Canada to Patagonia at a Worrying Age

Now back in the absolute calm of Hotel Tres Banderas in Cartagena de Indias. (A bit calmer than I want, actually, as the electricity has gone down and I want to book some flights.) Santa Marta and around was a blast for a variety of different reasons, but the highlight has to be the trip to Ciudad Perdida (The Lost City). It was rediscovered in 1975 and I had many opportunities to curse the man that found the sodding thing. For my memory and anyone else’s delectation here is the day-by-day account.

(Here’s me and the lads mentioned on Day 5)

The Night Before

Staying cheap for once (£2.50 a night in the famous Hotel Miramar) I found myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling fan the night before departure. It was a scene directly from Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen is contemplating his trip into the jungle to catch up with Kirtz. At the time I didn’t realise how many parallels there would be, although I wasn’t kidnapped and didn’t witness any ritual slaughter.

Day 1 – We’re not in Kansas now, Toto

Up early for breakfast and to get the all important passport photocopy which was never used. We left dead on time at 0800 hours (ie 0945 Colombian time). I’m reasonably sure that the driver spent the time gluing the axle together. With Pritt. 12 of us were squeezed into a land cruiser with tassels hanging from the ceiling. An unnecessary affectation when better time could have been spent, perhaps, improving the engine’s capacity for forward motion. The guides were on the roof with the luggage and food.

We had to climb a mountain in our jalopy and several times had to get out and walk for a bit as the thing was in a very genuine danger of tipping over into the neighbouring ravine. Still, I thought, climbing is good as it reduces the amount of foot slogging at the other end. This supposition was incorrect on a great many levels. The drive also gave us our first glimpse of the local paramilitaries. Nice chaps with guns.

10 minutes into the hike we came to our first river crossing. Most tried to cross by the occasional boulder, but I got my feet wet straight away. This was a mistake as three hours later I was about one step away from trench foot setting in. This was only one of my woes, however as the first climb proved that a 43 year old who has been smoking for over 20 years is ill-advised to attempt this trek. At least it didn’t rain. And the paramilitaries appeared from time to time with an encouraging wave of their uzis.

Our happy band were three guides (Beto, Ishmail and Albert), two Aussies (Brendan and Naz), Mirco from Madrid, Jenny and Adrian from Sweden, Jan from Norway/US, Kevin (Seattle), Ryan (Vancouver) and some French people (they didn’t mix much).

Tea was chicken (I didn’t like to make a fuss as I was relying for my life on the guides), although I got away fairly lightly where food was concerned in general. Promise of a cocaine factory tomorrow.

Day Two – Koke adds life, where there isn’t any…

Up early from our hammocks to scrambled eggs for breakfast. Then out to the coke factory which was really more of a mosquito-infested pigsty with a rudimentary chemistry set attached. At one point one of the pigs came to sniff me but the smell repulsed him and he was forced away. The farmer is only allowed to make cocaine to the penultimate stage when he must sell the paste to the paramilitaries for conversion to the final powder. He makes a lot more money showing us around his place and for all I know is possibly making lemon sherbet by now. The need to keep the place safe from the authorities means the paramilitaries regard our safety as essential to their trade so their presence ensured we were unlikely to be kidnapped. Hence, the whole journey was morally rather dubious from the start. But hey, here we are.

This morning’s song could have been one of many, but Koka Kola by The Clash, fits the bill best.

Then the next trek. The guides assured us that it was only 6km. It might as well have been 60 for all I knew. Uphill was bad enough, but when this old man needed to stop for a rest the attendant mosquitos and other unidentified insects thought I was offering my gringo flesh as a 100 course meal. The only respite was a brief stop for fresh pineapple after two and half hours. That is honestly the best pineapple I have ever had in my life.

During the day the only song I could honestly say reflected my mood was Where Will It End? by Joy Division. That should tell you all you need to know.

Day Three – I Can See My House From Here

We were 600m up the mountain at this stage and the absence of a sleeping bag in my pack revealed itself to be a rather foolhardy omission. The fact that I froze all night in my hammock was a wound freshly salted when I discovered that blankets had been available. I asked the guide if there would be any at the next camp and he replied in the affirmative should I wish to carry one up there. More weight was hence added to my pack. The blanket itself had the appearance and smell of one that had previously belonged to a rather unhygienic mule.

By this stage my boots were dry and I was determined to keep them that way knowing we were to make 7 river crossings today. The sandals I had bought were thus put to use and within an hour they had destroyed my feet.

