So I am starting to understand why foreign countries don´t build toilets that you can flush toilet paper down. It´s because they know that everything that comes out of me is like piss, so why the need for toilet paper? I can imagine the foreman on site saying,
¨well, if it´s all water let´s go for the cheaper pipes¨
I have now realized that I have a parasite living in my stomach, and until the drugs kick in, this parasite has been named Harry. I wouldn´t say we´re getting on too well but he lives inside me so I have to tolerate him I suppose.
And he´s no real fuss or bother, only the 13 - 17 times a day I have to have ´alone time´with him in the toilet. Other than that he´s a delight.
I find myself alone in Cartagena with a very peeling back and shoulders, but the Dutch chaps from the trek are still in town so we arrange to meet up.
Now I like the Dutch, always have. Any nation that can essentially have the same three foods for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is alright by me.
It is this basic mix of cold meat, bread and cheese that has made them a very easy going, straight talking, and pleasent people, and why wouldn´t you be anything other than cool if you always knew what was going to be on the table?
And they all speak English in a sort of drawl that makes them all sound stoned. Which is always amusing. And when they switch back to Dutch it sounds like the language version of a car crash, with jagged bits of word metal thrown all over the conversational road.
Hansie has been hit by illness and won´t join us. I suspect he´s saying this as he´s had enough of listening to me harp on about nothing, talking shit, and bothering him about being tall. I suspect this right up until he takes himself to hospital.
So Emon, Idris and myself make our way into the Old town for some beers.
The night before we had unsuccesfully tried to get into a local club called ´Bar Barbila´ we were wearing shorts and were turned away. So we´ve all got our jeans on this time and after some food and warm up beers we head down there.
The same 3 doorman from the night before can´t hide their dissapointment as we bound up to the door, but, true to their word, they let us in.
Now I´m going to find it very difficult to describe what I saw within these walls but I´ll try.
You walk through the entrance way to meet the loud but clear sound of quality salsa, on the right is a small bar that seems to be giving out panama hats, fake football shirts, and blow up footballs. It appears to be a World Cup themed night.
Past this bar you walk into the main bar area, to the right is a small DJ booth with no dancefloor. No big square space where everyone stares at a ugly, fat, old, sweaty DJ, playing music with a right moody look on his face. This lad was dancing and jumping around having a right laugh.
And the reason for this is because everyone dances EVERYWHERE!
On tables, on the bar, in the corridors, wherever they want. It´s mad but strangely liberating. If they´re sitting at a table they just get up and start dancing.
Anyway, in front of you is a bar around 7 meters long, further to the right is another bar, around about the same length, to the left of this was another room, quite long with yet another bar on the left. I would say that the place good easily hold 7 - 800 people but rather than fill it like a dance club they put tables everywhere. I would say about 90 - 100 tables.
Now this is where it gets hard. On every single table sat a woman of such beauty that I found it difficult to look. Some were young, some with their husbands, some maybe pushing 50, but all of them stunning. And then, and then! on most of these tables there was 4 or more beautiful women all sitting together!
We got some drinks and wandered around passing these tables of ladies, the like of which I had never been privvy to before. And I´ve met some beautiful women before, I´ve even been lucky enough to go out with a few (I mean you obviously) in my time but this was outrageous.
After a while I had to go and sit down, I just couldn´t face seeing all these girls over and over. We take a seat in a side room which we assume is the restaurant and is empty.
I sit there with my hand in my hands while Idris laughs at my inability to deal with melee of ladies in this place. We order a bottle of rum to share and take a pew.
Within 30 - 40 minutes the ´restaraunt´is FULL of women, big groups of women, with maybe 2 blokes between them. My mood veers between feeling like I´m in heaven, to being absolutley furious that these women are dancing all around me.
Emon is slowly getting his prowl on, dancing with the ladies and having conversations in Spanish. Idris casually smokes and drinks rum, regulary stopping both to chuckle at me. I am sitting with my back to the wall staring at the floor.
I don´t know what to do, all the girls are single and dancing, and love being approached to dance and chat with people. And by all accounts they love foreigners. Never before has there been a greater chance or reason for me to step up and get my groove on.
So I revert to the classic British way of going out and meeting girls:
I get drunk on the rum and jump up to dance to any house tune the DJ plays, immediately sitting down again when a salsa songs come on. I perhaps overdo the shoulder drop to compensate that I´m not consistently dancing but either way a table of girls start to dance in our general direction.
I then proceed to buy a load of beers and casually wait for a girl to come my way.
They don´t. None of them take the burnt, peeling bait.
It would appear that they like to be approached, and over here there is no such thing as the 2am emergency girl either.
I fall out of the bar at 4am and go home. lessons have been learnt.
The next night Emon, Idris, and a valiant Hans intend to go again, if only to show Hans. I decline, I can´t face it.
I decide to make good my escape and head to Bogota, where I will start Spanish lessons.
It´s been bought to my attention that my spelling and use of the words they, their, and there is wrong. I can only apologise.
You try doing this in a sweaty internet cafe, with local kids hassling you, and using a keyboard where all the functions aren´t where they´re meant to be!
x
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Sunday 27 June 2010
5 star living, hard grafting, and J K Rowling dicks my life up yet again
So last time I was in the tiny town of Taganga trying to enjoy the secluded beaches, while knitted bag wearing, 18 cord braclet sporting, not had a wash in months, dreadlocked hippies try to sell me knitted bags and cord bracelets.
