Assassin Bug

One thing I had been hoping to see in Colombia is an assassin bug. I had seen this video before leaving the US. It's about wheel bugs, which are closely related to assassin bugs.

In the last two months I had seen a lot of hemipterans, but upon inspecting their mouth parts I had found that they all lacked the rostrum (syringe-like beak) of the assassin bug– until today. I was standing on the platform of a metro station taking photos through a window, when one suddenly lighted on the glass in front of my very eyes!

Here you can see the bug's rostrum.

And here the rest of its body is in focus. Next I want to see one of these bugs carry out an assassination.

Small Things

I'm working on acquainting myself with the fruits that are available here but not in North America. One is the guayaba (guava.) One good thing you can do with it is make jugo de guayaba (guava juice.)

First you hold the fruit in your hand.

Next you slice it. Notice that the inside is pink and the outside is greenish– sort of like a tiny watermelon.

Then you put the guava chunks in a blender with sugar and water. Other fruits are good too. Next time I'd like to try putting a maracuyá (passion fruit) in there as well. After you blend it, it's good to pour it through a strainer into a pitcher. This will remove the vast quantity of buck-shot-like seeds.

This house looked good.

I've been paying a lot of attention to gutters recently, and this one is home to by far the best flora of any I've seen in all of Colombia.

Cartagena

After waking up late on Thursday, April 5th, around noon I finally got to the Santa Marta bus terminal. Fortunately, a bus for Cartagena was about to leave in 20 minutes and it only cost $24,000 COP, which is less than I thought it would cost. Unfortunately, the windows on this bus were covered in some kind of decal such that one's view to the outside was almost completely obscured– only a narrow strip of glass at the bottom of the window was unobstructed. For some reason covering windows, windshields, and other view ports of vehicles with decals, curtains, paint, or other opaque materials is very popular in Colombia. In my opinion the best thing about bus rides– and the only reason I can tolerate them, is to be able to watch the scenery outside. On this bus if I contorted myself enough I could see a small patch of pavement beneath the window. This bus ride was only about 5 hours, though, which is much shorter than some of the other rides I'd been on.

Some hours later we arrived at the bus terminal in Cartagena– which is about an hour outside the city center by taxi. I got out of the taxi near a hostel that had been recommended to me, but it was completely booked; there wasn't a bed available. This is something that I had never heard of happening at hostels before. I asked if there were any other hostels in the area. I visited several only to discover they were also booked solid! I finally found an extortionately priced hotel nearby but before resigning myself to stay there, I used their internet to look for any other hostels anywhere in Cartagena, or even surrounding towns with availability for that night. But there was nothing. It never occurred to me to make reservations before hand, but Cartagena is indeed the most popular tourist destination in Colombia, and Semana Santa must be one of the busiest times of year for tourism. I reluctantly agreed to stay at the extortionately priced hotel.

It occurred to me later that using CouchSurfing could have provided another way to avoid the problem I encountered– since then I have been using it.

That night I tried to make the most of the situation– I walked around the old city and had some street food, including patacones and Jugo de Lulo (juice of this fruit.) I went to bed early with two plans in mind for the morning: I would see El Museo Naval del Caribe (Caribbean Navel Museum) and El Palacio de la Inquisición (Palace of the Inquisition) and at 9:30 I would call the hostels to see if any guests had left. I told myself that if a hostel was available at a reasonable price, I would stay another night in Cartagena, but if my only option was the extortionately priced hotel, I would get on a bus for Medellín.

The next morning I discovered that at least breakfast was included in the hotel's extortionate price. I ate with a New Yorker who was on a two-week vacation from his finance job. He was very friendly and we enjoyed chit-chatting. After all the effort I had made to try to distinguish myself from the other Gringos in Colombia, in a lot of ways his style of travel wasn't all that different from mine.

Then I went to the museums I wanted to see and discovered that they were both closed for El Viernes Santo (Good Friday.) The guard of El Palacio de la Inquisición was friendly and proudly demonstrated the few words of English he knew. I told him in Spanish how glad I was that I had come to Cartagena on a holiday when everything was closed, because it gave me the opportunity to see these interesting processions that congested all the streets:

At 9:30 and again at 10:00 I called several hostels to see if any guests had left, but they were still full. I would leave later that day for Medellín. So I spent the morning walking around the old city of Cartagena.

I walked all the way around the old wall.

There seem to be little fossils in the stone they used to build the wall.

Here's some information about the wall.

Here's the wall again.

This guy was frying up some huge patacones and putting cheese on them. I ate several. 

I regretted having done such a poor job of seeing Cartagena– especially after my fiend who used to teach there had given me such good tips on what to see and do. But I have an unswerving tendency to accidentally do everything the most backwards way possible.

Then I got on a busitica that goes from the center of Santa Marta to the bus terminal, which takes about an hour. I fell asleep on this busitica and when I was prodded awake, we had passed the bus terminal and I had to walk about a mile through an unsavory neighborhood to get to there; I didn't know at the time that this would be a recurring theme.

