These two weeks were very intense, with many voyages, often by sea with speedboats. I quickly crossed Colombia and arrived in Panama on the Atlantic side, passing through a fabulous place: the archipelago of Kuna Yala (or San Blas). From there, I went on the Pacific Ocean in Santa Catalina and Coiba National Park. Now I’m back on the Atlantic in Bocas del Toro, near the border with Costa Rica.

I tell you quickly about my last few days. From Pasto, I returned to Medellin, where I stayed one day. After, I went to Turbo, a sinister place where I took a speedboat that reached the sea after a stretch of river and arrived in about 3 hours in Capurgana, a beautiful village on the border with Panama.
I would have stayed there at least a week if I didn’t find an excellent opportunity: for only $ 200 a boat tour of three days in the archipelago of Kuna Yala in Panama.
An opportunity because it was almost the same price I had to spend anyway to reach Panama (by sea or by air), without including the tour in Kuna Yala, that would have cost much more from Panama.

So, I joined the tour organized by Fabio, a Neapolitan guy that runs a posada in Capurgana, and from time to time organizes these tours (link: www.capurgana-sanblas.com).
In the tour group, apart from me and Fabio, there was a Brazilian guy, Aparicio, a French couple, and eight Israelis. On a long narrow motorboat, we reached Caledonia, an indigenous Kuna village, where we remained for three days while visiting the deserted islands around.
After, the others returned to Capurgana, while Aparicio and I stayed two more days in Caledonia. Then we went to an island at about 4 hours by speedboat, Franklin’s Island (or Tuba-Senika). There we met a Colombian couple very kind that, once we reached the Panama mainland in Cartì, offered us a ride car to Panama City… but from that I will tell you the next time.

In the village of Caledonia, besides us, there was a group of South Korean Christian missionaries completely crazy and rude, the worst kind of scum. It is even possible that they pretended to be missionaries to cover some sort of shady business.

Ok, I tell you with the photo story, but until Kuna Yala (San Blas), otherwise the post comes out too long. Very soon, I will write the second part.

Colorful boats in a village by the lagoon de la Cocha, near Pasto in southern Colombia.

The lagoon de la Cocha, under the misty.

When the weather got better, I took a ride on a boat. The only problem was that filthy little dog (look at the legs) jumping continuously on me, making my jeans totally dirty. It makes to think that there are people in the world so weird to prefer dogs to cats. I’ve never seen a dirty cat in my life (apart, a little, Rasputin). In fact, cats spend most of their time cleaning themselves.

As mentioned in the previous post, I pleasantly re-passed through Colombia, from the spectacular cliff roads around Pasto to those in the charming Zona Cafetera…

…and again in Medellin which, I repeat, it’s a pleasant city, despite its bad reputation. It is, though, still a bit ‘dangerous: in 2009, there were 2899 cases of violent death. However, the district where I stayed both times, El Poblado, is tranquil.
This is Botero park. Botero was born in Medellin.

Sweet candy seller.

Girls in the university district.

Finally, I reached Capurgana, on the northern border with Panama, on the Atlantic side. As I said, I reluctantly left it after only one day to join the boat tour with Fabio in the archipelago of San Blas or Kuna Yala, in Panama.
Behind Fabio (ahead), Aparicio, the Brazilian guy I am traveling with now, and an Israeli guy.

Reaching Caledonia, a kuna village with about 1000 inhabitants, where I stayed 5 days. The islands of the archipelago of San Blas are property of the Kuna people.

The Kuna (also spelled Guna) is an indigenous group of about 70,000 people who live in the archipelago for centuries with very little interference from the Panamanian government. They prefer to inhabit only a few of the nearly 400 islands belonging to them, leaving the others uninhabited.
It was the first group in Latin America to achieve such independence. However, it seems to me (but I could be wrong) that, right now, they are doing the reverse path to most of the other indigenous groups in Latin America. If these, which seemed on the verge of disappearing, are rising back from their ashes in these last two decades, claiming their origins, cultures, and languages, the Kuna, after having for centuries preserved their customs, are in recent years dangerously losing them.
A big challenge for them is resisting the pressures from the multinationals of the tourism industry that offer astronomical sums for having the permission to build holiday resorts on their islands.

Kuna people watching us between suspicion and disgust in their village

At sunset.

