Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside

Before departing for Medellín we found ourselves with a Sunday to kill in Cartagena. And what could be nicer than going to the legendarily beautiful beach of Playa Blanca on a Sunday? We even rose early for the pleasure of it. Plus, The Book had blandly informed us that on Sundays, the trip to the beach was just one direct bus ride away. How hard could it be?

Talking to the hotel man before we left we became aware that getting the beach actually involved a busride, a ferry ride and then a strange other ride at the end after that that could involve 4WDs or an immense rolling of rrrs or, well, some other form of transport. Still, straightforward no?

After wandering through the firmly closed Old City looking for coffee and baked goods, we finally threw ourselves on the right bus to get to the beach. Only the bus didnt seem in any hurry to get directly there. First it stopped for twenty minutes in a marketplace so people could climb aboard and sell peanuts, watches, orange drinks, packets of chips etc. Then the bus needed to stop at many friends' stalls along the way so that the driver or his mate could climb down, place a bet, drink another orange drink, chat a bit and then climb back on. Finally the bus needed to drive past the deserted and slightly eerie petrol factories along the seaside. Finally the bus kicked us off and left us to walk up a dusty main road that seemed far away from any type of water, never mind a ferry which was apparently around somewhere.

The ferry, an old rusted contraption that was powered by a little outboard motorboat that was strapped to the side of it, soon swung into view and we walked on to join the crowd of beer drinking men and a few children and mothers who all seemed to be heading to the sea. We thought the ferry would take us up the river a bit but instead it just swung around and crossed the sluggish brown expense of the river in about five minutes flat. For this we, the gringos, paid $2000 each while the locals only shelled out 300. This news was brought to us by one of the Isralies who were heading to the beach with us too. One of them challenged the ferryman at the end of the trip about the price discrepancy and called him a liar. Unmoved the ferryman directed him to the exit.

Standing on another empty, dusty road with a shack to our left we watched the only 4WD we'd seen all day (which was full with a columbian family) head off up the track and away. So how did we get to the beach exactly?

Word went around that there would be a collectívo soon but there was no bus and the ferry didnt seem to be up to much. In fact the only vehicle around was a smallish truck with a large rectangular metal box on its back. It pulled up, already crammed with the beer drinking men and the women and children and that when we realised it was the collectivo.

The "bus"ride took about forty minutes and during it we aged 40 years. This was due to the incredible quantity of white dust that everyone inhaled from the open door of the holdthingy. One of the locals laughingly proclaimed at one point that he was so dusty he was now white like a gringo. Us gringos merely stared at our newly aquired grey hair and thought about what we'd look like when we got old. And wondered when the jolting would stop. Or if I would ever be able to feel my arse ever again. The heat, as well, was immense. I sweated so much I thought I may as well've been in a pool.

Eventually the truck stopped (permanently this time, unlike the other pauses) and again we were hustled out and down another dusty road. Luckily this one lead us straight to the beach.

And honestly, it was the most beautiful beach I've seen. Soft white sand, clear aqua water ringed by darker bits where the reef stopped. Small waves. Drooping palm trees. Clear blue skies. The whole cliched thing. The water was perfect. It even managed to clear away the dust of the three hour journey.

Gorgeous.

It did make me appreciate how much easier it was to get to Williamstown though