06 December 2005
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'.
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.
25 January 2006
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.
27 November 2006
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.
14 December 2005
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.
15 December 2005
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.
28 November 2006
29 November 2006
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.
Between memory and truth somewhere falls the shadow. Bart still maintains that during a weeks stay I managed to drink ten cases of beer. This seems improbable in the extreme but not impossible. During the rainy season the insects proliferate and for some reason they have their eyes and probosces fixed firmly on me this year. I'd been feeling progressively more dicky as the weeks wore on but had put this down more to my age and the rate of travelling rather anything else. My great friend B.M. had turned up from the Islands, something he'd be threatening to do ever since I first started haunting this corner of the Caribbean and he took me off to an old friend of his: Juraco, who is not an unknown figure to many of my childhood friends. He is also someone who holds the English crew in great affection. The politics run a little contrary since Juraco is a great "Chavezniste" much as myself. This is not a universally shared sentiment among my immediate friends. Especially Bernadus. Nonetheless we trooped down to regard the legacy of Mr. D. Sedge Willett, a man held in special high regard in these regions but better known to us as the wee grey fellow. The world and his brother are now earning a living here with mozaik techniques perfected and performed by the wee grey one. He and his fine son Helmut are well remembered in this corner of the world. We had a wonderful barbeque with the artist and his family. This was probably to prove my last flirtation with red meat and green peppers and laterly my enduring romance with alcoholic beverages. A fine time was had by all and between the profit and the loss we celebrated old and new friendships and the virtue and value of broken things.
30 November 2006
You can only drink beer and dodge falling mangos for so long. I'm not sure about Venezuela. It surely seems like a fine country and I'm sure that the time I had spent there was not long enough to form a conclusive opinion. I guess that takes a lifetime really. There is a strange magnetism that draws me to Colombia however, maybe it's the same attraction that drew Bolivar. He was born in Caracas but gave up the ghost in a borrowed shirt in Colombia. Cartagena I think. The Venezuelans claimed his bones and shipped them back to Caracas. I'm not sure what happened to the shirt. The 24 hour rule would have surely run out on that one. Colombia is more edgy, which appeals to me. Echoes of Coventry I think. Bishops gate. The taxi ranks on a Friday night after chucking out time in the clubs. That brooding sense of impending doom which threatens but never actually arrives.A punch in the head which really isn't that bad. After an uneventful flight from Valencia to Caracas I think I must have been musing on this as I touched ground in Bogota. Magic of all magic, wonder of all wonders, there is a WIMPY bar in the airport at Bogota. Will my luck ever run out? They even have the smooth brown mustard, "french mustard" I think they used to call it in the Wimpy bar in Coventry. Tasted like brown vinegar icing. While I was sucking down that stuff I seem to remember my bro and sister prefering the ketchup and this made me feel very interesting and continental. Jesus God I loved that stuff. Colombia may be the last repository of me and all things Coventry. I already have the borrowed shirt. But know this. When the town council demand, upon the threat of severe repercussion, the repatriation of my bones, as surely they will, then I want to buried at a point of triangulation between where the Coventry Theatre used to be, where the Kinks played and the Who first got banned for smashing up their instruments, The Jaguar pub where Bill Beckett gave me my first hit of acid, and the Wimpy bar where I first tasted something french. It may require some drastic civil engineering but that has never been an issue in my home town. Everything has gone: Jaguar, Triumph, Rover, Humber, Francis Barnet,Alvis, Austin, Morris, the Rootes group, Cov Rad, Fishy Moores, Two Tone, the piss-house in the upper precinct, Norman Butter, The Locarno where Pink Floyd previewed Dark side op the Moon with Hawkwind in support, The Lanch, Barclay James Harvest on the same bill as MC5 (kick out the jams), Highfield Rd., Beefheart at Warwick Uni, demonstrations, citizens help, The Paris, The Gaumont, Rolls Royce, Bob, Mum & Dad and Jase, most of my family and most of my mates. In fact what hasn't gone has gone to fuck. But just as there is a time for leaving then there will be a time for returning. The Sky blues WILL win the champions league. Lady Godiva will be doubled up on the back of the horse of Simon Bolivar. The taste of a Wimpy on Bogota airport brings it all flooding on in and flooding back. How far do you really have to go to find the way back? Bogota is the mustard.
02 December 2006
Rain, rain rain.
"The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness,
far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the central and inevitable
fact of human existence."What did I read there? The Wolfe man again in dedication. Travis Bickle knows the rain that I mean. It's definitely the wet season when I touch ground in Barrranquilla. Mi tierra querida. The troops are out on the streets again and all the way from the airport the soldiers are on every street corner as if to welcome me. They are stop and searching, Barranquieros spread-eagled against walls getting the bad man pat down. I guess they don't want to take any chances when I'm in town. Of course it's Uribe again. He always seem to time his visits to coincide with mine. It's election time now though and he is doing a little band-standing. The thought of a Colombian general election is almost as exciting a prospect as Carnival. It's going to be an exciting visit this time. Not only the elections but Miss Barranquilla is running for Miss World in Las Vegas. I try to up myself a little on Latin American history a little more each time I visit. I learned that the current president Uribe had his father kidnapped and despite paying the ransom got his Dad back in chunks on the doorstep in a dustbin bag. It's hard to be optomistic about the thoughts of any political reconciliation. The fact that he even acknowledges the para-militaries is something of kindness. The good that has been slaughtered in this country beggars all belief. I've recently read the biography of that head job Escobar. The murder of Luis Carlos Galan. Probably the best hope this country ever had. The shoe shining comedian whose name I do not even remeber. To even excercise political comedy can cop you a head shot from the cheerless armed actors here, who coke or Bush driven run rampant in this wonderful country. I wonder who is buying all these bullets? Wonder if anyone like Galan will ever come again. Ingrid Betancourt is still in the hands of kidnappers if she is even indeed alive. It will need bags of that Colombian resolve and conviction. Oh and yes, a world that even gives a fuck. That would be a nice one. I managed to get down to the University for election day but was too chicken shit to take photos of the hordes of might morphin' power rangers lining the streets. But fuck that, the amazon will be gone in it's entirety in twenty years, all eyes on Iraq and Afghanistan That's a fact. Britain is shovelling more up it's nose than anywhere outside of the US. Makes a change from sniffing Yankee bum i suppose. This may be as as good as it gets. Wake up and smell the coffee my friends. It's probably Colombian. End of political ranting. Uribe won. Miss Barranquilla didn't.
