Swimming

JACK RON AND JOHNNY

bigfish — Tue, 17 Jan 2006 14:49:00 GMT

Whereas my affair with the fine Aguila beer already has the feel of a lasting, dare I say life-long, relationship about it. My shallow trysts with the national hards drinks of Colombia will remain as just that, flirtations trysts and dalliances. So far there have been a few laughs, true, but then just as many embarrassments.
First a little background, the two principal hard liquors both fall under the generic name "Ron". I started off with the wrong end of the stick on that one, much to the amusement of my new 'rummy' friends here. When I asked them if the guy "Ron Mendellin" every really existed they very nearly spilt their drinks laughing. Much like the crisply striding Johnny Walker or his jolly incestuous backwoods cousin Jack Daniels, I had started to see the Character of Ron Medellin as a jolly guacho or traditionally dressed Colombian chap much like the one in the photo below. I do admit that Ron is probably a more likely name for a Brew XI drinker than a vachero but I reasoned to myself that 'Ron'was probably a shortened endearment for Ronaldo or some name of a similar nature. Well no. Ron is the Colombian or Spanish word for Rum and the little black spider on the label of the Medellin variety, and the word añejo, which means aged, should have warned me that nothing enduringly good was in store for me. In the textbooks is is described as follows; "Anejo Rum is a golden blend of rich, aged rums with a mellow taste and rich aroma." But believe me, the Colombians do NOT sit around sipping and sniffing at this stuff marvelling at its maturity. It's one shot, off and the next is on the way. Three quarters of the way through the second bottle found me thumbing through my Oxford English-Spanish dictionary trying to phrase a polite refusal, which would have consisted of something like " Thankyou but no, one more and I will definitely soil myself..." The Oxford does helpfully cover this eventuality with the following and I quote:
"...v refl to shit oneself (involuntarily) cagarse* "
While trying to formulate 'cagarse' into a jolly spanish phrase the subclause 'involuntarily' suddenly grabbed me an sent me into a tailspin. Was there actually a word out there that described voluntary self-soiling but was so utterly vile and reprehensible, even for those dry dons at the Oxford, that it may not be read or spoken? There must be. Otherwise why the universal subdivision implied in 'involuntarily'. While musing on this new sub truth I'd necked two more 'Rons' and was well on the way to finding out for myself. Although I awoke the next day with relatively clean undergarments I did not actually reach my bed without some assistance. My legs having refused service of any kind.
Anecdotal follies aside here are some of the facts:
Aguardiente is by far the favourite of the national drinks. This stuff is real firewater. They make it from molasses which is flavoured with anise and then distilled till a strength of about 60 proof is achieved. Then it is sweetened with sugar.This is definitely a patriotic tipple, much as whisky is to the Scots and has led to many tearful ramblings by misty-eyed bards;
"Give me an aguardiente, made of the sugarcane of my valleys and the anise of my mountains. Don't serve me a drink from abroad which is expensive and doesn't taste as good."
and
"What am I without aguardiente? I'm a nation without people, a tree without roots,"
A boot without a sole etc. You get the drift. Not Rabbie Burnses ode to a mouse I'll grant you, and probably losing a little in translation, but with a bottle of this under your belt you'll be weeping into a plastic beaker or a crystal glass with the best of 'em. Aguardiente is nothing if not a great social 'leveller'.
The Spanish tried to ban the stuff in 1693, much as the Frenchies did with Absinthe, but all to no avail the Colombians fought any restriction on Aguardiente, tooth and nail, right up until they gained independance in 1810. Then the drinking began in earnest. Nowadays it's more fashion that threatens it's continued existence, low taxes on imported drinks and high taxes on the domestic product are taking their toll. The industry is fighting back however with a new 'light' version. One calorie a glass. The imaginative catch phrase being "No Sugar, No Regrets." Colombians all over the country must be crawling out of rubbish skips every morning with soiled 'pantalones' and muttering this to themselves. May it bring them solace.

