Kidnappings, drugs, burglary and highway robbery, not to speak of civil war, are perhaps not a recipe for a relaxed holiday and my news that I was going to Colombia, was greeted with disbelief and horror. And yet. You can be mugged and stabbed on top of a London bus, killed by intruders inside your pricy home, have your wallet lifted or your car broken into and nobody is surprised any more. But when does one read something positive about Colombia and if not, why not?
The fact is, it is a scenically stunning country, virtually off the tourist track, peopled by the warmest, most outward-going people. The Spanish conquistaderos came here in the 16th century to conquer the native Chibca indians. They remained until Simon Bolivar, known as the Great Liberator, threw them out in 1819 but 300 years of Spanish rule are not that obvious when you look at Colombians.
The women are exquisite, honey-coloured skin, glossy dark hair which almost never turns grey or white. They have tiny waists (lots of bare midriffs here) and small feet, shod in the latest designer boots with the highest heels and pointed toes. The men, who are on the small side, don’t swagger but they are decidedly macho in their bearing.
Brave the local traffic and you will find that the faint-hearted don’t even get into first gear. The capital, Bogota, is built on a straight grid system with avenues of eight or more lanes and bus stops right in the middle (accessed by pedestrians via overhead bridges)for the new Trans Millenium buses, designed to unsnarl the legendary traffic jams.
Rules of the road? You have to be kidding! You can overtake on either side, the nominal speed limit is totally ignored and if you were James Bond, you would have a distinct advantage because you could take off vertically and leapfrog the car in front.
As it is, drivers practise a finely calculated game of one upmanship: You may be four abreast but if one car pulls a couple of inches abead, he is the winner. He goes first! Major pot holes make for major swerves too and a momentary stop (while everyone leans on their horn) will bring hordes of bottled water, cigarette, icecream or lottery ticket vendors or possibly someone will hit your wheels with a stick and inform you that your tire pressure is too low, in exchange for a few pesos.
People are desperately poor with no state back up to save them from starvation and anything they can invent to earn a few pennies, is worth a try. The poor are not only the have-nots, of whom there are plenty, but the displaced who have fled the war-torn areas of this huge country, three times the size of France, because, once the guerillas have knocked on your door bearing a chicken with the request, “Make us some soup”, the poor cook and her family are instantly marked for reprisal by the military. It is a no-win situation, although the current popular president, Alvaro Uribe, is pursuing a seemingly successful, zero tolerance policy against crime whether it is committed for political or social reasons.
The guerillas, FARC, a marxist led movement and other disaffected factions have waged war in Colombia for over 30 years. They have their hideouts in the partly impenetrable hills and mountains of the high Andes which run the length of South America and form the imposing backdrop for much of the country. Trying to find guerilla enclaves is similar to finding needles in a haystack.
But their whereabout are often known by the government forces and as we travelled along Colombian roads, the very frequent presence of armed soldiers - all baby-faced 18 year old conscripts doing their two year military service - increases exponentially, until someone is cradling a lethal weapon every few yards and then there was a roadblock and our bus was stopped. Everybody out - women to one side, men spread-eagled against the bus for a body search, sniffer dogs inside the bus. They don’t appear to consider that women terrorists also exist even though, when we left Bogota for the first time, to spend a couple of nights in the small holiday development of Carmen, a few hours’ drive across the Andes, we were warned not to draw attention to ourselves by speaking English or sporting a visible camera. The previous year a handful of merrymakers were shot dead at point blank range after a (guerilla) girl had infiltrated the party and lured one of the young men away.
None of that you would guess from the demeanour of the hospitable locals, as we enjoyed the giant, rustic barbecue that night. Melt in the mouth beef - after all, this is cattle country - marinaded in beer and always, always served with the hottest spiciest salsa - a total impossibility for a non-Colombian to eat and the best, waxy potatoes, cooked with their skins in salt water and then heavily sprinkled with salt. Reminded me of pre-barbecue childhood bonfires, with potatoes baked in the hot ashes.
New Year’s Eve often sees a whole pig roasted, traditionally and lamentably after the pig has been slaughtered in front of the assembled guests. Fortunately, our celebrations were only underpinned by that most hearty of Colombian soups, Sancoche, into which go chicken, yuca - which tastes like sweet potato - plantain, corn, normal potatoes and much else. You start off with a bowlful of the flavoursome broth and then follow up with a plateful of everything else. Beer accompanies most food and something disgusting, sweet and non-alcoholic called la Colombiana for wimps and children. Also, of course, frequent tots of Aguadiente (literal translation: burning water) and deceptively innocent tasting ‘home-made’ Chicha (a fermented corn-based alcohol) served in coconut shells.
Food appears at the strangest and most irregular of times. Breakfast might be arepas, a cornmeal, water and cheese pancake - eaten much like we eat bread - and coffee, followed by lunch at four and dinner at 1am. Usually only one course but there is no playing with food. Everyone tucks in heartily.
If you are out and about, there is also tempting street food, like empanadas - delicious little vegetable-filled fried pastries - more arepas, foot-long, transparent bags of cheesy nibbles and more fruit than one can imagine. Apart from bananas, plums, grapes, oranges, mangos,pinapples and papayas,etc there are fabulous exotics,like grenadilla where you eat just the pips or physalis which cost a few pence a kilo. Everything gets juiced too and it makes one groan at what passes for fruit juice in England.
Colombia has a Pacific as well as a Caribbean coast to which we flew to spend a few days in Cartagena, one of THE beautiful towns of the world and probably the only Colombian destination known to foreign tourists.
