Viaje interminable

So last year didn't really pan out as I'd envisaged. The feckless (advanced) diver/drinker that awoke on a dock in Utila on New Year's Day 2011 has somehow morphed into a Zurich-based FIFA official who will be married in 2012. I had been vaguely thinking that I might have made my way through Colombia, Venezuela, the Guyanas, up the Amazon to Ecuador and down to Peru by New Year 2012, then ready for an entire year more of travel - with Bolivia, Paraguay, Chile and the Antarctic to come. As it turns out, plans were meaningless.

Explaining the difference has proved difficult to some Europeans but in the end I spent very little time in South America and really have only seen a few towns in Colombia (plus the month or so around Argentina in an earlier trip). Central America is now somewhere that I know better than the UK and which will also be important to me as I will be marrying a certain Central American. Whilst the idea of backpacking for so many years eventually made little sense to me, having met someone I wanted to stay with and realising that my job prospects would be extremely limited, there's still a lot of the world that I want to see. I was very excited about the Guyanese jungle, Machu Pichu and above all, Easter Island, but these places will now have to wait for future 'holidays' rather than 'trips'.

Even the job that I took on at the FIFA U-20 World Cup Colombia 2011 didn't have the impact on my career that I had expected. When I initially thought about working at such an event I thought it might bring me some South American media contacts that would be useful later in my travels. Yet, what it brought was a very relevant experience and demonstrable language skills that have helped me end up in the cold comfort of Zurich. I'd long realised that travelling for a long period (in your late twenties) can be career suicide if you don't have a clearly defined speciality or you aren't exceptionally gifted. Lacking either of these traits I came to understand that I was never going to get ahead in South America without a clear idea of what I should be writing in the 'Profession' box on immigration forms. Historian/Communicator/Diplomat were all nice-sounding options but none of them were correct and none really interested me for the future.

So two weeks after the last game in Cartagena I left South America and flew (yes, that travel rule went out the window a long time ago) back to Central America and back to the charming city of Managua, a place somehow overlooked by many backpackers despite the attractions of crime, no street names and a series of anonymous malls. Perhaps it's easier to overlook a town's flaws if you're in love with someone that lives there. There I would spend two and a half months doing countless job applications and getting to know the family of my future wife. Stupidly I began putting my address as Managua for the numerous positions in Europe that I was applying for, none of which met with any sort of response until I put London as my home address - at which I almost immediately received a call from FIFA HR (who are currently my favourite people in the world). At which point I had to make a very swift exit - within two days I was on a bus to Costa Rica and then flying back to London via Santo Domingo and Frankfurt (the obvious route).

In the meantime, most importantly, I had managed to convince Karen to accept a ring from me and had endured asking for her hand from her parents in Spanish (a set-piece never covered in any of my Spanish classes). So I will certainly be returning to Central America in December for a wedding in the Cathedral in Granada, Nicaragua. Despite me being the ultimate heathen it appears that my fiancée's impeccable Catholic credentials allow us to be married in such a holy place (first founded in 1525 in the oldest city on the American mainland).

But as of the 2nd December I'm in a curiously cold place, where white stuff has been falling from the sky and I can no longer roam around in my favoured ripped shorts, sweat-stained t-shirt and stinking espadrilles. I actually have to wrap up warmly, play close attention to personal grooming and try to understand a language that doesn't have Latin roots. At least I have the forgotten pleasure of putting toilet paper in the toilet and enjoying warm water from a tap, but I don't know if these compensate for the lack of gallo pinto in my diet.

My Under-20 World Cup, and that of Cartagena, finished last Saturday following a defeat on penalties for the team everyone loves to see lose (the Argies) and  Colombia's finished shortly afterwards as Mexico knocked them out following a battle of goalkeeping errors. If anyone cares England were knocked out in the second round (obviously) by Nigeria without scoring a goal in the tournament and are without a win at this level in 14 attempts. But this was never about the football... It's been a slightly stressful and sleepless few weeks, a far cry from the backpacking life I was leading when I arrived here almost four months ago. Now it's time for me to make the most of my last few days here before I return to my secret Central American hideout to plan the next step on my route to world domination.

