From Sola to solardarity: the road to Riohacha

VERY cold coconuts (thanks Andrea for the picture!)

Many people have asked why I’m here in Colombia and furthermore, what I’m doing in Colombia by myself. Why Colombia? The truth is that I had relatively few requirements for planning where to go: I wanted somewhere warm where I could speak Spanish and eat good food. It’s raining season in large parts of South America at the moment and there’s a direct flight from NYC to Bogota (a mere 6 hours!). I made the decision while trapped at ORD in Chicago en route back to Boston after Thanksgiving based on the information in Wikitravel. There you have it.

The why take a trip by myself is a more complicated one. In the last year, I’ve realized that I’m actually an introvert—I relish time by myself and when I carve it out for myself, I find social interactions much more rewarding. Traveling for work, usually alone, gave me the opportunity to get used to being in foreign situations by myself and the confidence that it could be both safe and fun. In my last few months in Boston, I knew that I was running on fumes and skimping on “me” time in my efforts to balance work with saying goodbye to friends, eating as much JP licks as humanly possible, getting beat up by Rachel and Melissa at Somerville Boxing Club, and that I would need some serious self-care in order to be productive in Bangladesh. The idea of wandering through new cities through the day, interspersed with reading and writing, sounded amazing. Also coming alone gave me the luxury of truly not having any plan—I made a reservation for a hostel in Bogota the day before heading down here. That was the extent of what I had prepared.

My "plan" in action: half-eaten empanada.  Zipaquira (near Bogota)

Camilo, along with a few friends from his hometown of Ibague, was headed to Cabo de la Vela on Guajira peninsula from Cartagena. The Guajira juts out the top of Colombia and in contrast to the lush green hills and jungle that fill most of the country, has a tough desert climate and is home to the Wayuu people, an indigenous group who to some degree maintain their traditional cultures and remain isolated from mainstream Colombian society (in part due to the lack of infrastructure and inhospitality of the region). He invited me to join them, promising me tales of sleeping in a hammock on the beach, beaches with red sand, and other things that sounded pretty awesome. While I hesitated to say yes immediately, I knew that I was sold on the idea, despite the craziness of agreeing to accompany a perfect stranger into what sounded like the middle of nowhere. There are few things stranger than the truth sometimes.  And while you can't plan for the unexpected by definition, I definitely think that you can approach travel with an open mind and be prepared to take opportunities that present themself fortuitously.  Camping on the beach in a remote desert didn't sound like something I personally would want to brave on my own, but with four Colombians?  Better cultural and lingual immersion options can scarcely be conceived.
After accompanying la familia to the airport, with long goodbyes and lots of hugs (Ana even gave me a kiss goodbye!), we began our journey to Santa Marta, another town further east along the coast where Andrea was waiting for us. We took a van to Barranquilla, Shakira’s hometown (loca, loca!), where we then essentially stood on the entry ramp onto the highway and flagged down a bus to Santa Marta. We asked, are you going directly? Si, si, hop in!!!. We do, only to then stop pretty much immediately at a rest stop for a good half hour. And then proceed to stop several more times on a “direct” trip. It’s dark by the time we get to Santa Marta and Andrea has been sitting at the bus terminal for several hours. Our journey for the day has one final leg—another van to Riohacha, a town that’s considered (by lonely planet and hours), fairly underwhelming, but a good home base for the trip to Cabo de la Vela. After our late night out in Cartagena and a day of travel, I am unable to keep up with Andrea’s rapid fire Spanish and proceed to drift off to sleep, occasionally waking up with a start when the trip’s many bumps, turns, and hard stops practically throw me out of my seat. It’s about 11PM when Camilo nudges me to get out of the van as we’ve arrived in Riohacha.
Camilo and his mother had discussed the details of where we’d stay in Riohacha, but I hadn’t caught all the details. As we hopped into a taxi (this final final leg of the journey), I inquire for further details. La famila evidently has ties to a network of missionaries around Colombia that offer free lodging to other missionaries and friends as they come through the area. We qualify. Fabian, our host, lives in a modest house with his wife, sister, and three kids. They kindly lay out three mattresses on the living room floor for Andrea, Camilo and I. Before calling it a night, we manage to walk up the street to a dive where we score the last pieces of Hawaiian pizza (with has shredded chicken and sticky dried pineapple—actually surprising tasty), some fries, and questionable meat. As I lay my head down on the pillow, my final thoughts are on the fact that this is, without a doubt, an adventure, and I am thrilled to have the luxury of truly, truly going where the wind takes me without questioning or imposing some delusion of a master plan for the journey.

Andrea's forgiven us for arriving so late the day before.  Beach cures all.

