Cartagena, Colombia - Saying Goodbye to the Tropics

Saturday had arrived and it was time to go home.

Our server at dinner last night told us the temperature rocketed up into the 40's in Cartagena in July. I simply found that impossible to believe. So this morning I had a look at the climate profile for this city and found that the daily highs and lows barely change throughout the year: daily highs between 31 and 32 and daily lows between 24 and 26. The only difference is there's some precipitation throughout the summer months and barely any the rest of the time. In fact, between December and March you can expect at most a day or two of rain. I suppose Canadian seasons have their charms, but consistently clear and hot days in a magical city was welcome in February.

This trip has been an eye-opener for Ana and I. We've realized our lived experience with Latin America is now over 25 years old, and based on our time in Colombia, it seems likely that many of the truths we hold about these places have changed, probably for the better. All the parts we loved about these countries were brightly reflected in Cartagena - the kind and gentle people, the music, the weather, the fun language, but above all the raw joy and unbridled enthusiasm for life, no matter what sort of life one has. The parts we did not like - the crime, the dirtiness, the chaotic streets, the unreliable power infrastructure and government systems - well, Cartagena leads us to believe those have improved. This trip has reignited our interest in Latin America and I expect we will make more visits to this part of the world soon.

Our trip home went perfectly - our airport transfer was on time, flight was on time, and Canadian immigration was quick, despite being pulled into secondary screening with the question "Why would you go to Colombia?"

What was our answer?

 "Why not? And you should go too."

Cartagena, Colombia - Cartagena Has Great Knockers

There’s no denying it – the knockers in Cartagena are spectacular.

When it comes to variety, shapeliness, size, and beauty, no other knockers compare to Cartagena knockers. There are knockers everywhere, practically everywhere you look, and it’s hard to take your eyes off them. Knockers here are displayed with pride and range greatly in size. The smaller ones are cute, shapely, and perfectly functional. The larger ones – and there are some very weighty and grand ones here in Cartagena – can be more difficult to manage but handling them is immensely pleasurable. Some knockers are so large you need to use both hands.

Knockers here vary in age. The newer ones are beautiful, almost sassy in their appearance, and are a pleasure to operate. Many of the older ones seem to have suffered a bit from either overuse or neglect and can be a little finicky, but remain majestic and impressive. I’ve noticed some knockers seem to have been rebuilt with different materials, and in some cases even made larger, providing a noticeably different look and feel. The owners of these seem to be consistently pleased with their knockers as they showcase them with pride. There’s no doubt there are many experts in Cartagena in knocker reconstruction.

I think some tourists come here specifically for the knockers. I saw one man on a busy street walking right up and touching all the knockers he saw, in some cases aggravating the owners. I didn’t touch any myself, but I took a lot of photos of them, and had Ana take some of me standing beside the most impressive knockers, smiling like a crazy man. I can’t wait to show all these knocker photos to my friends back home.

For our last full day in Cartagena we did much of the same – had a slow, leisurely breakfast at the hotel, walked over to Juan Valdez for a slow, leisurely coffee, retuned to the hotel for a slow, leisurely swim in the pool, then walked to the end of the peninsula to El Laguito beach and had a slow, leisurely lunch and drinks at the Punta Las Velas beachfront restaurant. The beach was full of people up to all sorts of tomfoolery. A young beach entrepreneur was hired by the family patron to rub what looked like cooking oil over the ladies. They really enjoyed it and he was quite daring in the application of the oil. An older man beneath a ratty blue beach umbrella whipped off his shorts and bent over to give us a great view of his dangling beauties, then fortunately put on some swimmers. A vallenato (accordion-driven Colombian folk music) band appeared out of nowhere and gave a private performance to a family a bit further up the beach. Little kids were running around, chasing each other. Vendors walked the beach with platters of freshly caught fish and when somebody bought one, they would rush it back to a hidden kitchen then reappear a while later with the whole cooked fish and sides on a foam plate. Lunchers would then toss the still-meaty fish heads from their meals to the troupes of seagulls who would attack it (and each other) until there was nothing left. It was a lot of fun.

