Fuzzy headed, I fell out of the hammock to the dull glow of cloud covered sun. In this coastal region the mornings are almost always shaded. Eventually the sun begins to burst through in the early afternoon, usually shedding its grey cloak over several promise filled hours.
I think it’s important to explain that Carlos was not at all displaying typical Colombian behaviours. Only 1.5% of the people in the country have even tried cocaine. The vast majority treat it with disdain. They rightly see cocaine as the cause of many years of unnecessary bloodshed in their country. Despite it being the world’s production centre it is seen as a habit that only the elite could support. Carlos was clearly a man of either means or bad debts. I hazarded a guess at the latter.
My restoration began by sitting silently near the crashing sea and sipping on some local coffee or ‘Tinto’. This was chased by a pint of mango juice. The hammock had been fairly kind to me, allowing me to eek out a few hours of undisturbed sleep. I decided to head back to Palomino before the heat of the day would creep up. After a quick breakfast wih the lovely English girls we said our goodbyes.
My return journey to The Dreamer went without incident. The calming ditties of George Michael’s Careless Whisper and Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street danced around our packed bus. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing given that every other bus has been playing the same salsa tunes on repeat.
I was glad to see that John had checked in to the Dreamer and was in good spirits. We had discussed a trip up to the desert for the night before I left for Tayrona. We swiftly concluded that the we would be fools to miss out on it. I only had two days left and was going to make the fullest use of them.
The hostel had a deal with a tour operaror from a town about an hour north of us called Rioacha. From there we would be taken to the desert beaches of Colombia’s northern wilderness. When we asked about taking public transport we were advised that it would take a day or more. Given the lack of time available to us, this tour was the only option.
After another eve of pizza and rum we hit the hay. It turns out that the owners of the hostel are, in fact, Italian. Thus the mystery as to why they have some of the best pizza and pasta I’ve ever eaten came to be solved.
At 5 30 am we were up and on our way. When we got to the main road we waited for the bus to Rioacha. It turns out that the bus was actually a 1970s Ford pickup, half chewed with rust. After several false starts we were on our merry way. All that separated us from the outside was a porous metal roll cage. For seating we made do with wooden boxes.
As our rust bucket grumbled along, we picked up more and more passengers. Suitcases were on thrown on the roof and left to slide freely on the sharp bends. I noticed a plastic container full of petrol next to me. No matter, given that the crumple zone of the vehicle was my nose, there would be little left of me to set fire to in the event of an accident.
The truck spluttered on, its ancient bellowing engine sounded like the the god of thunder with laryngitis. One poor fellow left his hard hat in the truck. Someone very kindly threw it out of the back a few hundred metres down the road.
After half an hour our number had swelled to 18 in an area no bigger than a pool table. Four school children were hanging off the back of the truck. I was impressed that the pickup also had its own conductor, diligently clinging to the roof for the entire length of our journey.
When we got to Rioacha we took a taxi to Castilio del Mar. The bus journey was a classic example of Colombian timekeeping. Having been told that it would be an hour by everyone including the driver, it ended up being an hour and fourty minutes. This was something we had both gotten used to on our respective trips and thankfully allowed time for.
Despite our prudence, we arrived a little after the 8am scheduled departure time. Both slighlty apprehensive that we had finally come across the one vehicle in Colombia to depart on time. We were relived to discover that it was still waiting for another group. They had apparently departed from Santa Marta at 4am but had yet to arrive. After a half hour’s wait we left without them.
We were joined by a bookish Dutch woman who was on a three day tour. She had absolutely no clue of her itinerary and seemed quite nervous. “This is Colombia. Tranquilo.” I said, trying to calm her down a little. I don’t think it helped.
During our journey to Rioacha the scenery had changed dramatically. Gone was the rich, verdant jungle. We were in the desert now. The roads stretched endlessly Into the dusty horizon, flanked by menacing hoards of cacti.
Our first stop was a salt mine. Gangs of workers with shovels were cracking the surface salt and moving it into piles. All that could be heard was the gentle scraping of shovels. Alejandro, the driver, insisted that we take as many photos as possible. We obliged, all wondering quite what excited him so much about the salt mine.
We then entered Uribia, a town of 7000. We were now firmly within the indigenous Wayuu region. Here the people were what Colombians looked like before the arrival of the Spanish. Their faces looked Asian, with large oval eyes, rounded heads, flat noses and molasses skin. It was strange seeing such homogeneity standing in stark contrast to the rest of the country.
We then stopped at Alejandro’s home and said a quick hello to his family. His fences were made entirely from neatly grown rows of cacti. In fact cacti seemed to be one of the principle means of fencing in the region. Even the municipal dump used them to contain mountains of rubbish.
