We left Cartagena the afternoon of Sunday, March 15. Tony Santos, the captain of The Andiamo was anxious to leave Cartagena’s port before all of the boat traffic left on Monday morning; his eight passengers were simply awestruck as none of us had ever been on a sailboat before. Two young Norwegian men boarded The Andiamo and asked Tony for instructions on the cruise to Panama. We learned that the two had sold everything they owned, bought a boat and had been sailing around the world for the last three years. We were all excited about the potential for romance and adventure on such a trip. Little did we know that in less than 24 hours we would be cursing both the sea and the sailboat.
The Andiamo was at max capacity. Two Germans, a young man from London, a couple from Israel, David, Tracey and I, along with Tony and his girlfriend Karen made a total of ten onboard. Getting along and sharing the workload on board never became more important than when you are alone with nine other people for five days. You cannot exactly take a walk on a 50 ft sailboat but we managed very well, spreading out (for the most part) cooking and cleaning responsibilities. It’s amazing how quickly human beings revert to childish behaviour when confronted with situations in which they are not comfortable. At one point the group decided that two of the others had not done their fair share of cooking or washing up and nominated the duo for dish duty one morning. The two sat above deck ignoring the others and lamenting they did not want to be bossed around like school children. The reactions from both sides to the blame game of “I do my fair share” against “I haven’t seen you do anything” are universal and I’m sure have been played out in roommate and marital relationships worldwide. The dynamics are simply different in a small space with nowhere to escape.
The plan Sunday was a short sail to Baru on the coast. Tony decided to tow the dinghy, our lifeline to mobility off The Andiamo, and put it on deck once we reached Baru. The plan was altered when a massive wave swamped the dinghy, causing the tow line to snap and Tony had to make some quick decisions. The waves were big, over 8 feet and the wind was gusting. As Tony turned the boat around we were all flipping around and I was starting to feel very sick. As we got closer to the dinghy Tony realized it would be impossible to hook back onto it and was not worth the risk. We all got an emergency lesson in sailing and teamwork after a dreaded jibe caused the boom to madly swing across the deck and break the mainsheet traveler car. The waves were huge and looked like they were about to swamp the boat at any minute. Tony and the few that were not ready to hurl everywhere were on deck trying to secure the flailing lines and sails. It felt like a nightmare but order was quickly restored and I was grateful that something like this happened at the beginning of the trip because nothing else could possibly go wrong now. By the end of the catastrophe, The Andiamo had lost her dinghy, the boat hook, had her main sheet (the biggest sail) traveler car broke in two, and her dodger window (vinyl cover) ripped open. We sailed to Baru, arriving before nightfall without further problems.
After a morning swim, we left Baru, headed for the Archipelago de San Blas, a group of 400 islands owned by the indigenous Kunas of Panama. The cruise could take anywhere from 22 to 30 hours depending on the winds. It would take us about 24 hours, all of which I spent below deck feeling very sick and wondering why the hell anyone (aka those two Norwegian guys) would want to spend 3 years of his or her life sailing! We anchored near the Limon islands, just inside the main channel of San Blas and I decided the awful sea voyage was worth the reward at the end. The next morning I swam out to the nearest island and took a long-awaited walk on dry land. It was an uninhabited little piece of paradise. Huge pink conch shells were washed up everywhere on blinding white, velvet sand while pink and blue crabs scuttled around in the water with blue and yellow fish. Coconuts littered the ground and the palm trees were that perfect shade of green that you only see on postcards. In fact the whole place looked like a postcard and I had to keep reminding myself that I was not dreaming. I lay down in the sand for a long time and let the warm turquoise water wash up under my back. Every time I opened my eyes I was surrounded by the most beautiful place I have ever visited in my life. The only way to break my trance was to do something I am famous for: skinny dip. I had never swam naked in the Caribbean before and no one was around...
Back onboard The Andiamo we cruised through the Archipelago, passing islands on either side and vast sea again. We anchored at a new spot, one of Tony’s favourites, alongside about 10 other yachts on Wednesday night. An exploratory swim out to the island closest to us revealed a small hut where the Kunas stay for a week or so, fishing and making molas to sell until other family members arrive so they can switch duties. This island wasn’t nearly as pretty but I think I was definitely spoiled by this point. Snorkelling revealed rows of starfish on the sea floor of all sizes and all perfectly shaped. Tony had promised us fish for dinner and fish we would have. Because he had no dinghy, Tony swam to the island and bought the fish from the Kuna women, which were put in Ziploc bags. Tony carried them in his mouth, sorrowfully saying he felt, “like a dog” as he swam back to the boat.
