Where the streets have no name

Actually, a more accurate (although decidedly un-catchy) title would be; Where the Streets Have Numbers Instead of Names or Really Random Names That Hint At an Amusing and Interesting Backstory, or Both. 

See,  directions can be difficult in Cartagena.

Type a destination into the modern wonder that is google maps, and the pin will point you to a neatly numbered calle (street) that seems to sequentially follow the numbered street beside it and precede the numbered street on the other side. 

Simple, right?

Sorry, no. The thing is, in Cartagena's Centro District, NOBODY uses the numbers. Instead there are colourful names like Calle de Tripita y Media (Street of Tripe and a Half), or Tumbamuertas (Street of the Fall Down Dead). These are the names people who live here actually use. They appear on the floral lettered wall plaques of polished marble on every corner. On hotel stationary. Sometimes they even appear on maps. And the myths and stories that gave birth to them are passed down through the generations and shared with a few lucky tourists.



Intrigued by what made the dead fall down? This particular name apparently dates from the 1800s, when the rickety carts carrying plague victims, dropped the unfortunate corpses due to the street's poorly maintained bumps and potholes. 

A particularly generous vendor who always dished out an extra half serve of tripe could be found in the Getsemani street named Tripita y Media. The alternative explanation is the lady selling the tripe always did so wearing only her socks. An interesting combination.

Yesterday I was told the origins of my street, Calle de San Antonio. San Antonio is usually identified as the patron saint of lost articles and people. Hmm.. perhaps given my general hopelessness in this area I should keep him on speed-dial? Although considering I have lost about 6 phones since I got here, speed-dial might not be the best approach. Anyway.. a young woman who lived on this street was particularly distraught with the fact there was a boyfriend missing from her life. Wisened women who knew all about these things told her she should ofcourse pray to San Antonio to find her a boyfriend. She did as they instructed, purchasing a weighty statue and praying to the saint morning and night. But after months and months of unanswered prayers, the girl became so frustrated she cursed San Antonio and threw the statue out her window in disgust. This was shortly followed by the anguished screams of pain from the poor sod who was whacked in the head by the hurtling hunk of sainthood. Ofcourse the girl, apologising profusely, was obliged to tend to the stranger's wounds. And ofcourse, dot. dot. dot. they fell in love. San Antonio coming through with the goods. Awwwww...

The first street I lived in here was called Calle de las Chancletas (street of thongs/flip-flops). There's the street of bitterness. The street of ladies.The street of the bomb - particularly controversial among historians who have been unable to determine exactly what bomb the name refers to. The streets have been named and renamed. Each time, reflecting the emergence of a new local legend, another plot twist in the film-like history of this slave-built, pirate-plagued, king-coveted city.

In the "new" city of Bocagrande, most often described to me as a dirtier version of Miami, the numbers are actually used in practice as well as theory. It's clearer. More organised. But in reality, so much less fun. Yes, you can determine very easily how far away Calle 22 is, if you are currently eating icecream on Calle 25. But there is no way I would have discovered that I simply have to start pegging pietists onto the street and true love will be mine.

So when you holiday in Cartagena, give Google Maps a vacation too. Find a local and ask for directions. And while you are at it, get yourself a snooze-free history lesson.

Mercado Bazurto

Dirty smelling sprawling mess.

Pretty much everything you will ever read about the infamous people's market in Cartagena will reference the above description. There will also probably be some kind of mention of the thieves and pickpockets it allegedly harbours. It is all true. But if you discount Mercado Bazurto based only upon what you read, you are missing a place that is also incredibly vibrant; filled with coloured foodstuffs, the energy of frenetic commerce, the inherent warmth of the Costeno people and the widest smiles you will ever see. You'll also be skipping one of my most favourite places in Cartagena.

Yes it is dirty. The street gunge that seeps between your unprotected thonged* toes is a less-than-hygienic combination of mud, decomposing rubbish and fish juices. A misplaced step and your foot will be plunged into a pool of it, splashing the brown gunk in an attractive splattering up the back of your calves.

