that elevate it above a lot of other hostels: air-con in the internet/TV room, a massive kitchen, a great roof terrace to watch the sunset:

I moved in.

Once a week, that roof terrace plays host to a big party. A few of us went along this week and had a good night. At one point we were accosted by a group of camera-toting Chileans:

The party normally ends about 4am, but at 2am the music was turned off and we were ushered out. It turns out that some guy had fallen off the wall of the terrace and smashed through the tiled roof of the hostel next door. His weight took him through the floor below, and he ended up landing on a bed. Here's the evidence:

A night on the tiles turning into a night through the tiles.

BOOM BOOM.

And Cartagena itself? It's stunning. I've been to places with similar architecture, particularly in Spain and Portugal, but this place has street after street after street of perfectly-preserved houses, shops, museums and plazas:

 

My visit has also coincided with the 51st International Film Festival of Cartagena Des Indias (to give it its full title). This movie bash is Latin America's biggest, and one of the biggest in the world.

Last night, Sarah (American) and I went to see Black Swan, or El Cisne Negro, at the big convention centre. We had the full red carpet treatment as we went in and were given special Black Swan glasses to pose in...

The film itself, starring the eternally pouting Natalie Portman, was great. The only strange thing was that the projectionist (if such a word exists) was having problems with the reel, and the sound kept going weird. I felt a bit sorry for the organisers as the audience groaned after the screen temporarily went blank for a second time.

Today I'm going to probably watch one or two more low-key films, might try and watch a bit of Premier League football on TV, sit by the pool for a bit, eat some good food. That's the kind of day you take sabbaticals for.

And tomorrow Gerard (Australian) and I leave for Santa Marta, and specifically Tiganga, up on the coast. We will have a night there before doing a 5-day trek to the Lost City (Ciudad de Perdida) up in the Sierra Nevada next week.

So I'm not sure when the next post will be, but in the meantime here's a few more pics from the past few days:

Cat chilling at the hostel in Medellin

Graffiti on the Escobar tour

Spaceship lands in Medellin

Cartagena

Pigeon shitting on sculpture, Cartagena

Yet another attractive plaza, Cartagena

*presumably this position is currently held by Mark Zuckerberg.

Colombia: Football in Medellin

Yesterday morning I rolled out of bed at 7am (after rolling into it just two hours earlier) to watch Everton attempt to beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge for the first time in 17 years. It was an FA Cup fourth round replay.

The match was fantastic. We played really well, but went behind in extra time. Our long wait for a trophy (15 years and counting) looked like it would continue. Then, in the last minute of extra time Leighton Baines scored the perfect free kick to equalise.

I went beserk, jumping round the TV room and probably waking the whole hostel with my shouts. The match went to penalties. A nervy 10 minutes later and we had won. Cue fantastic scenes on TV as I watched the 6,000 Evertonians going mental, and me doing the same - thousands of miles away but there in spirit.

I love Everton.

I went back to bed for a couple of hours, before getting up for my second football match of the day. This time I would be there in person.

All week I had one date in my diary: Saturday night at el estadio in the city to watch Nacional (the biggest club in Medellin) play Club America de Cali (one of their biggest rivals).

I got the metro to the stadium, turning up in good time so I could soak up the atmosphere before the game and have a drink.

My first task was to buy a ticket. I went up to the stadium and asked a fan where the ticket office was. She explained that the match was sold out and that I should try the touts. I soon found one, paid about a tenner for an eight quid seat (I can't do pound signs on these foreign keyboards!) and went back to a food kiosk to have a beer.

I spent the next hour chatting, en español, to the barman and another fan. They were really patient with me as I slowly tongue-twisted my way through sentences. It's probably frustrating for them, and the conversation - if you can call it that - is on a very basic level, but I appreciated the opportunity to try out my newly-learned words.

Just before heading up to the ground with my new bezzie mate (who seemed to know just about every other Nacional fan outside the stadium) I noticed someone handing their belt over to the owner of the food kiosk. Realising that the searches going into the stadium would be on the strict side, I did the same and gave him a small tip for keeping it for me until afterwards.

We jumped the long queue (which is against my nature, but when in Medellin, do as they do) and I got a couple of snaps outside the ground with the guy who I'd been drinking with...

and a couple of others...

After the initial entry cordon there was another heavy search going into the stadium itself. That negotiated, I was in. Hurrah.

