Adventures in Colombia

Heliconia, Colombia

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 09:53:00 +0000

Ascending Pan de Azucar

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 12:30:00 +0000

One of our first major excursions in Colombia was to Cocuy National Park in the Boyaca department north of Bogotá. We arranged a tour with De Una Tours for five days trekking in the park, and got our friend Sarah from school to join us. I had been pushing for a longer trip, but as it was we would be leaving on the day before Cath's 30th birthday, and for some reason Cath didn't fancy spending like celebrating in a tent in the middle of nowhere. I graciously conceded and we began preparing for the trip.
After a few trips to the caming shop and walking up Montserrate- a mountain with a church on top in Bogs- we felt fairly prepared to go. The bus ride up was an adventure in itself, but I'll probably cover that in another post. After spending the night in a small hotel in the town of Cocuy we took a local milk truck into the park. An hour and several bemused locals later, we were dropped off at the point where our trek would start. Within a few minutes I learned a valuable lesson: the backpack that feels fairly comfortable while leisurely pacing around your living room will seem 10 times heavier when you're walking uphill with your campsite a few hours away.

Pan de Azucar with Pulpito from afar

But on day two, we got to leave our backpacks in the tent as we attempted to summit the 5,100m (about 16,700 feet) high Pan de Azucar. Neither Cath or I had been that high before, so we were both excited by the challenge, but also a little nervous. We woke up to a crisp, blue sky and kept warm with aguapanela (basically hot sugar water).

As we first set off, the absence of 40-pound bags energised us along with the beautiful scenery. As we climbed higher the vegetation was more sparse and stops were more frequent as we began to feel the effects of altitude. Luckily, there were always impressive views to admire while we caught our breath. Below us there were deep valleys, and above us was the ever-present peak of Pan de Azucar, our goal for the day. The name means Sugarloaf, and is one of the few snow-capped mountains in the park.

As we approached the snowline, we got our crampons out and received a very quick lesson in how to use them. It didn't take long to get comfortable using them, and we slowly approached the summit. I say ´we´ slowly approached, but if Sarah is reading this she would probably take offense, as she quickly surged ahead of us. I knew she was fairly athletic from staff four-square games back in Bogotá. But she hadn't told us that she had been in the Territorial Army back at home, so needless to say she was a little bit fitter than Cath and myself.
Before arriving at the top of the mountain, we passed the hulking Pulpito del Diablo, the Devil's Pulpit. This is an incongruous vertical slab of rock that juts out a few hundred feet from the mountain. Having seen it from afar for most of the morning, it was shocking how big it actually was while standing underneath it.

Pulpito del Diablo (with Sarah underneath on the left)

All in all, the ascent was going well, but it became apparent we were in a kind of race to the top. From behind, a bank of white clouds were rapidly approaching, and it was apparent our blue sky would be gone once those were above us. Personally, I wanted to make sure I got some good pictures from the top, so I tried to quicken my gait a little.
By the time I arrived to the top, Sarah and Thomas (our guide) were already there, and I could see from their expressions that the hike had been well worth the exertion. The clouds were amassing on all sides, but the views were still spectacular. Almost directly below us was Laguna de la Plaza (our next day's destination), and dozens of craggy peaks stretched out in every direction.

The feeling of looking down on the clouds was pretty dizzying as well. Cath later said the views reminded her of one of those posters in classrooms that say something cheesy like 'Soar with Books' or ´Learning is the Greatest High´ or something equally inane.

We didn't spend much time up there, but as we descended through the clouds I think we all felt a buzz from making it to the top.

La Guajira- The Tip of South America

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 18:02:00 +0000

The scene seems lifted from a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel: we’ve just been introduced to an inebriated 91-year old Wayuu tribesman, and he is adamant we get a photo with him. We are at our hosts’ home in Nazareth, a town in the Guajira peninsula, the northernmost part of South America. The man- whose name we don’t catch- never stops smiling or rubbing his belly while he talks to us. He is dressed in a breechcloth and shirt, with two of the buttons done up in a nod towards covering himself. After a short conversation, and repeated handshakes, he sets off as abruptly as he had shown up, and our bout of magico realismo is over.

Even for a country that receives few visitors, Guajira is off the beaten track. A desert region with a high indigenous population (mostly Wayuu), it is stricken by poverty. Worse still, until 2004 it was plagued by guerilla and paramilitary violence.

