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!

Take me out to the balllllgaaaaame.

It started with a seemingly innocent and not unfamiliar question. 

Are you American?

"No.. soy Australiana"...[ Pause for wide-eyed disbelief] "Sii... Muy lejos!" (Very far).

He insisted. But.. do you play baseball? 

Well.. when I was a child I played softball. He agreed it was the same thing and started talking excitedly with the others.

It was Wednesday night. I was in the Plaza Trinidad Getsemani, watching the old-timers labour over their chessboards and occasionally getting flogged royally by whichever of their number decided to take pity on me and give me a go.

But now something else had piqued their interest: my supposed proficiency in baseball. Another hour of heated discussion and it was decided. I would be joining one of the local women's baseball teams. I was ushered off with vague instructions that I would be playing on Sunday at 4pm.

I didn't know where, who with, what or much else. I needn't have worried. The entire neighbourhood knew everything on my behalf. For the next few days as I walked the street, the usual greetings were modified to include a mimed baseball swing and a thumbs up. Then on the appointed day, I was walking home after a meeting at about 3pm and a skinny kid with an enormous smile came running up to me.. talking quickly and grabbing my hand. I needed to come play baseball NOW.

I quickly shoved on what I thought was baseball-appropriate attire and tried to keep pace with my new friend as he weaved in and out of the backstreets. As we ran, I received the excited calls of good luck from my neighbours. The kid led me to the team captain who explained (eventually) that I would also need a photo for the registration card. Woah. This was official. Paperwork completed, I was dragged (literally) by three girls to meet the coach. 

I started to get a bit nervous. I mean, the last time I had held a bat was when I was ten years old. Ten. And now there was a building crowd and a coach and an entire neighbourhood cheering me on. 

The coach took me through some warm ups. Catching. Fielding. Batting. I cost the team 4 balls as I belted them over the buildings. Oops. Coach seemed happy though. As I completed the drills I noticed a couple of the old-timers from the Plaza watching my progress from the side and nodding conspiratorially amongst themselves. 

Then the drills stopped, there was more rapid discussion in indecipherable Costeno Spanish and I was dragged off once again. This time it was to the house of one of my teammates (picture a city shack, 6 people sharing a double bed, clothes strung throughout the ceiling and a lot of happy semi-clad children) to get my uniform which was, appropriately enough, an incredibly bright pink tshirt. Awesome.

I was ready to play.

So the venue. I found a photo that someone else took over a year ago through a google search. This is it. 

But when I arrived in my bright pink tshirt, the wall was filled with supporters. Standing room only filled. And standing is dangerous because a home run is whenever you hit the ball over the wall. Some had signs. Some had noisemakers. The wall you see in the photo is centuries old (like 16th?)  and I think you'll agree it makes a pretty impressive backdrop for a first-time baseball game. Home base is actually on the other side of the road now. And the streets are filled with hotdog and hamburger vendors. The photo also doesn't show the music. I mean it can't. But the music was blaring! Contagious wiggle-your-bum salsa, hip-grinding reggaeton, sing-out-your-soul vallenato. I joined my teammates at the side of the diamond and waited. There was a game still in progress and I witnessed one of the most Colombian scenes ever. Bases loaded, scores locked and still the tubby guy on third base couldn't help himself from dancing when his favourite song came on. Classic.

So the game itself was pretty straightforward. I batted fourth and managed to equip myself fairly ably, hitting the first ball I faced and making it to first base. Our next 2 players struck out, but then curvaceous Catalina hit a cracker and I sprinted for home. Unbeknownst to me I had accumulated something of a fanclub, and as I pounded into homebase, they erupted into a stirring chant of "GRINGA GRINGA GRINGA!!!". My teammates surrounded me, hugged me, high-fived me. It's been a long time since I have felt such a profound sense of accomplishment. 

