Cartagena, Columbia

Road weary, our tempo slows when we first arrive in Colombia. Practically every day for two weeks we have either been on the move or changing abode, sometimes both. And we've been on the road for two months now. It finally takes its toll, and combined with the stultifying midday heat, creates a small mutiny, that neither gelato nor chilled wine can easily allay. Chief mutineer is Papa. Maybe because I feel the trip winding down, or because I feel the approach of the Anglo-Saxon world, the Northern Hemisphere, the work Protestant Work Ethic, bright lights, big city.


It's been two months that I haven't picked up a newspaper or watched TV. Come to think of it, I haven't worn a watch. I couldn't tell you what's happening in the world outside the immediate circumference of our five senses. On most days, I couldn't tell you what day of the week it is.

But there's a lot for the senses here in Cartagena, and the funk doesn't last long. An early morning run on the ramparts of this fort town, reminiscent of Essaouira and Malta in places, helps to re-establish a certain equilibrium after so many days of travelling and eating on the go. Resolutions are made, to be re-affirmed Stateside with a daily workout regimen. It's been an active trip, but the distances make for lengthy spells buckled into aircraft and auto seats.  

More delicious meals at 818, Cebicheria El Boliche and a hasty but delicious bite at Patisserie Mila (churros y chocolate!) all help to keep this show on the road, to overcome the lassitude of the heat and the small but cumulative disappointments of logistical details gone awry - a favourite urban pool closed for a wedding, a hotel that's not the least bit childproof (watch out for the open well!), vastly overpriced private beaches.

But let's face it, this splendid, colourful town may be Caribbean capital of gaiety and highbrow hedonism. Although we meet few Europeans or Americans, this town's in high demand. Cartagena's Internationa Film Festival, for example, kicks off the day after tomorrow, which doesn't help our habit of organizing things on the fly.

But soon our luck turns, and once again it's enchantment in motion: the fruit vendors on the street - tropical colours to eat, fried parcels of intense flavor doused with hot-sauce, the competing reggae beats. It's all about the pleasure of the senses.

We're still in Roman Catholic territory, but the churches lighten up, even compared to the feel-good colours of Lima, looking like the ginger, maracuja and flor de Jamaica sorbet served in Gelateria Paradiso. Easily the finest we've had on this trip. In fact, the finest since we were last in Italy. 

It's the Caribbean, and about as far from the silence and austere vistas of the Southern cone as it is possible to be. We're in Creole country, a fixed up and functional version of my imaginary Havana (which until recently my passport has prevented me from visiting). From Marcus who meets us at the airport to Ebifanio and Rosiris at Estancia de la Mantella, people you meet in the street, this town gives you a friendly smile.