Ah, Buenos Aires. Capital of Argentina; Birthplace of the tango; Home of dulce de leche; City of statues, city of parks, city of eternal nights; New Paris, New Rome, New New York; where does one start? I’ll tell you. Unless you fly in you probably start at the Retiro train, bus, and “Subte” station (subway) a hustling-bustling mass of vehicles heaving bodies to and fro en masse but only after they have dodged their way in and out of other bodies to get there. My destination had been recommended to me by Alabama Dan, Hostel Obelisco, for its decent breakfasts and excellent location. Sometimes I get overconfident in my ability to find things. I had glanced at a map online the day before and now, arriving, I was less certain that I could find my way. I wandered to the subway and remembered that I was heading for Diagonal Norte station so that was step one. I remembered it was about two blocks east of the obelisk and when I came above ground, there in front of me was the obelisk – but which way was east? So I wandered up the street that ended up being Diagonal Norte and after a few blocks turned back to the obelisk where I found Corrientes which I also recalled from my map view, so I headed down there and found myself – and my hostel – right in the heart of the theatre district. I definitely felt like I was in New York as I walked past the old buildings, theatres, and people bustling everywhere. And that, as would soon unfold, was the first sign that I would love it here.
While in Cordoba, I’d met another backpacker named Rob from England that was couchsurfing in Buenos Aires with a girl named Fatima. I chatted with him while he was there and he recommended getting in touch with her, so I did. As a result, my plan after a late Friday night dinner was to meet up at her house where she was hosting a friend’s birthday. I was supposed to show up around 11-11:30 where we could visit and drink until 2ish then head out. The next step was dinner, which I ate around 10, a pretty reasonably-priced parilla (mixed grill). The problem was, in a city like this, I hadn’t banked on liquor stores all being closed at 11 (the equivalent of, say, 7 PM back home). I hunted and hunted, asked and asked, but could find nowhere to buy a bottle of wine, rum, or anything besides beer. I retreated back to the hostel to cancel my visit because I didn’t want to show up empty handed and decided to ask one of the nice girls working at the reception for ideas. I could buy a bottle of wine from the bar for a bit more than at the store or, one of the guys visiting there said, I could buy a bottle of vodka off him that he didn’t need tonight. So he walked to his place and he got me the vodka and then walked me to the bus stop and made sure I got on the right one. The people here, for day one, have been great.
I got off the 59 bus at the right spot with the help of the driver and walked to Fatima’s, not too late considering my hassle in procuring alcohol. Her friends were also there, a bunch of ex-pats from Bolivia, Peru, and Poland; they were all friendly and fun and tolerated my bad Spanish with good humour. Then it came to be around 2 and we hopped into a cab for a club nearby and I think I got home around 5 AM. I took a few hours and by 9 AM I had had breakfast and was out the door on a photo mission. The first stop was the nearby Obelisk where I attempted some panoramas. It sits right in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio, the widest avenue in the world with 14 lanes not to mention access lanes and three (THREE!) boulevards to break up the crossing. If you sprinted across you might make it all the way to the other side in one shot. Maybe. So I wanted to get a shot that showed how wide the avenue was as well as the obelisk and the road wrapping around it. The answer was up and I surveyed the neighbourhood before walking casually into Hotel Colon and going to the top floor. There was a guy working on sound for their banquet room up there and he tried his best to help me find a way but there were only dirty windows to shoot through. I went down a floor and asked one of the women working there if I could get a view through one of the rooms and they quite happily obliged. A very nice courtesy of them and I have them to thank for the photo on the left.
I walked up the North Diagonal which connects the Obelisk with La Casa Rosada, effectively Argentina’s White House. It’s situated in Plaza de Mayo on, you guessed it, Avenida de Mayo, which connects it with Congress. The design of the city was an ambitious attempt to recreate the feel of Paris’ wide avenues and connecting monuments and it worked out beautifully. I wish we could have this sort of aesthetic foresight in city planning back home but I can’t blame the mayor I suppose, when the city gets up in arms about spending an bit more to make an important overpass look like it wasn’t shipped in from the former Soviet Union. I walked back to and then down July 9th, making my way to Recoleta where an incredible cemetery as well as a weekend artisan market awaited. By the time I got there the partially cloudy sky had become overcast and I lost all those great clouds that had been forming for my obelisk photos. As the cemetery was mostly statues (and I’d seen Dan’s great photos) I thought I’d shoot black and white anyway, so it didn’t matter as much but I can’t help but think how cool those photos could’ve been on a different day and with better light. Still, they were fantastic to behold and the decadence of the cemetery makes it clear that these were not the ordinary-Joses of Argentina. Presidents, governors, celebrities, and important people of means have all found their final rest here. I, however, had no time for ANY rest there as it had started to rain and it was 12 blocks to the subway station. So I left and walked quickly up the road and headed back to the hostel.
I was hoping to have SOMEthing to do that night but Fatima was busy and Laura (the Dutch girl I met in Cordoba) hadn’t been back on Facebook since messaging me to say she was also in Buenos Aires. I also didn’t really know anybody at the hostel aside from casually meeting two Arab Israelis and their two Kiwi friends who were nowhere to be seen. So I did nothing on Saturday night which was OK given how tired I was and that Friday was great. Well, I did plan to go to get a nice steak somewhere and again didn’t take a map with me. This time I walked within a block of it several times but never passed it and settled for plan B which looked busy and pretty bumping not to mention the menu was pretty reasonable. There were so many signs I should’ve got up and left but I’d searched a long time in the rain and was hungry. First, the busyness of the place was almost ALL tourists. I was seated behind some US pilots griping about co-pilots they’d worked with, for example. Then, when they brought the bread and olives I said I didn’t need it (they bring it unasked and then charge “cover”) at which point I was told I would pay cover whether I ate it or not. This was after he’d already opened my bottle of wine, so it wasn’t like I wasn’t going to be spending any money. Or like I could leave. Then when I ordered my steak he asked what I’d like with it. What does it come with? Nothing. Fries or anything like that are extra. So the price wasn’t so reasonable either. I bit the bullet and hoped the steak would be good. It wasn’t. It was tough as nails and lacking flavour much like the bottle of Norton Malbec that I’d chosen, and it turned out to be MORE expensive than the good steakhouse I’d wanted to go to when all was said and done. Ah well, it filled me up at least. I don’t know why I tipped, especially when he tried to get rid me to leave (in spite of plenty of open tables) while I sipped my wine and read a bit. The restaurant, by the way, was La Estancia.
The next day I had only one sure plan: to watch the Argentina-Mexico match. My morning was spent doing nothing in particular, just walking around looking at things and people. I went back to the hostel to study my Spanish book a bit but ended up sitting next to a Brazilian girl named Pricila that also wanted to watch the game. Argentina and Brazil are bitter rivals so she wanted to cheer on Mexico at a Brazilian bar but I managed to convince her to come with me to Futbol Park where a large screen was put up in the park and it was filled with cheering Argentines. She was to be disappointed as Argentina scored first an offside goal and then two more following it. Mexico scored one retaliatory goal before the end and then, more than any game I’ve seen before, the city went off. They are getting increasingly crazy with each win and after sharing a pizza and helping her load her luggage into a cab I grabbed my camera (why, oh why, didn’t I bring it to the park??) and went to just one of the squares filled with singing, honking, clapping, and stomping fans. A few photos here and there and then back to the hostel where a salsa band was already starting. I sat with one of the Israeli girls and visited for a bit then chatted with an actual girl (as in, not woman – she was 14) who I felt quite sorry for as she sat there watching her mom dance. She had an interesting story.
