Well, I’ve got my work cut out. Hundreds of you came out of the woodwork to tell me to keep at it, so in deference to my readers here is a bumper edition from my South American notebook of 1975.
Good trips, bad trips – the road to Medellin
After Bruno’s unfortunate meeting with the front of a lorry, which reduced his Renault to a shambling wreck, he packed what possessions he could in a duffel bag and took the bus to Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, where he could catch a plane to Mexico City.
Bogotá was half a day’s ride for me and the logical next stop on my way north. He said he’d leave a message for me at the French Embassy.
Bogotá, Tuesday 18
Arrived at 1pm to find the French embassy closed and empty but for a manager who says come back at 3pm and sends me to a café called “The Parasol”. Woman who owns it warms to me as I wait. Eventually she proposes marriage. Says it’s the only way she can get out of Colombia to work in the USA. Doesn’t seem sure of her facts. Afterwards, I’m told all a Colombian needs is a paid-up tax certificate. But she touched me and let me off a few pesos on my bill.
At 3.30 got Bruno’s message; to find him at Jane’s flat, but there’s no room for me. Her ample cousin Nicole has arrived to wait for her passport (stolen) to be replaced.
Ring British Embassy and shamelessly ask to be put up.
David Lloyd makes an effort (I think) but eventually sends me to Pension Allemana (50 pesos + 10 for garage).
Wednesday 19
Next day I visit him [David Lloyd] – he’s your all-English smooth man, but with a slightly crooked mouth. Has Information & Intelligence function.
Friday eve. Meet Tim & Sorita Ross [Observer newspaper]. Fled from Brazil where Govt. has warrant for his arrest, for denigration and incitement of insurrection. Also meet a stringer for Sunday Times. Eat churrasco at Indiana – very good – open grill on charcoal. Sorita was moved to tell me she was raped in Brazil by carload of police (in Salvador) and I feel like touching her, but don’t. He [Tim] is impelled to pursue risky, violent stories. Much understated bravado about tear gas (CS & CN) and mob violence. Emeralds.
All the usual stories of robbery and violence in Bogotá. I’ve escaped so far.
Tim calls me later to ask if I’d like to have lunch with the Defense Attache next day (Saturday). He fetches me in a car. Chris Jenne, Commander, Royal Navy, tall, shock of white hair. Suburban stye house, wife Elizabeth, sons Charles & Edward, daughter Tina.
Chris Jenne and co very kind, hospitable, informal. Spend best part of two days with them at Sports club. Roped into a game of cricket. Take two catches and score five. Never did so well at school. Very enjoyable.
Visited the Gold Museum. Astonishing.
ONE OF THE WINDOWS AT THE BOGOTA GOLD MUSEUM
Tremendous evolution of form to classic perfection. Continue to wonder why certain variations of anthropomorphism are current in certain societies. Alex Bright (No.2 at the museum) talks about hallucinations being common to all takers of some drugs – only interpretations vary. He is not very convincing – either unwilling or unable to let his mind range over possibilities. A disappointment to Chris and myself.
British Council has [copies of] Sunday Times except for Jan 19, Feb 16, March 9. But nothing of mine anywhere. Suspect that I’ve been squeezed out of the revamped Holiday Section and have no place elsewhere.
[There was a period of many months when certain editors at the paper thought my stories were inappropriate and wanted to cut me loose. Although my expenses were very low I was dependent on the connection.]
Bruno has sent the bulk of his luggage back to France including my stuff from Peru. On Saturday evening, coming back with Chris to Pension Alleman we found him outside hotel door trying to get in. He had left his luggage in my room. So far had I sunk into British Sporting Life that seeing him there was like being reminded of a forgotten episode in one’s life.
Before leaving Bogotá I wanted to arrange some kind of passage around the Darien Gap. The first possibility that presented itself was to go round by ship with the Italian Line which sailed from a Pacific port called Bonaventura to Panama.
I visited their office in Bogotá.
First, they insisted that a carry a plane ticket out of Panama.
I got the Panamanian consulate to call them and say it wasn’t necessary, but they called my hotel to cancel my booking, with gratuitous abuse to one of the guests.
