After 19 hours of travel, Colombia finally revealed some of its mystery to me. Speedbumps are a regular encounter on South American roads and they do not seem to have an apparent function, other than slowing the traffic down - alot. Luckily, the bus from Mérida to Maracaibo, in Venezuela, was comfortable, with Air Conditioning and reclining seats - the rest of the trip, was a different story.

The travel from Venezuela to Colombia, has to be done in several stages. First stop on my trip, was Maracaibo in the north-western part of the country. Some have told me, that the city is extremely hot and the pollution there is literally touchable. After spending 9 hours sleeping in a seated position, arriving at 06:00 in the morning, we could allready feel the heat. Coming down from app. 1500 meters above sealevel, we knew that the difference in temperature would be noticable, but the fact that the temperature we met at this early hour was allready higher than the highest temperature in Mérida, was not something we had thought of. We didn’t really know how to get to the border from the bus station at this time of day, but since every local guy was running around and shouting "Colombia" it suddenly seemed a bit more easy to cope with. I travelled together with Will (the Irish "lazy guy") and Brad (the Canadian "party guy") and we quickly decided to opt for the quickest alternative. Departuring from Mérida one day later than planned, we were all up for the quickest arrival in Colombia. There was no way of getting a busticket towards Colombia the sunday we planned on leaving Mérida, so we were allready one day behind schedule. The quickest alternative to get to the Colombian border, was by taxi. A 2,5 hour trip, packet 5 people - the 3 of us and 2 Colombians, into an American car from the 70’s, turned into a rather painful experience. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a car. Nothing apart from the engine seemed to work. Every part of the enterior that somehow could fall off, had either fallen off, or had been broken off. No functional windows, no AC, no comfort in the seats, no seatbelts, big speakers as "head rests", no suspentions and no functional speedometer. Driving insanely, at insanely speeds, with a apparent sane driver and on an insane road - as we raced towards the Colombian border, I heard a sound I have never heard before.

As this was the first real trip I have had by car in Venezuela, I both saw, heard and smelled things that were all new to me.The standard of the cars over here, are absolutely hillarious. I have never before seen so many pimped rides, apart from on MTV and lately on Discovery Channel, but the really strange thing is, that Venezuelians will pimp their ride, despite the condition of it. I have seen cars, that have had ropes to prevent it from falling apart, with a massive stereo inside, fluorescent and flashing headlight and aluminium rims. Riding along the Venezuelan highway, inhaling toxic gasses is a must. Every breath you take, fills your lungs and body with thick, black exhaust from the massive trucks and nearly-falling-apart cars that fills the streets down here. Feeling more and more dirty for every meter of asphalt we put behind us, the newly discovered sound reveals itself. I have heard of pollution before, I have seen it, but I have never actually heard it before. Closing my eyes while nearly flying across the country, the sounds of the massive trucks and nearly-falling-apart cars instantly makes you think of pollution. The V8 engines of the nearly-falling-apart cars sounds like a really sexy Harley Davidson, but knowing that the engine is from the 70’s, and not from an exclusive, custom made Harly, the sound does not seem sexy anymore. The sound makes you think of gallons and gallons of fuel that is swallowed by oil-dripping, over-heated, poorly maintained and gasoline-stinking engines and when opening you eyes, looking at the thick, black smoke just fighting its way out of the back of the cars, mixing with the allready black smoke in the air, stirring up the mixture of oxygen and exhaust, adding color and stench (you can almost hear the black smoke from each car fighting for dominance in the limited presens of air) - you know that your ears are not playing games with you. The heat, the dust, the noise and the smell of this place is definately unhealthy, and I am amazed that people live here at all. Seeing small babies in their mothers arms at the back of a motorcycle makes me wonder "what kind of place is this - really??".