The stadium can probably hold 50,000ish but it was only about half full. Maybe they were selling tickets somewhere outside after all...

I took a pew (and there were many, many pews to choose from) near the 500-odd America fans in one corner of the stadium. As a neutral, it was fun to spend half the time watching the match, and the other half watching - and listening to - the 'banter' to my right. More on that later.

The kick-off time (6.20pm) meant we were treated to an incredible sky scene shortly after the match began:

Wowzers.

With breath duly taken away, I settled back to watch a really entertaining game. It had goals (3-1 to Nacional), ridiculous play acting (more rolls - on the ground after being fouled - than a bakery) and a sending off.

The singing, from both sets of supporters, was literally non-stop for 90 minutes. Fair play to the America fans who were watching their side getting thumped, were down to 10 men, but kept on singing.

Towards the end of the game, the two sets of fans to my right started chucking bottles of water, plus the occasional coin and lighter, at each other:

Bad pic, but you get the idea

The police stood there and did nothing, which I thought was quite amusing. 'A few bottles and coins? Nah, this is nothing. Wait for the real trouble to start'.

But no real trouble did start. The America fans were bundled out of the ground by the police with about five minutes left. The Nacional fans leant over the back of the stadium and chucked stuff at them and spat on them. Welcome to Medellin.

A great evening's entertainment. I hope it's going to be a common theme over the next few months as I travel through South America watching games.

Below are a few more pics from the day, and I've finally upgraded to a Pro Account on Flickr so all my pics from India and South America are viewable here

Finally, as a little prompt, I actually went blog-mad today and did two posts. The other one is below this one, obviously.

Robocops mobilising before the game

Palm-lined walk up to the stadium

Hmm, which seat to pick?

 

Colombia: Medellin

Today is blog rollover day. After a period of laziness inactivity on the writing front, I shall attempt two posts for the price of one today. Attempt being the operative word.

It is Sunday afternoon in sunny Medellin and I am having a day of doing the least amount possible that a person can possibly do. My hangovers seem to get more acute the older I get and after a night/morning out in the Zona Rosa drinking the local spirit - aguardienta - my head feels more fragile than a fine bone china teacup.

I have been in Medellin for a week now. My purpose for such a long stay - in relative terms - has been to study Spanish. So Monday to Friday this week I was getting up at 6.30am and doing three hours of intensive one-on-one lessons with my teacher Yadi. Having been out of education for more than twelve years, going back to 'school' was a bit of a shock to the system.

Every day I was set tarea (homework), and also forced myself to do more studying in the afternoon. In the evenings, as everyone piled out of the hostel for a night on the tiles and some buenas fiestas, I was tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa by 11pm.

And the result of this hard work, sacrifice and money? I can just about string a sentence together in Spanish now. When I'm out of the hostel (where English is obviously the dominant language) I am trying to conversate en español whenever possible. The friendly Colombian people are very sweet and patient as el gringo spends two minutes trying to work out the correct ending for the verb 'to buy'.

Now the lessons are over, it's up to me to keep at the books, keep learning, keep speaking and listening. Even if the temptation to slip back into English/Spanglish is always there.

But the week hasn't just been about studying. I've obviously had each afternoon 'free', so have been out and about seeing the sights in this large, bustling city.

After doing one cable car (see previous post), I did the other one too:

I also spent quite a lot of time just wandering through the centre, including Plaza Botero where several of the artist's sculptures are on display: 

One day myself and Alexandra, a German, went up a hill to see a village that was built in the 1970s but in an old Medellin style. Quite a strange concept and it all felt too fake. Because it was.

The thing I most remember about the visit, apart from the awesome storm that hit the hill when we were up there (including a lightening bolt which was so deafening it felt like a bomb had gone off next to us) was our lunch experience.

Unusually for Colombia the restaurant had an English version menu. My Spanish is still in its infancy, so I took it from the waitress and decided to order 'Chopped Chicken Soup'. Sounds nice, yeah?

Ten minutes later and the waitress arrives with Alexandra's hotdog and my bowl of grey sick. Well, grey sick with a boiled egg floating in it.

I prodded the lumps of stodgy meat and took a bite. It was liver, but not the nice liver you get in restaurants (usually served with an onion or mushroom sauce). No, this was the liver of my school dinner nightmares and I asked the waitress to take it back to the kitchen.