Late in the afternoon we Uber’d into the city and visited the sloths again in Centenario Park. The smaller one was up in the trees, slowly ascending then descending, stopping periodically to munch on bunches of juicy leaves. We couldn’t spot the larger one.

It was Friday night in the city and the place was exploding with activity, even busier than when we were here Tuesday. We strolled the Getsemani neighbourhood, admiring the artwork, the beautiful people, flashy evening revelers, the incredible lighting, the scenes in peoples’ living rooms, doors wide open, diners in cool restaurants, drinkers in boutique lounges, a team of breakdancers who’d set up in the middle of an intersection, doing egg  beaters and headspins, popping and snapping, and who’d clear out momentarily when traffic built up too much and the blasting car horns became unbearable. We passed so many food carts, cooking up arepas, cheeseburgers, sausages, ham and cheese buns, and skewers of grilled meats. The smells were delicious, food mouthwatering, and the city’s sonic orchestra of music, conversations, laughter, motorcycle engines, and singing rang out, decorating the air.

Our dinner reservation was for 7 and we arrived right on time. The restaurant Sierpe was empty, but within an hour it was jammed. Our server was efficient and friendly and the food was incredible. We started with a shared crab dip, which was bright yellow, loaded with crab fibres, other seafood, and a thin veneer of faintly scorched cheese. I had a fish filet, which was ridden by snails, mollusks, onions, and shrimp, bathed in a yellow sauce creating a delectable slurry of flavour, and accompanied by coconut rice and mixed greens. Ana had the cutest mini crab sliders. At one point our server came by, pointed to Ana’s meal, smiling and blasted out a rapid set of unusual words -  Bob Esponja Pantalones Cuadrados. Ana and I looked at each other in pure confusion as we didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But he didn’t give up. Instead he pulled out his phone, hammered in some words, then showed us an image of SpongBob Squarepants. Ana’s meal was crabby patties! And they were damn good.

Our plan to go partying in Getsemani and hit some of the fantastic bars we’d passed and voyage late into our final night was flummoxed by all the delicious food being processed internally and instead we sauntered back to the park and plopped down on a bench to absorb these last moments in the tropics.

Cartagena, Colombia - How to Spot A Colombian

It’s been a little tough figuring out who’s Colombian here and who’s a Latino tourist. The Colombians don’t have an easily distinguishable accent or a unique phrase they use like, for instance, the Dominicans who say “Como tu ta?” or the Costa Ricans who say “Pura vida!” or the Puerto Ricans who can “Que chevere!” or the Mexians who say “Que onda?” or the Cubans who say a bunch of stuff but you can barely understand any of it because they speak so fast and chop off half their words. Maybe there are some specific Colombian linguistic traits and we just haven’t been here long enough to identify them. But, in any case, I can only assume most of the vendors and workers we see are Colombian. Based on that, I have identified a few Colombian-specific traits, and not just with people, but with the way things look and are done around here.

First, they keep things clean. Every morning there’s an army of dudes in Slipknot jumpsuits with brooms sweeping shit up. You just never see that in other Latin American countries. The streets are dirty as hell and they don’t even notice it. Today we even saw a kid with a leaf blower in the Bolivar Plaza who was blowing leaves and food wrappers and dirt into the waiting dustbins of the Slipknot jumpsuit crew who scooped it up and put it into garbage bags. Oh, and speaking of that, there’s actual public garbage cans around to put your trash in. In most other Latino countries you just throw it on the ground or, preferably, in a stream or river that will wash it down to the nearest processing facility (I assume).

Second, they are really slow walkers. I don’t know how many times this trip we got stuck behind a few locals walking on the skinny sidewalk, blocking the whole thing, chatting to each other and moving at a sloth’s pace. A sick sloth. Some, even as slow as a fully dead sloth.