LAST MINUTE SHOPPING

bigfish — Mon, 16 Jan 2006 14:48:00 GMT

The last week has gone thundering by and it is only a matter of days now until I board that jet that will take me back to Europe's icy shores. I'm spending a day in Miami with Hannah and Halland and despite this delightful interlude there is no holding back the clock. Colder climes beckon and I must answer the call.
We've planned the Barbeque for Sunday afternoon and evening so today was as good a time as any to get some shopping done. The supermarkets are the convenient option but if you take the trouble to get down to the market then the rewards in price and quality are significant. The choice of fruit and vegetables is bewilderingly wide and the prices generally low. I'm going to whip up some rice with mixed veg and some of the local potatoes as staples. I'll par boil the spuds with some mint and let them cool off, brush them with olive oil and seasoning and grill them off on the Barbeque. I might do a few parcels of young carrots in orange juice and sugar. Let's push the boat out a bit. I'm going to need to do a lot of prepping for this occaision so I'm hoping that the ladies can break off the fertility rites with the Borojo they are holding in the kitchen of late and get some chopping, peeling and scraping done. I've settled on some pork for the meat lovers, I spotted them butchering a few pigs at the end of the street this morning and that seemed a good opportunity to get it while it's fresh. Apparently Grandma won't even turn up unless there's meat on the menu. I'll get some baby back ribs and a couple of little haunches and cook them slowly with the lid on for a few hours before the event, hack em up and crisp them off with a little honey and make a pan of apple sauce with Aguardiente to sweeten things up a little.
I managed to get my crooked claws on a beautiful Sierra Dorada; that's either a Dorado, Mahi-Mahi or Dolphin fish to you, depending on which part of the world you are from. The kids are seen modelled it for me below. (They've never seen a fish this big and were a little nervous in approaching it.) It amazes me that the locals here rarely if ever eat them, they must be one of the nicest eating fishes on the planet. Barranquilla is only fifteen miles from the ocean but the bountiful supply of river fish is so great that I suppose they never have to look farther afield. They do love the prawns and oysters but apart from champing down on the odd snapper they seem to lean toward the coarse fish. The local favourite, The Bocachico is delicious but has more bones than a box of Manx browns. Too much work for yours truly.
I can hardly believe that I got a Bull Dorado of this size for twelve dollars. Staggering. Unfortunately it's too big to fit even on my oversized grill and I've had to cut it into three to get it into the fridge. No sweat. I'm going to cook the three component parts in different ways, I'll stuff the middle piece with rough cut limes, grated fresh coconut and handfuls of fresh coriander, the tail I'll make good sweet and salty with some sort of homemade Terriyaki sauce and a stick of lemon grass up its jaksi. As for the head and shoulders I'm going to blush them with some of that homemade chilli and ginger paste of mine. I'll reassemble the whole creature on the table as a central display. Maybe I could put some trotters on it and create a Doctor Moreau theme. Who knows? Fancy dress perhaps, imaginary creatures. Mind you if I whip up some more of that Medellin Sangria they should be seeing more imaginary creatures than Frodo and Harry Potter put together. I shall and will leave my mark.
The shopping is behind me thank god, that leaves a comfy day or so to think about fine tuning.
I bought the whole list of ingredients for about 30 dollars which seems a snip to me. Plenty of good animal protein and not a 'flu dusted feather in sight. I'll ask them to bring their own drinks. A refreshingly English twist. Shame I have neither Pimms nor meths. No matter.
I'll let you know how it goes. Chin chin.
End of housekeeping and cookery lesson.

TUGGIN' AND RUBBIN'

bigfish — Sun, 15 Jan 2006 14:41:00 GMT

No they are NOT two superheroes and YOU know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. I saw this cautionary banner as I was passing the fruit and veg market in El Centro today and I thought I would share it with you. For those of you whose eyes are not as good as mine (heh heh.) (Stoppit STOPPIT!!!). Here is a rough transcription and translation of it's wise counsel.

"Young person you should not atrophy Your Mental and physical Development
Masturbation produces problems:

Because it unbalances the hormones testosterone and Progesterone Because It expands the sphincters
Because it exhausts the melatonin
Because it makes that you confuse the reality with the fantasy and when faced with a relationship you do not obtain the erection
Because it exhausts phosphorus of the nervous system
Because it exhausts the lecithin of the cervix
Because it degrades the personality."

Don't come whining to me that your sphincters have expanded and that no-one took time or the trouble to warn you. Now let's all do the responsible thing and get out and warn those kids!
End of biology lesson.

(I think the link reads, suprisingly: www.Anael.org)

A FRUITY ONE

bigfish — Sat, 14 Jan 2006 04:45:00 GMT

O.K. It's time for a little bit of a detox. The beer and Veg and two meat diet is starting to take it's toll. There has been a certain shift in attitudes among those around me, my new nicknames of "El Gordo" and "Sancho Panza", which have been gaining ground over the last week or so, leads me to beleive I might have gained the odd pound or two over the duration. ( Panza being the word for "gut" or "belly" in these parts). So in the interest of research, pride and my blood pressure I went down to the market today for a few bags of the first fruit that caught my eye but that I could not readily identify. I think it's going to take a few trips over the next few days to munch through the lot. I better get a shift on or I wont have time for the post on strong liquors.
My initial grab bag included the fruit shown here, with exception of the bananas which I bought just in case the surfeit of the other more alien stuff 'loosened' me up too much. The articles of principal interest today: Tomate de arbol, Zapote and Borojo. And Interesting mix. The ladies of the household are helping me with my little review and were kind enough to give me some help with the preparation. A lot of fruits here are juiced: the tomate del arbol aka tree tomato, aka tamarillo is a nice juicy start. It tastes great in a pitcher full of ice and I can best describe the red juice as a cross between water melon and strawberries, the Zapote on the other hand, which little Zhary is kindly demonstrating in it's open form, has the texture of an Avacado and a taste not unlike a fleshy cantaloupe or Galia Melon. Like the Tomate de arbol it is apparently more often juiced and drunk than eaten from the hand. Perhaps the most interesting of the three is the Borojo, I'm not sure of the initial form of this little monster but the shape it assumes now is due purely to the fact that it has been wrapped in cling-film and suspended in a little plastic net. The fruit inside, as you see in the photo looks like a liquidised christmas pudding and smells fairly pungent and fruity. These gelid little beasts are between two and three years old at the time of their consumption. I asked the ladies what they tasted like; laughs all around. Apparently this is purely a man's domain and, as far as I can determine, seems to be some natural form of Viagra. The girls wouldn't touch a Borojo with a bargepole except to prepare it, something they were happy to do for me (accompanied by much giggling and snapping of each other's bra straps and sideways comments which I can only guess, call me paranoid if you will, are off colour remarks about the gringo manhood). Well they'll laugh on the other side of their 'caras' when confronted with the cerveza-crazed, borojo-fuelled, overfed monster that they have created. I hope for their sakes they know where to lay their hands on a couple of cattle prods at short notice or by god, there'll be pork on the menu breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Musing aside; they whisked up about a quarter of the borojo with a little egg about the size of a quails egg, a cup of milk, some sugar and a few nondescript ingredients I have yet to identify. Like a trusting fledgling I drank the resultant greeny brown, sweet, floury sludge, reminscent in texture to the Limpopo river, without any feelings of revulsion. Apparently you have to drink it for three or four days to feel the benefit.
Up till now I haven't noticed anything, apart from nervous, or maybe expectant sideways glances from the girls. I never was much good at deciphering those signals. Actually maybe I do have the first stirrings. My guts are rumbling and I am producing industrial quantities of methane. Carrrrr-amba!!!