The next day I took off for La Boca, once again with too cursory a glance at the map but I made it there. La Boca is a really charming little district of colourful old buildings, tango in the streets, restaurants, art gallerys, painters, and so on. I’d been wanting to go to a Tango show as this is where it all started (there is some dispute on this to be fair) but they’re generally pretty pricey for backpacker budgets. Some of the restaurants were doing tango shows for free and I found one that also had reasonably-priced food (and the steak does come with fries?) and decided this was the way to do it. My steak was far better than at La Estancia, it cost almost half when all was said and done (though I had a glass of beer instead of a bottle of wine) and I got a tango show which was great. I don’t know but I think it must all be rehearsed: I don’t think you could pull off the dances they were doing without knowing what was about to happen. Or at least I couldn’t. I got up and tried a few moves with one of the dancers after lunch and headed back north through old San Telmo, Montserrat, and then hopped on the old wood-panelled subway to the congress building on the opposite end of the avenue. It was beautiful and I had a nice late afternoon sun making it glow. Then I walked back to the hostel and visited with a Colombian girl (from Cali) that sat next to me and we went to see Prince of Persia together instead of drinking too much. We should have drank. It wasn’t that bad really (especially if you remember the old game) but you could definitely wait for it to come on DVD and rent it.
I had one free night of accommodation after staying 4 nights and plans to hang out with the Colombian girl and her Serbian friends but I got a message from Dan, Leanne, and Janet across the river in Uruguay that if I wanted to see them I had to get there today. I was reluctant to throw away my free night and breakfast for the fifth day but I didn’t have much left to do in Buenos Aires and did want to catch up with them once more so I packed up, apologized to my new friends, and checked out. I laughed when the receptionist asked if I had a reason for checking out an hour late and told her I was actually checking out 23 hours early. I decided to head to Tigre, which is supposed to be a quaint suburb of Buenos Aires and from there take the ferry across to Carmelo, weaving through the river delta in what Lonely Planet calls “the most interesting and cheapest way to cross to Uruguay”. From Carmelo, itself a nice Riviera Plata town, I should be able to catch a bus and head down to Colonia where the gang would be waiting. So I and my backpacks headed for the Retiro train station, where I dodged people heading in all directions and discovered the true source of the tango. The train to Tigre cost about 30 cents and I was quite happy to get on board and watch Buenos Aires zip by out the window.
Fresh from the Galapagos we made a mad sprint to get to Cuenca the same day we had woken up at 5:45 AM to visit North Seymour Island and flown to Guyaquil from Baltra at 11:40/12:40 (Galapagos/Ecuador time). It couldn’t have gone smoother in Guyaquil and within 20-30 minutes of stepping off the plane we had gotten to the bus terminal (very logically located very close to the airport), bought a ticket for a bus leaving in ten minutes, and made our way up to the third level and our seats on said bus. The trip was just shy of five hours and though we arrived in the dark we got a taxi for $2 without even having to do the whole “we KNOW the price it’s SUPPOSED to be” routine to Hostal Paredes (now called Majestic). It was a pretty nice looking hostel, maybe even majestic, that is until he turned the corner to our cheapie $10 room. We should have looked a little more carefully but you’re always a bit more eager to take a place that looks remotely clean and cheap after dark. It was about as secure as a door on a chain with a piece of flimsy 1/8” sheet board covering the space above where the doors didn’t bolt closed. We decided before we left to grab dinner that we were going to have to look for somewhere else tomorrow morning. Monday night at 9PM, it turns out, Cuenca is deader than Riobamba on Good Friday so it took some time before we found a place to eat but we got some hamburgers to last us until morning and finally got back to the hotel and collapsed by 10. It had been a long day.
The morning came and I felt terrible with another feverish sleep and general achiness but two ibuprofen, water, fruit salad, and lemonade did a good job of diminishing that. On top of that, it turned out that Cuenca was even more beautiful than I’d heard; marble churches, sprawling monasteries, graceful and well-maintained colonial buildings, and clean streets. It is said, at least by the Lonely Planet, that Cuenca and Quito are often in competition but that’s doubtful. It is unfair to compare anywhere I’ve been so far in South America to Cuenca except for Cartagena which still holds the number one spot for me. Cuenca is just too much of a charmer. We found a hostel amidst the gawking called Monasterio and for $7/night instead, it had Wifi (two weeks in the Galapagos meant I’d be using that particular service quite a bit), big beds with actual firmness/back support, and a private bathroom that some German dude hadn’t defiled by coming home drunk, spinning around three times with the lights off, unzipping, and going to town. Done and done. And we didn’t know it ‘til later as neither of us was quite ready, but $1 big Pilseners [sic] too! Back to the Majestic Hostal, which by the way had refused me a Dixie cup of purified water to take some painkillers because I wasn’t staying in one of their more expensive rooms, we grabbed our bags and walked back. The sky was clearing from the morning’s overcast and I felt my mood and illness lifting in coordination with it.
In fact, I even grabbed my camera though I decided today to just let Bjorn deal with where to walk and I’d follow him. So we went through the old town and passed a place called “Casa del Sombrero” where probably the most famous maker of Panama hats (which actually come from Ecuador and are called Montecristis, muchas gracias) in the world, Alberto Pulla, has his store. I mean, the man is even on Tourism Ecaudor posters. It is so great to see someone who really loves what he does and what he has been doing for probably the last 60 years or more. He’s likely into his eighties and although he has almost completely lost the ability to speak I can’t imagine his smile has ever been bigger. He gets downright excited finding hats for people. We looked around for a bit and talked with him – I’m not sure how but I could understand him pretty well and wound up coming back the next day. I definitely had no intention of buying a hat but the next day I walked out with one of his own handmade ones keeping the sun out of my face and had promised him to send a postcard for his sprawling book of thank-you notes from all over the world. I couldn’t even bring myself to bargain with him, though whether out of respect for his life’s work, sympathy for his lost voice, or just appreciation of the smile is unclear.
Aside from Cuenca’s beauty, which occupied most of our two full days there, and the Panama hats, there is still one more thing Cuenca is famed for in Peru: Cuy. In English, that is munching on a whole guinea pig. Bjorn and I took a cab (again, no attempts at ripping us off in either direction, so nice!) down to Don Copal Street where there are several restaurants that specialize in it. I’m going to warn you, of the weak stomachs, that the photos at the end of this blog may well disturb you. We arrived and checked out a couple of restaurants: I had heard that they generally fried them whole, with the professionals using no less than six different oils of differing temperature to get it just right but here they were cooked on a spit. One lady offered us a taste of some apit-cooked pork that was spiced quite nicely so we sat in her restaurant and ordered a guinea pig to share between the two of us. The cost for a medium-sized one with a big plate of the flavourless white corn they serve here and some potatoes was $12 and before we knew it, our little creature arrived at the table, already chopped into sections with paws and teeth poised as though he might attempt to eat us instead were we not careful. I picked up the right side by the little paw and took a bite. Or rather, I tried.
