Incidents of Travel in Latin America

by Lars Holger Holm

  That said, I’m just as worried as many other earnestly thinking Europeans at the alarming incursions made upon our freedom of action, thought and speech, as well as at the concomitant and seemingly inexorable advance of the Muslim anti-civilisation into Europe. Although I do believe that the days of independent nation states fighting for territorial expansion are numbered, this still remains an intermediate to long-term prophecy. In the long run we can only question or rebel against this destiny at our own detriment and against better knowledge. But this development — perhaps as inevitable historically as the advance of glaciers is in an ice age are geologically speaking — shouldn’t be hastened by our giving in to the basest of democratic and socialist instincts, by the token of which the primitive and fanaticised Arab is seen as the embodiment of the underdog, a symbol, if you will, of the eternally oppressed individual throughout history (slaves, women, workers, colonised and coloured people, etc.), and therefore in intense need of all our resources in order to state and exercise his present ‘right’ against our past ‘wrong’.

  No matter how desirable the idea of ‘complete human equality’ may seem to friends of democracy, history, over and over again, has shown that the breakdown of any social hierarchy is foreboding a chaos where that which was formerly at the bottom is temporarily carried to the top, only to quickly give way to ruthless individual tyrants imposing totalitarian measures. If the Islamic expansion continues at the present rate in Europe, Muslims will soon be able vote their way to power in order to dismantle democracy altogether. Adolf Hitler held two separate referendums to make sure, and demonstrate, that it was in accordance with the will of the German people to bestow extra-ordinary power on himself and thus ratify the radicalism of his political measures. Inversely, we can be absolutely sure that any Muslim political leader in Europe will not ask the people twice once he has gained power. Such event would simply seal the fate of our present European civilisation.

  *

  But what on Earth did these elaborate, if also quite interesting, considerations have to do with the fact that I was now in Santa Marta, and isn’t this text supposed to be a written record of my travels? Well, I do regard the mental perspectives and vistas that travelling offers has the possibility to open up in each and every one as an integral part of the journey itself. Digression is part of the road. What I think about while travelling is often of greater importance to me than the mere moving from one location to another, notwithstanding the sensation and thrill that the seeing of something new entails. But I have never looked upon travelling as a vacation, because in that case I would have to admit that I’m practically always on vacation. I consider myself at work: studying, observing, living, reflecting, enjoying my own self-appointed, paradoxical work as a man of letters, in a time when letters in a traditional sense no longer exist. I could thus easily, and of course, have been somewhere else. For the time being, however, I was in Santa Marta, and it was here that I had these thoughts in relation to the political scene in a Europe that already seemed quite far away.

  My eventual visit to Parque de Tayrona was memorable primarily insofar as it involved trekking through the mud for the better part of five hours. The weather had looked promising and I very smoothly transited from one bus to the other to arrive an hour later at the gates of the park. But here, even though I had already paid a substantial entrance fee (three or four times higher than the one demanded from locals) the driver of the van, destined to take us up to the beginning of the actual trail, took his sweet time. For half an hour I had little better to do than to follow how a charming young three-fingered sloth was handed over from one person to the other, while bottles of beer, water and soft drinks were loaded onto the bus.

  It was already past midday when we finally set off. Arriving at the local eco-tourist village (call yourself ECO-something today and you can charge three times as much for the same sewers, — oh that? that’s eco-manure!), I asked the local stable boys for directions to ‘the playas’. Had I been only slightly better informed beforehand (and it was primarily my own fault that I wasn’t), I’d known the name of the particular playa I wished to visit (there really was one the virtual image of which had captured my interest) and it really was close by. Feeling that I was already lagging behind in time, I instead eagerly rushed ahead into the jungle, since that was the direction in which the cowboys pointed. It was around 100 metres of a pleasant walk before the muddy water began to make a mockery of any attempt on my part to consider this a nice afternoon stroll in ‘the park’.

  The heavy rains hadn’t spared the Tayrona Nature Reserve. After sliding for an hour up and down through the mud I arrived at the first tourist centre in front of a stretch of beach called Recife. It was only now it occurred to me that one doesn’t actually visit the Tayrona over the afternoon, but in order to hang out there for at least a couple of days. Needless to add I hadn’t prepared for that. So I quickly left the bungalow area and came out on the beach. Only to discover that to continue I’d have to wade across a river emptying into the sea. Luckily I had brought my trunks. While strapping my mochila, containing the rest of my clothes, to the head, I braved the current. It really was only a rifle and some crocs, basking in the sun on the opposite bank, missing to complete the image of a ‘Dr. Holm I presume’ in close encounter with the wilderness. Well, maybe I exaggerate — but only just a little! A 100 % truth on the other hand is that there were several wooden signs on the beach declaring that more than 200 (!) people had drowned in the treacherous waters off the beach. The message ended in the admonition: ‘Please don’t contribute to these sad statistics’. I was determined not to, and tried as best I could to avoid being swept along the currents into the boiling sea girdled with a long line of mostly submerged, craggy and dangerous looking rocks — hence its name: Recife.