As we progressed towards Cabo de la Vela the roads gradually degraded in quality and finally disappeared. There were no discernable features on the horizon. We were driving through a vast dry lake bed. It was no surprise that the Conquistadors decided to call it quits when they got here. Amazingly, in the middle of the salt pan we spotted two people riding bikes. It was at least an hour’s ride each way to the next geographic feature, let alone settlement.
Eventually the silt turned to sand dunes lining a desolate coast line. The path became heavily corrugated and threw us in serpentine twists and turns. Basic mud huts reinforced with contorted branches peppered the road. The beaches were adorned with the skeletons of dead fishing boats. How could anyone survive in such an unforgiving place?
After an hour of desolation, we reached the ramshackle coastal settlement of Cabo de la Vela. The place had a Wild West feel to it. Wooden shacks lined a single dirt road. The dogs here looked like they were desperate to be put out of their misery. Their misery was matched by the slumped telegraph poles lining the track, precariously balancing a single electric wire. Each pole had missing persons posters stuck to them. They were all pictures of tourists.
The contrast with everything else I’d seen in Colombia was so stark I once again felt like I’d gone to another country. The older women all sported a strange blackface makeup. I later learnt that this was a mushroom paste that they used as sun block.
And so it was that John, myself and a Dutch lady (whose name I would need an operation on my tongue to pronounce) arrived in Cabo de la Vela. We sat alone in a wooden cabin and were served the largest whole fish I’d ever eaten. It was delicious and so fresh that it was still flinching. As we ate a little Wayuu boy sat in the shadows and quietly studied our every move.
After lunch Alejandro took us to a beach down the coast. It was completely deserted, save for a few locals playing with driftwood. We were restless and decided to hike down the coast.
For an hour or so we walked over sheer rust coloured volcanic pumice cliffs, battered by the raging ocean. We barely exchanged a word between us. If there is a soundtrack for this place then is most certainly the wolverine howl of the wind. It consumes your words and all corners of your thought. The whole place was so heavily buffeted by wind that the sound had an eternal quality to it that that felt as permanent as the rock it whistled through.
The soggy mp3 player between my ears played the soundtrack from There Will be Blood. If you have access to it I’d give it a listen. It’s a masterpiece in eeriness and will give you some sense of how this place feels.
We stood and watched the sun set from the top of a rocky outcrop. It was as perfect a sunset as you could get. The clarity of the dry air meant that the swelling sun sank uninterrupted into the sea. It felt well earned. I began to mourn for the final dying embers of my adventure.
That evening John and myself sought a bit of light entertainment. We joined the hut owner and his family to watch Colombia’s Next Top Model. Eight men and boys ranging from ages five to fifty sat in contented silence. It was all surreal especially when raking stock of where we were. John and myself took comfort in the fact that in a shack the very edge of the earth, you could still watch giggling girls in swimsuits slashing water on each other.
When the programming got on to Colombian soap operas we decided to move to the beach and resume our tradition of Medellin rum by starlight. After only a short while we confessed that we were completely exhausted and once again I collapsed in my hammock. I fell quickly into a deep sleep, gently lulled by the ever present howl of the wind.
The next morning I we headed for the Azucer hill. A towering jut of loose grey rock that presided over the landscape. It felt man made, matching none of the volcanic pumice of the cliffs. Once you had scaled it you were gifted with a decapitated statue of the Virgin Mary. It seemed quite fitting for the place. A long scan of the horizon revealed a lifeless dusty expanse. The edge of the earth.
We had been joined by two Italian chaps from the shack. We had met them during our beach boozing and hit it off immediately. After our climb the four of us went for a swim in the most relaxing cove I’ve been in thus far. There was barely a soul around. The waves weren’t oppressive and the currents weren’t dangerous. We swam out a few hundred metres and basked in the sublime nature of the place.
For the journey back we were joined by Gunter, an eccentric Swiss man. He had been travelling for some time and showed it. His demeanour was always of someone bordering on a fit of rage. His light blue eyes were piercing and never flinched their gaze. Every movement of his body was made with purpose.
As we left we saw the military making a sweep of the shacks, armed with M16 assault rifles. A Spanish tourist had been added to the list of missing tourists over night. It was definitely time to get out of dodge.
Our numbers had swelled from two to five. I’d finally managed to get a bit of a group going but it was the last day of my trip and it wouldn’t be of much use. At least my last night would have a few familiar faces. The impending end to my adventures has certainly made me prize continuity over change with respect to my company. Making new friends every day for three weeks is a tiring endeavour and not for the faint of heart.
For an extra £6 each Alejandro said he would take us to the hostel. It would shave more than an hour from the return and we eventually broke and decided to avoid the hassle of the bus. Given the journey that John and I had over, it seemed wise.
Despite the inhospitable nature of the place I was glad to have made the trip to the desert. It was a sensory experience and gave me time to take stock of the last three weeks. I’ll not forget it in a hurry.
