In the meantime

In the meantime ...

Banana seller in Santa Marta

Six days have passed since the end of the Lost City hike, and it is not quite as much in the forefront of our talks anymore. It is still very present, however, and three days of doing nothing in the beach village of Palomino didn't leave much of an impression at all. After what we had just experienced a place with dusty streets, a multitude of watering holes and eating places and filled with people in flip-flops and bikinis didn't have much allure, especially since the beach is not suitable for swimming because of strong undercurrents. Maybe we just weren't ready to appreciate Palomino yet.

We had planned to spend a night in Santa Marta, visit the Museo d'Oro in the morning to get some more information about the Ciudad Perdida and its inhabitants, and then move on to Minca, a village about 40 minutes from the bus station in Santa Marta a bit higher in elevation, thus hopefully a bit cooler at least. When we checked the opening hours of the museum the evening of our arrival we found out that it was closed on Mondays, contrary to the other information we had read – we should have known; Monday is the official day of rest for museums. Since we travel without much of a schedule we quickly booked our room at the Park Hotel – right across from the beach, on a busy road but very nice – for another night and postponed Minca: the museum was important enough to do so.

We didn't regret it. The Museo d'Oro, also called Tayrona Museum, gave us a wealth of information not only about the pre-Hispanic population, their art and customs, but also about their descendants, the indigenous people who still live in the Sierra Nevada. There were sections, too, about the Hispanic settlement of the area and Simon Bolívar – though by the time we got to them we couldn't take in much more.

A taxi took us from our hotel to the bus station, which seems somewhat of a misnomer for a few vehicles parked at the curb of a busy street. Our 'bus' was a four-wheel drive vehicle of the kind that had taken us to the trailhead for the Ciudad Perdida hike, with two long benches facing each other in the back of the car. Once there were enough people to warrant the drive - eight, we were herded inside, but the back door was still open: there was room for another two men since the young girl travelling with her grandmother didn't need very much space. All the luggage was stowed on the roof, and off we went. The longer part of the trip, which took about forty minutes for the fifteen or twenty kilometres, was in city traffic, the rest led up into the hills on a very curvy road. The aircondition masked the fact that conditions outside hadn't changed all that much on this climb: when we got out in Minca we were greeted by air as humid and warm as a steam bath. A light rain shower just at that moment did nothing to diminish the effect, of course.

The 'bus station' looked like a gathering point; Minca has become quite popular with tourists from all over the world, though with a totally different feel than Palomino where things are still very much in a state of construction and unfinished-ness. We were approached by a middle-aged man immediately who asked us where we were going, ready to connect us with one of the moto-taxi drivers or, if we wished so, with the driver of a four-wheel drive vehicle. The hotel we had chosen is about 2.5 km out of town, so the price of 10,000 COP (about $4.70) per person for a moto-taxi (motorbikes with a driver where you just hop on, which would not have been an option with Johann's heavy backpack), or – even worse – almost $30 for the four-wheel drive vehicle seemed ludicrous. We would walk! The man was unfazed and showed us the road we had to take to get there. I guess he wasn't a hustler but just someone to direct arriving visitors after all.

This time Johann carried the full pack, all we were carrying with us during this trip, while I had my smaller backpack, our hiking boots strung over my shoulder since they were still too dirty from the trail to carry them anywhere else. There was no gentle easing-into the walk: the road climbed right from the start, and the heat was oppressive. We walked by another hotel we had briefly considered, this one only 70 m out of town, and wondered if we had really made the right decision. No matter, we had to move on; we were committed. Moto-taxis passed us frequently on the road, either going up or coming down the hill, once in a while a car as well, and every time we were left in a small cloud of dust and exhaust fumes for a moment. Otherwise it wasn't so bad to walk; we could take our time, after all, and didn't have any other plans for the day. Soon my shirt was as soaking wet as every day on the long hike; it seems unavoidable in these weather conditions. We passed more hotels and hostels we had seen while looking online, but still no sign for Casa del Pozo Azul. The man had told us to expect the sign after about forty-five minutes, and sure enough, there it was: 600m turning downhill to the hotel. Now, the road became even bumpier, with bigger rocks sticking out, and the moto-taxis passed us at very low speed, the drivers obviously careful not to fall. Just when we thought we might never get there another sign appeared, and after a short while we arrived at a beautiful house in the middle of a lush garden. 

'Welcome to Paradise', said a sign on the front wall – and that's what it felt like. The choice had been the right one after all.