Coming home at last...hopefully

Neither the London office nor STA were much help when Mum called them for me from England. I tried calling Bogotá and eventually got through, but the woman I spoke to was useless and just said that I was on the waiting list and would have to wait till at least 20 August unless I wanted to buy a ticket for a September flight, and didn't seem to understand what my ticket situation was at all.

The parents insisted that I buy a new flight home on them to get me home ASAP, and we can hassle Iberia for a refund later. Rich is going away on Monday and Mum sometime this week too, they want to see me before I go. So a trip to the travel agents in Bogotá later and I had myself a flight with American Airlines leaving 7.35am via Miami and Boston to get to Manchester at 7.35am on Sunday.

I'm scared to write it and tempt fate to screw me over again, but, fingers crossed, finally, I'm coming home tomorrow!

Going nowhere yet

Pissing fucking airline companies. Aarrrrrghhhh! Why is noone explaining what is going on? Why are they being so bloody awkward?!!

They say I probably can't get home till at earliest 20 August. So frustrating!!!

Had a lovey chat with Laura on the MSN video calling function yesterday afternoon. That cheered me up a lot. Then I went to the cinema to avoid the cokeheads offers of coke trying to drag me out with them. Watched The Simpsons in Spanish. Wasn't too hard to understand, and was just what I needed. Enjoyed it a lot.

Ended up going out with the cokeheads anyway when I got back. They're actually really friendly and normal. Mostly. There's a crazy Irish dude but he's funny and he seems to like me. Ended up playing cards whilst pot and coke got passed round in the common room of the hostel till 4am. Was fun. Maybe waiting won't be truly awful.

Still waiting.

Thought I could fly today. There was a cancellation so there was a space from Bogotá to Madrid then Madrid to London. But then the man came back and said I couldn't go because there wasn't a flight from London to Manchester. I said I didn't care but he said they had to issue tickets for the rull route I'd purchased or none at all. Even in Bogotá, I get Little Britain. Computer says noooo.

Plus my hostel is full of crazy cokeheads. Not in the mood for socialising, especially not with cokeheads who stress out about getting their next fix. They snorted lines in my dorm last night. To be fair they offered me some.

Just want to get home, waiting is shit.

Not home yet...

I think my day started to go wrong when I got toothepaste on my t-shirt this morning. Then I left my walking boots under my bed in the hostel in Cartagena.

Right now I SHOULD be somewhere over the Atlantic well on my way home. Instead, I’m still in Colombia. And I don’t know when I can get home or how much it’s going to cost me.

I queued for over an hour to get to the front of the queue to check in at the Iberia desks, with all my bags packed and ready, only to be told when the lady entered in my ticket reference that the change I thought I’d made to my flights about 4 months ago had not been confirmed. I was not on the flight. I couldn’t believe it. I had a printout in my hand with the details of my changed flights, under which was written “reserva confirmada” and “feliz viaje”. I knew I hadn’t yet paid for the change but I had been told that I could pay here in Bogotá. I wasn’t told that unless I paid for the change some time in advance of the flight (have no idea when) my reservation would be cancelled. Apparently this is what had happened. I didn’t know how to react. I tried unsuccessfully to fight the tears.

“You have to go to the Iberia office,” the lady at the desk told me. “Upstairs?” I asked, assuming there’d be an office in the airport as there is in every other airport. “In the centre of the city.” My heart sunk. “Is it far?” “About 45 minutes away.” I was definitely crying now. “Is there a chance I can make it?” I begged in broken Spanish. She pulled a very sceptical face. “Check-in closes at 4.” Then she added, “But the flight is full.”

“Can I leave my bags here whilst I go and find out and come back?” “No.” I got my bags together again and went to find a taxi.

I didn’t want to leave South America, but by now I was set on flying home today. I didn’t want to stop travelling but I definitely didn’t want to extend my time like this. I was looking forward to going home. I’d been picturing meeting my family at the airport, driving home, sharing a pot of tea, going to the pub with my friends. They were all expecting me. I was very pissed off. With Iberia mainly, for not explaining the process to me when I’d changed my flights (or thought I had) in Buenos Aires, for not having an office in the airport, for making me queue for ages, for their plane being full, for not letting me on anyway when I started to cry. And at myself, for getting into this mess. Why hand’t I called up to confirm the flight 48 hours ago like they always tell you to?

I accepted the offer of a taxi from a dodgy looking guy in a mismatching tweed suit holding a sign for some hotel and an umbrella. Normally I’d have steered well clear from a man like that but I didn’t really care at that point. I was highly sceptical when he returned in a beaten up little red car (real taxis are yellow) with no taxi sign, and for much of the way I wondered whether I was about to be robbed or worse. Fortunately he just ripped me off.

