by Jane | Dec 2, 2014 | Ecuador |
I was dithering around and thinking about what to do when I left Cuenca because I had a few days before I was due to go into the jungle. Should I continue south to Vilcabamba or go up to Riobamba and ride the Devil’s Nose Railway? My mind was made up when Daniel told me that he was off to Baños to cycle the Rutas de las Cascadas and he invited me to join him. You can remind yourself of my previous visit to Baños by clicking here and find out how I did NOT enjoy that little outing along the cliff top the last time and how I had regretted not cycling it, so that decided things – I would go east with Daniel and give it a go.
Banos looking peaceful. Who would guess that one of those mountains is a very active volcano
Together we caught the night bus which deposited us in Baños at 3am. Waking the night receptionist at our hostel we were very generously allowed to sleep on the floor with him – or at least on the giant bean bags in a corner of the bar until the morning rather than paying for a bed for what was left of the night. The three of us and a cute little American Pit Bull puppy soon dozed off – waking just a few hours later to the wonderful sight of the mountains which encircle Baños and the waterfall thundering down the cliff outside.
peeping out from behind the waterfall
Despite very little sleep we were very soon up and out and off to hire a couple of bikes. And then it began to drizzle. But undaunted, we swooped off down the main road which I have to admit was a bit scary with some monster trucks whirling past rather too close for comfort. We went past the hydro-electric dam which disappointingly wasn’t operating this time around and then we were peddalling like mad through the first tunnel. On our bikes we then swung off the main road and onto the tiny track which clung to the side of the mountain and which had so terrified me the last time.
It was worst in the chiva bus
It was a thousand times better travelling under my own steam. I could relax and appreciate the view. We stopped at the rickety bridge to watch some crazy soul leap over the edge with what looked like just a velcro strap tied to his ankles and we oohed and aahed at the waterfalls which splashed down the cliff opposite.
down at the bottom of the ravine
There is something about the majesty and the only-just-contained power about a waterfall. There is no mystery about them – lots of water makes a river, river meets a cliff, water tumbles over the edge – but people flock from all over the world to wonder at them and stand, faces upturned into the light spray.
it stopped drizziling and made rainbows in the spray
Parking our bikes at the top, Daniel and I trekked down to the bottom of a couple of the falls. The sun had now come out and miniature rainbows were sparkling and dancing in the droplets of water which were suspended in the air. Everything was accompanied by the thunderous roar as the cascades crashed onto the rocks in the river beds below. I don’t know if it was because the morning had started off damp but we also met very few people along the route.
another fear conquered
The spectacular finale to the morning was the trek down to the Pailon del Diablo. Translated as something to do with the devil we clambered down steep steps and at one point reached out and we could touch the water as it roared past. We crossed a couple of rolling rickety rope and wood bridges to get deeper into the chasm as the noise richocheted around inside our chests and we could physically feel the beating of nature’s drum in our bodies.
The impressive Pailon del Diablo
I had not visited this cascada previously when travelling with M and I had sat at the top eating my cheesy puffs but I am so glad that I finally got down there. By now, after nearly a year of travelling in Latin America I was no longer quite so terrified of trip trapping across ricketty wooden bridges or charging down the long track which precariously clung to the side of the ravine on my bike. I had been striding outside of my comfort zone and pushing those boundaries way back into touch.
don’t be fooled by the force of that water
Our initial plan had been to cycle the sixty one kilometres all the way to the jungle town of Puyo but the road had begun to creep uphill and we were told by a local that it was uphill for the rest of the way. Lack of sleep and the exhertion of the climbs up and down to the river had taken their toll so we flopped at a bus stop and we waited for a ride to take us and our bikes back up to the town again.
Later that evening, a crowd of us decided that we should visit the thermal baths. I had been to these on my previous visit but I do enjoy a hot bath. I was missing my luxury of a bubble bath and while these didn’t do candles and music and a glass of red wine, they did do floodlights, a waterfall splashing down alongside and some very funny local people. Our little band of happy travellers was expanding and Daniel and I were joined by Laura from the UK, Ashley from the US and Inigo from Spain among others.
the picture doesn’t do this place justice with the waterfall crashing down in the background
The next day was another repeat adventure for me when we hired a cab to take us to the Casa del Arbol and the Swing at the End of the World. This time the cloud was a little higher and the sun was out although disappointingly we were still unable to see the smoking glowing crater of the active Tungurahua volcano. But swing we did and I went ever higher this time over the edge of the mountain. In a fit of fitness and much to Laura;s disgust we decided to let the cab go and walk back down to the town. It was a long way but at least it was all downhill and we took a short cut which accidentally but luckily brought us out at the mirador and the cross high above the town where we paused to catch our breath and wonder at the view below.
