La Casa de Philippe, Taganga - Saturday, January 25th

Being a lone traveller has a different set of advantages and disadvantages to groups. Meeting a completely fresh set of people when you arrive in new digs can fall on either side. I’ve always found that people determine whether or not a place leaves a warm impression on you. Any hellhole can be a paradise given the right company.

As you move forward, you learn to develop a strategy for finding the right companions. The most tried and true tactic is to just sit in the hostel bar with any kind of reading material. Chose your vantage point wisely and relax. From there You’ll have full scope of the traffic. There’s nothing nefarious to it. You always know when you’ve met the right folks. Then all you have to do is find an opportunity to walk over and say hi. If they’re decent then it’s downhill from there.

This eve I was fortunate to meet some greats. I first spied Ollie and Joss while they were valiantly performing a duet of Michael Jackson’s ‘Rock With You’ on the Masaya Hostel rooftop. At the bar I got chatting to Ollie. He was a Swede and had studied at UCL with Joss, who was born in Hastings. Ollie was a tall, blonde and well barbed Viking of a man and Joss, a cropped gentleman with a natural pearl smile and kind blue eyes.

It was a particular joy when you meet people on the road that you naturally click with. The same had happened in Medellin with Harry and Heele. It’s always a blessing when, even fleetingly, these people cross your path. These are the people whomake those evening moments precious.

Ollie was about to start teaching neuroscience at New York university. I could already see the fawns on freshman girls faces as he softly unpacked the complexities of differential equations. Joss had decided to take up a teaching job in Bogota when he was about to run out of money while travelling. At the time he was working as a professional photographer. From what I gathered the ex pat English teaching community is as feral here as it was in Vietnam, where I taught briefly. Talking with him made me wistful for more meaningful work. Much like talking to Gary the fireman and part-time saint.

We went to a club called El Mirador. It was down the coast and overlooked Taganga, my next destination. The place was deserted but we made light work of entertaining ourselves. John, a tree planter from Canada and two girls, a Dane and an American born Cambodian were in tow. John had a gentle nature about him and I took a shine to him immediately.

After calling it quits we went down to the beach and out came the weed. I abstained due to my recent health scare. We gently ambled town the fishing cove, spluttering coughs punctuated our starlit conversation. Around us were islands of nattering locals, feral dogs and children playing. One dog in particular was rather impressively, and acrobatically mounting a bitch twice his size. “He is called Tigre.” Beamed a chubby local girl. I could see why.

We took cabs back to Santa Marta. As we were driving up the hill a dog led her puppies into the road. The driver made some attempt to swerve but I could tell from the ensuing yelps that a pup had been hit but hadn’t died. I tried to ask the driver to turn around to end its misery but I was too shocked. He had barely flinched. John and Joss sat in the back in complete silence. John had turned around to see behind us and was now white as a sheet. Not a single word was uttered until we got the the hostel. We all quietly prayed its suffering would end.

I haven’t been able to talk about it with anyone since it happened. Only writing this down has helped me come to terms with it. The thought of its suffering is enough to make me start welling. When I arrived at the hostel in Taganga they had two beautiful puppies kept as pets. I felt a lump growing in my throat.

The omen had not been a good one for my journey to Taganga. It was a shame as the night had been such fun up to that point. We all met for breakfast and nothing was said of it. Then we exchanged details said our goodbyes.

Arriving in Taganga by day exposed the full horrors of the road there. It was described to me by previous visitors as travellers haven. However the road to it felt like a journey into the heart of darkness, a road to the apocalypse. Bare trees were sprouting plastic filth where once there were leaves. An orgy of industrial, lifeless material adorning every branch.

You had to cross a decommissioned set of railroad tracks to get there. It was, quite literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Both sides of the street were braced with decrepit shanties. The bright colours of their exterior walls did nothing to hide the squalor. The road itself was strewn with industrial quantities of garbage and masonry. Two men were filling in potholes using shovels. It was a pointless exercise, as rubble was being used as a substitute for concrete. By the road were discarded boats, cars and tractor parts two stories high. The town’s roads were not roads. They were just the slopes of the hillside strewn with boulders, garbage and more masonry. The streets looked like they were wearing most of the town.

The hostel was a small walled oasis with a plunge pool and hammocks dotted about the place. The familiar lark of Australian accents drifting through the humid air. I sat down to read and relax. Unfortunately my relaxation was rudely interrupted by yet another spell of dizzyness. I was laid flat for several hours. A young Colombian called Dominique kept me company. She was travelling with her parents and worked as a freelance photographer in Cartagena. In spite of my illness we had an incredibly lucid and insightful talk about cinema and art in Colombia. Our words drifted into the wind and we were presided over by the gentle descent of the sun into the cove.

This most recent spell had left me with a lingering vertigo that made me walk like Jack Sparrow. Nonetheless my wits were still with me and I wasn’t going to let this get in the way of enjoying my first evening in Taganga. I got friendly with a pair of Danes called Christian and Rasmuss. Rasmus looked like Thor in almost every respect. Christian had darker, fox-like good looks and a gentle charm. Both were from Arhus, not too far from where my family are based. We hit it off a treat and were joined by a bearded Kiwi called Bret. Well ensconced on our moonlit terrace, we saw off many of the worlds problems over several boisterous hours. Christian and Rasmus’ idea to start an organic food brand called ‘Colombio’ drew a good deal of debate.