Waiting in the Iberia office was agony. It was like going to the deli counter in my old local supermarket. Despite telling them it was urgent, I was given a ticket and told to wait my turn. Finally a young assistent stopped with his paperwork and called me over. I blubbed what had happened in bad Spanish and waited for his response but he didn’t even look at me, just took my printout and started tapping keys on the keyboard and reading the screen casually, occasionally chatting to the girl at the computer next to him. I felt like screaming but I just sat waiting anxiously wiping the tears away. Eventually he told me again what the lady in the airport had already told me. “But what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

The flight was full, I couldn’t fly today. They didn’t know what the situation was with my ticket tariff, and BA operated the London-Manchester leg of the flight, so nothing can be done until they hear from London. But he’s either put me on the waiting list for the same flights tomorrow, Friday and Saturday, or he will do if it’s cleared with the London office tomorrow. He’s going to email me when there is any news. I have to wait.

I have a new printout with the times of these flights. Above them on the same printout is a list of my flight to Quito in January (FLWN) as well as the flight I’d originally booked from Sao Paulo on July 30th (also FLWN). I really really do not want to pay another fortune for another flight. I really really want to get home.
On the brighter side, I managed to find a bed in the same hostel that Hayley (a lovely girl I met in my hostel in Cartagena) is in. I met her when I arrived. It was great to have a friend to tell my problems to, and getting to the hostel and seeing her made me cheer up a lot. She’d managed to get money out from the bank this morning, so her crisis was resolved. She understood how I felt. We went to the world famous gold museum this afternoon, which was really impressive and tastefully done, and took my mind off my situation. So I’m feeling less emotional. I just want to get things sorted out. Doubt I’ll take up my crazy Irish roommates’ offer to join them on a night out. Need to be ready to rush around tomorrow morning to chase a flight.

Islas del Rosario and a Mud Bath

I felt crap on Monday morning but I managed to get up and drag myself to the ferry launch point for my tour to the Islas del Rosario, which I'd been looking forward to for ages.

It was disappointing. Stomach cramps didn't help. The boat was a monstrous great big thing, and gradually filled to over capacity with about 200 mostly Colombian tourists. Turns out Colombian bank holiday tourists are about as loud, obnoxious, drunken, fat and scantily clad as British ones. I tried to console myself with my blackcurrant flavoured rehydration solution. Two and a half hours sat in the blazing sun amongst this chaos whilst we reached our island was not fun. It wasn't really mediated by the overbearing family from Medellín who decided they wanted a token English friend. Nor was it fun when we pulled into the shore and all 200 of us disembarked onto an island of about 50 square metres. We were herded about like human cattle.

I got chatting to another solo traveller from New York who felt the same. Whilst whinging about how bad it was, we managed to miss the boat when it left, despite sitting about 10 metres away. We'd been thinking we'd wait until the queue died down. We overdid it a bit.

It turned out well. We got a ride on a smaller speedboat that carried about 30 people and went much faster. A much more intimate and enjoyable way to travel. We got to sit at the front too. On the other hand, it was a bit of a white knuckle ride. Many times I thought the boat was about to break in half when we rose up and then crashed down hard over the waves. We considered how difficult it would be to swim to the shore and contemplated our obituaries.

Fortunately we made it to Playa Blanca, the lunch stop. Unfortunately we had to wait for our steaming giant to arrive. It couldn't get to the shore, so the hordes had to be ferried on little boats to the beach. We waited lazily on the beach with our books, then realised our error when we had to queue another hour for our food, which left us no time to enjoy the nicest beach in Cartagena. Neither Saraj nor I could face getting back on the boat, so we paid 15,ooo pesos for a more exciting journey back on the speedboat.

After wandering round the old city with Saraj for a bit I went out for dinner in the old centre with three other backpackers from my hostel dorm. Anders (Danish), Carl (Irish) and Hayley (English) were really lovely company. I felt much better than the day before.

The next day the same four of us went on a tour to a volcano just outside Cartagena. It's a volcano made of mud, hard on the outside and gooey on the inside. (Bit like a cream egg. Mmmmm...) It looks like it's been artificially constructed at least to some extent, just rising up steeply and narrowly about 50m from the otherwise flat surrounds.

It's such an odd experience to submerge yourself entirely in luke warm grey-brown gloopy mud. It looks and has the consistency of emulsion paint. In many ways it's quite pleasant. You just float in the stuff, and moving around is almost impossible. You have to grab onto the side and pull yourself, or else lie horizontal and be slid across it. Locals provide mud massages, which are quite enjoyable. The problem is you know that thousands of people from all over the world, with all their international sweat and grime, have bathed in the same small volume of mud over the years, and there's no cleaning system. If you pull your hand through a bit of it, you get other people's hairs caught in your fingers. This Tuesday being a bank holiday meant that the tiny volcano was completely full to capacity, which is about 20 people. For us, the experience was enriched by the sight of a disgusting fat old man lying on his back rubbing himself all over with mud, including inside his shorts.

