Animal lover, wannabe artist and peanut butter fiend with a serious allergy to a 9 to 5. On the other hand: undyingly messy, chronic blanket hog and so bad with directions I can get lost going to the corner store. Wanna know more
Jules and I met this beautiful family outside the church steps in San Pedro La Laguna at Lake Atitlan. Candaleria, 9, her brother Martin, 6, and their baby sister had been up selling since 5 am. Still, they were full of energy and just as eager to ask us questions about our lives as we were about theirs. Later in the day, I ran into them at a coffee shop. They had just gotten back from school and were resuming selling woven bracelets and necklaces. They sat with me for half an hour, mesmerized at seeing the photos we had taken of them up on my computer screen. We sat listening to songs on YouTube and looking at photos until they had to continue selling. Even though I was kicking myself for leaving my camera at home to take a better portrait, I felt grateful to have a special interaction with this sweet family.
I won’t try to pretend that my hometown, Menlo Park, CA is anywhere nearly as exciting as some of the cities I’ve traveled to. Let’s face it, it doesn’t quite have the European charm of Paris, the action of a bustling Latin American capital city or the relaxation of a Caribbean beach town. Still, it’s the perfect place to come back to after a whirlwind trip of backpacking the globe, the perfect place to call home. So if you do find yourself with a day or two in our little city, be sure to follow these do’s and don’ts.
DO: Have breakfast at Ann’s cafe. Stepping into Ann’s is like stepping into the kitchen of the Brady Bunch. Skip the cramped booths and grab a stool at the fading yellow Formica counter. The decor has obviously has been there since the 60’s and so it seems have most of the people. Retro pastel paintings line the wall and regulars keep their nose in the paper, slurping down coffee.
DO:Order the pancakes. Arguably the best item in the menu and consistently light and buttery.
DON’T: Leave without grabbing a slice of their pie to go. Rhubarb recommended.
DO: Get your book nerd on at Kepler’s. This independent bookstore almost bit the dust in 2005 but the community rallied in support and saved it. It’s famous for its midnight Harry Potter release parties. The staff would turn the entire store into a magical spot for kids and adults who were still hoping to get their invite to Hogwarts.
DON’T: Compare the prices to Amazon. Yes it’s more expensive. Yes it’s worth it. Consider it a small donation to save the independent bookstore and to keep personal customer service alive so we don’t become mindless internet drones.
DO: Try to get a tour of the new Facebook headquarters. Yes, Facebook is more synonymous with Harvard and Palo Alto, but Facebook has recently moved its headquarters to Menlo Park so now we can make it our claim to fame. Employees are encouraged to invite family and friends over for a meal on “campus.” Enjoy the daily special in the cafeteria or eat at one of the many restaurants. Burritos, sushi, in house smoked meat? No problem. And leave your wallet at home cause it’s all free.
DON’T: Stare at the Zuck. Mark Zuckerburg has an office on the ground floor with floor to ceiling windows. Don’t look like a tourist, play it cool and you can brag about it on Facebook later.
DO: Take in an afternoon pitcher at the Dutch Goose. Known to Menlo Parkians as the “Goose,” this is Menlo Park’s version of a dive bar. The booths inside are covered with graffiti and empty peanut shells line the floor. Although it can get a bit rowdy on weekend nights, it’s mostly a family spot. Local little league teams have end of season dinners here while at the next table groups of Stanford students imbibe cheap beer and hamburgers. The patio outside is heated and the pool table is usually free.
DON’T: Be afraid to engrave your name into the wood lacquered table, if you can find a space.
DO: Grab a nightcap at Borrone’s. Cafe Borrone is Menlo Park’s sweetheart. A family run cafe where, despite a constant rotation of servers, they’ll know your name after a couple visits. On Friday nights the Clint Baker all star band fills the cafe with lively jazz. Watch skilled servers deliver hot plates to hungry tables, dodging dancers swinging their partners to the bass line.
DO: Order a glass of wine from Napa Valley and indulge in one of their decadent desserts. The 7 secret ingredient cookie is a favorite. (I’ll give you 3- coconut, pecan and chocolate chip,but you’ll have to guess the rest yourself.) As well as the Frutta di Bosco, imported straight from Italy.
DON’T: Expect a party. Borrone’s closes at 11 and now that their neighboring bar, the only bar in Menlo Park with a dance floor, has been closed it’s best to just call it a night early.
Guatemala is a beautiful country full of rich cultural traditions and vibrant colors. While we were backpacking in Guatemala we were constantly amazed by the beautiful decorations, dress and flowers that were in every little town we passed. From small street markets in bustling cities, to tiny little village in the mountains. Everywhere we went in Guatemala we were amazed by the splashes of color in the streets.
Not only amazed by the colorful people, but also by the flowers. Here is a collection of photographs of flower vendors in Guatemala. The colorful flowers that line the markets here are just a small sample of the shades and hues that give vibrancy to this beautiful country.