  The petrified land formations consisted of more rounded boulders, spectacular in their own right, but in my opinion not quite as impressive as for instance the rock formations of Nicaragua’s Pacific side Playa de Coco, from which the silhouette of northern Costa Rica is clearly visible past a number of natural ‘Indian heads’ picturesquely dotting the coast line. I have to admit though that the rocks of Tayrona too were eminently sculptural, lending themselves to all kinds of anthropomorphic fantasies (e.g. seeing images of faces, profiles, beasts, gods, monsters etc. in the very living rock).

  Knowing that I’d probably have to make it back out of the jungle before nightfall, I didn’t have that much time to spend and soon found myself beating a new trail, allegedly taking me to the Piscina, so-called because swimming here is safe thanks to the continuous visible reef that transforms the small horseshoe bay into an intimate enclosure. It was only the water itself that didn’t look so inviting. After all the rains the colour of the water was far from the alluring turquoise you’d encounter in tourist brochures. Even though there must be times when the water is clearer, making snorkelling and diving a potentially rewarding experience, this was not the case when yours truly paid it a visit. Consequently there were only the most incurably romantic native elements who took visible pleasure in embracing each other in the turbid swell.

  Next to the beach I found a girl offering freshly squeezed orange juice, which at this point was more worth than a kiss from the immaculate virgin herself — in all honesty, I don’t think orange juice has ever tasted better in the history of man! Thus strengthened I continued my path to the last station on this particular trail: el Cabo.

  El Cabo really is an impressive little place with even more suggestive figure heads sculpted in stone — unsurprisingly, both the Cabo and the Piscina have in the past been consecrated sites of indigenous worship. So this is of course where I should have stayed — at least that’s what everybody else who had taken the pains to walk two hours through the mud wisely had in mind. But since I and all my clothes were wet through and through, the idea of crashing in a hammock with dry mud sticking to my body seemed a last resort in case there
really was no other alternative (I told you, I’m not that adventurous!). I thus decided to try to make the best of the opportunity in very short time.

  I walked up to the man-made shelter on top of the minuscule peninsula that forms a natural barrier against the aquatic element. From this promontory I had a panoramic view, the sea occupying 180 degrees of my field of vision, the jungle the rest. It was wilderness alright. The weather had begun to look menacing (another reason I felt not to hang around for too long). Over distant peaks of rain forest hung heavy clouds interspersed by feathered scavengers; lightning ripped the horizon while an estimated 2½ hours remained of the day. It was high time to start turning back to base, I thought, expecting myself to be quite alone on the trail. But then again I hadn’t counted with the fact that there are still some die-hard Germans left in this world.

  Holger was born in a village somewhere between Hannover and Braunschweig, at that time part of a German Democratic Republic. From which both the notions Democratic and Republic can be omitted without doing eastern Germany’s name and reputation injustice. Holger still vividly remembered his narrowly constricted youth and showed a gratefulness towards the present world, and everything in it, that would probably seem touchingly naïve to most contemporary westerners: to him the mere fact that he could now actually both afford and be allowed to travel the world was a source of pure joy.

  He worked (and had done so all his adult life) in a German steel factory, and had joined a travel group for a three week’s holiday tour through Colombia. It was now his last day before the group must return to Bogota for departure back to Germany. As the nature lover he confessed to be, he had decided to take a good walk to round things off. He must have hiked almost twice as long as I that day, but I took his stamina, considering he was German, to be a matter of course. We began to talk. Soon realising we were both trying to reach the same target before dark, we didn’t even have to agree on keeping each other company. Still, considering that nightfall was only two hours away and we had a considerable portion of slippery trail to cover, I was surprised at how leisurely he estimated the time needed. He wanted to stop and take photos, then take a swim (it was his first visit to the coast during the entire trip). I thought: what the hell, and jumped in as well. When we finally arrived at the tourist station Recife we decided to sit down and have a couple beers (normally I would have been on my way, possibly with a can in my hand, but definitely on my way). Meanwhile it wasn’t getting any brighter around us, and when we finally hit the trail for our last leg it started to rain cats and dogs.

  Under the wide canopy of the rain forest there was some protection against the deluge, but it was also darker, and the only people we met on the trail were the last enduring Indians eager to make it safely to Recife for the night. Even in these circumstances Holger had a tendency to lag behind. I began to feel it wasn’t such a great idea playing around so freely with the little daylight we still enjoyed, and urged him on from time to time. Holger was cool, I admit, but truth told: we only just barely made it before the gates of utter and humid darkness were slammed and chained shut with impenetrable twigs and branches behind us. We could no longer see two steps ahead when a series of white plastic sacks, somewhat phosphorescent and thus still visible in the dark, indicated a bifurcation in the trail. None of us had a flashlight and none of us was too sure what direction to follow, but if we would have entered the wrong one, we’d probably spend the rest of the night in the jungle as well. I was relieved to see a small light, like a diminutive distant star, detach itself from the massive darkness. It grew in size and luminosity as we advanced towards it. We had, at last, arrived at the horse stables from where I had embarked (Holger had taken a different route from another access point in the reserve).

