September 16th and 17th 2014
The alarm rings before I’m ready to consider getting out of bed. The fear of waking other hostellers gets me moving quick as my thumbs move to silence the robot that rules all our lives, even when travelling. Quickly tossing the last few things into my day sack in the pre-dawn darkness I slip from the room and hail a taxi. The first of many steps to this journey. The city is surprisingly busy for 5 am, loaded mini buses careening through busy streets lights flaring in the dissipating darkness. The taxi leaves me outside a gas station near the turn off to Minca with assurances the bus to Riohacha will appear before too long. Turns out he’s trustworthy as before the old yellow car has pulled a way, a huge coach pulls up and I am bundled into the last available seat for 15,000 COP. The bus is cold and I decide I’m lucky I’m Canadian. The Colombian families around me are all very committed to dreamland under piles of fleece blankets as the bus ambles along the same coastal highway past Palomino and towards the border with Venezuela. I try to stay awake but with my daypack tucked firmly between my feet I too fall to dozing, exhausted from successfully defending my championship ping pong crown the night before at the dreamer. I awake a few times on the journey long enough to diagnose where we are, conveniently the first time I come fully awake were just coming into the outskirts of Riohacha. With the help of some friendly local passengers I hop off the bus just a few blocks from where the next step begins. Riohacha seems a bustling city but I’m more concerned with moving on, and don’t want to waste time exploring when I’m not sure how long it will take me to reach Cabo. After some quick thickly accented spanish words from a friendly old empanada salesman, and a helpful young police officer I mange to find the place to wait for Collectivos to Uribia for another 15,000 COP. It took about 45 minutes to gather a full car, luckily a friendly priest who worked in Uribia is sitting beside me in the concrete parking lot working on his sermon for the coming sunday. He doesn’t speak much english but I manage enough spanish to pas the time enjoyably before climbing into a crowded car. The driver tosses my bag in the trunk and I make a mental note to keep an eye on that trunk which contains every vital possession I own, but of course nothing happens and after a little over an hour at a little over 130 km an hour we pull up into the bustling market place of Uribia, which is the indigenous capital of Colombia. Navigating the marketplace proves to be a little overwhelming and I feel suddenly very much like I’m back in India. Smells and sounds swell and burst all around me as I wander through the overfull streets looking for the truck which will take me the rest of the way to Cabo. Kids ferry around people on Bicycle built tuk tuk’s and stalls selling everything imaginable surround me. I follow the best travel advice I know, and ask everyone I can. After a few minutes I find someone helpful who speaks spanish well enough to help direct me to the truck. I climb in the back and spend the next hour watching the rainbow swirl of life speed by all around me. A child who can’t be more than ten takes a spot with his cart of overripe bananas and does business efficiently in the street as my truck is quickly filled up with countless supplies to take in the desert dwelling Wayyuu, an indigenous group that somehow avoided the spanish conquest almost entirely. Before setting off the back of the pick up truck is filled up with local people including two of the cutest looking babies I have ever seen. Once can’t be more than a month old and because of that is quickly swaddled in blankets as protection from the harsh sun and desert dust. The other child though might be about a year old and takes great delight in my different looking face. We spend the 20 minutes before the ride making faces with each other and laughing, this seems to warm the grownups in the car and though we don’t share a language we do manage to make friends and communicate some basic things. Then the packed and weighed down truck roars to life and head away from the hustle and bustle of Uribia and into the desert and all thoughts of conversation disappears as our worries shift to holding on and avoiding a permanent blinding from the dust and pebbles being kicked up. We tear down the road which follows a mining railroad which also allows for transport of a water train, bringing some more of the sparse water supply this deep in the Guajira desert. I feel amazed by the speed and do my best to hold tight to the metal support brackets as we bounce along the road, finally coming to a stop outside a small collection of mud huts and letting off one passenger. This is where the trip gets interesting as we leave anything you could really call a road behind and head truly into the desert. Dodging cactuses and those trees resilient enough to live in this unforgiving land we zig zag through paths marked by faint tire treads and head further and further from society. Amidst the cacti and dust more small homes come into view, dotted seemingly randomly across the rugged landscape. Curious and eager faces peer out at me from young and old alike. I smile and wave and most of the time they do the same back. The ride takes a little over an hour in all, including about a dozen stops we make to drop off food and water at different tiny housing compounds but as we pull into sight of the turquoise blue that belongs only to the Caribbean I know were close. The orange of the desert meeting that serene turquoise blue is certainly a sight to behold and looking through a cactus grove out to that much water also brings a smile to my face. We pull into town and I move to climb out of the collectivo at the first stop, but am quickly told by the turban face covered luggage man who rides up top somehow that I should wait and they’ll drop em at the best hostel in town. I spend the next ten minutes standing on the back hatch of the truck and hanging on for dear life as the wind whips against my face almost claiming my treasured pirates hat as plunder, only a last second grab and shove into pocket manoeuvre keeps it with me. Just as I’m sure I’m about to fall off the back the truck brakes hard and I am welcomed by the friendly hostel owner who offers me a hammock up on the roof for 10,000 COP or a twin room with a tiny en-suite and a fan for 20,000 COP. Because my back has been spasming and giving me all sorts of trouble in Santa Marta I choose the real bed, and after dropping off the majority of my stuff I head to the restaurant across the way for a quick lunch of Lobster fresh from the sea. I learn one lesson quickly, no matter where you are, lobster never really seems to be cheap, but at 25,000 COP I can’t turn it down, and it proves delicious.
