Adios Popayan

It was back to Mana for desayuno worhy of a King, repentant or not.  Mercifully, the senoras had forgotten to turn on the Christian Pop until just before I left.  Thiis time I departed to waves from all three senoras, lots of "con mucho gusto' and other enthusiasms.  I thiink that the commonly held opinion is that one or two more of these meals and I could become a potential convert.  

Popayan is an old colonial city, like Cartagena.  Unlike Cartagena, the old city is not a tourist zoo.  This is a busy, bustling city center with a morning rush hour and long queues for the banks and school offices.  One watches one's step here, or there may be an impromptu meeting with a scooter or bus.  Becasue it is a busy commercial and university center, it is also not as sleepy as the Cartagena's old town, and the air is a littly foggier here with bus and scooter exhaust.  All things considered, Cartagena is the more scenic tourist experience and Popayan is the real thing, warts and all.  

I will miss my busy parque, the best one yet.

Not everything is fun and games here.  This equestrian statue on the hill affords great views of the city.  However, according to Lonely Planet "robberies are quite common here...."   This view was corroborated without prompting by my host at the religious museum.  She pointed to the hill and said it was "Muy peligroso" and that I should not venture up there.  While I was tempted for a moment, I decided that it was not worth provoking the Travel Gods just to prove a silly point.  

So, adios to Popayan and Buenos Dias to San Agustin.  It is a five hour and very slow bus ride today.  Time  to strap on the pack and get moving towards the terminal.

  

Popayan Walkabout

I did not awaken to the throes of food poisoning, for which I was greatful.  The dodgy chicken in yeterday evenings street food had apparently passed me by.  To the Travel Gods I am grateful, as always.  I decided to do a small penance and have a hearty veggie brekkie at a place recommended in the Lonely Planet guide.  I found the place easily enough, Popayan being an absolute grid of a colonial town.  

The day was getting even better as I managed a few complete sentences of Spanish and it appears that they were actually understood.  Progress!  The tiny cafe was a bee hive of activity as the three senoras behing the counter were cooking up a storm.  And it was a storm of hippie food.  The cafe was also awash in Spanish Christian Pop music.  Even though my Spanish isn't good, I can pick out the overly sachrine sound of Christian Pop anywhere.  The "Jesus Christo Saves" t-shirt on my senoras back was another dead giveaway.  Regardless of what crazy sect of dogmatics these women were, they could cook.  Here is the daysunos del dia:

Ensalada de fruita, Chocolate, and quinoa something of other with amazingly good chip things.

Mana Cafe.  That might have been a clue, huh?

Today was supposed to be a walk-about day that focused on museums.  Great idea except.... today was also a Monday.  One does lose track after extended travel.  First stop was the cathedral where LP said there is a tour up to the bell tower and some other cool stuff.  Mondayy, no tour, so I made up my own.  Spanish Colonial catedral, your usual stuff, images of lots of people suffering immense pain while casting their eyes heavenward.  

Following up om a theme, I went to the Museo Arquidiocesano de Arte Religioso.  Situated in a well preserved colonial mansion, this museum houses nothing but religious art from the region, including paintings, altar pieces, garments and sacramental items.  There waas some discussion with the gate keeper, but when he was convinced that I really was willing to spend the 5,000 peso admission fee, even if it was a monday, things sprang into action.  i was guided through the museum by the curator.  It quickly became apparent that my host, a very dignified Colombian woman, was almost enraptured by the items we were viewing.  This was not an act.  I got into the spirit of the thing and waxed enthusiastic about some of the pieces, displayed a modicum of knowledge and interest, and from there we got along swimmingly.  In fact, I had a great time gleaning what I could from her erudite Spanish, getting a lot more of the gist of things than one would suppose.  The llimited context helps, of course, but I am certainly hearing more Spanish than I can reply to.   

A painting of St. Jeronimo, famous for his leaps of faith.

(Seriously, i enjoyed this museo immensely)

This piece was my favorite.  The silver work on the globe, el mundo, was spectacular.

My host and I viewed each gallery.  I believe it would have been an affront to miss anything.  There were examples of the sublime and depictions of the truly macabre.  Particulary disturbing was a gallery of all of the apostles.  Each painting showed a martyred apostle, eyes heavenward, while in the corner of each painting was a graphic depiction of the method of martyrdom.  There was Bartholomew being flayed alive, Peter being cruxified upside-down, saints beheaded, saints sawed in half, truly nasty stuff.  