FINGER ON THE PULSES

bigfish — Thu, 12 Jan 2006 11:28:00 GMT

O.K. A few of my vegetarian friends have been logging on so as promised here are a few pin-ups to set your mouths watering. They will need to since all these are dried pulses, displayed to great effect in large barrels in most of the stores and part of an the impressive range of staples that Colombia can boast. It's strange considering the range of these little dried chaps that I haven't seen a peashooter since I've been here. Hmmmmmm. Maybe that's a gap in the market right there, or maybe a channel for all the inherent violence in the culture. We'll have to look into this.
Meanwhile to keep this post at least as interesting as your average vegetarian meal, here we see: Alverjas, Frijoles, Guandul and Zaragosas. Guess which is which and win, errr, well.....A peashooter.
Fruit coming soon.

HEART OF DULLNESS

bigfish — Tue, 10 Jan 2006 11:25:00 GMT

The Rio Magadalena is a large, swift running and altogether impressive body of water let's make no mistake. If it hadn't been for the fact that I knew from the start, that my visit to it would be more of a token than a pilgrimage, then I'm sure I would have had a grand old time of it. The fact is though that both time and money are running out and my preferred journey to Letitia on the Amazon, the place where Colombia elbows its way down between Peru and Brazil for a view of that mighty river, is not going to happen. The aforementioned constraints having put the kibosh on that little jaunt. I feel sadly cheated, as if Fitzcarraldo had missed the alarm and spent the rest of the epic wedged between an Ocelot and Claudia Cardinale's backside. Leaving the burden of dreams in a kitbag under the bed. I'll try not to get too maudlin.
The dry facts are, (besides being wet in this case), as follows: The Rio Magdalena is one of the major rivers of Colombia, linking the interior highlands with the coast. It rises at the point where the Andes split like a forked stick into the Central and Oriental "Cordilleras' (that's 'sub-ranges' to most of you wags) Passing through: Girardot (Cundinamarca), Honda (Tolima),La Dorada (Caldas)
Puerto Boyacá (Boyacá),Puerto Triunfo (Antioquia) until it reaches the sea just beyond Barranquilla (Atlántico). On it's 950 odd mile journey to the sea it receives San Jorge, César, and Cauca rivers which all add significant sediment to the shit-load it is already carrying. The sedimentary plume you can see on the 'helpful' satellite picture flows well out into the Carribean Sea. The delta has to be dredged regularly to accommodate commercial shipping.
We visited the river at the inappropriately nicknamed "Puerto Amor", within sight and smelling distance of the Cement Works, Shipyard and chemical factories of Puerto Barranquilla. Vying as they do in romantic evocation as might a dead rat and an inner tube. In all fairness we had a nice fish dinner and despite getting gypped on the river crossing, getting mocked by a boat full of people dressed up as clowns and thinking Kinski wouldn't have put up with this lot, a grand time was had by all.
Harrumph! End of geography lesson!

Mercado

bigfish — Sun, 8 Jan 2006 11:24:00 GMT

The 'mercado', or 'market' is my favourite place of the lot. I want to hold a barbeque for all the family, to thank them for their kindness and hospitality before I leave. They do not own a grill and the 'cheap', tin, imported jobbies at the home and garden center start at about one hundred US dollars for anything near a suitable size. Armed with a rough drawing I went down to the Mercado to see if they can knock something up for me, I'd seen them burning off oil drums on the other side of the filthy little river that sub-divides the market, and sure enough I got one made to measure for about 20 dollars, plus the taxi fare for Carlos when he dropped it off for me later that same day. That's about 20 euros for an oil-drum sized barbeque grill with a lid, delivered to the house. I call that a bargain. It did cost me a further sack of charcoal and a day's supervision to burn the thing off. It took about 8 hours to stop smoking but barring anything radioactive,(dammit I knew I should have packed a geiger-counter), the thing burns hot and clean and I'm as pleased as punch with it.
The variety of herbs, fruit and veg alone were well worth the trip. Add to that the variety of fish, many species of which I have yet to identify, and any amount of croaked and butchered exotic fauna. (To my delight I learned that they spit-roast guinea pigs here, which must surely be of equal delight to anyone who has raised daughters beyond teenage, and has had to put up with this skittish little stinkers as pets for any length of time). Without gloating I would say however that they are delicious and make much better meals than housemates.
Anyway. Digression. I managed to purchase a couple of carrier-bags full of HOT chillies which are conspicuous by their abscence in the supermarkets. The hot sauce they sell over the counter as "muy pikante" isn't even as challenging as Listerine. So determined to make a concoction of my own I spent the night frying them up with about ten big onions, a lump of ginger as plump as Quasimodo's fist, and more garlic than I can remember. When they were fried blackish red in the oil I pureed the whole issue in a food processor; leaving me a chili paste that compares very, very favourably with a Sambal Badjak. You can say goodbye to any unpleasant build-up of viscous bodily slime layers that this stuff touches. It will strip your tubes from tongue to anus allowing the new, purged you, a warm glowing space in which to be reborn. I have a few culinary scores to settle. This should do the trick. For better or worse I hope to be long remembered in Colombia.
While acquiring my peppers have also got my hands on some strange looking local fruit that I have yet to try: Curubas, Granadilla and Tomate de arboles. Watch this space.
After celebrating my purchases in the shade of Carlos's Ironmongers I was privileged enough to be allowed to photograph the Owl,or Lechuza, which perches outside the shop,and is something of a local wonder. Amazingly it just sits there all day, flying off to hunt at night and returning faithfully each day to the buzzing market and it's perch in the low branches, easily within reach of humans. Carlos and the neighbour were enterprising enough to make a calender and are trying to give the owl some cult-like status that will hopefully bring devotees flocking to the shrine from far and near. They were a little concerned that I might use a flash and scare away their little golden-egg laying protégée. It wasn't fazed by me in the least. After our photo session, and the lads extracting from me the promise I would put the photo on the Internet, I wobbled off homeward leaving them as pleased with their owl as I was with my newly acquired barbeque grill.
Life can be a bountiful business.
(P.S. If you are in Barranquirra visit Ferretaria Carlos Diaz on the market and enjoy the opportunity to see Lechuza Rafita. Promise fulfilled. Salud Carlos.)