08 February 2006
22 January 2007
There are belated New Year greetings from all the fish here in the big-pond. The server has been down for a few weeks now, so I extend even more greetings to those faithful enough to keep visiting despite the downtime. Hopefully we'll be up for a while now and I can catch up on the lost posts of 2006, including Caitie's first visit to Colombia and our mini bus epic from Barranquilla to Venezuela. It was rum old year, one to stir life to the roots and stir the pot to the bottom. On the one hand there was great sorrow and loss, for me the shadow of Jay passing will overshadow everything and mark the year of 2006 darkly and indelibly in my memory for the rest of my remaining years. I know that there have been big changes for all of us, old friends reunited, changes in both address and attitude. New relationships and new arrivals, (more about those in the next post). There is a wealth of promising things looming on the near horizon. For me the impending completion of my personal physical and dental repairs will be high on the list, followed by the Barranquilla Carnival where I will be joined by a small, hand picked group of European hedonists who will use this immense cultural event to attempt to learn temperance in preparation for Lent, or more probably to learn how to dance 'Cumbia' on a table wearing nothing but marimonda masks, while balancing beers on their heads. (Again these are separate posts in which I will also sing praises to the standard of Colombian health care). In all I'm in an optimistic and sunny mood. That's easy to say, I know, when it's thirty degrees and blue skies. But on the whole I'd say it's a question of heart and eyes and keeping all of them open, regardless of how bleak things may seem at times.
On the phone today with Ireland I asked Jamie what the weather was like in Longford; "There's a beautiful clear sky and a full moon...." he said. These natural wonders seemed more interesting and remarkable to him than the storms that have been lashing Europe and the frosty grass crunching under his boots on his way home from Monica's. Both our Jamie and things are looking up.
(Photos: Caitie and Cosmo in Barranquilla, Colombia and Caitie in Maracay, Venezuela. August 2006) 
26 January 2007
Well it's going on February life is quickly putting time between me and my annus horribilis. Aye yes, there are many things in this confounded life I'm never going to get to grips with (like Shakira for instance) and even more things that I do not have any ready explanation for; like nearly everything on earth except the hiccups. Funny, because I'm reasonably sure I knew everything when I was younger. Still I continue to live my life in the cheery expectation that things will eventually become clear. I'm back in the Caribbean which is a good thing: sunshine, sea and sand. Apparently the weather is going from bad to worse for the European and American contingents of family and friends. An Exception being my dear brother David who is working nights in the freeze box of a packing plant and, as such, does not know the meaning of weather anymore. But by eye witness accounts he is looking very well on it. Maybe I should join you Hedge. Get some gut off and get the blood pressure down. We'll both last longer; like a pair of Inuits,(at least that’s how I think that’s how you spell it).
Yes I do miss being away from those I love but still feel the itch to keep on the move while I still can. I also feel a compelling need to catch up on all the old posts that I've missed between May and September last year. That's proving difficult because new stuff just keeps happening as life's rich plot develops. Writing these posts isn't a problem; the laptop still seems to be holding up since it's last repair,(cheers Ike), the last words haven’t been wrung out of it yet. Pics are more of a worry. My little digi-camera has been going steadily to bollix since Charlie lubricated it with maple syrup last year, so I think photos are going to be few and far between. Actually my little silver friend might loosen up and start working again now that the ambient temperature is higher and the syrup thins a bit, its switches have tended to loosen up while I'm here, as have mine. I do get the odd encouraging message on the e-mail with added attachments which means I can poach a few photos of your photos too. These coupled with some old shots from last year mean that I can still share some snaps through the magic of the Internet, without the massive effort and not inconsiderable risk of lifting a camera to my eye. Anyway enough of the tech guff.
Gillian, star of stage and screen, has finally completed her newest production:"The Snapper". A fine little girl as you will all see for yourselves. I haven't got the weights and measures, but she'll probably turn out about as shy and reticent as her mother. 2006 was a veritable incubator of a year for some. Veronika and Yessenia in Colombia also had daughters Nancy and Sherice. No pics of those yet. It seems that however dark and cold and foreboding things might appear,there is always some glimmer of light somewhere. Gillian didn't send any photos of the proud dad, Alan, so he's going to have to be imaginary Alan for the time being. Gillian says he's a mad Irish fisherman and doing more than his share to keep the Atlantic salmon running. Good Man. So God bless them all and I'm sure we'll flick a fly together someday. The only things hatching at the moment are the brutish Aruban mozzies that are eating me alive while I write this. Welcome to the world Elizabeth and congratulations to Mum and Dad.
I think we're (by we I actually mean Elkie) are going to have to make a hall of fame photo gallery on this blog as soon as 'we' have relocated 'our' computer. Anyway I'm also including a photo of Ma in her pre-Ma Hollywood days. Sorry Gilli, next time send three snaps, I have to keep the numbers up!
Next post I'll be on my way to Venezuela and the pics will be coming from Longford!
