Sitting here on a plastic internet cafe chair in Santa Fe de Antioquai, once the capital of Antioquia before it moved to Medellin in the 19th century... bumb numb from the bum callouses, which for those interested to know are improving... I had a good rub in the shower this afternoon (keep it clean!), the dead growths are gradually peeling off and the feeling is definitely coming back unless greeted by a rock hard chair, when it all reverts to numb bum city. The intent was to go for a walk around the Plaza Meyor to check out the vendors stores and sample some local treats, but no sooner as I had grabbed a sugary drink and looked for my culinary experience for the evening, the heavens opened and its been flash, bang, wallop and torrential rain ever since. I survived my first Couch Surfing experience on halloween night (the irony was not wasted on me once I remembered what day it was - actually the litterally thousands of kids swarming the city in fancy dress reminded me, I have totally lost track of dates, barely remembering what day it is from one day to the next - only the few scheduled events such as the weekly flights are keeping me grounded time wise) - Juan's fear was I would end up in a flavela somewhere never to be seen again, however I found myself in a nice neighbourhood high atop a mountain over looking the city and three of the nicest guys you'd could every meet... unfortunately, I dont know if it was because I was tierd or their accents are very different but my spanish comprehension totally escaped me, and my hosts not having more than the odd word of english the conversation was more of a game of sharades. What amazed me most of all about my Couch Surfing esperience was the trust my hosts put in a total stranger whom they knew very little about and whom spoke (as it turned out) much less Spanish than they probably expected (and less than I expected) - they opened their home to me, gave me my own room, a key to come and go as I pleased and advice on things to see and do in and around Medellin - I arrived earlier than expected and their neighbours even took my backpack and kept it safe for me while I explored the barrio waiting for my hosts to finish work - the negotiation via a boy around 10 or 12, I seem to communicate better with kids, maybe they are more patient, they speak slower or their volcabluary is more in tune with my skillsets. My hosts having previously made plans for their late evening, after my tour of their home and the game of sharades, they introduced me to a fantastic lady neighbour complete with clown like PJ bottoms, crock shoes and a mini poodle, who took me to the local parquadero on the wildest bus ride yet, racing down a 1:3 hill hell for leather, round corners and over bumps, to experience the craziness of the Colobian Halloween experience - I got a lesson in Spanish volcablary, the benefit of travel instructions and the benefit of her remarkable English volcablary, minus the grammar but it was enough - it is with fond memories of one night in Medellin that I left the barrio and moved north to Santa Fe de Antioquia to sample the heat and architecure before heading back to Medellin and a flight back to Bogota and the final leg of my Colombian experience.
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Salamina? Fugetaboutit! Manizales
The road north was another washing machine ride which prevented anything more strenuous than listening to the iPod and staring out the window - at least you can trust the view to keep you captivated in these parts. The intent was to travel north through Manizales to Salamina to checkout the old colonial town before arriving in Medellin for a day and a bit, however a rain storm from hell arrived mid way from Periera to Manizales which make the 2 hr journey 3.5 hrs and no hope of reaching Salamina before nightfall (all year round it gets dark at 5.30pm here - that may explain the high levels of low level criminality such as street muggings and general disobedience), so just moments before the colectivo taxi pulled away I hit the ejector button, much to the disgust of the driver, and headed into Manizales to make the best use of the day, if the rain gives that is. Manizales is an odd city, high on the crest of a mountain top, one particular view not unlike the Machu Picchu terrain. Making the most of the 2 or so hours I had I headed straight downtown, which was remarkably easy as there is a bus every few seconds (the guide book says 30 seconds but the longest I waited was 10 seconds - its like a Canadian freight train with the punctuality of a European passenger train, but without the tracks or the price tag). After a scout around town, exploring a cathedral make with reinforced concrete (and it looks like it, although the aesthetic was a bit sullen and shoddy looking on the outside, it worked on the inside) the light was failing so I headed back to the hostel, a bite to eat and watching the Colombian version of The Voice with the very appreciative hostel proprietor and someone who I couldnt work out if it was her son or a guest. Also there was an odd fellow in a leather hooded jacket, track pants, big black hair and a thick beard, wearing plastic framed milk bottle bottom glasses, hands in pockets wandering around the lounge, sitting on the balcony, still with hands in pockets and without saying a word - he looked a bit like a hipster Rabbi who had done too much acid in his new age attempts to get closer to god - I never did figure out if he was a guest or a resident. Manizales being high atop a mountain its not all that warm here at night. The hostel rooms are arranged around a nice lounge area, with comfy sofas, a glass dining table a telly and some nicknacks, that wouldn't be unfamiliar in any western home, however the kitchen had a glass roof that was open on two sides and the back of the corridor of rooms was also open to the environment, so while sitting in the living room at night it was necessary to wear an extra layer or two, or as the proprietor does, a nice parker complete with fur on the hood (for animal overs everywhere, it wasn't real, definitely polyester). The beds had unusually thick blankets and a thin quilted throw though so I was toasty warm all night - unusual even for the tropical climate of Tyrone. Back to cold showers though, which in this climate was even harder to tolerate, but being the man that I am I sucked it up and took the dive. There was some kind of heater contraption on the shower head but I couldn't get it to heat the water any more than luke warm to the hand, which was cold all the same when you took the dive - attempts to manipulate the device lever while the water was running resulted in a nice electric shock which added another not so welcome dimension to a cold shower. In the morning I was awoken by the cook and ordered to breakfast least I start the day with an empty belly - this is more like a home for waifs and strays and a home for some serious motherly love, than a hostel. I should tell you about the mainstay diet here in Colombia - Breadfast; always includes fruit, eggs, arepa (a cross between a pancake and a flatbread, perfectly round but comes in sizes from 2 inches across to jumbo ones that fill the plate, and they splits like a pita bread), hot chocolate is also a mainstay of breakfast and the quality varies by location (the best was definately at the Hacienda Guyabal) - if you dont get to sit down for breakfast the trade in ceviche (fried crispy pancakes filled with meat or chicken with rice or potato or potato and cheese). Lunch: always includes something fried, whether its a ceviche, fried plantain (sticky, crispy thick, crispy thin etc but always with salsa) or fries (they like fries here, they come with everything) - but there is always a lump of meat to accompany the healthy fried veggies - oh and don't forget the arepas. Dinner is whatever you like, as long as its meat, fried plantain or a local delicacy specific to the Zona Cafetera and known far and wide - a small potato like thing fried, its the Colombian homefries. All this washed down with copious amounts of hot chocolate, milo (cold chocolate milk) or postobon (very very very very very sweek soda). Its a wonder with all this sugar and fried food I haven't put on any weight, as it happens I actually think I have stuck with my usual pattern of losing about 5 pounds on this trip... its only because I have escaped travellers tummy (apart for about 2 days of being more than regular, but no other symptoms to speak of) that I haven't lost any more weight - nothing will beat my Syria record of 12 lbs weightloss - thats about 5.5 kgs in 3 weeks! I caught myself in the hostel bathroom mirror post cold shower and the turtle is definitely looking endangered. Medellin bound and my first couchsurfing experience to come... I know, I picked an interesting country to start staying in strangers homes but balls the wall and all that... or is it blindfold with a gun to the head? Getting a bit tierd of hostels though so would be good to experience the wholesome confines of a real home for a night or two - even if I do get kidnapped, raped, tortured or sold into slavery at least I would have made more Colombian friends :)
Monday, 29 October 2012
Zona Caffine the land of the barking dogs
For someone with a sensitivity or low tollerance for sugar, alcohol and caffine its a little odd to be visiting one of the hotspots for caffine production. On a recommendation and as a chance to catch up with Juan for a long weekend I am here seeking caffine direct from the source. Salento was the first stop, a traditional town of late colonial architecture and in the middle of the Zona Cafetera. What was intended to be a wholesome day of sightseeing in the old town and in the local national park turned into a souvenier shopping marathon which lasted all afternoon, punctuated by a walk up to the mirador and a splash of the local coffee. Armed with more tatt than I know how to get back to London we made our way back to Pereira for a night on a soft mattress (so I hoped), however on arrival back in Pereira we discovered no matter how posh the hotel the mattresses are still as hard as a rock, must be a Pereira or Zona Cafetera thing... although as we have a family room with the choice of three beds we settled on the childerens beds as at lest they seemed to have at least an inch of foam to soften the blow... thank the stars for childerens beds. Cant help feeling like Im going to fall out of single beds though, I always wake in a start in the middle of the night as the least sniff of the edge of the matress. As the next day was going to be direct to a coffee finca with only an hour or so on route, we decided to head out to a local bar and sample the local nightlife. The internet being what it is we unsuccessfully found three bars but were successfull on the forth and final on our list - a strange mix of Madonna, Adel and Colombian salsa house saw us through a few hours and it was off to bed for a night of well earned sleep in semi comfortable beds. In the morning the anticipated up and out was thwarted by the Colombian decision making process... I should explain here my observation of Colombian decision making and communicating in general... what can be said in 10 words or less is often communicated in several minutes of discussion and converence often involving many people... and to be able to do anything or make a decision in Colombia you must consult the internet, phone a friend or two and then revert to a hotel employee to verify all the information and advice you have just been given... I think we phoned everyone bar the president of the United States of America and the Queen of England, Im pretty sure the Dalai Lama got a call at some point though. It all makes for a very sociable and democratic decision making process. Some two hours after we awoke - and a real hot, you heard me, HOT, shower! - we were finally on route to Hacienda Guayabal deep in coffee country... the usual bus journey with all its highlights and lowlights and we