The Kuna’s are a fascinating group of people. One of the most autonomous indigenous groups in all of Central and South America, they are a matriarchal tribe and have been given complete authority through agreements signed with the Panamanian government. They own outright all of the islands of San Blas and part of the mainland as well. They have complete say over who is allowed to visit the islands and no foreigners can own land in San Blas. They charge an ever changing rate for taxes and fees to boats and visitors and do not allow people to remove anything from the islands or for their photo to be taken (unless you are willing to offer payment). They do not allow the Panamanian or US Coast Guard access to the islands, making them a safe and secure route for illicit trade boats from Colombia. The Kuna have an arrangement with such boats: they charge them a set fee for using the sea route through San Blas and if they encounter Coast Guard boats and have to unload their cargo into the seas, the Kuna will recover it and sell it back to them in Panama at a discounted rate. In exchange for their cooperation, the Kuna do not have to worry about fights with these trade boats.
Thursday morning we set sail right after breakfast through more gorgeous islands and crystal clear water. I sit up on deck, just as I sat up here all day yesterday, admiring the scenery and feeding ropes as directed by Tony. Although I don’t think I’ll ever be a full time sailor, it’s nice to pretend in calm waters. We reach El Porvenir, the port immigration of San Blas, shortly before lunch. A local fisherman picks up Tony and Karen who take our passports into the 3 small immigration buildings to be stamped into Panama. El Porvenir is barely big enough for the offices, a small hotel and an impossibly short runway. I walk the length of it, barefoot and in my bikini, in less than 10 minutes. This is the main gateway for people reaching San Blas by air and like the rest of the islands, it is rudimentary at best.
We continue on to our final destination, passing islands closer to the mainland completely covered with shacks. A stark contrast to the gorgeous islands further out to sea, these are where the majority of the Kuna live and it is hard to imagine life on such a cramped little island with so many other people. We throw anchor and a long canoe picks up the eight of us and our luggage. After goodbyes and picking up 10 more Kuna men, we set out for the mainland, accessed by river. At the river mouth we see a crocodile enjoying the heat on a tree stump exposed over the water (it’s 36 Celsius today).
Two men, friends of Tony’s, load our backpacks on the roof of an old jeep while the eight of us cram inside for the wild ride to Panama City. The road is undergoing considerable work but is still navigable only with 4x4. We climb straight up through the mountains, getting glimpses of the Caribbean far below and drive through a river because there is no bridge. Shortly before sunset we arrive in Panama City; in one afternoon we have come from the Caribbean, through the jungle and are now staring at the Pacific and Panama City’s skyscrapers in the horizon. It has been a fantastic journey, undeniably the best of my life.
Back in Panama City I have a few days to kill before my flight home on the 23rd so I go shopping and visit nearby beaches and islands. I know I am undoubtedly ready to go home however, when I am walking down the street and I see a guy eating a greasy fried thing and staring at me as I walk towards him. As I get closer, he stoops and tries to look up my skirt while shuffling towards me. Alarmed, I elbow him in the neck and keep going. A few minutes later I’m in a compact market and I feel something touch my butt. I whirl around and a well dressed man is apologizing profusely but I’m so mad about the previous encounter I tell him to f*** off and he literally runs away from me. The machismo culture in Latin America thrives everywhere and is usually harmless but today I am absolutely fed up with the hisses, catcalls, and yelling I encounter from men everywhere I go. I know it is like this for all foreign women and they do not know the meaning of the term sexual harassment but it is still unnerving.
I’m now back at home in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan and grateful for every experience, both good and bad. I was gone for exactly half the amount of time I had planned on, something my whole family told me would happen but I didn’t believe them back in December before I left. In the span of three short months, I have gotten to know myself a lot better and what is important in my life. I have also seen and done some incredible things, experiences that have shaped who I am. I read a quote from the action thriller novelist Michael Crichton that said: “Often I feel I go to some distant region of the world to be reminded of who I really am.” I could not agree more and would add: The world will be forever teaching me and helping me to appreciate both what it has to offer and what I have at home.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Land of Cocoa and Beautiful People: Colombia
Colombia is a land of contradictions. Until recently it has been unsafe to visit most regions of the country and in fact, travel is still not recommended by the government of Canada to all areas of Colombia except the major cities. My experience in Colombia has been truly amazing and I have not felt even slightly threatened or in danger. Though I have not heard of any guerrilla activity, they are definitely active in the remote regions near the Darien Gap and the southern Amazon basin. There are police stop checks all the time and friendly officers often board buses and check ID cards and frequently search peoples’ bags for weapons. Their presence is reassuring because without the constant police presence, travel in Colombia may not be possible. And Colombia and the people who live here are without a doubt, the most gorgeous and hospitable that I have encountered on this journey.
