The end
was nigh. Bea and I's flights from Bogota to Europe loomed over us. We decided
to go out with a bang and finish our Colombian adventures in the Darien Gap.
The Darien Gap is the link between South America and Central America, and this
thin little swath of land has two small Caribbean towns on the Colombian side
which we were told had amazing beaches and was off the Gringo Trail. There's a
reason why Capurgana and Sapzurro are so off the trail - they're kind of a
nightmare to reach. First came the journey between Cartagena and Monteria,
which was long and bumpy but uneventful. Once we got to Monteria, a large town
in the middle of the journey, we were told to go stretch our legs and our
driver disappeared - ostensibly to round up more passengers for the next
leg (we'd already spent an hour idling in Cartagena waiting to fill up the
van)
We'd
started playing a game in these last few days, called 'You know you're in South
American when...' and from Monteria onwards there were plenty of moments that
qualified. I knew things were going to be interesting when we got told to get
out of the van and the drive refused to tell me how long the break would be or
when we should be back, just repeating 'Go relax!' Never a good sign. We were
all suspicious about leaving our bags unattended so after a quick bathroom
break, went back to the van to watch over our worldly possessions. Our driver
had apparently vanished into thin air and after awhile, a random man came over
and started walking off with our bags ignoring me and my screeching of 'Que
paso?! Donde vas? Hey! Hey! Hombre!' Competition is fierce at Colombian bus
stations and it's not unusual for an aggressive method to be used to try and
coerce gringas into going with a different company. We had paid for the journey
right through to Turbo and having nary a receipt or anything at all to prove
this without our driver being there, it took awhile to sort out that for
some inexplicable reason we were transferring from the relatively
modern, comfortable van to a much older and dingier one (it wouldn’t happen any
other way in South America)
While
the new driver couldn’t seem to comprehend why the three of us might be just a
teensy bit concerned about a stranger taking our bags or wanting to ensure we
wouldn’t be double charged, we eventually got on the road…only to pull over ten
minutes later on a country road. As Helen so succinctly put it when this
happened, ‘You know you’re in South America when you have no fucking idea what’s
going on.’ My entire 3 months in South America could quite aptly be described
as one constant battle against cluelessness. Faffed around, added some extra
passengers to the already full vehicle and loaded so much furniture to the roof
that I wondered if we would be strewing furniture behind us for the rest of the
journey, and after an inappropriately long time had passed, restarted the
voyage. Part of what had attracted us to Capurgana and Sapzurro were the horror
stories we’d heard about the road to Turbo and Turbo itself. I can confirm the
road is just what it as described as – a terrible, terrible “road” made up
mostly of potholes and dirt. Our driver’s approach to the rudimentary road went
somewhere along the lines of ‘Why not just drive as fast as possible with no
apparent concern for minor issues such as metres deep potholes and the van
falling apart around us?’
I know
it sounds like I’m whinging, but I hope it comes across that despite the
sometimes ridiculousness of what I talk about, I always find it hilarious and
entertaining. In the beginning stages of the trip, when we were still on paved
sections and being only mildly jostled, I remarked it didn’t seem that bad.
Many hours of bouncing up and down later on, Bea asked if I still held that
opinion. Adding to the charms of a six hour drive made up solely of bumps so
hard we nearly hit the ceiling and a vehicle sounding so tired and rundown that
the entire back section of it squeaked so loud we could barely hear ourselves,
we ALSO had the delight of loud, headache inducing salsa music playing the
entire journey. Our driver favoured the volume level of ‘so loud you can’t
think’ and at various stages of the trip, all three of us attempted to listen
to our iPods for a short period of time before sighing, putting them away and
admitting defeat to our cruel, probably deaf driver and his maximum volume
salsa.
We had
bought a bun from a bakery in Monteria and had eaten breakfast in Cartagena
many hours before but it was a long, nutritionless day. We all concluded it was
just as well, because there were no bathroom stops. At several points during
the journey, the sentiment of ‘these beaches better be fucking worth it’ was
expressed. Having heard so much about what a hellhole Turbo was, I never
thought I’d want to get there so badly. Stupefied, numb from screamingly loud
salsa, lack of sustenance and so used to falling into Bea and Helen from the
bumps I gave up apologizing, I couldn’t quite believe it when it was announced
we were finally in Turbo. It took a good ten minutes to find my errant left
flip flop, which had been jerked around so much by the ride it had slide to the
front of the van. While I was hunting around the floor of the van, Helen and
Bea were at the back discovering a fellow passenger had left his fresh fish on
top of our backpacks in a shoddy container which leaked fish oil all over our
bags. With anecdotes like this, the entire content of this blog could be used
as a case study of the differences between a vacation and backpacking.