It took about three hours to reach the start of the climb and we broke for lunch in the middle of a river with a rather marvellous waterfall nearby. I got in for about 5 seconds. You could say it was cold.

And then the climb. 700m and 2000 moss covered steps. Steps made for the feet of incredibly small Tayrona Indians in about the ninth century, not my size 11s. In terms of genuine danger, this was far more serious than any kidnapping threat. Unbelievably the density of mosquitoes actually increased. The song at this time was ‘What a Way to End It All’ by some Scouse 80s band (possibly Big in Japan).

Beto was waiting for me about three quarters of the way up with a fire set to try to keep the mossies at bay and I entered the Lost City with the Aussies. The fact that they built their home just here is mind-numbing. There are lots of theories why, but it is truly amazing whatever the reason. All that are left are the outlines of the living areas and the many, many steps. The views are breathtaking.

Camp was 8 blokes sharing 5 filthy mattresses under a big mosquito net, the couples getting a mattress each. However, we slept well enough as about half of us had had the same idea of bringing a bottle of rum to celebrate getting to the top. What was extremely cool was the fact that it was a full moon at the top of that hill.

Day 4

Here’s what I wrote in my diary on the morning of the fourth day:

The bites on my legs are astonishing
The cuts between my toes are painful
The pains in my thighs are increasing
The veins in my head are pulsing
The bites on my arms are annoying
The sweat from my body is voluminous
The terror of the next trek is all pervasive
This might have been a good place to love a thousand years ago
It’s not now

This day I set off early in an attempt not to slow the guides down as Beto has taken the image of Gollum on Lord of the Rings hanging around me (sometimes ahead, sometimes behind) as I bring up the rear with whoever happens to be injured or ill or slow that day.

However, this goodwill attempt on my part merely stimulated levels of testosterone in some of the alpha males who saw my early(ish) departure as a slight to their manhood. As I left camp hurried packing ensued and by the time I’d got lost and found my way agian, two people had already overtaken me!

The day was fairly straightforward torture after that, although I’d got into a marching rhythm and felt OK after a wash at camp and a belly full of food. Today’s song was Feel the Pain by The Damned. Bit of extra fun at night when I got into my hammock only to discover it was designed for someone about a foot smaller than me.

Day 5

Feet really suffering today and it was at this point that Private Hell became the new song.

There were a number of pitfalls today in terms of opportunities to get lost if you were trekking alone as I was for about an hour today. At one point the only vague clue I had that I was going in the right direction was one slightly wet footprint on the other side of a river. At this point I didn’t care if the track I was on led to a Kogi Indian Camp where I would have to get married and settle down. I wasn’t turning back.

A note on the Kogis. Kogi women have to get married at 15 and are expected to have 10 children in the next 10 years. After this point, if they lose a couple of children, a witch gives them a drink to prevent any further pregnancies. If they have twins they have to kill one as there is only room on their back for one child each year. When we went past Kogi villages it was clear that the men were busy sitting down while the women were working. Kogi women live on average to 45, the men for longer. Just thought you might be interested.

As we neared camp an enterprising family appeared with Coke and Beer at 50p a shot. Very helpful. Yet more beer was available at the camp as was something referred to as ‘Colombian wine’. Three paramilitary gentlemen were availing themselves of this and it seemed rude not to join in. They were very keen to point out that they were there to protect us, but I wouldn’t have liked to have been too close when the bullets started flying in the state they were in by the end of the afternoon.

I actually felt very fresh after today’s trek, which shows the advantage of exercise, I suppose. Spent the night playing cards before a fitful sleep because…

Day 6

We had to get up at 0600 today as Beto had to get back for a guides’ conference or something. Again I set off a bit early and again I got lost within 15 minutes! Eventually neared the end of the track and a return to civilisation. There was just one river to cross and I was happy to do the boulder-to-boulder thing, but Alberto advised against it saying with just 10 minutes to go I should not risk getting my feet wet. So I took off my shoes and socks and crossed the river only to slip and get no part of my pack wet other than the shoes and socks in my hand.

I didn’t care that much, though as I had fooled the jungle by having a spare pair of secret dry socks in my pack. I put them on and set off – but of course there was an extra river which had been added to the jungle since we set off. This looked easy to cross by boulder hopping and with Brendan as an extra helper I set off only to slip again and entirely soak my shoes and socks. The jungle had won in the uneven contest with the gringo viejo.

The ride back was as hair-raising as the ride in with extra fun of us all having to get out and push at one point. At another we had to wait while the mud road was repaired by a gang lifting rocks out of a creek. This took an hour, but there was a man on hand selling ice-creams so that was all right.

