Columbia Pt. II Tayrona

Ah, Colombia, a land brimming with adventure and captivating landscapes. Once my exploration of Cartagena had reached its zenith, I embarked on a bus journey heading northward, my compass pointing toward Santa Marta, the gateway to my impending adventure in Tayrona National Park. Santa Marta, a town a tad rougher around the edges and considerably more authentic compared to Cartagena’s polished facade, captured my interest.

I swiftly connected with Zaid, an intriguing character who co-owned a hotel with his wife down by the harbor. The place exuded charm and boasted a delightful rooftop terrace that I frequented during my stay. On occasion, Zaid would invite a friend over, and as the evening unfolded, they would indulge in rum and cocaine while I contentedly enjoyed a few spliffs, only parting ways when their intoxication rendered them incoherent.
As was my wont, I languidly meandered through the town, powered by a trifecta of coffee, weed, and sweets. One day, I hopped on a bus to a supposedly idyllic beach town, only to be greeted by an abysmal reality—what can only be described as a wretched pit. Disheartened, I promptly caught the next bus back to the city, my decision justified by the village’s sorry state, exacerbated by recent flooding that had left it mired in mud and filth.
In stark contrast, Tayrona National Park unfolded as a veritable oasis of wonder, etching its place in my memory as one of my finest beach-centric national park escapades. I took up residence in a cozy hotel situated along the road leading to the park’s entrance, nestled within a quasi-village. My work commitments dictated an extended stay before I could fully immerse myself in the park’s natural splendor. The family-run hotel offered a daily pancake breakfast and boasted a charismatic papagayo parrot that posed willingly for impromptu selfies. Regrettably, I opted for mere phone selfies, with grand plans to capture more substantial photographs later, though the enigmatic bird mysteriously vanished in the days that followed.

The Tayrona experience itself was nothing short of spectacular. The hike, spanning anywhere from two to four hours, transported me to the park’s heart—its pristine beaches, starlit nights in a tent, and breathtaking sunrises beckoning each new day. I ventured into the park twice, initially for a single day, only to realize the park’s immense allure and the necessity of witnessing both sunrise and sunset.

I vividly recall a sensational Spotify playlist accompanying my trek, elevating the experience to unparalleled heights. On my second visit, I ingeniously managed to smuggle some herb into the park, a precarious endeavor as bag searches greeted park entrants. My composure proved paramount as I navigated this challenge successfully. Once inside, the initial hour of hiking led me through lush jungle terrain before unveiling the pristine coastline, a trek that consumed an additional three to four hours. Frequent pit stops punctuated my journey, each revealing unique coves and majestic rock formations. Periodically, the path would wind back into the jungle, weaving through a verdant rainforest punctuated by towering palm trees. The park’s pièce de résistance consisted of two petite coves, culminating in a peninsula crowned by an enigmatic hut.
The sunset, regrettably, failed to dazzle, as a thick veil of clouds obscured the sun, casting its final rays over the distant ocean horizon. My dinner was a delectable sandwich from a beachside vendor, and I retired early in preparation for the imminent sunrise. With limited culinary options, I subsisted on a diet of sandwiches, cookies, and bananas.

The shrill intrusion of my alarm roused me from slumber, well before the break of dawn. I was determined to secure the perfect vantage point for sunrise photography. Suddenly, an alien, scratchy sound reverberated near my ear, akin to a dog digging into the tent wall. I swatted at the source, causing a momentary cessation, but it quickly resumed.

In the throes of panic, I scrutinized the intruder’s origin and realized it wasn’t external—the sound emanated from within my ear canal. Something had infiltrated my auditory sanctuary, and it was causing an excruciating, stinging agony. The realization hit me like a lightning bolt: an insect had taken refuge in my ear.
In my remote jungle location, far removed from civilization, I was faced with a dire predicament. I summoned every ounce of courage and darted from the tent, desperately seeking assistance. The tent-dwellers were organized, and I swiftly located the night security guard. In my broken Spanish, punctuated by anguished screams, I conveyed my predicament. His response was underwhelming; evidently, this wasn’t his first encounter with such an incident. He informed me of a sleeping nurse, and I implored him to awaken her. Moments dragged on as I writhed in agony, but finally, she arrived. I retold my plight, and she offered to help, albeit after a quick trip to the restroom. I obliged, albeit perplexed by her odd request.

Upon our return to the makeshift medical tent, a simple solution emerged—she tilted my head and introduced a modicum of water into my ear canal. The ant, an insidious but minuscule creature capable of delivering painful bites or stings, promptly emerged. It felt gargantuan in my traumatized state, but it turned out to be a tiny ant with an outsized penchant for torment. My relief was palpable, and I pressed on with my sunrise mission, albeit slightly delayed.

I wandered the park until the sun soared high, its morning hues now a memory. I fortified myself with another sandwich from the beachside vendor and commenced my return journey, tracing my steps along the sandy shores and through the verdant jungle. All in all, Tayrona National Park stood out as one of my most cherished national park sojourns, a symphony of natural beauty, musical beats, discreet herbal indulgence, and abundant sunshine. I departed Santa Marta, recharged and inspired, destined for my next escapade.
Subsequently, I eschewed an immediate return to Santa Marta, opting instead to venture further down the coastline toward Palomino—a purported haven for surf-loving, bohemian beach bums on the fringes of Tayrona National Park. However, my affection for Palomino was tepid at best, as its beach paled in comparison to Tayrona’s splendor. A glaring divide separated the genuine village from the tourist enclave, with the latter limited to a road meandering toward the beach and a few adjacent alleyways.

One vivid memory from this stop was a pizzeria boasting an impressive array of 20 different spicy chili oils, a perfect accompaniment to their pizzas. As a connoisseur of chili oil on pizza, this establishment was nothing short of paradise.

My visits became a spicy ritual, and the proprietor, an ardent enthusiast, matched my zeal. Beyond savoring pizza and strolling the beach, Palomino offered little in the way of entertainment, with a surf shack offering boards but few waves to conquer. With a dearth of tourist attractions in the northern reaches of Colombia, I felt the pull of the big city—Medellin beckoned. Opting for a swift and reasonably priced flight, I bid adieu to my coastal adventures, forsaking an 18-hour bus ride for the allure of the urban jungle.