Having
enjoyed the mild climes of the Andean region, with its coffee farms and city
cable cars, it was high time to turn up the heat and fly up (yeah I know, I’d
had enough of bus travel by then) to the irresistible city of Cartagena de
Indias, ready to soak up whatever it had to throw at me.
Cartagena
de Indias. Carrtageeeenaa de Iiiindiaaas. Just typing those three words is
enough to get my heart racing and my mind wandering off to thoughts of horse
drawn carriages racing through narrow streets, vibrant squares where
Argentinian street musicians play, and ancient city walls soaked in history.
When
I first arrived I was first figuratively hit by the heat, which during the day
is stifling and repressive, and then literally by the dust that swirls around
the outskirts due to the general hustle and bustle that this city seems to be
constantly caught up in. I frantically befriended a French couple who looked
like they had some kind of idea where they were going, jumped (and again I mean
that in the literal sense) onto the back of a passing minibus, and held on for
dear life.
I
would quickly get used to this manic pace of life on the Colombian coast. It is
a universally accepted fact in South America that the costeños live life at twice the speed of land-lubbers, and given
how crazy Colombians are in general, it’s no exaggeration to say I was panting
to keep up with the speed that these people live their lives.
But
it’s addictive.
First,
the city. The main draw is the old walled city, a relic of the time when
Cartagena was the major hub of the Spanish slave trade around 400 years, and
everywhere you turn there is evidence of this shameful past. If you’re
interested in that sort of thing then the Palacio de la Inquisicion, complete
with two huge sections on the torture of suspected witches, is definitely the
place to go.
Plenty
an hour can be whiled away strolling the colourful corners of the walled city
and gazing up and ornate balconies, safe from the heckles of the rather pushy
tourist pushers. In the heat of the day I would duck into the air-conditioned
haven of the Abaco for some guarabana (Colombia does fruit like no other place)
juice and plot my next moves.
Those
next moves inevitably involved music, which is also everywhere. On consecutive
days I made it to a series of Afro-Colombian musical performances on the city
walls at sunset, the formidable noise of a traditional band in a bandstand near
the walled city, and then ventured solo to the legend that is Café Havana for
some live salsa. If you look for music in Cartagena, you will find it.
Saturday
led me to Rafael, a quintessential Cartegena resident who speaks at a million
miles an hour and just exudes life. I got to know him through couchsurfing, and
he had planned to get a group together head to Playa Blanca near Cartagena to
camp in hammocks on the beach under the light of the moon. In the event I was
the only one to turn up, so the two of us headed to the armed with not much
more than guitar and a few tins of tuna, via two buses crammed to bursting and
a stunning off-road moto taxi journey. What else?
Given
the dreadful state of Cartagena’s beaches, playa blanca was less tropical
paradise and more overrun kid’s holiday camp during the day, but at night all
the bohemian Argentinian empanada sellers come out to play, and the vast
blackness makes the world seem like a very big place indeed. If you go to playa
blanca, get there for mid-afternoon when the families leave, make the most of
the night and your hammock, and ideally leave early enough the next day to
leave the refugee-style situation of having to wade desperately into the water
to avoid being left behind by the last boat back.
Sailing
into Cartagena’s port that evening to the sight of that rugged old-town skyline
gave me a feeling almost like coming home, and it was with real sadness that I
left to Santa Marta (birthplace of football’s Falcao, no less), arriving just
in time to bang down the door of the closed tourist office and demand a place
on the trek to the lost city the next day.
I
joined the trek the next day at 9am feeling sleep-deprived (it’s so hot in
Santa Marta that I kept waking up because my cheek was so sweaty on the pillow)
and flustered from an early morning dash around town for bug spray and peanuts
and was plonked back at my hostel four days later feeling even more
sleep-deprived and exhausted from head to toe, but invigorated by an amazing
trek that surely won’t stay a secret for long.
The
trek is around 42km round trip, which due to the terrain (there were some truly
brutal uphill sections) made our four-day trek a physical challenge to say the
least, but a true experience. We were led by our local guide through farmland
into denser vegetation with a huge array of natural life, and were introduced
to the customs of the four local indigenous groups, learning about how they
farm the land, their social hierarchy and the use of coca leaves in formal
greetings (they pop a few leaves in each other’s pouches when passing as a sign
of respect). Bathing spots are generously dotted along the path, and they are
necessary because you sweat from pretty much every pore.
Accommodation
comes in the form of large camps with rows of hammocks and mosquito nets, very
basic amenities and delicious local food prepared over open fires every night.
Due to those very limited amenities you become a completely diurnal creature,
rising at 5am to watch the sun rise and collapsing in bed around half past 7,
the disappearance of the sun draining any remaining energy from your body. This
back to basics approach is in keeping with the simple lives that people live
there and is in stark contrast to Macchu Piccu World™.
Some
say that the actual lost city itself is an anti-climax after the stunning walk.
Don’t listen to them. I’ve included some pictures as I’m not sure I’m equipped
to describe how beautiful it is. Not just that: the reverence that people have
for the place imbues it with a calming effect; I could have stayed there for
days.
After
getting back to Santa Marta, I firstly had to check myself in to the poshest
hostel in Colombia, where the plan was to rehabilitate by the pool for several
days. In the end I managed less than a day – there’s too much life on the coast
to sit by a pool with privileged Australian school dropouts. Through
couchsurfing I got in contact with a local who invited me over for a games
night with her and her friends, which somehow turned into an all-night
session involving one of them eating a worm out of a tequila bottle (
The kindness of Colombians led to me staying in my board game friend’s house for a couple of nights and leaving my bag there whilst I scooted for a trip to the otherworldly coastal nature reserve Parque Tayrona, yet another area of stunning natural beauty in that part of the world, with yet more hammocks strung up by beaches so beautiful they're almost unrealistic and crystal clear lukewarm water. By this stage I was starting to get used to it. The walk to the main campsite snakes through huge areas of coconut trees, where visitors step over busy leaf-carrier ants and duck under passing monkeys, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
And then, as quickly as my coastal adventure began, it came juddering to a halt. As I sat on the beach waiting for my flight to Bogota (another thing that people there seem to think is normal), I wondered what kind of lorry Caribbean Colombia had run me over with. One thing was clear though, I wanted to be run over again, and soon.
No comments:
Post a Comment