The bus to Medellín left Cartagena at 3:00 pm. I wasn't sure exactly how long it would take, but I estimated 17 hours. Every few hours we would stop at some tiny village and the bus conductor would turn on the lights, wake everyone up, and make sure everyone who needed to exit or enter the bus  did so. At around 4:30 the next morning I noticed what appeared to be Medellín out the window. I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last several hours, but I remember this part clearly: we drove in a circle around the Medellín bus terminal, but did not stop– instead we drove back up into the surrounding mountains. At this point I assumed there must have been some other stop the bus driver had forgotten to make and that we would soon make our official stop at the Medellín bus terminal. Afterall, if they had made that much to-do about stopping at all those tiny villages throughout the night, I couldn't possibly miss the stop at a big city like Medellín. So I drifted back to sleep.

The next thing I knew, the bus conductor was prodding me awake to ask me where I was going. I told him Medellín. He said we passed Medellín two hours ago, and now the bus is headed for Bogotá. He insisted that he woke everyone up at Medellín and three passengers exited. He even woke up some passengers sitting next to me to try to make them vouch for his story. They just starred at him bleary-eyed. I tried to find out when the next stop was, or how I might get to Medellín. A few minutes later he spotted a bus from the same bus company driving in the opposite direction. He flagged it down, asked if they were headed to Medellín, and instructed me to climb aboard. Two and a half hours later I made it back.

Taganga and Playa Grande

After having an ambitious adventure over the past few days in Buritaca and facing less than desirable consequences, taking a less ambitious day-trip appealed to me. One potential destination was Taganga. It's close enough to Santa Marta that I could go there and come back quickly– I wouldn't get stuck having to spend the night. Most sources of tourist information describe Taganga as a dirty, trash-strewn beach full of old hippies and floating debris. But nearby (maybe within walking distance?) is Playa Grande, which I had heard is cleaner and quieter. So I got on a busitica headed for Taganga.

The bus took us past dry, scrubby trees through steep hills overlooking various tiny peninsulas and beaches. I talked to a few people on the bus and after unloading at Taganga I found myself hiking on a trail to Playa Grande with a group of 3 Colombians (two from Barranquilla and one from Tolima) and a middle-aged, French, retired couple.

You wouldn't want to miss your footing on the trail.

This is Playa Grande. It's smaller than the name suggests. I rented snorkel gear and saw a lot of fish and coral. I also swallowed a lot of sea water. There was this kitty who lurked at the snorkel gear place:

There were restaurants on the beach where they had a lot of fish and it was reasonably priced. Again, you pick out a raw fish and then they cook it for you. I wish I knew the names of these fish:

This time my ideal coastal meal was fulfilled! I got an entire fried fish, patacones, cabbage salad, and finally– arroz con coco!!!

There were young kids playing a frantic cumbia on some percussion instruments and the beach was within view. Things were pretty good.

I decimated the fish:

But remains like those I left behind are a treat for this kitty:

The police really drive these:

After returning on the busitica to Santa Elena, I found a street vendor selling water coconuts:

Then that night I met these Brazilians.

I planned to make my way to Cartagena the next day. I had received in depth advice from a friend who used to teach there, so it seemed I couldn't go wrong.

The Mystery of Buritaca

I had spent the past night perusing the internet and a variety of guide books at the hostel, and talking to the hostel guests and staff. I was trying to find out about Buritaca. A guy back in Medellín had explained to me that of the many beaches in the vicinity of Santa Marta, Buritaca was the place to go; that it's where El Rio Buritaca (The Buritaca River) empties into the Carribean and where a small town (also called Buritaca) has been built. It's a name that's easy to remember because it sounds like some combination between a burrito and a taco. (I should point out that both burritos and tacos are in fact Mexican and are not commonly found in Colombia.) But my investigation of the previous night had revealed very little– only where I could catch a busitica (little bus) that allegedly passes by Buritaca– whether the bus would stop there was something I would have to find out. I also posted on TripAdvisor regarding this pursuit.

At the intersection of Calle 11 and Carrera 11 in Santa Marta there indeed was a little bus whose luggage-handler/passenger-recruiter assured me could take me to Buritaca. I sat in the shot-gun seat, but the bus was so crowded that soon another guy was sharing the seat with me. He was wearing some kind of indigenous outfit that consisted of a white poncho tied at the waist, a brownish woven sholder-bag, wavy black hair down to his shoulders, and a white cap shaped like a tall frustum. He spoke some language into his cel phone that was clearly not Spanish. I tried asking him the two questions I know in Quechua. He was not at all impressed, but patiently explained to me in Spanish that he was speaking Arawako (Arawak.) I knew from years of being a nerd that Arawaks once lived all over the Caribbean, but as this guy told me, they now only live in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada which is an isolated cluster of tall, snow-capped mountains near Santa Marta. He had learned Spanish as a child in a school in Santa Marta, but his people live independently, practicing agriculture and foraging, deep in El Campo (the countryside;) an 8-hour walk from the nearest road. I couldn't solicit from him what he was doing in Santa Marta or why in particular he had learned to associate with the Urbanos (non-indigenous Colombians), but he said the tourism industry was encroaching on his homeland. I know there's a lot of coal mining taking place there too– and I wonder if his people have any legally recognized right to their land or if they're being forcibly displaced.