The swing over the End of the World
We hung about in the large bar of our hostel that night which did free dinners a few times a week and was an excellent marketing ploy as it ensured that the bar was busy. Early the next day I said goodbye to Daniel and Laura and I yomped with my rucksack through the town to the bus station for my bus to Quito and my usual hostel when in that city. Here, without checking in, I swapped my stuff around between my bags so that I could leave the big one behind because I had a night bus back out late that night to the jungle town of Lago Agrio and a really exciting four days ahead.
by Jane | Nov 25, 2014 | My travels |
After twelve months in South America many things that were once strange to me are now normal. And it is now what should be the normal back in the UK which feels very strange to me.
For instance, last week I landed at Heathrow and I caught the Tube into London. Nobody spoke. Everybody looked at their feet or stared blankly out of the window. There was no music being piped in and everybody had headphones on rather than holding mobiles up and listening to them. It used to drive me nuts when there were eight different tunes playing around me, or a stranger insisted on sitting pressed up against me even though there was stacks of room elsewhere, but with hindsight I prefer the noise and connection with my fellow human beings than this distance which I am now having to readjust to.
transport – Colombian style
After twelve months of not putting toilet paper down the loo it will just seem so wrong to start throwing it down the pan again. Nobody throws anything down the toilet here – the pipes just can’t cope with it. I have worked in hostels and I have had to empty the bins in the toilets daily – in one case I had to take the paper to the compost bin and mix it with the kitchen waste. Honestly, it’s not half so bad as you might think – but I apologise in advance if I come to visit and I forget where I am and you find my paper in your bin.
unpolluted beauty
After twelve months of not using a washing up bowl, but washing the dishes under the running and usually cold water tap it will seem odd to run a sink of hot, bubbly water and not eating off ever so slightly greasy plates.
llama or alpaca? Just like sheep but softer and some of them spit
After twelve months of sleeping in dorms with complete strangers and sometimes having to clamber up into the top bunk bed, it will be odd to have my own room and space again. On one occasion in a hostel in Medellin I woke early and I went to the bathroom. When I returned there was a man in my bed. He had just got in from a wild night out and rather drunk and high on some happy pills he had navigated his way to what he thought was his bed (it had been his bed two weeks previously) and he had passed out. No amount of poking and prodding would wake him so I simply gave up as I had to leave early anyway and I got myself showered and dressed and I checked out.
a bed with a view
After twelve months it will be funny to not see vultures hunched on roof tops and trees just hanging about and waiting for something to die. I don’t know why, but these birds fascinate me – perhaps since I went to see The Jungle Book when I was about seven years old.
hanging around waiting for death
After twelve months of cold showers, showers which stop mid shampoo, showers that gave me an electric shock or one which actually rained sparks down onto me when it burst into flames, I can’t wait to run myself a deep, candlelit bubble bath. Accompanied of course, by a glass of red wine, some soft music and a good book.
evening bath time in the lagoon
After twelve months it will be strange not to jump when I take a saucepan out of a cupboard because giant cockroaches scuttle out, and as for spiders… well they hold no fear for me after these monsters.
one of the bigger specimens
After twelve months of disputing the prices charged in shops, cabs, the bus station and even the Post Office, it will be very odd to simply hand over cash and not question the integrity or the mathematical skills of the vendor. Unlike some travellers I don’t get angry or take it personally when I am targeted and charged ‘gringo prices’. I just question everybody with a raised eyebrow and an ‘are you serious?’ in Spanish which usually does the trick and gets me the correct price.
so fresh, so good and so cheap
After twelve months of drinking tap water, well water, stream water, home made juices off some very unsavoury characters on the street and home made ice creams, let alone eating meats from fly infested street stalls I suspect that I may have a parasite or three. However I have never once had a bout of food poisoning, or a dodgy stomach (apart from those which are self induced and caused by an excess of rum, aguardiente or beer).
street food sold by local women
After twelve months I accept that Health and Safety is not a top priority here – or at least there is no culture of suing organisations. If you trip or fall it is your own look out – people here take responsibility for their own actions. This includes choosing whether or not to wear a seatbelt or a crash helmet – although in reality there is often no choice to be made because there is not usually a functioning seatbelt available or a spare crash helmet.
