| | |

06 December 2005

MICHAEL OWEN

On that fateful day we were nearly struck by the runaway bus the local football team, Barranquilla Junior were playing Cali. Junior Barranquilla are probably the best known and their stadium the most famous in Colombia. Carlos the upstairs neighbour asked me to go and take a look. An offer I took a rain check on, much to my regret, since Juniour stuffed Cali by three goals to two and it was by all accounts a thouroughly riveting affair. The trucks of armed police that I saw heading for the ground, looking like they were suppressing a coup d'etat rather than policing a soccer match were a little cause for concern. I wanted to take the young lads but the ladies were having none of it. They were muttering something about 'stampedes". I thought it was a game of footie rather than a running of the bulls. Carlos said the ladies were exaggerating (as usual) and that it just depends on which end you go to. Much like the West End or the Kop at Highfield Rd I suppose. Like so many other things in Colombia it just seems to be a matter of common sense and following the right pointers.
I certainly intend to go and check out a match while I'm here. Carlos presented me with an away strip shirt for the occaision so it would be churlish in the extreme not to take him up on the offer. On the day of the Cali game the whole town was jumping like a bucket full of beans and chilli. They really love their football here. Every radio and TV that can be is tuned to the match. Everyone turned out in the Junior colours of red and white.
The girl below is one of the cousins, Veronica.She is eighteen years old and she claims to be Juniors second to biggest fan, the number one biggest fan being her boyfriend. Despite this she is in love with Michael Owen and swoons at the very mention of his name. She has studied Colombian eco-science all year long like a good girl and hopes that Papa Noel will bring her a new England jersey with the name Owen emblazoned on the back. This so she can "more enthusiastically support the English ones at the World cup of the next year..." SO if anyone out there know Michael Owen then please ask him to e-mail me for her address. One shirt can't be much for a little Colombian girl, especially considering I seem to recall the name Owen being on the score-sheet twice when we stuffed Colombia in this year's 'friendly'.

213 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 21:04 cet

LARGATIJA

Found this little fellow hanging upside-down in the bathroom. Persuaded Kelly to come to take a look and to tell me what it was. "Aiiiieeeee Largatija...." she squealed. I got out of the bathroom pretty quick, thinking by her reaction that it must be some sort of Gila monster. When I finally got the story translated it went as follows; one of these little fellows was scrambling across the kitchen ceiling of an unspecified Colombian family. Overcome by the heat it dropped into the cooking pot. Apparently while it doesn't bite there is some sort of toxin in it. The family unwittingly ate the soup. The children died and the adults spent four days hallucinating violently.
Phew. Luckily for the Largatija they never heard of it's exsistence in the West Midlands in the 60s and 70s, there would have been armies of Roy Wood/Ozzy Osbourne/Robert Plant look-alikes combing the shrubbery and boiling up these little chaps by the tub full.

219 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 21:11 cet

25 January 2006

UNTITLED

The Blog has been suspended for present due to the sudden, unexpected and untimely death of my oldest and only son Jason. Son, if you are reading this: I LOVE YOU.

472 viewed| gripe water 4| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 18:45 cet

27 November 2006

BACK FROM THE DEAD

Well what a carry on. I can't believe that it's been the best 8 months since the blog was updated. I've got rakes of excuses but I don't think I should go into that here. Just get started again and try to get some continuity back into the posts. I kept all the photographs of the travels, luckily enough but apart from the odd hand jotted note I don't have a lot of consecutive text. Ahh but what the feck. I'll just tag some stuff onto the photos untill I get up to date. I'm back in Holland at the moment but that won't last for long. It's colder than a gravediggers arse and the old joints are seizing up and heeding the call of warmer climes. I hope to be out before Christmas. Health issues have clouded my southern skies for the past few months. But those are other stories. Part of catching up. If you have the time and inclination to stick with me then we'll be back on track in no time. So where should we start. Probably at the point of departure. I boarded a plane for Curacao at the beginning of May as I remember it. This with the lively intention of connecting with an Avior flight to Valencia in Venezuela. Ahhhhhh. The best laid plans of mice and men. Missed the transfer. Curacao airport dies as soon as the last flight leaves and of course no one takes euros. Churlish of me to expect that an ex-dutch colony would prefer euros to dollars. You might as well try paying in conch shells. No taxi. No sympathy. The only place to change euros was the nearest hotel...bar...casino...shit-hole. They call it the airport hotel but only because it corresponds approximately with the end of the longest runway. That shit I wrote about packing a small bag was actually just that. Shit. The bag I had was something akin to the rock of Sisyphus. I think all my problems later in the journey were probably due to dragging that burden along miles of featureless road. But I made it. Checked into the hotel, hit the bar and tried to stay sober enough to get back to the airport by eight the next morning. Didn't manage to say sober but did manage the early start, thanks be to the lord for those tap-dancing cockroaches.Anyway no alternative flight to Valencia. Got ripped on a small 15 minute flight to Punto Figo. At least I got onto the mainland. Next post Venezuela.