After beeing stopped by the military 5-6 times, by the police 4-5 times, after beeing searched by armed military units - each time to show our passports, and after spending nearly an hour crossing the border to Colombia, we finally reached the town on the other side of the border that we aimed for: Maicao. The border crossing was one of my most confused moments of the trip - I had really no idea of when I actually was in Colombia. It was when we got stopped and searched by armed military units I finally realised where I was at - reading “Colombia” on their uniforms, kind of gave it away. We had to get out of the car 3 times during the crossing, and we had to drive several kilometers between each stop, before we entered Colombia. One of the stops gave me the possibility to exchange some of my money into Colombian Pesos and when I realised that I was in a foreign country with only 3000 pesos (enough to buy me 2 local bars of chockolate) we all decided on beeing a bit careful with the money we had. After sharing the expenses for the next busride, after buying breakfast (one bar of chockolate each) and after realising that the town we were in was known as a lawless town, we found it safest to stay within the fenced perimiter of the bus station. We needed money, but there was no way of getting it without leaving the bus station - an activity that was highly dangerous. We had only 300 pesos left, a ridicoulus amount really, as the only thing that would buy me, was one single caramel. We hoped that the bus would get us to an ATM and we went to sit in the bus to wait for its departure. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a bus. It had all the main characteristics of a bus, 4 wheels, room for many people, four seats on each row with an isle in the middle and some luggage compartment between the wheels, but this is also the only thing that gave it away as a bus. This was a bus for locals, and it seemed that no white man had ever been on one of this beauties before. I have never seen so many things being shoved onto a bus before - washing machines, fans, TVs, food, clothes, through windows, underneath the bus, on top of the bus and clearly enough, I was getting more and more nervous about leaving this place on time. After managing to nap for 30 minutes, I woke up and found myself at the same spot as I was when I fell asleep. The bus should have been driving by now, and tired and irritated as I was, from the long bus and taxi ride prior to this, I ran out of the bus and yelled at the ticket man in my best spanish. I didn’t get anyone fired this time and we left shortly after, just to realise that the bus actually needed some maintenance. After several stops later, taking on both ducks, goats and more passengers, we were headed for Santa Marta in a really dirty and barely functional bus. The 240 km trip was done in little above 5 hours, a trip that was hot, dirty, knee-hurting and bumpy and finally we arrived at hour final destination: the bus station in Santa Marta. Cashed out money, got a cab to the hotel and we had the chance for the first meal and shower in a little more than 24 hours.

The hotel we decided on staying at, has a reputation. It is a hotel mainly used by gringos and is situated in a really nice colonial building. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a building, but rather some sort of ruins. It has the touch of the old times hanging over it, and you are never in doubt that this is a place that has never been maintained. Waking up with peaces of the ceiling in your mouth and everywhere on the floor, you know for sure, that some tender, love and care would do this place some good. The reputation of the hotel, is that there is plenty of prostitution and drugs here, and surprisingly enough, it didn’t take more than an hour before we got offered drugs. After taking a shower and eating a meal, we sat down accompanied by a couple of beers. While sitting, along comes this tour guide. Well - I wouldn’t really call him a tour guide, because he seemed more interested to sell marihuana and cocaine, than the trips he had information on in the pamphlets in his hand. Suprised by his offer, I had allready noticed the cop standing in the doorway, and when I asked him "so you offer drugs when the police is 10 meters away??". "Well - they do not really care" was his only answer. Politely turning his offer down we returned to our beers and headed for an early night.

The heat in this place is hard to adjust to, when coming from the highlands of Venezuela. I am sharing a room with Will, to save some money - a two bed room with one door and one window. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a window, as it basically is a hole in the wall, with some sort of wooden construction hinged to the wall, that couldn’t even be closed. The toilets are used by everyone and have no seating rim and the shower is right next to a public area and has no roof, only separated by a thin door. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a door. It is more a plastic construction hinged to the wall with no mechanism to close it other than to tilt the door a bit (due to a malfuntional upper hinge), close it shut and let go of it again, so the upper part of the door rests on the wall. This procedure concludes how to lock the door, and if you are not carefully making some sort of a marker that you are actually taking a shower, anyone can just barge in on you.

When leaving Mérida, I started to feel a bit ill again, and the 19 hour trip was not something I wanted to deal with, with a bad stomach. The trip went fine, with not much water and no food, and when we arrived in Santa Marta, the meal I had was absolutely needed. I treated myself with a some sort of chicken dish, to start off my stomach again with something it knew and a juice. Well - I wouldn’t really call it just juice. A small bucket of freshly made, fruity, foamy and ice cold pineapple juice, made the arrival to Santa Marta worth while. From now on, juice will accompany every meal I have.