While I wouldn’t do it again, it was worth doing even if my legs now look like something that would put you off your tea.

The evening was a rather frantic Rum’n’Coke fuelled salsa evening by some of the returnees and assorted hostel-dwellers that ended at 0930 after a discussion about the existence of God. I’d been awake for over 27 hours. Oh, how it sent me back. Some things never change…

Finally back in civilisation after 6 days and 5 nights in the jungle. The paramilitaries were awfully nice and didn´t kidnap me. More to follow later on the detail of the thing, but suffice to say the song of the day 2 days ago was Private Hell by The Jam. I´m not joking.

Hope you´re all well. Now to consider Christmas.

Just realised how the above could read… It was the conditions hiking through the jungle that led to the Hell. Nothing else! Ultimately, it was worth it.

Also made the top ten of blogs by weight of numbers.

Happy birthday Verona. Have a good one. About time you, Daniel or Chris left a comment…

And of course Happy Birthday to Joe. Sounds like I missed a great party.

Suddenly in front of a PC again and feel the need to mention the fact that I generally have to have a whole fried fish on most days because of one complication or another. Often it´s a very big fish, but I´m always very full whatever the arrangement.

Tonight all events were surpassed when I was actually presented with two whole fish and no room on the plate for the salad (no rice) or the chips. Was pissed off as it means I´ll get charged for two instead of one and no amount of discussion could persuade him to take one away (I didn´t order two).

Anyway felt better when an urchin appeared requesting cash. I asked him in bad Spanish if he was hungry and eventually just gave him the spare fish. Out of bad things came good as he wolfed it down and was dead happy (it was a very good fish, as his mate commented when he shared it with him). So here´s to every cloud having a silver lining.

Genuinely gone now. Enjoy the run up to Crimble…

Back in a week

Just got access and time to update anybody interested before heading back into the park.

After staying in a dump in Santa Marta (where I{m also staying tonight – bad idea Stine and Delia?) – got an early taxi out to the National Park. For some reason it took over 90 mins to get 30kms on the worst roads in the worst taxi in the world (although not as bad as Aida´s sand trucks). I now know it was so he could convince us it was worth 6 quid for the journey. And he never came to collect us today. Insert expletive here.

Still after a 45 minute walk through the jungle we appeared at Arrecifes beach. All too gorgeous for words etc. Look it up on a website. Stayed in a hammock for a quid (two bays along) – very comfy although it did rain and we didn´t have much sun. As Kierkgaard would have it – rent a hammock, regret it – don´t rent a hammock, regret it. Cheers and goodbye Stine.

Left my ADF t-shirt drying in the car park at the national park. Still, funny to think of someone wearing it around the Colombian Coast for the next while. Good bye to companions today. Time to start again. Just trying to decide whether to go for dive certificate. Will have 6 jungle days to think about. Looking more and more like the Amazon for Christmas and New Year.

No pictures at this point. Bye all till the next round of premiership games…

As per usual, I get nervous before leaving a favoured (and comfortable) place. However, it’s probably exactly the right time for me to go.

The night of the candles was as you may imagine it, in that there were a lot of candles in windows and on balconies, etc. Unexpected was the number of caballeros who flooded the town. It was great and special and all those things you expect (but don’t rely on) when travelling to new places. At one point it was impossible to move down the street for the number of horses blocking it. The smell was memorable as I think most of the horses had not been to town before and were hence quite nervous.

Easier at this point just to drop in a couple of pictures, I think…

First picture would be horse – second is the lovely landlady of my local. I promise I’m not in Spain!

Final pic of the town is of the castle specifically built to upset the British in the 17th century. Plus ca change,,,

Outside chance of a post Sunday or Monday – otherwise this might be it for 10 days or so. Enjoy shopping for Crimble.

Last Routemaster bus travels today. Dennis gets kicked out of Commons again. He’s looking good.

Tonight’s song is Not Clean by Ghostigital. It’s just been released. If anyone can secure me a copy of this fantastic limited release track for my return I will be truly grateful. I guarantee a special Colombian present for the first persion that can confirm posession. It appears you may have to go into a shop.

Sitting here getting increasingly depressed at this shower trying to overcome the mighty Benfica. In an effort at distraction I’ve been trying to sort out some correctly sized pics of the town. As you can see, it hasn’t quite worked. Ronaldo has just missed a sitter. Surely if it stays like this Fergie will have to seriously consider his position?