  Once arrived we were lucky again. A young couple from Santa Marta was returning home in their four-wheel. I hailed down their car in the darkness, knowing this might be our one and only chance to get out of the park and reach the entrance gates. It turned out I needed to worry no more. They generously offered us a lift. We were soaked to the bones, and graciously offered to sit and drip off on towels in the back seat. Holger got off close to where his eco-lodge was located, while Pablo and his newly wedded wife Linda (with a so far unnamed bun in the oven) brought me back to my hotel. I was exhausted and grateful to have access to the following commodities: a shower, some aspirin and a bottle of whisky. There was a soccer game on TV. But that didn’t in the end prevent me from going out to have some dinner: a tender, juicy steak with papas a la francesa and half a bottle of Argentinian red wine in a steak house ran by a Spaniard from Catalunya and a Belgian from, well, Flanders.

  The last thing I remember from that evening is a Champion’s League qualification game glimpsed through a dense curtain of snow enveloping a bitterly cold arena in Romania, or was it Ukraine? ‘Snow, what an exotic concept’, I murmured, turning to the wall, faintly smiling, while dreams, sweet dreams, entered my mind through the gates of Oblivion.

  *

  Even after my visit to Tayrona I stayed in Santa-Marta for another couple of days. A pleasant discovery was the bay directly to the east of the city. Not more than a hill separates the town Santa Marta and the village of Catanga from one another. But they are really worlds apart.

  Catanga is a tranquil fishing village that has realised its potential as a tourist attraction. The developments nonetheless are still modest and the place remains laid back, principally accommodating scuba divers and the motley crew of tattooed European backpackers. The trail along the eastern coast line took me to the next little bay, this one exclusively catering to local and foreign tourists. From the hill top I discovered ‘my own beach’ on the opposite side of the bay, and went for it. Access to this beautiful sandy spot seemed relatively easy by way of a small ravine leading down to the waterfront. I was eager to get there before someone else would have the same bright idea. Once arrived I found swimming a great deal more gratifying than in Tayrona. The water was clear and calm, the sun warm and embracing. Thus it was here I finally had my Faun’s Afternoon, indulging in one of my favourite pastimes: watching the hours go by to the accompaniment of gentle waves and rustling palm leaves.

  One evening, believe it or not, I ran into some girls who took some interest in my humble person. I was sitting on the outdoor patio of a restaurant when I noticed a woman impassively staring at me. She was sharing beers with her female friend. To break the spell I cheered at her. It worked and I found myself invited to their table. The one who had stared so intently at me revealed herself as a behavioural psychologist (which could have explained the staring: she was studying me!). Her friend on the other hand worked as a nurse at the local hospital — guess who was the prettier!

  Both of them had half-grown children with more or less absent men. We eventually went out dancing together. In order to do so I had to subdue my instinctive aversion for reggaeton and turn my attention to the girls themselves, visibly very happy with this kind of acoustic junk — I believe it even turned them on. I’m reasonably convinced even the pretty one would in the end have fallen victim to my devastating charm, not to speak of my irresistible dancing, but as the evening progressed and I began to take more and more interest in her at the expense of the other, the psychologist (at first inciting me to dance with her friend, quite erroneously assuming I wasn’t too interested in her) only too willingly grew in the role as her chaperone.

  But there was an opening for some future fun: they both wanted me to go with them to a finca, supposedly belonging to the psychologist. We agreed they should come to the hotel around ten in the morning the following day. I never found out whether they came to look for me, because I overslept. Though they knew where to find me they hadn’t left any message in the lobby (or perhaps the lesbian manager was withholding this information just to spite me). In the end that suited me fine. I was actually relieved that the excursion to the finca never came to happen, since I had some presentimen
t of future possible complications of an emotional nature: though both girls were apparently looking for male company, it was the psychologist who had seemed the needier of the two. But since she was not as pretty as the other one, the scene was practically set for a triangle drama, or comedy. Regardless of which way the play would go, I no longer felt the same enthusiasm for it as I had done the night before: ‘And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought’…

  A week before Christmas I boarded a flight from Santa Marta to Medellín. The ticket with Copa Airlines was surprisingly cheap. Included in the modest sixty-five US dollars was a sight-seeing from the air as the flight was scheduled for a short layover in Bogotá. My choice to go by air was probably very wise. Even under normal circumstances a bus ride to Medellín from Santa Marta would take many hours and end up costing about the same as the flight ticket. Considering the present state of the roads, though, it could be a matter of several days to get there. In what kind of mood and physical condition would I be in by then?