It had been obvious to me for some time that I had been far too long in Bogotá. The farms were not working out, Sebastian was having trouble getting a new ID after losing his, which prevented him from traveling with me. I had lingered in hope that things would work out but enough was enough. It was time for a change of scenery.
"You should go to Cartegena. Trust me, it's beautiful," Sebastian told me. "Once I get my ID again I'll head out there and show you a great time. Shouldn't be more than a day or two."
I had seen the city printed on the playing cards we had used to play Última Carta. Colonial architecture painted in bright hues, smiling vendors carrying fresh fruits, immaculate beaches bordering turquoise waters. It seemed like a model Caribbean paradise. I hadn't even considered going anywhere near that part of the country, but after so much time in chilly, cloudy Bogotá it seemed the perfect place to clear my head and finally get into the groove of traveling.
After consulting the Internet I decided overland travel would be best. The trip would be about 19 hours, plenty of time to get a big ol dose of Colombian countryside. The next morning I packed, making sure to keep a jacket, hat and sleeping bag at hand after Sebastian warned me that the buses run the air conditioning at full blast the entire time. I said my goodbyes to the staff at La Quinta. They had been incredibly kind and helpful to me, especially after my plans fell apart and I ended up staying in the hostel much longer than anticipated. Then it was out to the corner, where Sebastian flagged down a cab and worked out a good price for the bus terminal. A bit of negotiating, and we hopped in and took off.
From the backseat of the tiny economy car, I took in my last ride through Bogotá. It was Sunday, which meant that one of the main avenues through the city was closed to make way for cyclists. Families, groups of teenagers and couples rode in droves along the wide stretch of highway as clouds continued to pour across the bright midday sky. The terminal lay deep in the heart of the city, bordered by large brick apartment complexes and flooded with swarming taxis. I paid the fare and followed Sebastian into the surprisingly vacant terminal, a huge contrast to the frantic scene that surrounded it.
He once again took charge at making sure I went to the right place. The first desk didn't offer rides to Cartagena, but directed us to Expresa Brasilia, whose name I came across frequently when looking up transport within Colombia. The brightly smiling attendant confirmed that yes, there were buses for Cartagena. When does the next one leave? Oh, now. I hurriedly paid the 85,000 pesos (you do the math) for the ticket and scuttled over to the departure gate. "Now" in Colombia actually means about 15 minutes, thankfully. I said goodbye to Sebastian, who assured me he would do everything he could to join me in my travels as soon as possible. I watched him leave through the dragging automatic doors and realized I hadn't traveled alone since arriving in the city nearly two weeks earlier. Excitement welled.
The bus was more or less like any long distance bus you see in the States. I had a seat right up in front, anticipating curvy roads and a battle with motion sickness. The seats reclined an absurd amount, which would have been great if they had the leg room to match. Oh well, I made myself as comfortable as I could and awaited departure. After setting off and getting to the outskirts of the city, I watched in horror as the driver decided to drift into the oncoming lane and pass a truck that apparently was slowing us down. He did this as often as he could. Colombian drivers are incredibly impatient and will pass at any opportunity, regardless of whether or not it is "safe" to do so. This wouldn't have been so terrifying if we weren't COMING DOWN FROM THE ANDES. I gripped my seat tightly as we bombed down curvy roads, honking and passing any vehicle that dared get in the way. After accepting that no matter how intensely I stared at the walls of the closed driver's compartment he wasn't going to change a thing, I was able to take in the gorgeously rugged mountains and rich green valleys that stretched into eternity beyond the twisting highway. I lost myself in admiring them for hours it seemed. Small shacks hugged the small strip of land between highway and cliffside. Every other was a fruit stand or small shop of some kind, suggesting that the residents can't really afford not to sell something, even out of their own homes.
After leaving the highland region, we began to pass through larger towns. I was amazed that carsickness hadn't gotten the best of me, but I guess my brain was distracted by other aspects of the white-knuckle descent. The land gradually flattened into rolling hills. Rivers, low in the dry season, wandered toward the horizon. After making a stop in the town of Honda, things became distinctly tropical, reminding me of the landscapes I had seen during a trip through Costa Rica. Rich, thick and green, stunted trees and howling insects, suffocating humidity, at least outside my igloo of air conditioning.
Night fell, a violent storm moved over us as we continued north. Flashes of lightning revealed groups of ghostly white cows clustered against the fence near the road. I slept on and off as the rain pelted the bus, knit hat pulled down over my eyes against the cold and light. I woke once after the storm had passed, and saw hundreds of winking fireflies in the wake of the bus' headlights. Lightning still flared in the distance. I drifted off again.
I awoke to a man dropping his suitcase in the vacant seat next to me. He opened it to reveal samples of perfume, expensive watches, smartphones. Ah, he's selling knockoffs. He passed around his wares, making a story up about how he worked near a port in Venezuela and was able to get them all at a great price. I sighed as people began to test the perfumes. No more sleep for me. We were passing through a marshland of some kind, so large that I mistook parts of the river delta for the Caribbean. The town of Ciénaga (literally "swamp") brought the lifestyle of the region into perspective. Shacks with their foundations on stilts rotted away, children fished recyclables out of the filthy water, carts advertised fresh seafood and ceviche that couldn't have been any less appetizing after seeing the source. It was all difficult to take in, especially from a comfortable, air conditioned tube. I was relieved to leave the area and finally break through to the coast. My first view of the Caribbean wasn't very glorious: it was overcast and the water was silty due to a nearby river mouth. I still couldn't wait to get to a proper beach and test its surely lukewarm temperature.
