Teju: a game played with gunpowder and beer

When we asked Tim where we should go to celebrate Peter's birthday tonight, we weren't expecting something so explosive.

Teju is a traditional Columbian game. It's easy to play and cheap, but not exactly safe. Take some gun powder, stick it on a clay board and throw lead weights at it from 20m away. Whoever gets the gun powder to explode wins. Buy enough beers and you get an unlimited supply of gunpowder all night. Eeekk!

Salento and the Valle de Cocorra

Salento has managed to maintain a traditional feel

We're in Salento, a little town in Columbia's Zona Cafetera, six hours south of Medellin. This lush green valley is responsible for churning out a significant proportion of Columbia's coffee crop and is home to Columbia's national tree, the impossibly tall wax palm. Like Medellin, it was once a no-go zone. Guerrillas ruled the roads in and out of the region and kidnappings and general nastiness were a way of life. But Columbia's war against terrorism has moved in land and, while overnight buses are best avoided, travelling is now possible.

The town of Salento is one of the oldest in the region (founded in 1950). It's set in the spectacular Valle de Cocorra and a great place to do some hiking and get some fresh air. A lot of travellers come here to detox after giving their livers a hammering in Medellin and Bogota. We are making a mad dash to Ecuador and it seemed like a good spot to break up our bus journeys.

The towering wax palms in the Valle De Cocorra

Tim is an English guy who moved to Salento four years ago. He owns Plantation House hostel, which is comprised of three old plantation houses, and a newly purchased coffee farm down the hill.

Tim loves nothing better than a good chat. In fact, he'll talk your ear off if you give him the chance. He'll tell you if there's going to be a good sunset and where to watch it, where to go for dinner, how to get to the Valle de Cocorra, how many days you should spend here, where you should go next, how long he's been here, how much his house cost, how much work he's done to his house, how much his coffee plantation cost, who stayed previously from Australia and what they did, his plans for marketing designer coffee beans for yuppies and his plans for getting 'volunteer' backpackers to harvest the beans.

Last night he spent a great deal of time explaining why its a bad idea for groups of nine people to head to the Valle.

Reason number 1: One group realised that they were lost after hiking for four hours and were too tired to walk back, so they sent the fittest person to the nearest town with a note that said: no water, no food, send horses. The lady who received the note didn't send horses, but she did send an entire battalion of army and police vehicles. Unfortunately, they took so long to mobilise that the group had managed to find their own way out. They were sitting in a restaurant enjoying a cup of coffee when the rescue team swooped in. "They asked me if it would be a good idea to take a case of beer to the police station to apologise," said Tim. "I suggested that an apology might be more appropriate."

Reason number 2: Another group of nine was attacked by a bull, which had broken free from a nearby property. Unfortunately, this wasn't just any bull. It was a destined for a bull ring and not happy about it. It took its anger out on the group. One girl suffered a broken collarbone and a couple others needed stitches in various places before they were able to make a get away.

We weren't deterred though. In a five hour hike, we encountered nothing more exciting than an Irish man and two crazy Aussies, hummingbirds, and a bull with no horns. Hard to say whether he was that bull, but we gave him a wide berth anyway.

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The home of Pablo Escobar

This statue was erected as a symbol of peace and then blown apart by a bomb

It doesn't matter that Medellin was once one of the most dangerous cities in the world - it's been variously known as the world's 'kidnap capital', 'cocaine capital' and 'murder capital'. It doesn't matter that it's streets were once ruled by one of the most infamous and violent drug cartel bosses in history. Pablo Escobar fed the world's cocaine habit during the 80s and 90s. He hired thugs to hunt police and politicians. He blew up buildings, cars and planes, and killed friends, family and anyone who stood in his way. He unleashed a reign of terror on the streets of Medellin that the people of this city will never forget. But they're proud people.

The slums of Medellin

They're proud of their city's vibrancy, the food, the weather, their culture, and their strength. They're still cautious. They'll warn you to be careful, to stay away from the slums that surround the city and spread for miles across the slopes of their vast valley. They'll ask you why you chose to visit such a dangerous city so often that you start to wonder the same thing yourself. But they're proud that they've survived.

Pablo Escobar damaged the city's image considerably, but not irrevocably. While the war against drugs still rages in the jungle of Columbia, the people of Medellin are getting on with their lives.

Want to know more? Pick up a copy of Killing Pablo: The Hunt for the Richest Most Powerful Criminal in History by Mark Bowden.

