Feed reversal so that blog runs from beginning to end...

Loading, please wait...

Updates

As we were without access to internet, I was unable to post a lot of material, so I am going back and adding to it from the paper copy. Here are some of the updates:

Last Impressions of Cartagena

DJ Johnny Wilde on the Bequia Eagle

Road to Turbo

By Boat to Paradise

The Chinese, Gameboy Frogs and a Canal

More soon...

Hiking to Panama

Sapzurro

To Sapzurro

Capurgana

Turbo to Paradiso (Capurgana)

After an evening spent eating some delicious ceviche and drinking rum and juice while being eaten alive by little no-see-ums ad mosquitoes, I was thankful to get through to my folks in San Francisco before the family joined together for brunch. It was an early night as we were getting a ride back to the port of Turbo at 6:15AM in order to make sure we could secure a good seat on the lancha (open boat with outboard motor) to Capurgana for what was supposed to be a 3-4 hour boat ride.

We arrived and secured two tickets and then, as we understood there were no cash machines in Capurgana or anywhere closer to the border for that matter, I ran a mission to the ATM, wandering through the early morning bustle of a jungle town, with motorcycles piled high with merchandise, sweeping of streets, juicing of fruits at street vendors, the slightly toasted smell of that mornings arepas being rolled out and cooked. Had some trouble with the ATM and was paranoid to the point I thought the little old lady who was trying to help me (by explaining I could use the other ATM next to the one I was using. Me thinking she was trying to lure me into a booth to rob me...). Successfully withdrew a couple of hundred dollars and then bought bread, water, coffee and sunglasses (Puma mock ups).

Back at the port, a jostling elbow fight for the back row seats as hawkers selling any and everything, gafas, peliculas, musica, perritos, bolsas, musica, gafas... The funniest being the bald guy with a cute puppy. But we managed to get ourselves some good seats, and secured our bags with a plastic trash bag to ensure a dry arrival.

Our boat was the Deep Blue, and we were happy to find that it was covered to keep us out of direct sun for the whole trip, but we were surprised at the number of people they fit on the raft, with about 35 people squeezing on board with bags before gunning the engines and after a quick stop at the port authorities, we were off, southwest across the bay and then up the coast to the Panamanian border.

Upon our arrival, a heavy presence of police and bag searches were the final hurdle before being met by the son of our host Dona Mery, the son Being Enrique, an eager and bright eyed young go getter, who loaded up the cart while telling us his life story and rounding up tow others to come and stay at the Cabinas Darius with us. There is only one moto in Capurgana and we didn't see it until the day we left a week later. Other than that it is horses and carts like this:

After arriving and quickly showering, it was down to the beach to stick our toes into the Caribbean and admire the paradise we had found.

Matty's thoughts on vacation:

Sunset at Turbo

Views from the ecolodge just north of Turbo. Looking out towards the Darien Gap and the border with Panama, the picturesque rain clouds providing a vivid backdrop for the sunset but also a glimpse of what was to come in the coming weeks.

Cartagena to Turbo

View Larger Map

For those of you thinking of traveling by road, either on your own, or via bus, there are a couple of additional facts you should probably know. Before we left, we had triangulated facts on the mission, it was confirmed to us that there was a direct bus that left about 6 times per day to Turbo from the Cartagena bus terminal (which happens to be 45-1hr outside of town). We were told the price would be COP 50,000, and that the road was safe – night or day. This is from the nice and very pregnant woman who runs the front desk at the Hostal Real, whose birthday it also happened to be while we were staying there, and whose parrot subsequently tried to bite my eye out (succeeding only in plucking a few stray eye lashes), so I guess we should have known.

They always say when you hear bad news, get a second opinion, while in this case, it sounded too good to be true, so I asked around. Local police and Colombians told me it was always better to take the bus during the day, and that while they had not heard of any problems on that route, they did not recommend traveling at night. No one had actually done the trip before, but we decided to take the 10-hour, 5:30am direct bus that would ensure us to arrive during the daylight into Turbo which also has a bad reputation for being a dangerous town, but which was also the only access point to the towns we were seeking up the coast.

