Juan Valdez Coffee Shop, Parque
Caldas, Popayan, Southern Colombia
In Medellin,
after we’d had the interesting experience of meeting Roberto Escobar, and I’d
considered the circumstances in which my American colleagues in Afghanistan
might have met him 20 years earlier, we then headed back to the hostel, to get
back on the ‘Cervaza Truck’. After
stocking up at the ‘off-licence’/ ‘bottlo’ (bottle shop- but remember, Skippy
and Sheilah have to abbreviate everything!) to warm ourselves up, taxis were
booked to take us to some establishment on the other side of Medellin. As we got into our cab, it soon became clear
that the thing to do was to race the other cabs to the club- and I could not
have asked for a more enthusiastic and competitive cab driver. Unfortunately he appeared to have taken too
much of the local export produce, and was on an entirely different planet. The Aussies and South African in the back
seemed to lose their national competitive instincts and went very quiet as the
driver was hitting over 100k’s an hour weaving in and out of the traffic, while
looking at me for encouragement, and I had to point out the fast approaching
corners, cars, junctions etc. I just
remembered Bodie’s inspirational words from Point Break “It’s not a tragedy to
die doing what you love”, and hoped for the best.
Despite the
cab driver, we did actually make it to the destination, which was either a
tango or a salsa club- I don’t know the difference, but it was something very
loud and foreign. Amongst all the other
inevitable fun and games at the club, it was ironically the first time in my
life some kind hearted druggy tourist offered me some of his cocaine, which
seemed as appropriate a place as any to be offered it for the first time. I thanked him very much and respectfully
declined his offer- because I’m not a f*ck-wit.
As a point, apparently Pablo Escobar never used his own product, he just
preferred to see the havoc it caused in America.
Anyway, the
next day I snuck out of the hostel to the nearby ‘gucci’ San Fernando Plaza
shopping mall to attempt to write up my piece on Pablo Escobar away from the
distractions of Skippy, Jannie and the cervazas. In the Juan Valdez coffee shop (Colombian
Starbucks) I stumbleded into the path of a lonely expat. He was a nice chap, American, ex-US Navy, had
been to Iraq and Afghan (hasn’t everyone?) and had set up a business in
Medellin. Unfortunately he clearly hadn’t
seen a gringo for months, and my US Marine Corps shorts were a clue for those
in the know, so I ended up chatting with him for hours.
After taking
myself for a wander around the Poblado area of Medellin, where the Casa Kiwi
hostel was located, I returned to the hostel about 5PM to find the ‘Cervaza Truck’
was already free-wheeling. I had a beer
in my hand, and had agreed to join the party to go to the stadium to watch the
Atletico Nationale (Medellin) soccer/ chav-ball team playing Cali. The standard assumption is that because I’m
English/ British, I therefore love football, which is true, but only when referring
to the oval-shaped ball. I am proud to
say I have never been to an Association Football game in England- and never
will. However, this is South America and
it is something entirely different!!
The first
part of the trip was getting the dozen or so of us to the stadium, in rush
hour, using the Medellin subway/ tube system, which was actually more pleasant
than either the London Tube or the New York City Subway. They also don’t mince around, trying to be
polite- if you want to get on the tube, and there’s space, you will get on,
even if it means dropping the shoulder and driving forward. This also means that you don’t need to hold
on to anything as you’re packed in so tight and there is nowhere to fall over.
Once we got out
at the stadium, we got some cheap tickets fairly easily, and I felt it was only
appropriate to get into the spirit of the occasion by buying a garish, green
and white, vertically striped Atletico Nationale top- you can’t go to these
things and be impartial, can you? We
were then told that the cheap tickets we’d got were from for the ‘South Stand’
which is where all the crazy fans go, and there had been a massive riot there
the week before, which made it sound more interesting- and how I’d imagined
English football matches were when I was growing up in the 80’s!  |
| Team photo before the game- spot the good bloke in the proper top! |
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| Soaking up the atmosphere |
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| "Atletico Nationale!" |
Some of my
fellow travellers seemed to lose their enthusiasm for the game at that point,
but gritted their teeth and carried on, and as we went around the corner to the
entrance to the South stand, we were hit by a massive wall of noise. There was a full band set up in the stands
and there was just a sea of green and white which did not stop moving for the
full 2 hours we were there. An Israeli
chap with us observed that it was more interesting watching the crowd than the
players on the pitch, which was a fair point.
