Top Travel Leads

With help from the hotel, we booked a half day tour of the city. Our tour guide was Nico Medez. Previously, he had worked with Sarah Woods, the author of the Bradt tour book on Colombia, and she had listed his name in her Acknowledgements. Receiving an imprimatur from Michael Palin, this book has been recommended over the Lonely Planet version. To date, there are not many tour books on Colombia and purchased through Amazon, it was the only tour book we had brought with us. Excited about touring with an experienced guide, I was surprised when my first request, a tour of the Basurto market, received a resounding no. He described the market as a horror, a dirty place filled with pick pockets and thieves and not suitable for tourists. Of course, he did not realize his description would not have the intended result of scaring us off but would only increase our desire to go. How bad could the place be if Anthony Bourdain had filmed a segment of his program there? After laying out our bona fides, a list of the Asian markets we had visited and survived, and promising to be careful with our belongings, he said he would take us.

BASURTO MARKET
Located outside the historic city, close to the water in an industrialized area, the Basurto market is Cartagena’s main market. It is the kind of place where you can find most everything you need just not in the form by which you know it. Crawling out of the van, we found ourselves standing in front of a business selling bags of charcoal and used tires, the debris of both scattered over the yard. When I looked up, we had caught the attention of an overly large woman stuffed into a white plastic chair, sitting next to a stack of old tires. She did not return my smile and as she continued to stare, I felt she was pinning us, as butterflies, against a cardboard background. Apparently, she was not part of the welcoming committee but more the mistress of her domain. Then tiring of us, she began to yell at a small boy, covered in charcoal dust, struggling to fill a large plastic bag with small pieces of charcoal. This tableau included a large man, whose formerly white shirt was covered in black stains. He was sitting in an adjacent plastic chair, hard to determine his role, as he seemed concerned with nothing more than the morning bottle of beer he was cradling in his outsized hands. As for us, we were only passing through and could only process this scene as just part of the local color and the future of the young boy we recognized as details unfortunately beyond our immediate grasp or present sensibilities.

Fish stalls, whose tattered ancient tarps provided scant protection from the sun or rain, lined the entrance to the market. Soon we heard vendors calling out to Nico, who had apparently been here many times before. We stopped to watch one of his friends in the process of cleaning a large red snapper. Armed with something that looked like a small machete, scales were flying everywhere, attaching to any available surface and falling onto the ground, glistening for the moment before being ground into the dark soil by footsteps from passing customers. In Asian markets, the fish are kept alive because many will not buy a fish unless they first see it swimming. Here the fish for sale were dead but had never been frozen and their firm flesh and clear eyes testified that they had been swimming in the sea not too many hours before they ended up on a fish monger’s wooden table. Nico knew about fish, pointing them out and calling them by name and amazing us with the wide variety available in the waters around Cartagena.

Before stepping inside the market, we heard music coming from an unseen boom box. Enjoying the sounds, even though we could not discern a salsa from a cumbia from a vallenato, we immediately knew this place was humming with the rhythms of an Afro-Caribbean beat. On the produce side of the market, vegetables and fruits were piled up in huge mounds. It was not the quantity that amazed us but the variety. In Bogota, we had learned from Ettica that Colombia grew many different kinds of fruit and here were learned that potatoes, peppers, onions and root vegetables are available in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors, many that we have never seen before. Nico spoke to a wizened old man selling herbal medicines and after listening to him through Nico’s translation, we wondered why we would ever need to visit a drug store again. Having become used to Asian market women, we noticed here that men were the dominant sellers, especially in the fresh meat section. If you cannot afford the traditional cuts of meat sold in the super markets, you come here to buy the parts of the animal that are left over. The butchers’ tables were piled high with bones, hearts, livers, lungs, stomachs, hoofs, eyeballs and lengths of intestines.

Passing the clothing stalls specializing in tennis shoes, jeans and baseball caps, we headed toward the cooked food area where Anthony Bourdain had eaten “shark, seafood, rice with octopus and icotea turtle eggs”. It was close to lunch time and in an open air space, we found women dressed in colorful clothing stirring large pots of bubbling stews and soups containing either fish or meat. The pots were fired up by charcoal, the air was thick with aromas, and once again, from an unknown source, the sounds of Caribbean music punctuated the air. Here the women were in charge and the men lined up, waiting for lunch to begin. You could sense a festive atmosphere, people, music, food and beer collaborating to make a good time for all. Women offered us places at their tables and never removing our smiles, we shook our heads no. We left thinking, more power to Anthony and his staff. Our next stop was the La Popa Monastery.

