Here´s me addressing this issue.
Day one of eleven began at midnight on the sixth of April. My birthday. To welcome it in, I was on an overnight bus from Cali to the capital Bogota. The celebrations were low key and informal with a boy beside me sleeping on my arm and my beeping watch signaling the moment to take a sip from my water bottle. A party I´ll never forget.
At 6AM I was in Bogota´s grasp and some four hours later, I was walking the peaceful streets. With a birthday gift waiting for me in the city, I set about locating my parcel but after visiting several courier companies, I gave up, had a coffee then visited a gold museum.
On my return to Musicology Hostel, I was welcomed with a shot of rum or two and a YouTube backed rendition of ´Happy Birthday´ sung by all the hostel staff and travellers sitting in the bar. From there on in, I moved little and sank a wholesome amount of beers. I was twenty seven and it felt good.
The following morning I struggled to surface but when I did, I watched the film Iron Man then saw Man United self destruct against Bayern Munich and exit the European Cup. Feeling a little glum I set off again looking for my post but still, no success.
In the evening I threw on my Millonarios shirt ready for the game against Cortulua and after spreading the word in the hostel, three fellow Brits and a Norweigan joined me for the game. We initially wanted the cheapest seats but were warned off them by local supporters who told us we´d probably get robbed. We sat elsewhere.
The game istelf didn´t live up to the previous encounter in Cali but the cheerleaders gave their all for ninety minutes. As for the football team, they were useless and lost 2-0 much to the anger and disgust of myself and the home fans. The most entertaining aspects of the game were the Millonarios goalkeeper getting constantly jeered by his own fans then subsequently substituted and the second goal of the game which was a thirty-five yard piledriver.
Waiting back at Musicology was Ross, the crazy Scottish bloke I met some five months ago in Iguazu. We chatted and drank beer before I was left with ringing ears.
On the morning of the eighth, I had a breakfast rendezvous with an Australian girl working at the hostel called Sarah, before we met Ross in the centre ahead of a visit to the city´s police museum. (Ross´ fifth visit to the place)
Free of charge and full of information about the Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar, the museum was an extremely worthwhile adventure. A British police jacket was even on display as were many guns and images of forms of torture.
Before bidding a fond final farewell to Ross, he treated me to a birthday taco and ice-cream with bubblegum sauce. We then cuddled.
Great news greeted me at the hostel as my parcel had finally been located at a postal depot near the airport. Luckily I was heading that way the next day to get a flight to Cartagena in the north so I could pick it up on my way.
With a spring in my step, I went for a walk around the quaint streets of the La Candaleria district and got many a good picture of snazzy latino graffiti. That night I had traditional Colombian soup, filled with corn, chicken and the like, and then washed it all down with a few bottles of Aguila beer.
Last Friday I caught a one and a half hour flight to Cartagena, some nineteen hours quicker than if I did it by bus and only£4 more expensive. In the terminal I had a BigMac while opening my parcel; a Che Guevara t-shirt and fancy underpants, much to my delight. Me and El Che then boarded the plane.
The flight was over almost as soon as it had began but there was a moment of excitement when we were hit by some pretty epic thumps from Mr Turbulence. A few screams were heard and plenty of new angles were found by the plane but after thirty seconds or so, all things levelled off.
Cartagena hit my with a sweaty slap as the climate is Caribbean and a far cry from the very English temperatures I found in Bogota.
Late afternoon was spent walking along the city´s beach, eating oysters and crabs while getting a massage and later, enjoying fruit juice and a hot dog. With an enthusiastic crowd back at the hostel, a convoy of us set out to sample some of the nightlife which entailed a Cuban salsa bar and a fantastic venue on top of the old city walls. 3AM arrived and we got turfed out.
On the Saturday I went into the old town with a super Spaniard called Paco and an Argentine named Hernan. Paco tried to exchange money with the Cartagena underworld and subsequently got screwed, losing £150 in the process. After they left to watch Real Madrid v Barcelona, I stayed in town, eating a tremendous fruit salad and continuing to take in the beautiful colonial surroundings. I decided against seeing Millonarios play in town that night as the stadium was too far away and it seemed too much of an effort. Incidentally, they lost again. We hit the town once more in the evening; starting at a fairly dull beach party, continuing to the bar on the city walls and finally ending in an atrocious nightclub.
