Chapter 24:  Cartagena, Colombia

Monday, August 2

I emerged from my darkened room into the dazzling morning light.  Bucaramanga was almost exactly as I imagined it to be.  It was a working type of town.  People were busy doing their thing.  I took a stroll to get a feel for the place.  The streets were full of straight-ahead expressions focussed on the week to come.  I thought about lunch. The local speciality, large fried ant, was out of season though.

I visited yet another cathedral, this time the Catedral de La Sagrada Familia.  Its dark interior held its own special charm.  My cash card wasn’t being accepted in the cash points I’d tried.  I wasn’t worried though.  I didn’t have an immediate or day to day crisis to fend off.  Contrasting the poverty I was recently witnessing and the wealth of the church, perspectives were acknowledged.   I was eventually able to withdraw 200,000 pesos at the BBVA Bank though.  This would cover my next travel and first night in Cartagena.

There was an impressive bust of Simon in the front grounds of the Museo Casa de Bolivar.  However, the place was shut with its large iron gates padlocked.  I felt hot and bothered by the afternoon heat and remembered to buy some sun cream.  A gentleman shoe cleaner called Juan remarked on my very good footwear.  They were looking quite tatty, but Juan brought out the best in them on his little wooden box.

Once the sun went down, I headed back to Residencias.  It was so quiet.  There was nobody about, so I climbed up onto the hotel’s roof top balcony to look out over Bucaramanga.  The tropical evening air prompted me to enjoy some more beers.

Tuesday, August 3

In a bizarre dream I was stranded in a bus terminal in just my t-shirt and boxers.  I kept yelling to my sister and family that I needed to collect all my things.  Then we suddenly realised my hold-all was missing.

I woke up with a jolt and a slight hangover but soon gathered my belongings.  I took a taxi to the bus terminal.  The taxi driver tried to converse with me.  I repeatedly said no entiendo – I don’t understand.  I felt shattered.  The cloudy, muggy morning mirrored my mood.  I arrived at the station in good time and bought an Expreso Brasilia bus ticket for 60,000 pesos to Cartagena.  I really wasn’t with it though.  In the cafeteria I enquired about breakfast.  I also happened to ask what time it was.  However, my limited Spanish probably translated to what time will the breakfast be ready? as the ladies behind the counter just frowned at me!  I couldn’t find my watch and I had a bus to catch at 8.30am.  They understood my confused state more than I did apparently as there was food on my table within minutes.  There was also plenty of time before the bus departed.

I relaxed further as the friendly portly bus driver called over the passengers.  There was only half a dozen of us.  Once on the bus, the air-conditioning system quickly froze us out as the outside heat intensified.  When we stopped for lunch, my glasses properly misted up as I exited the bus.  I walked up to the bus driver to show him how cold his bus really was.  The other passengers were highly amused.  I could just about make out the driver’s smile.  He explained the air conditioning was at its lowest setting and would automatically switch off at a certain temperature.  And what temperature was that? I enquired.  Apparently, the system couldn’t be switched off when the bus was running.

I bought some snacks, including some fresh bananas from a nearby grove.  There were many American cars in the Santander region.  Ford, Chevrolet and Dodge vehicles were everywhere.  One of my fellow passengers had a touring bicycle with him.  When we resumed the journey, he came over to talk with me.  His name was Gustav.  He was from Buenos Aires and had been touring South America since the age of 18.  He was now 36.  After half a lifetime of cycling adventures he had no intention of stopping.  Gustav wrote about his travels and picked up some itinerant work along the way.  He had a wide-eyed expression and was obviously an extremely intelligent man.

I explained my chosen route for the rest of my travels in South America.  This still included a visit to Brazil, then across to Bolivia, then Paraguay, and back down into northern Argentina.  Gustav sighed.  He questioned the time limits for my journey.  The road routes into Bolivia from Brazil were also limited.  Instead, he recommended I spend more time in Brazil.  He went on to describe it as a stunningly beautiful country.  We continued chatting at more stops during the day.

It was dark and raining heavily by the time we reached the north coast.  The bus windows started misting up and it remained cold but at least I had my alpaca cardigan from Cusco.  We picked up a lot more passengers at busy looking Barranquilla then arrived in Cartagena by 11pm.  Gustav asked me where I was staying.  I presumed it to be Casa Viena because they’d replied to my online booking request.  He then suggested I took a hotel room for the night and reminded me that I was actually on holiday!  He laughed as I insisted on checking out the Casa.  I thanked him and promised to keep in touch.

The streets were awash with massive puddles.  Casa Viena was fully booked.  They had a plan B though and directed me to Hotel Holiday just around the corner.  I arrived there just ahead of a group of Scandinavians. There was space in a two-bed dormitory.  The receptionist took me to the room.  I then heard a familiar sounding voice.  It was Julie, the young London woman I’d met in Bariloche, Argentina.  She was her usual buzzing self, busily packing her stuff to get away.  We chatted for a few minutes.  Julie was travelling next to Medellin.  I calmly remarked on what a great place it was.  She jolted and shouted, as if offended, that she knew because she’d already been there!  I just smiled and laughed to myself as she bossed her way out of the room for an early morning flight back to Medellin.