I have spent the last 4 days in a famous national park, some 30-40 kilometers outside St. Marta. The park is a well known destination for travellers and when hearing about sleeping on the beach, under the sky in a hammock, I couldn’t resist. On the way from Mérida to Maracaibo, we met 2 Dutch guys who was heading in the same direction as us and we decided to go to this park together as well. The trip to the park was arranged during the afternoon in St. Marta and we were told that a bus would leave the hotel at 10:00 in the morning and after a long and hot night, I really wanted to get out of my bed. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a bed, as the mattress was everything but a mattress, the pillow was non-functional and there was nothing to cover me from the falling debris. The fan in the ceiling looked like it would fall down any minute and I was glad that Will was having the bed directly under the fan.

At exactly 10:00 the next day, the guy at the reception told us to follow a guy, that looked like everything else, than a bus driver. I thought that he was just the guy who would make sure, that we got on the bus, and all five of us, Will, Brad, Marin (the Dutch guy "number one"), Elmer (the Dutch guy "number two") and me, followed this somewhat small and old man out of the door. We crossed the road and he presented us to the bus. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a bus. A tiny Renault from 1970, with the trunk allready filled by some sort of fuel tank was our transport to the park. Packing the trunk with everything it could hold, closing it with a piece of rope, squising our somewhat big European/Canadian bodies into this tiny car, the journey could begin. The only problem was, that the car was not the most powerful car in Colombia and when we were driving along the streets of St. Marta with the magnificent speed of 20-30 km/t, we all prepared for a long ride. After 5 minutes, two policemen on motorcycle stopped us, and wanted the driver to stop. They talked to the driver, searched our luggage, looked at us and let us go after 5 minutes. The driver reassured us that everything was OK and that the police was just a bit unhappy with the load of the cab. "So we are just going to carry on with this over-stuffed cab all the way while the police is everywhere on the road?" we asked. "Well - they do not really care" was his only answer. Despite this, the driver was still a bit nervous and wanted to take a short cut to prevent being stopped once more. Well - I wouldn’t really call it a short cut. 1,5 hours on a very bumpy road, massively unsuited for both the condition and the size of the car, we returned to the main road. Several times during this short cut, the cars floor smashed into the road, as the potholes were everywhere and each time, the driver reassured us "nothing happened! Everything is OK!" and put on a big smile. He was right, though. We were not stopped by any police, but we also spent twice the time on getting to the park. He was a good enough man and we gladly payed him his fee upon arrival to the park.

I have spent 4 days on the beach, trying to work on my tan and getting the city life out of my head. This was exactly what I needed and I am only sad that it didn’t last any longer. The thing is, that the park is a national park and is more or less untouched by man. There are several beaches in this park and at some of these beaches, they have put up campingsites and some sort of restaurants, but real plumbing and electricity is not present. There are no way of cashing out money and to reach the beaches, you need to hike for a minimum of 40 minutes. We would only carry some t-shirts, shorts, some warm clothes and money enough for 3-4 days. Not knowing how expensive this would be, the money situation became a bit elevated at the end, but we managed to get home OK. Sleeping in a hammock, in a building with no walls, with the Caribbean sea smashing into the peninsula where the building was located was a different experience. Not having any blankets, sleeping bags or anything that could keep me warm at night, I have spent the last 3 nights shivering from cold in the very humid and salty Caribbean costal air. The building was also so filled with hammocks, that we would smash into eachother when the wind pushed us back and forth or when we wanted to change position. Despite of the lack of sleep, the days were brilliant. Playing on the beach, swimming in the Caribbean ocean for the first time in my life, enjoying the sun and eating in the cool shade of the restaurant is definately addictive. Feeling a bit like an egg, both in shape and color, as we arrived the beach we destined for, I knew I only had limited time to build up a decent color. Now am still feeling a bit egg shaped and more like an easter egg in color. Striped white, red and yellow, the tan might just build up after my skin have had a rest from the sun. The crane joined us for the whole 4 days and have enjoyed itself massively. Seeing the night sky in the pitch dark night around the equator, always makes me want to look up and just gaze. I did it - every night. The stars make me feel small and when the sound of the powerful waves smash into the beach right next to you, you know that you are just a grain of sand in the complete and complex universe. Knowing that without the lightsource of the stars, you will not survive and knowing that the power of the water can end your life at any given unattentive moment, you can just hope that you get through life without having to deal with nature. Reflecting on vastness of the universe and the hidden powers of the masses, feeling a bit scared is a natural emotion. Well - I wouldn’t really call it beeing scared, but at least small and without the power of intervention.