El Centro

bigfish — Fri, 6 Jan 2006 11:22:00 GMT

I've strayed down to the sprawling, heaving mass of El Centro a couple of times now. The guide books will steer you to Del Prado as the more likely tourist spot in Barranquilla but if you like it down and dirty and the gringos thin on the ground then, this is the place to do your shopping. The Colombians love it and in a strange sort of way so do I. The family are drawn to the street stalls and the clothing stalls around the Plaza Simon Bolivar. I like the Mercado on the other side, which is a little like a shanty town of old timbers and corrugated tin sheets, which constitutes a meat, veg, fish, fruit market. At the back my football-friend Carlos runs a small ironmongers shop and it's a welcome chance to sit in the shade and enjoy a cold beer while the frenetic pace of life continues unabated in the sticky heat of Central Barranquilla. I always get to an annoying stand off with the family here. They hate me taking photos, which I insist on doing. This place is, according to them, notoriously unsafe and something of a magnet for thieves and robbers. While I do not doubt this for a minute I have become quite quick on the draw with my little Canon camera and it sees the light of day only briefly. I would hate to have to sacrifice the kodak moments for the sake of losing a two hundred euro camera. I don't seem to get it across to to them that if someone pokes a pistol or a knife in my ribs that I will NOT struggle with every ounce of my being to protect my property, but give it away good naturedly. Let's face it, it is the nature of things to change hands occaisionally. I'm suprised that as Colombians they do not appreciate that but maybe they cannot grasp the idea of gambling with precious possessions, or the concept of insurance. All my explanations fall on stony ground, I continue to get a chilly time of it for an hour after my snaps are taken, this is the price of casting good advice to the wind. A couple of beers and a few nudges and smiles later and everything is just fine. I get a few pitying looks like "Aiiiee...he is but a sheep waiting to be shorn." So be it.
We were in El Centro before Christmas while they were holding the customary Christmas 'feria'. I can say without a shadow of a doubt I have never seen so much brightly coloured plastic rubbish for sale in my life. It made the cheapy aisle in Toys 'r Us look like the crown jewels in comparison. Even the Barbie copies looked like they were slumming it in this company. Everyone seems loaded up with as much of it as they could carry. The children were ecstatic. Strangely enough it all seems to have disappeared now. Probably stolen or broken. Plastic might be indestructible as a material but the wheels fall off in a week.
The area is also home to a lot of cheap clothing stalls, Genuine Mendellin copies of anything you could wish for, the same goes for watches, sunglasses. The indoor market has all of the sequined tops and jeans that seem to be the Colombian ladies' weapons and uniforms of choice. They certainly like it tight and shiny these lasses. It's like 80% of the female population here has been forced at gunpoint into clothing at least one size to small and they are all mincing around trying to stretch it a bit from the inside out. It's a fascinating place alright, and there, right in the middle of the seething, iniquitous heart of it, Barranquilla's oldest church, San Nicolas, rises sweet and clean as a Christmas cake out of a sea of rusting corrugated metal.

Truculent Basque

bigfish — Thu, 5 Jan 2006 12:48:00 GMT

To be fair to the Spaniards they did rebuild the place and put it under the command of a certain truculent Basque called Blas de Lezo.(See statue.) This was a horse of a different colour for poor old Vernon. This prickly bastard was 39 years at sea and had managed to lose an eye, an arm and a leg in his various battles,not what you might call a shrinking violet. (And NO to my knowledge they did NOT call him 'lucky' de Lezo). Vernon wrote de Lezo a letter challenging him, thinking that de Lezo might bottle it. Big mistake. De Lezo answered Vernon's letter in Cartagena: "If I had been in Portobello, you would not have assaulted the fortress of my master, the King, with impunity because I could have supplied the valor the defenders of Portobello lacked and checked their cowardice..." He challenged Vernon to have another go. Vernon never made it and not for the want of trying. He tried once by land and, this failing, tried and failed once again, this time by sea from Panama. The unfortunate Admiral took his frustration with him to a hero's grave in Westminster abbey. Blas de Lezo joined his lost limbs and eyeball in the ocean and sleeps with the fishes somewhere off the coast of Cartagena. Such is the way of the world and the sorry conclusion of all human endeavor.
End of History Lesson.

