After arriving back from Medellin it seemed Christmas was just round the corner. Bogota had emptied out completely, it seems everybody here has a second home somewhere on the coast or in the hills, and there they all go for the festive season. I think even the homeless fellas must have weekend boxes somewhere, or ditches in the country. It's strange that everyone clears out, because with the absence of crowds (and bedecked everywhere with lights and tinsel) Bogota is the most remarkably Christmassy place.
Almost as soon as I got back Dave and I made a start on sorting out the Christmas lunch, our preparations turning into a 72-hour drinking and peeling session. There was a lot to do, we were expecting more than 20 people. As it turned out there were closer to 30 guests, but the food went round OK. We started off with a cold sideboard of pickles, nuts, olives, meatballs and asparagus wrapped in parma ham. The main course was turkey and beef fillet, with sprouts, roast potatoes, caramelised onions, roast turnips, carrots, stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce. This was followed by bread and butter pudding then a giant platter of cheese and biscuits. The eating turned into dancing, before dissolving into a drunken game of jenga – and all the while there was plenty of laughing and a fair bit of flirting. I never imagined Christmas could be so much fun without the Queen's Speech.
After recovering for a day or so Dave and I headed out to catch a bus up to the north coast, where John, Nicole and Chappy have been soaking up the sun since before Christmas. We were quite doubtful if we would be able to find a bus, because the migration to the coast continues into the new year. On the way the taxi driver told us that there had been a bomb near the bus terminal. We asked him if many people had been killed. He looked at us in the rear-view mirror and with a resigned grimace said: “Many”. Nothing more than that – it really made me wonder how people can be so resigned to violence here. But at the same time I heard myself think: “Oh good, there should be some free seats then.” That made me feel rather callous.
The journey was about 20 hours, most of which passed by in sleep. While I was awake I was again struck by the sheer beauty of the Colombian countryside. It's got everything. One moment you're in a lush green river valley with Hereford cows grazing under stands of trees, the next you're winding through dense jungles.
Santa Marta, the bus's destination, is a scruffy seaside city with a real end-of-the-pier atmosphere. It's the oldest town in Colombia, founded in 1525, although today it's difficult to spot much of historical interest behind the bustling commerce and cheerful crowds. Appropriately, it being Colombia's answer to Blackpool, it was where Simon Bolivar, the Great Liberator, chose as his place of final rest - he died there in 1830 as a penniless 47-year-old who had seen his dream of a Gran Colombia shattered.
From Santa Marta it was just a ten minute taxi ride to our final destination, Taganga, where John, Nicole and Chappy were waiting for us. Because Dave had lost his mobile phone on the bus, we had no way of getting in touch with anyone to find out where we were staying. Even though Taganga isn't the biggest fishing village in the world, it was crammed with people, mainly Colombian, and most of them from Bogota. We decided our best option was to sit tight in a bar and wait for them to walk past us. We did this for a few hours until we realised that we had been sitting within 20 yards of them all the time.
Throughout that time I noticed that I'd been getting some funny looks off people. I was quite baffled until Dave pointed out that I was the only person on the beach in the heat of the midday sun wearing pajamas and carpet slippers. Even the Tayrona Indians were gawping, and they wear big pointy hats.
The gang couldn't wait to show us the place they'd booked for us. In fact, you could see it from the beach; a large traditionally-constructed cabin on the hill, with a tall conical thatched roof and a terrace looking out over the village. The price wasn't too bad either – about sixty pence a night each.
We didn't get settled in the cabin that night – we had an invitation to a friend's house for a barbecue. Marco, from Malta, is a scuba diving instructor who has settled in Taganga and built his dream home. I met him in Bogota where he went in the off-season to do a bit of teaching a save up for some more building materials. His house is a cabin, similar to ours, set on the side of a very steep hill, dotted with giant cacti, like the ones on cartoons. What makes it quite exceptional is that it's built on a giant concrete terrace, constructed by Marco. This involved carrying thousands of bags of cement up a rough stony slope and getting it mixed and laid before it went off in the hot sun. Just thinking about such an incredible labour of love brought me out in a sweat. It's a lot of concrete.