Although I didn’t think I found it all that disturbing, my eyes fell on a small patch of fur that hadn’t been removed as I attempted to tear some skin between my teeth and I just about lost it there. I fought down the gagging with some Coke and potatoes and tried again, a more meaty part. I managed to get some down though there wasn’t a lot of meat to it in the first place. Then, as I picked apart the ribs to get at the meat there I tasted some really off-tasting meat and just about lost it for the last time. I got up when I was able and asked for a small portion of pork, both surprised and disappointed by my weak stomach as I sat back down and looked at the guinea pig’s head with mouth wide open and incisors polished. The meat I did manage to get down wasn’t particularly tasty though it definitely had its own taste, but it is considered a delicacy here and many families have a cage in the corner of their kitchen to raise the little guys for a feast. Me, I wouldn’t bother. The pork was just fine although I was further surprised to learn that gagging three times had stripped me of my appetite. Bjorn finished the Cuy thankfully and we took a cab back to our hostel for some beers on the rooftop patio. The next morning, he would leave at 5:30 for Quito and then Spain and I would leave an hour later for the Peruvian border and beyond, so this was the end of our 3 weeks traveling together. He may have terrible taste in movies but we had some great times and I look forward to toasting our success in Cotopaxi or the Galapagos sometime in Iceland over some hopefully not overfished/endangered traditional whale in the future. If I can get it down, that is.
Quito is less than one degree below the equator and has the distinction of being the first place below the equator I have visited on this particular journey. I know what you’re thinking: hot, humid, blistering sun. You’re wrong about the first two. The city is at an elevation of about 2900m above sea level (or 9500 ft) and while the sun is definitely warm and will scorch your skin the air is cool and even chilly in the evening. And no, it doesn’t warm up at some other time of the year because, being on the equator, there are no seasons. Every day is the same length, every day the temperature is consistent within a few degrees, and every day you have nice and sunny mornings with increasing cloud and maybe rain in the afternoon. Almost. Although it might sound boring, Quito is anything but. Even a walk down the street can be a hair-raising experience as I would soon discover first-hand. My arrival, for another example, was fraught with challenges and unexpected surprises.
According to the Lonely Planet, there are two main terminals for the city of Quito, one near the airport (in the north) and the other just south of the old town. So it was a bit confusing when my bus from Otavalo arrived at some terminal in the middle of nowhere. The bus driver sorted me out, however, by putting me on a bus that said Plaza San Blas, which is on the south end of the old town and walking distance from the hostel I was going to check out. The cost was a bit suspicious, however, as city busses are supposed to cost 25 cents and I was paying $1, half the price the 2.5 hour bus from Otavalo cost. I soon saw why as we wound along freeways perched on the mountainside and wound our way into Quito. Or so I thought. Each time we turned a corner there was a whole new stretch of city. “THAT must be Quito!” And then we’d turn again. The bus reached a roundabout and the driver’s assistant told me I should get out here. Why I’d want to was beyond me as the bus was supposedly heading to Plaza San Blas, but with some discussion it appeared that was not the case. They told me to get on the Trole line which the LP had warned was no place to be loaded with baggage but I took my chances and made my way in the direction of the old town. I realized just in time that the stop I wanted, Banco Central, was only on the opposite line and got off at Hermano Miguel, then wandered up the hill. There, at last, was The Secret Garden.
You Say Party, We Say Fie!
Sometimes getting around is straightforward and sometimes you find yourself in a situation where you have no idea what’s going. At the end of the day, you always make it, of course. Somewhere. My somewhere was the Secret Garden, probably one of the nicest hostels I’ve stayed at... ever. The staff were friendly, the beds were comfy and cozy, the view from the terrace was unmatched, and the food was delicious. Of course, you had to pay for these luxuries, and then add 12% tax on top (everywhere else includes it and it’s pretty annoying that they don’t here). Still, in the end the hostel was $10/night, drinks were $2.25, and meals were about $5 but for some pretty gourmet fare compared to the usual backpacker diet. I had a full sushi roll one night for $3.30, pork chops in fig sauce another for $5, stir fry, and so on. In Quito you have a very distinct choice: party or culture? If you want to party, the area to be is in the new town (AKA La Mariscal) which is surrounded by pubs, bars, and tourist outlets such as travel agents. The area is, however, quite dangerous in the evenings and on Sundays when there aren’t many people around. On the other hand, the old town where Secret Garden is located is colonial and full of local flavour not to mention churches, palaces, and all sorts of interesting architecture. Nights here are likewise risky but not so bad as Mariscal.
Pardon Me, Would You Squirt Me With Gray Poupon?
So, the scene has been set. I met a girl from Cincinnati named Kim in my dorm and we decided to explore the old town together the next day. We made our way first to Plaza Grande de Independencia, which was a nice walk along Guyaquil St and past, I should add, a music store with a piano. The plaza was really beautiful and surrounded on all sides by historic and important buildings including the Presidential Palace. It was humming with activity from both humans and birds pecking in the grass and among the flowers and though the weather was largely overcast, it was stunning. There was also a protest in front of the palace against corruption (what such demonstrations hope to accomplish is beyond me but it’s better than violence) and we found out it was possible to tour the palace (with passport) at 2:30 PM. We grabbed lunch on the fourth floor patio of a nearby building ($3.50) right across from the Bolivar theatre, and then started walking back through the old town in the direction of the large gothic basilica that dominates the skyline of this part of town. We were walking along on our way across when I felt something fall from above although in retrospect I’m not sure how this is possible as nothing touched me; Perhaps I just saw it hit Kim in my peripheral vision.
The man in front of us looked confused and at his hands as though he had felt something too. It took less than a second to see that Kim had a line of brown goop all the way down her back and her jeans and realize what was happening. It’s a common scam here to squirt tourists with some condiment or other (mustard is popular as it COULD be bird-related) and then offer to help them with some tissue you just happen to have on you. Usually there are two of you and while one is cleaning – your pockets primarily – the other is distracting you or claiming there is some of mystery goop on your backpack. If you take that off, you’re done for. The first guy distracts you again while the other bolts with your belongings. That they would do this to Kim while I was walking with her is pretty shocking but we were on to it almost instantly and inside a restaurant before they could even reach us. One man stood at the door proffering tissue and I told him to get lost; it happened so fast that I wasn’t certain enough of the culprit to get upset or violent which is probably just as well. They got away with nothing and, unlike others who have managed to avoid the mustard attack only to be mugged or beaten around the corner, they scampered off and left us alone. I helped clean an understandably shaken Kim and we continued our walk to the basilica without further mishap (well, she did trip on the cobblestones, poor girl, but was mostly unharmed).