Our friends Dan and Emma, however, insisted that we should go, and since Dan is Colombian we assumed it would be all right. We set up our tour in the unremarkable town of Riohacha; the next morning we, along with our driver and guide Felipe, were ready to set off in our 4x4.

We spent our first night in Cabo de la Vela, the only recognised tourist destination in Guajira. Cabo is a hamlet strung along a golden beach, but the coast surrounding it is the real draw. Strewn with rocky cliffs and coves, the highlight is the pyramidal Pilon de Azucar (Sugar Pile). It took about twenty minutes to walk to the top, and then I was looking directly below to the green sea, with the desert outline of Guajira stretching out for miles.

The next morning we were up early again, heading east. Shortly after leaving Cabo, the road ended, and we were travelling on bumpy tracks, which meandered through the rough desert terrain. Felipe informed us it was easy to drift into Venezuela without noticing.

That morning we stopped at an isolated beach where the layers of uninterrupted shells made it easier to imagine dinosaurs lazing around than humans. We dashed into the murky turquoise water, but were soon running back out. Three of us had been stung by jellyfish, so we decided to admire the scene from ashore. Afterwards we drove to a small house that seemed to emerge from cactus and sand, and we enjoyed a fantastic lunch of fresh fish and patacones- sliced fried bananas.

This restaurant didn't seem to spend a lot on advertising

Hours later, we arrived in Nazareth. Nearby is the Parque Nacional Macuira, an incongruous island of cloud forest that literally rises up from the sandy desert. What really made Nazareth special, though, were our Wayuu hosts. They introduced us to friends as if we were invited guests, and their adorable toddlers provided endless entertainment.We were even invited to a local Wayuu fiesta, but they later decided that some of the tribesmen were too drunk, and there could be potential problems. We were disappointed, but given our interaction with the old chief earlier that morning, it wasn't that surprising.

Our host family is ready for the local celebration

Our last stop was Punta Gallinas, the northernmost tip of South America. Sand dunes towered above the sea, punctuated occasionally by small green oases, where goats were feeding. There were no other living things in sight. We came across the skull of one goat that must have lost his way. We prepared for the long journey back to Riohacha, soaking up the last bit of magico guajirano.

Under the Volcano in Guatemala

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 22:29:00 +0000

Earlier this year, Pacaya Volcano in Guatemala erupted, killing a televisión reporter in the process. The only surprise for me was that just one person died. When Cath and I hiked up the slopes a couple of years earlier, we were two of at least a hundred tourists who seized the opportunity to encounter volcanic lava up close.

The hike begins in Aguacate- basically a few houses that exist in order to charge an admission fee for the volcano. Almost as soon as we got off the bus, a small child approached us with a walking stick. We resisted his offers, and the dozens of children who followed us making the same offer for the first 100 yards.

For the first hour or so, we walked through lush, green farmland that gave no hint of the danger lying ahead. The first thing that alerting you to the nearby volcano is the smell. The sulphurous fumes hit you hard as you ascend, and then the danger begins.

As the grass gives way to black gravel, you start to realize why one of those walking sticks from the annoying children might have been a good idea. A seemingly harmless little stumble revealed that dried-up lava is startlingly similar to glass. I looked down at my hands to find they were covered with tiny little scratches. This episode would be repeated more than once.

I bravely trooped on, however, and pretty soon, we found what we came to see. In the distance, we saw little bits of bright orange glowing against the black background. Our appetite was whetted, and we walked upwards with renewed vigour (which led to more scratches). Pretty soon, we reached the lava. Stretching out in front of us were dozens of orange, volcanic streams, bubbling and boiling, fresh from the crater of Pacaya.

Approaching the flow of molten rock felt a little surreal. As the ground under my feet got noticeably hotter, I thought ´Should I really be getting this close to something so destructive, so potentially devastating?´ After a moment’s pause I decided, ´Screw it, it’ll make a good picture,´ and continued.

'Do you smell something burning?´ 'No, honey, just keep on smiling.'

