36 Hours in Cartagena for Backpackers: ¡Con Mucho Gusto!

Cartagena, Colombia--with its flowered balconies, sizzling street carts, and enticing fruit vendors lining narrow cobblestoned streets bursting with locals and tourists shuffling by each other past a kaleidoscope of carefully preserved colonial walls--immediately captures visitors with its charm.

One of Colombia's principal domestic tourist destinations, Cartagena's immaculately preserved colonial quarter--the Walled City--is among the oldest in the Americas and its main attraction. The neighborhood's upscale boutiques and array of international fine dining restaurants may not be an authentic representation of life outside the colonial walls, but it is a place too beautiful to begrudge.

Away from the throngs, under the cool shade of mature almond trees, is the Walled City's most enchanted and enchanting corner, Plaza Fernandez de Madrid, where Florentino Ariza sat pining for Fermina Daza.


A short walk up the street, the stunning Sofitel Santa Clara, set amid a beautifully restored former convent, is occasionally graced by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who is said to drop by for a drink. Although room rates fall outside most backpacker budgets, the courtyard--with its manicured gardens and colorful toucans--is open to the public.

Just beyond the Walled City lies Getsemani, a vibrant neighborhood with more local life, grit, and seediness than its carefully restored neighbor, whose affordable food and lodging options have made it the city's backpacker epicenter.

On Wednesday nights, the Media Luna Hostel plays host to a legendary party drawing a steady stream of locals in private cars, dressed to the nines, who come to mingle with backpackers from around the world dressed in shorts and flip flops.
Thursday through Saturday nights, taxi drivers stand outside Cafe Havana to drink in the intoxicating Cuban rhythms pulsating into the streets from one of the city's best and most authentic spots for live music.

After a day and a half in Cartagena, every street and corner in the Walled City had become familiar and it was time to move on. But it took even less time for the city's delicate mix of grime and fresh paint, of passion and heartbreak, to make us fall in love.

In every place we ate or drank or stayed, our thanks were always met with the same heartfelt response--"¡Con Gusto!"--a phrase that sums up the remarkable passion for life in Cartagena and, as we would later find, all over Colombia.

TO SLEEP: From among the dozen places we visited, Akel House Hostel (Calle San Andres #30-28, Getsemani; www.akelhouse.com) offered by far the best private rooms. A spotless and bright budget hotel centrally located just off of Calle Media Luna in Getsemani, the property is family-run and it shows. Ask for a room on the third floor, facing the large balcony that overlooks the city. Rooms start at about 70,000 pesos.

FOR A BREAK FROM THE HEAT: Head to Mila Cafe (Calle de la Iglesia 35-76), a beautifully decorated Mexican pastry shop with an unbelievably decadent quatros leches cake served, like the best homemade tiramisu, in a bowl.

Or try Gelateria Paradiso (Calle de Estanco del Tabaco 35-28), where the tarty and sweet maracuya sorbet is particularly refreshing.

FOR LUNCH: Step inside La Mulata (Calle Quero 9-58) and take a seat under the papier mache fish dangling from the ceiling, beside the peeling white washed walls decorated with native masks and photos of young Fidel and Che, to listen to the blaring salsa trumpets of San Barios and enjoy fantastic Colombian fare alongside the locals. In addition to the memorable food, La Mulata offers the best fruit juices we had in Colombia.

STREET FOOD BY DAY: Try the bevy of food carts along Avenida Venezuela just outside the Walled City, or head into Walled City itself.

STREET FOOD BY NIGHT: After sundown, the Plaza de la Trinidad in Getsemani fills with locals and tourists sitting around to talk, drink, and watch the kids play pickup soccer--and enough delicious street carts to feed them all.

FOR DINNER: The best and freshest ceviche we've ever had was at El Boliche Cibecheria (Calle Larga 9A-36). It was so good, we went twice in the same night. Try the tamarind ceviche.

A QUICK BREAKFAST: For a piping hot breakfast pastry fresh from the oven, stop by a bakery (panaderia) and ask for pan con pollo--a flaky, buttery puff pastry stuffed with chicken and cheese. To find the best one, follow the locals and your nose.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad


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Panama City To Cartagena By Sail Aboard the Gypsy Moth

Do not call me Ishmael, for I was not made to sail.

On July 5, 2012, Olga and I set out to travel through sun drenched deserted islands and across open seas. Our destination: Cartagena, Colombia. We had everything to make voyage, except El Colombiano, a mysterious personage of unknown whereabouts who held the key to our international ambitions.





