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Construction on this fort was started after Sir Francis Drake’s attack on the city in 1586. It began as a small fortification and after 150 years of construction, with the help of slave labor and a Dutch engineer, it eventually became the largest Spanish fort built in the Americas. Seen from below, it looks like a massive pile of stones covering a hill. We walked to the top, saw how it commanded entry into the city by land as well as sea and walked back down to wander through it endless tunnels which served as supply routes.

We navigated our way through the throng of souvenir sellers and stood in front of the statue of Don Blas de Lezo, one of the most famous Spanish naval officers in history and honored here for saving the city in 1741 from a British attack. In his forty year naval career, he fought the British, the Dutch and the Genoese and along the way, he lost a leg, an arm and one eye. The British, prompted by their desire to increase their colonial empire, attempted to take over Spain’s possessions in the Americas. Deciding against attacking Havana, they directed their attention toward Cartagena and the ensuing sixty-seven day battle became known as the Battle of Cartagena de Indias. Under the leadership of Admiral Edward Vernon, the British amassed a fleet of 186 ships with 7,000 sailors plus 18,000 infantrymen. Colonial soldiers from the United States were also sent accompanied by Lawrence Washington, George Washington’s half brother, who would later name his country estate Mount Vernon after the British Admiral. This armada represented 25% of the British navy and can be considered the largest massing of troops and ships prior to D-Day. Facing this British juggernaut was Don Blas de Lezo with six ships and fewer than 6,000 men. Even though he was badly outnumbered, he was fighting on his own turf with uninterrupted supply lines and could depend on the extensive series of fortifications. However, his greatest advantage was his brilliance as a strategist and taking a page out of Sun Tzu, he understood the weaknesses of his enemy. He correctly predicted the British troops would eventually die from tropical sicknesses leading to their humbling defeat and Spain’s American possessions free from British take over. During this battle, de Lezo lost his other leg but it would be the plaque that would finally kill him and he died in Cartagena in 1741.

This heroic defeat of the British contributed to releasing the energies of the people and the next fifty are called Cartagena’s “Silver Age”. Cartagena was the economic center and maintained its distinction as the wealthiest Spanish colonial city. Ciudad amurallada, inside the walled colonial city, the wealthy citizens continued to build their graceful mansions and contributing to the cultural development, they refined their lives with universities, theaters, libraries and literary societies. People flocked to the city creating a surge in population and Cartagena became the center for political activities when the Spanish Viceroy moved there permanently.
Returning to the city, we thanked Nico for our tour and I asked him to sign my tour book in which he was mentioned. We then took time out for a siesta as coming from the cool mountain air of the hinterlands, we were not yet ready to confront Cartagena’s hot, sticky humidity. We were hoping that by late afternoon it would cool down. We had just arrived, did not know, and could only hope. The chic time to come to Cartagena is December through February when the tropical climate is enjoyable and the evening breezes have cooling potential. We were there in June and would soon find out the breeze was off blowing somewhere else, leaving behind humidity so dense we could hold it in our hands and stroke it with our fingers.

We had an overview of the city and now it was time for Donald and me to see Cartagena on our own.

La Popa translates into “stern hill” and this five hundred foot high mound, the highest point in Cartagena, reminded someone of the back end of a ship. The Augustinians built the monastery in 1607, commandeering the ground that had once been sacred to the Calamari Indians and from this vantage point, the church played a role in the defense of the city. We visited the chapel to the Virgin of Candelaria, the patron of the city. She is portrayed holding baby Jesus in one hand and holding a candle in the other. The Virgin of Candelaria was first worshipped in the Canary Islands and when transported to the Spanish colonies, she was readily adopted. The Caribe Africans upon converting to Catholicism conflated her with their own goddess, Yoruba. She is credited with saving the city from pirates and disease. On her feast day, February 2, she is dressed in a fancy gown and leads a candlelight procession down the hill into the city. Upon request, one can see the collection of these gowns. We spent time admiring the renovated courtyard enclosed by a two story loggia with gracefully curving Romanesque arches. An old well in the middle of the courtyard is surrounded by potted tropical plants and some of the most beautiful bougainvillea we have ever seen, thick roots with vibrant colors. Stepping to the edge to enjoy the panoramic view of the city below, I found a moment of silence. The air was mute, not carrying up the sounds of the city below, or music, or even the songs of birds. However, this is Cartagena and soon the stillness and tranquility was interrupted by the cries of the hawkers, senorita you buy, you look, where are you from? Most of these people seemed to be selling the same merchandise and I found it ironic that the local people were trying to sell the white man tourist the same beads and trinkets the white man had sold them five hundred years ago. From the monastery, we looked down on the fort of San Felipe, the next stop on the tour.