The beach that was totally fucking worth it
Having
been told by every source of info just how lacking the safety in Turbo was and
the absolute need to get there in daylight hours, definitely at the very latest
by 5pm, we were just thrilled to have arrived at 10pm. A sample of LP’s write
up of Turbo; “Previously off limits to foreigners due to muchos paramilitaries
and guerillas in the neighbourhood…ridding yourself of revolutionaries does not
a destination make. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Turbo
is best seen through a rearview mirror.” Luckily the hotel Lonely Planet had
recommended (funnily enough, there isn’t a thriving hostel scene in Turbo) was
nearby and we staggered to it, paying for a triple room so small the only way
all three of us could fit was to lie on our beds. My favourite feature was the
ensuite bathroom, separated by a plastic curtain, with the toilet right next to
the head of Helen’s bed. The owner was lovely and very helpful, booking us
priority seats on the next morning’s boat.
Home sweet grotty home
The
other guy checking in with us turned out to be a Kiwi, earning his living
sailing between Panama and Colombia. Having been away from New Zealand for many
years, he was very excited to find out we were fellow countrywomen and invited
us to eat with him. We found that all gringos who settle down in South America
tend to be a little odd, and he was no exception, but he was nice and promised
to help us navigate the port the next day. We retired to our luxurious room for
the night, excited but slightly trepidatious about the next morning’s boat
ride. Yes, our journey wasn’t over yet. Inaccessible by road, the two towns we
were going to can only be reached via expensive flight or boat. The boat is the
stuff of legend amongst backpackers in Colombia. Known for being uncomfortable,
rather hellish and a real experience, it leaves once a day from Turbo Port. The
early morning departure was the reason behind our night in Turbo (which all of
us, hyped up for the scariest place ever, actually thought wasn’t that bad)
Forewarned
about the necessity of getting a seat at the back to avoid being slammed up and
down by the hull at the front, we utilized our new Kiwi friend’s perfect
Spanish and snagged back seats. I craftily chose a middle seat after the
agonies of aisle seat boating in Playa Blanca. Helen foolishly got an aisle
seat and lived to regret it. After handing over our passports which took an
anxiously long time to be returned we set off…only to rock up to a soldier’s
marine post where once again we had to hand over our passports. Once half the
population of Turbo had examined our passports, we finally hit open waters. At
which point we saw a storm in the distance. I cheerfully thought to myself it
couldn’t be that bad if we were still racing towards it. At this point, I should
have reminded myself that we had been told to expect the worst journey of our lives
that was guaranteed to be bone shatteringly uncomfortable.
Rocking the latest in towelling fashion
Closer
and closer we got to the storm, the skies becoming grey and the waves becoming
choppier. With the wind picking up, I started glancing over at the suddenly far
away looking shore and mentally calculating my ability to swim the distance. As
we speeded towards the stormy bit of the ocean, appearing to pick up pace, the
roof that was covering the boat started blowing off. One second it was nosily
flapping in the wind, the next it was being lifted by the sheer strength of the
gusts with the iron bits rearing up and threatening to land very nastily on one
of the passengers. While the boat driver showed no apparent concern, several of
the passengers screeched and yanked it down. The strength of the wind meant as
we hit the strongest bit of the storm it continued to blow up and away and all
the passengers in the aisle sections were forced to death grip the poles down
in an attempt to avoid decapitation by boat roof. Helen, as an unlucky aisler,
gripped for the remainder of the two hour trip (seriously kids, listen to
Auntie Rachel. NEVER pick the aisle seat in a South American boat.)
Helen, in the one position she held for 2 hours (taken during a stop at a port. There is no way in hell I would have attempted a photo when the boat was moving)
In
addition to the roof trying its best to blow off into the distance, the height
of the waves and breakneck speed meant everyone was sopping with waves crashing
all over us. We all adorned ourselves with our towels and for an indeterminate
amount of time, I remember leaning forward with my towel over my head, getting
wetter and wetter. Occasional peaks out of my towel showed we were surrounded
by grey fog and giant waves. When I turned around to look at Bea and Helen, the
disbelieving looks on their faces matched mine, which was based on the
pondering of what we’d gotten into. One tiny little boat juddering up and down
on big waves in the middle of a rather fierce seeming storm. Oh Colombia. It
was at this point I realized we were going to get to Capurgana, whether it
killed us or not…literally. I wondered at what point it became too dangerous to carry on and what would
make them burnt back. A couple days later, chatting to some hippies in our
communal kitchen, we got told tales of people getting black eyes/damaging their
spleens/knocking teeth out on especially violent rides, all of which did not
turn back and just kept hurtling along, even when the boat drivers had no idea
where they were or how they were going to get back to land. Conclusion: there
is apparently no point at which the Turbo-Capurgana route is too dangerous.