I ran off back to Cartagena to begin a treat of treats - 2 weeks of luxury 5 star living with a dear old pal. He'd not had a ´proper´holiday in 4 years and was adament that 2 weeks on the beach and by the pool would be the tonic, and frankly I wasn't going to stand in his way.
Now walking into a 5 star hotel, that is mostly occupied by rich Colombians, wearing a battered white tee shirt and carrying 2 backpacks that are covered with dust from my bus trip is quite a test. The doorman wouldn't open the door for me, I´m sure he'd assumed that I was lost and wasn´t in the mood to give directions, but flashing a smile and a positive nod of the head, he eventually let me in.
The aircon was jet powered and the grandios entrance area bought a tingle down my spine, this is where I truly belonged.
Upon finding my pal we proceeded to drink the hotel bar beers (9,000 peso, I´d been paying 1,300) and get smashed and eat in a very nice restaurant. The salty tears of joy as I climbed into the ice cold bed will be with more for a good while.
But bitter irony put pay to those feelings of contentment as exactly 14 hours after I´d checked in I got the most vicous runs, or the Tom Tits to use the rhyming slang. Now I was faced with darting from the pool area to relieve my bladder waterfall every few minutes in the furnace poolside toilets, and I coulnd´t have got back to the room as it was on the seventh floor, and I was never going to make it safely, unless I wanted to leave a brown snake all the way through the hotel. 3 weeks of questionable street food and dodgy backstreet eateries, and I get sick in a 5 star hotel.
Now staying in a Colombian hotel, that for the large part, only caters for rich Colombians, the sight of a small, sweaty, pale white, ginger man, walking alongside a taller, dark haired, gringo, we experienced a fair share of curious amused looks from the staff and the partons. The pool guy, a short, stocky, man with a loud voice, who also loved playing loud salsa from a sound system a festival would be proud of. at 10am. found us to be a fairly amusing site. His name was Carlos and he quicky began shouting 'motha fuckas' loudly whenever we walked past him, he was a good laugh.
We played pool with him and he said,
"what are you names?"
"Gareth Potter" I replied,
"Gared Podder?"
"No, No, Gareth Potter"
"oh! you meen like a da Harry Potter! you his fukkin cousin or his brodder?" he then proceeded to piss himself laughing, as did my pal.
Now I never liked the assoiciation to Harry, especially when certain larks enjoy calling me 'Gary Potter' but to have to deal with it 7,000 miles away was annoying, but Rowling's fucked me again.
4 days into burning myself poolside, swimming in a pool, and generally lazing around my pal mentioned a trip I'd suggested to him called the 'Ciudad Perdida, or the lost city tour. 5 nights and 6 days trekking through the jungle to visit an ancient city, built by the Tayrona people as a religous and spiritual site. and also lower down the mountain, housing for up to 1,500 people. It was lost in the 15th Century after the Spanish invaded and wiped them out. It was only ever found again by grave robbers in 1975, who plundered the area. Grave robbing was actually legal in those days. which was a little odd.
Either way this little adventure appealed to my friend, mostly because I think he wanted a bit of space between me and him after spening 4 days with me, while hotel staff pondered whether or not we were 'not the marrying kind' or 'good with colours' or 'first on the dance floor' or 'chi chi boys' or 'straight up male prostitutes'.
So it was decided, we'd have another night at the hotel, leave for the trek on the Friday, and start it on the Saturday morning.
Carlos was quite confused as to why two potential homosexuals wanted to climb around the mountains, looking for nothing in paricular, but he kept it mostly to himself.
"Hey Lloyd, wad the fukk is the madder with your friend Haree? all he do is read, sleep, read, sleep, read, sleep" was the parting question to my pal.
On the bus to Santa Marta the driver asks for my name,
"Potter" I reply,
"like Harry" pipes up Lloyd, and the whole bus has a good chuckle.
And so it began. We'd read some websites and quizzed some friends who'd done the tour before, as to what was in store for us, and what did we need to take.
Mostly people said it was amazing, bring loads of mosquito spray, some dry clothes for the evening, maybe a bin bag for you wet clothes, some sandals with straps on them, and a water bottle.
Now if I knew then what I know now I'd have rephrased that advice to:
bring spray, but the higher up you go that more rapid and mental they are. In fact by the top you'll think the spary was a attractive pheromone to them, and that they'd love it
Everything's going to get wet, and stink like the inside of Rik Wallers inner thigh.
you'll be throwing the sandals away on the last day because they've fallen apart and totally humm, so don't spend out on them.
You're going to have to make peace with the fact that you'll be drinking river water. The same river that they throw all the food, faeces, piss, and general waste into.
But I didn't know that did I? As of writing I have 97 mosquito bites on my body, 86 of those were due to being up a mountain with a mosquito net that simply kept the mosquito inside, rather than the other way round. Only my bright little white fella escaped the mauling , but if they could have found it, I'm sure they'd have gone down on it like Devine Brown went down on Hugh Grant.
We all meet at the turcol office in Santa Marta. Our group was like this:
Hans - a large Dutch fellow, who looks like my cousin, and looks at me without hiding the fact that he's thinking I'm odd, and querying why I won't shut up occasionally
Emon - Another Dutch fellow, smaller than Hans, but with an air of a Dutch footballer. Quiet but when he speaks, you tend to listen, if only because it's about football or women.
