Tag: Colombia

I spent my last week in Colombia at a yoga and meditation retreat at Casa de Loto, about an hour southwest of Medellin. Like previous Buddhist retreats, it felt like a homecoming.

On my second day in Minca, I wake up with itchy red patches on my ankles and calves. They come as a surprise because I have sprayed myself diligently and worn my yoga trousers at night, which fit snugly around my ankles. I wonder if I have inadvertently shared my bed with a spider; I have spotted some magnificent specimens nearby. 

In the course of the day, the patches turn into large purple blisters. I count 19 of them. They have no redeeming features at all; they are utterly unlovable. At night, they stay with me under the mosquito net in my hut at Casa Loma (www.casalomaminca.com) and keep me wide awake. The skin on my legs feels like a swearword kind of hot, and shortly after midnight I am so desperate for cooler air that I abandon the protection of the mosquito net to sit outside. I take García Márquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera to distract myself from my predicament, and find myself reading how the (stupid) Europeans on the boat that takes Florentino up the Magdalena river leave their huts at night for the cooler air on the deck, only to meet the morning exhausted and covered in bites. Yep, that’s me.

In the morning, exhausted, I go to the Centro de Salud in Minca. The young local doctor only slightly recoils when she sees my legs, and says it’s a virus. I need to swallow and apply Acyclovir, an anti-viral medication. I pick it up from the pharmacy straight away.

The following night, the skin on my legs feels like the gates of hell; it occurs to me I have not experienced true agony until now (this is delusional, of course). In despair, I raid the fridge in the communal area which is filled with cold bottles of water, and roll them over my skin for what feels like hours, for brief relief.

I wonder if I have the Zika virus, until I look at the piece of paper for the pharmacist and notice that the doctor has scribbled a couple of words at the top: Molluscum Contagiosum. I Google it, of course, and it turns out to be a highly contagious virus picked up through skin contact, shared towels, exercise mats… It can take years to clear.

With horror, I think of all the yoga mats and hammocks I have occupied over the past weeks. And I am staying at Casa Loma which, with its strong communal approach (and shared bathrooms), offers so many opportunities for being contagious! I talk to the staff. When they see my legs, anxiety travels across their faces. When I offer to leave, they don’t protest.

I book a room with private bathroom in a much smaller place outside Minca, to quarantine myself. When my moto-taxi drops me off at the bottom of some long stairs, I feel like I’m in exile; when I get to the top, I find the haven of Sol de Minca.

Sol de Minca is the realization of a family dream to create a Reserva Natural Educativa in harmony with the environment. Six years ago, the family purchased a patch of mountain land which they developed slowly until, four months ago, they were able to open it up to visitors for the first time. The place was designed along the principles of permaculture and bioconstruction, executed with both vision and care. It offers three ‘rooms’, constructed from clay, to visitors; mine is spacious, light and cool. It may have been bad luck that got me here, but I have been lucky to find it.

At Sol de Minca, nobody flinches when they see my blisters. The diagnosis of the health centre in Minca is met with some incredulity: Actually, that doctor does not know very much. At night, an old family friend who is a nurse arrives and inspects the swellings on my leg with a flashlight. She sends some photos to another (more trusted) doctor and he confirms her diagnosis: a severe allergic reaction to bites, with associated infection. The Acyclovir is thrown out, and at 10 pm a moto-taxi runs to the pharmacy in Minca to pick up new medication.

I stay at Sol de Minca for three sweet days punctuated by not-very-sweet leg care. On my last night, I join the family and some of their friends around a camp fire high up on the mountain. Someone has brought a guitar and we sing lighthearted songs in Spanish (well, I hum along). It’s pretty magical, and I am reminded of my first night in Minca, when I sat outside late too, in awe of the sky, the jungle, the view, only vaguely aware (as I am now) of slight pricks on my legs.

That’s when I know, in a flash, that it’s jejenes , or sand flies, that are causing me so much suffering. And that neither insect repellent nor yoga trousers will stop them.

And that, tragically, they have just bitten me again.

Minca sits in the tropical mountains above Santa Marta. I’ve been told it’s ‘cool’, but what strikes me first is its lush jungle beauty, which it wears unpretentiously.