Children locked out in their own village by the South Koreans. In fact, they used to close with a padlock the passage leading to the pier near their rooms because they didn’t want around children and other visitors. Aparicio and I, that the last two days had our backpacks there, sometimes had to use a canoe from another dock to take our stuff!
South Koreans treated the children in a disgusting way. However, at a specific hour, they transformed from Mr.Hyde to Dr.Jekyll. Maybe, in their schedule at that hour, there was: “play with children”. So, they moved to the central square with balloons and strings to play with the kids. They were unwatchable, with a constant hypocritical smile on their face. Even a non-violent pacifist like me felt a desire to punch their faces.

I could witness firsthand the tragic influences of the neo-colonization. One evening, the South Koreans assembled a canvas, like a cinema. I thought they wanted to show a movie, but no… it was for karaoke! Luckily, after, the same indigenous people said that it was crap.
Another time, the missionaries distributed crosses (as to the guy on the right). The kids loved this gift and after were repeating excited “Christians!”, “Christians!”. So I told them nooo… Christianity is a religion for losers! You have to become Buddhists! They liked the name, so they started repeating amused “Buddhism,” “Buddhism”. So, it’s a really globalized world, with South Koreans who convert people into Christians and Italians that re-convert the same people into Buddhists a moment later…
But nothing can describe my deep discomfort when I saw that kid on the left converted into an Inter football team fan! We need to do something!

Another example of the harmful influence of contact with the neoliberal civilizations: until 1990, so 12 years ago, the currency used by Kuna people was … the coconut! Yes! And, of course, they were happy: no tricks from shady banks that “create” money, no inflation, and every year it was reproduced naturally.
But now they only think of dollars. So, one evening a kuna man told us that their primary task now is to look for loads of drugs that traffickers threw overboard when they are intercepted, by land or by sea, by the police. In fact, that is now the main route used by cocaine traffickers from Colombia to the United States.
A few months earlier, they found a load that after, through some contacts, they sold to the same traffickers for $ 50.000, divided by the whole village.
All the sea around there has therefore become a sort of mega slot machine. Jackpot: it’s said that once a village nearby found a load of cocaine that paid one million dollars!

By coincidence, right the day after hearing this story, as we were going to that delightful desert island, we saw from afar a large container, like a thermos, floating. At that moment, I really thought I had finally solved all my life problems. And everybody on the boat was feeling the same. But the euphoria was short-lived because it was just a floating buoy used by a scuba diver. Even on the way back, we saw something similar. We were all a bit skeptical this time, but the Colombian driver, Marcellino, still wanted to go to check. It was a broken bucket floating upside down. Never a joy.

From time to time, we saw dolphins, manta, fish jumping, flying fish. At one point I saw one very big near the boat, I don’t know which one was. And many when snorkeling.

At the village.

Little girl runs away because she doesn’t want to be photographed.

After, she changed her mind.

Other little girls.

And boys.

Fisherman returns after sunset.

Drinking rum in the shed where we slept in hammocks. From the left, Fabio, Mary, Daniel, Aparicio and Ory.

A trunk on the beach.

A beach.

There are other interesting photos of Kuna Yala, but that’s enough for now. Maybe, next time, I will add more, along with those of Santa Catalina, Coiba, Bocas del Toros, and Costa Rica, where I should arrive in 3 days. Unless I don’t move back permanently to a San Blas island to become an anarchist missionary.
 

From Cuenca, I went to Guayaquil, where I met again Eloisa, the lady known at the “Mitad Mitad del mundo,” the one of the cockroaches photo. From there, I returned to Quito, where I met again Sandra, the girl of the first forest tour.
After, I returned to Colombia, retracing the same road where, one month ago, I was searched by police 3 times in an hour. However, this time, nobody cared about me, maybe because not even Dekaro can be so stupid to import drugs in Colombia.

Guayaquil by night. It’s the first city in Ecuador by population, about 3 million and two hundred thousand.

Until a few years ago, it was a pretty dangerous city without anything beautiful. Today is safer and modernized, especially the area along the Malecon, on the river, and the hill of Las Penas, from where I took these photos.

The end of Malecon, south.

Boats at Playas, a beach about 60 km from Guayaquil, where I went with Eloisa. On the Pacific Ocean, which I will reach again soon in Central America.

In Playas, nearly every boat has a painting of a saint or a Madonna for protection. And practically all have the symbol of Barcelona football club. But there is one minor difference, the symbol of (true) Barcelona has the letters FCB. The fake has BSC. Indeed, the football team in Guayaquil has shamelessly plagiarized the Barcelona team. Apart from the symbol, it has even called its team: Barcelona! Unfortunately for them, however, they have totally failed to plagiarize the rose of players and style of play, because for that… you need money!
To make everything even more absurd, the team of Quito said, “oh well, you did that? Then, we steal their jersey!” Which is, in fact, identical to that of Barcelona (Spain).