And my, does it ever sprawl. Unlike other Latin American markets I have been to with their more or less ordered zones (ie separate sections for shoes, meat, electronics etc), the Bazurto's floor plan defies rhyme or reason. Legumes lie next to lingerie. Fresh(ish) fish are displayed alongside fake flowers. There's also plenty to rate highly on the gore factor scale; like grey entrails and eyeballs freshly plucked from unfortunate cows.

Gory photo thanks to R Caplin.

The smell is what locals will complain to you about the most. Look. It's definitely not roses. But somehow I find the almost tangibly thick smell, kind of visceral. Like I am giving my nostrils a workout, in the same way as a bracing swim or arduous hike makes your body feel used and useful. And when you do catch the whiff of something pleasant, like the sweetened tang of freshly squeezed passionfruit pulp, your appreciation is heightened and your taste buds swell instantaneously.

Being tall and blonde, I often describe myself as high-vis here at the best of times. In the Mercado I swear it feels as though I have a neon sign pointing at me that flashes and screams GRINGA while the song Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport is playing and monkeys cycle around me on miniature bicycles. Which is to say, I definitely do not blend in. But I like it. Got distracted buying Bolis (frozen fruit ice-blocks)? No problem! Look slightly lost and 4 or 5 people who have been clocking your every move will be ready to tell you exactly which way your friend went. Hmm.. where can I buy Cilantro? Again, volunteers everywhere to lead you directly to a vendor and to help you bargain a good price. There's the usual hissing, bonitas, “beautiful eyes” etc, in fact the frequency is actually cranked up here, but it's nothing if not good for the ego. And as soon as you require any help or information, the lewdness is quickly replaced by a genuine desire to help out.

I like to arrive early - before the traffic dust has settled on the produce, negating its freshness. Recently I've taken to getting the supplies for a simple ceviche. Fresh Corbina (white fish), cilantro, onions, limes, chilis and tomatoes. The whole lot, including the 2 giant fish (filleted while you wait) will cost less than $7. Sweaty, fatigued, I will then pull up a stool at one of the many outdoor eating spots for a hearty corriente (daily meal). A pile of coconut rice, fish/chicken/pork, fried platano or banana, lentils and salad, with a giant bowl of satisfying soup to start. It also comes with a glass of the revered panela. This is basically a cordial-like drink made from cane sugar. I continually make the mistake of telling them I don't like it. Woah! It's like I have spat all over the Colombian flag, so closely tied is this drink to their national identity. “But it's so delicious!”, they insist. I joke with the owners and share smiles with my fellow diners. I smile at the faded pornographic pin-ups of big busted women, lovingly pasted into place (and completely without irony) above the painted wall sign declaring “Todos gracias a Dios” - Everything thanks to God.

Then it's back on a bus, with their pimped up gilded curtains and travelling buskers, to the slightly less pungent world of Centro Cartagena. You've spent less, got more and got better.

When speaking to locals, they are genuinely amazed that I love the market so much. They talk of it being a dangerous, bad-smelling eyesore.

Sadly the government agrees:- council has recently decided that the Mercado Bazurto must relocate to a new home further out within 3 years time. Apparently the well-to-do consider this sprawling mess something of a blight on the beauty and safety of the walled city and want to keep it far from tourists and business. This is actually the second time the market has been moved. Previously it was right in the centre, near the current home of the convention centre. The rumours abound as to why it was moved at that time. Whether it was the result of some underhanded play by supermarket chain Olimpica or the result of the unhygienic tangle becoming too much to tolerate so close to the city walls is uncertain. Either way, the market has again offended the powers that be and is being pushed further out. How awful?! Cities need markets. And I think Cartagena, more than most, needs the colour and character of Bazurto to stave off the blandness and gentrification that threatens to deaden its personality and charm.

