Day 1: Casa Vargas hotel, Cartagena

Cartagena, Colombia

 Casa Vargas Airport Hotel, 11 am

Here we are, feeling at home as if there hadn't been a break from South American travels for more than two years, sitting in the tiled courtyard of our hotel, shaded by huge trees and a net to catch dropped leaves.

We arrived here at the end of a long day. Carl picked us up at five am yesterday and took us to the airport in time for our 7:35 am departure. After a two-hour stopover in Toronto we boarded the plane to Bogotá, from where Avianca was to take us to Cartagena for our one am arrival. All seemed well until we saw the line at immigration: hundreds of people waited to be processed by about ten different immigration officers. It seemed impossible to make it in the scant hour that remained. Slowly, slowly we moved ahead. There was no way. I slipped under the enclosure to try and get help from the lady at the Avianca check-in desk, who printed out another set of boarding passes for us, stoically told me the plane was on time so far, and we either would make it - or mañana. The prospect of spending the night at the airport in Bogotá was enough to propel us into serious action. With many 'excuse me's' and mention of a flight in forty minutes we cut through at least four lines and finally were close to the immigration booths. No difficulty there, but there still were customs to go through, hand luggage to be x-rayed, and what felt like a kilometre of airport to traverse before we arrived at gate 83 with five minutes to spare. Whew! Johann noted that I hadn't even noticed the altitude ...

The flight to Cartagena was just a short hop of a little over an hour. Stepping out of the plane we were enveloped by the moist, warm, fragrant air of the tropics. Bromeliads with big fuchsia blossoms lined the way along the tarmac to the terminal building where we were greeted by a blast of almost icy air-conditioned air. Wonder of wonders, our backpack had made it here, too.

Given the late arrival we had decided not to make our way into Cartagena's old town and had booked the closest hotel we could find, Casa Vargas. It is not what most people would consider to be an 'airport hotel': no shuttle, no big neon signs, no overstuffed furniture in the lobby, – no wonder the immigration officer in Bogotá looked at us a little askance when we told him the address of our place to stay in Cartagena. He didn't seem to have heard of it before. For us, it seemed perfect: about a five minute walk, 24-hour reception, and checkout at two pm so that we'd have time to sleep in the morning.

We waved off the taxi drivers and luggage carriers and started walking. A few places were still open this late, a few people still hung about, and police – mostly on bicycles – kept an eye on things. One, who obviously had an idea where we were going, waited at the entrance to the hotel until we were safely inside. 

 

The guy at the reception spoke no English, and my feeble Spanish seemed to have disappeared completely by now, but we managed anyway. Because of the hectic conditions at the Bogotá airport we hadn't managed to draw money from the ATM, and credit cards, he explained, we'd only be able to use from six in the morning. It was no problem, however; obviously we weren't going anywhere. He led us through a tiled hallway and the courtyard to our room, small, but neat enough and equipped with air conditioning, wifi and a tv. The tap of the bathroom sink moves in its moorings when you turn on the water, and, the climate being what it is, there seems to be no need for a hot water tap in the shower either. It all felt immediately familiar, and, thankful to have arrived, we slipped under the thin sheet and were soon asleep. If there were planes starting or landing during the rest of the night we didn't notice.

We awoke to the screech of parakeets and some blue-jay like bird calls shortly before eight (Colombia is two hours ahead of Edmonton). First we needed to get some money, which was no problem with the airport being so close. Now, there was an English speaking receptionist (the owner?), a very friendly lady in her fifties or sixties who told us we could have breakfast at the hotel whenever we desired: huevos con tomate y sebolla, café o chocolate con leche, y pan tostado – scrambled eggs with tomato and onion, toast and coffee or hot chocolate – for three dollars per person. The Colombian currency will take a bit of getting used to: one Canadian dollar is about 2,200 COP, which makes for very large numbers. You quickly learn to cross off those extra zeros. Slowly, slowly my bit of Spanish is starting to come back, and things sound more familiar than last night again. People are patient and always happy if someone makes the effort. 

Here, everything is as it should be early in the morning: women calling to each other with loud, happy voices, sweeping leaves off sidewalks, a door opening to a hand emptying a bowl of water on the tiles of an entrance, bags with garbage stacked in front of houses (not bad at all here), holes in sidewalks to watch for if one doesn't want to sprain an ankle, the intermittent bark of a little dog, a goat bleating close by - no idea where in this suburbia. Pots with palms and other tropical plants along the perimeter of the courtyard, the beautiful wooden bench in the small reception area beside the worn red couch, a small table with three plastic lawn chairs, the 'breakfast nook'. There is hardly an indication that this is a place for foreign, just the way we like it."This is what I was homesick for, and I didn't know it", said Johann this morning.

  

We decided to stay right here for another night and leave the visit to Cartagena proper for the later part of our Colombia trip. There are places along the coast we would like to explore where favourable weather might be desirable, so we plan to leave for Santa Marta tomorrow. 

Welcome to Colombia! (found in a block of coral on the beach)