Margarita arrives early the next morning. Spanish first thing in the morning is tough, though as Fabian’s wife pours cups of coffee for all of us, the blood in my head begins to move around slowly. Camilo’s cousin, Ivan, was taking the bus from Bogota, which would take about 24 hours, so he was due in that afternoon (mind you that it’d be less than a 90 minute flight, just as a reference point for the quality of the roads). We explore Riohacha and begin to bargain for transport/lodging out in Cabo de la Vela in the meantime.
Riohacha is gritty. Later when trying to explain the difference between Delhi and Dhaka to Andrea (who lives in Brussels and has traveled extensively herself), I compare Delhi to Bogota and Dhaka to Riohacha. It lacks the cosmopolitan sheen and resulting diversity that the former cities have. I later see the rows of “slum” housing, homes of people largely displaced by violence, made of plastic and sticks/boards and am further reminded of the sprawling shanty towns that have sprung up all over Dhaka. Overall, Riohacha pulses with an undiluted, in your face dose of urban life—with the speed, sweat, and noise that you just can’t get anywhere else. At the precipice of the Guajira but the major entry point from the rest of the country, it’s a blend of traditional culture, fledging and niche tourism infrastructure, and typical Colombia. And it’s fascinating to watch all those pieces interact. I’m enthralled as always by what goes on in the public spaces—the requisite main square (a change from Plaza de Bolivar, this one is Parque Jose Prudencio Padilla) with its statue and old church, old men sitting around with thermos selling shots of tinto (I happily shell out 10 cents for a hit several times a day), others selling coconuts with a straw, with giant machetes to cut them open once you’ve finished the water so that you can eat the meet, and locals with guitars playing Vallenato, a regional style of music with ballads with gentle, rocking melodies. There’s a boulevard on the beach that stretches quite a ways; women are selling crocheted purses with colorful geometric patterns. We idly “window” shop as we make our way out to pier, for a closer look at the ocean. I personally like the vibe the town gives off; I like the local old dudes sitting on the boardwalk who want to share all sorts of random facts about the town and the Guajira, the laidback friendliness that’s ubiquitous, and the option of getting some fresh mango on pretty much any corner. It’s also amusing to me that everybody’s got a guy to call when we mention that we’re trying to get to Cabo de la Vela on the cheap. Ivan arrives, exhausted from an epic bus ride, we grab a round of beers as a group and hatch a plan to secure a ride for the following morning, Salud!
There are a few beaches near Riohacha that are supposed to be fun for swimming. We hope a taxi to Mayapo beach and spend the afternoon catching waves there. The water is water and fairly clear, and it’s just us and a few families. After the “ugly” beaches of Cartagena, I am beginning to see why Colombians have such high standards for their beaches.

Ivan, Margarita and I at Mayapo

When we get back to Fabian’s, I notice a sign in the house across the street that says “se vende paletas” (we sell popsicles). Always ready for a snack, I go to investigate and yes, for a mere USD 0.15, you can get a fresh strawberry popsicle out of a housewife’s freezer (I sound like a broken record when she tells me the price, 300 pesos? Just three hundred? Not three thousand (i.e. USD 1.50)? I have trouble with numbers sometimes, especially because everything’s in the thousands usually. The zeros keep tripping me up, especially when I’m tired or a price is vastly different than what I’m anticipating. Looking at the balance in my bank account when I withdraw money is pretty fun though—multiplying by 1,800 (the number of pesos to a dollar) makes it look a lot bigger than it actually is!
We head to Carrefour (to which I’ve only been to in China and therefore associate with awesome displays of crazy animals, including live ones, for sale) to stock up on food and water (we’re going to the desert, remember) for the trip. This is sociology in action. We buy lots of food in cans—tuna, beans, hotdogs, corn, peaches. We have a long debate about whether to get sweet crackers or regular ones (and eventually get both). We have a bottle of pisco and are split down the middle (Margarita stayed behind to catch a nap and was therefore unable to be the final vote). Passionfruit or mango juice as a mixer? Both are in powder form. I am completely distracted by the intense array of powdered juice choices. They include blackberry, mandarin, LULO (!!!!!!), and other fruits that I’ve not yet tried. Amazing. I pull out a moneda and we toss it to see who wins (if you’re ever betting using a Colombia coin; bet on heads. I’m pretty sure that they aren’t evenly weighted as we got heads 100% of the time). With a cooler, several liter bags of water, our powdered passionfruit juice, assortment of crackers, and canned goods, we catch a taxi back to Fabian’s.
My dinner of a strawberry paleta is rounded out by a cup of oatmeal, saltines, and homemade soda at Fabian’s. It was good that we had a light meal, as we were now a group of five and had four mattresses in a line to share. Again, once the lights went out, I got to smile my big goofy grin at the inside joke of my “sola” vacation turning into a massive sleepover with a very fun group of new friends. And tomorrow, onto Cabo de la Vela!

Tell me we don't look ready for an adventure!  Sunset at Mayapo