265 viewed| gripe water 2| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 22:18 cet

14 December 2005

TU PAPA

After a day of sweaty chaos we arrived at the game barely on time. Carlos had arranged the tickets and there was no way he was going to let me back out of another game. Unlike the players I'd been wearing my generic, nylon, Junior away shirt all day, this had been soaked with sweat and sun-dried at least four times that day and was ripening rapidly. It's a wonder anyone was prepared to sit within three rows of me on the terraces. Unfortunately it was a day of overlapping commitments; We were moving to a new house in barrio Mercedes that day and despite the fact we had booked a truck for 08:00 hours we did not anticipate the running of some sort of marathon race that morning. The police were not letting any vehicles up or down Calle 69 till the race had finished. Only a trickle of taxis were allowed to cross it. STRICTLY no trucks. The police told us it was a bicycle race but as the first contestants appeared on foot I could only assume that either the cops were wrong or these lads had been robbed of their bikes on the way through Centro and were being chased for their trainers. Unfortunately for our schedule it turned out to be a race on foot. Race is probably something of a misnomer, a few of the early contestants seemed to be trotting along merrily, as the field stretched and thinned on the baking concrete most of the contestants seemed to be just out for a Sunday morning stroll, ambling along pleasantly in Somberos and designer running gear that they obviously did not want to ruin with sweat. We hooted derision from upstairs windows, taxi drivers hit claxons and snarled but all this fell on deaf ears. The race trundled on to its inevitable conclusion about an hour behind schedule. the moving truck was a further hour late so by the time we had the move made and ourselves undusted we had a full half hour to get from Mercedes to the Stadium, through a heaving Murillo. Well we did make it and were in place for kick-off clutching quart beakers of the good Aguila beer,(Sponsors of Junior Barranquilla, the Colombian national squad and my newly reborn beer habit), just in time to be infected with the pre-match tension which is OH so important to an enjoyable 90 odd minutes of good footie.
Junior had their backs up against it to qualify but played valiantly. An early and thouroughly well deserved penalty put them well on track and I must say that with the way they were playing they could have been three up at half time. Cali looked a little dazed and didn't really look as if they knew whether to try to cling to their aggregate lead or to try to advance it. At the beginning of the second half Junior came out with all guns blazing and the quite brilliant Emerson Ocuna scored a goal that had the Colombian TV pundits still raving two days later. For some reason better known to himself the Junior trainer deemed it wise to substitute Emerson. This threw the whole rhythm of Junior's attack out of balance and allowed Cali the chance to come back and with a single soft goal put the final nail in the coffin of Junior's Cup hopes this year. To be fair I'd say this is the best I've seen Junior play this season. On the other hand, equally fair; it is the only time I've ever seen them play.
Keep it up lads!!! I'll remain a loyal fan to both you and your sponsors.

202 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 23:56 cet

15 December 2005

CREATURES OF A LOST WORLD

I think that it was Baudelaire, (correct me if I'm wrong here), who once described cats as "the insects of a lost world". I wonder what the bardlike frenchy would have made of Colombian riot police. These fellows have a covering top to toe of some sort of kevlar body armour, buffed hard and black, keratinised, distinctly scarab like. I'm sure this wasn't just for show. Due to their presence and a moat full of little chaps in white spats, helmets and matching clubs, seperating the fans from the pitch. The whole match proceeded in a most orderly fashion. I remember some sort of legend about South American footie clubs having moats full of crocodiles between the pitch and the fans. Looking at some of these lads I think I might prefer the crocodiles, you'd die more quickly and mercifully.
As the floodlights came up The opposing teams of Barranquilla Junior and America de Cali frothed out of the mouths of two giant inflatable Aquila bottles while the arbiters appeared from a seperate white mini-tunnel. There they were sheltered by a 'turtle' of riot shields until they were beyond the reach of projectiles. Three of these human shields were also placed around the corner flags to protect the player taking the corner from a similar shower of projectiles. I took it that they weren't talking about projectiles of the rotten tomato variety here. The kevlar body armour looked a little like that stuff that the evil lads wear in "The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers". It could easily deflect a SAM-7 missile.
Carlos told me cheerfully as I made my way to the bathrooms to tap off the ninety minutes of beer that I should be proud; I was probably the only englishman in the stadium. The penny didn't actually drop on that one until I was elbowing my way to the trough in an overfilled, sweaty, stadium toilet, being leered at by a horde of unsteady disappointed little brown drunks. Just like hooligans but smaller. It did occur to me, for a fleeting moment, that I was the only one in an away strip too but that was probably the least of the contrasts. Here, trying to flip it out between a white belly and overtight waistband, above a urinal that was the right height for a six-year old, trying to avoid, not entirely sucessfully, splashing onto the throng around me, I was definitely the swine of a lost world.
But like every other activity in Barranquilla so far everything went swimmingly. We melted away happily into the heaving tumult of Murillo: the bars, lights, music and the smell of chuzos cooking on charcoal permeating everything.

