“Oh my god! I just saw a f&@king massive crocodile?!” Gemma yelled. “It was on the side of the road with its head bashed in!”

Lyvette: “Are you sure it was a crocodile?”

Gemma: “It was definitely a crocodile…Or something from the croc family!!!”

Lyvette: “Was it a gecko????”

*Gemma stares Lyvette down.*

We were on another bus. This time from Barranquilla on our way to Tayrona – a supposedly beautiful National Park and one of the main things in Colombia we were most excited about. We were staying in the park, by the sea, in tents and a hammock. 

Until we got a text to say the park was closed. Of course it was. And it was pissing it down. Lovely. So we stayed in a really cool hotel opposite the park in a particularly lovely room and debated what to do. Apparently there was a big who-ha between the locals, the government and the inhabitants of the park. 

Trying to understand all of this meant a good time to further develop my Spanish with the hotel receptionist. We discussed multiple things and I read out the phrase that the cartel member at the carnival had translated as “dimples.”

The receptionist nearly spat her lemonade out and wagged her finger from side to side. Apparently my phrase translated to “movements of the bum pieces.” 

Bloody cartel stringing me along…

Palomino

Tayrona was a no go so we continued along to Palomino a cute little backpacker beach town on the coast. Here, the access bridge had been destroyed by a storm so we had to bus to the broken bridge. Walk across with our bags and then get on another bus at the other side. Easy. We arrived cheery to be by the beach even if our original Tayrona plans had been scuppered.

There was no beach.

Apparently the storms had taken this too.

Unfortunately for us they had not taken the mosquitoes which were out in full force and we spent two nights scratching like we had fleas and fearing dengue fever was going to take us as prey. This was no good for my rash as it started to spread to my arms. And my neck. Perfect. 

Palomino did, however, have puppies and is now quite well known (apparently) for its tubing. I don’t know why, it was shit. 

We were picked up by the Boys In Pink on their motorbikes. Lyvette’s BIP was a maniac, a real life liver that one. They were off in a puff of exhaust fumes. Gemma’s BIP made her hug his stomach with one arm and hold her tube on the other – she was so upright and stiff she looked like she was doing a waltz. And mine had a bike that needed a service so we were going nowhere fast. They dropped us at the start of a little hike to the foot of the river and left us with their mate (he wasn’t in pink, just for the record).

We proceeded to spend 90 minutes floating down a river (that may or may not have had crocodiles) at an extremely leisurely speed attached to a teenage boy who didn’t seem overly impressed at Lyvette’s foot wafting around his face. I don’t blame him. Tubing wasn’t the adrenaline rush I was after – we crawled along at snails pace. We’d have picked up more speed if someone would have waded along behind us blowing us through a straw.

Eventually, lightyears later, the tube journey ended and we hit the shore. The teenage guide got out and started tying up the tubes whilst us three stood and looked at each other.

Where were we?

Where were the Boys In Pink? Were they coming to collect us? (Apparently not).

What happens now?

Eventually a lady selling fruit kind of wafted us down the road so we assumed that was the way to go. The teenager didn’t even look in our direction so we followed the fruit lady’s waft and managed to trudge our way home.

What an exhilarating day.

Nursing our mosquitoe bites and smothered in DEET we headed out to explore. That’s when I spotted the snake. I had a moment of panic when I thought Gemma and Lyvette were going to stand on it as it slithered across the road in front of them, however it seemed I’d lost my words in the shock:

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Naturally they both ran. Towards the snake.

“Wrong way!!!” I managed to articulate two words.

Lyvette turned around and sped towards me, whereas Gemma thought it appropriate to continue forwards, in slow motion, with high knee and on her tiptoes.

“Snake!!!” I finally found an accurate description within my vocabulary.

And it slithered by, narrowly avoiding Gemma’s very slow mo toes. 

In the snakes defence it didn’t panic at the raucous going on around it, it just cast a disapproving look in our direction (probably at Gemma’s foot work) and continued on its way.

And that was Palomino. Time to move on to Cartagena.

Cartagena

It took forever. Like, approximately our entire lives.

Bus – walk over bridge – bus – motorbike – bus – taxi (in that order) and about 12hrs of travelling. 

And then we got scammed by Wilbram and his gang. We think. Or we may have just misheard heard them, but still. 

We got the bus from Palomino. We walked back across the broken bridge. We got on another bus to Santa Marta. That dropped us off at the side of the road at a non bus stop. Obviously. 

We needed to get from the side of the road to an actual bus station that had buses running to Cartagena.

And this is where it got confusing because suddenly we were all on the back of motorbikes, me with a man named Wilbram wearing his speed shades. And off we went.

Lyvette shouted at me from the back of her bike; “I think we’re going to the airport!!!” Not ideal. “Also… WHERE’S GEMMA?!” Also not ideal.

Gemma was about 300m up the motorway flying towards the airport in a puff of smoke.

“WILBRAM!!!” I yelled to my driver, over the motorway traffic. “WE’RE GOING TO THE BUS STATION. TO CARTAGENA…NO VAMOS AL AEROPUERTO!”

He slowed down to chat to Lyvette’s driver then pointed at the spec in the distance that was Gemma:

“Tres personas?” (are you three people?)

“Si, si! She’s with us!!!”

And the speed shades came down and we flew at a rate of nots down the road. Eventually we got her. And guess what? They dropped us at the side of another road and charged us 50,000 COP each (which is scandalous). Then a bus turned up and they swore it was going to Cartagena. Direct. No stops. The ticket man got off the bus and said the same thing. He charged us 100,000 COP each. Also dearer than it should have been. And then…the bus drove for 10minutes into the actual bus terminal (where we could buy cheaper tickets) and sat there for an hour.

Direct with no stops: my arse.

Eventually the bus set off again with us frantically scratching our mosquito bites and rashy legs.

We were heading in the wrong direction.

“Errrrr the bus is going the wrong way! And we’re in the south of Colombia not the north! I thought you said we were north!” I was so confused. What was happening?

Gemma and Lyvette looked at me.

“You’ve got your Google maps upside down.” Ahhhhh, that makes more sense.

And then 12hrs or so later we arrived at our apartment in Cartagena. At 8pm. And had to wait for an hour because the owner decided she needed to send someone to collect our payment in cash. The ATM was broken so there was no cash. And we were tired and (a little) grumpy. Plus this woman didn’t send anyone to let us in anyway. Finally after a lot of faffing via WhatsApp the front reception decided we were allowed a key. Room 716. On the 7th floor.

So up we went. Lyvette at the front with the key.

715.

717.

No apartment 716.

“Errrrr guys,” she whispered, “Every apartment is here. Except for ours.”

Of course our room wasn’t there. Because why on earth would it be that simple?

Where had it gone?

Had it disappeared?

Was it ever here?

After a few moments of frustration and a lot of giggles we realised that even numbers were on the other side of the corridor. 

And we found apartment 716 (and it’s mouldy fridge and lack of toilet seat).

It was quite the journey. But we’d made it. 

To Cartagena, the city with the sloths (random) and beaches. Gemma was desperate for a good beach so we were ready and eager to find a good one the next day.

But as we’ve learnt, nothing ever really goes to plan…