White Sand 'til Snow, El Cocuy N.P

I've practically done fuck all for the past two days. Could I had I tried? Who knows. I look like shit, feel like shit, and I bet on my tiny left testicle that I smell like shit also. If only all you fine people could see me now...say hello to the glamorous life of a backpacker. I don't even have the guts to take a shower. I'm too petrified I'll once again be nailed down upon by bullets of ice. Ten days ago I was lucky to get a few hours sleep each night due to the relentless, never ending Caribbean inferno; here you'll struggle to get me out of bed to piss. It's all pretty comical really. After much anticipation I'd finally reached The Andes, the Sierra Nevada del Cocuy to be precise, not too far from the Venezuelan border. A few days in the mountains sounded like the perfect antidote for all that beach bummin' I'd been doing over the past four months or so. All geared up (or so I thought), I shot off into the hills. Soon I'd come to realise we weren't in Tasmania anymore...

Never had I seen a city quite like Cartagena. It reminded me in a way of Havana, yet at the same time, there stands only a few surface similarities. Here worlds collide in one big giant orgy. There's a definite Afro-Caribbean vibe abounding around the whole place, still there are areas of the city that wouldn't look out of character in high rise New York. The old section of the city is beautiful, and apart from those endless hours 'wasted' duelling Scandinavian Goliaths at ping pong, this was where I spent most of my time. It's a shame the city also has it's darker side. I've never been offered such an endless array of drugs than I did in such a short period of time. Everything under the sun...and dirt cheap. Vendors would often call you over in an attempt to sell off some touristy nik-naks; then as you wandered off would switch business strategies revealing the all too obvious charade, hoping to snag a potential client looking for a little Colombian kick-start. Every night we'd end up watching the sunset from 'the wall' which wraps around the whole complex, complete with intact fortifications and cannons, relics from a bygone era. One night in particular was most memorable. A group of us ended up guzzling away the hours, late into the night with a bunch of local street performers. After they repeatedly kept insisting, we all stood up and took turns embarrassing ourselves salsa dancing. A couple of local guys joined us to chat as well, and it proved a great chance to practise my Spanish. I thought I was doing OK, until Niclas hit the football soft spot and blew all my useless linguistics to the dark side of the moon. I was a little envious at how well they could communicate on everyday things. I have so much to say...to ask...to tell...to so many people, I just have no way of getting that point across quite yet. What I did manage to interpret however, hit me the hardest. Obviously tired of being generalised by their countries famous drug-running reputation, these young lads wanted us to understand the essence of Colombia. The real Columbia. They defined its people into two simple categories that they felt fitting - the 'good'...and the 'very bad.' So far, I've seen a lot of the former. Let's hope I never have to see the other side.

Drinkin' schnapps on The Wall

It was also in Cartagena that I met GenghisKhan & Wanna, a hilarious odd-ball duo (known collectively as Wankha for efficiency) that made me feel like I was part of a circus. Khan got my blessing the night he poured a bottle of beer all over this little English twat who'd been giving him the shits since he'd tried to introduce himself to her earlier. She wouldn't have it. Too cool my friend! I don't know the full story, but I'd sure felt like doing something of the kind to their whole fucking group since arriving there at that hostel. Spoilt brats, fresh out of school on their first big overseas trip  (probably paid for by their parents), hunting in packs & making solo travellers feel like shit. Now, I have to let you in on a bit of a secret here kiddies, it takes a lot more balls to travel alone than in a group of twenty plus...ohh, and real travellers actually talk to other travellers. Also maybe try stepping outside these hostel walls?? "So son, what did you get up to in Cartagena??" - "Well gee dad...I hung out a lot with James, Jess & Eddy...we sat in the pool...I talked to Claire back home on Facebook a lot & watched the football in a dark cement room." You're a bunch of dicks.

I was stoked to see Wankha on my bus when I left. They too were heading up the coast to the small village of Taganga, a picturesque beach side hide away tucked between steep mountains. I was feeling close to becoming all beached out. The heat was getting to me maybe. There was no reprieve, unless of course you were face flat in the ocean. This was going to be it. My first views of the distant mountain ranges only excited me further. By the time we all hopped off the bus it was already well past dark, with no real clue where to crash. We checked out a couple of crappy guesthouses (one looked like a kindergarten) before this random guy suggested we follow him and take a look at this brand new hostel just up the street. Once again...sometimes things just work out perfect, like they were meant to be. I started having my doubts after walking for a minute or so...this was starting to feel like one of those 'murder down a back alley' stories. Then to our surprise..."HEYYY!!!" it was the two Swedes I'd met back in Cartagena! I had no idea which hostel they were at...this one isn't even listed yet, but here they were! There was also one of those crazy Swiss chicks that I'd kept running into, not to mention a whole bunch of other cool vagabonds. It was a really great atmosphere that night. We sat as a huge group for hours trading tales & joking about, then out popped this odd looking sitar thing that one of the guys had been carrying around all this time. Turns out it was a Turkish Balgama, and we all took turns giving it our best shot. The best jingle I could muster turned out to be Snoop Dog.

Latin Hostel, Taganga!!