When the fishermen came back to shore, many birds came to eat fishes caught in their nets.

Fishermen pull the nets.

A dog runs back and forth trying in vain to drive away the birds.

As in the Hitchcock movie: The birds.

This bird was curious. Of a different species from the others and much smaller, with its call terrorized birds four times bigger, making them flee for taking the most delicious morsels. Even in front of me showed an unabashed fearlessness.

The entrance to Barrio La Ronda, in Quito. A street with plenty of bars.

Quito at dusk. In the background, the Panecillo, a hill with a giant statue of a winged Virgin, always visible (in the picture isn’t yet lit).
I went up there with Sandra, and we dined at a beautiful restaurant, with a window from which we could see all Quito at night, hundreds of thousands of tiny lights set over the hills.

Me, under the statue of Panecillo. I hold a glass of “canelazo”, a sort of hot cocktail with fruit and aguardiente. At the restaurant, we had warm wine with a slice of orange inside.

Back in Colombia, in front of the spectacular Sanctuary Las Lajas, in Ipiales, on the border with Ecuador.

Many pilgrims come to visit the shrine, sometimes asking miracles or healings to the Virgin.

A street near the sanctuary.

Ipiales’ market.

A girl at the market.

People at the market.

Now I am again in Pasto, a city for some reason snubbed by the “Lonely Planet South America” guide, which mentions it only in a note on how to arrive in Ecuador. Instead, it is pretty and pleasant to stay, certainly much more than other cities described with many pages.

After San Agustin, I took the road from Mocoa to Pasto, spectacular and dangerous. Rocky walls with dense vegetation, hundreds of meters high, sloped down to the river, which flowed into a strait below. There were many waterfalls, with their water sometimes crossing our narrow dirt road. The view from up there was amazing.
However, it was also scary. The wheels of the bus were constantly on the edge of the road. Looking out the window, I couldn’t see the road below, only the cliff. When we met another vehicle began complicated maneuvers, often in reverse, to pass both.
When it became dark, it was even worse. It started heavy raining, with very low visibility and the road became mud. At that moment, I also remembered that in those areas, on the border with Ecuador, it’s dangerous to travel at night for the risk of being attacked by armed bandits, as it happened a few years ago at an Italian guy that I met in Santa Marta, Oscar.
However, in the end, all right, and after a day in Pasto, I arrived at the border.

I had my passport stamped for exit from Colombia, and I was already walking to Ecuador when a big rude Colombian policeman called me for a search.
This time they also checked the two main pockets of the photo-backpack, the ones that in my last post, jokingly, I said were hiding 3 kilos of cocaine. In reality, however, they contain something perhaps even more valuable: the red panties of Joyce. Not so much for Joyce, a Brazilian girl with whom I stayed more than 10 years ago, but because it seems to me that these panties bring good luck. So I keep them always with me (not wearing, of course )
In many controls, a bit ‘all over the world, when found, the policemen had always been very professional. But professionalism does not seem home in Colombia… he started laughing “Ah ah ah ah ah, I didn’t think… you didn’t seem … ah ah”. No, wait, those are from a Brazilian girl… that you could just dream in the night, maybe in your lonely wanks (actually at the end I didn’t add this last part of the sentence, because I’m always careful to not saying something that might hurt).
“Mhmm … true? True?” Of course it’s the truth! Anyway, are we here to find drugs or to talk about lucky charms? And please stop enlarging them with your ugly hands for observing from all angles…
Finally, shortly after, the search ended, and I arrived in Ecuador.

I took a bus from the border towards Otavalo. About 10 minutes later: stooop. The police came up on the bus and checked everybody’s documents. After that, me and some people had to go down for a search.
Again, they searched above all my photo-backpack. And again especially on the same side, the rear for the laptop.
So, an advice for any would-be drug traffickers: never put it there!
In a previous search, they had pulled out the internal parts of my bag, breaking them. This time the policeman made tiny holes inside it with a boxcutter. When I protested, he said: not worry, no break, no break … and in the meanwhile kept puncturing it with his knife. Dunno, maybe “break” has another meaning for them.
Meanwhile, he was pulling Zeus, the police dog, to sniff these tiny holes. But Zeus didn’t show any interest, he was sniffing around like crazy, except my backpack, and despite the policeman was forcefully pushing his head inside, there was no way, nothing that would attract his sniffing, not even Joyce’s panties, until a boy, a bit ‘strange, also in line for the checking, gave him a kind of pudding on which he jumped to devour it, among the desperate cries of the policeman “noooo what have you done? Now he will not sniff anymore!”. And, amid the general laughter, also this search finished.