Third, and this applies to the dudes only, but they really like to pick their balls. They get right in there and swirl things around then pluck away at their jeans or jumpsuits or dress pants or whatever they are wearing and whatever social class they are in. I’ve got no problem at all with the occasional package adjustment, it’s just that here they do it right in the open, beside food carts, in line at the grocery store, at the medical clinic (might be a reason for it in that case), but really I guess they just like their junk lining up properly, or are just trying to remedy the incessant sack stick that’s so common in these viciously hot countries.

Lastly, the vendors here are fucking annoying. Every morning we step out of the hotel and the exact same lady asks us if we want to buy a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. Every day we politely say no. She takes a couple more swings at us then gives up. We walk twenty steps to the traffic light and there’s another guy there with the exact same laminated plastic sheet with island pics trying to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. We politely say no then cross the street, then there’s another person there who has the exact same laminated plastic sheet who tries to sell us a tourist package to the Rosario Islands. This goes on all day, everywhere we go, and it’s usually tourist packages to the Rosario Islands, but also city tours, packets of fresh fruit, bracelets, fridge magnets, cocaine, sunset cruises, watches, sunglasses, purses, restaurants specials. But you know what’s even worse than being harassed by street vendors all day? Being poor in an expensive city and trying to provide for your family.

In any case, Ana and I really feel comfortable here. We love the culture, the people, the food, the weather, the music. We’ve spent a lot of time in Latin America over the years, living in a number of Spanish speaking countries and visiting many others. Despite not speaking Spanish very often, it comes back incredibly fast for Ana (slower for me), but within a couple days we’re having pretty decent conversations with people. Of course, when Ana and I debrief after a particularly intense conversation with a local it usually turns out that I didn’t have a goddamn clue what was discussed, despite thinking I did. I blame it on my mono-lingual Saskatchewanese roots. Anyway, during this trip a renewed interest has been stirred in my soul and I feel like we could spend more time in this part of the world, despite previously thinking we’d seen enough of Latin America. We have not.

After a slow morning, our big goal was to find a great cup of coffee. The coffee in all the local cafés and restaurants has been bunk. Ana tried Starbucks yesterday and the coffee was rank there too. Remember the other day how I was picking on Juan Valdez and his dumb ass mule? Well, there is a chain of coffee shops here called Juan Valdez so we decided to give it a try. We went to one in the old city. The coffee was excellent. I had an Americano and Ana had a café latte. Of course, it cost about eleven bucks, but I suppose that’s what you have to pay for a decent cuppa, even in Colombia.

We walked the old city, up one street, down another, up a different one, back down another. We walked to the city wall, ascended a ramp, then walked the ramparts for a while, and along the way a young vendor latched onto us and began an unsolicited city tour, showing us Shakira’s house then a home of Pablo Escobar expropriated by the state then told us all about the cocaine situation in the country, then when we tried to vamos he whipped out his inventory of bracelets. I did the chivalrous thing and pushed Ana towards him while I went over to urgently inspect the rock wall. After identifying one bracelet she disliked the least, he demanded she buy it for 70,000 in lieu of paying for the free city tour. The faster she walked away, the faster the price dropped. Finally she gave him 15,000 to go away, so she got a bracelet for about five bucks which will make a fine gift for Stella.

Around this time, we came across Mr. Cigar - a cigar shop. Ana left me there with the shopkeeper/mansitter while she went shopping for half an hour. It was glorious. I smoked a local Colombian cigar and drank a Club Colombia beer, by myself, indoors, on a comfy couch, accompanied by a fine jazz playlist, surrounded by original artworks. This doesn’t normally happen to me on Thursdays in February.

We found our way back to Bolivar park and beneath the shade of the palms had a pre-planned fruit lunch which we had brought from our hotel room inventory – apples, plums, bananas, and a couple of granola bars. Next up was the free Museum of Gold, right across from the park, and it was total crap, but the AC was phenomenal so we stayed there for a bit.

