Boots

Back at the hostel, they had new plans for me: I was taken through to a back room where there were already several hammocks with people in them, as well as some mattresses on the floor, one of which was mine. It was only a piece of foam, but I had slept in New Zealand hostels and it wasn't going to be any worse than their foam mattresses. Of the group sharing the newly converted public area with me, the two girls were also planning a trip to the Ciudad Perdida, starting the day after next, when two other friends would be arriving after extensively researching the best company with whom to do the tour. I had done no research and, although the hostel had offered me a tour beginning the next day, I was unable to go as I did not yet have appropriate footwear, so I said I'd be glad to join them, thus saving myself the effort of doing any research or risking a terrible company. Besides they seemed quite nice for Australians.

Next day I spent the entire time looking for places to buy shoes and trying to find somewhere that could unlock the locked Mexican phone I had swapped with Maude, in the Peruvian jungle, for the incorrect frequency band, but otherwise identical, Thai phone; my good phone was well and truly dead: even plugged in it was struggling to stay on. I completed all my missions, even finding nail-clippers, which I had recently realised Joanne had taken with her, leaving me with no means to prevents my own toenails from cutting my feet while trekking. The shoe shop was a bit of an ordeal and the only affordable shoes that fitted me and seemed vaguely appropriate were a pair of desert boots. I have to emphasise that I have never before owned desert boots and it was only dire straits that brought about this recent state of affairs. Back at the hostel, they had spotted a money-making opportunity and everyone was hard at work, cutting mattress-sized bits of foam from huge slabs while other sewed covers over them. Clearly they were planning to put gringos on every flat surface in the hostel and charge then ten thousand pesos, which was a good deal considering the dorms were thirty thousand. Towards the end of the day I went with the Aussie girls and booked up for a five-day tour starting the next day, which I was quite pleased about because I had expected it to take six days and I didn't really want to spend that much time before moving onto my sailing trip. Every day counts. As we left they shouted after us "no beer tonight!".

During the day I also established via the internet that Lucy and co had arrived in Santa Marta before me and had quickly moved on to nearby Taganga for the beach. She had sent me a text to that effect the day before, but of course my dead phone didn't receive it; I had expected an email or Facebook message. Anyway, they were planning staying there for Natasha's birthday a few days later, so I decided to visit them for "one last drink". I waited for over an hour on the main street where the LP said to catch a bus to Taganga, but the first one pulled away after letting everyone off right next to where I was waiting, but showed no interest in new passengers; the next one, some twenty minutes later, flew right past me, even though I was walking into the road flapping my arm up and down. Meanwhile every two minutes buses to some place I can't remember went by, and every five minutes maximum buses to every other place passed. Eventually, when the next bus didn't turn up after twenty minutes, I gave up and got a taxi, who charged much more that I was expecting for the five kilometre journey. It was a horribly twisty coastal road, climbing up high and then dropping down into the bay, so it took a lot longer than I expected to get there, so I forgave him the fare; however I did not forgive the driver for leaving me up a blocked side street, saying "there is the beach" and pointing to the end of the street, when I couldn't find the "hostel on the beach" as Lucy had described it.

Walking up and down the beach of Taganga, which the LP tells you to go to instead of Santa Marta, was a horrible experience: loud, busy, and horribly touristy, like all the bad bits of Thailand; I much preferred Santa Marta which, although similarly busy, was much more civilised. I finally found the others who had also had a very hard time finding accommodation, necessitating that the girls split up: Natasha with the boys (the Swedish ones) and Silvie with the couple. Not ideal for anyone, but two triples was all they could find. We had a nice but dear meal on the beach then the boys and the couple all went to bed while the girls and I went to a couple of other places to drink cocktails and ended up at a club, despite the warnings from the tour operator. From below the place sounded terrible, but once inside it was actually really nice: the whole dance floor was in the open and it was much more laid-back than the horribly uptight and pretentious club scene I had become used to in the rich bastards' playground of Cartagena. It seemed like it might actually be fun, but I had to leave soon, especially since I had notice there were no longer any taxi loitering outside. I found one and made it to bed not too late. I had managed to secure a private room for the second night, thank goodness.

written by  The Happy Couple on January 7, 2010 from Santa Marta, Colombia
from the travel blog: Michael's Lonely post-Honeymoon
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