Dona Ferentes
Abrió la caja, vio al gatito, y sonrió
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(continuing the journey from #33 above)
The Brasilian town of Tabatinga is some 20 km from Benjamin Constant and on the northern Bank of the Amazon. It is a larger town (it had an airport) and shares a land border with the Colombian outpost of Leticia. From these towns it was possible to continue by boat to Iquitos in Peru or along smaller rivers to the Colombian or even as far as the Ecuadorian Amazon. Leticia had a few thousand people, surrounded by jungle, no roads in or out. But it did have its own airport so we crossed to Colombia ready for our next adventure. This turned out to be a challenge as we'd missed the scheduled weekly flight. Every morning started out fresh but as the heat and humidity built, storms would build and by early afternoon it would be pelting down.
Eventually we heard of a plane out, and paid US$30 each on a cargo flight heading to Bogotá. It was a DC3 that had brought in staples and was returning to the capital with a load of fish. There was room for us, but no seats. We held on to a pole just behind the cockpit, with the door still open and a view straight ahead past the pilots, and off we flew, climbing above the jungle and, after a few hours, heading towards the Cordillera Oriental. After a while thunderheads loomed and we were pitched into a turbulent and noticeably cooler airmass, then into heavy rain. The pilots turned and smiled but soon a stream of water was entering through the leaky windscreen, onto the controls, across the floor, passing us and to the rear where it flowed out the hold doors. It was scary enough but soon we emerged out the other side of the storm and began to drop in altitude. Steep green slopes cut by ravines appeared through the clouds and we approached the intermontane basin. Bogotá, at 2600m, appeared in view and we landed at the international airport, but far from the terminals. Customs and narcotics police approached and an interrogation and search followed, then we were free to go.
Bogota seemed rather decentralised and chaotic. We stayed close to the CBD in a cheap hotel and figured out what next. It was the wet season, cloudy and uninspiring, and sightseeing was not appealing. One highlight, however, was the Museo del Oro, which was outstanding, room after room of pre-Columbian treasures taken from across the continent by the Spanish. The innermost most secure, room was dazzling, packed with gold almost to the ceiling.
Due to insecurity and a fractured political situation, road travel in Colombia was taken during daylight hours, and preferably early in the morning. We found the bus station and found an express some 160km to Villa de Leyva, northeast of the capital. This small town was a well preserved 17-18th Century colonial market town with whitewashed buildings, cobbled streets and a large central plaza. It was quite rustic and untouristed at the time and we were lucky to find a hotel. Next day, a longer trip lasting most of the day took us across the upland basins, the views framed by the cloud-covered eastern Andes, to the provincial capital of to Bucaramanga. We stayed the night close to the bus station and were keen to leave next morning for the Caribbean coast. This was another full day trip as we followed the Ruta del Sol off the higher valleys, dropping to a drier climate and in the rain shadow of the coastal Sierra Nevada with Pico Cristobál over 5000m visible to the east. Santa Marta was one of the first places settled by the Spanish though it has been overshadowed by the larger cities along the coast. A port, there was some evidence of the colonial days but the unspoilt beaches and semi-arid climate have brought tourism as its main focus. We took a hotel and spent a few days exploring the coast and swimming, then hanging around a cabana for drinks and nibbles of an evening.
After a short bus ride to the next city, Barranquilla, which seemed dusty, glitzy and with too much hustle and bustle, so we continued on to Cartagena, another couple of hours along the coast. Founded in 1533 as a principal entry to Spanish South America, the city was sacked by Drake in 1586 as the western seafaring powers fought for control of the rich plunder flowing from further south. With its old walled town and fortress, Cartagena is a spectacular colonial city with cobblestone streets, squares, colourful buildings and a pleasant place to explore. Our hotel was a dive but in keeping with the rundown nature of the city in 1980.
It was time to turn South and we headed for Medellín, a 700km trip taking a full day. First along the coastal plain paralleling the Magdalena Valley then heading inland and up, across ridges and along valleys, and descending to the wide, green and populous valley. Medellín has a fearsome reputation from its drug cartels but was quiet and industrious when we visited. And it was modern and wealthy, very different to almost all South American cities I've visited. We didn't stay long and, after resting a day, went another 420km to Cali. The road followed broad valleys but as we pushed deeper into the Cordillera, we moved across cols and higher passes, followed ravines, twisted and turned past isolated settlements. Some valleys appeared to have a high African population, runaway slaves we were informed, others were gritty European dirt farmers; as we went South, the local indigenous groups, Indios, became more common. Cali was charming, we found a dilapidated centuries old hotel, wooden balconies, high ceilings, musty rooms. Perfect, at $5 a night, but when we settled the bill a few days later we discovered we'd been overcharged. We were offered a ride onward, and made it almost to Popayán but had to hitchhike the last 50km along the Cauca valley. Our ride was aghast, "muy peligroso", they said, but we made it safely.
Popayán at 1700m was another colonial timewarp with its Plaza des Armas, whitewashed buildings, ostentatious churches, and passagio in the evening around the central part of town. Later that night was a different story as we heard gunshots, then the restaurant bar were in was raided. It was rather tense and everyone present, nearly all males, produced a piece, a pistol or sidearm, which they placed on the tables. The Guardia told us to go to our hotel. Next day, another 250km by bus, down a winding road (the Pan-American Highway), higher into the mountains, to Pasto, which at 2500m high had a volcano as a distant backdrop. The population was majority Indio, and Spanish was less commonly heard. We'd been on the road for several weeks and with only short breaks, so it was time to get to the Ecuadoran capital. The border town of Ipiales, some 85 km S of Pasto was easily crossed and a few more hours on a bus brought us to Quito.