I continued in my role as de facto volunteer coordinator for the final two games here on the Caribbean coast and resorted to desperate and largely ineffectual measures to try and drag a little bit of punctuality out of my reluctant charges. Carrots, sticks, sarcasm and Old World-sneering had negligible impact on the determinedly tardy, although some did begin to understand that arriving after a set arrival time qualifies you as late. Our numbers were reduced for the later stages following the suspension of one of our team, who had his accreditation removed after trying to infiltrate forbidden areas. I was forced to escort him off the premises and send him on his way.

Most excitingly, at least as far as my ego is concerned, I've been interviewed twice by Colombian newspapers and my strange pale features have both allowed me to walk past security barriers as if they weren't there and have had people asking to have photos with me. If you know me at all you'll understand my immense struggle to stay grounded. The first interview did give me a chance to tell my story but, somehow, we ended up concentrating on my emotions when I saw the English flag and heard the anthem. Patriotic as I am I did manage to hold back the tears when God Save the Queen was largely met with silence, although I find that the padding of a foreign language helps me summon emotions that almost certainly don't exist in my English-speaking heart. The second interview, conducted ad hoc in the mixed zone after a game, was a lot more gossipy. As well as wanting some nice remarks about the people I was coordinating (yes, they're always late) the interviewer of course wanted to know my thoughts on Colombian women. I don't think I've had a prolonged conversation with a Colombian that hasn't involved them asking me if Colombian women are beautiful, apparently every foreigner is expected to say that their women are the most beautiful in the world (forgive them, they've never visited the George IV on New Year's Eve). Typically my by now petulant response that there are beautiful women in every country is met with a confused frown. This interviewer went on to ask if I'd had any 'conquistas' whilst I've been here, a classy question which made me think I should have asked what paper he was from before I started speaking to him.

On the same day that England went out of the World Cup Cartagena saw the French beat Ecuador 1-0 in a not terribly interesting game - not that I really had much time to watch football as I constantly needed to rush between positions and answer questions from various people whilst trying to remember how to speak French. Often the only time to sit down and relax was whilst play was going on, although unfortunately I wasn't able to find a comfy seat in the stand.

The final game, between Portugal and Argentina in the quarter finals brought to the fore a few frustrations with the systems employed by the local organising committee. It also brought massive booing for the Argentine team - apparently Argies are rarely popular in the rest of the continent (superiority complex apparently) but this particular team had worked hard on their notoriety by making lewd gestures to the crowd in Medellin (who had been cheering their opponents, Egypt) and these images had been shown continuously throughout the country. So the boos rang out whenever the Argies were in possession, when they stepped forward in the inevitable shoot out and even when Portugal had twice missed the crowd got behind them, chanting 'yes you can' and were rewarded when the Argies contrived to miss three times and crash out. It was a very quiet and slightly tearful that walked straight out of the changing rooms en masse, bypassing the waiting journalists in the mixed zone. Whilst I like Argentines in general and had a great time there last year I will never not enjoy seeing one of their football teams lose.

