This post is from about a week ago. I`ve just been lagging on getting info up.
Seldom has my preconception of a place differed as much from the reality of a place as it did in Cabo de la Vela. I had been told about the place by this girl from LA, who had visions of a near-deserted town perched between the desert and sea planted in my head. The reality was somewhat different.
Before Cabo, I had spent 2 days on the beach in Palomino hanging out at a kinda crappy hostel with some friends I had met in Taganga. The place sounded cool - pretty remote location, right on the beach, sleep in hammocks. The reality was a hammock for the night was $25,000 pesos (about $13), the roof leaked and there was nowhere to stash your bags. The food was really expensive as well and pretty pedestrian. And the beach was really dirty with debris from the big storms that they had been having.
The first day we arrived a massive rainstorm hit, the hammocks got pretty wet, and I spent a sleepless night shivering in my hammock as the place had no extra blankets. The next day was pretty nice and I got to explore this nearby river and got some good beach time in. After another slightly-less-sleepless (but not by much) night, I decided to get out of there.
I caught a bus to Riohacha, the last major town in the Guajira Peninsula. It was a decent town to spend the night and check out the nice oceanfront promenade that had a ton of vendors selling food and drinks.
The next day I got my flip flop fixed as it had blown out in Palomino, and caught a shared taxi to Uriba, where I transferred to the bed of a beat up old Ford for the last leg of the journey to Cabo. Me and 9 other people were taken on a breakneck race through the desert to the village.
I had expected to find the aforementioned quiet little desert beach town. Instead, I found a desert beach town overrun by Land Cruisers blasting salsa and this big kitesurfing championship. It was a bit of a shock. Apparently, the big, calm bay and brisk desert winds create ideal kitesurfing conditions. There was a big pavilion with massive speakers set up in the bay to announce the competition. So other than all that, it was just the traditional Wayu indian village I´d expected.
I found a hostel, checked out the town a bit, and then put in an order for dinner at the restaurant down the street. For some reason you had to order 2 hours in advance. I decided to splurge a bit and go with a whole lobster, al ajillo. The wind wasn´t blowing strongly that day and the competition was postponed, so I killed some time having a couple of beers on the beach, admiring the results of Colombia´s affinity for plastic surgery. After a dinner of overcooked lobster and bad service, I decided to call it a night. Or would have, except for the techno blasting from the 4x4 parked next to my room and the Colombian family partying outside. And the Jack Johnson wafting down the beach from the pavilion on the bay. It was my own little personal hell.
The next day, the Colombian family was up at 6, despite their festivities the night before. I dragged myself out of bed at 8, and decided to hike out of town to get away from everyone. The hike through the desert was great, with some amazing views and a near-deserted beach with perfect turquoise water. After returning to town with the kitesurfing competition in full swing, I took a nap, had some dinner, and got some sleep for the first time in 4 days.
I wanted to get out of town the next day. I had set up a ride with this guy who did tours, and was supposed to be at his stand at 9 to get the transport. Arriving at 8:45, I figured I was in great shape. Wrong. The vehicle had already left and I was stuck for the time being. I had a conversation in Spanish that went like this:
Me (at 9:05): Do you know what time the transport is going to be arriving?
Tour Guy: Oh, you got here too late, it already left.
Me: What do you mean I got here too late? I was here at 8:45. You said to be here at 9.
Tour Guy: Oh, the transport left at 8.
Me: Why did you tell me 9?
Tour Guy: There is another transport coming soon.
Me: What time?
Tour Guy: In about an hour.
As 11:30 rolled around, I started to think that I might be stuck in Cabo for another day, as there was no sign of another transport. Just as I was about to go find another hostel and hit the beach, this Colombian family swung by the tour guy´s stand, looking at some of the trinkets he was selling. I guess he informed them of my predicament, because they offered to give me a ride. It was a three-generation, two car caravan. I rode with Grandma and Grandpa in their little Hyundai sedan, while Mom, Dad and their two college-aged sons rode in a Ford Escape. Initially, they were just going to take me the hour and a half to Uriba, but when they found out I was headed to Tayrona Park, they offered to take all the way there, as it was on their way home to Barranquilla. Sign me up!
After the 5 hour ride to Tayrona, including lunch with the family and a couple of stops for bootleg Venezuelan gas (quote from Dad: The only good thing about Venezuela is their cheap gas), I got dropped off at the park entrance. It was about 5:30 and when I got to the entrance booth, I was informed that the park was closed. Dammit. Then, a slightly sketchy looking guy told me to wait 15 minutes, and he could get me in. Ignoring my better judgement, I stuck around. About 10 minutes later the guy came down the hill and said I could get in. I went up the hill, paid the $15 "park admission fee" to the security guard, and got a fake receipt and wristband. I hopped on a motor taxi that dropped me off at the start of the trail that led to the first beach. I had a mad dash in the failing light on a super-muddy trail to reach Atacames before it was pitch black. I got there minus a flip flop that had ripped, rented a hammock and settled in for the night.
The next day I decided to hike to some ruins called Pueblito. I set out up the rocky slope and was feeling a little weak when I got to the top, presumably from the heat. It was hotter than hell, and really humid. I laid in this little creek for a while trying to cool down, and then returned to the beach at the bottom of the hill. I splashed around in the ocean, but was still feeling sort of weak. It wasn´t until I was hiking out of the park that evening and still feeling weak that I figured out I had a fever, and not heat exhaustion. I started wondering if I had Yellow Fever, but my full recovery since leads me to say no.
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Weaksauce! You could definitely handle a fever.
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