Travels in Colombia No.2: The Coffee Zone

December 29th, 2015

In the central highlands of Colombia, a crop grows like wildfire. It flourishes on every hill and valley as far as the eye can see: enamelled green leaves with crinkle-cut edges, and glossy, dark red berries hanging like earrings below, spaced out on the vine. Coffee is intimately familiar to me. I associate it with the world of northern Europe and its everyday luxuries: a cardboard Costa on the way to the office, or enamel cups of white nestling a perfect, photo-negative black pool; British tea-time and English elevenses and even the Swedish tradition of fika. Coffee is couched in rules and routine. And yet the provenance of this crop is unrestrained and vibrant and about as different from these straight-laced rituals as you could imagine. 

We are in the Eje Cafetero of central Colombia, where there are giant profusions of orange flowers and fanfares of bamboo, great garlands and tall palms. Coffee grows between them, behind them, under; everywhere. Ordinary people populate this fairytale land in a delightful way; it seems so unlikely that in this magical forest there should be a checkpoint with orange-jacketed ladies, vendors of crisps and fruit, guards balancing guns - but there they are. We zip past them at two hundred miles an hour. Clearly, the driver of our bus has places to be. The speed prevents me from taking more than snapshots of memories, but I do recall seeing a sign for a theme park: Parque del Cafe, it's called. I'm all right for thrills: the drive is ride enough.

We stop for breakfast in Manizales, the capital of Caldas province. Strangely, coffee is not on the menu. In spite of Manizales's loveliness - teetering on a stack of tumble-down hills among the green palms - we are left with a bitter taste in our mouths as Nathen's prized water bottle is stolen. So we decide to flee south to Salento, where the town is smaller and the palms are bigger. We will return at the weekend to bite the Big Apple of Manizales: we have been told that a festival of fruits and flowers is taking place.

Despite our misfortune, I'm already in love with Colombia. Just what is it about this place? I really liked Ecuador, its people, landscapes, history; and yet there's something about its big sister to the north that is just irresistible. Like the people here, the country seems to have the 'it' factor: the wink, the attitude, the flicker of a smile on the lips that draws you in further. My suspicions of Colombia's magic are confirmed that evening, when we pitch camp. We arrived in Salento in the afternoon, and have grown tired of the haggling and hawking at the stalls in the village square. So we leave to begin a lonely pilgrimage north on a small road out of town. We have seen signs for the Cocora Valley and we hope to find solace, if not shelter, under the fronds of a slender wax palm. After a kilometre walking down the silvering road that twists like a live trout, we pass a sign painted in white acrylic that points the way 'Al Rio'. Not ones to pass up an impulse, we follow it towards the river. We pass into a narrow, tranquil valley, empty of wax palms but full of sweet green grass and tall eucalyptus that in the twilight breeze paint the setting sky in shades of pink and lilac. Finally we have found tranquillity. The night is mostly cloudless, and from the comparative dark of our camping spot, hidden under a motherly pine, we watch as capricious fireflies compete with the stately stars to capture our attention.

Mexico No.1: The first night

February 10th, 2016

On my first night in Colima I went for a walk. Even though I was in the northern hemisphere in early February, and it was technically winter, the city had an estival air. 

What is Colima City like? Well, there are old rusty Beetles, and shiny new geckos. Most of the houses are box-shaped, painted by numbers in appealing shades of yellow and red, or in a faded tangerine that is peeling from the walls. The rest of the buildings are white, and quietly support their more flamboyant neighbours. As with every town in Latin America, the streets of Colima are populated by scruffy, shouting black-and-tan mongrels. Everyone smiles in the street. There are hibiscus and palms, tall yellow-flowering trees and some kind of nut (perhaps almond?) on our street. On Avenida de Insurgentes, the main street near our house, there is a park with a magical tree that is crying out to be climbed, secretly, early on a Sunday morning or late one night. The tree's branches network and twist into one another, and the roots lie like folds of sumptuous fabric above the broken pavement. The extravagant lengths to which these trees are allowed to grow is astounding: as I start to make my way back, I spy another tree just off Camino Real which has taken over literally half a street.

I'm just about to arrive home, walking back down my street, when I encounter another kind of nut. Out of the semi-shadows jumps a short man who introduces himself as Israel Angulo Reyes: descended from British royalty, he offers to help with the groceries I am carrying. When I ask my flatmates about him later, it appears I have met the local village kook - on my first night of all nights! However, when I run into him, I am thirsty and tired; my refusal to let him help with my shopping is disgruntled and, if his claims of royal descent are to be believed, possibly treasonous. But I have my doubts; when an imp with stars on his face and lipstick on his chin, a lick of paint on his head and a glint in his eye, tells you he's a king and that you should kiss him ... you should take it with a pinch of salt. When he left me at my door, he shook my hand, and gave me his CV. I have it now on the wall of my bedroom; his claims are quite incredible!

