Almost Paragliding in San Gil

I can tell Cath doesn’t think this is a good idea.  She’s smiling, but it isn’t very convincing.  She’s strapped to one of our paragliding instructors and standing on the edge of a mountain overlooking the Chicamocha Canyon outside San Gil, Colombia.  The instructor has persuaded her that, although there’s not enough wind for a proper jump, they can take off and float to the bottom of the canyon, where the rest of us will pick them up on the way back to town.  What’s not to like?

Everything's looking good...

San Gil is the adventure capital of Colombia, and possibly South America.  Located north of Bogota in the warm foothills of the Andes, it is home to an increasing amount of extreme activities. The combination of strong rivers, an extensive caving system and picturesque mountains mean there are more than enough activities to keep the most active traveler busy for a few days.  Throw in ´Colombia´s Most Beautiful Town’ (Barichara, a 45-minute bus ride away, received the admittedly subjective honour in 1975), and it’s easy to see why the area’s tourist numbers are booming.

We had already experienced whitewater rafting, caving and abseiling during our long weekend.  We also visited the stunning, 180-metre high Juan Curi waterfall.  .  After a short hike, we were stood directly below the 180-metre cascade.  We all looked at the raging water pounding down, eying each other nervously, silently daring each other to bear the brunt of the waterfall’s power.   Finally, I stepped under the water.  I managed a stifled scream before the icy waters pummeled me into shock.

The climax of our trip, however, was meant to be our first paragliding expedition.  Cath volunteered to go first, but take-off was delayed.  Our leaders- who incidentally looked like they could have been on work experience from the local secondary school- decided there wasn´t enough wind, so we waited.  We passed the time by snapping some photos of the scenery.  The green, rounded mountains stretched in front of us, abruptly plunging into the canyon like a giant sinkhole.  

After an hour we had exhausted all photo opportunities and were eager to start.  Nature, however, was uncooperative.  Andean condors soared overhead, and jealousy mixed with the frustration we were already feeling. The guides gave up on our chances, and agreed to bring us back the following morning.  But before we left, one guide revealed his scheme to Cath.  After strapping in, they were ready to go. ´Corre! Corre!’ the guide encouraged her, ´Run! Run!’  ‘Estas seguro?’ Cath hesitantly replied. ‘Si! Si! Corre!’.  Then they were off the ground.

Not for long, though.  The wing briefly inflated, but as they took off, it slumped back to the ground.  After flying for a brief second, Cath and her increasingly rash guide landed.  ‘Corre! Corre!’ he repeated, showing a worrying lack of restraint.  Cath did run, straight off the edge and into the trees a few feet below her.  In disbelief, I ran towards her crumpled parachute.  Bemused and a little shaken, Cath was relatively unscathed. Her implicit trust of guides was the only casualty.

Abrupt landing after a short flight

The next day, we all survived incident-free jumps.  Hovering high above the mountains, our expectations of excitement and beauty were all met.  The frayed nerves from the previous day were forgotten.  Count on Colombia to provide adventure sports with some extra adventure. 

Having a drink around the local shop

Colombians love to drink.  Beer, rum and aguardiente are the favourites, but they will probably swig most anything put in front of them.  They drink at bars, clubs, at home. But the most uniquely Colombian-and perhaps most endearing- place to have a tipple is the local tienda. 

Tienda simply means shop, and although it may not seem the most obvious place to imbibe, it has a certain charm to it.  Some tiendas have a little room behind the main shop, but more common is a plastic table and chairs, right next to the toilet paper and sweets, or on the sidewalk outside.  Some may have a TV, showing any football or telenovela that is on.  One even had a video jukebox in a corner.  Many a husband picking up milk and bread from the shop must have had some explaining to do after being lured into a cerveza or two by a Shakira video. 

Most of the time, tiendas wouldn’t be the scene for extended drinking sessions (which isn’t to say it doesn’t happen).  It’s just a place to relax and have a couple of cold ones and catch up on neighbourhood gossip. The close proximity of chairs and tables invite interaction between patrons.  Coupled with the usual warmth of Colombian people, it’s almost impossible to leave without having made a new friend (no matter how awkward one’s Spanish). 

Typically they’re male-dominated, but there’s no unease if women arrive.  In especially small towns, they may be the centre of social life on weekends.  One of my most memorable tienda experiences came in Cartagena.  We were returning home from a night out with Cath’s sister, Sue, and her partner, Sam, along with my friend Timmy.  It must have been close to three or so in the morning, so no doubt we were ready for bed in our rented apartment.  Somehow, though (and if I’m honest I can’t remember exactly how it happened) we ended up with some new amigos outside a tiny shop around the corner from our place.  We were not sitting very long before we saw Sam being whirled around in the middle of the street.  A particularly enthusiastic teacher was showing her the finer points of Colombian salsa, and Sam was proving to be a willing- if giggly- student.

