Playa Blanca Beach - Wednesday, January 22nd

During the evening a French gent came to Isa’s apartment for coffee. He had lived in Paris but around 20 years ago he had met a Colombian there and absoconded. When we began to talk about his wife it became clear that they were now separated. As he was describing it I could also devine that he was not just here to see Isa for coffee. I quickly said my goodbyes and left them to it.

The next morning I trundled to the port. As expected, getting on a boat was far more of a hassle than it should have been. Once you got through the ticket gate you were greeted by throngs of passengers all in differing states of confusion. This was only matched by the confusion of the boat companies which seemed to have a limitless capacity for incompetence.

When I finally stumbled across the correct boat it was by pure chance. I’d been pointed in the wrong direction 6 times. Finding the boat was half the challenge. Once on board, they kept calling people off and loading the boat with others. I heard my name but fell quickly into silly grigo mode.

We were finally on our way. The broguish tour operator bagan giving a safety briefing that made everybody on the boat howl with laughter, except me. This was one of the many points I wish I’d picked up some more Spanish. The whole speech could have been imploring the boat to rob the blonde gringo and I wouldn’t have had a clue.

When we got near the beach the operator mentioned something about going to another island beforehand. At first I was hesitant but then warmed to the idea of getting two places for the price of one. We dropped a few people off at Playa Balaca and set for Isla Rosario.

It turned out, like many things in this area, that this was a trap for dumb tourists. At the island you were given the option of either a cripplingly expensive dolphin show or an equally draining snorkelling trip. I opted for the snorkelling trip but without a snorkel. I could have bought a new one for what they wanted. The snorkel master, the spitting image of Aguado from Dr No, gave me a look that could melt ice. I don’t think many had turned down the unending joys of his 40 minute snorkeling trip.

This day was turning out to be a bit of a dud. When we finally got to Playa Blaca it was as beautiful as the pictures had promised, save for the seething mass of Colombians on it. I walked up to the far end to find it devoid of any sleeping spots, just bars. I was told they were at the other end of the beach. This, as you can imagine, thrilled me. On the way there I spotted what was possibly the best or worst police posting in the world. 

After asking around a little I found Hugo’s Place. It was less crowded than the rest of the beach and seemed to have some interesting people dotted about. Once I’d finally found Hugo (not a man incidentally) I managed to get hold of my £3 a night hammock by the sea. And what a sea it was, purest turquoise spreading to the horizon. Unendingly beautiful.

Lazily I lumbered over to a deck chair and began to read. I’d decided to test my tablet as a reader and didn’t bring a single real book on the trip. It almost saddens me to report that the tablet wins hands down being impervious to wind and even the sun. Just make sure you’re near a power source.

By 4pm most of the Colombians had returned to Cartagena. The place was heavenly once the crowds were off. If I had more money I would have stayed longer. That evening I sat alone with a cold beer watching the sun set into the sea, the reflections imbuing it with all the qualities of liquid silver. I gave myself a gentle pat on the back for choosing to come here for the night.

I ended up dining with a group of older folks from the UK. They were all artists or had worked in the arts in London. The most jolly of the group, Sally, had lived practically next door to me a few years ago. Now she lived in a a self-assembled eco retreat in Costa Rica. Her home was constructed using old shipping containers and she had a troupe of monkeys living in her garden. Alright for some.

They were good fun and we had many belly laughs between us. Trevor, in particular, was the typical English eccentric gentleman. Going for runs down the beach in the baking heat while wearing nothing but a microscopic pair of blue speedos.

Ida was originally Albania bit had been involved in the arts in London 10 years ago. I asked her why all houses in Albania were painted the most ridiculous combination of colours you’ve ever seen. It turns out that after the fall of communism the mayor of the capital, Tirana, had painted many of the buildings in the city to help the people move on from the Soviets. When communism fell the place was nothing but grey concrete. He hired abstract painters to dress up the whole city. People around the country had heard of this and decided to take it as inspiration for their own dwellings. Having seen Tirana and houses across Albania it felt a little like chinese whispers, with paint.

While at the bar I met an Argentinian girl called Lucila who had been studying to be an English translator. It turned out that she was travelling with a group of six Argentinian girls had finished high school and were keen to practice their English. I could only oblige as it would have been very rude to turn down the invite.

When I joined them they plied me with the national drink of Argentina, Fernet Balanca and coke. Quite how his drink came to be adored by the nation remains a mystery. At best it tastes medicinal and at worst, a bit like window cleaner. Even most of the Argentinians freely admit that it’s awful. After a few sips it became palatable. A few more and I stopped caring.

We went to a bar down the beach where they were playing the now familiar hits of South America. It tuned out that the whole of Argentina has descended on Colombia. A hoard of them were busily dancing and chatting away in Spanish. English lesson was over. As a result I did learnt a new spanish phrase ‘ke nobe la fiesta’ or 'don’t stop the party’. I felt a little bit like the Falkland Islands.

After a delightful eve dancing under the stars it was time to hit the hammock. Pablo, a nice Chilean chap I’d met was in the next door hammock. At some pont during my sleep I cramped, swung my legs over and nearly knocked poor Pablo out onto the floor. My cheerful morning wave was met with a stony wall of silence.