The historic centre was so picturesque it was almost a caricature of postcard kitsch. It was saved from this fate by the contemporary reality of the real people that lived here and, every now and again, crumbling masonry – the town is built of limestone and coral. Bright colours in painterly profusion, but nothing as crude as the primaries, were washed on to the street façades from an attractive palette and many balconies overflowed with flowering climbers. Wooden doors patterned with little pointed studs like a tableau of metal nipples, guarded the older and grander houses. There was genuine beauty, no outstanding elegance (pitted and pock marked coral does not lend itself to ashlar and fine detailing) and it was attractively approachable and homely. In some ways it had echoes of Dubrovnik. A massive fortified perimeter wall protecting a huddle of streets, stone buildings under tiled roofs and all surrounded by a great spread of modernity.
The tourist office’s historical handout had much to say about the position of Cartagena as the treasure house of Spanish South America and the impregnable fort of St Filipe, the bastions and stupendous walls of the city that were built to protect the gold, silver and the emeralds. Many were prepared to risk men and ships to obtain this fabulous fortune and the guide drew particular attention to ‘the notorious pirate’ Francis Drake. I watched the sun dip into the Caribbean from Café del Mar, a fashionable spot set around rusting cannons, still aimed seawards towards the approach of pirates and a place for the locals to flirt and loosen their inhibitions with a caipirinha or three. The sea was grey, the sky leaked a drizzle and the wind blew my umbrella inside out.
There were many heroes of those times but none more heroic than Don Blas de Lezo. A Spaniard of noble birth, he had lost a leg in combat, a left eye in Toulon and his right arm in the Battle of Gibraltar. His legendary fighting spirit (that’s about all he had left) led him to being commissioned by Cartagena’s citizens to defend the city against a massive assault by the British under Admiral Vernon. In the subsequent attack, de Lezo lost his other leg but now, with only one limb and one eye left, he demanded to be carried to the thickest of the fighting to urge his men on. Vernon, realising that he was up against a man who rose above any normal human disabilities, wisely withdrew.
Plaza Santa Dominico was the place to be, post 6 pm. The ochre façade of Inglesia Santa Dominico dominated one side, Paco’s and another four restaurants the second and third sides and Immobiliaria Bustamante, true to its estate agency business, was in a handsome house that completed the fourth side. In its window was a poster advertising the Hay Literary Festival. I rubbed my eyes to read it carefully. It was true; in a couple of weeks, Simon Schama, Michael Ondaatje, Ian McEwan and others were all lined up for a bookish weekend. The Spectator later reported,
‘At the Hay Festival in Cartagena, the popular conception of Caribbean literary festivals that freeloading writers enjoy sunshine, mojitos and rumbas till dawn, conformed to every detail of the stereotype.’
In the centre of the square were acrobats, dancers, guitarists, cigarette sellers, swindlers and tricksters and the restaurants’ prettiest waitresses to drum up trade. The square was no bigger than an Oxfordshire market place but here, music throbbed and the cabaret of after dark life pulsated in amiable abandon and all for a plate of ceviche and a Club Columbia beer. A gust of warm wind sneaked round a corner scattering papers and crumbs, lifting skirts to squeals of laughter, blowing hair and adding to the fun. And then it was gone, dashing down Calle Domingo to make mischief elsewhere. Lovers returned to interrupted intimacy, an itinerant guitarist spotted his romantic moment and a carriage pulled by a grey horse munching its supper on the move, rattled over the cobbles. The dancers, hawkers, buskers, slinky waitresses, nimble accordionists, sellers of beads and bags, excited matrons, bored children, photographers, caricaturists, sellers of CDs of unknown performers and posters of well-known footballers and Africans with unsellable leather things, all returned to business. Bright yellow taxis – all Fiat 500s that could squeeze through the streets – buzzed around seeking custom from the passengers of a cruise ship. These elderly and flabby vacationers, each tagged like sheep, were herded around in numbered flocks. Some needed support, all needed guidance. I was ready to move to another carnival but this time it was to be on a blockbusting scale.