I fancied a drink.  The other occupant in the room, a friendly Japanese lad called Eno, wasn’t up for it.  He was feeling ill and reckoned too many cigarettes had left him with a strange neck ache.  I made my way out into the dark Calle de La Media Luna.  There were still a few places open or opening in the Getsemani district.  The streets were dotted with clandestine characters.  Lots of drug dealers, pimps and pouting ladies tried to attract my attention.  There didn’t feel to be much danger, but I decided to stay much closer to my hostel.  The next-door bar offered some relaxing space to enjoy a couple of ice-cold beers.

Wednesday, August 4

It was a bright and beautiful day, ideal for checking out Cartagena’s magic.  The inner walls of Cartagena contained an irresistible, charming, and romantic old port town.  At the main gateway into the old town, the Puerto del Reloj, a lively middle-aged man in a replica Liverpool football shirt accosted me.  He pleaded with me to check out the jewellery in his friend’s shop.  I happily peeked inside.

Free maps were being handed out by tourist information people on the inner side of the Reloj.  I followed the recommended route to take in the splendour. There were stunning streets, enormous balconies, impressive churches, and lush plazas.  It was such a dazzling delight.  I also checked some of the boutique hostels and hotels.  They were expensive but a night or two in this remarkable location were quite tempting.  La Flaca Bohemia had a board outside offering affordable lunches, so I popped in.  It was a delightful little restaurant.  The staff were so friendly, and I enjoyed a delicious pasta dish.  Later, I continued my walk down to Iglesia and Plaza de Santo Domingo.  I then returned to the hostel where Eno was still bed bound.  Was it the heat or something else?  Cartegena was so hot though and I took a refreshingly cool shower.

I sorted out another night’s stay and enjoyed a beer on the patio.  There were many Australian and American travellers at the Hotel Holiday.  They were a lot younger.  While initially alert, they drank so quickly and soon descended into brash boasting and shouting over the top of each other in competing conversations.  The noise levels increased further, so I sought out an alternative.

There were several modern bars on the Calle de La Media Luna.  I popped into one.  It lacked charisma, but right next door, I found the dark interior of the recently opened Maria Feliz.  This was more like it.  It was an entertainment and eating establishment where they screened classic films every night.  There were a few characters enjoying Rebel without a Cause, dubbed in Spanish, and projected onto a large white wall.  A couple of film buffs ran the joint.  One of them was called Jaime.  He made me feel very welcome.  I sat at the bar and soon took to the dark, dusty atmosphere.  Jaime had high hopes for his venture.  When I told him about my reporting background, he really opened up about some of the social issues in Northern Colombia.

By the time James Dean reached his final confrontation with the police there was a sizeable crowd of youngsters and older types mixing happily together.  Jaime now had their attention.  He grandly stepped around the bar to put on a screening of a local film.  It showed an impoverished black community struggling for access to clean, fresh water as nature and the nasty corporations put up all sorts of awful obstacles.  The 15-minute film was followed by Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged performance.  I enjoyed the screening sequence throughout the evening.  It was thought-provoking and entertaining.  I remained at the Maria Feliz, drinking a few more beers and chatting away with some of the clientele until the early hours.

Thursday, August 5

The night rain left a steamy air over Cartagena.  Despite a decent sleep I woke up all hot and sweaty.  The cold showers worked a treat though.  A large guy shouted across to me from the other side of the street as I left the Hotel Holiday.  No hoy – not today, I responded.  After dropping off some laundry, I walked into Cartagena’s old town and then on towards the seashore.

Underneath the hot sun, a digital temperature sign read 34 Celsius at just before midday.  I stripped down to my Zoggs and walked the two kilometres along the beach down to Bocagrande.  This plush looking, commercial district was the location of big hotels, expensive restaurants, and shops.  Despite applying plenty of sun block my back started to burn.  There were many refreshment sellers wailing across the beach.  They mingled in with the bronzed bodies soaking up the sun on the lovely, golden sands.  I stopped to rest on a huge, horizontal tree trunk when a larger-than-life lady came ambling over to me.  She started to rub my back and recommended a hot massage.  I laughed with the lady as she continued to coax me with the twinkle in her eye.  A nearby vendor could see I wasn’t being taken in.  With a winking eye, he joined in our conversation and implored the lady to leave me alone.  She got cross as only a hearty Caribbean woman could.  At any moment, she was going box his ears.  I waved goodbye to the arguing pair and went into Bocagrande.

I checked my memory card reader at an internet cafe.  It began working on a computer but as soon as I put it back into my camera the display screen did nothing but say protect right.  Back out in the late afternoon heat my t-shirt became soaked in fresh sweat.  I briefly returned to the hostel and took another shower.  I then visited an Exito supermarket and bought a new memory card in a nearby shopping arcade.

