Home » Colombia » WELL, BUGA ME!!

Another quikie…the barbie outside is firing up and the fish are ready! And talking of quikies, I’m in fabulous, (in)famous Cartagena where the locals sell T-shirts of their local hero, Pablo Escobar, altho’ I’m not sure just what his background was here, probably a financial one!
Yes it’s the last country of sudamerica, Colombia, land of a thousand dreams, and plenty of offers everywhere of something to snort or smoke, they’re a bit disappointed when I tell them my only drugs these days are cerveza and cigarros!

WELL, BUGA ME!!

Bill Shum
2006-08-21 17:28:04

Displayed times (last time: )

out, spinning up and sliding under brakes, carefully now!…also much of the road was a bit slippery, back into altitude with misty, foggy, rainy wetness with some absolute tropical dumps, and never quite enough time to get the wet weather gear on…oh well!…

Second night in Buga, outside of Cali, didn’t fancy the bigger city and Buga turned out to be a real treat, sort of in the Antigua mould, ancient and restored, the plaza dominated once more by a gigantic cathedral, inside a spectacular array of hi-tech speakers and massive plasma screens…what th’…and outside, the plaza and the calle lined with stalls and shops, everything mentioning ‘milagros’ (miracles) in the names…turns out someone found an image of Jesus on a piece of wood in the river, couple of subsequent miracles, and Buga is on the map. Sort of like the Mary Magdalena in the hamburger patty on E-bay last year. The miracle is that anyone can believe this stuff.

Constant stream of cars pull up and the occupants make their way to pay homage…from the battlers in beat-up Renaults to the well-heeled tottering on hi heels, swaggering under the weight of gold chains and jewellery, looking to become well healed no doubt.

Later I see the local priest driving past my hotel in his brand new Land Rover. Talking into the cell phone, evening sun glinting off the enormous, jewel encrusted ring, the street lined with beggars, the displaced, disabled, unwashed, unwanted and unloved. Same old same old.
Next day, more fabulous riding, up into the mountains, stop a night in a small village, eat local tucker and drink brandy and milk against the cold.

Cold morning but crisp and clear. Looks like a good day to ride north. Winding down from the mountains, wisps of smoke from farmhouse chimneys, out in the paddocks the milking has started, just a stool and pail and a dozen or so cows waiting patiently, this little scene repeated over ...