Tiendas encapsulate everything that is good about drinking in Colombia.  Sometimes impromptu dancing may break out, or, at worst, an incredibly bad karaoke version of La Bamba may ring out (okay, that one was me).  But more than anything, it is an opportunity to get together with friends, enjoy each other’s company and have a good time.  And nothing is more Colombian than that.

Colombia in a Nutshell: Parque de los Nevados

If I had to pick out three characteristics that epitomise Colombia, I would choose the following: stunning natural beauty, overwhelmingly friendly people, and unreliable services.  I experienced all three in one weekend trip to Nevados National Park.  I chose a puente (long weekend) in May when Cath was going away with the girls, and booked my flight to Manizales, gateway to the national park.

When I arrived to the airport in a fluster 30 minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart, I feared the worst.  Sprinting to the check-in desk, I was relieved to find out the flight was running a little late and I would make it without problem. I spent the next 4 hours sitting in the departure lounge, with no explanation. Finally we departed, but because the airport at Manizales closed at 6 p.m., we were flying to Pereira, from where a bus would take us to Manizales, adding another hour and a half to the trip.
Flights get delayed in every country, but the frustrating part was that we never found out why we had to wait so long, and it was treated as if this was just part of life. `Que pena` is the most common form of apology in Colombia, and it provides some insight into the attitude towards these types of situations. Literally translated it means ´What a pity`, allowing the speaker to express their sympathy for a situation while not actually accepting any blame. When you get bumped into, your haircut gets messed up, or the water in your apartment gets cut off for no apparent reason, you can expect to hear ´Que pena´. 
I checked in to my hotel at 11:30, realising I would have arrived at a similar time had I taken the bus from Bogota.  That kind of thinking doesn't help one's sanity in Colombia, though, so I tried to forget about it and went to sleep.

The route to my campsite began with an organised tour into the park early the next morning. The sun was shining and I was excited about my upcoming adveture.  We stopped for a couple of panoramic views, but soon I was dropped off for the three-hour hike to El Cisne.
Looking around, my excitement waned just a little. The landscape was barren, at least the parts I could see. The clouds had closed in completely, and I could only see the dark gray grit that covered the ground. The howling wind and freezing cold served to remind me of my isolation. Pretty soon a light drizzle was falling to make the scene complete. I heaved my backpack on and was on my way.

The walking re-energised me and the dark scree soon gave way to reddish-brown rocks left behind by the most recent volcanic explosion.  After an hour or so, a pick-up truck pulled up next to me.
'¿A donde vas?'  'El Cisne.’ 'Venga.'
I jumped in the back and had a lift for the rest of the journey.  The ride was bumpy, but the views were incredible, and much more enjoyable with my backpack underneath me as opposed to on my back.
I had expected beautiful mountain scenery, but I was surprised by the exotic fauna in the park.  The frailejon, a shrub whose stalk can grow up to 3 metres with green, velvety leaves and yellow flowers at the top, was ubiquitous, as it is in most areas of the paramo in Colombia and Ecuador.  There also, however, were a great number of colourful flowers and bushes that I hadn't expected at 4,000 metres and above. I was particularly struck by one plant whose purple flower´s phallic nature was uncanny, and somewhat disconcerting.

The mountains, though, are the big draw, and once I had set up my tent I went inside (El Cisne campsite doubled as a visitors center and lodge in addition to the campsite) to plan the next day's walk.  I met Juan Camilo, a guide who laid out my options for me.  We decided to climb to the glacier of Santa Isabel, a six-hour walk.  Isabel is one of only four mountains in the park still permanently capped by snow, despite the park's name meaning snowy. The others have been victims either of volcanic activiity or recent warming in the area.
Early the next morning Juan was knocking on my tent and we set off.  We discussed American sports at length, in a mix of Spanish and English.  Juan's English was excellent, but I kept trying to draw him into conversing in my faltering Spanish.
After an hour or so we came to Laguna Encantada, the Enchanted Lake. A friend who had travelled a great deal in Colombia had described this as the most beautiful spot he had visited. In the dull, overcast light, and with most of the setting obscured by cloud, some of its enchantment was lost, but the green waters still held a great deal of charm. As we neared the lake, the grass grew increasingly verdant.  On the edge, there were emerald islands isolated by the rainwater and overflow from the lake.

Laguna Encantada

 When we reached the glacier, the clouds had closed in all around us. The view of both the mountain top and the scenery around us had been shrouded in grey and the low sky and dirty glacier blurred into one. Juan and I walked up the ice for a few minutes, admiring the deep crevices, but in the wet conditions and without equipment hanging around too long wouldn’t have been wise.