In the subsequent weeks, I see many things that suggest 'anything goes' is the way to go in Mexico. I see dogs living on rooftops; a garage that has been transformed into a fruit shop overnight; a street vendor's churros made to the length of a firehose; and an entire family (3+ generations) in the back of an open pickup, roaring along at 150km/hr on the highway. Still, Israel Angulo Reyes remains the first example of this n'importe quoi, anything goes attitude to life.

The skies above Colima are possibly the best sight of all.

The corner of my street, Rinconada Jacaranda, and its colourful trees.

Pure colour.

Pausing for a laugh with a distant friend.

Greeted by perros gritandos every morning on the way to work.

Travels in Colombia No.1: Street Art in Bogota

December 26th, 2015

It's rare that sayings translate directly from one language to another. The English idioms that we throw about willy-nilly rarely have next-door neighbours in Spanish refranes (caso en punto with 'willy-nilly'). There are, however, the occasional exceptions. 'Better late than never' has the equivalent, 'mas vale tarde que nunca' and it's with this phrase that I'd like to return to blogging. During the past three months I have left home in Ecuador to travel through Colombia and beyond. As of March 2016, I am now semi-permanently located in Colima, Mexico, on a volcanology placement with CIIV. It's a tremendously exciting experience, and I hope to be able to write on a fortnightly basis about the work that the placement involves.

Meanwhile, I once again have a home from which I can write about travel. I spent seven weeks journeying through Colombia: a country singularly rich in biodiversity and poor in internet connection. What do you think of when you hear Colombia? For many people, the country is still associated with the tragedies of its ravaged past - but a different Colombia has already emerged, vibrant with colour and energy. I have been amazed at the breadth of beauty of Colombia's landscapes, and the depth of warmth shown by its people. For those who haven't yet had the privilege of going, I'd like to share with you the highlights of my trip. Let's start at the very beginning - under the grey skies of Bogotá.

Our route through Colombia, from 20th December 2015
to 9th February 2016.

Look up: a flock of dark grey clouds are crossing the sky. The weak morning sun can't penetrate their depth, and the water pressure presses down on you. You might as well be in London! Look around: a gallery of murals surrounds you. Loud splashes and puddles of colour are drizzled expertly on the prattling walls of the city. For Nathen and I, our introduction to the vibrant colours of Colombia was a street tour of graffiti art.

This tour was so good I'm going to put the link in twice. If you are in Bogotá, you must go. Here it is!

My family's usual Boxing Day tradition, honed to perfection over two decades, follows a single command: enjoy the leftovers! Extra turkey is wrapped into sandwiches, any remaining presents are unwrapped gleefully, and we crowd round the telly to gorge on programmes saved on iPlayer. On December 26th 2015, however, we were faced with a lack of leftovers. What to do? We made a radical break with tradition and decided to try something new.

The graffiti tour began at 14:00 at Parque de los Periodistas, at the foot of the monument el Templete al Libertador. We met there our host, Jay, and around thirty other tourists. It seemed to me that this tour was not an undiscovered secret of the city, a suspicion later confirmed by a Google search. Bogota Graffiti Tour is currently number two on Bogotá's list of attractions in Tripadvisor. 

After Jay had given the usual stick-together-and-listen-to-me introduction, we began. Our group left the park, crossed the Avenida Jimenez and immediately plunged into the maze of streets that makes up the photogenic district of La Candelaria.

I love photography: it is an incomporable way to colourfully record my travels when I don't have time to whip out my sketchbook. I would estimate that the majority of people who travel are, like me, 'aspiring amateurs': equipped with a good-quality camera, but unsure of how to make the most of its features to best capture their chosen subject matter. The Bogota Graffiti Tour is an excellent workshop for an aspiring amateur. The city is dense with subject matter, and by walking around at a fair pace you are encouraged to make snap decisions about compositions - I think quantity trumps quality during this stage of learning photography. As you progress through the maze of alleys, you will find yourself working with interesting perspectives and contrasts, playing with the angles of the city, working with unusual compositions. Most importantly, the fast pace of the tour keeps it fun.

For any other aspiring amateurs out there, here are a few challenges I encountered on this tour.

Perspective is an important feature. The streets are narrow and can be pressed in with people, making it difficult to find room to take pictures from the angle that you want. Sometimes I found an alternative view, like squatting and snapping from a low level; or by angling my lens steeply upwards, I could catch upon an interesting snapshot that I would have otherwise missed.