First stop in Calgary, of course, is my hostel, which is fairly conveniently located, by hostel standards, much more convenient than the hotel I originally booked in fact. They’re a mixed bag, by definition, but this one seems to be redefining a thing or two on its own. It’s a party hostel. Those exist elsewhere also, of course, London UK and Tallinn, Estonia, come easily to mind, but if some hostels have a problem of over-active partiers being tossed into an otherwise sober mix, here the party seems to be the main mission. The staff are the main imbibers, and the frat party metaphor seems appropriate.

All of this may just sound like sour grapes from the vineyard of a fifty-something self-styled intellectual who is slightly sober and irrevocably balding, but still the fact is that such a display is well out of the norm of the world standard for hostels, and worth noting if you have an early morning flight to catch. Still it’s all just good clean fun until some a**hole kicks a football into your laptop or some drunken yob wakes you up at four in the morning. You’re at the mercy of the random forces of humanity here. Many are left over from the Calgary Stampede, so that probably explains something, but I’m not sure what.

So I go check out the Calgary Folk Festival and related ticketing websites the night before opening day and it doesn’t look good for finding a ticket. It’s definitely a seller’s market. I respond to a seller’s offer within the hour of posting and by then it’s long gone. Buyers’ posts outnumber sellers, by far. So I guess I’ll show up at the site itself around opening time and see if it’s any different. Meanwhile I buy a day pass on the LRT and see whatever that gets me… which is not much. I DO go to a major mall down on the south side, but it’s nothing compared to Edmonton’s famous one, the one with artificial surf and beach inside. That’s a trip, maybe the furthest extent of the ‘mall culture’ that once defined us, best parodied in Kevin Smith’s ‘Mall Rats’. But malls don’t define us anymore, do they? Internet does.

Other than that, Calgary is fairly predictable, a city in the mold of Denver maybe, sprawled out along the plains with mountains rising along the horizon. I’m tempted to compare Calgary and Edmonton with Denver and Dallas or one of the other western cities, but I know the analogy would quickly fall apart without adding much to the discussion, though there must be some continuity to be found along the east slope, cowboys and Indians, mostly, I suppose. What do you expect from a city known for its rodeo?

The Calgary Folk Festival offers no quick thrill, nor solution. The only buyer/sellers are the pro scalpers, doing both simultaneously. They’re charging about double, standard retail markup. I assume they have paid and are willing to pay face value. I hang out for an hour to see if anybody else is selling, but no luck. Opening day is hardly the artistic highlight of the show anyway, but I definitely don’t want to do this every day… so I enact Plan B, rent a car and head to the outback.

The only question is: which outback? There’s nearby southern Alberta, with its hoodoo badlands on one hand and towering peaks on the other, or there’s Banff again and maybe on to Jasper National Park, for extended mountain excursions and sublime views. Or there’s Montana, a bit farther away, but only an extra day, and hey, it’s Montana! That’s the USA! Or if I really get a wild hair, I could drive hard and fast up to Fort McMurray, home of the infamous oil sands and the part of northern Alberta that I haven’t seen yet, ugliness in all its glory. Decisions decisions…

The day dawns bleak and gray and blustery. That rules out the last option. And Budget R-a-C will charge extra for Montana, so I take the logical safe option, the southern Alberta badlands tour. That starts in Drumheller, aka Dinosaur City USA… oops! I mean Canada. You could be forgiven for thinking you’ve landed in Bedrock, Flintstone Country. Everything is dinosaur-themed, but the town itself is fairly nice, with a traditional downtown still intact. The museum out on the edge of town is the main attraction, and it is quite vast and comprehensive, with many dinosaur bones and reconstructions on display… for a price. Dinosaurs are long gone, of course, and field work doesn’t mean much to the uninitiated, so this is about as good as you can do. The funny thing, of course, is that dinosaurs DID leave descendants, though hardly recognizable as such, in the form of birds. If that particular path of evolution is hard to believe, it’s almost even harder to believe that there was ever a non-aviary world that preceded it.