Health and Safety? There was a safety rope. Of sorts
After twelve months I don’t give it a second thought when I see soldiers, police or security guards carry or even draw their weapons and plenty of people are walking around swinging evil looking machetes or knives. But it doesn’t make me feel any safer to see these guns and I certainly hope that the British forces do not begin to visibly arm themselves on the streets any more than they do at the moment.
it’s not just any old mountain, it’s a volcano
After twelve months I will certainly miss the food opportunities on the buses. At every stop, toll booth or traffic jam they stream on or if they are not allowed to board they tap at the windows and shout out at you. My bus vendor record has been twelve different sales people at one time, jostling in the aisle and shoving past each other to sell their fried plantains, herbal parasite remedies, ice creams and sweets.
colourful personality in the market
After twelve months I will miss the Latino people and I have met people from every country on this continent. Of course I generalise here but they are friendly, warm and generous. They are relaxed and laid back. They are helpful and inquisitive with a wicked sense of humour. They generally have an infectious attitude to and a love for life. And they can dance.
the full lunar eclipse from Colombia
After twelve months I will miss my fellow travellers. You will have already read about some of them in previous blog entries. They are a special tribe of the human race; open minded, non-judgmental and fun. They work hard and play hard. They know the best hostels, the best bus routes and the places to avoid. They will come together to support each other in times of need, they will share cabs and costs, dinners in hostels and even beds in a tight situation. All ages, all nationalities and all classes are out here, adventuring, working and exploring.
After twelve months I will miss South America and my nomadic lifestyle.
a little slice of paradise
by Jane | Nov 18, 2014 | Colombia, My travels |
I am going to pause in my story at this point and fast forward you to Ecuador. I met some very special people when I got back to Cartagena and I shall continue my Colombian story in a later post, but for now, mid October found me in the south of Ecuador in Cuenca.
The colonial gem that is Cuenca
Described in every guide book as a ‘colonian gem’ I have to say that I have seen better on my travels but this city in the south of Ecuador oozes calm and tranquility.
old architecture in pristine condition
I stayed at the Mallki Hostel which was only opened six months ago by Andres. Along with his partner Eliana he has converted a derelict building into a home away from home, breathing life into its old bones. It is a hostel like many others with dorms and private rooms, a kitchen and a roof terrace, but what sells this hostel above many others is the ambience that Andres and Eliana have created.
The Mallki Hostel
Breakfast is included and there is a really great seating area with a large TV, an extensive DVD library and a Playstation with many games. A nice touch are the different guitars which are dotted around for guests to play and the beers in the fridge which are paid for with an honesty system when you settle your bill.
My Israeli friend strumming away on the roof terrace
There are optional daily (free) activites available to guests as well as plenty of free bikes to hire. They offer a free dinner to guests once a week, a cocktail evening, bike tours and group walks too. On my first afternoon there were no other takers for the bike tour but Giovani who works at the hostel didn’t hesitate to take me along for a tour of the parks and along the river banks.
Bikes and breakfast in the sun
On my second morning a group of us walked with Andres, Eliana and Vincent (their rescued from Peru Old English Sheepdog) to the large weekly produce market. I love markets but what made this one special was the presence of Andres and Eliana. They pointed out many of the different fruits and vegetables and even purchased different things for us to sample and then we all sat down to a filling set lunch which cost us very little indeed.
local colour and fresh produce
It was here at the Mallki that I met Brian. He is from the US and has been travelling for over four years on his BMW 1200cc motor bike. Beginning in Alaska he is working his way down to Buenas Aires and as I write this he is somewhere in northern Peru. You can check out Brian’s route here – but as a bike owner and rider myself I was very envious of his trip and mode of transport.