Once it got too late, the owner made it clear we should probably head off down to the beach. We grabbed what we could carry (some of us struggling enough just with our legs) and made the move. This place didn't seem to want to sleep! There were people everywhere, and surprisingly a lot of locals. I got sucked into more sing-alongs, but nothing makes the mundane feel more like a moment than when a whole circle of happy people are helping belt out all those songs along with you, every individual simply enjoying life, and you have the privilege of acting as the architect. The mood was more than merry. There was a full moon lighting up the entire beach as if it were midday. I'd just busted into 'Stand By Me,' when a miracle happened. Out of no where, as if a ghost had walked right up out of the water, came this Latino saxophone player chiming in on perfect cue for the solo! BANG! The right timing, feel, key, everything! No one even knew he'd been there! It was one of the most spine-tingling feelings I've ever had while performing, the randomness of it all only added to it. We jammed the night away until we run out of steam (or worthwhile songs), closing the curtains on an unbeatable & unrepeatable evening.

That next morning I went looking for a dive shop. I really wanted to squeeze at least one more day of diving in before heading south, maybe even knock off my Advanced Course. All shops seemed pretty cheap, but I just couldn't make up my mind...something was holding me back. I had some pancakes for breaky and wandered on back up to the hostel. I forgot I'd told the Swedes I'd come to the beach and was lucky to run into them just as they were about to leave! They thought it would be a marvellous idea to swim from the main beach of Taganga, all the way to Playa Grande!! I thought they were insane. I'd heard the walk around the coast takes at least 25 minutes! Then they told me they'd already done it yesterday! No backing out now little bitch. There's a dashing blond Swedish beauty here you have to impress. What kind of Australian are you?? Not the best swimmer kind. In water I see myself much like JRR Tolkiens favourite dwarf - a natural sprinter. It looked so far, I'm guessing at least two or three kilometres at least, and across open water! I had no choice, we were off. There was no chance of turning back once we'd swam the first ten minutes, we'd come much further much faster than I had thought. It felt like I was in that movie The Beach, off on some crazy adventure to find some forgotten parcel of paradise. We were a long way out. Marie was swimming out even further off in the wrong direction. Towards that container ship?? "Ande, what the fuck is she doing?!" - "Umm...I'm not sure. She's a little stupid..."

Overlooking Taganga

I was totalled by the time I reached the sands of Playa Grande. I tried not to let it show too much. Pride & pain aside, I have to admit, the effort was more than worth it. Somehow it was a lot of fun. The unusual perspective from the water proved spectacular; the huge vertical cliffs making you feel very insignificant. There wouldn't be a better spot to soak up views of the entire bay. After some down time, we saddled up on the banana boat! We didn't last long. At every slight turn our craft went plunging laterally into the water. It was impossible! But we had a good ol' time. On the last bail out, the boat driver just said "adios!" and waved us goodbye, leaving us 100 meters from shore with this old man and some small child! Back at the beach we found Wankha having a blast spinning around in some inflatable tube. There was never a dull moment. If Khan told me a story he said was true, no matter how far fetched, I'd believe it. He's just one of those people. Nothing would surprise me. The one that got me the most was when he said he'd blew two of his fingers off somehow, and being so out of it had tried to glue them back on himself...only thing was - he'd put them on back to front and the doctors had to take them off all over again! I was in hysterics on and off for days; actually I'm still laughing thinking about it now. Anyway, we left Wankha at the beach. They weren't too keen on swimming back. Everyone thought we were nuts. So did I. This time I took a log, until I realised it was making double the work-load for me. All I was dreaming of on that leg home was fried chicken.

That night we ended up on the rum-train once again! Ohhh goodie-goodie it never ends I tell you, but it's a hoot. You're only young & dumb once after all. That night we took a hike up the hill to the Mirador Bar overlooking the entire bay. The memory cuts in and out from there. I remember Andepassed out in the hammock for a solid four hours (except I assumed it was a local guy until we left), I also remember trying to help Khan find his coke. I searched under the bar, down the hill, behind pots and inside glasses. In the end it had never been anywhere other than in his jacket pocket the entire time! Most of us left together (I think), and Marie & this English guy Charlie stayed, maybe a few others. Everyone got me into a panic, telling me Marie was juiced up on 4 grams of coke! I remember being so worried she was going to die, and sat on the corner waiting for ages so she would find her way home. I mean if I didn't know how to get home on my own, how would anyone else...Fool on you Nickyboy...once again.

We were all meant to go spear fishing the next morning. That sure didn't happen. But somehow Wankha made it out! Machines I tell you. Haha! Actually I was there at the hostel when they got back. I'd given them my alarm but it didn't go off, and they'd woke and left in a mad panic hurry to catch the boat and forgot sunscreen. They came back soooo red! Like a sparkling brand new Ferrari. I'm sure I could see steam coming off their faces. The rest of the day was pretty relaxed. I walked up to a lookout point, had a 'no toilet paper incident' in the fried chicken restaurant, and hung out on the beach with the Swedes & their two Aussie friends they'd met earlier on their travels. Things were slowing down, and I knew it was time for me to take off. This had been a fortunate few days with some great people, but they were all heading home soon, so it wasn't going to last forever. Ciao ciao for now! Hope to see you all soon. Time for the next chapter.

