The benefits of travel

Other than subconsciously putting three sheets of soiled toilet paper in the bin rather than down the toilet, my return home has been somewhat easier than I'd thought. Though only four days into my return to normality, I've so far welcomed the stack of administrative duties in front of me and equally enjoyed the idea of having to kick start my career once more. To some this may not sound unusual but prior to my trip, I dealt with paperwork in a similar way Gordon Brown does with bigoted women. With difficulty and disgust.

This reaction may be just some left over adrenaline from navigating Caracas in one piece but I'd like to think it's more a result of how my travelling has changed the way I think in terms of overcoming things which appear challenging but in reality, are a doddle. The vigour with which I rose this morning at nine to start phoning car insurers and the benefits office was astounding. I felt I was walking round in someone elses body. And what a great body.

Though James II is in his infancy, I know that only with time will I be able to see how the past seven months have affected me and changed me for the better. This stage maybe isn't as enjoyable as lounging in a hammock on the Amazon but it is a huge bonus that comes from travelling as going through the experience certainly seems to ignite a few redundant brain cells.

Enough praise for my new self for now, although this is my last post so I think I can be forgiven.

Back over in Colmbia, my journey home began last Wednesday from the town of Santa Marta where my walking stab vest (Paul) joined me for the four hour bus to a border town known on a map as Macao. Confronting us at the terminal was a literal shedload of seventies Chevys, waiting to taxi us over the border and into Neverland. I mean Venezuela.



At first I thought the retro cars were just some strange tourist gimmick but soon after I discovered it was far more bizarre than this.

In the rear of the white Chevrolet, my backpack actually looked quite petite in what was an abyss of American spaciousness. When I got seated, I squeezed up to allow in a couple of chicas from the other side who conversed with me in their lightning quick Venezuelan tongue under the deafening roar of the V8. I managed to understand enough however, like that we had to pay off immigration and then the National Guard so they wouldn't check our bags and let us get on our way. I also understood why there were so many Chevys, Fords and Chryslers from a bygone era and drinking fuel like thirsty horses. These people were poor but if a tank of petrol costs the same as a cup of coffee, then a depleted American muscle car is a great way to get around. And so I noticed around ninety percent of the population between the border and Maracaibo clearly felt the same. At times I actually experienced time travel in a very pure state and I loved it.



We touched down at the bus terminal in the late afternoon where we hung around for another three hours before stepping aboard the 8.30PM bus to Caracas. The journey was extremely pleasant although we did have to stop for security checks which involved x-raying all our lugguage and then the trip dragged on for another fourteen hours.



Caracas and I finally met at 11AM the following morning and ignoring the trusty guidebook, me and my companion hailed an unmarked cab. We weren't abducted, abused or stabbed but we were taken to our desired destination which did turn out to be a hostel/sex motel hybrid, as we'd been warned it was.

With our room not ready (I didn't want to know why), me and Paul left our belongings behind and under the instruction of the manager, set off onto the streets of Caracas armed only with passports, a little cash and lots of paranoia. We navigated things quite well although the notoriously corrupt police did give us an extremely exhuastive search, sticking their hands in every pocket without a hint of hesitation. I gave them nothing but a huge smile and thank you before ushering Paul along to join me for a hasty getaway.



Back at the love shack, we checked in to our cosy double room although I had cash missing and later started pointing fingers at the hostel staff for relieving me of my solitary twenty pounds. A few hours later I found it in my bag and happily apologised to the theiving Venezuelans.

On Friday morning, I took a final walk through the centre with an Aussie girl and even managed to take a few photos. Had I been robbed, I'd have offered her instead of the Kodak and run off a screaming mess.









At around lunchtime, I slung on my trusty backpack once more and together we rode the metro eight stops to Gato Negro then caught a thrity minute shuttle bus to the Simon Bolivar airport terminal.





At 6.50PM Venezuelan time, I left South American soil and started my return home.

The flight was exceptional as I had some superb in-flight food, red wine and a couple of cinema sessions including Avatar, although most of my enjoyment came from imagining it in 3D as opposed to actually enjoying what I was watching.