Cartagena to Medellin

We're 10 hours drive from Cartagena and there are still palm trees. It's comforting because we found it so hard to leave the north with its palm-tree lined beaches, clear warm seas and friendly locals.

The bus ride, so far, has been uneventful, just bumpy roads and small coastal towns where shop owners sit patiently in front of their stores. We've passed through numerous police checkpoints, but have only been searched once. Mostly, we're watching blood thirsty action movies or the steady parade of entrepreneurs hopping on and off the bus, selling pan Arabica, pan con coca, homemade donuts, soft drink, something that resembled a mini bagel, and cheesy popcorn. Actually, come to think of it, it's been all about bread today. It's making us miss the greasy fried goodness hawked in the north: arapes con queso, arapes con huevo, empanadas, and deep fried cheese sticks ...so good, and yet so bad.

According to our LP, the residents of Medellin (which is where we're headed) are partial to a concoction of ground beef, fried egg, and fried pork skin. Luckily, we're not headed there to sample the city's culinary delights. We're going for two reasons:

1. We have to be in Ecuador soon and its on our route south.
2. The city was once home to one of the most famous and ruthless drug cartels in Columbia's history, led by Pablo Escobar.
   

It's a long journey to Medellin - a least 12 hours - and I can sense that things are going to get a little more trying before we get there. The two young guys seated across the aisle are steadily making their way through bottles of rum, which they are drinking straight in plastic shot glasses.

Oh, hang on. Yep, they've started singing. God help us.

Back at the beach ...

Molinda

"Dos cer-ve-za, dos cer-ve-za," says Molinda. She runs our little place here on Playa Blanca and she loves to tease Carl about his Spanish. "That's how all the gringos say it", she says with a good belly laugh and a wink at me.

Molinda's place seems to be the centre of Playa Blanca. It's the place everyone on the beach comes for supplies and cold beer, but end up staying for a chat in the shade, to catch up on the gossip. Molinda plods around, tidying, putting stuff away in the shop, doing washing or she sits, knits and chats. She's everyone's amigo, including ours. Her smile is huge and always ready for us.

Life on Playa Blanca is slow, which is not surprising. It's little more than a long white beach lined with a few simple wood shacks. For most of the day, the beach is deserted except for a few tourists who stay overnight in tents or hammocks, and the locals who sit under palm trees or wander along the beach stopping to find out where you're from and whether you want whatever they're selling - massages, ice-cream, necklaces, fresh oysters and prawns (cerviche), corn fritters, marijuana, rock statues, rides on jet skis and banana boats, and the best tropical fruit salad money can buy (chock-full of papaya, pineapple, mango, melon and banana). The fruit salad lady is our favourite. She has a knack for knowing when you're feeling peckish and appears, miraculously, by your side with a bucket of fruit balanced on her head and a big grin.

Carl gets a massage

In the afternoon, boatloads of tourists arrive at the beach for a few hours. It's peak hour for the locals but it's not intense by any stretch of the imagination. The rest of the time, it's best to just sit back and watch the world go by from the comfort of your hammock. If it gets too hot or you get bored, a dive into the beautiful sea is the perfect antidote. At night, the handful of gringos who stay behind gather on the beach to watch a sunset and enjoy a quiet beer. And if they're as lucky as us, they get to enjoy a feast of fresh fish, plantain, coconut rice, and salad. You see, on top of everything else, Molinda is a cracking cook. Perhaps even the best on the beach.

Em doing what she does best - drinking beer and sitting in a hammock

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It was with heavy hearts that we left our little beach paradise today

Carl says goodbye to Cabo San Juan

We shared a fruit salad for breakfast, packed our little bags and willed ourselves to walk away from the beach and along the path into the jungle. It was hot and humid, but clouds loomed overhead. We told ourselves that if the sun was out when we reached the campsite at Arrecifes, which is 45 minutes hike away from Cabo, we'd stop for one more night. So we walked slowly. We stopped at La Piscina and ate an arepa con huevo, freshly deep-fried in a makeshift stall on the beach. We got a little lost and wasted some time taking photos. But when we arrived at Arrecifes, the sun was still lost behind the clouds.

A sweaty Emma takes a break and wills the sun to show itself

So we kept going and told ourselves that if the sun was out when we reached Cañaveral at the edge of the park, another 45 minute hike from Arrecifes, we'd get ourselves a little ecohab on the beach and stay for one more night.