Villa de Leyva is a village about two hours north of Bogota and we stayed in the Hosepdaje de Balconies for three days. Located in the foothills of the Andes mountains, the days are warm here and quickly cool off as the sun disappears behind the mountains as early as 5 pm. Villa de Leyva is home to varying attractions, including the Paleontological Museum where a fossil of a prehistoric marine reptile, the kronosaurus is on exhibition. Nearby is Colombia’s version of Stonehenge, an assortment of cylindrical stone monoliths sunk in the ground, which were used as a solar calendar. The site also contains a ritual area full of large, phallic stone monoliths. And just outside the village are the blue pools, which are on a farmer’s land but open to the public. The turquoise pools are crystal clear and lined by green ferns and red earth. After a few days of easy village life and a horseback ride into the hills surrounding the village, we moved on to the capital city of Colombia: Bogota.
Bogota surprised me in two ways. First, it was colder than I expected and second, the people in the area we stayed, La Candelaria, were a mixture of bohemian artists and punk trendsters. I made the mistake, like so many others, of assuming Colombia is full of coffee farmers and cocaine mobsters. The highlight of Bogota was the National Police Museum, which is basically dedicated to the 499-day hunt and eventual murder of the notorious Pablo Escobar. Pictures of his dead body are on display, along with all his personal weapons, communication devices and clothing. The museum also includes gruesome torture pictures from around the world including a 3-step beheading of a man, complete with blood spray, in Turkey. Outside the parliament buildings in Bogota’s main square a demonstration is taking place. Bricks line a red carpet with the names of people who have disappeared, been murdered or tortured are on display. A young student will not say the government is responsible, but this is obviously the case.
The best thing about Bogota is the street food. Varied and undeniably greasy, empanadas and arepas along with bread balls full of cheese are available on every corner. They love their cheese: even the hot chocolate in Colombia’s oldest chocolate shop, La Puerta Falsa is drunk with a slice of cheese melted in it.
An hour outside of Colombia is a town called Zapaquira and it is home to a fascinating attraction, a beautiful underground salt cathedral. The original cathedral was created in the salt mine for the miners but collapsed because it was too close to the surface. A new one has been built 200m below the surface and opened in 1995 to the public. Pathways lead you down into the depths of the cathedral past carvings of the cross in varied stations and representations. The culmination of the cathedral is a giant cross, carved in the side of a mountain. People get married here and there is a convention center that can be rented out for private parties. The concept of a cathedral made completely out of salt and located far below the surface in a mine is a little strange to me but it is gorgeous and there are services being conducted for devout Catholics at various altars in the cathedral.
Next we moved on to Colombia’s Zona Cafetera, otherwise known as the Coffee Region. We stayed at a small village of about 3000 people called Salento. As well as being the home of the best coffee I have ever tasted, Salento is also near the Valle de Cocora. Stretching east from Salento and deep into the mountains, the valley contains cloud forests common to the mountain region and also impossibly tall and straight palma de cera (wax palm) trees that grow above the forests, a sight not seen anywhere else in the world. The proximity to the equator makes this possible and the scenery is prehistoric and nearly unbelievable. The hamlet of Cocora is also home to a large trout farm and we enjoyed a delicious lunch of fresh trout before heading back to Salento. The village feels as if it has stepped back in time. Horses are common in the square and a cafe proudly displays a functioning 100 year old coffee machine from Italy. The streets are lined with colourful buildings and hanging flowers and friendly townspeople ask us why more tourists do not come to Colombia.
Our last destination in Colombia is the fabled, romantic city of Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. The historic, walled area of the city lives up to legends of pirates, buccaneers, Spaniards, and tales of conquest and triumph. The architecture and statues are perfect examples of Spanish colonial style, while just outside the wall, the ocean roars and splashes into the stone holding walls. It’s easy to step back in time here, as the original fortresses built to defend the city from fierce sieges still stand strong. The rest of Cartagena is disappointing however, except for the Vulcan de Lodo El Totumo, about 50km northeast of the city. Hearing that all the organized tours arrive in the morning, we caught a bus to a town junction and then a motorcycle taxi to the volcano in the afternoon and pretty much had the place to ourselves. The volcano is a natural wonder and stretches 2000m below ground. Instead of lava and ashes, it spews mud, a wonder created by the pressure of gases emitted by decaying organic matter underground. The mud has the consistency of thick cream and smells slightly foul. It thickly coats my body and the locals say the mud is full of benefits for the skin and sell pop bottles full of it. It’s nearly impossible to move around in the thick mud. David, Tracey, and I try out all sorts of poses in our anti-gravity state. Climbing out of the volcano, a man helps wipe the mud off of us then we climb back down the steps of the volcano and head out to the large lagoon surrounding the area for a refreshing swim.
