All the way south

If you tried talking to me in the language before this trip you wouldn't be able to tell, but I did some Spanish classes way back in 2010 in Sydney. After 18 months, my crowning achievement was having a full 30 minute conversation with a Colombian workmate, during work beers in the pub, without even realising it. Seven years of no practice had meant this had deteriorated to the basic stuff, but there's no better place to pick it back up than in a whole continent that speaks the language. Call it western arrogance, but I did not expect to have to use my Spanish as much as I have done so far on this trip. My travelling frame of reference comes from my previous big trip through Asia, where in most of the countries I visited, you can get by just fine with English. This has not been the case in many of the places I've visited so far in South America. Even in the "tourist" areas, I've had to dip into my shallow reservoir of Spanish vocabulary more often than I e

So far, the rule with Colombian buses had been to take the prescribed travel time and add an hour or two. Having been informed that the bus to Bogotá takes 7-9 hours, I feel into a deep VIP-seat slumber expecting to get at least a solid 8 hours of sleep. I was in the middle of a dream when Xavier poked me awake at 6am. I still wasn't fully awake, and still wasn't fully sure if we were actually in Bogotá just 7 hours later, when I said au revoir to him and clambered into a taxi. Finally, a daytime arrival at a new place. My first impressions on the near hour-long journey into the centre were...underwhelming. Lots of traffic, lots of buses, lots of flat sprawl - Bogotá wasn't impressing me so far. Having been hostel dorming it for a while now, I decided it was time for a break from backpacking. I had booked myself into a four star hotel for the next couple of nights, right in the historic central region, known as Le Candelaria. My extremely early arrival meant that my hot

It was with a heavy heart that I ordered the Uber to begin my journey out of Medellín. It had been a great week, and there was still more for me to do here, but time waits for no man - I had an Inca Trail deadline of December 10th looming, with more of Colombia, Ecuador and the Galapagos to cram in before then. Medellín didn't let me leave so easily though. The 11am bus I aimed to take to my next destination, Salento in the coffee region, was full, so I spent a bonus two hours blogging at the southern bus station waiting for the 1pm. The longer than expected bus journey took 7.5 hours (it's not a good idea to be in a rush in Colombia), but the other travellers made it interesting - including a couple of Aussie blokes (one of whom gave off all the signs of a debilitating coke habit) and a solo French traveller, Xavier, from Nantes. After yet another nighttime arrival in a new place, us bunch of random travellers made our way through some deserted and incredibly peaceful villag

One day, I'd love to do a big trip dedicated to soccer. I'd start in Europe, going to some games (including seeing Manchester United of course) in England, then maybe go see a big game in Portugal, Spain, Italy, Germany...then on to lesser-known leagues in central and eastern Europe. And then? Well, the only real destination after that is South America, and besides Boca vs River Plate, catching a big game in Columbia would also be on my fantasy iteneary. I could barely hide my glee then, when I decided in the airport before my Thursday flight to Cartagena to check if there was any games on in Medellín that weeked, and learning that it was only the El Clásico, the Medellín derby, on Saturday. Atletico Nacional versus Independiente Medellín. Not long after landing, I quickly acquired tickets to the game. Fuck yes. The excitement I felt the day before the game was not matched on the morning of, mostly due to a bastard of a hangover having been out until 5 am on pub crawl shena

Irish people like to think that we can spot other Irish when we're abroad just by looking at them (which is true, we can). I think after living two years in the Netherlands, I can now do the same for the Dutch. I've been using this skill a lot in Colombia, because there's a whole lotta Dutch here. I shared a taxi from the airport to the centre of Medellín with two meneers from Amsterdam and The Hague. Yet another night time approach to a new place, but this one was the best yet. Medellín is located both in a valley surrounded by hills, and on the sides of the hills themselves. The airport is outside this urban basin, and the area where I was staying (Poblado, where most of the hostels and nice restaurants/bars are) is located on a mountainside south of the centre. When I got to my hostel rooftop the view was incredible. I spent five minutes with a beer in hand just drinking it all in (along with Martin, my dorm roommate - Dutch of course). A really nice, modern hoste

