Indeed, this was an odd journey covering three continents over less than two weeks, hopping from city to city in usually posh business class environs in jumbo jets and only deplaning to have a nice meal at a good restaurant in the heart of various cities or to change planes entirely.
Though it was not meant to be so I had originally planned with an associate in London to meet him there and continue east into a central Asian location, hopefully Azerbaijan, but encountered a bug in my company's ticket booking software at the very last minute. Heated phone discussions with IBM tech support in India ensued until I was informed that even if they could fix the problem, I would be unable to book the tickets I wanted in time. And thus, arriving in London after leaving a cryptic phone message to my associate(We're not going to Central Asia! Don't get a Kazakh visa!), we deliberated on options during an evening in Oxford.
We agreed on Colombia, given that it was in the opposite direction and I had some primo business class upgrades that would make all of that flying bearable. Though just barely: London to Toronto to Bogota, and back, and then back to Vancouver, is quite simply too much flying for a normal human to bear, and almost even for I. Though we began our journey after a fine meal of Jamaican jerk meat in Oxford of all places and continued west from there for steaks in Montreal.
I had not known this but should have expected, that every hotel in eastern Canada was booked for the labour day weekend. Actually, this is not entirely true: the absolute closest hotel room upon our arrival from central Montreal was in Drummondville, which, if you look at a map, is up near Greenland. We finally settled on an overpriced number near the airport even though it would cost an expensive taxi back into the city, and I mused that the choice to come back through Montreal was a good one.
Further south to Bogota, we caught the next flight north to the coast of Cartagena. Indeed this would be a different kind of trip than my last visit to Colombia: where I wandered for days around central Bogota, mostly in a daze, hit hard from schoolwork and spending extended evenings staring at chipped paint on the ceiling of my sleazy hotel while the sound of soccer matches blared from the foyer. This time though the focus was on decent food and fine cocktails, some decent rest, and seeing the coast of Colombia and other points in this vast country.
Though there would be a diversion: nearly to Cartagena on the aging Avianca jet, lightning scattering and dissipating in the clouds around us, the crew babbled on in Spanish and we flew for another half hour. In fact, storms had diverted us east to the town of Baranquilla, an hour's drive. The company promptly called every five star hotel room in town and took us by bus to our various locales around midnight, all paid for of course courtesy of Avianca. I found this particularily ironic given that Avianca has been undergoing restructuring under bankruptcy protection for quite awhile now putting all of your passengers up for the night in a town barely an hour's drive from their destination is not a great way to reduce costs. Though perhaps it is simply not safe to hire a bus through this country at one in the morning.
Though it did give us a chance to see Baranquilla, a vast nondescript town of no particular interest near the Caribbean coast but not on it. A wide thoroughfare is its only remnant of scenery, though its people were friendly as always it seemed in this nation.
Afternoon ensued and we continued west by bus along a fine road, through a lush landscape of green jungle and along the coastline into Cartagena. Some roads had been flooded, and our first evening in the outer rim of Cartagena's old town brought vicious storms that came on cue every night after that, raucous episodes that clattered on for an hour exactly and then disappeared. Not entirely immune to the brewing storms that had been barrelling across the rest of the Caribbean at this point obviously, though perhaps Cartagena got off easy wedged in the bottom left corner of the sea.
The old town, the tourist town, was as safe as it gets in Colombia and reasonably scenic. Mimes pestered tourists, in fact tourists even existed a rarity for Colombia in general, though this city alone sees cruise ships and happily shuffles its visitors along through its various sites. Another old colonial Spanish town, a fort on a hill I do have to admit that travelling extensively through Latin America has left me desensitized to sites like this. The Spanish could have been a little bit more architecturally creative when spreading their empire across the southern half of the Americas. Though perhaps you can say the same for all of the European imperialists; either way, it was here that I realized there had to be more than simply showing up and seeing the town, since the town looks like too many other towns I've seen from the tip of Yucatan down to Buenos Aires. So, we decided to go diving.
No, I had not dived before but here was a decent place to do it; no pool exercises or other fancy training, simply a cursory explanation of how to use the equipment(don't stop breathing, pressurize your head), and jumping in. The coral reef was impressive indeed, with vast amounts of coloured fish and hard coral rock(I received an obligatory skinned knee from hitting coral), interesting sea vegetation and a good english speaking instructor. This was in Isla Rosario, a touristic island a half hour's boat ride from the coast. Aside from I and my associate, we also had a small squad from the American Navy with us.
Yes indeed there was an American ship anchored in Cartagena's port, and some of their sailors wanted to do some diving. All licensed divers, several of them explained their highly important mission: to move their cruiser from Maryland south, through the Panama Canal, and then north to dock in Seattle. Four hundred people are on that ship, and are tasked to do this single task. Yes, American tax dollars at work.
Though Cartagena would wear on us after a few days, though those days included some fine Argentine steaks and great cocktails, the touristic aspect of Colombia was an interesting thing to see. My perceptions of Colombia were more rounded out, seeing it less of a wholly dangerous nation as a country with a large variety of options and issues. It can be compared closely to Israel, in that it is dealing with a protracted insurgency but also is a very rich nation and its people have a high living standard.
