Before boarding the bus the next morning, I discover from the lady at the ticket counter why she gave me a free ticket. Having grown up in very poor conditions, she often didn’t know whether or not she would eat day-to-day. Her relatives, friends, and neighbors had all shown her kindness during those hard times and had helped her. Now that she is able to earn her own money, she wants to return the favor and help other people.
On the bus, the air conditioner is running at full blast and it is as cold as the waiting room. Though there is no Dr. Luck here, the stereo’s bass system thumps for eight straight hours. Like on the television, a limited set of songs play over and over again. The most popular one is a current hit from Panama, which combines salsa, reggaeton, pop, and hip-hop. However, the entire time, I only hear the words “Humba, Humba, Täterä.”
Sitting near me is Roger, a fifty-two-year-old American who migrated to Panama six months ago. He is on the run; not from the police, but from a swine flu vaccination. He is convinced of a conspiracy between the American government and the pharmaceutical industry: the vaccination will only cause other diseases and, as a result, the pharmaceutical companies and government officials will become richer. To avoid falling for this insidious trap, he sold his butterfly collection and relocated to Panama City. When I express my skepticism for the conspiracy, he smiles tolerantly and says, gently, “You must be naive about these matters because you’re still young.” It ends up being a very educational bus trip. I learn about the many parallels between the US government and the Nazi regime; that Roger’s grandfather spotted a UFO in the forties; and that the end of the world is near (which he confirms by taking a bible from his bag and showing me the psalms where this is stated).
Panama City reminds me of Miami with its countless buildings along the water and American fast-food chains on every corner. The Americans occupied Panama at the start of the twentieth century and initiated its separation from Colombia. Thereafter, they started to build the rather astonishing Panama Canal, which was inaugurated in 1914. The revenue from taxes (ships pay duty in order not to travel around the whole of South America) had an overall effect on the national income: whereas the average monthly salary in Costa Rica is $600, in Panama it’s almost $1,500, making it easily the richest country in Central America.
The growth of Panama’s relationship with the United States and their distancing from Colombia led to the abolition of the border checkpoint between the two countries. Panama and Colombia are completely separated from each other by the Darién Gap, an area of primeval forest almost 125 miles wide; it is the last gap of the Panamericana, the road that connects Alaska with Tierra del Fuego. Unfortunately, this lack of a border crossing makes my trip from Panama to Columbia considerably more difficult. I ask the locals whether there is any small border checkpoint for tourists, but all of them shake their heads vigorously. Anyone venturing into the Darién region runs the risk of falling into the hands of Colombian rebels or drug smugglers.
First things first: I decide to stay at Roger’s and sort it all out from there. Roger leaves me the house key in his mailbox. Incredibly, after exchanging only a couple of messages on the couch surfing website, he trusts me to stay there for five days on my own and lets me help myself to his fridge. His house, secured with metallic grills and fences, has a washing machine, dryer, 500 television channels, and, most importantly, Internet.
Feeling completely rested, I begin tackling the border issue. I contact the German embassy and send them an email detailing my problem; I immediately get a reply and the next day I am sitting in one of their offices. On the telephone in front of me is written CAUTION: This phone is not secure. RISK OF INTERCEPTION! I feel a little like James Bond on a secret mission awaiting news from the ambassador; well, it is true that I am actually waiting for the German ambassador. The ambassador greets me and takes me to his impressive office. He shows great interest in my travel project and begins asking questions: “Why are you doing this? What do you do for a living in Germany? How is the trip so far? Are you having fun?” I stammer while replying because I am nervous—he is, after all, the German ambassador. He tells me that on the coming Sunday there will be a garden party held at the Residencia Alemana in honor of the parliamentary elections of the Bundestag, a branch of the parliament. Not wanting to miss an opportunity, I offer him my assistance as a butler for the party.
