The Madness

After Barranquilla I night-bussed to Medellin. It is a beautiful city in the mountains (second largest in Colombia), famed for drugs cartels, the drug lord Pablo Escobar who was shot dead here, and its many beautiful girls. I think I liked the nowadays tranquil and not-so-unsafe Medellin, with a perfect climate, a little bit too much as I was running out of time. Less than two weeks remained of my trip and I still had too many things in Peru on my list. I realised that it should not be possible, even with a private helicopter. I cursed myself for not having booked the trip back in June instead, and crossed out several places. Ecuador (which is on the way) had to be completely skipped. That was the point when I got the idea of the madness. I was going to travel from Medellin to Piura (northern Peru) in one go. The start of the madness began at 19:00 a normal evening in May, when I packed my back and took a taxi to the nearby bus station.

The bus to Cali took less than nine hours. I arrived in the morning at 04:45 and instantly when entering the departures area of the deserted station that had just opened for the day, I got shoved into a bus that left immediately for Pasto in southern Colombia. I arrived to Pasto after another 8-9 hours. I was lucky again; I had just started to browse the bus station for something to eat when I heard someone shouting “Ipiales leaving now!”. Ipiales is located on the border to Ecuador and I left with that bus without eating. I had some bread with me so I should not starve.

Three hours later, I arrived in Ipiales. There was a minibus leaving for the border (15 minutes) just when I arrived and I crossed the border into Ecuador much earlier than expected. I had calculated with at least some waiting time. On the Ecuadorian side, you have to take another minibus to the bus station in the closest town. It took 20 minutes more. On arrival, I purchased a ticket for a bus leaving at 17:30 to Guayaquil in southern Ecuador. That only gave me 15 minutes of waiting time but enough to buy some Coca Cola and muffins as supplies for the 13 hour trip down south. Well, the 13 hours is what is stated in Lonely Planet. In reality it took much longer. I expected to arrive at 6:00 in the morning and have plenty of time to get down to Piura in the day. But as the bus went slow and arrived Quito very late, I adjusted the expected arrival to 07:00 or maybe 08:00. However, that wasn’t enough. The main road crossing Ecuador from the north to the south was completely blocked in the middle by to some roadworks. There was a several hours long queue in the middle of the night and we just about started moving at 08:00. Well, we certainly hadn’t arrived so the bus continued driving until just before 13:00, when we finally pulled into the bus station in Guayaquil. I was dying for a McDonalds (they have one in the bus station), but I thought I should first go and check the bus times so I know when I have to buy tickets. It now happened that the bus I wanted to take (to Peru) was leaving in five minutes. The guy sold me a ticket and told me to RUN two floors up where it left. No time for McDonalds. Fortunately, vendors are entering Ecuadorian buses at almost every stop (another reason to why they are so slow) in an attempt to sell fruits and various stuff so I managed to buy some chicken-rice later on. I was still surviving.

It was five to six hours to the Peruvian border and we arrived just after dark. The border-post was located next to the highway, where the bus stopped. About a million mosquitoes attacked the queuing group waiting for stamps and I think I got away with 10 bites or so (the majority occurred when I was trying to fill in the tourist-card, which got the ugliest handwriting I have ever been able to produce). Some did not have insect repellent. Poor bastards.

On the other side of the border, I got a shared taxi to Piura, which was not far, only a couple of hours drive. I finally arrived to the hotel a little before midnight after having taken one of these three-wheeled “mototaxis”, which normally comes a little cheaper than an ordinary taxi.

Result: 53 hours.

I was pleased to lie down in a bed. Do you have any other madness-trip to suggest to me? Bring it on.

Waiting for the bus at a border-post

The Juniorista

I sat in a large shopping mall over a cup of Colombian coffee in the city of Barranquilla. Suddenly a group of people far away (out of sight but assumingly in front of a TV) started shouting and clapping their hands. This was a signal and soon more people clapped their hands. More and more followed and it spread like a wave, until the celebrations covered every part of the mall and everyone ended up in some kind of collective euphoria. Weird? That’s what I thought too, almost choking on my coffee. What the hell was going on?

Junior had just scored.

Atletico Junior is the popular and somewhat successful football team from Barranquilla. The whole city stands and falls behind them and even if people are not interested in football or ever watches a match, they still care about how Junior is doing. Because Junior is more than just a club, it is the pride and soul of a whole city.

Some say football is religion but people back in England and Scotland have much to learn from Colombia in that respect. I am now starting to understand the importance of football in Colombia.

But anyway, Junior is simply a phenomenon and it quickly won my heart. I purchased a Junior-jersey in the market, which I wore one day when I sent all my other clothes to the laundry. When I later bought stuff at a supermarket, the guy who packed the bags after checkout also had the same shirt. He looked surprised and I suppose it is not a common sight with foreigners wearing their team’s colours. He said:

“A gringo juniorista! Yes, why not, why not?” (n.b. gringo=foreigner, juniorista=supporter of Junior)

I guess I'm one of the few.

