Back to Santa Marta after La Guajira Peninsula

I wrote this 3-4 weeks ago and never got around to posting it.. It became irrelevant when l met up with Holland in Medellin last week and the Brits came the day after. However, they have all gone to Manizales and beyond for the hot springs and shit down there, so yea.. I guess it works again.

Last night we lost the Dutchman. We were planning on parting ways once our bus arrived to the terminal in Santa Marta (from Riohacha), however as we were getting off the driver told (screamed over the sound of traffic) Dutch it would be easier to get to Medellin from Barranquilla, so with a moments notice he jumped back on the bus as it began to pull away. A bus employee was also hanging onto the outer edge of the door, shouting something about Marijuana, it was quite chaotic.

It was during this crowded and confusing exchange I realized how different the rest of my time in Colombia and elsewhere will be from the last 3 weeks. I met Dutchman my very first night at the Northstar in Bocagrande, Cartagena, 99% of my trip thus far has been with this insane stranger at my side. Today I am still with familiar faces, the Brits and I are spending one more night (we ended up staying 2 nights because it's an awesome place) at the Brisa Loca before they head off to Taganga, and I Bucaramanga. In the lobby area we stumbled across another Brit the other Brits traveled with for a while in Venezuela, ha, so he’s back in the group once more.

Once the Dutchman left all Spanish conversations became my responsibility. If I learned one thing from Dutchman it was that Colombians lie, a lot, and on purpose.

Before packing our bags in the taxi’s trunk we made sure he knew where the Brisa Loca was, Si Si, he assures me. All is well, the Brisa Loca is right in the center of town across from the main square, and is the most popular hostel in all of Santa Marta, surely there would be no issues..

After 15 minutes of driving the cab stops in front of Pollo Loco, a fried chicken restaurante.
Aqui aqui! He shouts and starts to unload our bags.. uhh what?
Senor, senor… this is not it I explain. He points and says Pollo Loco. Yes, we see the massive sign. We need La B-r-i-s-a L-o-c-a. He gestures towards Pollo Loco one more time furiously nodding his head. No no no.

Es un lugar para dormir, lo no es un restaurante x3
(It’s a place for sleep, it is not a restaurant)

We want to take all of our baggage to a fried chicken fast food joint?

10 minutes later explaining that it is a bright orange building in the main square of town we finally arrive, I know my Spanish sucks but I wonder what the fuck is wrong with this guy.

Below, a blurry shot of Brisa Loca from their terrace down into the court yard. And a bit of the dorm room.

Losing our Humanity

I have only been in Colombia/Venezuela for a little over a month and I am already seeing the changes it has had on me. Holland once told me his sister was worried he was losing his humanity in Colombia. I’m not sure what he told her that deserved that reply, I forgot, sorry.
When I first arrived in Cartagena I was overwhelmed. I can’t say it was culture shock, but I think a better term is disgust. I could not believe humans allowed themselves to live in such terrible conditions without making an effort to change it. Local Colombians throw their trash wherever they feel like it, just to walk around the same pile of trash the next day until they are literally walking through a path carved through trash that should have been in a garbage from day 1. The half completed demolitions and partial construction projects were more than an eye sore, many of these buildings looked like they could collapse at any time. It appears as though a local found it, ignored the leaning brick walls, tossed a corrugated tin roof on top of it and called it home.

I wondered if I would ever be able to tolerate such an environment as my “home”, and although I’m still not sure if I can call it “home” it only took a few weeks for the edge to wear off. I still notice all the shit, but now it doesn’t surprise me. I step over the human feces on the sidewalk with the rest of them and dodge cars crossing 6 lanes of traffic with a bored look on my face.

A few days before I arrived in Merida, Venezuela a (British?) girl was traveling from Caracas to take an adventure trip to Los Llanos organized by our particular hostel, a 4 day South American safari. Bus drivers on night buses and the big intercity buses are supposed to drive to their destination without picking anyone up. Supposed to.. Nearly every bus driver tries to grab more people off street corners to make more money they don’t have to report to the bus company, as there is no hard proof there were any more passengers once the bus leaves the terminal.
The bus driver stopped to pick up some more customers, instead of taking a seat, they took the bus hostage and held everyone up. When told to hand over all of her belongings this girl clutched her bag and hesitated. Boom. They shot and killed her on the spot, I don’t know where they shot her but I hope for her sake it was in the head. If she lay there on the bus dying from a stomach or chest wound, she would have too much time to regret the decisions that lead to her being on that bus.