The following day me and Paco got a late afternoon minibus to the town of Santa Marta some four hours north, where I met up with Emily, who I knew from carnival in Oruro, Bolivia. She along with some of her travel chums had reserved their place on the Lost City trek and I was welcome to join them the next day. Which I did. That night I also enjoyed the most divine hotdog. It came with cheese, onions, crisps and seven sauces. A monster I shall never forget.
And so to Monday where my trek to the Ciudad Perdida (Lost City) began. Located a few hours away from Santa Marta, deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains, ´Teyona´ as it was once known is city built around thirteen hundred years ago by a civilisation known as the Tayrona. Covering four hundred hectares, the ruins can only be accessed via a twenty kilometre trek, culminating in a twelve-hundred-step climb. One hundred and sixty nine terraces make up the city with the finest views arriving at the summit.
Myself, Emily and her friends, Tom, Charlotte and Prue were joined on Monday morning by another ten backpackers eager to take on this adventure and see a site only discovered some thirty years ago.
After a two and a half hour jeep ride into the forest, we arrived in a small village for some food and brief introductions.
The three hour trek then began initially with our first meeting with the Colombian military who patrol the route and then with some much needed watermelon. A little further on, our bond with the army grew and we were able to get pictures of them and even pose with guns ourselves. A little surreal but a wonderful bonus. Though I was wearing Che on my chest, they didn´t seem interested in shooting me.
By 6PM we´d arrived at our first camp and a chicken dinner was on hand to boost our energy levels. With a roof over our heads, we jumped in our hammocks and prepared for the next day. During the night, I got up for a wee with my glow stick between my teeth, only to burst it mid-sprinkle and cover the entire toilet cubicle in a magical glow of flourescent yellow liquid. Slightly concerned about the toxic chemicals inside, I rinsed my mouth for several minutes before feeling my way back to bed.
The next morning we were up at 6.30 and after arepas and melon, we waited for the military to pass before visiting a miniature cocaine factory.
Not quite knowing what to expect, we were treated to an hour long demonstration of how to make the drug, starting with coca leaves and a bit of fuel and ending with some little bags of white powder. I didn´t do any shopping but it was a wonderful insight nevertheless.
Having witnessed something so shifty, we then cleansed our sins in a waterfall and began the next stage of the walk. This was another three hour slog through humid forests and climbs up plenty of energy-sapping hills. At camp I immediately cooled off in the river before soup, meat and a lie down.
On the Wednesday it was brother Pete´s birthday but with no communication available, I was just left to hope he´d received my Peruvian cigar on time.
The day kicked off with a huge fruit salad although we soon hit a wall when climbing a never-ending hill. I raced away on my own however and after a pineapple stop, the next camp was reached. Waiting there again was a good river to take a dip in and with most of the day still ahead, I jumped in my hammock for a rlaxing nap. As the afternoon wore on, the heavens opened and the army arrived. Well, not all of them. With the river water rising, a handful had become stranded on the other side so everyone was forced to sit and wait before the unit could be reuinted. In this time, we marvelled at our proximity to these armed robots and even got to chat with them and get more photos. Eventually, they made a decision to get the stricken few across and with some rope and much drama, the objective was met.
That night, they stayed at our camp with one getting cosy beneath my hammock and his gun down by my feet.
After three days of hiking, finally the day of the Lost City had arrived. Again we started early and with the twelve hundred steps in sight, I made a run for it, determined to be the first to the top and get some photos before the swarm of tourists arrived. I succeded with this as with getting pictures with the army and even managing to buy a cap off one of the soldiers.
Glory soon turned to confusion as forty five minutes passed without any of my co-travellers appearing. Some minutes later, they started filtering through at which point I found out they´d stopped half way for a talk from the guides. With my army cap in my pocket, I cared little.
The group stayed at the summit for an hour or so and we also visited a shamans house before returning to camp for some lunch. Beyond this, we tackled more terrain, making it back to the camp we were at on the previous day. Once more, I hit the river hard.
Yesterday was our final day of the trek and involved taking on the journey we made over the two days in one. It took over six hours but we made it and waiting back at the finish line was a huge lunch and a few celebratory beers.
On landing back in Santa Marta last night, me, Emily and friends immediately upped sticks and relocated to here in the small town of Taganga on the Caribbean coast. I found a hostel for
£2.75 a night so I´m happy and staying here for at least a week while I try and obtain some form of tan and prepare for my return home. (Volcano clouds permitting)I think I´ve said enough now so I´ll go.
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