The Dreamer Hostel, Palomino - Tuesday, January 28th
Sunday was very much a day of rest and recuperation. I even managed to squeeze in a bit of actual work. Over fried eggs and strong coffee I organised a return flight from Santa Marta to Bogota. I had made the reservation over a week beforehand but the Avianca Air credit card system had been broken for several days. Strangely enough, when their credit card system was finally online the price of the flight had dropped. This was a small compensation given that I had spent the better part of four hours on hold to them.
Back at the hostel in Medellin I had the great fortune of meeting Andres Baretto, otherwise known as the Latin Mark Zuckerberg. He was originally Colombian but based in New York but was setting up an incubator for fast growth tech companies in the region. He was one of the most vigorously intelligent people I’d ever met. His American busimes partner, Erik, also struck me as a naturally gifted intellect. We got talking and have been exchanging emails since.
In normal circumstances I stay well away from anything to do with work while on holiday but this seemed too good an opportunity to let lie. Much of the morning focused on research and planning meetings for my return. My new role at work included busimess development and fate had decreed that this should be an area of focus.
After a few more administrative tasks I was once again treated to the delights of Dominic’s cuisine. This time it was a perfectly cooked chicken breast in a cream and mustard sauce. As soon had I finished it he came rushing over. He pointed out that the two slices of baguette on each side of the dish represented two healthy, infection free ears. It was a touching gesture and I could only reciprocate by telling him, in all honesty, that his was amongst the best French food I’d ever eaten. It was certainly the best value for money. He beamed and proudly marched the empty plate to the kitchen.
The afternoon was dedicated to catching up on the final season of Breaking Bad on Netflix. I’d promised myself that one day I would crack into it and this seemed my best chance. My delight was only marred by the fact that my vertigo was yet to subside and it didn’t feel to me like a purely bacterial infection.
During a break from the Breaking Badathon I got talking to Chris, a Dutchman travelling with his girlfriend. He was in a hammock, clutching a water bottle to his chest. A thousand yard stare etched on his face. It turned out that he had eaten a hamburger the day before which had all but cleaned him out. I saw a half eaten cracker on the table by his hammock.
“When did you start eating it?”
“Three hours ago.” He simpered.
That evening I decided to brave a walk to the beach. Wilson had gotten in touch to say he was there with a friend and I was itching for an excuse to escape. With the grace of a new born giraffe, I meandered towards the sea. It took all my concentration to stay steady. The bustle of the beach front was almost overwhelming. I thought about Chris and remembered that, as afflictions go, I’d gotten off lightley.
Taganga seemed to be haven for what Christian, Rasmus and myself had termed as ‘failed travellars.’ You can usually spot them diligently combing the beach, selling charm bracelets or carved bhuddas. Here they came in all flavours. The worst case I’d seen in Taganga was a failed travellar supergroup. A trio were hopping between restaurants peddling the worst music known to man. Evidently, one of them had recently stumbled across a disguarded pair of bongo drums. Even the feral dogs were giving them pitying looks.
I found Wilson and we caught up on our day. He had met friends at El Mirador last night after he saw me and was a little worse for wear. He showed me his law folder which had spent the day personalising with incredibly detailed gold and black gothic script. We moved over to the beach and watched our favourite Michael Jackson music videos on his smartphone while locals jossed about in the sea.
He told me that before the indigenous Tagangans were converted by the Spanish, they believed a goddess called Pacha Mama had lived in the cove. Her symbol was one of rebirth and procreation. The Israeli hostel had evidently embraced this spirit with gusto. Apart from the hostel her
spirit only remained as cocktail bar bearing her name.
The walk down had exhausted me so I made my way to the hostel for an early night. It struck me that I had probably drunk less on this holiday than I would at home. Hopefully I’d feel better in the morning and put a stop to this madness.
In the morning I was disappointed to discover that my head still felt like it was filled with helium. I decided to call Yolanda again. After an hour and a quick inspection of my eye movements I was on my way to the clinic in Santa Marta for some tests.
The clinic was as good as I could have hoped. No worse than any in the UK in quality and much faster. Within 20 minutes they had made some blood tests. I sat alone at the top of a staircase waiting for the results. I heard the slow thwack of flip flops heading up the stairs towards me. To my horror, it was a woman in full sanitary mask and overalls. Already I had visions of quarantine, more needles and a ruined holiday. She approached, stopped, turned and walked down the hall.