Now, some of you will be thinking, ´The supervision on an excursion like this must be extremely tight, they can’t just allow tourists to go tramping about in volcanic emission.’ Clearly you have never travelled in the developing world. If Guatemala has any health and safety regulations, they were being flagrantly flaunted here. I don’t even remember seeing my guide for most of the walk. Had someone decided that sticking their hair in lava would have been a great story for the folks back home- and let´s face it, we´re talking about people who would pay money to witness something that sends most sane humans fleeing in terror- there would have been no wise leader to say ‘Mick (because this daredevil would no doubt have been Australian), maybe that’s not such a good idea.’

After we had a chance to frolic around the deadly discharge, there was a vague proposition that we head down soon. The suggestion turned out to be a good one, as darkness soon began to fall. Apparently the prospect of cutting yourself on volcanic flint and reducing yourself to burning embers was not enough of a risk, so the organisers added ´walking down a volcano in pitch dark´ to the growing list of hazards. They did provide head torches, to be fair, and the night provided a chance to witness a few orange explosions from the top of the volcano.

You can understand my amazement, and relief, when I found out Pacaya had erupted- this time sending ash and lava as far as 25 miles away- that the death toll hadn’t been greater. Amazingly, within two weeks, Pacaya had visitors again, an estimated 2,000 in one weekend. It seems hard to believe, but then again, being up close and personal with actual lava is an opportunity that doesn’t come along every day and, to be honest, if I had the chance I would definitely do it again.

Adventures in Colombia: Under the Volcano in Guatemala

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 22:29:00 +0000

Adventures in Colombia: Under the Volcano in Guatemala: "Earlier this year, Pacaya Volcano in Guatemala erupted, killing a televisión reporter in the process. The only surprise for me was tha..."

Chingaza- Wilderness on Bogota's doorstep

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 19:34:00 +0000

One February weekend, Cath and I decided to trade decadent Bogotá life for camping at 3,600 metres. The destination was Chingaza National Park, only 30 miles east of Bogotá’s suburbs. We went with a walking group that we had travelled with a few times before, Viajar y Vivir (Travel and Live).

Most of our friends thought we were brave, but slightly mad to be camping in near-freezing temperatures. Most were polite enough to simply arch their eyebrows and avert their gazes when they heard our plans, while one of my Australian mates was much blunter. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he scoffed when I mentioned I would be eschewing our usual weekend revels just to see a few deer and some mountains you could glimpse from any window in the city.

Regardless, we went ahead with the trip. We left early on Saturday morning, and somewhere just outside of the city centre, we stopped for some arepas, which are corn cakes cooked on a griddle. They’re very popular in Colombia, but God alone knows why. They range in taste from ´Dry Shoe Sole´ to ´There’s enough butter on this I suppose it isn’t so bad´.

Don't be deceived by how delicious they look

The staffroom at our school provided snacks at break time each morning, and there was an easy way to tell if arepas were being served: if all the expats walked out grumbling and empty-handed while the Colombian teachers were celebrating as if they were on The Price is Right, it could only mean one thing. Maybe I’m being harsh, because I have had good arepas before (including the ones on this trip). But when I can distinctly remember the two or three good ones out of dozens, if not hundreds, of attempts, then maybe they ought to rethink the recipe.

Anyway, after finishing our arepas and hot chocolate with cheese (I’ll have to tackle that one later), the bus wound its way through the mountains east of town, and within an hour or so, we entered the national park. We stopped at a viewpoint above a deep valley full of frailejones (see the Nevados entry for an explanation) and surrounded by mountains that resembled books that had fallen on to each other. It was here we made our first wildlife spotting.

Chingaza is known for its white-tailed deer, and we soon saw why. Far below us in the bottom of the valley, dozens of them were running around for no apparent reason. I’d like to think they were racing each other to a previously nominated frailejon, but sadly I’ll never know.

Cath inspects a frailejon up close

We arrived at the campsite and set up our tents and had some lunch, during which Cath and I struck up a conversation with the family next to ours. One of the big advantages of travelling with Viajar y Vivir, besides having travel arranged to out of the way places, was getting to meet new people. Even better, few of them spoke English, so we were able to practice our Spanish. We used how much we understood of Leo- the usual guide for Viajar- as a barometer for our comprehension skills. On our first excursion with them, taken 2 months after we moved to Colombia, we were pretty poor (although I think we fooled ourselves and others into thinking we understood by nodding pensively), but by now we could probably catch more than half of what he said, which we considered a minor victory.