We were shuffled onto a smaller bus in the city of Baranquilla, which lies in between Cartagena to the west and Santa Marta to the east, the three of them making up the largest and most popular of the cities on Colombia's Caribbean coast. Just a few more hours tracing the coastline, and we arrived in Cartagena. And man, was it ugly. All around the bus terminal were crumbling cement walls, cracked pavement and streets, crowds of frowning people and shouting vendors darting across the bustling road. Chaos reigned, and I was confused. Sebastian had told me it was about a 45 minute bus ride into the historic downtown, so I hopped on one of the dirty white Metrotrans and took my familiar place of staring out the window. I didn't like anything I saw for the majority of the time. The city was in ruins, loud, hot, crowded. But after a time I saw something familiar: the wall. The historic part of the city was still contained by the old Spanish fortress walls that had been constructed some 400 years before. The bus skirted around the perimeter, and though they had told me they made a stop downtown, I got nervous and asked to be let off on the north side of the wall, on an avenue that bordered the sea.
I took a moment to absorb my surroundings. Further west I saw a strip of high rise hotels that jutted into the sea. Boca Grande. The little Miami of Colombia. Too rich and commercial for my blood. I turned toward the wall and ducked my head to fit through a short opening in its rough stone facade. Spaniards sure were short back then.
Now THIS was the Cartagena I had been expecting. Gorgeous, brightly colored buildings, bougainvillea spilling over balconies, vivid women in vivid dresses smiling and selling fruits and knick knacks. I took a look at the directions Sebastian had written for me to find the hostel I had booked. Obviously I had come in on the wrong side of the wall, but it couldn't be too hard to reorient myself. Wrong. The streets in this part of town have a different name for every block, and are so narrow that keeping my directions straight proved impossible. Hopelessly turned around, I asked for help, and then again when I got lost trying to get unlost.
Finally, I arrived: el Viajero. The highest rated hostel in the entire region, suggested to me by everyone I had asked about staying in Cartagena. I stepped into the lobby, and it became clear that I was staying in a well-oiled tourist machine. Entire walls were dedicated to things to do around town and beyond, directions were printed exclusively in English, and meticulously so. Wifi codes accompanied little signs reminding guests not to hog the computers, not to forget to clean their dishes. The lobby was large and tastefully decorated, racks of chips and coolers containing beer, soda and huge bottles of water occupied the bulk of its wall space. Rocking chairs and benches were filled with gringos absorbed in their smart phones and laptops. Fans roared overhead, a dark TV lounge flickered in the back of the space, top 40 hits blared. I was handed a set of sheets and a magnet which I would stick to my bunk to show it was occupied. I headed out back to the brightly painted open air corridor flanked by rooms and dorms. I was in the back, in a dorm stuffed with 10 bunk beds. Despite it being two in the afternoon, several people slept in the frigid air conditioned room. I made my bed, locked away my bags and headed back to the lobby.
It quickly became apparent that people traveled in packs here. Gone were the wide open, friendly faces that I had encountered at La Quinta in Bogotá. People were either buried in their devices or... Well actually even those that were talking with each other were buried in a phone or tablet. But cliques... Cliques everywhere. And I was without my trusty guide. I reluctantly pulled out my own phone to check in as the loneliness started to set in. No, too soon. You haven't even seen the town yet.
So I headed out to take in the sights, trying in vain to keep track of where I wandered to have some hope of getting back. After a few minutes of walking it became apparent that I was missing something important: sunscreen. A nearby supermarket provided me with that, a towel I could actually use to lie on instead of my tiny travel one, and a big bottle of water to tote around. From here on out the tap is not to be trusted.
And then I wandered. Cartagena, at least within the walls, is vibrant and beautiful. I headed back to the northern wall to get a view of the sea, and was stopped by a smiling old man offering a tour of the area. His name was Mauricio, a language professor according to the card he hung from his shirt pocket. After passing couple after couple and family after family I was ready for some company of my own, even if he was probably going to rip me off. I followed him around the wall, taking pictures and listening to the constant stream of historical facts that flowed from my energetic guide. He let me know that he was an extra in Romancing the Stone and had many friends in Hollywood. I smiled and nodded, did my best to focus on the beautiful colonial architecture that was repurposed over the years to accommodate the tourist industry. We ended our tour at the crumbling plaza de toros, where bull fights had once been held. I chuckled when he told me what he usually charged for a tour, but that he'd give me a discount. It was still far more than the professional guides charged for four hour walks through the city. I gave him about half that, thanked him for the time and headed back along the wall to my hostel feeling a bit down.
I spent a few hours reading in the lobby, doing my best to smile and look inviting but not feeling up to actual interaction. I then learned that not only was this a tourist machine, but a party machine as well. People began to stir around 10pm, prepping with drinks and preening for a night out. As the bulk of the guests spilled into the street around midnight in search of a club to lose their minds in, I headed to my bunk to catch up on the sleep I had lost on the bus. Maybe I would be up to being social after a good night's sleep. Maybe.
