Riyad and Sarah's Travels

Although Colombia and Panama share a land border, crossing it would have involved a suicidal passage through the Darien Gap: a hundred miles of dense forest and swampland lacking roads but full of mosquitoes spreading malaria, rabid vampire bats, and guerillas with a penchant for kidnapping.

Flying between the two countries is an option, but the most interesting way is to cross by sea. Small sailboats embark on the five day journey between Cartagena, Colombia and Panama almost daily, stopping at the scenic San Blas Islands en route.

Sarah and I talked to a few captains who had been plying the route for years; each was trying to squeeze as many people as possible onto his boat. We were lucky to meet Kris, a Belgian who was two years into a five year sailing trip around the world. His ship, the Donna, was fifty feet long and featured three cabins, two bathrooms, a small kitchen and dining area. Not only was he limiting the number of passengers to six, he was the most interesting and genuine captain we had spoken with. Agreeing to join him in sailing to Portobelo, Panama was an easy decision.

Kris had recently met Svetlana – a 24 year old Russian woman who has to be the most hardcore traveler we have ever encountered. She was also traveling the world, but on a non-existent budget. Having hitchhiked across Africa, volunteered as a crewmate on a different boat crossing the Atlantic, and spent the last year also hitchhiking throughout South America, she was now employed as the first mate on the Donna.

The four of us plus two other passengers – Toby from Germany and Emma from England – sailed off from Cartagena late at night under a full moon. We sat out on the cockpit and watched Kris and Lana at work as they killed the motor, unfurled the sails, and set the course using GPS and compass for the straight path to Panama. They would take turns steering the ship, rotating every few hours throughout the night.

The voyage started out well enough, but as Cartagena’s skyline faded away and we were in the open ocean, the sea became very rough and the ship was tossed about violently enough to knock us to the ground.

Sarah and I had bragged that in all our travels we’ve never been seasick. After a few hours aboard the Donna, we were no longer able to make that claim.

The next thirty six hours were awful.

The night was rough but we managed to sleep despite being awakened by the motion of the boat. The following day we only ate plain bread and tried to sit out in the cockpit, but found the best remedy was to lie down and sleep as much as possible. The ocean did not calm that day or the second night – lying down in our hot tiny cabin we were both wondering what the hell we had got ourselves into.

But it did get better.

Early on our third day we spotted the first of the San Blas islands over the horizon.

Comprised of four hundred islands, the San Blas archipelago is home to two thirds of Panama’s indigenous Kuna Indians and an attractive vacation spot due to its pristine and idyllic beaches. It was here that we would dock for the rest of the day.

Kris and Lana wrapped up the sails, started the motor, and steered into the bay. After turning on the boat’s depth meter, Kris took the wheel from Lana and proceeded slowly around the shallow coral reef, passing an overturned rusting ship that clearly hadn’t been as careful. We dropped anchor a few hundred yards from land, and memories of our rough sea passage immediately began to fade.

Toby was the first to jump off and I followed shortly after in swimming to a deserted island. I wonder if the creator of Gilligan’s Island had based it on the San Blas Islands – both were similar in size and covered with coconut trees. Its beach was empty and the seal we had identified from the boat turned out to be a log. Standing on solid ground for the first time in days was a great feeling.

Kris and Emma swam after us, but Lana just wanted to practice her diving.

Sarah wasn’t up for swimming or diving, instead kayaking next to me around the reef.

We slept on the boat that night close to other sailboats that had docked nearby. With our cabin hatch open and the boat perfectly still, it was relaxing and enjoyable and the opposite of our experience at sea.

After breakfast the next morning, the six of us swam and paddled to the nearby inhabited island where a few Kunas lived in a thatched roof huts. 

The Kunas were excited to see us and had no problem with us walking around. The adults even tried to get their shy kids to pose for pictures.

The island was small; we walked all the way around in fifteen minutes. 

We then returned to the Donna and prepared to leave. While we were getting ready, two Kunas rowed up asked if we wanted to buy some of their fish. We had been resigned to eating canned meat after two days of an unsuccesful fishing effort by Kris, so of course we agreed.

We continued west, remaining three miles from shore and marking a path parallel to mainland Panama. This was the experience that Sarah and I had signed up for. Watching Kris and Lana work the sails was fascinating – even without wind directly at our back it was amazing to see how fast we could go.

Three hours later we arrived and docked at a second group of San Blas islands. More boats were docked here and the inhabited islands had more infrastructure – we spotted a bar on one and a store selling Kuna handicrafts on another.