arrived at a nameless path off the main road through a barios of bamboo houses and a curious bamboo church - yup bamboo, who would have guessed they have bamboo in Colombia? dotted around the countryside and in small woods bamboo is native to Colombia and shares the slopes with the expected mix of tropical trees, palms and banana plants - a short climb later, which brings back memories of Cuidad Perdida, and we were at the finca house, a stunning minimalist 70s construction surrounded by cocoa, papaya and palm trees and 87 hectares of coffee. Before we had a chance to sit down the coffee was on the way and although not being a coffee expert you could tell this was good stuff, thats single source premium 18 coffee to you, I didnt know what that meant either until the 2 hour tour around the finca and the process of turning the cherry into a coffee bean. Did you know that the coffee bean is effectively peeled 3 times before it gets to the stage where it is ready for roasting? The first is the cherry like outer, the second is a grape sweet coating on the bean, then after drying the bean has a husk which is removed and you have the bean ready for roasting... and then even if you chew on the bean before its roasted it has a sunflower like seed inside the bean... Surprising fas-kin-ating. Coffee beans in their natural state are far more enjoyable than some Colombian fruit Ive tried to date... the names escape me at present but one is round similar in size to a cherry tomato, which looks like a tomato unpeeled but like a cross between a potato and a carrot in colour... they draw you in by sprinkling over sugar and sweet honey and when you thrust it in your mouth and realise its texture is like a cross between a dry micowaved fiberous potato and a carrot with a similar taste you feel cheated and struggle to find the attraction of these oddities, as they are sold on every street corner and sell like hot cakes and regarded as a treat... the other is a large orange sized fruit in a dull green easy peel skin, the flesh is a bright orange similar to a peach but as a recurring theme, has a fibreous flesh, and you can easily peel segments out just like an orange - the catch? Those segments are 20% fruit and 80% stone the size of an unshelled brazil nut, very tasty flesh but you feel cheated and frustrated at not being able to sink your teeth into it and give it a good chew, sigh. Several hours, many coffees, a stellar lunch and dinner and several games of cards later - including a thunder storm out of a hollywood movie and dogs that never seem to stop balking. Whenever a dog barks on the finca or on a neighbouring finca they all set off and this continued into the small hours (ok we were in bed by 11pm, but thats the small hours here) without let up until I think they finally tired of it or got sore throats - who knows, thank to my ear plugs I managed to escape the inconvenience once my head hit the pillow. The ear plugs didnt help with the noisy beds though, I always feel like I am going to fall out of a single bed, I wake up startled thinking I am on the edge. These beds have seen better days and although they were comfortable the bow to the edges accentuated the feeling of falling to my death in mid sleep - not helped by the fact that when you moved the bed continued to move for what seemed an eternity afterwards and made some curious noises to boot. I got up for the obligatory bathroom break in the middle of the night thanks to the gallons of coffee, kicked an invisible chair on my way (its dark out here) and caused Juan to break into laughter, him thinking I had actually fallen out of bed - having told him about my fear of single beds previously. Breakfast was another three course feast that I struggled to consume, not because it wasnt tasty - it was amazing, but Im not one for eating as soon as I wake up and this was enough food for a whole day or a family of three - we werent to be hungry again until 7pm that night. Struggling to wake up and get ourselves into gear, depite the gallons of Colombian Arribica coffee and the usual Colombian decision making process (this time I think we did actually call Obama and Elizabeth) - although its hard to drag yourself away from this place and I was quite happy chillaxing... this is the ultimate relaxation spot, with a fantastic view, a beautiful house, a pool, the atmosphere of quiet mediterranian island and service like a five star hotel - but small town B&B prices... it`s a shame we didnt get to stay longer but the Santa Rosa Termales becon and Juan returns to Bogota in the morning. Taking the old track back to Santa Rosa, which last hosted the train tracks in 1945, was a surreal experince with old colonial train stations still remaining along the stone and mud track. Sheer drops to one side, the usual bumps and humps that remind you where you are and in the smallest mini bus I had ever been in make it all the more eventful (think mini bread delivery van in a rural french village). Time was getting on and it was a mad dash by taxi to the thermal springs for some hot water therapy, however in Colombian style badly produced tinny music was blaring out of the Swiss challet style building which distracted from the fairy tale falls and mountain landscape... been there, done that, back to Santa Rosa for a well earned chorizo sausage, beans, rice and a local delecacy which turned out to be home fries and it was back on the road back to Pereira still buzzing on the finca coffee. Juan returns to Bogota in the morning and I move north through Manizales and Medellin before my return to Bogota on Friay... its that time in a holiday when I start thinking about the return to reality but I am trying to block that out of my mind for as long as possible, so I must keep extra busy from now until Sunday. Water bottle still tastes like Gatorade, mosquito bites and sunburn subsided, calouses on my bum cheeks still there (thats what you get from living in wet clothing and sitting on wooden benches for 5 days I guess), running out of clean socks and craving a cup of tea, despite all the coffee.
Saturday, 27 October 2012
En Route to Zona Cafetera
After the heat and the thick air of Cartagena (although the seas were picking up on my departure, so something was afoot in the Caribbean) it was time to move on. I woke up on time, gracias para la aircon en la hotel! packed my bags and headed off to the airport (not wanting to spend the next 12 hrs on a bumpy bus it was worth the $80)... the taxi was an event in itself, having no understanding of each other the driver stopped to fill up with gas, then chat with a friend, then to pick up some food, all the time I was watching my clock and wondering when I would get to the airport and would it be on time (I had allowed a check-in only an hour before the flight so it was cutting it fine)... and on arrival I found, true to Colombian logistics, the flight was now leaving half an hour early, so it was a quick dash from check-in to departues and a hasty chickeny pastry thing and a coffee so hot it burnt my mouth to a cinder (now Im burnt on the inside and the outside) and it was time to embark... but true to Colombian logistics the flight was now 25 mins late. Flight uneventful although a long 2 hr layover in Bogota ensured I was low on energy on arrival in Pereira - but the dash to the hotel from the airport was quick and the driver surprisingly tame - on arriving at the uninspiring hotel I was pleasantly surprised at the room considering the $20 paid... until i threw myself onto the bed and injuring myself in the process, this isnt a mattress, this is a subway train seat! Ive slept on floors more comfortable than this. Not relishing the night on a slap I headed out to check out the local nightlife and found myself a very traditional tavern with lots of same sex salsa dancing. The music was surprisingly palatable and the crowd entertaining enough so I stayed for three beers then headed back to the dreaded mattress. The sleep was not exactly restful as sleeping on my side resulted in a dead shoulder and sleeping on my back wasnt much better... roll on the moring and the caffine jolt - finally some luck in the ablutions department - warm showers! (notice I didnt say hot) Juan arrived early in the morning and after a quick search for a new hotel and a review of the Cafetera options we headed off to the traditional town of Salento in coffee territory.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
Cartagena
My usual pattern of travel includes long bus journeys and a lot of reading to pass the time, however after bringing three books with me I have only managed to get through half a book and even that has been a struggle. The reason? The roads. The four hour bus journey from Santa Marta to Cartagena (8 hrs if you include the Tyrone to Santa Marta route) was perfect for devouring a book, however the roads conspired against me again. Every hour or so on a Colombian motorway there are toll booths, but I doubt that any British or Canadian driver would happily pay a toll for these roads. Its more like being in a washing machine than a bus - if the roads aren't in a general state of disrepair then the authorities do their best to create the bumps with speed bumps at almost any location - though I cant see how a 8 inch speed bump on a road with a sheer drop on one side can improve safety, if there weren't roofs on these buses then the passengers would get catapulted over the edge. Despite the road woes I arrived in Cartagena after surviving Tyrone, mucho mosquitos! ...to find the heat in Santa Marta to be just a warm up for the real thing... hace much calor aqui! ...can people really live in this heat? With only a day and a half to explore the city it was only going to be a quick peruse, but I found myself heading to bed early (Colombian style) to escape the heat of the evening and catch the cool of the early morning... we are still in the land of cold showers so waking up will continue to be a jolt to the system. When the morning came I had a very productive hour and a half exploring the old city, after the shock of the cold shower that is, finally getting my hair cut after a month (ragger muffin!), until the heat of the day finally hit me with a vengeance - with camera still acting up and at risk of dying in the street I retreated to a cafe then an internet cafe and whiled away two to three hours in glorious air conditioning. I was told Cartagena was the safest city in Colombia, and I know why, there are police or army or private security on every street corner and every 80 to 100m on main roads - its no wonder the Colombian tax rate is +30% with no social security, public health care or public pensions to speak of. Not sure how the police numbers improve security though, they are mostly to be found texting, talking on the phone, eating ceviche or hanging around in packs discussing something with much gusto. Safety is relative and for the first time since arriving in Colombia I felt unsafe, but not for the reasons you may think - the fat bottomed prostitutes in this town are aggressive, I think it was the first time I have been hissed at (Middle Eastern style if you have ever been to Morocco or Turkey)... and if you wont buy sex they will try and sell you cocaine and if that doesn't work they will go back to the promotion of sexual acts but this time in rather good English I must say. Surviving the fat bottomed prostitutes, cocaine peddlers and the heat it is time to move on, to the Zona Cafetera. Before I go, remember that Gatorade (sp?) I had at circa 950m in the rainforest? ...water from my bottle still tastes of the stuff a week and a half later, what the f&%k do they put in it?! ...experiment yourself, I for one am put off the stuff for life. I am definitely looking forward to more temperate weather and a slower pace of life in Zona Cafetera after the heat and the buzz of the Caribbean coast - ironically the slower pace will come with high octane coffee and being chorizo country I expect mucha bueno comida! Who doesnt like a sausage?