A View to Time Kill
Climbing the Basilica is probably the single best thing there is to do within the confines of Quito. You climb some rickety spiral stairs and can climb through the crawlspace over the cathedral and beneath the slopes roof to get to the spire. From there, it’s some really open and exposed steps high above the city below to get up the spire to some fantastic views. Back down from there and through the crawlspace again you can climb up one of the two clock towers which due to their height feel even more precarious. I couldn’t help but think about the recent earthquake in Chile and ponder how vulnerable we were so high above the city in this old church. Thankfully, the Earth held itself together and – after a delicious hot chocolate – we made it back to the ground safely. Quito is a city surrounded by volcanoes and hills and so there are no shortage of views here. Another day, I hiked to the edge of the old town and up El Panecillo, a huge angel on one of the nearby hills. You can’t walk up because the base of the hill is ironically very dangerous so from there I took a cab up to the top and looked around. I had the bad luck of doing so on a Sunday so there was no option to go inside the angel but the views were nice. I still wouldn’t say it was worth doing but if you’re killing time in Quito it will pass a morning.
The final viewpoint that I took was up the Teleferiqo, a cable car up to a mountain 4100m above sea level (and thus over 1 km above the city). It’s different seeing things from that high as you lose your depth perception and I actually liked the view from the Basilica better, but I needed to acclimatise for my upcoming hike to Cotopaxi (the highest active volcano in the world at 6000m) and from the top of the Teleferiqo you can hike up to 4700m on an extinct volcano over Quito. The walk was really nice and not too difficult but I had the misfortune of incoming cloud which began to obscure the rocky peak with every step I took in that direction. It too was a great way to pass a day although the ride itself costs $8.50 for foreigners not to mention taxi fare to get there. I took the metro to Colon and took a $2 taxi from there and then split a cab with some Kiwi doctors back down to the new town for another $1. As for me, I probably got to about 4650m or so which didn’t break my record of 4660m in China due to the cloud. I’m told on a clear day you get some great views of the glacier tipped volcanoes in all directions around Quito but clear days are hard to come by in this city any time after 10 so go early. You can get to the peak in about 3 hours from the top.
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
The day after Kim was attacked with mustard and two days before the equinox, we set off for the equatorial line which runs just north of Quito. It’s about 1.5 hours from Quito’s old town view two busses (40 cents) and is also worth the trip. It’s pretty funny that the big landmark and park that they built in the 70s to mark the equator and give tourists something to photograph was put in the wrong place. The actual equatorial line, thanks to the wonders of the US Military and GPS, is actually about 200m away and (I suspect) on some farmer’s land bordering the park. He did what any good entrepreneur would do and built his own kitschy park full of knick knacks and random statues and charged a $3 admission. The original monument (where most people take photos and hope nobody will notice) cost $2 and is a lot cooler to photograph but the mistake we made was looking around the park before someone came to collect our $3 and deciding it wasn’t worth it. We later learned from the Danes in our room (we’d reconciled with them after they were really noisy in the dorm my first night) that we’d missed out. The highlight of the tour is not the kitsch but rather the experiments they perform on the equator. They take a sink, fill it with water and leaves, and then pull the plug north, south, and on the equator and it drains clockwise, counter-clockwise, and straight down respectively; They balance an egg on a nail which, due to the fact that gravity is straight down only on the equator is impossible anywhere else; They have you walk the line with your eyes closed to demonstrate that (apparently) your balance is thrown off while right on the equator. Most of these things have been disputed by scientists so viewing them is quite perplexing. I wish we’d done it firsthand instead of in video form.
There’s not much else to say about Quito. The city grew on me day by day and I wound up staying longer than is probably necessary but enjoying it. I looked into trips to the Galapagos but found nothing cheap enough or with a good itinerary worth booking, thinking it would be good to go do Cotopaxi, return to Quito for the Galapagos, and then continue heading south. Instead, I booked the Monday morning transport (only $5) to the Secret Garden hostel overlooking Cotopaxi. It costs $30/night including all food and non-alcoholic drinks plus some pretty reasonably priced tours and from everything I’ve seen it’s entirely worth it. Cotopaxi sits out the window, covered in ice even here on the equator, looming over the green highlands strewn with cows and farms. From there, I decided, I would head to Banos, do everything in the mountains while I was acclimatised then head to the coast and hopefully have some luck finding a deal to the Galapagos either on the islands themselves or else in Guyaquil, the largest city in Ecuador.
The day was Friday, the month February, and the hour nine. The story of Cali begins on a warm evening just outside the Iguana hostel where I am walking out the door to find Anabella in her Hondita and Phil already crossing the gap towards me. Press play and handshakes, hugs, and greetings are exchanged and before I know it I’m in the backseat zipping along the streets of Cali en route to her father’s condo up in the hills. They had stopped at her mother’s bakery prior to picking me up and I feasted as we drove on Cali’s finest empanadas and some pastries as well and we chatted all the way up to the condo. Phil had warned me before I arrived about the house... or should I say penthouse? You get to a big and solid wooden door with an olive tree growing in front of it. Inside, marble floors, large pieces of art, huge windowed doors to a deck looking out over Cali, a room with two beds for Phil and I, daresay, no need to use sandals in the whole place nevermind the shower. If I may indulge in understatement, it was a nice place especially for a backpacker. The weekend in Cali, at the very least, was going to be enjoyed thoroughly. Of course, that’s what Cali is famous for.
It was Friday night but by the time we got back to Anabella’s house and settled it was getting late but we hit the town anyway. The destination was a small strip of pubs and restaurants on or around Calle 18 and Avenida 9, where we met some of Anabella’s friends and had some of this Poker beer we’d been hearing so much about. Apparently it’s brewed by Miller and it’s not bad at all. From the pub, the next stop was a Colombian fast food chain called Super Mario’s (complete with copyright infringing corporate logos) that had a pretty interesting poutine-style dish with corn instead of fries and no gravy. It was tastier than I’ve described. Saturday morning their maid made us breakfast at around 10 which, again, was not something to be taken for granted. Anabella and her father had put together a bunch of cool activities for us to do but we didn’t really get around to them. While they sounded like pretty cool activities (and of the sort that you can only do with a car) we had a pretty good day regardless of whatever else we didn’t do. Anabella took us to Cali’s most famous mall, Chipichape (AKA Silicon Valley for the sheer number of ‘enhanced’ females strolling around) where we had a massive lunch of authentic Colombian food and then strolled around grabbing a few things we needed.
I can’t remember what exactly brought us in there – maybe it was Anabella’s need for unsweetened yogurt – but we went grocery shopping and wound up raiding their fruit department. If it was a Colombian fruit we bought one of two to try. Afterwards we stopped at a fruit stand for one of the “fruits” I had missed. That was what fate had intended. We spit in fate’s eye by purchasing the fruit anyway, and the punishment fell to me as I was the first to try it and it was up on the list of most terrifying things I have ever tasted. I went to the little coffee stand and ate bitter cinnamon powder to get rid of the taste but it wasn’t so easily bested. It didn’t help that I accidentally inhaled a bit of the powder and was not in a coughing fit. Luckily Anabella and Phil were there to laugh hysterically so my misery was not for naught. Time flies when you’re being poisoned. After that excursion, it was off to the airport to pick up Maria and the four of us were reunited again. We brought Maria back to their dad’s so they could visit for a while and divvied up the fruits plus packed up our things as we were to spend the night at their mom’s house.