251 viewed| gripe water 1| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 0:00 cet

28 November 2006

FATA MORGANA

The plane from Curacao to Punto Figo takes about 15 minutes but everyone on that flight was portly and all the seats were small. Also we shared the company of a hyperventilating Latino gentleman who spent the short flight on the edge something bordering extreme panic and hysteria. I spent the short flight on the edge of my seat, not through fear but simply because the lady next to me, Naritza, was as fat as a chunky pig and half a buttock was all I could get on the seat. It was a short flight though and Naritza promised me that she would hook me up with a cousin of hers who drove taxi. I was still a good eight or ten hours from my final desination of Maracai and a taxi was the only viable means of reaching my destination within a reasonable time. We went through the usual rigmarole at the airport. Naritza lost her luggage and I was constrained to wait for a few hours at the airport before she could hook me up with the family. Her mother was very much enamoured of me an thought I might be a 'keeper'. Luckily Carlos the cousin was more interested in the eighty dollar fare. This fee being agreed we set off through the ugly petro-chemical plants of Punto Figo on an eight hour journey across salt flats and deserts in a clapped out Chevy Caprice with shot leaf springs and no side windows. The only real joy was the discovery of Polar beer, which is a treat and right up there with Carib and Aguilla, this and the convenient front bench seat of the Chevy, like the old Hillman Minx, which accomodates not only driver and passenger but a cooler with twenty-four cans on ice. The surface of the earth quivers in the heat and amid this the actual prescence or else mirages of countless wild goats. I spent a lot of time pissing onto the scorching ground. By the time we reached Maracai Carlos and I had ironed out all but two of the beer cans. I gave these to Carlos as a tip and slipped into the Posada.Which is to say into a world of reconciliation, recognition, memories and mangos. More about that later.

231 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 0:42 cet

POSADA EL LIMON ONE

The Posada in El Limon in Maracai is a phenomenon. Make no mistake. I should have visited years ago. The owner, Bart, is one of my old friends and he has worked his ass of getting the place to the stage it is now. Along with that most of my oldest friends have spent time there working to build the place up: Mr. Szweda and Mr. Sedge-Willet to name but a few. The latter who seems to have started a whole artistic culture in that particular part of the world. More about that later. Suffice to say that the Posada is something of an oasis in a turbulent world. Great stuff, but unfortunately I was still in the mood for turbulence when I got there. It was great though to be there visiting for the first time. I wasn't really in the sitting still mode. After a short respite I decided to Foxtrot Oscar to Trindad to watch the pre-world cup friendly football match against Peru. First game with Beenhakker the new dutch trainer. Turned out to be a bit of a wanker in the long run. Flew all the way to Port of Spain for a draw. Give me Hiddink anytime. But it was nice to spend some time pissing it up outside of Smokey and Bunty's in St James' there in Port of Spain. Got some jerked pork and a belly full of Carib anyway which was worth the ticket. England kicked their asses in the world cup anyway but 10 out of 10 for trying. Flying visit though. Trinidad is going the wrong way. Too little Rasta too much LA gansta. The taxi drivers will tell you the truth. Trinidad is turning Yardie. Shame really. Luckily Tobago is still a treat. Took in Santiago de Leon de Caracas on the way which was another complete TRIP. Cementario...Ranchero...these are forceful barrios..The poorest and most desperate places and the stamping grounds of the lawless men. Must admit I have a sneaking amiration for Senor Hugo Chavez. I'm not yet an enlightened student of contemporary Latin American Politics. But Hugo hates Bush, likes Castro, Ken Livingstone and Diego Marradona so there must be something going on there. Want a good biography of Simon Bolivar for Christmas so if anyone stuck thinking what they can buy me. Keep the socks and sweaters. Simon is the lad for me. More over the Posada the next time around.

