Hamaca

Having been in Columbia for a few weeks now I can say categorically that happiness is a hammock. Not for me your fancy ideologies, your grand theories to help me make sense of my life and my place in it. My place is in a hammock, most perfectly with a beer. And that is all there is to it.

Our first night in Columbia was spent in Santa Marta, a smallish seaside town on the Carribean. Although the waves broke loudly they were no match for me. I had succeeded in dominating the Carribean. Columbia was looking good.

We had dinner down by the playa and then spied a bar right on the edge of the sea. Getting there involved walking past two men, one with a machine gun, so we were sure it was going to be worth it. The bar was in fact deserted so we lounged on the strange day beds they had set up, in the prime position right by the sea. Watching a ship come in, even when not sitting on the dock of the bay is still good. Especially with a cocktail in hand.

The next day, after swimming a little bit, we decided to head over the hill and swim some more in the tiny fishing village of Tanganga. Although only ten minutes by minibus away from Santa Marta the whole pace of life there was much slower. And our hotel was accessed only by trudging across the hot sand of the beach, past the families of Columbians who stared with some amusement at the red faced turtles panting past them or more politely tried not to see us at all. Our rooms, though, were sea facing and came with their own hamaca which started my obsession. Being able to either glare down at the burning isralis on the beach from the swaying confines of the hammock or, tiring of them, turning you back and simply staring out to sea, is totally fucking awesome.

The whole town was hammock obsessed. Hammocks were strung everywhere. After eating a large lunch, the only natural thing to do was to crawl into the handily located hammock and swing/nap through the digestion process until one felt strong enough to get up and pay for the food.

Finally tiring of the sting of the sea water, however, we decided to take a chance on an amusingly title finka we'd read about back in Santa Marta. Finkas are old coffee farms that owners have turned into bed and breakfast style places for tight arsed backpackers or families to stay in. This one was called Carpe Diem and apparently offered belgium hospitality.

Getting there, Evan (who was in charge of directions) realised he had misread them. We stayed on the minibus all the way to the end of the line and then halfway back again before we got off. Then, standing by the side of the road on a corner which seemed to attract all types of vehicle who delighted in slowing down, waiting to see if either of us would run up to it and then speeding off again just before we got there, we were to wait for the mysterious Motor Taxi which was apparently the only form of transport to the finka.

Motor Taxi turned out to be a little motorbike. That I was to sit on. With my backpack. And it would take me up the hill, down the other side and eventually to the finka.

I couldn't feel anything in my arms for about ten minutes after I got off that bike and I'm pretty sure the driver had bruises on his shoulders for days.

I also burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe getting off and it is currently an angry yellow and white colour and weeping puss. Good times!

So the drive up there involved me clutching the driver as tightly as I could and mentally debating whether it was better or worse when I had my eyes shut. I would've sworn to you, at the conclusion of that drive, that the road there had been little more than a dried out river bed, paved only with broken stones, gravel, hillocks and sticks and other frightening things that were going to throw me off.

On the drive back when my bag was slung across the handlebars for me, I was able to lean back and observe that in fact the road was wide and quite well maintained and the countryside was beautiful.

The finka itself was a charming place right by the river and we were the only ones staying there. It was managed by two men, one middle-agedish and lean who had been married to an irish lady and spoke some english. The other man was round like a bowling ball and was older and in charge of the cooking. He stuffed us with regular meals, so much so that on the final day when I learned he was serving us lunch only two hours after we'd finished eating breakfast I broke down and cried that I could not eat any more. He accepted that with grace but insisted that I try just one tiny bit of the local dish he had prepared especially. The dish turned out to be fresh green beans and onions floating in little lake of oil. It was delicious but the serve was enormous. Of course.

Days at the finka were totally demanding and strenuous. After eating breakfast we would usually swing in the hammocks for a bit until it got too hot and then we would walk up hill for a little bit, usually through the ecological reserve that was further up the road, and then swim in the river for a few hours. Then we would go back, eat some more, swing in the hammocks until we could move again and return to swimming. It was super tough.

Finishing one book meant it was time to move on so we headed back to the hustle of Santa Marta and caught a bus to Cartagena.

Cartagena is large, hot and has a walled city that has been here since Columbia was settled and was built to fight off the pirates. It is kind of cool but when we first got here it seemed very sterile and designed to gouge tourists. I now realise it is designed to gouge rich columbians and tourists alike but still, it is more fun to stay in the scungy old quater which is only five minutes walk away.

So far I've been to a dive bar and listend to drunk men sing along with incredibly cheesy Spanish music clips, I've been to the modern art museum (small) and I've walked in circles in the old city trying to find an internet cafe.

To view my sillhouette and my horrible, hungover hair: click here

Next stop is Medellîn where the public transport is free cos it was built and maintained by Pablo Escobar.