Homeward Bound - Sunday, February 2nd

Still slightly dazed from 24 hours in the desert, I took stock of my time there over a long, luxurious shower. Water the colour of strong tea came off of me for almost 20 minutes. I gave up trying to get the sand out of my hair, it would just have to come back with me as a souvenir. The rust coloured wilderness felt seared in my retina. I couldn’t shake off thr image of the women with the painted faces peering through the knotted wood walls of the shack.

I moved over to the pool, sitting with my feet in the water and basking in the warm evening glow. My last Colombian sunset. Over the past two days I’d been sighing a great deal. So much so that John said I was doing it about once every ten minutes. I was in a state of pre-mourning.

Truth be told, all I could think about was if I’d given myself enough time to switch flights in Bogota. I had one and a half hours between them and a terminal change to boot. Any delay would almost certainly lead to missing the flight to Miami. Given how much hell Avianca Air had already put me through I wouldn’t put it past them to throw me a serious curve ball.

That night I ate my last Diavola pizza and resumed what had now become a favoured ceremony - seeing off a flotilla of Caipirinhas seated at the bar. Ben and Jack, the affable British bartenders were in residence and always provided excellent banter. Often I would have to compete with the gaggles of Argentinian and Chilean girls who congregated here on most nights.

As Jack once explaimed, you have a completely captive audience as a barman. Timings and quantities are under your control. Many would argue that they had the best job in the world. Beach, board, booze and babes. I’m inclined to agree.

There had been rumblings amongst the hostel guests about a fiesta at one of the local salsatecas. At around nine, a large group of Dreamers thrust themselves upon the population of Palomino. The road was pitch dark and thick with the muttering of crickets. When we reached the place itself it was really no more than someone’s garage and a large yard full of garden furniture. The barman was also the DJ and the music emanated from a single, crackling speaker. It reminded me of uni.

We partied well into the night. John and myself went back to the hostel to consume the rest of our rum on the beach. In the process we got completely lost. Without the aid of a torch we could only see about an inch in front of us. We followed an unlit road towards the sound of the sea, listening for snakes or sneaking locals. I was terrified. John worked as a tree planter in Canada, often spending weeks complete solitude. He took it in his stride.

We saw a light in the far distance. Following its distant guidance, we happened upon a run down shack lit by paraffin candles. It reminded me of the final Scene from The Blair Witch Project. We larked about the place but no one was in. A few feral dogs were loitering near the door. We scurried past and followed the sound of the sea. After what seemed like an age of wading through endless undergrowth in loose fitting flip flops, we finally hit the beach.

Soon we were well ensconced with rum, cigarettes and crashing waves. We were joined by the bar boys as well as a few Canadians and and some Belgian girls. It turns out that one of the Canadians was also a tree planter. John felt his thunder had been stolen a little. We boozed and bantered under another perfect cloudless canopy of starlight.  It was my final evening of rum under such a sky. I would sorely miss this.

I stumbled to bed at around three. The knowledge that I would be going to the airport at 7 led to a distracted sleep. Every thirty minutes I woke to check my phone in a panic. When it was finally time to go I was very much ready, if not a little hung over. Perhaps still drunk. It couldn’t have been a more perfect evening to round off the trip.

When I got to the airport I noticed that there was no plane at any of the two gates at Santa Marta airport. This was a little alarming given that the flight was due to leave in 30 minutes. I spoke to the rather lost looking Avinaca attendednt. “How long is the delay?”
“Fourty minutes.” 
My heart began to whip hot swirls of blood around my whole body while my lungs gasped for breath. I had sailed too close to the wind and I would now pay dearly for it. This was probably the closest I’ve ever been to havig a stroke. 
“FOURTY!!” I exclaimed in horror. 
“Fourteen, senior, four TEEN.” She replied

I still wasn’t convinced. 20 minutes to departure time and there was still no sign of a plane. I began to look at other options for later flights. A quick glance of the internet revealed that I was shit out of luck. I couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. Finally, the plane appeared. Frantically, I herded the entire room onto it. When we took off we were only 25 minutes delayed. This was still a bit of a risk and I prayed to the flight gods that the pilot was as keen to be on time as I was.

When we landed we had made some of the time up. I had asked them to put my bag as priority and they kindly obliged. Bag in hand I sprinted to the bus that connected the terminals. As I fell in, the doors closed behind me. I finally had a bit of luck on my side. The American Airlines check in was at the other end of the terminal. Sprinting, I saw there was no line at the gate. It turns out they were in the process of closing the check in. When I found out that I could still check in, I nearly wept with joy.

The flight to Miami was smooth. Once there I had to do my usual trick of explaining why I’d decided to travel on a non US passport to the merciless US customs agents. Funnily enough I can play a very convincing idiot. I think having sun bleached hair helped my case somewhat. I also sported an enormous, humidity purmed afro and I’d drunkenly chosen to wear a t-shirt with a giant coffee stain all over the front of it.

Having survived the odessy of re-checking my bags for the flight to Heathrow I made for a sushi bar next to the gate and had myself a congratulatory drink. Flight three of three. A little less drama next time, I resolved.

While sitting I thought of the last three weeks, about everything I had learnt and all the wonderful people I’d met. I had rubbished Harriet at work when she said that this was the trip of a lifetime. In many ways it hasn’t been as I plan to travel as much as humanly possible before my last breath. In other ways though it has.

I thought of the Locals I’d met; Laura, Daniel, Kat, Juan, Marianne, Sebastian, Matthew, Dominic, Wilson, Yolanda, Alejandra, Pablo, Isa, Louisa. Each one had been a pleasure to learn from and spend time with. Whether it be drinking Chicha, walking through botanical gardens, lazing on the beach or grabbing a bite to eat. Sitting at Shushi Maki bar, I felt like my heart was an orb, too big for my chest. Swelling with the happiness of a trove of unforgettable encounters and experiences.

I know I will hold all of these things close to me and I know I’ll come back to Colombia one day. I’m quite sure of it. Now I had the love of my nearest and dearest to go back to. Despite my mourning for the end of the trip, I was ready to return home. I had missed my friends, family and Ali. Life felt a little incomplete without them in it. It was time to return to reality and once again restore balance to my life.