Cartagena

I arrived in Cartagena Thursday afternoon, after a few unnecessarily long layovers and multiple flights. But I made it! After a slow jaunt through security, I was handed my customs card (in Spanish). A small group of English speakers and I spent about twenty minutes deciphering each question (incorrectly) before someone took pity on us and hunted down forms we could understand. After promising I had brought no food/goods from America–aside from the peanut butter and oatmeal cookies my mother had slipped in my bag the day before–I finally made it through to hail a taxi. Eventually, I found myself outside my hostel, exhausted, but without any trouble.

El viajero hostel is situated somewhat like a motel–doors all facing in towards each other with leaning chairs littered throughout the courtyard and an outdoor shower at the end (thankfully, not the only shower). A bar can be found through a little tunnel, where events are held every evening and hostel squatters can participate in salsa lessons, happy hour, live music etc. There are also two hammocks, which I made a beeline for after tossing my bag (yes mother, I locked up my passport) in my room.

My first evening, I befriended a few girls and sat in the outdoor bar chatting with a group of about ten, all from scattered places around the world. In un-Maya-like fashion, I opted for bed around 11 and was out in seconds.

DAY 1:

Friday morning I woke up early, refreshed, and hit up the breakfast with a Canadian from my room (empanadas!). We chatted about the possibility of a walking tour, but really I only had one destination in mind–the beach. On my way to the bathroom I ran into one of the German girls, Lena, from the night before, and together we decided to explore outside of the old city and take our chances on one of the islands. We got (minimal) directions from the front desk (just say “hospital”) and hopped in a cab, hoping the driver would figure out where we were going from our broken Spanish.

“Tierra Bomba Tierra Bomba!” I kept saying. He seemed to suddenly understand, and nodded vigorously before pulling away from the curb. We settled back and waited to see where we would arrive. Twenty minutes later we found ourselves amongst mini skyscrapers (resembling Miami), turning the corner of the local hospital, where we were greeted with views of a distant island and a swarm of locals trying to get our business first. I paid the driver and we scrambled out, trying to wade past the yelling mess around us. Finally, we chose a deal from one local and he ushered us to a small dingy boat, promising he would come back and pick us up in a couple hours if we paid round trip. Lena and I agreed and hopped in, eager to get the other side.

Tierra Bomba is about a ten minute boat ride from Cartagena, but in the one we chose, it took about twice as long, the little engine fighting each wave and swaying violently as we made our way across the bay (I couldn’t help but be thankful I had emergency insurance and a hospital within sight). Lena and I found an abandoned area to settle down, and spent the day dipping in the sea and reading on the white sandy beach, occasionally repeating “no, gracias” to every vendor who approached us.

By the time we got back to the hostel, a group had moved in next door, into Lena’s room. They were three American doctors, blasting music from their open door with a few beers in hand and a neon green stuffed teddy bear. We sat with them, chatting, and a younger girl eventually joined us, saying she was from Arkansas on spring break. The six of us decided to find some food (seven, if you include Max, the bear) and exited the hostel to watch the sunset from the old city walls, then to search for a local restaurant.

Over dinner, Jeff told us the story of how Max came to be. Apparently they were in Hawaii at a “fur” party (not to be confused with a furry party, but to be honest they sound pretty similar) which turned out to be a sex party where people wear limited amounts of fur. During this rave they discovered Max, who was part of the decor, and rescued him from sex slavery. Since he’s been liberated, Max has traveled with this crew of doctors to over twenty locations around the world (kinda like dragon but not as cute). The rest of this crew would be arriving tomorrow, they told us, nine total.

The hostel offered an hour of free salsa lessons that night, so after a quick stop to the liquor store we joined the rest of our fellow travelers in the backyard bar. Holy hell it was hotter than Haiti’s, dripping sweat and heaving with laughter we quickly learned the basics, rushing to the fan between songs to dry off.

The night was interesting. We picked up another girl from the hostel (Eleni from Cyprus) and set out on the town. We watched some alarming, somewhat impressive Michael Jackson impressions in a square, got hit on by a bartender who was disturbingly vulgar, and accumulated a lesbian couple from Spain as we trekked across the city in search of a club.

Eventually, we found an outdoor disco and went inside. It became increasingly apparent that Eleni and I were the most sober, which turned out to be a cause for pure entertainment as our crew became more and more intoxicated. The young Arkansas girl was dropping it like it was hot (to be fair, it was sweltering) with one of the doctors, and during some point in the night they disappeared entirely. Another doctor was about thirty minutes in to heavy bumping and grinding with a local, who, it turned out, was a prostitute and was whispering prices in his ear.

Eventually I became fixated on the idea of pizza, so the remaining doctor (Lane), Eleni, and I set out in the hopes of finding a pie. By this time it was around 3:30 in the morning, and we quickly realized we would have to settle for street food. We found a woman selling street meet and corn, and chose the latter. Uncooked corn with a shitload of butter is more satisfying than one would think.