Cartagena, City of Wonder

Post date: Jul 24, 2010 12:55:10 PM

To put into words… Cartagena, a city of romance, decadence, and history. The nightlights on the old fortress walls radiate kind illumination. Original stones, carved from coral rock, are still mortared in place. From all over the world people come here. It is a bustling city by day and a festival by night. Its own brand of gravity permeates one’s consciousness, and one cannot let go. As the guide said, it is a “magical, mystical, and surreal city.” It is steeped in saga, folklore, and myth. San Felipe castle overlooks the city and once peered far into the ocean to see Spanish galleons plowing through the Caribbean, prepping the cannons of war. The original city wall still stands, and it is open to the public to walk atop of, and can think of fewer nicer places for a romantic evening with an exotic princess. The lights, the water, the sense of antiquity and pride of human accomplishment. Spanish Colonial architecture towers the quiet cobblestone streets, with New Orleans-ish balconies looming above, draped in ivy. One feels here the words of the Colombian Nobel Laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez coming alive. A sidenote: I heard he was fond of the whorehouses here.

The tourists have easy access to cocaine and marijuana, as evidenced by the offers from salesmen, each with his own style, standing on every corner. They have claimed their corners and stand there day in and day out. The police are tolerant enough to not engage the activity so long as no disruptions of peace occur. It is economically beneficial to them because it creates a non-punitive cultural reputation that attracts more tourists, hence contributing vast portions to the local economy. It is good business. I saw virtually no police force, except maybe one mild disagreement between a man and woman, and that was easily dispersed. I saw only one ambulance in a week. Things seem to operate okay without much legal enforcement. Then again, I could use more information on the other aspects of the government. It would also appear that all of the drugs are from the same source because there is no gang fighting; either these are highly respectful drug dealers, or they are simply all on the same side. I also learned from an Argentinean that the narcotraffickers employ only beautiful people, that they are a rich subculture who own many of the businesses in Colombia, especially the clubs, and undoubtedly have strategically positioned officials within the government. One local said that he had never seen a guerilla, and that they are probably isolated to the remote mountain regions. Cartagena is as safe as any other city; it is up to you to make the wise decisions. I roamed the wall at night alone. There was no alley in which I felt targeted. Maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m confident, maybe it’s actually safe here… who knows?

I thoroughly enjoy conversing with the locals, especially the “rough around the edges” types. One local described to me how he was in prison for five years in Texas for dealing drugs to a friend who turned out to be a cop. He expressed to me his desire to return to the United States to see his three children again (he was deported after his prison term). He learned to read and write in that prison. He said it is easy to slip onto a cargo ship, hide between the crates, then hop off at the port. He said you must choose carefully; one time he hopped off in the Dominican Republic, thinking it was Miami. He said this time he will pick his ship with the help of the internet, and that he knows how to get Mexican IDs to help him with becoming legal in the United States. As a drug runner, he also said that the Mafia are smart. Very smart. They pack the drugs into the ships in tight nooks where the dogs cannot smell.

I saw a small, black man dressed only in shorts sitting beside a manhole that looks too small for a man. But the man was streaked in muddy residue all over his body, giving me the impression that he was crawling into that pipe. He was barefootedly climbing through the pipe like a contortionist to unplug clogs, inspect for corrosion, kill rats, replace pipe, and who knows what else. They were performing this work in the middle of the night, and you could barely tell that they were city employees. Tearing up a sidewalk at midnight with people practically walking on them on their ways to and from clubs is not uncommon here; all repair work is done at night, much like road construction workers in the states. I would have loved to talked to this sewer rat. I saw for the first time rats sprinting from sidewalk hole to sidewalk hole on opposite sides of the street. I guess it’s even more common in New York City. Cockroaches also lurked about at night.

Many homeless here, but wealthy citizens from all over Colombia to vacation here. The guy who planned to sneak back to the states said there are few, if any, homeless shelters or food lines here. He says the United States is very good in the way it treats its poor. He loves the U.S. The homeless here are the same as everywhere, sleeping in places people don’t want to go- under the bridges, in alley alcoves, in the garbage heaps lining the river. The Eredia River flows into the ocean through Cartagena. I saw many little fish jumping and feeding under the Eredia Bridge, and wrappers and bottles would float by above them. Around the bend, in a slack water area, garbage had accumulated. Homeless were nearby. I attempted to talk to one, but he seemed to think that I wanted something from him. He said, “hotel?” Did he think I wanted to show him my hotel room? Prostitution is a means of survival for some. I had asked him if he always slept under the stars. He didn’t quite get it, so I said bye.

I am so attracted to the stuff people shun away from. I could do social work here with the homeless, I suppose, if I learned Spanish. I’m sure being bilingual with a college degree would go far in this country.

I love the markets. The vendors stack their fruits decoratively. 90% of all prices everywhere are negotiable, which is fun but tiring after awhile. I have bought no souvenirs to date. That would costly and my bike has no room.

I love the people. They are some of the friendliest, funnest people yet. Of course there are some hard faces here, but that is to be expected because a Cartagena life is not easy. Apparently it’s hard to get a job here, as in the U.S.!