More than likely I will make the trek to the market even after it moves. And until then, I will continue to parade my gunge-splattered calves with pride, knowing I obtained the warpaint getting up close and personal with the real Cartagena.

*Australian glossary: apparently the rest of the world calls this type of footwear, flip flops

Blame it on the rain

Catchup post from May 19, 2012.

Rain.
Sheets, buckets, cats and dogs of rain. Rain submerging our feet, saturating our clothes, and flying from our head-tossed hair. Yup. The unexpected but undisputed star of my going away party was rain. And goddamn it gives good guest.

It wasn't really a going away, so much as a see you later. I was leaving my beloved Cartagena for 7 weeks of wedding (go LARK!), New York, San Diego, Mexico and Central America (more on that in other posts.. hopefully) but I was definitely coming back. Still, many of the friends I had made over my 3 months of living here would be taking off while I was away, so I figured a last-hurrah was more than called for. Plus, as many of you can attest, I really really love parties. 

Given I was not only sharing a room, but a bed too.. I totally did not have a home environment suitable for party. Also, most of my friends, like me, were totally broke, which kindof excluded traditional venues. So I got creative and decided to have a proper Costeno street party. 

The preparations, in themselves, made me fall in love with Getsemani anew. I began by canvassing the permission and advice of my neighbours. 

You will need decorations.
And food.
Definitely balloons.

Really? Picture proper grade 4 party planning. I'd previously attended the birthday party here of a 25 year old male complete with themed soccer cake, candles, balloons and signs.. so I wasn't totally taken by surprise. I acceded to the extend of purchasing some of that festive coloured bunting, but put my foot down at the cans of party foam (they really really love that stuff here).

But raising the coloured paper flag decorations necessitated the procuring of a ladder. I asked someone who led me to someone who led me to the smiling face of my leering neighbour. After 3 months of walking past this man on a daily basis as he eyed me lustily and called me "Precious" and "Queen" we had eventually reached something of a friendship. So now, he was excitedly issuing instructions to his son as we went to his house to get the ladder. He proudly showed me his house. How big it was. Its bathrooms. He proposed marriage. I did my head-shake, eye-roll "youuuuuu" laugh that you need to employ constantly here in order to decline advances without offence. Then I joined his two sons as we carried the enormous ladder through the backstreets of the barrio. 

Next thing I am on the near to highest rung of the ladder, with streams of kids jostling to hold the papered lengths, world-wise women cackling out directions and my leering neighbour holding the base of the ladder for support (and more than likely, looking up my skirt). I took a mental photograph of this crazy scene for future reference and then continued to finish the job. Decorations in place, the beers were passed around, backs were patted and the ladder was returned.

Another neighbour, Nelson, then came and insisted I inspect the sound equipment. Picture speakers that are too big to fit inside a doorway. He proceeded to explain the very important process of song selection: 3 salsa, 3 reggaeton, 1 vallenato, 1 Rhianna. Repeat.

The gossipy, here they say Chismoso, neighbours were already abuzz with news of my party. What time? 10pm. Can we come? Yes! Yes! Everyone is invited! I felt so happy and appreciative of my barrio and the way it just comes together to help and support each other. Even embracing the non-Spanish-speaking gringa. I was on a heart-swell high (yes, this happens to me a lot here) and had my silly big grin on all afternoon.

Ok.. the party itself.  By now I was long use to having an all-covering layer of sweat as my constant daily companion.. but tonight, the humidity was something else. The sweat pooled on my upper lip, backs of knees, arm crevices and small of the back almost instantly upon my exiting the shower.   So as my friends gathered, the rum was passed around and dancing sweat was added to the general environmental sweat.. I started to silently hope the imminent rain would hurry the heck up. We drank. My amazing friend from Brazil, (miss you Vini!) sang the team song for my afl club the Brisbane Lions, which he had learned in my honour. We talked. We reminisced. We made promises to keep in touch. And ofcourse, we danced. Some of the neighbours joined in. Most continued playing their games of cards or ludo. Then, about 20 minutes shy of midnight, the skies opened up and poured down its heat-quenching relief. 

