Colombia !

This has been a most enjoyable final leg of an otherwise incredible journey.  I am hosted !  The guest of Doyler and Vilma Mosquera, the parents of my brother Locke’s wife Vivian, who live in Barranquilla, Colombia.  I have met them briefly before, but when I am picked up at the airport late on the 24th, it is as if we have known each other all our lives.  I have a place to store my things.  A place to wash my clothes.  Reliable internet access.  And the food is recognizable.  They pull no culinary surprises on me. We quickly fall into a pattern that I use to enjoy immensely years ago with my Grandfather, wherein Doyler and I make fun of each other and trade insults (in my family, the higher grade of sarcasm and undercutting wit, the greater the love).  Vilma does not speak English and so goes along, or chides us both for taking jibes at each other.  Then she laughs at length.  We catch up well into the night.  Like me, they are night owls.  The evenings usually are spent listening to Latin music from throughout the Caribbean, and dancing.  I often end up dancing with Doyler.  While Vilma spoils me with food and coffee and endless glasses of Coca Cola, Doyler does his best to get under my skin.  I get back at him by rubbing his well tanned and bald head.  He calls me “Amrica” (basically American, or Yankee).  I say: “No, Irish.  No Amrica.”  Vilma laughs.  I then call him Venezuelan, the ultimate insult in these parts.  He laughs.

Our first full day is spent on the 25^th, on a one and one-half hour trip east to the beautiful beaches of Santa Marta – about halfway to Venezuela.  This is when I discover just how BIG and spread out Barranquilla is (had thought previously it was a quaint little scenic beach town of 50,000 or so).  No, it is 1.5 million.  The residential area around Doyler & Vilma’s apartment is very nice.  Comfortably middle class and no different than Europe or the United States.  But approaching the ring road going out of town the city takes on the appearance of Tijuana, Mexico.  Endless trash.  Interrupted construction.  Out of place donkey carts, bicycle powered taxis, ancient buses belching black diesel smoke, torn up streets, and artificial barriers to forward progress everywhere.  Traffic police are a constant, and make random traffic stops to check on papers.  There is no lingering indication of drug wars locally.  I hear that former national problem has been chased into isolated pockets up in the highlands.  Otherwise the city is a surprising contrast.  Further east, we encounter a village called Pueblo Viejo along a huge coastal lagoon that is populated by Thai and Laotian ex-pats.  The reasons they have concentrated there are unknown.  The village looks out of place. It is the most basic construction ever witnessed by me personally.  They are simply rice-paddy style shacks on stilts.  Decayed plywood sheets for siding, occasional roofs of rusted tin, stick flooring that looks as if it will collapse into the water at any moment, and rotting debris massing at each stilted leg of the structure where it pierces the waterline.  It appears the debris and offal gathering around it will reach up and invade the shanty at any moment.

We reach Santa Marta and immediately understand why it is the draw it has become.  There are many hovels approaching the beaches, and some occasional modern skyscrapers just for good contrast.  The streets are both good and bad, with no rhyme or reason as to which you will run into next.  But the beaches are superior.  They remind me of those I’d seen in Ecuador near Canoa and Bahia.  Clean, sandy, bereft of trash, beautiful blue water, and just the right amount of supporting infrastructure nearby but without the usual wall of door-to-door tiendas and food stands.  We move beyond the town to two adjacent beaches: Taganga, and Playa Grande.  Taganga has many thatched roof restaurants where food is cooked to order, a lurking disco (just waiting for sunset), multiple colorful watercraft, and enough lounge chairs to populate the most modern of ocean liners.  We enjoy the view and beach there for awhile, particularly the steep hillsides with their many and varied impossible-to-build-on construction sites.  Collectively they have a perfect balcony seating type view of the beach.  I negotiate for a pair of sunglasses.  The traveling vendor asks for 50 pesos (about $25 US) for a pair of knockoff Ray Bans.  He proudly announces they are 100% UV protected, and possess various other qualities not at all evident.  He then takes rock and bounces it off the lens, as if to prove his point.   We snort and point at him derisively.  He laughs.  He has taken a flyer, and been found wanting.  No harm, no foul.  Part of the bargaining process.  We can’t come to a price agreement.  But I run into him half an hour later walking the beach.  The price comes down.  We agree on 15 pesos.  I know it is too much still.  I ask if he takes TT dollars (which I can not get rid of to save my hide)?  The ones that exchange for 6:1 versus the US dollar.  He looks confused.  Asks me if they are from Canada?  This since there is a magenta colored pix of Queen Elizabeth on the paper bills.  “Of course,” I answer with a straight face.  “And I’ll need change.”  He gives me back a 5 peso note.  We walk away, both temporarily pleased.  He because of the lingering illusion he has overcharged me still.  Me because the true cost of the sunglasses has dropped to about $1 US.  Doyler goes into a laughing fit at the story of the exchange and starts prowling the beach for his own bargains.

It is Playa Grande that truly impresses however.  You must take a 5 minute Panda ride (cabinless narrow flat boat) around the rocky northern corner of Taganga to get there.  The waters become more protected.  It is a bit more exclusive.  And more secluded.  No beach prowlers selling cheap trinkets.  Vendors only come when asked.  It is once again, one of those near perfect beaches.  One of the very few I’ve run into in South America.  We spend two hours there just basking and drinking Club Columbia beer (3 pesos each, or $1.50 US).  Time stands still and there are no “to do” lists, only the slightly cool water, the sun, the beer, and the great company.  I fall asleep within five minutes on the ride home.  At home, the air temperature is probably 80 degrees.  It is also humid.  On go the fans.  I fall asleep without use of a blanket (only a topsheet), something that has been a constant since leaving Quito.