Eventually the game finished with Atletico winning 1-0, which was
possibly an anti-climax as it would have been extremely memorable if they’d
lost! Interestingly the police came over
to our crowd of gringo’s and escorted us out of the stadium as they were
obviously concerned for our well-being, and we seemed to stand out. Some other people I’ve met along the way said
that they’d seen me on the Colombian National News as the only Gringo in a
green and white top at the match- another 5 minutes of fame…
Salento
The next day
half a dozen of us got the 6-7 hour bus ride down to the small town of Salento,
in the countryside about an hour from the bigger city of Armenia. We’d been told we had to change in Armenia,
but the bus driver said the bus to Salento came back up the same road, so he
kindly dropped us at the side of the road, opposite the turning to Salento. This meant the 6 of us (me, 3 Aussies and 2
yanks) had to cross the dual carriageway with all our kit, and sit at the side
of the road, in the middle of the Colombian countryside, waiting to see what
happened next- which I daresay, we would not have done so lightly 20 years
ago! Fortunately a Salento bus turned up
about 15 minutes later and we went up and checked into the ‘Tralala Hostel’,
which had been recommended to us.
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| Reckon we look like tourists, in the middle of the Colombian countryside? |
Salento is a
very quiet town in the middle of the coffee growing region, and it was the
first place I’d been in Colombia where I could hear silence- if that makes
sense. The things to do are walking
tours of the coffee plantations and the walks around the Cocora valley, and if
you’re feeling energetic there would be some good runs to do around the area,
and it is a good place to relax after Cartagena, Medellin etc. There are also a couple of chilled bars,
particularly the ‘Speak Easy’, which a friend of mine runs. Salento’s main purpose is providing a weekend
retreat for the rich Colombians to come to unwind, so consequently us gringo’s
don’t get particularly hassled/ fleeced, which gives it a very pleasant
atmosphere.
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| Salento's main street |
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| Main square in Salento, with fleet of Wills jeeps in the foreground. |
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| Sneakily taken photo of Colombian soldier with Galil rifle- an Israeli designed verson of the AK. |
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| Meeting the local law-enforcement in Salento. |
However,
professional or not, if there was no need for them to be there, then they
wouldn’t be there. With this in mind,
after doing a little stroll around the coffee plantations on Friday, an
extended group of us went for the longer, 5 hour hike up the Valle de Cocora on
Sunday- on the 1 year anniversary of the start of the Cambrian Patrol (http://charliecharlieone.blogspot.com/2011/11/cambrian-patrol-2011.html). The form for this
was going by WW2 era Willys jeep up out of the town, past a clearly defined
Colombian army Vehicle Check Point (probably marking the edge of their
territory) to a Start/ Finish Point complete with shops and cafes etc. From there we headed off up into the hills
with a couple of locals who knew the way, and it was all good fun, and nice to
get some fresh air.
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| Not a bad view |
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| Valle de Cocora |
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| Heading out for a stroll |
The only
note-worthy point was that the 3 Dutch members of our group were seriously
lagging behind (well, they don’t have hills in Holland) and while we were
having a coffee at a strategically positioned rest stop, they’d cracked on
expecting us to catch up- although I hadn’t noticed them going. While it was not exactly my ‘Command
Appointment’, I would certainly have discouraged them from going alone, and
sure enough, by the time we’d finished, they were nowhere to be seen. Once we got back, and there was still no sign
of them by the time it had got dark, I was going to go up to the Police Station
to report them missing (hopefully someone would do it for me!!). However, they did suddenly appear, more
cheerful than I would have expected “You shouldn’t have done that left turn…”
After an ‘admin’
(rest) day, we all left Salento and went our separate ways. I got the 3hr bus to Cali (I didn’t wear my
Atletico Nationale top) and then got the bus from there to my current location
Popayan, which is in the heart of FARC territory. It was another 3 hour trip though on smaller
roads, with troops every hundred meters or so. I was expecting Popayan to be
some kind of wild frontier town, but it is actually extremely quiet and
peaceful, and very pleasant to look at.
The town centre is just loads of very white, old buildings in narrow streets.
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| Parque Caldas, Popayan |
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| Central Popayan |
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| More Popayan |
However,
just as a reminder of who the neighbours are, a tourist bus got pulled over the
other day by FARC, with people in my hostel on it. While they didn’t want to take hostages (that’s
a bit ‘last year’ and an open invite for a visit from Delta Force, who they’re
not keen on), they did want to get their attention and give the tourists a ‘Party
Political Broadcast’. Unfortunately some
tourist of undisclosed nationality (I have my suspicions) thought it would be a
good idea to take their photo… Needless
to say, that didn’t go down too well, he got the sh*t kicked out of him, and
was relieved of his camera.
Right, now
to go and find some locals to tell me about FARC…
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