Their dad came home as we were laying out the fruits to try and before we knew it there was a double shot of Aguardiente (surely by now I’ve told you about this local aniseed liquor) in front of us. A few shots later and he started cutting up the fruit for us and serving and explaining how to eat them. There were too many to remember but my favourite by far were these little orange cherry-tomato-sized fruits that were tart and delicious. Meanwhile, the girls were hard at work: Maria made a version of Lulo, a fruit punch that I spent the rest of my time in Colombia trying to find an equal to and Anabella went to work on her “Arab” style yogurt, cheesecloth bag and all. Phil and I, on the other hand, helped their father clear space in his cupboard one Aguardiente bottle at a time. The stuff’s not so bad if you don’t buy the cheapest: Blanco Sin Azucar was what he served and it was pretty good compared to others we’d tried previously. It was getting late, though, and their mom was waiting for us so we set out across the city to where their mom lives. If the apartment was nice, this place was beautiful. It’s a bit out of the way and in a neighbourhood that used to be occupied by Cali’s drug lords before the Colombian military cleaned them out. Now pretty much all the houses are empty and it’s a little dodgy as a result but inside these are some beautiful homes to be sitting abandoned.
Their mom was really nice as well, so I guess that between her and their father that explains the girls’ excellent attitudes. We were thinking of going out that evening but their mom lived so far away that we just stayed in and chatted. Sunday morning came and it was time for Phil to begin his circuitous journey home via Panama City, Miami, and finally Calgary. Well, a bit later that day. First, their maid made breakfast while their mom made a Colombian delicacy that I believe Ween made popular in North America entitled Chocolate and Cheese. Basically, chocolate melted in 2/3 hot water and 1/3 milk, a sprinkle of nutmeg and cinnamon, and lumps of soft melty mozzarella at the bottom. My second thought upon trying it, after “Yum!” was “This is something I’ll have to make Mariah when I get home.” We hung out at their mom’s for some time and their maid, who is also a pedicurist, insisted on taking a look at my ingrown toenail (I tried to cut but I couldn’t see where the problem was because it was so bad) which had been swollen and less attractive than Barbara Streisand for about a week already. She put it on ice and then hot water and then back again and poured vinegar all over it which was very nice of her but didn’t do anything.
Their mom owns, or rather owned, as that day was the day that she transferred ownership to new management, and we stopped in for some tasty treats then headed to Phil’s favourite Colombian burger joint, El Corral. From there it was all the way back to their father’s to get his backpack with Maria driving. Maria drove because she is a pretty aggressive driver (she reminded me of Nicole behind the wheel) and was making record time zipping us across Cali to catch Phil’s flight. Then from there all the way back to the airport where we arrived about an hour and a half before his flight was scheduled. There, security searched his backpack really really thoroughly because he is not Colombian, all the while the sniffer dog sat beside it in silence. Isn’t the point of a sniffer dog to smell these things out? Maybe he was on a Milkbone break. It took a while especially because we were already behind schedule and then it was time for Phil to check in. But the airline wouldn’t let him check in because he didn’t have proof of onward travel for Panama with him or even on his computer. So he and Maria went to find internet while I attempted to convince and then exhibit my frustration with the airline. Time was ticking by and no progress was being made. The American Airlines office behind us (which was the airline with his flight from Panama City to Miami) was closed but then Anabella spotted someone inside and I managed to get her attention, explain the situation, and get Phil’s ticket printed. Then we showed it to the Avianca agent who finally printed his boarding pass and we went to find Phil and Maria (who’d had no luck) and get him through security onto his plane.
It was weird sitting in the backseat of the car with Phil gone. The girls were talking about the next day: Anabella was going with her dad to their farm for the week and Maria had an early morning flight back to Bogota. The realization that I was on my own again and that by that time tomorrow I’d be alone checking into a hostel in Cali with no more travel friends to bump into or meet up with down the road except for, perhaps, some new ones I might meet from this point forward. That’s backpacking. Sometimes it’s great to be on your own and sometimes you realize that being on your own means being alone. Sitting in that car I was starting to feel depressed. Maria would be trying to get her work caught up so she was as good as gone already but at least I still had a day with Anabella. We wanted to stop to get some Oreo icecream but Maria needed to get back to the apartment and work (though we did stop for some Juan Valdez to go) so we put that on the todo pile. After dropping Maria off, Anabella and I decided her favourite ice cream shop was too far, so I suggested instead a quick trip to the closest grocer and maybe we could make our own. This, too, reminded me of Mariah.
The grocery was all it took to turn my mood back around. Not only did we find Oreos and vanilla icecream, but I discovered something I didn’t expect to see until I returned to Canada: Clamatto! The evening was unfolding before my eyes: get back to the apartment, start downloading the Canada vs USA Gold medal hockey game (being careful to stay away from anywhere that might reveal the outcome), make and eat Oreo Icecream, mix up some Caesars and pop the popcorn then consume both while watching the hockey game and hopefully Canada taking home gold. It didn’t go exactly as planned: their father was home and was making a handful of delicious snacks (grilled zucchini, Italian meat and cheese platters) which I decided would be complemented by a Caesar nicely. I’m happy to say that the Caesars were a hit although I had to use a picante sauce instead of tobacco and thus they were a bit too spicy for my Colombian friends. They had Worcestershire sauce, they had celery, and fresh ground pepper, not to mention ice cold vodka. After dinner, we mashed the oreos into the ice cream and ate far too much of it and then substituted a movie (“It’s Complicated”) for the hockey game as without Phil I was unable to convince them how amazing this would be.
It’s Complicated wasn’t a terrible movie, nor was it amazing. It was just entertaining in the end and it managed to keep the girls awake a couple hours longer which was all that I could ask for. However, at its end it was bed time. For them. For me, I had my Canadian duty ahead of me. I took my laptop into the kitchen, got a bowl of hot water for my toe, and put on the hockey game. I had heard nothing, so the fact that it wasn’t live meant nothing to me. It was as tense and dramatic as if I’d seen it at 3 PM, and perhaps more so because I was unable to shout, call out, or anything. I did all of those things anyway, but in an excited whisper, as Canada scored one and then two goals. The play where the USA tie came, I actually saw developing before they even crossed their blue line and I believe my face was also blue as I held my breath hoping not to somehow disturb the Canadian team or distract their goaltender, but alas. The worst part was watching Canada continue to dump the puck instead of control it, even when the US pulled their goalie, because that strategy just meant a lot of shots on net and sure enough, 20 seconds left and one of those shots went in.
Somewhere around the end of the second period I noticed that I was nowhere halfway through the file which meant that I was pretty sure there was an overtime coming up so I wasn’t as shocked as I could have been when that happened, but somewhere deep down I’d hoped that the file was so long because of a post-game show. Nope, overtime. The ten most tense minutes I’ve spent outside of Orange Walk, Belize. By the way, I never mentioned at the time that the hotel we were first brought to had had a tourist murder a few weeks prior and Phil found a knife in one of the sinks because I wasn’t sure if all of Belize and Central America would be this way and I didn’t want to scare anyone back home. Back on topic, though, that overtime period was without equivocation the best hockey I have ever had the privilege of seeing. When Sid “The Kid” Crosby dropped that puck in the net, I pumped my fists in the air and let out a raspy, whispered, but nonetheless emphatic “YEAH!!!!” and may or may not have jumped up and down, pumped my fists in the air, and done some sort of dance of the sort that I would never attempt, even alone, in my home country or continent.