Forty-five minutes later we were standing in the reception of the ecohab resort at Cañaveral. The sun was out and we were dripping in sweat. The lady at reception looked at us sympathetically, wrote the price of the ecohab on a piece of paper, and watched in pity as we calculated the cost in pounds (more than £100) and skulked away like the smelly, poor backpackers we'd become.

Now, we're sitting on the bus back to Santa Marta. Carl is squeezed onto the back seat with a kid asleep on his leg. The guy next to me is carrying a long machete over his shoulder and keeps spitting on the ground at my feet. We've agreed that we'll treat ourselves to passionfruit juice and deep-fried queso sticks when we get back. Then we'll ponder our next move.

Is it a sign?

The weather's turned a little overcast. I've finished my book. Carl's almost finished his. And the battery in our IPod has just died. Perhaps it's a sign that we should roll out of our hammocks and move on, see what else Columbia has got in store for us?

Mmmm. I think we should sleep on it ...

It seems we have a thing for capes ...

Not the kind that superheros wear, but the beachy kind. There's just something about those little bits of land that jut out into the sea that we love, and this one is no exception. In fact, it's right up there with Cabo Polonio in Uruguay as one of our favourite holiday spots. It's got white sand beaches, crystal clear turquoise water and palm trees. It's also got a couple of hammocks swinging gently in the breeze, just begging to be slept in. So that's what we're going to do ... for at least two nights.

Cabo San Juan at sunset

This is Cabo San Juan, a spectacular little campsite in Parque Tayrona, a national park in northeast Columbia. We hiked an hour and a half through the jungle to get here today. We arrived eaten by mosquitoes and dripping with sweat, but it was worth it. In fact, we're so happy with our lazy life here that we're already brainstorming ways to stay longer.

Our hammocks are in this little hut with amazing views over the sea

For example, we've got to be in Quito on the 25th of May for our Galapagos tour, so technically speaking we could jump on a flight from Santa Marta on the 24th. That would leave us a good two and a half weeks to languish in our hammocks doing a whole lot of nothing. Well, not nothing. We need to eat. And swim. And sunbathe. And nap. And maybe walk to other deserted beaches along the coast if we can muster a little energy ...

Emma plots ways to stay in Cabo San Juan forever

Not your average airport

Looks like beach, doesn't it? It's Santa Marta airport. We're saying goodbye to Carl's younger brother, Nick, who has been travelling with us for a week or so. With a view like this, it's a wonder anyone ever gets on the plane!

Just one of those days when nothing goes right

The local port at Cartagena resembles a garbage tip and the boats don't look much better

1. Arrive at the local port in Cartagena. It's looks like a garbage tip, but its bustling with activity. People cart goods from the nearby market and pile them into long wooden boats, none of them seaworthy vessels. The taxi driver reluctantly lets us out of the car and warns us to be careful. We're looking for a boat to take us to Playa Blanca, a beach about 40 minutes along the coast, but we haven't done our research. All the passenger boats to Playa Blanca left at 8am. We're two hours late, but undeterred.
2. We negotiate a ride on a cargo boat, which is meant to be leaving in 20 minutes. We watch as the boat is loaded with food, cleaning suppliers and two massive beer fridges. An hour later, the boat is full and we're wondering where they're going to try to squeeze us in. An hour and a half later, they decide there is no room for us. They tell us to come back tomorrow. We're still undeterred.
   