Flower Vendors Guatemala
Travel Photography Reminder
As always, when taking photos of people while traveling, remember to exercise common courtesy and manners. Don’t be one of those tourists who sticks a camera in the face of a local and it thinks its ok. The indigenous Mayan population of Guatemala are particularly shy when it comes to having their photo taken. This is not to say all all, but we definitely encountered many experiences where timid locals would hide as soon as a came out of the bag. Ask first, snap later!
Before I even left home to begin my South America journey in Brazil, I knew the island of Ilha Grande was on the top of my list of places to visit. A Google image search revealed photos of crystalline clear waters and perfectly placed palm trees. Having already picked out my not so Brazilian bikini and a guilty pleasure beach book, I drooled over these pictures counting down the days till my departure.
The island was everything my guidebook had gushed about. Well preserved, but with a bustling backpacker community that eased my solo-traveler nerves. Dust dirt roads cover the car-free island, so the noise pollution of frivolous honking and revving of engines stays on the mainland.
The ferry dropped me in the largest village on the island, Vila de Abraão. A plethora of hostels are scattered throughout this town. The island itself is comprised of a thick interior of lush rainforest surrounded by white sand beaches. Although it has become a popular Southern Brazil tourist spot, it has been protected against overdevelopment and the environment protected.
The beaches on the island are boasted as some of the best in the world, the most popular being Lopes Mendez. This beach can be reached by a 20 minute boat ride or a 3 hour hike. Determined to kick my feet up and relax to the fullest, I chose the former. After the boat, the beach is another 15 minute hike through the jungle- the perfect way to work up a sweat before hitting the water. After emerging from the misty vegetation I found myself stepping into a National Geographic spread. The beach is expansive, so even on a holiday or crowded weekend you can easily find a spot to yourself. The island has obviously worked hard to fight off overdevelopment. No high rise hotels or overpriced beachside restaurants here. Sporadic shacks dot the beach, selling snacks and beverages.
Although I would have been content to spend my entire week on this beach alone, I was eager to check out the rest of Ilha Grande. A group of us decided to make our way down to Praia Dios Rios on the other side of the island. A wide dirt road winds up to the mountain and down the other side to the beach. Our hostel owner gave us a directions for a short cut. “Cut across through a trail in the jungle and you’ll be there in no time” he said. Well the trail was little more than a narrow path of dirt that only becomes narrower and steeper until you find yourself on practically all fours, jumping over fallen trees and dodging highways of ants. My relaxing afternoon on the beach was turning into a grueling expedition through the jungle.
After about 45 minutes of slipping and sliding in my flip flops and ducking under dangling spiders we emerged through a hole in the vegetation and onto the much larger, much more manageable trail. Turns out our shortcut wasn’t very short. Another half hour later, I dragged my cranky ass over the last hill and onto the beach, vowing to renew my gym membership as soon as I got home. The beach was miles of empty sand. I ran up to the oceans, thrilled at the prospect of rewarding myself with a cool swim, just to stop short of water in heartbreak. The ocean was filled with gobs of green algae. Every sweaty, suffocated pore on my body cried out with disappointment. I stuck a hesitant toe into the water only to pull out a sticky, slimy chunk. Retreating to the sand, I spent the next couple hours losing myself in my book and my tan.
Algae aside, the beach is worth the hike. If you have a few meters to yourself at Lopes Mendez, get ready to enjoy your own kilometer at Praia Dios Rios. After an afternoon where the most energy I exerted was turning the page, we began to get a little hungry. We found a small blue house with a sign out front that promised food. An older Brazilian woman with a toddler hoisted onto her hip came out to take our orders. We all ordered the one item on the menu- fish. And cold beer, stat. Minutes later, 4 full plates of fried fish with overflowing sides of rice and salad filled our small plastic table. After washing down our meal with our last drops of beer we began the 2 hour hike back to Vila de Abraão. We decided to take the designated path this time, keeping a steady pace as the sun was setting and the howler monkeys began roaring in the jungle on either side of us.
The rest of my time on the island I spent at Lopes Mendez (opting for the boat ride each time, as our trek through the jungle had scarred me for the rest of the trip) and in town shamelessly gobbling up the international cuisine at the backpacker hotspots. Nights were reserved for throwing back Bohemias and cheap caparinhas at whichever bar was the go-to spot that night.
After a week of serenity in the sand, my last day was a whirlwind of rushed packing and a sprint to the dock to catch my ride back to the mainland. Sitting atop the leisurely catamaran, watching the sun set over the water I felt instant regret for leaving the island. If it weren’t for my scheduled flight to Lima I might never have left. But it was probably for the best, otherwise I could still be on Ilha Grande, sipping a caparinhas on Lopes Mendes, watching all the poor fools sail away from paradise.
Stepping off the plane after returning home from a long-term backpacking, I feel like a rock star. My family is waiting, my mom crying, shrieking, hugging. My phone blows up and everyone wants to treat me to a drink. Questions are thrown at me a mile a minute and my stories are captivating to my audience. Consciously or not, I feel pretty badass. I am a traveler. One of the elite. The brave. The minority that bucks the trend, ditches conformity to follow their own path in a whole new world. I am a long-term traveler.
Then someone asks, “How was your vacation?” That question is a sharp pin sticking me in my overinflated ego, deflating me into a thin mess on the floor.