Detail. Some of my favourite parts of this tour were not the enormous, decadent murals, but instead the small details that you came across unexpectedly: a surprising juxtaposition, like fancy shoes dangling in front of graffiti footprints; or fresh plants less colourful than the peeling paint surrounding them. If shot well, these features made for a memorable photo.

Of course, in a city of nearly eight million people, you can't expect to take a photo of a street without someone getting in its way. Luckily the people of Bogotá are particularly photogenic. It's always a pleasure when a stranger passes by and unexpectedly enlivens the photo that you're taking. 

The people who surround you are living in their own inner worlds. Having a camera to capture the lives of locals who move through the static art is a privilege of the travelling tourist; and as long as the photos are taken with empathy, what's the harm? One of my favourite things to do was to make up stories of the couples and friends who were going about their daily routines in the middle of this picture gallery. For instance, what do you think of this couple underneath the caged and free birds?

I love how unaffected and inquisitive the kids look here, next to the slight listlessness of the adults in the neighbouring café. I think there's an interesting contrast between the youth in the right and their elders that are left. 

This post is definitely an indulgence for my photography, which is amateurish. On the other hand, the graffitos who put their work on the walls are masters of their craft. On many occasions, I stood transfixed by the sheer artistry of the work, and the capacity of some people to manipulate aerosol paint.

A lot of the artwork was made not only to transfix but to transform, and carried political or social messages that aimed to draw attention to the myriad issues that are affecting modern Colombia. The homeless, corrupt politicians, piñas and battle-flies and doves: unlikely neighbours, true, but they were often seen uncomfortably rubbing shoulders on the walls of Downtown and La Candelaria. On the left of the image below, you can see the battle-flies of D.J. Lu, sometimes called the Banksy of Colombia.

What I found really interesting, what our guide Jay told us, is that Colombia has a completely different attitude towards street art than other countries do. For instance, in the UK, an artist of graffiti that is deemed to have caused damage of up to £5,000 may be liable to pay a maximum of £5,000; if the damage is greater, there may be tougher sentences (Source). Colombia, meanwhile, seems to view graffiti as an addition to, rather than a slur on, its streets. The owner of a property in Bogotá can grant permission to an artist to paint his walls. Jay told us an amusing story about a graffiti collective who were warned off a property by the police; undeterred, they simply changed their canvas to the building opposite. When the police returned, the artists appealed to the building's owner - who was then in the delicious position of being able to send the police away!

At the end of the tour all that was left over was to give a donation to our guide. We gladly did, as it was easily the first highlight in a country of colour. I said the link is good enough to post twice, so here it is: bogotagraffiti.com. Do it!

Update

For any and all erstwhile readers of the blog, I'd like to provide a little update.

I realize that since my last post there's been radio silence on my end with photos, blog posts, and tweets. Everything is fine! I've left Ecuador and have just finished celebrating Christmas with friends and family in Bogota, Colombia.

The next part of my journey consists of backpacking through the country with a light backpack, so I'm of course not taking my laptop! This means that the nature of my blog will be changing. I can't upload photos at the moment, and am reliant on intermittent wifi, so posts will likely be shorter and more sporadic, and photos and sketches will be via Instagram and Twitter. I'm keeping a full sketchbook as I travel, and when normal service resumes, I'll upload some of my work from on the road.

I'm going to be back in Bogota in mid-February, where I'll rejoin my laptop and start regularly blogging again with long posts and pictures. I hope to celebrate the return with a virtual tour of street art in the capital!

Hasta luego (por el momento),
Ailsa

Volcano Top Trumps

I can't believe I'm leaving this country in less than 48 hours! I have really treasured my time here in Ecuador. By my estimate, I have been to 9 volcanoes during my two months' here. Not bad! Volcanoes are what I came for, saw, and mostly conquered; although Cayambe remained out of my reach on this occasion. My plan on return is to complete the '1-2-3': Chimborazo, Cotopaxi, and Cayambe. We'll see how I get on!

My farewell-for-now to Ecuador is this portfolio on the volcanoes I've visited so far. They're in order of the time visited between 16/10/15 and 14/12/15. I've also added stats particular to each volcano, based on the 'Top Trumps' model. Here we go! Explanations and references can be found at the bottom of the page.

                                                                                                                  

Name - COTOPAXI (Quechwa, 'mouth of the moon')

Height (m) - 5,897

Strength - 4

Agility - 1

Age - 2015 CE (years after 0 A.D.)

