This is an eclectic account of the last two months of travel. Some parts of my trip are covered in detail, others briefly and yet more omitted entirely. It has been constructed from notes and scribblings written at the time and my memories as I write it now, on the 6th of August. (This was first written by hand and is now being typed up)
In a cheap, yet quiet and clean hotel room in the Andean city of Ayacucho in Peru, with half a papaya and a chunk of cheese in my stomach, and a large wad of coca leaves in my mouth, I begin to collate and write down the events and lessons of the last 2 months, from leaving Ecuador to where I am now. For the moment, I am alone and feel no need to rush off to any place just yet, I´m in a period of calm and reflection, watching the dust of my progress settle behind me. Here goes...
PART ONE OF TWO
COLOMBIA
ON June the 14th I crossed the boarder into Colombia, after a few weeks spent in various locations in Ecuador. By this time I was glad to leave, I had spent almost 3 months here and was ready to pick up the pace of travel and explore unknown lands. Tired yet excited to be leaving I was kindly chosen by the Ecuadorian Police to be pulled in for a drug search, the only one of hundreds waiting to cross (as if anyone would smuggle drugs INTO Colombia). Thankfully I had disposed of my syringes and half ounce of heroin the night before, so there was nothing to find, but they had some fun licking pages of my notebook, interrogating me about why I had a ball of wool and a crochet hook in my bag, (probably thought I had mugged an old lady) and then confiscated my pocket knife as an offensive weapon, as outside the windows of the office people walked by with machetes through their belts. With this fond farewell I grabbed a colectivo to the Colombian boarder town and then a bus to Pasco, some 90 km over the boarder. I was free to relax and enjoy gazing out the window as the scenery streaked past. I had no real preconceptions of Colombia, preferring to travel with only a few place names in mind, but I was surprised at the rapid change this close to the boarder.
THE roads where wider and in better condition, the occasional farm houses and towns more substantial and modern and I even saw some tractors in the fields, separated by low hedge rows and forming a patchwork of Iron Black clods of plowed earth and bright greens and yellows of grass and seed crops. These fields appeared to be part of large estates, unlike most of Ecuador which has more of a peasant like system of each family owning a small parcel of land. The huge river valley that the bus was winding through provided a good microclimate and the land was fertile. To the right of the road the land dropped steeply to a distant river below and above on each side of the valley where high hills. Pasto appeared an hour and a half later, a city nestled in the hills and the afternoon light making the silver domes of the churches shine like pearls. As the bus ride has given me a taste of the environmental change, so the walk from the terminal to the town centre showed me the cultural change already apparent. Horses and men pulled long wooden carts overflowing with fruit and vegetables, the streets where dominated by motorbikes, people here could obviously afford their own vehicles. There were shops catering to luxury as well as necessity, fancy tiles for bathrooms, house plants and expensive appliances, butchers with a wide selection of quality meats. I spent only the night here, keen to make my way to San Agustin, a small town North East.
MY mood was darkened considerably at the bus station, finding the prices to be almost triple that of Ecuador, a little over double after haggling. On my limited budget it would be hard to eat 3 meals a day, pay for accommodation and bus rides around this huge country. I grumpily got on the bus and decided not to look at my bank balance until after I left. Now with my problems solved, my good mood was restored as the miles were chewed up, valley after expansive valley unfolded like a fan until they formed one great rolling plain, the mountains now just teeth on the horizon. Painted with a palette of light greens and browns, the grasslands were studded by trees and patches of scrub. A gentle rain began to fall and brought the perfume of the ground through the bus´s open windows. Dry grass and cow manure. After this first ride of 7 hours punctuated with military checkpoints - ID checks, bag searches and legs spread wide with your hands on the bus for a body frisk - I transferred to the second bus/minivan as dusk fell.
MANY would dislike the prospect of 8 hours more bouncing along potholed rural roads in the dark, but I was in pure joy. The Colombian girl I had been flirting with (hopeless in English, even worse in Spanish) was now asleep on my shoulder, raucous accordion music played on the radio and the van´s headlights revealed stone walls and the muddy track ahead. I had never felt so free. No English, travelling with a light bag and no-one from home knew where I was, on this winding track through a territory that still feels the influence of FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia). At this stage I only associated Colombia with a few things, Coffee, Cocaine, Chicas Bonitas and Shakira (Ollie you´ll understand). We stopped for dinner at a small restaurant, my fellow passengers and the people in the building loving to jokingly hassle this young foreigner with broken Spanish. Tourists are still relatively rare in most parts of Colombia so I was somewhat of a novelty. Before I had finished my meal I was offered cocaine, weed and a woman for the night. Colombia was living up to its reputation. It can be a test of self control or a exploration of hedonism here. A few more bone shaking hours and then into San Agustin at 2am. Guided to a cheap hostal a few Km outside the town by the taxi driver who also worked at the tourist office, which turned out to be a sort of local mafia, controlling all tourist activities, horse rentals, distribution of drugs and Pre-Colombian artifacts. If you ever want anything in San Agustin, look no further than the tourist office, but be careful not to piss them off if you value your life. Ushered into the bunkroom by an ancient lady who smiled and waved away my apologies at the hour of arrival, I gratefully fell into a dreamless sleep.