Colombian women have their own look, and it is the most beautiful look I have seen in any of the Latin American countries. I think it’s their eyes. One in particular, with whom I toured my first castle ever, the San Felipe Castle, who showed a surprising similarity to my philosophy. We discussed the virtues of good health, the pattern of human development, and the importance of suffering in the balance of a good life. She’s 19 and almost as smart as me! She taught me merengue.

The castle re-confirmed my dream to have my own castle. Not necessarily to wage war, mind you, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, right? Especially for you believers in the fast-approaching “End of Days Tribulations.” The castle was solid and built in the 1600s. They built much of it from coral rock, which floats. That would nice to carry, but it seems like a weak substance to hold a lot of weight, and I imagine is busts pretty easily under cannon fire. Were the builders lazy? Perhaps there was a lack of more solid stone, or maybe it is stronger than I think. It’s not how the Inca would do it though. There are unlit, winding tunnels leading to nowhere within the bosom of the castle. They are slaughter chambers. Unexpected alcoves lurk here and there- perfect ambush points, and when the intruder reached the dead end, they could be trapped, set on fire, or whatever. There were also gates above the tunnel through which one could pour boiling oil. The vantage point of the castle was ideal for surveying the ocean and countryside. Had I my sword at the time, I surely would have been making a fool of myself.

Matters of technicality: It was a pain getting the paperwork for the motorcycle. So much so, I document it purely for the sake of documentation. The day we anchored at the Cartagena harbor, we were supposed to meet a fat, red headed German by the name of Manfred, who the Customs officials all new as “the fat Gringo,” to complete the import papers. He was late, we didn’t have the bikes for inspection because the Captain said we didn’t need them. They closed that day before we could complete the process. Next day, we bring the bikes, but the person to sign the papers wasn’t there. So, two days later, we finally get the papers we need (by we, I mean my Belgian rider friends, Rob and Karmen). That set the pace for me to stay in Cartagena far too long. Then it was the magnetism of the city, coupled by friends I made here, that kept me one day more, then one day more, then one day more, until now, 8 days since my arrival to South America.

I also decided here my route. I learned it’s the dry season in the region I want to ride through from Cuzco to Manaus, and in spite of a Frenchman’s warnings (never trust a Frenchman’s words of caution- he’d prefer to smoke in a café until death), it looks like that’s my route. I also heard enough bad about Venezuela to verify my safety concerns there. I found a website page showing the road I’m taking, that was worrisome, but I believe the pictures were during the rainy season. http://acidcow.com/pics/10404-trans-amazonian-highway-another-very-bad-road-65.html Besides, it’s only a short portion of that road I’m taking, and it looks like there are more towns on that stretch than the rest of the Trans-amazon highway. Not much info out there on that road’s condition. Not many riders tackle it, but some have said it is definitely possible. Also, the pictures confirm that there is traffic regardless of the conditions, so there would be people to help if I needed them.

About hostelling and travelling and meeting travelers from other countries: Besides the countries I’ve visited, I’ve met a Canadian, Slovenian, German, Swede, Dutch, Belgian, French, Spaniard, Australian, New Zealander, Israeli, Argentinean, Brazilian, Irishman, Brit, and more. It is my opinion that none of these people are fair stereotypical representatives of the countries to which they pledge their allegiance. It does appear that Europeans and Australians and New Zealanders travel more than Americans, but extended travel people, which make up the bulk of the tourists I meet, are not exactly “normal” people. It takes a little more daring, a little more curiosity, and a little more love of people than the average person to take long trips like these.

It has been a blast spending time with Rob and Karmen. I was surprised to learn that they decided to take this trip together after only 3 dates. They became engaged during their trip, while in Georgia. After they hit Argentina, they’re returning to the U.S. Rob says he wants to tackle the Trans-Siberian highway next. Sounds tempting alright. They are a loose, fun-loving couple with rough senses of humor, much like myself. They are taking on the Venezuelan route to Manaus. We may reunite in Belem, Brazil for a ride down the coast.

Gather round, children! It’s time for Gary’s silly thought of the day: I don’t like how we panic when he realize the time. It makes little sense. Why is there any sense of urgency at all? It doesn’t much matter. Things need to be done at certain times, yes, but there is NO reason to panic. Panic hurts, but it is argued to be a lesser of two evils, the other evil being inability to survive. How does one become comfortable where one is at every given moment? The only time-pressure we feel is self-imposed. I have mastered self-imposed urgency. My bosses like it. I’ve been rewarded for it. The question is whether one can be speedy and efficient without the suffocation of time-panic.

Travelling has its cliché moments. You meet all these truth and experience seekers, and it becomes so mundane. It’s like, “Oh, wow, another unbelievable, magical sight. Gee, that’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.” It’s like your neurotransmitters become habituated to the sensationalism of the experiences, thereby diminishing the returns. Psychology is economics. Economics is psychology. Religion is economics as well. It’s all about balancing between “yes” and “no” and “more” and “less.”

Today I escape Cartagena’s love of Gary. Today I ride for Medellin!