I bade my goodbyes and my thanks and left the icons in the care of my host.

Back in the bright sunshine, it was time to take in some outdoor sights.  I headed down to the river and the two old colonial bridges, litterally the Big Bridge and the Little Bridge, built to connect the colonial city to the poor community to the North.  

Standing on the little bridge looking at the big bridge.  I noted that this might be a good hang out spot for later, but now it was time for some lunch. 

Lonely Planet describes La Fresa as "A grimy corner store.."   Well, count me in.  I ordered a plate of empanadas de pipian, which equates to six little empanadas, home made by the senoras, and served with a fiery peanut sauce.  Thailand meets Colombia!!  This was great!  I washed lunch down with a malta, a wheat based soda.  i have never had anything like it.  Not like beer, not like soda, and its supposed to be good for you.  It certainly tastes good and washed down the fire quite well.

After a siesta spent watching the birds down by the river, I headed back to the ancient colonial hostel for some agua and a break.  My timing proved providential, for the afternoon rains announced themselves with huge rolls of thunder and then flashes of lightening.  For the first time on this trip, I was home and under cover when the rain started.  I very much enjoyed watching the deluge from the perch of my huge old window.

Like clockwork, the skies cleared and the rain abated.  There as some more dining at yet another fine little cafe, and then I headed off to my appointed bench in the parque to while away the evening with a book and a cigar.  I was even treated to a crazy little concert of street performers doing some retro street cabaret.

My parque by night.

Where there is a square, there must be a church. It's the rules.

And on the evening's bill of entertainment.....

Now I am safe in my hostel with the three old dogs, the musty smell of the years past, and another small rain storm adding a soundtrack in the background.  Tomorrow I will be heading over the mountains to the valley that holds San Agustin, one of the most important archeological sites in Colombia.  

  

  

  

Random Travel Notes Tres

Here are a few of my random obserations gleamed from traveling in Colombia.

There seems to be a certain class of Colombian caberllos who are enveloped in sadness.  Given the vibrant and colourful life exhibited by most Colombians, this sadness is remarkable.  The only connection between these dolorous gentlemen seems to be their manner of dress.  This is the clue.  I will see a gentleman coming down the street or crossing a plaza.  He will be meticulously dressed in a well-cut business suit complete with proper tie and often with a matching handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket.  The rest of his grooming will be up to the par of his dress; well trimmed mustache, proper haircut, etc.  And, inevitably, this man will exude a palpable cloud of what can only be described as mourning.  Each of these men seems worthy of a short story.  I wish I could stop them and ask what has happened to them.  Death, tragic love, a failed fortune?  I do not know, but I continue to see men of this ilk and they fascinate me.

Colombia is swarming with policia.  They are everywhere and of all types.  There are the National policia, complete with Aussie-style bush hats.  There are city police, traffic police and tourista police.  Working their way up to becoming real policia, there are the auxilary policia, boys so young that they are not allowed to have weapons.  These are often the kids walking around the square or plaza while I am enjoying the evening.  The policia, in general, are very helpful if one is a tourist.  They are also, to an individual, very proud of Colombia.  They almost never fail to ask me how I like Colombia and are very pleased when I respond that "Colombia es muy bueno, muy bien."  While very cordial to me, I have seen the policia stopping and searching young guys on a fairly regular basis.  I have also seen many young guys smoking ganga, the skunky aroma of which is never too far away.  Drugs are still a big issue here in Colombia, despite the decline of the cartels.  

Colombia can be a very silly place.  As evidence of this, I submit the photo above.  I am staying in a colonial house in Popayan.  To say that this house is old is to lack imagination.  Age seeps out of this place.  One could hole up here and write novels that would feel as if they were written in a time before the idea of flight became a reality.  But, back to the silliness, the only way this tiniest of padlocks would keep anyone's belongings secure is if it was endowed with the magic of one of the characters from a  Latin American surrealist novel.  

