Parque Tayrona

by Nicole Zapel (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Colombia

One January evening, my mother called me over to her house. With the blood drained from her face and panic in her voice, she relayed a story her coworker had shared with her earlier that day. Six years prior, some friends of his were reportedly held up at gunpoint and forced to pay thousands of dollars to drug enforcement officers after some coke dealers planted a bag on them late at night in a Bogota bar. “PLEASE don’t go to Colombia, Nicole. PLEASE!” She begged. Knowing my mother, and how truly naive and fear driven she can be, I took this story with a grain of salt, along with every other secondhand tale of terror I’d collected from folks in my small hometown. Two weeks, two flights, and two bumpy bus rides later, Rossana and I arrived at the entrance to Parque Tayrona. The wait in line was long but the novelty so exciting that I barely registered when we arrived at the ticket booth, crammed into a shuttle to the trail, and began our hike to the campsite. The terrain was varied, requiring careful steps. It was hard to focus on anything but the beauty of the vegetation and the sounds of the creatures talking. I loved the mystery, how time felt suspended and wildlife hid so sweetly beneath a cloak of flowering vines and buzzing insects. We passed indigenous people on the trail, where coconuts fell from giant palms onto the soil that was mostly sand. They wore white smocks, long hair and bare feet, and walked with a humble confidence that I’ve never encountered in my lifetime. So clearly living outside the borders of the modern world, and seemingly unamused by it. I sensed a reverence for the natural world that feels increasingly rare these days. After traversing rocky inclines and gawking at monkeys playing in the tree canopies, we reached a beachside jungle village. Passing thatched and aluminum roof buildings, open-air shower spigots and hammocks strung up in the shade, we claimed our tent and headed to the beach. Breaching the beach jungle, the vista opened into a vast, empty stretch of coast, with the dense mountains to the left and the open Caribbean ocean to the right. The waves showed no mercy, so we walked barefoot on the gritty sand until we found a cove to swim in, and took mermaid photos by the rocks. After some time in the sun, my body gave in to the heat and I sauntered alone to our campsite for a nap. As I wandered I thought, how strange, this bizarre sense of ease I had felt during my time in Colombia. I’d only been in the country a short time, spoke very little Spanish, but already I felt safer than I have in many parts of the US - including those I’ve called home. It hadn’t all been rosy, to be fair, and I wasn’t about to venture far off the beaten path. On the bus en route to Santa Marta I saw a dead body hanging from a graffitied billboard. It took a while to warm up to the Policia and Seguridad Privida carrying assault rifles half the height of their body. But I still felt calm. There was a warmth about the people in Colombia, a very human authenticity and sense of community. From the colorful streets of Getsemani, Cartagena, where people leave their front doors open in the evenings to enjoy the cool air - to the hills of Taganga, where pet chickens run free and partially domesticated cats sun themselves as though they’ve never known a harsh hand. I didn’t expect to feel safe in Colombia, I expected to be shook by this experience, but instead, I was hooked. I fell into a deep sleep in that Caribbean camp, the humidity hugging my body, and woke to the smell of fried pollo y platanos wafting from the nearby kitchen. As I stretched, I smiled and thought, I’m so thankful I didn’t miss out on this.