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Tyrone
After the trek to Cuidad Perdida I was tempted to stay in Santa Marta and explore but opted for another early rise and made my way (with some backtracking) via bus to Tyrone National Park on the promise of pristine beaches and a restful 24 to 48 hrs An uneventful bus ride (but not without the usual fear of my Spanish letting me down and ending up somewhere else than expected) and I was back in the national park for another treck through the rain forest to the promise of a hammock for 25,000 pesos (approx 7.5 pounds sterling) I did start questioning my santity treking in swealtering heat again after just completing the trek of death, especially considering my hamstring was still giving me jip. But in no time at all and with an obvious improvement in general fitness, leaving my fellow bus companions long behind. 1.5 days of beach, beer, cards with some English lads I met on camp and it was Wednesday before I knew it... and with a very nice patchy sun burn from an afternoon on the beach under a cloudy sky, go figure. 8am Wednesday and it was on the road again back to Santa Marta and onto Cartagena. I was blessed with a minute 5 minute wait for a bus from the park to the main road and another 5 minute wait for the bus to Santa Marta - things were going far to well so it was inevitable we would get stopped by the Military, decamped, searched and the colectivo taken apart and reassembled again piece by piece before we made some real headway - then, half way to Santa Marta the colectivo broke down and we were stranded on the side of the road. A second bus and an hour late and I finally arrived in Santa Marta for my connection to Cartagena after a search for mobile minutes and Comida Pronto. Cartagena next!
Monday, 22 October 2012
Cuidad Perdida, mi pierna esta enfermedad!
Cuidad Perdida, the lost city, now the found city - as the crow flies, 26km from the nearest village, 39km from the nearest paved road, into the Tyrone RAINforest.
Guide books always overplay the danger and the effort required for some activities to filter out the uncommitted, so it was with knowledge an effort was required but without the clarity of the task before me that I booked myself onto the 5 day hike to the lost city.
Day 1: After a night in, La Briza Loca the noisiest hostel in Colombia, I awoke at 7am, packed my bags and was picked up and escorted to the tour office at 8am to catch the 4x4 to the base camp. After 1.5hr wait, while dying for a decent morning constitutional and being denied the privilege, the delay became clear when we greeted the 4x4 which had been involved in a traffic accident the night before, it took another 30mins to finally get transport organised, a less than luxurious 4x4 of 1970s fame but it did the job.
The driver, a 20s something maverick roadster who spent most of the journey on the phone or yelling greetings to his many friends along the way and my partners in crime, the guides de force Miguel and Rodrigo and my fellow trekkers, two Belgium Chicas, German and Australian Chicos and a Colombian couple.
A bumpy 13km approach to Base camp from the relative luxury of the tarmac, a quick lunch, realisation I had packed way more than my fellow trekkers, removing a quarter of my pack contents, and it was onto the trail we went.
The first day would be a 3 to 4 hours hike, but the first hour was the worst, two river crossings - the 800m+ ascent in 30C+ heat and 80% humidity made for a tough climb - it was at this point I doubted my ability to complete the hike at all. After quick refreshments via a tienda (shop) at 800m+, selling nothing else but Coca Cola, Gatorade, a pump of the inhaler and a fight to the death with a rumbustious duck (at 800m above sea level?) to keep hold of my orange - I lost - and we were on the trail again, this time a shorter climb to approx 950m and we found a plateau to recharge the legs and put the spring back in our steps.
On the last climb we lost the German to uncontrollable evacuations mid ascent and as the afternoons rains had arrived the guides were keen to press on with some urgency to keep to our pace, so we continued minus the German - when the rains came I first felt dread, then relief as the heat subsided, then dread again as the 600m+ decent became a challenging slide over rocks, mud and the increasing river of water that would plague us for the rest of the day - I not so much as walked down as surfed down on a wave of mud and water. We continued our ascent and decent pattern until arriving at the river crossing from hell... 4.5 feet (armpit territory for someone of stature) of rushing rain forest river! Gripping onto anything for sheer survival - guides, rocks, tree branches - and finally reaching the other side, the elation of the achievement and finally being free from mud in my shoes soon subsided on remembering my camera was in my backpack and my money and credit card were in my pocket, oops!
A short walk later and we arrived at camp 1, greeted by cold showers, the most deserved meal of 2012 and a hammock to sleep the night. Dinner was followed by a safety talk on checking your hammock before entering, checking your shoes before wearing, watching where you step at night, least you get bitten by a snake or a crab, instructions to not walk off in the middle of the night (who the f$&k would do that in the middle of the rain forest anyway?), many games of President and Asshole, general back slapping, moments revisited, a curious hour of uncontrollable laughter discussing the Aussies liking for British television and then it was off to the uncharted territory of a hammock, .
Day 2: Based on our stellar performance the day before (really, are you sure?) over dinner last night the group decided to increase the pace and reach the lost city on day 2 to allow a more leisurely trek on the return trip. Something I am glad on in retrospect but which made for a challenging day 2.
After the challenge of day 1, I halved my pack size again at camp 1 and left the contents at camp 1 for pickup on the return trip - I had packed everything on the recommended list but found that there are only two outfits required, a wet one and a dry one, a towel, a pack of cards, a mini pillow for the hammock, as with my camera weighing in at a cool 2kg+ it was in my interest to slim my pack down as much as possible. - up here you wash and wear still wet, and with 5 to 7 hr hikes to look forward to you want to carry a little as possible
I awoke cold at 4am not to get back to sleep again, I tossed around in my sleeping bag for a while until I finally decided I would be better off out of the hammock and staring into space for an hour or so - the group rose at 6am and we were on the road after a quick breakfast by 7am, wearing the same wet clothes from the night before.
7 hrs of rain forest trekking in one day is quite an achievement, the constant ascent, decent, river crossings, hiking in the heat and the rain etc takes it toll - the paths gradually get narrower and the conditions more treacherous - being knocked over by the pack on the side of a donkey, surviving 2ft wide paths of slippery mud and rocks, crossed by not so inconsequential streams and waterfalls, it was with mercy we reached camp 2, in the vicinity of the lost city, just before nigh fall and before the rains came, making the paths an n-1 life or death calculation and the river crossings doable without the same life flashing before your eyes experience as the day before.
As the group caught up with us front runners we claimed our beds (yes beds! bloody luxury!) - and glad I had the strength of mind to keep my mini pillow in my pack - another well earned meal - I think I am eating more in a day here than I eat on a regular weekend back home, you need the energy alright, but think I am going to come out of this trip without an ounce lost and my turtle intact.