By now we were sweaty, tired, and thinking of the hotel pool, but there was still time to buy a fake Rolex so I left Ana to do battle with a street vendor (strategically located directly across from the street from the real Rolex store) and I walked around for a while. I know from previous experience that it takes Ana exactly 27 minutes to try on enough watches to narrow it down to one or two, do some negotiating, decide on one, then have the vendor add or remove the required number of links. I also know from previous experience not to ask how many watches one needs (the answer is one, or none these days with a smartphone in every pocket), because that’s the wrong question to ask. The right question to ask is, “At that price, do you think you should pick up another one?”

As the end of our trip approaches, we’ve pretty much abandoned the long hot walk between our hotel in Bocagrande and the city centre in lieu of Uber rides that cost between three and five bucks. Of course, the cost isn’t the issue, it’s the exercise, but we’re doing plenty of walking once we get to the city so we’re okay with that.

The hotel pool had a real vibe going on today. There were many more people than usual and everybody was having a good time. We relaxed on the loungers, had cold beers, floated in the pool for a while, discussed the trip (and future trips), then eventually returned to the room to relax before going out for late dinner at a restaurant down the street. I had the most amazing seafood stew, with fresh mussels, clams, octopus, fish, shrimp, and other sea treats in the thick yellowy broth, while Ana had grilled chicken and we shared the accompanying green salad, coconut rice, and plantain. I hadn’t even seen a hot dog for several days so the culinary situation had improved significantly.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sloths, Monkeys, and Scary Tunnels

The urgent winds of yesterday had snuffed themselves out and today’s faint breeze did little to mask the inescapable heat. It was hot…damn hot. We’ve been averaging about 12 kilometres per day walking, but those kilometres today did not come easy.

After a leisurely breakfast we walked into the city centre and headed straight for the Centenario Park in search of animal life. The park was indeed open to the public today and it did not take us long to find a gaggle of tourists looking up into canopy. Two sloths creeped along the bamboo branches; one bigger, one smaller. We waited there for quite some time and surprisingly the smaller one made its way right down to the ground and nestled herself in the base of the bamboo, maybe having a poo? She didn’t seem too bothered by all the tourists taking photos of her, but then again it’s hard to tell with sloths as their faces don’t give much away and they don't seem capable of being in a nervous hurry. The larger one stayed high in the trees and at one point was hanging upside down while he scratched his head and armpits and fluffed up his hair. They certainly are beautiful creatures.

We found a couple of small monkeys in the park but were unable to spot any of the iguanas who also live there, but were probably high up in the trees. We remained there for some time enjoying the shade and reluctantly left to walk to our next destination – THE MALL – where Ana was hoping to pick up some new shorts.

Not being an enthusiastic mall rat, I instead opted for a comfy chair and sat pleasantly comatose while Ana browsed the stores. I was still very surprised at the scarcity of American and Canadian tourists, maybe because there is so little English spoken here, even from people in the tourism and service industries. I’ve been hearing English speakers maybe once per day. During our walk today we saw a skinny, older dude wearing a Chang beer singlet, tagged with a little Canadian pin. A couple of days ago in the Getsamani neighbourhood we saw a short, loud, middle-aged American dude with bulging biceps and skinny legs trailed by his partner, a Brazilian lady, heavily modified with facial leveling/plumping and these balloon butt implants that drew passing eyeballs like super magnets. We’ve seen a few backpackers, all speaking Spanish. Haven’t noticed a single German, Cloggie, Brit or Dane, which is highly unusual. It’s all Latinos here, and better for it.

Ana came away empty handed as she couldn’t find anything she liked and didn’t feel the need to spend a hundred bucks on clothes she didn’t love. She reported the clothing prices were astronomical, like jeans for $250 or basic t-shirts for $50. Fortunately, the food court places were reasonable and Ana picked up a Big Mac combo while I went for a Colombian bowl that had rice, guacamole, shreds of pork, tomatoes, beans, plantains and other unrecognizable additions. It was good.

