I´m writing this in the town that is widely accepted to be the most beautiful in the western hemisphere - Cartagena de Indias. All around me brightly-coloured buildings are huddled together within the ancient walls that bristle with cannons pointing out over the still, blue waters of the Caribbean.
Despite these pleasant surroundings I can´t help but feel annoyed and thwarted; I totally forgot it was Pancake Day on Tuesday. It´s the third year in a row I´ve done that. It only dawned on me the next day, when I noticed that about half the people in Bogota had ash crosses daubed on their foreheads. I have to admit I found it quite unsettling, a bit like that film about bodysnatchers from outer space. Chris and I were walking down Septima and noticed a freshly-daubed stream of people emerging from a church, so we decided to investigate. The queue of people waiting for their cross was moving remarkably quickly (the daubers were slapping the stuff on like Zorro with his sword) but it still stretched all the way down the nave. It´s a good job Jesus was killed all that time ago - because it would have taken ages to draw a little picture of an electric chair on everybody´s head. The oddest part of the event was the choice of music. For some reason they were playing a panpipe version of Carly Simon´s Nobody Does it Better - the theme, I think, from The Spy Who Loved Me. It was certainly an odd choice, but Chris and I agreed it was the least strange part of the whole thing.
It was while walking through the crowds of becrossed people that I decided to book a flight to Cartagena to meet up with Australian John before he leaves the New World for Spain. Along with Jess and Chappy, he should be arriving at the hostel here sometime today.
I got here last night and turned in early so I could get up early and take photos of the town before it got too busy. It really is a lovely place. It was founded in 1533, but not much of that age remains because of the attacks by English Pirates, including one by Sir Francis Drake in 1586. Unlike some of the other raids he agreed not to destroy the town in exchange for a ransom of 1,000,000 pesos, which was a lot of money in them days, y´know.
I had been warned by friends in Bogota that the street vendors and hawkers were a real problem here, and that I should be prepared to exercise a great deal of patience. However, I didn´t have any problem, because I have discovered the secret of invisibility. One simply needs to walk around with a supermarket carrier bag and nobody notices you. Not one single sunglasses salesman, money changer, guide or beggar approached me, unless I had my camera out of the bag. Even then, I could just pop it back in and they would lose interest in me and wander off to pester somebody else.
Oh, here are some of the words for the cross daubing song. It almost works as something "a-bit-like-Jesus-really", but not quite:
I wasn't lookin' but somehow you found me
I tried to hide from your love light
But like heaven above me
The spy who loved me
Is keepin' all my secrets safe tonight
Oh, oh, oh.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Miss Colombia
Yes, I did miss Colombia while I was England. And I missed Miss Colombia; Sam bumped into her on Monserrate (the monastry on the mountain overlooking Bogota) shortly before I got back, which says a lot about my timing. He was with his brother who had been visiting for a month. He arrived full of filial concern for his little brother living in such a dangerous place (even though he is from Beirut) but had the scales fall from his eyes and left as a new apostle of this wonderful place.It does seem to convert people, Bogota. Many of my friends here arrived, like me, for a few days before deciding to stay for much longer. Others, like Jess from Cornwall, Middlesborough Chappy and Swedish Marcus, go home and then find that they miss the place too much, and come back.
Even though I was missing Bogota, my time in England went all too quickly and I didn't get to see half the people I planned to. I spent a nice couple of days with my sister and her family, even though it seems that my main role as an uncle is to be a punchbag for tiny fists.
That all seems a long time ago now as I sit in the common room of Playpus writing this entry. I'm not staying here, I just popped in to hook up on the wireless internet. I'll be staying at the Pimp Palace in the Sky for a few days before moving into what can only be described as a palace with Jess, Hitchen Dave and American Chris. The new place is right in the middle of the city and boasts a billiards room (with full-size walnut table) two courtyards (one a basketball court) and a baronial style granite fireplace festooned with lions and heraldic devices. My bedroom will be the upstairs ballroom. I know this sounds a little indulgent for someone on a budget - but it's cheaper than my last place and comes in at about twenty quid a week. I'll get some pictures up on here as soon as I can.
Now I have to pluck up courage and make a dental appointment. While I was at home I lost a filling eating a cherry drop while driving too quickly over a sleeping policeman, and living in a place where everyone's gnashers are white and perfect makes me constantly aware of how decrepit mine are. If I ever do meet Miss Colombia I want to be able to smile back at her with at least some confidence.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Picture post
I've finally got round to developing the pictures from my film camera, so here are a few of them.Above is my home, the Croft, covered in snow. Just three days before we'd been sitting in the garden drinking gin and tonics in the sun. (By the way - if you look upwards from the apex of the conservatory to nearly the very top of the trees behind, you can see a small speck. That's the magpie nest I mentioned in my last entry.) Next are the rocks at Shakira, just down the hill from Philipe's vegan farmstead. This is where he comes to drink his home-grown coffee every morning. The view from here is amazing - far, far below the Rio Magdalena cuts through green hills, that have twelve waterfalls cascading down them.