The next morning we drove Maria to the airport and said goodbye to her and then Anabella drove me to the Iguana hostel where I would spend the rest of my time in Cali. It was March 1 and I wouldn’t leave until March 9, but don’t worry as I won’t be giving you a day by day account of the rest as it was mostly routine. I found a guy named Leandro to give me Spanish lessons for a week and he was excellent. He’s not a professional teacher, in fact, he’s a sociology student, but he was nonetheless extremely professional. He brought exercises, lessons, examples, and homework for me to do that fit with what I needed (past and future tenses) although he came with no knowledge of my current level. On top of that he was a lot of fun to converse with and I had a great time chatting with him not to mention some conversations about more serious issues like politics, the environment, and even religion that I wished my Spanish was better for. If anyone should find themselves in Cali and wanting to learn Spanish, let me know and I know you will be impressed. Generally, we’d start our class at 9 AM and work straight through until 1 PM. I also found some salsa classes and even managed to do 4-5 hours over the course of the week from a likewise professional and really affordable school. Cali is the home of salsa, or at least of Colombian salsa (as distinct from the Cuban variety) and this was the place to do it.
Iguana had some really great people so that my initial feelings of loneliness that day in the car had no chance of resurfacing. In fact, I was in need of some space by the time a week had passed. In addition to my fellow Iguanas, I met up one evening with Veronica, Maria and Anabella’s cousin whom you may recall I met in Bogota, and we went out for dinner. Another evening, which was in fact my final evening in Cali, a friend of my friend Nick in Bogota called me up to meet and we also went out for a snack on some ceviche. I definitely owe Nick some drinks when I go back to Bogota because he’s really been making sure that I have a good time here in Colombia and find great places and meet cool people. The one thing that could’ve been a problem was that Angela spoke almost no English or at least didn’t think she did (after a while of watching me screw up Spanish and not care she was more willing to try her English and realized, I think, that she’s got a pretty good grasp of it). But my Spanish was sharp after a week of lessons and the practice was great, too. I met a German girl in the hostel that was really nice though she didn’t understand that just because I was at the hostel didn’t mean I wanted to socialize around the clock. There were three English girls that were funny and a lot of fun. An American guy from Alaska that I got along with great. A Canadian-Australian couple that were so easy to talk to and came out for drinks with me a couple times. And more.
Aside from the Spanish and salsa, I didn't find much to do in Cali besides studying in the evenings and resting and visiting with the others in the hostel. I went one night to Avatar (again) because I wanted to see it one more time in theatres, there were several people going from the hostel (although it was my suggestion to be honest), and hey, there wasn’t much else to do. I meant to go to the zoo, the centre, and even the waterpark but my classes meant that when people I wanted to go with were going, I was studying and when I wanted to go I was on my own. Friday night, pretty much the whole hostel went to a bar called Fuente that is small and basically on a cloverleaf and as the bar gets busier the salsa spills onto the streets where most people are drinking anyway. I met a few locals there and hung around mostly with the English girls, Teresa, and an English guy named Ed that cracked me up. Some of them went to Menga, an area of town with more pubs and clubs, to go to Lola’s but a miscommunication (I thought Menga was a club not an area and so I didn't know if they’d gone to Lola’s or Menga) meant I didn’t head that way. I remedied that Saturday night (especially after hearing how many amazing girls were there) by going with the English girls, the Canadian-Aussie couple, and a few others.
And that’s pretty much it for Cali. I unfortunately didn’t see Anabella again nor Veronica, the former preparing for a year in France (she leaves in less than a week) and the latter having left for Miami for a wedding. Angela, Nick’s friend that took me out on my final day, gave me a parting gift that is sure to cement Cali in my mind for the rest of my life: a roll of two-ply toilet paper. She works for their marketing department and, I would guess, does a great job at it. Leandro and I went for lunch on my last day as well and visited a little ‘off the clock’ which was nice. I’ve had the good fortune of having two excellent Spanish teachers, one from Guatemala and the other here in Colombia. It’s no coincidence that these are my two favourite countries thus far. I finally decided to grab a bus to Popayan and as I was leaving the hostel, one of the guys came and handed me the phone. It was one of the girls that the two of us had met that night at Fuentes, wanting to do something that night. I almost turned around and stayed but the road is calling me and Cali has had a lot more time than most places get on a trip like this. It occurs to me, with as little as a few hours of hindsight, that Cali’s charm is very true of the country as a whole: it’s not the scenery, it’s the people. And in fear of reaching that Bocas del Toro state of entrapment, I said goodbye to her on the phone and walked through the door for Popayan.
We arrived at the Bogota Bus Terminal at about 9 at night, later than we would have liked but with travel times this large between places in Colombia, there wasn’t much to be done about it. Our first stop was to find a hostel, and most of them are in an area in the centre of town called Candelaria. They have a taxi stand from which to purchase fares at fixed rates which is helpful to say the least and we bought a couple and went to get in a cab. The only problem is that none of them would touch us – and specifically Phil’s surfboard – with a 6’2” pole, although none were saying that in so many words it was obvious. Why should they, after waiting in line to get a fare, have to do the extra work of securing that thing when they could turn us down and be assured the next fare anyway. So I hid him in the shadows of the terminal and found a cab to take us – after about 15 minutes of frustration. Of course when the cabbie saw the board he said there was no way to take it but I told him we’d squeezed it in many cars his size before. He incredulously opened the hatch and we showed him and all the other idiots who had refused us how it was done. We did end up paying more because there are two Candelarias in the city and we’d been given tickets for the wrong one (and had heard this from a few others before our eventual driver as well) but soon we were there in front of the Platypus hostel and happy to have an end in sight.
Of course, being that it is quite popular and also listed highly in the Lonely Planet means that it was full when we arrived but we found nearby Hostal Sue to be very friendly and he got on the phone for us and spent 15 minutes tracking down beds for us for the night. It was a nice family’s homestay though the room itself was pretty Spartan and small. They didn’t have enough beds so they put a mattress on the floor and Phil and I flipped a coin to see who’d sleep where. Enough is said about how bad the bed was that when I won the coin toss, I chose to sleep on the floor. We immediately got a hold of Maria but she was pretty wiped out from work so we were on our own for Friday night and, to be honest, we were pretty wiped out from the trip too. So we didn’t even leave the hostel to grab a bite for dinner, Phil showered and I slept. The next morning I was pretty hungry because all I’d had the day prior was a sausage on a stick and my chicken dinner lunch but first things first, we had to check out and find a hostel. We went back to Hostel Sue as they had not only been really helpful but it looked like a cool place, too, and hey, it’s my grandma’s name... done and done.
The weather was surprisingly chilly which is accounted for by the fact that, apparently, Bogota is the third highest capital city in the world clocking in at about 2700m above sea level. Add to this it was cloudy and drizzling and you have a recipe for a pretty cool reception; It was probably about 15 C. We were to meet Maria in Parque Periodistas at 12:30 so starving or not there was no time to eat and we went there and waited. And waited. 1:00 came and then 1:30 and we were shivering and hungry in the rain before Phil went to see if she had left us a message about what happened and/or to call her. 15 minutes later he was back saying there was no message but he’d called and her soccer game had been delayed and by the time she finished she figured we’d have given up waiting. I was pretty annoyed that she hadn’t even left a message but when I finally got some food in my belly and warmed up a bit I felt better. Our next step was to head north to the Bulletproof Tailor of Bogota, a man named Miguel Caballero that specializes in discreet bulletproof and knife proof clothing from jackets to suits to tailored vests that can be worn discreetly under a dress shirt. We found our way up eventually only to find it closed up for the weekend and from there we made a second attempt at calling Maria.