Yolanda appeared a few minutes later with a sheet of paper. My blood was in good order and I didn’t have any signs of a bacterial infection. She quickly whisked me off to see her friend, who happened to be one of the best ear, nose and throat specialists in Colombia.
Dr Abraham worked with machine gun speed, hawkishly pressing and probing evey oraphice (thankfully those above the neck). He concluded that it was a viral infection and the symptoms would pass slowly. There was an outside chance of neurological disorder but it was unlikely as my inner ear looked like it had been in a bar fight.
The whole time in had been dreading the cost of this endeavour. Although her visit to the hostel on Saturday had been a princely £17, I feared the worst considering the level of attention I’d received. Gingerly I asked in the car on the way back to the hostel. To my utter delight it was just another £17, plus £3 for fuel. $2500 in America and I didn’t even get a lift home.
Upon my return, I decided that I’d had enough of Taganga. Although the place was lovely and I’d been well looked after, it was time to move on. The vertigo had subsided to the point where it was manageable and Yolanda had given me her blessing to travel with care. Crucially, Dominic didn’t work Monday to Wednesday. That was the dealbreaker.
I decided to head east, down the coast to Palomino, a quiet beach town a few hours down the coast. The taxi driver from he hostel to the station offered to take me all the way. We bargained for 10 minutes and came to an agreement that meant that he would take me directly to the hostel for only £10 more than the bus. Considering this would shave an hour and a half off the journey and involve no bag carrying it seemed a good deal. As we sped down the coast i splayed myself across the back seats, gently puffing a cigarette. I couldn’t help feel that I had fallen into the ‘failed travellar’ category myself.
I’d called up The Dreamer Hostel, Palomino back in Taganga. Harry and Heele had recommended it heartily. If you can’t trust a recommendation from a gay hotelier then who can you trust? Fortunately, they had one bed left.
The Dreamer was, indeed, an absolute dream. Grass roofed huts each named after different countries surrounded a kidney shaped pool. The sea was a minute further on. And what a sea it was. A roaring beast of dense jungle ridged shore. All presided over by the Sierra Nevada, the highest costal mountains on earth.
Immediately I waddled into the sea, taking care for the current which was the strongest I’d ever felt. It snatches away a few people a year here and I was not going to turn my holiday into a statistic. Sitting by the pool back at the hostel I felt a friendly hand on my shoulder. It was Christian, flanked by Rasmus. I was delighted to see them. Friday had been a blast and I knew I was now in for a decent evening.
After a delicious supper of pizza and pasta, (failed travelling again) we decided that we would make a bonfire on the beach. Before this we needed to pick up some rum, a beach essential. This involved a 15 minute walk in the pitch dark to the local town. Christian had lost his flip flops and was bravely making the trip barefoot. As we were walking a spider scurried across the glare of the flashlight. Instead of turning around and running Christian just billowed with disappointment about having seen much bigger ones in Denmark. I was the one in flip flops and I was petrified.
With rum in hand we set about making our ramshackle fire. Thankfully someone else had done the same earlier and left a healthy set of glowing embers. All that was needed was for us to throw our stash on top and blow. Within 5 minutes, we ere graced by the presence of our plug and play fire and tucking into the rum with gusto.
The sound of the sea filled the air. Each wave was hitting the ground with such force that the beach shook. It sounded like The Blitz. Rum soaked, we sat and let the din of the jungle beach wash over us. The clouds peeled back to reveal a sky completely flooded with starlight. It felt like a show that was being put on just for us. It was made all the more special by the vertigo which gave all the stars the appearance if being in constant motion. It reminded me of the star machines that were popular at uni but on an unimaginably vast scale. Our only challenge was deciding if the sea or the jungle made a better urinal.
We drank heartily and were joined by three Dutch girls. They belonged to that particularly infuriating group of travellers who were convinced that theirs was the best trip in the world and everyone else didn’t have a clue. When it was clear that this was boys camping trip they shuffled off. Apparently they had been on the bus here with Christian and Rasmus and were equally as irritating.
We set back to the rum and drifted into sleep next to the dying embers of our fire. I woke up to the raging sound of the sea. The night sky being diluted by the first glimmers of morning sun. We made our way back to The Dreamer and fell into our respective bunk beds.
In the morning I bade farewell to Christian and Rasmus. It saddened me that I couldn’t spend my birthday with them. They had been great companions on the trip so far and I was tiring of making new friends. No matter, I was still having a wonderful time and would continue to make the best of it.