Swimming

On Sunday we all decided that it was too hot and bothered to stay in Barranquilla. Six of us and two children hit the streets looking for a taxi. The group consisted of from left to right: Kelly,Rosemary,Johan,Katy,Tonia,and the children: Zhary and Dilan. Plus the not inconsiderable bulk of me behind the camera. That with an entire Colombian picnic the ladies had whipped up and a cooler full of soft drinks and Aguilas. To their astonishment none of the taxis, which are tiny at the best of times were prepared to carry us the twelve or so miles to Puerto Columbia.
It's easy to forget that the average working wage in Soledad is about $200 US per month. This in a country where luxury items like aircos, refridgerators,general electrical appliances,branded food items cost the same if not more than in America or Europe. It is not difficult to see why they might be reluctant, even when I offer to pay, to take an extra $5 taxi. In the end they reluctantly agree but only if we come back to Barranquilla on the 'chiba'. Today I learned the difference between a chiba and a bus. A bus is one of those yokes that nearly crushed us at Aunt Gloria's and a chiba is more something you fall out of drunkenly,like a charabanc without windows, music blaring and in general a party on treadless tyres. I have no problem with that. Give me the chiba anytime.
Once we managed to secure the services of two cabs things went swimmingly. We might have been a day trip to Blackpool or Zandvoort had it not been for a military road block on the way out. Fortunately they were more interested in the taxi driver's papers and the contents of the the boot to take any notice of the steely-eyed gringo who had forgotten,once again, to bring even a copy of his passport. Tonia made eye signals to me like; "keep you mouth shut and try to look inconspicuous..." Which would be akin to the Jolly Green Giant trying to fade into the background in a minibus full of pygmies. We pulled it off though. Getting to Puerto Colombia in no time. The beach there seems to be split up into sections, each one requiring access from some sort of recreation complex or resort. The first we visited seemed very accommodating but Johan, who was doing the talking with the armed security, said that they wanted to much entrance fee and besides that half of the beer we were carrying. It seems they can make their own rules as to the allowed quotas, probably because they have to deal with the "borrachos",(lager louts to us) after they have tanked up. Half of 24 cans did seem excessive though. So we plodded off to Salgar, about a half hour of walking further along the coast. After a heart stopping climb that any sensible englishman would have hired sherpas for, we came to our destination. The resort was positively Ortonesque, jolly campers running around between armed guards and machine gun nests, Well maybe the machine guns are a bit of an exaggeration but then you wouldn't expect armed uniformed men of any kidney marching around at Alton Towers.
Didn't spoil the fun though and after a welcome dip in the pool we were tagged and took our allotted chiba down to the beach, ushered to a couple of weather-beaten tiki huts to soak up a little more sun and atmosphere. More of that later.