When you drive in (on a motorbike, with your suitcase on your lap), a banner tells you that Minca is an ‘ecological town’. Its tiny centre essentially consists of a curly main street, and the atmosphere is laid back. There are plenty of places to hang out and sip freshly squeezed tropical fruit, or sample chocolate brownies. There is lots of WiFi. Backpackers and locals seem to get on well.

From its centre, Minca shoots out tentacle roads that run along the mountain.  Most places cling to the mountain high up from the road, so the first thing you typically need when you arrive somewhere is to start climbing. I go up and down a lot of steps in Minca.

There are very few cars in the area; the roads are just not good enough. Robust weather has inflicted deep gashes that would quickly ruin the belly of most cars. There is only one means of transport, and it’s motorbikes. In Minca, I surrender to them. I convince myself that the young drivers must know what they are doing, but I do stipulate that I get to wear the (one) helmet, which they agree to straight away. They drop me off exactly where I want to be, and are waiting for me when I want to be picked up again. The journey is the best part.

I visit Finca La Victoria, where coffee beans are still processed through a traditional water-based system. I take the cacao tour at La Candalaria, and am astounded to see where chocolate actually comes from. I walk, too, but how often do I get to sit on the back of a motorbike? I make the most of it.

The mountains around Minca stretch down to Parque Tayrona near the coast. Tayrona (or Tairona) is the ancient land of four indigenous ethnic groups that still inhabit the area. They are affectionately referred to as los hermanos mayores, the older brothers. They view the Gonawindua mountain as the heart of a world that they are taking care of and trying to keep in balance. The Kogui are unique amongst Colombia’s indigenous population in that they managed to escape the worst effects of the onslaught of colonisation by withdrawing into the mountains. 

Until the 1990s, Minca kept close ties with Tairona indigenous groups through yearly gatherings. But all that changed when the town became a flashpoint in the conflict between guerrillas, paramilitaries and cocaine traffickers. Both locals and indigenous people were caught in the crossfire. Many people fled the town, which only became safe to return to about eight years ago. 

I learn all this from a young American woman, married to a local school teacher, who guides me through the humble, extraordinary memorial museum she and her husband have created in part of his family home. Together, we look out over the area where a particularly bloody battle was fought, which her husband witnessed when he was a child.  

Bloggers and backpackers have put Minca on the tourist map of Colombia over the past few years, and it is now a chill town. But the Casa de la Memoria exists to remember the past, including the very recent past, and to restart the programs which once supported positive relationships with Tairona indigenous groups. Just now, the tiny museum is funded exclusively by donation.

Travels are often preceded by PTED (Pre-Travel Excitement Disorder) and my own Pre-Colombia Excitement Disorder was very much focused on Cartagena, Latin America’s oldest colonial city. I strongly disapprove of colonialism but I do love colonial architecture. Whenever, pre-travel, I would hit a low on dreich November days, all I needed to lift my spirits was a photo of a square in Cartagena.

But in Colombia, fellow travellers who have already visited Cartagena temper my ‘can’t wait!!’ expectations. In chorus, they repeat that Cartagena is very hot and very crowded. 

It is true. It takes me a while to figure out how to cross the streets in Cartagena, given the endless stream of cars and the dearth of crossing points. In the end, I apply a technique I was taught in Rome: step off the payment with fierce determination and make clear that nothing will stop you. Essentially, be prepared to die every time you try to get to the other side.

Once I have figured this out, and bought a Panama hat, Cartagena’s beauty begins to reveal itself. Yes, the old town has reached that tipping point where the number of tourists brings out the worst in everyone But neighbouring Getsemaní is less overwhelmed by tourism, more bohemian, and full of the colour and street art I can’t stop talking about.

I am re-reading Love in the Time of Cholera (set in Cartagena), and once I have shaken off the jewellers that move in on you as soon as you enter the old town, I walk to García Márquez’s house near the old city walls and the sea. I expect sign posts, a plaque, perhaps even a literary tour —but there is nothing; somehow, the house has managed to slip through the sticky tourist net. Google has a rough idea where it is, and a guard at the door confirms it. The house is simple but defiantly modern — no colonial architecture for señor Marquez!

Apparently García Márquez used to enjoy sitting in the leafy Plaza Bolivar, where I find the Museo Historico de Cartagena de Indias. ‘It’s not about the inquisition,’ the person who sells me a ticket defensively informs me, unasked. I know why — I, too, have seen the online reviews that complain about this.