Back to Bogota though and there, the conundrum of fate reared its curious head as I stood staring at the computer screen in an internet cafι, dumbfounded at my luck, unsure of why this was happening, and reaffirming my belief in exterior powers:
Yes, Sean Paul would be playing here the following night.
If you remember my story on Lagos you will know that the curious highlight of that trip, among many, was seeing that western reggae pop star perform on stage right beside a malarial swamp. And after all of my planning to be in Central Asia at this point, circumstances had conspired to get me here in Colombia, in Bogota, with time to see Sean Paul. Surely, this is not merely coincidence. But either way, we absolutely had to go. It simply would not be an option to sit it out.
To an expat mall called Centro Andino we went in a roundabout way, trying to find out where in the hell to buy tickets in this massive city, and to a Tower Records store on an upper level that could have been from absolutely anywhere. If the people weren't speaking Spanish you would not even know you were in Colombia - and even that isn't enough evidence to confirm it either. We purchased two 'VIP' tickets for the standing room closer to the stage and got ready for the show.
The next day in central Bogota, I had seen some progress from my last visit though its drab and near-Soviet style central core looked pretty much the same, a road that was under construction had been completed and there was now a nice French creperie along that street. In fact, there were minor details of a nicer, brighter Bogota there were nice little cafes and restaurants dotting the streets that I frequented here three years ago, modernized and injected with new life and new business. Far less dreariness upon closer look, more order, more investment.
Also on this trip I ventured into northern Bogota the city is a vast and massive place, and its northern end is a smattering of upscale shops and hotels and bars, modernized and not seedy at all large old mansions sit side by side, apartment blocks sit pleasantly in quiet neighbourhoods, the feel is far less intense than the city's central core, far more western, and holding far less character. But for amenities it cannot be beat.
There are also plenty of expatriate drinking malls around, or rather small areas of upscale restaurants which are patrolled heavily by soldiers and police. One area, Parq 93, was shelled last year by FARC and thus reconfirming that no matter how much money is poured into these cities they still have not solved their rebel problem. We drank in Centro Andino, in a fine establishment called El Pravda, which happily served me fine martinis for a fraction of what they would cost elsewhere. My associate remarked that we must look exceedingly strange showing up there two nights in a row in the same clothes and ordering all of the most expensive items on the list; I was not so sure. Colombia sees a large number of strange foreigners, especially Bogota.
Sean Paul's show was much less intense and interesting than his one in Lagos: also the crowd was very different. In Nigeria, if you could afford to go to Sean Paul, you went simply as a statement of class. In Bogota, you go for more mundane reasons, for example because you may like his music. The stadium was packed with mostly teenage girls and some families, Sean Paul put on a half-assed hour long set and didn't speak a word of Spanish; then his opening act came on. They had reversed the opening act and the headliner, possibly because Sean Paul needed to catch a flight to Cartagena for his next show. Something tells me it may be that Avianca flight we were on... I wonder if he ended up in Baranquilla.
Don Omar came on after Sean Paul and his brand of talentless reggae-rap was harder to appreciate, if only for the fact that he didn't have a troupe of female dancers like Sean Paul just Colombian guys in sports jerseys dancing with their pants around their ankles. Though it was fascinating to see the entire stadium break into song, repeating exactly the lyrics in Spanish as he held the microphone out to them except of course I and my associate who had never even heard of the guy before.
And thus concluded another visit to Colombia yes, I will return again someday. I would be more tempted to return often but the departure tax is 47 US dollars, cash only thank you very much, dropped on you just as you're checking in. Very unfair but unfortunately par for the course in Latin America I paid USD30 in Peru earlier this year, and in Venezuela I hear the price is USD55.
We returned to Toronto just in time to catch Canada's defeat of the Czech republic in the Hockey World Cup, with which there were thousands of crazed Canadians roaming the streets of central Toronto screaming their lungs out, waving flags, honking their horns, and creating a jubilant chaos reaffirming the heart and soul of the nation, kicking other people's asses not through war or economic gains or politics, but through that obscure sport called hockey. I admired the generous crowd of friendly Canadians as we walked past Walter Gretzky(that would be the father of Wayne Gretzky, though he is a celebrity here in his own right), wandering alone on the sidewalk, perhaps resting assured of his safety given that he was in Toronto and also that if he was accosted by anyone then the entire nation of Canada would hunt those people down and bludgeon them with a wooden stick.
There was five star fusion east Asian food on the menu that evening, and the following day was spent admiring the fascinating world of central Toronto and its amazing downtown liquor store very fine selection, though I'm not sure a tourist would ever really know what in the hell it was since its sign simply says LCBO. That's Liquor Control Board of Ontario if you didn't know.
Then finally, hopping the pond again to return back to London and Oxford. Dreary and windswept, and not yet my final destination, though that of my associate's. We met up with some more associates and had Indian food, and I woke up way too early that morning for a short ten hour jumbo jet ride in business class back to the pacific coast.
A very odd journey indeed, though it was a hell of a lot of fun. I'll be back into more serious journalistic form on my next trip, or not you never know, this flying around the globe for no apparent reason but to try some decent food and wine is kind of appealing in its own right.
-September 2004
