Kamiel Verwer - Colombia Travel Story

Title: Kamiel Verwer
Website: http://kamielverwer.blogspot.com
Today, I go to the Club Nautico again, this time with a young Brit called David. He is a Londoner and I have met a lot of nice Londoners along the way. He is gathering random events, which I like a lot.
Doug's boat was already full, so we spoke to some more skippers. Olivier the Frenchman with his thick accent and grey beard, Herman the Hungarian Hun with his boat Atilla and big silver earrings. Fabien the professional experienced Colombian. They explain us how expensive everything is and how much work to operate an open-sea yacht. Our bargaining attempts fail and we give in. Tomorrow we will say YES to Fabien. We will leave for Panama the 13th of May.

We always desire violence more than we would admit. There is a metaphysical need for violence in all of us, and when it doen't come out that means we're suppressing it. Buh! How many writers impress their readers by this kind of talk. They all want to show us the darkest corner of the human soul, exemplifying it with their own soul that spouts deep metaphysical tones in e-minor just like an enormous organ in a gothic church, why not, they want to cut off the breath of their own public, strangulate their readers with their words. And in the end they say it's all meaningless. Well, write about meaningless butterflies and meaningless hummingbirds then, instead of our meaningless lives. I have to elaborate this kind of stuff more, but I'm tired. I need better metaphores to describe the character of that writer so you can follow my imagination better. The long unkempt curly hair with shades of grey, the large plastic frame on his nose, the self-aggrandizing smile on his wet lips, his tailormade ruby suit, his laid-back posture, the wrinkles, the restlessly bouncing feet, that kind of things. I have to eleborate more in order to make you feel and think about it. All that pseudo-intellectual rant - what do I want to say here - that so called deep talk about the great questions: Why do we talk? Why we hold dear the illusion that we are not alone on this path to eventual decay. We always express ourselves in the hope our words echo in the receptive mental chamber of the Other. It doesn't matter how black and nihilistic our words are. And there he sits on his chair, the writer, pressing the nail of his thumb slowly in the cushions and suppressing a long yawn. He is bored by the whole situation. The question remains: Why doesn't he write about meaningless hummingbirds instead of the meaningless timespan between ejaculation and death?

There is a computer problem. On Ivan's memory card is a virus. I discovered it and engaged on the resolving process right away. Like ambulance personel that doesn't want to waste a single second. When I work with computers, which I don't like, I can't do only one thing at the time. So I download a couple of programs and try to restore the data with some tools simultaneously. This takes me a few hours, in the burning midday sun and I was kind of happy about it since now I am secure this is not my life. This was the thing I have escaped from. Like a good prisoner, the memory of my old prison fulfills my heart with joy. From the outside, that prison looks very, very pretty. Now I can see what it is: It's just a laugable episode, an unsignificant interval between juicy organic activities. I resolve every aspect of the problem and that should have raised endorphine levels to induce a feeling of satisfaction and relief, just like it does with normal people. I am just sweaty, hot, and hungry, but happy to have experienced another proof ex negativo of who I am today.

After that I take a shower. Why not write a story about my seven-second fight with gravity and the soap? They have every right to be honored here. The soap is a piece of cheap red perfumed soap I bought in Santa Cruz for my private bump who refused to use it. It's very slippery but it does what it should do: take away the sweat. I keep it in a plastic bag so that it doesn't waste the other contents of my backpack. There are some hairs sticking on it, and its surface is not as fine as it used to be. That's about all I can say about the soap-character, admittedly it's not much. The gravity, my other adversary on this sprinkled venture, has an even simpler character. At least, to us earthlings it reveals only one side of it: "go down" I think maybe the soap could have made it into a modern play, at least it would have a chance to slip through, but the gravity would definitely be denied a role. My seven-second shower fight was, for that reason, not a modern play and would probably miss the Becketty finesse. If it was not a play, so it must have been real life. Seven seconds of real life! That's something. I hold the soap in my right hand and try to rub my left arm, armpits, chest, belly, making a few circles around the bellybutton before the soap slips out of my hand. With my left hand I manage to catch it before it hits the floor and start washing my right arm, armpit, chest, belly, where the soap tries to escape again. A second time I can foil the conspirancy of its slipperyness and the blunt "go down" of gravity once again and catch the soap with both hands. I wash my thighs and bend forward to reach my calves. That was fatal. The soap falls on the floor and I lose the struggle. In only seven seconds, a foamy allegory to the drama of life has taken place. There is no

We go to a dance bar. The girls don't dance with us. Either they're hookers here, or frigid, that's an interesting juxtaposition. This town is full of interesting juxtapositions and we sense that even though we only know the touristic center. When we walk home, some whores offer us massage and fuckifucki.
"Muy rico, muy economico fuckifucki suckisucki. Cinquenta mil pesos."
Conversations with prostitutes usually never surpass a certain level, where only the erectile parts of my being are being taken into consideration. I don't really like that.

