I'm writing this with sunburn having returned yesterday from Choco, one of Colombia's most undeveloped and inaccessible areas, which is on the Pacific coast. It's also the wettest place in the world, but otherwise it's exactly what you'd expect from a poverty-stricken tropical paradise. Getting there took about 24 hours altogether, and involved a bumpy ten-hour bus journey through guerrilla-controlled territory and a flight on a chartered five-seater aeroplane over unexplored jungle.I set off last week after hatching the plan with Jamie and Ben, two English lads, over a game of poker. We departed with some trepidation after hearing numerous warnings about a particularly nasty guerrilla group who control the road to Quibdo, the capital of the province. They are led by a young (reputedly beautiful) black woman and, although they number only about 50 fighters, have earned far-reaching infamy for their violent methods. Apparently, they stop buses, set them on fire and then shoot all the passengers. This lurking menace was perhaps the least unpleasant aspect of the journey, which was hot, deeply uncomfortable and twice as long as expected. Another minor unpleasantness during the initial descent from Bogota was the change in pressure, which caused the sort of splitting headache you get when you dive down too deeply in a swimming pool. The bends, I think, frogmen call it.
We arrived in Quibdo after dark and were dropped off outside a cake shop on the outskirts of town, absolutely exhausted. As we sat trying to get our bearings we found ourselves suddenly surrounded by three Beyonce look-alikes who started chatting us up. This perked us up immeasurably, but before anyone could ask if they wanted to show us around town later we found ourselves contemplating two DAS identification cards being flashed at us by a surly looking pair of blokes (the first two white people we'd seen since Bogota). "Passports!" said one. Ben and I were both keen to show off our new six-month student visas, which we sorted out the day before we set off. Jamie, however, looked sheepish as he pulled out a tattered scrap of grey paper, which he claimed was a photocopy of his passport. So, with rueful backward glances at our lovely friends of too few minutes, we were taken off for further questioning.
The agents were staggered to hear that we'd arrived by bus "Are you mad?" asked one of them. "It's very dangerous, didn't you have any problems?" We told them that it had been fine, and that our only problem had been meeting them. The joke, such as it was, didn't go down very well. "Come back here tomorrow morning at seven thirty," we were told. This second meeting was much more pleasant, as we were ushered into the presence of the regional bigwig of DAS, a heavy-set man with the slow, deliberate movements of an old boxer. "So, you came by bus. Are you mad?" he asked, fixing us with a penetrating gaze from under his drooping eyelids. A swift appraisal, I think, told him that we really were silly Englishmen looking for whales and not IRA weapons experts on our way to a guerrilla training camp. From this point onwards his imposing demeanor dissolved into fatherly concern. "Here is my name and my mobile phone number, if you have any problems get in touch with me. And when you get to the coast, don't stray from the villages or you will be kidnapped." We assured him we would be careful and thanked him profusely, feeling slightly guilty in the knowledge that we fully intended to explore the beaches and jungles outside the villages.
We spent one night out in Quibdo, in the company of a local chap who used to go to university with Pontus - a Swedish chap who studies economics in Bogota and has the dubious distinction of being Platypus's longest-serving resident. An e-mail was sent and our host, Ricardo, responded by turning up to our hotel with grand plans for a great night out. Like most Colombian towns Quibdo has a Zona Rosa; an area of (relatively) top-dollar bars and clubs, usually in the northern suburbs. In the case of Quibdo this was a slightly tatty square surrounded by a few bars and restaurants. Most of the best entertainment seemed to be reserved for the children - they had a hand-pushed miniature bus that made circuits of the plaza and a bouncey castle (but this was actually rather sinister; it was topped by a grimacing pumpkin head that seemed to leer obscenely at the children below as it lolled about - the dramatic thunder and lightning enhancing the macabre effect). Although Ricardo was determined to show us every hotspot in his town, we were all knackered and facing an early start to complete the final leg of our journey to the coast.
I never imagined that I would ever charter an aeroplane, but there is no other way of reaching the coast. They did start to build a road through the jungle, but constant attacks by guerrillas and paramilitaries brought the project to a halt. The plane we booked (for about twenty quid each) was a five-seater and no bigger inside than a London taxi. It was a great way to travel; we were under the clouds and so could see the green sweep of virgin rainforest stretching out in every direction, broken only by the toffee-coloured rivers that meander towards the sea. The flight was literally a hop, no sooner had we reached cruising height than we began descending towards the tiny airstrip cut through the jungle on the outskirts of Nuqui, which is variously pronounced "Newquay" or "Nookie" - two words which together form a fair summary of the place; it's a fishing village full of pregnant woman and babies.
