Cruising into Cartagena felt like creeping onto the set of an adventure movie. Over the smooth bay and under a cooperative sky, the ship eased in as if nothing unpleasant had ever happened there, ever. Boarding a bus parked just feet from the ship should have been a red flag. Appearing convenient and efficient, our departure was clearly designed for passenger safety. For the day, we were property of Columbia. Yes. The Columbia presently on the news.
The bus ride took us to a barrio outside the walled city known as GetsemanÃ. Assuming the name had biblical roots, after about thirty seconds on the street, I was confident prayer would be a great idea. Before noticing the colors, architecture, or people, HHH pointed out raw sewage running through open gutters. Just… there. Flowing along like it had every right to be. It was the kind of thing you see once and then spend the rest of the day pretending you didn’t.
We were ushered into a restaurant where we were served fried plantains, ceviche, and a coconut milk and lime drink that worked very hard to distract us from our surroundings. After experiencing the walk to the little restaurant, the last thing I would be eating on this strange day was raw fish, no matter how it was prepared. So, twenty-five new friends sat on stools made of scrap wood and rebar, knowing inside was safer than outside.
Then came the coffee. Lots of coffee. Glorious, rich, Colombian coffee. If bravery could be brewed, this was the attempt. I drank it willingly, hoping caffeine might double as courage, and the water temperature killed any pathogens.
Back on the bus we went, heading toward the walled city, where the rich live. The buildings were undeniably historic, but I never felt safe the entire day. It was a low-grade unease that hummed quietly in the background, like bad elevator music you can’t turn off. Every step required a little extra awareness while I clutched my already secure fanny pack. Losing a passport in this place would be the worst, and it seemed many would love to take it. Thank goodness for HHH.
After enjoying a wee bit of air conditioning in an emerald museum, HHH, sensing both the moment and my state of mind, surprised me with an emerald and silver cross necklace. Putting it on immediately, it was something solid to clutch as we continued on, surrounded by pushy locals selling absolutely everything under the sun. If you could imagine it, they had it. HHH bought a t-shirt and a hat because resistance was futile.
Eventually back on the bus, we rode a short distance to the harbor, where we boarded what can only be described as a frat party on the water. Music blared at a volume that suggested long-term hearing damage was part of the experience. People enthusiastically encouraged us to drink more, more, MORE, and tried valiantly to turn a boatload of seniors into something resembling Dance Dance Revolution. It did not happen. It was never going to happen. If they could have just turned down the music, perhaps negotiations could have begun, but as it was, I’m fairly certain I left a small portion of my hearing somewhere in the Caribbean.
At the very end of the day, after being dumped off a little ways from the ship, we stumbled into what turned out to be the very best part of Colombia. A quiet indoor tourist park. Peaceful. Calm. Civilized. Inside were live flamingos, toucans, parrots, sloths, and monkeys, all just hanging out, being wonderful. Who knew? Apparently not us. We could have simply enjoyed the day there among the animals.
With coffee once again in hand, we boarded the ship for the last time. Ahead of us were three blessed sea days to process everything we had seen, heard, and survived. Aruba has replaced Colombia in future itineraries. Cartagena may have been uncomfortable, but Central America, with all its chaos and beauty, is an amazing place. Even the rough days come with stories worth telling.
More tomorrow.