Day 2 is the day I discovered the Colombian lady's phobia of cats - each camp has a dog and a couple of cats - now I am not an expert on cats but Ive met a few in my time and these cats are more on the cute and stupid end of the spectrum, one even had a leg missing - it was more of a comedy act than a threat, but even he caused a vertical reflex jump from a seated position on the picnic table style bench in one clean jerk, while shouting 'Puta!' at the top of her lungs - I'm not afraid of cats but Im sure startled by crazy Colombians! Either the cat goes or she goes! After that she retired to bed at 6:30pm without finishing her dinner, just to escape the cats. In a land of things that go bump in the night its bizarre behaviour to say the least. After more time in Colombia I grew to understand that Colombian city folk are a pampered lot.
Day 3: The trek to the lost city. We awoke at a luxurious 7am (after a warmer night with two, yes two blankets, hoorah!), had breakfast and set off for the lost city. The river crossing was challenging but not life threatening (OK it was but its all relative after the 2 days Ive just had) and then it was the steps of death, 1200 well crafted, wet and moss strewn, read: treacherous none the less. After the first few meters I poised my camera for the classic shot and discovered it had given up the ghost overnight - the lens was fogged up, the viewfinder was fogged up, the meter setting wouldn't hold, the LCDs were on then off then on then off, and when they were on they were as equally fogged up and unreadable - so I progressed with a blind and ambitious photo kamikaze tour of the lost city and I am still not sure if I have managed to get any lasting pictures of the lost city or not. Two weeks on the screen is still dodgy, the metering is not reliable and the various buttons dont do what they purport.
At the final altitude we looked back at our achievement with the knowledge that now we must walk all the way back again - apparently in one months time they open a different return route, good for the soul but not for my belongings I ditched at Base and Camp 1.
After a walk back down through the city and the river we got to explore some of the size of this place - you need a few days to explore this place in detail - apparently inhabited for 300+ years then abandoned with the start of the 200 years of war with the Spanish, this place was never again been populated or used for its previous purpose, although there are a few twin hut dwellings scattered around the site.
Back across the river and a trek back to camp for lunch and we were on the trail again for the 3 day hike back to base. Its surprising how familiar but how unfamiliar a trail can seem on the second pass, and how soul destroying it is turning that corner to find that downhill you remember and welcomed on first pass, is now an uphill fight to the death.
A pain has developed behind my knee on my left leg which is less than confortable and slowing me down but not debilitating, yet.
After a leisurely 3 hrs on the trail we were at camp 3 for another night in beds - I am starting to feel spoilt until I realise the catch is only one blanket! By this time I have got used to the Colombian way of bed by 8:30pm and rise at 5am so it was with surprise that tomorrow we will rise at 8am which meant we had 3 hrs more of 'President and Asshole' to play, but everyone was lacking the energy required to hold the cards so we called it a day at 9pm and I attempted to read before falling asleep.
Day 4: As per my usual timings I awoke around 6am to see the Colombian couple off (they were doing the trek in four days to be able to catch their plane home), but they hadn't told us they were leaving on donkeys! Bloody cheats! How can she be afraid of fluff ball cats but not these manky and unpredictable horses, donkeys or whatever they are? I spent the rest of the morning waiting for the rest of the group to awake by drinking sweet coffee and staring into space and forward planning my mental strategy for the day.
After breakfast it was on the trail again for a 4hr trek back to camp 1 - picking up one of the honorary outrider positions making pace with the camp cook, or as I called her 'mi amiga caminando' (my walking friend) - this position I maintained to the last mile, which also afforded benefits in the form of cookies, cake and someone to look to for mental support when you turn the corner and catch the view of those ascents in your future.
Its today that I discovered the pain in my left leg from the day before had developed into a cramp which became a pulled tendon and plagued me for much of the days trek - the ascents were the worst and there was lots of that, the descents brought some relief but the pain of the ascent still haunted me.
The obligatory ~800m ascents and descents, walking in the heaviest rain yet, crossing a stream from day 2 that had become a river 4ft deep and its back to camp 1 for hot food, cold shower, another night of cards, mosquito bites and swinging in the hammock. I seemed to have survived with around 12 to 15 bites on my legs and arms whilst the Belgian girls legs looked like an infestation of smallpox! ouch!
The stream that became a river was one thing I will not forget - the indigenous Indians believe that women and girls should be in touch with the earth to maintain fertility and so walk without shoes and may not ride a horse whilst the men wear wellington boots and ride horses, a stark contrast to our western approach to the sexes - this was not wasted on one of the Belgians who was actually born in Colombia, a fierce feminist and a tour de force in her own right, often to be found near the rear, taking, talking, talking and when the rains came, finding a store of energy to come from last to pole position by streaming past you on the trail at 100km an hour to avoid another chest deep river crossing - anyway back to the indigenous, on a horse was a boy around 13 years and on foot was a girl around 8 years, the boy crossed the river on horse back and rode up the path with nothing more than a glance back, the girl was left to her own devices to cross the river alive, I don't believe she would have made it across if it wasn't for our guide who waded back into the river to help her and myself across, simply put, I was in fear for her life and impressed at the foresight and generosity of our guide, remembering his perviously passing them on the trail and returning to assist.
At this point I chatted, or mostly listened, to my guides story and found out the cook was his wife and he has three children at home who depend on their tour income for everything, roof, food, education and health care. The oldest of 16 looked after the other two while they were on the trek - it really brings home to you the differences between your own life and the life of others while in these situations.
Day 5: The final trek home, again I awoke early, around 6am and spent the first hour of the day staring into space and drinking sweet coffee in the company of the cook - I did start to wonder why I don't go to bed at 9am and awake at 6am at home - there is something to be said for an hour of staring into space in the morning.
Breakfast, the return to wet clothing and its back on the trail again - this truly is the toughest part of the trek, the day starts with a short walk and a river crossing, then the ascent is relentless in 30C temperatures and 80% humidity, at around 10am you reach the plateau that marks the start final ascent to base.
The pain in my leg from the previous day had subsided and I managed most of the ascents without too much discomfort. On reaching the plateau and starting the long descent home, the decent I had waited for for so long, the injury became a downhill one and gravity was now my nemesis.
We escaped the rain on day 5, river crossings were tame, but the sun was hot and despite factor 40 sun screen I acquired a decent burn on the back of my neck.
The busiest part of the trail, a constant trail of donkeys and riders working like motor taxis to ship in goods for the mountain farmers and trekkers, including full sized pigs strapped to the side of the donkeys squealing in disgust and indignation as they are transported over bumpy trails legs poking straight out - those legs can give you a thud if you dont duck in time! Youd better get out of the way when these donkey caravans approach, their cargo is heavy and I learnt my lesson early on.
'Mi amiga caminando y yo' make it back to base to find Sam the Australian feet up with a ice cold drink, having run down the final descent - damn his youth! It was another hour before the Belgium girls arrive and Sam and I await with hungers that would kill the feint hearted - the fresh head of a cow displayed on a tree stump across the street looked mighty appetising righ there and then.
Its Sunday, and while waiting in the ever watchful eye of the military the odd crack of gunpowder/explosive would fill the air, at first I was slightly distubred that none of the many townfolk or military were concerned, not only by this but also the many bars and pool halls competing in music wars, young men racing up and down the street on motorcycles while pint sized kids played on their cycles on the same road - exhaustion soon took over and I no longer noticed the explosive cracks (I soon realised it was the Colombian high explosive version of bowls - how would they be able to tell which is bowls or a FARC attack?) or the noise of the music or the craziness on the street - I concerned myself with a secret exchange of love letters between a member of the military and a local girl, passed between them by a young girl of about 12. This went on for several hours until we were back in the 4x4 on the bumpy road back to the highway and back to Santa Marta.
Experiences like this are supposed to teach you something, these are my lessons:
1. My willpower is stronger than my legs
2. (but) I am fitter than I though
3. Rain is good and bad
4. Travel light
5. Keep the faith and never relinquish your pillow
You need a souvenir to remind you of every trip, here are mine:
1. One pulled hamstring
2. A wet clothing rash on both legs and around my neck
3. Sunburn to the back of the neck
4. 30+ mosquito bites
5. Calouses on both bum cheeks
6. Very smelly clothes - two merino tshirts eaten by insects
7. A dead camera
Its one night in Santa Marta then back out to Tayrona national park to spend a day and a half on the beach to recover from 5 days torture and onto Cartagena for a day and a half to explore the old city before moving onto Zona Cafetero to meet up with Juan and drink some serious coffee - body shakes here I come!
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
Altitudes Enfermedad
I,m a little late posting but here I am, alive and well in Colombia.
Bogota was harder than expected to get to, London to Frankfurt to Cali to Bogota in a cool 24hrs taking into account airport necesities and the unexpected layover in Cali - its been a very dry season so far in Bogota, but trust it to break and rain like a biblical scene the day and hour I need to get there.
