THE TRAVELco.
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COLOMBIA '24
There are no seasons here. Just like there’s no rules on the roads or laws after midnight. There’s just the sun and the wind. Joined only the waves and the sand and the trees and the earth. Try not to be overly analytical. Just do things and be happy. Stop asking how or why or trying to prolong the feeling for longer than nature intends.
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By this point I was tired. Not muscles aching or out of breath but more of a mental exhaust that comes on the precipice of mass expectation. We’d spent the morning queuing for two hours and had now been walking this jungle trail for a further two. Close enough to the sea to smell the salt off it’s heavy slaps against the sand. That, and that we could see it. The coastal walk ran parallel through the thick of the bush and had obviously been trodden many a moon ago. Sounds of waves crashing rang in chorus with chirps of birds and monkeys. Still yet to see a wild Jaguar on my travels, there were signs of warning along the way but to no avail. I try not to be too harsh on myself upon reflecting on times where I might have felt ungrateful because travel is not always pretty and often there are many hours of well, travel, that the pretty pictures often don’t show. In this circumstance it was pretty, just long, and once I’d come to this realisation in walking I quickly began to appreciate it again. I remember, when morale was low, saying that in three weeks time when we’re all sat at our desks ticking through emails that we’d wish we were back on this trek through the Colombian flora despite the ache in our legs and sweat on our backs.
That morning I awoke as the jungle did. Nature’s alarm clock. A symphony of life chattering in unison with the suns rising. I climbed down from my top bunk carefully, splashed my face in the outdoor shower and brushed my teeth looking over the escarpment formed beside the valley. Out of the dorm, I stooped carefully down the slope toward the treehouse-like hostel seats. Wooden and bound, poles of fallen trees varnished and covered in straw housed planks of those similar to its base. It was aesthetically pleasing in a natural way. It was evident thought had been put into choosing the décor, ensuring the leather of the chairs were a matching brown not only to the wood in which it is encased but also to the brown of the valley below. Outstretched into the horizon were shades of greens and browns with the occasional blue for when it decided to reflect off of the waters below. The water of the valley was shallow and had dispersed due to the heat yet it remained stubborn in it’s part of the vistas that remain. Few other man-made structures could be seen apart from the odd home amongst the hills which allowed the mind to wander about the stories that they possessed. There was a lot to look at and a lot of looking we did.
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I poured myself a steaming hot cup of dark Colombian coffee and sat near the edge with least resistance to the view. Breakfast in Colombia was typically not dissimilar to an English fry up, only that the meats would be those weird foreign versions and the toast was replaced with traditional Arepas; floury, stodgy dough shaped like flying saucers. When not filled they were pretty bland in taste however acted as a good sponge to soak up the many Aguillas consumed the night before. Following this I filled up on some fruit and a second cup of coffee as I knew we had a long, although not exactly how long, walk and likely not much opportunity to eat. Around the table we gathered with our new German, Dutch, Canadian and Australian friends. Later we could meet the Moroccan Canadian girls we had met the night previous at the beach.
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Toward the trail and along the road is when we walked past the sign alerting passers-by that there are wild jaguars known to be in the area. Following an uneventful two hour wait for entry to the park, we took a five minute bus and were finally ready to embark on our hike. Through the foliage and onto the sand we collapsed under the heat into the sea. The Caribbean Ocean rocked us gently as it took the weight off our legs and cradled us into it’s current backwards and forwards. We replenished on water and sun cream and began to dry in the sun like lizards on a rock. It was a relief to be here and I appreciated this moment as I closed my eyes and allowed the sun to dry the salt onto my face. “This isn’t the main beach though.” Sameer said. “Pretty sure it’s another ten minutes that way.” Annoyingly a couple of our new friends concurred. Exhausted but to be so close and not reach the main beach was not the way we wanted to recant this memory. Another ten minutes we walked. And another. And another. It became a running joke as every passer walking back had told us the beach was only a further ten minutes away. This happened three times about ten minutes apart.
