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'.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
27 December 2005
PORK BITS,SPUDS AND UDDERS
PORK BITS, SPUDS AND UDDERS 2
In Barranquilla it's very hard to avoid the constant flow of street food. Much of this is cooked over charcoal grills or barbeques and sad to say for our vegetarian friends, a great deal of it is meat. I was managed to stay away from my flesh gorging habits for the six months prior to my departure but it's near on impossible to avoid eating meat or being sure that what you are filling your face with does not contain a meat derivative of some kind. I have yet to meet a Colombian vegetarian and am not even sure if such a creature exsists. It would be crazy to try to sum up the national cuisine of a country in a few words but below is a grab-bag of the stuff I've picked off of smoking grills around the city. Some of it a little more 'challenging' than the rest. The dark sausage shaped lads are Colombian black puddings, or morcillas, and are pretty much indistinguishable from their northern English cousins. They are very nice and I'm sure would be set off a treat with a few stewing apples or pears. The skewers of beef are called 'chuzos', these fellows also come in chicken flavour. The Colombian spuds are absolutely out of this world. ( I keep forget that the humble potato started it's life in this neck of the rain forest), I haven't tasted potatoes this good since I was a kid. On the 'chuzos' they are stuck at each end of the skewer. Seen here glistening from brushed on oil or butter and ready for a final trip to the grill.
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.
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.
Feliz Navidad
01 December 2005
SOLEDAD
The family have advised me to spend as little time as possible on the streets of Soledad and when I am on the streets not to speak Engish. This is a place of abject poverty where a thirty-eight is often the only tool for making the rent or getting food into your kids. To wander into this place looking like a gringo tourist would be akin to a sheep stumbling into a mint sauce convention. All the same it's vibrant and,if you're not giving up the ghost on the pavement then full of life, especially in the evenings. Apparently there is more conspicuous policing at night and the majority of robberies occur in broad daylight. I haven't actually witnessed any incidents myself, the odd gathered crowd with ambulances, but nothing you wouldn't see in Coventry on a friday night.
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.
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.
HARD WEAR ON HARDWARE
Today the hard-drive on the laptop gave way. On the first boot of the day it was making a noise that could compete with a Colombian coffee grinder. After trying to install Windows and, with a rising sense of panic, using all the rescue utilities and boot disks I have, I am forced to the conclusion that it really is dead. This is both disappointing and impractical since my translation software, Spanish lessons, all my photographs so far and God knows what else are stored on that blighter. The upside is I have learned the Spanish for both hard disk (disco duro) and dead (muerto).I hope to never have to use them both in the same sentence again. A new disk in definitely beyond me. $200 for the smallest and two weeks to deliver.
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.
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.
UTILITIES & SERVICES
Today the water dried supply dried up. Apparently this is not rare in this barrio and it can stay off for as long as five days. I have only seen running cold water in Colombia so far but that is no matter, Barranquilla is as hot as hell and very humid. The showers are refreshing and the water is good for drinking. It's quite easy to get bags of drinking water delivered but for hygiene the family seem to use it as an excuse to visit accommodating relatives with working showers. So it was off to 'Aunt Gloria'.
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.
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
PUERTO COLOMBIA
On Sunday we all decided that it was too hot and bothered to stay in Barranquilla. Six of us and two children hit the streets looking for a taxi. The group consisted of from left to right: Kelly,Rosemary,Johan,Katy,Tonia,and the children: Zhary and Dilan. Plus the not inconsiderable bulk of me behind the camera. That with an entire Colombian picnic the ladies had whipped up and a cooler full of soft drinks and Aguilas. To their astonishment none of the taxis, which are tiny at the best of times were prepared to carry us the twelve or so miles to Puerto Columbia.
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...
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
LA PLAYA SALGAR
Down on the beach it was hammock and food time. I didn't get around to a lot of swimming. The sea is more that a little treacherous around here as you might see by the number of lifeguards (salvavidas). They are the fellows with bright orange gear on that would not be out of place at a dutch international soccer match. They deserve medals and probably a lot more pay than they get. In the first hour were there they must have dragged at least nine or ten people gagging and spluttering from the ocean. Apparently a lot of people drown here, not suprising when I look at how wild the ocean looks, this coupled with the fact that a high percentage of these coastal dwellers don't swim. This may be due in part to the fact there is no compulsory education system. Even the state schools have to be paid for by the parents. So it's my guess that they just don't get around to it. Unless, that is, they actually enjoy drowning.
BEACH LIFE
I unexpectedly met up with a few old friends here: Candy floss and toffee apples. I chanced a toffee-apple despite the state of my teeth and it was perfect; a thin crisp sweet glaze over a cold sour apple. Priceless. A few of the tastes here have really taken me back to childhood. Much of the vegetables here taste so much better than they do now in Europe. The potatoes here are fantastic and to be honest I haven't really encountered anything I didn't like. Although a few dishes have been challenging to say the least.
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.
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.
DON'T SHOW THE PAPAYA
There are a variety of ways in Colombia, not unlike any other place on the planet, where you can inadvertantly put temptation in someone elses' way, creating thereby a degree of unwanted attention to one's person or property. This can consist of pulling out a bulging wallet in a crowded location, wearing a great deal of 'bling' in an obviously poor neighbourhood, leaving the keys in a Porsche with the top down, wearing a low cut dress or a short miniskirt in a location full of testosterone driven males. It's not hard to think up your own examples. Anyway, should you be guilty of any of any such stupidity, then it would be encumbent on a good friend to say "No dar papaya..." "Don't show the papaya..." Kelly has been helpful and kind enough to demonstrate the principle here for us, although it would be fair to say that Kelly is not the Colombian Papaya hiding champion...