So after the final night of writing and dancing, it was a brutal and unappreciated nudge that finally got me moving at 4:30am, but without it, no doubt, I would not have stirred. A groggy run through much construction and early morning poverty to the terminal, where we were shocked but finally not surprised to find out that there was no such thing as a direct bus, and that we could only buy tickets through to Monteria, and from there would have to switch buses and companies for the final stretch to Turbo. After buying tickets for 5:30 bus, we were told that we must switch to 5:15 if we want to make our connection, so groggily, but better after the classic travelers breakfast of hot, black coffee, tangy pineapple juice, a frosty beer and a liter of water, we piled onto what was actually a very nice and comfortable express bus to Monteria.

Whizzing though wide open cow fields with large shade providing trees and various types of cattle from the thin arching shoulders of the milk cows to the broad sleek coats for the beef cuts. Dozed off to a bumpy but necessary sleep, waking up only twice, once as my head ricocheted off the glass as we went over some thin bumps encouraging drivers to slow down, and another for a much needed bathroom break and refill on the essentials, this time, refreshing coca-cola, two cold beers and another liter of water.

It was just after passing the factory where they produce RoundUp to use in fumigation efforts in the region that we pulled up to the isolated bus terminal of Monteria, there, still slightly blurry from sleep, we were surprised to find that it was already 12:30, too close for comfort to the 1pm cutoff time we had been informed of when we boarded in Cartagena. Securing 2 seats on the “direct” bus to Turbo on the well-reputed line of Gomez Hernandez, Matty grabbed us seats as I watched the bags get put underneath the bus, and made sure they stayed there. Upon boarding the Red and Gold Striped bus, with flashy lettering proclaiming to all that Gomez Hernandez was the proud banner under which it flies, I had an inkling that this would be a different experience than our fairly comfortable if not a bit long, initial journey. Of course, if I had bothered to look at my map or at google maps, I would have realized that the road to Turbo via Arboletes was not paved, nor had work been done on it since several years before. In hindsight, a bit more research might have helped us to avoid the next 6 hours of our lives, during which many a vision would pass before our eyes, and multiple lives we would be put at constant risk.

It was not until after we stopped in Arboletes for a pit stop where we utilized some local public facilities and procured ourselves some cold beverages to wet our unquenched thirst. I also found what I am sure is to be the new health food craze across the world, ad one that made Matty squirm in his seat, good old fashioned mayonnaise flavored potato chips! Just look at his face of unabashed joy!

Our bus and the commercial strip of Arboletes, the beginning of the perilous final stage.

It being Thanksgiving, this woman was, no doubt in honor of el Dia de Accion de Gracias, transporting an enormous live gobbler onboard what most would usually call a chicken bus, but perhaps a turkey bus for the day.

Based on this shot, you would think it was jus a normal bus, which it was, it was the driver, his assistant and the condition of the roads that combined to make this particular stretch so daunting.

The scenery was beautiful, as we swayed and romped over hills and quickly rushed down the many river valleys and creek gullies that cut through the jungle and plantain plantation covered terrain between the road and the sea. The deep irrigation canals dug around each tree were mere extensions of the ruts and potholes that awaited us around every hazy bend.

Our driver was no slouch. He had places to go, and with the wild eyes of a fiend, tore across the seemingly idyllic landscape with reckless nay negligent abandon. However, he could utilize every tool at his disposal to bring us to a stop upon a shrill whistle from his assistant at the door, bringing us to a sudden grinding halt after which we would be enveloped in the soupy cloud of dust that had been cartoonishly billowing out from behind us, all in order to pick up a now mud caked family of four with a pregnant mother, as the Miami Vice inspired and self important assistant, with his still somehow immaculate white linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairless chest, his peaked cranium, enhanced by the sharp crew cut to hide his receding hairline, and always, the wad of cash in his hand, leaning dangerously over the young girls on board, aviator glasses perched low on his nose, speaking slowly and deeply into their ears as their eyes dart back and forth with the silent urgency of trapped animals.

