22-25/1/2012 - Those Inca sure knew how to make some sexy pots

My bus journey to Lima (38 hours in the end) was uneventful to say the least, although the last stretch just before Lima was very scenic. The way the bus snaked its way along the Panamerican Highway which hugs the coast brought back memories of cycling the west coast of the US with Aled and Arthur a few years back. The sheer length of time on the bus made the experience a little gruelling and every once in a while I wondered why I didn't just get on a damn flight from Colombia. Then I'd remember the $300 I was saving and the amount of delicious Peruvian food and toasty warm alpaca sweaters I could buy for that money.

Arriving in Lima by bus gave a pretty good sense of how huge it is. The road was already cutting through shanty towns and gritty suburbs half an hour before we arrived into the centre and I was confronted with that strange feeling of being in Kiev again. It will be interesting to see if this comparison actually holds true when I return to Kiev this summer.

Walking into the hostel (recommended in my out of date guide) felt more like walking into someone's front room, if that someone had invited loads of travellers to crash there. The hostesses and staff were really friendly and recommended a great place to eat nearby which I duly obliged in visiting. Miraflores, the neighbourhood I'm staying in is very modern and reminds me a lot of Vancouver – well organised and clean but a little charmless and lacking in character. There were no beds free in the hostel but at night the front room becomes covered in mattresses and accommodates an extra handful of travellers. Tonight I joined the slumber party.

Miraflores

The Larco museum, which I went to the next day (thanks for the recommendation Christina!), was crammed with Inca pottery, textiles and jewellery. Although the main exhibition was interesting and informative, undoubtedly the most entertaining part was the collection of “erotic” pottery which featured men, women and, rather unnervingly, dead people in various compromising positions. The Inca believed in a strong connection with the after-life and even envisaged the dead partaking in sexual activity with the living. Fair enough, but you can't help but chuckle when confronted with a jug entitled “Man and dead woman embracing whilst hitting and stoning another dead man”. 

Aforementioned pot. This was one of the less explicit pieces on display.

 

Some of the non-erotic stuff was amazing as well. I particularly enjoyed the stylistic depiction of animals in the pottery – the Inca were really big on demented looking cats and owls with omniscient looks in their eyes. I'm almost certain modern cartoonists have drawn influence from the Inca designs I saw which is impressive since a lot of the Inca pottery dates back to 1AD. I also love the fact that when going into battle, Inca would wear clothing that sacrificed utility and agility for decoration and quantity of precious materials. Badass.

In the evening I went for a drink with Daniella, a Peruvian woman also staying at the hostel and after a few jugs of beer she did her best to teach me to salsa in a noisy club. At the hostel, I got the luxury of an air bed but was relegated to a room which was being used to store cement and tiles. For $3 and unlimited tea and coffee I really can't complain. To be honest I find myself drawn to cheap places which more often than not have wonderfully friendly and helpful owners and are brimming with like-minded travellers. Maybe as I get older I'll be drawn to the comfort, cleanliness and professionalism (or should that be coldness and charmlessness) of more upmarket hotels but for now, slumming it is definitely the way to go.

The next day it was time to jump on the bus which would finally take me to Cuzco – only 28 more hours! I decided to treat myself and travel 1^st class. As I boarded the bus and settled into a very comfortable seat, I reflected that all this bus malarkey really hadn't been as bad as I thought it would be. I rapidly changed this view as the in-bus entertainment went into an Arnold Schwarzenegger “comedies” marathon, the culmination of which was the horrific “Junior” (co-starring Danny DeVito) in which Arnnie becomes pregnant.

Couldn't resist putting this one on. Its the stuff of nightmares.

On an unrelated note, my blog has now hit 25000 words. I'm not sure if I ever wrote that many words during my degree...

18-21/1/2012 - A swift visit to Ecuador

If only I'd been quick enough with the camera to get a photo of the pig...

There was little of note on the bus journey to Ipiales except a rather strange stop to use the rest rooms. The service stop looked like any other we'd stopped at – a shabby restaurant and a toilet block around a dusty courtyard. Two german shepherds were on top of the toilet block and suddenly started going crazy. As we looked around trying to work out what they were getting excited about the door next to the toilet block opened and a man walked out leading a massive pig on a leash. I thought the dogs were going to jump off the roof and maul the thing but they limited themselves to barking their heads off as the man bundled the pig into a nearby cart and waved goodbye to the bemused travellers.