Fighting Skills - Volcano-tectonic, hybrid and long-seismicity events. Powerful lahars.

                                                                                                                  

Wawa Pichincha in background (4,784 m).

Ruku Pichincha (4,969 m)

Name - WAWA PICHINCHA (Quechwa, 'baby Pichincha') 

and RUKU PICHINCHA (Quechwa, 'old man Pichincha')

Height (m) - 4,784 (Wawa) and 4,696 (Ruku)

Strength - 4

Agility - 2

Age - 2002 CE

Fighting Skills - Explosive activity. Vicinity to Quito provides alarming edge to ashfalls.

                                                                                                                  

Name - CHACANA (?, Related to 'chacana' cross?)

Height (m) - 4,643

Strength - 0

Agility - 2

Age - 1773 CE

Fighting Skills - Historical andesitic lava flows.

                                                                                                                  

Name - TUNGURAHUA (Quechwa, 'throat of fire')

Height (m) - 5,023

Strength - 4

Agility - 100

Age - 2015 CE

Fighting Skills - Everything. Pyroclastic flows, ash falls, lahars, Strombolian activity, 

explosions, gas, ash, and water vapour emissions.

                                                                                                                  

Name - QUILOTOA (Quechwa, 'toothed queen')

Height (m) - 3,914

Strength - 6 (non-historic)

Agility - 0

Age - 1280 CE

Fighting Skills - Plinian eruption of VEI 6 (1280 CE), 'bottomless' lake

                                                                                                                  

Name - FUYA-FUYA (Quechwa, 'cold-cold')

Height (m) - 4,263

Strength - N/A

Agility - 4

Age - 0.2 Ma

Fighting Skills - Caldera collapse

                                                                                                                  

Name - ILINIZA (Kunza, 'masculine hill')

Height (m) - 5,248 (Sur) and 5, 126 (Norte)

Strength - N/A

Agility - 2

Age - >10,000a BP

Fighting Skills - None. Pleistocene activity, intermediate andesitic-to-dacitic composition.

Iliniza Sur (5,248 m)

Iliniza Norte (5, 126 m)

                                                                                                                  

Name - ANTISANA (Quechwa, 'dark mountain')

Height (m) - 5,704

Strength - 0

Agility - 1

Age - 1802 CE

Fighting Skills - Viscous historical blocky lava flows (c. 1800 CE).

                                                                                                                  

Name - CAYAMBE (Quitus, 'youth, origin of life')

Height (m) - 5,790

Strength - 4

Agility - 2

Age - 1786 CE

Fighting Skills - Holocene explosive eruptions, 4000a BP

                                                                                                                  

Notes: 'Strength' is based on eruption with largest VEI in historic activity (defined as since 1534, the year of Quito's foundation. 'Age' is just a number, but is defined here by date of last confirmed eruption. 'Fighting skills' defined as volcano-tectonic behaviour particularly associated with that volcano, if there is any.

References: main sources are volcano.si.edu, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andean_Volcanic_Belt, www.volcanodiscovery.com, and www.summitpost.org.
Specifically interesting pages:
- http://www.ecuaworld.com/climbing-cayambe/
- http://www.ecuador.com/protected-areas/antisana-ecological-reserve/
- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illiniza
- https://jenainecuador.wordpress.com/2012/08/20/lagunas-de-mojanda/
- http://www.villadetacvnga.com/services/quilotoa-tour/

All that's left to say is thank you so much if you have been reading along and supporting the journey. It's really appreciated, and I love hearing back from people about the content or style, whether complimentary or critical. I love writing as a way to record my travels, and I hope this has encouraged someone to take that next step into adventure, whether that's starting a journal or planning a next trip.

Entonces, nos vemos en un ratito, Ecuador!

Sun rising north of an erupting Cotopaxi, caught from path up to Iliniza Norte.

Aye Cayambe!

So here is a little piece on Cayambe, or how I felt when climbing it. We didn't make it to the top of the volcano; you can probably tell that I am a little disappointed by that. However, while we sat on the shoulder at 5400 metres, we saw a sight that we wouldn't have seen at the summit, and I felt extraordinarily lucky to be there.

A bedtime before sunset,

Furlongs of restlessness rolled into the down bag,

and woke up in the brightening blackness to hear

The ecstatic sound of a liberated waterfall

And the short-sighted cataracts in my eye visualise the summit

While an injunction pounds in my head: climb the mountain, do it now.

After a sleepless sleep, we rise

Strap on our equipment to do battle,

Take a strategical vomit

And fortify ourselves against milque-toast thinking

With soft white bread and dreams of planting the flag

In the purest flour of summit snow.

