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Monday, June 14, 2010

How about a San Blas island to yourself?

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When you're travelling for a number of months, or a year in my case, it's difficult to make concrete plans. Initially we'd planned to take six months travelling South America, up through Central America to Mexico, the remainder in Europe and India. Now that plan's gone out the window we've had to re-think some things and this time, Europe's come out on top, mainly because we've got a lot of friends living over that way. But Central America hasn't entirely got the boot. Lured by its rave reviews we're breezing through to Guatemala for a few weeks before a month in Mexico. One other place that made the Central America short list, a result of our penchant for beaches, was the beautiful San Blas islands that lie off the coast of Panama. It only took one google image for us to book a flight from Cartagena to Panama City for a few days of bliss before 42 hours on a Guatemala-bound bus.

As soon as we hit Panama City we were in a different world. We could have been in Miami for all I knew, and it only took a failed hostel reservation and a cab driver intent on ripping us off before we were itching to get out of the city and onto the beach. And that's pretty much exactly what we did. After a day relaxing in the hostel lounge researching the islands, we had a return booking on a jeep which was to leave our hostel at 5.30 the following morning to take us to the point for island departures.

As like a number of my anecdotes our day didn't get off to the best start. To begin with, I awoke to the less-than-impressed jeep driver shaking my leg while I lay asleep in my dorm bed, hissing: 'Chicas, you're late!'. It was already 5.30 and the two alarms we set hadn't gone off (or perhaps were rolled on when they went off). It was the first sure sign that we weren't in South America anymore, Panamanians actually run to time. Or maybe not. Free of peak hour, the trip that could have taken three hours took five. First was a stop at a supermarket for anyone who needed supplies. The supposedly quick pit stop turned into an hour of waiting for people who appeared to be rationing for a month on the islands. Following this was a stretch in the carpark watching one of the drivers change a jeep tyre. Maybe that was something that could have been checked the night before? Once in the car we drove for about a kilometre before pulling into a petrol station to top up, yet again an obvious essential that could have been dealt with pre-passenger pick up. It was fortunate my ipod was in the back of the jeep because I had nothing to throw at the driver when he announced after 20 more minutes on the road that he needed a coffee break and we pulled over yet again. The little voice inside my head was yelling: 'JUST GET ON WITH IT!!', but I restrained myself. That wasn't the end of it though. You know those times in life when you just have to suck it up, put frustrations aside and laugh? Well this particular morning turned out to be one of them. Finally we reached the pick up and were immediately met by Carlo who was to take us in a motorised canoe-like contraption to ‘Isla Diablo’ (‘Devil Island’), our chosen island. At last, things were looking up. It seemed our beach time was in sight! But alas, it was just not meant to be. As it would turn out it wasn't until 1pm that we actually reached our island, that is after we'd stopped on one island to buy food, another to get petrol...a trend was emerging here.

But it was also around 1pm when our morning issues seemed to evaporate, when we stepped out of the boat and into the clearest water imaginable, surrounded by those same shades of blue we'd been wowed by at Playa Blanca (without the hoard of beach vendors), onto an island strewn with palm trees. We'd arrived! Two days of blissful nothing! And what's more, after our lunch of fresh fish we watched as three tourists left. This left us the little island completely to ourselves, well us and its full-time inhabitants, a small Kuna community, an indigenous group who occupy about 36 of the 365 islands that sprawl the coastline. The community living on our island consisted of about three or four families. The women donned traditional dress, their arms and legs covered in lines of bead bracelets that ran up the most part of their limbs. The men preferred modern t-shirts, shorts and American baseball caps. Apart from cooking our three daily meals, they largely kept to themselves and it was interesting to observe their lives from a distance. We soon found out that just because you live on an island paradise that doesn’t mean you’re free of chores, chores such as weeding (with a machete), and my personal favourite, sweeping away seaweed swept up on the shoreline. I guess they can’t let nature’s equivalent to dust build up in any sandy crevices. It is their home after all and it’s important to keep up appearances, there’s a lot of competition out there – 364 other islands!