240 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 3:04 cet

29 November 2006

VIA VENEZUELA

It was a bit of a spiky old trip back from T&T back to the Simon Bolivar International Airport at Malquetia in Venezuela. The frequent flying and more frequent drinking was starting to take it's toll. Due to circumstances I can't even begin to remember I decided to take the 160 or so kilometer ride from Caracas to Valencia in a taxi. Vague echoes in my memory seem to whisper in waves of diminishing repetition that this had something to do with having missed yet another flight. Too late to recall now. I'd been feeling a little green around the gills and a little light in the bowels for a few days, but due the aforesaid circumstances had put it down to "travelers belly". I had failed to take too much notice of the mounting numbers of blood-sucking insects I had fallen prey to in my meteoric passage through the Caribbean. Strange symptoms on the way back to Maracai though. My eardrums went into a sort of implosion mode and despite all attempts to recover my usual sense of hearing I spent much of the next few days listening to the world as if through earfuls of cotton wool. The Taxi drive back to Maracai was somewhat protracted due to the collapse of a viaduct on the main road between Malquetia and La Guaira. A route I was to come to learn well. The contingency road that winds and weaves tortuously up into Caracas, is a nightmare that left me gasping for liquid. Unfortunately 24 hour stop and shops are not well advised along the highways and byways of Venezuela. Even for the beer hungry. Despite the impressive public works that have taken place under the patrician guidance of Senor Chavez this country can still be a hive of lawlessness once daylight has failed. The process of the collapse of the viaduct was recorded on the photo here under. Later it would collapse completely into the underlying ravine. But Luiz and I did not stop either for beer or to wonder at the civil engineering. A stop on the hard shoulder anywhere around these environs even to urinate, would leave one susceptible to abseiling villains descending, armed to the teeth, from the barrios above. Hugo Chavez, never short of the odd inspiring word, summarised the collapse in his own familiar way: "Let's hear it for the viaduct! The viaduct is dead! May it rest in peace! (...) Media are now likely going to stage a show around the new viaduct (currently under construction.) Long live the contingency road! Long live the new viaduct and the new Caracas-La Guaira freeway we are going to build!" By now this may already be completed. Public works inspired by petro dollars march on under a gold, red and blue banner. When I eventually returned to Maracai I drank To that.

267 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 18:47 cet

POLAR & PARROTS

Believe me it was a joy to return to the Posada El Limon. For any of you not familiar with this little jewel, set providentially between national parks, white, sandy beaches and some of the best that Venezuela has to offer, then let this be my recommendation.The management and staff are a blessing and are more than capable of helping you with any particular nature of study, stimulation or entertainment that you might desire from a visit to Latin America. For me it was a short opportunity to wonder and to take a little rest before careering on with my journey along the Caribbean coast. I say that not only because the management are old and dear friends of mine, but because a stay there presents nothing but relaxation and joy. All the contact guff is in the Lonely Planet guide but I'll include all the contact details in a later post. You can save yourself the price of the guide and keep your money for the good Polar Beer. Something I probably imbibed a little to much of on this particular visit. Bernadus and his good lady wife Selina, plus the kids Pablo and Jade gave me a good time of it. Unfortunately I did visit in the rainy season which meant not only the customary of showers of rain but a hail of ripened mangos. The big Mangos come down like mortar shells and the smaller starch mangos rattle off the the rooves like machine gun fire. A fruity fusillade. None the less i had at least a few days to recover from the stress of over enthusiastic travelling and had the chance to meet a few old friends that I had not seen for years. In addition to this the eclectic collection of guests were included: Georgina, the niece of Jenny Agutter. (Still my beating heart). And a Welsh professor of ancient languages from Tondu. I've lost or never never rembered to write down those e-mail addresses but should either of you read these lines then get in touch. Or at least Georgina...get your Aunt to. We still have outstanding issues. .I have a few unresolved questions which stem back to my teenage years. The words naked and pond come to mind Bdah bdah.

265 viewed| gripe water 0| BIGFISH TRAVELS |Bigfish @ 20:17 cet

GRIPE WATER
Katherina Hughes: Who knows what death brings, I certainly don't. Bu ...
Heidi: We will always love you Ray. ...
marlyn : i´m not who is you peor me une a usted y a todas l ...
Chris: I wish I had some poetic bollocks to express what...
Rover: Hey Ray!!!! How you doing mate. hope your ok i hav ...

LONG TIME NO SEA
June - 2008
December - 2007
January - 2007
December - 2006
November - 2006
April - 2006
March - 2006
February - 2006
January - 2006
December - 2005
November - 2005
May - 2005

GO FISH

CATEGORIES
- Prive (1)
- Bigfish Travels (50)
- Overig (2)
- Irish update (2)
- Hoera! (1)