When I arrive at the garden party that Sunday, I see a large yellow board with the Federal Eagle and the inscription “Federal Republic of Germany”; I am now entering German territory in the middle of Panama. Behind the gate, the stately premises are made up of a swimming pool, a large entrance hall, and a spacious living room and reception room. The Residencia Alemana is furnished in style. During the party I wear a white shirt with stand-up collar, a silver-gray vest, a black bow tie, and black trousers. I balance a silver tray on my arm and serve the guests rosé and white wine. In the back, the future German vicechancellor celebrates his win in the elections with Chancellor Angela Merkel on several television screens via DW-TV.
Then, the wife of the ambassador takes me aside: my glasses are not filled properly. Wine glasses should be neither half full nor two-thirds full; they should be exactly 55 percent full. With the wife being French, I have to admit without protest that she is right as far as wine measuring is concerned. But how am I supposed to learn exactly how much is 55 percent of a wine glass? She tells me politely, but firmly, at least ten more times, that the wine glasses are either too full or too empty. I try my best to reach the 55-percent mark exactly and try not to become nervous during my numerous failed attempts. For the time being I manage it, but then I stumble while I am serving the wife of the French ambassador; wine spills out of the glass, and the 55 percent quickly become 47 percent. The guests look a little disturbed, but a Cologne businessman saves the situation by laughingly telling the guests, “The boy can make it!” The French ambassador’s wife smiles; however, the ambassador is a little nervous about what I am up to.
I promised to write only the truth: the ambassador pays me from his own pocket and doesn’t waste time with figuring out taxes.
I later meet Mr. Foerster at the party. He is an agent for German opera singers and is currently organizing the first performance of Mozart’s The Magic Flute in Panama City. For his show he still needs a choir singer (or, more specifically, an extra who can stand on stage in a costume and open and close his mouth). I most certainly know how to stand around blankly while opening and closing my mouth; I accept his offer and find myself that same evening standing on the stage of the city theater among nine other choir boys.
The theater resembles the old German and Austrian ones: balcony seats along the high side walls, gold leaf accents, seats made out of red fabric. The ceiling, painted with angels, clouds, and figures, was expertly done—Michelangelo would probably not have been able to do better. The performance goes off without any problems, with the choirboys singing and me just opening and closing my mouth. Mr. Foerster stands backstage behind a panel and indicates to me how I should behave; he seems to be under the impression that I am somewhat clumsy. This is not entirely without good reason because while I am entering the stage I step on my gown and get stuck; the choirboy behind me then runs directly into me. It is bordering on slapstick. I see the appalled face of Mr. Foerster, which only relaxes when finally I leave the stage.
With the pay from my day’s work, I book myself a flight. The Colombian airline, Avianca, is offering a special, and I have enough money for a ticket to Lima. The flight spares me over 2,100 miles of strenuous land travel through Colombia, Ecuador, and northern Peru: a total of two weeks of travel. This eases my mind greatly; after all, I have only six weeks left to reach Antarctica. Still, there is almost 4,300 miles from Lima to Tierra del Fuego, where I must go through the Andes, the Atacama desert in Chile, and the bitterly cold Patagonia in Argentina.
The flight also means, for me, that I no longer have to go through dangerous southern Colombia, an area still quit
e notorious for its kidnappings by a guerilla group operating out of the rainforest in the south and the east. The murder rate in Colombia is unsettling: every year more than 20,000 people are killed in this country, the main cause being drug crime; 70 percent of the cocaine sold worldwide is grown in Colombia. Despite these shocking facts, I don’t want to completely miss out on Colombia, so I decide to make a five-day layover in Cartagena. It should be an adventurous trip.
11
KATARINA’S CATAMARAN
After landing in Cartagena, another passenger drives me into the city. I instantly come across some shady characters on the street. One of them asks me, “What should a gringo like you want here?” In order not to become quickly labeled as a European, I take my bag to the park and unpack a black-colored wig and a large mustache. Along with this disguise, I put on pilot’s sunglasses and wear a white shirt with my black butler trousers. I test out my new identity and wander in the direction of the old city. Some passersby look at me a little curiously: a six-foot-tall Latino wearing a traveler backpack is probably a rare site around here. Moreover, the mustache and the wig, which are from a costume shop in Cologne, probably give everybody reasons for doubt.