The final day of World Cup action brought extra time and penalties to Cartagena but still no fresh supplies of drinks to the thirsty media professionals in the stadium. Apparently months ago in a central office they had decided that the media centre should get a set match day quota of drinks (nothing on non-match days despite being open) and that resupply was impossible. On other days this had let to the ridiculous situation of asking journalists to leave the stadium to buy their own drinks and, for the final match, posting someone to watch the fridge and ensure that no one be selfish enough to take two bottles of water. Our pleas could make no impact on the self-important decision makers whose careful plans had obviously been written down and were therefore set in stone. In the face of this cloud of ineptitude was launched my Odyssey in search of water, one equally deserving of a record in prose if not poetry. First going to VIP I was able to beg a small number of bottles, as they apparently had no resupply problems despite being next door to the media centre. Unfortunately they could only give them to me on a silver platter, which caused some amusement in the media stand when I arrived to hand out my first findings. I had at that time spoken to the delivery boy in the hope that he would be able to bring some more but I quickly realised that he was not afforded any decision-making power and so I needed to go further to complete the Olympian task of finding water for journalists watching football in 35 degree heat. I made my way to the store room to find another decision-making impaired guy sitting next to roughly 10,000 bottles of water whose tell-tale one eye on the TV let me know he had greater priorities. He of course couldn't just give me some water as the system dictated otherwise. He called someone with real power who was obviously in the stand high up (water for press being repeated 10 times) who could not bring themselves to break the system they'd lovingly designed so long ago and very obvious orders were sent to get rid of the troublemaker who was suggesting that not all eventualities had been covered by their foolproof planning procedure. I was given a flat no and only made any progress by positioning myself between the guardian of the well and his TV. I was then made to feel as if I was being allowed to purchase moonshine in a speakeasy as he offered me 50 bottles practically under the table. So the thirsty journalists were briefly provided for, although obviously they complained that the water wasn't cold enough. If only they'd known the Herculean feats I'd performed to bring them their bottles!

Having chastised many volunteers for their constant tourism I of course wasn't able to take many photos myself, something of a mistake on quarter final day when all the celebs rolled into town. Grabbing most of the attention were a pair of exceptionally high-heeled showgirls whose arrival in the media centre brought a moment of silence and then a rush to gather cameras and fight for position. No photographic evidence I'm afraid but just think back 11 months to me with the Hooters girls... Two of the most incomprehensible media volunteers had attempted to explain the significance of these tottering attractions but it took another volunteer, who actually speaks Spanish, before the message came across.

The end of Argentina's run in the competition was also the end of my time with the Under-20 World Cup and with it (soon) my time in Cartagena. Some Backpackers volunteer to help streetkids, protect turtles, entertain monkeys or keep swamp cleans but coordinating other volunteers at a FIFA event has got to be unusual. There have been a few changes to the script of the Viaje Interminable in the last few months, due to revelations in head and heart, which I hope will become clear to everyone (myself included) in the near future. I've now passed the one year mark for the trip and have made shockingly little progress into South America. I think around Christmas time I was envisaging having made my way through Venezuela, Guyana, Surinam and French Guiana to the Atlantic and Brazil by late-August, whilst actually I'm still at South America's entrance. Central America was just meant to be a short and simple warm-up for the main event but, as the U20 World Cup has shown me, planning is often crap.

As with when I lived in Florence I've spent such a long time in a deservedly touristy place but have left visiting some of thd most interesting sites in the area until my absolute last days. Back then it was the likes of the Cupola and San Gimigano whilst here it's been the fort of San Felipe and the town of Palenque.

Heading to Palenque today brought a flashback to the backpacker life of old - mainly thanks to having to visit the bus terminal and remember the old priorities of find bus, toilet, money, food, avoid being robbed. Maybe there was a hint of nostalgia about a life that is now four months behind me but I think I've managed to avoid being seduced by my self-fabricated mystique. Palenque was fascinating, although bus timetables only allowed me two hours there. It's the first free black town in the Americas, founded by an escaped slave in 1603 who was apparently from what is now Guinea-Bissau.

I won't include the Hard Rock Cafe in my list of must see sights in Cartagena but I am very happy that my last night here will be with my fellow volunteers, at a karaoke night. What could be more Colombian than karaoke at the Hard Rock Cafe? It's all about cultural insight this travel blog, if you hadn't realised already.

ps. Dedictated followers of my adventures in fashion will be sad to hear that I finally decided to part with the famous £50 blue and light-blue painted Diesel t-shirt, purchased during the vintage fashion summer of 2003. It will now be proudly worn by someone on the streets of Cartagena. Please say a prayer.