Panama connects the world's two great oceans from east to west, but divides the Americas from north to south. The wild and dense jungles of the Darien create the last missing link in the Pan-American highway--the Darien Gap--and render the Panamanian-Colombian frontier impenetrable. Travelers who could otherwise move from Patagonia to Alaska by land must find other options at the gateway to South America.

Faced with high airfares between Panama City and Cartagena, expeditious travelers have for several years opted to make the crossing by boat. The typical journey lasts five days: three days of lazy meandering through the idyllic San Blas--a chain of hundreds of undeveloped and largely deserted islands floating atop clear azure waters--followed by a two day voyage in open waters to Cartagena. At roughly $500 per person, the trip offers those with the time and the stomach a far more memorable experience than air travel at about the same price.

I had long dreamed of sailing across the Pacific, so the opportunity to cross continents by sea was an unexpected and thrilling chance to dip my proverbial toes in the water. The key was to secure spots on the right boat, and we chopped down our time in Panama to sail with the Gyspy Moth, a 55-foot monohaul sailing yacht that was recommended by several sources as the best around.




A day and a half after our arrival and unimpressed with Panama City, Olga and I stuffed ourselves into the windowless back row of a rattling 4x4 to El Porvenir, where we would meet our vessel.

Once on board, we met the captain, Symian, a well-tanned Englishman with bright blue eyes, boyishly cut salt and pepper hair, and a surfer-style seashell necklace. We would make the journey with eight shipmates: a Danish couple, two fellow Americans, two Dutch traveling separately, and two women from Canada and South Africa traveling together.

Shortly after settling our things on board, Symian gave us the weather forecast: huge waves and storms loomed ahead in the open seas. On the horizon, we could see and hear powerful waves crashing against the maze of reefs that surround the San Blas and keep its waters unaffected by the turbulent seas without.




Then, we learned a second disquieting fact: three days earlier, Fritz the Cat, another well-known charter running the same route, had sunk in the middle of the ocean more than fifty miles from land. The details have come to me through many hands, and I relay them as such: Fritz did not have life jackets; its captain was unlicensed and had never made the trip before. Once the boat began to sink, no one received a call for help. The passengers were saved because another ship happened to be within sight, noticed that Fritz was not floating properly, and called the Colombian navy. All the passengers were rescued, but their luggage was lost.

Fortunately, Symian was a highly professional sailor and the Gypsy Moth had life jackets. But Fritz's sinking left Symian, and us, with a new problem: a desperate need for a Colombian.

To understand why, if that is even possible, requires some background. For years, Colombian captains sailing out of Cartagena had watched as an increasing number of foreign boats entered and left their harbor packed with backpacker charters. After trying to get into the business themselves with little success, the idle captains lobbied local officials for additional regulations and taxes on their foreign counterparts, causing trip prices to soar from roughly $300 to over $500. Still, demand remained high and for those boats in demand such annoyances became a tolerable cost of doing business.




But Fritz's sinking provided the catalyst for a new, incredible requirement: every boat making the journey between Cartagena and Panama must carry a Colombian on board. If the requirement appears vague, that is because it is. Apparently, any Colombian national will do. No special expertise, safety training, sailing experience, or other qualification is necessary. Boats without a Colombian would be denied clearance by Cartagena's immigration officials. Yet the same boat could dock, sans Colombian, in any other port in Colombia. Alternatively, the boat could clear immigration at another Colombian port and then continue on to Cartagena unimpeded. Hearing the poorly conceived details of the regulation set off flashbacks of Cass Sunstein explaining the phrase "arbitrary and capricious."

To satisfy the new requirement, Symian had arranged for precisely one Colombian to be delivered care of the Gypsy Moth, in time for the departure for Cartagena.

With part of our minds on the huge waves we would face in open seas and another on the perfunctory Colombian, we gave the rest of our attentions to the gorgeous deserted islands and stunning waters around us. Over the next two days, we chased tropical fish around a sunken shipwreck, enjoyed Symian's delicious cooking, drank, shared music, and worked on our tans.




On our second day in the San Blas, we "bought" an island for the day for $10, giving us free access to its modest but beautiful shores, palmed interior, and its volleyball court. Amid much trash talking, laughter, and a few vicious spikes, we enjoyed a highly competitive but scoreless game of beach volleyball on an island all to ourselves.




During the many idle hours, we learned about each other in a piecemeal, logically disoriented fashion.