Then it was three out, change sides. In the field we kept the other team to a single run also but they were noticeably better than us. Next time at bat I repeated my first-ball, first-hit effort and made it to first. But we were three out before I could make it home. The crowd shouted instructions throughout the game. And this crazy crazy fanatic who I think was aligned to our team, was forcibly removed on two occasions for screaming at the umpire.The final score was 3-1 to the other team. And unfortunately my teammates didn't accept the loss graciously. The game ended with them shouting at the umpire something I still don't understand and storming off to gossip amongst themselves and leaving me bewildered and shaking hands with the girls of the other team.

It was crazy, colourful, manic and I loved every minute of it.

So.. putting on my tour guide hat now.. If you are in Cartagena on a Sunday you must must must get yourself along to a ball game. Buy a hotdog con todos (with everything), a beer or kola roman from the local store, plonk yourself down on the wall and soak up a non-touristy but totally delicious chunk of Cartagena flavour. And look out for a tall blonde girl on second base who can't help herself from dancing between batters.

Today was a good day

When you never have a bad day, you start to wonder if you possess the necessary depth and perspective to recognise a really great day. Without the troughs can I truly appreciate the peaks? It's ok. I can. Today was a great day.

It started with a morning run along Manga Bay. The sunlight hit the water in the most delightful fashion, rows of white yachts lined up invitingly, other runners smiled at me with minimal ogling, I ran into (yes, literally) a friend and had one of those fantastic symbiotic exchanges.. you know those moments when you just get each other and what is happening without having to talk about it? I love those moments. As I ran back over the bridge to Getsemani and rounded the corner that led to Plaza Trinidad I had one of those heart-swell moments as the local traders and vendors waved to me.. I even felt affectionate towards my elderly pervert neighbour who greets me leeringly everytime I walk past (a minimum of 5 times a day). I live here! Amongst these bright yellow and blue and green painted buildings. In this neighbourhood where there is a radio permanently plugged in on every street, pumping out music you can't help but smile to. With these street dogs that I have named and assigned backstories to. With the guy selling cold coconuts and the other guy shouting out "Aguacate"! With the carrot juice man in top to toe orange. HAPPY.

Back to my house for breakfast with the birds.. literally dozens of finches, cockatiels and budgies singing and squawking their little chests out while I ate my porridge.. my crazy anorexic dog running around my feet, looking for attention, then darting off timidly when he got it. My 20 year old housemate singing Vallenato. The radio station with the corny announcer screaming sporadically "Tropicana Style Mon Niiiiiiinyoooooo!!" and my housemates giggling as I do a perfect impersonation. SO HAPPY.

I get to work, where I receive confirmation from a friend of my boss, that I am to meet the director of a movie being shot here with the view to me being cast as an extra. This would involve travelling to a gorgeous island for what would essentially be an all-expenses paid holiday. The movie is the sequel to the highest-grossing Colombian movie of all-time. A comedy.. kindof along the lines of National Lampoon's, starring John Leguizamo.  I still don't know if I will do it or not because it cuts things fine re:attending Leah and Mark's wedding (which I am mega-excited about by the way). But still. Pretty darn cool.

So then, my Boss tells me that some american food channel is doing a show on street food and want to interview me. Squeal! So next thing I'm eating fried pig and discussing the joys of hot-oil rendered fat on camera. Yay yay yay! We hang about eating and talking about eating and getting filmed eating. Dream job material, seriously.  At one point, someone in the crowd that had gathered to watch starts singing a little ditty. We were actually eating Arepas con queso.. those mounds of white, cheesy, buttery goodness I'd written about here. So anyway, the song was basically along the lines of "Oh! Arepa with cheese.. I want to give you a little kiss! Mwah mwah!" And because whenever I'm eating I'm happy and because when I'm happy I do a little happy dance and because he was singing.. I start dancing along.. and then some people in the crowd start cheering their support and then two guys in the crowd start shouting at each other and I don't know what they are saying but my boss explains they are kindof fighting over me. And I find the whole thing pretty amusing. But THEN my boss explains to me that in this song: Arepas con queso that he was singing and that I was dancing along to happily, the arepa with cheese they are referring to is ACTUALLY the lady's cha cha.. and THAT'S what he wants to give a kiss to. So the fact that I was wiggling along happily to it and calling out occasional "eso!'s" was kind of hilarious.