In this case, we shared a few lunch items with each other, and the couple encouraged their shy daughter- about 11- to utilize this rare opportunity to practice her English. She sighed reluctantly, asked a few basic questions, and got back to her food.

In the afternoon we took a walk to the showpiece of the park, the Chingaza Reservoir. This is the main water source for most of Bogotá, but I was struck by how small it was. It wasn’t tiny or anything, but considering it provided nearly 8 million people with water, I had expected it to be Titicaca-like.

Chingaza Reservoir is big, but not that big

Like so many places in Colombia, Chingaza has its own connection to the country’s civil war. In 2002, the rebel army FARC tried to dynamite a dam in the reservoir in order to cut off the city’s water, part of a larger attempt to derail the country’s infrastructure. Fortunately, they were unsuccessful, and now the area is completely safe.

On Sunday morning, we became more acquainted with Chingaza’s only current residents (besides the park ranger). The deer seemed to be appearing out of every corner of the woods. It’s a good thing deer hunting doesn’t seem to be a big deal in Colombia, because these deer were about as shy as a drunk divorcee. We were happy enough to do our shooting with a camera.

This guy better be glad he came up to me and not my Uncle Robert

Not many Colombians visit Chingaza, and almost no foreigners visit it. It’s not in the guidebooks, and, truth be told, it isn’t in the top ten of spectacular sights in the country. It was a great way, however, to experience wilderness just an hour away from one of the biggest cities in the world, and we were both very glad we’d come. Even if it meant missing out on a wild Saturday night in Bogotá.

Almost Paragliding in San Gil

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 19:56:00 +0000

I can tell Cath doesn’t think this is a good idea. She’s smiling, but it isn’t very convincing. She’s strapped to one of our paragliding instructors and standing on the edge of a mountain overlooking the Chicamocha Canyon outside San Gil, Colombia. The instructor has persuaded her that, although there’s not enough wind for a proper jump, they can take off and float to the bottom of the canyon, where the rest of us will pick them up on the way back to town. What’s not to like?

Everything's looking good...

San Gil is the adventure capital of Colombia, and possibly South America. Located north of Bogota in the warm foothills of the Andes, it is home to an increasing amount of extreme activities. The combination of strong rivers, an extensive caving system and picturesque mountains mean there are more than enough activities to keep the most active traveler busy for a few days. Throw in ´Colombia´s Most Beautiful Town’ (Barichara, a 45-minute bus ride away, received the admittedly subjective honour in 1975), and it’s easy to see why the area’s tourist numbers are booming.

We had already experienced whitewater rafting, caving and abseiling during our long weekend. We also visited the stunning, 180-metre high Juan Curi waterfall. . After a short hike, we were stood directly below the 180-metre cascade. We all looked at the raging water pounding down, eying each other nervously, silently daring each other to bear the brunt of the waterfall’s power. Finally, I stepped under the water. I managed a stifled scream before the icy waters pummeled me into shock.

The climax of our trip, however, was meant to be our first paragliding expedition. Cath volunteered to go first, but take-off was delayed. Our leaders- who incidentally looked like they could have been on work experience from the local secondary school- decided there wasn´t enough wind, so we waited. We passed the time by snapping some photos of the scenery. The green, rounded mountains stretched in front of us, abruptly plunging into the canyon like a giant sinkhole.

After an hour we had exhausted all photo opportunities and were eager to start. Nature, however, was uncooperative. Andean condors soared overhead, and jealousy mixed with the frustration we were already feeling. The guides gave up on our chances, and agreed to bring us back the following morning. But before we left, one guide revealed his scheme to Cath. After strapping in, they were ready to go. ´Corre! Corre!’ the guide encouraged her, ´Run! Run!’ ‘Estas seguro?’ Cath hesitantly replied. ‘Si! Si! Corre!’. Then they were off the ground.

Not for long, though. The wing briefly inflated, but as they took off, it slumped back to the ground. After flying for a brief second, Cath and her increasingly rash guide landed. ‘Corre! Corre!’ he repeated, showing a worrying lack of restraint. Cath did run, straight off the edge and into the trees a few feet below her. In disbelief, I ran towards her crumpled parachute. Bemused and a little shaken, Cath was relatively unscathed. Her implicit trust of guides was the only casualty.

Abrupt landing after a short flight

The next day, we all survived incident-free jumps. Hovering high above the mountains, our expectations of excitement and beauty were all met. The frayed nerves from the previous day were forgotten. Count on Colombia to provide adventure sports with some extra adventure.