Not far from Drumheller, there’s a so-called ‘hoodoo trail’, so I decide to tentatively venture into that, for closure if nothing else. The world’s premier hoodoos- soft eroded rock capped by hard rock ‘hats’- are in Cappadocia, Turkey, around Goreme, and the last time (only time in fact) I was there, my computer- the same one that’s with me now- took a dive during the night and hasn’t been the same since, despite several surgeries and some major TLC. I haven’t slept with a computer since. So I’m hoping for a little closure and sympathetic magic in the sense of putting all that behind us and starting a new era of cybernetic cooperation. I’m not sure these hoodoos count, though. The ones I see are babies in comparison to the ones in Cappadocia where Christians lived for centuries in hiding. Since it’s starting to drizzle pretty heavily I don’t even bother to get out of the car. I think I’ve seen enough. I could swear I heard a little giggle coming out of my laptop.

So I decide to head south toward Brooks. That’s the closest major town to the ‘Provincial Dinosaur Park’, which sounds interesting. But first I’ll do a little backtrack at Hwy. 1, to go see the First Nations homeland of Siksika, literally ‘Blackfoot’, no explanation necessary. Unfortunately the rain’s starting to come down heavily, which requires me to slow down some in the process. It finally lets up, though, making an already beautiful landscape even more so. Most impressive are the vast fields of yellow flowers, which I think is canola. It looks surreal, as do cows sharing pastures with oil wells and pumpers, a landscape similar to the one I grew up with in Texas and Mississippi.

I make the detour to Siksika, but by the time I get to the museum/cultural center it’s almost closing time. It’s almost the same price as the dinosaur museum, too, so I blow it off. I’m starting to feel nickeled-and-dimed to death. I DO stop at the rez’s one real town, though, Cluny, at a little store/bakery/liquor store, just to get my sweet tooth juiced. It’s interesting that Native lands here do not proscribe liquor, as do most in the States. They didn’t get to vote until the ‘60’s, either, remember. Since most Natives, except for the Pueblos, were not really town dwellers, it’s just not easy to get an easy grasp of the culture… but I keep trying. Mostly I try to imagine Indian life in 1750, NOT 1850, and that’s not easy. That was the era BEFORE horses. The coming of the Spaniards was something of a cultural golden age for them, really, and good preparation for the battle with Anglos to come. But it wasn’t enough, of course.

By the time I get to Brooks I’m getting pretty tired, so pull into a motel for the night when I see one advertised for $60. That’s cheap for Canada, a fact worth advertising, especially when it’s half-way decent and includes WiFi and cable TV. So I get domestic and start washing enough clothes to last me the remaining few days of this trip. This is the first fully equipped private room I’ve had the entire two week trip so far, so take full advantage. It seems more like two years by now, though, doesn’t it? Whitehorse seems so long ago and far away. TV here sucks, though. ‘Cable’ means that and no more, no HBO or anything fancy like that, so nothing really to miss… so 70’s…

I fall asleep with piles of papers and clothes and books on the bed as usual, so next day when I get up early it’s all on the floor in a heap… but not my computer. The Acer is sitting wide open where I left it running beside the bed, ready to perk up and compute at a moment’s notice. I swear the thing’s smiling. So I eat a quick continental breakfast, gather up my things, and head out to the Badlands, socks drying on the dashboard. It’s pretty nice, and I’ve never been to the Dakotas, but these badlands don’t seem all THAT bad. I guess that sums up Canada in general for me, very very nice, but not spectacular. From there I have to backtrack to Brooks then start heading south. I had intended to go to Medicine Hat, but decide to blow it off, just to save time and gasoline. It IS the day of the big chili cook-off, but I doubt they have vegetarian options. I get the impression that that might be a good area to see Native culture if you show up during a festival, but that’s not today.