It's several weeks now since I returned to Cartagena after a disappointingly short sejour back in Central America. I returned when I did expecting to be plunged straight into World Cup preparations, with just over two weeks remaining. However, things are much more relaxed than that and apart from a few phones calls and the honour of taking charge of the official email account for the Cartagena Media Centre (that's going on my CV) most was left until much closer to the start of the tournament. This lack of action was convenient given that the phone I'd bought specifically for this purpose had been rendered inoperable by a tropical storm that welcomed me back to South America by breaching the defences of my flat roof and soaking clothes, electrical devices and my passport (which bathes more frequently than a Tudor monarch).

From the initial stages of the World Cup recruitment process, back in May, I had been mildly surprised by the excitement caused by the announcement that we'd all get uniforms supplied by the official sponsor - a popular German sportswear brand. Whilst I was keen to again dress like I did in 1997 I wasn't able to generate the amount of excitement that my colleagues could. This boiled over slightly when we collected the coveted garments a week before the tournament kicked off, from an office in the salubrious stadium district. Word had obviously got out to the local sportswear aficionados and several people were relieved of their items whilst attempting to leave the area. Not wanting to see more sportswear take the short ride to the nearby market the police were called in and we gathered in groups in Havana (safe areas) whilst the galleons (helicopters) circled above ready to lead us to Cadiz (the bus). Thankfully I made it home with all items intact, though the red and yellow shirts really weren't designed to compliment my typically pallid English complexion.

At the first meeting of Media Centre staff I was handed the honour of being the coordinator's right hand man, a position which rather takes me back to the heady days of the Stella Artois Championships and my time as a senior steward. If only I was allowed to wear my white trousers and someone could find me a radio headset I could complete the picture. Unfortunately there's a little less free beer available here. We have the task of staffing the media centre, which is theoretically open every day but few (no) journalists venture here on days when there aren't any games or official training sessions taking place. On matchdays our staff man the media stand, organise press conferences, police the photographers (always the toughest of tasks) and control the 'mixed zone' where the media can talk to the players as they leave the dressing rooms. Obviously I've been tasked to whip my Colombian charges into some sort of shape, but it can be an uphill battle to fight their natural tendencies to document and share everything that is happening around them (almost all are communications students and this U20 World Cup is a big deal here). We have other handicaps such as the failure of a well-known American soft drink manufacturer to provide us with sufficient drinks on match-days (or anything on non-match-days).

The highly anticipated first match-day was the 29th July, which saw England waste the honour of playing the first game of the tournament by labouring to an insipid 0-0 draw against North Korea in beautiful Medellin. However, such is the curious format of this 24-team U20 World Cup that you can scrape out three draws and still qualify for the second round, rather like the bloated Copa America. I fear for the European Championships when they introduce this format for France 2016. Our first game was the titanic clash between Austria and Panama and was most notable for the attendance of two presidents and the impact of the healthy Central European youths on the Colombian ladies. Having spent some time in Panama eased small talk with visiting journalists and I was impressed as any to see the Panamanian President in the stand in his Panama shirt, freely chatting with journalists. The Colombian President popped in to show his support for his neighbour, arriving just before kick off after his helicopter dropped him off in the nearby Bull Ring to take his seat next to his homologue.

Neither team produced any moments of quality in a dire 0-0 draw but at least the Austrians won several hearts - with several of the girls that work here having become borderline stalkers during the time the team was here. I was employed to translate an interview with the Panamanian 'keeper/captain in the mixed zone which again proved to me that interviews with Spanish-speaking footballers are just as boring as those with English-speakers, as they reel off clichés and bland platitudes. His responses to questions were at times so long that I lost track with what he'd been saying and so just came up with my own list of footballing clichés to fill some space on the official site.