An old Spanish colonial port, it is the setting for Gabriel Garcia Marques’ magical novel, Love in the Time of Cholera. This is also where the Spanish first landed slaves from Africa.
The old town consists of narrow streets of candy-coloured houses with grilled windows at ground and first floor levels. Restaurants, cafes and boutiques, with stunning interiors, offer trendy clothes and local crafts and, for foreigners, everything is really cheap. The main course in a fancy restaurant will set you back £5, a pair of all leather fashion boots £25.
Only horsedrawn carriages can negotiate (some) of the old town’s streets but runners will hurry ahead to hail a taxi to take you back to the super modern hotels which abound on one of the other islands which make up this town and are connected by bridges.
The only Englishman with a reputation here is Sir Francis Drake. And he is seen as a villain because he was one of the pirates and buccaneers who sacked the city in 1586! Two years later, he saw off the Spanish Armada outside Plymouth.
Street life here and in other towns is colourful and lively. Not only are there competing musicians in the squares where diners and drinkers sit until the early hours in the balmy nights but any number of highly original entertainers, mime artists, clowns and dancers perform for your pesos.
This delightful idea - that to entertain is to please, extends into surprising areas. At Bogota airport we had Joseph, crook in hand with a pregnant Mary on his arm, walking slowly and meditatively around the cafe area just before Christmas. Catching a flight to Bethlehem?
And when we took the little train shuttling around the national park in the coffee growing region, there, strutting along the platform, was a couple dressed in 1920’s fashions, who jumped aboard when the train arrived and then played jazz for the duration of the trip.
The living statues take you unawares. We posed for a photo, leaning against one, a man draped in flowing robes, only, disconcertingly, to find him moving! It turned out he was a demonstrator for human rights who proceeded to tie a narrow red, yellow and blue band ( the Colombian national colours) round our wrists.
Colombians love to party. They dance at the drop of a hat and throw themselves body and soul into their own free-style renditions of salsa which would win any competition in England. And find yourself in any group and everyone starts singing. Traditional songs, the latest hits, who knows. But they know the words and they join in with ernthusiasm.
This gusto for life, for participating in everything, extends to one of the most endearing features of the Colombian character: a remarkable and touching ability and desire to engage with fellow humans in other, perhaps less fortunate, circumstances. Passengers talk animatedly to taxi drivers, water vendors are thanked warmly for their offers, beggars are not treated with disdain or contempt but as honourable people down on their luck, to be supported if at all possible.
My own ‘leave me alone, don’t importune me or try to sell me things I don’t want” was sadly at variance with the magnanimous demeanour of the Colombians around me. Burglars, of course, are not welcome and homes are, disconcertingly, fenced off with heavy steel barricades behind which even the cars are parked. Right inside the house and in our hosts’ house, right inside the living room!
New Year’s Eve found us near Armenia. Not the country bordering Russia but the principal town in the coffee growing area. Colombia is the world’s third biggest producer of coffee and there are thousands of acres of dark green bushes bearing berries, which turn red when ripe and contain the beans. The bushes are overplanted with tall plantain palms to provide the necessary shade from direct sunand in December, the bunches of plaintains were, incongruously, shrouded in blue plastic bags, to protect them from insects.
This region, Quindio, west of Bogota, is a favourite holiday destination. Small surprise since it has the lushest vegetation of flowering bushes, trees and plants which we, in England, try to keep alive as houseplants. Here in a plain between ranges of the Andes, everything grows in profusion. Temperatures are high, 80 - 100 F, and it is mainly humid but it cools off at night because of the altitude.
I don’t know about hotels but renting a finca - a farmhouse - is one way of doing it. Off the beaten track assumes new meanings here, since made up roads petered out many miles from our holiday home and memories of London speed humps, became tiny pimples in one’s memory, compared to the ups and down of these tracks, which threatened to topple our bus.
The finca itself, like most of the bigger local houses had overhanging pillared verandas on all four sides, so that there is plenty of shade from the sun, as well as ubiquitous fans overhead. The regulation swimming pool kept us refreshed and there was a small pond in which a couple of excellent fish were brought in on a length of cane, a piece of string, and a hook with something tasty on the end. They were barbecued that night.
Fish in the pond were a better bet than the alligator which was discovered in the swimming pool in Carmen. It had strayed from the nearby river! Not a crocodile but if it bit you, you might not wish to argue about the differences!
Driving back to Bogota across the Andes, our bus made a detour to take in the only snow-covered peak in this area. In fact, it was a volcano which had erupted 20 years ago and killed the 20,000 inhabitants of a town that lay below.
Snow is a rarity for Bogotanos, so a couple of hours extra corkscrew bends with vertiginous drops on the side, were of no importance. Nor did it matter to the driver who drove for 15 hours with only a few very short breaks. Health and safety does not seem like a known concept here and as for time, well that has a completely different meaning in Colombia.
How long was the projected driving time likely to take from beginning to end? Five hours said the driver. Eight hours said someone else. Eleven said another. Fifteen was what it took.
So, when making a date to meet a Colombian in a certain place at a certain time, allow a couple of hours’ leeway either side! All rendez-vous should be prefaced by “English time or Colombian time?” but here, we were with a sizable number of fellow travellers on Colombian time and things escalated from the sublime to the ridiculous.
But then, what did it matter? This attitude of enjoying every minute of the day, of not being slaves to discipline, if it did not drive you up the wall, was very seductive. And we were seduced by enchanting people living in a really stunning country.