Brian preparing to set off for Peru
One evening Andres boiled up a big cauldron of magic which included a bunch of flowers, and then with the generous addition of home-made shnapps we all tested the local drink known as canelazo.
cooking up a storm in the local market
An extemely funny convoluted game of Jenga followed with ten of us from all nationalities playing until late into the night. Despite the large amount of canelzo, or perhaps, because of it, we all took it very seriously although we did end up bending the rules quite wildly.
Vincent surveying the dining area
Another afternoon and evening found a lot of us piled on the sofa and huddled under a blanket from the cold watching DVDs. We watched three in a row and was just like a grey autumnal day at home – I think we all needed this downtime.
yet another pretty church
Cuenca has some cool museums and architecture but much of its attraction lies in the surrounding countryside. I never actually made it to the Ingapurka ruins which are apparently Ecuador’s version of Machu Picchu but I did get to the Parque de Caja.
one of the lagunas at Parque de Caja
Formed from glaciers this region reminded me very much of Dartmoor in Devon – it was just bigger and higher with the muted greys and dusky greens and the Ecuadorian versions of gorse and heather. This park also has one of the highest concentrations of individual bodies of water in any highlands with over 271 lakes, ponds and puddles.
water water everywhere
We – two Spaniards, a French woman and a Chilean woman set off to walk around one of the larger lagoons. We had been warned not to attempt any of the larger hikes due to the inclement weather and the thick fog which was due to come down later. Sylvi, Gonzo and myself followed this advice and finished early, waiting for the others in the on site restaurant over a late trout lunch. We waited, and we waited and eventually we had to run so that we didnt miss the last bus out. Luckily the other two turned up in Cuenca having actually walked out of another entrance earlier.
another angle,another laguna
On another evening Andres led a group of us up to the Mirador. We climbed many steps up to the pretty little illuminated church at the top and stood and watch the city light up as the darkness fell.
marking the top of the mirador
I visited the largest museum in Cuenca – the National Museum of Banco where bizarrely, the ground floor was given over to an exhibition of erotic art whilst upstairs there were tableauxs and displays depicting life through the ages,m including a display of shrunken heads.
one of the little shrunken heads
The best bit about this (free) museum were the extensive ruins behind them. They were quite impressive and had some good information boards and some really nice gardens and water features, as well as a rather nice Belgium waffle place.
Cuenca had a very nice Indian restaurant which I tested with Connor from Australia and a not bad Italian place which I sampled with Daniel. I was really pleased when a young man from Colombia sat next to me in the central park with his seven year old son and began chatting to me. Colombians are so friendly and will chatter away to anybody and as you know I fell in love with Colombia and found it to be mostly safe but this man’s story showed the dark side of the country.
B and his son – I have disguised his face
B was a refugee who had fled from Colombia with his wife and two young children in fear for his life. He had been working as an anti-narcotic police officer in Cali but (and I really hope/wish that my understanding of his Spanish was incorrect) three members of his immediate family were very recently assasinated by members of the drug cartels when they found out he was a cop and he feared that he and his children were next on the list so he left his home and country
He was searching for work in Ecuador but had no papers and basically very little money to live on. I apologised and said that I had no spare money but wished I could help – but B was quick to tell me that he wanted simply to chat and forget his troubles and was not asking for anything from me. I believed him and despite his problems he was smiley and polite and his little boy very sweet yet subdued and quiet.
I gave his son some money for an ice cream and then I had to leave them to go and collect my computer which was being repaired. That didn’t cost as much as I had expected so I searched for B who was still wandering around the park and I gave him the difference that I had set aside for my computer repair. If I ever wondered at the truth in B’s story I didn’t doubt it when I saw the look on his face as I gave him the cash. He was lost for words and gave me a massive hug as did his little boy. I wish that I could have done more but hopefully he and his family at least had a decent meal that evening.
Cuenca is one of my favourite places in Ecuador despite being a bit cooler than others. If you visit and want a place to stay I highly recommend the Mallki hostel. If the efforts put in by Andres and his team so far are anything to go by the place can only go from strength to strength and get better and better. And if you want secure off-road parking for your motor bike he can supply that too.
I have stayed in countless hostels and I firmly believe that the best ones are owned or run by people who have travelled themselves. Andres was born in the jungle and is a qualified jungle guide as well as an adventure guide (leading rafting and survival courses), and as I have already mentioned, he has travelled himself. He can give you information on the local area as well as your further, onward travels and he plays a mean game of Jenga.
