Cartagena, Colombia was “discovered” in 1533, by yet another rapacious Spaniard in search of gold and glory. It was all downhill from there … until the cocaine cartels reared their ugly heads and brought riches unimaginable and Conquistador ultra-violence.
I often wonder when I visit the islands and countries of the Caribbean what the native population must have thought about these metal-clad brutes waving crosses and butchering with wanton abandon. Their European germs became a lethal metaphor played out across the Caribbean like a bad dream. And their Catholic religion lives on today like a nagging reminder that Christ wasn’t the only one who died for our sins.
Cartagena is a big city of over a million lost souls. It is Colombia’s fifth largest city, but it’s the gold standard when it comes to forgotten history because of its strategic maritime location. Its prime waterfront made it the only show in town for hundreds of years as the Spanish looted the precious gold from Peru.
These days, it’s the new city and the old — divided by water, so there can be no doubt.
The new Cartagena is a white, cocaine high rise expanse of modern living, sparkling along the blue beachfront. Essentially, it looks pretty much like Ft. Lauderdale.
We only had five hours in port, so we did the Old City, along with all the other snapshot herds of boat people off the three cruise ships docked at the jungle cruise terminal that was infested with domesticated exotic birds — macaws, parrots, strutting peacocks, and preening pink flamingos. It was Fear and Loathing in full tropical regalia. And it was pushing 90 degrees. So after an icebound Maryland winter it was like another animated planet.
Once out of the cruise port ripoff circle of delight, we caught a yellow taxi for $20 with our animated and quite knowledgeable driver, Mumford Perez, at the wheel. He took us through the insanely congested morning rush hour streets to the gates of the Old City where we entered through the brown fortress wall built by the Spaniards encircling the entire town. The grand Clock Tower greeted us like a yellow and white beacon.
It was still early — about 8:30 — and the Old City was slowly gearing up for the touron hordes that would soon be descending like the Spaniards of olden times.
The Old City was charming in a rundown way — flower-draped balconies, stucco Spanish architecture of bright colors, interior courtyards with lush vegetation, horse drawn carriages clip-clopping along the cobbled streets, statues of savage Spanish conquerors, a bronze Simon Bolívar on his trusty horse with pigeons shitting on his head, rusty public art, and an endless swarm of street vendors.
The vendors were hawking cheap jewelry, sunglasses, t-shirts, Panama gangsta hats, Cuban cigars, red and green maracas, tropical flowers, and fruits of every color and flavor. They were relentless and they were EVERYWHERE. Like an army! We could not escape them, and after a few hours it became tiresome. They were constantly on the move, attacking every gringo as if their lives depended on it — which it undoubtedly did. And it was all the same souvenir schlock. I will gladly admit, however, that the fruits and flowers were simply out of this world!
Who distributed all of this worthless junk? Was there a giant warehouse somewhere nearby where the locals lined up to get their box of genuine Chinese/Colombian junk, like tenant farmers working for the company store? And the poor vendors probably hated doing it as much as we hated being constantly badgered.
I was wearing sunglasses. Why would I want to buy another pair?
I was wearing a very nice Southwest sun hat. Why would I do with another hat?
But survival in Cartagena demands that its people spend every waking minute of their hard and tedious lives selling the same useless trinkets to aliens with money, like desperate beggars. It seemed like the entire population of the city was either driving a little yellow taxi or selling shiny things. It was shamefully sad.
There were, of course, the obligatory historic attractions — the Basilica, the museums, the grand haciendas, the squares with their statues to greed, the typical Spanish fortress walls overlooking the ocean, and lovely narrow streets lined with balconied haciendas that all looked inward.
Basically the Old City of Cartagena is like a very shabby Old San Juan in Puerto Rico. But it was South America, a new and exciting continent, with a rich history and warm and sunny weather. We were expanding our horizons and turning the old into the new. And exploring cultural landscapes is, in the end, what traveling is all about.
For instance, on the south side of the Old City, near the Parque Fernandez de Marid, we came across a baffling cultural curiosity, a Russian bar called KGB, housed inside an old Soviet submarine. Inna immediately ran across the street and stood gaping at the crazy cafe adorned with a yellow hammer and sickle and an image of a defiant Lenin. It was obviously new because they were still remodeling the place. But it was open for business, so we headed inside. The interior was this incredible red and gold jumble of Soviet memorabilia — a statue wearing a pilot’s suit, kitschy old photos of Kremlin and Czarist overlords, brightly painted Matryoshka dolls, and the actual interior of a discarded Russian sub. Inna had her picture taken with the hostess and chatted it up with the friendly Russian bartender. It was better than Disney. And in Cartagena, Colombia, of all places. Go figure.
On the way out of the Old City we came to the Plaza Santo Domingo, where we stumbled by pure chance upon a larger-than-life nude sculpture of a woman by Fernando Botero, the Colombian artist and sculptor. The bronze beauty lay voluptuously on a stone pedestal in front of the Santo Domingo Church, which seemed a bit out of place for such a devout Catholic country. Over the years, people had rubbed her big ass for luck and the metal was shiny smooth.
We returned to the ship, checked our emails in the cruise terminal tropical beer garden Wi-Fi zone — $3 for an hour of internet — said goodbye to the peacocks and pink flamingos, and then boarded the Norwegian Jade.
An hour later, we were standing on the sun deck, sipping Mango Meltdowns 190-feet above the sea, a our ship steamed out of sun-washed Cartagena, and headed north to the Panama Canal.
Yeah, boy, HOWDY!
