Leaving Columbia - Cathedral Below the Salt - 1 July 2003
Art for getting out of the rains sake
Biking Bogota style
The hoon to Guyana starts here
Lovely Leiva
Tyred and emotional
Cucuta ñ this time looking cuter
Art for getting out of the rains sake
The day was a good day for the garden as my father would have said. The rain encouraged us into a museum. Not normally arty types, we were tempted in the Botero collection, mainly because it was free and dry, as well as supposedly being one of the best art collections in South America. Some geezer called Botero (who may well be famous for all I know) gave a huge number of his own pictures and a rather eclectic set of his own collection of other artists to the Bank in Bogota. Personally I found his paintings rather samey
(I found them mind numbingly samey), but the other stuff was rather nice. Not sure how Manet or Henry Moore would like being referred to as rather nice, but they won't be reading this, so do I really care. Being artilly ignorant, we could not decide whether Botero was uncelebrated and hence why he had so many pictures to give away, or whether he is just not very good. We decided either way, more or less, forcing an organisation to set up a gallery in your honour by slotting in the odd Klimt and Picasso is a sure fire way to ensure fame.Martin had seemingly had a long day, trying to sort out stuff for the bike, and getting nowhere fast. The poor man was in a dilemma - the bike magazine (of the interviews) was trying to get him stuff for free. This is all very nice and no one really wants to look into gift horses' mouths, but this meant that instead of just going to a shop and buying what he needed there was a day of fruitless conversations. With the rider that it was likely to continue the next day. Martin and Jo were both feeling the pressure of needing to move on (wanting to reach Patagonia before it became snowbound). A couple of extra days in the capital were not part of the plan. We sympathise. Many a polluted capital has tapped us for longer them we wanted. It was nice to spend some time with the two of them and to feel that our frustrations of travelling as a couple with marginally differing agendas are perfectly normal. I was a little amused at Martin's reluctance to hang around for free tyres from the Pirelli importer. He pointed out that this was just extra stuff to be carrying around when they don't really need them at the moment. Clearly his tyres don't cost 60 odd quid a time.
That night we had been invited to dinner with Diana and Rafael, who had introduced us to the magazine people. To be honest when we first saw Rafael with his leather be-tasselled Virago motorbike, we had pigeonholed him as a bit of a poseur. But a delightful evening of conversation about his travels put pay to that. Now, he may have chosen a more comfortable machine but in his youth he had braved touring South America on a Lambretta (to the non-motorcyclists amongst you, this is a scooter). Travelling on dirt roads across the Andes with marginal power, tiny wheels and just a leather jacket and flying hat to keep the frost at bay put him back at the top of the list of bikers that deserve respect.
His album of black and white photos of his journeys and collection of recommendations by all kinds of organisations and individuals was priceless. When we found out that he had sold his scooter in later years we all tut-tutted and vowed never to sell out trusty mounts. Time will tell! Somehow it makes our efforts with Internet, modern clothing and gear look just a little tame in comparison. Not sure why he has now chosen a Virago as his trusty stead, but we are all entitled to a little middle-aged spread. There are those who would make similar comments about BMW's, Hippy. Watch out.
The only real problem in the evening was getting to Rafaelís house. We decided that weíd take a taxi on the basis that we never ride at night anyway and the weather looked pretty grim. Bogot·, like most South American cities is laid out on a grid pattern and to make things really easy for cab drivers the streets are, rather soullessly, numbered. Our driver was clearly numerically challenged and buggered about good style, claiming that the one-way system andÖWhen we arrived, I was all up for halving the bill and sending him packing, but when it turned out to be about a quid I stopped moaning. Strangely, Martinís parting felicitation to Rafael was ìItís a small worldî possibly a common comment in Spanish but in this case it prompted a typically grumpy response from me of ìUnless youíre in a Colombian taxi, that is.î Possibly the nearest weíve been to being kidnapped in Colombia.
Martin and I had a short conversation about possible titles for books (if we ever get around to actually writing one) and weíd both come up with the same one ìAround The World At 80kî based of course on the tedious hours of gazing down at an unvarying speedo reading. Seems as though we are now in a race to see who can get into print first. I still stand by the fact that we set off first and so we have first come first served copyright. I had come up with ìNo More than a Month away from a Tampon Vendorî but had to change that when a lot of the South American countries had fewer tampons than the Arabic countries. Not sure the title would appeal to anyone other than Spare Rib readers. My latest thought is 5 years looking at the back of a helmet, but this would be rather dull. But then again maybe it isÖ
At the hostel a certain amount of international trading took place. With us heading North and Martin and Jo heading south, there was an information, map and book exchange. To someone overhearing the conversation, it could have been a rather callous colonialist meeting.
ìHave you got Peru?î
ìYes....we could swap you for El Salvadorî
ìWhat about Bolivia?î
ìOh we only need the Southern corner of itî
Interjection from other traveller.......