When I called them to protest they said they had sent to Panama for instructions.
The next day they said I had to leave a $200 deposit (that would be $2000 today) against being refused entry to Panama. Traveller’s cheques will do, they said, but when I arrive at the office only dollar bills would satisfy them.
But it’s not at all clear how I would retrieve the money if I miss the boat, and time is already short. I decided to continue North to Cartagena and hope for the best.
It was with a note of triumph that Señor Torrenegra cancelled my booking.
Wednesday 26th
Leave Bogotá at 1.30 after wasting time on Italian Line. Arrived that evening in Fresno – just after Honda – a small town in mountains. Hotel Bella Vista (no view) at 25 peso a night. Dinner in small place on square, where they try to serve me an old beer with a swig taken out if it. Two small children come in at the end of my dinner and point silently at my plate which has a potato and 3 slices of tomato left on it. I nod, and swiftly but politely they gather the remains in their fingers and dart off. It was the most telling incident so far in my encounters with hunger – and quite unexpected.
Easter Thursday 27th
Leave for Medellin.
The church (an exceptionally ugly cement one) broadcasts cracked recordings of bad songs through loudspeakers at 7, and again at 8. Ride off into mountains. Apart from a short, but terrible stretch it’s all paved to Medellin.
A RURAL IDYLL, FROM THE ROAD TO MEDELLIN
Arrive at 4.30 looking for British Consul. but can’t remember her name. And all offices closed. After long search I look in the [telephone] book for any English name and ring a family called Smith.
“Fantastic” says girl, when I explain, and they invite me to visit because they know Ampora Villa [the consul]. When I get there they fetch another motorcyclist round called Antonio, who is a dentist and paints. He is smoking pot all the time we talk, with no apparent effect. He takes me off to Andres, but I don’t realise till later that it’s the same person I rang earlier (as given me by Matt and Andy and Cleo [in Otavalo] who spent several nights there).
Mrs Smith is an interpreter. She will work at the first International Congress of Sorcery, to be held in Bogotá in August. Her electric typewriter was stolen and she is willing it to return. She says she thinks she’s got it – but it’s not quite there yet.
Her daughter, MaryJo, writes tender verses about love, grief and springtime. Has very good grey eyes and a busy life of arts and crafts, all macramé and pottery, flutes and drums and drawings. Very Hampstead, or Gloucester Crescent.
Andres Ceballos is a curious man. Seems very alive and dead at the same time. Advises textile firms on selling lines. Intellectually developed but physically unresolved. Wife, Eleanor, returns from Cartagena with four-year-old daughter, Catalina. He encourages her freedom – to study, to live apart from him. Was 15 when she married him. Now a passion for learning and travel. But all their energies seem focused on external things.
[I remember one day I smoked one joint of the stuff Andres smoked incessantly without effect, and I had a truly terrible trip which I thought was going to fry my brain.]
March 31st
Spent two nights at Andres’ home. Went to see Ampora at hotel, then to the Cuerpa de Bomberos [fire service] for free hospitality – a room, bed, clean sheets – amazing. They have old fire engines from the Twenties, beautifully preserved. Nice, gentle men, very poorly paid, it seems, but dedicated.
MY BIKE AT THE MEDELLIN FIRE STATION
A FIRE ENGINE FROM THE TWENTIES
April 3
Leave for Cartagena.
That’s all I can manage for today. Thanks again for taking an interest. I won’t be back for a few weeks. I have to go to California to take care of a few things, so I’ll see you again in April when you’ll learn how I caught a boat to a pirate island and flew to Panama with the bike in the cabin.
Feb 4
Into the Cauca valley. Tropical. Bananas. Music. Good asphalt road. I flew. Up a mountain. Down again. Up again, and then sat there watching Bruno’s van appear over the previous summit.
(The van had a damaged cardan, or half-axle)
Went on to Popayan. Pretty town. Colonial Facades. Churches with beautiful carved wood, gilt and maroon on white. Remember the pulpit of San Francisco.
Found a hotel – Los Balcones.