Mail from the Past

bigfish — Wed, 4 Jan 2006 12:46:00 GMT

This was a letter written by a sailor to his wife after the fall of Cartagena in 1739:

"When I left you heaven knows it was with an aching heart to be hauled from you by a gang of ruffians but, however, I soon overcame that when I found that we were about to go in earnest to right my native country, and against a parcel of impudent Spaniards, by whom I have often been ill treated and god knows my heart I have longed these four years past to cut of some of their ears, and was in hopes I should have sent you one for a sample now, but our good Admiral, God bless him, was too merciful. We have taken Porto Belo with such courage and bravery that I never saw before; for my own part my heart was raised to the clouds and would have scaled the moon had a Spaniard been there to come at him, as we did the battery. Jack Cox is my messmate; you know he was always a heavy-assed dog and sleepy headed, but had you seen him climb the walls of the battery, you would never forget him, for a cat could not exceed him in nimbleness, and so in short it was with all of us. I belief I myself could now overcome ten Spaniards for I remember when I was in Spain that the Spanards called the English Galen den mare, but we shall now make them know that we are the Cox of the Seas for our Admiral is of true game breed. Had you seen us English sailors, now what alteration, what countenances, what bravery can exceed us? They tell us we shall meet a French squadron by and by, but I wish it may be so. And by g-d we'll jerk them. Our dear cox of an Admiral has true English blood in his veins; and thank God all our captains and officers have to a man. Now we are in earnest, but lying in harbours and letting our timber rot and our provision to be devoured with rats; was bad as I have seen. When our cannon had left off firing by order, our men coud hardly forbear going on. My dear, I have got some token of success to show you; I wish I could have sent some of them to you. Our dear Admiral ordered every man some Spanish dollars to be immediately given, which is like a man of honour, for I had rather have 10 dollars in hand than to have 100 for seven years together, and perhaps compound it at last. I am and so is every man of us resolved either to lose our lives or conquer our enemies. True British spirit revives and by g-d we will support our King and country so long as a drop of blood remains. Jo Wilks is as good a sailor as the best of them, and can now bear a hand with an able sailor and has vowed never to take the shuttle in hand till we have reduced the pride of Spain. Help them who will the more, the better true blues will never flinch. I can't help mentioning the soldiers we took with us from Jamaica who were as hearty cox as ever took musket in hand and behaved with glorious courage, but all for the honour of England. I wish we could see one of those plunderers, the garda costas, especially him by whom I was once met with when I lost 16 months wages. If I did not cut off the captain's ears may I be damned. My dear, I am well, getting money wages secure, and all revenge on my enemies, fighting for my King and Country"

Photos show the Castillo San Felipe de Barajas that these lads shinned up, and some of the defenses on the city walls.

Cartagena de Indias

bigfish — Tue, 3 Jan 2006 12:45:00 GMT

This week has been something of a theme week. I've been to Cartagena de Indias which was very much a part of the Spanish main and the site of much swashbuckling and derring do. It is still home to the Colombian Navy, Armada de la Republica de Colombia,which has its largest base here; the A.R.C. Bolivar. But they weren't around when Francis Drake sacked the place in 1586 and Admiral Vernon was sent out to pull some Spanish pants down in 1739 after complaints by English merchantmen about the behavior of the Spanish Costa Gardas. The aforesaid dagos were pissing in the soup by seizing ships and property in customary dago fashion. Vernon came down here and gave them a good hiding. He left the place unpillaged and undamaged apart from the fortifications. He took the Spanish wage money and gave it to his own men, took his pick of the ordinanace, fitted this to his ships, destroyed the rest and breezed off along the coast toward Jamaica amusing himself by terrorizing any Spanish settlements or ships he found on the way. He took the place with six ships even though he had a far greater number of ships at his disposal. He was a member of Parliament and had said in Parliament he only needed six ships to do it. He was as good as his word. Pleased with his own efforts he wrote home:
"...it has pleased Almighty God to preserve me in good health, to go through all these glorious fatigues, and in a full disposition to push this beginning with all possible vigour, to humble the proud Spaniards, and bring them to repentance for all the injuries and long-practised depredations on us." Amen to that.
The place is amazing. The only fly in the ointment is that the deep water harbour here allows upwards of three cruise liners to dock side by side and the town is occaisionally overrun with gringos. This has driven up prices a little bit. The old city is almost intact. (There are too many photos to post here but I will link this post with an album for those who are interested). I climbed the battlements of Castillo San Felipe de Barajas and it is very difficult to believe that those salty English dogs got up it in two hours against cannon and musket fire.