A few more bus hops, a scenic border crossing into Ecuador and finally I arrived into central Quito in the dead of night... or so I thought. My lonely planet guide, dating back to 2008, assured me that the bus terminal was extremely central and the hostel I wanted to stay at was a stone's throw away. After asking around, I ascertained that the central bus terminal no longer existed, that I was in fact at a terminal to the north of Quito, I needed to get yet another bus to another bus terminal and that once I'd done so it'd still be miles out of Quito. Eventually I made it to my hostel with plenty of recommendations on what to see from my taxi driver and having learned not to rely too heavily on my out of date guide in the future.

Unfortunately Quito was to be my only stop in Ecuador and, although its obviously impossible to get a sense of a country from 2 and a bit days in its capital, I thought I'd give it my best shot. The historic part of the city is a world heritage site and is littered with beautiful churches, cathedrals and museums.

Around the main square there was a host of expensive restaurants and fast food places catering to foreign tastes but wandering a few streets away I found some nice typical eateries serving set lunches of soup, rice salad and chicken and a drink for $1.5 (the currency in Ecuador is the US dollar). Ecuador is a major exporter of bananas and plantain and these fruits are omnipresent in the diet. My particular favourite was a ball of fried plantain stuffed with bits of meat and served with coffee. Having never been a coffee drinker before South America, I now knock back several cups a day. I can only blame Venezuela and Colombia for this transformation since on every street corner in these countries, guys with flasks of coffee are selling it for pennies and eventually I got addicted to the stuff. In Quito, these coffee sellers were gone only to be replaced by old women selling disgusting ice-creams for 25 cents.

Wandering around the city I quickly became aware of the altitude. Quito is in a valley so to see many parts of the city involves some fairly steep climbs. After barely a minutes walk up one such incline I paused to find that I was completely out of breath and that my heart was going at breakneck speed. Slightly unnerving.

Freddy vs The Beatles

This guys had to contend with people constantly trying to pour drinks into his mouth while he was singing

In the hostel I got chatting to a couple of Argentinian women and in the evening we headed to a nearby street in the old town lined with small bars, all boasting traditional live music. Settling on a great little no frills place filled with locals and colombian holiday makers we got a jug of Canelazo – a hot alcoholic drink flavoured with cinnamon and either naranjilla or mora juice, not dissimilar to Gluehwein (german mulled wine you get at Christmas markets) albeit with a bit more of a kick. The guy on the guitar was really good and sang a string of sad songs, one of which was ironically about how alcohol ruined his life. We moved onto another bar where the singer looked uncannily like Freddy Krueger from Nightmare on Elm Street and sang Hey Jude with spanish lyrics.

On my second night in Quito I ended up in the party centre and got chatting to a group of ex-pat teachers in an Irish bar. I quickly realised that there would be nothing remotely Ecuadorian about tonight, especially after we headed to a bar/club called “house of rock” which played a good dose of AC/DC but also threw in a disappointing amount of Coldplay and Keane. After a while I made my excuses (the teachers had paid for all my drinks which was really nice of them) and headed to another club I'd been recommended. Once inside, the first guys I got chatting to were Russian - how do I keep finding them? The club was a fairly typical affair – American chart music and inflated drinks prices but the Ecuadorians I chatted to were really friendly and berated me for spending so little time in their country. The police came and shut the place down at 3 which was a bit of a shame but it had been an awesome night (and definitely more successful than the one in Medellin).

On my last day I checked out a few more cathedrals and museums as well as doing a spot of clothes shopping – I'd accidentally left a plastic bag full of clothes in Medellin. My 36 hour bus journey directly to Lima in Peru was supposed to leave at midnight but when I rang up to confirm this, I was told it wouldn't be leaving until at least 3 am. This wasn't ideal but it did mean I got to share a few more jugs of Canelazo with the Argentinians who implored me to get in touch with them once I got to Buenos Aires.

Midnight came and went. The hostel grew deadly quiet. I packed my stuff, strolled into the deserted street and hailed a taxi. Goodbye Quito. Goodbye Ecuador.

16-17/1/2012 - Monday night misadventures in Medellin

Arriving in Medellin bleary eyed I headed to a hostel in upmarket neighbourhood near the centre with a Dutch guy I'd met on the bus. Almost immediately after arrival we joined some other travellers and headed off for a city bus tour. This is the first time I'd taken one of these and it was a mixed affair, some of the stops on the tour being more than a little redundant (a chocolate shop, a shopping centre), but nonetheless gave a favourable first impression of Medellin as a thriving city with plenty going on. Shame I only have one night here.

One of the stops on the tour was the central Plaza Botero. Botero is a Colombian artist who's style basically involves making everything and everyone fat (that's maybe a little unfair – he also plays around with proportions) and the plaza was full of his sculptures which I can only describe as “fun”. The style reminded me a little of Beryl Cook's fat happy people by the seaside; I wonder if they know about each other.

Beryl Cook?

Botero?

All through my travels in Colombia I'd been told about the beauty of Medellinian women and, although initially I wasn't blown away, after wandering around the city for a couple of hours I began to see what the hype had been about. It was the sheer consistency of good looks and fantastic figures which I found the most astounding; I wonder if statistics on this sort of thing exist.

Back at the hostel I had my first hot shower in over 3 months. I'd like to say it was amazing but truth be told, I'd pretty much gotten used to the lukewarm and sometimes outright cold offerings in all the others hostels I'd stayed at. On the other hand, I'm heading to cooler climates so maybe I'll start appreciating them soon.

In the evening a group of us (Dutch, Canadian & Israeli) grabbed a 1L carton of rum (yes, a carton) and then attempted to find some night life in Medellin... on a monday night. Asking around it seemed like we were out of luck but the taxi driver said he knew a place so off we went. Walking into the bar where the taxi had dropped us off, it quickly became apparent that it was a bar/brothel and we were the only patrons. Oops. For idealogical and financial reasons none of us wanted to stay so we said our goodbyes to the over-friendly staff, made a quick exit and ended up at a casino nearby. Note to self: don't try to find a party on a monday.

The next day it was time to move on again. In the morning I went on a ride on the cable cars (which are actually part of the metro system and included in the price) and took in a bit more Medellin before getting on a 17 hour bus to Ipiales: the last town in Colombia before the Ecuadorian border. I wish I could have stayed longer but, alas, time dictates that I am granted a mere taste of Colombia and, just like every other traveller I've spoken to, I hope to return one day.

14-15/1/2012 - Getting some perspective in Cartagena

I'd opted to get the 5am bus to Cartagena (the hostel I'd gotten in touch with told me to get there nice and early to have a chance of getting a bed) and was treated to another showing of “The Zookeeper” en route. Arriving at the hostel and dumping my stuff, me and a dutch guy, who'd also just arrived, headed to Cartagena's old town. Despite being tired and still somewhat ill, I couldn't help but be charmed by Cartagena. In several places I'd visited previously on my travels (notably Coro) the colonial architecture was present in dribs and drabs and was often in disrepair. Entering Cartagena's old town on the hand, really felt like walking into a perfectly preserved colonial time capsule, albeit with loads of tourists milling around and taking photos. After a preliminary wander around, we found a very expensive eatery right next to the main square which was showing Premier League football. I warned my dutch amigo against ordering food (I was in the right mood to rest my weary frame, have a beer and watch some football) but he went for the ludicrously overpriced fish anyway. Fortunately he was travelling to Taganga next so I made him promise to try the fish there; I didn't want him leaving Colombia disillusioned about the quality of fish here.

After his disappointing lunch we parted ways as he headed back to the hostel while I opted to stay and take in more of the town. I didn't really feel up to it but I decided to man up. I'd recently finished reading the book dad had bought me, “Travel in Dangerous Places” - a collection of dairy excerpts from explorers who'd undertaken some of the most difficult journeys (including Bingham's discovery of Machu Pichu and Scott's ill-fated expedition to the South Pole). Reading about the stuff these guys went through really put into perspective my own “adventures” and occasional sufferings. The 3 days of travellers diarrhoea I'd had in Venezuela? I'd read about explorers who had it for weeks. The “danger” from criminals and corrupt officials I faced by travelling South America? Some of the expeditions I read about were constantly under attack from angry natives or under threat from power hungry and distrustful sheiks. My complaints about the fatty and unhealthy diet I've encountered? Men from one expedition had to eat the leather off their boots to stay alive while others marched without food for 2 weeks. Perspective really is a powerful thing.

Oldest church in Cartagena with a Botero fat lady in front of it

My treacherous afternoon stroll around Cartagena saw me take in a couple of museums, try some delicious Colombian condensed milk based sweets and relax in the lovely plazas of the old town while sipping on a mango-orange-strawberry smoothie. What an adventurer I am.

In the evening I met the dutch guy again and, still feeling in an adventurous mood, decided to join him in getting a shave at a local barber – the kind where they use the cut-throat razor. I have to admit it wasn't a pleasant experience. I'm not sure if it's always supposed to hurt as much as it did but I am sure that the barber isn't supposed to leave a sizeable gash on your chin. At least he apologized. I sincerely thanked him for the mutilation.

Cartagena Castle

The next day, since I was leaving for Medellin (Colombia's second biggest city) that night, I crammed in as much Cartagena as I could. I visited the castle (Cartagena's old town is guarded by a hefty wall and castle which protected it from pirate attacks back in the day) but wasn't overly impressed. However, the visit made me question why in my 5 years at Edinburgh I'd never made the effort to visit castle or explore more of Edinburgh's rich history. Another resolution added to the list.

Painting in one of the museums I visited

In the afternoon I took what would undoubtedly be my last dip in the Caribbean for a long time. I dodged the McDonalds and Burger King in the neighbourhood in favour of some local fare and before I knew it, it was time pack up and head to the bus station. I shared a cab from the hostel with 2 Argentinian girls who were also heading to Medellin and after receiving a pat down from the police in the terminal we headed off on our 14 hour bus journey.

10-13/1/2012 - Hasta luego amigo

In the morning, me and Ben parted ways as he opted to move on while I was seduced into spending a few more days in Taganga and Santa Marta. I passed the day reading, chatting to other travellers and exploring parts of Taganga that I hadn't yet seen and, ofcourse, trying some more of the delicious fresh fruit smoothies – my personal favourite has become the mango milkshake which I will have to try (and inevitably fail) to recreate when I return to the UK.

The next day, prompted by a lack of water in my hostel and a lack of electricity in the whole of Taganga (quite a common occurrence), I jumped on a bus back to Santa Marta and found a hostel in the centre. Since I'd had quite a lot of beach time in the last couple of days I was struck by a craving for culture and so headed to the monument and botanical gardens where Simon Bolivar died. As well as the usual historical fare there was also quite a sizeable exhibition of modern art and one of the rooms even had a live pianist bashing out competent renditions of Chopin's Ballades and Scherzos. It was a real treat to hear music I knew and loved in such a tranquil setting (I resisted the urge to ask to have a go). After listening to the pianist for a while I accidentally fumbled my way into a small library and, after browsing a few to books to save face in front of the steely-eyed librarian, I headed back to my hostel with culture coming out of my ears.

The room where Bolivar died (the bed is tiny!)

In the evening I had a couple of beers in a bar while chatting to 2 guys who lived in Santa Marta. It was good force myself to get back into speaking spanish (especially when in a slightly inebriated state) and we discussed everything from social problems in Colombia (one of the guys worked with disadvantaged teenagers) to the perils of growing old and still being single (both of them were in the their early 30's and were going through a bit of a crisis). Naturally Colombian women got a mention too.

The next two days I spent feeling a bit under the weather so used the opportunity to try and catch up with folks back home as well as have a few wanders around the nice parts of Santa Marta and sample the seafood cocktails served up along the beach front. I also realised that the two weeks I had left to get to Cuzco in Peru (from where I was starting the Inca Trail trek to Machu Pichu which I'd already booked) really wasn't a lot of time to cover such a massive distance. After mulling over whether to take one flight which would take around 9 hours or around 7 buses which would take around 5 days (but be about $300 cheaper) I opted for the buses. With that decided it was time to stop lounging around Santa Marta and hit the road. Next stop – Cartagena.

7-9/1/2012 - Tayrona's picture-perfect beaches

Everyone we'd met in Taganga had raved about the nearby Tayrona National Park. Glorious beaches and jungle trekking sounded like a good way to pass a few more days so in the morning Ben and I packed some alcoholic essentials (it was supposed to be very expensive in Tayrona) and headed off. After a bus journey which took much longer than expected (even by South American standards) and featured an over-exuberant bus conductor who claimed to have over 25 years of experience (though experience of what I wasn't sure) we arrived at the park entrance. The pleasant hour long hike through lush forest to the coast was made a little unpleasant by the volume of horse and donkey traffic (and associated excrement) which carried supplies and lazy tourists along the path. Still, we were arriving during a bank holiday weekend during high season so couldn't really complain. Emerging from the forest we were greeted by the midday heat and perfect Caribbean coastline.

One of the many stupidly scenic beaches

After securing hammocks at the campsite by the beach, we spent the day relaxing as well as checking out the family run bakery nearby (of all the things to have next to the beach) had outstandingly good bread with chocolate or caramel filling. In the evening we got chatting to two germans; a girl around my age and a man in his forties. It turned out that she was working as a tour guide and he was her client (although why anyone would need a guide in Tayrona park where the main attraction is the easily accessible beaches was beyond me). I instantly felt very sorry for the guide – the guy she was showing around Tayrona was probably the most dull person I'd met on my travels (or in life for that matter). I instigated a conversation and we got on to the subject of salsa at which point he asserted that Colombian women didn't know how to salsa correctly. I suggested that salsa (and in fact all dances) might have variations from place to place and that no particular version (or set of rules as he called it) was “correct”. And if we did go down that argument, I think he'd have a hard time convincing me that the salsa he'd learned in Germany was more authentic than any other. He went off on an analogy about learning to ski at which point I glazed over and did my best to remind myself that not all German people are like this.

The next day we left the first campsite, walked along the coast to the furthest campsite in Tayrona and spent the day lazing on picturesque beaches as well as joining in on a game of football. The scenery really was picture-perfect and each successive beach we came to seemed nicer than the last. At the last beach we came to (incidentally a nudist beach although the only people observing the policy were a couple of men – just our luck) we bumped into our German amigos. Clearly desperate to get away from her client, the guide came and chatted to me for a noticeably long time. She told me that he'd bored her to death by talking incessantly about his work as an electrical engineer. He'd also asked her who her worst client had been but she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth. Poor girl. On the other hand, despite the occasional weirdo and low pay she received, I reckon she has it pretty easy (especially in a place like Tayrona where her tasks involve walking jungle trails and relaxing on a beach – the same thing any other tourist in Tayrona would be doing). I told her that in same ways she was not dissimilar to a cheap escort, which went down well. British charm has deserted me of late.

On our last day in Tayrona we decided not to retrace our steps back to the main entrance but exit the park via an excursion to Pueblito, a handful of ruins which used to be populated by the indigenous Muiscan people apparently dating back to 1AD, located in the depths of the forest. Setting off after a horrible and horribly overpriced breakfast (can't complain too much – everything has to be brought into the park via donkey so inflated prices are to be expected) we climbed rapidly along a winding forest track and were both sweating profusely despite the shade afforded by the forest canopy. After a couple of hours of hard slog we arrived in Pueblito for a well earned rest, although the level of tiredness I felt doesn't bode well for my upcoming trek along the Inca Trail in Peru. Despite the scale and variety of ruins being somewhat underwhelming, it was a nice tranquil place which was fun to explore for a while. When it was time to move on, we realised that we were fairly disorientated and unsure which of the many paths would take us along our desired route out of the park. After asking around we met an indigenous family who lived in the park and sold overpriced oranges to tourists. Fortunately for us they were heading the same way, so with their donkey leading the way and a girl of around 8 following close behind and smacking him every time he got too slow (or stopped completely, which was a regular occurrence) we made our way through the forest and reached our destination after a couple of hours.

Pueblito

Back in Taganga, in the evening we bumped into the german tour guide again (finally free from her soul destroying client) and also made friends with a couple of other travellers (who as far as I can remember we just met outside a shop – once in a while I still feel pleasantly surprised at how quickly and easily you can find friendly faces to talk to and have a drink with when travelling).

After a bottle of rum on the beach we sampled Taganga's nightlife which turned out to be unexpectedly lively for such a small village and saw us ending up at an after-party at one of the hostels, dancing the night away with locals and other gringos until 5am.

2-6/1/2012 - Meet people! Go places!! Do things!!!

Our diving course began in the morning with a 3 hour video about scuba diving. The video was narrated by a perfectly grating American and had atrocious “comic” segments which really tested the patience. At every opportunity the video reminded you to meet people, go places and do things (all diving related of course). You'd be mistaken falling under the impression that divers are all adverse to travel, incredibly lazy and socially underdeveloped and thus needed a motivational pep talk and cringe-worthy motto to get them going. Somehow the 3 hours passed and finally we were ready to hit the open water. Well the other people in the group were anyway – my first diving adventure would be in a swimming pool (I hadn't booked the course in advance and it looked like they wouldn't have space but the receptionist said they could accommodate me if I spent the first day getting taught in a swimming pool and would join the rest of the group after today). So after lunch (of fish) me and my French instructor headed to a nearby hostel which had a swimming pool and got started. Donning the equipment and extra weights (necessary to make you actually sink) and getting into the pool I felt about as agile as I would guess I fish feels out of water. Breathing only through your mouth took some getting used to as well and for a while I really wondered if I was up to this diving malarkey. Still, I seemed to get on ok with all the exercises the instructor taught me and even if at times I would find myself floating uncontrollably to the surface or sinking like a stone to the bottom he seemed relatively pleased at the end of our session. We had dived to an unprecedented depth of 2 meters so I wasn't certain how much this experience prepared me for tomorrow when I would be diving to 8 meters in the Caribbean. I did not mull over this thought for long. Besides, while me and Ben enjoyed delicious fresh fruit juices (I went for mango, he for starfish) from one of the many street side vendors, he told me the main group hadn't got through as many exercises as I had which was a little reassuring.

Our daily fish plate

We spent the next morning studying (we have to get through a pretty hefty book on diving and sit an exam at the end of the course to get our qualification) and although most of it was dull, common sense stuff (albeit with a few physics concepts about pressure and density thrown in haha) it was, dare I say, almost enjoyable to do a bit of studying again. Will I be looking back on a scuba diving course in Taganga as the experience that convinced me to do a PhD? Probably not, but it gave me pause for thought nonetheless.

In the afternoon I got my first experience of real open water diving. As I had anticipated there was a host of challenges associated with diving outside of a swimming pool, the most noticeable being the pain you feels in your ears and sinuses due to the pressure increasing as you descend. To avoid this you need to “equalize” the pressure (basically block your nose and blow to pop your ears) but I hadn't really had much practice of this in the swimming pool so my first descent wasn't a particularly pleasant one. However after a while underwater I began to get the hang of it and once we'd done a bunch more exercises I started feeling a bit more confident. The novelty of being underwater and doing the exercises was great but I wasn't convinced if I would enjoy myself once that novelty wore off. In the evening I shared these thoughts with Ben who said he felt more of less the same. However, we had another session of diving to complete (and an exam to sit!) before the course was over so I decided to reserve my judgement until later.

The last day of diving completely changed my mind. Despite an early morning start the sun was already blazing and as soon as the boat stopped at our dive site and we started kitting up the heat was ferocious. Plunging over backwards from the boat into the water was a blissful relief and much to my surprise the equipment no longer felt as cumbersome as it had on the first day. We descended to 12 meters and after a couple more exercises we finally got some reward for our hard work and I realised why people get such a kick out of diving. Our instructor beckoned us to follow him and as I drifted along behind him and was finally able to concentrate on something other than how I should be breathing, fiddling with my buoyancy or swapping air channels with my “buddy”, I began to appreciate just how beautiful our surroundings were. Schools of bright yellow and blue fish swim past, eels peak out of rocky outcroppings and the sea bottom is a maze of mini-volcano shaped rocks, coral and vegetation I'd never seen before – it was a little bit like being on the top of Roraima again.

As we finished our last dive, which was just for fun (we'd done all the exercises to death) and was definitely the most enjoyable, I craved more. Maybe I'll have a go at searching for coral reefs off the coast of Scotland once I get back.

In the evening we celebrated our success by heading to the first night of, bizarrely, a techno festival on a beach a stone's throw away from Taganga. Despite its proximity to Taganga it was a real challenge to find out where it was (Ben only knew about it because of a friend) but eventually we made it. Although it wasn't exactly my kind of music (although they did throw in some occasional drum and bass which I appreciated) everyone there was friendly and I managed to chat to a bunch of the dj's and get some recommendations of places to check out in Bogota, Colombia's capital.

Feeling somewhat exhausted after the last 3 days, me and Ben spent the next 2 days finishing off the bookwork for our diving qualification, sitting the exam (which we thankfully both passed), eating fish and getting some well earned rest. My body actually slightly complained after the diving – the result of travelling for a month on a Venezuelan diet and not doing any exercise. One of my resolutions is definitely to exercise some self control around the street food of Colombia which tempts me at every corner with fatty yet delicious treats. I don't have much faith in myself to be honest.

30/12/2011 - 1/1/2012 - Goodbye 2011, its been emotional

On the bus to Santa Marta we got chatting to another traveller; Ben from London who was also coming from Venezuela. Me and him ended up at the same hostel, called Dreamer Hostel, which was another gringo-haven but also had a few travellers from various south american countries to redress the balance.

5 minutes walk from the hostel was a massive supermarket as well as Quinta de San Pedro Alejandrino, the estate on which Simon Bolivar spent his last days. I am ashamed to say that during our stay in Santa Marta we made several visits to the former but failed to visit the latter (we did try but alas the holiday opening times were against us). Much like duty free zones in airports and hotel lobbies, large supermarkets create a space where any sense of which country you are in completely vanishes and, apart from everything being in Spanish and the biscuit isles being dominated by Oreos, this place was no different.

Me and Ben made a little excursion to a nearby beach town called El Rodadero and over lunch of excellent fish broth watched Liverpool against Newcastle, live, which for me was a bit of a surreal experience (although Ben said he'd managed to watch quite a bit of Premier League football on his travels). Obviously we had no idea of telling if El Rodadero and Santa Marta were at all representative of Colombia as a whole but walking around and making comparisons with Venezuela it was clear straight away that Colombia came out on top. True, the streets are still grimy in places, but they aren't as grimy. Walking around at night isn't safe but at least you see locals walking around as well. And much as I'd wanted to convince myself that underneath Venezuela's cloak of “dangerousness” lay a people who were open and friendly, our first day over the border already convinced me that even in this respect the Venezuelans lagged behind the Colombians. Perhaps I'll review these premature generalisations when I leave Colombia...

In the evening I went for a drink with the Coro girls in Santa Marta centre. We'd agreed to have a quiet one since it was the night before new year's eve but somehow the lively atmosphere in town saw us change plans and stumble upon a great little bar/club (which we later found was recommended in all the travel guides) called La Puerta. The outdoor seating area seemed to be extremely conducive to meeting new friends and fairly quickly we were chatting and dancing with locals. Particularly nice was recognising some songs that Mavis had given me in Santa Elena all those weeks (months!?) ago. My first day in Colombia didn't disappoint.

New years eve was spent lazing around the hostel pool and getting to know the other travellers including a few games of chess with a middle aged Brazilian guy (I pleasantly surprised myself and actually won a couple of games). The hostel is another location where the sense of which country you are in gets lost among the German, Swedish, Australian etc accents all speaking English or their native languages – very different to my travelling experience in Venezuela.

As day turned to night most of the people at the hostel, including myself, opted to join in with the party the hostel was organising. After the usual drinking fare, a “traditional” chiva bus, with no seats but plenty of dancing space and a hefty sound system, came to pick us up and drove us to the beach where we joined what felt like thousands of locals to welcome in 2012. It was a great night; running into the Caribbean at midnight, laughing at the pathetic fireworks, trying to dance on the chiva bus while the driver did his best to make sure we all ended up on the floor and finally ending up at, of all places, La Puerta. The atmosphere was great and after getting kicked out at 4 am we spent the first hours of dawn on the beach. As we headed back to the hostel in the morning, on many street corners the locals were still sitting out drinking and blasting music at full volume.

Happy New Year!

On new year's day me and Ben dragged our tired bodies and throbbing heads out of the hostel and got a taxi to the nearby fishing village of Taganga where after a bit of searching we found lodgings and headed to the sea front for what would be the first of many fish suppers. The fish here is absolutely delicious and scarily cheap by english standards. As a result we would have the same plate of fish (of various types and sizes), coconut rice, plantain and salad virtually every day for next week. During our first meal we were greeted by a middle aged guy sitting at the table opposite. The man was very agitated and after saying a few sentences to us would walk over to the kitchen and mutter something to the woman cooking our food then wonder back and say a few more sentences to us. After a while he brought up the subject of cocaine and his behaviour began to make sense; me and Ben shared a look as Ben whispered “He is absolutely gone”. We managed to ascertain that he'd recently come out of jail where he'd been sent for narcotics trafficking (he still had an electronic tag on his ankle). He was a really crazy and eccentric guy and within half an hour was all for trying to get us involved in some trafficking which he was trying to start up again (an offer we politely declined). On the plus side, he'd lived in Taganga for a while and gave us recommendations for the best places to check out. This was definitely the most surreal experience of the trip so far. After only 3 days in Colombia I was confronted with the reality of its drug reputation. I guess reputations exist for a reason...

