rustxgold

Hostels and hammocks have become our thing since making our way south. They're affordable and comfortable, friendly and, as far as we've experienced, safe. Lack of hygiene takes a little getting used to, coming from a germaphobe, but I've managed.

After the intensity of Ciudad Perdida, we slowed our strut slightly and headed to the coast. Neither of us is exactly a super lover of the beach, but we took a keen interest in the soft sand under our swollen feet and the cool ocean breeze, when there was one, against our ravaged skin. We arrived in Palomino by bus, walked 20 minutes to a cabana on the beach, claimed 2 hammocks on the upper deck, and succumbed to the night.

Extreme lethargy made it challenging to fully appreciate Palomino the next morning, but we rolled ourselves out of our hanging haven and dragged our listless bodies across the beach, taking in the green of the palms, blue of the skies, rays of the sun. Those around us seemed to have given in to their laze. After all, Palomino is a place for relaxation.

We made our way to Parque Tayrona that afternoon, but stayed only long enough to catch a glimpse of the mountainscape that parallels the ocean. A cup of limonada barely gave us the energy we needed to crawl our way back to Santa Marta.

We arrived in Maracaibo after 8 hours on a bus from Mérida. Despite deliberate efforts, we managed to arrive in the dead of night and, against our own common sense, we sought a ride to Maicao while it was still dark out. All the research we had done said that a por puesto was a common, easy, and inexpensive way to get through both Venezuelan and Colombian borders, but we realized at the bus terminal that we had no idea how one looks. A man in a white button-up led us to a man in a t-shirt who led us to a man with an old, beat-up, sketchy-looking car, the kind we would have avoided under any other circumstances. We paid him the fare, looked at each other and shrugged as he solicited for more passengers.

When it came time to go, we threw our bags in the trunk and reluctantly got into the back seat. The driver's friend suspiciously drove alongside us in his own death mobile for some time and they even stopped at a house for some gas. As the sun slowly began to make its appearance, though, we felt a slight burden lifted. The driver had an easiness about him, sweet talking the young lady beside him, moving to the blaring music, sipping coffee he'd bought from a street vendor and then tossing the cup out the window when finished. After 4 hours of dodging cars, driving against traffic, and passing in the shoulder, we finally made it to the border. He slipped some bills to all the right people to avoid harassment by the National Guard and Police. By request, we handed over a couple of bills and when one policeman dared pull him over, he got out of the car, threw a fit, and, just like that, was waved on. While getting our passports stamped, we watched on wearily as he waited patiently with our bags first in Paraguachón and then in Maicao and when we parted ways at the bus station, we all of the sudden felt vulnerable without him, left to figure out Colombia all on our own.