And that's when the fun really started.

There's a reason rain features so prominently in music video clips and cheesy dance movies. All that rain-licked skin, the glistening bodies and the clinging clothes makes for some seriously sexy scenes. Add in copious quantities of hot latino blood, and things were positively sizzling.

The music blared, the street was packed with writhing bodies and the water kept rising. We kicked off our shoes (ahem, thongs) and stomped and splashed theatrically in time with the beat. It kept raining til 3am and we kept dancing. Everyone ecstatic in this shared moment of recklessness and extreme fun. This night definitely is included in one of my best ever.

The party was such a hit, the venue and theme has since been borrowed by other party makers. although when I asked someone after one of them they told me sadly.. "It was pretty good.. except.. it didn't rain". Its fame spread to Panama where I heard it spoken of in hostels with great reverence. And then, on my return 7 weeks later, strangers were calling after me and giving me a thumbs up. Kristy! Despedida! Chevere!

So I guess this story snapshot shows that Cartagena is the type of place where when you throw a party, the whole barrio throws the party with you. It is the type of place where pervy neighbours end up being your greatest ally. And it is the type of place where they make limonada from lemons and really frickin amazing parties from rain.

I HATE MOSQUITOES

Generally speaking I don't tend to or like to use the word hate. There seems to be enough negativity in the world and by the time I have crystalised any thoughts surrounding something that may be irking me, the bad vibes have passed and I'm already skipping after another butterfly.

But I really, really hate mosquitoes.

I've been sitting at a computer doing data entry for the past few days and have had the unfortunate opportunity to observe these prehistoric vampires closely as they continually suck both my blood and my will to keep working. I am staying in a place that is situated close to a river that I haven't learned the name of yet. And my gosh there are a LOT of mosquitoes. And the mosquitoes here in Colombia are a superbreed of mosquitoes. They make Australian mosquitoes look so dumb and unenterprising in comparison. 

For starters, they are silent. 

Many the Australian summer night I spent lying in bed, hot and sticky, listening to the sole mosquito in the room buzz around.. waiting for it to finally pause.. before SMACK! A mix of delight and morbid curiosity on my face as I surveyed its squished corpse to ascertain exactly how much of my blood the expired tyrant had helped itself to. I developed a pretty good strike rate. Sometimes, on the occasions I'd left my window open past dusk, the following morning my pillow would be decorated with brown and red smears after a night of employing the pillow-whacked-into-the-ceiling technique. Did anyone else do this?!

But key to any of my success was the fact that the mosquitoes made noise. You could always tell where they were.The Colombian mosquitoes are like silent assassins. I never know when they will strike. In fact I can barely feel it even while they have their needle tweeter stuck in me. If not for the angry red lump that later forms, it would be the perfect crime.

Then there's the fact that these mosquitoes don't follow any regular flight pattern. Their movements are completely unpredictable. They will be right there in front of me and still they manage to escape my death clap, leaving me looking clumsy and bewildered. 

Finally, and most frighteningly, they remain utterly undeterred by my usually impenetrable armour of Tropical Strength Aerogard. Seriously. I think their evolution is fairly scary. 

OK. Phew. I feel better now that's out. I'm sorry for wasting the time of anyone who bothered to read this post thinking it would eventually move onto something interesting or relevant. Nope. It was all about mosquitoes. And how I hate them.

BUT on the positive side (Ha! I can't help myself) this is seriously the only negative thing I really have to say after 3 + months living in Cartagena. And also, it wasn't really something I noticed while living in Getsemani or Marbella.. so it might just be a location thing.

So, in conclusion. I hate mosquitoes. But I hate them everywhere, not just in Cartagena. And I grudgingly respect the fact that the mosquitoes here are smarter opponents than I am accustomed to and I am probably just being a bad loser.

Ooh look! A butterfly!