Having a drink around the local shop

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 19:52:00 +0000

Colombians love to drink. Beer, rum and aguardiente are the favourites, but they will probably swig most anything put in front of them. They drink at bars, clubs, at home. But the most uniquely Colombian-and perhaps most endearing- place to have a tipple is the local tienda.

Tienda simply means shop, and although it may not seem the most obvious place to imbibe, it has a certain charm to it. Some tiendas have a little room behind the main shop, but more common is a plastic table and chairs, right next to the toilet paper and sweets, or on the sidewalk outside. Some may have a TV, showing any football or telenovela that is on. One even had a video jukebox in a corner. Many a husband picking up milk and bread from the shop must have had some explaining to do after being lured into a cerveza or two by a Shakira video.

Most of the time, tiendas wouldn’t be the scene for extended drinking sessions (which isn’t to say it doesn’t happen). It’s just a place to relax and have a couple of cold ones and catch up on neighbourhood gossip. The close proximity of chairs and tables invite interaction between patrons. Coupled with the usual warmth of Colombian people, it’s almost impossible to leave without having made a new friend (no matter how awkward one’s Spanish).

Typically they’re male-dominated, but there’s no unease if women arrive. In especially small towns, they may be the centre of social life on weekends. One of my most memorable tienda experiences came in Cartagena. We were returning home from a night out with Cath’s sister, Sue, and her partner, Sam, along with my friend Timmy. It must have been close to three or so in the morning, so no doubt we were ready for bed in our rented apartment. Somehow, though (and if I’m honest I can’t remember exactly how it happened) we ended up with some new amigos outside a tiny shop around the corner from our place. We were not sitting very long before we saw Sam being whirled around in the middle of the street. A particularly enthusiastic teacher was showing her the finer points of Colombian salsa, and Sam was proving to be a willing- if giggly- student.

Tiendas encapsulate everything that is good about drinking in Colombia. Sometimes impromptu dancing may break out, or, at worst, an incredibly bad karaoke version of La Bamba may ring out (okay, that one was me). But more than anything, it is an opportunity to get together with friends, enjoy each other’s company and have a good time. And nothing is more Colombian than that.

Colombia in a Nutshell: Parque de los Nevados

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 19:17:00 +0000

If I had to pick out three characteristics that epitomise Colombia, I would choose the following: stunning natural beauty, overwhelmingly friendly people, and unreliable services. I experienced all three in one weekend trip to Nevados National Park. I chose a puente (long weekend) in May when Cath was going away with the girls, and booked my flight to Manizales, gateway to the national park.

When I arrived to the airport in a fluster 30 minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart, I feared the worst. Sprinting to the check-in desk, I was relieved to find out the flight was running a little late and I would make it without problem. I spent the next 4 hours sitting in the departure lounge, with no explanation. Finally we departed, but because the airport at Manizales closed at 6 p.m., we were flying to Pereira, from where a bus would take us to Manizales, adding another hour and a half to the trip.
Flights get delayed in every country, but the frustrating part was that we never found out why we had to wait so long, and it was treated as if this was just part of life. `Que pena` is the most common form of apology in Colombia, and it provides some insight into the attitude towards these types of situations. Literally translated it means ´What a pity`, allowing the speaker to express their sympathy for a situation while not actually accepting any blame. When you get bumped into, your haircut gets messed up, or the water in your apartment gets cut off for no apparent reason, you can expect to hear ´Que pena´.
I checked in to my hotel at 11:30, realising I would have arrived at a similar time had I taken the bus from Bogota. That kind of thinking doesn't help one's sanity in Colombia, though, so I tried to forget about it and went to sleep.

The route to my campsite began with an organised tour into the park early the next morning. The sun was shining and I was excited about my upcoming adveture. We stopped for a couple of panoramic views, but soon I was dropped off for the three-hour hike to El Cisne.
Looking around, my excitement waned just a little. The landscape was barren, at least the parts I could see. The clouds had closed in completely, and I could only see the dark gray grit that covered the ground. The howling wind and freezing cold served to remind me of my isolation. Pretty soon a light drizzle was falling to make the scene complete. I heaved my backpack on and was on my way.

