Everyone we'd met in Taganga had raved about
the nearby Tayrona National Park. Glorious beaches and jungle
trekking sounded like a good way to pass a few more days so in the
morning Ben and I packed some alcoholic essentials (it was supposed
to be very expensive in Tayrona) and headed off. After a bus journey
which took much longer than expected (even by South American
standards) and featured an over-exuberant bus conductor who claimed
to have over 25 years of experience (though experience of what I
wasn't sure) we arrived at the park entrance. The pleasant hour long
hike through lush forest to the coast was made a little unpleasant by
the volume of horse and donkey traffic (and associated excrement)
which carried supplies and lazy tourists along the path. Still, we
were arriving during a bank holiday weekend during high season so
couldn't really complain. Emerging from the forest we were greeted by
the midday heat and perfect Caribbean coastline.
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| One of the many stupidly scenic beaches |
After securing hammocks at the campsite by the
beach, we spent the day relaxing as well as checking out the family
run bakery nearby (of all the things to have next to the beach) had
outstandingly good bread with chocolate or caramel filling. In the
evening we got chatting to two germans; a girl around my age and a
man in his forties. It turned out that she was working as a tour
guide and he was her client (although why anyone would need a guide
in Tayrona park where the main attraction is the easily accessible
beaches was beyond me). I instantly felt very sorry for the guide –
the guy she was showing around Tayrona was probably the most dull
person I'd met on my travels (or in life for that matter). I
instigated a conversation and we got on to the subject of salsa at
which point he asserted that Colombian women didn't know how to salsa
correctly. I suggested that salsa (and in fact all dances) might have
variations from place to place and that no particular version (or set
of rules as he called it) was “correct”. And if we did go down
that argument, I think he'd have a hard time convincing me that the
salsa he'd learned in Germany was more authentic than any other. He
went off on an analogy about learning to ski at which point I glazed
over and did my best to remind myself that not all German people are
like this.
The next day we left the first campsite, walked
along the coast to the furthest campsite in Tayrona and spent the day
lazing on picturesque beaches as well as joining in on a game of
football. The scenery really was picture-perfect and each successive
beach we came to seemed nicer than the last. At the last beach we
came to (incidentally a nudist beach although the only people
observing the policy were a couple of men – just our luck) we
bumped into our German amigos. Clearly desperate to get away from her
client, the guide came and chatted to me for a noticeably long time.
She told me that he'd bored her to death by talking incessantly about
his work as an electrical engineer. He'd also asked her who her worst
client had been but she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth.
Poor girl. On the other hand, despite the occasional weirdo and low
pay she received, I reckon she has it pretty easy (especially in a
place like Tayrona where her tasks involve walking jungle trails and
relaxing on a beach – the same thing any other tourist in Tayrona
would be doing). I told her that in same ways she was not dissimilar
to a cheap escort, which went down well. British charm has deserted
me of late.
On our last day in Tayrona we decided not to
retrace our steps back to the main entrance but exit the park via an
excursion to Pueblito, a handful of ruins which used to be populated
by the indigenous Muiscan people apparently dating back to 1AD,
located in the depths of the forest. Setting off after a horrible and
horribly overpriced breakfast (can't complain too much – everything
has to be brought into the park via donkey so inflated prices are to
be expected) we climbed rapidly along a winding forest track and were
both sweating profusely despite the shade afforded by the forest
canopy. After a couple of hours of hard slog we arrived in Pueblito
for a well earned rest, although the level of tiredness I felt
doesn't bode well for my upcoming trek along the Inca Trail in Peru.
Despite the scale and variety of ruins being somewhat underwhelming,
it was a nice tranquil place which was fun to explore for a while.
When it was time to move on, we realised that we were fairly
disorientated and unsure which of the many paths would take us along
our desired route out of the park. After asking around we met an
indigenous family who lived in the park and sold overpriced oranges
to tourists. Fortunately for us they were heading the same way, so
with their donkey leading the way and a girl of around 8 following
close behind and smacking him every time he got too slow (or stopped
completely, which was a regular occurrence) we made our way through
the forest and reached our destination after a couple of hours.
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| Pueblito |
Back in Taganga, in the evening we bumped into
the german tour guide again (finally free from her soul destroying
client) and also made friends with a couple of other travellers (who
as far as I can remember we just met outside a shop – once in a
while I still feel pleasantly surprised at how quickly and easily you
can find friendly faces to talk to and have a drink with when
travelling).
After a bottle of rum on the beach we sampled
Taganga's nightlife which turned out to be unexpectedly lively for
such a small village and saw us ending up at an after-party at one of
the hostels, dancing the night away with locals and other gringos
until 5am.
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