I awoke this morning to a dank odour in the room. It was very different from the fresh aroma of the last few days. Other than near the casino, the air quality has been pleasant very good.
Rolling over, I touched the small clock to illuminate the display. It read 5:45. I scampered about the room trying to find the clothes I’d placed out and ready before succumbing to sleep last night. A few minutes later, after climbing 143 steps, I arrived on Deck 13. The sun was just rising.
I still don’t know what I expected when I opened the door to the Sundeck, but it wasn’t what greeted my senses. The morning light was muted through a pall of haze. The ocean liner was entering a narrow mouth no more than a few hundred metres across. On one side, a peninsula decorated by towering structures to the port, while an industrial something-or-other – scars of excavation and relicts of industrialization – to the starboard. For some reason I found myself gawking to the starboard. A few minutes later I noticed a tug slip below. It prodded us, then our motion stopped. I crossed mid-ship and was startled to find myself moored in a shipyard. I looked down to Herculean arms plucking cargo boxes off the deck of a container ship. Like mites, large yellow lories accepted gifts from above, then scampered between rows of stacked containers delivering their treasure to small lifts which strained to place them in towers five high. In the midst of this organized mayhem stood an elegant, colonial building – Operaciones. Hardly perceptible in the scheme were a few people walking the pier’s edge.
Once gaining hold of discovering myself sited in the midst of a colourful shipyard I was able to discern other parts of the landscape. The peninsula was truly lined by rows of towering apartments but in the midst, although dwarfed by modernization, stood minarets of religious buildings. The military fortress, San Felipe de Barajas, stood guarded by the wide walls surrounding old town Cartegena. Cartegena was fortified by the Spaniards who lay claim to the area in 1533. Once claimed the riches of the country were discovered. This led to repeated attacks by both pirates and other countries wishing to take stake of the gold and emeralds.
The single most obvious feature was a lone mountain peak capped by the La Popa Monastery.
Leaning against my perch, high above most of Cartegena, I pondered my ignorance. Here I am a person of education, well traveled, accepting of different cultures but within the isolation of my worldview, I realized I knew nothing of the real Columbia. I am not one to stop in for an hour and two and tick a destination or site from my list. My visits to single locations often last days or even weeks while I become acquainted with the surroundings. This was to be different.
Columbia is not my first choice of places to visit in South America. One morning I was out on the Sundeck looking for turtles of the sea when one of the ship’s employees walked up and started talking. Having an employee be willing to engage in a conversation is uncommon. Most of the time they simply provide a robotic greeting, “Good Morning Sir, How are you?” and continue on their way. This morning was different, Juan from Columbia was open. He talked about the beauty of Alaska, the struggles of sharing a room with four other people, the difficulty of maintaining a relationship when he is gone for then months at a time, the hardships for married couples on the boat who still must live in segregated rooms, but what really brought spark to his story was telling of the small island in Columbia where he grew up. He shared pride about his home country and the hardworking people – “The people are good.” His story was broken by silence . . . “That is not the story you have heared” he added. “There are a few lazy people, They want to get rich quick. They take hostage and make a bad name for everybody.”
Was my mind being read? My view of Columbia was shaped by stories of heists occurring, of my own neighbour being taken hostage in Columbia’s mountains because he had value, he was associated with precious gems. I was leery of Columbia.
I wanted to explore Cartegena, to meet a few people, to see the city for what it was. Unfortunately I was uninformed and the port was at least twenty minutes by automobile from old town, the fort or hilltop monastery. I succumbed – booked a tour. I was to be a pawn to the industry. For three days I’d been subjected to the onboard sales pitches; duty free, best prices, if you like it buy it, buy at our stores - they’re guaranteed, book your tour early – they fill up quickly.
The tour sounded appealing. Stops at Convento de la Popa, San Felipe, and Old Town Cartegena.
What wasn’t told about the tour was it was a fully orchestrated, four hour shopping extravaganza. Yes, we did breeze by the historic icons of the city. A twenty minute tour of the hilltop convent. In the parking lot were a number a vendors, but the tour guide would rudely interrupt those in negotiations with the local vendors – “I will take you to better deals” as he pushed his harem – tourists – toward the bus.