Disclaimer: Note:- Whilst I received some complimentary accommodation at the Mallki Hostal this did not influence my opinion or review in any way. I have portrayed an honest picture of my stay
by Jane | Nov 4, 2014 | Colombia, Destinations |
Kite fishing in Colombia
After the inactivity of Taganga, Palomino and Santa Marta the three of us –me, Emy and Lio headed off inland. We got a cab up into the mountains to the little town of Minka. We arrived in the drizzle without accommodation to discover that our options for accommodation were limited as everywhere was full.
As usual, we decided to get our priorities right and we immediately sat down for lunch rather than dashing around to find somewhere to sleep, and then, after chatting to the cafe owner about places to stay, we began to climb the steep steps behind the church to a hostel.
Accommodation was indeed limited but we settled for a hammock and a tent between us. The hostel was a strange place with hammocks slung among the trees in the forest and the main communal area being built of wood and all open to the air. But the views were amazing. From up here we could see the coastal city of Santa Marta (we just could not escape it) and despite Santa Marta and the coast not having had any rain for ten months, we were in lush, damp tropical forest with enough rain to sink a battleship.
We decided that we should go for a hefty hike the next day and beat our lethargic demons into touch. We set off up the mountain. Just one hour in it began to rain. Six hours later it was still raining. To say that we were wet was an understatement. When the rain was at its heaviest and with thunder and lightning echoing off the mountains, we were clambering up a narrow, steep path, miles, or so we thought from anywhere, when we came across a tiny little cottage. We decided that we would see who was home and we went in through the gate or at least Lio went in and Emy and I waited to see if he would come out alive.
Sat at a wooden table and staring out of the glass-less window was an elderly couple. They were sitting in the gloom watching the storm and eating tangerines. They spotted us looking like drowned rats and they didn’t hesitate to open the door and then invited us to sit with them until the worst of the storm passed. It was a mini-adventure like something out of a Brothers’ Grimm fairytale but there were three of us and the elderly couple were so very trusting to take us in, I think that our fears of a Hansel and Gretel moment were a little exaggerated.
With an earth floor and simple rustic furniture which we dripped all over they peeled and handed us segments of tangerine and attempted to communicate. After a while, they un-padlocked a door which bizarrely only led to the kitchen and proceeded to stir a pan which was on an open range. We didn’t want then to feel obligated to share their lunch with us, or to make us a part of it, so we thanked them profusely and set back off into the deluge, although this took a long while as the lady of the home kept on hanging on to me and Emy and was almost crying because we wanted to leave.
Continuing our uphill slog we finally reached the high point and posed for photos in the rain with a couple of guys who had reached the same point from the other direction and then we carried on along our circular route, but thankfully we were mostly going down hill by now. We were singing every song known to man which incorporated any wet and rainy lyrics and we stopped every so often to feast on the sweetest, ripest and discovered too late, worm infested wild mangoes which we collected from the ground under the trees.
The next day after watching a toucan hopping about in the tree canopy above our tent, we set off for the bus back to Santa Marta. We were fed up of the rain and whilst pretty, there wasn’t enough in Minka to keep even us three sloths occupied and certainly not enough rum.
Amazingly we were early enough to keep on moving and we caught an onward bus to Cartagena. Me and Lio hugged a hasty goodbye with Emy as we were deposited next to a supermarket on the road into Barranquilla and Emy disappeared into the afternoon sun all by herself towards Cartagena.
As per our usual pattern, we were not going to decide on anything until we had eaten, but we finally found our way to our hostel – The Meeting Point, Barranquilla. It was probably the only one in Barranquilla but it was run by a lovely family and had long term guests there who were working in the area. Lio and I decided to head off the next day for a very unusual tourist attraction in the port area. A wide river runs out into the sea from the city and in this down-trodden barrio it is flanked by some very rustic looking fish and seafood restaurants. We had lunch first at one of these overhanging the water and then went to find the little train that we had been told about.
Train is probably too grand a word for a platform driven by a lawnmower engine. Running along metal tracks embedded into the side of the road we slowly chugged along, following the riverbank. Soon we came to the sea, but strangely the track continued, along a barrier of piled up rocks between the river and the open ocean.
