Colombia you stop that - you’re perfect!
Cartagena reminded me of Cuba, which meant I missed Noor more than usual! I stayed two days and planned a volcano trip and a beach day.
It’s hot AF in the north, and I was thankful my room had AC. As soon as I arrived, I took a van to Totumo Volcano. I had myself a mud bath, resulting in another 30 before 30 list item to be crossed off! The tourists climbed to the top of the volcano and in we went, slipping and sliding down the latter. I opted out of the massage (not into it) and floated around next to a nice Puerto Rican couple. I liked how buoyant I was in the mud. One of the Colombians covered my hair with mud. “Colombian shampoo,” he said. It’s no head and shoulders. It was fun to be dirty.
We carefully got out of the volcano and made our way to the lake. Nice abuelas poured buckets of water on us and scrubbed the mud away. It reminded me of my Turkish bath - both ladies saw more of Brooke than most have. The rest of the tour group saw my special parts as well. My lady even branded me to make sure I paid her the dos mil I owed her. She tied a bracelet on my wrist so she would recognize me once I changed out of my bathing suit. All white people look the same.
The next day I went to Playa Blanca, and boy do I wish I stayed there overnight! The sea was spectacular. There were no waves, minimal boating activities in the water, free chairs and umbrellas. It was the first time I was ever relaxed enough to float on my back in the water, just like when Lieutenant Dan jumps off the shrimp boat. It was no Noor beach day, but it was a close second.
I may have made the biggest mistake of my travel life to date though... I didn’t visit the Shakira statue in Baranquilla! It’s a small town inbetween Cartagena and Santa Marta. I hear it’s life size, which is rather small since Shakira is tiny. It makes me laugh, because if Shakira were a man, you know that statue would be larger than life. But I had a trek to do, so hasta luego Shakira.
A German I met in Peru last December suggested that I visit the Lost City, a five day, four night trek through the jungle. It began with a two hour Jeep ride. We ate a delicious lunch and then began walking in the sweltering heat. The 46 kilometer hike itself wasn’t bad, but just like altitude at Machu Picchu got me, heat got me. I was proud I brought just my tiny pack, but even that had me agitated. Fifteen minutes into day one and we were all disgusting.
When we arrived to our first camp, we all stripped down and jumped into the swimming hole next to the waterfall. Well, not all of us immediately jumped in. I was scared to jump! I had a flashback to when Madel and I went to the river and I choked. I climbed down from the cliff after chickening out. Pedro, our translator, dove from a place that was twice as high as from where I was jumping, so I knew I wouldn’t die. I survived! Harriet captured the moment on her go pro, although the first six minutes are just me being scared and everyone cheering me on. When I finally jumped I shouted, “Holy fucking shit!” That’s what I call conquering fears baby! Everyone else immediately got out after I jumped. I took too long and they got cold.
The second day of hiking was my favorite. Seventeen kilometers of the most beautiful greenery I have ever seen. We crossed rivers and bridges, got our boots covered in mud, climbed rocks, and ducked under trees. That night at camp we went down to the river when it got dark and watched fireflies. It felt like camp.
I didn’t know this prior to the trek, but in 2003 tourists were captured and held hostage for 102 days. Some of the tourists were locked in a room in their undies and told that if they opened the door, a bomb would go off. They could see a wire and battery outside. I met the tour-guide-turned-hero who dug under the house to investigate. He found there was no bomb and freed the tourists.
Now the indigenous people are in possession of the Lost City and what they say goes, but the military run the operations and make sure tourists don’t get captured. Pedro told us the tour company pays 45 mil per tourist to the right wing military for a “fruit tax.” That’s one expensive mango.
Each of the four indigenous tribes near the Lost City has a spiritual leader and a political leader. I got to meet the top dog spiritual leader. Normally I don’t like taking photos with indigenous people, but this guy was a badass. He sold bracelets and when tourists asked what each of the colored beads meant, he just made stuff up. Red is land, blue is sky, no blue is water, green is land, red is sun. Talk about DGAF. He told us about how the next spiritual leaders are chosen. There is a consensus among the men after discussion and a series of interviews with the young boys. Guess who is next in line? All three of the spiritual leader’s sons! What a coincidence.
