The Caribbean
Cartagena is desribed as the jewel city of south america, and my reaction when I first arrived in the lower old town was general agreement. We stumbled into a hostel and dumped our bags, being tired from a taxing bus trip and only ventured out that night to aquire cash and food. The next morning we did venture across the main road and into Old Town proper, the border of which is clearly marked by a huge stone wall with rusted cannons protruding from the battlements, both of which were installed to fend off pirate attack. The pirates, one of which was Francis Drake himself, were after the hordes of gold being shipped back to spain from the New World. The Spanish decided that stealing gold from other people was simply not on, and (not dropping dead immedietly from sheer hypocrisy, as one might hope or expect) took large masonic steps to prevent this kind of scurvey nonsense. The buildings and plazas inside the walls are all still intact, although of course now inside they sell trendy clothes and car loans. The Old Town is indeed quite beautiful, one can definetly believe you are in an old spanish port, and thankfully the mercantile anachronistic tendancies are not enough to spoil the effect. This town makes our lack of camera go from a mild inconvenience to a severe kick in the tourist guts.
After a day of wandering around the cobblestones and avoiding cigar peddlers, we hopped a boat to a nearby beach called Playa Blanca, lit. 'White Beach'. the boat motored past several of the caribean islands, some large enough to build a hotel on (and they did, those maniacs) and some only the smallest rings of aquamarine water, golden sand and a small tuft of vegetation.
In the afternoon we finally docked at the Blanca, construction limits means there is no pier, all landings are done by queer little craft with a staircase on one side and a heavy drop-ramp at the prow. As an Australian, I've seen some nice beaches in my time, but this is a different class entirely. This beach is one of those impossible places they use as desktop wallpaper images, or use to advertise beer and air-conditioners. The water was bright, glowing cyan from the beach, and as clear as God's own instruction manual through diving goggles. The color of the sand is perhaps obvious given the beach's name, and out of that soft loam sprung forth first the long, bowing palm trees who lean out almost over the water, competeing with the local beachgoers for the sunlight, then beyond them the thick overgrown equatorial jungle which serces as both backdrop and only available public toilet.
We walked along the beach admiring the view, then came across a bamboo hut about 12 meters from the waves where a man was willing to rent us hammocks to sleep the night in for around $2 each. We greedily accepted, and spent the rest of the day splashing around in the sweet blue caribbean. The water temperature in thise whole region is only slightly less than blood temperature, as it is the middle of summer here. In the late afernoon I spent 2 hours aboard my hammock finishing my H.P.Lovecraft book of short stories, which was possibly an error as our host had aquired some fresh octopus and offered to fry it up for us. Utterly delicious, yet my mind did wander to the dark macabre when churning the tentacles. Some other travellers joined us and started drinking, our sweet hammock sleep disturbed by one of them, a drunken German, wailing and weeping and tracking along the beach, calling that he had lost his passport. I felt bad for the guy until come the morning he emerged, well rested and having found his passport in the morning light still safely nestled in his bag.
We rented some diving gear and went out to the heads, where the coral reef which the area is known for grows just offshore.
The tropical fish were plentiful, and bedecked in their usual array of bright, clashing colors and patterns. It seems so odd to have animals of this type painted up like lunatics and clowns, it's as if nature had at some point wearied of designing fish and turned the job (perhaps unwisely) over to someone with no respect for a limited pallette, a shaky painting hand and a singular enthusiasm for all things shiny, which on reflection was quite probably my own personal mother. I was snorkelling near the cliff edge when I saw fish disappearing into what I had though was rock. I dived down until my ears hurt, and discovered a small lateral entrance to an underwater cave, lit for my eyes by a long crack in the surface which send the sunlight down in a single golden sheet. After a few experiments I found a spot where I could swim into this chamber and then squeeze my body up through a small opening in the crack to obtain more air when needed. Much exploring was conducted! Once again I felt the absence of our underwater camera like a kick in the proverbials.
