“Did they taste like chicken?” I ask.
“More like fish. Not bad.”
I’m on my way to Cartagena, sitting next to a woodworker from Cali who is regaling me with these and other stories of adventure. I’m beginning to think I have the sort of face (or something) that prompts people to come tell me their life stories. Not that I mind, especially because good conversation helps me temporarily forget the meat-locker chill of twelve-hour South American bus rides.
The first few days I stay in a hostel called the Media Luna, a lovely place near the old part of town. Whitewashed rooms surround a tiled courtyard with shade trees and a pool. The second half I stay with a guy named Ricardo and his family, a Couchsurfing host I write to because I see that he’s hosted one of my childhood friends before.
(The Media Luna)
The first days I spend exploring, wandering around and taking pictures. Something about this place really grabs me. Every street seems like it’s going to have something unexpected down it, and usually it does. Cartagena is a city of street markets: everyone has a basket of something set out on the curb--things that make the most sense in the world mixed in with things you never thought you’d see in a million years. Great piles of tropical fruits I’d never heard of, piles of fish and plantains and pan de queso, baskets of calculators from the ‘80s, a stall dedicated to old Rollerblade wheels. The carcasses of unfortunate chickens and fish sliced down the middle, colorful guts and organs on display to potential buyers. The air is heavy and hot and humid as soon as the sun rises, and in the middle of the day taking a siesta in front of a fan seems the only sensible thing to do. I’m always sweating and thus covered in dirt--my second day, I realize that even my wrists were uncomfortably sweaty. Two showers and two outfits a day are standard here, and shower stalls only have one spigot, which is cold, because you’d never in your life dream of wishing for hot water.
Cartagena is hundreds of years old and surrounded by a wall whose original purpose was to keep out invading pirates who would attack ships headed to Spain with New World loot. Now the wall hosts a couple of fancy restaurants.
The old city is as beautiful as a fairy tale--almost as if I was in the Las Vegas casino replica of Cartagena and have yet to see the real thing.
The perfect mix of ancient buildings, cobbled streets and places to explore with just the faintest touch of creepy. Perhaps it’s my imagination, or maybe something to do with the pirates!
Cartagena is closer in character to the rest of the Caribbean than it is to the rest of Colombia. Ricardo points out that it’s a lot like Africa, and it definitely has its own flavor so far. The old town is freshly painted and swept clean and well-maintained enough to satisfy rich old tourists fresh off the cruise boats, but outside the walls, much of the city is fairly poor. Roads and yards are all dirt, walls crumble and trash lines the roads--but people seem quite happy, chatting and laughing and loud in the tropical way I’ve always loved. Brightly painted houses are thrown open, everybody’s kitchen has pots of soup and beans bubbling on the stove despite the stifling heat, and salsa and champeta music comes from every house, every car, every store. One of my favorite quotes about Cartagena comes from a NYT article: “It’s like Istanbul but in the Caribbean. All those massive walls, but instead of the calls to prayer, it’s salsa music everywhere and at all hours of the day. You peel a banana or open your glove compartment, and music comes out.”
(This is champeta--a sort of music specifically from Cartagena. This song is a huge hit, and it's definitely filmed here.)
Everybody has a sense of rhythm that most North Americans (and most Argentines, for that matter) just don’t grow up with. There’s something I love about a culture where everyone knows how to move and dances every chance they get. Also, people are outside most of the time. They sit on porches, on the patios of bars, stand in their doorways. Every house has a fence around it, and walking down the street you see a layer of fences before the bright houses. The houses in my neighborhood all have patios that run into one another, and all the ladies sit outside in the evening and chat with each other through the fences. My first night at Ricardo’s I sit out there with his mother and get the rundown on whose kids are doing what, and how everybody’s husband is doing, and what everyone is making for dinner, and of course I have to explain who I am and what I’m doing there.
Ricardo is a fantastic guide to the city. He walks around with me one day, telling me what he knows about what all the old buildings were originally used for. Every so often we stop at an old-fashioned raspado (sno-cone) cart and the vendor would turn a big crank that would shave paper conefuls of ice slivers off a single giant block he’d take from a cooler--and they’d always melt fast enough to trickle down my hand.
Eventually we stop at Donde Fidel, a little salsa bar at the hidden corner of a touristy part of town. At night it fills with people, but it’s empty at midday except for Fidel himself and a few locals. All over the thick stone walls hang pictures of the owner with all the great salsa musicians who have played there. Ricardo orders us a couple of beers and we watch a salsa concert DVD.
I liked this one:
Later on I go out with him and his friends to a little neighborhood bar. When we drive up it doesn’t look like much--it’s a tiny place where most of the outdoor tables sit in the slanted concrete driveway. We watch the place fill up over a couple of costeñitas (the tiny version of Costeña, the local beer). After a while reggae and champeta was on the radio and everybody is singing, up and dancing in the aisles or slapping out the rhythms on the tabletops, which are damp with condensation from the glass bottles. Our next stop is a nearby grill by the side of a busy road. We carry a plastic table and some chairs to our chosen spot between the front counter and the street, and the waiter brings us patacon, one of the best street foods around. Patacon is a fried patty of smashed plantain, topped with meat and cheese and crispy little shoestring potatoes. We order “patacon salvaje con todo” (wild patacon with everything) atop which is a limitless mountain of sausage, cheese, fries and mystery sauce. My arteries need a while to recover, but damn, was it good. We wash it down with Postobon, a syrupy, bubble-gum pink, apple-flavored (in theory) Colombian soda. Ricardo’s house is opened up to the cool night air when we get back--his dad has the baseball game on, a couple of grandkids run around and friends drop by, making the nightly rounds.
My last day Ricardo’s family gives me an impromptu salsa lesson. Colombia is known for salsa, but each region has its own style quite different from the others. The salsa in Cali, for example, is flashy and tightly choreographed, with sparkles and spins and kicks and pretzelly moves. It’s impressive to watch but just about impossible to join in on. The salsa here on the coast is much simpler, but in my opinion much sexier. You’ve got to start on your own, because if you’re feeling the music, then somebody else can come and join you. Awkwardness? Gone.
Ricardo’s family was awesome, so it’s hard to say goodbye to them. I don’t want to wear out my welcome, but I could stick around and learn to cook and dance forever. But there’s more to see, so off I go to Santa Marta, a city further up the coast.
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