So, who is Patricia? She lives in Medellin and we met on the internet a couple of months ago and decided we wanted to meet. She is bright, interesting, mature, and very lovely. I have a contract in hand that starts next Monday the 4th which will hopefully last several months, so I thought it's now or not for a long time.
The entire trip was a blur of hotels starting with Toronto airport Novotel due to my late arrival on the first night, followed by Cobourg the second night, Port Hope for two nights, Toronto again overnight, Miami overnight, El Rodadero for 3 nights in a row (that was a treat), then Miami again on the way home. I like Miami, I have a cool and cheap hotel and a great Cuban bar with good food close by, I’m the only gringo for a mile around, it’s like a little trip to Cuba.
That’s SEVEN hotels in 10 nights kids, not good. I sure didn’t get much Baseball Tonight or Sports Center (Centre in Canada) with all that churn, and when I did all they talked about was golf and horses and the CFL/NFL, Favre, and stuff.
There were several options for my first destination in Colombia: Cartagena, the large and touristy place, Barranquilla, which I learned is mostly an industrial town, and Sta. Marta, where the tourism is mostly focused on El Rodadero beach. El Rodadero is technically part of Santa Marta but really its own independent entity about 20 minutes south of the city.
We only had 3+ days and there was a flurry of activity to bring us together since Patricia lives in Medellin, but everything worked perfectly with both of us arriving early afternoon Tuesday and leaving Friday morning.
We spent over a week negotiating how I would get from Barranquilla airport to Santa Marta. Patricia was terrified that I would end up with an unscrupulous taxista and get mugged. Somewhat exaggerated to say the least. Finally we agreed that I would be met by a friend of an aunt or something and he would guide me into a taxi. Of course I had to give him some money too, so I may have fared better on my own as I noticed a kiosk where you could buy tickets. I learned that it is actually the only legal way to get a taxi because my taxi driver sped through the checkpoint to exit the airport with a guard running after us down the road. No worries, I got there in one piece, but I really saw some serious poverty on the way. Yikes.
There are probably 20-25 skyscrapers in El Rodadero which blew away my idea of it being a small village, but it still retains a lot of small town charm. The best part is that there were zero gringo tourists - they are all in Cartagena or imprisoned at some local all-inclusive places so they have no contact with the locals. Perfect, the last thing I wanted to see were gringos. There may have been a handful of gringos at the most, no more. There are two sides to this coin because I stuck out like a sore thumb, even moreso than just with my fair-haired skull out on display screaming GRINGO to everyone within a hundred yards.
I didn't take pics of our hotel; it was a typical business class type place a block from the beach with a distinct local flair as evidenced by the lack of gringos.
The only item of interest is that Patricia noted a piece of clothing was missing one morning, then again the next morning. She is obviously very white and affluent by any standard which also make her stick out fromt the crowd. We suspected the room attendant and she came to tears while discussing the subject later on which confirmed our suspicions. Classy Patricia let the whole thing go without batting an eye, which was the right thing to do.
I could feel some eyes on me most of the time which was not a problem, but a couple of times I was glad that we stuck to areas with lots of people around as there was the odd rough customer. Same as pretty well anywhere touristy where you do not resemble the locals in any way.
However, all interactions were a joy; the people were wonderful, very sweet and kind and friendly and hospitable in all ways. There were tons of vendors of all types selling everything under the sun, but we shooed them away in one motion with a warm but firm thanks anyway.
Anyway, we wound up and down the hills to get into town, wandered around the old town. I have to explain something very charming and funny about Patricia. She talks to EVERYONE. You know how men never want to ask directions? That’s me. Then there is Patricia, who will ask anyone anything, anywhere, anytime - even the most innocuous little thing, such as exactly how old is Santa Marta? She actually stopped a guy on the street and asked him point blank how old the city is. Hilariously, he knew the answer. Right away! Never hesitated! The answer is 483 years old, making it the oldest “living” city in the Americas. Impressive that it is so old and that he was prepared to give the answer on the spot. I’m not sure how many “dead” cities are older than that, but I guess they mean Aztec and Incan cities that the Spanish ripped to shreds.
Only later did we realize that the entire city is draped in posters announcing the celebration of the 483rd, so every numbskull in Santa Marta knows how old it is, at least until the 7th of August (Colombian Independence Day) when the big party happens.