Idris - A jolly Dutch fellow, who would simply turn to me and say things like,
"you know Gareth, when I get home, I'm gonna eat, sleep, and then I'm going to fuck my girlfriend, and then I'm going to sleep again" most of the time this was unprompted chatter, but being so lovely, I just took it all in
Peter - A very good, honest, American boy. Minus the scary religous zeal, and has been out of the US enough times to know that other people are different , and that they should be respected. Marta and her son Manuel - A Colombian tour operater and veterinarian. who was on the trip to see if she could recommend it to her clients. She couldn't. and her son, who was a quiet, dignified, young fella.
Antonio - A mad engineer from Medellin, who couldn't speak a word of English , but would love to chat away to us, even though he knew we couldn't understand a word he'd say. but he was so animated that we let him crack on. We later found out that he was massive into god, and that he was possibly trying to convert all of us for the full 5 days.
A our guide Edwin, who'd been kidnapped doing the tour in 2005 but went straight back to it a couple of months later.
A that was our jolly crew, a nicer group of people you couldn't find, and if we'd have been in the other groups we saw during the trek, I'd have gone straight back down again on the first day. but more about them later. suffice to say. wankers.
The drive to the jungle was simple enough, until the off road, where the bus would veer dangerously close to the edge as we climbed higher and higher. The volumous mountains began to envelop us, and with every turn we'd climb higher, and the mountains would spread out into the distance. It was beautiful. And before anyone asks for photos, I can't be arsed downloading them all onto this questionable, Colombian computer, in this smelly internet shop.
Now I'm all for a little walk occasionally, I like to walk into town or a stroll down the canal to Canary Wharf, or even a few times round the park. I am not adverse to walking and find it a pleasant thing to do.
This wasn't walking though, this was hard graft, moving up inclines and declines, that would tower over you, or feel like you were going to fall straight down the mountain. This wasn't easy and I realized that this was going to be quite tough. If I hadn't done the marathon training a couple of months ago I'd have really struggled. Marta was having a tough time of it.
I'm a sweater, in the bodily fluid sense rather than the clothing sense. Always have been. Holidays in hot countries are quite taxing, as I expel my body weight out of every pore. And that's when I'm lying down by a pool drinking a beer. combine this with proper hard work and I was sweating like a peado at a school sports day.
My water was done by the first rest stop, some nice people had set up a little shop.
"Yes I would like a small bottle of water please, how much is that? 3,000 pesos? but they were only 2,000 at the bottom? nevermind, if I don't take on fluids soon, I'm going to pass out"
To say they had you over a barrel is one thing, I would say that they've got you half way up a mountain and you're half dead.
We get to the first stop of the day at around 3pm, we swim in the river, and jump off a waterfall. It's a glourious place , and if you don't work out the pissy river thing too early, it's the nicest swim you've ever head.
Dinner, some drinks with the boys to get to know them, then bed. or should I say hammock.
Now lights out in a hammock, you cannot see anything, not even your own hand in front of your face. The sort of darkness that freaks you right out, especially if you live in London, and the street light outside bedroom never goes out, and the only sound you hear is the birds and the animals, that sound like they're getting closer and closer to you.
Following morning after a petrifying, bitten ridden sleep we arise to a cocaine factory tour, as conducted by a little cross eyed fella, who looked like he'd done enough coke to power the Bolivian army for a year or two.
The factory wasn't a working factory, more like a mock shop, or chemical experiment that you'd see in techniquest (one for the Cardiff massive there) but he took us into the jungle and he went through the seven or so stages of cocaine production. It was very interesting and when the acid burnt through the coca plants, you had a acute awareness of what millions of people were stuffing their noses with every weekend. He stopped at the last stage of production, whereby it's dried and mixed with an acetone to release the chemical that gets you high. The finished product that he had was a paste, which looked like toothpaste, and numbed your mouth and face for a good 20 minutes.
He also said that he'd never done coke in his life, and looking around the factory, smelling the gasoline, and the 6 other harmful chemicals, you could totally see why he'd never touched it.
4 days later as we were coming down the mountain another group was coming up on there 2nd day. These long haired twats and jocks had taken all the paste that he'd made for them, and were now trying to smoke it at the rest stop. These boys didn't quite grasp that you wouldn't even get high but they were so annoying that I hoped they'd poison themselves. Wankers.
Bedtime again and lying in the darkness unable to sleep you think about a lot of things. Things like: life, the question of why we are here?, is there a god?, the afterlife, girls, old girlfriends, newer girlfriends, possible new girlfriends, work, films, music, money, ghostbusters, Rocky 4, is it possible to say John Cusack is a great actor? is it acceptable to use the word nigger in polite society? assuming of course that it's done in a satirical, ironic way, by people who cleary are not racist, (it's not by the way) animals, the real chance of me dying sooner than I want to, family, Lovejoy, Only fools and hourses, friends, old and new, the girl I upset at Uni, University, my belongings, my general stench, is it possible to go into shock after receiving 100 mosquito bites? why are backpackers such wankers? the envitable fact that someone's got a bigger penis than me, a lot of people as it goes, sex, not having sex, could I have sex in the jungle? or would I not be able to get a hard on? music, the relization that 3 days is the longest time I've ever gone wihtout listening to music in my life, my bike, my general health, aids, cancer, almost all diseases that can kill me, mosquitos, and was I ever going to actually go to sleep again?
Day three or four and I watch as the local Tayrona children gleefully throw a dog into a river so that it will cross. I can't help but think that us encroaching on their land and disturbing their lives can't be a good thing, especially when I see one smoking fags and basically taking our food rather than finding or growing his own.
We finally reach the summit and Edwin's knowledge ofthe place is facsinating, as is the story of getting kidnapped and running away from the kidnappers.