Also entertaining.. the fact that the local expert for the Cartagena-leg of the street-food series was local restauranteur Juan. This is the photo that my boss showed me of Juan before I went to meet him. So ofcourse this was what I was picturing whenever Juan asked me a question.

After this mega cool day of pretending I was a star of network food, I went a-calling for clients for the website AND managed to sign up one of my fave fave places here.. appropriately enough, a gelato store. Whee! 


There were other things.. a Michael Jackson dance lesson I publicly provided to my Boss' 5 year old son, a chess-game in the plaza with the grizzled stalwarts of the barrio, an email from one of my best friends, ice cream, yoga, a perfectly ripe avocado.. but I think I've gloated enough and I'm sure I'm inviting some kind of retributory wrath. 


I'll just conclude with one word and know you will understand: YAY!!!

Come out and playa

So the beaches in Cartagena city itself leave a little to be desired by Australian standards. I'm not a total beach snob..  there's sunshine, sand and water plus palm trees so I'm happy. The fact that I can cycle to them in under 10 minutes makes me giddy. But visitors and locals alike (especially spoiled Australians) tend to complain about the pollution, colour of the sand, colour of the water etc.

Luckily there's a pristine beachy reprieve from the clouded cityside waters, at Playa Blanca. Situated on the island of Baru, just 45 minutes by boat from Cartagena, Playa Blanca is the stuff postcards dream of. The white sand alluded to in the beach's name (Playa= Beach; Blanca = White) is soft and squeaky, the water is [insert cliche - they all apply]. The boats will drop you off on a kindof main drag (as far as, relatively, beaches go).. turn left and leave the masses (again, relative) as you round the corner to a quieter stretch. Heavenly!

Armed with my secret weapon, a Colombian boyfriend, we negotiated a tent to sleep in for the night (15,000 pesos). There are also little palm rooved huts and simple hammocks. Bags dumped, we pulled out the first litre bottle of Ron Medellin and began the difficult task of relaxing. Took about 3 seconds. 

The boat ride to Playa Blanca varies in price.. if you catch it from the port in front of the Torre del Reloj (Clock Tower) it will cost 40,000 pesos return (including lunch) or 35,000 pesos return (excluding lunch). BUT if you don't want to return the same day, you will have to negotiate your return trip on top of this price. You can normally get cheaper boats from Manga or from Castillogrande. Or it is possible to take a bus, then a moto and get there for as little as 7,000. But it will take you 2 hours. I should also say that if you front up looking all touristy you will probably spend a lot more than this. OR you can take the big ferry which is a cheaper option (I think 15,000 each way?) but super slow and makes all these stops along the way. Anyway.. when you think that the minimum wage here is about 150,000 a week (this is what I'm getting paid!) 40,000 or $20 is quite expensive. So that's why you (I) don't do it every weekend.  

So I recommend getting the included lunch option for 5,000 pesos.Whole grilled fish, patacones, salad and coconut rice. Conversion is less than $2.50 AUS. This is what it looked like:

We happened to go the same time as my friend and work colleague Jen, and her German squeeze Carsten. If you've seen the photos, you'll know these two are magazine-worthy: bronzed, buffed and better than you. But I was too frickin chilled to allow even their ridiculous hotness to make me feel self-conscious as I let it all hang out. I drank coconut juice then ate the flesh, I swam, I made out with the aforementioned Colombian boyfriend, I slept, I drank rum. People visited us, we chatted. Like with the incredibly nice and cool Arnando who runs a kitesurfing school on the beach. The sun went down. We added rum to our coconuts and snacked on crispy patacones chips. Life was pretty darn good.

Mid-way through the second litre bottle of rum we decided to get dinner. We walked up to Mama Ruth's which is hands-down the best spot to eat. Beautiful steamed-in-the-bag fish, garlic prawns, dream catchers everywhere.. and a gorgeous hippie couple working there that made this amazing jewelery from coral and silver and shells. My spend-no-money resolve loosened by the rum, I maybe bought myself a few reminders.. 