The highlight of the five hour bus and taxi journey from Santa Marta to Cartagena (besides the great test of my dexterity in the pinball toilet), was the sight of masses of local hombres all sprinting urgently to the site of an overturned truck on the other side of the highway. It wasn't to provide assistance to the driver, it was to take advantage of a situation we all dream about - it was a beer truck. Unfortunately the police had already arrived by the time the taxi I was sharing with three Germans went past, so we decided against joining the affray. Again it was nightfall arriving in a new place, except this approach was very different from Tayrona park. Cartagena is Columbia's top tourist destination, and the old city, where I was staying, is a World Heritage Site. The ramparts, surrounding the old city, and the various churches and monuments, are bathed in golden light after dark. I was already enthralled. After dropping the friendly Germans off at their hostel, I

The morning after the night before, I woke up in my clothes, stiff, sore, and hungover. I decided within 30 seconds of waking up that today was going to be a rest day. I was staying in a nice guesthouse with my own private ensuite room, my own double bed, a personal hammock and decent wifi. In my current state, this was heaven. After booking an extra night, and a delicious guesthouse breakfast, and sleeping some more, the afternoon was spent in the Museu del Oro, the first (but if you know me you'll know it's definitely not the last) museum of this trip, which was pretty good, with some great information on the local indigenous groups of the area. Long story short: they were fucked over when the Spanish arrived, but they've managed to maintain their culture and some traditions in smaller isolated communities, as well as being integrated into Columbian culture as a whole. Tayrona national park contains jungle rainforest that runs right up to some well nice isolated beaches

My first night's sleep in Columbia was better than expected. Jetlag took a night off, and I slept like a log, probably due to being extremely tired - the second night is always when jetlag kicks in proper for me. Where better then to battle the jetlag than on a gruelling four-day jungle trek to an ancient mountaintop city? La Ciudad Perdida ("The Lost City" in English) is an indigenous city built by the Tayrona. The Tayrona are the local equivalent of the Aztecs of Mexico or the Incas of Peru - they are the original inhabitants of this part of the continent, whose civilisation was slowly wiped out after the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors back in the 1600's. They were murdered and enslaved in the masses, their gold was taken to be melted down and sent back to the Spanish crown, and their way of life was destroyed. La Ciudad Perdida was one of their major cities, one that was lost to jungle growth for 400 years, until some scavengers hunting for lost indigenous

Just over a week into Colombia and I'm sitting in a jungle hostel with no wifi and my legs barely work. It's been a hectic week, and it's time for some downtime (and to catch up on things like this blog). I departed Auckland packed like a sardine into the middle seat of the middle aisle of one of LATAM airlines' 787s. The Kiwi assistant at the check-in counter insisted that I needed to have an exit ticket out of Columbia before I could board the flight. Explaining that I was planning to depart the country via a land border, and with no time to book a flight I could cancel (I was checking in pretty last minute), she spent a few worrisome minutes discussing my options with her colleagues. In the end we came to a compromise - she would take my credit card details in case Columbian immigration decided to book a flight for me. I had gone through a whole load of hassle to get my American Express "just in case" card (it's bloody difficult to get a credit card i

Like Uluru and the Great Barrier Reef, in my six years living in Sydney I failed to make it to New Zealand, not even for a weekend ("I'll go next year, next year"). Seeing as it was on the way to South America, this was another "now or never" moment. So I squeezed three days in to the start of my three months. Three days in New Zealand, as it turns out, is a very tight squeeze. I flew into Queenstown. I had heard nice things about the area, but I was not prepared for the epic jaw-to-the-floor scenery encountered on approach and after landing. I had heard it was nice, but not this nice. This thought played around in my head over the next couple of days on the south island - some places are over hyped, and don't meet expectations when visited. But New Zealand, or at least the parts I saw in the south island, are under  hyped. Either I haven't been paying attention, or their tourist board needs to get their arse in gear - the South Island is mind-blowing