We get back down in one day rather than sleep another night, this isn't because we weren't enjoying it, but if it could be done in a day then let's get it over with. There was a slight air of competitiveness going to down, but I'm pleased to say that we all got down at our own pace, and that achievement was a shared one.
Lloyd and I headed straight back to a 5 star hotel in Santa Marta, the next day we drank from 10am until well into the next day. I didn't wear any suntan cream because I was under a umbrella, but obviously the 40 mins drunkenly floating in the sea turned my body into a nasty violent red colour. And on my left shoulder a big watery blister had formed, it looked like I been burnt with acid. horrible.
And now I'm here, Lloyd has left and I'm alone. I head to Bogota to learn Spanish and maybe to go and visit Marta and Manuel. And I'll let you know how I get on.
I ran off back to Cartagena to begin a treat of treats - 2 weeks of luxury 5 star living with a dear old pal. He'd not had a ´proper´holiday in 4 years and was adament that 2 weeks on the beach and by the pool would be the tonic, and frankly I wasn't going to stand in his way.
Now walking into a 5 star hotel, that is mostly occupied by rich Colombians, wearing a battered white tee shirt and carrying 2 backpacks that are covered with dust from my bus trip is quite a test. The doorman wouldn't open the door for me, I´m sure he'd assumed that I was lost and wasn´t in the mood to give directions, but flashing a smile and a positive nod of the head, he eventually let me in.
The aircon was jet powered and the grandios entrance area bought a tingle down my spine, this is where I truly belonged.
Upon finding my pal we proceeded to drink the hotel bar beers (9,000 peso, I´d been paying 1,300) and get smashed and eat in a very nice restaurant. The salty tears of joy as I climbed into the ice cold bed will be with more for a good while.
But bitter irony put pay to those feelings of contentment as exactly 14 hours after I´d checked in I got the most vicous runs, or the Tom Tits to use the rhyming slang. Now I was faced with darting from the pool area to relieve my bladder waterfall every few minutes in the furnace poolside toilets, and I coulnd´t have got back to the room as it was on the seventh floor, and I was never going to make it safely, unless I wanted to leave a brown snake all the way through the hotel. 3 weeks of questionable street food and dodgy backstreet eateries, and I get sick in a 5 star hotel.
Now staying in a Colombian hotel, that for the large part, only caters for rich Colombians, the sight of a small, sweaty, pale white, ginger man, walking alongside a taller, dark haired, gringo, we experienced a fair share of curious amused looks from the staff and the partons. The pool guy, a short, stocky, man with a loud voice, who also loved playing loud salsa from a sound system a festival would be proud of. at 10am. found us to be a fairly amusing site. His name was Carlos and he quicky began shouting 'motha fuckas' loudly whenever we walked past him, he was a good laugh.
We played pool with him and he said,
"what are you names?"
"Gareth Potter" I replied,
"Gared Podder?"
"No, No, Gareth Potter"
"oh! you meen like a da Harry Potter! you his fukkin cousin or his brodder?" he then proceeded to piss himself laughing, as did my pal.
Now I never liked the assoiciation to Harry, especially when certain larks enjoy calling me 'Gary Potter' but to have to deal with it 7,000 miles away was annoying, but Rowling's fucked me again.
4 days into burning myself poolside, swimming in a pool, and generally lazing around my pal mentioned a trip I'd suggested to him called the 'Ciudad Perdida, or the lost city tour. 5 nights and 6 days trekking through the jungle to visit an ancient city, built by the Tayrona people as a religous and spiritual site. and also lower down the mountain, housing for up to 1,500 people. It was lost in the 15th Century after the Spanish invaded and wiped them out. It was only ever found again by grave robbers in 1975, who plundered the area. Grave robbing was actually legal in those days. which was a little odd.
Either way this little adventure appealed to my friend, mostly because I think he wanted a bit of space between me and him after spening 4 days with me, while hotel staff pondered whether or not we were 'not the marrying kind' or 'good with colours' or 'first on the dance floor' or 'chi chi boys' or 'straight up male prostitutes'.
So it was decided, we'd have another night at the hotel, leave for the trek on the Friday, and start it on the Saturday morning.
Carlos was quite confused as to why two potential homosexuals wanted to climb around the mountains, looking for nothing in paricular, but he kept it mostly to himself.
"Hey Lloyd, wad the fukk is the madder with your friend Haree? all he do is read, sleep, read, sleep, read, sleep" was the parting question to my pal.
On the bus to Santa Marta the driver asks for my name,
"Potter" I reply,
"like Harry" pipes up Lloyd, and the whole bus has a good chuckle.
And so it began. We'd read some websites and quizzed some friends who'd done the tour before, as to what was in store for us, and what did we need to take.
Mostly people said it was amazing, bring loads of mosquito spray, some dry clothes for the evening, maybe a bin bag for you wet clothes, some sandals with straps on them, and a water bottle.
Now if I knew then what I know now I'd have rephrased that advice to:
bring spray, but the higher up you go that more rapid and mental they are. In fact by the top you'll think the spary was a attractive pheromone to them, and that they'd love it
Everything's going to get wet, and stink like the inside of Rik Wallers inner thigh.
you'll be throwing the sandals away on the last day because they've fallen apart and totally humm, so don't spend out on them.
You're going to have to make peace with the fact that you'll be drinking river water. The same river that they throw all the food, faeces, piss, and general waste into.