And today is the last day in Colombia for me. This afternoon the three of us are leaving on a sailboat called The Andiamo bound for Panama. Captained by an American named Tony, and a Colombian named Karen, we will spend approximately 5 days sailing the Caribbean and docking at various islands in the San Blas Archipelago. I’ve never been sailing before and am stocked up with motion sickness pills and extreme excitement. From Panama City, I will be flying home, having decided to cut the South American leg of this journey short. As I knew it would, travel has opened all kinds of windows for me, the most insightful being the window into my own mind and soul. And I’ve realized my heart is not in this trip anymore. I still love the adventure but I do not want to be apart from Eric anymore. We have our whole lives ahead of us to explore the world, together.
Villa de Leyva is a village about two hours north of Bogota and we stayed in the Hosepdaje de Balconies for three days. Located in the foothills of the Andes mountains, the days are warm here and quickly cool off as the sun disappears behind the mountains as early as 5 pm. Villa de Leyva is home to varying attractions, including the Paleontological Museum where a fossil of a prehistoric marine reptile, the kronosaurus is on exhibition. Nearby is Colombia’s version of Stonehenge, an assortment of cylindrical stone monoliths sunk in the ground, which were used as a solar calendar. The site also contains a ritual area full of large, phallic stone monoliths. And just outside the village are the blue pools, which are on a farmer’s land but open to the public. The turquoise pools are crystal clear and lined by green ferns and red earth. After a few days of easy village life and a horseback ride into the hills surrounding the village, we moved on to the capital city of Colombia: Bogota.
Bogota surprised me in two ways. First, it was colder than I expected and second, the people in the area we stayed, La Candelaria, were a mixture of bohemian artists and punk trendsters. I made the mistake, like so many others, of assuming Colombia is full of coffee farmers and cocaine mobsters. The highlight of Bogota was the National Police Museum, which is basically dedicated to the 499-day hunt and eventual murder of the notorious Pablo Escobar. Pictures of his dead body are on display, along with all his personal weapons, communication devices and clothing. The museum also includes gruesome torture pictures from around the world including a 3-step beheading of a man, complete with blood spray, in Turkey. Outside the parliament buildings in Bogota’s main square a demonstration is taking place. Bricks line a red carpet with the names of people who have disappeared, been murdered or tortured are on display. A young student will not say the government is responsible, but this is obviously the case.
The best thing about Bogota is the street food. Varied and undeniably greasy, empanadas and arepas along with bread balls full of cheese are available on every corner. They love their cheese: even the hot chocolate in Colombia’s oldest chocolate shop, La Puerta Falsa is drunk with a slice of cheese melted in it.
An hour outside of Colombia is a town called Zapaquira and it is home to a fascinating attraction, a beautiful underground salt cathedral. The original cathedral was created in the salt mine for the miners but collapsed because it was too close to the surface. A new one has been built 200m below the surface and opened in 1995 to the public. Pathways lead you down into the depths of the cathedral past carvings of the cross in varied stations and representations. The culmination of the cathedral is a giant cross, carved in the side of a mountain. People get married here and there is a convention center that can be rented out for private parties. The concept of a cathedral made completely out of salt and located far below the surface in a mine is a little strange to me but it is gorgeous and there are services being conducted for devout Catholics at various altars in the cathedral.
Next we moved on to Colombia’s Zona Cafetera, otherwise known as the Coffee Region. We stayed at a small village of about 3000 people called Salento. As well as being the home of the best coffee I have ever tasted, Salento is also near the Valle de Cocora. Stretching east from Salento and deep into the mountains, the valley contains cloud forests common to the mountain region and also impossibly tall and straight palma de cera (wax palm) trees that grow above the forests, a sight not seen anywhere else in the world. The proximity to the equator makes this possible and the scenery is prehistoric and nearly unbelievable. The hamlet of Cocora is also home to a large trout farm and we enjoyed a delicious lunch of fresh trout before heading back to Salento. The village feels as if it has stepped back in time. Horses are common in the square and a cafe proudly displays a functioning 100 year old coffee machine from Italy. The streets are lined with colourful buildings and hanging flowers and friendly townspeople ask us why more tourists do not come to Colombia.