Our second match day was a double header to feature the mighty Three Lions, who'd since produced another of the 0-0 draws that are part of their cunning plan to reach World U20 domination. My personal anticipation has been ramped up by the sight of penalty heroes Stuart Pearce and Gareth Southgate wandering past me on the way to training in the stadium. I think I was probably the only stadium staff member singing the anthem but the curiosity of having an Englishman working here pricked a few people's interest and I may be appearing in a local paper soon to 'tell my story' - look out for a large dose of artistic licence. I don't think any of the players actually broke into a trot during the 0-0 draw with England in the 5pm heat of Cartagena but at least England 'march' on, hopefully to more temperate climes. One of the English VIPs was kind enough to compliment me on my English, having obviously mistaken me for a Colombian.

Some disorganisation later Egypt hit the first goals seen in Cartagena to send the pretty but useless Austrians home, much to the disappointed of half the staff. The (single) Austrian cameraman decided to get creative and poignantly film the 'Salida' sign in our mixed zone. Now I alone man the media centre for the next few days until the excitement of a second round match featuring the French, as if it didn't smell bad enough here already...

• Coming soon - some exciting photos of me in and around the stadium - do not miss*

I have found myself holed-up in Cartagena for the best part of two months now, a most agreeable spot for a dose of rest and contemplation if ever there was one. I've settled into a comfortable regime of visiting the local gym to try and rid myself of the vestiges of Central American cuisine, where again I've been able to enjoy at close range the delightful habits of the gym-going Colombian female. As I discovered early in my trip a fully made-up face is obligatory and dangly earrings as well as other such impractical adornments are heavily encouraged. However, sweating, perspiring and even glowing are all strictly forbidden - lest you be mistaken for a lone gringo fighting an up-hill struggle against seven months of rice and beans. Plastic surgery is of course rife, making my cricket ball personalised nose all the more conspicuous. I doubt that lingerie sells particularly well in these parts as very few women appear to be in need of that line of support, despite the majority of ProFitness's denizens being roughly twenty years wiser than I.

It will come as a surprise to some that think I now a loafer, or even playboy, that there is a dose of work to be included in my sejour in Carthage of the Indies. It had long been an idea but only crystallised once I arrived back in this continent - what better way to work towards the dream of a job at the 2014 World Cup in Brazil than finding a job at the Under 20 World Cup, fortuitously being held in Colombia from the 29th July. Visa restrictions and my reluctance to travel to Bogota and go cap in hand to their immigration ministry have limited me to an unpaid role in the media centre based inside the stadium in Cartagena. Seven games are due to take place in this Caribbean playground, including, most fortuitously, England against Mexico. Now I don't believe that this tournament gathers an enormous amount of attention back home, especially as it is ridiculously timed to coincide with the sun-drenched opening of the European league seasons. However, in Latin America it is massive. Nine Latin teams are taking part in the tournament, compared with six from Europe - evidence that FIFA acknowledges where the balance of power (or interest) lies at this level. I remember a guide that my parents and I had in Costa Rica being anxious to get home to see  his country's U20 team play a friendly against Mexico some four months before this tournament gets going. At a time when most people in England wouldn't turn their pub stools round to catch a glance of Don Fabio's boys show us how much we miss Steve McClaren.

Obviously there are non-footballing reasons why Colombia is so pleased to be hosting an event of this magnitude. Largely there's a desire to shake off the out-dated but deep-rooted stereotype of Colombia as a lawless land dominated by narcotraffickers where the average Westerner dare not tread and show it for the largely safe country that it is. 

I had an enjoyable if largely baffling 8-day stint in general training for the U20 World Cup with a group of seventy or so local students. I thought that I had become fairly proficient in Spanish before I reached Cartagena, but these training sessions showed me otherwise. Somehow the majority of the humour seemed to pass me by as my training mates spend most of their time a-whooping and a-hollering. My foreignness was detected not by my pallid complexion and freshly grown fair hair but by my air of tranquility and inner sense of decorum (that's how I describe it). This led on to a day of football matches against other groups preparing for the World Cup, which finally gave me the chance to retrieve my goalkeeping gloves from my rucksack. Having used my SAS Survival Guide to identify snakes in Costa Rica I can now say with pride that every item on my carefully assembled backpacker inventory has been called into service and proved it's worth (despite the goal I conceded at my near post). I don't fancy England's chances much - we were forced to play at midday in the scorching sun and despite me being an athlete in the prime of life and somewhat acclimatised I was desperately wilting.