But I didn't know that did I? As of writing I have 97 mosquito bites on my body, 86 of those were due to being up a mountain with a mosquito net that simply kept the mosquito inside, rather than the other way round. Only my bright little white fella escaped the mauling , but if they could have found it, I'm sure they'd have gone down on it like Devine Brown went down on Hugh Grant.
We all meet at the turcol office in Santa Marta. Our group was like this:
Hans - a large Dutch fellow, who looks like my cousin, and looks at me without hiding the fact that he's thinking I'm odd, and querying why I won't shut up occasionally
Emon - Another Dutch fellow, smaller than Hans, but with an air of a Dutch footballer. Quiet but when he speaks, you tend to listen, if only because it's about football or women.
Idris - A jolly Dutch fellow, who would simply turn to me and say things like,
"you know Gareth, when I get home, I'm gonna eat, sleep, and then I'm going to fuck my girlfriend, and then I'm going to sleep again" most of the time this was unprompted chatter, but being so lovely, I just took it all in
Peter - A very good, honest, American boy. Minus the scary religous zeal, and has been out of the US enough times to know that other people are different , and that they should be respected. Marta and her son Manuel - A Colombian tour operater and veterinarian. who was on the trip to see if she could recommend it to her clients. She couldn't. and her son, who was a quiet, dignified, young fella.
Antonio - A mad engineer from Medellin, who couldn't speak a word of English , but would love to chat away to us, even though he knew we couldn't understand a word he'd say. but he was so animated that we let him crack on. We later found out that he was massive into god, and that he was possibly trying to convert all of us for the full 5 days.
A our guide Edwin, who'd been kidnapped doing the tour in 2005 but went straight back to it a couple of months later.
A that was our jolly crew, a nicer group of people you couldn't find, and if we'd have been in the other groups we saw during the trek, I'd have gone straight back down again on the first day. but more about them later. suffice to say. wankers.
The drive to the jungle was simple enough, until the off road, where the bus would veer dangerously close to the edge as we climbed higher and higher. The volumous mountains began to envelop us, and with every turn we'd climb higher, and the mountains would spread out into the distance. It was beautiful. And before anyone asks for photos, I can't be arsed downloading them all onto this questionable, Colombian computer, in this smelly internet shop.
Now I'm all for a little walk occasionally, I like to walk into town or a stroll down the canal to Canary Wharf, or even a few times round the park. I am not adverse to walking and find it a pleasant thing to do.
This wasn't walking though, this was hard graft, moving up inclines and declines, that would tower over you, or feel like you were going to fall straight down the mountain. This wasn't easy and I realized that this was going to be quite tough. If I hadn't done the marathon training a couple of months ago I'd have really struggled. Marta was having a tough time of it.
I'm a sweater, in the bodily fluid sense rather than the clothing sense. Always have been. Holidays in hot countries are quite taxing, as I expel my body weight out of every pore. And that's when I'm lying down by a pool drinking a beer. combine this with proper hard work and I was sweating like a peado at a school sports day.
My water was done by the first rest stop, some nice people had set up a little shop.
"Yes I would like a small bottle of water please, how much is that? 3,000 pesos? but they were only 2,000 at the bottom? nevermind, if I don't take on fluids soon, I'm going to pass out"
To say they had you over a barrel is one thing, I would say that they've got you half way up a mountain and you're half dead.
We get to the first stop of the day at around 3pm, we swim in the river, and jump off a waterfall. It's a glourious place , and if you don't work out the pissy river thing too early, it's the nicest swim you've ever head.
Dinner, some drinks with the boys to get to know them, then bed. or should I say hammock.
Now lights out in a hammock, you cannot see anything, not even your own hand in front of your face. The sort of darkness that freaks you right out, especially if you live in London, and the street light outside bedroom never goes out, and the only sound you hear is the birds and the animals, that sound like they're getting closer and closer to you.
Following morning after a petrifying, bitten ridden sleep we arise to a cocaine factory tour, as conducted by a little cross eyed fella, who looked like he'd done enough coke to power the Bolivian army for a year or two.
The factory wasn't a working factory, more like a mock shop, or chemical experiment that you'd see in techniquest (one for the Cardiff massive there) but he took us into the jungle and he went through the seven or so stages of cocaine production. It was very interesting and when the acid burnt through the coca plants, you had a acute awareness of what millions of people were stuffing their noses with every weekend. He stopped at the last stage of production, whereby it's dried and mixed with an acetone to release the chemical that gets you high. The finished product that he had was a paste, which looked like toothpaste, and numbed your mouth and face for a good 20 minutes.
He also said that he'd never done coke in his life, and looking around the factory, smelling the gasoline, and the 6 other harmful chemicals, you could totally see why he'd never touched it.
4 days later as we were coming down the mountain another group was coming up on there 2nd day. These long haired twats and jocks had taken all the paste that he'd made for them, and were now trying to smoke it at the rest stop. These boys didn't quite grasp that you wouldn't even get high but they were so annoying that I hoped they'd poison themselves. Wankers.
Bedtime again and lying in the darkness unable to sleep you think about a lot of things. Things like: life, the question of why we are here?, is there a god?, the afterlife, girls, old girlfriends, newer girlfriends, possible new girlfriends, work, films, music, money, ghostbusters, Rocky 4, is it possible to say John Cusack is a great actor? is it acceptable to use the word nigger in polite society? assuming of course that it's done in a satirical, ironic way, by people who cleary are not racist, (it's not by the way) animals, the real chance of me dying sooner than I want to, family, Lovejoy, Only fools and hourses, friends, old and new, the girl I upset at Uni, University, my belongings, my general stench, is it possible to go into shock after receiving 100 mosquito bites? why are backpackers such wankers? the envitable fact that someone's got a bigger penis than me, a lot of people as it goes, sex, not having sex, could I have sex in the jungle? or would I not be able to get a hard on? music, the relization that 3 days is the longest time I've ever gone wihtout listening to music in my life, my bike, my general health, aids, cancer, almost all diseases that can kill me, mosquitos, and was I ever going to actually go to sleep again?