ìI've got Venezuela, fancy swapping for anything more southî
I believe the game is called Diplomacy and marketed by Waddingtons.
The hoon to Guyana starts here
With a complete set of information (including all sorts of contacts throughout Colombia and Venezuela thanks to Rafael, we needed to be getting on. We did not want to get caught up in the capital city syndrome like poor Marty and Jo. Been there, seen it, done it. So we set off for the Venezuela border by way of Valle de Leiva and Bucaramanga (one of my favourite sounding towns of all time). We left Martin with instructions to milk the Colombian bike network to see if they can collectively straighten Bertha out.
We say goodbye to more new friends. This time Jo has achieved a first on this trip by being the only non-British person to actually know something about the Forest of Dean. Something to do with her mother being a fellow escapee.
On the way north, we planned to stop in and see the renowned Cathedral of Salt. Working on Hippies navigation strategy of ìIf we see the sign to it weíll pop in but otherwise we just carry on.î we found ourselves conversing with the car park attendant at the salt mine. ìThat'll be 2000 pesosî ìHow much for a carî ì2000î. We continued by asking how much it cost to see the cathedral and were shocked with the response of 10,000 each. To put this in perspective, the Gold Museum in Bogota, which is the most famous of its kind in the world, had cost us 1,500 each. Behind the chap was a picture of the Salt Cathedral and I peeped past him to check it out. I couldn't believe it. It was in fact a rectangular cave with a load of pews in it. I had expected some kind of clever architecture carved into salt. No such thing. We moved swiftly on. I know we get accused of being stingy with our moaning about entry prices but I think there are an awful lot of emperorsí new clothes around.
Villa de Leiva, on the other hand, turned out to be a beautiful little town that was well worth the hype. All whitewashed and tiled, it surrounded one of the hugest cobbled squares I've ever seen. So large in fact that I couldn't imagine how it could have ever been filled with anything other than the rough cobbled topping that capped it. One usually expects that a huge market is hosted in such grand spaces, but the weekly market for the town was due in another location altogether. So the square was simply dotted here and there with the 4 by 4s of the weekenders who love to stay here. And why not?
We passed up the first hotel which seemed expensive and accepted the offer of the second (which seemed identical in almost every way) to accommodate us for a quarter of the price. Charming folk who insisted that Bertha sit in the shade on their beautifully polished floor. They were completely unconcerned when I mentioned the possibility of oil drips. Thankfully Bertha behaved herself and remained continent for the duration of her stay.
A nice days walk took us out of town to view a fossil and a bunch of phallic relics. The fossil was old, as fossils are. But more importantly it was pretty huge. Sadly reading the blurb in the museum there was a yet larger fossil of a similar crocodiley thing, but this is now residing in a museum in America. Why was not explained! (Explain the Elgin Marbles.) For something 110 million years old it was in extremely good nick, OK it had lost part of its tail and a flipper but otherwise it was 10m of hulking bone. There was only a modicum of tackiness with some stallholders outside rubbing boot polish into their trilobites. Ooh, err missus.
More of a walk on to an ancient site of the Muiscas. Sadly all they know is that a bunch of stones are set out in constellations so the people were keen on their night sky. They were also keen on something elseÖ.All the erect pillars of stone had a rather nice groove around the top resembling something more often accompanied by a bunch of testosterone. Everywhere you looked was another bunch of willies. Short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, slightly bent ones and a few broken ones.
Poor Hippy is clearly a little obsessed, here. I put it down to the sheltered life that she has led.
A family of tourists were wandering round, and we did muse what the parents were telling their perfect looking five-year-old girl. How many parents are honest in these situations or do they either lie, or talk in techno-speak knowing that the poor child has no clue as to what they are talking about:
Techno speak version ìWell dear it is a perfect example of Muiscan mythology from the Pre-Columbian eraî
The fob off version ìDonít know dearî
Girly version ìarenít the stones a pretty colourî
Honest if a little vulgar ìThey were worshiping their dicksî
Feminist ìsigns of female oppression, dearî
Maybe it is a good thing we arenít in the parent business.
Walking back we passed a lot of lovely looking houses up for sale in the area. It was all I could do to restrain my curiosity and find out how much these houses were going for. The area is beautiful, the climate pleasant, and the local town gorgeous, what more could we ask for. OK maybe the guerrilla potential and the cocaine mafia are a downside but more importantly I think we would struggle to get anyone to visit us. Lets face it, we ummed and ahhed enough before entering this dramatically beautiful country of friendly people. A mercenary person may say that it is a good time to buy, since it is one of the last places on earth people want to be at the moment but despite my obsession with watching the pennies Iíve always been crap at seeing the commercial potential in something.
The next we were off to Bucaramanga, what a wonderful name for a town! Mainly because it was a sensible distance on the way to the border and it was reputed to have a good selection of bike tyres. Unfortunately its name is really the only thing that is attractive about the town. Even the people seemed to be generally off with us. We had encountered this a little in Colombia, but everywhere else as soon as they realized that we were not proper gringos i.e. from the US they couldnít be more friendly. Here though everyone seemed to give the impression that what ever we wanted or said was an infringement upon their time.