I ended up sharing Alexandra's hotdog, and the restaurant didn't bill us for the 'soup'. I felt sorry for the chef, whose annual opportunity to make this grey, watery liver-and-egg monstrosity (as surely no locals ever order it) was metaphorically thrown back in his face.

The rest of the day was spent doing more wandering. It was fun, and here are some more pics:

 

As well as a couple of good nights out, learning Spanish and travelling in cable cars, I shall also remember Medellin for the hostel I am staying in and particularly the people that have stayed here this week. Here, in no particular order, is a selection of the characters that I have encountered:

The Weirdo

I arrived late on my first night and I think the hostel owner, a permanently-stressed New Zealander (described in the Lonely Planet as 'affable' but who I would describe as 'moody'), had forgotten my dormitory booking. I lucked in though, as he said I could stay in a two-bed room for the same price as a dorm. Good stuff.

As I was checking in, my roommate walked past. Stressed owner says 'oh, this is the guy you'll be sharing with'. The man was in his 40s I guess, and of European descent. I offered my hand to him - which in the western world would normally result in another hand being offered back and a handshake taking place. He looked at me, looked away and then walked away. Not even a hello.

We spent the next three days like ships that pass in the night. I was getting up early while he was still snoring, going to bed early when he was still out murdering people seeing Medellin. Most afternoons he slept, but apart from that he never seemed to be about. Most people in hostels do a bit of socialising. Some more than others. But I doubt this guy even said a word to anyone else during his entire visit.

A couple of times I again attempted a hello but he ignored me. He also hung his greying Y-fronts on the pegs in our room and his feet stank.

Apart from that, he's probably a great bloke.

The John and Yoko Couple

People travel to see the world, see new places, do things. After three days with the weirdo, I was moved to a four-bed dorm. In it, I was again sharing with the weirdo (in the bunk above me, which was unnerving) and a French Canadian couple. 

They were pleasant people, quite Gothic in appearance. They told me they had been in Medellin for two weeks and I asked what they had done. They said 'we mainly just stay here at the hostel'. And for the next couple of days (until they left) that is what they did. Lying there in their separate bunk beds all day with occasional toilet and food breaks.

One evening they asked where I had been during the day and I told them about the cable car visit. The next day they ACTUALLY LEFT THE HOSTEL and went to the cable car. Maybe if I'd told them to jump off a cliff, they'd have done that too.

Perhaps they were doing a sponsored sleepathon. I don't know, but I just thought it was bizarre to come halfway down the world and spend all your days in bed.

The Food Scrounger

There's an Argentinian bloke here, who will come into the kitchen and say something like 'hmm, I'm really hungry. What are you cooking? Is there enough for me?' He even said to me a few days ago: 'what are we eating?' as I cooked my pasta. I don't mind sharing if someone asks nicely, but FFS.

The Man Who Got Mugged

A couple of days ago, a couple of Canadian guys were walking near the hostel and were mugged at knifepoint. It was at about 2am and they were walking down a dimly lit street in a residential neighbourhood. Not nice, but these things happen.

Today, after the hostel owner returned from a short trip away, I overheard one of the men essentially blaming the hostel staff for not warning guests that this was a 'dangerous neighbourhood'. He wanted the owner to actually tell all guests to be on guard, not to walk around at night, yadda yadda yadda. 

Next he'll be wanting the owner to tell people how to wipe their own arse. I mean come on, you put yourself in situations by choice and you take the consequences. C'est la vie.

Pants Man

During this week, because of my schooling, I have been one of the first to wake in the hostel. It's been really nice to have breakfast in peace, getting myself ready for the morning's work.

The one slight distraction has been this French guy who gets up at the same time as me and proceeds to spend the first couple of hours of the day walking around in his tight pants and t-shirt, doing some press-ups and sit-ups. He's actually a really nice bloke, but he was beginning to put me off my breakfast.

-------------

Apart from those people, there have been lots more comings and goings each day - as happens at hostels. It's been relaxing to spend the whole week in one place, making new friends each day. It's one of the main reasons I travel, and travel alone: to meet people.

And nowadays, with Facebook, it's so easy to exchange details - particularly with people who are heading to the same place(s) as you - and meet up with them at a later date. In fact, I'm doing exactly that with several people I've met here who are, or have already, gone up to Cartagena on the coast. It´s my next port of call.