Josh and Shiv, two former high school tennis teammates from Virginia, were making their first trip to South America. Josh, a sandy-haired blue-eyed first grade teacher full of southern gentility, was the only passenger not to get sick in open waters. He scarfed down meals with a healthy appetite as we looked on with pale sweating faces. Shiv, who had spent two years working with the Peace Corps in Panama and spoke fluent Spanish, helped us to communicate with the indigenous Kuna women who would paddle their canoes alongside the boat to offer their molas.

Dina, a Canadian who had opted to travel the world for a year instead of tying herself to a mortgage, had met Analisa, a mild mannered South African vegetarian with a knack for diffusing awkward moments with a smile and a tilt of the head, in Bocas del Toro, where they had decided to sail to Colombia together.

Wouter (pronounced Walther), a handsome young Dutchman with a penchant for tastefully colorful attire and liquor, slipped in and out of the center of attention as he pleased.

Our other Dutch companion, Merel, had learned Spanish during a six month stint in Costa Rica and was picking up photography with her characteristic enthusiasm.

Malte and Caroline were the only other couple on board and happened to be about the same age as us. They lived in Copenhagen, one of our favorite cities, and we quickly fell into talking about our experiences there.




The more I learned about the group, the more I was struck by the range of our similarities and differences. Our diverse nationalities and backgrounds showed in the subtle discrepancies of our hair and dress. Tastes in food and books varied as well, although I was pleased to see everyone reading on paper and to find Wouter carrying The Great Gatsby. But we all seemed to enjoy the same travel destinations: many had traveled to the same places around the world and most were looking forward to essentially visiting the same handful of places in Colombia.

More striking were the similarities in musical tastes. When one person put on an album, more than half of the group already knew it, had it on their iPod, and had even been to the concert. The National, Beirut, Beach House, and other de rigeur staples of the Morning Becomes Eclectic line up were particular favorites. And what new music each of us discovered was closely in line with what we already knew.




I realized that Olga and I had tapped into the backpacker social network, a loose collection of twenty-somethings from first world countries traveling over extended periods to world class tourist destinations in the developing world--traveling the beaten path in places "our parents would never go"--living frugally, eating locally, sleeping communally, smelling royally, always craving beer and fruit juice and meusli, with all our luggage on our backs, largely ignorant of the history, culture, and language of the places we visit, in search of others just like ourselves.

On the second night, bottles of rum and scotch crowded the boat's dining table as dance music blared across tranquil waters and moonlit islands, disturbing no one. Symian, the biggest party animal of us all, put on a strobe light show by theatrically clicking and unclicking the cockpit light.

After a few drinks, I went to lay on deck to gaze at the stars overhead and the lightning on the horizon, smoking an incredible Partagas Serie D No. 4--a favorite cigar from my Paris days--that I had picked up back in Panama City.

Further down the deck, Wouter also beheld the heavens. I joined him and, to pardon my intrusion on his thoughts, told him the old Persian tale of the dervish who sat in quiet poverty contemplating his existence and conversing with God. A man of the world joined the dervish and asked, "My brother, were you alone?" "No," the dervish replied, "but I am now."




Around midnight, Symian challenged us to a dive across the boat's keel. Dina went first, followed closely by Symian and me. Surprisingly, I could actually make out the hull's dark outline underwater and followed its contour so closely that my ankle touched the keel as I rounded the bottom. We floated in our glory and laughed at the thrill of doing something we had never thought to do. Then, joined by Josh, we swam to the nearest island and played American football with half a coconut shell, knee deep in the warm tropical waters, splashing and shouting under an overcast moonless sky.

Despite all the fun, the group was increasingly eager for Cartagena. Hamstrung by the lack of a Colombian, we listened with consternation as Symian's tempered calls to Delphin Solo, the boat that carried our precious cargo, went unanswered.

We spent the fourth day back in El Porvenir, the scheduled drop off point, sitting at anchor and waiting for the Colombian when we should have had been en route to Cartagena.




The fifth morning, Symian paced the cockpit in clear frustration. With no word from Delphin Solo, some of the passengers were growing restless and concerned about losing travel days in Colombia. We sat in the dense morning heat and came up with various schemes for securing a Colombian. Perhaps Shiv could pass as a Colombian, someone offered, or we could ask the indigenous tribes who owned the San Blas to fan out and find a Colombian to kidnap.

Before our imaginations could be put into action, we got word that the Colombian would arrive that afternoon. Symian quickly went to shore to sort out the paperwork.