In the 17^th and first half of the 18^th century, Cartagena was Latin America’s biggest slave port. According to the former director of the Colombian national archives, over 1.1 million captive Africans entered the docks at Cartagena de las Indias, and many were sold on what during colony times was called Black Square, and what is now known as Peace Square. A tour of Cartagena narrates the history of slavery through 15 memorial sites. 

The Museo Historico highlights the city’s Declaration of Independence in 1811 as a key moment in Cartagena’s history.  An assembly in Cádiz, Spain, had agreed to full citizenship and equal rights for those of pure Spanish descent (the criolloelite)but not for pardos, the multiracial descendants of Indigenous Americans, Africans and other Europeans.

In the struggle for independence, Pedro Romero, a mulatto blacksmith , became a central figure. When, on 11 November 1811, Cartagena’s Council was debating the choice between increased self-governance and radical independence, Romero led his Lanceros de Getsemaní, a largely black, working-class militia group, on a march to the plaza outside the palace, ready to demand independence by force. This was a turning point, and later that day, Cartagena became the first place in Colombia to declare absolute independence and full equal rights.

There are no portraits of Pedro Romero at the Museo Historico because none were ever made. Today, the vast majority of the population in Cartagena is of African descent (up to 78 %, according to some sources), but the city only recently had its first black mayor.

Every travel should contain some bliss and bliss is doled out generously at Dos Aguas Lodge, which sits on the far end of the beach in Rincón del Mar.

The sea water is warm, la playa muy tranquila. The sunsets are out of this world and lend themselves well to the company of a Guaro Sour or similar, prepared by the shy bar man with tender concentration.

Bliss arises in more unexpected places too. Like recognising a kindred spirit in one of the giant sloths casually dangling from a tree branch in the nearby tropical dry forest. You can pooh-pooh sloths all you like but they are the only creatures that safely navigate the spikes that many of the trees have grown to protect themselves against wildlife. As a result, the sloths have the treetops to themselves.

Then, the glory of the almond trees — I did not even know almonds grew on trees! Or the genius of the mangle, or mangrove, an ecosystem supported by filtering tubes and tiny crabs. Mangroves are great carbon scrubbers and on a dreamy canoe trip, our local guides express their wonder and enthusiasm for them in the way other guys might talk about a world cup football match. Where Scotland wins.

Colombia has the second highest degree of bio-diversity in the world, after Brazil, and in Rincón del Mar I begin to catch a glimpse of it. I particularly love the baby pelicans practising flying in formation — they are still so very small and already have such admirable focus. Birds of prey are everywhere. On a dawn walk I also see parrots and toucans.

On the night of the new moon I sign up for a boat trip to see bio-luminescent plankton. The plankton sparkles at night, due to a chemical reaction, apparently, but in this case I don’t want the detail. Let there be some magic. In the water, tiny lights scintillate with every move you make: it’s like being a swimming fairy. We are far out and, what with my comfort zone being so small, I have to push myself into the dark sea. But once in the water, I look up: the number of stars covering the night sky is stupendous.

Rincón del Mar is a fishing village with a few dusty streets populated by playing children and adults watching a small world go by. Affluence is absent, but even the most humble homes are painted in unabashed colours and seem to have at least one boat at the back. There is one timid little hotel in Rincón del Mar, as well as few hippie-ish hostels, and improvised restaurants in people’s houses. No cars, apart from the food delivery van. 

One day, I take a trip to the San Bernandino islands. We moor at Isla Mucura first, where Javier, a serious young boy, strikes up a conversation (thus becoming one of my many Spanish teachers) and shows me around the Pueblo. He doesn’t want any money for it. On Tintipan, the sea is Caribbean blue and the locals make the most of it. At 1 pm, lunch is served for everyone on the beach at the same time. And everyone (including me) gets exactly the same: two freshly caught fish, a deep-fried corn thingy and a smidgeon of salad. Everyone eats it together, companionably, at wooden tables.

So there is my bliss: slowing down with the locals. And also with the not-so-locals blissing alongside me at Dos Aguas Lodge, as we eat supper together at night (all the same meal too, but vegetarian and sustainable).

