Picture a
tropical paradise.
The sand: soft and white, the water: a turquoise
blue-ish green that darkens as it approaches the horizon. The waves lap the
shore rhythmically and ambulant vendors offer a plate of fresh mango, guava and
watermelon, a coconut opened in front of you with your choice of alcohol or a
hat to shade you from the sun. Some offer massage or brightly colored dresses
or necklace made out of local coral or pearls.
The beach is
deserted with the exception of two or three other beach goers. Small huts line
the beach with thatched roofs offering a bed in a cabaña or a hammock and
mosquito net to spend the night. Tranquility at it’s finest. This is Playa
Blanca on the island of Barú in the region of Cartagena de las indias,
Colombia.
Have a little
extra cash to spend and want to get there or back quickly? Pay 20-30,000 pesos
(about $10) and take a boat 45 minutes directly there.
Feeling like you
need to save a little money? Take the route I did – arrive a la locale. Of
course, be prepared, because as you know when traveling, what can go wrong,
likely will.
I leave the house
early to take advantage of the day and head down la avenida del pedregal to the
national police tent at the intersection. I have been told that there is where
I can flag the bus going to Pasacaballos. I stand on the curb for what seems
like an eternity straining to see the signs in the windows of the passing
microbuses, Listening as the “helper” hangs out the back door screaming out
locations like an auctioneer in one long word, “CentroTerminalMangla”
¿Pasacaballo? I
inquire as the bus slows down in front of me and the man shakes his head. “Ya
viene,” he assures me and I go back to waiting wondering if he meant that it
was right before him or that eventually it would be coming. Colectivo after
colectivo passes me by screaming out destinations. Hundreds of taxis give a
short honk, slowing as they pass. Every solo moto seems also to be a
transportation option with each driver holding a second helmet and giving a
short honk as they round the corner. But still no bus for Pasacaballo. I ask
the police standing uneer the tent. They too assure me that the bus “Ya viene.”
I wait some more and wonder about their definition of “it’s coming” and I
remember the day before and how I was not in a hurry. I am not in a hurry now I
tell myself and go back to waiting.
Dark clouds swirl
above me threatening rain, but I remember that José had been confident that it
wouldn’t rain that even if it did, it would be 10 or 20 minutes at best. “It
never rains.” He had said and I thought about how many times I had heard that on
my trips before.
Finally, after I
had begun to feel the hurry in my American self, a busy slows on the other side
of the median, the helper motioning for me to come aboard. “¿Pasacaballos? I
yell across the two lanes of traffic. The man gestures for me to board and take
that as an affirmative. I play frogger across the street to board the bus with
three other passengers on board. The bus has green trim around the windshield
and bright green seats. Jesus is protecting us according to a sign on the dash.
We race through the streets into a section of smaller roads leading out of the
city. We miss a pedestrian by inches and pass a moto with three grown men, a
cooler and a 2 by 4. We pass a long series of small make shift houses with
three sides selling fruit, meat, clothing and other household items. Soon we
enter the pueblos of Cartagena, houses haphazardly built seemingly with
whatever material was available that day - houses with brick, then stone, then
cement, topped with sheet metal roofs. Large potholes pockmark the highways and
I pay the helper. The fare on the window reads 1900 pesos. I only have 20,000
and I wonder if I will eventually get change. I check the map. 6.2 miles left
to my destination. I practice how I will ask for the change if he doesn’t
offer, knowing that if he tells me I gave him 2000, I will never see the other
18,000 pesos again.
After the second
toll, the helper leans against my seat between the standing passengers and
collects money from everyone around me. I wait for my change. He gives each of
them change as they pay. “Ahorita te doy tu cambio.” He says as if reading my
mind and I feel momentarily bad for doubting his character until I wonder if
Ahorita is much like Ya viene.
The bus stops
every 100 feet collecting the passengers on the side of the road who flag down
the bus with a wave of their hand. “Parada,” the passengers on board say as
they decide that exactly here is where they want to get off. We inch forward
between the passengers getting on and off the bus.
Finally we arrive
at a corner with a handwritten sign that reads, “Motos para Santa Ana o Isla
Barú, Playa Blanca.” The helper motions for me to get off the bus and a lone
cyclist approaches me and hands me a helmet. “¿8,000? I offer and he nods his
head. I ask him about the clouds above and he responds, “parece que tiene gana
de llover.” And I wonder what if that means it will rain or if it will just
continue to look like rain. I don’t have to wait long for my answer. 
I mount the moto
and don the helmet and we take off down an unpaved road past ramshackle huts
and small clusters of people crouched by fires on the side of the road. Ruben,
my driver, chats amicabally with me as we drive telling me about his four
children and how I remind him of a Polish woman he once dated. We stop so he
can answer the phone but he tells his son he is “muy lejos del pueblo” and we
make a right back onto a paved road and over the bridge to the island of Barú.
He offers to take me to a hostel on the beach he knows that’s un poco lejillo
and I tell him that sounds fine as I had heard it was good to go further down
the beach for accommodations. 