All the while, the liquid contents of our stomachs rise and fall, as we are tossed and flung violently through the jungle, weaving only to avoid oncoming trucks and those that keep us from heading forward at full speed in a dangerous game of constant chicken around blind corners, in clouds of dust with waving hands, babies and yelping dogs, enormous man sized lizards and police checkpoints, IDs taken, camera's flashing, on and off the bus they come and go, leering lens-covered eyes, screaming nuns, sewing machines and always the rat tat tat, bump and sliding swing and violent crash as we roar up and over and then down again into the blind madness of the road, no time to stop to think, to dream, only enough to fall asleep and awake with a pain on your head and all eyes staring as you realize you've literally flown into the air and bounced off the roof into another seat, and now all shouting, angry, turkeys cocking and crowing as the sleazy assistant exchanges money and leers, out the door again, and with a whistle and a jarring, ripping scrape to silence - and a sigh, as another couple get on board.

Upon our eventual arrival in Turbo, and after another cab ride out to the Ecolodge where we were staying for the night, we were jumping with joy at the mere fact that, despite our 12 hour ordeal, caked in sweat and smelly with fear and dust, we were at the beach, looking back over the Darien gap and thinking about the sun and fun that no doubt lay beyond…

Notes from the Gap - China Edition

Ever since I first started coming to Latin America, I have noticed a bit of tension between the use of chinese products and attitudes towards China and the Chinese in general. First among these is a tendency to refer to all persons of Asian decent as "Los Chinos" or "Un Chino/ Una China." I believe this is derived more from a general lack of geographical familiarity with the specific countries and cultures of Asia, but to the ears of a somewhat politically correct American, it often sounds like a crude form of racism or at least broad and unnecessary stereotyping.

The first story involves the famous video game frogs of this region of Colombia. These little creatures emit sounds that we had heard about (think gameboy tennis), but up until staying at Cabina Darius in Capurgana, I had not come accross them.

Returning from a perilous walk back from "downtown" Capurgana during one of the region's regular evening electrical blackouts, having guided oursleves along the seasonal, rock sea wall, deposited thusly by the sea in her strange way, only to be taken away weeks after we left by the same mysterious watery hand, we arrived at Las Cabinas to a seemingly electronic serenade, an aryithmic, harmoniousless and erratic soundtrack to the worlds most surreal jungle video game. Recognizing this for what it had to be, could only possibley be, the "Techno" Frogs, as described in our guide book. We had heard of these existing only in the jungles between Tayrona and the majestic peaks of the Sierra Nevada, north of Cartagena, but obviously we were mis-informed. Urging Matty to be quiet, I tried to record a sample of the frogs in the background of this video...

As you can kind of hear, these bastards are trippy. Coming at you from every angle, they bombard the senses in a way only a contemporary human could understand, the anciencts must have had different ways to describe this "music" of nature, this mysterious sound, but for us there was no doubt. They were Gameboy frogs. For those of you who don't remember, or were yet twinkles in your parents eyes, the Gameboy is/was one of the original portable gaming systems available in the US in the late 1980's.
Our host, Enrique (heard at the end of the clip giving us evening salutations), informed us that not only were we correct in our conclusion that these were indeed amphibious froggy friends, but that he could show them to us. Like giddy children we were off after our indeed childish but mature beyond his years guide into the creek seperating the Cabanas and the main house of the family. Here he quickly scooped one up, indicating its bulgin throat as the sounds were muffled by his hands, and indeed we found the whole routine to be an elaborate, after the rain, courtship between the two sexes, conducted, right there, before our very eyes.
At this point Marie, his mother interjected, telling us a story about how they had hosted a group of Chinese who had gone through the same initiatrion ritual of meeting the frogs, but, as she told it, rather than wishing they had their cameras, they instead proceeded to gather up all the specimins they could find, and much to the families suprise, rather than inspecting or studiously caring for them, proceeded to pop them into their mouths and eat them, one by one, until the sounds had ceased for the evening. The very tone of this story belied some undercurrent of judgement, not only for destroying such a unique feature of this precious jungle, but also of a culture that would, without asking, consume an entire population of rare frogs without even asking...
The other story regarded Chinese advancing the idea of building a canal in Colombia to rival the Panama canal. this canal would advance from the headwaters of the Rio Quindo to the Pacific Ocean. This said with a scoff and smirk, along side a more subtle admiration of the vision and investment which would result...