After crossing the mountains, high valleys and the broad plateaus of the interior, Donald and I headed for the Caribbean coast, the ground level for a country that seemed to tower above the sea. Our trip would continue with a total of seven nights in Cartagena, four nights in the Tayrona National Park and one night on Rosario Island.

CARTAGENA: BACKGROUND
After defeating the Calamari, a tribe of indigenous Caribe Indians, Pedro de Heredia with his 150 men officially established Cartagena in 1533. Beginning with ten huts and a small church, it is one of the oldest Spanish colonial towns. Because the shape of the bay reminded him of his homeport in Spain, Cartagena, Pedro de Heredia called the new city Cartagena de Indias. In 1552, after a fire spread through the settlement destroying the wooden buildings, the city was rebuilt out of stone, brick, coral and baked tiles. Located on the Spanish Main, Cartagena became Spain’s most important port, the transshipment point for all the treasures dug out of the soil and plundered from the Indian tribes. Before being loaded onto Spanish galleons, its warehouses bulged with gold, silver, emeralds, pearls, sugar, tobacco and spices from the Far East that had been transshipped from the west coast of Mexico. However, this accumulation of fabulous wealth did not go unnoticed and for the next 200 years, Cartagena continually had to defend itself from attacks by Dutch, French and British privateers, operating under instructions from their government and from pirates, free lancers plundering for their own account.

After an attack by the French just thirty years after the establishment of the city, it became obvious the city needed to be fortified but work did not begin in earnest until after Sir Francis Drake’s attack in 1586. Operating under the blessings of Queen Elizabeth, Drake destroyed 25 % of the city including the recently completed cathedral. After a promised payment equivalent today to two hundred million dollars, he allowed the remainder of the city to go unharmed. Cartagena was vulnerable to attack from both land and sea and construction of fortifications would continue until completed in 1756. By that time, Cartagena was surrounded by seven miles of thick highly defended walls and considered the strongest fortified city in Spanish colonial America. Even the churches were built like fortifications.

Cartagena and Veracruz, Mexico, were the only two colonial cities allowed to engage in Spain’s lucrative slave trade and slaves, brought from Africa, built the fortifications, cleared the land and did the farming. The slave trade and its prosperous port made Cartagena one of the wealthiest towns in Spanish America and also one of the most beautiful. In 1984, UNESCO declared it a World Heritage Site. Facing the Caribbean Sea, with its vibrant mix of ethnically diverse people, today totaling over one million, Cartagena has long been a cruise boat destination and a tourist mecca, receiving the country’s largest number of tourists.

WE ARRIVE
The conquistadors arrived on horseback, those fantastical monsters that scared the local population, and Donald and I arrived almost five hundred years later on Avianca flight 9546. We landed in Rafael Nunez International Airport, named after a hometown boy who, trained as a lawyer, became famous in the mid nineteenth century as the only president elected to serve for four terms. He helped craft Colombia’s constitution and in his off hours composed poetry as well as the national anthem.

We checked into the Casa Pestagua Hotel, conveniently located within the city walls in the sector called Calamari or El Centro. During colonial times, this area was the city’s economic, political and religious center. Here the aristocrats and wealthy built their mansions, the government set up administrative buildings and the church built the cathedral and the other churches. The architectural styles represented that which they knew from home, late Renaissance, Baroque and Moorish, developed by the Moslems who, after controlling Spain for over 700 years, had been thrown out in 1492. Similar to other Spanish cities, the layout of Cartagena included squares and plazas.

Our hotel was built from local material, limestone, coral and wood. It reflected the influence of Moorish architecture with its round arched colonnades and central courtyard filled with an assortment of potted plants, fountains and water channels framed by tall palm trees. It was owned in the 17th by el Conde Pestagua, a wealthy aristocratic count who was described as an “administrator of commerce”. His wife was considered a patron to the Catholic churches. The rooms are large with high ceilings and thick stucco walls. The owners created a space of harmony and tranquility and similar to the other mansions, they hid their property behind high walls and a formidable thick wooden door. This place, once called “the most beautiful house in Cartagena”, was eventually abandoned by its owners and similar to many other colonial and republican mansions, it fell into disrepair. Casa Pestauga was rescued by Pedro Gomez, a famous builder, who hired the well known architect Alvaro Barrera and the building was restored to its former glory and opened in 2007 as a boutique hotel with eleven rooms. Today, the frescoes have been returned to the walls and ceilings and the rooms are decorated with 19th antiques with bathrooms, institutional in size, dripping in marble.

