The Masaya Hostel, Santa Marta - Thursday, February 23rd

The arrival in santa Marta was not a smooth one. The morning was lucid dream of pure tranquility. There’s no feeling quite like waking up to the sound of lapping waves and standing up to feel sand beneath your feet.

Then the Dutch invaded. A vast, palid gaggle of geryatric day trippers descended on Hugo’s. They were hard to ignore. Several of them were so large that they swallowed up their mankinis whole. Most already had the complexion of a smacked arse before they sat down to eat. Amazingly I could actually watch some of them burning as they sat to gorge. I knew I’d had enough when I saw a group of them molesting a crab.

The boat back to shore was probably a lot more packed than the last lifeboat on the Titianic. Heavy winds has whipped the waves into a frenzy. At one point the boat was lifted clean into the air, much to the exclamation of the passengers. Not a soul was spared an involuntary shower.

I left the boat with a trail of water behind me 20 metres long. I was so wet that taxis refused to take me. Luckily someone waiting had anticipated the rough crossing and lined his taxi with bin bags.

The voyage to Santa Marta would be 5 hours by MarSol . Essentially a mini van that stops to pick people up and (hopefully) drops you at your destination. While the van was as modern as you’d like it the journey was spine shatteringly uncomfortable. I felt an inch shorter by the end.

As we were arriving into Santa Marta I felt that same wave of dizziness start to creep over me. That same feeling I’d had in Orlando airport. When I tried to turn my head it fell listlessly to one side. I looked around and I was alone on the MarSol. My first reaction was to think I had been drugged. I’d been asleep for an hour and there was no knowing what had happened to me. I tried to ask where we were but sentences were beyond my reach. I felt like my consciousness and the real world were separated by an unxious membrane. Too thick to penetrate.

We stopped and I managed to get myself up and there was, to my relief, a hostel. I stumbled through the door. They probably thought I was hammered. Thankfully the lady there was understanding and let me check in. I meandered upstairs and fell into bed. An Argentinian (surprisingly) came in and noticed that I was a little worse for wear and brought me some water. I had a few sips and went out like a light. At 7am I was up and in rude health and ready for another day.

I don’t mean to alarm anyone by mentioning this. I just feel that any account of my travels needs to be honest, with the ups and downs considered. This is a journal for me as much as you. Writing this down reinforces how delicate health can be and gives me a renewed zeal to care for it. This applies to everyone. Pedantic moment over.

With the morning sun on my face and the cool airs I surveyed Santa Marta from the top of the hostel. It was easily the most well appointed hostel I’d seen. A pool surrounded by a courtyard leading up to a multi level balcony with an outdoor kitchen, bar and pool table. All had a panoramic view of the city.

It was clear even from a 20 minute walk into town that Santa Marta had little to offer. A backwater town laced with garbage and dust. Dogs here didn’t have cute slippers and pink jackets as they had in Medellin. They were a feral monobreed no better than vermin to the locals. The streets were so cracked and potholed I first thought there had been an earthquake. The myriad of faults were presided over by a ramshackle cadre of loiterers and hawkers. Selling everything from pens to potties. It’s best streets were still far worse than Cartagena’s least appealing areas.

The town cathedral laid claim to being the oldest in South America. Although a little further investigation reveals most of it was completed into the late 18th century. Much like the red brick Cathedral in Medellin, it was an excuse to feel pride. Colombia once drew with Germany in a world cup Qualifier. According to Pablo, the whole country partied non-stop for three days. The same thing happened when a Colombian won a single stage of the tour de France. The thought of what would happen here if Colombia actually won something filled me with dread.

When picking up water I noticed a policeman buying a log book for work. The police here have been as ubiquitous as the people themselves. Sometimes there are more police than people. In Cartegena the local police had taken delivery of several hundred motorbikes and cars. They were put on display in the town centre for a week. As I was walking to the port they were all out for a beauty parade (one of many I’m told). The whole sight was made even more surreal by the fact that every one of them had their sirens on.

I stopped for lunch at the Hemingway Restaurant. At first I was excited by the fact that he may have had some wayward connection to the town but, sadly, it turns put the owner was a journalist and liked his books.

After lunch I decided to indulge in a bit of national history. Simon Bolivar ‘The Freedom Fighter’ died in a house only 15 minutes away from the town centre. It was at 500 year old estate called La Quinta de San Pedro Alejandrino. At the gate I was given a tour guide, curiously named Wilson. Like Pablo, my experiences here would bolster my appreciation for the country and those who work hard to make it here.

We began by standing in front of the biggest tree I’d ever seen. 
“How old do you think it is?” He asked.
I paused, considered my absolute void of arboreal knowledge and confidently said “300 years.” In fact it was 80. Benjamin (they named all the trees in the park) was a juvenile. Apparently there is an old timer in a park in Dheli that is the park itself. The branches take root when their tendrils touch the ground and spread outward indefinitely. I also met Trevor and Peter but they weren’t quite as exciting.

Bolivar had come here in 1830 when he was very much on his last legs, laiden with TB. He was looked after by Pedro’s house physician, a Frenchman called Alexander. Over the 17 days of his illness they became so close that Alexander asked to be buried next to Bolivar’s death bed. After Bolivar died the autopsy revealed that not only was he suffering from TB but had Malaria, Yellow Fever, Kidney Stones and Cirrhosis. He weighed only 70 pounds at time of death. I would probably had called it quits a little sooner.

In the portrait gallery I spied a painting of Bolivar leading troops into battle with a pistol. Wilson explained that this was a bit of a fib as the pistol had yet to be invented and Bolivar would never have led troops into battle. But they were still very proud of the painting.

We then came on to a portrait of the great Venezuelan Francisco de Miranda. He had the dubious honour of of being a key figure in every major revolution from 1780 to the mid 1820s. Quite how he managed to fit his fingers inso many revolutionary pies is a subject for further investigation.

In between revolutions he also managed to come up with design for the Colombian flag. The story goes that the yellow was the golden promise of a great Colombia with a sea of blue between it and the red of the blood that was spit for freedom. I wasn’t quite satisfied with this and pressed Wilson. It turns out that Miranda had also fallen deeply in love with a Russian woman with golden hair, blue eyes and red lips. “I think this is the truth.” Mused Wilson. “You’re probably right.” 

We got to Bolivar’s final proclamation before his death. It was etched into a large marble slab in the wall next to his deathbed. Wilson’s voice crechendoed as he recited it word for word, using an arsenal of physical gestures to reinforce each point. He had clearly memorised it and was proud of the fact. I almost joined in.

Wilson had been studying criminal law at university. I asked if he had always known that he would become a lawyer. “Since I can remember.” He had a criminal law class the next day and told me that even now he was excited. I wished I’d had the same relish for my university studies. He said had a plan for the next 20 years already set out. Having gotten to know him over the preceding hour and a half I had no doubt he would stick to it.

We agreed to meet for a drink on Saturday in Taganga, my next stop just down the coast. I hoped I would see him again. He was a rare combination of determination, integrity and emotional sensitivity. There was little doubt in my mind that he would live to achieve his dreams.