On the Bus

bigfish — Mon, 2 Jan 2006 12:52:00 GMT

I gather however that Europe is undergoing some record breaking artic conditions. Well what a drag. The worst is probably saving itself for my return. In Atlantico it has been predictably hot. Scorchio. It's virtually unchanging at the moment. We might have a few wisps of clouds when the sun comes up but they blow away and every day turns into the same furnace as the day before. The best time is from just after it get's light until about ten in the morning as the earth slowly warms. The temperature is ideal and with just enough of a breath of wind to make everything cool and fresh. Yesterday I went on my first trip out of Atlantico, a two hour trip to Cartagena de Indias in the department of Bolivar. It was my first trip with a long distance coach here. I say long distance because they to not ply the same route every day back and forward but just head off on a long stint during which they are away from home for weeks on end. They might start with Cartagena to Barranquilla, which is two hours, then set off for Bogota which is a further ten hours. Then on to Bucaramanga which is a further day or so, then Medellin then Cali etc. They send money back to their family along the way. We were at the bus station at six for the first bus. I got my beer goggles on for the trip, expecting the worst for a five dollar ticket but was soon to be amazed. The seating is as luxurious as the royal class on an airliner with bags of leg room. T.V. air-conditioning, toilets. At regular check points they shout out for food and a nimble chap jumps on board while the bus is still moving, with a few buckets full of fresh, hot empanadas,arrepas, cold drinks and beers, to alight again when his buckets are empty. This is certainly the way to travel around the country. Despite the fact there have been reports of problems and robberies on the buses, this is largely a question of which bus company you choose. We travelled Brasilia on the way there and Copetran on the way back.The colombians seem to have a quick scope of the bus park before buying their tickets to check out the make and condition of bus that the companies are running to their desination before buying a ticket. They balance up the comfort and the price. There might be five or six running the same route and the better ones have stringent security checks, with the police present while the passagengers are boarding, checking bags and doing body searches for weapons. The buses only stop at registered stopping points along the way to pay toll or at police check points. They do not take on passengers between departure and destination.
Cartagena is amazing place but that's for the next post.
Footnote: (In Cartagena I saw some really nice buses that are running on an over-nighter to Venezuela. Definitely one to file away for future reference. If anyone has any experiences of this route I'd be glad to hear about them.)

New Year

bigfish — Mon, 2 Jan 2006 12:44:00 GMT

Well 2006 is upon us and the last Christmas lights are blinking tiredly and the street decorations wind-whipped and sun-bleached from their passage through a scorching December. There have been many, many parties over the holiday season starting with "The Festival of the Immaculate Virgin". This proved something of a misnomer, the ladies were dancing and prancing around in a manner that would make a blind man blush. Christmas was a more subdued affair than I had expected in a predominantly catholic country. That's true of Sundays too which seem to have become the same secular affairs as their European counterparts. All the shops were open and many people were working as normal on Christmas day. It was explained to me that this was due to the level of poverty here, people need to work and as such it is expected of them. It certainly is true that if you are lucky enough to have a job here then you work all the days and hours that your employer expects of you. Refusal would cost you your job. A job is hard to come by here, even for the skilled workforce and, with no social security, the slope between economic survival and abject poverty is a slippery one indeed.
January brings the same hangover here as is does anywhere else. The Colombians probably don't have the same jaw-dropping credit card repayments to face as the gorged consumers of the first world, but Christmas makes everyone overreach themselves somewhat. It was very encouraring however to see that the supermarkets make up special priced food hampers for the poor which you can buy and deliver to the Cathedral for distribution or, as we did, take directly to the poorer barrios and give directly.
Christmas being over the people can find some solace in the fact that Easter is on the way. With the Easter period comes the legendary carnaval of Barranquilla, second only to the carnaval in Rio and allegedly gaining ground. The various associations are already practicing. This is something I don't want to miss. Whether I make it this year or not remains to be seen.

FELIZ NAVIDAD

bigfish — Fri, 30 Dec 2005 09:50:00 GMT

Happy Christmas etc:

PORK BITS, SPUDS AND UDDERS

bigfish — Fri, 23 Dec 2005 11:43:00 GMT

Well, just in time for those of you looking for a few pointers on adding a little variety to the Christmas cuisine, I've decided to make an attempt to broach the subject of food.
Initially I made a few mistakes here on the food front. I offered to cook a meal for a family birthday early on into the trip. This was greeted with much enthusiam and as something of a novelty since Colombian guys do not seem to spend much time in the kitchen, that is unless the wife is hobbled and they are forced to stray to the refridgerator to fetch their own beer. The cardinal mistake I made was in assuming that all Latin Americans love spicy food. They don't. The spicy lads are called Mexicans. I decided to whip up a quick throat tickling lentil curry. Wrong choice. A wrong choice made with twenty and thirty guest on the way. Luckily the look of horror on the faces of those who first tasted it, and the way they ran around the room fanning at there open mouths, betrayed the problem just before the shops closed.
Colombians to not seem to like the fiery stuff at all.(I still cause something of a stir at breakfast by putting habanero sauce on my eggs). The second mistake I made was in assuming that they would be happy with a meal without meat. When they had recovered both their senses and the power of speech from the chillies, they started poking around in my pots looking for where I had cleverly hidden the meat. I raced off to the supermarket, bought enough mint and yoghurt to make a bucketful of Raita, onions and cucumbers and a couple of kilos of ground beef. With these and a couple more ingredients I managed to serve up mince and lentil curry with rice, lashings of cooling raita and red cabbage with apples. This washed down with tumblers of my now famous Sangria that, while not perhaps following any particular Spanish recipe had enough Mendellin rum in it to strip the paint off the Ark Royal. It was an unconventional meal but who was to know? A few members of the family probably think it is the national dish of England. Eaten traditionally at birthdays. I was probably drunk enough to foster and nourish such an assumption. What the hell, I might try Dutch pea soup and mince pies on them for Christmas. Conceptual English fusion cookery, like that bod who's dishing up snail porridge at a hundred and fifty quid a head,freezing gooseberries in liquid nitrogen and zapping lobsters with lasers to challenge our ideas on how we get stuff cooked. I've got a few of my own ideas on that. But I digress.
In Barranquilla it's very hard to avoid the constant flow of street food. Much of this is cooked over charcoal grills or barbeques and sad to say for our vegetarian friends, a great deal of it is meat. I was managed to stay away from my flesh gorging habits for the six months prior to my departure but it's near on impossible to avoid eating meat or being sure that what you are filling your face with does not contain a meat derivative of some kind. I have yet to meet a Colombian vegetarian and am not even sure if such a creature exsists. It would be crazy to try to sum up the national cuisine of a country in a few words but below is a grab-bag of the stuff I've picked off of smoking grills around the city. Some of it a little more 'challenging' than the rest. The dark sausage shaped lads are Colombian black puddings, or morcillas, and are pretty much indistinguishable from their northern English cousins. They are very nice and I'm sure would be set off a treat with a few stewing apples or pears. The skewers of beef are called 'chuzos', these fellows also come in chicken flavour. The Colombian spuds are absolutely out of this world. ( I keep forget that the humble potato started it's life in this neck of the rain forest), I haven't tasted potatoes this good since I was a kid. On the 'chuzos' they are stuck at each end of the skewer. Seen here glistening from brushed on oil or butter and ready for a final trip to the grill.
The big mixed grill at the bottom shows two different sorts of potato. The wrinkly things that look a bit like pigs' ears are actually cows udders, a bit like Manchester melt. These folk are not shy of scarfing down any manner of viscera and seem to eat pretty much everything from snout to trotters. The only thing I've really had a problem with was the cow foot soup which didn't seem to contain anything recognisable, just a few nondescript gelid lumps and was in general an experience I can only describe as sucking warm suet out of tubes of gristle. It may be an acquired taste but I certainly won't be going around for seconds on that stuff. Anyway you might spot a bit of tripe in there. Some roughly stuffed pork sausages and any amount of crackling you like. It might not be everyones cup of tea but I will dedicate a little time on the fruit and veg side to strike some sort of balance. Promise.