Our last destination in Colombia is the fabled, romantic city of Cartagena, on the Caribbean coast. The historic, walled area of the city lives up to legends of pirates, buccaneers, Spaniards, and tales of conquest and triumph. The architecture and statues are perfect examples of Spanish colonial style, while just outside the wall, the ocean roars and splashes into the stone holding walls. It’s easy to step back in time here, as the original fortresses built to defend the city from fierce sieges still stand strong. The rest of Cartagena is disappointing however, except for the Vulcan de Lodo El Totumo, about 50km northeast of the city. Hearing that all the organized tours arrive in the morning, we caught a bus to a town junction and then a motorcycle taxi to the volcano in the afternoon and pretty much had the place to ourselves. The volcano is a natural wonder and stretches 2000m below ground. Instead of lava and ashes, it spews mud, a wonder created by the pressure of gases emitted by decaying organic matter underground. The mud has the consistency of thick cream and smells slightly foul. It thickly coats my body and the locals say the mud is full of benefits for the skin and sell pop bottles full of it. It’s nearly impossible to move around in the thick mud. David, Tracey, and I try out all sorts of poses in our anti-gravity state. Climbing out of the volcano, a man helps wipe the mud off of us then we climb back down the steps of the volcano and head out to the large lagoon surrounding the area for a refreshing swim.
And today is the last day in Colombia for me. This afternoon the three of us are leaving on a sailboat called The Andiamo bound for Panama. Captained by an American named Tony, and a Colombian named Karen, we will spend approximately 5 days sailing the Caribbean and docking at various islands in the San Blas Archipelago. I’ve never been sailing before and am stocked up with motion sickness pills and extreme excitement. From Panama City, I will be flying home, having decided to cut the South American leg of this journey short. As I knew it would, travel has opened all kinds of windows for me, the most insightful being the window into my own mind and soul. And I’ve realized my heart is not in this trip anymore. I still love the adventure but I do not want to be apart from Eric anymore. We have our whole lives ahead of us to explore the world, together.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Venezuelan Snapshot
The original plan was to return to Caracas from Rio, meet up with Michelle, and begin the South American leg of the journey. Plans have a way of changing though, often in situations completely out of one’s control. I caught the red-eye to Caracas and after fighting with taxi drivers at the airport who tried to charge me $100 for a ride into the city, I finally found the right bus which dropped me at the Gato Negro Metro station. From there I got a dose of unexpected hospitality when a gentleman in the Metro took me directly to the large bus terminal and found a ticket seller for the town I wanted to get to: Merida. The bus was not leaving until 6 pm that night so I now had a good 8 hours to kill in one of the least desirable cities in South America.
I made the best of it and took the Metro back downtown and checked out the obligatory Simon Bolivar statue and accompanying square and tried some local street snacks. Bolivar is a hero throughout Venezuela and Colombia, where every town has a Bolivar square and statue. It was Bolivar who began a revolution in the early 1800s and eventually led these nations to victory, gaining their independence over Spanish colonial rule.
I checked my email, something I had neglected to do for over a week as I had been enjoying my time with Eric and not wanting to waste it in an Internet cafe. I read with great shock that Michelle had decided it would be best if we parted ways for the rest of the South American trip. And just like that, a new game plan was in order. The ticket for Merida was bought and paid for and at least I’d be close to Colombia, as I’d been hearing some horror stories of blonde girls getting pulled off buses in Venezuela. Everyone thinks Colombia is the dangerous country, but recently Venezuela has been far surpassing Colombia. I covered my head for the entire night bus to Merida but the trip was uneventful and in Merida, I found a friendly colonial town, with colourful buildings on streets that climbed steeply up the surrounding foothills of the Andes. I stayed at a posada (home stay with a family) called Suiza and am given a large and wonderfully comfortable bed.
Life, just like plans, can change in an instant and I met a couple that morning at the Posada Suiza who would be responsible for a change in my life and general well being for the next few weeks. David and Tracey Couch, a couple from England who are a year and a half into a two year, around the world, backpacking honeymoon invited me for a walk into the local villages that afternoon and a fast friendship soon formed. We originally planned on taking the bus to a village called Mucuchies but didn’t make it that far, as the villages before it looked intriguing enough. Farmers sell huge strands of garlic on the side of the road along with fruit wines, honey, and strawberries covered in real whipped cream. We hitched a ride to a larger village named Tabay and had a local specialty, pabellon criollo (a plate of shredded, salty beef, rice, black beans, cheese, and fried plantain) for lunch.
The reason the three of us have come to Merida is to ride the longest and highest teleferico (cable car) in the world but we are disappointed to discover it is closed down indefinitely. Two German tourists died on it several years ago and now one of the supporting stations has a crack in it. I walked out to the platform and saw rusty cables and was glad it was shut down. The ride up the mountains would have been beautiful, however and there is even snow at the peaks.