It's also got the sort of tourist facilities you'd expect to find in Newquay. Even though we were the only visitors that we could see, we were amazed to be faced with a wide choice of decent places to stay. As it turns out, the Pacific coast is a well-kept secret among the rich of Medellin, who fly directly from their city to the airstrip in Nuqui. Because of this most people we met last week assumed we were Paisas, as they call folks from that neck of the woods. Often, when we told people that we were from England (a distant land, far over the sea), they would stare at us open-mouthed. We booked into a cabin in a so-called 'ecolodge' that had about sixty beds but no guests. Neither did the hotel over the way.
The next morning we were up at the crack of nine to go on a boat trip along the coast, which, we were told, would include a spot of whale watching. We didn't see any humpbacks, as it turned out, but our little boat was mobbed by a gang of dolphins. Sometimes I worry about myself. I keep hearing people talking about the deep sense of "inner peace" excited by these enigmatic and gentle denizens of the deep, but all I thought as they swam alongside us was "goodness me, I could probably hit one of these buggers if I had a shovel". I tried taking photographs with a film camera I borrowed from Sam, so I've got some lovely pictures of rippling water.
Despite not seeing any whales it was a great day. We chugged for about an hour up the coast and stopped on a deserted beach, where vast crowds of bright red crabs parted before us as we walked along the sand. Like everywhere along this coast, the sea and the jungle seem to be in constant competition - the forest creeps ever forward as the Pacific waves pound back. We had a walk into the rainforest and showered in a waterfall, which finally pounded out the knots left in our backs by the interminable bus journey. Then, walking back to the beach, we found ourselves in a lovely little restaurant being served cold home-made lemonade. Signs told us that we could take surfing lessons, exchange books, ask to see the menu or learn to dive there. Looking further up the slope, under the trees, we noticed a cluster of idyllic-looking cabins with crisp, white mosquito nets billowing through the windows. We were the only people there. We found a visitors' book and discovered that since the year two thousand we the first English people who had gone there, apart from a bloke called Keith, who recorded for posterity that he was an acupuncturist from Bristol who visited for tourism-related reasons and was en-route to Medellin. Everyone else who had filled in their details was from that town.
After further chugging, our next stop was a little village called Termal, so called because it has a thermal spring nearby. To get to the spring we had to walk for about two hundred yards along a well-weeded path overhung by a natural pergola of hibiscus. It was quite surreal to come to what felt like the very heart of darkness only to find that Alan Bloody Titchmarsh had apparently been there before us. The spring flowed into the side of a river that wound its way from the depths of the jungle. A hexagonal concrete barrier had been constructed around the source to catch the water and form a plunge pool. It was lovely, despite the sulpur causing the most incredibly eggy smell. This came at a time when my aversion to seafood had left me with no option but to eat scrambled eggs for three consecutive meals. Eggtastic. It was particularly pleasant when the heavens opened and the rain filtered down through the canopy overhead. It was apparently because of this rain that we didn't see any whales on the way back. We were told they only surface and mess about when it's sunny and warm. But we did see flying fish, which were amazing. I thought they just relied on their momentum to break surface and glide for a while, but the ones we saw were flapping their wings and zipping along like bumble bees.
The following day was chiefly occupied in ensuring our escape from this tropical paradise. Ben had realised he'd run out of money and Jamie and I had to count every peso to make sure we had enough for another day and another chance to see whales. We got up early and went to the airport to book our flights, and started asking questions of the man at the counter. He listened patiently to all of our queries and then shot us a look that clearly said: "I may be wearing airline livery, and be standing behind a airport helpdesk, but what on earth makes you think I know anything about air services?" Eventually he told us that we would have to go to the airline office at some time after lunch. "Where is it?" we asked. He giggled and pointed generally towards the town - it's not the sort of place that has street names. Luckily, since arriving in town we had picked up a praetorian guard of ten-year-old lads, who Jamie and Ben played football with at every opportunity. (These were great kids and it was really sad when some of them pointed out their mum - a washed up old tart, mother of ten, drunk in the street at six in the evening, dancing alone in a puddle of dirty water.) With their help we found the office - which was a cluttered dining table in an untidy kitchen, in an unmarked family home, in a narrow alleyway off a side street. The woman in charge was quite flustered when we arrived, and asked us come back in half an hour. When we returned we found the kitchen slightly tidier, the many children more smartly dressed and a pen holder placed on the dining table, alongside an official-looking pile of paper. To be fair, she was one of the most competant and helpful airline representatives I've ever met.
