Travel: Cartagena Colombia

When I told my well seasoned travel friends I was going to Colombia for a month, they politely declined my invitation to meet there. “Oh, don’t think we’re ready for Colombia—not too safe yet. I’ll wait till the war is really over.” Another said, “Just seems kinda dicey there, still.”

I’m thinking, “Wait a minute. Why am I going? Isn’t this one of the world’s most desperate places? Don’t they kidnap people there? Sixty years of civil war between the leftist FARC and ELN, government sponsored paramilitaries massacring entire villages—am I crazy? We sponsor the government there with billions—Plan Colombia—which would make Americans an obvious target, hmmm.  I remember the FARC captured three Americans several years ago and they only recently were rescued. There’s still a war going on!  I didn’t mention the narcotics trade with Colombia at its core. You know, cocaine, marijuana, the drug cartels? This could be a grave mistake. I should buy more insurance.
ColombiaWith Cartagena located on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, you can see why the drug trade starts here. Centrally located between the US and the cocaine growing parts of South America to its south, it’s a just short hop across the Caribbean and you’re in the drug import/export business.

Nonetheless, Cartagena is an architectural jewel. It has 500-year-old buildings and intact, original city walls—murallas—with intact bulwarks and towers, surrounding the entire original city. An official UNESCO World Heritage site, it also has Castillo San Felipe, the largest fort Spain ever built in the New World. It took 100 years to build and looms large over the city.

Flying in on Avianca, an airline that serves as the flag carrier of Colombia, getting free drinks, I’m thinking, “This may not be too bad. Drinking helps. “More whiskey, please?” Upon landing, the entire plane erupted in loud cheers and rapturous applause.

Though the taxi leaving the airport went through the nicest parts of the city, along beaches and the better neighborhoods near the water, I had a sinking feeling that I may not have made the wisest vacation choice. The beaches had dingy, coarse, mud-colored sand, and the weather was more humid than Charleston in August. The streets were garbage strewn, filled with questionable looking people. I didn’t notice the drug dealers or the prostitutes—both male and female—until later, as they generally come out at night. The taxi driver overcharged me and wanted a tip. Even getting a taxi was a pain, as everyone near the cab had an outstretched palm.

The place my wife Beth and I chose in advance was both windowless and airless. Pulling into the street of the hostel was a disappointment, to say the least. Again, hordes of people outside, wandering like zombie extras from “Shaun of the Dead.” One aging beggar had his hand out before I even had my bags. The street smelled like rancid garbage, gasoline, and spilled cheap liquor. The old city looked more like a crime-ridden dump than a UNESCO heritage site, but I resolved to wait out initial impressions. I gave the place a chance to impress, and it did—eventually.

Cartagena is a cultural cousin of Havana in geography, appearance, musically, and even the strange accents, where the locals drop not only endings but consonants as well. Here salsa is king, and nearby was the city’s most famous club, the Café Havana. People outside the club were dancing in the streets—one even dancing with a broomstick. I visited the club often, drinking fabulous mojitos—Cuban or Colombian rum only—and realized, This place rocks. Watching the teams of bartenders—mashing the mint leaves, adding double shots of rum, all done with  a flair—was worth the small cover. It looked like the place was brought over from Havana brick by brick.

I found other bars as well, all interesting, some dirt cheap—ice cold beers 60 cents each—to more classy types in the old city, like the intimate Via Apia, where every night is a party. You can live large like a tourist and drink at American prices or you can drink like a Colombian and drink heavily for next to nothing. Word of warning though: do not drink too much like a Colombian because when you get the cheap stuff from the corner gro, the bottles aren’t sealed and they sometimes add water or worse. When I bought rum at the corner store they would pull out a little paper cup and let me sample it. Many locals drink aguardiente, literally “firewater,” which, when good, tastes like licorice flavored swill—worse if you get the cheap stuff.
Cartagena Colombia
Our Spanish school, Nueva Lengua, was good. My teacher for three weeks, Daisy, was great. The school was more expensive than most in Latin America, and the teachers were uniformly excellent. Residing at the Swiss Residial (that’s its name—no sign on the street), we made friends, practiced our Spanish, figured out the local accents, and began frequenting clubs while exploring the city of two million and its surrounding countryside.

One excursion was visiting the Totumo Mud Volcano about an hour away. It’s a shabby, sad little volcano, maybe 150 feet tall. You walk to the top on some rickety stairs to the crater, filled entirely with mud and plop yourself in. It’s hundreds of feet deep but no one sinks. You lie on top and the local dudes give you a total rubdown and massage before you can escape. It’s pretty inexpensive, so you do it all and the locals expect and receive well-earned tips. After the mud rubdown you walk shakily to the nearby lagoon and the local women grab you, strip you, and wash the mud from you. When it’s over you feel shook up but better than when you started. Their beautiful lagoon where you wash the mud off is a polluted affair so you hold your breath as long as possible, never daring to swallow anything. Any money you happen to have on you during any of these processes is stealthily removed. Most of us left our valuables behind in a locked, guarded van.