My carefully planned routine has fortunately been interrupted on a number of occasions by very welcome visitors: Mike and Derek from the Freak Wave crew as well as geezer Hasan (and cousin Tauf). Has, one of my many KCLFC 3rd XI disciples, Tauf and I enjoyed a very pleasant few days at the idyllic Playa Blanca, a short but expensive boat ride from town. There we enjoyed Coco Locos (coconut + rum) and genuine Cuban cigars in our thatched beach hut. One evening we decided to take an evening swim when my house music 6th sense was activated. The others couldn't hear it but my senses are never wrong. The noise could only come from the ridiculously out of place 5 star Royal Decameron hotel situated across the bay from the shacks and lean-tos of Playa Blanca. As with many ideas that take hold after midnight and following the percolation of fermented liquids we decided to cross the two miles of open water to the hotel and see what we could make of things. Shockingly this task proved a little more difficult than we had originally envisaged but we did safely make it to the manicured sands of the resort and did our best to make ourselves inconspicuous amongst the dressed up Colombian families as we strolled around dripping water from our swimming shorts (some of which were briefer than others). It wasn't long before a security guard pointed out that we lacked the wrist bands needed to fit in, declining to mention the olive skins, massive amounts of hair gel, expensive aftershaves and heavily branded tight t-shirts, the lack of which suggested we didn't belong. We were escorted back to the beach and two guards suggested they would lead us along a path that would allow us to avoid a repeat of the long swim. Whilst I'll do what I can to show Colombia to be a fantastic and safe country we still didn't fancy a walk through the jungle in pitch black with two armed guards who were rather narked that we'd breached their tightly-controlled perimeter. So we swam back.

I'm currently on a hiatus from Colombia, having found the relentless good weather, beautiful colonial architecture and fine selection of international cuisine rather too agreeable for my constitution. I'm currently in a secret location in Central America engaged on a very important mission the purpose of which many of you will be aware of. All of you concerned that I've broken travel rule number 1, don't be. This is not a part of the Viaje Interminable and I will be returning directly to Cartagena in due course.

To my Colombian readers, please don't be offended by my stereotyping - just a bad attempt at humour. Also, your English is excellent, you don't need my help!

When I last broke off my exhilarating narrative I was sitting tight in Portobelo looking forward to a pleasant and easy five days cruising the San Blas islands. It didn’t turn out to be as pleasant as expected, even if it was preferable to a January morning at the Number 2 bus stop.

Following the advice of my hostel I set off to make my connection at a leisurely pace, arriving at Miramar at 10am to find a boat to El Porvenir, the administrative centre of Kuna Yala (San Blas) and where I was to meet my catamaran. I found a sea of people also waiting for boats, all of the wrong colour. Most of the settlements around Miramar are populated by black people, whilst the San Blas are populated by the indigenous Kuna. There was a distinct lack of indigenous captains and indigenous passengers, but a lot of interest in the lone Englishman with his three litres of rum. I busied myself befriending the soldiers that checked incoming and outgoing boats, as well as the obligatory fixer who will talk to people you are perfectly capable of talking to yourself and expect money in return. I was supposed to be at El Porvenir at 2 and as 3 crept around I became slightly concerned that I’d lose my $100 deposit and have to seek another route to Colombia. Luckily a boat turned up just after 3, promising to have me in Porvenir by 5. However, the other passengers didn’t arrive until after 5 and then they were a bunch of sloaneys from Panama City who, despite being from the shipping capital of the world, appeared never to have been on a boat before. There was so much squealing from the manicured princesses that our captain slowed our speed to Eric the Eel pace, so we didn’t get to Porvenir until almost 7.30, well after dark. My waiting catamaran was pointed out to me by yet more soldiers, who unfortunately refused me permission to swim aboard (what an entrance that would have been). After further discussion the captain was raised and I was collected in a dinghy, ready for 5 days of spacious luxury…