Facts:

The Colombian football league has had many formats throughout the years, traditionally very complex and strange systems. Currently the teams play each other once, with an extra match against its local rival. The four first teams in the table advance to playoffs, where the winners over two matches face each other in a final (also two matches). The winner of the final is the Champion of the year. At time of writing, the league has just been completed and Junior ended third. In the playoff against the second team (Medellin), Junior advanced to the final after 3-1 home and 0-1 away. I will follow the development with most interest.


Trivia:
The Colombian defender Andrés Escobar  was shot to death in a night club after the World Cup in 1994, where he caused a crucial own goal that spoiled the country’s hope for reaching the playoffs.

Mattias in front of the Barranquilla cathedral

A shopping centre

Santa Marta

My third time in Santa Marta and it still looks the same. I had no real intention of stopping here but after crossing the border into Colombia, it was a bit late in the afternoon and I decided to overnight here as my other destination, Barranquilla, would have been a couple of hours further on. If possible, I always try to not arriving to places I am unfamiliar with after dark. After having found an embarrassingly cheap room (US$4), visited the market, purchased a SIM-card, sorted some other practical bits and pieces out after arriving to a new country and dined on takeaway rice and chicken, I didn’t see much more of the city. Next morning I continued my trip.

Barquisimeto

A short stop in western Venezuela before hitting the Colombian border. Barquisimeto is a large city but not at all touristic. I didn’t manage to find anything to do here, although I kind of liked the strangely looking city cathedral. I stayed in a hotel in one of the suburbs and it was long walks before I eventually learned how to manage the confusing urban bus routes. Otherwise nothing to report from Barquisimeto.

Barquisimeto Cathedral

Caracas

The capital of Venezuela, famed for its dangerous streets and corrupt police. Although I was walking large parts of the city’s streets I never had any problem with street safety. Sticking to busy avenues and avoiding deserted and/or suspiciously looking streets without shops etc seemed to work fine. I did however have problem with the corrupted police force, who stops every foreigner they see in search of drugs in hope to get hold of a big bribe. They obviously never found any drugs but they helped themselves to some small cash in my pockets once when I was going out to buy food. I don’t know what will happen if you make a big deal out of it and accuse the police for theft but I thought it was best to not find out. I learned the lesson and never again carried cash (apart from small change) in my pockets during after-dark strolls.

Set aside, Caracas is not very tourist friendly but has a few sights. Most museums are however focused around Simon Bolivar, the liberator who gained independence from Spain for several South American countries, including Venezuela. Many important avenues and squares are named after Bolivar throughout Latin America but it sort of culminates in Venezuela, where there is a statue of Bolivar on practically every public square of importance. Museums display his sword, his books, his original coffin and “everything else-Bolivar”. His birthplace is remodelled and lacks original detail but is open for visitors. If you are sick of Bolivar, there isn’t much else.

Simon Bolivar's sword

Simon Bolivar's birth place

Plaza Bolivar, with the statue of Simon Bolivar on horse

My Venezuelan friends

Isla Margarita

The second-last day of the Easter holiday. I imagined that many people, especially those who lived far away, would start to move home today. That opened for going to Isla Margarita, Venezuela’s no. 1 holiday paradise, which certainly had been packed over the last few days. The ferry to Isla Margarita was almost empty and almost no-one travelled TO the island at this time. I arrived in the evening and easily found several budget hotels having vacancies.

Isla Margarita is large and most good beaches are far outside town. Most are accessible by local buses and I headed off to the one that most people recommended: the large Playa el Agua. I went here both Easter Sunday and the following Monday. It was like two different worlds as almost all the crowds playing games on the beach and swimming in the water was gone on the Monday, when the country went back to reality. This was the time I started enjoying Venezuela.

▼ Sunday     ▲ Monday

Isla Margarita reef

A night on the beach

I was so excited that I could travel around and move away from the boring deserted cities in the south, although it was Easter week, that I forgot the consequences. At Puerto la Cruz on the north coast I was met by an urban beach so packed that it was difficult to see the sand. It wasn’t even a nice beach. Holiday-celebrators! So it’s here everyone is. I knew that there were a series of nicer beaches out of town in the national park to the east, so instead of looking for a crowded hotel in town, I took a local bus to a place called Playa Colorada, a much smaller village some 25 km from Puerto la Cruz. There was maybe a small hope that it should be less full. It would be nice to go to the beach, I thought.

In Playa Colorada, I saw one of the most marvellous sights I have ever seen. Easter-campers! The beach was full of tents and music played everywhere. People shouted, danced, drank beer and peed in the water. The tents covered the whole beach. There was only a thin strip of sand closest to the shoreline where no-one wanted to camp due to the risk of having the tent flooded by a large wave. I just came with a back-pack but it was still difficult to move around on the beach as you had to find a path through the tents to actually access it.