Feb 5
Moved to another hotel, El Monasterio. Superb. Only 240 pesos (eight dollars) for two. Pleasant day walking in town. B has his cardan repaired for next to nothing. Remember chapel of Encarnacion in convent. Had lunch and dinner at hotel. Excellent.
Feb 6
Hotel breakfast (Fabulous – remember it to this day) Laundry. Supermarket. On to La Plata again.
(We were heading inland into the mountains to San Agostìn where – we had heard – a large number of statues had been recently discovered underground)
Bruno leaves before me. I get out at 12.30. Lovely weather. Then a fuse blows. Waste time trying to trace the fault. Then give up and put in a temporary circuit. Meanwhile a storm blows up. Find myself in a terrific downpour. Makes me very unhappy. But later, in good weather, on very dry roads, ride fast – and slide uncontrollably right across one bend.
(There were lorries driving fast downhill and filling the road. To meet one unexpectedly on a bend could be fatal)
Catch up with Bruno just before La Plata. He’s had another bash with a lorry.
(Lorry drivers surrounded him, insisting it was his fault.)
The end of the road
Paid 600 pesos damages. His other half-axle is broken. Has a Quebecois hitch-hiker with him.
(Looking for a place to camp I spot a lovely green field)
I lead us all into a bog. Struggle to escape – ploughing up the field. Ride into La Plata. Find the Residencia Berlin. Jesus and Domitila Clavijo and their ten children. Parrot called Roberto.
Ten kids and a parrot
Feb 7
(Bruno’s van is now lozenge-shaped and undrivable. It is illegal to sell a foreign registered vehicle in Colombia)
Still in La Plata. Bruno sells his car to a policeman. Auctions the contents. (See full description in Jupiter’s Travels)
Feb 8th
To San Agustin. Two rivers to cross. Take first one very seriously, barefoot. Fast but not too deep. On last stretch from Pitalito to San Agustin – dirt – fall off. Break strap on pannier and crack spark plug in half.
Bruno arrived half an hour before by bus. Is finding out about horses already.
(Bruno is devoted to horses and rode steeplechase. I know nothing about horses)
Have mixed feelings about it – still think of horses as potentially dangerous. But excited by idea also. He walks for hours and says he has found two good ones for the next day. I begin to get a feeling for San Agustin and the hotel.
Fuzzy rider
By horse to Alto de los Idolos. Tremendous ride down the side of a ravine. Only loss of my raincoat spoils the trip, but soon get over that. Staggering descent and climb. Statues don’t measure up to the experience. (Why should they?)
Feb 10
Idle day – last hours at park (Parque de los Idolos)
Feb 11
Horses again – to Pamela’s Hacienda. Spiky reception but ends well with banana bread. She has an enormous bottom but carries it quite well. There are two children there. Whose? Pamela and Harry get paid ($100 a month) to keep them for the summer months. They also get money sending Colombian stuff to her mother’s shop in New England. They spent eight months – she says – scraping old lime wash of the woodwork. No animals, except chickens. She is very defensive about their position. The only ones, she says, who stuck it out.
Feb 12 to 14
Back to La Plata. Bruno leaves for Mexico. End of a chapter.
PS: It’s interesting transcribing these old notes, but it’s an effort and I want to be sure it’s worth the trouble. A precious few faithful readers have shown their appreciation, but not enough. If you want me to go on doing this, please let me know.
Feb 21
Leave Quito. Too late. Fantastic downpour & hail. Inches of water on roads. Bike fails on way out, but only for a short time. Reach Otavalo at nightfall. Frozen. Indian café. Find Peace Corps house. Ray (Raimundo) receives us. Sleep in kitchen. Ray illustrates textbooks to help Quetchua-speaking Indians to learn Spanish. Very pleased with progress of program.
Feb 22
Saturday. Market at Otavalo. Very Indian – and quite unlike Peru or Bolivia. Indian dress is sombre. Navy blue wool ponchos, pigtails. Characteristic diamond shape of men, short cotton trousers, women wear hats of piled up shawls, straight dark dresses, white blouses. Almost all are barefoot. Gold bead necklaces (glass from Czechoslovakia).