27 December 2005
The big mixed grill at the bottom shows two different sorts of potato. The wrinkly things that look a bit like pigs' ears are actually cows udders, a bit like Manchester melt. These folk are not shy of scarfing down any manner of viscera and seem to eat pretty much everything from snout to trotters. The only thing I've really had a problem with was the cow foot soup which didn't seem to contain anything recognisable, just a few nondescript gelid lumps and was in general an experience I can only describe as sucking warm suet out of tubes of gristle. It may be an acquired taste but I certainly won't be going around for seconds on that stuff. Anyway you might spot a bit of tripe in there. Some roughly stuffed pork sausages and any amount of crackling you like. It might not be everyones cup of tea but I will dedicate a little time on the fruit and vegside to strike some sort of balance. Promise.
09 June 2008
This blog has been suspended due to the death of it's author.
We miss him more than our words could express...
13 November 2005
I’ve tried these travelblogs before and they always seem to get screwed up somehow. Gambia and Senegal never got edited and the partial blog of Trinidad, Tobago and the Southern Caribbean just evaporated on the server. I’m assured by those wiser and more optimistic than me that these posts will all surface in the fullness of time and that, by the time I’m too old to drag my tired carcass further than between the P.C. and the television in the bedroom, all the old posts will be ordered and dated. Giving me all the time left to me to pore morosely over my past, the far off places I have visited, and the idiocies I engaged myself with while there. I’m just going to leave the two entries below as bookmarks and get on with preparing for the new trip. There are four days left until I leave. Richard Hawley is coming over from Brighton tomorrow give me a good send off, heh heh. We’ll see if we can get a few pointers there on how to conduct oneself when faced with such an undertaking. I’m sure a bon vivant/ casual hero/ man o' the world like himself will be sure to have a few scraps for me. In the meantime I invite all my friends and loved ones to follow my progress on this small adventure and to add, unreservedly, what advice and criticism they may deem useful.
14 November 2005
06 January 2006
January brings the same hangover here as is does anywhere else. The Colombians probably don't have the same jaw-dropping credit card repayments to face as the gorged consumers of the first world, but Christmas makes everyone overreach themselves somewhat. It was very encouraring however to see that the supermarkets make up special priced food hampers for the poor which you can buy and deliver to the Cathedral for distribution or, as we did, take directly to the poorer barrios and give directly.
Christmas being over the people can find some solace in the fact that Easter is on the way. With the Easter period comes the legendary carnaval of Barranquilla, second only to the carnaval in Rio and allegedly gaining ground. The various associations are already practicing. This is something I don't want to miss. Whether I make it this year or not remains to be seen.
Cartagena is amazing place but that's for the next post.
Footnote: (In Cartagena I saw some really nice buses that are running on an over-nighter to Venezuela. Definitely one to file away for future reference. If anyone has any experiences of this route I'd be glad to hear about them.)
"...it has pleased Almighty God to preserve me in good health, to go through all these glorious fatigues, and in a full disposition to push this beginning with all possible vigour, to humble the proud Spaniards, and bring them to repentance for all the injuries and long-practised depredations on us." Amen to that.
The place is amazing. The only fly in the ointment is that the deep water harbour here allows upwards of three cruise liners to dock side by side and the town is occaisionally overrun with gringos. This has driven up prices a little bit. The old city is almost intact. (There are too many photos to post here but I will link this post with an album for those who are interested). I climbed the battlements of Castillo San Felipe de Barajas and it is very difficult to believe that those salty English dogs got up it in two hours against cannon and musket fire.
This was a letter written by a sailor to his wife after the fall of Cartagena in 1739:
"When I left you heaven knows it was with an aching heart to be hauled from you by a gang of ruffians but, however, I soon overcame that when I found that we were about to go in earnest to right my native country, and against a parcel of impudent Spaniards, by whom I have often been ill treated and god knows my heart I have longed these four years past to cut of some of their ears, and was in hopes I should have sent you one for a sample now, but our good Admiral, God bless him, was too merciful. We have taken Porto Belo with such courage and bravery that I never saw before; for my own part my heart was raised to the clouds and would have scaled the moon had a Spaniard been there to come at him, as we did the battery. Jack Cox is my messmate; you know he was always a heavy-assed dog and sleepy headed, but had you seen him climb the walls of the battery, you would never forget him, for a cat could not exceed him in nimbleness, and so in short it was with all of us. I belief I myself could now overcome ten Spaniards for I remember when I was in Spain that the Spanards called the English Galen den mare, but we shall now make them know that we are the Cox of the Seas for our Admiral is of true game breed. Had you seen us English sailors, now what alteration, what countenances, what bravery can exceed us? They tell us we shall meet a French squadron by and by, but I wish it may be so. And by g-d we'll jerk them. Our dear cox of an Admiral has true English blood in his veins; and thank God all our captains and officers have to a man. Now we are in earnest, but lying in harbours and letting our timber rot and our provision to be devoured with rats; was bad as I have seen. When our cannon had left off firing by order, our men coud hardly forbear going on. My dear, I have got some token of success to show you; I wish I could have sent some of them to you. Our dear Admiral ordered every man some Spanish dollars to be immediately given, which is like a man of honour, for I had rather have 10 dollars in hand than to have 100 for seven years together, and perhaps compound it at last. I am and so is every man of us resolved either to lose our lives or conquer our enemies. True British spirit revives and by g-d we will support our King and country so long as a drop of blood remains. Jo Wilks is as good a sailor as the best of them, and can now bear a hand with an able sailor and has vowed never to take the shuttle in hand till we have reduced the pride of Spain. Help them who will the more, the better true blues will never flinch. I can't help mentioning the soldiers we took with us from Jamaica who were as hearty cox as ever took musket in hand and behaved with glorious courage, but all for the honour of England. I wish we could see one of those plunderers, the garda costas, especially him by whom I was once met with when I lost 16 months wages. If I did not cut off the captain's ears may I be damned. My dear, I am well, getting money wages secure, and all revenge on my enemies, fighting for my King and Country"
Photos show the Castillo San Felipe de Barajas that these lads shinned up, and some of the defenses on the city walls.