When the call finally came over the radio--"Gypsy Moth, Gypsy Moth, Gyspy Moth, this is Delphin Solo"--I was closest to the receiver and Symian was still on shore. Unversed in the etiquettes of naval communication, I pressed the button and tersely replied, "Delphin Solo, this is Gypsy Moth."

"Gyspy Moth, we are en route to Porvenir now and have our sails up. Should be in sight shortly. We have your Colombian; over."

Taken aback to learn that the Delphin Solo's captain considered "the Colombian" as much a piece of cargo as we did, I clumsily answered, "That's great, we look forward to seeing him."

By noon, the Colombian was on board. Dark and svelte, with a short wiry frame like a boxer's, he wore his curly black hair closely cropped, accentuating his jutting ears. He introduced himself with a warm, unassuming smile as Felix, told us our boat was nice, complemented the good food, and fell asleep in the cockpit. As we finally set sail for Colombia, we watched Felix sleeping peacefully and our resentments quickly dissipated. He was, after all, just a pawn in a petty game of local politics playing out across international seas, trying to make a living.




The next 36 hours, for me, were passed in a supine position, with hours of sleep broken up by bouts of staring helplessly at the jerking ceiling. Waiting for Felix had helped us avoid the worst weather, but the waves were still big enough to put me prostrate.

Then, at some point in the middle of the sixth night, I felt completely better. The boat had stopped rocking and I came to the deck, thirsty and hungry, to find Cartagena sleeping in the quiet early morning. It was 4 AM and I sat up to watch the sun rise over a bowl of cereal as I reflected on the trip. I had not had access to internet, received a single email, text message, call, or voicemail for six days. I had also not worn shoes or even sandals once during that time, probably the longest I had gone without footwear since infancy. I was glad to have learned, in 36 hours rather than weeks in the Pacific, that I am not meant to sail.

Back on land, we decided to keep the band together for one more night and asked Symian to join us for dinner and drinks. Even though he had to head back to Panama the very next day with another group, Symian still made it out, partied harder than everyone, and left us with terrific memories. I could not imagine doing the trip with a better captain or a better boat than the Gypsy Moth.




Epilogue: Backpackers who meet in one place often part ways only to run into each other again. Olga and I first experienced this odd phenomenon in Vietnam, where we were surprised to see the same people over and over while moving across a country of 87 million people.

Days after leaving Cartagena, Olga and I ran into Merel in Tayrona Park. She had arrived with a family of 14 Colombians from Baranquilla, whom she had befriended on the bus to Tayrona.

Only hours after having a farewell lunch with Merel in Tayrona, as we walked out of the park, Olga and I met Analisa. She had just arrived and we caught up for a few minutes before parting again.

The next morning in Cartagena's airport, awaiting our flight to Medellin, we found Dina, also on her way to the City of Eternal Spring.

Once in Medellin, I met up with Caroline and Malte for dinner and drinks, who told me they had run into Josh and Shiv while looking for rooms in a hostel.

So we part ways, forging our own paths, only to find each other again in a future destination. This too is a hallmark of the backpacker social network. And as keen as I am to be sui generis, I am coming around to it.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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In Search of Panama City's Soul

Despite appearances, Panama City is a calm and quiet place. That was our impression when we landed on the modest airstrip surrounded by richly verdant tropical plants, when we drove through the empty roads into town, when we passed the massively vertical concrete skyscrapers densely packed along the coast, and even when we arrived at our hotel in Casco Viejo--Panama's historical district and a UNESCO heritage site--which is currently undergoing reconstruction from the ground up.

We chose to stay in Casco Viejo in search of Panama City's soul. From the photos, most of the city looked to be a rainforest of high rises only feet apart, pushing ever higher in search of light. Casco, by contrast, seemed full of Spanish colonial charm with a healthy dose of gentle dilapidation.





Our drive into town only reinforced that impression. After passing under the weight of the concrete rainforest canopy, we reached the undulating red shingle roofed skyline of Casco Viejo, beautifully pierced by the spires of an old church or two.







Inside Casco, we found artfully restored hotels, restaurants, and mansions painted in bright pastels, separated by derelict empty shells of buildings whose rear walls stared blankly back at us through the window arches of their crumbling facades. Every street was being torn apart and dozens of buildings were simultaneously under restoration, creating total gridlock throughout the narrow one way streets.