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Despite being busier, this beach was even more charming than the last. It had been formed within a bay. Plain palms pandered to the breeze and laxly wavered. Feet planted in the sand as the cool shoreline washed over them. I looked down the curve of the waters edge and saw smiles on sun-kissed faces. I sat. I swam. I lied. As I turned to look in the opposite direction I was greeted by some more friends who had made their way to the same beach earlier in the day. The Moroccan Canadian girls we had met the day previous. They spoke in a combination of Canadian accented English and then Arabic when they didn't want us to understand what they were saying. As we settled into the sand once more we noticed a commotion over by the expanse of swamp-like marshland behind us. There was a cayman spying atop a nest amongst the water. Despite being a few meters from where we lay, it was small and I don't think anyone was really scared. Although we joked.
The walk back was more regimented and therefore quicker, despite the Canadian guy stopping to empty sand from his shoes every five minutes. We fucked about at the exit of the park haggling for some mopeds as an alternative to a further twenty minute walk but because of the wait required and unhospitable negotiations we decided that we had a further twenty in the tank.
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As the sun retired we saw him off as we did dusk the previous day; in the pool with a cold Aguilla in hand. The following morning we left The Journey Hostel to the famed Casteño Beach I'd heard so much about.
The buzz at Casteño was immediate from the first “Hola Papi” that greeted us. Here, Papi and Mami were the playful Sir and Miss used and terms we’d quickly gone from giggling like school girls to accepting casually. The lack of seasons meant the lack of need for revival. There was no death in the autumn and birth in the spring but life simply reciprocating life serendipitously. The undercurrent of it's nature flowed through the people and here in Colombia was where it was most evident. As with most hostels the sleeping arrangements were basic and as with most hostels we did not care. Lines of cocooned wooden bunks, each with their own reading light, fan and locker. It could be worse. We knew that we would likely be stumbling back here in the early hours of the morning with the wonderful ability, of being able to sleep on any flat surface, that alcohol gives you. After dumping our things, we grabbed three cold beers from the bar for the going rate of five thousand pesos each (about one pound) and sat equidistant between the pool and the sea. Couples, friends, solo digital nomads walked by in bikinis and shorts with beers and cocktails alike. The sound of the waves were lightly masked by the Spanish beach club music radiating from the speakers. We rotated seats as the sun moved and as it began to set made our way toward the sand and the sea.
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The sea was aggressively choppy. High waves crashing into the sand. The sounds were a pleasant combination and one that you would struggle to be stressed once immersed in. The pool was long and thin with coves branching out in either side with seats. The Colombian flora leaned over the far wall and shaded the water in parts. Toward the end it featured an overhanging rock climbing wall. I guess everyone else must’ve been too cool to try but I did. The bar area stretched from the pool to the beach with a loft style second floor above it. The same as Journey, all wooden, this second floor featured two rows of hammocks from which to swing and watch the choppy sea. In the mornings they would unclip the hammocks and do yoga here.
In the afternoon we briefly swam in the pool. We hadn’t seen anyone try the sea so Sameer and I thought it’d be funny to give it a go. Within seconds its power humbled us and we ended up falling over and being swept back up through the strength of the current. We laughed and fell in a pattern that seemed to loop until the latter occurred for frequently than the former. Rejoining Austin we dried under the South American sun. Shortly after the barman started to set up the afternoon's sand castle making competition in front of us. I didn’t realise that one of the Moroccan girls had signed herself and invited me to help her. It was like neither of us had been to a beach and touched sand before. Unseriously we mushed around piles of wet sand in failed attempts to form structure whilst next to us our competitors had somehow formed multistory palaces with moats. Somehow we came second. Afterward we swam to rinse off and once again fell to the mercy of the sea in somewhat treacherous yet hilarious conditions. Escaping our way out several feet further down the beach that we had planned, we all sat together and drank and dried as the sun started to close into the horizon.
Twilight set in whilst I was getting shit from some Argentinians for my inability to roll my Rs. It appears Duolingo can only take you so far. Earlier, the beer pong tournament and beginning of the evenings party had come to an abrupt halt due to one of the areas timely power cuts. Fortunately for us the fire pits spread sparsely across the beach had been lit. We met the early hours of the morning exchanging stories with our new found friends and somehow awoke feeling rested. Must be the sea air.