Colombia 2010
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Updates
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Turbo to Paradiso (Capurgana)
Sunset at Turbo
Cartagena to Turbo
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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.
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.
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.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Notes from the Gap - China Edition
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.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Paradise Lost
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Last Impressions of Cartagena - Writing on the Wall...
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...
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.
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.
On Board the Bequia Eagle
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...