03 December 2007
So where does it go? I recall asking the self same question many years ago, mumbling over a pint of Guinness in a Republican drinking hole in Luton. I remember the reason for the question; I had missed getting a bet on the ITV seven. I don’t remember my reason for being there apart from the vague feeling now that it had something to do with drugs and wanting a pint. I remember too that it was a rhetorical question, addressed to my pint rather than the old fella at the bar who interjected,
“There must be a great heap of it somewhere....”
Well that’s true enough. Like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I do not expect to find it. I might have caught a glimpse of it in Bogotá a few weeks ago. All these many years later I’m hunched over a cup of coffee as black as that Guinness, reflecting over the events of the past year and thinking about Holland, Eire, Poland, England and Brazil and the rest of my roaming since I last posted, and starting to bring these musings up to date. While this might not bring me any nearer to finding the great heap of time, it may help me in my dotage to trace the direction in which it went.
End of restart.
I know one of you out there was with me, so the prize question bringing the lucky winner 20 Park Drive and a bag of marbles. All you have to do is tell me what I was doing in Luton.
18 April 2006
A short trip to Coventry was probably just what the doctor ordered. God may have placed self sympathy next to despair like the medicine next to the disease, but then being in the heart of a family you don't really need that recourse. Just a place to get some love, some power and some resolve. It was certainly needed. Warwickshire is beautiful in the spring and good luck to Carol and Dave with their move. Back now in Amsterdam the back of the winter is finally broken and the twigs that rapped my bedroom window, like the claws of the reaper all winter have started to bud and brush more forgivingly against the pane. April.
Oh yes it's that time again. April. But now a different one, one informed by a little more cruelty. A little more of life. I think it is time to leave. I am beginning to discover the significance of leaving. I think that somewhere in my addled mind, dumbed and bludgeoned as is by new forces of life & death, a foetal concept still survives that can live and grow and bring, as if by chance, an extraordinary destiny to fulfillment. This remains to be seen. My heart still feels like a lump hammer. I am shirty with strangers in bars. I beat against these walls that I have built for myself, but together with others, complicit in their construction, still conspire to imprison and surround me. I'm packing a small bag. It's time to be going.
"Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?"
09 January 2006
We were in El Centro before Christmas while they were holding the customary Christmas 'feria'. I can say without a shadow of a doubt I have never seen so much brightly coloured plastic rubbish for sale in my life. It made the cheapy aisle in Toys 'r Us look like the crown jewels in comparison. Even the Barbie copies looked like they were slumming it in this company. Everyone seems loaded up with as much of it as they could carry. The children were ecstatic. Strangely enough it all seems to have disappeared now. Probably stolen or broken. Plastic might be indestructible as a material but the wheels fall off in a week.
The area is also home to a lot of cheap clothing stalls, Genuine Mendellin copies of anything you could wish for, the same goes for watches, sunglasses. The indoor market has all of the sequined tops and jeans that seem to be the Colombian ladies' weapons and uniforms of choice. They certainly like it tight and shiny these lasses. It's like 80% of the female population here has been forced at gunpoint into clothing at least one size to small and they are all mincing around trying to stretch it a bit from the inside out. It's a fascinating place alright, and there, right in the middle of the seething, iniquitous heart of it, Barranquilla's oldest church, San Nicolas, rises sweet and clean as a Christmas cake out of a sea of rusting corrugated metal.
The variety of herbs, fruit and veg alone were well worth the trip. Add to that the variety of fish, many species of which I have yet to identify, and any amount of croaked and butchered exotic fauna. (To my delight I learned that they spit-roast guinea pigs here, which must surely be of equal delight to anyone who has raised daughters beyond teenage, and has had to put up with this skittish little stinkers as pets for any length of time). Without gloating I would say however that they are delicious and make much better meals than housemates.
Anyway. Digression. I managed to purchase a couple of carrier-bags full of HOT chillies which are conspicuous by their abscence in the supermarkets. The hot sauce they sell over the counter as "muy pikante" isn't even as challenging as Listerine. So determined to make a concoction of my own I spent the night frying them up with about ten big onions, a lump of ginger as plump as Quasimodo's fist, and more garlic than I can remember. When they were fried blackish red in the oil I pureed the whole issue in a food processor; leaving me a chili paste that compares very, very favourably with a Sambal Badjak. You can say goodbye to any unpleasant build-up of viscous bodily slime layers that this stuff touches. It will strip your tubes from tongue to anus allowing the new, purged you, a warm glowing space in which to be reborn. I have a few culinary scores to settle. This should do the trick. For better or worse I hope to be long remembered in Colombia.
While acquiring my peppers have also got my hands on some strange looking local fruit that I have yet to try: Curubas, Granadilla and Tomate de arboles. Watch this space.
After celebrating my purchases in the shade of Carlos's Ironmongers I was privileged enough to be allowed to photograph the Owl,or Lechuza, which perches outside the shop,and is something of a local wonder. Amazingly it just sits there all day, flying off to hunt at night and returning faithfully each day to the buzzing market and it's perch in the low branches, easily within reach of humans. Carlos and the neighbour were enterprising enough to make a calender and are trying to give the owl some cult-like status that will hopefully bring devotees flocking to the shrine from far and near. They were a little concerned that I might use a flash and scare away their little golden-egg laying protégée. It wasn't fazed by me in the least. After our photo session, and the lads extracting from me the promise I would put the photo on the Internet, I wobbled off homeward leaving them as pleased with their owl as I was with my newly acquired barbeque grill.
Life can be a bountiful business.
(P.S. If you are in Barranquirra visit Ferretaria Carlos Diaz on the market and enjoy the opportunity to see Lechuza Rafita. Promise fulfilled. Salud Carlos.)