A few examples of the complicated relationship the Latinos have with their Eastern investors.

Paradise Lost

We have arrived here in Capurgana after traveling over land for 12 hours on Thanksgiving and then 4 hours by boat this morning. There are only two way to get here, boat or plane. You can see where we are here, but pics will have to come later as the internet is extrmely slow out here in paradise.

A definition of paradise must be, it seems, utopian as the world's, and by extension, humanity's problems have arrived, or indeed have always been upon even the most distant shores. Behind the picturesque white washed walls and ingenious bamboo frames, lie poverty, pollution and violence. After walking along the colorful beachfront bas and clothing shops, down the unpaved Calle Comercio with its internet cafes and liquor stores, deeper into the interior, down the length of the bumpy and worn jungle airstrip, I find the piles of trash, skin and bone animals and the families squatting in unfinished or dilapidated ruins of houses. The police presence is ubiquitous.

The search for paradise itself brings with it a variety of orientalism, seeing these isolated hamlets, their residents and environs as exotic and desirable, while overlooking the reality of these places that often is lying directly in front of us, or just beneath the surface.

Last Impressions of Cartagena - Writing on the Wall...

A city full of life and modernity encased in aging fortifications and facades: bright painted walls, balconies held up by broad original beams, cathedrals and barricades constructed of ancient coral, cobblestones and climbing bougainvillea. Despite the ubiquitous noticias about several killings on the outskirts of the city last night, the sun fought off the clouds and left me rosy and well worn by the time she kissed the sea goodnight and left only lingering rays glancing off the towering clouds.
With night comes a refreshing tropical breeze, a welcome respite from the day’s constant heat. We have wandered the city for two days and three nights, meandering amongst the tightly wound streets and alleyways with surprising squares and plazas full of young lovers, silent old men and verdant flowers and foliage.
This city is proud of its history, from resiliency to the blades and blasts of the pirate hoards to it central role in the fight for independence exactly 200 years ago.
Writing from the South Western fortifications, overlooking the now darkened of the afternoon sea. These coral walls once holding back buccaneers and foreign invaders, now furnished as the plush Café del Mar, the naval museum and the headquarters for the Cartagena Film Festival. Street vendors peddle their wares of colorful bracelets, broad brimmed hats and traditional bags, occasional creative coral sculptures and intricate paperclip puzzles, directly below us, and Chivas shuttle eager workers home along with snap happy tourists towards the distant glowing high-rises down the peninsula, as behind us, the towers of San Ignacio are lit brightly and the lightly populated terrace with couples enjoying a rejuvenating late afternoon aperitif.

The final night was punctuated by a well scripted final scene as we flash to a second story club with vaulted ceiling with arched, almost Moorish brick patterns and a large square wooden bar and balcony stretching along the outside wall and overlooking the busy street below. Rock band lays a mix of their own creations alongside classic Mana, Jarabe and Los Cafres as the clientele, dances, mingles, bouncing back and forth between the dance floor, bar, balcony and bathroom, with flashes of a host of characters from the trip. The bartender from Café Gourmet twirls two blonds around the dance floor as the cook negotiates deals in the corner, the street musician bounces up with a mischievous grin and pops up again on the dance floor with the Dutch girls from the Hostel in Salento as the German girls and a couple of Israelis from Casa Real smoke cigarettes on the terrace. And then back to the hostel, having a final bear while helping the staff check-in late night arrivals, ranging from exhausted old Germans coming in from Venezuela to young couples of the night, appearing and negotiating passage, and then thoughts of the early wake-up only hours away, and I toss this sweaty human heap upon the bed, feet shooting off into the night.

