I arrived into Cartagena airport in the evening of August 12th (at 22.45 to be exact), via Panama City (where I saw exactly 0.01% of the airport because I literally got off the plane, realised I would have to get back on the same plane at the same gate, decided my US dollars would not be well-spent on overpriced airport coffee, so sat down, wrote up the last blog post and waited). It was hot and humid in Cartagena so the aircon at immigration didn’t come a moment too soon. My glasses literally steamed up when walking off the plane. Despite the lady at check-in in San Jose trying to convince me I would have problems with visas and onward travel plans and access to proof that I can afford to travel overland upon entering Colombia (I apparently didn’t look like someone who has done all the research required on this stuff), I got through just fine, no questions asked. But my seat was at the back of the plane which meant I was one of the last through to baggage claim which I normally prefer because it means less waiting time. But I don’t prefer that when you get there, wait for your bag, watch as the conveyer belt stops, check with the lady if any more bags are coming to which she replies ‘no’, then wait as she checks your luggage barcode and tells you that your bag was definitely on the plane, then have to, in broken Spanish, explain to her that the three suitcases on the belt that she is pointing to are not mine because I travel with a backpack, then have to, twice, explain to her that the one backpack on the conveyer belt is not mine, then wait as she checks the code on the remaining backpack and realises that it is not in fact mine, then wait as she sends her colleague through customs to check for any blue and grey backpacks taken by other passengers who may or may not have realised they have made a mistake. 10 minutes went by, during which time I harboured plans of how to get hold of contact lenses with my ridiculous prescription in Colombia and mourned the loss of the floral jumpsuit I bought for 20Q in Antigua (for some reason, those were the only things in my luggage I was at all concerned about), she returned and informed me that someone else had indeed picked up the wrong backpack and they were waiting outside the terminal. I got rushed through customs (I took so much care to fill that form in correctly and the guy didn’t even look at it) and was reunited with my own backpack. How on earth anyone would mistake the two, I don’t know. And how on earth anyone wouldn’t wonder if they had picked up the wrong one when mine clearly weighed about twice as much, I also don’t know. It had a broken strap but I’m willing to blame Copa Airlines for that rather than the couple who apologised profusely for the mix-up and assured me they hadn’t opened the bag at all. Which I don’t think they would have wanted to because laundry was expensive in Costa Rica so about 98% of its contents needed washing. Badly. So, the very last passenger out of Cartagena airport that evening was me but it was with all my travelling possessions safely back in my own hands.

Cartagena turned out to be a very safe start to South America. There was no way I wasn’t going to love the old town with its colourful buildings, the huge stone walls at its perimeter, the view of the ocean, the little coffee cart street vendors, the coconut-infused tamales, the 2×1 mojitos at Lo Combria (officially my new favourite cafe/bar) and the, for the most part, beautiful weather (if consistently too hot and humid for my northern European heritage. Suddenly I understood the comfort of having a dorm with aircon). But I knew on day 2 that it won’t go down as my favourite place in Colombia, it is too touristy and too perfectly pretty, it has no edge. And I need edge.

I was surprised to find that what I’d been told was the most easy South American Spanish to understand was infinitely harder than the Spanish of any country in Central America. They speak SO fast in Colombia and ‘despacio, por favor’ yields no change in the speed of talk so I’ve spent a lot of time staring cluelessly at bus- and taxi drivers and people I’ve asked for directions or information.

