Cartagena

Cartagena de Indias, on Colombia's Caribbean coast, is a beautiful, historic port city. It's also run-down, filthy and full of people trying to sell cocaine to tourists. In other words, it's an authentic tropical conurbation, not a sanitized tourist town. I've wanted to visit Cartagena ever since reading James Michener's Caribbean, which contains at least one chapter dedicated to what was once Spain's most important New World seaport. Founded by the Spanish in 1533, Cartagena grew into a walled city protecting a fantastic natural harbor. For hundreds of years, as the conquistadors subdued and "developed" the South American interior (the conquest and plunder of the Incan Empire but one example), the city served as the gateway to the Spanish colonies. Shiploads of African slaves were unloaded as galleons full of gold sailed for Europe. The arrival of these treasure ships often depended on their ability to evade or outfight the English, Dutch and French privateers prowling the Caribbean.

Today in Cartagena, palms still toss their fronds above the old city walls, while obsolete cannon litter the cobbled squares. Despite a hundred-year run of hard luck, much of the historic city has been restored, and Cartagena claims a proud (and economically crucial) place on the Caribbean cruise circuit. Inevitably, the tourist veneer has worn thin in places, and sometimes only a block separates serene plazas full of pigeons and cafés from the gritty hustle of real life. It's the kind of duality I love and live, working in tourism and traveling for a living. Everyone complains about how touristy everything's become, but walk a few blacks away from the main square and there you are: eating the daily special in a crowded hole-in-the-wall instead of paying for a view and a bad chef salad. The historic center is an alluring mix of cobbled streets, tree-filled plazas, colonial architecture and balconies dripping flowers into the lanes below. I spent many hours wandering, absorbing, reading the paper and slurping down fresh juices. It's easy to understand why Cartagena is one of the crown jewels of the Caribbean, with so many layers to explore, and so much beauty and history to offer.

Staying outside the city walls in the aging neighborhood of Getsemaní offered up a different side of the city. A gushing guidebook author might describe this barrio in terms of "faded splendor", but I'm afraid that even down-at-heel would be generous. It's a total sh##hole. The colonial blocks of yesteryear are crumbling, unchecked, into the dirty streets, where taxis careen madly between the echoed cries of coffee-sellers. I hadn't been there ten minutes before a ragged old gentleman short on teeth but long on eloquence introduced himself to me as The Boss. Laying a conspiratorial hand on my shoulder and lowering his voice, he laid it all out. "Whatever you want, I can get it. This is my street: they all know me." He gestured toward other dealers lurking in broad daylight between piles of rubbish and the doorways of cheap hotels. "Anything, the best coke, hookers, just tell me. I'm the boss." I let him know with a firm friendliness that he would definitely be my first choice, then beat it back into my guesthouse. I ended up having a great time in Cartagena. Between the mellow old town vibe and the coarse pleasures of the living city, there was no lack of diversion:

Plaza Santo Domingo, 2:30 in the afternoon. Framing a steeple in my view-finder, I saw them coming out of the corner of my eye. Two friendly, twentysomething locals? Or two dudes with a scam? I had the time and decided to find out. What would it be - the tour guide pitch, a hotel, a tour company? Here's how it went down:

Hello, my friend, how are you? Where you from? Boston I lied. (It saves a five minute geography lesson on Vermont.)
Great! I love Boston, I have many friends there.
Yeah, it's a great city, lots to do. What are you guys up to?
Nothing, man, nothing. Listen, there's a party later. It's at the Banana Bar, you want to come? It's for the university. There's going to be lots of girls there. A lot. You like girls? It's going to be crazy!
OK, party promoters. Hadn't expected that.
Of course I like girls I said. You know Snoop Dogg? They looked at each other. Yeah! Snoop Dogg - a rapper. We know Snoop Dogg.
He does a show called Girls Gone Wild. You guys should check it out.
Yeah! Snoop Dogg!
OK. We talked about Snoop Dogg and the Banana Bar. Were could it go from there? Suddenly, the lean-in.
Listen, amigo, this is Colombia, we have the best shit. You want some? The best coke man. . .
Here? Now? In the square? All I could do was laugh, and suddenly I had a great idea to turn the tables.
I don't take drugs, amigo, but thanks. Can I talk to you guys about something? A flicker of doubt as they glanced at each other. I don't take drugs because I'm a Mormon. I'm a member of the Mormon church, and I really want to tell you about it.
Faltering smiles and a few steps back. I close the gap by walking towards them and reaching into my bag.
Have you heard of the Book of Mormon? I have one right here I want to show you. . . Are you a friend of Christ?
Retreat! Retreat! They were falling over themselves to get away.
Thanks, but we're busy, very busy. See you later! I followed for a few steps, just for the effect.
I want to help you!

Obviously they knew just enough to be scared, but their fear blinded them. I wasn't wearing slacks, a short-sleeved button-up or a name tag, and I wasn't tag teaming. But they still ran. . .

Bells in the Palace of the Inquisition

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.