Cartagena is one of the oldest cities of South America and was founded by the Spaniards in 1533. An imposing cathedral, which towers above the city with its large dome, was built a few decades after the arrival of Christopher Columbus. Many other buildings in the old city, the great wall around it, and the fort in the center are also from this period. The residential houses have big wooden balconies and the narrow lanes remind of Seville or Florence. The residents saunter on the streets and in the parks and enjoy their coffee in the evening sun. Very attractive women smile at me. Salsa blares from many pubs and cafes. Life appears to play itself out on the road.
However, the presence of police and the military here cannot be overlooked or ignored, as large, armored emergency vehicles are parked on the street corners and uniformed cops are present everywhere, including the beach. It is a bizarre picture: tourists sit in their small beach tents, and standing directly near them are soldiers with their machine guns at the ready. In the city center I observe a shoplifter being pursued through the park with a lot of public interest. He is tackled by three cops and left lying for twenty minutes in handcuffs and with a bloody face. A man among the bystanders tells me that this is solely for the purpose of demonstrating the strength and determination of the police. Now, this actually takes away my fear of becoming a victim of a robbery, but I still don’t want to spend the night outdoors. For this reason, I start looking for possible places to stay and approach some passersby.
One man tells me politely that his relatives are visiting and that he can’t oblige me. A young woman refuses because she is still living with her strict Catholic parents. However, she gives me her email address and invites me for a free boat ride. Then I approach a woman sitting in a cybercafe. She listens to my story and promptly says, “Of course, we’ll make a room free for you. Five days should be fine.” I am totally flabbergasted.
Nora lives with the thirteen members of her family in a single-story house that has six rooms. Every last one of them gives me a hearty welcome. The first one is Farides, the twenty-five-year-old daughter, who is quickly pushed away by her twenty-eight-year-old sister, Dajain. Dajain is holding her three-year-old daughter in her arms, who very officially shakes hands with me. Farides’s daughter, Maya Paula, follows directly after her with a shy hola. Maya Paula’s grandmother is next, and sits in her wheelchair while critically looking me over. Then, the great aunt edges through the narrow corridor, smiles at me, and hugs me as if her long-lost son has come back. After this, the grandfather, José Louis, the father, Roberto, and Nora’s brother, Eso Maria, greet me. I have to wait some time before Ingrid, Nora’s sister, and her two kids conclude the greetings.
There are two to three people staying in each room. As far as furniture is concerned, there are almost only double beds and I don’t see any cupboards anywhere. Since the only television in the house is located in the room where I am allowed to sleep, the entire family sits all around me until late into the evening. During the day, the grandmother lies alone on a mattress watching soccer. She is an ardent fan of Real Madrid and watches every game. I try to strike up a conversation with her but she is not in the mood to talk. Silence is called for when futbol is on. For the next five days, we spend six or seven hours in that room together; we don’t speak a word while the Spanish and the Colombian league matches are being shown. Even when there is a goal, she remains silent and only raises her hands briefly to express her joy. When the opponents score a goal, she moves her hand from right to left through the room to show her resentment.
Everyone contributes something to the family budget. Nora and her husband are responsible for the food, her sister and her brother for electricity and water, the grandmother and the great aunt for the repair costs. Money is tight; Farides even had to discontinue her studies because she could no longer pay the tuition fees. She now sees her future in the cybercafe that the family runs.