We washed off in the shallows of a lake nearby, where thousands of people had done the same over the years, meaning that the water was filthy already.

Later that afternoon, after a proper-ish shower (in the dark, as the power was off) I did a bit of souvenir shopping and explored more of the beautiful old town. It really is pretty. Shame it's so hot and humid here. Within 20 minutes of a cold shower, you feel sticky and grimy again. I am so greatful for the air conditioning in our room.

That night was Hayley's last night in Cartagena and my last night in South America, so we'd agreed on a night out. Unfortunately, Hayley was having a bit of a crisis.She'd just reclaimed her suitcase containing her bank cards only to find that they weren't working so she had no money. We went to call the bank but they couldn't help, saying she must have forgotten her PIN. I insisted on lending her money but she wasn't in the mood to go out. Instead we went out for dinner at Crepes and Waffles (very un-Colombian but delicious!) and wandered round the town a bit.

I'll be on my way home tomorrow!!! I'm feeling very twitchy. I think it's a combination of relief at being well again, excitment about going home sooooooooo soon, sadness about leaving South America and ending my traveller-bum phase, and love for my beautiful new Colombian bag. And maybe having just eaten a big mango sweet thing containing about a week's recommended intake of sugar.

San Agustín, Cartagena and being ill.

Arrggh I despise mosquitoes. I will not miss them when I come home (in three days). I think they'll miss me.

I also won't miss having to buy food out all the time. I'm struggling in Colombia, there are hardly any veggie options. You ask them what they have in the restaurants and they say, "Everything! Rice with beef, rice with chicken, rice with pork, arepa with beef, arepa with chicken, arepa with..." You stop them and ask if there's anything without meat. "Without meat??" I've been eating so badly this last week or so. I'm sure that's why, for the first time in these entire seven months, I've got ill. Maybe I boasted about my stomach of steel one time too many. Nearly fainted today in the hostel when the receptionist was explaining the house rules, I had to go and lie down. Will be having an early night tonight.

Our visit to the Santa María on Tuesday was a great day out. It's located in some more beautiful Colombian countryside in the Valle del Cauca, in the foothills of one of the mountain ranges sheltering the valley, affording great views of the rest of the area. It's the gorgeous colonial house of a Colombian writer, Jose Isaacs, who wrote the Latino equivalent of Romeo and Juliet, so they say. We had a tour of the well-preserved elegant mansion, which included a summary and snippets of the tragic romantic story, supposedly based on the writer's own tragic love affair with his cousin. I bought the book on a whim. A silly whim. It's not only in Spanish but antique Spanish. I doubt I'll get too far. But I hear there's a film.

That night we left for San Agustín, a pre-Hispanic archaeological site two bus journeys away from Calí. Along some very windy, nausea-inducing roads. It's located in some of the many pretty Colombian hills. I now understand why guerrillas are such a pervasive problem in Colombia. Much of the country seems to be a network of interlocking hills covered in dense tropical vegetation - impossible to track people down in, but very lovely from an aesthetic point of view. The monolithic statues, carved into the shapes and faces of cartoon-esque indigenous people, are really impressive, and the tombs which they guard are eerie. As well as numerous statues, we also visited some fantastic waterfalls spouting out of the lush green valley walls of the Magdelena, the longest river in Colombia.

The town of San Agustín is really pretty too, full of lots of colonial style white houses with red rooves. Carlos made sure I tried lots of typical food, which often took the form of delicios exotic fruits (including the "snot fruit" - literal translation), but sometimes involved trying to make me eat meat.

I wanted to go back via Popayán, a well-preserved colonial city along an alternative (and considerably shorter) route back to Calí, but Carlos thought it was too dangerous for a white English girl to attempt. It seems that the guerrillas often come down from their mountain hideouts in the region and stop vehicles along that road. Whilst they usually don't kidnap normal Colombians, Carlos seemed to think that they might make an exception for me. So instead, we had to take the long bumpy windy way back again. Which was agony with a very sore bruised bum. Whilst hiking down to see some waterfalls, we had to negotiate a particularly slippy muddy downhill section. About 20 minutes after scoffing to Carlos, "No me voy a caer!!", I slipped about two metres and landed hard on my bum with my legs in the air. Funny, maybe, but sooo painful!

We were going to go out on Saturday night, but I was feeling dodgy with a fever. I never got to try salsa in it's homeland. I'm in Cartagena now, an historic colonial city on the Carribean coast in the north of Colombia. Carlos and his family persuaded me that it was unmissable, so I splashed out an bought flights, since buses were unviable with so little time. I've been wandering round the impressive, elegant walled part of the city today, with it's lovely colourful balconied houses and pretty plazas. There are some really nice churches, and I've been cultural and visited a few museums. I especially liked the instruments of torture in the museum on the Spanish Inquisition. It wasn't so much fun with stomach cramps, light-headedness and nausea though. Hope it passes soon.