To be continued

JUAN MARTIN REDEEMS HIMSELF
The mysterious man with the shovel was Juan Martin who, along with his wife, owned the tour company that had planned our excursions in the coffee region. According to Johnny, he did not speak English, maybe explaining why he never introduced himself to us.

The third event in our trifecta was a “horseback journey through El Valle del Risaralda” with a promised surprise at the end. As per the program, we would drive to a hacienda fifteen minutes away from the hotel where we would find horses and the trail that led through the valley.

The hacienda turned out to be a 7,500 acre spread complete with a horse breeding farm. We pulled up to the stables and directly in front of us, framed by the dust and the stable hands, was a young horsewoman directly out of a Goya painting sitting astride a black horse as shinned and polished as she was. Getting out of the car, the only attention we received from her was a disdainful smirk and with the flick of her wrist, she and the horse were off. Apparently, she belonged to the horsey set and Donald and I dressed in jeans, tee shirts, wearing ball caps did not meet her aesthetic.

We were introduced to Pedro, the man in charge of our ride. Johnny had told us about him. His grandfather was an Indian and had grown up in the mountains. He was being trained by the village elder to become a brujo, a kind of spiritual magician who can cure animals as well as people and when necessary, can call up the spirits of the dead. They taught him to smoke a puro, a kind of cigar whose fragrance can ward off evil spirits or materialize the good ones. When called to action, a brujo first drinks ayahuasca, a concoction that induces a trance, and then he is ready to foretell the future or make decisions for anything that needed to be decided. However, the Catholic nuns kidnapped his grandfather and placed him in a mission school before his training was completed. As a result, he only learned how to contact the spirits from the beyond but when they showed up, unfortunately, he did not know how to command them to do anything further. After that, the spirits would just hang around until they got bored and then go back to the beyond. In 1953 during the time of La Violencia, that insane period of Colombian history between 1948-1957 when Liberals and Conservatives tore themselves apart leaving 350,000 people dead, his grandfather was kidnapped again. This time he was forcefully conscripted into the army and was never seen again.

Pedro’s background, just like the country, is a jumble of ethnicity, a mixture of those who were already there and those who showed up later. His grandfather, an indigenous Indian, married a black woman, whose ancestors arrived as slaves from Africa. Their son married a woman who, even though illegitimate, claimed to be 100% Spanish. She maintained her lineage, dubious at best, stretched back to the Conquistadors. It was only when she exhibited a passion for gold jewelry that they believed her. When you do the math, their son Pedro is ¼ Indian, ¼ Black, and ½ Spanish.

Regardless of the blood coursing through his veins, Pedro is totally campesinos. Just as Juan Valdez loved his mule, Pedro loves his horses. He feels awkward walking and would stable his horse in his house except the extra bedroom, that had once belonged to his daughter, is presently occupied by his wife’s pet pig. When we arrived, Pedro, whose face is creased with the road map of his life, was sitting on a small stool next to a fence and his favorite horse, Arepa, named after his favorite food, was by his side. He was smoking a cigar, the soggy tip clenched between his teeth, and playing a small accordion, along with beer, a cultural gift from the Germans. Smoke was whirling around his head leaving me to wonder if that was the magic smoke known to his grandfather. Similar to the other campesinos, hanging from his belt was a machete sheathed in a leather tasseled scabbard. Since he traveled by horse, he required a shorter machete and his was made out of chrome, making it easier to sharpen.

As per the program, the ride through the valley was scheduled for four hours but we decreased it to three in deference to our nether parts still remembering our horseback ride from the day before. The stable boys brought out our horses. I asked for and received one not too wide. We were in the hands of professionals and like an airplane pilot, they walked around the horses, inspected all the parts and readjusted the stirrups to perfection. Pedro, wearing the traditional woven white hat with the black band, led the way and Johnny guarded the rear. Leaving Carlos Alberto in his car with another World Cup Soccer Game, our small procession set off down the main road, packed dirt sustained by a layer of gravel.