A Panamanian boat of immigration officers motored up to stamp us into the country. Feeling empowered, probably because they were so far removed from shore, they took our passports and successfully shook us down for an extra $20 because they were “working on a Saturday”. Corrupt officials notwithstanding, everyone else in the bay was friendly, from the other captains flying flags from all over the world to the Kunas, who were selling handbags instead of fish.

We had another relaxing night on the boat, eating our fresh grilled fish as the sun set.

On day five Kris gave us the option of leaving at the crack of dawn or around lunchtime. We were having a great time were not in a rush to get to Portobelo, so we opted for the latter. Again we swam and paddled to shore after breakfast. This island was even smaller than the one we had visited the previous day, probably fifty yards across with only three huts. The water surrounding it was clear; we could see down to the ocean floor.

After too short a time we swam back to the Donna, pulled anchor and sailed away.

Weak winds made sailing time to Portobelo longer than expected. But it was bright and sunny and time passed quickly out in the cockpit. Everyone but I spent a few hours sleeping downstairs. Sarah came up when the sun wasn’t as strong and said “wow you got really dark”. She was right. And my tan was accompanied by a rare sunburn.

It was dark when we arrived at Portobelo’s harbor. Lana and Kris again carefully navigated their way in and the six of us decided to stay on the boat one more night before we parted ways. Kris and Lana were to cross the Panama Canal on way to the Galapagos Islands while the rest of us landlubbers were off to Panama City.

Sarah and I were already talking about our next sailing adventure.

Kris’s blog can be found here, unfortunately in Dutch. Lana’s is here, unfortunately in Russian.

Cartagena, Colombia

Cartagena de Indias is one of the most important cities in Colombia’s history. During the 16th century, this coastal city was the main gateway between Spain and the rest of South America, prospering from its trade in gold, silver, gem, and slaves. Today it’s the country’s fifth largest and the most frequently visited. My parents and brother had been here a few years ago, and having raved about it, set our expectations high.

The day after returning from Ciudad Perdida, Riyad and I took a five hour bus from Santa Marta and arrived completely exhausted, covered with bug bites, and needing to relax. The city was in the midst of its annual film festival, the oldest of its kind in Latin America, showing free movies that were mostly subtitled in English. Our first movie was a zombie film “Juan de los Muertos” that provided a very comedic portrayal of life in Cuba. It was only in Spanish, but the zombies transcended the linguistic divide making the film easy to follow. We saw two other movies that were not nearly as entertaining.

We stayed inside the old city – a walled off section of the town filled with cobblestone streets, colonial buildings in various states of preservation, and beautiful flowers that draped over balconies.

Horse drawn carriages plied the streets and old men walked around with large thermoses selling small cups of coffee and tea.

Bakeries selling pan queso (bread with cheese) and empanadas seemed to be on every corner. Sidewalks were lined with vendors selling jewelry, hats, and other hand crafted items.

I attempted to practice my Spanish at every opportunity, but my accent didn’t make the cut – I was handed an empanada after ordering a limonada.

The food in town was outstanding. A typical Colombian meal, “comida corriente” consists of heaping portions of rice, beans, plantains, salads, and choice of chicken, fish, or beef. Comida corriente was delicious everywhere, but the restaurant next to our hotel managed to raise the bar. Its menu was limited to a few choices that were all done very well. Riyad and I ate fresh fish in a coconut sauce daily for less than the cost of a McDonalds combo meal.

Riyad and I thoroughly explored the many small narrow streets of the old town. We walked along and on top of the city wall, past many churches, gardens, former dungeons converted to shops,  and slave markets turned into restaurants. 

The Museum of the Spanish Inquisition at the Plaza de Bolivar featured an exhibit on the history of Cartagena as well as instruments of torture. Riyad developed his own “instrument of torture” by repeating the phrase “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”

Just outside the old city is Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas, the largest fort ever constructed by the Spanish during the colonial era.

Built to protect the city’s gold trade and inhabitants from pirate attacks, the fort was used as defense for over 200 years. Mazes of underground tunnels connect the various parts of the fort and were used to move supplies. After walking around the premises in the hot sun, listening to the boring audio guide we had enough and returned to the old city.

An hour outside of Cartagena is the Totumo Mud Volcano. Standing only sixty feet tall, it looks more like a termite mound than a volcano.

Tourists shuttle in to soak in the mud and get a natural spa treatment. Riyad and I joined the throngs of tourists in visiting.

Cartagena comes alive at night. Many people walk around the city’s various plazas where jugglers, musicians, and dancers showcase their talents.  Brightly colored party buses filled with loud drunken revelers roam the streets. We could hear them banging on pots and yelling every ten minutes.