I went back on the bus, and we left. About one hour later: stoooop. Again the police on the bus, again a check of everybody’s documents, but this time I had the honor to be the only one to go down for the search. Very long, on both backpacks, with the driver protesting, “he has already been checked!” “Don’t meddle… let us do our job…”.

So, with 4 searches, I strongly advise to not bring drugs within 200 km of the border between Colombia and Ecuador. And if you really must, at least remember to always carry with you a pudding to donate to the dog.

Bird statue in San Agustin.

It is said that this sculpture represents the “Double-self”: the warrior with the spirit of the animal that guides him.

Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

A street in San Agustin. If you happen to go there, don’t miss the Italian restaurant of Ugo, a nice Italian guy who even offered me dinner.
To reach him, ask Anibal, a local guide (if you don’t find him, he will find you). He will be happy to take you there with his motorbike, at high speed without headlights, in total darkness, and when you point it out, no problems: he will turn on the mobile phone display as a beacon. And indeed, in that context, it seemed all the light in the world.

Sugar cane.

Sugar making.

Sugar.

Writings on the City council wall against politicians in Pasto, Colombia. As almost everywhere in the world, they are not much loved by people.

And finally in… Ecuador, in the famous Otavalo market.

Woman at market.

Otavalo is located at 2500 meters and is surrounded by three volcanoes, including the Cotacachi, 5000 meters high. Still today, it is inhabited mainly by indigenous peoples, who came here in ancient times and formed a sort of confederation with other advanced communities around. They were subdued, already before the arrival of the Spaniards, by the Incas, after decades of war that led to the massacre of most of the population.

Children.

No more blood for oil.

I want you… for the revolution!

Student girls.

Otavalo women.

Man with newspaper.

At the bus station.

Child.

Abstract composition with goat in the middle.

Fruit stall.

Woman with colored background.

Mother and daughter.

One of the few families in the world still working the wool by hand, without machinery. I bought a hat from them, $2.

I reply to the comment:
Hi Yannick! My plan is to go also in all the little Central America countries (Nicaragua, Costarica, Guatemala, etc…). Not sure if I can make it, because of the money, but I think I will.

Heading south, I crossed the “zone Cafetera”, where coffee is grown. In fact, Colombia is the third world coffee producer after Brazil and Vietnam, the very famous Vietnamese coffee.
There I stayed 5 days in Salento. The name comes from a southern Italian area (located on the heel of the boot), because, for some reason, in the “zone Cafetera”, the cities took their names from places around the world. I realized it with some concern on the bus when, waking up, I saw directional signs saying: Jerico … Damascus … Palestine, and I thought fuck, I must have missed some stops!

Salento is a small town between the mountains, and, in those days, happened a paradox: despite constantly drinking coffee because I always found it around, I could not stop sleeping! It did to me the opposite effect. I mean, I didn’t wake up late, but after I always had a nap after lunch, and at night, I went again to bed a couple of hours after dinner. Maybe one of the reasons was also the “April is sweet sleeping”, as we say in Italy. Anyway, those mountains made me lazy. To be precise: it is not that elsewhere I grab a pickaxe to run down in the mines to dig, but there I was feeling particularly lazy. Maybe I needed a little ‘rest, and probably it was also influenced by the change in temperature and climate in general. It’s only been a few days, but it seems so far the warm sun of the Caribbean coast. Salento and St. Agustine are at almost 2000 meters. They are chilly, humid and it is raining a lot.

The mountains and valleys around here are particularly striking , with canyons and waterfalls. Until a few years ago, the tourists could not come because of the high risk of being kidnapped by guerrillas.
Perhaps, for this reason, there are many roadblocks of the police. Once, in the stretch between Armenia and Popayan, they stopped our mini-bus and searched all the people inside. Especially me, perhaps because Italian, foreigner, and friend of the nephew of Escobar.
They found 4 or 5 secret pockets in my photographic backpack, which I didn’t even know existed. However, they didn’t check the two main pockets in front, where I had 3 kilos of cocaine! Joking, of course

On the coaches, and in the streets, there are posters inviting to denounce, in exchange for money, guerrillas guys or suspected. Some of these posters are, rightly, riddled with bullets.