I spent most of my time on the trek with a fascinating British dentist named Harriet. I loved her! She is 29 and hates her job. She is committed to fitness and has a trainer that she found on instagram. She told me her entire life story. She even changed up my dental hygiene program. Blew my mind. Apparently, you’re supposed to floss first, then brush, and NOT rinse your teeth after you spit because the fluoride should rest on your teeth as long as possible. WILD. She said mouthwash should be used after lunch, rather than after a brush because toothpaste has far more fluoride than mouthwash. My entire world was turned upside down.
Because Harriet was so forthcoming, I decided to be vulnerable too. I have committed this trip that anytime I connect with someone, I should be honest and share my truth. In my past relationships, I have had problems with withholding, especially withholding information about my mom. I constantly remind myself that people will have the same reaction as Ashley - a reaction of love and empathy. Each time I share about my mom, it gets a little easier. Harriet and I also talked extensively about her mom, and I asked her a lot about her boyfriend because I love love. We have many of the same travel/fitness/friends/boyfriend goals. She told me about the three peak challenge in the UK, where you summit the tallest peak in England, Scotland, and Wales within a 24 hour period. I’m doing it!
I spent Halloween in the jungle reading my book on a hammock. I watched the rain and listened to music. I learned that Colombian children say, “Tricky tricky Halloween, quiero dulces para mi!” when they trick or treat.
I spoke to Pedro extensively. He’s quite the storyteller. He was born in Portugal and his family immigrated to Venezuela and then came to the U.S. He got a girl pregnant the first time he had sex - he was 17 and she was 14. When his baby mama caught him cheating, she stabbed him and his girlfriend with a nail file. He ended up marrying the second lady. They were married for 18 years, but he cheated on her all the time. When he found out she was cheating, he left her with their three kids and came back to Venezuela. When food started becoming scarce, he came to Colombia. When he overstayed his 90 day visa, he crossed illegally with his dog Lucy. Pedro now gets paid 380,000 mil per tour by the tour company under the table. Guess how much he had to pay a coyote to sneak him into the country? Eight dollars. I couldn’t believe it. I asked why it wasn’t more expensive and if it was dangerous. He said the coyotes want more people to cross and they won’t if they’re scared. It made me feel bad for all the people that cross into the U.S.
Pedro also spent six months in county jail in the states. When he was 19 he went into a store, put on rollerblades, and zoomed out of there. He said he was an easy criminal to catch because he didn’t know how to rollerblade. The cops trailed him and watched him flail for a bit before they finally arrested him. He never learned how to rollerblade after he was released.
Pedro the hustler convinced me and Merle, a girl from the trek, to stay in a small beach town called Taganga, rather than in Santa Marta. He took us to a hostel called La Tortuga (he gets a cut of course) and Merle and I sat on the roof in hammocks and watched the sunset. The next day I went to get my final wax of bar trip. The woman waxing me asked, “Are you Christian or Catholic?” I heard music playing that had the words manos, dios, and paz in the background, so I took an educated guess and lied and said I was a Christian. “So you don’t pray to saints?” I sure don’t, I told her. “Good,” she said. “Because there is only one god.” This woman of god had my legs going every which way and she had them swinging around better than most of my lovers. Near the end she said, “Quieres este parte?” and made a small circle with her thumb and forefinger. Si por favor. Thanks for the porn star wax amiga!
Merle and I had a glorious beach day at Playa Grande. We had a tasty breakfast, killer coffee, had my last Colombian cholado, took a boat to the beach, laid out and swam, saw the sunset on our way back on the boat, ate the best northern arepa that I’ve had, and then took a dip in our pool. I chatted with Dad and Noor and finished my book. It was a dream day.
Pedro and Merle tried to convince me to go out (yea right) but I politely declined. Merle got back at 5am (my worst nightmare) and at breakfast she talked about her running nose and allergies (aka from coke). I was happy I stayed in. Drugs ruin lives!
I spent my last day in Santa Marta eating all the foods and buying yoga pants. I’m going to miss this country so much!