A few days passed in Taganga not doing a great deal of anything in particular. I spent a fair bit of time picking ticks off the dog, Pitchy, who lives on the end of a short bit of rope attached to the door of the cabin. The understanding was that we would feed him while we were there, but we also been took him for walks and let him off the lead to join us on the terrace, where he liked to stick his head through the railings and watch the village below with a hawk-like intensity. Because I'd taken my laptop with me we spent a few lazy afternoons sheltering from the heat watching the Simpsons. In hindsight it seems terrible considering that we were only a couple of minutes away from a Caribbean beach heaving with buxom bronzed beauties.
After a few days of getting used to the pace of life, we headed off to the Tayrona national park to prepare for our New Year's Eve celebrations. The entrance to the park is about an hour and a half from Taganga, but when we got there we found about half a dozen friends from Bogota waiting there, all planning on walking to the same campsite. After a two-hour walk through the jungle we reached our destination, El Cabo, and were immediately greeted by our friend Philipe, the vegan farmer of San Augustine. Then some Swedish girls we know appeared, and then some Bogotanas . . . and so on until we found ourselves with a party of about 25 for the festivities, which began immediaely, in earnest.
I've always wondered if people get so silly on New Year's Eve because the changing of the year emphasises the shortness of life and the importance of enjoying every moment. If this is the case then slinging a hammock under a coconut tree can only add to this effect. Every now and then you'd hear a resounding thud as a nut fell somewhere in the camping area. Judging by the sound they made (something like distant field artillery) they would easily crush a skull. But everyone carried on as normal, and I think the thought that life could so easily be snuffed out in such a silly way gingered up the festive atmosphere. We certainly got very silly. The night-time sortie into the jungle to collect firewood was especially ill-judged, particularly without a torch or sandals.
I discovered that I was quite severely cut, bruised and grazed the next morning, which didn't seem to matter too much as two coconuts had landed within yards of my hammock. Dave actually did get hit in the head while he was sleeping, and although it was only a very tiny coconut it did give him quite a lump.
It took a full two days to recover from the party, and I was still stiff and sore as we walked back to the park entrance. By this time my main complaint was a festering cut on my foot, caused by tripping over a fallen tree in the dark. Thinking about it now it might have been one of the trees that I had dragged from the jungle to put on the bonfire. It's all a bit of a blur now - I'm just glad that the coconuts didn't get me.
After our hammock swinging in the park it felt like luxury to get back to our bamboo and palm-frond cabin, where we spent a few days mired in the most incredible laziness. We felt quite pious if we mustered the energy to walk to the beach to buy a fruit juice in the early afternoon. But we still managed to bump into even more friends from Bogota, and so we didn't even need to leave our terrace to have a lovely sociable time.
All that seems like a long time ago as I write this on a chilly evening in Bogota, where I arrived back early this morning. It's nice to be away from the blazing sun and the insects and back in a place where I can wear my pajamas without fear of ridicule.
This is Popayan, which I think is the most elegant town I have visited in the New World.
Again, Popayan.
This is how the Indians in the south of Colombia dress. In the north the Tayrona Indians are completely different - they dress all in white with pointy hats.
The countryside around Salento was even nicer than around San Augustine. But everywhere you go in this country there are amazing vistas.
This is the old chap at the coffee finca we visited.
And these are his grandchildren. Really, they must wonder about the one on the left. It's about six years since they opened their farm to foreign visitors . . .
As well as the coffee, Salento is also the place to go if you really must see the tallest palm trees in the world.
This is up in the slums of Medellin. Just incredible how happy everyone was up there.
This is the cablecar that travels over the city.
Nicole will probably hate me for using this picture - but it's the best shot of the view from our cabin in Taganga. And that pose is great.
This is the beach at El Cabo, in the Tayrona national park.
The picture was taken from here, were we camped. You can see just how far those coconuts would fall before landing on your head. I never knew such terror could lurk in paradise.
The threat of instant death brought out the hedonist in everybody.