With no reason to stay in Venezuela and as I’m getting broker by the day because of the awful exchange rate I got at the airport for my US dollars (I neglected to discover the black market rate is triple the official exchange rate) the three of us leave early Monday, March 2nd for Colombia. Leaving Venezuela the view is breathtaking. Villages sprawl on the mountains and steep cliffs line the sides of the narrow highway that leads us through the Andes. Crossing into Colombia, we walk across a long bridge with a mixture of cars, trucks, farm animals, and other pedestrians to armed guards waiting at the border. We get our passport stamped with no problems and at dusk, are officially in Colombia. Our destination is a small village about two hours north of Bogota called Villa de Leyva. As Tracey booked another night bus for us to the neighbouring town of Tanjay, David and I hunt down some dinner and our first taste of Colombia: arepas. The greasy concoctions are corn flour, made into dough and filled with a slightly bitter cheese and then either deep fried or baked and are a staple street food on every corner. It would take us a total of 26 hours and 7 buses through the Andes and surrounding countryside to reach our destination.
I made the best of it and took the Metro back downtown and checked out the obligatory Simon Bolivar statue and accompanying square and tried some local street snacks. Bolivar is a hero throughout Venezuela and Colombia, where every town has a Bolivar square and statue. It was Bolivar who began a revolution in the early 1800s and eventually led these nations to victory, gaining their independence over Spanish colonial rule.
I checked my email, something I had neglected to do for over a week as I had been enjoying my time with Eric and not wanting to waste it in an Internet cafe. I read with great shock that Michelle had decided it would be best if we parted ways for the rest of the South American trip. And just like that, a new game plan was in order. The ticket for Merida was bought and paid for and at least I’d be close to Colombia, as I’d been hearing some horror stories of blonde girls getting pulled off buses in Venezuela. Everyone thinks Colombia is the dangerous country, but recently Venezuela has been far surpassing Colombia. I covered my head for the entire night bus to Merida but the trip was uneventful and in Merida, I found a friendly colonial town, with colourful buildings on streets that climbed steeply up the surrounding foothills of the Andes. I stayed at a posada (home stay with a family) called Suiza and am given a large and wonderfully comfortable bed.
Life, just like plans, can change in an instant and I met a couple that morning at the Posada Suiza who would be responsible for a change in my life and general well being for the next few weeks. David and Tracey Couch, a couple from England who are a year and a half into a two year, around the world, backpacking honeymoon invited me for a walk into the local villages that afternoon and a fast friendship soon formed. We originally planned on taking the bus to a village called Mucuchies but didn’t make it that far, as the villages before it looked intriguing enough. Farmers sell huge strands of garlic on the side of the road along with fruit wines, honey, and strawberries covered in real whipped cream. We hitched a ride to a larger village named Tabay and had a local specialty, pabellon criollo (a plate of shredded, salty beef, rice, black beans, cheese, and fried plantain) for lunch.
The reason the three of us have come to Merida is to ride the longest and highest teleferico (cable car) in the world but we are disappointed to discover it is closed down indefinitely. Two German tourists died on it several years ago and now one of the supporting stations has a crack in it. I walked out to the platform and saw rusty cables and was glad it was shut down. The ride up the mountains would have been beautiful, however and there is even snow at the peaks.
With no reason to stay in Venezuela and as I’m getting broker by the day because of the awful exchange rate I got at the airport for my US dollars (I neglected to discover the black market rate is triple the official exchange rate) the three of us leave early Monday, March 2nd for Colombia. Leaving Venezuela the view is breathtaking. Villages sprawl on the mountains and steep cliffs line the sides of the narrow highway that leads us through the Andes. Crossing into Colombia, we walk across a long bridge with a mixture of cars, trucks, farm animals, and other pedestrians to armed guards waiting at the border. We get our passport stamped with no problems and at dusk, are officially in Colombia. Our destination is a small village about two hours north of Bogota called Villa de Leyva. As Tracey booked another night bus for us to the neighbouring town of Tanjay, David and I hunt down some dinner and our first taste of Colombia: arepas. The greasy concoctions are corn flour, made into dough and filled with a slightly bitter cheese and then either deep fried or baked and are a staple street food on every corner. It would take us a total of 26 hours and 7 buses through the Andes and surrounding countryside to reach our destination.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Proposal: In a Sultry, Sexy City
After leaving Costa Rica and all the great people I met in Tamarindo, I took a 15 hour bus ride from San Jose to Panama City. I had originally planned on spending more time in Panama but had a flight to catch: Panama to Caracas to RIO! I could hardly believe I was actually going to Rio de Janeiro, let alone to the biggest party on earth. It took over 24 hours of time spent in transit to get there. I arrived in Rio the night of February 19th and felt I must be dreaming.