She lived about 10 blocks south of us and we wandered over to her building although the bizarre way in which addresses are done meant it was more search than stroll but soon we arrived. Her doorman called up for us but there was no answer. We pondered what to do and then asked him to try her cellphone but he instead called the other number again and she answered this time so we were on our way up. She looked pretty different out of backpacker context and had a really nice place. We also met her younger sister who like the others has great taste in music and also an artistic bent. However, we learned that the other sister we’d hoped to also see (Anabella) was off in San Andres Island visiting her boyfriend and thus our self-imposed deadline to catch Anabella before she flew to France had been mostly for nothing. On the other hand, we had covered (albeit very poorly) a lot of ground and made it to Bogota before Phil had to leave and with time to visit Cali after, so it was not all for nought. Maria took us out and on a little tour of the northern section of Bogota all the way through the banking district to the “T zone”, two intersecting streets filled with clubs, restaurants, bars, and pubs.
Our first stop was actually a brownie-coffee frozen drink of some name or another from the Juan Valdez coffee shop and a good long visit with Maria. I think she felt like we expected a tour guide and her to take us places but we were happy just to catch up and visit with her. I should mention before I go too far from the topic that I have drank more coffee in Colombia than I have in all the rest of my life put together. Anyway, in spite of the initial snag meeting up with her we had a great visit and soon it was time to eat so we went to a ceviche restaurant for what would be one of the most memorable meals of this trip. You may remember earlier encounters with ceviche up in Central America but if not it is basically seafood, usually raw, marinated in lime juice to wipe out any bacteria and usually served with some spices and diced veggies. For the three of us, in addition to a bottle of white wine (yeah, it was going to be a splurge night anyway), we ordered three ceviches: fish, shrimp, and a mix of grilled octopus and kalamari. For each you also had a choice from a list of about ten sauces to pair it with. So the number of combinations alone ought to keep the relatively small menu fresh for plenty of return visits.
It’s a test in memory if I can recall what we finally paired with what, but I believe we did a grilled onion, tomato, and garlic sauce for the octopus/squid, a mango salsa for the shrimp, and a Picoso picante and pepper sauce for the Corvina fish. To say all were delicious is an understatement. We took turns passing the three bowls around and I was unable to choose a favourite. The fish was tender and melt-in-your-mouth with just the right amount of spice, the shrimp and mango was a great combination if not wholly original, and well, octopus. Enough said. We sat there drinking our wine and visiting and eventually one of Maria’s friends, named Beatrice, came by that looked strikingly like Rosario Dawson. She could have been and I wouldn't have known any better but Phil was on the ball and we compared photos. Wow, what a resemblance. Eventually, her friend left and was replaced with a guy friend named David who did not, to my knowledge, resemble any stars. Yet. But he was a lot of fun and the four of us went to a cool club playing some great music although I think it was more to my liking than anybody else’s. Psycho Killer, Qu’est-ce que c’est?
It was Sunday when we went to sleep and still Sunday when we got up. The day lived up to its name: instead of the drizzle and low-flying clouds that had hovered above the city the day prior, we had a beaming sun and crystal clear skies. A quick lunch in the park and a bunch of freshly cut mango and papaya for 50 cents and we made our way up a street to a cable car and funicular rail we didn’t even know was there the day before to take advantage. They led up the mountain to a church called Montserrat that overlooked the whole of the city and this definitely improved our perception of Bogota not to mention underscored how big a place it is: somewhere between 8-10 million people call Bogota home which is easy to see when you can get out of the streets and up to a vantage point like this. Maria was supposed to let us know around 3:00 what was happening that day as there was a ‘BBQ’ for a friend’s birthday and their family had a club that they were closing for the night for this purpose. So back to the hostel where she told us she had a lot of work and would probably go a bit later and then that she would message us when and where to come.
We headed north again as that was where the party was going to be and also the area Maria lived in and wandered around for a while. Eventually it was getting to be 9:00 and we couldn’t find internet or for that matter a phone anywhere that was open so we had to ask a local to borrow his cellphone to check our email. No messages anywhere from Maria and the last bus back was fast approaching, so we cut our losses and headed back to Candelaria where we were thinking we’d meet up with Hanna, Amy, Jared, and Renee for drinks but the place they were going to be was closed so we wound up hanging out at the hostel with a couple other Canadians and some Argentinian and Chilean guys. The less said about this, the better. We found out the next day that Maria hadn’t thought she was going to stay too long and there were a lot of things going on at that party that we wouldn’t be into and she did apologize for not messaging us and asked if she could meet with us Monday evening after her work. Sure, we’d be up for that. I also called Luis and Nicolas, the former a friend of Maria & Anabella that I’d met with them in Nicaragua and the latter someone I met New Year’s Eve in Sydney however many years ago.
We headed north because we had a meeting with the Bulletproof Tailor before anything else. Today it was open but as we walked towards the building we were surprised to be confronted by security there. We were asked our business and then ushered in to the store. Now this is no ordinary store. When you enter there is nothing to see but a reception desk, so we bravely marched up to the desk and asked if it were possible to look at some of their work in the next room amidst stares of incredulity and disbelief. The man has made clothes for Obama, so two backpackers (however well dressed we were that day) are not a common occurrence. And so it was that I was looking for protective clothing for our ‘club’ back in Saskatoon and Phil was my friend along for the ride but also curious about getting a bulletproof leather jacket for his brother. The sales agents treated us very nicely and went through their clothing and the levels of protection offered. I had been wondering how they managed to make thin dress shirts bulletproof or even knife proof but it turns out that they haven’t: they’ve just made some very thin vests to wear beneath dress shirts. You can, however, get bulletproof panels sewn right into jackets, blazers, and heavier garments which was pretty cool and only ran about $300 or so. Still, discreet or not, it was too heavy to wear unless you were actually in danger of wandering into a gunfight which I hope is not the case for either of us.
From there, we went and saw Precious, an Oscar nominated movie produced by Oprah Winfrey. It’s a tragic story and the main character is unbelievably strong in the face of all sorts of wrongs, but I didn’t feel like it was anything remarkable at least in terms of cinema and I’m not sure what the Oscar nomination is for but I don’t think I’d be awarding it. I also didn’t like the fact that Oprah came up several times in the movie – it seems pretty self-serving to me to produce a movie and have them talk about you on it. Insert the following dialogue into ET and see what I mean: “ET watch Steven Spielberg movie? ET and all galactic civilizations think his movies are the best. ET loves Spielberg.” Lame? We met up with Maria after the movie and with her cousin and went for Mexican food and then ice cream at the Colombian Crepes & Waffles chain both of which were affordable and delicious. Luis had gone to a movie so we weren’t able to get a hold of him, but as we said goodbye to Maria, Nicolas showed up. It was great catching up with him, and the three of us sat and chatted about Colombia, Australia, and other things over a few beer. We didn’t get to crazy with it being a weeknight, but it was fun times and Phil and I taxi’d home around 1:30. I had to be up early to catch a bus to Armenia, about 8.5 hours away and Phil would be spending the next day or two in Bogota before meeting up with me in Cali.