Today the UK officially leaves the EU, three-and-a-half years after the 2016 referendum. 

In 2016, a referendum was held in Colombia as well. Like the EU referendum, it was advisory, aroused strong feelings and divided the country. Each side accused the other of disinformation and manipulation of the media. The ballot paper contained a single ‘yes/no’ question:

Do you support the final agreement to end the conflict and build a stable and lasting peace?

In Colombia, too, the referendum result was unexpected: just over 50% of voters rejected the peace deal. The ‘no’ vote was strongest in Colombia’s cities; in rural areas and small towns, a higher proportion of people voted ‘yes’.

Perhaps in contrast with the UK, the Colombian referendum was preceded by four years of research into the conflict, including many meetings between guerrilla leaders and members of the Colombian government.  And, in marked contrast with the UK, the referendum result was not treated as final – the referendum had, after all, been advisory. In response to the rejection, new consultations were held and adjustments made to the treaty, the final version of which was signed in November 2016. 

The deal aimed to mark the end of a conflict that, according to our guide on a tour of downtown Medellín, goes back to the country’s birth in 1810, when Spain’s two-party system (liberal and conservative) was transplanted to Colombia. Poverty, inequality and the international business of cocaine have all been major players. In the second half of the 20^th century, successive governments, left-wing guerrilla groups, the military, drug traffickers and millions of ordinary Colombians all became embroiled in an escalating struggle akin to a war that put Colombia on the world map like a blot of black ink.

At the heart of the conflict sat a drug war lord whom Colombian tour guides refuse to call by name, referring to him instead as ‘the guy’ or ‘the infamous criminal’. For almost two decades, Pablo Escobar squatted on Colombia with, amongst other things, unimaginable amounts of money, at least 500 mansions dotted across the country, 50 airplanes and a private zoo.

In 2020, Colombians refer to their country as ‘post-conflict’. The war is over; the peace process ongoing. Progressive politicians like mathematician Sergio Fajardo (elected mayor of Medellín in 2003, and governor of Antioquia between 2012 and 2016) have promoted change through urban innovation, local democracy and a strong emphasis on education. Bogotá recently elected its first woman (and openly gay) mayor, a member of the country’s Green party who campaigned on a platform of equality and change.

But Colombia’s new president, Yvan Duque, campaigned against the peace agreement and sits in the ‘iron fist’ tradition of his predecessor and mentor Álvaro Uribe. My Spanish teacher talks about how recent assassinations of social leaders in rural areas have been all but ignored by the current government. She is one of the 1.3 million Venezuelans who have settled in Colombia in recent years. Not that long ago, Colombians fled to Venezuela to escape the violence in their country; these days, more than 4,000 Venezuelan immigrants cross the border into Colombia every day.

Post-conflict, Colombia is a country in flux. It is also full of small acts of kindness. Muchissimas gracias! I keep finding myself saying to Colombians I meet along the way. Con mucho gusto!they reply cheerfully. And I know that they mean it.

Comuna 13, one of Medellin’s largest and poorest districts, sprawls on a mountain slope and is open for business. And not the business of cocaine, as it was 25 years ago, when it was reputed to be one of the world’s most dangerous spots.

Comuna 13 expanded throughout the 20th century on waves of poor immigrants. Strategically located for the transport of cocaine and weapons, it was infiltrated, ‘groomed’ and largely controlled in the 80s and 90s by FARC and other guerilla groups. Disappearances, shootings and killings were commonplace. No tourist in their right mind would have ‘visited’ the area in those days.

In 2020, tourists happily make the trip up the mountain; Comuna 13 has, by all accounts, been transformed. And two things played a key role in that transformation: transport and art.

Until just over a decade ago, the only way to reach Comuna 13 from central Medellin (or vice versa) was through a long hike across steep narrow paths, covering the equivalent of climbing 80 floors. Urban mobility – or lack of it – separated and isolated Comuna 13 from other parts of Medellin, not just geographically but also economically.

Then, early this century, architect Carlos Escobar, one of Comuna 13’s residents, proposed a bold (and expensive) solution: instal a cable car system. Many people thought that was crazy! But Medellin’s then-mayor, Sergio Fajardo, was a man with a vision, and the first cable car line was built in 2006. It has since expanded to six lines, and scaling the whole mountain now takes six minutes.