It was somewhat unfortunate that our arrival coincided with a national festival weekend in Colombia. This seemed to be the national tin of beer drinking festival and all of the staff and customers of the first bike shop I went to were lolling around and found it hilariously funny to take the piss out of the tourist and waste his time. Itís funny (and I guess equally true of bikers around the world) but there always seems to be three factions of bikers. There are those who have a 50-90cc step through moped who use it daily and in all conditions to get to work. There are the pleasant leisure bikers and this includes a wide variety; sports, touring and loonies like us. Then there are those who have grown up lacking something at the top of their legs. Here they were, the descendants of the Muiscans whose entertainment in the 21st millennia consists of piss taking people in a hurry. Eventually I found a shop full of category B bikers who were charming and interesting. They also managed to take me for best part of 90 quid for a back tyre. I doubt if I would have coughed up that much in the other shop even if theyíd had one. Goes to show.
Rising above the city as we returned to the Andes the next morning, all we could see was a sprawl filling the valley. Good-bye sprawl.
I knew that we were going to rise. But we went up for about 2 solid hours. Away from the steaming heat of the valley, to the cold and damp of the highland. We had stopped worrying about guerrillas and now concentrated on the more real threat of mad truck and bus drivers. One lorry had had a narrow escape as it lay on its side balanced on the kerbing on the edge of a precipice. This sight did not seem to deter the other madmen on the road, however, who continued to overtake on blind corners. The beauty of this country goes unpublicised which is a shame as although itís mountains are not snow capped they are however green and verdant and traversable all through the year. So much of the lower Andes are so high that in winter the weather makes them impassable. Back down the other side of the range down all the way to Cucuta was gorgeous twisting tarmac following a picturesque valley to the border.
As is the way with many lovely countries that we have visited Colombia suffers from an extremely bad reputation - in this case for violence and kidnapping. Two of the prettiest towns we have seen on the trip are here, and wonderfully lush scenery and other than the odd cluster of unsavoury folk, the people have been charming interested and helpful. But there are few tourists that venture. Hopefully the situation will improve for them before all the hotels shut down.
Cucuta ñ this time looking cuter
This was our second time in Cucuta. In í97 we had travelled through on our way leaving Guyana to Mexico to fly back to England. Not the most obvious way home but it is a long story. It was on that occasion our first night in Colombia. That time we had had a very distressing night in a hotel, listening to gunfire on the streets and both of us pretending that we asleep so as not to worry the other. As the gunfire reached a crescendo of automatic fire first thing in the morning, Pat rushed down to reception asking ìQue pasa?î of the manager, who looked a little blank. Then, having even less Spanish than we do now all he could do to indicate his worries was imitate the noise of gunfire. To which the lady announced with gusto that it was a fiesta. Our paranoia had meant that innocent fireworks, which we could have enjoyed, were interpreted as a revolution on our doorstep. We had felt a little silly. It had also been the site of a complicated and drawn out border crossing, surrounded by contraband Tupperware from Venezuela, but all this would take far too long to explain. Least ways we had remember Cucuta as being pretty horrible and stressful.
Whether the place has improved or our standards have dropped I donít know. But Cucuta second time around was sunny, clean and seemed one of the nicer border towns that we have been to. We wheeled the bike into a huge courtyard under a trellis of climbing stuff that sent out a forest of dangly red runners to the ground. The place even had a little swimming pool.
OK, within seconds I was chasing a cockroach around trying to kill it with my trainer, only to have it disappear into the woodwork to re-emerge later in the evening. I donít know what it is, but most insects are fine with me, except, cockroaches, mosquitoes and flying ants. With cockroaches it is their scuttliness, the fact that they are big and very ugly and they seem to be live in little crevices. Anyway, I always feel and irrational urge to kill them. I try to rationalise that they are part of natureís litter collectors but I canít help hating them.
The rest of the town was splendid, too. The weather was balmy but dry and bearable and we walked around town in a golden glow for the afternoon. I am beginning to worry about the heat of the Amazon basin and the Guyana experience, but this seemed a very pleasant bit of acclimatisation. If only we could stay longer.
We left Colombia with the prospect of a seven-day Venezuela crossing. Our route through Venezuela is about the same distance as we aim to do in about 3 and a half months when we ìdoî the length of Central America from Panama to Yucatan in Mexico. Donít ask. The border crossing was smooth and we filled up with petrol, but needed heart massage before moving on. Although we had managed to obtain Venezuelan currency at above the official rate, we still found it hard to work out how our tank-full of petrol had cost less than a dollar when we had done nearly 300 miles. The simple answer is that when we actually calculated the pump price it worked out to less than 3 pence to a litre. Iím going to like Venezuela this timeÖ