CREATURES OF A LOST WORLD

bigfish — Thu, 8 Dec 2005 11:42:00 GMT

I think that it was Baudelaire, (correct me if I'm wrong here), who once described cats as "the insects of a lost world". I wonder what the bardlike frenchy would have made of Colombian riot police. These fellows have a covering top to toe of some sort of kevlar body armour, buffed hard and black, keratinised, distinctly scarab like. I'm sure this wasn't just for show. Due to their presence and a moat full of little chaps in white spats, helmets and matching clubs, seperating the fans from the pitch. The whole match proceeded in a most orderly fashion. I remember some sort of legend about South American footie clubs having moats full of crocodiles between the pitch and the fans. Looking at some of these lads I think I might prefer the crocodiles, you'd die more quickly and mercifully.
As the floodlights came up The opposing teams of Barranquilla Junior and America de Cali frothed out of the mouths of two giant inflatable Aquila bottles while the arbiters appeared from a seperate white mini-tunnel. There they were sheltered by a 'turtle' of riot shields until they were beyond the reach of projectiles. Three of these human shields were also placed around the corner flags to protect the player taking the corner from a similar shower of projectiles. I took it that they weren't talking about projectiles of the rotten tomato variety here. The kevlar body armour looked a little like that stuff that the evil lads wear in "The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers". It could easily deflect a SAM-7 missile.
Carlos told me cheerfully as I made my way to the bathrooms to tap off the ninety minutes of beer that I should be proud; I was probably the only englishman in the stadium. The penny didn't actually drop on that one until I was elbowing my way to the trough in an overfilled, sweaty, stadium toilet, being leered at by a horde of unsteady disappointed little brown drunks. Just like hooligans but smaller. It did occur to me, for a fleeting moment, that I was the only one in an away strip too but that was probably the least of the contrasts. Here, trying to flip it out between a white belly and overtight waistband, above a urinal that was the right height for a six-year old, trying to avoid, not entirely sucessfully, splashing onto the throng around me, I was definitely the swine of a lost world.
But like every other activity in Barranquilla so far everything went swimmingly. We melted away happily into the heaving tumult of Murillo: the bars, lights, music and the smell of chuzos cooking on charcoal permeating everything.

TU PAPA

bigfish — Thu, 8 Dec 2005 11:36:00 GMT

After a day of sweaty chaos we arrived at the game barely on time. Carlos had arranged the tickets and there was no way he was going to let me back out of another game. Unlike the players I'd been wearing my generic, nylon, Junior away shirt all day, this had been soaked with sweat and sun-dried at least four times that day and was ripening rapidly. It's a wonder anyone was prepared to sit within three rows of me on the terraces. Unfortunately it was a day of overlapping commitments; We were moving to a new house in barrio Mercedes that day and despite the fact we had booked a truck for 08:00 hours we did not anticipate the running of some sort of marathon race that morning. The police were not letting any vehicles up or down Calle 69 till the race had finished. Only a trickle of taxis were allowed to cross it. STRICTLY no trucks. The police told us it was a bicycle race but as the first contestants appeared on foot I could only assume that either the cops were wrong or these lads had been robbed of their bikes on the way through Centro and were being chased for their trainers. Unfortunately for our schedule it turned out to be a race on foot. Race is probably something of a misnomer, a few of the early contestants seemed to be trotting along merrily, as the field stretched and thinned on the baking concrete most of the contestants seemed to be just out for a Sunday morning stroll, ambling along pleasantly in Somberos and designer running gear that they obviously did not want to ruin with sweat. We hooted derision from upstairs windows, taxi drivers hit claxons and snarled but all this fell on deaf ears. The race trundled on to its inevitable conclusion about an hour behind schedule. the moving truck was a further hour late so by the time we had the move made and ourselves undusted we had a full half hour to get from Mercedes to the Stadium, through a heaving Murillo. Well we did make it and were in place for kick-off clutching quart beakers of the good Aguila beer,(Sponsors of Junior Barranquilla, the Colombian national squad and my newly reborn beer habit), just in time to be infected with the pre-match tension which is OH so important to an enjoyable 90 odd minutes of good footie.
Junior had their backs up against it to qualify but played valiantly. An early and thouroughly well deserved penalty put them well on track and I must say that with the way they were playing they could have been three up at half time. Cali looked a little dazed and didn't really look as if they knew whether to try to cling to their aggregate lead or to try to advance it. At the beginning of the second half Junior came out with all guns blazing and the quite brilliant Emerson Ouna scored a goal that had the Colombian TV pundits still raving two days later. For some reason better known to himself the Junior trainer deemed it wise to substitute Emerson. This threw the whole rhythm of Junior's attack out of balance and allowed Cali the chance to come back and with a single soft goal put the final nail in the coffin of Junior's Cup hopes this year. To be fair I'd say this is the best I've seen Junior play this season. On the other hand, equally fair; it is the only time I've ever seen them play.
Keep it up lads!!! I'll remain a loyal fan to both you and your sponsors.