I am touched that this family, what with their own money problems, agreed to take me in without any reservations or hesitations. For the next five days, they also give me a meal every evening. During the day I search for food using my tried and tested techniques—my first attempt in Latin America. I visit cafés and shops and ask for small things in order not to lose any more weight on my journey. Since the start of my trip in Berlin, I have lost about sixteen pounds. As expected, my success rate in Colombian shops is much lower than in the United States. In the United States, normally eight out of ten shops offered me something to eat, while here it is only three out of ten (a small bottle of water or a bar of chocolate). The main reason for this is probably my inadequate knowledge of the language. My Spanish is simply bad; before starting my trip, I was vain enough to think that I spoke Spanish fluently, but now I realize that I speak only utter nonsense. The people mostly only get bits and pieces: they hear “end of the world,” “money and food,” and “Germany” again and again, and finally don’t know at all what to do with any of it. Many of them hesitantly refer to their boss, who won’t be in the shop again until tomorrow.
On top of that, most stores don’t get very many customers; in some, they are very happy if they earn ten or twenty dollars in a day. Therefore, they are understandably reserved in giving something to a traveler from a rich European country. Still, the gifts I receive are sufficient to pull me through; the ones who do understand my Spanish, and already seem to have enough, give a lot.
Due to the heat and humidity, I have to drink a lot and refill my water bottle repeatedly from water taps and fountains. I have chlorine tablets with me from Germany and use them to clean the water. In the part of the city known as Bocagrande, I meet Katarina again, the girl who had given me her email address and offered me a ride on a boat. She is nineteen and her father is the president of the Sailing Federation of Colombia. In Bocagrande, I feel as if I am once again in Miami. There are modern skyscrapers with mirrored facades, Jeeps and German luxury cars everywhere, and large yachts lie in the harbor. Katarina is a professional sailor and is aiming to qualify for the next Olympic Games.
After we eat our fill in the sailing clubhouse (at her father’s expense), we set out on her catamaran to an island on the outskirts and land in Bocachica. I’m struck by the unbelievable class difference of the country: poor village dwellers and their children run toward us begging; between the brick houses are provisional wooden and sheet metal structures; the roads resemble mud pits. I guess that the value of Katarina’s catamaran exceeds that of the whole village. At the edge of the village there is an imposing fort, which the Spaniards built in the middle of the sixteenth century. It towers above the palm-lined sand beach.
At every corner one sees groups of men and women sitting and playing queen, chess, bingo, dominoes, cards, or Ludo. Playing board games is no game in Colombia: it is serious business. It takes some hours to
get ourselves included in the groups in order to play, and then I naturally come across a problem: almost all of them are playing for money. Even when the stakes are very low (mostly just a few cents), it is still too much for me. Finally, an exception is made just for me and I am allowed to use stones that I picked up from the beach. A dominoes player explains to me that playing without money doesn’t make any sense because the use of money triggers more emotions.
On the beach I start a conversation with a young woman who earns her money with a homemade skin cream that she invites passersby to sample. In this way, she earns just about $300 a month; she and her little daughter live on that. She doesn’t have any other options and tells me that the economic situation is simply too bad. Despite this, she is not envious of the upper class because she draws happiness and satisfaction from her faith and from her love for her daughter.
Leaving Colombia unexpectedly becomes sad and sentimental for me, because the welcoming large family, the life on the streets, the beautiful architecture, the nice beaches, and of course, the openness and warmth of the people have all moved and surprised me in only good ways.
12
MY LIFEAS A PERUVIAN
Right after arriving in Lima, the capital of Peru, I decide to play my wild card. After all, every game has a joker, right? Mine is called Karina, a thirty-four-year-old Peruvian. We met precisely ten years ago when I was visiting Peru and have just recently reconnected on Facebook. She invited me to stay with her for three days in the northern part of town, and it’s great to see her again at the airport: we hug, quickly rattle off details of the last ten years of our lives, and then hop aboard one of the innumerable, overloaded miniature buses. These buses really are miniature—meant for twenty people at the very most. Instead of sitting, people stand tightly pressed up against each other, which is easy for the Peruvians (they’re hardly ever taller than five feet five inches). However, for me—at six feet tall—it’s horrible. For half an hour, I am stuck with my head uncomfortably bowed, looking out the window.
How to Travel the World for Free Page 9
