Ah, I think I’m in love… With a place, and it’s called Taganga. Further east along Colombia’s Caribbean coastline, this little fishing port is somewhere Eduardo and Lorna tipped me off about, and I’m so glad I took their advice. Although it has a reputation, as its raggle-taggle name might suggest, for being something of a haven for alternative/drop-out types, I actually found Taganga to be totally idyllic. Granted, there were a few bothersome hippies down by the beach trying to get you to look at their etchings of moonstones and the like. On the whole, though, for me, the place retained a lovely, sleepy, family feel that stirred itself into a livelier state of affairs come sunset. This was when music started to trill out of the front rooms of the houses on the dirt track roads, and the small town’s residents literally came out to dance on their front porches. I had the good fortune, I discovered, to arrive there during some kind of ‘carnaval’ unique to this stretch of the Colombian coast. Therefore all the area’s inhabitants and visitors seemed to be in particularly good spirits.
In spite of the special festivities, though, it would be hard to imagine how the people of Taganga could be less than happy in their beautiful settlement. Watching the sun set behind the boats in the port as fishermen hauled in their catches, and as Colombian kids splashed around in the sea, was enough to warm my heart through and through, and I couldn’t have felt more ‘contenta’ during my stay here. The little guesthouse that I stayed in called ‘Divanga’ added to the experience as well. With a pool, and a bar, and the loveliest and friendliest staff I’ve encountered in a long time, the great rate they gave me for a bed in a dorm room (which I actually had all to myself) was a total bargain, especially as this included a delicious fruit salad breakfast with papaya, pineapple, melon and Colombian coffee that was actually decent (up until now I’m afraid I’ve only had lousy coffee here, but I hear the best stuff gets exported).
I arrived in Taganga on Saturday on minibus from Cartagena and spent my first evening in the town just familiarising myself with my surroundings. I also had to think quite hard, though, about how I wanted to spend the next few days, and how I was going to make my way through to Maracaibo in Venezuela. While in the area I knew I wanted to make time to visit ‘Parque Nacional Tayrona’ – the vast national park up here that I had been lead to believe is stunning. It therefore felt like I had a lot on my plate to sort out. I kind of slacked off when trying to plan this part of my trip back home, mainly because information on Colombia and Venezuela was so hard to come by on the internet, and in guidebooks back in the UK. On account of this, I’ve found myself having to plan-as-I-go a lot recently, relying on information that I seek out from locals and other the other travellers who I meet and get talking to. Although I guess this is good for me, it can also feel a bit stressful and confusing, especially as the Latino propensity to give loads of conflicting and confusing advice (on which buses go where, how much things cost etc.) doesn’t seem to have died down here. However, I have say, it is not just the Colombians and Latinos who have been stressing me out with regard to my plans. It’s time for a bit of a rant, I’m afraid, and this time it is directed towards a certain type of traveller who I seem to have been encountering with irritating frequency in hostels and on buses of late. If I were to give this ‘species’ a name it might be ‘Patchouli Grandpa Pedant’, and I’ll come to explain why…
Basically, the typical characteristics of the species are – being an older man with grey hair and some kind of madcap beard or moustache, being American or European in origin, and carrying a bit of an air of the ‘old hippy’ (they usually ‘did’ all of the places they speak of back in the 60s and 70s, and therefore class themselves authorities – they also have a tendency to wear little sharks’ teeth on leather thongs round their necks, and round John Lennon style glasses). In spite of this hippy-ish counter-culture background (which you might think would equate to an easy-going, nonchalant attitude) the defining characteristic of a Patchouli Grandpa Pedant is an irrepressible urge to tell other travellers that they are doing it all wrong, going to the worst places, stepping into terrible danger, or not complying with the right regulations. In fewer words, these old guys seem to delight in raining on your parade, or popping your bubble, all the while maintaining their sage superiority in all things related to Latin American travel. It’s so annoying! I’ve met a good handful of people who could fall into this new invented 'category' over the past few weeks. However, I had the particular misfortune to get stuck next to an American one on the minibus down from Cartagena who spent the whole journey decrying all the ‘badland’ places that are coming up on my itinerary (most of Venezuela, then most of Brazil as well – he could just about tolerate Colombia, but moaned about Cartagena being too touristy now). Boring, annoying, tedious… I can understand them wanting to give other travellers gentle warnings about potentially dodgy places, but, when I come across people who speak about the countries they are travelling through with such world-weariness and disdain, I wonder why they don’t just turn right round again and go back to where they came from…
Then (sorry, but I'm on a roll now!), if it’s not the paternalistic warnings about where not to go, and what not to do (always dispensed after you’ve bought tickets or made arrangements), PGPs often give you more grief by providing you with travel information that is plain incorrect, or out of date. This morning, as I was trying (and hoping) to enjoy my last lovely fruit salad breakfast, reading my book in peace by the pool at Divanga, a German variation of the genus came along and, upon hearing that I was heading to Venezuela by bus, filled me with anxiety by insisting I need a visa. I haven’t heard or read anything about needing a visa for Venezuela, and the Couchsurfers I’m staying with in Maracaibo (who know of my plans to travel overland from Colombia) haven’t mentioned it, nor the bus company who I bought my ticket with. Still, I have a tendency to be a worrier, and this irritating and persistent man (whose advice I hadn’t solicited anyway) had me abandoning my breakfast and Skype calling the Venezuelan Embassy in London just to check. Of course, there was no need to panic as I don’t need a visa – a huge relief, but it meant I didn’t have a very relaxing last morning here in Taganga!