In Paris some eleven hours later I struggled to speak a word of French in my tired and confused Spanglish state but it mattered diddly squat as I was soon aboard my final flight back to Mancunia.

Though the original plan was to land back in time for summer, I had to check the date on my watch because as the plane doors opened, it felt like the depths of winter. Like crispy Autumn leaves flaking from the trees, my demi-tan will not last long in these climbs.

Consolation was found in sharing a pub meal and ale with the family, the African and the lady.

And now back in Dolphinholme, the memories are already beginning to fade but the impact will remain.

Hasta luego.

xxx

Going Caracas

Having wandered South America for seven months on a voyage of liberation and self discovery, I´m finally going Caracas.



Thankfully my belongings are largely intact as is my sanity but as for the future of this spectacular publication, well it´s in tatters. One more may follow from the humble sanctuary of Dolphinholme next week but otherwise, my life will revert back to it´s previous, anonymous and blogless self. Blogs aren´t for everyone but they do make a somewhat welcome change from Facebook; solely presenting ones life experiences for people to read if they so wish, rather than forcing them on everybody, every second, of every minute, of every day. James Adams likes this.

In the twelve thousand or so miles I´ve travelled out here, my legs have strengthened, my eyes have opened, my heart has pounded and my finances have grimaced. But despite my now disastrous economic situation, the experiences I´ve had these past few months will stay with me far longer than any subsequent debts. While many people seem to query the need to travel in such a way, I find reason soley in wanting to see more of the world while I still have a pulse which in turn will surely make me a slightly wiser soul. Seeing how people work, live and love on the other side of the planet can only have a positive effect on ones person, if only to appreciate all the things you have.

For me, one of the greatest lessons I´ve learned from travelling alone, is how important the people you suround yourself with are, in terms of shaping you as a person. Though I imagine many people to believe they are who they are and that´s that, I can asure you they´d develop differently if instead they were partnered through life by a Bolivian peasant as opposed as to their best friend down the road. When I´ve travelled, my most enjoyable times have been when I´ve shared them with people who bring the best out of me or compliment me in ways in which I can discover new sides to my character. Don´t get me wrong, I´ve loved the many moments of solitude on this trip but as far as long term happiness goes, it´s best sharing things with people who are good for you.

Shit, times knocking on and I have things to do.

Philosophy aside, my final weekend out here was a belter. On Saturday morning, a team made up of yours truly, Tom, Emily, the English couple of Matt and Rachel, a Canadian duo of Ryan and Spencer, an American cap-wearing girl called Trina and a Bohemian Swede under the name Maria, all met up ready for a trip to the seaside.



Things got off to a stinker though as our guide had already departed for Taganga and we were left to fall under a coke-snorting alcoholic´s orders in our mission to find Palomino some three hours north. We found it via a minibus/coach/jeep combination and what a find. Sat just north of the gringo hotspot of Parque Tayrona near the tip of the Colombian Caribbean coast, we landed on an almost completely desserted four kilometre stretch of beach, lined with palms, bordered by a fresh water river and with a hammock hut on stilts as our home. All this for five pounds a night.





We soon set about making the most of this ludicrous location, playing frisbee and swimming in the refreshing sea. I then got very giddy and went for a long run. On my return, we paid the local fisherman a visit up the beach where we bought one and a half kilos of fresh prawns for around a tenner. That night we cooked up the meaty little devils along with some spaghetti and veg before drenching our smug sundrenched souls in a liquidised haze of rum before hanging out by the campfire. Tom cracked and finally showcased his talents, playing a commendable array of tunes ranging from Coldplay to Bryan Adams with some Coolio rapping along the way. We brought the curtain down on our spellbinding day by pulling up some benches to the waters edge and contemplating life under a blindingly bright Caribbean moon.









On Sunday, the sun and the crashing waves woke me and after papaya and bread for breakfast, I hit the treadmill once more, covering a few miles of sand and a few empty bays along the way. On my return, I joined the others in a vigorous session of lounging, swimming and relaxing on the beach.





The evening meal was an all British affair, with Rachel, Matt, Emily and myself preparing a delightful menu consisting off prawns, fresh coconut rice and vegetables. The throats were lubricated with some more rum and sadly our reserves ran out. We saw out the day on the beach once more before rinsing ourselves in the river and retiring blissfully to our hammocks.