In Cartagena we worried at first about crime in our neighborhood, Getsemani, not known for its safety after dark. Seemingly populated by shadowy characters; bums, drunks, drug dealers, hookers, beggars, and loud, screaming (sometimes singing) vendors and hucksters—people selling anything from coffee to Chiclets to jewelry.  It was cheesy yet romantic, just like the movies. It seemed like half the population was sleeping on sidewalks or in doorways. On one street there was an internet café next door to a love hotel—pay by the hour, please—and then a restaurant/bar with speakers blasting, then hookers, then the corner gro where beer was cheap and you drink outside and there was always a crowd of drunks, many already collapsed on sidewalks. Those places attracted hookers who smell easy money when they see it.  Drug dealers were added to the street mix, well spaced along the way. I didn’t notice them at first until my Spanish improved. Then I realized they were whispering, “Coca, marijuana, chicas, muchachos?”

Luckily, my personal reality was different. First, the crime problem is not as bad as it seems. Unlike most large South American cities, you really can wander around old Cartagena at night, even in our section, Getsemani, which is on the verge of gentrification. Once the street people see you more than once, they don’t bother you. The entire country, especially the touristy old city, has soldiers and police on every corner. Not oppressive figures, they say hello to you when they’re not on their cells talking to their girlfriends. All carry machine guns, at first disheartening, to say the least, but their job is just to be visible. The authorities don’t want tourists and travelers robbed, kidnapped, or raped, and the system works. As a result, the old city really jumps at night and you don’t need to take radio taxis at night like other Latin cities.

Armed with our improved Spanish, we continued exploring. Unlike our loaded Euro pals, Sebastien and Susanne, who opted for tours, we set out on our own. We headed north in the vicinity of Santa Marta, another old, historic Colombian city. Taking a break from the heat and humidity, we opted for the mountain village of Minca, fifteen miles into the Sierra Nevada above Santa Marta.

Up a huge hill, we rented a cozy cabin shaded by a fully loaded mango tree. Owned by a German expat named Cris, he explained, “They call me Cris, short for Cristobal, but my real name is Ronald. Why they don’t call me Ronaldo, I’ll never know.”

From our cabin hiking trails extended farther into the Sierra. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of following trails like this in Colombia.  Talking to Cris, he said the rebel group FARC hasn’t been active here in ten years. “Last time they came through they broke into the local liquor store and stole 20 bottles of aguardiente. Eight years ago some tourists were kidnapped and killed (actually it was 2003) on the way to the Lost City, but it’s been quiet ever since. They just wanted people to know that they’re still around.”

Several days in the mountains brought cooler weather but the drawback was no hot water so we returned to the lowlands—the torrid zone—so at least cold water showers would be tolerable. After two days of torrential downpours and no electricity—we couldn’t even find our cabin after dark—we headed for small beach town/fishing village Taganga and then Tayrona National Park, farther up the coast.

Taganga was an enjoyable, tranquil, trippy place, but we left to visit the nearby tropical paradise of Tayrona National Park, as it was our mission to get off the grid. A fisherman took us in his boat, to the most distant part of the national park. Because of guerrilla activity, Tayrona Park is often closed by the Colombian authorities, seemingly at random, as they do not want any international “incidents.”  We got dropped off at what we thought was the most isolated part of the park, but it was crawling with backpackers. So much so that there was a water shortage, no showers and high prices for just renting a hammock in miserable, fetid conditions. I soaked my hat in cold water to cool my brow and someone yelled (in Spanish), “Stop wasting water!” We immediately hiked out, taking a trail to Arrecifes Beach, where we were pursued our agenda of hammock testing and beachcombing. Under every shade tree were tiny restaurants, juice stands, potato chip vendors, even horses and mules.

We continued our beachcombing—funny this was guerrilla territory not long ago—visiting a place called La Piscina—the Pool—where our touring Euro friends, Sebastien and Susanne found us. They say anything can happen in Colombia and it usually does, and this was a perfect example. We joined them on their tour, though we’d already covered the areas they were going. We decided to meet them later that evening at their hammock spot, located outside the park, in Los Angeles—Los Angeles, Colombia, that is.

We hiked out of the park, walking a good six miles through dense jungle foliage, dodging blood-sucking insects and horse, burro, and mule traffic, finally getting a ride near the end from a park service shuttle. We flagged down a local bus, Colombian style, on the highway to Los Angeles, and then it was another brief hike to our new hammocks at another palm-sheltered, secluded beach. When our friends finally showed up, after dark, they thoughtfully brought many cold Aguilas, the local brew.

Back in Cartagena, I learned to love the shabbiness, the sleaze, the music, the smells, the sultry ambience, the casual way the people dress. The local people are so happy seeing visitors that they shake your hand, telling you how brave you are to visit their country.
But, I still had some problems. Once, several delinquents jumped onto our slow-moving van as it slowed for a curve. We didn’t know if they were robbing us or just aiming for a free ride up the mountain. Another time someone grabbed me while I was walking alone down a dark Cartagena street, demanding money. I pushed him out of my way and just said no.

By then I had my favorite juice bar, the Ceiba, where they showed me pictures of fruits I never heard of, like maracuya and nispero. Their inexpensive juices, blended with milk, were an entire meal, rich and tasty. Though the Cartagena beaches were not good—crowded, polluted and filled with vendors—the only way to get away from them was staying in the water.  I finally found a rooftop pool that was spectacular, catching breezes and with a million dollar view. Too bad it was my last full day in seedy Cartagena.