Writing on the Wall...

Cafe Gourmet

As we are about to arrive at only my second Thanksgiving away from my family in the 30 years of life I have enjoyed, I want to give thanks and blessings to all of those who have been a part of this adventure that I have had the pleasure and joy of living, made better, always, by those with whom I share it.

As I am about to head off to dream, and dream I have been, believe me, of love and suffering, of joy and success, of pain and ecstasy, I am so grateful to know that friends and family will celebrate tomorrow and that I will be able to be with them in spirit if not in person.

I am truly graced by the knowledge, wisdom and joy that I have shared and gleaned from my loved ones. This trip has been an opportunity to reflect, to smile without needing to know why, and to seek something larger than myself. Often times, that which we seek is right in front of us.

As I wrote on the wall of Cafe Gourmet (bottom left hand corner in grey) this evening - where Carlos and his friend, cook and bartend - my favorite lines from one of the OGs, Alfred Lord Tennyson:

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Bendiciones a todos mis cariños, nos vemos pronto, y mientras tanto que sean bien. Gracias por todo.

Thank you.

Las Islas Rosarios

Here are some pics. They are booting us off the computer at the hostal...

On Board the Bequia Eagle

It was an early morning rise to make our 8am departure time on tour to Las Islas de Rosario

Matty stretching it out on the rooftop patio...
DJ Johnny Wild!

At least that’s what we decided he was saying, as his voice was a constant presence on our ride aboard the Bequia Eagle. I was surprised he wasn't mentioned on the website as he really is the key component of the tour, or shall we say the dominant presence, as he was, I believe the "Official Tour Guide," who was misidentified by yours truly as the actual Capitan as he came running on board with a coffee just as we were about to pull out of port. I think we were lucky he was not, as we would have missed his "show!"

We had premonitions of what it was going to be like on the boat with him for 5 hours when he offered to do a strip show for some of the louder, shall we say, more mature passengers, a group of 7 ladies from Argentina. He rubbed his nipples and did a little twirl as the giggled and he went back below. As I said, "I guess he's not the captain."

Throughout his awkwardly cut DJ set of everything from Reggaeton to Salsatech and classic canciones del amor, his voice was a constant bracing chatterbox that layered uncomfortably with his aggressive early morning routine. So much so that his original fans, the Argentinean matriarchs, pulled the plug on his upstairs speakers, much to everyone's relief.

His true colors came out when, on the return voyage, I ran into him coming out of the head, now dressed in a full white linen suit, talking excitedly about his upcoming show, as he simultaneously attempted to get my hat off my head, I suppose as a kind of anticipatory or perhaps preemptive tip.

Upon returning to the roof with a couple of refreshing but incredibly light beers, I informed Matty and the group of beat red- Aguardiente drunk - Calenos in the emergency raft behind us of our hosts new get-up. At that instant we heard through the peal of raucous laughter, the shrill catcall of Johnny Wild as he called everyone below to watch his striptease. No one moved from the upper deck, and the patter continued, as he lamented he could not do his show because he was worried about his safety as the women had gathered around too close in their anticipation. We had no visual proof of this, but were somewhat relieved if only for the sake of the Argentinean set. So, he sill wanted to give us a present, he said, even if he could not, in good conscience show off his body, he would instead do a dance and then serenade us to his own mix of a famous pop artist. And so that's how we came to sit through a 15 minute routine alongside some of MJs least famous songs, while we were left to imagine, DJ Johnny Wild, cutting it up with the moonwalk and other flashy moves to an eager crowd of women, waiting on his every disharmonious note...

Bella Colombia!