Now I’m in San Agustin, where there are beautiful and mysterious stone carvings of a civilization of which we ignore almost everything. We know that they lived in these parts since at least 3300 BC and then vanished a little before the arrival of the Spaniards.

I saw a hundred statues, and they don’t have anything to envy other extraordinary pre-Columbian art as the Incas or the Mayans.
Their discovery is pretty recent, and many of them have come to light only in the last century. The fact that, as I said, these areas have been until recently off-limits due to the guerrilla, has probably slowed their knowledge in the rest of the world.
The sculptures sometimes represent men and women, sometimes animals, often a mixture. They were usually placed as guards in front of the tombs, covered with them under the earth.

It’s complicated to know the civilization that created them because it seems they had no much contact with other societies. Apart from these sculptures, around 500, were found just a few tools, jewelry and the usual broken pots (after many travels I come to the conclusion that the main hobby of the ancient people of all the world was making pots, breaking them and bury them inside graves )

As always, grave robbers did a lot of damage, destroying and taking away valuables over the years.

Coffee plantation in Salento.

Salento.

Saloon with pool table.

People in Salento.

Salento street.

Pool players.

Football on tv by the street.

Big coffee machine.

Stall.

Salento by night.

Calf.

Cow nose.

Saint Ibrahimović, protector of all the teams eliminated in the Champions League!

Friday before Easter procession.

Bonfire in the night before Easter.

Strange tree.

San Agustin.

Waterfall.

Grave by Magdalena river, maybe of a guerrilla.

San Agustin sculpture.

As I said, often they were guarding the tombs, underground with them.

Often they have traits both human and animal.

“And indeed, they care more to make and decorate the grave where they put the dead than the house in which they must live.” – From “The Chronicle of Peru”, 1550. Text at the entrance of the museum of the archaeological park of San Agustin.

From the images on the sculptures, it has been possible to trace some of their characteristics: clothes, ornaments, weapons, and some food. For all the rest, there are just assumptions.

Ok, that’s all for now! And please put some comment, don’t be shy. Shyness is not good.

More or less halfway between Cartagena and Medellin, there is Mompos , a city that, like Villa de Leyva, seems to have stopped in time. This is probably because it was always a bit isolated. In fact, it is difficult to reach, and, at some point, there is also a stretch of river to travel by speedboat.

It is the city where is set “Chronicle of a Death Foretold” by Marquez.

A square at dusk.

Colored chicks for sale.

Procession of Palm Sunday.

Woman with donkey.

One night, in bars around a square, I met Javier, left, with whom I had a few beers. Then I met this gentleman on the right, a bit weird.

Actually, very weird.

But basically graceful, here is even trying to smile!

The speedboat to cover the stretch of river from Magangué in Bodega.

Guys in Magangué.

Medellin is located in a valley surrounded by hills full of houses. Arriving at night, it feels like being wrapped in hundreds of thousands of tiny lights.
From a metro station, there is a cableway that goes up one of these hills.

Inside the cableway, which runs just above one of the many neighborhoods.

These districts are composed almost entirely of bare brick houses.

Posters on the houses.

In the little streets.

Small square.

Murals.

Football field.

In Medellin, to my astonishment, I found the existence of the “Pablo Escobar Tour”, a tour of the sites linked to the history of Escobar. It concludes at his house, where it’s possible to meet his brother or his nephew.
We visited various places, including his tomb.

I give you a very quick summary of his tragic life because, in addition to fascinating, it’s an integral part of Colombian history.
When he was still a small drug dealer in South America, he was the first to export cocaine to the U.S. in the 70s, when this drug, although already classified as illegal, was virtually ignored by the police and the security of airports.
In a few years, he becomes the 7th richest man in the world, giving, in the meanwhile, a good chunk of his earnings to the poor, especially in Medellin, building hospitals, schools, and entire districts where homeless families went to live.
For this reason, becomes loved by the poorer classes , namely the vast majority of Colombians, and decides to enter politics, even to gain parliamentary privileges.
He is then elected in Colombian Congress, but soon after expelled under pressure from the Minister of Justice. From this moment, the war between him and the state gets rough. He kills the minister of justice and gives a bounty of $ 1000 for every policeman killed. The policemen, of course, leave Medellin that becomes the most dangerous city in the world. In the meantime, it also started the war with the Cali cartel. The dead, including many innocent victims, are thousands.
Increasingly cornered, Escobar accepts to get arrested, but on the condition that the constitution is changed to prevent the extradition of Colombians because he does not want to end up in the U.S. When he gets it, he goes to a prison built by himself: the Catedral, one of the most luxurious places on Earth.
But when the government, perhaps under pressure from the U.S., decides to transfer him to another prison, Escobar escapes.
On December 2, 1993, the day after his forty-fourth birthday, he is found and killed on a rooftop in Medellin.