It was already dark and too late to change my mind. I had to stay here. I left the beach for a while, had a walk around on the few streets in the village above, got some dinner at a street vendor and returned to the beach to eventually put the hammock up in front of a closed beach-restaurant just next to the tents. I waited for the morning and had no intention of staying here longer.

Playa Colorada

Where petrol is cheaper than water

I had managed to work my way up to Puerto la Cruz on the north coast via Ciudad Bolivar, using a combination of whatever public transport or shared taxis that was available. I knew that petrol was cheap in Venezuela as at the border, there was a constant queue of Brazilian vehicles coming to fill up. The shared taxi stopped at a petrol station and filled it up with over 40 litres of unleaded fuel. He paid the equivalence of around one US dollar for the service. I didn’t expect it to be quite THAT cheap. I was thinking of petrol for the whole remaining journey.

-"Ay, Mike, are we at the petrol station yet?"

I don't like Easter. Neither does Jesus (I think).

I crossed the border into Venezuela from the south. I arrived to a small border town called Santa Elena de Uairen. Unfortunately, this was probably the worst time of the year to enter Venezuela, as it was Easter and the beginning of the big holiday, where almost every Venezuelan take out holiday and go travelling to the beach or to the mountains. It would become apparent that the day after, all bus operations would cease to work for two days and that all shops and commercial centres would be closed for four days. My rough plan of taking a tour of the Gran Sabana or go to the Angel Falls (which both are in this region) was quickly demolished. There was absolutely nothing to do except to stroll deserted streets with closed shops. To find an open Internet café was not to think about. I was lucky to be able to eat.

As a little anecdote, I could probably mention that the only other time I went to Venezuela, I entered just before New Year. Unlike in Europe, where the holiday is centred around Christmas until New Year, the Venezuelan holiday pretty much starts at the new year and continues until around 8^th of January (with everything closed, as it comes). I had a very similar experience back then and didn’t remain too long in the country, much because of that.

Fortunately, the Easter holiday is slightly shorter. I can wait it out.

Santa Elena de Uairen

The long walk

From the Guyanese border post, my guide book claims that you can walk or take a taxi down to the river. It can be crossed by hiring a boat or wading and from the other side one can take a taxi to the bus terminal in the town Bonfim for $2.50 for further transport.
In reality, nothing of this is true. They have now built a brand new bridge over the river and I decided to walk it as it didn’t seem to be too far. After 30 minutes and a couple of kilometres walk I was across the river at the Brazilian customs.

Now over to the $2.50 taxis. There were no taxis. And no buses. Maybe there would be taxis later but I was not sure. Everything in this f-ing book seems to be false so I decided to have a go at walking. How far can it be? For $2.50 you don’t get very far in a Brazilian taxi, I thought. For sure, it would be done in no time.
Sun was gazing and I walked and walked with all my luggage. After 30 minutes on a straight road along a flat landscape, it still didn’t look like there was any end to it. Alongside the road there was a telephone line with posts placed with a regular distance from each other. I measured the time to walk between two posts to 28 seconds and roughly estimated the walking time to be one minute per every second post. I tried to count the number of posts I could see along the road. It was the type of road that frequently features in American movies going through flat deserts and where you can’t see any curving at all until the road disappears at the horizon. The first ones were easy to count. Ten posts, five minutes. Then they started to become very close to each other and it was easy to lose count. Twenty posts, thirty posts. 15 minutes. Anything beyond was very small but it was obvious that there were many more until they merged with the horizon. I could see maybe 60 posts fairly clearly. I was tempted by taking a picture and zoom in with my camera but I didn’t. Instead I walked on for 30 minutes more and the road looked exactly the same. Maybe I could hail a taxi? I walked for a little bit more. One hour and twenty minutes. I estimated the total walked distance from the bus to be 9.2 km (including the bridge) using the average walking speed. At the same moment I was thinking about taxis I saw a vehicle turning left, maybe 10 posts ahead. Maybe there would be a sign there stating how much further it was. But it was even better. On the road forking off to the left there was a sign pointing towards Bonfim. The bus terminal was less than five minutes walk into that road, almost the first building in town.

In the bus terminal I saw a couple of fellows from the bus who had opted for taking a taxi and obviously arrived much earlier. This is a small town and there are only five buses or something per day so we were all waiting for the 2:30 departure. The American guy, who I had exchanged a few words with earlier, recognised me and said hello.

-“Did you come by taxi?” he asked.

-“No, I walked”.

His response was hilarious and I still wish I had taken a picture of his face when he looked at my big backpack and chockingly replied:

-“YOU WALKED?!?”

Crazy stuff, isn’t it? When I get home, I will burn the book on the fire at one of our BBQ-nights. THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is truer than anything in the book.