Bogota being 2500m above sea level I found myself with less than a spring in my step on arrival. Still, it didnt stop the whirlwind tour of Villa de Leyva (another few hundered meters up), a visit to a vineyard (that explains why I got so pissed on a glass and a half of grande reserva) and a few gastronomic surprises. Im sure the Bogota smog didnt help much either.
Here I am in Santa Marta on the Carribean coast and after hanging out with Juan, Milton (aka Morton) and Camilo in Bogota I was sad to leave - Colombian hospitatlity at its best - looking forward to going back for a last fiesta before my return.
I was wondering what was wrong with me, Has my job really taken that much out of me the past 24 months? Only on arrival in Santa Marta at 8pm at night and suddenly getting my mojo back and I can only conclude the headaches, sickness, fatigue and lack of appetite was altitude sickness aka Altitudes Enfermedad. Will be nice to get through a day without the inhailer and nose bleeds... Feeling better just in time as tomorrow at 8am is the start of the 5 day hike to Cuidad Perdida (aka The Lost City) in the Colombian jungle. Mosquitos and botflies next I guess... y esta el pena estoy en la hostel fiesta esta noche! Because I think I will need some serious sleep tonight.
This is the land of cold showers - dont ask me why, they just dont have hot water, no matter where you go. Maybe its the climatic heat that makes them think they dont need hot water, but no matter how hot I am a cold shower is no welcome - but as Im in the north for the next week and a half I better get used to it.
I guess by now you are wondering what the photo is all about? I thought I had seen everything on my travels, but who the f&$% puts an extra long measuring tape, scissors and and IRON in their hand luggage? Makes you wonder what else was found that wouldnt fit in the box... This is air travel Colombian style... waiting for the day I see semi automatic weapons in the reject box.
Not got the hang of these Colombian keyboards yet and need a good nights rest (as Im sure the jungle will infringe on a good nights rest) so excuse any oddities as I plan on a few beers and then, voy a la cama, so not going to spend too long on here tonight.
Adios para ahora!
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Balkans Revisited
I've finally found the time to troll through my Balkans photos, thanks to a double dose of 4 day weekends thanks to Jesus and Wills & Kate.
I tend to remember when and where I take all my pictures but none is more memorable than this photo from Macedonia.
This small church, no bigger than a small garage, was set in a scene of rushing streams and broad leaved trees, sun shining and birds singing, halfway up a hillside in a small town called Vencani. Vencani is no bigger than a few city blocks but the locals are a very self asured lot and even declared independence during the madness than ensued during the Balkans war.
I was captivated by this church and getting the perfect photo became a mini obsession - so much so the forward journey further north towards Debar had us travelling well into the dark hours. Surprisingly its the photo in which I had the least hope that best captured the scene as I saw it... I hope you like it.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Balkans Express
It's 19:30 and I am packing up after a night and a day in Plovdiv and bidding the most relaxing hostel I've ever stayed at my farewell... at 21:30 I catch the Balkans Express from Plovdiv to Istanbul.
Lack of time means I only have time for a braindump for now, I will expand later.
Settled into the Hikers Hostel for my first dorm stay of the trip. A very relaxed and friendly crowd and a great nights sleep.
Rush for the ticket office before sat closing (not open Sunday) no internet no ticket - must buy on train to border then at border to Istanbul, should be interesting
Hikers Hostel on hill in Plovdiv old town great view and very central
Met a Kiwi in Macdonalds (I know, but after my first day of tummy trouble and not wanting to sit in a restaurant it was the only tollerable option) as we exchanged shrugs over the servers questions and how to order sweet and sour sauce
Went for few beers then headed back to hostel
Talked shit with strange American wandering Europe looking for a country that would let him stay, shared a bottle of Macedonian plonk bought in Skopje
Great nights sleep, woke up early at 8
Arranged to meet kiwi at 1 to explore
Explored the old town
Prime real estate abandoned and defaced; Ex Communist Party member's residence?
Bought some souvenirs and Xmas gifts- box fresh
Very chatty whittler obsessed with planes
Woman with portraits of happy pigs and nonchalant sheep
Roof tile artist painting on the street
Gay or European? Italian queens looking very out of place
Romany kids hassle
Dinner and discussion: socialism, Israel, house prices, kids today, photography
Bound for Istanbul...
Deserted socialist train station at 9pm sharing 2L Bulgarian beer
took the chance to get some train grafitti pics before train arrived
Train 20 mins late, made straight for sleeper car
Accosted by man in ble adidas track suit and tash asking for my ticket!
No ticket, ticket office Internet kaput!
'no problem, no problem' he said
I hand over 22 lev (11€) for ticket
10 mins later he takes me to serious looking official who ploughed through teems of papers and came up with a 180 lev fare, What!?
No real solution found, he just scratched his head and I offered him 10 lev to just let me
stay on the train, track suited tash guy thinks I made the right move and much chatter ensues, he takes the money
Much chatter and I pray for a happy conclusion, which came with both the confused conductor and mr tracky tash saying 'no problem, no problem'
Although now I'm headed forsomeplace called Demitiograd instead of Svilengrad- where's my guidebook?
Back in my sleeper I down more beer take my remaining sleeping pill, take out my beloved travel pillow and wait
5 mins later tracky tash arrives with sheets and blankets and turned up the heat to melting point
heating turned down I slept until women by another portly guard asking for ticket - no ticket! - another aside in an empty sleeper, another long episode of head scratching and anothe 30 lev changes hands to get to Svilengrad and something about 'ticket sItanbul no problem'
I turn down the heat and drift back off to sleep on my magic pillow
screeching of wheels knock on door, happy portly conductor delivers ticket to Istanbul covertly while looking around rather nervously and signing to shhhh!
Back off to sleep and knock knock knock passport control which takes all of 5 seconds
Back to sleep only to be woken up again with 'anything to declare?' so I declare I am a wooly wofta, no really I declare my two bottles if macedonian wine which sparks a bag search where the contents were ignored but the linings and padding was put to great scruitiny... Patting and poking done with I do indeed confirm the customs guards assumpion I like wine and it's back to my beer and pharaceutical induced coma.
Next call was for Turkish passport control which involved a dash out into freezing temperatures in only shirt sleeves but luckily over and done in record time, poor American girls had to line up in cold for visas, I was out like a light before passport officers boarded the train to check entry stamps and again before the train made a move... To be continued
Making Tracks to Plovdiv
Just about to catch the night train from Plovdiv to Istanbul so only time for dumping my mental notes, will expand later...
On route to Plovdiv
Train station concrete and art, monolithic uglyness, confusion and bad signage
Great graffiti too late
Old trains, smelly toilets
Former communist countries offer choice -hot or cold
Plains of '' or is this Patagonia?
More monolithic cocrete remnants of communist rule, empty shunting and cargo yards, platforms at ground level, people hanging around (south America?) on tracks, cotton trees, cedar and hardwoods, revines and brown winter plains (praries), rocky mountains
Train guards reminiscent of old soviet military standing proud
Abandoned railway buildings, no door/window frames
Heating off :) what a wish after 3 cold days
Hugging the side of deep ravine
Tradition houses and coregated iron dwellings, tennements, squalid poverty - isn't that was communism was supposed to end?
Train picks up speed
Platforms barely above track level
Old man in field sitting on a bail of hay, sythe at his side, rickety old card and ragged donkey standing motionless
Vines - some still tendered but much overgrown and looking a sorry state
Dogs chasing the train
Market gardning and orchards
Graveyards
freight engine named britania
Massive Cement works/quarry
Tractors that look more like tanks
Approach Plovdiv socialist housing blocks which surpass elephant in size and number, washing drying
Let it All Hang Out in Sofia
Just about to catch the night train from Plovdiv to Istanbul so only time for dumping my rough mental notes, will expand later...
Kosovo
Crows, bus stop assistance, future ex husband-if we could get past fact he would want to kill me.
Skopje
Mud on shoes
Border crossing toilets
Sofia
Shemales
3 nights 3 beds
Loud Germans
Mineral baths
Hanging around near centre of culture, shocking toilets (teenagers)
Taxi from Sofia
Lake and natural hot springs
No English, flipflops
Let it all hang out
Getting home, taxi from random restaurant
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Welcome Hilary! BLUE!
The road to Pristina, Kosovo from Skopje, Macedonia didn't lend itself to the usual pursuits of shuteye or reading (me of my emancipated slave story and Mr Fidget of his conspiracy theories). It was two and a half hours of natural rumble strips, pot holes and hairpin bends, so much so I am of the opinion if they straightened the road out the trip would be half the time, if that! But it was worth the trip to view in awe the bluest sofa this side of anywhere.