I spent 3 days in Cartagena, saw all the sites inside the walls (the modern art museum was my favourite, it made me realise I have had way too narrow of a focus when considering the scope of art movements and influences), visited Islas del Rosario and Playa Blanca (the boat ride back was like a theme-park ride and might have been the trip highlight) and picked up lots and lots of information from travellers that were coming to the end of their trips on the reverse route as mine. Much of it varied from one person to another but people consistently gushed about Parque Nacional Tayrona. So, not wanting to miss out, east along the coast I went. I set up temporary camp in Santa Marta where the hostel let me leave my backpack as I set off on the trip to Tayrona, opting for the public bus rather than the hostel-organised shuttle. And I’m glad I did. It was super easy, cost COP$6000 (9000 less than the shuttle) and made me remember that it is just not difficult to travel cheaply and independently. I met a fellow traveller on the local bus so after the 1-hour bus ride to the entrance of the park, and a bit of queueing to pay the entrance fee, we set off on the 2 hour walk to Arrecifes where the first set of campsites are. We reserved our hammocks for the night and headed 15min up the coast to La Piscina, the 2nd nearest safe bay for swimming. It was cloudy that afternoon which was a shame as the sun had been out all day until that point but the swim and chill-out time on the beach was still very welcome in the heat of the Caribbean coast. We only had a few beers that evening, partly due to the inflated park prices (4000 pesos for an Aguila? That’s just crazy! But for anyone reading this back home who have never backpacked, look up the conversion and marvel at how distorted my view of finances have become after just 2 months of travelling) before heading for some possibly-not-very-good hammock sleep. Despite my worries that I would roll out of that thing in the middle of the night and wake up the entire bungalow, I was just fine and slept a pretty solid 8 hours. Any thoughts I might have had of shortening my stay to just 1 night were quelled.

The next morning, we went to the Lonely Planet-recommended bakery 5min up the Arrecifes beach for 3000 pesos pain au chocolat. So I got to sit on a little mocked-up breakfast bar, looking through a row of palm trees onto the ferocious waves of the Caribbean Sea, breaking onto the beach while eating the world’s most indulgent pain au chocolat and drinking black Colombian coffee. At 8am on a Monday morning. What a difference 3 months make. After bidding my new mates of 1 day and of ½ day goodbye, as they were heading onwards to Palomino, I set off for Cabo San Juan, the 3rd beach up from Arrecifes which is supposedly the prettiest of the three beaches at the eastern end of the park. It was. There, I found some shade and set up camp for the day and passed away the time reading ‘Orange is the new black’, getting the notes for the last 4 days updated in my calendar, eating a really crappy lunch as the avocados, bananas and bread were not coping well with the heat and being shoved indiscriminately into my bag (the pears were the least planned but best preserved food item I brought with me from Santa Marta) and swimming in the bay. Lots. I ran into people from my hostel in Cartagena and from my hostel in Santa Marta, proving once again that the travelling circuit is predictable. In the evening, I got chatting to a random group of people which included two absolutely lovely medics from London who managed to nail the final nail in the coffin for any concerns I might have had about the safety of backpacking in Colombia as they shared stories of their time here. And for that, I’m very thankful. Because Colombia still has a weird effect on even some of the most hardened backpackers. I’ve met people who have done all of South America and when they hit the Colombian border, they admitted getting worried about safety. Something about the reputation of Colombia still sits in the back of people’s minds until they get here and experience the country properly. Travel decisions that they wouldn’t think twice about in Bolivia, in Peru, in Chile, in Argentina, suddenly get weighed up and considered. I’m lucky to have started at this end of the country, where most people finish, because it means I get to hear a lot of stories and accounts of how there is no more reason to worry here than anywhere else. And I think that will stand me in good stead when I finally do leave the Caribbean coast behind for the rest of Colombia.