If you love birds, Colombia is your country.  I have given up on the idea of going somewhere to birdwatch.  The damn birds are right here.  They don't realize that touristas are up in the Ecoparques looking for them.  I spent a good part of today's siesta sitting by the river.  There was a flowering tree next to me, a large tree perhaps fifteen meters tall.  It was filled with birds.  I saw saffron finches, vermillion flycatchers, heaps of tanagers and literally more than a hundred humingbirds.  

In a Colombian colonial town, life is lived behind the walls of the buildings, two-story buildings whose walls come right to the sidewalks edge.  There is no such thing as a front yard or a front porch.  The lives of the building go on inside them, in courtyards secluded from the street.  This is so unlike SE Asia where life is lived fully in the open, oftentimes directly in the street itself.  This air of solitude can make walking down the quiet evening streets seem like walking down the corridors of a fortress.   

Colombia is a land of vast and varried terrain.  There are the heat-drenched mangrove swamps and beaches of Los Indias, where Cartagena swelters.  The Andes cuts through the western third of the country, from South to North, with the end of the mighty mountain chain dying in Colombia.  There are many volcanoes here, and frequent earthquakes.  Here in Popayan there was a massive earthquake in 1983.  The locals were just getting ready for the very important Maundy Thursday procession when the earthquake struck, killing hundreds of people.  To the East of the montanas there lie vast tracts of Amazonian jungle.  There are even pocket deserts nestled against the eastern slopes of the Andes.

I will not travel through large sections of Colombia.  Such is the nature of this trip.  I still have some days left in Colombia and I look forward to what they will offer.  Ecuador beckons, however.  And I am nearing the border, ever so slowly.  

The wind is picking up now, and the afternoon thunder is starting to echo over the town.  The rain is moments away.  Let it rain.  I am safely tucked inside thick colonial walls, writing this entry from what feels like a time machine.  Huge echoes of thunder now.  It will rain, and it will rain hard, and then the night will be clear and cool.  I will sit in the parque and while away the evening with another Gabriel Garcia Marquez story, immersing myself in his surrealism and magic, stories that are so familiar and comforting to me.  

Popayan

My bus luck continued in that I was whisked to a waiting bus and, besides numerous opportunites to do so, I did not die.  I drew a single seat near the back, which makes bouncing over the speed bumps a lot more fun.  Our driver was of the cheerful maniac variety, passing on blind turns with a nonchalant sort of glee.  I believe that he derived a certain pleasure from taunting death in a moderate way and then getting away with it.  

We climbed out of the sugar cane fields and then back up into the mountains.  It was just another bus day, with vendors on the road, toll booths, crazy traffic on hairpin turns.  Just another day.

Road vendors.

I arrived in Popayan, a fine example of a Colombian Colonial town, minus the tourists.  Except for just enough tourists to fill up the few hostels in town.  I ended up in an old colonial house with an ancient senora for a host, a senora that does not speak a word of English.  Starving, I dropped my bags, had a cold shower, and hit the streets for some food.  And this time, I may have screwed up.  There was this sandwich stand, with these nice folks, yes?  Everything looked good, yes?  So I ordered up a sandwich and hung out while the senora cooked it.  Everything seemed fine, clean, all the things one looks for.  

Preparing my sammy.

Brascada Bocadillo!  What coud go wrong?

Looks good, yes?  And it was until i got to the middle and realized the the chicken fillet in this massive sammy was under-cooked.  Way under cooked.  Bummer.  I had already eaten a good bit of it, so I just pulled it out, performing a sort of pollo-dectomy, and finished the thing.  The evening has progressed and I feel fine, but this one might bite back.  Tomorrow will tell.  And that, Chicos y Chicas, is why we never ever leave home without the gastro antibiotics.  Hopefully I won't need them.  

I spent the early eveing enjoying the skaters in the square.  Popayan is a University town, so there are lots of young folks running around.  There were some really good skaters being watched over by a Policia hombre who was no older than they were.  An excellent coconut bun made the evening complete.  

My brother landed this cleanly, in case you were wondering.  

 

Para Ascender

Up early, that was the plan.  Up Early and then up the mountain to Tres Cruces, the Threee Crosses that sit atop the small mountain or very very big hill to the West of Cali and directly behind the hostel Iguana.  Well, one thing led to another and what with the good company in the garden it got sort of late-ish before my head hit the pillow.  So, not the earliest of starts.  And checkout time is 11:30, hence I became a man on a mission.  No brekkie (this would manifest itself) a few coffees and off I went.  A few twists and I found the trail, mostly because it seems to be a Sunday ritual for the Cali folk to climb to Tres Cruces.

