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:
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: