The Road to Panama: Day 2

Navigating the dock scene in Turbo was as chaotic as I thought. I was hustled into line with other people and it was like getting the last helicopter out of Saigon or something. People rushing to get on boats, shouting in a foreign language I didn’t understand (whoever said Colombians speak the clearest Spanish in South America are delusional) and lots and lots of pushing. An immigration official asked me for my passport. Turns out that I was 4 days over my 60 day time limit to stay in Colombia, something I missed on the embassy website and was definitely not told by the immigration guy when I checked in. Anyway, he makes me take all of my stuff off the boat, I miss my ride and I go with him to the office. I was dead certain about what was going to happen next.

I’m taken to an empty office. The official leads me to his desk, takes his giant gun out of his pocket very deliberately and lays it on the surface next to him so that I can see it. Conversation goes something like this, complete with stage direction:

DAS Douche: You can stay in Colombia only for 60 days. You got here on the 25th of May, so you’re 4 days over. You have to pay a multa (fine).

Me: I didn’t know any of this. No one told me when I came over. I need to leave Turbo today and have a plane ticket from Puerto Obaldia tomorrow, what can I do?

DAS Douche:: You have to get the stamp and pay the fine in Monteria or Medellin (6 and 13 hours, respectively, in the opposite direction)

Me: What?! Really?

DAS Douche:: Yes

Me: I have no more money to travel, what can I do? Can I pay the fine here and leave today?

DAS Douche:: So you want to know if there’s a way that you can leave today?

Me: Yes

DAS Douche: -strokes chin and looks thoughtful- Let me call my boss -takes huge pistol, puts it in his belt and walks out to talk to his boss. Returns a few seconds later with Supreme DAS Douche. Both contemplate me thoughtfully-

DAS Douche:: You can pay the fine here. It’s $100 US.

Me: -laughing- OK. I don’t have that much. Guess I have to go back to Monteria. Are there buses today?

DAS Douche: -Looks at Supreme DAS Douche- Um…How much do you have?

Me: -Takes out 3 wadded up, sweaty, 20 mil notes and slams it on table- This

DAS Douche and Supreme DAS Douche: -Laugh- Ok go ahead. There are still boats going, You can, uh, pay the fine there in Capurgana.

I’ve been tacitly asked to bribe officials so many times now in Colombia that it doesn’t phase me anymore, which is good because I’m sure there’s more to come. The whole Colombian bribe shtick is pretty funny actually.  They always act as if they’ve never thought about a tourist paying a fine outside of the official offices before and that you paying them is a special situation never attempted before in immigration history. It’s funny but I still despise them with a fury that melts faces.

It’s interesting being in this area of the country because not a single white person travels here. I was the only non Colombian on the boat and I was like some kind of circus oddity. A tour group of family and friends filled my small boat and kept yelling at me to pass them water since I was last one in because of the interrogation and had to sit in the front. They also wanted me to take drinks from their cup of Scotch and water. It was 10:30 in the morning, but I only did it to fit in so don’t think I’m some kind of closet drunk. Everyone of them kept asking me if I was in the DEA or CIA. I’m glad my country’s reputation proceeds me. Thank you School of the Americas.

After getting into Capurgana, which is not really as nice as I read but still pleasant, I checked into a hospedaje called Uvito and got a way nicer room than the one in Turbo. There’s not much of a town here or anything to see or do but I did take care of some business (like getting my exit stamp out of Colombia. The guy knew I was over my time limit, scolded me but still gave me the stamp without a bribe. I guess not all Colombian officials are slimy) I leave tomorrow for the last part of this and should be in Panama City by noon. …but I think we all know that won’t happen.

The Road to Panama: Day 1

For anyone stupid/desperate/adventurous enough to do it, here’s how to get to Panama the cheap way from Colombia.

-Cartagena, CO-Monteria, CO
-Monteria, CO-Turbo, CO
-Turbo, CO to Capurgana, CO
-Capurgana, CO to Puerto Obaldia, PA
-Puerto Obaldia, PA to Panama City, PA

I Left the hostel in Cartagena bright and early this morning at about 6:15 to catch my 7 am bus. It turns out that the bus station is not anywhere near Cartagena (like most bus stations here. Travel on the Caribbean coast is….interesting) and so the ride took over 30 minutes. Luckily, everything is 20 minutes late in Colombia so there were no worries. For the first time in 2 months I was too cold because of the damned AC on the bus…I need to start carrying a sleeping liner or something.

Once you get to Monteria, the real fun starts. There are only two bus lines that transport you to Turbo so there’s not much leg work to do; one is expensive and the other is less expensive. I think you know which I picked. The problem is, there’s a bridge 2 hours before Turbo that’s broken and has been broken for months apparently (the guy trying to sell me the ticket showed me the newspaper clipping as proof). This means you pay for only a partial journey (until you get to the bridge) and then have to walk across the bridge and pay for different transport on the other side of the bridge. The bus to the broken bridge was your usual crappy South American chicken bus blasting way too loud reggaeton. Once we got to the bridge, people madly scrambled over a crazy Indian Jones style pedestrian rope bridge filled with children and motorcycles to try and get a ride on the other side. The problem is there are no buses on the other side, only mototaxis and 4 x 4 jeeps. I didn’t get on the 6,000 peso one so had to talk another guy into taking me for 18,000. Why I had to pay triple, I’m not sure…it might have to do with the fact that transporting me with my huge backpack (which is now literally bigger than a midget and weights nearly 60 pounds) is like the weight of two normal people.

We waited almost 30 minutes for the jeep to fill up and then left. It soon became obvious that this was going to be the most uncomfortable ride of my life as they put 4 full grown men into a space meant for 2 people and we booked it down a basically unpathed dirt path towards Turbo. We stopped several times because the road was blocked by trucks stuck in the mud and one time I was sure that it would just be better to camp in the wilderness near the road since we got stopped for 30 minutes once. I don’t know how but we finally got to Turbo, I got the heck out of the jeep as quickly as possible, hopped on a mototaxi and got dropped off at a hospedaje I heard about called Residencial Florida. I hadn’t stayed in anything this bad since…well, actually ever. I almost slipped on a cockroach on my way back to the communal sink and my room looked like something out of a murder scene photo montage. Regardless, it was only for a night and the owner told me he’d wake me up the next morning for the lancha (speed boat) that was going to Capurgana so that was nice. I think my bed had a mortar filling.

Cock fights, Surfing and...the end? of Colombia

After getting back to Santa Marta, Denise went to a yoga retreat in Tayrona for 3 days, ZeeCee went to a little ecolodge with an Australian girl Wattle that we met in Minca and I stayed in Santa Marta to contemplate my existence. After debating for days on what to do, I finally decided to go with the girls on one last trip to a beach a little further north east of Tayrona to surf...but not before I saw a Colombian tradition; the cock fight. Jack, an Australian guy that ZeeCee met was renting an apartment in Santa Marta and taking spanish lessons from an old Colombian guy named Roberto who promised to take him to a cock fight. I have issues with these sorts of things..but not so much that I won't go to one to see what it's actually like.

Roberto, Jack, me and ZeeCee got into a cab which dropped us off at the first cockfighting ring. I say first because after staying there for an hour drinking and not seeing a single rooster enter the joint, the owner told us to follow him to another ring where there was definitely something happening. We hopped into the back of a truck with 6 colombians and a guy holding his poor rooster that was most likely headed to its doom since it had never fought before. 5 minutes after leaving, we suddenly stopped and were informed that we couldn't get by the police as we were (it's illegal to ride standing up in the back of a pickup truck thru the city center holding a rooster as it turns out) The guy with the rooster tucks it under his shirt and bolts across the street as the rest of us crouch in the bed like immigrants while the truck goes the rest of the way to the barrio where the cock ring was. When we got there, we realized how out of our environment we were. The "ring" is a decrepit building in the middle of this straight up poor Colombian barrio. Entering revealed a refrigerator for beer, cages for holding the next -up rooster gladiators and a crowd of people gathered under a TV watching what looked like cock fight highlights. Literally, they have videos of this. Luckily, there were none for purchase because I might have bought one as a souvenir. The owners gather in the middle of the ring holding their roosters up to eachother, they do a quick pecking of eachother and then go back to their corners. The bell rings and the roosters lunge at eachother. A cock fight usually consists of pecking, feathers flying around and people yelling. Out of nowhere, the first fight ended and I was told that the losing rooster got a talon thru the lung and was done for (they outfit the back toe on the roosters with a tortoise shell spike which is used for kill shots apparently) The loser was put into his cage and we watched as he slowly crumpled into the corner. It was like re-watching that scene in Bambi where his mom dies...but 1,000 times worse. Eventually, there were either no roosters left alive or people willing to bet so everyone just ended up filing out. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly relieved.

The next day we left to surf. Costeño Beach is a little plot of land on the beach that two Canadian brothers bought and turned into a surfing refuge. The Caribbean, in general, is not really known for having good waves. Luckily, I'm not known for being a good surfer so it was fine. After an hour drive on a bus out of Santa Marta Me, ZeeCee, Jack, Wattle and her boyfriend Jasper got to the beach. The next few days were lazily spent in hammocks and in the water trying to learn how to surf. It was pretty much an abysmal failure but I'll have enough bruises and salt water enemas to keep me satisfied on surfing for a bit.

After going back and forth about what options were best after surfing (we wanted to go to Punta Gallinas in the northern most part of Colombia), Denise lost her wallet with everything in it thus pretty much deciding that going BACK to Cartagena was the best and only option since it was the place we all needed to leave from. Denise for Medellin and me for Panama.

Now Panama is a tricky pickle because of the Darien Gap. The Darien Gap is essentially the bit of land between Colombia and Panama and, effectively, the border between South and Central America. It's a boggy forested area that neither government has built a road thru for several reasons, most of which being the engineering nightmare it would be and the fact that it's protected land. Because of this, you have to take a boat around this patch of land or a plane over it if you want to get to Panama. There are several boats you can charter which do tours of the San Blas islands which are apparently amazing but I don't want to pay the extra money. A flight is also too expensive directly from Cartagena so I guess I'm doing the cheaper overland route. This involves me waking up tomorrow, taking buses for 10 hours to a town called Turbo, staying there a night, taking a boat to another town called Capurgana, staying there a night, then taking a boat to Puerto Obaldia (the first actual town in Panama) and taking a short flight from there to Panama City. I know it'll be a nightmare before even leaving...which means it'll be even worse in reality. Here's to not getting kidnapped by FARC.

Minca

After getting back from San Andres I decided to go back to Minca with the girls. The plane took us back to Barranquilla anyway which meant we were close, I heard Minca was great and so I decided to go with them. We found a cabby in the airport who told us that he would take us directly to the hostel we wanted to go to in Minca (Casa Loma). Usually, you have to get the bus station from the airport, then take a cab to Santa Marta and then take another cab to the hills of Minca. We hoped to avoid the transfers and make it convenient by taking a cab the whole way. Everything was fine until we got near Minca. As it turns out, our cab driver knew nothing about Minca nor did he know anything about the hostel we wanted. He tried to drop us off several times along the road thinking we were in Minca but was rebuffed by other townspeople who told him he needed to go further up to reach it, it's a tiny place with no signs. This is when it started getting weird.

He started complaining to himself and on the way up, his struggling cab broke down in the middle of the mountains. I should have known it was going to happen since he had to stop every hour and a half to refill his fluids on the way there. Our trip with this guy effectively ended there...but the experience didn't. A truck luckily drove by us on the road. I explained the situation to the driver and he was the only one who happened to know where or what Casa Loma was. He also explained that he was their competitor who had a far better hostel a little closer to town. He said that we could stay there for a night, and if we wanted go to Casa Loma later, we could. What was better was that he had room to take the girls to his hostel with all of our bags. The girls hopped in and I was left to settle the business with the cab driver.

We were still 20 minutes away from even the outskirts of the town of Minca, so I explained that obviously we were going to pay the fare but not everything. After some intense conversation with the cabby about prices, a passing motorcyclist told me he'd take me the rest of the way for a crazy $15,000 COP. I then offered $10,000 less to the cabby than what we agreed on since I had to pay extra to the moto guy. Our driver wasn't having it, he seemed to feel that we should pay everything since we were kind of close. After trying to argue rationally with him, I threw the amount minus $10,000 at him and just got on the back of the reved up motorcycle. The cabby then walks over, reaches over to the other guy's bike and turns it off telling him that I needed to pay him or else I wasn't leaving. At this point, I lost my temper and screamed at the guy that I wasn't paying for the whole cost. It was in the midst of this that I begin to realize that I'm surrounded by a crowd of other Colombians who had stopped to witness the scene. It must have been something to see a sweaty, red faced white guy yelling at a cab driver in spanish in the middle of the mountains. The townspeople, obviously on the Colombian's side, started yelling for him to call the police since I wasn't paying, the cabby guy was getting more agitated and getting in my face and the moto taxi guy was telling me that he was going to leave me unless I got on right then since it was going to rain and it was getting dark. I eventually paid him for the entire trip minus $5000 and scooted away amidst him calling me a "gringo duro" and calling my actions "sucio". I curse his family.

I was seeing red on the way up to Minca knowing I had just gotten screwed again in Colombia and was powerless to stop it. I like the country of Colombia itself but the people on the Coast leave a bad taste in my mouth after the month and a half I've been here. I'm just sick of everybody constantly breathing down my throat trying to sell me drugs and boat rides, giving me wrong information, begging for money and giving me inflated prices for everything since I'm a white guy. I feel constantly like I have to scrutinize every minute detail of every situation, transaction and conversation to avoid being taken advantage of. It's exhausting and making me loathe my experience here which is even worse. I realize it's not nice to generalize but at this point I don't care; people on the coast are scheisters. I need to get out of here.

Regardless, Minca itself was nice. It's not as much a city but a small collection of houses and tiendas that has sprung up because of its awesome views of the Sierra Nevadas and nearby waterfalls. Electricity and running water were intermittent at best and most meals and hanging out were done either by moon or candlelight. El Mirador hostel was the only pleasant mistake of the whole trip. Fernando (the guy who picked up the girls on the way) had a great little family run house in the mountains and we had super rico breakfasts in the mornings. It ended up being way better than Casa Loma which was hard to get to, cramped, full of tourists, more expensive and had no views to speak of. Really enjoyed my time there and even saw wild Toucans which was amazing. The area around Minca has 623 known species of birds and is great for birdwatching. The girls were going to a surf camp all the way back near Tayrona and so we got in the bed of a pickup truck that was going back to Santa Marta 3 days later. I can't believe I'm going back to Santa Marta...god help me.

Cartagena to San Andres

Got back to Cartagena again with the explicit plan of finally taking care of this Panama issue (to be talked about later) and get the hell out of South America. As will be explained, this never happened.
On the shuttle from Santa Marta to Cartagena, as per the gringo trail rule, we met 3 guys we were on the Lost City Trek with. Navin, an English guy and Charlie and Grant, two Americans. After getting dropped off, we all decided to meet up the next day for the infamous Cartagena Mud Volcano. Now the Mud Volcano is basically a big mound of earth about 60 feet high. You climb a rickety, muddy staircase to the top of this mound and are faced with a soupy, mud hole filled with people laughing and throwing mud at eachother. You wait your turn, climb in and are instantly grabbed by a Colombian in the hole who starts slapping and sliding mud all over your body. It was uncomfortable. I don't think another man sliding a muddy hand all over your body could be anything but that though. What makes matters worse is that by letting him grab me and touch me while laying in the mud awkwardly, I was tacitly agreeing to a $3000 COP "massage." It was the worse massage of my life. Anyway, it turns out that this is a true geological feature. El Totumo Volcano is the surface eruption of rotting vegetation pushed to the surface and apparently the hole goes down about 1,100 meters or something. Not like there is any danger of sinking. The mud makes you more bouyant than a cork top.
While in Cartagena, we went to a great beach on Playa Blanca which is one in a long string of islands known as the Rosario islands. Stayed for a few days doing the usual Caribbean Coast beach things; drinking, eating, making fires, killing mosquitoes, sleeping in hammocks. We also met up with Eduardo and Laura again for the usual awesome dose of Eduardo's historical knowledge. Cartagena, like I've said before, is a really amazing city and Eduardo enlightened us on some things you wouldn't have known about before.
I was eventually convinced to go to the San Andres islands with some New Yorkers, ZeeCee and Denise, that I met. They were going with some Danish guys and I really wanted to Scuba Dive so I went. San Andres is an island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea about 470 miles from the Colombian mainland. How it came to be Colombian territory while being so far away is similar to how Easter Island came to be a part of Chilean territory. San Andres is interesting because it's a completely unique amalgamation of the plethora of European countries that were fighting for control of it. Because of this, the indigenous population speaks English and Spanish. It was the home to tons of pirates like the infamous Captain Henry Morgan and you can imagine what the tiny island must have looked like 200 years ago.
We got a house right across the beach and spent our days scuba diving, on the beach or riding around in a rented scooter, which we rented from a guy who called himself "The General" a 60 year old rastafarian who lived in a burned out house and rented scooters (and also sold pot as he told us). I'd really like to be his friend. I've never been so relaxed and had such a great time. I only ended up going on two dives since my wallet hurt me and I got a weird fever for the last few days that kind of incapacitated me. However, 5 days here is nowhere near enough. I'd go back in a heart beat.

South America: 1 year

Well...I woke up groggily this morning, looked at my watch, saw it was July 2nd and realized that I've been here for exactly 1 year. I haven't updated in over a month and I'll fill in the blanks later but I'd like to celebrate this momentous occasion with a look back at some of the things that have made this trip so special to me:

1) Empanadas in Chile.The only good food that exists in this country. Ingredients: Salt, Cheese, Salt, Bread, Salt.

2) Valparaiso.The Tranny parties in this rough and tumble seaport town are the best that I've found anywhere in the world. I haven't been to many, but I'm sure this claim will remain unchallenged.

3) Teaching at Divina Maestra. Well, at the end of the day, my kids still couldn't say "Hello. How are you?" in English and I spent most of my time in the corner doing Spanish flashcards while the students cut out shapes into paper, then crumpled them up and threw them at eachother. However, I think that it was worthwhile...if for no other reason than living with Manuel, Giannina and Giovanna in their wonderful home and having a maid to do my laundry, clean my room and cook for me

4) Machu Picchu. Contains the first archaeologically documented Royal Bathroom that I've seen.

5) Working on the farm in Northwestern Argentina. I definitely learned why people usually get college degrees and don't go into farm work. Not to say that Martin and Elizabeth weren't educated....just crazy. It's a tough existence. This was probably the healthiest and most physically demanding 3 weeks of my life and I look fondly on it. It also made me realize that without water in ready supply, life can really suck. Also, Elizabeth, if you're reading, I'm sorry if you thought I was a complete idiot. I tried my best.

6) Buenos Aires. I had a good time with alot of good people while simultaneously losing 10 pounds in water weight from the disgusting, hell's mouth type heat. I never learned Tango but I feel confident that I could dance it if presented with the opportunity in a Tango hall....after flying there on my unicorn with a Leprechaun riding shotgun.

7) Bolivia. Spanish lessons, living with a lovely Bolivian family, crazy Oruro Carneval, Lake Titicaca, La Paz and Ruta 36, Death Road, the Puma Reserve and the Germans. Living in Bolivia was so cheap that I felt bad...like I was living for free. I also think I had a stomach Amoeba most of the time from the street Silpancho but this is of no consequence. I'd do it all over again.

8) Working the bar in Loki. Lima is one of the most boring cities in Peru but I still had a great time working here with the other gringos and occasional non gringo. It showed me that I am actually likeable and can fake my way thru being a bartender. It also taught me a few other things about personal safety that I'll get into once I'm back.

9) Beaching along the coast thru Peru and Ecuador. All I can say is that I've got my beach body back. I sent the best pictures of myself to National Geographic, realized it was the wrong magazine and then promptly resent them to Teen Beat magazine. Still waiting for a reply.