The San Blas islands are your bog-standard paradise: tiny white sand islands, palm trees, coral reefs, local fishermen selling their wares from dugout canoes and local women in very distinctive traditional clothes. Following my late arrival we had a fantastic first day and a half in the Cayos Lemmones and Cayos Hollandes. Loads of snorkelling and swimming ashore to deserted islands (two of which I claimed in the name of Her Majesty, though I lacked the required Union Jacks) as well as the endless fun of diving off the front of the boat. At this point it scarcely mattered that the greedy German owner (not that he’s greedy because he’s German) had crowded 14 passengers, 2 crew and 2 motorbikes onto a catamaran with 5 private cabins. The Germanic menu made sinking to the bottom particularly easy and our plentiful stocks of alcohol were begun. Being Good Friday we found a party brewing on one island but we were denied permission to land by our giant Austrian captain, who anchored well out of reach. Still in search of entertainment we swam ashore to the closest island, me swimming backstroke with a bottle of rum in my teeth. This island had earlier been the scene of a great tragedy as we stepped in to save three damsels in distress from the horror of putting up a tent without male supervision. During this operation the world’s greatest shorts were ripped beyond repair and have since been released back into the wild. Our only reward for swimming ashore was a cold night’s sleep in a breezy cabaña before a 6am pickup from our captain, a taller Schwarzenegger without the steroids but with a far more comic accent.

The following day we discovered to our displeasure that our trip was only 4 nights, a fact not previously mentioned, so at 4pm we left the safety of the reef and headed out into the open ocean. It wasn’t long before the seasickness struck – confining one guy to his cabin and several others to the back of the boat for the next 36 hours. It isn’t often that my appetite is impaired but if I spent too long below deck I lost my normal ability to consume a field of frijoles every mealtime. So most of the next day and a half was spent on top or at the front of the boat as the breeze had a wonderfully restorative effect. Suffice to say that I only drank one of the three litres I brought with me. The fishing line strewn out behind us paid dividends, landing us an enormous 30kg+ tuna that the captain immediately chopped up into steaks bigger than my rice and beans belly. Dinner that evening was hamburgers.

The weather wasn’t too bad for our first night on the open seas but things roughened up for the second evening – leading to the discovery that every hatch leaked. This was most obviously illustrated by a massive wall of water that hit us and soaked everyone, even those below deck in their bunks. Looking over to our captain for inspiration, we received a smirk and the legend “freak wave”. Everyone was a little tired and damp by the time we arrived in Cartagena on Easter Monday.

A return to soirees in Colombia brought a return to the popular non-desperate-western-man-in-Colombia sport of whore dodging. Rules include avoiding all eye contact with females until they are vetted and not leaving the laager of friendship unless strictly necessary. Searching for a late-night hotspot recently we were directed to a nightclub/brothel where the only way to avoid to avoid the constant solicitation was for me and my partner in non-crime to dance on the bar until the sun came up. Much safer when the night-fighters are gone.

I arrived in Cartagena on the 25th April, the exact day that I arrived here last year – albeit in slightly different circumstances. I’ve since decided that the time has come for a pause in this Grand Tour of Latin America, a pause to work and regain my passion for discovery. One can become rather blasé when one is treated to the sublime on an almost daily basis; just as one can become a little pretentious when one uses the third person too often. I’ve very quickly found a flat, thanks to the assistance of several hostel cleaning ladies and so the search for work begins. Where I’m living is very much the Chiswick of Cartagena, with a wonderfully posh supermarket nearby selling brie, hummus and Old El Paso fajita kits (as well as other items). Yesterday I bought a styling product simply because it was described as “firming pomade” – surely the sort of thing crazed royals bought from dubious wandering Frenchmen in the 18th century.