Over the next day and a half our activities were pretty consistent: reading, sunbaking, swimming, eating. We did take time to explore the island but, being the tiny size it was, our exploration only lasted ten minutes. Being the rainy season the clouds remained ominous but the rain never came until the evenings when we were curled up in our cabanas on our lilo mattresses where we were able to enjoy the lightening show. On our second day we visited ‘Isla Perro’ (‘Dog Island’), about 150 metres from our island and with an alluring shipwreck off its shores. It was late afternoon when we visited and after a good half hour exploring the wreck, we were shuttled back by a local in a hollowed out tree trunk and just beat the evening thunderstorm.

Refreshed and rejuvenated, the following day it was time for us to return to reality (well maybe not quite reality, we are travelling free as birds for a year). In any case, it was time to again contemplate long haul buses and return to playing waiting games. Yes, we were definitely back to reality and it came to me in the literal form at 3am the next morning when it bit me on the bum…BED BUGS!! Damn Panama City hostel. Oh well, San Blas, so worth it.

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Farewelling South America, last stop Cartagena

We've prolonged and prolonged, spent months in countries we'd only planned weeks for but after over six months on the road, our worldwide itinerary ultimately dictating, the time finally came to say goodbye to the beautiful South America, the charming colonial city of Cartagena our last stop. Like so many other places we've visited, this place has a long and interesting history, its colonization dating back to the 1500s!

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First up for us was the obligatory explore of the old town, which sits majestically on a peninsula, encircled by a large stone wall built by the Spanish to ward off pirates and the like. The first of a number of visits, this one was probably the best. The shops and restaurants were almost all closed and even some of the street vendors had taken the day off, a by-product of the election weekend. The only place that was buzzing with life was the main plaza, which had been transformed into a voting area, lined with the ever-present Colombian army and their heavy-duty firearms. But it was the empty streets where, for us, the real Cartagena emerged. Splashes of vibrant colour around every corner, large colonial homes with heavy wooden doors adorned with intricate wrought knockers. We spent hours wandering along the cobblestones, taking respite from the fierce Caribbean humidity under blooming bougainvillea or in green leafy plazas. I felt like a character from Love in the Time of Cholera, which I'd finished reading not long before. With no people around it was like taking a step back in time. In saying that, the election brought us luck. The next couple of times we visited it was hard to avoid the barrage of street vendors, or the countless restaurant menus that were shoved in our faces. While this somewhat compromises the magic o f the place, the way history has been preserved is a marvel.

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Colombia’s stunning coastline had whet our appetites for the beach. After taking in the old town, however, we soon discovered that although conveniently positioned Cartagena doesn’t boast anything special on the beach front. Thankfully for us, a short boat ride away was Playa Blanca (‘White Beach’). We decided that instead of just going for an afternoon visit we’d trade the hostel for a night on the beach in a hammock. As it would turn out, the following 24 hours weren’t exactly as we’d hoped. We organised a tour through our hostel, which was to take us for a cruise via the Rosario Islands to Playa Blanca. Instructed to arrive sharply at 8am, we ended up sitting on the boat for over an hour before the engine finally started. It was at this point we had the pleasure of meeting the cruise steward, Santiago, who spent the first 20 minutes awkwardly singling out passengers, asking where they were from with the strict requirement that the whole boat cheer for each represented country. The cringe factor only got worse when Santiago donned his DJ hat, our boat transforming into something like one of those tacky party buses that crawl the city streets on Saturday nights. Santiago would frequently interrupt the beats with deep-voiced Richard Mercer-esque commentary, naming the islands we passed. I definitely needed the scheduled intermission at an aquarium on one of the islands. There we enjoyed a dolphin show and another consisting of nurse sharks that had been trained to heave themselves completely out of the water and onto a platform for a feeding frenzy.