Truthfully, the remainder of the night is fairly blurry but definitely involved dancing on the beach and skinny dipping. Though, ofcourse, I would do both of those things sober. I also insisted on drunkenly making tuna and corn sandwiches for anyone who came within cooee of our little beach shelter. Apparently they were appreciated.


Next morning I literally crawled from my unzippered tent, past the emptied third litre-bottle of rum, to the welcoming warm caribbean waters. Sins absolved, I continued on in the same fashion as the previous day: eat, sleep, read, make-out, sleep, swim. HAPPY. I maybe also did a few cartwheels.


We arranged to board a boat at 2. Things didn't exactly go to plan on this front. Because you are squeezing onboard boats with other people who only came over for the day.. it is better to negotiate as a two-some then as a four-some. That's just for future, visit-playa-blanca reference. Long-story- crazy-beach-filled-with-crazy-locals-short, we eventually made it back. Oh! further tip from those in the know. When selecting your seat on the boat - be sure to hustle your way to the back seat. Way less bumps and bum bruises. 

Anyway.. sorry for the unnecessary detail.. I kindof thought I'd make this post a wee bit educational because Playa Blanca is somewhere people might actually visit. So hence prices, locations etc


So in summary... When I choose to take a holiday from my perpetual holiday, I choose Playa Blanca. White on, man.

World Nomads Travel Scholaship Entry: HELP!

Meat or Soup. Vietnam or Argentina. Please help me decide which one to enter. The topic is :  Understanding a Culture through food.  Apparently they are looking for essays that show:

- great descriptive ability
- strong eye for detail
- ability to uncover and tell a compelling story
- excellent spelling and grammar and a knack for avoiding clichés

Please make your choice and either comment below or on facebook. And email me or fb message me any additional comments, corrections or improvements. GRACIAS!

Option 1: Street Eating

My rear-end tingled with pinned and needled numbness as I crouched on the teeny tiny red plastic stool. Later that week I would be introduced to the man allegedly responsible for the introduction of this ubiquitous seating to Hanoi, but for now, my attention was being monopolised by the steaming bowl of soup before me. I followed my father's lead, plunging the tooth-chewed communal chopsticks into the mystery broth and holding them beneath the surface. 

“The soup's just off the boil so I figure this will kill off any germs,” Dad explained.
The steam delivered the fermented sweet and sour smell of the country's notorious fish sauce to my nostrils where it intermingled with the head-tickling exoticness of anise and coriander. The soup's fragrant contents layered upon the already established street odours, creating a kind of evocative olfactory decoupage.
 

It was time to eat.
 

After a brief moment contemplating the identity of the meat, I commenced with a hearty slurp of broth and sucked down a few slippery white noodles for good measure. Oh yes. It was good.
 

I was 17. It was my first time eating street food in a foreign country. And I was hooked.
 

Since losing my street-eating virginity way back then, upon arriving in any given destination I will immediately head to the streets, gesture convincingly at whatever mysterious concoction excites my curiosity, plonk myself down next to some unsuspecting local and plug into the community in a way not possible on a guided tour.
 

While eating the cheapest, and arguably, the best food available, you are also served a tantalising slice of local reality; pretension-free exchanges and simple but important rituals. It helps that my adventurous approach to food is accompanied by guts of steel and a (touch-wood) never-get-sick confidence. I guess one day my reckless hubris will render me powerless and clutching at a porcelain bowl. But until then, and, in all likelihood, afterwards as well, the call of the street resounds.

Option 2: Pleased to meat you.

“Bravo!” I chorused over the building applause, appreciatively eyeing the meaty towers that crowded the table. The Asador (the evening's appointed barbeque buff) accepted the traditional thanks with a gracious bow before stabbing his fork into a chubby little chorizo and loading up the first plate. Soon afterwards, myself and 15 other carnivores were unleashing our inner caveman on pile of sausage, steak and innards that would stop Fred Flinstone in his tracks.

Welcome to the Argentinian asado. In a country where the eating of meat has been elevated beyond quintessential pastime, to something closely resembling a national sport (I've been told Argies consume 100kg of beef a year per capita), the barbeque is taken very seriously indeed.