It felt very weird to have open sea on our left and the wide river mouth on our right as we trundled along the narrow strip of land on the train. We had stopped to pick up passengers at various points along the tracks and we soon had a full load. A couple of times the train broke down but the very fed up driver soon got it going again with a couple of whacks of a huge hammer. At the end of the line the driver indicated that we had an hour or so to walk to the very end of the point to the lighthouse if we so wished. The narrow pile of rocks which was lined with bleached wooden ramshackle huts turned out to the be the final resting place of thousands upon thousands of shoes and flipflops and plastic which had been washed up by the sea.
The shacks were basic resting and sleeping places of the fisherman who worked off the rocks. We spotted a few of them sat on the rocks and flying kites in the wind. Originally I believed them to be lazily idling their time away with the kites, but then we stopped and spoke to one of them. It turned out that they were kite fishing. They would sit on their rocks day and night flying their kites high as dots in the sky, whilst trailing off the kites’ string were long lines with hooks and baits which dangled far below in the water. Skilfully manipulating the kites the men dipped and played the lines and caught their fish which they would take to market the next day. Lio had a go, sitting on the rocks and flying the kite whilst the fisherman proudly showed off his catch so far to us.
Kite fishing in Colombia
When it was time to head back to the land the train broke down more and more frequently, taking more than twice the time that it should have and then it finally deposited us back at the port in the dark. Not too worried, despite our hostel owners warning to be out of this poor barrio before dark, we walked out of the area to the main road with the other passengers from the train. At the main road we all separated but despite waiting for about half an hour we were unable to flag down any cabs.
Lio and I decided to split our efforts and we stood either side of the busy road. And then it happened. A skinny, dirty little man approached me. Taking hold of the strap of my shoulder bag he quietly and politely asked me in Spanish to give him my bag. I obviously refused and told him where to go. He rolled up his filthy t- shirt to show me what looked like a knife stuck in the waistband of his trousers and then grabbed me and shook me while shouting now to give him my bag. And as I angrily screamed back at him and I told him to fuck off my mind was computing the fact that he had a knife. I thought that if he ordered me a third time to give him my bag the sensible thing would be to hand it over but he didn’t get a chance. Lio had been alerted by my yells and came powering over the road, yelling like a mad thing and with arms waving like windmills and basically calling the man every name under the sun in Spanish, French and English. Lio does security work and is an expert at martial arts. You only had to read his body language as he launched himself over the road to know that this was a man who would not be afraid to attack – and the would be robber turned and ran down an alleyway. At that point an empty cab approached and scared that it too would drive past I jumped into the road forcing it to stop. I actually shut me eyes as it skidded and wondered fleetingly if I had escaped a knifing to be squashed flat by a cab.
However it did stop and we jumped in and collapsed onto the backseat laughing with relief at our lucky escape. Well, after all, I had wanted adventure and this one had ended well. But we decided to head south for Cartagena the next day.
by Jane | Oct 28, 2014 | Colombia, My travels |
Lio and I took the bus to Santa Marta. It turned out that the Fiesta de Mar was in full swing with stages set up around the seafront and bands playing. A food market in one of the plazas was selling ceviche and other tasty things and it seemed that the entire town was out and taking part.
Fiesta de Mar in Santa Marta
We joined in with a Zumba session on the beach – much to the amusement of the locals, we watched a proesson go past but we gave up after two hours when it showed no sign of ending – and then as the most magical orange sunset lit up the beachfront we walked back to our hostel. We had some cheeky little cocktails on the way back as we chatted about our respective travels, life and the universe.
Santa Marta looking mystical
Lio is French and he has had his own fantastic journey before finally ending up here on the Carribean coast. It was his final fling on the continent and I was certainly up for a change of tempo. I hoped to visit Parque Tayrona and I also wanted to do the Lost City trek but both plans went by the wayside. I had lost/had my bank card stolen whilst in Playa Blanca so money was a bit tight. The next few weeks were crazy in their own way. We were joined by Emy from England who was also en route north and who had been persuaded by Lio whilst she was in Cartagena to join us. The three of us met up at the Hostal Jackie in Santa Marta where we shared a dorm and soon we were the best of friends and setting off on our adventure – heading first to Taganga for a night or two.