02 March 2006
I don't think I've got the cold out of my bones since I got back to Europe. My mind is drifting back now to the call that I got from Elkie (littlefish) and Jason (Blowfish) at the New Year when I was still basking in the sun and Amsterdam was even more lashed with snow and cold wind than it was today. I've been trying to free my mind up in some way or to at least get a grip on how the events of the last month have changed me. I know that it is fundamental but I haven't quite grasped it. I've been wanting to get some rhythm back in my life, get this blog started, but everything seems arhythm and discord at present. I read Aubade over and over, John Donne, Joyce, winter, night and mortality. I try to steer clear of any ideas of "moving on" and "closure", better to keep still, leave it bleeding and let the air get to it. At the moment it's still more breakdown than break through. And still the snow.
"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.. "
12 January 2006
The dry facts are, (besides being wet in this case), as follows: The Rio Magdalena is one of the major rivers of Colombia, linking the interior highlands with the coast. It rises at the point where the Andes split like a forked stick into the Central and Oriental "Cordilleras' (that's 'sub-ranges' to most of you wags) Passing through: Girardot (Cundinamarca), Honda (Tolima),La Dorada (Caldas)
Puerto Boyacá (Boyacá),Puerto Triunfo (Antioquia) until it reaches the sea just beyond Barranquilla (Atlántico). On it's 950 odd mile journey to the sea it receives San Jorge, César, and Cauca rivers which all add significant sediment to the shit-load it is already carrying. The sedimentary plume you can see on the 'helpful' satellite picture flows well out into the Carribean Sea. The delta has to be dredged regularly to accommodate commercial shipping.
We visited the river at the inappropriately nicknamed "Puerto Amor", within sight and smelling distance of the Cement Works, Shipyard and chemical factories of Puerto Barranquilla. Vying as they do in romantic evocation as might a dead rat and an inner tube. In all fairness we had a nice fish dinner and despite getting gypped on the river crossing, getting mocked by a boat full of people dressed up as clowns and thinking Kinski wouldn't have put up with this lot, a grand time was had by all.
Harrumph! End of geography lesson!
Meanwhile to keep this post at least as interesting as your average vegetarian meal, here we see: Alverjas, Frijoles, Guandul and Zaragosas. Guess which is which and win, errr, well.....A peashooter.
Fruit coming soon.
13 January 2006
My initial grab bag included the fruit shown here, with exception of the bananas which I bought just in case the surfeit of the other more alien stuff 'loosened' me up too much. The articles of principal interest today: Tomate de arbol, Zapote and Borojo. And Interesting mix. The ladies of the household are helping me with my little review and were kind enough to give me some help with the preparation. A lot of fruits here are juiced: the tomate del arbol aka tree tomato, aka tamarillo is a nice juicy start. It tastes great in a pitcher full of ice and I can best describe the red juice as a cross between water melon and strawberries, the Zapote on the other hand, which little Zhary is kindly demonstrating in it's open form, has the texture of an Avacado and a taste not unlike a fleshy cantaloupe or Galia Melon. Like the Tomate de arbol it is apparently more often juiced and drunk than eaten from the hand. Perhaps the most interesting of the three is the Borojo, I'm not sure of the initial form of this little monster but the shape it assumes now is due purely to the fact that it has been wrapped in cling-film and suspended in a little plastic net. The fruit inside, as you see in the photo looks like a liquidised christmas pudding and smells fairly pungent and fruity. These gelid little beasts are between two and three years old at the time of their consumption. I asked the ladies what they tasted like; laughs all around. Apparently this is purely a man's domain and, as far as I can determine, seems to be some natural form of Viagra. The girls wouldn't touch a Borojo with a bargepole except to prepare it, something they were happy to do for me (accompanied by much giggling and snapping of each other's bra straps and sideways comments which I can only guess, call me paranoid if you will, are off colour remarks about the gringo manhood). Well they'll laugh on the other side of their 'caras' when confronted with the cerveza-crazed, borojo-fuelled, overfed monster that they have created. I hope for their sakes they know where to lay their hands on a couple of cattle prods at short notice or by god, there'll be pork on the menu breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Musing aside; they whisked up about a quarter of the borojo with a little egg about the size of a quails egg, a cup of milk, some sugar and a few nondescript ingredients I have yet to identify. Like a trusting fledgling I drank the resultant greeny brown, sweet, floury sludge, reminscent in texture to the Limpopo river, without any feelings of revulsion. Apparently you have to drink it for three or four days to feel the benefit.
Up till now I haven't noticed anything, apart from nervous, or maybe expectant sideways glances from the girls. I never was much good at deciphering those signals. Actually maybe I do have the first stirrings. My guts are rumbling and I am producing industrial quantities of methane. Carrrrr-amba!!!
14 January 2006
No they are NOT two superheroes and YOU know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. I saw this cautionary banner as I was passing the fruit and veg market in El Centro today and I thought I would share it with you. For those of you whose eyes are not as good as mine (heh heh.) (Stoppit STOPPIT!!!). Here is a rough transcription and translation of it's wise counsel.
"Young person you should not atrophy Your Mental and physical Development
Masturbation produces problems:
Because it unbalances the hormones testosterone and Progesterone Because It expands the sphincters
Because it exhausts the melatonin
Because it makes that you confuse the reality with the fantasy and when faced with a relationship you do not obtain the erection
Because it exhausts phosphorus of the nervous system
Because it exhausts the lecithin of the cervix
Because it degrades the personality."
Don't come whining to me that your sphincters have expanded and that no-one took time or the trouble to warn you. Now let's all do the responsible thing and get out and warn those kids!
End of biology lesson.