The El Prado Hotel was in chaos. It had not only been fully booked for months but there was a wedding to cope with too. The biggest and best of Barranquilla’s hotels was noted in my ten year old guide book as in need of modernisation. The management had clearly not read the book but it was in carnival spirit with elaborate and jolly decorations and, by reputation, had the biggest and best party. It may have been the biggest but in my book it was far from the best. The 1,000-watt amplification system seemed to be in my room – probably under my bed. The furniture bounced and glass was close to cracking. The hotel’s only real asset of a magnificent swimming pool was wisely roped while the wedding guests mingled around it. They also had music, different music and 500-watt amplifiers. This cacophony met below my balcony in competitive disharmony until the wedding gave in at 1 am allowing the megawatts to triumph until 6 am. Then the rush hour traffic started. My package at the hotel included a bed for three nights, tickets for the carnival and a bottle of whisky; forlorn and alone in this festive city, the bottle was empty well before the wedding ended.
They are big on decibels here, at least at carnival time. You could hear the beats from 100 sources five blocks from the carnival route – a dual carriage way that ran through the city centre. My seat was beside a 20 ton low-loader, stacked a storey high with loudspeakers. I shall be deaf for a week, I thought. At ten in the morning and three hours before kickoff, the stands were almost full with an audience decked out in neon hair, sombreros of every colour and size and glitz, glitter, dazzle and bling. Any effulgent colour would do provided it was fluorescent and sparkled and there were confetti, balloons and flags too. This was not the opulent extravagance of Rio. Here it was homemade, earthy and folksy enjoyment for the people and by the people and they loved it, calling to their friends in the parades and waving to their families. They were dancing on the way here, laughing when they arrived and never stopped either all day.
Legend, folklore and fun seemed to be the order of the days (there were four of them) and scattered through them, Caribbean met the jungle, Aztec and Inca danced with Spaniards, penos and witchdoctors mingled with a dozen Minnie Mouses and there were pirates, prisoners and gorillas by the score. All the Colombian states were represented as well as individual towns and wealthy estancias. Here were Congo Grande, Toro Grande and Cipote Marimanda. Two hundred and sixty six groups in all and each came with 100 or more dancers and their own marching bands. They swirled in a frothy sea of gingham or tailored suits of short jackets and tight trousers in elegant and carefully choreographed displays of congas, cumbiambas, gavabatos and toritos. In between them came every kook in the land in costume and paint, the brighter, the more brazen and the more bizarre the better. Robin Hood, Don Quixote and Gandhi were there along with Osama bin Laden, Che Guevara, Chavez and Castro. Rebellious renegades of all kinds were popular and this seemed a healthy indication of a democratic nation but Pablo Escobar, the notorious drug baron, was noticeably absent. Romans, Red Indians, Spidermans, Supermans and Batmans by the dozen ran about. They came on roller skates and stilts and waved banners, flags and pennants. A group of spastics earned particular applause and a bunch of outrageously camp guys, a crescendo of wolf whistles. A Michael Jackson lookalike, stick thin and mad as a hatter, split his shiny, scarlet, vinyl trousers from his crutch to his waist in a ground level limbo. His shoes split too. I thought my neighbour might be sick with laughter. There were holes in the fencing and exasperated police spent much time in the futile effort of trying to catch infiltrators who then reappeared through another hole further down the course. It all added to the fun.
How the crowd loved it all. It had started an hour late and many stood in the hot sun for six hours or more but who was caring. We
laughed, slapped each other on the back, pointed, cheered, yelled at friends in the parade and swayed to the music – and what music! Toe tapping, rhythmic and joyful, it was belted out by trucks loaded with great banks of speakers (they towed an industrial generator to power these) and overflowing with gyrating performers. The crowd knew every number and sang along as these musical monoliths lumbered through. If there was a celebrity singer on board, the crowd developed near hysteria. But if there was one national icon that seemed to be worshipped above even their music, it was pulchritude. Not for nothing have long-legged, sublimely shaped, sparkling toothed Colombian maidens regularly held the Miss World title. Here they dazzled us all once again. There was Reina del Carnival, Exit Reina – last year’s winner, Reina del Reina and of course, Reina del Mundo. All carried sashes that spelt out their name and their attendants and all the runners up added extra glamour. In between, adorning floats with gorgeous cheesiness, were other Reinas whose lesser status was only apparent by the lack of their name.