Day three or four and I watch as the local Tayrona children gleefully throw a dog into a river so that it will cross. I can't help but think that us encroaching on their land and disturbing their lives can't be a good thing, especially when I see one smoking fags and basically taking our food rather than finding or growing his own.
We finally reach the summit and Edwin's knowledge ofthe place is facsinating, as is the story of getting kidnapped and running away from the kidnappers.
We get back down in one day rather than sleep another night, this isn't because we weren't enjoying it, but if it could be done in a day then let's get it over with. There was a slight air of competitiveness going to down, but I'm pleased to say that we all got down at our own pace, and that achievement was a shared one.
Lloyd and I headed straight back to a 5 star hotel in Santa Marta, the next day we drank from 10am until well into the next day. I didn't wear any suntan cream because I was under a umbrella, but obviously the 40 mins drunkenly floating in the sea turned my body into a nasty violent red colour. And on my left shoulder a big watery blister had formed, it looked like I been burnt with acid. horrible.
And now I'm here, Lloyd has left and I'm alone. I head to Bogota to learn Spanish and maybe to go and visit Marta and Manuel. And I'll let you know how I get on.
Saturday 12 June 2010
Haggling and corruption. The Colombian way
So I arrive into Mompos, a tiny town with a population of around 62,000 people. It used to be the main port for goods back in the 15th century, but since the coast opened up in the 16th century the place has basically been left untouched. So it´s a very old town with about 12 more churches than it actually needs.
It´s now a Useco protected sight which means money is given to restore and take care of the place, but our guide told us that the Mayor just steals all the money and buys him and his family loads of jeeps.
But I´m not Michael Palin so it´s back to the stream of rubbish that flows through my head.
There´s no prices on anything in Colombia, so you have to ask every time, and when you do ask the seller will look you up and down and judge quickly:
1. If you look stupid enough to be charged way over the odds for the pineapple
2. If you´re American, again so they can charge you more as they don´t like Americans
3. And if you´ll try to haggle them down on the price
After doing this when buying anything (even bus tickets, they´ll say a price, you ask for a discount, and they go ´yeah, ok´. Imagine that on the 38. nuts!) it gets a bit boring. and you feel like someone´s trying to cheat you all the time.
We get a boat trip down the river to another village that isn´t Useco protected and is a lot more raw. I noticed that a lot of the houses keep pigs as pets, and they let them wander around the village all day, then make there way home at night. I couldn´t work out if they played fetch with the pigs though.
They also organize mis-matched fights between Iguanas and monkeys. which is nice.
In Colombian bars there is a culture of showing off that you have the biggest sound system and flat screen TV. The TV´s show the video to the song that´s being played, and this is the norm. You have giant screens playing the videos, while the volume is so loud that you can´t speak to the person sitting next to you. It´s very strange.
And the music policy is, frankly, fucking nuts. They´ll play Salsa and traditional Colombian music, mixed with banging reggaeton and Paul Simon´s ´you can call me Al´ which I´ve heard in 3 different bars in 2 weeks! And it´s not even the good video with Chevy Chase, it´s live from about ´88.
And if I ever meet David Guetta I´m going to punch the floppy haired French surrender monkey so hard. that he´ll never make another video ever again. He´s got 4 songs over here that get played EVERYWHERE! Especially the one with Akon. Wankers.
You just can´t escape the little shit, him and Kelly Rowland, him and Estelle, him on his own, it´s borderline ruining my trip.
Saturday night is rave night in Mompos, so in the main square, 4 bars that face each other pull their massive speakers out and face them into the square. They then proceed to play music over the top of each other and comically loud volume until the early morning. Large men in large jeeps sit around drinking rum and beers, but there´s almost no girls out. I ask Cherie, who´s been living in Colombia for 2 years,
"Where are the ladies?"
"At home, pregnant" came the short reply from Cherie.
Quite a lot of Cherie´s comments are fairly short and to the point. Here´s a selection:
´Arseholes´= Colombian men
´Poncy fashion people, hanging out in Dalston, wearing pork pie hats´ = me, and her friend Amy.
´Twats´ = People in general
´Fuck off Shakira´ Well. Shakira mostly.
But she was super lovely and did say that the culture is more towards the women keeping the home while the men go out and,
"get fat, and sleep with other women........arseholes!"
It´s so hot here but about 40% of people wander around in jeans and shirts. I burst into tears everytime I leave an air conditioned room, but these people walk around in their Sunday best!
And I´m getting eaten alive by mosquitos. There about as useful as Jade Goody, but slightly more annoying. My legs are covered in big lumps that bleed all the time. It´s never ending.
Me and my new super best friend and human translator Julia leave Mompos and head for Taganga, which is a tiny fishing village that´s been taken over by hippy´s and people who take advantage of the cheap PADI diving. There´s more dread locks here than at Carnival. I´m leaving soon because I´m going to kill a hippy if I stay.
Saturday 5 June 2010
What I think when I run...........around South America
So here we are.
It's been a good couple of months since I wrote anything, this will be mostly because I've not run anywhere since the marathon. I've reverted to a sort of Elvis '70s, eating burgers, getting fat and dying on his toilet' sort of regime.