I'd been invited to arrive at 9pm. “Oh! But you can't arrive before 9.30pm”, I was cautioned by my Porteña friend, “It would be rude! They won't be ready!” Ahh.. Argentine-time.

Fireside, the coals turned ember-red, while we downed that potent Listerine-like concoction of Fernet and Coke and stuck the boot into political leaders and football players. My inner-Aussie comfortably embraced this familiar ritual as the asador expertly created his collage de carne on the grill, arranging the various cuts according to cooking time and usual eating order. Grilled nibbles to begin; teeth-blackening morcilla (blood sausage), tender sweetbreads, best-you-don't-know-what-they-are chinchulines; all offal-ly good (ba boom ching etc). Then the main event of strip, flank, ribs and belly.

Is there anything that arouses salivary glands more than the smell of flame-licked beef?

The grass-fed, happy-cow goodness of Argentinian beef is so staggeringly flavoursome, my knees feel weak at even its memory. Salt-seasoned (anything else would detract) and cooked in the open air with the tendrils of smoke from the woodchips still teasing your nostrils, I defy you to find better. 

And if you do, please invite me.

So.. what do you actually do there?

BE WARNED. Mega, huge update to follow. Cut-and-pasted from an overdue email update sent out on Monday last week. Please don't feel obliged to read. It is way too long, but I am too lazy to edit. 

Ok. So. right now I am typing this from an airconditioned room in front of the Cartagena Convention Centre. I found myself getting a gig working at the Cumbre de Las Americas - the Summit of all the leaders and heads of state from the countries of the Americas. So yes Obama is coming! Cartagena is such an amazing place. There is always something happening here. Conferences and festivals and summits and parties and religious holidays etc etc etc. The first week I arrived here was the film festival. So amazing! Free movies all day for a week! Did I already tell you that the delicious Gael (motorcycle diaries, amores perros etc etc) walked right by me at the opening night. Literally made bodily contact as he brushed his way to the red carpet. He is kinda short. But I´d make an exception.  That whole week was amazing. Nightly parties with famous or soon-to-be famous directors, free movies in theatres all around town, free popcorn!! The month before it was the Hay Festival. A writer's festival with talks and activities focused on the famous and soon to be famous writers. Jonathan Franzen was here Gabriel Garcia  Marquez ofcourse etc etc. Then there was the Jazz festival.  SO yes.. even though the town is small, it is never boring.

The Cumbre (summit) is kinda a big deal. It will pretty much necessitate the shutting down of the entire city for a week. I am working in the aforementioned airconditioned room checking in delegates. What this actually entails is me smiling hugely at people as they enter the room and then passing them on to someone else. My hope is that sometime soon there will be someone who actually needs my english and I will be able to feel useful. But the rest of the time I am just masquerading. And wearing white pants. That are tight. Ugh. .In typical me fashion I got the job by going out and being uber chatty while tipsy, talking to a friend of a friend of someone I met while house hunting.  I am getting paid (hopefully) 70,000 pesos a day. I think it works out to about $35. My hours are 6.30am to 8pm.  But it is super good to get any money at all! To give you some idea of costs here.. it can be as cheap or as expensive as you like. You´d be hardpressed to find clothes less that $50. I can eat dinner and lunch for as little as 6,000 ($3). But $12,000 would be more common´and still good value. You can buy a beer for less than $2,000 ($1) from the corner store. It´s quite easy to find a happy hour with 2 4 1 mojitos.. for 12,000 or $6 for 2. If you don't know where to look though, you're more likely to spend 25,000 for dinner (and upwards), 15,000 for each cocktail, 50,000 for a bottle of wine (cut off the zeros and divide by 2) Which is still pretty good value if you are holidaying with dollars and compared to australian prices.. but really expensive compared to the rest of Colombia and when you think what the wages are here.  I pay $150 a month rent but this is rare - I looked for ages and got lucky. And also have to share a room (and a bed!) with someone else! Any snacks you see on the street are around 1,000 (50c) each.. a cold coconut where you drink the juice, then they cut it open so you can eat the flesh is 2,000 ($1).  There are a tonne of tourists here from Argentina that make the place their holiday playground and they push the prices up plus other tourists etc. At this stage there aren't that many americans despite the proximity. I guess they haven´t worked out how safe it is here yet. When they cotton on, which I think will be in the next few years, things will get expensive pretty quickly.