While we were waiting for confirmation a local woman came in to book a flight. She had that rare (and difficult to visualise) species of beauty that somehow manages to pour the grace of a gazelle into the buxom mould of a medieval tavern wench. She started chatting to us and told us that the following night there would be a big party going on in the town. "I have girlfriends," she said, running a polished fingernail along the low-cut collar of her skin-tight t-shirt. "We'll take you out for a party." We all boggled, momentarily, and then Ben had the presence of mind to ask that all-important question: "How old are you?" She fixed us with steady gaze, leaned languidly back in her chair, slowly crossed her long slender legs and teased her fingers through her hair. Then, with a twinkle in her smile, she said: "Fourteen." We thought better of taking her up on her offer. If for no other reason we'd earlier played pool with a chap who'd had his hand cut off with a machete for theft. We didn't like to think what the price might be for deflowering virgins. Not that she was, of course, being a mother and all that.
The next morning Ben set off to Bogota while Jamie and I headed off for another trip, this time to the north, towards the most remote bar in the world, travelling in hope of seeing whales along the way. This time the trip started in the middle of town, as opposed to from the beach, because a ferocious nocturnal storm had left most of Nuqui underwater.
And, yes, we did see whales along the way. Humpbacks, they were. Gigantic things, leaping out the water all around us and slapping their fins onto the waves. At one point two jumped clear out of the sea, side-by-side, in perfect unison. The sound they made when they blew out their snot will stay with me forever, and I was impressed. But as spectacles of nature go, I'd rather watch pigeons collecting twigs for nests or three-legged dogs clambering through catflaps. Again, I tried to take some photos, but I only got a distant tail, and that was just a fluke.
We were particularly lucky to see the whales because the captain of our ship was looking for other things. For most of the journey we followed the line between shallow and deep water that was marked by an unbroken line of flotsam and jetsam. It soon became apparent that he was acting on information that some smuggling ship had hastily disposed of a consignment of cocaine. He didn't find anything, but I'm sure he'll keep looking; a lucky break like that could transform his life.
Our destination, three hours from Nuqui, was a tiny village called El Valle. I would have called it a 'one horse town', until we happened to be waiting in a shop when two of the things were led behind the counter into the storeroom-cum-stable out the back.
After eating another plate of scrambled eggs and coconut rice we walked off down the beach in search of the world's most remote bar. It was a three-hour trek across hot sand and over sharp rocky outcrops. It should have been two hours, but we walked past it for half an hour and then had to go back again. But we found it in the end. There, on a rock, which is on the beach during low tide and out to sea when the tide is up. After we had climbed the steps up to the bar we were welcomed by the landlord, who had already opened the beer, which was the coldest and most pleasant I've had for some time. As I sat enjoying it (looking out to the horizon, imagining every distant splash to be a whale) I reflected that if I ever got the urge to come back here in the future I would have quite a trek. First, I'd have to walk up past the High School, towards Pinvin, to the station, catch a two-hour train to Paddington, get the Heathrow Express to the airport, then the 18-hour flight to Bogota followed by the night bus to Pereira and the bone-rattling trek through homicidal-guerrilla-controlled territory, which would lead onto the chartered flight from Quibdo over untrodden emptyness and then the boat for hours through floating drugs. And then the walk, and sunburnt feet. I thought it would be wise to have a few more beers while I was already there.
Like the fourteen-year-old at the airline office, the captain of our boat and the navigator also told us that there was a big party happening in Nuqui that night. The navigator was particularly enthusiastic, he said that it was the annual celebration for the local school that his three daughters went to, and that it would be a big party. I assumed it was like a school disco that the parents (presumably having gone there themselves, once upon a time) all got involved in. But I knew better when I saw his El Valle girlfriend waiting for him to arrive at that particular port. She was in her school uniform - and obviously younger than at least two of his daughters. The big party was exactly like a school disco run wild. At one point a mob chased three soldiers, armed with machine guns, out from the centre of town. We also saw lads, no older than twelve, tucking guns into their waistbands. I told myself they were fake, and I'm sure they were. But it was an unsettling, edgy atmosphere, particularly with all the old sailors flapping around in their flip-flops examining the latest crop of thirteen-year-olds.
Alarms were set for an early start and a flight back to Quibdo the next morning, but hours before the beeping I was woken up by the most violent electrical storm I've ever cowered beneath. I assumed we wouldn't be able to fly, but after a delay of a couple of hours we set off despite the thunder and lightning.
That, I suppose, was the end of the trip. Jamie and I decided to fly back from Quibdo to Bogota, not so much from the threat of being killed by psychotic narco-terrorists, but more because we couldn't face the uncomfortable bus seats again.
After only a week away I've arrived back in a very different Bogota. John has left and Edward, another English chap, has moved in. Jess has also left and tonight is Jamie's last night, so I have to stop writing now and go out to be ridiculous.