The walking re-energised me and the dark scree soon gave way to reddish-brown rocks left behind by the most recent volcanic explosion. After an hour or so, a pick-up truck pulled up next to me.
'¿A donde vas?' 'El Cisne.’ 'Venga.'
I jumped in the back and had a lift for the rest of the journey. The ride was bumpy, but the views were incredible, and much more enjoyable with my backpack underneath me as opposed to on my back.
I had expected beautiful mountain scenery, but I was surprised by the exotic fauna in the park. The frailejon, a shrub whose stalk can grow up to 3 metres with green, velvety leaves and yellow flowers at the top, was ubiquitous, as it is in most areas of the paramo in Colombia and Ecuador. There also, however, were a great number of colourful flowers and bushes that I hadn't expected at 4,000 metres and above. I was particularly struck by one plant whose purple flower´s phallic nature was uncanny, and somewhat disconcerting.

The mountains, though, are the big draw, and once I had set up my tent I went inside (El Cisne campsite doubled as a visitors center and lodge in addition to the campsite) to plan the next day's walk. I met Juan Camilo, a guide who laid out my options for me. We decided to climb to the glacier of Santa Isabel, a six-hour walk. Isabel is one of only four mountains in the park still permanently capped by snow, despite the park's name meaning snowy. The others have been victims either of volcanic activiity or recent warming in the area.
Early the next morning Juan was knocking on my tent and we set off. We discussed American sports at length, in a mix of Spanish and English. Juan's English was excellent, but I kept trying to draw him into conversing in my faltering Spanish.
After an hour or so we came to Laguna Encantada, the Enchanted Lake. A friend who had travelled a great deal in Colombia had described this as the most beautiful spot he had visited. In the dull, overcast light, and with most of the setting obscured by cloud, some of its enchantment was lost, but the green waters still held a great deal of charm. As we neared the lake, the grass grew increasingly verdant. On the edge, there were emerald islands isolated by the rainwater and overflow from the lake.

Laguna Encantada

When we reached the glacier, the clouds had closed in all around us. The view of both the mountain top and the scenery around us had been shrouded in grey and the low sky and dirty glacier blurred into one. Juan and I walked up the ice for a few minutes, admiring the deep crevices, but in the wet conditions and without equipment hanging around too long wouldn’t have been wise.

Santa Isabel

That night, snowfall had me questioning my decision to camp instead of taking one of the empty dorm rooms in the nearby refuge. The upside, however, was that my hike back to my pick-up point was even more stunning than two days before now that the mountains were topped by snow. Once again, I got a ride for most of the journey from some friendly strangers.

A couple of hours later I arrived at Manizales Airport. I approached the check-in desk with some trepidation. What news would I get here? But my fears were unfounded and the flight left promptly.Colombia is, occasionally, capable of exceeding expectations.

Adventures in Colombia: Salento and Cocora

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 19:43:00 +0000

Adventures in Colombia: Salento and Cocora: "When Cath and I decided to spend a long weekend in Salento with friends Dean and Sally, we hadn't expected to be avoiding stampedes. Our vis..."

Caribbean on the Cheap

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 23:06:00 +0000

As we gripped the armrests in the 10-seat plane, Cath and I looked at each other with trepidation. I’m thinking to myself, ´Is going to a beach really worth all this?’ It is officially hurricane season and we are being tossed around by a Caribbean gale. We can see the pilot and he doesn’t seem too worried, but this doesn’t reassure me. We’re on our way to Providencia, a small island belonging to Colombia, not far off the east coast of Nicaragua.
The island, along with its bigger, more developed neighbour San Andres, has been a bone of contention between the two countries for close to 200 years. Colombia stubbornly holds on , and the only flights to San Andres are from the Colombian mainland. From there the tiny death-cage, er, airplane, flies on to Providencia.
As we approach- much more smoothly now- I look out the window to see the island. I begin to realise this isn’t a trip to just any seaside town. It appears as if some giant painter has spilt all of his blues and greens, creating a stunning seascape. When I point the scene out to Cath, she manages to open her eyes for a second and give a half-smile through her still-gritted teeth.

