Vive Colombia -- Part 1

After realizing it would take 37 hours and at least 3 days to get to the Colombian coast from Ecuador, we decided to fly to Cartagena. Upon landing and exiting the plane we were struck by a whopping dose of humidity that at first felt good considering the amount of time we had spend in cool mountain climates. But the steaminess of the city soon took its toll and left us constantly sweaty -- the kind of humidity where you take a shower and then immediately are damp with sweat again. Not sure how I dealt with nearly 5 months of that weather in South East Asia years ago.

We stayed in the travelers’ area of Cartagena, Getsemaní, which reminded me a lot of Havana in terms of colonial architecture in disrepair, the African descent of the majority of the population, and the way the people lived in the streets or in screened-off porches due to the heat. The main tourist attraction of Cartagena is the old walled part of the city, inside of which there are charming narrow streets with immaculately restored, pastel-colored buildings; cute cafés and shops; and beautiful plazas with fountains and an abundance of trees. The walled part of the city felt pretty touristy, however, and it was expensive. Colombia in general is more expensive than the other countries I’ve visited in South America -- guess it’s the influence of all the narco-trafficking money that makes traveling here more pricey.

We stayed couple days in Cartagena in a hostel room that we (semi-) affectionately referred to as the “sweat box“ because, although it had a fan, if you were not in direct line of it you were perspiring. The hostel was also without water for the majority of a day, due to a water shortage that affected the whole barrio, which meant that, despite the fact we were dying for a cold shower before we went to bed, we had to wait until morning. (There’s no way we -- or anyone else -- wanted agua caliente in that climate, unlike when we longed for it in Cuzco during chilly days). Seems like you always want what you can’t have, no?

We next headed to Playa Blanca, a beautiful stretch of remote beach on a peninsula. Despite a warning to take the fast boat, we booked the boat ride through our hostel and ended up on el barco de mierda, a big barge filled with rowdy Colombians that participated in dance contests and the like accompanied by ear-splittingly loud music throughout the three-hour journey. We tried to take refuge in the hold under the deck, but the music was no less fuerte there thanks to conveniently positioned speakers and so we put in our earplugs and tried to zone out. (We had planned to take the fast boat back, but underestimated the amount of money we would spend on the beach so we were forced to go back via our pre-paid return tickets on the shit boat -- although it was less painful since the ride excluded a stop that was made on the way there, cutting the torture time down to just over an hour).

We expected to get a very basic cuarto in Playa Blanca, but after seeing that the only one available didn’t have a mosquitero (mosquito net) we opted for a tent, but in retrospect Í don’t think that was the best option, either, since we got bit up pretty badly -- although I think just as much from the sand flies that we tracked in with all the arena in the tent. Despite the owners of the site being a bit creepy and trying to come on to us, we loved the beach, with its turquoise waters, white sand (true to the name), and mangroves (there were some non-native palms, but planted strategically where the boats with the day-trippers all landed). The heat would wake us up by 7:30 a.m. or so at the latest (which for me meant time for a long swim in tranquil seas before the boats came in for the day), and the lack of nightlife options meant we were in bed by midnight, although one night we did tie one on with a group of Irish and English travelers that eventually all came and stayed at our place.

We also met James (or “Jimmy” as the Colombians called him) there, a 40-year-old New Yorker who in exchange for touting for another camp/hostel site was getting a good deal on a tent. Jimmy, a stereotypically intense New Yorker (who had lived in San Francisco for 4 years), was there for 3 months to write his memoirs. He did have some good stories, but didn’t seem particularly motivated to get much writing done and seemed more interested in making friends to drink with. We were grateful to him for buying us a few beers during our time on the island since we literally had no money by the time we left there days later (and of course there were no ATMs on the beach). The only other time I’ve been that desperate for plata was the last day in Havana (a place where Americans cannot get any money out of ATMs since we’re not supposed to be there) but at least the severe cold I had there meant I didn’t have the energy to want to do or eat anything that I didn’t have the money for anyway. That wasn't the case at Playa Blanca, where all we wanted was as many Águila beers as we could drink, given the heat!

When we got back to Cartagena we had hoped to take the tourist bus to Santa Marta, which had door-to-door direct service between hostels, but we arrived to late and had to go to the bus station and go the local route. Which is usually fine, however, the bus needed a tire change before we could leave, which was a major ordeal with a grande tire that required 5 men for the job. All the would-be passengers were sitting on the curb watching the action and we finally left about an hour late. For some unknown reason, we got dumped off the bus half-asleep at 1 a.m. at some remote stop on the outskirts of Santa Marta -- not the bus terminal like we were expecting. A lone taxi driver loaded up our stuff and told us that we were “muy lejos” from Santa Marta, even though it was just 3 kilometers.

After awhile convincing the taxi driver that we really wanted to go to a new hostel named Aluna that had been highly recommended to us by the Irish and English travelers on Playa Blanca, we arrived there at nearly 2 a.m. just as the Irish owner Patrick and some friends were coming back from a night out. They helped us get the taxi driver’s fee down to only a nominal robbery versus the outrageous charge he first proffered and showed us to a comfortable room that was much appreciated after roughing it in Land of Mosquitoes and Sand Flies for the last few days. Santa Marta wasn’t much to write home about (apart from culturally specific Christmas decorations like Rudolph with maracas and an accordion) but we found Aluna so hospitable we stayed there for several nights, using it as a home base for our trips to Tayrona National Park and a finca (with an adorable puppy) in the nearby upcountry.