Volcano/Roadblock

Roadblock in Lomita Arena

A funny thing happened on the way to the mud volcano. I was on a bus full of tourists, mostly foreigner backpackers, out of Cartagena bound for Volcán Totumo. About an hour out of the city on the main coastal highway, we came to the crossroads village of Lomita Arena and a lot of commotion. A couple police vans were parked along the side of the road as cops milled around, radios in hand, looking calmly but warily in the direction of a large crowd in the middle of the intersection. Men and teenage boys were shouting, whistling and clapping at a line of vehicles backed up behind a makeshift roadblock of tires, logs and lumber. Our bus pulled off into a gas station parking lot and the guide told us we had to get off and change buses, skirting the roadblocks by foot to another bus waiting to take us the remaining few miles.

Our tour guide said nothing else, and the long column of foreigners shuffled sheeplike through the shouts and whistles. Far from being tense or violent, the atmosphere was almost festive, and clearly we were providing a lot of entertainment just by being there. The same question pinballed through our group in English, German and Spanish: What's going on here? There was one way to find out, and I decided to end the zoolike standoff by going over and talking to a few young guys in the crowd. Here's the gist, condensed and translated:

Hey man, what's going on here?
We're protesting to the government!
There's no electricity for four days!
No power?
No, nothing, we can't keep food cold.
Most of our group was already on the second bus, so I wished them luck and started walking to join the others. Another voice shouted out.
This is the reality of life in Colombia!
More shouts and laughter.
Colombia, Colombia!

I told the others on the bus, but none of were too surprised. The Caribbean coast is one of the poorest areas of Colombia, and any busy ride to or from town centers or national parks revealed slums stretched along the highway. Block and mortar cobbled into one-room hovels, shallow lagoons of floating trash, scavenging dogs. Water and basic sanitation? One can only guess. . .

Highway to Heaven

We were being ushered onto an old American school bus, modified for public transport and common in many parts of Latin America. Upon boarding, all fears caused by the ramshackle appearance of the bus were allayed by a large sticker: GOD BLESSES THIS BUS. Phew. . . no problem then. Mostly used on shorter, local routes, these transportation workhorses connect communities and are the most visible forums of religious expression and iconography outside of churches. Particulary in Guatemala, the epicenter of Catholic chicken bus culture. A look around the brightly painted interior and fringe-curtained windows revealed much of religious signifigance. A calendar bearing an image of Christ on the cross, several different images of the Virgin Mary, crosses here and there, and the ubiquitous slogans: GOD Everything is Possible; Jesus Christ, King of Kings; God is Love. I looked toward our driver, bouncing in a lawn chair bolted to the floor (better air circulation in this tropical climate.) He did seem at peace with the rough road and roaming donkeys, and I started to make plans for my own van this summer.

Mud is fun

One story has it that some time ago the volcano was menacing the local populace until a Catholic priest came and drowned the lava with holy water, turning it to mud. Another story tells of tourism founded of "mud therapy" as tourists flock to bathe in the curative mud, which contains sulphur, phosphorous and magnesium. In reality, I and everyone else I talked to came to Totumo simply because we heard it was "fun" and a "cool thing to do." Personally, I was on the fence until I asked myself the question When will I get another chance to jump into a mud volcano? Certainly not at the one I often visit in Yellowstone, which averages 184 degrees F.

It was a good time, the mud the consistancy of gritty pudding, and thick enough to produce an incredible bouyancy. I've no idea how deep it is, but "standing" up straight I never sank lower than my sternum. It was hilariuous watching people try to move through the muck, as everyone reverted to kind of childish glee, splashing each other and scooping up handfuls. When we finally got kicked out we walked to the shore of a huge lake not 100 yards away, where men standing in wooden canoes were casting nets in the shallows. A fleet of washerwomen stood ready in the knee-deep water. At first I tried to wash myself while avoiding the skeptical stares of the women. Finally I consented, and she did a hell of a job scooping water and scrubbing out my hair and ears. She told me to lay on my back and made a gesture I didn't understand. There was a sudden grab, yank and. . . she was holding my swim trunks in her hands, plunging up and down in the water, washing out the mud. All this was done with the calm, stern authority common to any woman who ever changed a diaper. She tossed me my shorts and moved on to the next one. Later, she found me for her dollar-fifty tip.