The headquarters of the Medellin cartel. After been confiscated, it was blown up by the rival Cali cartel, known as “Los Pepes”.

“Wanted” manifest with his brother Roberto. It is inside the house where he lived in the early ’80s, before moving to a country estate about 4 hours from Medellin, called “Napoles”.
It is now the house of Robert and his son Nicolas, nephew of Pablo, and is a sort of museum.

Me with Nicolas, the nephew of Pablo Escobar.

The tour itself was not exceptional, but it was fascinating to meet Nicolas, an educated and intelligent person.

He said that 90% of the things we are told about Pablo Escobar are false.

He said that regarding the death of his uncle, no one knows the truth apart from him, his father, and a third person. As soon as this third person dies (and Nicolas hopes soon), he will tell about it. He apologized for not saying more about it, but apart from this, he responded fully to all questions, always with great sincerity and dignity, using “we” even for the bloodiest actions of the Medellin cartel, such as the murder of the minister of justice.

He noted that the war waged by politicians against his uncle never had anything to do with moral issues because the Colombian politicians have never thought in those terms. The problem was political: Escobar was the first person coming from a poor family to challenge the power hold since ever by just five Colombian families. Also, instead of just promising, as all politicians do, he was really helping people, which is a fact.

About the United States, he said that the real problem for them is not so much the harmfulness of cocaine, but the flow of money going from there to Colombia to be stopped. It reminded me of Chomsky when he said that many more Colombians die every year because of U.S. tobacco than Americans because of Colombian cocaine.

Looking back at his past, he still feels a great love for his uncle, described as a brilliant person, always ready to help the poor. However, he realizes that despite all the money he had at those times, it was not a good life. He could hardly move around, and when he did, he had to be escorted and armed to the teeth. Now he finds himself with 75% of his family and 99% of his friends killed. Even the three years in a hotel in Switzerland for $ 55,000 a day, in the early 80s, are reminded more like a senseless folly than something pleasant.

He told many interesting stories of life with his uncle:
Pablo one day decided to learn French for business reasons, and after only 3 months he was able to speak fluently in French to Nicolas that, after years in Switzerland with the best professors, still couldn’t!
The surreal luxury of the Catedral, the prison that Pablo self-built for himself, where almost every night there were parties, and sometimes even football matches with entire professional teams inside.
The increasingly complex ways and means to bring the drugs in the U.S. At the beginning with small planes, after with ships, and now the Cali cartel mainly using submarines.
The many international airports that made them pass through without controls in exchange for 25% of the value of the carried drugs… and so on.

Nicolas was arrested only once with a friend, immediately torn to pieces with a chainsaw by Colombian police in front of his eyes. Fortunately for him, in the meantime, uncle Pablo knew of the arrest and personally called the president of Colombia, saying that this was a war between them and if they began to put in relatives, then he would start to kill the sons and the nephews of all highest military and political men. Twenty-five minutes after the call, Nicolas was free again.

After the death of Pablo, the family decided to stop. Now the drug trade is controlled mainly by the Cali cartel, their eternal rival.

One last curiosity. The war between the Medellin Cartel and the Cali also moved on the football field, with Independiente Medellin against America of Cali. And when the Cali drew a game thanks to a somewhat suspicious refereeing, Escobar killed the referee! The hidden dream of every football supporter!

A big hug to the many new friends of the Facebook page of Dekaro Diary!

Cartagena is among the most beautiful cities visited so far on this trip. Especially the old part, within the walls built after countless pirate attacks, including one of Drake in 1586, which not only plundered and set the city on fire but also got a heavy ransom to return it to the Spaniards.

Around Cartagena, there is an archipelago of small islands that reach Playa Blanca, a beach (white, of course) with the typical Caribbean Sea, warm and turquoise. I stayed there for three days of lazy leisure.
It is the classic quiet place with little shacks by the beach where eat and drink. For sleeping is possible to use hammocks, Canadian tents, and cute huts. I slept in a Canadian tent because all the huts were already occupied.
Some of these stalls put music in the evening, and people drink on tables light by candles. The first night, though, I preferred to drink beer on my own, sitting on the shore by the sound of the sea. This sound, after, stayed also in my dreams because the tent was just ten meters from it.