I'm a bad boy. With the fake 20.000 peso bill I still carry along with me, I buy some beers on the street. The guy who sold me the beers recognized the counterfeit bill and showed it to some police officers. I have to come with them because it is a crime to have forged bills in your wallet, they tell me.
"How can that me a crime?" I ask. "I'm a tourist, I don't know about this."
-"I know, but Colombian law is very strong on this."
"Look, I probably received this bill in a shop in Manizales."
-"You walk with me."
"Can't you please let me go. I'll be careful with the bills next time."
-"Right now you're arrested."
"Look, it's a twenty thousand peso bill. I can give you a real twenty if this remains between us."
-"What do you say?"
I look around and tap him on his left shoulder.
"I want the best solution for everyone. You know I'm not guilty and I know you don't earn much. You can eat out with your family with this money."
-"I would, but it's not my case."
We walk on to the headquarters. I have to explain the situation a couple of times, in English and in Spanish. In the hostel, I can borrow some money to pay the beer-guy who has followed us all along.
"What happens next?" I ask.
-"You must offer them the same thing you offered me."
"What do you mean?"
-"The twenty thousand."
"No. That would be bribery. And I don't want to do anything illegal. And besides, you know I am a writer and I will write about this. I hope I can write a positive story about Colombia."
-"Tell them what you're offering."
"No. We shouldn't be talking about this. Maybe I should talk to your chef instead."
-"It's your decision. We have to take you."
His colleagues waited on their motorcycle, laughing.
"Now you must go with them."
They kept laughing and when I told them again I wanted to talk to the chief of police, they suddenly announced me I was free to go. On my way back to the hostel I saw an older man in a police uniform standing on a balcony overlooking the scene. What might have prevented me to spend the night in prison was thus a trick. I started mentioning the bribe, and when they were considering it, I suddenly changed my attitude and told them I didn't want to do anything illegal and I'd write exactly what would happen. I guess they were intimidated. Not bad, huh? There might even be a moral of this story:

Kamiel's Daily Karma Rule: "Intimidation can be reversed"
If you're intimidated by a person and a concept (such as the Law, Truth, Guilt), be imaginative and use the same concept against that very person.
May 6. Hot weather provokes dreams. Yesterday, my old camera stopped working. I learned a lot about equilibrium in the process of buying a new one that occupies me today. The new one is a Samsung. I always wanted a Samsung because my ex-girlfriend is Korean. It's like I have her back, at least the nonfighting part of her.

And that's where the Guyana guy with bad teeth and an untuned guitar enters the scene. He proclaims with great pride that he is a Bitish Guyanese and smiles as he offers us to play Bob Marley and please look at his handicraft. He will follow us all the time to the Club Nautico and back to the center. He will get on my nerves. Maybe I'll dream about him and in my dreams he is the good shepherd that leads me to salvation. But in reality he is just a pain in the ass.

The fort Castilo de San Felipe of Cartagena is the strongest in Latin America. In front of it there is a statue of Blas de Lezo, the one-armed one-legged one-eyed hero of Cartagena’s successful defense against the British Admiral Vernon in 1741. The guy kept defending the fort even though he missed half of his body. Maybe I'll dream about him too. And in my dream he meets the Guyanese who tries to lead me to salvation. In the moment he takes out his wallet to buy the handicraft the Guyanese offers him, the armies of Francis Drake and other pirates storm his fort and cut off his remaining arm and leg. The Guyanese starts playing Bob Marley on his untuned guitar as smoke ascends from the fort in thick spirals. Blas de Lezo dies with a smile on his face, whispering "could it be love". He closes his eyes in salvation. I ask the Guyanese about my salvation and he says I am a few limbs away of it.
May 5. Identity. A little hangover can be worked off by four cups of coffee and a cold shower. At twelve I'm good to go and walk out to find a boat that will take me to Panama. Enter: Club Nautico. I walk in and ask some people for a boat to Panama. There are plenty of sailors headed that way, that is, to the San Blas islands. All you need is some money. They have some kind of agreement that the passage cost 350$. I try to talk that price down. An older man in a red shirt asks me to play a game of chess with him and I agree. There is this idea in my mind that he'll offer me a free boatride if I win the game. How romantic! He makes some mistakes and I take his queen and the first game is mine. In the return match, I make some mistakes and he takes my Reina, giving him enough advantage to win. In the third game, I concentrate a little bit more and got us into a rather complicated situation. I see him thinking. He attacks a last time with his queen but overlooks something; I get a pawn across and bring the game to a victorious conclusion. "Colombia in big trouble" my opponent says ten minutes before losing the match. "Holanda very strong". In that moment, a real sailor walks to our table, making me feel like I'm in a pirate movie. I stare at his bright blue eyes and his large unkempt beard. We shake hands and he says he is planning to sail to Panama on thursday. I offer him to pay 200 bucks, he will think about it, maybe, if I bring someone else. Sailing is a costly diversion. Tomorrow at 10am I will meet him again. He introduces himself as Doug, and he has a Dutch boat.