After the border crossing and taking pride in our Kosovo passport stamps it was startling the obvious change in wealth and infrastructure; the dual speed signs for cars and tanks was also noteworthy. Kosovo being primarily Muslim (secular)you cant help feel this area of the former Yugoslavia was deliberately under invested and the troubles that arose when Serbia found ultra nationalism were always a ticking time bomb; what is surprising is its the Serbs that were the aggressors.
Arriving in Pristina there was the usual haggle for taxis and the usual arrival at a price 50% of the asking price. The quick taxi ride to the Velania Hotel in the pouring rain we entered the basement area of the hotel to find the reception area and I must admit, even with my varied experiences with dodgy hotels, the drab basement didn't envelop me with any feelings of comfort and the choking thick cigarette smoke from the four chain smokers in the small reception/kitchen (approx 2m x 2m) made me feel more than a little nauseous. But we were here now and this was the only show in town as far aw we were aware.
Luckily we found ourselves at the top of the house with central heating, kitchen, internet, a stunning king of the jungle fleece blanket and a BLUE! sofa... never did you see a sofa so BLUE!... It was monumental in its beautifully puffy arms and back and did I say it was BLUE!!!!!!!! (dont ask me what colour, its enough that one of the most colour blind you may ever have met though it glowed in the dark!
Some internet time (as still catching up with our blogs given the lack of Komputamebobs in Macedonia) a coffee (which turned out to be some instant powdered Turkish coffee type stuff and some dubious long life milk) and we decided it was time to head into the centre to find some food and checkout the nightlife.
Did I mention it was raining? As we muddled to find our way into the centre, up a hill, down a hill, sideways and forwards again it rained and it rained and it rained. When we finally found ourselves at our destined bar (Bar 91) and after a mix up over which beer I had actually ordered (questions Ive noted usually turn into orders - note to self to not ask questions in future) I was soon horrified to find myself in a bar with a bunch of the most vile ex-pats, dressed like chavs, smoking like cheap whores and making an almighty racket with their love of shouting (which they all thought was very funny), so we finished up our pints and did what everyone else would do after a pint, go for a Chinese. I know, I know, this is Kosovo not London but there wasn't much traditional food in the offering (I'm pretty sure Tex-Mex isn't traditional Kosovo food either) and it turned out to be some of the best Chinese food we have ever eaten. As has become customary on this trip we ordered twice as much as we could possibly eat but wished we had enough room to eat twice as much as we ordered - apart from the burger thingy and sausages in Vincani, which were vile and left me feeling nauseous much of our trip north to Debar.
Nothing much going on around town so we headed back in wind and rain to the hotel on the hill and into the arms of the BLUE sofa. A great nights sleep and we decided to say another night so we could look around town, although not in the same hotel, so we did some sleuth work and ended up in a very nice hotel in the old Turkish quarter, warm with duv-ettes, another lovely shower - but alas no BLUE sofa, there was a lovely frilly floral sofa in reception but it had nothing on the Velanis BLUE sofa, besides there is only room in this world for one such BLUE sofa.
After a day hunting around, taking pictures of anything and everything - including large billboards welcoming Hilary Clinton to town (although I'm sure the chosen picture wouldn't have ingratiated their guest - and finished the day with a Tex-Mex (yes the other famous Kosovo dish) and it was at this point I lost my tolerance for smoke filled restaurants. All I ask is for one meal without cigarette smoke, is that too much to ask?
Back at the hotel while us old men settle down to read our books in our fancy hotel room with central heating and duv-ettes I wondered if this is what Bert and Ernie would look like on holiday. Would they
Long > short, next morning after neither of us got a decent nights sleep - Mr Fidget obviously wasn't drunk enough and I have no idea what my problem was, so I just lay there listening to and watching Mr Fidgets little feet flapping away in his sleep, with such gusto he looked like 'The Man from Atlantis' on a mission - the morning greeted us with loud rain, which turned out to be loud rain plus SNOW! Lots of Snow, flakes as big as plumbs! Damn was it cold and miserable... lets get the hell out of Kosovo before the Serbs cut off the power again!
Three hours later we arrived in Skopje, had another over indulgent lunch at the local shopping mall, Ben picked up another book of conspiracy theories (this time its nothing to do with Christ's foreskin, just something about politics and prophesies that means we are all doomed, you know the kind of thing (I'm still reading my emancipated slave story which has taken a turn with the good massa gone bad :-o ...and then we were on the bus to Sofia...
Approx 5 hrs later, with yet more stamps in our passports and we are in Sofia (Ive used Sofia and Sofija interchangeably in this blog as everywhere I look its spelled differently)... a ripoff taxi (although the loss was only about 3 euros again) and we were at the Hostel Mostel, but the old location, which wouldn't have been too much of a problem except I was now tiered and grumpy and it was raining like a bitch.
Luckily Ben's iphone did its magic and we found ourselves in the funkiest and possibly the most lively hostel I have ever stayed. Our room was in an apartment one block from the main building (which was a 19th century coach inn) in a dramatic 50s apartment with wooden parque flooring, marble and wood paneling, nice!
Dinner in a Bulgarian restaurant (me still tiered and grumpy), Bulgarian's answer to a Mariachi band (me still tiered and grumpy) and we struggled home again in the bitter cold to discover our sheets and woolen blankets were far to scratchy for sensitive skinned men like us... oh how we bitched like teenage girls in the morning. And then we discovered it was snowing, GREAT!!!
Breakfast over and done with and its time for the repatriation of Mr Fidget to the land of eternal duv-ettes, soft sheets, real tea, English television and sofas that don't glow in the dark.
The rest of the day I was in a bit of a funk, still tiered, the shock of being alone and bloody cold, so cold my legs are burning! So I waited around for my new room, blogged a bit, listened to an Irish farmer discuss cow breeds with a fellow farmer (and I thought IT speak was dry) and I hit the sack after a beer and spag-boll.
Tomorrow its explore Sofia and decide on my next move...
Monday, 25 October 2010
Curfew for Mr Fidget
After a slightly surreal evening in the company of the Quebecois speed junkie we set out to peruse the city of Skopje. Free running socialists, Romanian pickpockets, 7 o'clock curfew and a very wobbly Mr Francis (AKA Mr Fidget, Mr De Diddle Di De or Mr Fidle-Di-De).
[Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, I am on a tight timeslot at the hostel, am typing at record speed and the spell checker doesnt work on Firefox]
Walking into central Skopje you notice immediately the concrete bruralism and socialist architecture of the former socialist yugoslavia. Long wide promonades, repeated architecual patterns and a river walk that maybe once rivaled paris.
There was much building work going on, one large project was the Mother Theresa building (the lady herself having been born in Skopje), only the width of your average office block but dominated by Roman columns as wide as a family car and 10 stories tall around its circumference.
We took some time to seek out the Turkish area, view an underground orthodox church where the Macedonian nationalist hero is interned and spend some time with teenage free runners who threw tricks while we attempted to get some crazy shots of their near death experiences... finishing up with a group portrait of them by their rather amateaurish graffiti.
After a refreshment break and a bottle of wine we remembered the 7 o'clock cerfew on alcohol sales and made a dash for the local supermarket making our over indulgent wine purchases with one minute to spare (although we had to persuade the checkout girl of this and she didnt look too happy). To celebrate our purchases we headed to a bar where I had a cola and Mr Francis had a couple of JD's - the walk to the bar wasnt without its challenges, firstly it was getting more than a little colder in the evenings and we met our first rabble of Romanian pick pockets... after ordering Mr Francis to put his hands in his pockets, battening down the hatches to protect our money it was time to confront these mucky little tikes with everything from a casual and polite 'No' to a firm 'No!', onto a 'Go Away!' and a hundered yards, being swarmed like bees, tugged and jossled and finally finding a tiny little hand pulling on 2000 Dinars I was gripping between my fingers I decided every other method open to me had failed so the only remaining option was a 'FU*K OFF!' and a controlled but firm kick to the shins of the oldest member of the gang as my last and final warning. Luckily this was enough to convince them I wasnt the average balding grey haired traveller and they left rather sharpish. A quick inspection of our pockets at the bar confirmed we had come out unscathed.
The night closing in we headed back to the hostel expecting to find and not being disapointed on encountering the Quebecois on Speed. Out came the wine purchases and after a very gallant attempt by Mr Francis to drink every last drop I escorted him to the room and into exhile; to protect his pride and of those around him :) The fan heater didnt escape unscathed though since an unsuccessfull attempt to hang it on a hat stand (why?) saw it crashing to the ground and Kaput! After convincing the newly exhiled Mr Fancis to undertake a less social and physical activity he proceeded to read his book of conspiracy theories... it was at this time and with heightened awareness I decided if they named a mister man after Mr Francis it would be Mr Fidget.