Don't get me wrong, I miss running, but I missed eating crap and sitting about watching TV more, so that's exactly what I've been doing.
But it's all change now as I have something worth talking about. I am going to South America. For 5 months. I'm not sure why, I just felt that I needed to go away, so go away I have.
So this will now be about the stupid things that come into my head while I crawl and possibly run around South America.
Let's start at the beginning.........
I knew it was a mistake to fly Air France all the way to Colombia. The French have a unique way of getting up my nose, not dis-similar to the Aussies. With the French it's the rudeness and arrogance. Luckly, I was sat next to a Colombian so I didn't have to drink myself into a stupor through the flight.
Watched Avatar on the 6inch by 4inch TV in the seat rest in front of me, seeing it on that sized screen you realize that it's just 'Dances with Wolves' with stupid looking people instead of Indians. Pointless.
I arrive in Bogota and try to get to Cartagena, initially I thought it could be done by taxi, however, it´s more that 300 miles away. And even with the decent exchange rate to the Colombian Peso, I was going to have to get the bus. The bus was going to take 23 hours and cost 70 quid, so I booked a flight for the next day that cost me 48 pounds, and got me there in 1 and a half hours. It's as weird as the train fares system at home, how can that possibly be right?
The first big issue is my lack of Spanish speaking ability. I am dead in the water, so there's much pointing at maps to taxi drivers, and occasional shouts of gracias from me. Cab drivers beep their horns for no reason here, my drive would be in traffic and just lean on his horn until the light changed. They seem to beep to let others know that they're there, or that they see you, or that you nearly crashed into them.
My first nervous moment comes as my driver leans behinds him to lock the back passenger door, he then motions to me to do the same to my side. He then points around and I realize that the street we're on is covered in hookers, and dodgy looking fellas. Drive starts pointing certain ones out to me, I motion that,
'yes, they are very attractive' or
'bueno, bueno'
it takes a bit longer for me to then understand through his waving arms and grabbing of his balls that he means that they're the transexual ones.
The first thing you notice about backpacking around is the friendlyness of other backpackers. People simply walk up to you and say
'Hi, we're off to eat, would you like to come?'
It's the clearest opposite of human nature I've ever experienced. But I need it as I'm on my own and can't speak a word of Spanish. Although when this woman did say this to me I intially replied
'Can't you see I'm reading?'
I land in Cartagena and I'm determined to get the public bus to the backpackers hostel. So I hail one down on the side of the road. It would seem that they don't have stops, you just stand and put your hand out.
I get on the bus and I can't get on at the front because my bag is massive and won't fit through the turnstile. He points to the back so I get on there. I move to the front to pay, and I think he asks me where I'm going, I point at my really not very good map and smile inanely, eventually another passenger says something that I think means,
'I know where you're going, I'll let you know when to get off'
2 stops later he gets off and says something to me and points at the driver. I now assume that he's going to let me know.
The bus is getting full now but nobody sits next to me. People actually stand on the bus than sit on the back seat with me. I start to feel a lot like Rosa Parks, and look out of the window and wonder if this is what racism feels like. But then I decide that I get more shit for being ginger.
As I sit pondering modern racism the bus comes to a stop and the bus driver tells the guy next to him getting the fare money something, he then tells the guy behind him, who turns and shouts back up the bus, eventually about 14 faces all turn and start gesturing towards me, and then to the road. I think it's time to get off the bus. I stand and shout gracias and the whole bus waves me off the bus with big friendly smiles. Well. They don't, the door shuts and the bus pulls away, covering me in dust, and with windows full of Colombians staring at the pasty ginger in the road. I'm sure I saw a smile though.
As I get off the bus I start a sweat that has yet to actually stop. It's similar to constantly pissing, you don't mind at first but it just doesn't stop.
I get to my hostel and move into my colonial style 6 man prison dorm. It's very weird, it's like going on a school trip with total strangers.
I meet Glyn from Canada who is basically so nice that I actually don't feel that freaked out. I almost start enjoying it.
Glyn and Julia (who's name I can't remember, and keep having to ask Glyn what she's called) go off to a mud volcano so I decide to sit by the little pool and read my book.
And then it starts. The slow strumming of an accoustic guitar fills the pool area. I look up to the balcony and see this twat walk out of his room strumming a guitar, he's wearing one of those hairband things to keep his hair back while he plays,
So this is it then? I am surrounded by wankers who bring guitars with them on backpacking trips, who then play them to nobody in the middle of the day, and ruin my day. What am I doing here? I've nothing in common with these people. I am so depressed by this hippy that I contemplate going to a internet cafe and booking a flight home.
Luckly Glyn and what's her name, come back and we go out and it's a really lovely night, and we plan to do stuff for the next couple of days so it's all looking up.
The next day I decide to shave my head, anything to lessen the heat on my body. I go for a 1 all over, but my shaver runs out of battery so I can't shave my beard. Eventually after charging it I can but by this time I've burnt my face and my now beardless chin is a bright white against my pinkish cheeks, and against my burnt forhead. I look a lot like a national flag with red, pink, and white stripes running down my face.
Hopefully it'll all merge together eventually.
I take a walk around the old town and I'm accosted by a 14 year old boy whos asks
'where you from?'
I reply Wales and he replies almost straight away,
'my name is Tony Montana, and I can get you ANYTHING you want'
I think how good it is that the Welsh reputation has reached this far .