LARGATIJA

bigfish — Tue, 6 Dec 2005 11:33:00 GMT

Found this little fellow hanging upside-down in the bathroom. Persuaded Kelly to come to take a look and to tell me what it was. "Aiiiieeeee Largatija...." she squealed. I got out of the bathroom pretty quick, thinking by her reaction that it must be some sort of Gila monster. When I finally got the story translated it went as follows; one of these little fellows was scrambling across the kitchen ceiling of an unspecified Colombian family. Overcome by the heat it dropped into the cooking pot. Apparently while it doesn't bite there is some sort of toxin in it. The family unwittingly ate the soup. The children died and the adults spent four days hallucinating violently.
Phew. Luckily for the Largatija they never heard of it's exsistence in the West Midlands in the 60s and 70s, there would have be armies of Roy Wood/Ozzy Osbourne/Robert Plant look-alikes combing the shrubbery and boiling up these little chaps by the tub full.

MICHAEL OWEN

bigfish — Sat, 3 Dec 2005 11:32:00 GMT

On that fateful day we were nearly struck by the runaway bus the local football team, Barranquilla Junior were playing Cali. Junior Barranquilla are probably the best known and their stadium the most famous in Colombia. Carlos the upstairs neighbour asked me to go and take a look. An offer I took a rain check on, much to my regret, since Juniour stuffed Cali by three goals to two and it was by all accounts a thouroughly riveting affair. The trucks of armed police that I saw heading for the ground, looking like they were suppressing a coup d'etat rather than policing a soccer match were a little cause for concern. I wanted to take the young lads but the ladies were having none of it. They were muttering something about 'stampedes". I thought it was a game of footie rather than a running of the bulls. Carlos said the ladies were exaggerating (as usual) and that it just depends on which end you go to. Much like the West End or the Kop at Highfield Rd I suppose. Like so many other things in Colombia it just seems to be a matter of common sense and following the right pointers.
I certainly intend to go and check out a match while I'm here. Carlos presented me with an away strip shirt for the occaision so it would be churlish in the extreme not to take him up on the offer. On the day of the Cali game the whole town was jumping like a bucket full of beans and chilli. They really love their football here. Every radio and TV that can be is tuned to the match. Everyone turned out in the Junior colours of red and white.
The girl below is one of the cousins, Veronica.She is eighteen years old and she claims to be Juniors second to biggest fan, the number one biggest fan being her boyfriend. Despite this she is in love with Michael Owen and swoons at the very mention of his name. She has studied Colombian eco-science all year long like a good girl and hopes that Papa Noel will bring her a new England jersey with the name Owen emblazoned on the back. This so she can "more enthusiastically support the English ones at the World cup of the next year..." SO if anyone out there know Michael Owen then please ask him to e-mail me for her address. One shirt can't be much for a little Colombian girl, especially considering I seem to recall the name Owen being on the score-sheet twice when we stuffed Colombia in this year's 'friendly'.

BEACH LIFE

bigfish — Wed, 30 Nov 2005 11:28:00 GMT

I unexpectedly met up with a few old friends here: Candy floss and toffee apples. I chanced a toffee-apple despite the state of my teeth and it was perfect; a thin crisp sweet glaze over a cold sour apple. Priceless. A few of the tastes here have really taken me back to childhood. Much of the vegetables here taste so much better than they do now in Europe. The potatoes here are fantastic and to be honest I haven't really encountered anything I didn't like. Although a few dishes have been challenging to say the least.
All afternoon it was an endless procession of vendors, most of them selling food. These are not the insistent variety of chaps that you meet in Africa who are not deterred by anything short of a slap on the back of the head. Here a simple "No Gracias senor..." is enough to send them on to the next prospect. In many cases though the food was so irresistible that it turned out to be "Si senor..." The shrimp and oyster man was the first receive attention, He mixed up a concoction of shrimp in a spicy tomato sauce with finely chopped onions that was to commit murders for. Next came the man with the fresh fish; He had a full tray to choose from and we took them all, he went back to a little hut away from the beach and transformed the fish into a series of dishes that fed the whole family. The lot for the price of a single Big Mac menu. By the time that food had all gone down it was time to hit the chiba. Back up to 'Butlins' to cool off the kids and then a breezy ride back to Barranquilla, Samba music blaring and a smile on every face. I even bought my first souvenir, which is a Christmas present for Elkie. (But don't tell her).
Today has really given me a taste for the Atlantic and Carribean coast. In my mind I'm already planning visits to Cartagena and Santa Marta and the Islands of San Andreas and Providencia. If the luck and the money hold that is. I will have to add them to the ever growing list that started with Cali, Mendellin, Venezuela and Ecuador if possible. It's starting to look a tad ambitious and I fear there might have to be a little thinning out to be done.