Max, my parents’ tour guide from their Colombian visit, showed us around Cartagena, and took us to the best restaurant and then to a bar situated on the city’s historic wall. We’ve been to many cities with colonial architecture, but only Cartagena had professional dancers on floodlit platforms.

Riyad and I came into Cartagena with very high expectations. After a week of relaxing, eating and wandering around town, I can say we were not disappointed.

“Aren’t we done with this nonsense?” asked Sarah.

My suggestion to spend five days hiking through jungles filled with creepy crawly biting insects didn’t initially go over well with Sarah.

But it was the only way we could visit the “Lost City”, better known by its Spanish name: Ciudad Perdida.

The city was built by the indigenous Tayrona people between the 11th and 13th centuries and most likely served as one of their largest towns. After the Tayronas were conquered and massacred by Spanish invaders, the city was forgotten and swallowed by the jungle.

Tomb raiders discovered Ciudad Perdida several hundred years later in the 1970s. Today, it has been cleared and is under the watch of Colombian military. One thing remains unchanged: no roads lead to it. Visiting the site requires a bit of effort.

Different tour operators offer guided treks to Ciudad Perdida, providing all meals, accommodations, and a Spanish speaking guide. After conferring with a few of them and hearing from people who had raved about the experience, Sarah reluctantly agreed.

The following day our motley group of ten – from USA, Canada, Ireland, France, Brazil and Colombia – crammed into a truck for the bumpy two hour drive from Santa Marta to the trail’s start in El Mamey.

There we met our guide, a faux-hawked native who had been guiding visitors for several years, and set off behind mules loaded with provisions.

Even though we only hiked for half a day during the first three days, it was still exhausting. The path climbed up then down then up again. Sometimes we were exposed to the hot sun while walking on sand and clay. Then we would continue into the jungle where it wasn’t as hot but where we had to deal with insects and the occasional snake.

The path followed the river Baritara on opposite sides, requiring us to cross it probably about a dozen times. Only one crossing had a bridge – constructed over a particularly rough spot where a French tourist had been swept to his death.

The other crossings we either hopscotched across on exposed rocks or waded through.

Along the way we passed huts of the Kogi, the local people descended from Tayrona who support themselves through sustenance farming and raising livestock.

The Kogi adults paid us no attention, but the kids joined us in wading into the river or asking for candy.

The trek was tough, but our group hit it off and made it worthwhile. Each night we spent playing cards, sharing magic tricks, and staying up much later than we probably should have. One member of our group was a yoga instructor who took us through a few sessions.

We even attracted an 11th member when we noticed a small dog following us on day 2. He was named Jake (he spotted a snake before we did) and seemed to know the jungles well.

Accommodations far exceeded our expectations – Sarah and I were expecting tents and sleeping bags, but along the way were permanent campsites with running water, showers, and even beds.

But we were still in the middle of nowhere. Our guide warned us to check our clothes and shoes for scorpions or snakes before putting them on. Nights were pitch black – it looked the same with our eyes open or closed.

Since we hiked only half a day we had plenty of time to cool off in the river.

We started hiking early on day four to cover the last half mile to Ciudad Perdida. After one final river crossing, we arrived at its base and climbed 1360 steps (according to our guide, I lost count) to emerge at the lost city.

Even without considering the major effort we had expended to get there, the site was very impressive.   The city once had 170 houses up the mountain. The wooden houses are long gone, but each of their terraces had been cleared of trees and groomed to resembled a golf course. Stone stairs remain, leading us up further until we were in the open.

 A few in our group celebrated our arrival strangely.

Since the region was a hotbed for guerilla activity not too long ago, the Colombian government posts military in the area. Two soliders we saw roaming the premises caught us taking pictures and turned to talk to us.

“We weren’t taking pictures of you, just the site” we lied. Fortunately, they were coming back not to stop us from taking pictures, but to pose for them.

At the top of the site were more bored soldiers with even bigger guns.

Only one other trekking group joined us at the city that day, so the site was mostly empty. Our guide tried to tell us about the history and discovery of the site, but we were exhausted and were content just to be sitting. It was sunny, the skies were clear, and we sat around for a few hours enjoying the scenery.

And with that it was time to leave. We were to return on the same path on which we arrived but much faster, taking one and half days instead of three and a half.

So we returned - descending the same stairs, climbing up and down the same mountains, and wading through the same river crossings. Our good luck ran out when it started to pour. Not having any other alternative we trudged on until we were soaked to the core.

Although all of us had been liberally rubbing ourselves with a powerful mosquito repellent, the buggers had managed to bite parts of our body that weren’t exposed and we started to itch.