The night after, I drank aguardiente with a friendly couple of Bogota, big fans of an old Italian singer, Nicola di Bari, of which I don’t know a single song, but for sure I haven’t missed anything. The aguardiente is what also Burroughs drank in these areas, such as in Panama with his friend even crazier than him “…drinking aguardiente with tea and canella to cut that kerosene taste…”. It tastes like anise.
The man from Bogota told me that when it was alive Pablo Escobar, the king of Colombian drugs for many years, it was better because he was very generous. He built hospitals, roads, schools and donated money to the people. Instead, after him, they were left only with a very stingy state. He added, however, that we Italians can be proud of our mafia because it’s respected around the world!

I’ve noticed that Colombians are not big drinkers, all the opposite of their Venezuelan neighbors. Every time I drink aguardiente with them, they keep saying how is strong, how much they will feel bad on the following day, etc… when in reality is an ordinary alcoholic drink, not so strong.

Like in a fairy tale, the entrance to the old city of Cartagena.

Cartagena.

Football match, with the modern Cartagena in the background.

Abstract.

Street dancer.

Coaches.

Chess players in barrio Getsemani, out of the walls. It is the neighborhood where the slaves lived.

Guy on bike.

Colors.

Women’s demonstration.

Truck.

Lady with fruit in Santo Domingo square. This lady is from Palenque, a nearby town founded, like many others in America, by runaway slaves. Palenque was the first of all these cities in the continent to be officially declared free, in 1713.

Botero’s sculpture.

The Colombian flag on modern Cartagena. Photo taken from the Fort San Felipe de Barajas.

The Caribbean Sea in Playa Blanca.

Maderlen preparing my launch.

Maderlen.

Little iguana.

Hairy little girl.

Guys, I announce to you that I have started a family. Enough of this wandering.

Thank you, Javi, for your comment!

Kogui girl. Following, few other photos of trekking to the Lost City.

And a photo definitely deserves our dear mule, rented to carry the bags on the last day because we were tired. On steep slopes, she also brought a girl who was not feeling very well.

Guys skating in Santa Marta, where I stayed between the various hikes of the last days. It has always been nice to stay there. A lovely warm sun, low prices and easy to moving around on foot.

Stand of fruit smoothies in Santa Marta.

Colorful van in Taganga, a small village 15-minute bus ride from Santa Marta, with two ordinary beaches. At a guess (I visited it just for one day), it gave me the impression of being a sort of meeting point for backpackers who want drugs and party all night. Things of the past for me…

Shop in Uribia, where I took the van to get to Cabo de la Vela.

Peoples in Uribia.

Inside the van.

On the van, I met David, a guy from the Colombian Amazon. As soon as he saw me with the camera, he said: no photos, no photos! Ok, no problem, I can live even without it. But a moment later, he said, mhm yeah, please take just one. Soon after I was asked another, then another, in the end, I was almost finishing the card, he could not stop asking!
I met him again, by chance, yesterday here in Cartagena. I’ve also met a couple (a Polish guy and a Chilean girl) of the trekking group to the Ciudad Perdida. And also two Austrian girls met in Santarem, Brazil! We went together to Alter do Chao from there. In Cabo de la Vela, I met an Israeli boy known in the camp after the first day of trekking.

Always in the van, in the desert area.
Seeing David, don’t think that is typical of Colombia going around with faces painted and Indian clothes. The Colombians looked at him more surprised than me, and as we were walking together in Cabo de la Vela a police van stopped him. A lot of questions, I almost feared that he was going to be arrested!

Gradually, people in the van went down to small camps in the desert.

The only road in Cabo de la Vela: a row of huts and tiny houses on the sea, where it’s possible to sleep in hammocks. My hammock is barely visible in the higher building in the background.

One of the restaurants (so to speak) of Cabo de la Vela.
There was almost no choice, and often not at all for vegetarians. Luckily, sometimes, they had rice with a few scarce vegetables.

Birds.

A.C. Milan fishermen.

Evidently, even in the field of fisheries, the Rossoneri are great. Instead, not far away, I saw fishermen with t-shirts of Inter Milan who hadn’t been able to catch anything! What losers!

Girls.

And with the setting Sun God, I leave you too. But as Him… I’ll be back.

Its name is Teyuna. It was built around 800 AD by Tayrona, the generic name of the people who inhabited these areas before the arrival of the Spaniards. After it was abandoned, it was swallowed by the forest for over 400 years until it was discovered in 1972 by grave robbers, who, for some years after, sold in markets its treasures, especially gold objects. In the early ’80s, the first tourists started to arrive. The only way to reach it is by trekking in the forest for at least 4 days.