3. We head to the tourist port and try to bargain a fare on one of the tourist boats, but the captains there know we have no other option. They all insist we must pay double to go today, so we finally give up on Playa Blanca. As we walk back to the hostel, we realise that today is a public holiday. Everything is shut, which means there is no point staying in Cartagena. We decide to head north along the coast to Santa Marta.
4. We ask at the hostel where we can buy tickets for the bus to Santa Marta. Here, we're told by the lady at the front desk. She rattles off some bus times and we agree a price. It's more than we should pay but they're going to take us to the bus station. Too damn hot to be walking around with your pack on.
5. A car arrives. The boot is full with another passenger's bags (we'll call him Mr Baggage). The driver doesn't falter. He gestures to us to get in the back. We ask where we should put our packs. He points to our laps. It dawns on us. The hostel didn't buy us bus tickets. This car is our transport to Santa Marta and they expect us to sit for four hours with our packs on our laps. We're not happy, but we squash in and hope that we're wrong. Twenty minutes into the journey, we're really not happy and we're making our feelings known ... very clearly and with expletives. The driver pulls into a service station and calls for a new car. We're relieved.
6. A new bigger car arrives, complete with grumpy driver. The boot is still too small to hold our backpacks and the seven suitcases the other guy is travelling with. Emma's backpack ends up on the seat next to her, but we're comfortable and finally on our way to Santa Marta.
7. Half an hour up the road we pick up a new passenger - a big big man who snores. The air conditioning is so cold that Emma has to pull her sleeping bag out of her pack. The driver continues to scan the road for more passengers. He wants a full car. We just want to get to Santa Marta. We cruise past large horse and cattle stations, haciendas and restaurants with giant barbecues out front. After a couple of hours we drop the big big man at the turn off to Santa Marta ... and we head in the opposite direction.
8. The driver stops in front of a house in Barranquilla. He tells us that this is as far as he goes. We remind him that we've paid for a fare to Santa Marta and this town is only halfway. He doesn't care. He goes no further and that's that. Mr Baggage discusses our options. They agree to get another car and driver to take us to Santa Marta. But we have to wait half an hour.
9. Half an hour later we have a new driver and a new car. It's a ute, so we throw our luggage in the back in and get going. Abraham, our new driver, is crazy. He drives at speed and speaks with both hands. He's also scoffing back some cheese and chicken snack, which he shares with us. We think we might die, but we kinda like this guy.
10. Ten minutes later we stop out the front of a large apartment building. Two beds are loaded into the back on top of our bags. Everything is tied loosely with some frayed rope. It's a quick stop and soon we're back on the road ...
11. Or are we? We stop again five minutes later to pick up an envelope. Another quick stop, but we're starting to wonder if we're ever going to make it to Santa Marta. We've been travelling for four hours - that's how long it's meant to take on the bus and we're only halfway.
    
12. We stop at some lights in a rundown outer suburb of Barranquilla. Abraham locks the doors and gestures down an alley. It's full of crack heads. We look around us and realise that we are in crack city. There are crack heads everywhere. One stumbles across the road in front of the car. Abraham swerves, unfazed, and continues his conversation with Mr Baggage. On the other side of the road is a large building. It looks like a dodgy Taj Mahal. We ask what it is. A motel, says Mr Baggage. Abraham makes an obscene sign with his hands and we understand. It's THAT kind of motel.
13. Half an hour later, we're stopped by police. A small bribe and a couple of gringo jokes and we're on our way. We cross a river and Abraham explains that the river runs the length of Columbia, from north to south. Abraham and Mr Baggage start arguing about Australia. Is it an island? What country does it border? Is it near France? They're clueless, but suitably impressed when we tell them that it is an island more than double the size of Columbia and there are only 20 million people living there. There are more than 50 million people in Columbia.
14. We're on the road into Rodedero, not far from Santa Marta, when Abraham slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car. We've lost one of the mattresses from the back and didn't realise. Abraham is not happy but he knows there's no point going back for it.
15. It's dark. This journey should have taken four hours and we've been going for almost seven hours. We have one more stop though. Abraham stops in front of a house and heads inside to explain why we've arrived with two bed frames and one mattress. We get out and start unloading them from the back. They agree that Abraham will buy them a new mattress. Carl and Nick take the bed inside and we're back on the road. Nick is wondering why the hell he thought it was a good idea to visit us in Columbia. We try to convince him that this is all part of the fun. We try to convince ourselves that what we are telling him is true.
    
16. We tell Abraham where we need to be dropped off. There's a cheap hostel just back of the main street of Santa Marta, but he doesn't think its safe enough for us. Are we sure? he asks us. Yes, we tell him. We're sure we want to get out of this car and frankly we don't really care about the quality of the hostel. Reluctantly, he pulls up in front of the hostel. He leaves Mr Baggage with the car and escorts us inside. Sure, it's not the prettiest hostel but it's functional. He doesn't buy it and offers to take us to the most expensive hotel in Santa Marta. He thinks we'll be more comfortable there and that's where Mr Baggage is staying. We decline and try to reassure him that we've survived worse places. Finally he relents, gives us his business card and tells us to call him at any time. Be careful, he warns.
    
17. Now we're sitting in a greasy little restaurant on the waterfront, eating dodgy burgers and fries. We can't believe we finally made it and that we haven't been mugged. Then again, the day is not quite over yet ...