The estate, located to the east of the Western Cordillera, was acquired by the present owner’s grandfather in the early 1950′s. While Pedro’s grandfather was up in the hills conjuring up spirits, this grandfather was down in the valley buying up property at what today must seem like a ridiculously cheap price. A small portion of the land closest to the main highway has been sold off to developers who are creating a small community of upscale houses, the perfect country retreat complete with swimming pool and satellite dishes. The land is rich volcanic soil with acreage devoted to cultivating soy beans and corn, part of which goes to feed the extensive herd of cattle. Ostensibly, the present owner, a doctor, has an eye toward the future, testified by the grove of young teak trees and the newly cultivated vineyard. The rest of the property is rich grassland through which mountain streams meander. Since our recent intimate experience with Colombian grass lands, it was interesting to learn they import grass seeds from Australia and Kenya and these pasture lands had been sowed in seeds from the United States.

Due to the high altitude, the morning felt like late spring and the clear air encouraged the brilliant blue sky. We came to a stop on top of a knoll and the entire estate surrounded us farther than the eye could see. From the moment we arrived in Colombia, from the first look down as we were approaching the runway in Bogota, we had been spell bound by the beauty of the country. Since I began writing about this trip, I have hunted through the dictionary and crawled through a thesaurus searching for the various words to describe the color green, then the quality of green such as lush, luxuriant, verdant, abundant, etc. etc. As if that was not enough, I searched through the variety of geographical terms in order to describe the contours of the countryside, such as mountains, valleys, gorges, ravines, creases and crevices, etc. etc. Because I wanted the reader to see it with us, I resorted to a variety of verbs that described the motion of the green landscape as it rolled out, stretched up, covered over, again etc. etc. I wanted my writing to have a palpable quality; I wanted company as we were dying of the heat and the humidity and invigorated by the fresh springtime air. Guess what, I cannot do it anymore; I have run out of words. ALL THAT IS LEFT TO SAY: SITTING ON THE BACK OF OUR HORSES, WE WERE LOOKING AT A MAGNIFICENT VALLEY. I will leave it at that and go on to another topic, the kind of horses we were riding.

OUR PASO FINO HORSES
Even though we have ridden horses in a variety of countries, Donald and I do not know much about horses, which was the main reason we refused to ride through the jungle in Tayrona without a guide, but that comes later. Speaking for myself, they all look alike and I am lucky if I remember which is the proper side from which to mount up. With Pedro setting the pace, the horses walked across the pasture but when we arrived at the main road, the horses kicked into a higher gear and began trotting or doing a running walk. Donald and I immediately noticed, unlike other horses when they trot, we were not being bounced around. We do understand the rudiments of posting, but even that was not necessary. The horses had a smooth gait and we had that sensation of being “one with the horse”. It was magic realism until we were told these were Paso Fino horses.

The Spanish reintroduced the horse into the Western Hemisphere as those that once existed had become extinct thousands of years before they arrived. Part of the reason why so few Conquistadors were able to conquer so many Indians was that the latter were terrified of the horse since they had never seen one before. In 1493, on his second voyage to Santo Domingo, Columbus dropped off twenty-five horses and these horses along with those brought in by the Conquistadors formed the lineage of the Paso Fino. This horse, which translates into “fine step” was bred from a variety of Spanish horses and is famed for its natural “even four beat gait” which can be called “the amble”. This means the horse, without any special training, gives a smooth ride. It is in his DNA and the Paso Fino comes in all sizes, shapes and colors. This horse is known for its “brio” which means the horse has “natural drive and willingness” along with pride and a pleasant disposition. Bred for endurance, it was favored as a trail horse. We can attest to this as our horses responded to the slightest touch of the reigns and with just a slight nudge in the ribs, they took off into a lope. Because of this smooth ride, we were able to hang onto the horse with just our knees, holding the reigns in our hands, not having to cling to the saddle horn. What can I say, just another special Colombian experience.