Anyway, having got that out of my system, I shall proceed to tell you all abut my last few days in Colombia – a country that I have enjoyed so much for its colour and culture, and for the camaraderie and warmth of its people. On Sunday, along with some Argentinean girls I met in Divanga, I started the day hitching a lift into nearby Santa Marta with a local guy who was driving his truck past the bus station where I needed to buy my onward ticket to Maracaibo. Travelling in typical Latino style, Katrina (from Buenos Aires) and I bounced about in the back of the vehicle (see photo – I look a bit worried, but actually it was a lot of fun!) for about half an hour on the way into town, as a variety of local characters hopped on and off this communal form of transport. The most entertaining was a balding man clutching a half drunk litre bottle of whiskey, which he gave our driver a couple of swigs of by means of thanking him for the ride. Once again, drink-driving concerns seem to feature low on peoples’ lists of priorities in this part of the world (as mentioned, they usually have stickers proclaiming God to be with them pasted to the windscreen if they are driving buses or pick-up trucks!). As it is carnaval time as well, round the clock drinking seems to be the norm (it was about 10 o’clock in the morning when these guys were getting stuck into the whiskey). However, from what I could see, all the boozing and partying never descended into people being sick or brawling (as I’m afraid I imagine the case would be back home). People just seemed happy dancing and filling the air with their merry tunes. It was great to be around that kind of spirit of celebration and levity (although it did become a bit annoying when I found myself woken up by the music at 6 in the morning, I’ll let the people of Taganga off for that!).
Apart from being bumped abut a bit, I got to the bus station OK and felt happy once I had managed to buy my ticket for today’s journey to Maracaibo. I then headed to the beach and enjoyed a bit of time just sitting in the sun, people-watching and reading (I found a great book exchange in Taganga so now have a new book – ‘Dance, Dance, Dance’, which is one of the few Murakamis I haven’t read yet – to get stuck into). Santa Marta is bigger and more crowded than Taganga but not unpleasantly so. It’s a popular resort with Colombians and foreigners and, in spite of having, I think, a slightly seedy former reputation for being a drug-haven, it now seems pretty much cleaned up. Plenty of families with kids and buckets and spades were enjoying themselves as I sat on the ‘malecon and, after a while, I found a nice little place to have lunch (somewhere I actually returned to yesterday it was so good). Although I’ve spent a bit more money than I planned to in Colombia on excursions and taxis and the like, things like food in basic but nice enough restaurants remain unbelievably cheap. ‘Comida corriente’ consisting of a massive bowl of soup, followed by a plate piled up with meat or fish, rice, beans, plantains or yucca and salad, never costs more than about £2 (add a beer and you’re pushing it up to £2.50 - so you might as well!). It’s therefore a good move, if you’re on a budget, to take your main meal of the day in this way. It might take you a while to plough through it all, but there’s usually a ‘telenovela’ (soap opera) on the telly if you want to put your Spanish to the test. Either that, or there’s likely to be a real life ‘telenovela’ unfolding in the restaurant itself, with local characters nattering loudly over their food.
I spent Sunday evening trying to talk to Argentineans in Divanga’s bar. This part of Colombia seems to be really popular with people from Argentina, which has been great for me in terms of getting tips and information on their country. However, it’s been a challenge for my Spanish as their accents take some getting used to! The ‘y’ sound in words like ‘playa’ (beach) and ‘ayer’ (yesterday) is pronounced with a ‘ssh’ by Argentineans and Chileans, it seems, which makes their Spanish sound softer and ‘swishier’, but which also makes certain words sound completely different. I guess I shouldn’t feel so surprised by these regional variations though. After all, if you put a Geordie next to a Glaswegian, or compared a Cockney with someone from the Home Counties, you’d hear some differences in the way we Brits speak...
Yesterday (Monday) I made it to Tayrona, and spent the day walking through the National Park. It was a day of solitude, but I didn’t really mind, as I was happy just to have the opportunity to walk, walk, walk (the park is well guarded and considered generally safe), through dense forest with butterflies and monkeys, eventually making my way to Arrecifes beach. Sadly many people have drowned at this beautiful, dramatic, but dangerous ‘playa’ in the past, not taking heed of the warnings about fierce waves and deadly current. Therefore it wasn’t a place to swim – more of a place, once again, to marvel at, and try to commune with nature in. Although it was muggily warm, I could sense a storm brewing as I sat on the beach. Sure enough, as I headed back in time for the last bus into Santa Marta, the heavens opened and it poured with steamy tropical rain. Thankfully, the thick forest canopy provided surprisingly good cover while I was walking back, and I didn’t get totally soaked through. It was refreshing, though, and a bit cooler than my walk on the way down. Listening to my i-Pod (it’s still hanging in there!), I watched colonies of ants on the ground as I went, contemplating their little world within my world, and thinking about the highs and lows of the last 3 ½ months in my life. All the while I was noticing the different hues of my feelings as I bought memories of the various countries I’d travelled through back into my mind.
On that reflective note I think I’m going to leave it for today as I need to get all packed and ready to move onto Venezuela, where my next report will come from. ‘Adios’ Colombia! I just want to say that found this to be a really rich and vibrant country, and I’d very much give it the thumbs up to anyone reading who is thinking of visiting, in spite of what they may have heard or read about its dangers (well, obviously take heed – but don’t be put off). I remember when I was back in Mexico whenever I turned on the telly there seemed to some tourism campaign with the tagline ‘come to Colombia – the only risk is that you won’t want to leave’. At the time I thought this was really tacky, but now I can see where it’s coming from as I’m really sorry to be moving on. Nevermind, though, there is still plenty to come…
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