Barranquilla, Colombia

Today began in our almost colonial style hotel, in the El Prado area of Barranquilla, Colombia. El Prado is easily the nicest area of Barranquilla, a city just shy of 1.5 million. The surrounding areas, once full of character and streaked with vibrant colours, for the most part are now decaying buildings, completely dilapidated concrete and exposed layers of old paint, mixed with twisted and rusted rebar. What remains, surrounds and almost swallows up the few condos and upscale restaurants that El Prado has to offer.

Barranquilla was to be our home and new city of employment and it was incredibly hard to believe, even as we packed our bags, that we would no longer be teachers in Colombia, might be fugitives with revoked visas and are now on the run, hoping to travel a bit, while we figure out something/anything to do next. This extremely difficult decision, to leave the teaching program, started to form after our first visit to our host schools. Unfortunately, the program did not consider our status as a couple when placing us, as we were on different sides of the city and in order to live in a safe and recommended neighbourhood, Rebecca would have had to commute on a less than reliable bus system, for over an hour and enveloped in the pitch black of early morning. Not to mention her school was in an area specifically warned against even visiting, let alone going everyday as a young, foreign female. Other teachers were placed near one another and even at the same schools in Barranquilla, so we could have worked closer together and should have. Even friends that applied together were placed in much more favourable locations. Considering we were there to teach only English, it seems ridiculous that the as the two most experienced and educated teachers coming through the program at this time, we were basically forced out due to extreme safety issues and lack of consideration for a couple moving to another continent together.

After our final hotel breakfast being served by two incredibly hardworking and polite Colombians, we said our goodbyes to them, left them what we hope was a good tip in Colombia of 10,000 COP (diez mil) and grabbed all our belongings, which are many, as we thought we were moving to Barranquilla for 8 months. We split our last ice-cold Aguila Light just before checking out at 9am, seemingly appropriate and fitting into a no waste and no condensation dripping in my bag scenario. Our destination was to be Santa Marta, two-hours northwest by bus. With only one bus on this Sunday and a hostel already booked, we had to catch this bus and for some reason had confidence that we had worked everything out the night before, even though we could not complete the online ticket process.

“Colombia Time” is a popular term here referring to the laid back nature of things and general lack of importance to get anything accomplished quickly, including check-out lines at a supermarket, walking in the street, keeping a schedule, being on-time, etc…even the bank machines run on Colombia time, yet somehow the bus company does not. However, this was not knowledge we had on our way to the Central Barranquilla bus station. We were stuffed, with far too many bags, into a tiny cab trying to negotiate the price, but also taking in what we thought would be our last sights of this crumbling city scape, but one that still bursts with life each morning, as almost all walks of life head to the streets to buy and sell anything and everything, including the best empanadas I’ve ever had, most popular for breakfast and Rebecca’s favourite, dedito con queso (a crispy, light pastry filled with cheese and for some reason not served with some sort of salsa fruta). I can’t help but look for ways to improve the food I think about all day and every day and this one will bother me to no end. Quick jag on food…the night before we decided to strictly have dinner via street vendors and I started with a ridiculous Colombian Arepa, stuffed with pulled chicken, pulled pork, sausage, cheese, chicharrones and topped with a garlic sauce. Not many things have pleasured my taste buds as this delight and for cinco mil (2.25 CAD), I should have had 10. My mind is so on food right now and can’t wait for some delicious Colombian descafeinado con leche and then a lunch of mojarra frito (deep fried whole fish).

We arrived at the Central Bus Station shortly after 9:20am to find every door and window barred up and all I could mutter to our comically plump Colombian chauffeur wedged in the tiny driver seat, was, “no way, cerrado?” He confirmed it was closed and now the language barrier took over, as we tried to figure out what the hell we were going to do. We knew of one other bus station, closer to the airport, but had no idea if it would be open on a Sunday, as we were learning many things, including restaurants and bars, are not. There’s always a way to get a cerveza or 20 though, which is really the only way to beat the intense Caribe heat. Somehow, with the stress of the situation building and wondering if we were going to be forced out of the taxi in almost complete squalor, with a load of luggage and basically giant red and white rings hanging on our necks, we managed to communicate the need to get to the other station. Our only hope was that it would be open, have a bus running to Santa Marta at 10am and that we would make it on time.

With slight panic setting in, although the backup plan was not the worse, just another night paid in a hotel and the loss of our booking and fees in Santa Marta or cabbing for 2 hours, we were en route to the final bus station and the neighbourhoods began to get even worse. This is when our driver started signalling to lock all the doors. The first thought I had was “roll ‘em up,” a quote from Clark W. Griswold when taking in the plight of an inner city. If this is beyond you, watch this clip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrN54QXppKA Finally our driver pointed out a terminal on the other side of the main road, but one that was still crowded with donkey pulled carts, scooters, motorcycles and all walks of life. After looping back and pulling up to the station or small, sweltering, cement room, with two impossibly big busses for the street parked out front on curbs, we attempted to jump out, as time was fading fast and we still had to get tickets, if there were any left and if one of those buses was even destined for Santa Marta. Our driver immediately stopped us from getting out as men from all angles were approaching. He kindly used his body language to indicate that we need to keep our eyes on everything, our backpacks on our fronts and arms securely around them. From then it was a rush to put one bag on top of another and persuade the men that we did not need their help or their rides. Our status as gringos was not an asset at this moment, to say the least. With everything clutched to our bodies, we managed to get tickets and board the bus, hoping that our luggage had not already been stolen from the storage area below. After a 37 point turn and multiple curb hops, we were somehow off to Santa Marta, leaving behind our new jobs, new city and possibly now illegal aliens running from both our program and the Policia….

All of the above street shots are a glimpse into our taxi ride to the bus station.