Cartagena at night was an explosion of light, people, colour, and music. I was dumbstruck as I absorbed the Tuesday evening scene playing out around us – vendor food carts with the smell of charcoal grilled meats penetrating the air and drawing customers, a massive yacht full of tourists, with a helicopter on top for rides, palm tree trunks wound with thousands of brilliant lights in Centenario Park, teenage soldiers in camo carrying automatic weapons, standing near military trucks, trying to remain serious while swaying to the music, a stage in the distance with a band sweating through salsa tunes to a gyrating crowd, DJ spins and flashing lights bursting skyward from three rooftop clubs within the old city walls, thousands of people, young and old, tall and short, tourists and locals, a dizzying array of complexions, features, fashions, and Spanish accents, the faint smell of ocean air penetrated by lady perfumes, manly scents, and food smoke. Everything was going on. Everything was moving. Nothing was dormant. There was joy in the streets.
We met our new friends Surbhi and Jitu at a restaurant called Mexitixa, impossible to pronounce, but easy to find. It was Bife de Caballo for Ana and a Tomahawk Pork for me as we enjoyed a four piece band and two flashy dancers chucking down moves. It was lively and loud and we had to holler at our friends across the table. Post-dinner activities found us strolling through the Getsamani neighbourhood with its magical lighting and hordes of partygoers, artists, and revelers. We had drinks on a three-level rooftop with a salsa band in one corner, DJ in another, and recorded music blaring from another creating an indecipherable yet somehow enjoyable Colombian jambalaya of sound.
This is not what I expected for a Tuesday night.
Leading up to our evening escapades was a slow day. I went for a morning ocean swim on the far south end of the peninsula which was mostly blocked from the steady and strong 40 kph west winds whipping the hotel coastline into a foamy latte. The swim was brief and enjoyable, but at 7am there were already vendors pestering me during the walk – Mama Rosa the beach masseuse, food cart vendors, coffee vendors, old men offering sheets of authentic Cartagena fridge magnets, men and women trying to sell me a day trip to Isla Rosario for the hundredth time, taxis offering rides. An enterprising bunch trying to make their way in a difficult world.
We more fully explored our local area, wandering into residential neighbourhoods and one scruffy beach on the east side of the peninsula full of local dudes that set off Ana’s spidey senses so we turned around and retraced our steps. Ana visited shops, malls, and galleries but found nothing of interest besides respite from the heat, which was kept manageable by the strong winds. We found a rental car place and after a lovely chat with the owners booked a car for tomorrow for a solo trip to Playa Blanca, 90 minutes south of Cartagena. We had coffee at an Authentic Colombian Café which held great promise. I drink coffee rarely, saving such episodes for special places and moments when I can fully enjoy and indulge. Well, the Americano sucked. It was awful. We theorized that the good Columbian coffee beans were universally exported and Juan Valdez and his dumb ass donkey are national traitors.
With supplies from the grocery store we had a backpacker lunch in the room – tuna sandwich, local sweet plums, bananas. It was delicious. From here we visited the pool and discovered that the February sun only creeps into the lounger chair area around 3pm, but the powerful rays needs little time to make mincemeat of tender Canadian skin, so an hour of that was more than sufficient.
When it was time to leave for our dinner date we called up an Uber. Though we thoroughly enjoy walking, taxis and Ubers are very cheap here, and a 45 minute walk through late afternoon heat in our dining and dancing clothes seemed ill advised. Nevertheless, after traveling a quarter of the way there in crushing and confused traffic, which came to a complete standstill, we abandoned our driver and walked the rest of the way. We theorized that the International Conference on Agrarian Reform and Rural Development (ICAARD) which had brought thousands of delegates into Cartagena for a four day jamboree, was causing this psychotic mess of congestion, and we began to reconsider the next day’s plan for a car rental, which would force us to struggle through the city at both rush hours.
After 45 minutes, we arrived in the city centre, sweaty and ready.
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