I walk on, feeling the hormomes of happiness and exaltation degrading in my blood. The sun is setting. I walk into the historic old town asking for a place where I could get a real espresso. I want to write. This city has a pretty face! It was the prime port of South America, the gate of trade for a whole continent and it still breathes this esprit albeit in that typical touristic way of souvenir vendors and handicraft shops with people shouting at you in English "he man where you from? Holland? Amsterdam!" Just close the ear that hears that and you're fine. I find a stylish café and get at least some writing done.

At night, some police come to the hostel and mention Ivan's name.
"Es tu amigo?"
-"Si."
"Venga."
They take me to the nearby park where the lizard lives, and Ivan sits there on a bench, doing fine and waving at me. The officers have brought him from far far away and might have saved him a lot of trouble. When they asked me to com with them and explained somethings with such a heavy Colombian accent that I couldn't understand them, I was very worried. I might have to identify a body, that's what I thought. But I only had to identify my new buddy.

Tomorrow, I will buy some cheap cigars on the street. Every once in a while, I like to walk around with a cigar butt in the corner of my mouth. It has a lot to do with identity. I should know all about the concept Identity since I studied philosophy. But I don't. I really have no idea. You can tell me anything, anything you like and then just say "look, and that's exactly what identity is" and I would know nothing to disprove it. I'd go "okay" and nod my head dimly. The mere form of a conjecture can be more than enough to paralyze any thought about the substance of identity.
May 4. Aguardiente. At 5:30am the bus to Cartagena leaves. It will take almost the whole day and I enjoy the Colombian countryside from the comfortable bus chair. Why don't we make up more proverbs ourselves? Let's found some institution for the creation of new proverbs. After so many busrides...

I arrive in Cartagena, the port town and the end of the overland road. I have to rely on boats now. From the terminal I try to take a taxi to the city center, but they say my 20.000 peso bill is a counterfeit. Back in, the toilet lady tells me the same. I am ashamed I tried to get rid of the bill once again. But after all, it's nice how such a piece of paper can generate stories. A couple of days later I'll be arrested for it. Nothing to worry about, though. So, I have a meal in the terminal. A black girl starts talking to me and asks why I'm not married. They marry very young here. She is twenty-one. The woman tells me about her life but I can't remember much. I was more concerned about the change she'll bring me. Bah! Only money on the mind.

A very slow bus took me to the center of the city. That ride was more like a carnival parade. I meet Ivan on it, a countryman of mine with a similar mentality, which we will live out with two bottles of Aguardiente that night. The old town is very touristic. There are security guards everywhere, and people that want to sell juice and fried snacks. We find the Hostal Real and sleep in a dorm. With two bottles of Aguardiente, the local liquor that tastes like Pastis, we have a good conversation about what two grown-up men talk about. Use your imagination.
May 3. Visiting a Cathedral. Cali didn't quite seem the place to be. A giant terminal from which I could look over a foggy modern city. Walked around a bit, found out the ATM didn't work and decided to go to Manizales, the capital of the central coffee growing region. A good cup of coffee is what I neee. That busride takes only about seven hours, and when I get off, I feel like seeing something of this city. It turned out to be a good choice.

It's nice here in Manizales. I eat in a local restaurant where a man is reading Isabel Allende and then climb the tall Cathedral. The guide is experienced. He does this tour all day long, six days a week. The view from the tower is fascinating. We see a town covered by thick foggy clouds. Still, I don't want to spend the night here.
I make it to Mendellin very late that night. In the bus terminal they sell good ice-cream all night long and what does a man want more?

Kamiel's Daily Karma Rule: "Be your own toughest critic".
Being extremely self-critical is a bitter but very efficient vaccination against the fear of criticism. It can make you almost immune from it.