So next stop is Taber, where I pick up Hwy. 3, but the town itself looks pretty desolate, windows boarded up and storefronts vacant. There IS a Mexican/Mennonite restaurant there, though, so that sounds bizarre and interesting, maybe some decent cheese, something in which they specialize in the country of Mexico itself. I forego it, though, and start heading down highway 3 in the general direction of the mountains, the continental divide I assume, where the US Rockies and Cascades reunite. Lethbridge is the next major town, but I almost blow it off because I really need to piss. Then I see a tourist info stop on the western edge, so give it a look. Turns out it’s perched right above the dubiously named ‘Fort Whoop-up’ whose name goes largely unexplained, though speculations run rampant. In Canada fort/trading posts were frequently known as ‘whiskey posts’, so go figure. The terrain is starting to get hilly, though, so it’s the edge of a different region.

Lethbridge is actually one of the larger towns in the province after Calgary and Edmonton, and serves as a transportation crossroads in the south, being the intersection of highways 2, 3, 4, and 5, if I counted correctly. Highway 4 is the one that continues on to the US border at Montana and there becomes I-15, which will pass through Great Falls and Butte before heading on down to Salt Lake City and then finally dumping its human cargo somewhere down in the great sea known as Greater Los Angeles, the area that I somewhat tentatively now call ‘home’. I guess that means that somewhere down at the other end of that highway, someone is waiting for me, little by little, knowing that one day soon I’ll show up again and life will resume its familiar rhythm. That’s not today, though, and I won’t be using I-15 either, couldn’t even if I wanted to. No Greyhound bus crosses that border. Buses from Calgary to Missoula go through Vancouver and Seattle, the long way around. You might be able to go TO the border and pick up another onward bus there, but I didn’t investigate that far.
Fort McLeod is next down the road, and is maybe the nicest yet for a well-preserved traditional city center. I consider spending the night but the cheapest place at $65 is not pretty, so I decide to continue on, prepared to ‘car camp’ if need be. I want to press on to the high country at Crow’s Nest Pass, but decide to veer north on Hwy. 22 with hopes of getting into the high country farther north. Those connecting roads are all gravel, though, so I forego it, since I’m in a rental car. I need to make sleep arrangements, too. The only park with campsites I come to wants $25, so I figure the bed back at the hostel at $35 is a better deal than that. I don’t really want two more nights there, but figure I can handle it. I finally pull in at 6pm. It may be the hostel from Hell, but it’s MY hostel from Hell. There isn’t much choice for budget accommodations in Calgary either, just the one other hostel. Budget ‘transient’ hotels don’t exist here any more, like they do in Edmonton, at least as recently as five years ago.

Scalpers are still at the Folk Festival site, so that’s that, but I attend a Latino ‘Fiestaval’ for free, better than nothing, even quite nice hearing northern Mexican corridas coming off the north country stage. Still it’s been a good trip, even without the major music festival. As much as I love the aspects of culture, I love the Earth even more, like my lover in fact, every fold of her skin dear to my touch. The fact that ‘stuff’ even exists never ceases to amaze me in a world where light is the main player. The fact that that ‘stuff’ gets evolved into multi-celled life and intelligence to boot is almost too much to even imagine, the foundation of all religion. Yes, it’s been a good- if short- trip. There’s nothing left to do now but catch the plane, go home, and start planning the next one. C U then.

Then the rains came, and my last day in Whitehorse was something of a wash, literally, a slog through the bog. I resolved not to let it ruin my schedule, though, so dutifully got out there to see anything remaining to be seen. That includes the world-renowned salmon ladder, which during the spawning season must be a real riot to watch, fish fighting the forces of Nature to get upstream merely for the sacred purpose of reproduction. When they get there- IF they get there- they’ll drop trou, drop eggs, and then go limp till rigor mortis kicks in or some enterprising homie decides to make fish stew while the sun shines. This makes shooting ducks in a pond look difficult. Too bad the meat is not much good by that time. At least the ladders give protection from the bears, who KNOW to hang out at the cascades and catch the fish during those long flying leaps of faith upstream.

