When traveling in dreary weather, one looks with excitement at any sign of a break in the clouds. So too when it's not just the weather but the whole ambience that's dreary. The road to Mompos was littered with crater-sized potholes. Drivers are very adept at winding their way around the biggest ones but it's all relative. We pass other vehicles coming at us on the right side of the road while we're driving on the left side.
Of course, the Lonely Planet charted out a bus route to Mompos but that's not good enough for us. These intrepid travelers ended up taking a very local bus to the Cartagena bus station (or close enough for the gringas). It seems that the bus attendant is just eager to fill up the bus and move on so it doesn't matter if the bus is not going exactly to the bus terminal. Anyway, there are always locals around who are ready to snatch our bags from us and carry them for a tip. So, we hop onto a bus which we are told would take us to Magangue so that we can get a boat. Generally, buses, etc. take twice as long as the officials say they will take. It seems that drivers kind of make up their own route and pick up other passengers along the side of the road. After traveling for not-quite-the-official-length-of-time, we're told to get off at a crossroads.
The driver points in the direction of some trucks carrying cows and says that we could get a ride the rest of the way to Magangue. Thank goodness, Alisa understands better than I as she walks past the trucks and to the shops on the other side of the road.
So, after chatting some locals, we get presumably the last seats on a collectivo to Magangue. But, of course, along the way a few people get off and a lot more people hop on. There is no sense of personal space. The two children behind me keep rubbing against me, touching my hair, my clothes, etc. Not in a playful way that kids sometimes do and it certainly wasn't malicious. It just seems that I am invisible and they and their limbs just need to move around. When we boarded, we were told that we didn't have to pay. Alisa's buddies felt badly that we had already paid the previous bus for a trip to Magangue so they've taken care of our fare. But, that doesn't stop the driver from demanding that we pay more. Oh, well, everyone gets something out of this -- the original bus people got our full fare to Magangue; the nice men can feel good about helping us out; the collectivo ended up getting gringo fares from us; we paid what the locals paid for the ride.
A little more drama in Magangue...what do these guys do when there aren't gringos around to hustle for a little change to carry bags a few feet. Unfortunately for them, we're strong women who pack lightly and can take care of our own belongings.
Alisa guide us to the boats. I only get a little worried when I noticed that they aren't overcramming passengers on and they even had out a life jacket to each person (hmmm, that reminded us that Der Stahlratte crew never pointed out any life jackets on our cruise from Panama).
After a speedy ride through a wide, lush river/marshlands, we disembark, fight off some more baggage hustlers and share a bumpy ride to Mompos.
When we arrive, we try hard to find an Emerald City at the end of a yellow-brick road or at least an unpolished gem somewhere. The hotel is cute with rocking chairs to greet us; there are noisy parrots in the lobby to add local color.
But, let's face it...it's like traveling in a covered wagon, fording vast waters, navigating miles of rugged roads and arriving in a little town in rural Arkansas. Not that there's anything wrong with Arkansas. And, this is certainly typical of something but do I really want to write home about it!??!!
Even after some food, a good night's sleep and a fresher outlook, we walk around town and still searching for the charm and justification for the long trip here and the longer trip ahead.
But, the senor at the hotel has a friend who will give a ride to El Banco so we can get a bus to Bucaramanga. Alisa bargains through the hotel man and is able to get a reduced rate. As the locals start piling in, Alisa sees that even they are paying more than we did for this wonderfully air-conditioned van. But, the people keep packing in. I guess the driver will make up the difference in our fares through volume. But, he keeps our row of seats fairly empty. We keep making stops along the way. The driver gets phone calls and suddenly we find ourselves going down an unbeaten path and picking up other passengers. Wait a minute! The driver's assistant wasn't sitting with us when we left the last stop but he keeps showing up at the next stop cramming more people and a box of chickens in with us. Oh, I get it. He is riding outside on top of the van with our luggage. Somehow, he decides that the very large man making phone calls and getting emails from his Blackberry and sitting shotgun next to the driver should move to the row behind us crammed in with three other people. The woman with the chickens gets his spot. There's a little grumbling from the people from the last row who don't want to ride four across. Meanwhile, Alisa and I who besides the little boy riding on his mother's lap may be the slimmest people are only sharing a seat with one man.
Somewhere along the way the driver stops the van and has the passengers open the windows. I guess the air-conditioned ride is over and we will be wind-conditioned. We pass by vans going the other direction with two or three people riding on top. I get a little worried about how they choose who will ride up there if any more people get on.
Long past the time that we were told the ride would take we arrive in El Banco. Alisa who is eager to find a job in South America auditions for the job of driver's assistant and helpfully retrieves our luggage so that we can make our bus connection.
Of course, the bus which is supposed to leave in 15 minutes doesn't leave for 2 1/2 hours. So, we nibble on a few munchies. This is a long day without much sustenance and a 7-hour bus ride ahead of us.
But, the bus is comfy and the scenery is pretty -- very rural but the ever-ubiquitous cellphone tower in the background. Many of the houses don't have electricity but all along the way there are handmade signs offering cell service for 200 pesos a minute.
The bus stops and we watch a similar sized bus cram its way onto a little barge for the trip down the river. Oh, no! The bus ahead of us is also going to somehow fit on that little barge. Here we see the second bus squeezing on.
Hold it! We are also getting on. There are three big buses on that little barge which is being towed by two tiny boats.
I guess they know what they are doing. We safely get down the river and motor our way to Bucamaranga. After a while the pirated DVD copies of popular movies come on. I get to practice Spanish watching Jet Li overcome all sorts of evil types. He's very talented.
We pull into Bucaramanga. The people seem to be very nice; maybe it's just too late for the hustlers to be hustling. Or, maybe I'm just a weary traveler and this little town just looks like a great place to nestle in.
The clementine peels take forever to break down as well as asparagus stems. The shredded newspapers have clumped up. The Valentine bouquet hasn't integrated but continues to bring joy to the mix -- a little over seven pounds, so far. Some of the how-to sites suggest using a food processor to break things down first, but somehow using electricity to "make" compost doesn't work for me (yet).
The ice packs have really brought the swelling of the bump on my head down considerably. On Saturday morning,we finish off the arepas from last night's dinner and head out to explore Bogota. It's very walkable although we are warned against flashing cameras on certain roads. But, it's beautiful. Again, I'm audibly panting as we climb some hills for magnificent vistas of the city.