65 Minutes – Free kick. Wasted. Ferdinand looks more of a waste of space than ever.

66 Mins – No (United) wingers on the pitch now. At least 3 centre forwards, though.

67 Mins – Ferdinand fails to read simple pass.

71 Mins – Saha confirms he is not, in fact, the new Denis Law.

73 Mins – Wayne’s final touch lets him down. Still The Guardian’s minute by minute website have not published my email.

77 Mins – Ruud turns in box. Loses ball.

78 Mins – Ruud loses ball again. Appears to blame touchline…

81 Mins – Rio confirms he his not the new Jaap Stam, or even the new Ian Ure.

82 Mins – Saha confirms he is not even the new Jimmy Greenhoff.

84 Mins – Ferdinand’s failed back pass almost confirms our exit. Only a matter of time, however.

88 Mins – Park confirms he’s not the new Cantona.

90+2 – Unfortunately Wayne confirms he is not the New George Best. Yet.

Oh well, we can concentrate on the League (Cup) now as we’re not even in the Eufa. Glazer’s business plan now becomes what, exactly?

Er, a mariachi band has just started playing in my courtyard. That is actually a lot wierder than it sounds. I’ve a feeling the fiesta my be starting…

I’m off out for the night.

Well, it’s Tuesday night and a little too early for bed. After Friday the chance of wi-fi internet will have gone, so the options for posting will be very much reduced, so please be prepared for radio silence…

Since Saturday I’ve had a very relaxing time, apart from the daily grind of Spanish lessons. However they came to an end today so I can now take a much earned breather. Eliecer, my teacher, was very complementary saying that with practice my Spanish can be very good. There’s the rub of course. Practice? We’ll see. Although I’ve just had a chat about the merits of different types of Colombian beer with a bloke in the best square in the world – so that’s a start. If there appears to be a rather alcoholic theme on this diary, it may be about to change as Friday should herald the era of the trek (and eventually of altitude).

However, it’s safe for a couple of days yet as Thursday is the festival of the candles, or something, meaning that tomorrow night is a fiesta evening. Not quite sure what it means, but we’re planning to party in some form or another.

Tonight I’ve been out for a very expensive meal, which will have to be the last for a while. If not you rich friends will have to start delving into your pension plans and tax shelters.

A slight change has been noted in Cartagena tonight with a bit more begging as a result of more muchachos on the street. [This is probably due to the oncoming fiesta, start of the tourist season (rates go up 40%) and the entirely unexpected excitement over Christmas.] A load of them surrounded me tonight with excellent English. I had to congratulate them on their school attendance and was wondering how to shake them off when a particularly bold one broke a bottle some way away and they all ran off laughing.

So, no real news – just the luxurious calm before the fun of a South American bus journey (gone to the expense of door-to-door with air con, so don’t worry).

A note on Greg, the guy in the last post. Greg is a good ol’ Texan boy who popped into Cartagena on his way home from 5 crime-free months in Buenos Aires. In his three nights here, he was mugged on the first night and couldn’t get into his hostel on the third. After wandering the streets for what seemed like half a lifetime, he asked a copper to accompany him to a cashpoint to get money to pay for another place. The officer demanded money for this service at 10% of the withdrawal. Still he wished he could stay longer. At his final meal before his plane left he was presented with a whole chicken on a plate. Funny if you were there. You should have seen my fish.

Presume you’re happily esconced back at home now Greg, organising the desserts for the cows. Keep in touch one way or another. Beware the dangers of continuing education…

To keep the pictorial evidence going here’s a snap of the best square in the world…

Do you think it could be Rhyl in a certain light? Or perhaps Robin Hood Camp?

PS Extra picture of Traditional Welsh Dancers on ‘Starting to get it now…’ Also I have missed Sarah’s, Elaine’s, Sukhjinder’s and Winnie’s birthdays (and probably many more). Feel free to abuse me if you feel similarly slighted. Picture here soon Sarah (who left a note on the Manzanilla post). Is anyone keeping up with this?

Will this do Sarah – sorry you have to share your moment of web glory with these three… Does Cilla know about this?

Left picture above is me and Tine at start of last night (well 11:30pm) – the first new picture after our friendly Colombian host had managed to wipe the first 10 days images off my memory card! Still it created more space for the night’s pics. On the right is me with the bottle of rum I’d just bought at the night club Andy took us to – which is the middle of God-knows-where, and I can never take you there. Other John bought a bottle of hooch to go with it. We left about 2:45am and as the taxi dropped me off by my hotel I popped into my local for a nightcap. Luckily it was last orders…

Thanks to all who were there (I’d essentially hijacked a Spanish school outing, but everyone sang Feliz Cumpleanos). It really was a special start to the birthday.