Yesterday we were all pretty slow in getting going but after being fired up by more papaya, bread and honey, I took to the road once more to enjoy my private beaches one last time. I picked up a few shells on the way and gasped for several minutes at the ridiculous surroundings.





Back at HQ, we nibbled on coconuts and briefly played Piggy in the Middle before our jeep arrived to take us home. On the bus back to Santa Marta, we were treated like kings with the highest food-to-miles ratio I´ve ever experienced in South America. During the one and a half hour trip, me and Tom took what was on offer from nearly all of the street vednors, including fried plantains with cheese, ice lollies, fried meat and potato, a sweet pastry and battered maize balls.



Despite feeling a touch bloated, we survived and joined the others for pizza, fruit juice and beer in Taganga where we hung out one final time.

This morning I embraced Tom, Emily, Matt and Rachel as they continued on their travels while I stay here one more night. My time in Taganga was completed with the last fruit juice on my list, curuba con leche, and later I will hit the streets of Santa Marta for the odd souvenir and a thorough going over of the street food stalls.

Tomorrow, the end begins with the start of my twenty hour journey to the Venezuelan hell hole of Caracas, where my flight home departs on Friday via the French dwelling of Paris. Having only being pipped last year by the Mexican city of Ciudad Juarez, the former ´murder capital of the world´ is a final destination I maybe could have done without but I´m sure it should be an entertaining end to my trip. Luckily I have a travel companion lined up, so if I go down, I´ll be taking him with me.

Fruit for thought

One week and a couple of hours from now, this seven month voyage will be at it´s end. With the money dried up and my mental state in transition, what better way to close out my time than by sitting by the Caribbean, drinking fruit juices.

Saturday - Piña y banano
This regular pattern began seven days ago in the wake of the Lost City trek. The more traditional combination of pineapple and banana marked the start of my fruity adventure although more exotic encounters lay ahead. Before I tackled this delicious little combination, I had a walk with my Australian soulmate Preu over to Playa Grande where we analysed the water temperature, sand quality and strange lack of people. Back in Taganga I sunk my drink and then a chicken arepa at sunset. With some of the Ciudad Perdida crew still in town, we met up at Emily and Tom´s hostel and began an alcoholic assault. As Saturday became Sunday, we rolled out to the beach and found El Mirador discoteca where we got more boozed up and danced like tourists. With the doors closing sometime after three, we stumbled down to the beach in readiness for a beach party but a sole jeep with large speakers was all could find. The owner soon picked up a lady and in the blink of an eye he´d disappeared with said vehicle to tender to her needs. We battled on a little longer then went our separate ways at 5AM.



Sunday - Lulo & mango
The day of rest was exactly that. Close to midday I rolled out of bed in a sweaty crumple. I showered and then rediscovered my mojo following a chicken dinner and a glass of lulo (also known as naranjilla which means ´little orange´). Though the owner of the cafe bigged up the fruit, I found it a little too sweet. And it looked too white and pasty for my liking. Fully refreshed, I made the ten minute trek to Playa Grande where I wrote my diary and had a paddle in the sea. Me and my thoughts hung out here for the rest of the afternoon until we´d exhausted each other. Again I caught up with that pairing of Emily and Tom and we, along with a brummie called Andy and a cockney called Lex, had a lovely pizza for dinner flanked by a mango juice for me.



Monday - Guanabana
The start of a new week but there was nothing new here. I got up late then tried a guanabana juice (You may know it is as soursop? No, didn´t think you did.) that was comparable to apple and equally refreshing. I bypassed Playa Grande and settled for a secluded cove further round the bay where I lay down my beach towel (formerly my hammock minus the rope) and hung out alone. Andy joined the party a little later and lent me his snorkle so I could go have a chat with the local fishes. The conversation wasn´t very colourful but they were. For supper that night, we had an hour long wait for shrimp at a restaurant promoting ´Shrimp Day´ and Andy spilt his caipirinha all over the table.