Saturday evening we are joined by Vilma’s brother Jose, his wife Patricia and daughter Claudia.  I treat the five of them to a local soccer match – The Barranquilla Juniors vs. Cali America.  It is a fierce rivalry.  We don’t have time to eat on the way, and so pick up some chicken and potatoes on the way over to eat in the car.  Vilma hands me a latex glove.  “Oh no, thanks Vilma,” I tell her.  “My doctor did this for me a couple months ago, and he says we don’t need to take another look for a year.”  I forget she doesn’t speak English.  She looks at me hopefully, as if the meaning will be clear within a moment from the context.  But Doyler is listening.  He howls and slaps me on the back.  I can see the gears whirring inside his head, that he is seeking a comeback of his own to wow me with.  Inside, prices are very reasonable.  Three pesos to park, twenty-five pesos per ticket, three pesos per beer – and you only pay for beer at the end, on a modified sort of honor system !  I notice the two-tier field has a moat around it.  Then I remember this is South America, where revolutions and wars are started over the outcome of futbol matches.  At first, The Juniors lead 1 – 0, so the game is enjoyable but passionless.  Then Cali ties the match on a brilliant breakaway.  The crowd instantly comes fully alive.  The men stand and shout and hurl every invective known to man at the opposition, their own players, and especially the referees.  The most common insult is: “Puta” (whore).  I am at first shocked a little by this.  Then highly amused.  But then something inside grabs me and I am standing and shouting my own invectives: “Puta !  Caca de Toro !”  The Cali goalie goes up high to intercept an attempted pass across the mouth of the goal and ends up getting nudged to the ground.  He has clearly “flopped”.  The Academy Award selection committee puts in a brief appearance and decides it is all too much.  The referee waves his arm and demands continued play.  “Get that hombre a bra!” I yell.  None of the locals understand my innuendo, but they laugh loudly to see the Gringo get infected with local passions.  As The Juniors press for a decisive score in the final minutes, many players are felled – or pretend they have been, seeking advantage when none is created on the field.  Even the women rise at this juncture, pointing their fingers and shouting in unison: “Puta!”  My turn to laugh now.  At the end,  the 1 - 1 tie is preserved.  The moat is not breached.  Armed guards ultimately escort the referees from the field. 

Afterward the six of us stop for pizza.  And listen to Latin music back at the house.  There is dancing.  Claudia asks me to dance, then laughs and walks away shaking her head after about 45 seconds of trying to synch moves.   The four adults agree that I am a good dancer, but have my own rhythm and it is not a good match for Claudia.  So Doyler and I dance.  He amuses me to no end.  Always smiling.  Laughing.  Joking.  Attempting some sly practical joke.  I rub his head for good luck and continue to try to hold my own on who best gets in the last laugh.  He puts on his sunglasses.  “Of course, Gringo, these are not as good as your expensive shades,” he says.  Vilma tries to join in on occasion, but the language barrier prevents full appreciation of whatever humor is taking place.

Cartagena is a Unesco World Heritage Site.  It is about eighty miles west of Barranquilla.  The trip in is delightful, with good quality roads and beautiful, largely undeveloped oceanside scenery.  The air (brisa) is phenomenal in its luxuriant balminess and ability to relax you from the inside out.  Miles of uninterrupted breakers glide over the beaches sans the usual real estate development and commercial   mini-marts along the way.  We run into multiple shanty towns upon reaching the edge of Cartagena.   At first, the four of us – Doyler, Vilma, Claudia and me – merely take a driving tour of the walled town.  It is too hot to go outside.  Ultimately though we must exit to visit “El Castillo,” the primary focal point of the city’s defenses against pirates such as Blackbeard.  It is a massive, brick and concrete and coral block mound of portholes and gun embrasures pointed in every direction.  We wander about listlessly, and require another beer or water or Coca Cola about every 100 feet.  The history of the fort is not well displayed in writing, especially in English versions (however short), so my narrative on the Fortress is necessarily short.

Afterward, we retire to a local bar that is apparently popular for hosting famous guests from around the world.  It is called "Donde Fidel."  I find the inexpensive beer (again, 3 pesos) and the superior air conditioning to be its most attractive features.  Doyler gets into a long discussion with the proprietor about Latino music.  So, I wander.  When I return, I am wearing a Panama hat and a Barranquilla Juniors jersey.  Doyler delights in this, and immediately wants a photo taken to commemorate my new costume with virtually everybody in the bar.  There is more dancing.  Claudia and I synch up better this time, primarily because I have asked her to lead.  But Doyler is still the better dancing match.  On the way home, we stop at a local playa.  It is necessary to drink much more beer, just to remain hydrated.  We have a meal cooked to order (and the virtues of clarifying exact pricing ahead of time is soon well evident).  We buy inexpensive but fun jewelry for each other from traveling vendadors.  We  get massages lasting fifteen minutes (cost: 10 pesos) while seated awaiting dinner.  After dinner Doyler crashes in a shaded hammock and I take a dip in the ocean in my underwear.  It is bathtub warm.  There is no desire to leave.  Fall asleep again on the road home.  Can’t help it.  So balmy, and so much heat and sun, and so much beer !  Fall into my usual night owl pattern upon arrival back in Barranquilla, being mesmerized by the bestseller “Three Cups of Tea” and not able to go to sleep until about 3:30 AM.

Next: Cali