At around 1 am we were ready to hit the night. My vertigo had proved to be the most economical of afflictions. I had barely drunk and yet I felt hammered. Despite the physical disorientation my mental faculties were still robust. This little episode was not going to get in the way of me having a good time.

Sensations, Taganga’s other main nightspot, was a large terrace flanking the beach. Upon inspection it contained the usual mix of locals, travelling Jesus impersonators and Argentinians. I refrained from dancing as even at the best of times I can empty a dance floor. Given my condition my dancing could well have led to several people leaving the club in a gurney.

We drank and chatted until the lights promptly shot on at three. The drunken Jesus’ were herded out and we sought out a venue to continue the fiesta. I’d heard from other travellers that there is an Israeli hostel where the party never stops. It was a hard place to miss. A high walled fortress with wooden doors so large a cruise ship could have sailed through them. Inside, a vast pool surrounded by three storeys of rooms all looking inwards. A giant mosaic ornament of the star of David graced the centre of the pool. The design was essentially a microcosm of the country.

Every year this town is flooded with Israelis who come here to decompress after two years of national service. During this time they are completely deprived of female company and alcohol. This was fairly evident once we passed through the gates. It looked like a Hollywood portrayal of the most wild college frat party you’d ever seen. The pool was heaving and people were dancing on all the terraces. Israeli house music reverberated around the high walls. Squealing Argentinian girls were being chased around the place by randy Israelis. I felt like I was watching a Benny Hill sketch.

The next morning I bade farewell to my new found Danish comrades and moved to another hostel. La Casa De Philippe. It had been full on Friday but I’d been lucky to secure rooms for the rest of the week end. I’d heard rumours that Philippe, a Frenchman, had the services of a French chef. I hadn’t been able to eat since my last episode so I felt this would be the perfect spot to convalesce.

Inside Philippe’s compound it was a tranquil Eden of landscaped gardens, hammocks and a well that gently massaged the air with the sound of trickling water. My room had a normal bed, air conditioning and only two other occupants. Luxurious.

I introduced myself to Dominic, the fabled French chef. Having learnt of my Belgian heritage his face filled with delight at the presence of a fellow gourmand. Soon I was tucking into one of the most tender Fillet Mignon steaks I’d ever eaten. Accompanied with garlic fried potato slices, and green salad (perfectly dressed) served with whole grain and Dijon mustard. It cost less than £6. I was in heaven.

He had trained as a pastry chef but I was mortified to discover that he couldn’t make croissants or even pastry here. The humidity ruined it instantly. I could see in his eyes that he was relating this to me with a heavy heart.

As I was still suffering slightly from the gentle jouncing of vertigo I asked if a doctor could come. Within 20 minutes in was graced by the presence of Yolanda. She was a sweet, owl faced woman in her 60s. Her bedside manner that felt almost Dickensian. Each instrument was used with great deliberation, every test accompanied by the gentle murmur of “bueno.” Like La Casa itself, she relaxed me no end.

As I’d expected, it was a middle ear infection. In my early childhood they had been a bane. This was the first time in 13 years I’d had one. The timing couldn’t be better. She wrote out a prescription for the receptionist to pick up. I felt like I wasn’t staying in a hostel. I was in the cheapest and best recovery centre in the world.

As promised, Wilson came all the way from Santa Marta to see me for dinner. I had warned him that I was not quite in the mood for a big one but he said that didn’t matter and in fact he preferred quiet nights talking to drinking heavily and dancing.

We sat on the top floor of the casa and covered all manner of topics while graced with a panoramic view of the cove. I was delighted to hear he had been an avid reader of the blog. That morning he had been to law school for an extra class at 6am. Then he spent the rest of the day as a volunteer tour guide around San Pedro. To say I was impressed was a serious understatement.

It turns out that we both loved Michael Jackson and talked at length about the different bands that had influenced our tastes over our lifetimes. We could both punctuate the various moments of our lives with artists that had changed the way we thought of music. Both of us agreed that music was something we couldn’t live without.

He told me his favourite film genre was horror. This surprised me somewhat. “Which film in particular?” I asked. He paused “Ghost.” He had also watched Les Mis six times since it came out. We were summoned a table. Dominic had prepared another treat. I had grilled Dorado fish followed by mixed fruit crumble. Both were exemplary.

I asked Wilson why he had studied criminal law. Again, he paused and gave me a perfectly crafted and well considered response. He said it was because it touched the most fundamental parts of human rights, especially the right to self governance. Criminal law should be seen as a way of protecting the freedoms of people and judging them fairly for their actions. It was not just about protecting victims of crime but also about protecting the wrongly accused. I wish I’d taped his response. It was a fine monologue.

We then talked about love. He was too busy to have a girlfriend but was very close to his male best friend. They had fought recently and he was a little down about it. He felt it was possible to love friends as much as any partner but in different ways. Friends could cause as much sorrow as any relative or partner. I agreed.

The medication I’d been prescribed was making me quite drowsy. At midnight we said our goodbyes. I went to bed and fell immediately Into a deep and well earned sleep.