We stepped out into the heat and walked a short distance to the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, a Spanish fort whose construction began in 1536 and was expanded over the following hundred years throughout constant attack and sieges by the British, French, and enterprising pirates. We nearly melted like Wicked Witches of the West as we climbed the steep hills to the top, exposed to the sun the entire way. Views from the castle were stunning but the biggest surprise were the tunnels. We entered in multiple spots through stairways which led to a network of deep underground tunnels. One in particular was fairly steep and maybe only five feet high and we continued down and down the claustrophobic tube until water started pooling on the ground then got a little freaked out as this was an ideal scene for a horror movie.

We called up an Uber and were soon back in the air conditioned bliss of our hotel room and didn’t leave for the rest of the night.

Cartagena, Colombia - Sweaty and Ready

Cartagena at night was an explosion of light, people, colour, and music. I was dumbstruck as I absorbed the Tuesday evening scene playing out around us – vendor food carts with the smell of charcoal grilled meats penetrating the air and drawing customers, a massive yacht full of tourists, with a helicopter on top for rides, palm tree trunks wound with thousands of brilliant lights in Centenario Park, teenage soldiers in camo carrying automatic weapons, standing near military trucks, trying to remain serious while swaying to the music, a stage in the distance with a band sweating through salsa tunes to a gyrating crowd, DJ spins and flashing lights bursting skyward from three rooftop clubs within the old city walls, thousands of people, young and old, tall and short, tourists and locals, a dizzying array of complexions, features, fashions, and Spanish accents, the faint smell of ocean air penetrated by lady perfumes, manly scents, and food smoke. Everything was going on. Everything was moving. Nothing was dormant. There was joy in the streets.

We met our new friends Surbhi and Jitu at a restaurant called Mexitixa, impossible to pronounce, but easy to find. It was Bife de Caballo for Ana and a Tomahawk Pork for me as we enjoyed a four piece band and two flashy dancers chucking down moves. It was lively and loud and we had to holler at our friends across the table. Post-dinner activities found us strolling through the Getsamani neighbourhood with its magical lighting and hordes of partygoers, artists, and revelers. We had drinks on a three-level rooftop with a salsa band in one corner, DJ in another, and recorded music blaring from another creating an indecipherable yet somehow enjoyable Colombian jambalaya of sound.

This is not what I expected for a Tuesday night.

Leading up to our evening escapades was a slow day. I went for a morning ocean swim on the far south end of the peninsula which was mostly blocked from the steady and strong 40 kph west winds whipping the hotel coastline into a foamy latte. The swim was brief and enjoyable, but at 7am there were already vendors pestering me during the walk – Mama Rosa the beach masseuse, food cart vendors, coffee vendors, old men offering sheets of authentic Cartagena fridge magnets, men and women trying to sell me a day trip to Isla Rosario for the hundredth time, taxis offering rides. An enterprising bunch trying to make their way in a difficult world.

We more fully explored our local area, wandering into residential neighbourhoods and one scruffy beach on the east side of the peninsula full of local dudes that set off Ana’s spidey senses so we turned around and retraced our steps. Ana visited shops, malls, and galleries but found nothing of interest besides respite from the heat, which was kept manageable by the strong winds. We found a rental car place and after a lovely chat with the owners booked a car for tomorrow for a solo trip to Playa Blanca, 90 minutes south of Cartagena. We had coffee at an Authentic Colombian Café which held great promise. I drink coffee rarely, saving such episodes for special places and moments when I can fully enjoy and indulge. Well, the Americano sucked. It was awful. We theorized that the good Columbian coffee beans were universally exported and Juan Valdez and his dumb ass donkey are national traitors.

With supplies from the grocery store we had a backpacker lunch in the room – tuna sandwich, local sweet plums, bananas. It was delicious. From here we visited the pool and discovered that the February sun only creeps into the lounger chair area around 3pm, but the powerful rays needs little time to make mincemeat of tender Canadian skin, so an hour of that was more than sufficient.