(I think the link reads, suprisingly: www.Anael.org)
We've planned the Barbeque for Sunday afternoon and evening so today was as good a time as any to get some shopping done. The supermarkets are the convenient option but if you take the trouble to get down to the market then the rewards in price and quality are significant. The choice of fruit and vegetables is bewilderingly wide and the prices generally low. I'm going to whip up some rice with mixed veg and some of the local potatoes as staples. I'll par boil the spuds with some mint and let them cool off, brush them with olive oil and seasoning and grill them off on the Barbeque. I might do a few parcels of young carrots in orange juice and sugar. Let's push the boat out a bit. I'm going to need to do a lot of prepping for this occaision so I'm hoping that the ladies can break off the fertility rites with the Borojo they are holding in the kitchen of late and get some chopping, peeling and scraping done. I've settled on some pork for the meat lovers, I spotted them butchering a few pigs at the end of the street this morning and that seemed a good opportunity to get it while it's fresh. Apparently Grandma won't even turn up unless there's meat on the menu. I'll get some baby back ribs and a couple of little haunches and cook them slowly with the lid on for a few hours before the event, hack em up and crisp them off with a little honey and make a pan of apple sauce with Aguardiente to sweeten things up a little.
I managed to get my crooked claws on a beautiful Sierra Dorada; that's either a Dorado, Mahi-Mahi or Dolphin fish to you, depending on which part of the world you are from. The kids are seen modelled it for me below. (They've never seen a fish this big and were a little nervous in approaching it.) It amazes me that the locals here rarely if ever eat them, they must be one of the nicest eating fishes on the planet. Barranquilla is only fifteen miles from the ocean but the bountiful supply of river fish is so great that I suppose they never have to look farther afield. They do love the prawns and oysters but apart from champing down on the odd snapper they seem to lean toward the coarse fish. The local favourite, The Bocachico is delicious but has more bones than a box of Manx browns. Too much work for yours truly.
I can hardly believe that I got a Bull Dorado of this size for twelve dollars. Staggering. Unfortunately it's too big to fit even on my oversized grill and I've had to cut it into three to get it into the fridge. No sweat. I'm going to cook the three component parts in different ways, I'll stuff the middle piece with rough cut limes, grated fresh coconut and handfuls of fresh coriander, the tail I'll make good sweet and salty with some sort of homemade Terriyaki sauce and a stick of lemon grass up its jaksi. As for the head and shoulders I'm going to blush them with some of that homemade chilli and ginger paste of mine. I'll reassemble the whole creature on the table as a central display. Maybe I could put some trotters on it and create a Doctor Moreau theme. Who knows? Fancy dress perhaps, imaginary creatures. Mind you if I whip up some more of that Medellin Sangria they should be seeing more imaginary creatures than Frodo and Harry Potter put together. I shall and will leave my mark.
The shopping is behind me thank god, that leaves a comfy day or so to think about fine tuning.
I bought the whole list of ingredients for about 30 dollars which seems a snip to me. Plenty of good animal protein and not a 'flu dusted feather in sight. I'll ask them to bring their own drinks. A refreshingly English twist. Shame I have neither Pimms or meths. No matter.
I'll let you know how it goes. Chin chin.
End of housekeeping and cookery lesson.
First a little background, the two principal hard liquors both fall under the generic name "Ron". I started off with the wrong end of the stick on that one, much to the amusement of my new 'rummy' friends here. When I asked them if the guy "Ron Mendellin" every really existed they very nearly spilt their drinks laughing. Much like the crisply striding Johnny Walker or his jolly incestuous backwoods cousin Jack Daniels, I had started to see the Character of Ron Medellin as a jolly guacho or traditionally dressed Colombian chap much like the one in the photo below. I do admit that Ron is probably a more likely name for a Brew XI drinker than a vachero but I reasoned to myself that 'Ron'was probably a shortened endearment for Ronaldo or some name of a similar nature. Well no. Ron is the Colombian or Spanish word for Rum and the little black spider on the label of the Medellin variety, and the word añejo, which means aged, should have warned me that nothing enduringly good was in store for me. In the textbooks is is described as follows; "Anejo Rum is a golden blend of rich, aged rums with a mellow taste and rich aroma." But believe me, the Colombians do NOT sit around sipping and sniffing at this stuff marvelling at its maturity. It's one shot, off and the next is on the way. Much like the Poles with vodka. Three quarters of the way through the second bottle found me thumbing through my Oxford English-Spanish dictionary trying to phrase a polite refusal, which would have consisted of something like " Thankyou, but no, one more of those and I will likely soil myself..." The Oxford does helpfully cover this eventuality with the following and I quote:
"...v refl to shit oneself (involuntarily) cagarse* "
While trying to formulate 'cagarse' into a jolly spanish phrase the subclause 'involuntarily' suddenly grabbed me an sent me into a tailspin. Was there actually a word out there that described voluntary self-soiling but was so utterly vile and reprehensible, even for those dry dons at the Oxford, that it may not be read or spoken? There must be. Otherwise why the universal subdivision implied in 'involuntarily'. While musing on this new sub truth I'd necked two more 'Rons' and was well on the way to finding out for myself. Although I awoke the next day with relatively clean undergarments I did not actually reach my bed without some assistance. My legs having refused service of any kind.
Anecdotal follies aside here are some of the facts:
Aguardiente is by far the favourite of the national drinks. This stuff is real firewater. They make it from molasses which is flavoured with anise and then distilled till a strength of about 60 proof is achieved. Then it is sweetened with sugar.This is definitely a patriotic tipple, much as whisky is to the Scots and has led to many tearful ramblings by misty-eyed bards;
"Give me an aguardiente, made of the sugarcane of my valleys and the anise of my mountains. Don't serve me a drink from abroad which is expensive and doesn't taste as good."
and
"What am I without aguardiente? I'm a nation without people, a tree without roots,"
A boot without a sole etc. You get the drift. Not Rabbie Burnses ode to a mouse I'll grant you, and probably losing a little in translation, but with a bottle of this under your belt you'll be weeping into a plastic beaker or a crystal glass with the best of 'em. Aguardiente is nothing if not a great social 'leveller'.