I was at the starting line, so there was the additional entertainment of frustrated marshals, the jockeying for position in front of TV cameras, late arrivals and general chaos. But this was Colombia and a four day national carnival with 15,000 participants cannot be expected to work with precision. One of the hazards that disrupted any attempted precision was an overhead cable that spanned the dual carriage way of the route. These are a regular problem in an urban environment but the height of the leading float – an extravagant giant cockatoo of painted polystyrene against whose breast nestled one of the Reinas – had not been properly measured. It was two feet too tall. Long poles failed to lift the slack of the cable and as the monstrous bird inched forward, the crowd fell silent with alarm. Would the cable snap, was it carrying electricity, would it bring down the poles supporting it? There were thousands of performers behind and as many spectators in front. The strain on all concerned but critically on the cable was too much. It snapped with a whiplash that missed the six foot beauty queen by as many inches and simultaneously demolished the bird’s crest. The crowd roared in relief or entertainment, I missed the photographic scoop of a dozen bystanders being either electrocuted or crushed by a falling pylon, the carnival procession moved on and part of Barranquilla was deprived of telephones.
Four-phone Filipe took me to Tayrona National Park on the Caribbean coast – a two hour drive on the empty roads of a holiday Monday. One phone was at home but the other three were in the car and in use, often two at once. Had the third rung, I was ready with, ‘“Momento, por favor.” Filipe had gone to New York, speaking no English, 20 years ago to find a better life, before moving to Miami with his wife. Now divorced and his children American citizens (one in the marines and another training as an accountant), he drove a taxi in Barranquilla and said he was happy. He certainly had a lot of mobile-owning friends.
The jungle of the national park spread itself over the foothills of Pico Cristobal Colon (Colombia’s highest mountain at 18,700 ft (5,700m), with a snow covered peak all year long), and tumbled into the Caribbean Sea. Since some cataclysmic explosion had sent them helter skelter down the mountain side, great boulders littered the slopes and piled up on the beaches. This was primary rainforest territory and there were many ancient trees although nothing huge. The steep slopes washed off the nutrients that are necessary for giants. Lianas crossed the track like cables over an urban carnival road. Pack horses provided the transport here. Nothing else could have manoeuvred through the gulches, roots and boulders. Suitcases, beer crates, groceries, chairs and all the paraphernalia to maintain a comfortable lodge, were strapped on, with smaller items being stuffed into jute bags.
Several of the 176 steps to my hilltop cabana were crossed by lines of leaf cutter ants. They worked tirelessly day and night but were clearly programmed as there was a great store of leaf bits at the entrance to their nest; management had over ordered. Some ants were too ambitious and carried a section of leaf like a great sail. If this got caught by a breeze, they got blown over. Someone should have warned against the wind hazard of oversized leaves, like those notices to pantechnicons at the approaches to the Severn Bridge. Once, a scared agouti scuttled from underneath the cabana and a blue crowned motmot was a regular early morning visitor. No doubt, both were scavenging for bits of fruit tossed away by guests.
The capital is officially Sante Fe del Bogota. Known locally as ‘A despelote’ – chaos – its streets are a battlefield for wild traffic, whether mules or Maseratis. ‘An impression of visual and mental disarray.’ I stayed in the old quarter that was protected from the battle by pedestrianised streets and a policeman on each corner but in a tour around the more modern areas, it seemed no more restless or disorganised than any other South American city. At 8,500 ft (2,600 m) it is the third highest capital on the continent (after La Paz and Quito) and the mornings were chilly and the mountain tops obscured in mist. There were splendid colonial churches, impressive modern buildings, wonderful museums – including the Gold Museum of astonishing Columbian craftsmanship, shanty towns, a city centre park of pine trees in which cows were grazing, bootblacks, thieves, drug dealers, traffic jams and interest and fascination around every corner.