Our relief at landing is tempered somewhat by the wrecked plane next to the runway. It’s not the most encouraging sight, but whatever, it’s a few years old apparently, and anyway, we’re not getting on a plane for another five days, so I’ll worry about it then.
We ride in the back of a pick-up (our taxi) to Aguadulce, one of three towns on the island. The driver drops us at our first choice hotel, Miss Ella’s, and asks us when our return flight is. He offers to come get us, but I am sceptical as to whether he will remember.
Fortunately, Ella has a room available (actually all the rooms were available), and for about $US 40 we have a room about 20 metres from the sea. That night, while sitting outside our room admiring the stars, a local approaches us. ‘Are you interested in a lunch? ´ A little bit late for that, I think to myself, but listen on. He’s actually asking if we want to go on his launch for a tour of the island later on. As opposed to most salespeople in tourist destinations, he doesn’t seem too worried if we don’t accept- he’s happy just to chat. We agree that a few days later we will take him up on his offer, at the price of 50,000 pesos each (about 15 pounds).
The next couple of days, though, we spend cycling and lazing on the beaches around the island. Providencia being a former volcano, the cycling isn’t always easy, but it’s a great way of working off all the seafood we’ve been eating.

This is my first experience of the Caribbean, and it’s better than I could have hoped. I’m not really a beach lover, but the pace of life here is irresistible. It is a stark contrast to the rest of Colombia. For a start, English is spoken more than Spanish, but more than that, the chaos and intensity of mainland Colombia is absent.
Colombians, almost without exception, are friendly and outgoing, but here hospitality is taken to a new level. When we stay at Roland’s Roots Bar too long, our new friend Peaches is more than happy to follow us on his motorbike while we cycle the 3 miles to Aguadulce, providing some light on the otherwise pitch black roads (not enough, though, to avoid the occasional crunch of running over a crab).

Climbing El Pico, the highest point of the island, is more my holiday style, but at just over 300 m we’re not exactly scaling Mont Blanc. Walking through neighbourhoods, then farms and then the uninterrupted greenery, we’re treated to views of the verdant island and indigo sea. I can tell that I’ve embraced the local way of life when, just a couple hundred of feet from the top, I suggest that we head back down and have a couple of beers instead.

The next day is the launch tour, and my eyes are opened to a new world. At tiny McBean Lagoon National Park, an islet just a couple of hundred yards off our guide provides snorkel gear. Embarrassing at is to admit, I have actually never been snorkelling. Ever. Now I realise what I’ve been missing out on. Underneath, amongst the coral, are fish I’ve never dreamt of seeing in real life. The yellows, purples, and other neon colours belong in a child’s colouring book, not on living creatures. When I’m finally dragged away I understand why so many people are into scuba diving.

The following morning, our last on the island, reminds us why there are so few tourists right now. Fortunately, we’re not experiencing a full-fledged hurricane, but it seems pretty damn close. As the rain pounds down around us, I begin to wonder if our taxi-driver will remember us, or if we should make alternate arrangements to get to the airport. Just then, a familiar pick-up truck pulls up, and our driver from a few days ago helps us fit our luggage and ourselves into the front cab. Making our way to the airport, I start to contemplate our flight back. No matter what happens, at least I know I’ve managed to visit paradise.

Miss Ella's

Festival de Luces in Villa de Leyva (or A Night of Pyrotechnic Madness)

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 10:30:00 +0000

The first you thing you should know is that there are rules in Colombia. The second is that nobody actually follows them. Nowhere was this as clear as Villa de Leyva during the Festival of Lights.

Home to just over 4,000 inhabitants, the town was heaving when we arrived after a 4-hour bus ride from Bogota. Although there was a light drizzle, the streets were packed with visitors, and there was a buzz about the place. We had come expecting a low-key village celebration, but it was clear this was something bigger.

We camped in the back garden of a hotel two blocks from the main plaza- Colombia’s largest.

Friday night passed quietly; since the big festivities were Saturday, we decided to zip up our sleeping bags early. The next morning it was obvious others hadn’t shared our foresight. Returning to the plaza, there were teenagers sleeping on the cobbles with empty bottles of aguardiente (Colombia’s aniseed-flavoured alcohol) as pillows.

We spent Saturday walking up one of the mountains near town. A steady climb took us past farms and increasingly isolated homes, until we reached the top. The view extended past the tiny village to red and brown-tinted mountains across the valley. Returning, we came across bizarre formations that I can only describe as brain coral on land.