When it was time to leave for our dinner date we called up an Uber. Though we thoroughly enjoy walking, taxis and Ubers are very cheap here, and a 45 minute walk through late afternoon heat in our dining and dancing clothes seemed ill advised. Nevertheless, after traveling a quarter of the way there in crushing and confused traffic, which came to a complete standstill, we abandoned our driver and walked the rest of the way. We theorized that the International Conference on Agrarian Reform and Rural Development (ICAARD) which had brought thousands of delegates into Cartagena for a four day jamboree, was causing this psychotic mess of congestion, and we began to reconsider the next day’s plan for a car rental, which would force us to struggle through the city at both rush hours.

After 45 minutes, we arrived in the city centre, sweaty and ready.

Cartagena, Colombia - They Are Putting Hot Dogs In My Food

By breakfast today I had confirmed a Cartagenian conspiracy. They were slipping hot dogs into my food. I’d eaten hot dogs at every meal. Ana and I ordered an entrada the first night we arrived. It was billed as grilled sausages and papas Francesas. What arrived was chopped up hot dogs on a pile of fries. Yesterday’s breakfast – eggs and sausages (hot dogs). For lunch, my premium Mexican tacos were slathered with delicious guacamole, topped with – you guessed it – crispy fried hot dogs...and some crunchy pork belly. I was sure my local casserole specialty last night was going to be wiener free, but the first forkful revealed…sliced hot dogs.

Even today, for breakfast, the meat option was a giant warmer full of steaming, fried hot dog bits, of which I took a generous helping. Ana couldn’t believe it. But I’m not one to battle destiny or cheat fate. Besides, I love hot dogs. If they served up a delicious long wiener in a fresh bun blanketed in condiments and crispy fried onions, I’d be the happiest little chappy in the bistro. I just don’t know why they need to be so sneaky about it.

Today we walked to the Getsamani neighbourhood which is just east of the old city. If we were to visit Cartagena in the future, this is where we would stay. It is a vibrant and artsy neighbourhood with hundreds of gorgeous murals, narrow streets shrouded overhead by umbrellas and vines and streamers of flags. There were street artists at work painting, sculptures, art pieces hung from walls and homes, boutique shops, art galleries, restaurants, cafes, and bars. It was an explosion of colour and artistry.

We enjoyed a coffee and some welcome air conditioning at a lovely café, then zeroed in on a local fish restaurant. I knew it was going to be the real deal after the hostess/server//lieutenant found two chairs for us and shoved them into a table where there was only a single man eating his lunch then pointed us to join him. I had a whole fried fish called a mojarra which was served with plantains, coconut rice, and a simple garden salad. I opened his little mouth with my fork to see if they had snuck a little hot dog slice in there, but nothing. This was my first hot dog free meal and it was delicious. Ana had the shrimp-cooked rice, which was okay, but not quite as good as the fish. While eating we saw a news report on a Colombian channel whose leading story was an attempted bag snatching from a foreign tourist in Cartagena. It was caught on video and the victim did not appear to get hurt, nor lose her purse as she was stronger and more determined than the little thief. Seeing this as the top news story spoke mountains of the security and safety situation in this lovely city.

After fully exploring Getsamani, we returned to the old city, explored what felt like a kilometer of kitsch and book vendors at the edge of Centenario Park. The park itself was closed Mondays for cleaning, but we circled the exterior, looking up into the trees for a sloth. Ana’s friend Carrie and her husband had been here recently and gave her a little map of where to find the sloth they’d visited most days. I don’t remember us ever seeing a wild sloth so this is high on our list of wants and needs for this trip. We’ll be back to track down the handsome feller when the park is open.