Much more communicative than other Indians. Sellers line up in two facing rows – with their blankets in front of them – shoulder to shoulder – while buyers walk between them. Permanent kiosks of masonry for stallholders. Many Gringos taking pictures. One of my cameras has failed (light meter) after soaking on Peruvian beach.
The Gringo café – pancakes US style – granola for sale – like refectory at Berkeley. Bruno is astonished. Ride out to hacienda to meet Matt coming the other way.
[Matt Handbury is Rupert Murdoch’s young nephew, riding a BMW, trying to decide what to do with his life]
The Hacienda
Went to see hacienda, then back to Otavalo – where Andy and Cleo arrive at Ray’s. Together return to hacienda, by old Pan-American route – cobbles, then grass slide down past precipice. Andy at first strikes me as quite strange. Thin – gaunt – blonde, moustache, tight leather trousers, orange satin smock. BMW. Front teeth missing on left side. Cramps his smile. Easy to underestimate, as I do at chess.
Feb 23 – 27 at Hacienda
Bob and Annie there too. They’ve decided to stay and get married. Play card game called hearts. Marathon session till 4am. Vegetarian meals. Indian family very close. Girls just come and sit. Fascinating and lovely to watch. Always smiling, greeting. Maria says photos steal her spirit – her father told her so.
Andy becomes ever more interesting. His dead-pan manner, slow uneasy smile, would fit a Western hero. The missing teeth could explain it, but there seems to be more. With his specs on he seems quite innocuous, small-minded, hard to imagine him fishing tuna – $500 in one day off ‘Two-fold Bay’ in Australia. Tells story of killer whales and fishermen combining to catch blue whales. Also of his hero, the Irish Australian skipper he has sent me to see.
So we went out to dinner on the last night and coming back Bruno drove into a foot of plastic mud on the old highway and was stuck there for the night. Took two hours of digging to get him out in the morning.
[I also remember that Andy, inexplicably, accused me of stealing his camera body by switching it surreptitiously for one of mine. Could not disabuse him. Bob and Annie gave me an address of friends in California, leading me eventually to the commune that played a huge part in my life.]
Feb 28
Rode off to Colombia in the rain. Wet but easy. Got to border at 4.30. But customs is back in Tulcan. Bruno is furious. Then, on Colombian side, ride up hill to Ipiales to find that passport control was at the frontier. And while we stop to talk to frontier guards a section of hillside falls on the road we were about to take.
Roast chicken at Ipiales, then into night to find place to stop.
Getting ready to leave
On the road the Ipiales
March 1
Woke up to beautiful scenery and sun. A curious dip in road, against a grassy hummock. On other side a valley, cultivated, and mountain beyond. A bus has been abandoned down the road – one of those fairground vehicles without doors, common in Ecuador & Colombia. A small house nestles in the ground beside us, smoke oozing through the roof. Took many pictures. Left about midday on switchback road to Pasto. Most impressed by countryside. On smaller scale than Peru, greener, less bare stone, but spectacular. Waterfalls, trees, much cultivated land. White house, L-shaped with porches, tiled with clay or wood. Found a patch of flat grass, near a mountain top to camp on, about halfway to Pasto. Spent much effort, both nights, preparing for prospective assaults by delinquent Colombians. Arsenal included my knife, machete, Bruno’s pistol. Seen by many lorry drivers and imagined the gossip at nearby hamlet, but a peaceful night.
March 2
In Pasto I was a sensation
To Pasto – ordinary town with some big modern municipal buildings. Searched uselessly for (spark) plugs. Bought food. Took road to lake. Not so impressive. Slept in car outside rustic hotel owned by Germans (Swiss?) who said they’d come to Colombia 20 years before, after being soldiers – to supervise the opening of a number of hotels. Then opened their own. We ate, bought wine (Chianti at 180 – in shops 130). Played chess.
March 3
Renault failed to get up hill. Towed by lorry, into Pasto and out, to eat in a rainstorm on the road. Bruno develops a passion for porridge and bacon & eggs, but I still don’t dunk my bread and strawberry jam in my coffee. Who’s the chauvinist?
Where did we spend the night?
