Hola Familia y Amigos,
After immersing ourselves in the city of Cartagena, Maggie and I next spent some time in rural locations: Los Cocos near Tayrona National Park and the countryside between Bucaramanga and the sleepy, charming pueblo of Barichara. A passenger van picked us up from Casa Lola, already carrying nine others with baggage overflowing, leaving us with half our bags on our laps. There would be 17 of us eventually! In between, our driver stopped at their company’s car lot, wasting 20 minutes while one van rammed another, followed by head scratching and laughing at their errant co-worker. Our several hour northward journey toward Barranquilla and Santa Marta would move us through an alternating myriad of landscapes: swampy patches filled with garbage; pristine wetlands; drought-stricken plains of bone dry grasses; sickly and not-so-majestic palm trees; lushly green and thick foliage with skinny cacti; mangroves and small bays sporting scores of tree stumps protruding above the water’s surface.
The communities of these vastly different topographies were a reflection of this diversity, from abject poverty/squatter status, colorless abodes and garbage-strewn environs to prosperous/ownership status, brightly colored homes and clean yards: spindly wooden lean-to shelters with sheets of black plastic as walls; grey cinder block houses with thatched roofs; bright and cheerful Caribbean colored structures and neat yards, with open air shops facing the highway, vending fruits and crafts. Suddenly we came upon a shanty town settlement stretching for a few miles through a swamp, spilling away from both sides of the road. Laundry hung everywhere resembling Tibetan prayer flags; black plastic bags covered the ground like so many stones, feathering out from the dwellings deep into the brush; corrugated tin roofs atop structures that did not appear to be able to withstand even a mild windstorm, seemingly going on forever.
We made it to Barranquilla, the 4th largest city in Colombia, an industrial hub and major port city, passing through on a large 3-lane highway, being stopped at one point by a policeman holding a ping pong paddle-sized stop sign to allow a very old man in a rickety green cart, being pulled by one rangy-looking donkey to cross all lanes. Then we pulled over to the side of the road for what turned out to be another Keystone Kops event by this company when three of their vans congregated to shift passengers between vehicles, re-distributing them for efficiencies between Santa Marta and Tayrona, which required the right luggage to follow the right passenger. Another 20 minutes enduring intense heat, with our watchful eyes ever vigilant.
Our residence in Los Cocos, Villa Maria, was only a handful of minutes away from the Zaino entrance to the park by local bus, which one would flag down along the roadside. Bungalow #7 was atop a hill facing the sea, surrounded by lush tropical foliage and hosting small bats under the thatched roof eaves. Our access to the reception desk and dining facility required crossing over a 150 foot long metal suspension bridge, swaying and rolling our way back and forth. Our path to the beach was bursting with an abundance of fruit trees: all the standards plus guama, mamey, nisero, guanabana, mango and maracuya.
Since we had only two full days here, the first being Sunday and not a day to compete with the locals on visiting the park, we hopped on the local bus for a 30 minute ride to go tubing on the Rio Don Diego, set up by the reception desk guy, Felipe. On this ride we were assaulted by blasting music, a large picture of Mary and Jesus, statues and paraphernalia of a sexual nature, dice, decals, personal photos and effects on the dashboard. All that was missing were the proverbial CHICKENS. Our driver’s buddy, who was riding shotgun, would man the folding doors, hanging out from them, when open, looking for prospective customers. The drop off point for us was the speed bump on the other side of the Don Diego river bridge, where we were to ask around for “William”, who was a local, jovial fat guy, turning us over to a 15 year old kid, David, providing us with two well-worn inner tubes, taking our money and disappearing without explaining how all this would work. Gee, no waiver to sign that protects him from a lawsuit?
We would have a languid and enjoyable hour with David, light rain falling the whole time, he, pushing both of our tubes down this slow moving, waist-deep river, pointing out howler monkeys, various feathered friends like egrets, vultures, kingfishers, herons and roseate spoonbills, all in poorly enunciated Spanish. We were the only ones on the river, with one exception: a 16 foot, motorless, wooden boat, painted red, being pushed upstream by a 40-something weathered man, with a family of five aboard. In the distance the Howlers could be heard far inland from the river, David gesticulating, saying ‘hombres’…we got it, males competing with each other! We ended on the Caribbean and rode a bright blue, wooden motor driven lancha back upstream when the skies opened up and thoroughly drenched us. Riding the bus back was a riot in this rain: windshield wipers could hardly keep up with the smashing rain; soaked locals waiting alongside the road, boarding and bristling past us seated passengers, drenching us with the rain they carried aboard. Arriving back, we sat at our dining quarters, waiting out the rain before going up the hill to our bungalow, when the downpour turned into a full-fledged thunder and lightning show, with bolts landing on the Villa Maria property launching us out of our chairs. Wi-Fi was gone (oh no!) and 7/25 bungalows were without electricity. As bad as this was, this rain was much needed to mitigate a one-year drought condition.
Later that evening, returning to our unit after dinner, we were met with what sounded like rain pelting our deck door windows, I opened the curtains and the doors, stepping out onto the deck, but no rain was evident. However, screams from Maggie inside to shut the doors revealed a horde of ¾” June Bug-type flying beetles that had been escaping the wetness, ramming themselves against our window doors, attracted by our light. We spent the better part of an hour capturing and releasing them, using a coffee mug and a thin sheet of laminated bungalow instructions, exiting them through a side window screen and quickly slamming it shut. Over and over and over again. “Beetlemania: Capture & Release”.