Our wanderings took us back to Bolivar Park where we saw a drum and dance show, led by a young chap blowing blistering clarinet solos. Next was Abaco bookstore and café where we enjoyed a serene cup of coffee (my coffee was a beer) and browsed the books, nearly all in Spanish, and a good portion of those from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the local Nobel prize winning author and the most important modern cultural figure from Colombia…after Shakira, of course.

It was a scorching hot day so we decided to Uber back to the hotel, which cost about five bucks -  less than the water we’d have to buy to replenish our sweat modules if we were to walk. We relaxed in the room for a while then headed back out to restaurant Merida. They did not have a table available but did welcome us in for a drink at the bar, with two rope swings for seats. It was a classy place, a place for rich tourists and local heavitos. Ana looked especially vibrant and beautiful tonight as she enjoyed her Club Colombia beer, swung in her chair, and was simply glowing from the day’s sunshine and the sweet wind blowing in from the sea.

We finished the day by picking up a medium Domino’s pizza and enjoying some slices in the sanctity and tranquility of our hotel room.

It had been an excellent day.

Cartagena, Colombia - Papaya Is Not Butt-fruit

I was up shortly after sunrise and snuck out of the room for a beach walk. The humid morning air felt tremendously fine as I sucked it greedily into my lungs. Our hotel was in the midst of a construction zone, with another hotel going up beside it and a large crane with construction materials piled up on the beach, but it was hard to tell what was going on there. I proceeded onto the beach and was stopped in my tracks by a furry carcass in my path. A rat, stretched out perfectly in the sand, pointed towards Mecca as if deep in prayer. My expired first aid training kicked in instinctually as I crouched down for a health check. Though I haven’t had a great deal of instruction in the veterinarian sciences, I did determine that the little bugger was stone dead, and from what I could tell likely expired from a sudden brain aneurism or maybe a blocked colon. There wasn’t much more to do for him, and I wasn’t familiar with Colombian last rites rituals, so I simply bowed my head for a moment, then stepped over him and carried on.

The warm and salty wind blowing in from the ocean was luxurious but the grey sand beach was not. It was a working class beach, a beach for beer and taco entrepreneurs, a beach where you might consider wearing shoes, a beach you wouldn’t want to sleep on. I slalomed around the semi-permanent and worn beach umbrellas and peeked into a few of the busted up wooden shacks with weathered and slivery boards announcing beach-fare dishes and local lagers. Within a particularly wretched one slept the owner, sound asleep on a table, covered with a blanket. I also noticed dozens of rat tracks decorated in the sand, running up and down the beach, left there by an army of rodents hoovering up the dropped tidbits from yesterday’s crowds.

I walked as far as I could before hitting another blocked off construction zone, then turned off the beach and made the return trip along the street, passing by some other hotels and more than a few locals trotting in their jogging shorts. The sun was now fully up and it was already getting hot.

Our hotel package included breakfast so we went down to the restaurant and grabbed a table. The ghostly smells of past Cuban resort breakfasts returned en force – over-perfumed holidaymakers, coffee, fryer oil, sizzling pancakes. I grabbed a plate of scrambled eggs, dark beans, and two versions of deep-fried corn treats – arepas (corn cakes) and what my internet research tells me might have been boliarepitas (corn balls). But the best was yet to come. I found a smaller side plate and filled it with fresh fruit – watermelon and pineapple – but most importantly the sweet, heavenly, glorious fruit of the papaya. Breakfast was delicious.

Last week Magnus asked me how long it would take him to learn Spanish. He and his sister are thinking of making a siblings trip to somewhere in Spain this year.

“Well,” I said, “you already speak excellent French and you understand a lot of Portuguese and your English skills are pretty solid.”

He raised his eyebrows and waited. Deciding I was not going to get a laugh I carried on.

“So how fast you learn depends on where you are. You can’t learn Spanish here, at least not to any decent level, unless you join a Toronto soccer team with a bunch of Hispanics. But you suck at soccer so that’s probably not an option.”

Still no laugh. He gave me a get on with it look.