Hunger sated, I head out along the beach to see what The Gateway to the Afterlife as it’s known by the local Wayuu people who inhabit these harsh deserts. Thinking back to the ride in I wonder at the wisdom of their ancestors who came to the Guajira looking for less hostile land to live in, granted I’ve not been to the amazon but the hostel does not seem less hostile by any description. As I wander through the sand, which is not quite pristine, stray flecks of garbage dotting the golden grains, I am welcomed into the local life. Stray dogs follow me with curiosity and locals of all ages smile and give me the thumbs up, a gesture which seems to have replaced the wave here. As I make it further towards the edge of town I encounter a local fisherman hauling his impressive catch up onto the beach, including this monster of a manta. Seeing my interest he grins and soon another group of fisherman are beckoning me out into thigh deep water. I head out and am stunned to find a size easily the size of me in the boat with them, being cut up to share.
I wander further along the beach and pass under the only other tourists who have come to this perfectly beautiful ghost town. They’re out on the waters strapped to huge crescent sails, feet trapped against bigger versions of surfboards. As I watch them zip along the top of the ocean I smile and idly wish I might dare to give it a try. The urge passes as I watch one crash down into the ocean and struggle mightily to get himself upright again. As I continue to walk the strong coastal winds serving as some mercy in the unrelenting heat. It also makes an almost haunting noise through this strange town when each and every house seems geared up for tourism, but there are almost tourists in sight. The howling wind and empty restaurants give the town a bit of a haunted feel, but personally I’m glad of it as I walk through this desert paradise and know that only a tiny percentage of the travellers who come to Colombia bother making the trek here. As I leave the town behind and continue out along the coast still heading towards the mountains I start to wonder how far I’m actually planning to go, and if maybe I should have brought some water with me, as even without the wind I’m starting to sweat. Oh well. As I wander past empty and half abandoned rustic resorts and up into the cliffs above the crash of the waves which seems to grow steadily bigger and bigger as I approach the point. The calm sheltered waters of the bay are no more and by the time I ascend to the first summit drenched in sweat I’m looking down at raging sea. Pelicans, gulls and albatross’ fly overhead plunging down into the water and emerging with shimmering silver scales sliding into their beaks. I take a break and watch the sun slowly descending in the sky and reflecting off the water in rainbows or yellow orange and red. The bird life in Colombia has astounded me, and certainly wet my beak to get to the galapagos and see some other rare species of aviary life.
Taking a deep breath and wishing for water I hurry up further into the coastal hills. The views just keep improving and I am blessed to find some shade under a stone shrine at the highest peak available. After relaxing and relishing in the stunning views I head back the way I’ve come, dodging through cacti to find my path back to the beach where I take a refreshing and beautiful dip in the warm see. As I soak in the last dying embers of the sun set a beautiful Colombian tourist walks by singing freely into the cooling air, smiling the whole way. We talk briefly and she heads on her way, falling right back into her song and disappearing off into the sunset. As I return to the hostel four more gringo’s show up on the back of another collectivo. Two couples one from the Netherlands and one from Australia and we end up sharing dinner and discussing travel plans and stories of the past. I head back to my room and grab some much needed sleep on a hard bed with a very needed fan. I’m up by 6 am as the generator cuts out and the fan dies, the heat quickly becoming oppressive. I decide to make the best of it and go for another walk, learning from my earlier mistakes and filling up my big bottle of water with the small bags which are so much cheaper here than bottles. (about 1,000 COP for a litre here instead of roughly 3000 for the bottled variety) I’ll never get used to drinking water out of the bags, but it is a great money saver, even if the water tends to taste a little overly chlorinated. Water and camera in hand I set off into the desert behind the town, vaguely heading toward one of the recommended beaches, Pilon de Azucar. The desert is a myriad of crossing rough paths with very limited signage so i make for another cliff in the coast hills that I think might mark the beach. Wandering through the desert I’m met by friendly and curious stares from a few Wayuu children who’ve run out from their houses to see me. One of the boys, about 5 is brave enough to come running out to greet me. He waves and gives the thumbs up, I remember I have a few candies in my pocket and give them to him, with strict instructions to share with his siblings. He smiles and laughs and the other three children come running out claiming their share of the four small hard candies, smiling happily and staring up at me with wide and innocent eyes. The kids speak a few basic words of spanish but are shy and quickly start retreating. I smile and wish I was better at making myself take pictures of people as I continue along the well worn yet still rugged Desert paths. After maybe 90 minutes of walking electric blue lizards start appearing all around me, sprinting across the sand and into tiny dens hiding from me but often calmly enough that I can take some good pictures. Another half hour of sweaty dusty steps brings me past a nesting bird that I haven’t identified and eventually to the turn off towards the beach, climbing up endless orange sand dunes, loosely packed making the walk even harder. As I crest the cliffs above I find a few abandoned sun shelters and a sand filled path down to one of the most stunning beaches I have ever seen. Cliffs loom on either side of the beach and the waves roll in crashing against the rocks all around me. Dre I look around and find myself entirely alone, peeling of my sweat drenched shirt too hot to even bother with sunscreen on my chest and back, I run into the water laughing with joy as the turquoise waters welcome me home.