Ok.. anyway. What else to tell you?? What am I doing here?!

When not wearing top to toe white and living in fear that I will spill salsa all over myself, I am usually working at a website www.thisiscartagena.com. It is an online guide for all things Cartagena. I write articles (like a street food guide I did.. I am currently writing about Cartagena´s best happy hours). It's a new site so isn't really making any money yet, so I'm not actually getting paid.  But yes.. the point of doing the website.. even if it is for free instead of, say, more lucrative teaching work.. is that I think it is moving me in the direction I want in terms of life career. I think I will try and make a life here in Cartagena.. maybe some kind of travel business? So the website is really good for making contacts and for learning about starting a business here and for learning about Cartagena generally. So at this stage I am planning on making Cartagena my home. For a lot of reasons. I think it will end up being a key tourist destination but at the moment there isn't a lot here. If I get in now and learn everything and start a tour business I think I can do really well. Plus I really love it here. My typical day involves waking up.. going into plaza trinidad and giving a free english lesson to a couple of girls who live locally and make taquitos. Then I go to work around the corner in a beautiful house owned by my boss Rainbow. Yes, that´s his real name. I haven´t really asked him but I think he had some hardcore hippie parents. He is married to a Colombian from Baranquilla (it´s the neighbouring town to Cartagena and is where Shakira is from.. oh! She is also coming to town for Cumbre to perform for the Summit!). He has been here for 10 years and has 2 sons. Monty, the eldest is 5 years and is such a dude. I love him! Throughout the day I write and research for the website and I borrow the bike and go visit clients or run errands. I love taking the bike and jetting about town. I feel like such a local!! I get lunch for free (well, in exchange for working 10 hour days for nothing). Rainbow is also going to sponsor me to work here.

So my home neighbourhood or barrio is called Getsemani. You say it with a h not g. They even have their own anthem.. Soy Getsemanisense!! google it. I plan on learning the words! I love love love love my neighbourhood. I feel like part of the community - and there is this real community vibe. People wear these Orgulloso Getsemanisense tshirts (I´m a proud person from Getsemani!) and have each others' backs. Life revolves around the plaza trinidad which is in front of the church. After work I might grab myself a cup of peta which is a hot chunky drink made from corn and tastes kind of sweet and milky and satifying. Then I will sit in the plaza and watch kids skateboard, or the men play chess. Most people seem to know or recognise me, even though I can´t really remember them. I think I am their token tall blonde gringa.Like a mascot. I feel like I know so many people here already! If I spend an hour in the plaza I will probably chat to about 15 people that I know. It doesn´t move much beyond ¨hello, how are you?¨because I still don´t really speak Spanish. It´s just so hard for me to learn without seeing the words written down and properly studying it. I will start to take classes when the summit is over. But yes, I really really love my neighbourhood. I come out of my house in the mornings (which is also whacky and wonderful) and just feel this giant heartswell as soon as I step into the street. The bright pink bougainvillea! the way there is already music playing, my neighbours sitting in front of their houses, the men playing hotly contested games of ludo, the kids cycling around en masse on their bikes, the people selling fruit and vegetables and bread!! There is so much music and colour!!

Even the food here is musical!! The vendors announce what they are selling with a song -- everything has it´s own sound. pan pan pan pan pan pan pan (said in fast succession and accompanied by the drumming on a metal tin.. that´s the sound of bread.)

After chilling in the plaza for a bit and catching up with locals, I will usually try and go for a run around the bay of Manga or down to bocagrande (the beach). 