Back in town, the morning’s hangover had lifted, and the people were back into party mode. Buildings were lit up, music blared out of every doorway, and once again the alcohol was flowing. We wandered through the dozens of handicraft shops that populate its streets. Every few minutes or so, the electric grid gave in to the demands placed upon it, and the entire town was plunged into temporary darkness. This happened five times in an hour, and each power outage followed a similar pattern. The lights went off, followed by a few screams, and then brief silence accompanied the complete darkness. Next came nervous laughter and murmuring until the lights returned, the music rang out again, and everybody shouted their approval.

The real chaos, however, began later in the plaza. Hundreds of people crammed around the enormous square, awaiting the festival’s eponymous light show. After a delay of over an hour (one of Colombia’s few rules that is unfailingly followed) the bedlam began. South American equivalents to Catherine’s wheels erupted in each corner of the plaza, spewing explosives in every direction. Children as young as five were throwing bottle rockets into the centre, and if they didn’t detonate to their liking they chased after them and investigate the bottle like Wile E. Coyote. These were a prelude to the main fireworks.

In every pyrotechnic event I’ve attended, the fireworks have been detonated at a safe distance from the crowd, to be enjoyed but not necessarily interacted with. Villa de Leyvans are made of sterner stuff. The fireworks were lit and shot in the square, maybe 50 yards from the crowd. As everybody else ooh-ed and aah-ed, my girlfriend and I ran for cover under the eaves of the surrounding buildings. The light show at such a precarious distance was spectacular, if a little terrifying. Afterwards, there was live music, which, along with the beer, helped soothe our nerves. By the morning, we were able to laugh at the ashes on our tent, a reminder of the previous night’s peril.

Salento and Cocora

noreply@blogger.com (tstevens96a) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 16:53:00 +0000

When Cath and I decided to spend a long weekend in Salento with friends Dean and Sally, we hadn't expected to be avoiding stampedes. Our visit, however, was to exceed all expectations. A small town in the Zona Cafetera, Colombia's coffee-growing region, Salento has a colourful square, but the main reason for coming is to visit the Cocora Valley, home of Colombia's national tree, the wax palm. Tree-watching may not sound too interesting, but this is no ordinary tree. The tallest palm tree in the world, the wax palm can grow up to 60 metres high.

The statistics don't do them justice, however, when you come face to face with one. The spindly trunks shoot up out of the ground until reaching the palm leaves high in the sky. Think of Sideshow Bob on steroids (ones that make you freakishly tall, but not strong) and you're close. Standing next to them, it's easy to think a storm, or even a strong push, could topple these things, but apparently they live 120 years and longer.

Back in town, it was time to relax. Dean and I went for a pub crawl while Sal and Cath did some shopping. Our pub crawl consisted of mostly tiendas (small shops that usually have a table or two for drinkers) and cafes, until we came to the pick of the bunch.

As far as I know, the bar didn't have a name, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Inside it was decorated with remnants of the town's past, including pictures, farming tools, and old cowboy hats. It's exactly how I would design a Colombian-themed pub in England, but nothing here was done for effect.
The people, though, really stick in my memory. By the time Cath and Sally found us (there are only 2 main streets in the town) Deano had pointed out that, other than a few teenagers, the crowd was, shall we say, past their prime.

One old cowboy in particular had a face so wrinkled and leathery, it was easy to believe he had fought with Bolivar. He earned the nickname Death, Dean and I figuring anyone this old still drinking and smoking like he was had made some pact with the devil. When a septuagenarian walked in, we imagined Death becoming annoyed by the increasingly youthful crowd.

Later in the evening, festivities kicked off in an unexpected fashion. After some commotion outside, most of the patrons gathered outside the bar's door. It soon became apparent this might not be the safest place to congregate. Running down the street, heading to the town square, were dozens of horses, being ridden by reckless (and in some cases, obviously drunk) cowboys. As the steeds and their charged past, everybody pressed themselves against the wall. Despite a few daredevils (as inebriated as the riders, no doubt) running across the street, nobody was hurt, and soon the crowd trickled into the bar to resume their drinking.

We asked a few people what the occasion was, but either we couldn't understand the Spanish well enough or they weren't quite sure themselves, because we never got a satisfactory explanation. It was typical of a Colombian weekend. We had come expecting beautiful scenery and a bit of relaxation, which we got, but we left having experienced a unique (if unexplained) part of the local culture.