I spend an hour at the beach swimming, reading and swimming again in an endless cycle, taking what shelter I can under an overhanging cliff. As I pack my bag to continue walking despite my fatigue my four dinner mates from the night before show up. We share a bag of lemon chips I purchased and I am thrilled to find a prize necklace inside which will be around my neck until the thread breaks now. The pendant shows a picture of a neon ice cream cone with the words sweet life emblazoned on the smoothed plastic. It seems an apt motto for my travels. The chips gone I leave the two couples to their frolicking in the beautiful waters and head up towards the further cliff side, wondering if I’ll make the entire climb in this heat. Struggling less than I though I would I reach the top and the altar of the virgin Mary there welcomes me with an otherworldly view. The tumultuous winds almost steal my ht again as I stand at the highest point of the hill looking out at the endless ocean and watching the countless seabirds fish under the lower cliffs below me. The feeling of freedom up there is unparalleled and I spend a while just revelling in it and thanking my lucky stars that I’m traveling again. Finally I set off again, my appetite for adventure still burning over my appetite for a proper meal. I spend another two and a half hours clambering up and down cliffs to beaches and rock shelfs covered in tide pools and marine life. Crabs are everywhere, though these ones are very good at sensing my presence and disappearing before I get as close as I’d like. A flock of pelicans let me get closer than usual before taking wing in unison and exploding up off the cliffside and back down into the sea.
At about 2 pm the sun defeats me and I decide to head back to the stunning beach of Pilon de Azucar, finding it empty again I find the waters even more welcoming and struggle to end the cycle of in and out of the waters. Finally I decide I need to get moving again and pack up my day pack again heading back along the coast, a round about way back to the city. Not far from the beach I find a place where the waves crash and explode up into salty perfect white sprays onto a shelf with ankle deep water and tons of marine life. I make the awkward climb down, leave my bag and what few dry clothes I have left some distance back before stepping into those perfect sprays and letting the waves crash over me, careful not to be swept away. The thrill is undeniable and the water seems much colder than at the beach, by the end of 40 minutes spent there I’m almost shivering despite the 33 degree heat. As the sun is starting to sink in the sky I give up on following the coast all the way back and cut across rocky shelfs where I find miniature cities as if they’ve been carved into the jagged rocks which explode up like buildings out of the ground. Lost in the surreal atmosphere I lose a few more minutes of the day and the last of my two litres of water. I sigh and hurry up over the last of the rock shelfs and back onto untouched wavy dunes of sand knowing it’s going to be a long walk back to Cabo De La Vela.
I cut across the desert landscape, picking my steps carefully in my sandled feet and happen upon a small family of parakeets, not a bird I’d expected to find in the desert, but they are certainly beautiful, both in voice and feather.
From there I find a path that I hope will take me to town more directly, past a huge dried out lake that I can’t imagine ever having been full of fresh water. I wander through trees and twelve feet cacti trying to keep my eyes on the towns highest point, making sure I don’t get myself lost in the desert. In the scorching heat I have to stretch regularly to keep my back from knotting up. Still I am again welcomed warmly by the local people as I pass their houses which speckle the desert like the freckles on my own face. I even encounter a family who is far from their home, gathering water at one of the few safe ground water sources close by.
Almost back to the city I see another unexpected bird, a cardinal which brings thoughts of my mother to my mind. I smile, thinking about how much she would have loved this heavenly if somewhat inhospitable place. 
Making it back to the city just in time for sundown I enjoy a twin serving of Gatorade’s downing a litre in maybe a 90 seconds and feeling a little better. I wander back through town towards my hotel but not before stopping in at a small local home looking for information on how to get to Punta Gallinas, the final destination for this journey into the desert. The man who runs the trips is busy but his wife and kids keep me entertained posing for pictures and bringing me into their home offering me some creamed corn and milk concoction before the man finally arrives and tell me we can leave at 5 am for 150,000 COP return. It was only me so bargaining became difficult but I do believe with a group of a decent size 120,000 or even 90,000 to 100,00 should be a possibility.
I agree to the price and head back the hostel, taking a quick shower under the dribbling flow of sun heated water cleaning myself of sand, which, for all it’s beauty, always manages to get everywhere. Then it’s a truly incredible diner of fresh shrimp, friend plantains, rice and a makeshift salad for 15,000 cop served by a kind older couple a few doors down from my hostel,certainly one of the best meals I’ve had in Colombia so far.
After chatting in english with the same four friends who’ve now given up on making it Punta Gallinas, and in french to two lovely girls from french Guyana, I head to bed early, and prepare for my third consecutive early start, eager with anticipation for Punta Gallinas, the northernmost point of South America.
2 Comments
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It is not a paid theme, it is free and called surfarama! Glad you enjoy the blog.