Long Lake is also not far away and nice enough- especially on a sunny day I’m sure- but other than that, there aren’t many sites left to see… except the log cabin three-story ‘skyscrapers’. Okay, so that’s that, but that’s okay. It’s better to stay in a place a day too many than a day too few, especially a place you’ll likely never see again. Then you can start to act and feel like a local, finding a coffee house to call your own and a cute little barista to chat up. There’s even ‘Art in the Park’, featuring stellar musicians for lunch, in this case one Lawrence Graf doing classical guitar versions of such standards as ‘Hot ‘Lanta’ and ‘Rock ‘n Roll Hootchie Koo’. It doesn’t get much better than that.

There’s a lot of nice visual art here also, so I go scour a couple thrift stores and pawn shops looking for buried treasure, just in the remote chance of finding some interesting native artifacts, in a place where ‘Indian pawn’ is not a standard commercial lure… all to no avail. The sun finally comes out late in the day for one final appearance, so that’s a nice send-off. I’ve got a 7am flight to catch on a day when the sun never really sets, so… catch sleep as catch can. Everybody comments on my funky flowery shirt. Have they never heard of Hawaii here, or have I worn it too many days?

For once my Air Canada flight seems to be operating on time and on schedule. I wish I were, these long interminable waking hours something like jet lag without the long flight or time change, just the inability to feel in sync with myself. From Calgary’s international airport I catch a shuttle straight to Banff town in Banff National Park, where I’ve allowed myself a couple days, and then several more days right outside the park at Canmore. I might have allowed more time in Banff itself, except that Lonely Planet and others have lambasted its commerciality so thoroughly, somewhat unfairly I’d say. I was expecting golden arches galore along with all the barkers and colored balloons, but it’s not like that at all. It’s mostly a numbers game, the numbers being some four million a year touring through for their nature and northern fix. It’s not distasteful, though, nor are people processed unmercifully. The locals are nice as they can be, and to criticize it for merely being what it is seems somewhat elitist. It’s no more of a zoo than Berkeley, CA. Would you bash Berkeley for having too many students?

These same LP guys probably go straight to Khao Sarn Road in Bangkok, then Koh Samui down south, then Pai up north… and think they’ve found the Promised Land. Don’t get me started… Truth be told, Banff is probably no more my cuppa’ tea than it is the LP guys’, but I don’t see any need to cop a ‘tude about it. If it’s paradise for some people, then more power to them, no reason to piss on their parade. It compares favorably to many places in Colorado, and Europe, too, for that matter. Go a block off the Miracle Mile and you’re back in a 50’s neighborhood, and go a half hour and you’re alone in the forest; don’t forget the bear spray. If you still don’t like it, then go to Jasper. You’ll probably be back. Some people LIKE crowds, you know? Ni hao; ni hao ma? And don’t forget a highway runs through it, too, Hwy 1 from coast to coast, and a railroad, too, not to mention a river.

Actually I pretty quickly got a WTF attack myself , as in ‘WTF am I doing here… in Jellystone Park… me and a bear named Yogi and a dog named Boo?’ The Yukon is one thing- that’s otherworldly- but this is not. This is all TOO worldly and I’m wishing I could drink, maybe even get drunk, or at least cop a buzz… but my doctor- ME- won’t let me, not yet anyway, so that’s that. And THAT is what there is to do in the Americas, for me as tourist anyway, without the thrill of exotic culture to get lost in. In some exotic cultures you don’t dare drink- not alone anyway- for fear of what might befall you in your drunken reverie. So I start re-shuffling my schedule to cut my time here in Banff and lengthen it in Calgary. There I’ll try to find somebody selling off their 4-day music festival pass, or… maybe go home early. Even the daytime tickets are long gone now, and somehow it seems silly to sit in Calgary for five days, by some accounts the most boring city in the world. Till then, though, I’ll see what the park has to offer, got a tour to lakes Louise and Moraine today, no more $ than the cost of a Greyhound, really…

And they’re nice, two of the nicest smaller lakes that I’ve ever seen in the world. Actually my first introduction to the Canadian Rockies was in the Cindy Walker song, singing about Lake ‘La-weez’, and that’s not a bad place to start, nor is ‘Four Strong Winds’ by Ian Tyson a bad way to go for the region in general. The region DOES evoke that long lost lonesome feel, man yodeling his way through Nature with not much more than a guitar and a song. The Natives are strong around here, too, one of the main groups apparently a remnant from the Little Bighorn, ‘fleeing a cholera epidemic.’ I bet they were fleeing more than that. Still it’s nice to see the Plains style in all its glory, beadwork and buckskin.