It's been a good couple of months since I wrote anything, this will be mostly because I've not run anywhere since the marathon. I've reverted to a sort of Elvis '70s, eating burgers, getting fat and dying on his toilet' sort of regime.
Don't get me wrong, I miss running, but I missed eating crap and sitting about watching TV more, so that's exactly what I've been doing.
But it's all change now as I have something worth talking about. I am going to South America. For 5 months. I'm not sure why, I just felt that I needed to go away, so go away I have.
So this will now be about the stupid things that come into my head while I crawl and possibly run around South America.
Let's start at the beginning.........
I knew it was a mistake to fly Air France all the way to Colombia. The French have a unique way of getting up my nose, not dis-similar to the Aussies. With the French it's the rudeness and arrogance. Luckly, I was sat next to a Colombian so I didn't have to drink myself into a stupor through the flight.
Watched Avatar on the 6inch by 4inch TV in the seat rest in front of me, seeing it on that sized screen you realize that it's just 'Dances with Wolves' with stupid looking people instead of Indians. Pointless.
I arrive in Bogota and try to get to Cartagena, initially I thought it could be done by taxi, however, it´s more that 300 miles away. And even with the decent exchange rate to the Colombian Peso, I was going to have to get the bus. The bus was going to take 23 hours and cost 70 quid, so I booked a flight for the next day that cost me 48 pounds, and got me there in 1 and a half hours. It's as weird as the train fares system at home, how can that possibly be right?
The first big issue is my lack of Spanish speaking ability. I am dead in the water, so there's much pointing at maps to taxi drivers, and occasional shouts of gracias from me. Cab drivers beep their horns for no reason here, my drive would be in traffic and just lean on his horn until the light changed. They seem to beep to let others know that they're there, or that they see you, or that you nearly crashed into them.
My first nervous moment comes as my driver leans behinds him to lock the back passenger door, he then motions to me to do the same to my side. He then points around and I realize that the street we're on is covered in hookers, and dodgy looking fellas. Drive starts pointing certain ones out to me, I motion that,
'yes, they are very attractive' or
'bueno, bueno'
it takes a bit longer for me to then understand through his waving arms and grabbing of his balls that he means that they're the transexual ones.
The first thing you notice about backpacking around is the friendlyness of other backpackers. People simply walk up to you and say
'Hi, we're off to eat, would you like to come?'
It's the clearest opposite of human nature I've ever experienced. But I need it as I'm on my own and can't speak a word of Spanish. Although when this woman did say this to me I intially replied
'Can't you see I'm reading?'
I land in Cartagena and I'm determined to get the public bus to the backpackers hostel. So I hail one down on the side of the road. It would seem that they don't have stops, you just stand and put your hand out.
I get on the bus and I can't get on at the front because my bag is massive and won't fit through the turnstile. He points to the back so I get on there. I move to the front to pay, and I think he asks me where I'm going, I point at my really not very good map and smile inanely, eventually another passenger says something that I think means,
'I know where you're going, I'll let you know when to get off'
2 stops later he gets off and says something to me and points at the driver. I now assume that he's going to let me know.
The bus is getting full now but nobody sits next to me. People actually stand on the bus than sit on the back seat with me. I start to feel a lot like Rosa Parks, and look out of the window and wonder if this is what racism feels like. But then I decide that I get more shit for being ginger.
As I sit pondering modern racism the bus comes to a stop and the bus driver tells the guy next to him getting the fare money something, he then tells the guy behind him, who turns and shouts back up the bus, eventually about 14 faces all turn and start gesturing towards me, and then to the road. I think it's time to get off the bus. I stand and shout gracias and the whole bus waves me off the bus with big friendly smiles. Well. They don't, the door shuts and the bus pulls away, covering me in dust, and with windows full of Colombians staring at the pasty ginger in the road. I'm sure I saw a smile though.
As I get off the bus I start a sweat that has yet to actually stop. It's similar to constantly pissing, you don't mind at first but it just doesn't stop.
I get to my hostel and move into my colonial style 6 man prison dorm. It's very weird, it's like going on a school trip with total strangers.
I meet Glyn from Canada who is basically so nice that I actually don't feel that freaked out. I almost start enjoying it.
Glyn and Julia (who's name I can't remember, and keep having to ask Glyn what she's called) go off to a mud volcano so I decide to sit by the little pool and read my book.
And then it starts. The slow strumming of an accoustic guitar fills the pool area. I look up to the balcony and see this twat walk out of his room strumming a guitar, he's wearing one of those hairband things to keep his hair back while he plays,
So this is it then? I am surrounded by wankers who bring guitars with them on backpacking trips, who then play them to nobody in the middle of the day, and ruin my day. What am I doing here? I've nothing in common with these people. I am so depressed by this hippy that I contemplate going to a internet cafe and booking a flight home.
Luckly Glyn and what's her name, come back and we go out and it's a really lovely night, and we plan to do stuff for the next couple of days so it's all looking up.
The next day I decide to shave my head, anything to lessen the heat on my body. I go for a 1 all over, but my shaver runs out of battery so I can't shave my beard. Eventually after charging it I can but by this time I've burnt my face and my now beardless chin is a bright white against my pinkish cheeks, and against my burnt forhead. I look a lot like a national flag with red, pink, and white stripes running down my face.
Hopefully it'll all merge together eventually.
I take a walk around the old town and I'm accosted by a 14 year old boy whos asks
'where you from?'
I reply Wales and he replies almost straight away,
'my name is Tony Montana, and I can get you ANYTHING you want'
I think how good it is that the Welsh reputation has reached this far .
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