Thanks Clare for waking me up just in time for breakfast. It was perfect timing. Really good to talk to you, Mum, Dad and Isis. I’m sure the card will get here eventually.

By some mad quirk of happenstance I never got to go to the mysterious beach at La Boquilla till today and I’m so pleased I waited until my birthday. The people in the picture are Tine, Greg (from Texas) and Delia from Switzerland. Thanks you three for a day that was ‘Just Right’ in every way – you know what I mean.

We have huge and delicious meals in front of us. Bloody rip off at three whole pounds.* We stayed there for about 5 hours and I had a few dips in the Caribbean. Other visitors to Cartagena – please ignore Bocagrande and just head out to this place when you have a day with nothing to do. It’s great. (And Marbella looks pretty good to…)

Bus journey back to town was Just Right as was the fact that when I switched the tv on at the hotel it was to see Rooney’s majestic strike aginst Portsmouth. Shame about the Chelsea result. I’m still having a couple of bob on United, though.

And now I’m just getting ready to go out for the night for the end of the birthday. I don’t care if the night’s a washout, mind. The last 24 hours have been brilliant.

Thanks to all who have texted, emailed, commented and rang. Derm and Col, your message was waiting for me when I got back to hotel. They meant I was out.

What on earth am I going to do next year?

Happy Birthday a day late to Olly – trust you had a great one mate.

* Food and drinks provided by “Compae Pello” – Weddings, Birthdays, Reunions, etc.

Thanks everyone for emails and comments. Responses two or three posts below. In new wi-fi enabled hotel for birthday week. For £3 a night more it appears I also get hot water, a fridge and a spare hammock. On the downside I have satellite tv and more mosquitos.

Daily Spanish lessons are held by Eliecer – the poor guy is trying his best, but I’m hopeless. And what with having proper access to the internet tonight, I’m not even doing my homework. (Why does Spanish need 2 verbs for ‘to be’, anyway?) Fantastic meal this evening. Birthday night will be tomorrow. Apparently going to salsa clubs…

Will check back at lunchtime GMT.

PS. One Outrage. No ART representation at the Tower Hamlets quiz! No Pat or associates..? Disgusted of Barrio San Diego.

So I ring England just to make sure it’s still there and all that, having caught a local bus to Bocagrande to sort out my business. The local buses, by the way, picture to follow, are an absolute treat. God knows how old they are, but they are certainly well painted and the owners have worked out that bus conductors are the way to keep the traffic moving. They also pick up anywhere and drop off anywhere, you know, like the old Routemasters. We’re clearly going to mourn their loss like we did the trams. Of course, a working suspension is not necessarily top priority, when you’ve got paint and a Salsa sound system to organise, as I and the rest of the bus found out when we hit a major pot hole.

I’d planned time to stroll through the surf before hitting the phone and was suddenly well able for the watch/cigar/shellfish salesman. A couple of hours later I was on my way home, but stopped in at Donde Fidel for a cold one. 20 minutes later I’m chatting away to Josef, a really cool local guy who says he’s spent time in Texas. Don’t know if he had, but I took him to one of my bars where I was greeted well. Good chat about stuff (he doesn’t want me to go to the ‘dangerous’ bits of Colombia) before bidding him farewell at my local square, Plazuela Santa Diego, about an hour and half later.

As usual got a bottle of Club Colombia from the local offie, but instead of the usual grunt, got asked where I was from. The owner nearly smiled. Sat on the square for a bit and headed the 50m home. But there was drumming on the walls close by. Went to investigate to see some extremely able (and rather exhausting) ‘African’ dancing taking place. Bargained a rip off merchant down for a beer. He got some Americans 5 seconds later, so his sense of feigned outrage didn’t last long.

Someone then tried to impress with rubbish dog tricks and petrol lights. Time for home again, but then diverted by 5-a-side footie in the middle of the road – with nets (two foot by three). Play was halted when a car had the temerity to pass by. On way home again and a different set of shenanigans were taking place on the walls. Decided needed home as I’d left the hotel 7 hours previously and I’ve got a Spanish exam tomorrow, even though I could possibly have gone on all night…

So the point is I appear to be relaxing into this city. I’ve a terrible feeling I may have crossed some sort of line today. The exact one I decided I need to cross for this journey. Instead of rushing from place to place ticking off sights (some of which I still plan to do), I need to remember that staying places gets you into them in a different way. If anyone out there was worried by one or two recent posts, don’t be. It’s fecking great here.