The Calianos in their bright workout gear made route finding a snap.

So, the day was warming quickly and the trail, well, it was basically straight up.  I don't think the Colombians have really grasped the idea of a switchback.

Ah, a bright sunny morning and getting brighter by the minute.  Maybe a slightly earlier start?

Cali is down there in the valley, steaming away already.

The radio and cellular antennae do detract a bit from the majesty oif the Three Crosses.  But the little Colombian ants marching up the hill are sort of cute, yes?

Climbing, climbing, climbing.  I could feel my blood sugar dropping because guess who skipped even a bite before heading out?  Yes, the silly Gringo.  At least I had plenty of water.

At the top.  Didn't die.  

Queueing up for Juice with all of the other Colombians

Gringo Camarone Loco.  Give me the fruit sugars and no one gets hurt.

So, Cali, the hill, a rock, you get the idea.  I bounded down a lot more quickly than I had trudged up and was back at the hostel in time for a shower, some more coffee, and the last bit of packing.

Adios to Iguana and off I went in a metered taxi, heading for the bus terminal and hence Popayan, where I am now.  All went well, but there is more to tell.  Ciao for now.  

Chasing Untamed Waterfowl

It wasn't that I really needed anything, particularly cigars, and it wasn't as if I had been sedentary all day.  I hadn't.  Many kilometers of Cali had passed beneath my feet this day.  So what I suppose I needed was a challange:  find a cigar store in Cali.  This might sound like a fairly low-grade sort of challenge, but just you give it a go one time and see.

There were rumours that another branch of my faithful La Casa Habano existed in Cali.  Vague blog entries on some of the cigar websites mentioned the possibility that La Casa Habano Cali appeared every other full moon, first on one corner of the city and then on another.  Roman, my pal at the Iguana Hostel desk, was happy to participate in the hunt, probably because it was hot and he was bored.  He found an address and I, in turn, found the location of the address, which was near the Dann Carlton Hotel.  Of course, when in doubt, look near the Euro-hotels.  

Setting aside my lounging time in the hostel garden, I set out once more for El Centro.  Retraacing my steps of this morning, I ended up down by the river and the Euro-hotels.  With the the help of one of the local constables I got myself within a block of the mysterious address.  And there it was.  The address that is.  There was no sign of the cigar store.  I had the right address, double-checked it, and still no store.  I doubled back around the block, just to be sure, then I threw myself on the mercy of the concierge  at the Dann Carlton.  Yes, there had been a cigar store there, or maybe there would be again, but not now.  The taxi captain pitched in and asked what I wanted.  Habanos?  No Problema.  He snapped his fingers and My Guy zipped up ready to assist.  In for a penny, in for a peso.  I hopped in the cab and off we went.

Heading back towards the hostel and past my favorite Cali fountain.

Regardless of what the final bill was, the meter was on (always a good sign) and we were headed back towards the hostel in a general sort of way.  Worst case I would just be paying for a ride home.  We swung to a stop at Calle 12N and piled out.  My Guy was on the hunt just as much as I was.  I spied a window with hookas and other smoking stuff and, voila', puros in a case.  And a chain around the door.  Cerrado.  So close, but so far.  Back into the cab and My Guy wheeled us North, pulling over at 14N in front of a fancy liquour store.  "Habanos Aqui?" sez I.  He made the appropriate maybe-yes, maybe no face complete with hand gesture, so I paid him off including a solid tip, he gave me his card and we parted amigos.

Inside JR Licores, I was treated with great deference.  They whipped out the humidor and indeed it was full of cigars.  Lovely fake Cohibas.  I asked how much they were and My New Guy smiled proudly and said "Dias Mil".  10,000 pesos.  About $5 US.  These cigars were as false as Dick Cheney's smile, but a decent cigar, even a fake cuban, is better than no cigar, or so my logic went.  So I bought five of them to amuse myself and to call the mission a success.  By the way, I smoked one today in the square in Popayan this evening.  It was pretty bad.  

