THE sunset looked familiar as the sea finally sucked down the last hint of
redness from the sky. DJ José Padilla’s music harmonised playfully with the
lapping waves and cool breezes as I downed yet another concoction of fruit
juice, alcohol and coconut.
Turning away from the exhausted sunset, I could see the lights of nearby
high-rises twinkling in relief above the wooden remains of an old
bullfighting ring. An array of fairy lights illuminated the name of my
location — Café del Mar. But I wasn’t anywhere near Ibiza’s San Antonio. I
was, at last, in Colombia. Despite counting the odd drug baron among my
close friends and having once been charged with importing 15 tons of
Colombian marijuana into Scotland, this was my first visit.
In Colombia, the only South American country with coasts on both the Pacific
and the Caribbean, the Andes chain splits into three massive ranges and,
after flattening out for a while, sprouts up again as the Sierra Nevada de
Santa Marta, the highest coastal mountain range in the world. Deserts,
savannas, a fair chunk of the Amazon, and thick rain-drenched jungles make
up the rest of the terrain. Colombia’s fauna ranges from the keen-sighted
praying mantis to the rare spectacled bear and includes as many, if not
more, species of birds than Europe and North America combined. Atmospheres
of ancient Amerindian myth, shamanic magic, Catholic devotion and African
mysticism pervade the entire nation.
“Excuse me, but are you Howard Marks?”
Delighted to be finally recognised by someone, I shook the stranger’s hand.
“My name’s Pedro. I spent last year as a student in London and came to see one
of your shows. Have you just arrived? Did you bring over any mind-blowing
British skunk?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t. I presumed there’d be no problem getting marijuana here,
but I’ve just spent three days in Bogotá and failed to get either a smoke or
even a line of cocaine. I was hoping to get better luck here in Cartagena,
particularly as the guidebooks warned of drug pushers on the beach near the
Café del Mar.”
“Well, the concept, philosophy, and music here are shamelessly imported from
Ibiza, but neither weed nor cocaine is used much as a recreational drug
anywhere in Colombia. Young people like to drink alcohol. Drugs are just an
export business. Same with coffee. Visitors complain they can’t get a decent
cup.”
I suppose trying to get a can of North Sea oil in Princes Street, Edinburgh,
for whatever reason, would have produced similar disappointment, and
anything you encounter in Colombia is hard to believe.
Cartagena began as a warehouse of gold, silver, emeralds, and other native
treasures looted from the interior by the Spanish colonists. Word of its
wealth spread, and pirates such as John Hawkins, Sir Francis Drake, and
Jean-Baptiste Ducasse attacked, besieged, ransomed and humiliated the city
in the 16th and 17th centuries. The Spanish responded by constructing 8km (5
miles) of impressive walled defences presided over by the most impregnable
Spanish fortress in the New World.
Although the city’s most conspicuous characteristic remains its warlike
profile, the splendidly daunting and encircling fortifications now attract,
rather than repel, visitors. Even the Colombian fleet anchored near by is
simply a feature of a visually pleasing background. The cannon-covered
ramparts, however, are not mere static and picturesque reminders of bygone
days; they ooze piracy and swashbuckling with far greater impact than any
theme park.
Pedro and I walked along the defence walls. The Caribbean Sea was foaming and
pounding to our left, while to our right a warren of streets in various
phases of grandiose decay and renovation throbbed with activity. Ornate,
Baroque iron-studded gates topped by stone coats of arms led to hidden
courtyards. Old dungeons inside the walls sold straw cowboy hats, gold,
emeralds and postcards. Horse-drawn taxis trotted up and down. This
magnificent city plays host to international film festivals, regattas,
bull-fighting, beauty pageants and from this year the Hay-on-Wye Festival of
Literature. (Gabriel García Márquez, Colombia’s living Shakespeare and a
Cartagenian resident, declined an invitation to go to the Welsh Black
Mountains, so the mountains went to Márquez.)
We ate at El Mar de Juan, where young chefs apply Cordon Bleu techniques to
Caribbean ingredients. Crawfish was offered in ten different preparations. I
chose one of them and some cheese wrapped in banana leaves. Pedro, already
late for an appointment, excused himself and advised me to spend the rest of
the evening meandering around more squares and bars on my own. There was no
better way to know Cartagena.
The cool onshore winds and lively tropical rhythms guided me to Plaza de Santo
Domingo, where Botero’s Fat Gertrudis lay on her side, naked,
looking at the church. Life, not Puritanism, dominates this square.
Colourfully dressed women fried egg arepas and other local culinary
delights at their street stands.
Venturing out of the Old Town, I passed several bastions that were once cosy
places for sentries, but had now become either hideaways for lovers or the
seductive cubbyholes of friendly hookers. Inside the Guantanamo Bay Club two
supermodels in mini-skirts sat on a flimsy swing suspended above a bar on
which a female five-a-side football team danced, cheered, and blew whistles.
Drinks, including Colombia’s lethal aquardiente, were served
only by the bottle and brought to the table by waitresses with surgically
enhanced boobs and spandex crop tops. In a dark corner, a man was
celebrating his 80th birthday with his friends and family. As the music
slowed down for a few seconds, his wife stuck a huge cigar in his mouth and
motioned him to jive slowly with her. He did so with complete grace, deftly
choreographing draws on his cigar with his dance steps.
Within a couple of hours I was well oiled, chatting with my new friends.
Dizzily meandering back to my hotel through a labyrinth of alleyways, I was
grateful to be helped back on track by courteous passers-by. I felt a
million miles from any kind of danger. That could have been the booze, of
course, but I was certainly safer than I would have been performing similar
antics in any European city.
The sun rose and shone over the ramparts, revealing fishing boats returning
from a night’s work and groups of happy people winding down their revelry.
Dawn is not a beginning in Cartagena; it’s an ending. As Márquez wrote in Living
to Tell the Tale: “the world changes in Cartagena . . . this solitude
without sorrow, this incessant ocean, this immense sensation of having
arrived."
Need to know
Getting there: Howard Marks travelled with Journey Latin
America (020-8622 8491, www.journeylatinamerica.co.uk),
which specialises in travel to Colombia and throughout Central and South
America. A week’s tailor-made trip to Bogotá and Cartagena, staying in
first-class hotels, costs from £1,620pp, including flights, transfers and
city tours.
Journey Latin America also offers an escorted group trip to Colombia and
Panama. The 13-night “Corsario” journey costs from £2,070pp, including
flights. Departures are in April, May, November and December 2007.