Throughout my brief visit to the country, I had questioned my guides and drivers on their perception of modern Colombia and its neighbours and they were universally in accord on two points. Firstly, Chavez in Venezuela next door was an idiot and a menace. Secondly, the country had been at the mercy of drug barons but this was now a matter of the past and all the towns were safe. If you were foolish enough to adventure into the great rainforests of the East, you might never return but elsewhere things were good. They did not look that good to me with the prominence of police and military but, in comparison with the past, perhaps things were safe and stable. For myself, whether on an Amazon long boat, strolling colonial streets, enjoying a multicoloured crowded carnival, accompanying a line of pack horses or admiring the Spanish architectural legacy, I found only a happy and friendly people anticipating security and prosperity.
Postcard Home
I’ve left the flooded Amazon
The dolphins, otters, hoatzin.
(I failed to find an anaconda
But had I done, I’d quick absconder).
Banditos hide round every tree,
I hope they’re not observing me.
Oh! There’s a bandit over there.
No, just a one armed guerrilla.
The carnival at Barranquilla
Runs on rum and neat tequila.
I may, with luck, lose my demeanour.
How sad my dancing days are over,
I’m quite a dab at bossa nova.
Tomorrow, Bogota. Hurrah!
The next day, the UK. Hurray!
Malta for the Weekend
March 2010
‘Leave the home, O youth and seek out alien shores’ – Petronius
I had come to the island with other choristers to sing The Messiah at St Paul’s Cathedral, built on the site of a previous Norman church in the walled city of Mdina. From the air, I counted 20 ships steaming past the island. No wonder this rock, placed in the middle of the Sicilian Channel, has such strategic relevance. It guards the central Mediterranean and Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Normans, Turks, French and British (roughly in that order), all had their eye on it and most fought their way ashore and left their mark.
Geologically, it is a lump of limestone. Every house, road, wall, cathedral (there are three), church (there are 363) and, above all, bastion, is built from it. If you threaten one of the principal naval routes of an expansionist world, bastions are what you need and here they do not come thicker, higher or better designed. The immense fortifications owe their construction to the military monks of the Order of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem who had the money, the religious zeal and the contacts to employ the best, to pay the highest wages and capture the strongest slaves. 5,000 were paid and 5,000 enslaved to construct the bastions following The Gre
at Siege – the four month attack of Suleiman the Magnificent in 1565.
In only a weekend, there is no time for academic research, foot slogging exploration of nooks and crannies or local conversations. Minimalism is the watchword and my miniature world was the capital city of Valletta. Here were crystallised history, religion, homes, markets and contemporary living. There were also little pockets of greenery, struggling to support casuarina pines, stunted holm oaks and huge oleanders. Elsewhere, handkerchief sized patches grew barley and irregular lines of vines.
The promontory of Valletta protects the harbour of Marsomxett to its north and Grand Harbour to its south, the latter being one of the world’s great natural deep water ports. The promontory itself has sides so steep that streets career down to the sea, sometimes so steeply that they are all steps. At the shoreline, the perimeter walls tell the story of a turbulent past; here are the English Bastion, Abercrombie’s Bastion, the French Bastion and the German Bastion along with a dozen others named after salvationist saints. The Knights reconstructed the town on a grid system and, on the principals of good town planning, provided a central backbone of a wide street that cleaves the town in two like the slash of a cutlass. At the centre lies the great Grand Masters’ Palace, a fine National Library and the Co-Cathedral of St Johns with its astonishing chiaroscuro interior, pietra dura memorial tablets that cover the nave floor, two Caravaggios and a number of great tapestries woven from cartoons of Rubens and Poussin. Here also in Republic Square, is the plaque that reads:
The Last Blue Mountain Page 32