I feel the first
drops, but hope that that’s all the rain will amount to. It’s not really
raining. But after a minute or two we can deny the obvious anymore. It’s not
raining – it’s pouring with huge gusts of wind blowing the moto to the far left
of the lane and then back toward the center line. We pull over to a group of
motos parked on the side of the road and run down to join fifteen or so other
men and two women on a porch. Pools of mud form in the front of the patio as
the rain pours down. Inside the one room house, two young boys about 5 and 3
wrestle on the bed, the three year old crying for help every so often. Behind
them sits a couple on two plastic chairs sharing a bowl of rice, the father
intermittently curses for the love of Jesus that the boys calm down. 
I stand among the
others until the mother insists I sit. I politely refuse but soon find a chair
at my back and see the little boy race back to the bed to fight once more with
his brother. We watch the rain. I watch the people. They watch me. And we sit
and wait.
Soon the rain
seems lighter and one mother grabs her young son, his arms still wet from the
rain, his mouth sticky from the bag of orange liquid he has just drank. They
run back out into the rain and they are off. Soon others follow suit. Ruben
looks at me and nods and we don our helmets. He wipes the seat off with a towel
and I close the front of my helmet before we leave. We pass through the small
town of Santa Ana before arriving at the parquedero in Playa Blanca. The road
is once again dirt and rocks and Ruben tells me to hold on tightly as he maneuvers
around various people, their coolers, a bus and a fence to head straight down a
hill on what appears to be a mountain bike trail hill covered in roots, ruts,
rocks and large puddles at least 6-12 inches deep. My father would definitely
not approve I think. I can hear him the back of my head as I hold the handles
on the back of the moto. We make it through the first section of the flooded
road and we head into the second I see the the moto ahead of us lose their
balance and the passenger finally dismount and go walking while the moto
continues on without her. I ask if I too should get off but Ruben is confident
and uses alternate booted legs to
balance and push his way through the standing water and mud. The
mosquitoes are out in full force and I look down as we inch forward through the
puddle to see my entire left leg black with mosquitoes. I slap them off careful
not to lose my balance, hearing my father’s warning of dengue fever and malaria
in my head. Finally we round a corner, pass a river and park next to a fence.
We have arrived.
We enter “El
Paraiso de Mama Ruth” from the back past the bathrooms where one needs to drop
water in the toilet to flush, past the showers that are a changing room with a
bucket and ladle filled with fresh water.
Don Luis first
shows me a cabaña right no the beach. A stilted mini room with a thatched roof,
a bed and fan. For just 120,000 pesos or about $40 it can be mine – complete
with fresh water, breakfast and a little thatched kiosk to shade me from the
sun and sun chair. For half that price I can take the cabaña behind it, but
without the amenities.
I shake my head at both. I am on a budget. “Ahh.” He
says with a smile. “Then what you want is the hammock.” He shows me the three
hammocks swinging underneath a shade structure, complete with a bed sheet,
mosquito net and locker to store my belongings for the low low price of 10,000
pesos or $3.50 after a bit of bargaining. I tell him I don’t have a lock and
make a mental note to buy one when back in Cartagena and he hands me a rusty
key lock that’s top comes completely out when you unlock it, but when locked it
seems to work and I thank him, ready to enjoy the day.
The rain has
mostly subsided by now and the sun strains against the cloudy sky making scarce
appearances for the rest of the day. The beach is about 5 km long and I run or
walk along the beach, bathe in the crystalline waters, sleep in the sand, read
and entire book and settle into paradise. I feel a fleeting sensation of guilt
and responsibility and shoo it away along with a fly that has landed on my
knee.
Don Luis invites
me out to look for “tesoros” in the water, but we find only a discarded can of
Aguila.
The sun makes an appearance so the day wanes and lights up the water
and the sky. Melissa and her aunt from Cali applaud the sun’s appearance and I
like the immediately. “¡Delicioso! ¡Exquisito!” they exclaim running over to their new
friend Alejo from Bucaramango.
Later that night we sit at the pizzeria next door
where Don Luis makes pizza in an outdoor oven in the sand and serves them on
the one table he has at his make shift restaurant.
In the morning,
Melissa and her aunt, have gone with Don Luis and another man from the cabaña a
Pasacaballos to take a taxi to catch their flight back home. He takes them
after their scheduled ride does not show up and refuses payment.
Alejo and I spend
the day on his cabaña’s chair, sharing his water, his cold beers and our
stories of travels and his studies in Bogatá. Every person that works at the
hostel endears themselves to you as their bestfriend, “Corozón, ¿tienes todo?”
They catch your eye if they see someone trying to take advantage and call you
over as if they need you for a quick second to help you out of a bind.
Don Luis pulls up
on his moto, “¿Estás lista mi reina?” he says offering me a helmet. He is
headed to Cartagena today to see his children and is only to happy to give me a
ride – no he won’t think of taking my money.
It is his
pleasure.
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