Boy-wise, my research has been progressing nicely. Have experienced crazy latino jealousy and intense declarations of undying love. In one particular instance following a bizarre jekyl and hyde script where he switched from "preciosa, mi amor, me encanta etc etc" to .. "why didn´t you answer your phone.. were you with any guys, who were you with.. I don´t think you like me as much as I like you etc etc" 

Dating has given me the opportunity to get out to the burbs and experience more of the real Cartagena... hanging out in local neighbourhoods or driving to the beach with the sound system blaring (they are particularly into that Rihanna song at the moment.. what kind of love in a hopeless place or something like that).

And OH! This city is SO romantic! It´s so easy to imagine I am in Love in the Time of Cholera, which was set here in Cartagena (unofficially). The sunsets are so so beautiful. This gorgeous tequila sunrise of orange and yellow that descends into a mauve haze. And the way the sun sets over the sea.. with palm trees! And as you sit on the ancient wall that circles the city and drink the beer you bought for less than a dollar.. it´s impossible not to be happy. Anyway.. young lovers go to the wall and make out at night. They have even made it into a verb - murallado -- ¨wall-ing¨ which I think is hilarious! There´s also horse drawn carriage rides. Horse rides along the beach. Copious time spent near-nude in bikinis. Oh! And DANCING! so much dancing. I still suck at partner dancing though. I always just want to do my own thing. But it is still romantic!

I'm thinking about making up little romance-related cards with piropos on them and selling them for some pocket money.  But that's just an idea I had yesterday.

Anyway.. that was just a whole lot of junk from my head to hopefully give a bit more of an insight to my life here. In summary, and in response to my FAQs: 

How ARE you? Awesome. Happy..  

Where ARE you?! Cartagena, Colombia. 

When are you coming back? No plans to. 

Where to next? My only plan is to attend the wedding of Leah and Mark on June 3. Otherwise, Cartagena is my home and I will be coming back here after the wedding? I'm not backpacking.. I'm living.

Update for the Update: Managed to be within 2 metres of Obama and a bunch of other leaders as they strutted past me in the convention centre.

Street Eats

Hey all! I wrote this for www.ticartagena.com. Cos I'm exceptionally lazy, I'm just going to use it to provide the promised entry on the food here in Cartagena. Anyway, just explaining the formal-ish tone.

...

The streets of Cartagena offer a virtual smorgasbord of sensory treats for the hungry visitor or resident. After devouring the city's colourful architecture, drinking in the postcard-worthy views and smacking your lips at the tasty musical offerings, you'll probably want to eat some actual food.

And the place to do it? Street-side of course.

Whether you are chasing a snack or something more substantial, a healthy start or a sweet denouement, take to the streets to experience food the way Cartagenans do whilst simultaneously gaining an insight into the people and culture of this incredible city.

Here's our pick of the best street eats from breakfast through to midnight snack. These should whet your appetite, but we suggest the real fun is found in discovering your own! Buen provecho! 

Breakfast Fast 

Start your day with the most quintessential of Colombian foodstuffs – the Arepa. Made using ground corn dough, these tasty treats take many forms; white, yellow, fried, grilled and stuffed.

Opt for a substantial, stick-to-your-guts serving of the Arepa de queso that will keep you going til lunch. White corn dough is mixed with cheese, shaped into squoval patties, then grilled until golden. The vendor will then strategically prong your arepa with a knife, to allow melted butter to seep into the crevices. Definitely a heart starter. Try to ignore the greasy transparency of your serviette once you've finished eating.

Equally popular is the arepa de huevo. These yellow, usually round, parcels of joy actually originated on the Colombian coast, but are now popular throughout the country. Made using yellow corn dough, an entire egg is added before frying. Some versions also include meat. Try to buy them fresh out of the fryer for finger-licking flavour.

For those watching their waistlines, a tropical fruit platter might be a better bet. Wave down one of the colourfully-costumed Pelenque women and watch as she transforms your plastic plate into a work of art – Maracuya (passionfruit), Lulo, Carambola (starfruit), Pitaya (dragonfruit), Sandia (watermelon), Nispero and Papaya are arranged decoratively for an antioxidant hit that tastes as good as it looks.

Pick up a tiny cup of black coffee or tinto from one of the thermos-toting vendors, then head to a bench in one of the Plazas to enjoy your breakfast al fresco.