After the 2nd night in a hammock in Tayrona, I was back at the bakery for another dose of chocolate bread and while there, I spotted the couple who took the wrong backpack through customs when I first arrived in Cartagena. The girl looked like she was about to go for a few cocktails and a fancy dinner so she should only know how lucky she was not to have gotten away with my backpack instead of their own. Although I bet she would have loved my floral jumpsuit. After finishing yet another glorious breakfast, I embarked on the sweaty 2-hour walk back out of the park. It was to be the swan song for my black 30Q trainers from the market in Antigua because by the end of the walk, my big toe was poking through the left shoe. They took me through the caves at Semuc Champey, up Pacaya, to Café No Sé in Antigua (twice), onto the dancefloor on a night out on Roatan (and again in San Jose and in Cartagena), around the rainy streets and the zip-lining of Monteverde, to and from the swimming hole (also twice) and rappelling in La Fortuna and then just about made it 3 days of local bus journeys/trekking/beach walking/camping/park adventure in Tayrona. They saw 5 countries in the 1 month I carried them with me. I have never owned a pair of shoes (and I have owned, and do own, lots!) that have achieved such a low cost per wear (not even any of my converse or the black pixie boots I wore to every gig in Paris for a year). They were probably one of my best investments ever. But more than that, they will be missed 😦

I only had 12 hours to mourn the loss before I was due to set off on a slightly impulsive adventure – a 4-day trek through the Colombian jungle of the Sierra Nevada to la Ciudad Perdida. I got swayed by the people at my Santa Marta hostel and the great sales pitch from the awesomely laid back hostel manager who had the most charming pronunciation of ‘gunilla’ ever. They usually recommend doing it in 5 days so you walk up in 3 days and back in 2 but I was starting to feel the time pressure of my extended stay on Colombia’s northern coast so decided that those volcanoes I have climbed have put me in sufficient enough shape to manage it in 4 days (3 days up, 1 down). But they haven’t. It was tough – up hills, down hills, across rivers, over rocks, through dust, dirt, mud. But when it got really tough, I just kept thinking of how much my outdoors-y brother would relish doing it, and would do it without complaining even for a second, and manned up. The trek was actually extremely beautiful, I stopped often for photos but they still don’t come close to doing it justice (and I tried all of my camera’s manual settings). The group I did it with was, across the board, lovely, easy to get along with and awesome company. Which is handy when you have several hours to pass in camp every night with only a few decks of odd Swiss playing cards (Bells? Roses? Acorns? These do not normal suits make) for entertainment. We were spoiled for food (I reckon those are the first 4 days in months where I’ve had a normal amount of non-fried, non-cheese-filled food and at least 5 portions of fruit and veg per day) despite everyone getting their hopes up for Oreos on day 2. None came our way. Until day 3, that is. Our guides were also beyond lovely, providing many snacks, and a wealth of information and knowledge and took great care of one of the people in our group who got really ill along the way.

We got to the Lost City in the morning of the 3rd day and it didn’t disappoint. We had about 3 hours up there to see the site, hear the (sometimes made up by the guides and sometimes interestingly translated by the translator) history of the place, take it all in and have another snack break (we really did have lots of these). The weather was beautiful while we were there but that afternoon, the jungle decided to unleash its powers on us and the sky opened up and it rained. Like I haven’t seen rain before. I’ve never been happier to have had a black bin bag handy – it’s impressive how well a black bin bag cape is able to keep you backpack somewhat dry. The next day was our long walk back down to the starting point and despite all our clothes being damp, all seemed fine and back to normal again. The sun was out and the light was beautiful when we set off from camp at 6.50am but I was tricked and the rocks were slippery and the paths muddy so within the first hour of the day’s 6-hour trek, I learned that my waterproof walking boots are in fact not waterproof enough to cope with slipping off the rocks when crossing rivers and then I managed to, twice, misjudge the muddiness of the path and sunk an entire foot into it. But we made it down and were all excited to have survived 4 pretty hardcore days of jungle trekking. We celebrated with a beer over lunch and then spent the 2 hour drive back to Santa Marta getting in the mood for a Saturday night out as our driver blasted a non-stop mix of hip-hop club anthems.

Despite spending just 3 half days in Santa Marta, I took an odd liking to it but the next morning it was time to relocate to a beachside hostel.