Santa Isabel

That night, snowfall had me questioning my decision to camp instead of taking one of the empty dorm rooms in the nearby refuge.  The upside, however, was that my hike back to my pick-up point was even more stunning than two days before now that the mountains were topped by snow.  Once again, I got a ride for most of the journey from some friendly strangers.  

A couple of hours later I arrived at Manizales Airport.  I approached the check-in desk with some trepidation. What news would I get here? But my fears were unfounded and the flight left promptly.Colombia is, occasionally, capable of exceeding expectations.

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Caribbean on the Cheap

As we gripped the armrests in the 10-seat plane, Cath and I looked at each other with trepidation. I’m thinking to myself, ´Is going to a beach really worth all this?’ It is officially hurricane season and we are being tossed around by a Caribbean gale. We can see the pilot and he doesn’t seem too worried, but this doesn’t reassure me. We’re on our way to Providencia, a small island belonging to Colombia, not far off the east coast of Nicaragua. 
 The island, along with its bigger, more developed neighbour San Andres, has been a bone of contention between the two countries for close to 200 years. Colombia stubbornly holds on , and the only flights to San Andres are from the Colombian mainland. From there the tiny death-cage, er, airplane, flies on to Providencia.
As we approach- much more smoothly now- I look out the window to see the island. I begin to realise this isn’t a trip to just any seaside town. It appears as if some giant painter has spilt all of his blues and greens, creating a stunning seascape. When I point the scene out to Cath, she manages to open her eyes for a second and give a half-smile through her still-gritted teeth. 

Our relief at landing is tempered somewhat by the wrecked plane next to the runway. It’s not the most encouraging sight, but whatever, it’s a few years old apparently, and anyway, we’re not getting on a plane for another five days, so I’ll worry about it then.
We ride in the back of a pick-up (our taxi) to Aguadulce, one of three towns on the island.  The driver drops us at our first choice hotel, Miss Ella’s, and asks us when our return flight is.  He offers to come get us, but I am sceptical as to whether he will remember.
Fortunately, Ella has a room available (actually all the rooms were available), and for about $US 40 we have a room about 20 metres from the sea. That night, while sitting outside our room admiring the stars, a local approaches us. ‘Are you interested in a lunch? ´ A little bit late for that, I think to myself, but listen on.  He’s actually asking if we want to go on his launch for a tour of the island later on. As opposed to most salespeople in tourist destinations, he doesn’t seem too worried if we don’t accept- he’s happy just to chat. We agree that a few days later we will take him up on his offer, at the price of 50,000 pesos each (about 15 pounds). 
The next couple of days, though, we spend cycling and lazing on the beaches around the island.  Providencia being a former volcano, the cycling isn’t always easy, but it’s a great way of working off all the seafood we’ve been eating.  

This is my first experience of the Caribbean, and it’s better than I could have hoped. I’m not really a beach lover, but the pace of life here is irresistible. It is a stark contrast to the rest of Colombia. For a start, English is spoken more than Spanish, but more than that, the chaos and intensity of mainland Colombia is absent.
Colombians, almost without exception, are friendly and outgoing, but here hospitality is taken to a new level.  When we stay at Roland’s Roots Bar too long, our new friend Peaches is more than happy to follow us on his motorbike while we cycle the 3 miles to Aguadulce, providing some light on the otherwise pitch black roads (not enough, though, to avoid the occasional crunch of running over a crab).  

Climbing El Pico, the highest point of the island, is more my holiday style, but at just over 300 m we’re not exactly scaling Mont Blanc.  Walking through neighbourhoods, then farms and then the uninterrupted greenery, we’re treated to views of the verdant island and indigo sea.  I can tell that I’ve embraced the local way of life when, just a couple hundred of feet from the top, I suggest that we head back down and have a couple of beers instead. 

The next day is the launch tour, and my eyes are opened to a new world.  At tiny McBean Lagoon National Park, an islet just a couple of hundred yards off   our guide provides snorkel gear. Embarrassing at is to admit, I have actually never been snorkelling. Ever. Now I realise what I’ve been missing out on.  Underneath, amongst the coral, are fish I’ve never dreamt of seeing in real life. The yellows, purples, and other neon colours belong in a child’s colouring book, not on living creatures. When I’m finally dragged away I understand why so many people are into scuba diving. 

The following morning, our last on the island, reminds us why there are so few tourists right now.  Fortunately, we’re not experiencing a full-fledged hurricane, but it seems pretty damn close. As the rain pounds down around us, I begin to wonder if our taxi-driver will remember us, or if we should make alternate arrangements to get to the airport.  Just then, a familiar pick-up truck pulls up, and our driver from a few days ago helps us fit our luggage and ourselves into the front cab.  Making our way to the airport, I start to contemplate our flight back. No matter what happens, at least I know I’ve managed to visit paradise. 

Miss Ella's