10) The Colombian Coast. Tayrona National Park has the most amazing picturesque beaches that I've ever been to and the coast here in general is just amazing. Nevermind the fact that I've been involved in bribing Colombian Police two times in a week so that I didn't go to jail. I know that corruption and bribery are important ingredients in any healthy bureaucracy....I've lived in Chicago most of my life.

Here's to another 1-6 months of madness!

Ciudad Perdida

After my Birthday and the tear filled departure of Kitty and Fiona, we went to Ciudad Perdida (Lost City) for the trek that every gringo here does. Basically, in the 1970s, a bunch of Archaeologists rediscovered an ancient city that was buried in the mountains for the last 2,300 years (even older than Machu Picchu) and started excavating. People started trekking there in the 1980's. You sign up with an organization (for a crazy sum of about $360. The Colombian government raised the price for entrance...3 days before we signed up) then take a jeep to a certain point and start walking.

Now I'm sure everybody is familiar with how fit I am. Because of this, I decided to really challenge myself by doing the entire 5 day trek in nothing but aqua socks that I bought off of a street vendor for 5 dollars. What was my reasoning for doing it in Aquasocks and not trainers or actual boots made for trekking like 99% of the other people who do the Lost City? Want a good reason? Want 4 good reasons? Bam:

1) Hiking boots are for girls and French people.

2) Aqua Socks are made of neoprene which is comfortable on the skin, form fitting and durable yet dries quickly which is good for the wet environment of jungle trekking.

3) While having a sole on the bottom that allows you to cling to wet river rocks like a Salamander, Aqua Socks also give you the opportunity to really commune with the Earth by allowing you to feel the intricacies of literally every single rock, branch and pebble that you walk over on the trail.

4) I left my good shoes in Chicago and on a cargo boat in Paraguay because I wanted to make room for the Camp Stove in my backpack that I've never used.

The trek consisted of a graduated time of walking from 3-8 hours a day. You would stop each night in a designated spot with hammocks where you would get surprisingly good food made for you and rest. The trek itself is just amazing looking, like most of the coast of Colombia, and we had a cool group of people. Eduardo and Laura were two Colombians that were with us. It just so happened that they both spoke perfect English and Eduardo happened to be a University Professor of Architecture in Bogota who also had a degree in Anthropology and an extensive knowledge of the area we were walking in..what are the chances? We got alot of great information thru him and our guide Jose who was great. Saw a few snakes that are apparently extremely poisonous. Jose wanted to machete everyone he saw...after hearing that his sister died of one of their bites I was inclined to let him do whatever the hell he wanted because there was no way I was dying in the middle of the mountains.

We also crossed a river that some French man died in a week prior. Based off of years of playing Oregon Trail, when you do a river crossing, rain can cause the water level to literally rise 3 feet in a minute and just carry you away...which is what apparently happened to this guy. Dude should have hired an Indian guide. Anyway, we took the metal box attached to a cable across the river and were pulled across by Jose. I don't know why they didn't do this a week ago thus preventing the death but I also don't know why you turn the doorknob towards the doorpane to open doors here so I'm fine with that.

The lost city itself is great but it's really the trek itself that you come for. I personally think it was really interesting, not Machu Pichhu standards since there are no buildings left just stone terraces, but the views from the top are amazing. We swam in this place called the Fountain of Youth which is a little pool close to the city. There's an army base on the top to control Para Military and Guerrilla presence in the area and the soldiers all go to this pool to swim. When swimming, one of them asked me and the other American dude Grant how to say attractive girl in English and I told him "Hottie." I'm not sure if the kids still say that but he seemed satisfied with the answer and gave me a 9mm bullet as a present. I was looking for it today and I guess I lost it though..some other Cop probably would have confiscated it anyway and made me bribe him for having it so maybe that's for the best.

It rained every day like clockwork at about 2 pm so it turns out we were soaking every day anyway thus making my Aquasocks useless since they never dried. I promptly threw them out as soon as I got back into town. All in all, I was completely satisfied with the whole trek and proud that I completed it without crying or peeing myself.