FAMED for its abundance of Pre-Colombian era statues and rock carvings, the town itself was a small an wonderfully relaxed place surrounded by productive fields of dairy cows, sugar cane and staple crops. Most of the streets were cobbled and echoed the sounds of horse hooves, the main form of transport for the locals. The men were moustache bearing and hat wearing, the typical image of a Latino male, macho yet friendly, greeting you with a wave and a ¨Buenas¨. It was the school holidays and also a celebration of traditional culture. To put it plainly, San Agustin had some of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. Slim with smooth chestnut skin, rich black hair, glittering smiles and eyes of deep browns and golds, through to startling greens and blues, rare in South America. Dressed in tight white Tshirts and blue jeans, with the traditional red bandannas worn at an angle around the waist, it was a town of sirens. If I had been told that I could never leave this town, I would not have felt the slightest sadness, it was a place of beauty and magic. I wonder how long this will last, before the tourists pour in as Colombia becomes more and more safe, buy up land and start to change the culture.
ALSO staying at my hostal was a young guy from Canada and against all odds, a Kiwi, a 30 something year old typical Kiwi bloke. How refreshing it was to hear the accent, my accent, and remember the country with him, my country and home. Until now I had only met 2 other guys from New Zealand, and it was strange to find another in this town, total tourist population less than 10 at the time. We organized horses for the morning and bought a crate of beer before the election curfew took hold (no alcohol to be sold after 6pm). I hadn’t found this out until after arriving in Colombia, and it was certainly an interesting and edgy time to be in the country. After a night of no sleep, swapping travel and life stories and just talking shit, the day break came and with it the horses. They needed little encouragement, racing each other at a gallop along the muddy tracks between the ancient anthropomorphic statues. My boots didn’t fit in the stirrups so it was a good test of my horsemanship after 4 or so years since being on a horse. The next day we split up, Adam the Canadian went to Cali in the west and me and Kyle the Kiwi waiting for a night bus to Bogota before the weekend curfews stopped the bus service from operating. I don’t know if Adam ever made it to Cali without problems or not , for two buses were stopped and burnt by FARC on the road that I came in on a few nights before. There were no fatalities, it was just a warning and protest against the elections, but it reminded me of the ongoing civil war, which was easy to forget in such a beautiful place.
BOGOTA was grey, cold and expensive. We went to a gringo orientated backpackers hostal with a couple of Irish guys (crazy bastards) who also got the same bus. It was a weekend of laziness and hedonism, Cold and raining and with all the museums and attractions Bogota is famous for closed for the election weekend, and the curfew preventing us from experiencing the bars and clubs. Confined to the hostal, watching the world cup with and talking shit with the Irishmen, a pack of Australians and a semi insane Italian, who walked in and out of the NZ-Italy game cursing the coach, the player selection and the striker of the Italian team in a strong accent. One event stood out in the weekend, a bloodthirsty indoor football game between our Hostal Sue and the nearby Hostal Fatima. Within the first 5 minutes one of the opposition players was rushed to hospital with a torn cruxiate ligament, and the violent game finished an hour later with the players nursing their wounds, and the smokers complaining about ravaged lungs. I was glad to leave when the curfew ended on Monday, Kyle went for the Darien’s gap and me to the national park of El Cocuy, in the north east near the Venezuelan boarder.
THE road scratched a thin scar through Colombia´s beauty and mystery as field blurred into field into field. Simple farm houses, tiled roof, chickens and cow outside, bright synthetic clothes drying on lines like Tibetan prayer flags. Miles and miles of crumbling stone walls divides in the emerald green. Deep blue sky with high wind torn clouds. The signs, the propaganda, a huge camouflaged face with the phrases beneath. Your army is protecting you. This road is being watched, enjoy your travels. The military stops, soldiers who looked younger than me, bored eyes and heavy automatic weaponry held loosely in hands. A brief glance in the bag, a pat down, wave on. A pretty girl who looked about 16, told me she was twenty, smiling away as she bounced her baby on her lap. She wants to be a doctor. Silver evening light filling the valleys through a thin veil of rain, arriving as night fell into the rural mountain town of Guican. A poignant look at this country of slowly healing wounds.
A few peaceful days,
Watching the football in the cornerstore
of this small Colombian farming town,
At the base of a silent mountain range,
A cup of steaming coffee and fresh cheese
Wrapped in a leaf,
My happiness,
Waking to the call of the rooster,
In another anonymous hotel room,
Forgetting the town or country I´m in,
And remembering it doesn´t matter.