My boyfriend, Eric, had been requesting that I text him when I got to the hotel. He had booked it for me as a Valentine’s Day surprise. Even though he couldn’t be there with me, it was still incredibly sweet of him to arrange a place to stay for me during the week I would be in Rio. I got up to the room and saw a bottle of champagne, candles, a present, and 2 cards on the table. One of the cards was from his children and the other was from him, saying he wants this to be the most romantic week of my life. He then texted me to open the door and, shaking, I did, to find him on one knee with a little black box! Undoubtedly the most romantic moment of my very un-romantic life, I was absolutely incredulous. One, that he had flown half way around the world to meet me here, and two, that he wants to marry me! That moment solidified the bond I always knew was present between the two of us but had never quite got up the nerve to confront. I didn’t know quite how I was supposed to act in this situation; life had left me totally unprepared.
The next week flew by in a blur. I was still in shock for the most part and woke up every morning not believing that Eric, my now fiancé, was lying next to me. The day after he arrived we set out into the frenzied streets of a city preparing for its’ biggest celebration, hand in hand, like children exploring a new world together. We celebrated our engagement at the Copacabana Palace Hotel, one of Rio’s luxury landmarks and a place I will forever associate with the beginning of our future together. I think we would have both been happy spending every waking minute together, which we did, but because of the place and time, we found ourselves attempting to immerse in the culture of Carnaval.
Known as cidade maravilhosa (marvellous city) Rio de Janeiro is the most stunning place I have ever seen. Lush, rainforest-covered mountains frame the neighbourhoods, rocky cliffs rise straight out of the crystal blue ocean, and silky white sand beaches cradle thousands of tanned and thong-wearing men and women. People of all shapes and sizes congregate on the beach and the attitude is refreshingly different from home. People seem to appreciate their bodies and those of others and are not ashamed to flaunt their natural beauty. The energy here is contagious and the people are beautiful. Everyone is smiling and partying because Rio is welcoming its’ yearly hedonistic celebration: Carnaval. Workers were boarding up shop fronts Friday afternoon and setting up bleachers in the street in preparation for the parades and street parties that began on Saturday and indeed, at 6 am Saturday morning we were awoken with the sounds of the makings of the first official parties of Carnaval. Centro’s Av Rio Branco, where we stayed, has turned into a different world. Music blares while people dressed in masks, fancy underwear, or as ghouls dance and drink in the street. Everything smells of urine, the downside of having thousands of drunk people congested into concrete spaces.
We enjoyed “A Night in Ibiza” at the famous Rio Scala nightclub where we expected a DJ, but instead got a samba band. People go absolutely crazy for this music and never seemed to stop dancing all night. On first listen, I could not understand the attraction, but as I let the beat move my body I began to understand. Samba overtakes you and shakes your whole body. The undertones of the music are primal and African-inspired and it was in fact the African slaves brought to Brasil by the Portugese who created the first sounds of samba in the country.
The culmination of Carnaval is the main parade on Sunday and Monday nights at the sambodromo, a facility built especially for these spectacular parades. There are twelve samba schools in Rio and each has their hour or so to perform on either night. We went on Monday and only lasted for three schools; while the stifling heat and crowds deterred us, the people in our section on the bleachers never stopped screaming and dancing. The crowds went mad when the queen of each school came out towards the end, after all the floats and sections of dancers had gone. These women are hands down the best entertainers. They shimmy and shake their way down the sambodromo on impossibly high heels, constantly smiling and exciting the crowd in outfits revealing perfect physiques. The time and training that goes into becoming a dancer of this realm is unimaginable and I am in awe.
Much too soon, our week in paradise has ended. We rode a cable car up the Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf) and enjoyed its’ views of the gorgeous city at sunset and climbed up to the Cristo Redentor, a huge Christ statue which stands looking over Rio on the tallest point in the city. I felt we had fallen in love with each other, while falling in love with the city. Nights spent at restaurants on the beach, sharing vino and our dreams for the future were mingled with sultry days enjoying the energy of the party and of the city itself. I was not ready to say goodbye; to Eric or to Rio but all good things must come to an end, as the famous saying goes. And I clung on to the last minute. On my flight back to Caracas, I relived the most romantic week of my life, made possible by an amazing man and fate. We met each other 19 months ago on a beach near Saskatoon. The ring he gave me on the 19th of February has 19 diamonds. I will never forget Rio and all that the city taught me about love, energy, and surprising, beautiful fate.