The Spanish tried to ban the stuff in 1693, much as the Frenchies did with Absinthe, but all to no avail the Colombians fought any restriction on Aguardiente, tooth and nail, right up until they gained independance in 1810. Then the drinking began in earnest. Nowadays it's more fashion that threatens it's continued existence, low taxes on imported drinks and high taxes on the domestic product are taking their toll. The industry is fighting back however with a new 'light' version. One calorie a glass they boast. The imaginative catch phrase being "No Sugar, No Regrets." Colombians all over the country must be crawling out of rubbish skips every morning with soiled 'pantalones' and muttering this to themselves. May it long bring them solace.
29 November 2005
In no time I had been spotted by the waiting family, enclosed and bundled into a waiting taxi, the luggage boy had already been tipped despatched and we hurtled off in a cloud of dust,through Soledad and into Barranquilla. The whole family fitted into two taxis. At least ten people in each, doors flapping like the wings of flightless birds. All the way to Centro the streets were lined with heavily armed soldiers, armoured carriers at every exit. I thought they had layed on some sort of special do for me, until it filtered through my spanish comprehension that President Ulribe was in Barranquilla and as such had brought half the armed forces with him. The route to the airport being particularly well guarded. Ahhhh so they weren't waving at us! I Loved that pretending to aim at us stuff though! What jolly wags the Colombian military are! And so young!
Anyway I kept my camera well down. This proved to be a good idea since as soon as we hit Centro all the doors were suddenly closed and locked and all the windows were wound up, leaving us precious little air until we hit Norte, North Barranquilla, where the windows came down and we could breathe again.
Within seconds of the taxi pulling up at the kerb I was bundelled out, swept up the first flight of stairs, the younger members of the family following like a baggage train. dumped into a chair, a beer thrust into my hand, a fan trained on me and more family introduced. To my profound discredit all I could muster in my new language was a feeble "Ola!" now and again, but I'm sure that this will change. It's already plain as the 'nariz' on my face that no-one either in the family or it's environs speaks more than a single word of English. If I want my intercourse here in Colombia to constitute of anything more than well-natured monosyllabic grunting, then I'm going to have to learn Spanish pretty fast. The family are great though, they are kind enough to ignore the fact I cannot speak the lingo and continue to speak to me at the same unrelenting pace,(Constenos speak faster than any other Spanish speaking folk by a factor of ten I'm told),smiling at me and then each other in sympathy as if I were some happy, benign oaf.
It would take me more than a week even to begin to remember all their names. Suffice to say though, they really laid on the white tablecloth treatment and after a few days of travelling, the welcome I have received is in itself welcome. Today marked the end of a journey and the start of an adventure.
01 December 2005
Everywhere the preparations for Christmas are in full swing, many of them slightly incongruos; reindeer are not exactly indigenous to Colombia and the only snow they see is the crusty sort that well, drifts down from the Andes then drifts right up your nose. It would be great to see Santa Claus getting his arse dragged over the Andes by flying llamas but we'll have to settle for what we've got. It's strange in the extreme to see grown men constrained to dress up as snowmen, Santa Claus (or Papa Noel as they call him here.)in thirty-two degrees of heat. With the humidity up around 80% at this time of year. They must be sweating the old snow balls off inside those suits. It probably takes the remaining eleven months of the year to rehydrate themselves. As you'll see below Mama Noel is probably not helping with the overheating problem They all seem suitably jolly though. as they prance around the artificial trees and under bowers of plastic holly. I asked the family if they had ever actually seen a holly bush, they assured me that they had and that the cherries were delicious. I think,in fact, we're talking about a different bush here. That or my phrase book is letting me down.
The Vivero supermarket is buzzing and every day there seems to be more decoration. It seems to me that the Colombians are generous givers. They make donations at the cash tills and get little cut-out candles that they hang in the fake trees. These donations often seem to take preference to completing the shopping list. Unlike their shopping counterparts in Europe they don't seem to tote up the contents of the shopping trolley before hand. They throw in what they want, prioritise it on the way around the store and then watch the total as it is checked out. When they reach the amount of cash they have with them then that's it. The rest stays in the trolley, taken back to the shelves for the next, perhaps more affluent shopper.
They seem to be a remarkabley stoic folk The family were robbed at gun-point in their own home last month, all their cash was taken and all their cellular phones. I asked them what they thought about it. Of course; "it was terrible but then these robbers were young people with children and no food..." Giving really does start at home. I get the drift. I will listen to the family and keep my mouth shut on the streets, resist the impulse to take too many photos, ensure that both the door AND the 'ornamental' steel-bar gates are locked behind me and generally think and act a little Colombian.
I don't need mint sauce or stuffing.
Someone up there definitely likes me. What would you say the chances are of finding a second-hand 30gig IBM travelstar in downtown Barranquilla? Somewhere akin to having a small win on the lottery I'd say. Especially when one considers that the shop where I eventually found it were adamant that they never had, didn't have and never intend to have such a creature in stock. It happened to catch my eye (that of an 'Aguila' these days),and having made a deal almost as sharp, $50 and a three month guarantee, the new, second-hand 'disco duro' is purring and whirring away happily in the laptop.(Spot dead 10gig TravelStar in photo below and win a donkey).
A special thanks to Ike and Richard for getting this thing to me anyway, and Peter for the installations. All your rewards await you in the lost city. Fortunately I am carrying all the necessary software, MS Word is unfortunately in an ISO file which I cannot burn and I can't remember how to crack Systran. The photo of the early days and the photos of Miami are lost to me until I can get back to Europe, apart from that; happy as the proverbial pig. Happy days!
Thought I'd share that with you.