Taganga is a small village but currently brimming with tourists (a lot of them from other South American countries) here for their holidays. Me and Ben were here to do the “PADI Open Water” scuba diving course (Taganga is one of the cheapest places in the world to do decent diving), which is something I only really decided to do after hearing Barry (from the foundation) rave about diving and then finding out how cheap it was to do it here. It would be almost rude not to have a go.

27-29/12/2011 - Goodbye Venezuela, its been emotional

We spent the morning driving back to Merida where upon arrival I made my way back to my ridiculously budget hostel and was greeted as an old friend. I decided to pay another visit to the ice creamery and bumped into my russian friend en route. He told me he'd just come from the ice creamery and really wasn't impressed. According to him there were only 10 flavours available, and the ones he'd tried had tasted disgusting and artificial. Poor guy; he'd gotten so close but had ended up going to the wrong place – a tiny little cafe which was indeed selling horrible artificial ice creams. Fortunately, I showed him the real place, where I was recognised by the lady who'd served me last time, and after 4 scoops of obscure yet delicious flavours he was visibly impressed.

Inside Merida Cathedral

Although I'd only really had one full day in Merida in total, I felt the travelling itch again and had heard so many recommendations for Colombia that I resolved to spend new year's eve there. Therefore the next morning I headed early to the bus station so that I could buy a ticket for an overnight bus to Maracaibo (another city in Venezuela) from which I could cross into Colombia. Incredibly, it seems to be impossible to buy tickets for advance travel (even a day in advance) in Venezuela, so despite arriving at the bus terminal at 7am I was greeted with a huge queue in front of the kiosk I needed. This being holiday season, all the Venezuelans are on the move but fortunately I spotted a guy I 'd met in the hostel who was already in the queue so I managed to squeeze my way in and get a ticket. So far so good.

Having the day to spend in Merida, I flirted with the idea of doing some paragliding, but when it turned out I wouldn't have time, I had a stroll around Merida, taking in some of the cathedrals and churches and, yes you guessed it, paid one more visit to the ice creamery. If there is one thing that would make me return to Venezuela it would be that ice creamery, but since the prospect of any immediate return seemed unlikely, I savoured every last spoon-full.

The list of flavours in the ice creamery

The bus to Maracaoibo was uneventful and the repeat showings of “The zookeeper” (a terrible, terrible film) made it difficult to sleep so I felt a little sleep deprived when I arrived into the bus terminal at 5am. I'd arranged to meet the girls from Coro here (they were also travelling to Colombia for new year's) but had quite a while to wait until they arrived so I spent the time talking to a Finnish guy I'd met on the bus. We discussed physics and philosophy and I felt my brain rejoice at the first really intellectually stimulating conversation I'd had in months. He headed for the Colombian border, and a few hours later the girl from Coro arrived, we jumped in a taxi (sharing with an old Venezuelan lady) and did the same. After formalities on the Venezuelan side, our taxi dropped us off outside the visa office on the Colombian side of the border where I bumped into the Finnish guy looking a little distraught. Turned out he'd gotten a bit confused as to the arrangements with the visa formalities and hadn't properly communicated with his taxi driver and the other people he was sharing the taxi with (all Venezuelans and he spoke minimal Spanish). As a result he now had no idea where his taxi was, which still had his massive backpack in. Poor guy.

I gave him my contact details in case he needed them but I haven't heard anything from him which is hopefully a sign that he tracked down his bag.

Me and the girls got over the border no problem and as the taxi drove to the nearest town of Maicao from which we'd catch a coach to the coastal town of Santa Marta, the feeling of relief at being in Colombia was fantastic. At Maicao coach station we changed money, got excited about colombian beer (a noticeable improvement on the Venezuela's efforts) and got on our coach and, after what seemed like hours of people getting on and trying to sell us random crap (the best being a guy who had about a 20 minute spiel about some herbal medicine which cured everything from cancer to impotence), we were off to Santa Marta. Fortunately once we got going, sleep overtook me quite quickly and I slept like a baby through a flat tire incident and the numerous police checks which the others told me about later.