About 5 days later (my third day at the hostel) a Frenchman showed up with just a small backpack. On his bus from Caracas they were all forced to take all their bags off and run them through a mobile x-ray scanner—a big truck/semi thing the Venezuelan military drags around the country. All of the bags in the storage below the bus were lined up in the median between the two directions of traffic waiting to be x-rayed. A motorcycle with two people on it rolls to a stop, picks up his bag and takes off, the VE military was too busy to be bothered and did not do a thing to help this guy.

Yesterday I witnessed my first motorcycle accident. No less than 5 minutes after leaving my hostel for the first time in Medellin to take a stroll and explore the area I heard the *baawwwk* sound of a tire losing grip and beginning to slide. I turn over my shoulder from the sidewalk to see three people in the air and hit the ground like rag dolls. I didn’t pay too much attention to how they fell because the motorcycle was flipping in my direction but stopped about 15 feet away.

Two of the people in the air were policemen.. strange, I thought. They both stood up, brushed themselves off and walked towards the woman on the ground. It appears as though the woman chose a bad time to cross the street and was hit by the two policemen on the motorcycle, awkward/bad luck. She did a complete flip and landed on her left hip/elbow only a few feet from the curb. A few seconds after landing, she opens her eyes, looks around and starts to push herself up only to begin screaming and screaming. She collapses and her eyes close, with no more movement for the next few minutes. The two police are now standing on either side of her. I know it is bad to move someone who may be really hurt, but they didn’t even bother checking her vitals or anything. A man steps out of a shop behind me, “Ella es muerta?” (or something like that). I replied that I wasn’t sure, and that she had just tried to get up a few moments earlier.
Two more cops show up, take a cellphone out of her pocket and soon there are 5 people (4 of them cops) standing in a circle around this lady all on cellphones, not actually paying her any attention.

After focusing on her for a bit you could see she was still breathing, she opened her eyes a little after I noticed this. A big crowd of people appeared right behind her, with her cheek on the cement she was facing my direction ( on the other side of the road). When her eyes first opened they darted around, her body completely frozen. After glancing up towards the sky (probably looking for the murmuring voices behind her) she looks at me. Her stare hits me right in the eyes and she holds it for a few seconds before closing her eyes again. She does this two more times, more eye contact.

I won’t pretend that, “Oh man, Colombia has made me so hard brah” because I really did not feel good about meeting her eyes, but the whole situation felt so casual. A guy on a motorcycle had parked right next to me, he saw the crash too, started saying something about his bike. I was looking for a park when the accident took my attention, I asked the man where the park was and he gave me directions. We stood around a little longer but left before an Ambulance showed up.
I wonder if the woman lived, I mean if you’re hit in the pelvis/stomach by a motorcycle with two people on it at 40 mph, do a side-flip and hit your pelvis/stomach on the concrete again… there are probably some internal issues.

Later that day I found myself accidentally walking through a part of Medellin with a lot of Motorcycle shops. I stopped and took a peak at a Kawasaki store and went to the street bike section, with the image of those people rag-dolling through the air the motorcycle looked a little less appealing, but I had spoke with a Swede in Merida for a while about his 1000 GSX-R and I was starting to get hooked again.

I promise I'll write today... err tomorrow, yea, I'll do it tomorrow.

For over a month now I have tried to start writing shit that happened in Cartagena and the first few weeks of my time in Colombia. I have even written new posts about things that had just happened only to find myself physically unable to sum up the effort to dig up the 'old' memories.

I blame at least half of this laziness on the heat in Cartagena/Mompos/Santa Marta. You couldn't even think without sweating.