With reluctance we abandoned the water and prepared to depart, the boat back much more direct and, instead of islands, took us past the ruined (or sometimes restored) series of anti-pirate (although technically most of the attacks came from privateers in the employ of the Brits, I guess it's an irrelevant distiction when they are in your base stealing your treasure) forts. Back to Cartagena, we ran into some old friends from both Bolivia and earlier in Columbia but sadly could not stay forever (we're gringos, not gringstays). It was time to leave the beautiful ocean and turn south, for three long days of bus and taxi rides, going through Medellin, Cali, Popayan until getting to our last big stop before we leave Columbia (forever?): San Augustin.
After a day of wandering around the cobblestones and avoiding cigar peddlers, we hopped a boat to a nearby beach called Playa Blanca, lit. 'White Beach'. the boat motored past several of the caribean islands, some large enough to build a hotel on (and they did, those maniacs) and some only the smallest rings of aquamarine water, golden sand and a small tuft of vegetation.
In the afternoon we finally docked at the Blanca, construction limits means there is no pier, all landings are done by queer little craft with a staircase on one side and a heavy drop-ramp at the prow. As an Australian, I've seen some nice beaches in my time, but this is a different class entirely. This beach is one of those impossible places they use as desktop wallpaper images, or use to advertise beer and air-conditioners. The water was bright, glowing cyan from the beach, and as clear as God's own instruction manual through diving goggles. The color of the sand is perhaps obvious given the beach's name, and out of that soft loam sprung forth first the long, bowing palm trees who lean out almost over the water, competeing with the local beachgoers for the sunlight, then beyond them the thick overgrown equatorial jungle which serces as both backdrop and only available public toilet.
We walked along the beach admiring the view, then came across a bamboo hut about 12 meters from the waves where a man was willing to rent us hammocks to sleep the night in for around $2 each. We greedily accepted, and spent the rest of the day splashing around in the sweet blue caribbean. The water temperature in thise whole region is only slightly less than blood temperature, as it is the middle of summer here. In the late afernoon I spent 2 hours aboard my hammock finishing my H.P.Lovecraft book of short stories, which was possibly an error as our host had aquired some fresh octopus and offered to fry it up for us. Utterly delicious, yet my mind did wander to the dark macabre when churning the tentacles. Some other travellers joined us and started drinking, our sweet hammock sleep disturbed by one of them, a drunken German, wailing and weeping and tracking along the beach, calling that he had lost his passport. I felt bad for the guy until come the morning he emerged, well rested and having found his passport in the morning light still safely nestled in his bag.
We rented some diving gear and went out to the heads, where the coral reef which the area is known for grows just offshore.
The tropical fish were plentiful, and bedecked in their usual array of bright, clashing colors and patterns. It seems so odd to have animals of this type painted up like lunatics and clowns, it's as if nature had at some point wearied of designing fish and turned the job (perhaps unwisely) over to someone with no respect for a limited pallette, a shaky painting hand and a singular enthusiasm for all things shiny, which on reflection was quite probably my own personal mother. I was snorkelling near the cliff edge when I saw fish disappearing into what I had though was rock. I dived down until my ears hurt, and discovered a small lateral entrance to an underwater cave, lit for my eyes by a long crack in the surface which send the sunlight down in a single golden sheet. After a few experiments I found a spot where I could swim into this chamber and then squeeze my body up through a small opening in the crack to obtain more air when needed. Much exploring was conducted! Once again I felt the absence of our underwater camera like a kick in the proverbials.
With reluctance we abandoned the water and prepared to depart, the boat back much more direct and, instead of islands, took us past the ruined (or sometimes restored) series of anti-pirate (although technically most of the attacks came from privateers in the employ of the Brits, I guess it's an irrelevant distiction when they are in your base stealing your treasure) forts. Back to Cartagena, we ran into some old friends from both Bolivia and earlier in Columbia but sadly could not stay forever (we're gringos, not gringstays). It was time to leave the beautiful ocean and turn south, for three long days of bus and taxi rides, going through Medellin, Cali, Popayan until getting to our last big stop before we leave Columbia (forever?): San Augustin.