Taganga

We left Medellin on a 12 hour night bus that ended up taking 17 hours – at least we were able to enjoy the comfort of sitting directly across from the baño. It was 17 hours of slamming doors, bright lights and a constant stench, not to mention the occasional child locking his or herself in.

But in the end we were heading to the Caribbean so who cares.

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Taganga. Local fisherman ferry people in and out of the nearby beaches and Parque Tayrona.

We arrived to a sweltering thirty five degrees along with, what appeared to be, the entire Colombian population. Apparently the two week national holiday had just begun and everybody and their grandma’s cousin had the same idea as us – head to the beach.

Our first night was memorable to say the least:

We checked into Mr.Wilson’s beauty salon and campground, it received good enough reviews and seemed like a normal enough place, so why not. We were greeted by a young guy with a good command of english by the name of Andreas, we would later find out that Andreas was some sort of slave to Mr.Wilson the crossdressing beautician/ campground proprietor. Mr.Wilson constantly ordered Andreas around and addressed him simply as niño (boy).

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Mr .Wilson doing Her thang and niño checking us in .

We set up our tent for the first time, made dinner in the disgustingly unclean “kitchen” after another camper defiled it with his raw chicken, and kicked back to a few beers.

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Jessica decided to tuck into a book for the evening while I went down to the beach to continue the fiesta and listen to poor niño rant about life under the whip of Mr.Wilson. While Niño and I were enjoying some of Colombia’s national export (not coffee or bananas) there seemed to be some kind of domestic disturbance back at the campground that had kept Jessica up most of the night. When I returned the scene seemed to have died down but it had definitely tainted the place. We packed up and left in the morning, and the peace disturber left with a slightly modified tent.

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Sunset, Taganga beach.

We moved  over to Sierraventura hostel, a nice place run by a local woman Jenny and her sex-pat husband Nico. We got a private room, private bath, good internet for vegging out and a pool. A nice reprieve from Mr. Wilson’s beauty salon/house of horrors.

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Jessica and the rest of Colombia, Taganga Beach.

We spent the next few days relaxing by the pool by day and cooking by the wood fire bbq by night .

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Dinner poolside.
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I caught a scorpion that was terrorizing the hostel guests. I am now known as “El Cazador de escorpión” (the scorpion hunter).

At Sierraventura, I got into a conversation with Jenny about a motorcycle they had there that had caught my eye. Jenny told me that the bike was actually for sale …… and that was it, we were obsessed.

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The bike in question.
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