We landed in Medellin at about 4:30, half an hour ahead of schedule. I don’t generally like to fly as I feel like I’m missing out on countryside and adventures in between hubs, but in this case it was not much more than the bus and much faster (two 1 hour flights vs 13 hours) and we were in a bit of a time squeeze with Phil’s last days looming and attempting to meet up with Maria and Anabella in Bogota before the 23rd. And anyway, I don’t feel so guilty flying within a country especially when the flight is not much more money than the bus. It’s interesting here as both of our flights took off well before the scheduled departure times although the second one was stuck in traffic in Medellin for some time. But finally we were in Medellin, or at least an hour from Medellin on the other side of the mountains. The city lies in the heart of a cauldron of green hills, towering on all sides, and we got our first view of it as the bus came over the ridge and around, looking like a crumpled piece of lettuce drizzled in Thousand Islands dressing (from the Mediterranean tiles) with most along the valley floor and splashing up the mountainsides in places. Or maybe it looked like a giant Petri dish with pink mold eating away at it. I guess it depends on what you want to see. Either way, we were on our way down to find out.
I was immediately impressed. Admittedly, we came down into the more wealthy area of the city, near Zona Rosa (or the pink zone) but the streetscaping was some of the nicest I’ve seen anywhere. Parks are all over, trees line boulevards and everything flowed really organically along the hillside with sophistication that I, in all honesty, wasn’t expecting to find. We had a card for Tiger Paw hostel and made our way there with a taxi as we had neither map nor inclination to haul Phil’s surf board on a bus. The taxis here are metered for a change which definitely helps when you don’t know how far away your destination is. Tiger Paw was a really nice hostel: the beds are incredibly comfortable, it’s clean, and it’s located in a perfect area. Drawbacks, as we would discover, were that the clientele was largely middle-aged Americans perhaps because the owner himself is an American. We didn’t find much of a social scene here which is probably the most crucial ingredient in a hostel. They had a pretty awesome looking party for Saturday where they take you out to a lake with giant karst pillars sticking out of it, put you on a boat, and you cruise around enjoying the scenery and some drinks. But not only would we not be there, the question again is who else would be on this boat.
We really didn’t have a lot of time allocated here, so the next day, tired as we were from our post-Carnaval syndrome, we set out on foot to find the metro station. We took a turn on a road we thought was a different road and wound up walking a long way towards downtown (buying a strange fruit called Grenadilla, some yogurt, and some plums from the grocery store for breakfast) before finally hopping on a bus heading in that general direction. We passed the metro station and hopped off, ironically exactly where we’d hopped off the airport shuttle though we didn’t realize it at the time. The metro system here is great, another point towards Medellin as a well-planned city. It could be more extensive but at the same time it ran along the main corridors. Additionally, because of the hills, part of the metro system is a cable car running up into the mountains which you ride at no additional cost. I think this is an ingenious way to get around, and probably a LOT cheaper than trying to lay rail and clear strips of land below or digging up the earth to put in subway.
We got off at the central square which was teeming with life and interesting buildings. We walked around the square and I decided it was finally time... for a haircut. I picked a place and they took me upstairs and for 7000 ($3.50) they cut my hair (pretty short), washed it (afterwards to clean all the little scraps), styled it, and gave me a straight razor shave. I have done a lot of crazy adventure sports in my travels, but I can’t recall many that filled me with as much fear as a sharp straight razor scraping along my adams apple. Phil, meanwhile, went hunting for a washroom, and I was finished and discovered he went to the very small “casino” (named Casino Athenas, incidentally) next door. So I went in and took out a 2000 note and a few spins later, hit three out of five of the big ticket item on the slot machine. So Phil found me sitting at a machine that was first of all giving free spins and then hitting this jackpot, taking my money from 2000 to 9000. I was excited – after all it paid for my haircut. And then I thought about it in dollars and realized I had just won $3.50 but strangely this didn’t dampen my spirits.
We walked the downtown area and along the markets and when I took out my camera to snap a photo of some teenagers hanging out on a small balcony a scraggly guy stared as though I had just pulled out a solid brick of gold bullion from my camera bag. So I put it back promptly and we walked back to the more solid center and took the metro to the cable car and then took the cable car up into the mountains. The views of the poorer areas spread along the mountains and the city below were sweeping and this really gave us some energy again as spirits were flagging a little before that. We had gone to the centre to explore the city and had failed, leaving us without a plan. After our cable car ride we returned to the hostel via metro and bus and got ready for the evening. Medellin, aside from its history as home to drug cartels, was famed for its nightlife and friendly girls, many of whom were daughters of the drug cartels and surgically enhanced for your viewing pleasure. We would see about that. As you probably didn’t note, we never actually had any lunch so we were pretty hungry and went for some Mexican food in zona rosa then found a cool little bar in the park (seats and tables were tree stumps) to have a couple beer. From there back to the hostel to hopefully meet others to hit the town with but in the end, all we got was a tip that a club called Babylon was the place to be.
Naturally, we investigated. It cost 30000 to get in ($15) which included drinks until 1:30... that is, assuming you could get the bartender’s attention. It didn’t include all drinks, but you could get mickeys of terrible Medellin Rum or Aguardiente (ouzo mixed with moonshine) as part of the package and we opted for the rum. Want mix? Well that you have to pay for. We found a seat next to a group of older people celebrating a birthday and as the night progressed found them to be among the most friendly in the room. The girls here were not all that remarkable, at least not compared to Cartagena. And then club, though filled with cartoon beings of yore, was decent but nothing incredible. They did have a big Star Wars banner however, which I took a photo of. This brought me a tap on the shoulder about twenty minutes later and a man scolding me not to take pictures of girls which I hadn’t been and as much as told him so. He then pointed to a grumpy looking trouble-maker whom nobody in their right mind would photograph in this bar full of much better looking girls and said (this was all in Spanish) that she was his girlfriend. Ah. Right under the Star Wars banner. So I took out my camera and showed him the photo and explained that I was a fan and she was hardly in the photo and he laughed, apologized, and walked off. I saw him go and explain to his girlfriend that no, there was still nobody else interested in her as she looked annoyed that there hadn’t been some altercation she could tell her friends about.
We did dance with several groups of girls throughout the night and it was fun, but I guess our expectations had become a little too high. We took a taxi detour to a grocery store on the way home and called it a night pretty early by Colombian standards. Morning came and it was time to finally get on the bus to Bogota which was easily reached by the metro. Another point for Medellin city planners. The fare was 65000 but we managed to get it down to 40000 which is something we had no success at in Cartagena and it left in just enough time for us to grab a quick snack from a nearby cafe. Then we were on our way, winding along the beautiful mountainous countryside to Bogota and our friends there, Maria and Anabella. The trip takes about 8-9 hours even though it’s only 450 km because of these winding roads and single lane highways choked with trucks, curves, and hills. I finished my book, Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, which was a very imaginative form of social commentary on pretty much everything. It is dark, disturbing, compelling, and a master work that I know you’ll love. After all, this blog shares at least those first two characteristics.