Troops assemble outside the refuge;

Now our band of three appears rather small.

Into the night we go:

Above the studded palm of a town, told in fortune-teller's lights;

Stars falling ahead, luminary lovers crossed with snow that scuttles past

On its way to bedrock. 

Still, to our left, a tangential slope of ice, the angle remaining a theorem

as we tackle the intermediate problem

Calculating the physics by which crampon strikes ground.

And still, still ahead, the great white wall rises, a wall projected, waiting to be vandalised. 

The time must go

And the night also rises, the swell of its hand

As it stretches to swat:

Blocking out the stars, not one by one

But in sweeps and washes of a black paintbrush.

We can't see it, but we are walking on the beast:

the great grey back of the glacier, the ancient creature with

A cracked and misshapen mantle as though it were shedding its skin

Crevasses that yawn and shake off the night's white sleep

A wide grin, narrowing off to a dimple that we trace

And tenaciously, jump

the grimacing gap.

Through the waves and undulations of our fear, sickness, fatigue

We pass to find the perfect storm frozen at the shoulder

And stayed a while, to watch the crest 

Of a new dawn rise behind the sleeping monster

See: Lilliputian workers measure their strength

in lengths of pick-axe, marks staggered up the hill;

Crampons put the force behind their words: I am here to take you on, beast

And as I watch them climb the peak

See my summit recede before me

Overland ants climb into the rosy dawn

We turn, exhausted, to begin the descent

Back to the ground, where words are needed

Strength measured in sheets not pick-axes

And where moles make mountains I don't want to climb

We get a surprise: gift-wrapped in myth and meteorology

For being there, forsaking the summit

It appears this is the right place and time

For the hills to the south are spun with gold

That mantles here and there their deepening green

The peaks rise as tree-tops through the mist while

Skeins and spools of clouds twist on the loom of the wind

And yet we can see the rivers of cloud to the west

That fill in that whitening blue

And begin to scribble the story of the coming day;

They wouldn't have this view, up there.

Good morning!

Late last night, I was browsing the magazines strewn around the hostel at which I'm staying. I picked up Intelligent Life on a whim; I've never read it before, and the pretentious title seemed to be too highbrow for a lazy read before bed.

Boy, was I wrong. The magazine was filled with a variety of in-depth and thoughtful pieces that I really loved. One set in particular stood out. This was a collection of mini-essays by seven separate authors, each intimating their favourite time of the day. Between the delicious sheets I fell, and devoured the stories one by one. Regardless of time and of place they were set: I began with a trip back through time to 4 pm in the '60s English countryside, and then found a present-day domestic scene at elevenses; skipped through a post-dawn Mumbai, only to find myself staring down at networks of city lights during a midnight long-haul flight.

I'll always love written words for the ability to transport myself wherever I want. However, my favourite time of day is that period when I don't have to be anywhere else, when the morning is my own. I am like the Mumbai author, desperately seeking that half-hour in the morning where nothing is urgent yet.

Time: 07:10.

Reason: Just after seven is time enough and tide to sit still and let the world rise to meet you. In a chair, with a cup and a window; your breath cooling the tea, and the sun warming the city. I like to think of it as a type of slow cooking. We begin at six a.m.: the counter-tops are swept and clean, and the ingredients of the city are still in their cupboards, shuttered securely behind their doors. The simple, everyday ingredients come out first - yellow taxis, almost bursting from their skins in haste; humble street sweepers. Of course, any good chef knows that you should clean up as you go, and between the sweepers and the jaunty garbage men the task is performed admirably. At quarter to seven, the first street vendors arrive to begin seasoning the pot. Fruit pots come, mote and empanada stands too; also a little metal cart of mysterious green bottles, that I haven't yet had the courage to try. Perhaps it's the secret ingredient that makes the city's recipe so delicious.

Why 07:10? That's the magical moment in the process, when the whole show comes together. Before, little mishaps and minor catastrophes would occur. By just after seven, however, the uncommon mixture of ingredients blend together to form an irresistible simmer of life on the other side of the looking-glass. My day hasn't started yet; there's no need for me to move from this chair. I can sit, and let the minutes grow; I can wait for half an hour and, prone to anxiety as I am, those thirty minutes are a wonder of peace. I let others' life pass me by. 

Too soon the minute hand ticks past the half-hour. My tea has gone cold, or more often has been already finished. I could boil the kettle again, but it seems a sign that I should start to get ready for the day ahead. There will certainly be cups of tea to be drunk along the way. But there are none that I enjoy more than this first one, brewed in the timeless minutes before the day begins, savoured and sipped slowly. There's another one to come tomorrow.