Tuesday - Tamarindo
At last, a little variation to my daily pattern. Although it started in its usual fashion with some empanadas and this time a taste of tamarindo, it later moved on to the streets of Santa Marta. Before I got there with Tom and Emily, I did manage an hours nap on the beach in a deck chair which was blissful as the sun was hiding and people were scarce. When the time did come to get a minibus into town, we fully embraced the opportunity, buying cheesy donuts, arepas, meat and potato pastries, ice cream and artificial lemon juice. We all had a slight souvenir binge as well and Tom gave himself a new look with a Casio watch, hat and sunglasses. Sadly he still looks Australian.







Wednesday - Tomate de Arbol
The highlight of my week in terms of fruity sensations. The tomate de arbol (tamarillo or tree tomato) was exotic erotica and a far cry from the garden tomato we all know and love. With it´s earthy colour and multi-layered taste, this really got my day going although it soon ground to a halt when I met an American girl en route to Playa Grande. In short, she spoke to me in Spanish even though she knew I was English and I knew she was from Oregon. To compund things, she asked in Spanish, why my Spanish was so bad despite being in the continent six months. Within four minutes of meeting her, I´d reached breaking point and was one more comment away from hurling her over the cliff. My bouyant mood triggered by my tomato juice now seemed a lifetime away. Luckily I ditched her as soon as we hit the beach and relaxed all afternoon, free from provocative imbeciles and somewhere far closer to the state my juice had earlier induced.
The day took an unexpected turn later on, as after the ritualistic 7PM meeting with Team Tomily, the group number blossomed and after Thai rice and beers, we took to the streets of Taganga, initially drinking in a club, and then buying bottles of rum and drinking on the streets. This carried on until 2.30PM, at which point we were a mess and better off in bed.







Thursday - Mora, Zapote (with milk) & Barojo
With the rum still running through my veins, I wobbled out of my hostel close to lunchtime once more but sobered up with a chicken curry baguette and blackberry juice. Getting a little carried away, I then tried zapote and barojo juice, the latter looking like mouldy Coca-Cola and tasting not too dissimilar. Me, Tomily, an American girl and an English couple later graced Playa Grande for some light snorkling and relaxation. Me and Tom hired deckchairs and sat ourselves at the waters edge. As the sun went down, we returned to Taganga for ice cream and witnessed the bizarre sight of a crazy man we knew from Cartagena and our hostels here, getting chased through town by a pack of dogs and thirty or so locals. We climaxed things with arepas and plans for a weekend excursion to a deserted beach where we´ll take plenty of rum and soak up lots of sun.



Friday - Nispero
Here we are right now. Nothing yet acheived and no nispero yet consmed but the day is still young. Damn this travelling malarchy is stressful.

Football crazy

What with it being a Monday and me having little to do but sit on the beach all day, I thought I´d mix things up a touch and make a compilation of all the football matches I´ve been to over here. Just click on the pictures and you´ll be able to enjoy a bit of action from each game. There´s also a link below the River v Estudiantes pic that opens a video of the fans singing their little hearts out beside me and Kobus.

My highlights included seeing the mentally unstable Adriano destroy Fluminense, the cheerleaders in Cali and Bogota (check out the moves halfway through Cali v Millonarios clip...), the alternate Barcelona in Ecuador and not experiencing one 0-0.

Gooooooooooollllllllllllllllllllllllllll..........

Flamengo 2 Fluminense 0
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil


Sao Paulo 0 Atletico Mineiro 1
Sao Paulo, Brazil


River Plate 3 Tucuman 1
Buenos Aires, Argentina


River Plate 1 Estudiantes 1
Buenos Aires, Aregentina


¨Vamo, vamo, vamo, vamo, vamo, Millonario...¨

CNI 0 Universitario 2
Iquitos, Peru


Barcelona 2 Manta 1
Guayaquil, Ecuador

America de Cali 3 Millonarios 2
Cali, Colombia


Millonarios 0 Cortulua 2
Bogota, Colombia

Lost for words

Having made the stupid mistake of not writing my blog before I started a five day trek in the Colombian wilderness, I now find myself faced with the mammoth task of accounting for my last eleven days. Three and a half hours have passed me by here in the internet cafe and until now, I´ve struggled to compose even a single word.

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.