Canmore down the road just may be the Goldilocks resort town of Alberta, not too touristy, not too boring, juuuuust right, something like Flagstaff to Banff’s Aspen, the place where locals come, those who don’t care about shopping, the rarefied atmosphere of exclusivity, or the picture postcard poses with Nature. Apparently ‘Canmore’ is a Scots Gaelic name meaning ‘Big Head’ so that leaves some room for linguistic speculation. So there won’t be as many foreign languages here or Asians taking pictures of each other, but that’s okay, isn’t it? This is hiking and biking country, more trails than there are streets, more animals than there are cars. If you want to look at snow bunnies styling and profiling, looking at themselves while they’re looking in your eyes, then go back up the road to Banff. This is a place to talk trash over lattes, compare high country notes, maybe plot a revolution or two. And here we’ve got REAL bunnies, more later…

Unfortunately Canmore’s second-tier status as a high country resort doesn’t necessarily guarantee lower prices, though you might save a nickel or a dime over Banff. I don’t stay in fancy hotels- not when I’m traveling alone, anyway- so can’t really speak to that. The hostel’s more or less the same, except less crowded, so less gridlock in the kitchen. Bunk beds are nicer, too, real 2x heavy lumber, none of that squeaky creaky aluminum. Actually I don’t mind some random nighttime squeaking. It’s when it becomes regular that I worry. Milk prices here are as high as gas. So now I know why they confiscated my cheese at Toronto airport earlier this year. There’s a golden opportunity here for cheese smugglers, could be the biggest thing since cigarettes. At least the cherries are cheap, and good, too, around two bucks a pound, must be right in season, much later than the US. I haven’t eaten so many since Lupita and I picked them semi-professionally down in Hood River, OR, back in ’82, I believe it was.

Unfortunately my laptop doesn’t like the router here at my hostel in Canmore, so that’s good in a way, get off the Facebook intravenous injection for a change. So I take a long hike in the countryside, along the Bow River. I’m worried about running smack into a hungry bear, one accustomed to Twinkies, but that doesn’t happen. I DO see an elk doe, though, so that’s nice. The most interesting ‘wild’ animal here, however, are what seem to be feral bunnies. That’s bunnies, not rabbits, that seem to have found themselves a little evolutionary niche here. It must have been one lonely Easter… and the moon was full… and the rest is history. They escaped and just started doing what they do best. By the time I return my feet are killing me, my foot issues not helped by cheap-ass hiking boots.

Still I could use a beer. That’s what’s missing and the main difference since my last real North American travel some years ago. The micro-brew and brew pub movement is one of the happier events in American culture over the last twenty years, not to mention the entertainment that goes with it. Could you imagine going to Ireland and not drinking? Just imagine one of those thick black stouts, with a foamy head that’ll slide up to you for a kiss on the lips while you drink, then go right back to cover the goods and keep them fresh while you wait…

As it is I’ll have to make do occupying myself with mental character sketches of all the characters here in the hostel, including many Quebecois, the cute little one on Skype all day, the girl on skates, and guitar-boy, leading the pack in old Beatles songs until the wee hours. Who’d’ve thought kids would still be learning by heart and taking to heart these old songs that meant so much way back when? Leave it to the Quebecois, and their huggy-kissy lifestyle derived from the French. They’ll survive the Apocalypse that we Germans have been working on for a millennium or so. They cluster-flock so tightly that you can’t move around the kitchen. Don’t they know that too many cooks spoil the broth?

So now it’s on to Calgary, the big question being whether I can find a ticket to the Calgary Folk Music Festival or not. It looks pretty grim. Trying to finagle an early return to the US doesn’t sound much fun either. So I’ve got the classic Hardie K travel solution- book a rental car and head to the outback if all else fails. You gotta’ be creative. Now where are those dice?