After dinner, I spent another evening at the Maria Feliz.  It was showing a black and white film about Colombian journalists.  There were lots there, paying full and quiet attention to the white wall.  A yelping dog tried to enter and break the concentration.  I was intending to stay out for another evening and crossed the street to check out another bar.  Nothing much was happening there, but a jazz band was warming up for an all-night session.

Back outside again I came across a dealer who I thought was offering to sell me some weed.  In the slight confusion I bought two grams of cocaine instead, for 40,000 pesos (about £13).  Following the exchange, the big guy I’d seen across the street earlier in the day came quickly running over.  He grabbed me tightly by the arm and produced some police documentation.  I gulped but I immediately recognised him and retorted that he wasn’t a policeman.  I freed myself from his grip and retreated.  He laughed and admitted yes, but that I’d been a little too eager in this deal and should have walked further along and possibly out of view down a side street.  That was all very well but there was always a risk.

The hostel bathroom was free.  I took a snort and then went straight back out again.  The receptionist warned me to be careful with the dealers.  The hostel also couldn’t afford any hassle with drugs being found on their premises.  I bought a packet of Marlboro Lights from a street vendor and caught up with the jazz band.  I felt freshly awake and a little too eager.  I returned for another snort on the cistern then hid my little stash underneath a large flowerpot outside the dormitory door.

There was little chance of any sleep by now.  The extractor fan was making an increasingly horrible noise.  Everything seemed a little bit messed up.  I lay there on my bed with my heart beating so fast in fear and reaction.  I’d drunk a lot of beer as well.  It was quite a dangerous mix.  I felt more foolish than elated.  It perhaps wasn’t my cleverest night in South America, but the experience was still positive.  It possibly just lacked company for this sort of activity.

Friday, August 6

I experienced incredible stomach pains the next morning.  The hostel cleaner could see I was in agony.  She allowed me to use one of the en-suite facilities.  I was still so physically fragile after my illness in Cusco.  To be sensible was a better option from now on.

It was raining outside so I later went to check out the museums.  Starting at the Museo de Arte Moderno, I admired some interesting images by French painter Pierre Daguet.  The Museo Naval del Caribe stood out with its comprehensive display and recording of the naval history of Cartagena and the Caribbean.  There were lots of guns, flags and paintings.  Impressive models, from various international fleets, including The Bounty, Cutty Sark and HMS Victory graced the displays.

After another fine three-course lunch at La Flaca Bohemia I wandered over to the cathedral.  The Gold Museum next door was free to enter but the cathedral admission cost 7,000 pesos.  I questioned the church attendant about why, if the museum with so much wealth on show was free, did a house of God with probably just as much gold on display charge people to enter.  He saw my point and just smiled.  I then went next door to enjoy the gold collection and the venue’s extremely refreshing air conditioning.

Eno left the Hotel Holiday to look for a place with air conditioning.  He was still feeling out of sorts.  I also spent an hour or so checking some of the hostels around Parque del Centenario.  Most were fully booked for the coming weekend.  I found one decent place, a quaint old establishment.  However, I was veering to the idea of moving on.  I loved Cartagena.  The young and vibrant street dancers by the Reloj encapsulated the town’s beauty but there was a darker side.  Ubiquitous pushers and peddlers wouldn’t leave you be.  I wanted a place to relax.

As the late afternoon haze melted into a hot and sweaty evening, I returned to Maria Feliz to check out its Friday night atmosphere.  They were showing Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine.  The film, about gun violence in the United States, included brief footage of the Hillsborough Stadium disaster to illustrate football hooliganism and violence.  Apparently, The Hillsborough Justice Campaign rightly protested to the director about this incorrect context when the film was first released.  Moore claimed he had been mis-sold the footage by the BBC.  However, given his reputation for investigations into wrongdoings by the establishment, why was this gross misrepresentation included in his film?  He later promised to remove the offensive item from any future releases.  Yet there were still copies out there, such as this one in Maria Feliz.

Why was I unsettled by this?  Well, along with my brother and two friends, I was on the Leppings Lane Terraces at Hillsborough on that terrible day in April 1989.  We managed to escape the fatal crush by getting through to a side pen just before the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest kicked off and all hell broke loose.  We saw what happened.  We witnessed the heart-breaking truth.  It was never anything to do with hooliganism.  The authorities failed to ensure crowd safety and there was a subsequent cover up.  Michael Moore’s failure to do his research here really perpetuated the false narrative.  Over the years so many people believed the lie sold by the media at the time, especially by the tabloid The Sun.

It was so chillingly strange to be randomly confronted with this again so many years later and such a long way from home.  In fact, the episode decided it for me, once and for all.  It really was time to leave the hustle and bustle of extraordinary Cartagena.  I would leave the next day for Santa Marta.