The following are some of the monsters that litter the countryside all round San Augustine.
This is the racing butterfly that came and landed on me while we were walking around one of the archaeological parks. I wonder what happened to the other eighty-eight of them?
This is the pleasant little guest house we stayed at in San Augustine.
Ah, back to Shakira. This was taken from near the rocks where we were sitting in the first picture. I somehow managed to miss all of the waterfalls. That's Chappy on the horse. He's from Middlesborough, him, like.
I think the next four pictures were taken around Salento when we went to visit the coffee finca.
This is the main square in Salento. You can see the mists rolling off the mountains to the right.
Here is the night-time view from the cabin in Taganga. What is incredible is that absolutely nobody in the village pays for their electricity. Everybody just hooks a coat hanger up to the power lines.
This is the beach at El Cabo, in the Tayrona national park, where we spent New Year.
This is Pershore Abbey covered in snow. It once extended to about where I took the photo from, but most of it was knocked down in Henry VIII's dissolution of the monastries. It was all supposed to be demolished, but the people of Pershore had a whip-round and gave the wrecking squad £400 to leave the part that remains today. The butresses were added in 1911 to stop it falling over. I've always thought they make it look like a puppy sitting up waiting for a biscuit.
This is one of my favourite pubs, The Fleece at Bretforton. It's an incredibly historic place - it has one of Englands largest collections of pewter plate and there are designs painted on the hearth tiles to stop witches coming down the chimney. One of the last stories I wrote for the Evesham Journal was my eye-witness account of it burning down. It's since been immaculately restored. My cousin Andy is getting married to Eleanor there in June. 
The following are some of the monsters that litter the countryside all round San Augustine.
This is the racing butterfly that came and landed on me while we were walking around one of the archaeological parks. I wonder what happened to the other eighty-eight of them?
This is the pleasant little guest house we stayed at in San Augustine.
Ah, back to Shakira. This was taken from near the rocks where we were sitting in the first picture. I somehow managed to miss all of the waterfalls. That's Chappy on the horse. He's from Middlesborough, him, like.
I think the next four pictures were taken around Salento when we went to visit the coffee finca.
This is the main square in Salento. You can see the mists rolling off the mountains to the right.
Here is the night-time view from the cabin in Taganga. What is incredible is that absolutely nobody in the village pays for their electricity. Everybody just hooks a coat hanger up to the power lines.
This is the beach at El Cabo, in the Tayrona national park, where we spent New Year.
This is Pershore Abbey covered in snow. It once extended to about where I took the photo from, but most of it was knocked down in Henry VIII's dissolution of the monastries. It was all supposed to be demolished, but the people of Pershore had a whip-round and gave the wrecking squad £400 to leave the part that remains today. The butresses were added in 1911 to stop it falling over. I've always thought they make it look like a puppy sitting up waiting for a biscuit.
This is one of my favourite pubs, The Fleece at Bretforton. It's an incredibly historic place - it has one of Englands largest collections of pewter plate and there are designs painted on the hearth tiles to stop witches coming down the chimney. One of the last stories I wrote for the Evesham Journal was my eye-witness account of it burning down. It's since been immaculately restored. My cousin Andy is getting married to Eleanor there in June. 
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Weather
Coming home for Wassailing was quite momentous - aside from the hundreds of quid I spent getting here. Last year I left Blighty on Wassail night, so coming back for this year's celebration should (you'd imagine) be the chance for some introspective and insightful words about how I have trundled my way through the dozen months in between. (What I've learned, how I've grown, n'all that.) But that doesn't come easily to me, so instead I'd like to talk about the weather.
I woke up this morning to find the world covered in a thick blanket of snow. I won't describe it - just try to imagine everything covered in a thick, white, cold blanket and you'll get the idea. I was very excited - it's the first proper snow we've had in this part of England since the early eighties; when Dad used to tie our sledges to the back of his car and drag us round the lesser-used lanes of the Cotswolds.
It's a shame really - for the past few weeks the weather has been unseasonably warm. The birds have been flying around collecting twigs for nests, squirrels have been emerging from their winter hidey-holes and I've even seen a couple of butterflies. Of course, they're all buggered now, poor sods. Apart from the magpies that is. Last year they nested in a birch tree by the tortoise enclosure, so Dad poked their nest out with a stick (for those who don't know - they are terrible predators of song birds). But now they seem to have learned - they're building their nest at the very top of the tallest poplar tree in the garden. But they'll probably be buggered too after this weather.