IMG_5067 The slightly bizarre nurse shark show

By the time we got to Playa Blanca it was lunchtime and we were told the boat would return to the mainland at 3pm. Just as we were piling onto the barge that was to transfer us from our moored boat to the beach, the heavens opened in a big way. With the thought of having endured Santiago’s disco boat for only a couple of hours of beach time in torrential rain, we were somewhat happy we’d decided to stay the night. And it was just beautiful. The sand lived up to the beach’s name – white as white could be – and the water was a clear twinkling sheet of different shades of blue, its beauty only accentuated by yet another amazing Caribbean sunset.

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Playa Blanca

Apart from being absolutely ravaged by mosquitoes that evening, Playa Blanca had one major downside: the beach vendors. These people are out of control, and that’s saying a lot in South America. Massages, necklaces, fruit, seafood – you name it, they’d try it on you. I’ve never been so hassled and hounded in the space of 24 hours in my life, it was exhausting! ‘Lady, lady, you want massage? Necklace?’, followed by a comment about needing the money to feed children. The worst was trying to eat my lunch while suffering at the hands of ‘Mary’ who insisted I sample her skills in the art of massage, the whole while pummeling at my shoulders. Not wanting her to think I'd succumbed to her barraging, regretably I said: ‘maybe later’, which, on this continent is the widely understood euphemism for: ‘I’m not interested, please leave me alone’. To Mary, however, I was a sure sale. She followed me along the beach and sat, waiting on the shoreline for a good half an hour for me to get out of the water and return to my towel, harassing me until I finally caved. Accepting her offer was my second mistake because, following the massage came ten minutes of her insisting I pay her more than what was agreed. Multiply this one experience by ten similar instances and you have Playa Blanca! I was first on board the boat back to Cartagena when it arrived the following day and I’ll admit, I was even a little relieved to see Santiago again.

IMG_5148A scrum of beach vendors surrounding an incoming boat


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With one full day left in South America there was a final activity on the agenda: the Volcán El Totumo, a mud volcano about 60 kilometres outside of Cartagena. About 20 metres high and over two kilometres deep underground (or so we were told), this place is just a sludgy pit of fun, every child's dream! So thick you can hardly move, your only choice is to bob like a floating apple while being maneuvered around the four-or-so square metres by the same guys who treat you to a full body mud massage on entry. We looked supernatural by the end of it all. And they say that mud has therapeutic qualities, well I must have been glowing for a week after this treatment. But how were we to get all that mud off, surely we weren’t expected to sit on the bus all the way back to our hostels, caked from head to toe? Of course not! Most conveniently there was a wash down service set up in the nearby lagoon. There was, however, a little surprise attached. The wash down ladies were rather forward in ripping off your swimmers, leaving you to float with fellow tourists in the nud while they rinsed them of mud. You’d think this would be slightly awkward, surrounded by naked strangers you were about to share a bus ride back with, but luckily that particular nudist lagoon was a nice shade of murky brown, covering all the important bits. I wont say it didn’t catch me a little off guard though.

So our time in South America had come to an end and although we didn’t know it yet, we only had a few hours before we’d endure the security gauntlet at the Cartagena airport: finger printing, full body x-ray and, for me, a bag search – apparently they were certain I was carrying ethanol and even I was disappointed when they didn’t find anything remotely resembling it, considering they’d cleared my backpack of every item. So what does one do with their last hour in South America? Well we thought it appropriate to say goodbye in style. For us it was a final Caipirinha cocktail at sunset at the trendy ‘Café del Mar’, reminiscing about the past amazing six months.

Hasta luego sudamerica!