Snack Attack

Either side of lunch you'll be chasing something small to tie you over and Cartagena's streets do not disappoint.

For our money, you can't beat a bag of mango biche. Colombians eat their mango unripe, crunchy and doused in lemon, salt and dried chilli powder. You can also buy green guava served in the same way. You will find carts selling the skinny soldiers of cut up fruit throughout the city. 

 

For an alternative tropical snack, find a coco frio cart – the vendor will pop a straw into the chilled coconut for you to slurp away. The energy-filled coconut water will return the spring to your step, then if you stick around, the vendor will cut open your finished coconut so you can gobble down the other other white meat inside.

If you make your way past the Torre de la Reloj towards Getsemani, you will stumble upon another foodie-find and a perfect afternoon snack: Cheese with guava. Eat the white, spongey cheese with a slab of the tart, ruby-red guava paste and you have something of a taste sensation.

Lunch

For Cartagenans lunch is the most important (read: largest) meal of the day. Locals will usually either paper-bag a meal from home or grab a styro-foam pack filled with fish, pork, beef or chicken grilled with onion and peppers and served with rice and lentils. Strangely, it will also sometimes come with a portion of what seems to be tinned spaghetti. Go figure.

To nab your own, simply ask someone on the street who is already eating, “de donde compraste” and s/he will point to a vendor walking the streets with large plastic bags filled with stacks of the styro-foam lunchboxes. Be warned, there is a limited window for purchasing this lunch option, normally between noon and 1.30pm.

Alternatively, make yourself a very traditional lunch of fritanga food – FRIED! Try some empanadas – semi-circular pastry pillows with assorted fillings (beef, chicken, cheese). Then be sure to load them up with plenty of salsa! We've had a number of favourable reports supporting our claims that the freshest are found on sale parallel to the wall at Calle 38 and Calle Zerrezuala (near the Exito Supermarket).

You'll probably also need something to wash it all down with. Again, the streets provide! You won't need to look far to locate one of the vendors pushing along a giant fishtank filled with icy juice. Perhaps try the sweet and sour tartness of a tamarind juice or a lemon/lime juice, to cut through that lunchtime grease. Also popular is Avena – a white drink made on oats and served both hot and cold. You can identify these vendors because the beverage is kept in giant silver vats.

Dinner Winner

If you're harbouring some nostalgia for the gloriously 70s dish that was the prawn cocktail – you're in luck! They never went out of fashion in Cartagena. Just beside the Torre del Reloj you will find a string of stalls selling coctel de camarones (some stalls also call themselves cevicherias although if you are expecting a Peruvian ceviche you will be disappointed). Choose your cup size (the different sized cups are on display and conveniently have the prices written on the outside), then choose your seafood – prawns/shrimp, squid, mussels, octopus or a combination. The vendor will combine your selection with finely diced purple onion and garlic, lime juice and a home-made thousand-island sauce. Eat your prawn cocktail with the water crackers provided and be sure to accept the complimentary mint for your garlic breath!

Something Sweet

Just because you are bypassing restaurants, there is no need to miss out on dessert. In fact, Cartagena has an entire dedicated street of sweets: el Portal de los Dulces. Opposite the Torre del Reloj (Clock Tower) in the Plaza de los Coches you will find stalls stacked high with sweet-filled glass jars. The candies are intensely sweet, so one will usually suffice. Examples include fist-sized mounds of coconut and condensed milk, tiny blocks of caramelized peanuts, slabs of sour guava or tamarind dipped in sugar, bolas de panela (brown sugar and popcorn balls) and muñecas de leche (“milk dolls”). 

 

Midnight munchies

So you've worked up an appetite shaking your stuff at Havana all night? Or perhaps you need something savoury to offset all those Cuba Libres? The man you need to see is DJ Hotdog. With his unique combination of pumping beats and calorific buns, this Costellan character is top dog in Plaza Trinidad.
Grab one laden with every conceivable condiment (give the pineapple or pina a try) and eat while chatting to other appreciative strangers, watching fire-twirlers and wiggling along to DJ Hotdog's musical stylings.