I had harboured vague ideas of doing my PADI open water diving certificate while away but hadn’t planned it in anywhere (neither money- nor time-wise) but snorkeling in Roatan drove home how awesome it could be if you just got to stay down underwater rather than continually have to free dive down to see the coral better and come up for air. So when I was suddenly near such ridiculously cheap dive schools, I decided it’d be silly not to do it. I was recommended a dive school in El Rodadero by someone I spoke to at the hostel in Cartagena who had given me the contact details of his instructor so I got in touch and headed to El Rodadero on the public bus along with a group of pensioners heading for some beach-time at the resort-area-suburb to Santa Marta. Thankfully, the hostel that was suggested by the dive school was super-chilled with an awesome sound-system and soundtrack in the common area which made studying much more pleasant than I was fearing 4 days in a resort-area would be. On day 1, I watched 5 videos which put the fear into me (how are there so many steps to coming up for air?!), on day 2 I got put on the boat and geared up and dropped into the water for the confined dive (apparently, in Colombia, the Caribbean Sea is confined. I probably should have known that’s how it was going to play out) and the first open-water dive with drills. I got the hang of the regulator faster than I thought I would and clearing water from the mask was fine too but how to manage the breathing without a mask I hope never to have to repeat again. I also have some serious positive buoyancy issues. I could barely carry the weight belt they gave me but I still just kept floating up towards the surface. That was probably helpful when I did swimming but trying to dive, it is not a good quality. On day 3, I did the last two open-water dives and tried to keep my hands still instead of using them to navigate around the dive site (that’s apparently not what divers do. Oops). My buoyancy control got slightly better (apparently I don’t breathe out all the air I breathe in) and my instructor noted that I don’t actually use very much air during the dives. Which is good because I sucked at the CESA (Controlled Emergency Swimming Ascent) – that’s the only point where I really had to fight the urge to hold my breath – so I can’t run out of air underwater because I can’t quite get all the way to the surface without air from 9m down. In the afternoon of day 4, I took the theory test (my last-minute cramming skills came in so handy for this) which I was super worried about but probably shouldn’t have been. I missed one question (and, seriously, was there ever any way I was going to remember the section about the differences in the setups of a DIN and a yoke valve on the cylinder?) so a pass at 98% it was. And suddenly I was qualified to dive. Gunilla, unemployed but PADI certified. I’m oddly OK with how weird life is at the moment. Cata was indeed an awesome instructor and I feel so lucky to have gotten to be part of the little Deep Coral crew for a short amount of time. If anyone ever finds themselves in northern Colombia and fancy some diving, do look these guys up, they were beyond amazing and, in the sea of dive schools in Taganga/Santa Marta/El Rodadero, they can’t be recommended enough. The pics below are courtesy of them:

Diving certificate in hand (electronically, at least), it was time for me to think about moving this trip along, south into ‘real’ Colombia. So after a very speedy celebratory beer, I headed for the Santa Marta bus station to get myself on an overnight bus to Medellín. But that 8.30pm bus that was on the website didn’t actually exist. So, back to Casa del Ritmo in El Rodadero I went. At least it was an excuse to have a few more celebratory drinks and listen to more awesome music with the lovely crew there. The next morning I just took the chance to have a completely chilled out day – I got up late, checked out of the hostel, sat at the beach (the quiet end, far away from the resorts), went for bandeja paisa, read ‘Notes from the Underground’. By the afternoon, it was time to leave the ocean behind and head back towards the bus station. I took the local bus so had to change for another one in the centre of Santa Marta, near the waterfront where I had seen a little kiosk that did ceviche when we had been driving through to get to the dive school in Taganga. Some would say that it was pushing my luck to eat raw fish just before starting a 16 hour bus journey but I have come to have a good amount of faith in the food available off street stalls and it just seemed the appropriate final meal on the coast. And thus, by 7pm, 23 hours since I’d last been there, I was back at the bus station. This time in time for the last bus of the day for Medellín.

Today I’m listening to: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club – ‘Salvation’