That reminds me, there are three things that you can say to any Colombian that will win them over:
• Simon Bolivar who led up the independence movement that culminated on August 7th around 1802? 1852?
• Orlando Cabrera comes from Cartagena, and
• Edgar Renteria comes from Barranquilla.
If you don’t know who the last two are, please see a doctor. Actually, you never know when that type of info may get you out of a jam – read on.
Staying with that theme of Patricia attacking innocent victims in the street and demanding answers, we spoke to every bloody vendor on the entire beach, and there were HUNDREDS of them. When they came to harrass us to buy stuff that they knew we wouldn’t buy, she shooed them away very politely and kindly, leaving them all with their dignity and my wallet both intact, but not until she had a little chat with each one. Very charming indeed, and effective, I can tell you. Instead of them sweet-talking us, she sweet-talked THEM. Worked every time. They’d say something like “How would you like to buy these dumb beads lady?”
She’d say something like “We’d love to but we’re just going for a stroll now and by the way do you know what time it is, where a good seafood restaurant is, and how hot it’s going to be today? Oh, thank you very much, you are very kind.”
Every conversation ended that way.
The first afternoon we just got acquainted and got our bearings. Each morning we had a long walk on the beach after breakfast which included Patricia’s interrogation of the locals. On one such occasion we did get lassoed by a local massage lady named Geraldine and her sidekick as we were walking after breakfast. Patricia graciously shooed them away but they never really left, knowing that if they followed us long enough we would have to sit down somewhere, and then we would be trapped. We went for a swim (the water was actually cool but bearable, I thought it would be like soup. Can anyone explain that? If it’s not hot so close to the equator on the north side and it’s not hot on the south side in Peru, then where exactly are those soupy oceans we all dream about jumping into?).
Anyway, so we sat down for a coffee (we drank a LOT of coffee because it was so delicious) and suddenly the massage tag team appeared in front of us, deftly stroking our legs and squeezing our feet until we were in heaven around 10 seconds later. Big whoop, we were in heaven for 7 bucks, not a bad deal.
The food in general was a lot like Peru – very European and delicious.
The hotel breakfast was a delight – papaya, pineapple, watermelon juices all freshly squished with strange sausages and arepa (cornbread pancake-ish things – quite tasteless actually but lots of them are stuffed with cheese).
We found a really cool little Argentinian restaurant the first night, ate there, ate at a expensive seafood place the second night, back to the Argentinians for that blood sausage and chorizo that were on my mind for the last night.
The biggest problem was money: ours isn’t worth anything and has lost 40% of its value against the Peso in the last year. If there is anyone in the country still wondering about the performance of the Bush administration, and I doubt there is, that is a benchmark that’s pretty hard to ignore: We suck so bad that our money has lost 40% of its value against the Colombian bloody peso fer cryin out loud. Unreal. Kidnappings, FARC, political instability, the economy questionable at best, and they are still way better than we are.
So, good thing the trip was so short or I’d be in the Poorhouse.
Back to getting mugged and Renteria and Cabrera. El Rodadero is a cute little spot, but I did feel a lot of eyes on me sometimes and I was with a Colombian! A charming one to boot! Imagine if I’d been alone or with a grouch! Could have been dicey although I doubt it, everyone was very very sweet and kind.
For my return trip to the airport, Patricia organized a share taxi (a van) that whizzed around El Rodadero and picked people up until it was full. Problem was it was going to downtown Barranquilla and then on to Cartagena, another hour further, so I needed to get out at a fork in the road and jump in a taxi.
The hotel had arranged the whole thing for one price, stating that the share taxi would arrange the other taxi in advance, but when I mentioned it to the other taxi drive he said “Hell no, the driver just flagged me down in the street.”
I looked to the left and saw a couple of beady-eyed guys looking at me, looked to the right and saw the same and thought yikes, if I ever got out of this taxi I wouldn’t last a minute. At that point I mentioned both Renteria and Cabrera and the driver threw a fit laughing.
And that is how my trip ended, there is a message that your perception of a place and the things that happen depend on you as much as on anything else and you can make the best of the worst with a joke or two.
here are the pics:
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