Now, Mr Fidget is a very busy man, he is never still, he is always busying himself with one thing or another. He likes nothing better than twitching or skipping, bolting down stairs, tripping up stairs, leaving a room to re-enter the room just moment later, playing with his ipod (as he is a very modern and contemporary mister man), updating his Facebook profile, breathing in rythums and singing little ditties in De-Diddle-Di-De's. On such an occasion that Mr Fidget decides by whim he will do most of the above all together.
On the occasion of his imposed exhile in his Art Hostel bedroom he did read, de-diddle-di-de and wiggle his feet all at once - in his silk sleeping bag liner he did remind me of a bookish, alcoholic, mermaid who had been given some jolly good news.
Needless to say the next morning things didn't jump start as quickly as they could have and Mr Fidget although holding it together remarkably, he did look as if his jolly good news had turned into bad overnight.
Bag packing over and done with, as on the road the bag must be packed and unpacked daily, and after a quick hike to the bus station we are on our way to Kosovo, the youngest country in the world!
Still to come on the adventures of Mr Fidget...
BLUE! sofa
Very fine Chinese food
91 Bar expat chavs
Hotel Balani
Sofia Bound
Hostel Mostel - lets compare cows!
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Sweaty Jovan
Saturday morning we weren't up so bright and early due to the Macedonian wine, central heating and the rather volumpuous and floral duvets at our disposal - real duv-ettes! On top of that the power shower meant another long delay as we each did our best to drain the copious mountain streams and wash away as many sins as possible before we shake the arm (or rather the forearm) of Sweaty Jovan
We finally set off for the Sveti Jovan Bigorski monestary (Saint John the Baptist or Sweaty Jovan to you and me) where we had unsuccessfully sought accommodation the night before - and which was fabled to contain the forearm of him truly - in heindsight it's probably a good thing as as waking up to something reminicent of The Munsters 'Thing' or of something you may inadvertently finding yourself purchasing in a Soho adult shop, wouldn't have matched the gradness of the Hotel Tutto.
[Please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors, I am on a tight timeslot at the hostel, am typing at record speed and the spell checker doesnt work on Firefox]
The monastic interlude included the Baptism of the sinner Williams! (just to be able to say I did it) an array of gayly coloured icons (with dubious poses), Oh and Ben offered into sex slavery to Sweaty Jovan - and I'd like to say that the last I saw of him he had a smile on his face and a new more wholesome life purpose, but they wouldnt take him, even with the offer of a Kinder chocolate bar and half a bottle of Whiskey thrown in for free; you'd think these hairy monks got such great offers every day! Let's face it, these orthodox monks all need a bloody haircut and their troubled faces haven't seen the sharpness of a razor blade in many a year (I doubt even a Remmington beard trimmer is beknowenced to them) and the slave child Ben comes with chocolate, booze and his own beard trimmer and they scoff - righeous pricks! (or is that cock or nob' Ben?)
With no sign of the promised forearm of Sweaty Jovan we headed back into Debar with the intention of crossing back into Albania and making our way northwards to Kosovo - however a much needed Nescafe interlude, a review of the travel requirements and wanting to see some of Skopje on our way through had us heading northwards again through the beautiful national park. The transfer made all the easier with the help of a seven year old boy (who had the maturity of a seventeen year old) who on us asking for directions, without hesitation walked from the bakers where he was helping his mother, and walked us 5 minutes down the road to the now familiar and rather depressing bus terminal.
Debar was not high on our agenda, in fact it was merely a hub through which to pass but we left after only a few hours thinking and feeling there was more to Debar than met the eye and although not aestheticly pleasing it may have warranted further investigation, oh how we loved Debar but time was pressing so we were Skopje bound after a berry tea (weird but strangely refreshing) and a couple of mexican doughnuts.
Arriving in Skopje several hours later, and again paying too much for the taxi (although too much in these parts is a matter of paying 3 euros too, so not really bank breaking mistakes) we arrived at the psychedelic Art Hostel, 70s lamps, open stairs, old leather sofas, a bed in the living room and our host the Quebecois speed junkie - I should note she wasnt 'on' speed but if you were to immagine a Quebecous on speed she would be the image that formed in your brain.
More to come...
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Viva Kosovo the youngest country in the world- and its very fine Chinese food
BLUE! sofa
Saturday, 23 October 2010
Viva Vevcani & the Tutto Interlude
A trek round in circles on only left over bread and a weak coffee and we were at the bus station heading south, only to change our mind for reasons I cant rightly recall now *other than the promise of a monastic interlude* and head north for Vevcani...
Vevcani, a small mountain side village with traditional houses, running streams and a single restaurant declared independence during the breakup of Yugoslavia, although they never attempted succession they did have some fun and games printing their own money, passports and designing their own flag.
On meeting my first Vevcani gentleman, while I was trying to figure out which of the four different currencies in my pocket were Macedonian, he noted my Macedonian Dinars and proudly exclaimed he used Vevcani Dinars, however as everything here shuts down between 1pm and 4pm we didnt get our passports stamped or apply for Vevcani citizenship, although we did meet the rather drunk looking owner of the independent passport office (/gallery) on our way out of town...
...but by this time we had burnt much of the day exploring and it was time to get on the road north where Ben would find his calling and fall for a hairy Macedonian Orthodox Christian called Sveti Jovan Bigosti - Sweaty Jovan.
A brief interlude back to the shore of lake Ohrid to catch the bus north to Debar and we were on the road again.
The road north drove through a national park with scenery reminiscent of North Wales, the Canadian Rockies or Northern Quebec... steep wooded hillsides, ancient tectonic lakes *such as lake Ohrid*, rushing streams, waterfalls, damns and picturesque villages.
We arrived in Debar rather late and the rather unposthumous bus station made us determined to get to our intended destination to stay the night rather than move on in the morning. I think we paid our taxi driver enough to feed his family for a week but the inventive sign language and his faith in our cause had us reach the monastery only to be turned away *I think they sensed that Ben would perform unholy sacrilegious on holy ground* and we were directed to the Hotel Tutto so splendidly built into the side of a mountain overlooking a tiny hillside village that we drove past it in the darkness before we finally found ourselves in reach of a bed to spend the night.
The Hotel Tutto, an approx 15,000 sq ft hotel with only seven rooms! The bar/reception/dining room was the size of a hockey pitch and was built in pine and solid stone, the rock face bearing one wall and a mountain stream making it way through the reception, balconies completed the astonishing addition to this town which I can only compare to the original opulence yet tasteful Chateaus of Lake Louise or Quebec City.
Another night of Backgammon, another night with warm feet (real duvets, heating and new bathrooms) and another chance to do some laundry, what a novelty to wear clean underwear every day.
More instalments of 'boring bald Welsh Canadian on holiday' to come...
Monastic interlude, Baptise the sinner! Gay icons, Oh, and Ben the sex slave to Sweaty Jovan - last I saw of him he had a smile on his face
Debar, oh how we loved Debar
The psychedelic Art Hostel
Quebecois speed junkies in Skopje
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Viva Kosovo the youngest country in the world- and its very fine Chinese food
BLUE! sofa
Friday, 22 October 2010
Backgammon on Pharmaceuticals
After arriving in Ohrid's western med atmosphere there was little inspiration to explore yet we settled in for two nights, on both the first and second nights we went overboard on food and Macedonian wine and after having some difficulty sleeping the last night or so I was looking forward to a full tummy, warm feet and a restful nights sleep in our humble studio flat in the Yugoslav socialist concrete style. which brings us to the Pharmacist from Berat...
Looking for something for sleep, Nytols maybe? and a stock of Flagyl should the need arise we were greeted a big faced, smiley old man with milk bottle glasses, white coat and baseball cap - I have no idea what his name is but I think of him as my newly adopted Grandad. Flagyl no problem - so no fear of repeating the Syrian experience - yet Nytols don't seem to be held in such regard here as they do in the West and so the second best option was blister pack of lorazepam handily sold individually or in a strip of 10 - a bit like buying penny fireworks, and just a cheap. We trusted our new friend very much but not ourselves so feeling like a high school kid buying individual cigarettes from the local corner shop we were on our way with two tiny little pills which were 'guaranteed' to provide the sleep I'd requested.
Not wanting to take the over sized heating contraption for granted, nor expect the over-eating and lashings of red wine to provide the required amount of sleep, it was time to trust in Grandad. It so happened we replaced dessert with the little blue pills and set off back to the studio apartment to break open the Backgammon (so I can thrash Ben's ass again!).