The weather on Wassailing night was very pleasant. It was the middle of an English January in the middle of the night, but we all sat outside quite happily. I suppose we all had our cider anoraks on to keep us warm. For those who don't know; Wassailing is about opening a new barrel of cider and then thanking the trees for their bounty. It's a complex ritual, involving several guns, some toast and a virgin. It all went very well, and I have high hopes for next year's apple crop.
My last week in Bogota was unusually warm. Even though I'd just come back from the Caribbean coast I still managed to get sunburnt on the few occasions I left the house. It was a particularly pleasant night when I went to a wedding with Dodgy Dave, from Hitchen. We arrived about three minutes late, and as English people we were worried about being tardy. As we walked in Dave was approached by a stunning bridesmaid in a scarlet dress who told him he was was best man. "Why did nobody tell me?" he asked. She giggled and pinned a rose to his chest.
Later in the evening I won my first ever dancing contest. All the single men at the wedding had to grab a girl and shake their stuff in front of a crowd of baying aunties. I shook mine, and by common consensus my ridiculous wiggling won me the bride's girdle. I was genuinely shocked - all the other fellas were doing all sorts of salsa things and I was just being very silly. But the aunties had their way and I was victorious.
After the wedding I headed on to a friend's club where he was celebrating David Bowie's birthday. I milled around for a while making disparaging remarks about boss-eyed paltroons before going home.
Next thing I remember I was at an airport near New York, and it was snowing. Nothing like British snow, of course, but I appreciated the effort.
And now I'm in writing this in the study of The Croft. It's a good place to pretend to be an explorer. As I look around me I see Nubian swords, ostrich eggs, dried starfish, Ethiopian birthing stools, stuffed birds and one of those fish that sing 'Take Me to the River' when you bark at it. Oh, there it goes again.
I woke up this morning to find the world covered in a thick blanket of snow. I won't describe it - just try to imagine everything covered in a thick, white, cold blanket and you'll get the idea. I was very excited - it's the first proper snow we've had in this part of England since the early eighties; when Dad used to tie our sledges to the back of his car and drag us round the lesser-used lanes of the Cotswolds.
It's a shame really - for the past few weeks the weather has been unseasonably warm. The birds have been flying around collecting twigs for nests, squirrels have been emerging from their winter hidey-holes and I've even seen a couple of butterflies. Of course, they're all buggered now, poor sods. Apart from the magpies that is. Last year they nested in a birch tree by the tortoise enclosure, so Dad poked their nest out with a stick (for those who don't know - they are terrible predators of song birds). But now they seem to have learned - they're building their nest at the very top of the tallest poplar tree in the garden. But they'll probably be buggered too after this weather.
The weather on Wassailing night was very pleasant. It was the middle of an English January in the middle of the night, but we all sat outside quite happily. I suppose we all had our cider anoraks on to keep us warm. For those who don't know; Wassailing is about opening a new barrel of cider and then thanking the trees for their bounty. It's a complex ritual, involving several guns, some toast and a virgin. It all went very well, and I have high hopes for next year's apple crop.
My last week in Bogota was unusually warm. Even though I'd just come back from the Caribbean coast I still managed to get sunburnt on the few occasions I left the house. It was a particularly pleasant night when I went to a wedding with Dodgy Dave, from Hitchen. We arrived about three minutes late, and as English people we were worried about being tardy. As we walked in Dave was approached by a stunning bridesmaid in a scarlet dress who told him he was was best man. "Why did nobody tell me?" he asked. She giggled and pinned a rose to his chest.
Later in the evening I won my first ever dancing contest. All the single men at the wedding had to grab a girl and shake their stuff in front of a crowd of baying aunties. I shook mine, and by common consensus my ridiculous wiggling won me the bride's girdle. I was genuinely shocked - all the other fellas were doing all sorts of salsa things and I was just being very silly. But the aunties had their way and I was victorious.
After the wedding I headed on to a friend's club where he was celebrating David Bowie's birthday. I milled around for a while making disparaging remarks about boss-eyed paltroons before going home.
Next thing I remember I was at an airport near New York, and it was snowing. Nothing like British snow, of course, but I appreciated the effort.
And now I'm in writing this in the study of The Croft. It's a good place to pretend to be an explorer. As I look around me I see Nubian swords, ostrich eggs, dried starfish, Ethiopian birthing stools, stuffed birds and one of those fish that sing 'Take Me to the River' when you bark at it. Oh, there it goes again.
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