landing the day’s catch
Silly me! I had imagined that three well travelled people would be resourceful and imaginative and that we would be covering the ground effortlessly. We seemed to sink into a stupor, going to bed very late (if at all), mooching around until lunchtime and then more often than not we realised that we had missed the last bus (or simply couldn’t be bothered to go and find it) and we checked back into whatever hostel we were at again!
on the coast it’s too hot to move much
We didn’t seemed to do too much over the next couple of weeks except to ‘make a ploof’ – a Lio-ism for swimming in the sea, eat copious papa rellanas (on this stretch of coast they rivalled those in Trujillo, Peru), and laugh. We wandered slowly from place to place, eating and drinking and sleeping and diligently sharing out the bills to the nearest centimo, or dust as Lio tagged the shrapnel that we all carry around in our wallets. Me and Emy were attacked and stung my an army of wasps and poor old Emy had some ferocious sandflies nibble on her ankles. She will probably carry those scars to the end of her days and will forever be reminded of those couple of weeks when the three of us explored the Caribbean coast of Colombia.
our ‘cell’in Taganga before we trashed it. We drew straws for the double bed. Emy won
Taganga is a funny little place. It seems to be populated by people learning to scuba dive and aging hippies who kept the local drug barons in business. We met a lovely guy called Andres, a gentle giant who has an incredible talent for taking portrait photographs of the people that he meets and we met a couple from Spain who were travelling around. We all spent a VERY weird night sat chatting and chilling on the beach which involved visits from the local cops and being searched for drugs. At about two in the morning the majority of the street dogs joined us and flopped down on the sand amongst us and we also had one of the beggar/homeless men circling us for over an hour, yelling obsecnities at us while fumbling around with a stonking great big knife which was tucked into his waistband. It was at this point that I realised that I had settled into life in South America completely as he was not threatening or scary, just a little annoying as we were all trying to chat. and we ignored him like the pesky mosquitoes and the sandflies which were biting us.
Irony in Taganga. We couldn’t find a burger but we could have smoked and sniffed our body weight in drugs
The three of us were sharing a little cave of a room in a hostel and as we all just spent the next day recovering we quickly turned it into a pigsty. We had an ensuite bathroom but as the place was so small and there was only a curtain for a barhroom door we soon learnt to talk loudly!
leaving Taganga – just before our driver lost control and skidded towards the cliff edge
When we finally managed to stir ourselves from Taganga we went back to Santa Marta and spent another night at the Hostel Jackie. Walking into reception we were pleased to get our old room back. Up on the roof terrace I met Martin from an Argentina who explained that yes, the pool table was supposed to have no pockets and only three balls, and no, it wasn’t a pool table at all but a game called billar which was frustratingly difficult to play and made snooker and pool look like childs play.
playing billar
The next day, or maybe a couple of days later, who knows because by now the days were all merging, the three of us got on another bus and headed up the coast to Palomino. The countryside got wilder and dryer (they are having a serious drought here) and the homes got poorer. Palomino was once a little indigenous community on the coast but now includes some seriously laid back hostels and beach bums.
Lio making a ploof
Our first hostel of choice was probably as far from the beach as you could get – and after staggering back home in the pitch black during a power cut the next day we relocated ourselves a bit closer to where the action was happening. Not that an awful lot happened in Palomino. We did eat some amazing fish in a tiny little local restaurant and we did plan to go tubing on the river, and we did plan to go for a hike …..but you know the drill by now – we didn’t do an awful lot at all.
the estuary at Palomino
We bought ourselves a bottle of rum and whilst we were sat on our patio we were joined by the guy next door who I shall call Scot but who originated from Finland. He had been in the area for a while and had been helping on a project to build a treehouse. There was a little bit of alpha male banter happening and then when the guys decided to go together to the shop, me and Emy both looked at each other and announced that they would either end up fighting or come back as best friends. Luckily they turned up later arm in arm and the best of friends! And armed with more rum.
traditional meets modern – a man from an indigenous community on his mobile
We did manage to get ourselves along the beach to the point where the river joined the sea but we did decline the ayawasca ceremony which we were invited to because we needed to begin to head back down the coast and our respective onward journeys. Rolling into Santa Marta we had of course missed the last bus out again so rocking up at the Hostel de Jackie we treated ourselves to a dip in the little swimming pool and planned our next move.
just add mojitos
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