The children came along and were very excited because Gloria has a little restaurant, she sells Arrepas and Empanadas to passers-by from a heated glass cabinet and serves sit-down meals and soups. Gloria herself is tiny, rotund woman all smiles, always busy and with kids hanging off her apron. If there's a problem throw food at it. Food as a subject will require a whole post of its own, so I don't want to go into that too much here. Food turned out to be something of a sub plot anyway.
The intersection where Gloria's is situated is fairly busy so it was a treat to sit and watch the colourful and overfull buses come thundering down the hill, trying to catch the traffic lights. By the time we were showered water and fed it was dark. We were all chilling at the table you see on the photo below, when one of those chundering chappies blew out a back tire, hit the curb opposite, taking the small tree with it. The small tree hooked up in the overhead power cables and caused an explosion that plunged the whole barrio into darkness with passers-by and those seated on the terraces screaming and wondering which way to run. The bus hurtled towards us, twisted radiator-grille grimacing, like Thomas the Tank-engine's mad latino cousin; Chacha Charlie. The sparking of the trailing cables that had wrapped around the axle and the side mirrors was the only source of light but it was enough to help the terrified passengers effect their escape. The bus came to a standstill about a yard in front of us, we had had just enough time to bustle the children inside. (I sincerely beleive it was only the height of the kerb that saved us.)
To be fair the evacuation of the bus was nothing short of miraculous, someone smashed a few of the back windows, which caused another bout of screaming since it seemed that someone had let loose with a firearm. Children, smaller and older people were quickly lifted out to safety and within three minutes flat everyone had disappeared into the night, leaving only the bus driver scratching his head and wincing occaisionally as the last sparks sputtered and crackled and the power died. The power company arrived with a bus full of hard-hats with torches but We didn't stay to see how they sorted it out, after helping Gloria get the furniture and food inside, beyond the reach of the opportunist arrepa bandits, we carried the kids about ten blocks to the nearest lighted barrio and took a taxi home.
When we got back to the appartment the water supply had been resumed. The trip turned out to be unecessary but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. My first experience with the Water Company, The Electricity Company and the Bus Service all in one day.
02 December 2005
It's easy to forget that the average working wage in Soledad is about $200 US. This in a country where luxury items like aircos, refridgerators,general electrical appliances,branded food items cost the same if not more than in America or Europe. It is not difficult to see why they might be reluctant, even when I offer to pay, to take an extra $5 taxi. In the end they agree but only on condition that we rideback to Barranquilla on the 'chiba'. Today I learned the difference between a chiba and a bus. A bus is one of those yokes that nearly crushed us at Aunt Gloria's and a chiba is more something you fall out of drunkenly,like a charabanc without windows, music blaring and in general a party on treadless tyres. I have no problem with that. Give me the chiba anytime. Mezcal Mike, the chilled cousin.
Once we had managed to secure the services of two cabs things went swimmingly. We might have been a day trip to Blackpool or Zandvoort had it not been for a military road block on the way out. Fortunately the soldiers were more interested in the taxi driver's papers and the contents of his boot to take any notice of the steely-eyed gringo who had forgotten,once again, to bring even a copy of his passport. Tonia made eye signals to me like; "keep you mouth shut and try to look inconspicuous..." Which would be akin to the Jolly Green Giant trying to fade into the background in a minibus full of pygmies. We pulled it off though. Getting to Puerto Colombia in no time. The beach between Puerto Columbia seems to be split up into sections, each one requiring access from some sort of recreation complex or resort. The first we visited seemed very accommodating but Johan, who was doing the talking with the armed security, said that they wanted too much entrance fee and besides that they wanted half of the beer we were carrying. A much heavier toll. It seems they can make their own rules as to the allowed quotas, probably because they have to deal with the "borrachos",(lager louts to us) after they have tanked up. Half of 24 cans did seem excessive though. So we plodded off to Salgar, about a half hour of walking further along the coast. After the brisk walk we had a heart bursting climb that any sensible englishman would have hired sherpas for, leading to our final destination. The resort was positively Ortonesque, jolly campers running around between armed guards and machine gun nests, Well maybe the machine guns are a bit of an exaggeration but then you wouldn't expect armed uniformed men of any kidney marching around at Alton Towers or the Efteling.
They didn't spoil the fun though and after a welcome dip in the pool we took the obligatory wrist tags and boarded our allotted chiba for a visit to the beach. Once there we were ushered to a couple of weather-beaten tiki huts to soak up a little more sun and atmosphere. Grand stuff. But more of that later...
03 December 2005
All afternoon it was an endless procession of vendors, most of them selling food. These are not the insistent variety of chaps that you meet in Africa who are not deterred by anything short of a slap on the back of the head. Here a simple "No Gracias senor..." is enough to send them on to the next prospect. In many cases though the food was so irresistible that it turned out to be "Si senor..." The shrimp and oyster man was the first receive attention, He mixed up a concoction of shrimp in a spicy tomato sauce with finely chopped onions that was to commit murders for. Next came the man with the fresh fish; He had a full tray to choose from and we took them all, he went back to a little hut away from the beach and transformed the fish into a series of dishes that fed the whole family. The lot for the price of a single Big Mac menu. By the time that food had all gone down it was time to hit the chiba. Back up to 'Butlins' to cool off the kids and then a breezy ride back to Barranquilla, Samba music blaring and a smile on every face. I even bought my first souvenir, which is a Christmas present for Elkie. (But don't tell her).
Today has really given me a taste for the Atlantic and Carribean coast. In my mind I'm already planning visits to Cartagena and Santa Marta and the Islands of San Andreas and Providencia. If the luck and the money hold that is. I will have to add them to the ever growing list that started with Cali, Mendellin, Venezuela and Ecuador if possible. It's starting to look a tad ambitious and I fear there might have to be a little thinning out to be done.