Now we will go to the Fort for a short visit. Everybody squirmed through the narrow aisles of the bus to be dumped into another swarm of hawkers. Ishmael, our guide, directed, “Stay close together so they can’t sell to you. I have a story to tell.” Now quick, take a photo, we will go to old town, inside the walls of the fortress.
Arriving at the fortress, we were admonished, “You will have twenty-five minutes here. Follow me to number three. If you become separated go through door with the large three.” Like faithful followers we were soon trapped inside a curio store to buy the best souvenirs – they were the same trinkets as on the hilltop yet two to three times as much. I slipped out the back door. Twenty-three minutes left.
The fortress wall was just a few paces away. From inside the walled city I found a centuries old ramp leading to the wall’s crest. Wearing an olive green uniform a lone tourist police stood watch. Outside the wall was the Caribbean Sea. A few corroded cannons rested in turrets. Ramps dropped down into the centre of the wall to rooms where ammunition had been stored – now a museum. The top of the wall was fifty to 100 feet wide – tiled in places. I walked along the wall’s edge – first admiring the Caribbean Sea, then old town. On one side traffic roared past and a few bathers dipped in the ocean. Inside the walled city tourists milled. Guides ushered people to the designated stores. People were herded back to their buses. Once the tourists were safely sequestered in their cage, the driver and guide would meet behind the bus with the store manager. Coloured paper notes were distributed to the driver and guide. They would smile broadly, shake hands, and part ways.
After a few minutes I dropped back down into the crowded plaza towards my bus. Men draped with table clothes or leather purses forced their way into my path, boys with t-shirts pushed cotton fabric in my face and colorfully clothed women balancing fruit baskets on their heads vied to get in photos then demanded “two dollahs.” I arrived back at the bus with minutes to spar. Hunkered out of sight was Ishmael negotiating his payout from the store manager. Worried . . . he queried, “Have you been shopping?”
Wedged back in place on the bus we headed down the narrow winding streets within the walled city. A small gate was moved aside as we drove in to the tourist area. The bus quickly halted. “Now we will walk town. It is important we stay together . . . like family.”
Numerous tour groups, each clustered tightly, were guided down the street. A quick stop inside a guarded colonial home as well as beneath the columns at the historic library and a diversion through a square – Ishmael constantly consulting his watch – a couple people strayed too far to get a photograph of an architectural masterpiece were admonished for slowing the group. A group exited from behind tinted doors. A quick glance and I thought museum. We were then quickly pushed through the doors. Another jewelry store. I slipped back out to sit in the shade. After twenty minutes a frowning Ishmael appeared – no one in the group carried a new bag. We quickly made our way to the monastery. Our entrance was paid, then as we left donations were requested . . .
Jammed back in the bus we relished the air conditioning as we headed for the Hilton. As we approached each person was handed a token for a free soft drink or water. We spent fifteen minutes quenching our thirst before being gathered together and taken back to the bus for a quick drive to Pierino Gallo Mall.
We have thirty minutes – “Follow me!” –we were crowded into Mr. Emerald – a store of “The finest emeralds and good prices.”
There was nowhere to go this time. I walked around the Mall, admired what the street vendors were offering and was routinely hugged by sultry attired, sweet smelling women who stood alluringly at the entrance to each store. They were to entice – or rather force my entry into the stores in order to elicit my spending of vast fortunes on their jewelry.
I finally found a patch of shade and again watched the proceedings.
I have no souvenirs from Columbia.
Should I return to Cartegena I will bypass the organized tour.
Instead I will hire a taxi for a quick trip to Old Town Cartegena and the Fortress. The streets are mostly safe thanks to the presence of tourist police – the necessity of which likely suggests there is potential for problems. Although the view over the city from the convent on the hill is stunning I would not spend the extra in time and money to get there. I could have spent several hours wandering the walls of the old town, climbing the fortress, visiting museums, and wandering the narrow, twisted streets admiring the defenses and planning implemented by the Spaniards upon laying claim to a rich and beautiful land.
Trip photos: http://travel.webshots.com/album/575983338mKHvOV
