Toodlepip Colombia

I'm writing this on the bus from Santa Marta to Bogota. I'm two hours into a 17 hour journey, and already feeling regretful that I didn't fork out the extra $70 to take the flight. However, I genuinely feel a little bit bad about all the flights I take, and usually I don't mind buses too much.  If I've got a book, and some edibles, I'm in a good place. This bus is fine, except I'm sitting next to a fatty puff who likes to whistle. I hope his lips get tired soon. I'm a whistler, but a genuinely amazing one, so when I whistle, it's different. 

It was absolutely scorching in Santa Marta, so I slithered onto the bus in a whispy summer dress, which I am beginning to regret as the air con blasts and I realise I'll be arriving in freezing Bogota at 6 am, practically naked. Good oh. The man taking the tickets may have intimated to me that I would regret my choice of travel outfit, but then again, being in Spanish, he may also have been commenting on what the pigeons were doing. Who can say? Certainly not I.

I've had a nice few days, despite the fact Taganga was like something out of the Inbetweeners (without the jokes). Seedy, ugly and unsafe, as a tourist destination, it was without a discernible redeeming feature.

I stayed in a relatively nice hostel though, called Hostel Divanga, and met screeds of lovely people, with whom I ate and drank too much, and danced to questionable 80s rock. I was going to go to Tayrona park-which is supposed to be beautiful- but I actually wasn't very well; partly self inflicted (mojitNO), and partly as a result of germy air cabins, and a resulting head cold. I feel ashamed of my lack of tourist gusto, but also secretly powerful, because nobody can make me do these tourist "must do's" because I am a real adult, responsible for myself and also wandering lonely as a cloud. 

The night I arrived, I couldn't really see what it was like, but I wanted to go and buy some milk for my porridge.  The boy on reception told me I couldn't leave on my own as it was "too dangerous", which was v.reassuring. Seeing as I am pal-less Pamela, I had to have gruel made with water (which you weren't meant to drink), and some old withered raisins that I found in my bag. It was not a promising start, but when I went for a wander the next day I realised I hadn't missed much anyway. 

It is a really sad little village, but I suspect quite typical for the average poor Colombian.  There are lots of scabby fishing boats, litter, tourist drinking spots and no much else. The locals were weary and unfriendly, there were lots of unhealthy looking dogs and cats scurrying about underfoot, and dirty peerie bairns, with enormous eyes, peeping at you from dark doorways. The roads were a mess, and the beach filthy. It all felt a bit depressing, like a giant hangover, and made me think about how 18-30s tourism must be a mixed blessing and a curse, to places like there. 

It didn't stop me contributing to it however, and I went out for drinks and dancing on the Friday with some folk from the hostel.  It was all good fun. Very Posers, circa 2005(no bad thing). I'd been absolutely gagging to go out to The Doncin' after my months of captivity, and it was consequently predictably overly. I woke up feeling like death and ready to take my leave of Taganga. 4evz.

Armoured with my sunglasses and poor mans Irn Bru (a disgusting thing called BubbleGusta or something), I arrived  by bus (HORRID) to the town of Santa Marta, which is only ten minutes/eternity away.

My hostel was right in the centre of the old town, so I scuttled through a lot of markets and street vendors to get there. The fish market was not a pleasant chapter in my book of hangover moments, nor was the seemingly endless hanging-carcass street, but it was a pretty interesting market, with lots going on. I had a delicious corn and honey biscuit, and some fresh coconut water which made me feel loads better. 

I eventually got to the hostel, La Brisa Loca which was in this lovely old colonial building, with a mosaic swimming pool in the middle of the ground floor. Really beautiful hostel, if as usual a bit on the toasty side. I had a small disco nap and then went out to explore.

Santa Marta, like most South American towns, is built in a valley, surrounded by loads of massive mountains. It's a port town, so there is a nice waterfront as well, with lots of restaurants facing the sea. It's really hot and has a pretty lively feeling to it. 

There are the usual pretty plazas, and statues of Simon Bolivar peppered all over them. I liked it, but felt so sorry for myself that I had to beat an early retreat after a rather disgusting, breaded, fish-dinner, which was more like lightly-fished clumps of flour.  Minging. By this point I have to say, I was regretting leaving Cartagena which I truly love. I've waffled on about it long enough but it's just so beautiful. The place, the weather and the people. I love the mix of Caribbean and Colombian, and the fact it's preserved the old colonial features. It's really touristy which other people I met had issues with, but it's like Edinburgh; it's touristy because its so stunning. It's a bit of a cliche with all the horse drawn carriages, antiquated sweet shops and serenading elderly gentlemen, but these things are a cliche because they're fab and wonderful. I love it there, and whilst Santa Marta and Taganga are undoubtedly much more representative of real Colombian life, Cartagena is a much more pleasant stop for a holiday.

 I wish I had gone to Tayrona park because by all accounts it's jaw dropping, but we've been through why I didn't, and it's only an old beach. I must have hit some kind of six month high, because I've actually been looking at tefl jobs in Cartagena- just to see what's out there. Teaching on the whole doesn't seem so bad, if you get to recline in a roasting plaza afterwards to do your marking.... Sadly there doesn't seem to be much requirement for learning English. Probably cos they're too busy sunning themselves and eating coconuts to care about it.  

I decided I better start the long journey to Bogota this afternoon, so I hopped on a bus and here I am. I've only got two more days until I fly and I feel sick with excitement about seeing Matt and Angela. I have been really lucky this past fortnight, in that I've met a lot of lovely friendly folk, but the idea of being in the company of actual friends is beyond irresistible just now. I won't have to try and be nice, or have to make conversation all the time, or worry that I won't have anyone to have dinner with. I also can't wait for a cuddle. I realise how creepy that sounds but you don't really realise how nice it is to get a cuddle off your pals until you've gone weeks without one. Even a pat on the head would be nice just now. Human contact, a massive bacon sandwich, a cup of tea and a long gossip with some of my best pals. Genuinely can't wait. 

Just a quick footnote; NEVER, EVER, EVER get on a long distance bus wearing a wispy summer dress, fastened only by spider gossamer, because you are too lazy to open your bag before it goes under the bus.  You will regret it, and may even feel so cold, that you elevate to some kind of alternative world of sadness and horror.  People will laugh at you shuddering like a drama queen, and when you do fall "asleep" (hahahaha), crouched like a sad little ice-foetus, you may even wake up with all your front buttons popped open, and your pasty limbs (or worse) on display for all to see. Cosy jimjams all the way.