SURPRISE
When we reached that knoll with the entire valley spreading out around us, Johnny took out the surprise that had been hidden in his backpack. Out came a beautiful wicker lunch box, wrapped up in red ribbons, which included a red checked tablecloth, matching napkins, dishes, stemware, a bottle of wine and a beautifully prepared platter of cold cuts, cheese and crackers and grapes. We proceeded to have a party in the shade of the leafy acacia trees. Johnny turned down the offer of a glass of wine, maybe thinking he was on duty, while Pedro had no trouble sharing with us. While we were enjoying the special moment, we learned from Pedro that both his children were in college, the daughter to be a teacher and the son to be a pharmacist. Reflecting on the state of Colombia today, now the children of a campesino (a country person) and the great grandchildren of an Indian shaman have the possibilities of a profession and a stake in the future of their country. On the return trip, realizing we could stay in the saddle, we urged our horses on. I am not sure if we ever proceeded beyond the speed of a lope but we had an exhilarating ride, returning faster than we set out. Once again, Colombia did not fail to enthrall us.

This was our last day in Pereira and the next day Johnny and Carlos Alberto drove us to the airport. Our destination was Cartagena, the Spanish colonial treasure, located on the Caribbean Sea. We were leaving the campesino culture of the coffee region and looking forward to experiencing the Caribbean culture, knowing the people as well as the food, music and atmosphere would be different. Waiting for our next flight, we were innocent of any knowledge of what it would feel like to trade in the cool mountain air for what lay awaiting to the north.

TO BE CONTINUED: NEXT STOP CARTAGENA

York can certainly be a captivating choice when searching for weekend breaks in England and while you may want to visit famous attractions such as York Minster and the JORVIK Viking Centre, there are also several less well-known gems in the city that should not be missed.

One place that is certainly worth a visit is the Quilt Museum and Gallery. The first museum in the country to be dedicated to quilt-making and textile arts, the cultural institution holds a fascinating collection of items from the 18th century right through to the present day.

Various items of clothing – such as bonnets, dressing gowns and skirts – can be viewed at the museum, as can banners and quilts. It is also home to a silk coverlet made in 1718, the earliest known dated piece of British patchwork.

A mixture of both temporary exhibitions and permanent collections can be found here, with various shows by contemporary craft-makers taking place throughout the year.

The museum, which is located in St Anthony’s Hall, is open all year round from Monday to Saturday, so there should be plenty of opportunity to visit it while on a holiday to York.
Stopping by the Museum of the Royal Dragoon Guards can also make for a fascinating afternoon out.

Located on Tower Street opposite Clifford’s Tower, the museum gives visitors an insight into the history of the Yorkshire-based armed regiment from its inception in 1685 right through to the modern day.

There is also a multimedia area where you can watch a number of short films looking at the regiment’s history, as well as its present work. A wide range of military uniforms are on display, including 17th century jackets, ceremonial cloaks and modern helmets, as are paintings from artist Edward Payne, who served with the Dragoons during the second world war.

You can also stop by the gift shop, which sells various books and other items of regimental memorabilia. Admission for adults is £2, while senior citizens and children pay £1 for entry.

York is well-known for its historic architecture; even the cheap hotels in York can be found in some impressive ancient buildings, however you can get a greater sense of the city’s medieval splendour by visiting Barley Hall. Once used by the Nostell Priory monastery and the former home of lord mayor William Snawsell, the oldest parts of the property date back to about 1360.

While it was obscured by an office block in the latter stages of the 20th century, the development has since been restored to replicate what Snawsell’s home would have looked like in 1483.

The exposed timber frames and high ceilings of Barley Hall can give a real insight into what life was like hundreds of years ago, as the development also features what it is thought to be the only horn window – which is made from flattened pieces of animal bone – in England.

Permanent displays of medieval artefacts and costumes can be viewed, while there are also annual changing exhibitions and one-off events taking place. It is open seven days a week all year round, although visiting hours are reduced in the winter months.

Entrance to the hall costs £4.95 for adults and £3 for children. However, your ticket will be treated as an admission donation that will entitle you to free entry to the attraction for 12 months after you visit, so will be able to go on repeat trips to Barley Hall for free!

To see some more of the city’s archaic architecture, visit Fairfax House. Situated in Castlegate, the Georgian townhouse is said to contain one of the finest collections of English 18th century furniture in the world. A range of exhibitions and events – such as music and comedy shows – are held throughout the year, so there is plenty for you to see.
Entrance is £6 for adults and £5 for concessions; however like Barley Hall your ticket includes free admission for a year.

If you’re in need of a breather, stop by one of the two branches of Betty’s tearooms that are located in the city. Here you can tuck into a range of scones, biscuits and other sweet treats, as well as a cup of tea or coffee, before checking out some of York’s other fantastic attractions!