Our last full day was spent at the Parque Nacional Natural Tayrona, with the 12th Woman and me getting there before 8:00 a.m. to ensure entry, as it is wildly visited and long lines are a history, including being turned away due to daily quotas on visitors. Our hike would cover two hours, beginning with steep ascents through huge smooth boulders and lush foliage for the first 40 minutes, with some easier paths to follow at times, then coming out on the beaches, passing Arrecifas, Piscina and ending up at Playa Cabo San Juan beach. Near Piscina, we came across two native children cutting up coconuts amidst a stand of palm trees, offering to sell us some meat. Further on we purchased fresh squeezed orange juice being created under a thatched structure by another group of natives living in the park.
After refreshing ourselves in the Caribbean waters, we were thoroughly ready to hike back, when, Moises, a young local, offered to cut the price he had offered us an hour before on riding horses back to the park headquarters. We thought it would be an interesting experience, so accepted his price of 30,000 pesos per person ($10 USD pp) and were hoisted atop Ramone (me) and Candelina (Maggie), with Moises walking behind us, making clicking and shushing sounds, gently coaxing and directing them. It was a ride fraught with moments of fear, with these two horses trying to pass the other, veering into the other to cut off the attempt, scraping our legs against their hides, starting to trot which put us in panic mode, barely getting through very narrow passages between sharp rocks, descending gently, with no mishaps, other than the sounds of the silver metal stirrups clanging against the sides of said rocks indicating the margin of error. There was a lot of traffic on this narrow trail, not allowing for ease of passage which required us to take control with our reins periodically to avoid any problems. One such confrontation was with a mule train, guided by several caballeros, packing supplies in for the businesses at the beaches. Surviving this hour long ride with only minor bruises (including egos) and abrasions, it became obvious that we are not horse people!
Our last night presented us with an absurd scene that we recognized from our previous night with the June Bugs. At dinner time, several tables of guests, sitting below the lights, were dive-bombed by these insects, getting into the women’s hairdos, down their blouses, screams filling the night, women leaping out of their chairs, striking a general air of hysteria. We didn’t feel so bad about our encounter which, at least, was not witnessed by others!
Our next journey leg moved us from Villa Maria to the sleepy pueblo of Barichara, 500 miles southwest of Tayrona and 200 miles north of Bogota. It would last 12 hours and require 6 segments attaining altitudes of 3,000 to 8,000 feet. First, an hour taxi ride to the Santa Marta airport, then a flight to Bogota, followed by one to Bucaramanga airport presiding above its namesake town. A wild 30 minute taxi ride dropped us 750 feet in elevation to the Terminal de Transporte to purchase tickets for a 2.5 hour van ride to San Gil, finally taking additional ground transportation for the final 20 km into Barichara. Along the way I began thinking, “boy, this place better be worth all the hassle!”
The premier experiences of these 12 hours were the breathtaking views from the 2.5 hour van drive over a 2-lane road, taking us on a winding hairpin-curved excursion of the incredible Chicamocha Canyon (Colombia’s answer to our Grand Canyon), with steep ascents, staring down several thousand feet at the muddy Rio Chicamocha, followed by matching descents. Parque Panachi could be seen in the distance, an iconic monument to the Santanderean culture, featuring a 4 mile long aerial tramway over the canyon and opportunities for paragliding. With the canyon behind us, lush green environs prevailed. Dwellings could be seen nestled midway up from the valley floor, with signs of farming in neat rows of plantings. We came to the prosperous area of Aratoca, with blue-green cacti, rich red soil, lush thick grasses being grazed on by horses and fat cows, and neat squeaky clean red-tiled roofed white houses. The vegetation consisted of poinsettias, hibiscus, pine and fruit trees many of which sported moss-laden drooping limbs, wet with the rain that had been falling.
The only detracting piece of the aforementioned drive came as a result of the traffic on this curvy roadway, 80% of which consisted of large commercial trucks, moving slowly, encouraging daredevil maneuvers by impatient car drivers, passing on curves, with some pretty close calls, at least in our humble opinion, but then again, this is probably pretty standard stuff to these frequent fliers!
The day was waning when we arrived in San Gil, being unceremoniously dumped off on a random street, well short of the Terminalito where we needed to get to for a 9K pesos, 20 km van ride to Barichara. However, we quickly espied a Kia-sized, yellow cab, and, because it was raining and getting dark, we jumped at the chance to get in for 35K pesos (4 times the planned amount, but only $12 USD). We had yet one more speedy, but skilled chofer, Alfonso. We rose out of San Gil, looking back at the twinkling of its lights, soon to be replaced by sheets of lightning and then bolts of the same, not slowing Al at all. It was totally dark when we arrived in Barichara and its sleepy population of 4,000. Al would make at least 5 stops, asking locals how to get to Posada Suenos de Antonio, our new home. In conjunction with all the structures looking the same (white and neat), the street name conventions defied logic, so we inch-bugged our way toward our target and finally were successful.
We were greeted by a staff person who spoke no English. We would eventually learn this was the norm outside of major Colombian cities and that our Spanish was not necessarily well-understood. This pueblo was sewn up for the day at 7:00 p.m. but we found a restaurant facing the main square, sitting outside on a small balcony, content with Italian cuisine, a bit of wine and a view of the square. Our quaint boutique hotel had a beautiful rock garden off the lobby and the dining area, host to potted plants, hanging baskets, mango trees, bird feeders, cacti, all under the open skies. We had arrived in exactly the place we wanted to be for the next two days.
Hasta Luego, Stan & Maggie