Before I go and gorge myself on barbequed food, here are a couple of final pics from sightseeing in Medellin:

A relic from the past at the now-disused railway station

Women in Medellin are famous for having big boobs (some real, some fake). This shop mannequin made me laugh.

Colombia: Bogota and Medellin

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS HEIGHTS. AND CABLECARS.

Wherever I am in the world, I try and find the highest place in the city/town/area and visit it. You get a better layout of the city, can see for miles (sometimes), and enjoy some breeze and fresh air (usually).

On my second and last full day in Bogota, we decided to head up to Montserrate - a place of pilgrimage, great views and intestines. The touring party for the mini expedition was myself, Grace (Australian), Meite (German), Michelle & Craig (Australian) and Susan (Dalston).

To get up to the top of Montserrate you can either walk, take the cable car or the furnicular railway. Option C (furnicular) was ruled out as it only runs between 7.30-9am each morning and, following a late night in the Zona Rosa, we only emerged from our dorms at late morning.

Option A (walking) was ruled out after hearing several scare stories from Bogotians - particularly my bike tour guide Mike - about the muggings that happen en route to the top. He recounted one particularly pleasant tale of how some tourist friends of his once decided to hike up the hill in expensive new hiking boots. Halfway up they were accosted my machete-wielding kids who robbed them of their boots.

The story does have a ´happy´ end though, as the muggers - fuelled by a guilty conscience - decided to give the tourists some crappy old boots (robbed earlier in the day) so they didn´t have to walk down barefoot. How kind!

We received another warning from our hostel owner not to walk the 10 minutes to the cable car from our hostel, as that too passed through an area ripe for muggings. Instead we got a swift taxi ride to the base station.

Cable cars always remind me of the classic Jaws v James Bond scene in Moonraker:

But fortunately our 5 minute journey to the top passed without incident. Bogota itself is at high altitude, so predictably our ears were popping on the way up, and walking around at the summit made me feel like a 40-a-day smoker with a heart defect.

We stayed up there about an hour and got some good pics of the sprawling city below:

There were also some tatty tourist shops up there and the odd food stall selling, among other things, the aforementioned fried intestine. Yum:

After heading back, I had a quiet night in at the hostel. The following day I watched Everton´s worst performance in recent years on ESPN (Bolton 2-0 Embarrassment) before heading to the airport in more biblical storms. Are there ever days when it doesn´t rain in Bogota?

As the grey, rain-soaked weather had been such a feature of my short time in Colombia´s capital, I decided to take one final pic for posterity as I waited for my plane to leave:

Lovely.

If you´re reading this in England, I appreciate your sympathy will be in short supply (especially after seeing the sodden Reebok Stadium as I watched the Everton game and knowing the February weather back home), but I was kind of banking on South America being wall-to-wall sun!

Anyway, we touched down in Medellin half an hour later (where it was raining) and, avoiding the taxi drivers who wanted to charge me almost 20 pounds for a taxi, got a bus into Medellin. On the bus I met an American guy who has been here for a couple of months. We shared emails and he invited me out to an ´inter-combo´ event on Wednesday, where lots of nationalities meet up and say hello.

From the bus stand, a supposedly short taxi ride turned into a puzzle of Crystal Maze proportions as the taxi driver (can´t speak any English) and me (no hablo Español) struggled to locate the Black Sheep Hostel in the residencial neighbourhood of El Poblado. After several wrong turns and an interesting high-speed reversal down a one-way street, we eventually found it.

The reason I chose this particular hostel is because they do Spanish lessons here and the woman running them - Yadi - came highly recommended online. I´ve booked myself in for 3 hours a day (8-11am. Ouch.) Mon-Fri this week. My first lesson this morning went well, as did the homework afterwards. Muy bien.

This afternoon, seeking new heights, I took a cable car up to the highest peak in the south of the city (Medellin is in a valley) and got some decent views at the top:

There was also this great art installation:

Afterwards I got the metro to the centre of town and had a wander round through the markets, to the government buildings and across the main central square - where I spent some time watching some  skateboarders doing their thing:

 

 

My first 24hrs in Medellin have been good and there seems to be lots to do here. It´s going to be a different week from the usual travelling experience: going to ´school´ each morning; early nights. A bit of discipline will probably do me good!

Here´s a few more pics. More on Flickr, as per usual:

Jesus at top of Montserrate

Bride-to-be going up to get married on Montserrate

Plane from Bogota to Medellin

Cable car, Medellin

Skater, Medellin