The first morning in Cartagena, Colombia was to be spent at the international film festival watching El Secreto en Sus Ojos (the secret in your eyes) an Argentinian film that was supposed to be really good, with Holland, Argentina, and West Coast USA (I seem to remember where people are from better than their actual names).

The night before our Hostel's owner had a party for his girlfriend who just returned from visiting her home (Spain) and invited a ton of his friends to hang out at the hostel. At the time it seemed pretty cool, you just arrived and you're already mingling with a local crowd. It was a lot less cool when they kept hanging out the next few days taking up all the spots on the couches, watching shitty tv, and hogging the computer.

Anyways, within the first 8 hours of life in Cartagena I had already encountered a really hot Colombiana. I did not spot her from across the street or through a shop window, she was sitting on the couch across from me, staring.

A lot of the black/really dark girls on the coast seem to have really light gray eyes, I think this was the first time I had seen this great combination. A bright yellow top thing with 4in heels and shoooort black shorts never looked so good.

"Hey man" the 25 yr old hostel owner says to me, "you should go talk to her". I don't understand what it is about me that makes other guys think I need help (see my Bucaramanga - Zona Rosa post) but I thought it was pretty obvious that that was what I was already moments away from doing.
Before I can reply he has decided to change plans, and calls her off the couch and introduces us.

Earlier in the day I showed him how terrible my Spanish is/was (it's still pretty rough), so he knows I can only carry a conversation in English. This friend of his, ONLY speaks Spanish. The whole night felt like a cruel joke. All in all this was a great motivation maker for improving my Spanish.

The next morning I chill around the hostel looking for the guys to go to the movie and they aren't in sight. Damn. I end up taking the 30 minute stroll down Bocagrande's beach to El Centro, the old Colonial part of Cartagena with this very unique 55+ yr old Black lady who was really into Ebonics. She has been all over Latin America (especially Cuba) so I actually did enjoy talking with her.

In the evening I run into West Coast USA.
"Oh here you are now" she says.
"Hm? I should be saying that to you"
"What do you mean, you stood up Holland."
"What? No way, I was here at the time we said, where were you?"
"I went out in the morning and Holland stayed behind to pick you up"
"Well god dammit, I don't know how we missed each other."

Holland and I both thought we were stood up, the next day we were both sitting around the hostel looking for something to do. The beach is our best option, and gets our votes.

While we're walking 1.5 blocks to the beach (Bocagrande is only 3 blocks wide, our hostel is in the middle, no matter which way we walk, we get a beach) Holland gets a phone call from his girlfriend in Medellin. One of their friends was shot a few times earlier that morning (dead), and the night before, one of their other friends shot and killed some guy and was caught by the police. In one phone call he lost two friends, less than 20 steps from the hostel.

He paused a little after the conversation, filled me in on the details and then we continued to the beach. At that moment I should have understood it was likely we were going to have more conversations like this, I was naive though and chalked it up to a one time event. I was wrong..

Semana Santa - Merida, Venezuela

When I read about Merida I thought I had found the perfect town to stay for a few weeks and focus on improving my Spanish. So many people on forums said Merida was such a great place, it is unfortunate Semana Santa is "ruining" my experience.

For the last 6 days 90% of the shops have been closed all day, after 3:00 you struggle to find places to feed yourself, it's insane. Today I would say 95% of the businesses never opened and now half of those that WERE open, are now closed. Buses out of the city are full for the next two days, so I sit here in my hostel listing to my Michel Thomas Spanish audio-course (it's really great, btw) spending cash at the shitty 4:1 ratio out of the ATM while everyone else is getting 6:1 on the black market.

No matter how I phrased the email to my parents asking them to transfer some cash to the hostels foreign account it sounds terribly shady. From my online banking client I cannot make the transfer and I don't feel like calling the bank. Shit, I might not even be able to call the bank because all of the international call centers are closed anyways. I try to explain that everyone else in the hostel is using the blackmarket to get a better exchange rate.

This is not the "but Mom, everyone is going to _____'s party but me", literally EVERYONE here is getting the good rate (aside from myself). This is not America, the black market cash exchange seems to be the primary exchange because Chavez is such a douche.