The Brasilian town of Tabatinga is some 20 km from Benjamin Constant and on the northern Bank of the Amazon. It is a larger town (it had an airport) and shares a land border with the Colombian outpost of Leticia. From these towns it was possible to continue by boat to Iquitos in Peru or along smaller rivers to the Colombian or even as far as the Ecuadorian Amazon. Leticia had a few thousand people, surrounded by jungle, no roads in or out. But it did have its own airport so we crossed to Colombia ready for our next adventure. This turned out to be a challenge as we'd missed the scheduled weekly flight. Every morning started out fresh but as the heat and humidity built, storms would build and by early afternoon it would be pelting down.
Eventually we heard of a plane out, and paid US$30 each on a cargo flight heading to Bogotá. It was a DC3 that had brought in staples and was returning to the capital with a load of fish. There was room for us, but no seats. We held on to a pole just behind the cockpit, with the door still open and a view straight ahead past the pilots, and off we flew, climbing above the jungle and, after a few hours, heading towards the Cordillera Oriental. After a while thunderheads loomed and we were pitched into a turbulent and noticeably cooler airmass, then into heavy rain. The pilots turned and smiled but soon a stream of water was entering through the leaky windscreen, onto the controls, across the floor, passing us and to the rear where it flowed out the hold doors. It was scary enough but soon we emerged out the other side of the storm and began to drop in altitude. Steep green slopes cut by ravines appeared through the clouds and we approached the intermontane basin. Bogotá, at 2600m, appeared in view and we landed at the international airport, but far from the terminals. Customs and narcotics police approached and an interrogation and search followed, then we were free to go.
Bogota seemed rather decentralised and chaotic. We stayed close to the CBD in a cheap hotel and figured out what next. It was the wet season, cloudy and uninspiring, and sightseeing was not appealing. One highlight, however, was the Museo del Oro, which was outstanding, room after room of pre-Columbian treasures taken from across the continent by the Spanish. The innermost most secure, room was dazzling, packed with gold almost to the ceiling.
Due to insecurity and a fractured political situation, road travel in Colombia was taken during daylight hours, and preferably early in the morning. We found the bus station and found an express some 160km to Villa de Leyva, northeast of the capital. This small town was a well preserved 17-18th Century colonial market town with whitewashed buildings, cobbled streets and a large central plaza. It was quite rustic and untouristed at the time and we were lucky to find a hotel. Next day, a longer trip lasting most of the day took us across the upland basins, the views framed by the cloud-covered eastern Andes, to the provincial capital of to Bucaramanga. We stayed the night close to the bus station and were keen to leave next morning for the Caribbean coast. This was another full day trip as we followed the Ruta del Sol off the higher valleys, dropping to a drier climate and in the rain shadow of the coastal Sierra Nevada with Pico Cristobál over 5000m visible to the east. Santa Marta was one of the first places settled by the Spanish though it has been overshadowed by the larger cities along the coast. A port, there was some evidence of the colonial days but the unspoilt beaches and semi-arid climate have brought tourism as its main focus. We took a hotel and spent a few days exploring the coast and swimming, then hanging around a cabana for drinks and nibbles of an evening.
After a short bus ride to the next city, Barranquilla, which seemed dusty, glitzy and with too much hustle and bustle, so we continued on to Cartagena, another couple of hours along the coast. Founded in 1533 as a principal entry to Spanish South America, the city was sacked by Drake in 1586 as the western seafaring powers fought for control of the rich plunder flowing from further south. With its old walled town and fortress, Cartagena is a spectacular colonial city with cobblestone streets, squares, colourful buildings and a pleasant place to explore. Our hotel was a dive but in keeping with the rundown nature of the city in 1980.
It was time to turn South and we headed for Medellín, a 700km trip taking a full day. First along the coastal plain paralleling the Magdalena Valley then heading inland and up, across ridges and along valleys, and descending to the wide, green and populous valley. Medellín has a fearsome reputation from its drug cartels but was quiet and industrious when we visited. And it was modern and wealthy, very different to almost all South American cities I've visited. We didn't stay long and, after resting a day, went another 420km to Cali. The road followed broad valleys but as we pushed deeper into the Cordillera, we moved across cols and higher passes, followed ravines, twisted and turned past isolated settlements. Some valleys appeared to have a high African population, runaway slaves we were informed, others were gritty European dirt farmers; as we went South, the local indigenous groups, Indios, became more common. Cali was charming, we found a dilapidated centuries old hotel, wooden balconies, high ceilings, musty rooms. Perfect, at $5 a night, but when we settled the bill a few days later we discovered we'd been overcharged. We were offered a ride onward, and made it almost to Popayán but had to hitchhike the last 50km along the Cauca valley. Our ride was aghast, "muy peligroso", they said, but we made it safely.
Popayán at 1700m was another colonial timewarp with its Plaza des Armas, whitewashed buildings, ostentatious churches, and passagio in the evening around the central part of town. Later that night was a different story as we heard gunshots, then the restaurant bar were in was raided. It was rather tense and everyone present, nearly all males, produced a piece, a pistol or sidearm, which they placed on the tables. The Guardia told us to go to our hotel. Next day, another 250km by bus, down a winding road (the Pan-American Highway), higher into the mountains, to Pasto, which at 2500m high had a volcano as a distant backdrop. The population was majority Indio, and Spanish was less commonly heard. We'd been on the road for several weeks and with only short breaks, so it was time to get to the Ecuadoran capital. The border town of Ipiales, some 85 km S of Pasto was easily crossed and a few more hours on a bus brought us to Quito.
✈
♂
