Me llamo Luna
Trip Start
Dec 26, 2006
1
28
90
Trip End
Dec 25, 2007
Cartegena and Taganga,
Colombia
Friday, April 20, 2007
If the flight down to Colombia was any indication then this was going to be one helluva country. As the Airies twin propellor plane touched down in hot and humid Cartagena the crew shook hands with everyone, out of politeness or relief that we had landed safely I am not sure, and then the staff inside the airport could not do enough for us to ensure we grabbed a cab and were not ripped off in the process. The only thing missing was a photo with everyone to send us on our way.
Dumping our gear in the hostel, smackbang in the red light district of Getsamani, it was time to quench the thirst so where else to head but Cartagena´s German pub, Leon de Baviera. With not a slap dancing, pretzel eating, tuba playing, leiderhosen clad local in sight things were looking good. The DJ rather than spinning tunes was hard at work on his lap top playing live music clips from all over the globe, with REM bringing the crazy Colombians to their feet as they belted out Losing My Religion. And given the amount of beer being consumed this was not the first or last time the crowd got to their feet. Think drunk karaoke with everyone in on the act. And as for the Colombian women, lets just say whatever is in the water in this country needs to be bottled...shallow sure, but it was like we had entered a 24 hour Miss World competition, minus the sash and speeches on the instant elimination of world poverty...or is that Bono´s gig?
Sunday saw Dave and myself wander around the old colonnial city of Cartagena, take in an early morning aerobic demonstration on the way (the worlds most unco-ordinated man was caught on video trying to keep up with the ridiculously energetic trainer, as camp as he was energetic), a lunch comprising what could only be described as a gag inducing tripe soup, and to think I thought it was chicken skin.
01 - Checkmate in Cartagena
Whose idea was it to use the lining of a cows stomach as a form of culinary delight anyways? And I was introduced to what was to become a twice a day habit...something uniquely Colombian of which there are many varieties...not to be snorted but drunk, the fruit juice or jugos naturales. Pick a fruit, any fruit, from guanabana, lulo, maracuya (think passionfruit on steroids), mora (blackberry) not to mention feijoa and zapote. Think Boost Juice (juice bar in Oz) without the teeth-grating-peppy-service, the small mortgage required to purchase and the six thousand optional additives designed to further lighten your wallet. Guess that rules me out of a customer loyalty card on my return to Oz! And on our return to the hostel we were met by the high-pitched raspy words, "Me llamo Luna". That would be the local prostitute (one of many) introducing herself to us, and every other male within earshot, as she drew back on another packet of cigarretes, pimp daddy at her side. Unfortunately Luna was getting no bites, so to speak, and it could all have been to do with the packaging. There were so many more options in Colombia for a spare fiver than throwing it Luna´s way, like 20 jugos naturales for starters. But at least Luna was being the friendly Colombiana and letting us know who she was and what she offered...and yes it was a full moon!
The rest of the time in Cartegana was spent putting on really bad pirate voices at the Castillo, wandering around the old city in a pool of sweat which looked absolutely stunning at night (the city not yours truly dripping), kicking back with a burger and beers at the local square at night as the temperature started to drop half of one degree.
02 - Botero loves full figured women with curves
And in true Colombian style the locals were friendly, hospitable, spirited and really patient, given the butchered Spanish being flung back there way. All this despite the warnings of robbery, guerrilla activity and emminent death around every corner from the LP and the Australian Government. The only thing waiting around every corner was another Colombian wanting to talk, ask where you are from, if you enjoying their country and generally smiling their asses off as the intoxicating soundtrack that is salsa and reggaton (yeah reggaton, it is growing on me) dominated the background. The passion, ya gotta love it! Taganga - "Fourth time lucky"
As I took my final cold shower under the hose masquerading as a showerhead in an effort to get it to take, it was time to say farewell Cartagena and hola Taganga. And thanks to my passport ending in the number four, todays lucky bus number, Dave and myself got two tickets for the price of one. Sweeeet!
After a five hour slog on the bus we arrived in Taganga, a small fishing village set in a horseshoe bay on the Caribbean. The village beach was lined with open air restaurants, each with their own juice stand. And in what turned out to be a stroke of luck the main accomodation in Taganga was full so we ventured to the new kid on the block where Jurgen, Mona, Colin, Dave and myself had the run of the place as the only guests. The family running the place continued on the Colombian tradition as great hosts and the rooftop terrace overlooking the town became the scene of cigars and beers after a day at the beach.
03 - Anchored in Cartagena
Having sailed to Colombia through the San Blas, Jurgen, Mona and Colin had a diiferent San Blas experience, including their day on Camp Kuna, that is an island of four gay Kuna´s, three stitching mola´s all day with the butch one doing all the grunt work. Did you guys ever get your "I took it in the ass in San Blas" t-shirts made up on return to Norway? The attraction around Taganga was Parque Nacional Tayrona which was to be the last beach I stepped foot on until I hit Rio near the end of the trip. The journey there was half the fun including the obligatory police stops, passport checks and road blocks. Colombia definately has no shortage of police officers, military guys and guns. Big kick ass AK-47´s which makes a guy feel real safe. Whenever they board the bus it is a case of "buenas tardes", "muchas gracias" and a final "adios". Manners and guns go together well over here. The setting of the park in deep bays on the Caribbean with jungle and more coconut palms meeting the beach was a great way to kill a day. The obligatory swim was had, although like Xemus Champey in Guatemala the fish liked to bite your legs so you found yourself never in the same spot for long. And a confession, after the beaches of the San Blas "treacherous rips" seemed like too much hard work, and where were the hammocks? The walk back to the entrance proved a challenge due to wrong turns put down to bad signage (everyone knows I am like a walking GPS, just ask Maureen, Rome cerca 1996!) and a guts that had started to churn. The toilets were a godsend, the entrance found and the bus trip back a piece of cake.
The taxi ride back topped the day off as we got a tour of every back road from Santa Martha to Taganga, given our taxi was about to fall apart this was an obvious police avoidance method. Initially Dave and I thought we were about to be set up and fleeced as we headed into "the hood" but no it was just the route our driver had chosen to mix things up a bit. And before you could say "where the hell is that crazy dog" we were back in Taganga, home of the incredibly stupid barking dog that occupied our hostel. Given the construction out back a little set of concrete barking dog shoes and a trip to the beach could have been in order. But as a paying guest I could not bring myself to do it!