My boyfriend, Eric, had been requesting that I text him when I got to the hotel. He had booked it for me as a Valentine’s Day surprise. Even though he couldn’t be there with me, it was still incredibly sweet of him to arrange a place to stay for me during the week I would be in Rio. I got up to the room and saw a bottle of champagne, candles, a present, and 2 cards on the table. One of the cards was from his children and the other was from him, saying he wants this to be the most romantic week of my life. He then texted me to open the door and, shaking, I did, to find him on one knee with a little black box! Undoubtedly the most romantic moment of my very un-romantic life, I was absolutely incredulous. One, that he had flown half way around the world to meet me here, and two, that he wants to marry me! That moment solidified the bond I always knew was present between the two of us but had never quite got up the nerve to confront. I didn’t know quite how I was supposed to act in this situation; life had left me totally unprepared.
The next week flew by in a blur. I was still in shock for the most part and woke up every morning not believing that Eric, my now fiancé, was lying next to me. The day after he arrived we set out into the frenzied streets of a city preparing for its’ biggest celebration, hand in hand, like children exploring a new world together. We celebrated our engagement at the Copacabana Palace Hotel, one of Rio’s luxury landmarks and a place I will forever associate with the beginning of our future together. I think we would have both been happy spending every waking minute together, which we did, but because of the place and time, we found ourselves attempting to immerse in the culture of Carnaval.
Known as cidade maravilhosa (marvellous city) Rio de Janeiro is the most stunning place I have ever seen. Lush, rainforest-covered mountains frame the neighbourhoods, rocky cliffs rise straight out of the crystal blue ocean, and silky white sand beaches cradle thousands of tanned and thong-wearing men and women. People of all shapes and sizes congregate on the beach and the attitude is refreshingly different from home. People seem to appreciate their bodies and those of others and are not ashamed to flaunt their natural beauty. The energy here is contagious and the people are beautiful. Everyone is smiling and partying because Rio is welcoming its’ yearly hedonistic celebration: Carnaval. Workers were boarding up shop fronts Friday afternoon and setting up bleachers in the street in preparation for the parades and street parties that began on Saturday and indeed, at 6 am Saturday morning we were awoken with the sounds of the makings of the first official parties of Carnaval. Centro’s Av Rio Branco, where we stayed, has turned into a different world. Music blares while people dressed in masks, fancy underwear, or as ghouls dance and drink in the street. Everything smells of urine, the downside of having thousands of drunk people congested into concrete spaces.
We enjoyed “A Night in Ibiza” at the famous Rio Scala nightclub where we expected a DJ, but instead got a samba band. People go absolutely crazy for this music and never seemed to stop dancing all night. On first listen, I could not understand the attraction, but as I let the beat move my body I began to understand. Samba overtakes you and shakes your whole body. The undertones of the music are primal and African-inspired and it was in fact the African slaves brought to Brasil by the Portugese who created the first sounds of samba in the country.
The culmination of Carnaval is the main parade on Sunday and Monday nights at the sambodromo, a facility built especially for these spectacular parades. There are twelve samba schools in Rio and each has their hour or so to perform on either night. We went on Monday and only lasted for three schools; while the stifling heat and crowds deterred us, the people in our section on the bleachers never stopped screaming and dancing. The crowds went mad when the queen of each school came out towards the end, after all the floats and sections of dancers had gone. These women are hands down the best entertainers. They shimmy and shake their way down the sambodromo on impossibly high heels, constantly smiling and exciting the crowd in outfits revealing perfect physiques. The time and training that goes into becoming a dancer of this realm is unimaginable and I am in awe.
Much too soon, our week in paradise has ended. We rode a cable car up the Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf) and enjoyed its’ views of the gorgeous city at sunset and climbed up to the Cristo Redentor, a huge Christ statue which stands looking over Rio on the tallest point in the city. I felt we had fallen in love with each other, while falling in love with the city. Nights spent at restaurants on the beach, sharing vino and our dreams for the future were mingled with sultry days enjoying the energy of the party and of the city itself. I was not ready to say goodbye; to Eric or to Rio but all good things must come to an end, as the famous saying goes. And I clung on to the last minute. On my flight back to Caracas, I relived the most romantic week of my life, made possible by an amazing man and fate. We met each other 19 months ago on a beach near Saskatoon. The ring he gave me on the 19th of February has 19 diamonds. I will never forget Rio and all that the city taught me about love, energy, and surprising, beautiful fate.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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