5 am on the corner by the hospital waiting for the car Ive been told will take me to the entrance of the national park, a few hours climb by winding gravel track. At 5.40 I´m worried I´ve missed it, when a clattering and squeaking of tired suspension announces the arrival of the milk truck, full of empty metal pails and poncho clad locals. Ah, South America, always a surprise and never on time. Sitting on a sack of potatoes as we stop by houses, the family waiting outside with the days new milk, steaming in the frigid air as its poured from dented metal pots and old gasoline containers into the trucks larger pails. Money changing hands with the man on the truck, gas, flour, cooking oil for tomorrow, carefully noted in a small book. Taking the offered core warming swig of Aguardiente pulled from under a poncho. Off we get, some students from Bogota, 4 local teens and me. At the base of the track was a collection of small camouflaged military tents. The truck clattered away around the corner. The swapping of names and food established a friendship with the young guys from town and we set off along a winding concrete water run the 10 km to the hut we would be using as a base. Greeted by the rangers and a hot pasta meal. Mentally prepared for 2 days of cheese and tomato sandwiches, this was a nice surprise. Fishing in the alpine lakes, some nylon, a rusted hook and a sturdy reed. A jar of worms, but no fish. The Paramo is a strange landscape, the photos on my facebook describe it without the need for words.
ANOTHER 5 am start, beginning the long day of hiking, 5 hours to the Laguna de la Plaza, the largest lake in the national park. After 10 minutes the others where well ahead of me, fitter and genetically accustomed to the high altitude. I assured them I was fine, and gradually they became indistinct, then dots, then disappeared from sight. I wanted a solitary struggle to the lake. The first climb was a steep 700 meters to 4300m, the first of several, and from here on, I entered the clouds. The occasional echo of a bird and the gurgling of crystal alpine streams where the only sounds in this land. Resting on a rock, I was surprised to see a humming bird at this altitude, its green metallic shape darting between the small wildflowers. I met the others after making slow progress between the markers, towers of stones that where nearly invisible in the cloud. They where coming back from the lake, but said it was hidden by the clouds. When I got there it was clear for about 5 minutes, allowing me to soak the sight in before it again disappeared into the greyness. Cloud to Rain to Sleet to Snow. My trousers were soaked and I was feeling the first signs of altitude sickness, nausea and extreme fatigue. I fell asleep several times on the way back, and saw the hut just as darkness was falling. Sleep. Another early start back down to the military camp to wait for the truck, a gifted breakfast of a fried maize fritter and hunk of bread, the Colombian military are intimidating yet kind. The familiar rattling sound of the Lechero, and 3 hours, 1200 litres of milk and a free cup of coffee later, I was back in Guican, smelly, wet and exhausted. A warm shower, then off to Duitama, mid way to Bogota to pay back a lady who had let me borrow money when my travel card didn´t work in any of the local banks. I made it to her house with less than 3000 pesos (1.50) in my pocket and spent the night there in the potholed and scarred suburbs. Back to Bogota the next evening. I had intended to go north to the coffee growing region, but in the station decided to head to Cali, Anuraag, a guy I´d travelled with for a week in Ecuador had said he was going there, so I headed of on a night bus hoping to find or wait for him there.
WALKING into the bus terminal in the morning and he was coming the other way, wide felt hat, machete protruding from backpack and a potato sack full of clothes tied to his waist. Both as adventurous, poor and fool hardy as each other we´d run into our fair share of bad luck in Ecuador, and had another interestingly dangerous few days around Cali. We then read on the internet about the temptingly named nearby costal town of Buenaventura, with a murder rate 24 times greater than NYC, we headed off towards it. We got sidetracked before making it there, checking out a small mining town an hour or so away. It felt like we had been transported to Africa for the day, with hardly a Latino face in sight. Populated by descendants of African slaves and accessible only via an abandoned railway track, the town was unique. The locals had constructed wheeled wooden carts that were attached to motorbikes and transported people to and from the mine. When two of these fragile vehicles met each other, a brief display of machoism and shouting determined which one would be lifted off the tracks to let the other pass. The locals went each way, wearing the gold pans as hats and ebony arms flecked with white chemical marks. The shanty town was small, and we spent the day drinking Aguadiente and hanging with the local kids. We couldn’t afford a hostal that night so slept under a concrete shelter in the graveyard. We didn’t have enough money with us by that stage to make it to Buenaventura, but with our thirst for strange experiences quenched we headed back to Cali, spent the rest of the day playing guitar and flute, and then parted ways at the station, each of us getting the last seat on our buses. I got stuck in conversation with the man next to me, who made me feel like the main character from fight club, and I was grateful to leave him when I got to Bogota in the morning. Back to Hostal Sue, free breakfast and night on the couch, cheers guys. For the first time in 3 weeks my clothes where clean and ordered in my bag, and I spent the morning with the rastas, bums and one legged alcoholics on the streets, getting to know the real Colombia. Then to the airport for my flight to Leticia, isolated boarder town deep in the Amazon, from where I would commence the next part of my trip down into Peru. In my usual dramatic style, when I made it to the ticket counter after a few hours of waiting everything started to go dark and dizzy, until I was completely blind and disorientated for about 5 minutes. When I came to I was in a wheel chair being checked by medics, and then rushed to the waiting plane in the chair. Good fun.
Leticia and the Amazon will be included in part 2, to be finished within the next week or so. Until then, peace and good health.