I ambled back the few blocks to the hostel and enjoyed a quiet evening in the company of a few fellow traveler's.  I do love the garden at the Iguana, one of the finest yet.  Tomorrow will bring what it brings, includig new digs in a new town, but too much time travel in the blog just confuses everyone.  As far as you readers know, I am still in Cali.  

Cali Walkabout

First there is coffee at the hostal.  Good thick Colombian coffee.  Then its time for walkabout.  A new town to explore.  I have a mapa, I have a pocket full of pesos, and I have things to see and do.  Desayunos!

One dollar for a papaya half that will make you doubt reality.  Walking brekkie at its best.

I wandered through the quiet Saturday morning boulevards, aiming for the river and points South.  Tanagers darted about in the trees, the shade was delicious and the morning was bright.  Along the West side of the Rio Cali I followed the park past the historic district and into a neighborhood of glitzy highrises.  I crossed one of the bridges and the trail became a sculpture park with statues of cats lining the path.

A walking city indeed.  I crossed the river and headed up steep hills, making for the Pargue de Aguaducte.  Here there were sweeping views of the city and the obligatory statue of a famous dead guy.  This dead guy was Sebastian de Belalcazar, the founder of Cali.  After a falling out with his boss, Pizarro, Mr. B headed North to found Popayan and then Cali.  He and his cohorts brought many, many slaves to to Cali to farm the sugarcane and cotton plantations.  This was after a lot of killing and enslaving of the local populace.  Nice fella.  The population of Spaniards, indigenous folks and slaves led to the incredible mix of cultures and races that became modern-day Cali.

Belalcazar pointing back towrds the Caribbean.  "You guys go get more slaves..."

I walked the hills of the park, passing through a picturesque portal, and emerged on the top of the hill at Inglesia de San Antonio.

The church on the hill over barrio San Antonio.

The view from the top, looking down on Cali.

As i was walking through the park, I saw some great grafitti.  There was one image, however, that I could not comprehend.

I am not sure what is going on here, but it cannot possibly be good.

Dropping down the hill into barrio San Antonio, I was immersed in white colonial streets, narrow and quiet, with a few people going about their business.  The lovely smell of brekkie cooking wafted out of a cafe and sucked me in.  Papaya is wonderful, but it was time for something more substantial.  Huevos and good bread and jugo fresca, with coffee, $ 2.50.  

I walked an entire two blocks before I found My Cafe.  There was a big poster of Gabreil Garcia Marquez on the wall.  The name of the cafe was Cafe Macondo, a clever reference to the imaginary village that GGM invented for Love in the Time of Cholera.  I was hooked.  The Cafe doubles by night as an art house movie theater and jazz bar.  The espresso was exquisite and the muffin-brioche thingy with the fruit sauce was divine. The greatest revelation, however, was the listing for the upcoming movies.  Cine de Malos, the Films of the Bad.  As in Bad-Asses.  Scarface, Taxi Driver and Clockwork Orange on the same bill!!  Holy Shit!!  If i was an ex-pat in Cali, this would be MY SPOT.  A man is judged by his cafe as they say and this would be mine!

Cafe Macondo

The fare

My Cafe

The Film Bill.  I could watch a movie here every night.  Jim Jarmusch!!!!

Thoroughly caffeinated, I was ready for a little culture.  Next stop, museums!!  First was the Museo de Oro.  Tiny by comparison to the Borgata museo of the same name, i still got a glimpse of the incredible amount of gold that was here in Central and South America and which drove the Conquistadores mad with greed.  

Oro, oro y mas oro.

I followed up the gold with the Museo de Anthropologia until I had had my fill of pottery and burial methods.  I headed out into the historic district, whitch always includes a church and, in this case, many, many pigeons.

There was more walking and now under a ominous black cloud.  I had learned my lesson in Manizales and sought cover sooner rather than later.  Sure enough, the first three drops turned instantly into a deluge.  Hah!  i was already under cover.  

Rain Delay!!

The morning was done and the rain continued in a light drizzle,  I puddle jumped my way back to the hostel, changed into dry clothes and sought the refuge of the covered garden for a siesta smoke.  It would not be the end of the day, but it will be the end of this blog entry.  Many miles to go Chicas, many miles to go.