Entering the forest. Generally, hiking is about going up and down the mountains of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Sometimes alongside the Buritaca river, sometimes on the crests.
It is pretty challenging but worth doing, both for the spectacular scenery you pass through and for the lost city reached at the end.
The main problem is primarily the mud that makes strenuous climbing and dangerous descending because of slips. In many places, there are very narrow paths near cliffs, a little dangerous.

My first day was hard because I covered the path that I had to do in two. The night before leaving, the agency told me that there was no one else but me, so I had to choose if to wait at least a day to form a group or to reach the group that started already in that morning.
So I did almost 10 hours of trekking, the last 2 hours with the torch, it was already dark. My guide was a young boy, and, at one point, a dog joined us all the way.

In the dark appeared giant toads. Before leaving, the agency had recommended to me to not touch them because they are poisonous. Then I realized: probably they are the famous hallucinogenic toads! A lovely lick to their back… and away, flying to new horizons! Ehh guys, I know, but in life nothing is free.

At the first night camp, I started to meet the descendants of the Tayrona natives, which are divided into 4 groups: Kogui, Ikas (also Arhuacos), Wiwa, and the Kankwamos. They speak the language Chibcha.
When, after 75 years of fighting, the Spaniards defeated them in the Sierra Nevada, the remaining Tayrona were massacred, and their villages burned. Some natives, however, managed to flee to the mountains and higher areas, hidden from the Spanish armies and missionaries, and there recreated some communities.

Kogui woman. In their primitive simplicity, they consider the Earth as a living being to be treated with care and respect, even in the way of cultivating it. Instead of brutally exploiting it for maximizing profit, they care about the animals living there and the future generations! What fools!!

Indigenous children.

After a night sleeping with the sweet sound of the river and nocturnal animals, I joined a group of another agency because the group that I had to reach had moved already ahead.

Poisonous snake on the trail. All very Indiana Jones, in short.

Crossing rivers and streams.

The descendants of the Tayrona have a solid spiritual view of existence. For them, everything has a symbolic meaning and what is important is precisely the meaning connections that bind the entire universe beyond the tangible realities. Thus, for example, a house is also a mountain and a mountain is also the cosmos… every element, even the smallest, reflects the whole. Save a small portion of the Earth can save the entire planet, and they think they’re doing just that. And let’s hope they are right and they succeed.

From Kogui mythology:
“At first, there was the sea. Everything was dark. There was neither sun nor moon, neither people nor animals nor plants.
There was only the sea, everywhere. The sea was the Mother. She was water, water everywhere, and she was river, lagoon, stream, and sea, and so she was in all parties. Thus, in the beginning, there was only the Mother. Her name was Gaulchovang.
The Mother was neither people nor anything. She was Alùna. She was the spirit of what was coming, and she was thinking and memory. So the Mother existed only in Alùna, in the world’s lowest, in the lowest depths, alone…”

Little girls saddle a donkey.

In the morning mist.

Horses in the forest.

At one point, from the river begins a long stairway towards the Ciudad Perdida. Indigenous people claim to know since ever of the city’s existence, and in fact, it is unlikely they had never noticed this staircase before.

Finally we come into the Ciudad Perdida. It’s very large, about 3 km square, but many parts are covered by forest and it has been decided to not uncover them. The stone circles on the ground are the points where there were the huts, the same type used now by their descendants. When archaeologists come here, they found many of these destroyed by grave robbers because the Tayrona buried their dead covered with gold ornaments under their houses.

Military in the site. The biggest problem is still grave robbers looking for gold and treasures. Moreover, in 2003 the guerrillas of ‘ELN (National Liberation Army) kidnapped a group of tourists for asking for more attention on human rights in Colombia and released them after 3 months.

The city rises from 900 meters up to 1300. It is composed of terraces at different levels with a complex system of drainage of rainwater. Once, all the towns in the area, over 200, were linked by stone paths in the forest, until the sea. Other cities are almost certainly hidden somewhere around, and I think that the grave robbers have already found them. Practical people, not like the bookworms archaeologists…

According to the guide, who was very competent, the city was just a sacred place and was only inhabited during religious celebrations. Elsewhere I read that, in addition to being religious, it was also an important political and economic center and was permanently inhabited from 1500 to 3000 people.

View from above.

“Dekaro Jones and the lost city!” (Yannik)