Would You Get in a Car with This Guy?

Camilla and I have a vague plan to meet in La Guajira on Thursday.  Until then, she is in Tayrona Park, without phone signal.  I am in Cartagena.  Neither of us knows how to get to La Guajira from where we are, but this is Colombia, so we both know it will be OK.

One of the parts of travelling I enjoy most in Colombia is the actual travelling.  I’ve always been pretty sceptical of the whole ‘enjoy the journey as much as the destination’ philosophy.  Call me cynical but 45 minutes on the Piccadilly line, half an hour waiting for security, shoes off, belt off, coat off and being yelled at because my transparent liquids bag isn’t government issue, add to that a couple hours folded double next to a screaming infant – it just doesn’t do it for me.

But Colombia makes travelling feel like an adventure.  Firstly, if you’re not flying, you can forget using the internet to find out anything at all.  All I know for certain is that to get to La Guajira I must get first to Santa Marta.  That’s 5 hours on the bus, so I opt to arrive on Wednesday evening, check into my favourite Santa Marta hostel (where I amazingly get a locals’ discount) and wing it from 6am on Thursday.  At the bus station that morning I am in luck.  There are no timetables and dozens of bus companies, so it’s down to chance that you happen at the right ticket office at the right time.  Brazilia has a bus leaving for Riohacha in 5 minutes time.  I jump on, and am deposited 4 hours later in Riohacha, in a pretty grotty looking terminal in the back end of nowhere.  (Although my concept of nowhere’s back end is about to change).  

I approach a kiosk with confidence, and announce my firm intention to get to Cabo de la Vela. The woman raises an eyebrow and points with her lips (a Colombian trait that takes some getting used to), to a line of taxis outside.  Ha! I am not some idiot Gringa, I am almost a local.  I got a discount last night!  I will not be taking a taxi I declare.  I want to go on public transport.  But she insists, go outside.  My confidence is fading fast. Maybe winging it was not such an excellent idea.  I have no idea where I am, and I have no phone signal.  Happily, an old chap approaches to help me out.  Cabo de la Vela? Aha! He says, what you need is a carrito.  I’m dubious.  This literally means ‘a little car’.  But not a taxi?  No no he says, you can catch a carrito over there.  Just walk under the bridge, straight over the roundabout, make a diagonal across the park and you’ll find them.   Great, that sounds easy.  And it’s not as if it’s 30 degrees outside and rising.

I have no idea what a carrito looks like, but I wander in the vague direction he sent me for the next 10 minutes.  Suddenly I hear someone shouting ‘Uribia! Uribia!’ at me from across the road.  Uribia… that’s the last town before Cabo de la Vela.  Yes! SI SI SI I yell back at him.  Are you the carrito guy?  I sure am!  There is no sign, no office, no logo and more worryingly, no car (large or small) anywhere near him.  Just 3 plastic chairs and 2 dozy looking Colombian men lounging in two of them.   Wait here he says, we’ll have a carrito for you in no time.

Sure enough, within 5 minutes a very ordinary car is flagged down. I get in, there are already 3 other people in there, including an Abuelita (Granny - always reassuring).  For 15,000 pesos (£4.50) we are all chauffeured the 1.5 hours to Uribia.  Now this, this really is the middle of nowhere.  It’s a dusty patch of nothing, heaving with school children (in surprisingly smart uniforms), goats (dead and alive), mango sellers and not much else. I ask my driver how I might go about getting to Cabo de la Vela from here.  No problem, my cousin will take you (I get the impression he has a lot of cousins).  

Said cousin appears as if by magic.  He operates on the same principle as the carrito.  When the car is full, we leave.  Only after 45 minutes there’s still no sign of anyone wanting to get to Cabo.  He disappears and returns with 4 of his friends.  We leave, and after 5 minutes we pull over.  We’re here already I ask?  Nah, he says, we’re just getting supplies.  Supplies turn out to be 20 beers and a bottle of whisky.  At least it is after noon.  The next 3 hours are like something out of a French reality TV show.  We hurtle across the desert, stopping at various friend’s houses for beers here and there, listening to terrible Vallenato music louder than any human ear could bear.  Every 5 minutes there’s a round of whisky shots.  Driver included.  

Yes, at some points I question my judgement. Particularly when I find myself in a car with 4 Colombian men I’ve never met, who are all drunk on cheap whisky, in the middle of the desert with no phone service.  But eventually I am delivered, safe as houses, at Cabo de la Vela, head spinning, ears ringing, but in one piece with 4 new friends. And it only cost me £20 in total, all the way from Cartagena, some 450km.  Camilla arrives 5 hours later from Tayrona, a mere 200km away.  She’s obviously not a local like I am.

So that, kids, is how you get from Cartagena to La Guajira and keep an appointment, without the internet or a mobile phone.