Our conversation didn't last long before he became annoyed with me and moved to another seat. I thought I had taken the following photo stealthily, but he clearly saw me take it. Unfortunately, the photo doesn't quite capture the guy sitting next to him, who was cradling a fighting cock in his arms.

There was also some nice scenery along the way:

The bus indeed stopped at the town of Buritaca, which has two components: along the roadside and along the beach. Because I had a voracious appetite I ate at a restaurant along the roadside. First the guy at the restaurant showed me a fish they had on hand:

And then he fried it for me:

This was a bit closer to my ideal coastal meal. The fish was spectacularly tasty– but it was still overpriced and had regular rice instead of arroz con coco. After eating, I paid $1,500 COP to ride on the back of a guy's motorcycle for a few miles along a dirt road to the beach.

After arriving on the beach I went about looking for some kind of sleeping arrangement. The options available are either an overpriced hotel, or camping. At the camp ground one can rent hammocks or tents. There's a patch of sand underneath trees, next to a sort of stagnant pond where you can pitch your tent or tie up your hammock.

They also had this strange lighting system– which was crucial for me because I had left my headlamp at the hostel in Santa Marta! (I was able to recover it the next day.)

And this is where I spent the night:

It took nearly all day to set up this hammock because Rocky, the guy who rents camping equipment, kept telling me he'd come back with the hammock in 5 minutes, and then would disappear for an hour or two. It was boring waiting around for him too, because I couldn't go swimming or try to socialize with strangers, because there was no secure place to put my backpack. Once I had set up the hammock, I was able to put my backpack inside it and I think thieves might have found it less appealing that way. Anyway, nothing was stolen– but by that time the sun had set.

No one spoke English at Buritaca, which provided a great opportunity to practice Spanish. I eventually met some people and was able to speak with them about something other than, "Where's Rocky? Does he actually have hammocks?" And we played dominoes:

I was too busy being attacked by mosquitos and sandflies all night to do any sleeping. After the sun rose and I exited my hammock I sat down at one of the restaurants on the beach and had patacones and scrambled eggs, which was the yellowest breakfast I've ever seen:

I thought about trying to enjoy being at the beach for a while, but knowing no one to watch my bag, having no access to clean water or bathrooms, having not slept at all the previous night, and being covered in insect bites, it seemed that getting back to Santa Marta as soon as possible would provide the best chances of getting to experience something like pleasure. So I left.

Instead of Buritaca I could have gone to Parque Tayrona. All the photos of beaches that appear in any advertisements for Colombian tourism were shot at Parque Tayrona. I drove past the entrance to it on my busride to Buritaca. Tayrona is full of tourist backpackers from North America and Europe, they have infrastructure for bathrooms, showers, internet, and they charge more money than other places to stay along the coast– which some people think isn't very authentic. I think if you have your own car, and you bring your own food and beverages, your own camping equipment, and your own huge Colombian family, Buritaca could be a great place to go. But if you're a gringo backpacker like me, you might regret going to Buritaca instead of Tayrona.

Semana Santa Marta

Catholicism is a big deal here among the Colombians and they celebrate lots of holidays. The week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday they call Semana Santa (Holy Week.) During this time no one works or goes to school– including me! Seizing this opportunity, I packed my bags and climbed aboard a bus to Santa Marta, which is a city on Colombia's Caribbean Coast; it's known for beaches, hot weather, and costal cuisine.

The bus left Medellín at 11:00pm (it was scheduled to leave at 10) on Saturday, March 31st. Along the way we stopped at numerous small towns so that passengers could board as well as people selling all sorts of empanadas, candy, boot-legged DVD's, and so on. At about 10:00am Sunday, April 1st we changed busses in Barranquilla and at about 2:30pm I arrived in Santa Marta. The trip took about 15 hours total, which is better than the 17 hours people told me it usually takes.

Upon arriving in Santa Marta I didn't do much besides go to a restaurant where even the kids' tricycles are colored like the Colombian flag.

I ate this food which is pretty close to the ideal coastal meal. Ideally I'd like an entire deep-fried fish and arroz con coco (coconut rice.) This was also pretty over-priced, but I liked it anyway.

I went to bed early-ish because I knew I'd be leaving early the next morning...

Weird Beverage

While eating an empanada at a restaurant recently, I tried this beverage that I'd seen people drinking. It's called 'Pony' and despite its label that reads 'Malta,' it's in fact made in Colombia. 'Malta' refers to its second ingredient, which is malt. I'm not sure what malt is, but unlike Magnum or King Cobra, Pony has no alcohol. And unlike some other soft drinks, it has no caffeine– just lots of sugar, carbonation, and brown coloring. I think it tastes eerily like a fortune cookie. And it made me sleepy.

I noticed this guy at another table struggling arduously to open his beverage:

Eventually he succeeded.