We arrived at our hotel, Los Cuatros Tulipanes, in the early afternoon under an overcast sky. Tulipanes rents beautifully restored apartments, fully furnished to feel like a home away from home. Our unit, a two story one bedroom with 14 foot ceilings, a formal dining room, well equipped kitchen, and outdoor patio, featured a washer and dryer, reading chairs, and two cold beers. The apartment was twice the size of our cramped space back in LA; Olga and I were blown away.

The rest of Casco Viejo, unfortunately, underwhelmed. The full scale simultaneous restorations certainly detract from the neighborhood's charm in the short term. But more worrisome is their apparent long term aspirations.



Once racially and economically diverse, Casco appears destined to become a fortress for the very fair and very rich. On our first day, every restaurant we found exclusively catered to tourists--we did not see a single place where actual working class Panamanians would (or could) eat. And although our two scoops of basil and raspberry ice cream from Granclement were first-rate delicious, at $4.20 we could have done just as well in LA.

And that seems to be what Casco intends to offer: come for the Canal, the bird watching, the rainforests, the restored colonial buildings, but eat like home, sleep like home, and pay like home (in dollars, of course).

In short, Casco is no bargain, and appears to be losing its soul.

Take for instance, Mama Chefa, who is by some accounts the neighborhood's honorary godmother. At a six seat dining table in her living room, under fluorescent lights and amid walls covered in the graduation photos of an improbable number of granddaughters, she serves home made Panamanian lunches to locals every day from noon to 1 PM for $3. Gringos are also welcome, but unbeknownst to us, at a 67% markup.

On the day we visited her, Mama sat outside on a plastic chair peering down the street in search of her first pilgrim, her face tense with anticipation. We greeted her with hugs, as we had been told to do, and sat at her table. She returned our greeting with two plates of chicken rice, an achingly sweet fried plantain, and a richly mayonnaised potato salad. Soon, three Panamanian regulars joined the table. One was particularly delighted by the day's offering. I asked another the price; she told us $3 per person. When we went to Mama with $6 in hand, she insisted that we owed $10.

"What about the others?" we asked, "They said they pay $3."

"They have credit with me," she icily replied, and grumbled to a local that "Los Ingles" pay five. So much for Casco's ambassador of soul. Even the unfriendliest street vendors in Hanoi didn't slap us with a schmuck tax.

Fortunately, the city redeemed itself in unlikely places.

On Avenida Central in El Chorrillo--Casco's impoverished northern neighbor--we walked past a fruit seller lovingly gazing at his green parrot, old friends debating on park benches, and broken faces tanned and creased with the misfortunes that the rich and fortunate call real life.










In the evening--beneath the towering skyscrapers we had once so summarily dismissed--we ate delicious chilli dogs, arripas, and barbecued chicken from street carts dominated by hungry locals. None of them had a gringo price.



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Day Zero: the quest for El Dorado

July 2, 2012

In our increasingly flat and connected world, has travel lost its magic? What is there to do that some frenemy on Facebook has not already plastered your newsfeed about? Why do we travel? And is it less meaningful when we walk in the footsteps of others?

There is nothing particularly unique about the human desire to go where others have not or do not dare, to find that perfect white sand beach on a deserted island amidst warm turquoise waters, or that pure cup of tea made from leaves carefully hand picked by a toothless master practicing his art in poverty and obscurity, to stumble upon an unknown civilization of peoples in some foreign land painted in a different color palate, rich in architecture and culture and the scent of strange exciting foods. These are the experiences that cannot be tour packaged or arrived upon aboard a cruise ship after days of shuffleboard. A horde of tourists in white socks and Crocs is their antithesis.




And therein lies the paradox: the very desire to find such places inevitably brings about their ruin. Each El Dorado, once discovered, is quickly lost forever, leaving in its wake every place we have ever been.

And so, ever since I saw those large white letters painted in an uneven scrawl across a mountain wall on the road to Sapa town warning each new visitor to "Be a Traveler, Not a Tourist," I have never considered a travel destination without asking: "Am I too late?"

Or more precisely, "How late am I?"

That latter question is what Olga and I hope to find out about Colombia, a country whose reputation for instability and violence had for several decades isolated it from heavy commercial tourism. Until a few years ago.
After a brief stay in Panama City's Casco Viejo neighborhood, we sail for Cartagena by way of the idyllic San Blas islands. Our path is tested. There will be no macheteing through the Darien or jaunts amidst the narco hold outs and guerrilla camps that canvas Colombia's borders. This is not that trip.

But we hope, without wading for days through waist-high mud or being kidnapped at gun point, to find a place that will show us something about ourselves that Los Angeles could not. For it is the fate of El Dorado that it can never be where we already are.


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