The last day we woke up early to cover the last nine miles back.  Sarah ponied up (pun intended) for a mule to carry her.

Halfway back she decided to dismount and join us in walking the rest of the way.

Santa Marta, Colombia

The warm sea breeze hit us as soon as we stepped off the plane – we knew we had arrived on Colombia’s Caribbean coast before having yet seen it. We had been told to expect a laid back “Caribbean rather than Colombian culture” up north and were more than happy to oblige. For the following two weeks, Santa Marta, Colombia’s oldest city, would be our base and launching point for the various destinations in the area.

Santa Marta’s best days were behind it – its beaches are next to large shipping boats, and its nightlife is limited to a few restaurants downtown. The closest beach worth visiting is at Taganga, a small fishing town now overrun by tourists. Taganga’s shore lies in a picturesque bay lined by hostels, bars, and dive shops. Even though gringos outnumbered locals, we still attracted their attention and a few came up to us to practice their English. But Taganga was small and crowded, and we felt that one afternoon was enough.

Colombia’s best beaches were rumored to be two hours east in Tayrona National Park, named for the indigenous Tayrona people that once lived there. The region was no-go paramilitary territory during the worst of Colombia’s violent years, but has since been cleared to become the country’s most visited park for both domestic and international visitors.

Unlike Taganga, we needed to expend some effort to get there. As the park lacks roads, visitors are limited to either walking or riding horseback along its miles of trails. After bussing to its entrance and being thoroughly searched by a soldier for “alcohol, drugs, and guns” we set off on a two hour walk to the beach. The trails were well marked and shared with horses. Although the park was home to several species of wildlife, the only animals we saw were a few birds and a handful of monkeys. (On the other hand we didn’t encounter any of the park’s poisonous snakes.)

Campsites were scattered throughout the beaches, with accommodations ranging from hammocks to pricey eco-lodges. We opted for hammocks near the beach La Piscina – but as the sun was setting we failed to notice that its mosquito nets were riddled with holes. That we discovered the hard way. Neither of us got much sleep and we woke up unrefreshed and covered with bites.

We tried to make the best of day by spending a few hours on the beach. Most of the park’s beaches had very strong currents that made them unsafe for swimming, but Capo de San Juan was the exception. Its waters were calm and crystal clear against the backdrop of palm trees and rising forested hills.

As nice as the beach was, we didn’t want to spend another night donating blood and returned to Santa Marta. Our hotel receptionist was surprised to see us back so early, but after we showed him our swelling bites he understood.

One of the world’s biggest Carnaval celebrations is held at Barranquilla, Colombia’s fourth largest town two hours west of Santa Marta. We had looked into attending, but had scrapped it after finding the town booked solid except for a few expensive options. But on our bus back from Tayrona we met a few other travelers who were to partake in the festivities as a day trip from Santa Marta. That sounded like an even better option, and we signed up to join thirty others from their hostel.

We had been told that costumes were mandatory, but had no idea what that meant as Carnaval was no Halloween – only a few select outfits were for sale. Not seeing a future need for wigs or shiny rayon shirts, we instead bought festive t-shirts. Mine was emblazoned with the logo “Oy me llave” – apparently a catch phrase uttered by a Colombian soap opera star. Sarah had hers cut up, tied with ribbons, and covered with glitter for the occasion.

Our caravan of thirty people made it to Barranquilla around noon. Streets were closed down for the impending parade and people were already out and about getting hammered. Vendors sold rum and beer and empanadas and shish kabobs at every corner. Our group leader convinced a traffic cop to allow us near grandstands where others had paid big money.

Many people sprayed foam at each other and random passersby from high pressure canisters.

Sarah and I initially refused to partake – we just minded our own business while avoiding the fracas. Then some kid who was wearing the same shirt as me thought that was an invitation to spray in our direction.

I acquired my own can, and from then on it was a free for all.

The parade had floats, bands, dancers in costume, and dancers displaying a lot of skin.

We never did get an explanation of the two most common costumes: women in red polka dot Minnie mouse dresses with black wigs and men with colorful elephant masks.

Barranquilla doesn’t get many tourists aside from Carnaval, so the local kids were very excited to speak with us. Teenagers spoke slowly and patiently listened to our broken Spanish, asking where we were from and how many people we had come with. A bubbly, high-pitched six year old thought she was having a detailed conversation with Sarah, never realizing in a half hour that Sarah couldn’t understand anything she said.

Five hours later as the parade ended, we left for Santa Marta, again physically exhausted, where we were to remain for a few more days to recuperate.