Half an hour later, now I'm not saying Ben plays Backgammon slower than a snail with a groin strain, but I fell asleep in between each of my moves and on waking up again some unknown time in the future I found Ben fast asleep, face down on the wooden table and I had won! again! I can only deduce that I am a far superior player than Ben even after my adopted Grandad has conspired with him to loosen my iron grip on the game. Dreams of standing atop the Olympic medal podium with my lucky dice in my hand, 9 hours later I woke in pretty much the same position I recall hitting the pillow.
I can without any shadow of doubt conclude I did not take a placebo.
Coming up on gullible's travels...
Viva la Vincini
Hotel Tutto, the 15,000 sq ft hotel with only seven rooms
Monastic interlude, Baptise the sinner! Gay icons, Oh, and Ben the sex slave to Sweaty Jovan - last I saw of him he had a smile on his face
Debar, oh how we loved Debar
The psychedelic Art Hostel
Quebecois speed junkies in Skopje
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Viva Kosovo the youngest country in the world- and its very fine chinese food
BLUE! sofa
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Misty Fog - Damn You Macedonia!
Uncharacteristically up bright and early this morning to escape the gravity of Berat. Home-made breakfast with berry tea followed by espresso and we were on the bus to Elbasan with the U S of A Peace Core in Kucove.
Not a place you'd expect to meet a North American however in the space of less than 15 hrs we found ourselves chatting with two - you'd think North America was big enough to keep all us NA's contained and segregated from the rest of the world, to spare much anguish for all, but it just proves NA's borders are not water tight enough to spare all you poor bastards who must endure the NA traveller.
The first was a fellow Canadian girl from Manitoba who was dating an Albanian (she definitely wore the trousers in that relationship but he had the looks - and less facial hair - for sure) and the second was a Peace Core volunteer from Minnesota - I had my suspicions there was a Yank in my midst while eyeing the bus over my express. Refreshingly our very own volunteer turned out to be more interesting than your average American, amongst other important attributes - and I'm not saying any more on that subject as it would only give the wrong impression - only to say we found ourselves in and across Elbasan, fed, watered (both of the alcoholic kind and of the godly kind - it was like a biblical scene of rain and rivers out there! I kept a look our for Noah but he must have been frantically finishing up on his great ship) and we were on a bus to Korca in record time, allegedly closing in on the Macedonian border.
Elbasan is a museum piece of socialist industrial optimism and I would normally have liked to stick around for a while to wallow in the bygone era but we had a timetable to keep. Although now little remains of the industrial might with much of the approach into the city through acres and acres of decaying industry - I imagine the now failed social experiment of the communist Albania, its picturesque industrial landscapes, armies of workers working for the benefit of their homeland and all its peoples - and I morn the failed experiment, for it's victims and the promises of communism lost forever.
The approach through the mountains to the border crossing at Lake Ohrid brought yet more rain. The communities on the approach into the mountains seemed to worship water, sprouting from hosepipes at the side of the road, streams that gushed alongside the winding roads, roadside stores using water to cool its refreshments and create cascading waterfalls as fluid windows, provide drinking water and service the facilities at the much craved and well deserved comfort break.
At the highest reach of the mountain, in a cloud of fog and drizzle we were unceremoniously unloaded from out minibus and into a dirt and gravel layby marked only by its impressively and surprisingly bland socialist monument (for which I regret not taking the time to get a picture - although the frigid cold, rain and negotiations for the border crossing kept my attention elsewhere. I thought we did a fair job at the negotiations but on handing over the final figure I was dismayed to witness 33% of our fee taken in commission by the negotiator and us transferred into a third vehicle for the final approach and entry to Macedonia.
After an uneventful border crossing and finding ourselves at lower elevations the sun came out, the clouds all but disappeared and we were driving the shores of Lake Ohrid... a sobering event for me, given its unwelcome civility and neatly planned pedestrian streets, cafes and manicured foliage - If I had wanted comforts and conformity I would have stayed in London! I was quickly rewarded though and my misgivings corrected when our first stop for an espresso (I'm slowly turning into a coffee junkie with Mr Francis around), with the 50 something owner's perfectly polyester jogging suit in splendid sky blue, Adidas shoes, a large bald head and big goofy yet friendly grin...
A quick strut around Ohrid and after several refusals we finally caved in to Saint Naum, who is shockingly one year my juniour but looked ten years my senior - Saintly status wasnt helping him in the looks department (yea I know, I'm a shallow girly bitch, get over it!), but getting back to my deeper humanity he was another one of those do anything individuals you meet on your travels who set us up in our very own socialist party issued studio apartment complete with a two ringed stove, satellite TV and a fan heater the size of a argur (sp?) - heating!!!! Setting me up for my first nigh with warm feet since leaving London :)
High with the thought of warm feet and clean underwear we were only to be dissapointed just minutes after settling in when we discovered the border guards had confiscated our moonshine! DAMN YOU MACEDONIA!
In need of some higher power to restore my faith in mankind tomorrow is church day. If I'm feeling generous, tomorrow I will tell you a little about my new best friend, with the milk bottom glasses, from Barat - who hasnt yet had a mention yet, but whom will forever be in my memories.
Yet to come...
Backgammon on pharmaceuticals
Viva la Vincini
Hotel Tutto, the 15,000 sq ft hotel with only seven rooms
Monastic interlude, Baptise the sinner! Gay icons, Oh, and Ben the sex slave to Sweaty Jovan - last I saw of him he had a smile on his face
Debar, oh how we loved Debar
The psychedelic Art Hostel
Quebecois speed junkies in Skopje
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Viva Kosovo the youngest country in the world- and its very fine chinese food
Night night kiddie winkies.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
Hotel California, Berat
After a good nights sleep, surviving Ben's smelly feet (which is probably the most hazardous event of all my travels to date - bar the Israeli gun in my face in Nablus) and a hearty breakfast of cheese, grape jam and savoury doughnuts 'a la casa Tomor' we set out on a trudge up the many cobbled and winding alleyways of Berat, not unlike the winding paths and steps my Gran would lead us up and down in the Welsh valleys when I was a boy. If we had only glanced at a map for an instant we would have known none of these winding alleyways we were exploring would end up at the castle but it did make for excellent exercise for the buttocks.
Barat is a little gem tucked neatly into a deep valley. Its traditional houses climbing the steep hillsides on either side of the river and its newer suburbs drifting up and down the valley with its stark socialist architecture, squares and promenades. Crowning the town is an Ottoman castle which still hosts a thriving neighbourhood within its fortified walls.
The mountain top presented stunning views of the valley beneth us, byzantine churches, socialist monuments, a sheep on a leash on its daily stroll and a very pretty cow enjoying the lush grass of the Kasbah.
Rain threatened so it was time to head back down the mountain and head to our next town. However, if you want to leave Barat you do so in the morning, which was one minor detail we had omitted to investigate beforehand so after bidding a confused Tomor goodbye (and watching him ride around town on his bicycle looking for his next guests) grabbing a bite to eat and scratching our heads at the bus stop, we found ourselves on our way back to the distillery which is 'la casa Tomor'.
Being blissfully unaware of the bus timetables did ensure we got to see some real life here, including kids playing football (or Soccer as every Englishman knows its really called) and aged women nimble as mountain goats in high heels making their way up the cobbled steps to their houses in the sky. It's on this walk one such aged old lady clad all in black (and funky runners) take great amusement at watching Ben take one of his many slips and trips... and it was with great pride that a local lad of about 7 or 8 practiced on us his only phrase in English, 'Fuck You!' - I was giggling too much to return the favour.
On our arrival back at the house, still protected by the all knowning all seeing Smurf, we were greeted with a plate of rich sticky grapes from the vine, laced with honey and moonshine; 'you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave'.
Ne Komputamibob!
Been a while I know. I'm still alive and well but now in Macedonia. Long story short Internet cafes are few and far between since leaving Albania (go figure), you'd think it would be the other way around!
Chapters to catch up on are:
Hotel California (Berat)
Smelly feet
Milk bottle glasses
Moonshine
Peace Core
Rain, Rain and more Rain
Horid Orid and backgammon on pharmaceuticals
Viva la Vincini
Hotel Tutto, the 15,000 sq ft hotel with only seven rooms
Monastic interlude, Baptise the sinner! Gay icons, Oh, and Ben the sex slave to Sweaty Jovan - last I saw of him he had a smile on his face
Debar, oh how we loved Debar
The psychedelic Art Hostel
Quebecois speed junkies in Skopje
Free running socialists
Pickpockets fuck off!
7 o'clock curfew
Sorry to keep you waiting but there is only one computer in Skopje and there is a line up of horsey women playing cards with the pungent (and rather sickening) smell of rancid olives which is clouding my brain somewhat, so its back on the Macky D wine (Macedonian) a good nights sleep and onto Pristina bright and early.