IMG_5278 The view of the old town from Cafe del Mar

IMG_5291One last drink with our friends at Cafe del Mar

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Sweating it up to the Lost City

We'd asked a few people, "do you need to be fit?" The usual answer: "Yeah, it helps. And you'll sweat more than you've ever sweat in your life." So this was what was to be expected of the trek in to and out of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta's 'Ciudad Perdida', or 'Lost City'. Nice. We wondered how our bodies would survive having enjoyed six months with no routine exercise. But I'll have you know that there's a little Indiana Jones in all of us, and ours was jumping up and down, pining for an adventure. So, braced for trekking in intense humidity, we traded the Havianas for walking shoes and set off with Miguel and his brother Diego, two local guys working for Sierra Tours.

The appeal of this place is understated. Dating back to the 9th Century, it's an impressive four hectare site of an ancient city, supposedly older than Machu Picchu, abandoned during the Spanish invasion. Apart from a few select indigenous elders who have, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, held annual meetings at the site for many years, the city remained "undiscovered" until 1972. It was then that the slippery 1300 steps that lead to it - which we endured, one by one - were stumbled upon by a hunter (who, rumour has it, now works in Tayrona National Park as a tour guide!). It wasn't until 1975 that the government was informed of the discovery. Stories on this point vary, but the general gist of it is that the hunter also stumbled across a rather large collection of gold that was buried below the city, and subsequently spent the next three years ransacking the site, along with a few others, selling the goods on the black market. Jackpot!

The fact that this place has lain untouched for centuries isn't its only fascinating element. Unlike Machu Picchu, you can't reach it by train, there isn't a fancy on-site hotel, and there aren't maintenance guys trimming its outskirts. The only way to get a glimpse of this place is to endure five days of steep uphill climbs with some sometimes very steep, slippery descents - I spent a rainy afternoon on what felt like a muddy ice-rink, all I could do was literally go with the flow! It takes three days and about six somewhat challenging river crossings to get to the site, and then you turn around and do it all again, this time in two days. For me, this was the hardest part as the days were longer and I knew exactly where it was going to hurt. When you reach the city, you aren't hit with hoards of snap-happy tourists, but with the silence of the jungle. Surrounded by endless valleys that infuse into one another, you feel like a tiny spot in an ocean of green. The only signs of civilisation are a few indigenous-used huts, and a group of machine gun clad soldiers, stationed there for two months to protect the site against looters (and for the protection of tourists - there was a group of tourists kidnapped in 2003!)

The main ruins

Sitting in the 'chief seat'

Taking in the view

The highlights? Apart from the ruins themselves, the Colombian scenery was again at its best. Each time we huffed and puffed our way to the top of a hill we were rewarded with stunning views of the lush jungle below, or with a dip in a natural waterfall. What was also quite remarkable was how intact the indigenous lifestyle is. We saw plenty of seemingly thriving communities, large families, most in the traditional white dress, living off the land. Interestingly, it appears the government has given the indigenous communities some say as to the monitoring of tourists on the trail. At one point our guide was required to provide a list of names and nationalities at a community check point.


Like some other experiences, this one had a down side for me: in the middle of all the beauty, a real-life cocaine factory where tourists can "learn" about the nasties that go into cocaine production. This was not an official part of the tour and was definitely not advocated by Sierra tours, but it's something that we'd been told about before starting the tour, and that many tourists ask about when they sign up. On the morning of the second day a Colombian guy emerged from the jungle, hand outstretched for the 30,000 Colombian peso fee (about US$15). The deal is, you can take all the photos you want inside the factory, as long as you don't take any which reveal his face. What you see is the production of a paste that is the base for cocaine. But what happens to the paste after that? Where does all that money you hand over go? Traditionally, profits from the cocaine industry have gone directly to armed forces. For me, it was sad to see this sort of thing in a country that is trying so desperately to move on from its past, particularly when you hear first-hand stories of people who have been traumatised by guerrilla groups and the like. But I guess people will always be curious, and who am I to judge? While it's clearly a tourist rort, I'm sure it was interesting to see.

Some ancient kitchen utensils

Bec enjoying a mango fresh from the branch

Miguel contemplating a river crossing with a number of our bags