Medellin’s next major, Aníbal Gaviria, shared his predecessor’s vision and took it a step further; he supported the construction of an outdoor network of electrical escalators in Comuna 13 – the first of its kind in the world. Again, expensive. And crazy! But the mayor went ahead, and a set of long orange urban escalators was installed in 2011. Yes, they do look a bit out of place. But their impact has been huge, particularly for children and older people, and the system is now being rolled out across other parts of the city.

The other source of transformation for Comuna 13 was art. Clutching to a steep surface, Comuna 13 never seemed to have much going for it, but a programme of urban renewal has made the most of an unlikely resource: its walls. Medellin’s local government has been actively involved in supporting local artists to bear testimony to the history and spirit of the community, by funding public murals documenting Comuna 13’s past. The resulting urban art is powerful and stunning. Art galleries and coffee places have popped up around it; tourists love it, and bring in money. I am one of them, savouring an empanada accompanied by an espresso with lemonade.

‘Why call it graffiti rather than street art?’ I ask the passionate young journalist who is our guide on a graffiti tourof the area. Because of their meaning, he replies. Each mural tells a story, contains a message, arcs back to the trauma of recent history, points towards a different future. 

On the day I visit Comuna 13, the area feels busy, vibrant and culturally rich. The people are warm and welcoming, and impromptu hiphop performances keep erupting next to street food stalls. Can cable cars and graffiti transform a community once dominated by violence and cocaine? In Medellin, it does seem possible.

Guilt-free asparagus in January, because yes!, it grows here. Surprisingly nice with quinoa bread.
Empanadas. So bad for you yet so good.
Everything corn, but especially arepas and tamales, for breakfast, lunch and supper.

Painted croissants (well, they paint everything, so why not croissants?)

Tons of tropical fruits that I have never met before, not even in Waitrose. Often just the right balance of slimy and crunchy inside. The locals love lulo.

Paisas (inhabitants of Medellin) also love:

• Bunuelo: deep-fried pork belly (and everything deep-fried).
• Mondongo: tripe, pork and chorizo soup. I have tried it. What can I say? Wild. But might have been tasty if I hadn’t known about the tripe.
• Ice cream or hot chocolate con queso (and cheese with everything)
• Espresso topped up with lemonade (nicer than you’d think)

Sometimes food is delivered by a solo bot. I very nearly tripped over this one.

Two other happy Medellin facts: all tap water is completely safe to drink, and there are no mosquitoes. I have tested the latter scientifically in a sleeveless vest, at dusk, near water and shrubs (having forgotten one of the 7 bottles of insect repellant that filled up half my suitcase). Didn’t get a single bite and am now stuck with the 7 bottles.

Also, did I mention that the temperature in Medellin is always somewhere between 17 and 28 degrees 🙂 ?

There are so many good reasons to travel, and one of my favourite ones is colour. Maybe because I live in Edinburgh.

Colour abounds in Colombia, and Guatape is one of the places where it peaks. It feels like everyone here likes colour so much that they went a bit overboard, and the result is so happy and frivolous that it’s tempting to whistle your way up and down the streets of this small town a couple of hours east of Medellin.

The colours of Guatape are fresh, and sing, and tell stories.

A bench? Let’s paint it (and why stop at one colour?)

Tuktuk? Let’s go for a million colours!

As we approach Guadape in one of these kaleidoscopic vehicles, we almost crash as our driver overtakes at hair-raising speed and only very narrowly slots in again. Is he on cocaine? And do we care? The sky is so blue;  if we’re going to die, a psychedelic tutktuk may not be the worst place to do so.

Why has Guadape embraced colour so much? Perhaps it’s got something to do with the fact that its neighbouring town, Peñin, became the casualty of a hydraulic dam in the 70s. If a whole town can disappear down the lake, why not paint this one so brightly it would be visible even under water?!

Just outside Guadape stands something very un-colourful: a giant rock. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the black bruise on my nail that also refuses to go away. It is simply known as la piedra, and it used to sit there doing nothing. But then someone with an entrepreneurial hunch bought it for an insignificant amount of money, perhaps 2000 pesos, carved 649 steps out of the side, and opened it up to tourism. That man is now laughing all the way to the bank.

But the view of the land and waterscape below is fabulous.