Swedes on Taganga Beach

I hung out in Santa Marta the next day waiting for my overnight bus inland. I managed to score a gas stove off one of the Aussie guys, and was now hunting around for some gas canisters. No luck here. Just before dark I jumped in a taxi bound for the cities bus terminal. Some people seem to understand my Spanish and some really don't at all. That was one weird & tense cab ride for me, I didn't at all feel comfortable until we pulled up directly outside the front doors and the driver made sure I went to the correct spot. How more wrong could I have been! That was a long night...from Santa Marta to Bucaramanga it took about 10 hours, and I can't say I got much sleep. That new sleeping bag I picked up off some girls in Cartagena proved invaluable, the AC was cranked up to max! I was hoping for a quick change over on a bus bound for the highlands, but I was told I'd have to wait a few hours. Then when I got on that bus I was told it didn't even go to where I asked! It turned out to be a long two days. Lucky the dramatic mountain scenery in some way compensated for the turmoil. Some forty-eight hours of waiting around, succumbing to sleep deprivation & winding bumpy roads later...I finally rolled into the township of El Cocuy! I was rapped! This was what I'd been waiting for. I dumped my shit in a hotel, found a good map and stoked up on all I thought I'd need for four or five days up in the Sierra Nevada. That night I crashed out like a falling rotten log.

Mountain scenery

It was an early rise to catch the milk truck on its daily run the following morning. It's a little like being stuck in a twisted time warp out here, there's cars & phones & Internet obviously, but then so many other things are blasts from the past. Everyone wanders around in ponchos and horses gallop on down the main streets. The milk truck is another reminder of how things used to be. Was it much like this back home, all those years ago before my time?? Before my parents time?? I'm not one to say if things are better back home, I just see that they are very different. Here things seem simple, solely practical. I'm afraid I can't say that about too many things back home. The truck dropped me off about four kilometres from the trail head; from there I was on my own. The plan was to do a circuit of the main range and end up in Guican some days later. At least that was the plan.

The hiking in El Cocuy N.P is breathtaking. There is no denying that. The difference is that this place is definitely not flush on the gringo trail...not yet. Give this place ten years and I'm sure most hikers around the world will of at least heard of it. For now, no one else I'd met on the road had heard of it. No one seemed up for the challenge either. It was a shame, since I was hoping I'd run into one or two people heading out this way. I don't mind hiking alone but it's sure as hell more fun when you've got someone there to laugh & cry in tune with. After an hour or so from the trail head, the slopes fed into an expansive flat floored valley, enclosed by high ragged cliff lines, tinted in shades of earthy orange & red. The valley was filled with these odd looking plants which reminded me of the Tasmanian pandani. As I climbed higher, this exotic alpine garden began to more resemble a smoothed over carpet covered in dark prickly polka-dots. I could feel the altitude taking it's toll. In theory I probably should have stayed an extra night or two in El Cocuy to acclimatize, but I was here now. Not to worry. I set up camp by Laguna Grande de la Sierra, in the shadow of numerous snow capped peaks & glaciers, and eagerly awaited the morning.

One Beautiful Valley in El Cocuy NP

That night was pretty horrible. Not much sleep went down at all. I kept getting these piercing headaches, and the wind picked up some incredible speed across the lake coming straight off the mountains, nearly blowing my tent away. So it felt anyway. I would hear the distant rumble on the still air, then WHAM!! it was like I'd been thrown straight into a wind tunnel. It was strange, come dawn I was kind of getting used to it.

That morning was much colder than the day before, it was even hard to pack my gear up. I really wanted to get to Laguna de la Plaza today, supposedly the most beautiful in the range, but it meant a gruelling climb up and over a pass hovering at around 4,800 meters above sea level. To be blunt, I was totally under prepared. I'd picked out the cheapest beanie I could find in town, and purchased the gloves I thought looked the coolest. I had no idea it was going to be this cold...or wet...or windy. I must not have been too far away from reaching that damb pass, I'd been walking for a solid two and a half hours, but I began to go numb in places I never had before. My hands were blue; they were hardly moving, and my face felt like an ice block. On top of the cold my head was spinning wildly, it felt like it was placed horizontally inside a clamp. It was decision time. I never turn back...and my stubborn drive was egging me on. What a joke. Fortunately I also have an instinct known as common sense. I made the call, and headed down. Combining all the factors, I later knew I made the right decision. Altitude, the cold, wet & windy weather, lack of warm clothing & flying solo was bound for disaster. Looking back, I most likely would have ended up losing fingers or even worse...my life. So that was one big phat lesson for the memory bank. Now down & out of there, I can think back on the actual beauty of the place, and start planning the next adventure of course. Ooohh Yeaa!! From the safety & comfort of my king size bed for now at least. Recovery time.

Laguna Grande de la Sierra

PeaceOut!! Feeling good once again from the hills!!
Sorry Sal, I'll do better at trying not to die next time...
Much lovin' from a friend of yours!!
Nikolaus. xxx