“So basically you have to move to Spain. Or El Salvador. Or Argentina. Any of those. And I’d say if you were immersed you’d be speaking good Spanish within a year,” I explained, then added, “Within six months if you found a local girlfriend. Three months if you found two.”

“OK, that’s not too bad,” he said.

“There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to stop calling papaya ‘butt-fruit’. Learn to love it. And the Spanish word for papaya is papaya. That will get you started.”

Our hotel was situated near the south end of a long peninsula called Bocagrande, which was a short bus ride or long walk to the old city of Cartagena. We began walking and realized we needed some local currency, so tried two different banks, but our cards worked at neither. We spoke to a security guard and he asked us what bank we used in Canada. I told him. He said oh in that case you need to use Davibank. He was right, but how he knew this was a mystery to me.

We continued walking north towards Cartagena. We walked along the busy Carrera 2 road, passing dozens of weary marathon runners (unsure of where they’d come from or how they managed to run a marathon in the same time it took us to have breakfast) then cut over to the ocean road and continued from there, snappinig photos of the impressive Bocagrande skyline. The temperature had already rocketed to near 30 degrees and it was blissful. Yes, the wintry white skin does give off a bit of smoke as the equatorial sunrays hit it, but that’s only temporary. Once you’ve fully burned off that first layer you’re fine.

The old city of Cartagena is ringed by a massive stone wall, running for 11 kilometres around the city. Construction first started in1 586 and took about two hundred years to complete, as it got destroyed a few times from invading pirates and colonizers. The old city is full of architectural masterpieces and reminded us much of the grand cities of Santo Domingo and San Juan, but also the medieval cities in the south of France which we visited not too long ago. We wandered the winding streets, taking photographs, popping into shops, and sticking to the shady sides as the sun rose higher into the sky, penetrating into the narrow laneways. A man commented on the Canadian bag tag I had strapped to my backpack and we struck up a conversation. Surbhi and Jitu were from Peterborough and this too was their first day in Cartagena. We found a lot in common and wandered the streets together for a while then sat down in Plaza Santo Domingo for drinks. They were a lovely couple and had travelled extensively since he retirement from dentistry seven years ago. During the morning walk with Ana I’d formed this excellent idea for my mid-life crisis, which I haven’t had yet, but am hoping for a good one that enables me to keep my wife and most of my money. Anyway, I was thinking of a gold tooth with a diamond in it, on the weakest of my incisors. It would look so cool and bad-ass. I ran the idea past Surbhi to get his professional dental recommendation. He didn’t say it was an awful idea.

We made plans to meet them for dinner one night this week then began the long, hot walk back to Bocagrande. We stopped at a Dollar store (which had a different name but was an exact replica of the Canadian Dollarama) and picked up two bottles of water and two ice creams, giving us time to enjoy a brief dose of air conditioning. We next stopped at a small café for a bite, but Ana was literally falling asleep sitting up, so we continued to the hotel where we cratered on the bed and had a lovely chill out session, watching part of the movie The Pursuit of Happyness on the amply endowed cable tv.

After regaining strength, we visited the outdoor pool on the hotel’s fifth level and lounged in loungers for an hour or two, enjoying the end of day sunshine and the rich offshore winds that whipped towels off chairs, leaves into the pool, and stood the hairs up on our arms like obedient little soldiers. Neither of us were particularly hungry yet so we returned to the room, watched another partial movie, then went back out to explore the area south of us then worked our way back to a Mexican restaurant we’d passed earlier in the day that advertised Caesar Salad (Nuevo). Sadly, they were out of salad but had plenty of tacos so Ana had those while I had a platter of something that resembled poutine, but instead had shredded potatoes, strings of cream sauce on top, then clumps of local cheese below and slices of what I would describe as hot dog. More on that later.

While we were eating, I saw two chubby rats race through the adjoining parking lot and disappear into the alley right beside the restaurant. I didn’t mention that to Ana so I’m going to have to watch her face when she reads this.