Vacation?! VACATION?? I want to shout. It wasn’t a vacation! I am a traveler! I don’t book into all-inclusive resorts and lay on the beach drinking margaritas all day. I get off the beaten path! I connect with the people. Experience the culture. Take local transportation. Eat at the hole-in-the-wall comedors! Okay, there may be some beach-laying involved, and definitely a bit of margarita-drinking. But traveling isn’t a cake-walk! It’s exhausting. It’s challenging. It’s not some vacation.
But it got me thinking. What is the difference between travel and vacationing?
Most travelers would scoff at this question. To travelers, there’s a huge difference. Calling a long-term backpacking trip a “vacation” is an insult.
But to non-travelers, taking 3, 4, maybe even 6 months off to travel Central America, Europe or Asia does sound like a vacation. A break from work and the monotony of daily life to eat exotic foods and see gorgeous sights? Who would turn that down?
So if all I’m doing is “vacationing” why am I so self-congratulatory? Why do I feel like I’m doing some noble, important thing? Why do I see myself as some sort of low-level diplomat? Liaising with other everyday diplomats like the women selling at the market and the men walking home from the fields, a hoe slung over their shoulder. Why should I be so proud of my traveling accomplishments?
Nobody comes home from a week in Hawaii thinking, “I am a cultural diplomat of the world.”
So am I being too self-congratulatory or do non-travelers just not realize what a long-term trip is like?
Well, after much thought, I think it’s a bit of both. Yes, traveling is important. And although I’m not changing the world in any significant way, at least I’m doing something small. Besides the non-profit work we do, I think travel is important on a human level. If we lose connection with our (okay, being cheesy here) brothers and sisters around the world, we lose ourselves. If we don’t take on, at least in some part, their suffering as our own, if we don’t share in their joys and their culture, then we miss out a huge, gorgeous part of what this world is. You wouldn’t read the first page of a book and assume you’ve gotten the point, would you?
Okay, okay, I’ll get off my soapbox. So in that aspect, travel is innately and inherently important. And I’ll stick by that.
But on the flip side, travelers are extremely lucky. It may not be a vacation, but it is a privilege. I don’t mean in the way that jealous friends always say “omg you’re so lucky!!” I worked and saved for a long time to be able to travel now. And I’m proud of that. But I am lucky to be able to travel in the first place. I am lucky to come from a country where employment is available and the currency is strong enough to let me travel long-term in developing countries. I am lucky to have all my arms and legs and my health. I am lucky to be in a circumstance where I am the only one who depends on me financially and I can live my life on my own terms. I am lucky to have parents who happily house me whenever my restless legs direct me back home.
And comments like “how was your vacation?” from tired 9-5ers make me realize how fortunate we travelers really are.
While sitting at a cafe in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Mexico I eavesdropped on a conversation between two travelers. This is the transcription of a snippet of their interaction that I overheard. I found that it accurately described two very different categories of backpackers.
“A friend told me someone got shot in front of that hostel.” Leaning back in his chair, a tall American 20-something lights a cigarette.
The petite blonde woman across the table from him lets her jaw fall.
“You mean a local?” she peeps out, revealing a posh British accent. She’s wearing a plaid button down and cut off shorts.
“No, a tourist,” he responds, leaving the British woman wide eyed.
“Wow, I thought Colombia was supposed to be quite safe now,” she murmurs.
“It is, for the most part. Most of the drug running has moved up to Mexico now. When Pablo Escobar died, there was a power vacuum. Mexico was happy to snatch it up.”
The woman nods her head, but doesn’t respond. Two bottles of Dos Equis sit on the table. The green bottles sweat beads of cold water as a brief silence becomes longer.
“Colombia was beautiful, but I think Cuba has been my favorite country on this trip,” he states, exhaling a puff of smoke over his shoulder.
“But I thought Americans weren’t allowed to go into Cuba? Isn’t it illegal?” she leans in across the table.
He takes a long inhale before answering.
“Nah, well, I did it,” he says with a smirk while shrugging his shoulders.
“Have you done a lot of travel before?” the woman chimes in before he starts talking again.
“Till I was 13 I went to Greece twice a year. I learned to walk there.” He pulls another cigarette out of his pack and lights it. “I think traveling shows you the person you ought to be, or the person you want to be.”
A brief silence and then he adds “travelers are who interest me. Everybody else is just.. pff,” he makes a popping sound with his lips.
A waiter appears at their table and they order another round of Dos Equis. The topic of conversation shifts from travel to over-medication of ADD in the states.
“I’ve been diagnosed with it, but have never taken meds.” The woman says, sitting up in her chair. “In Uni I would turn up for lecture and leave after 20 minutes. I have trouble listening to professors if I’m not really interested”
“I only listen to people I think are worth listening to,” he responds, a cloud of smoke escaping from his mouth.
“Well, I guess everyone learns in a different way.” The woman twirls her half empty beer bottle in her hand. Shivering her shoulders she squeaks, “I’m cold.”
“Here,” he says, grabbing a red and black scarf from his backpack. “Take this.”
She grabs the scarf and pulls it over her shoulders.
“No, no, not like that. You don’t wear it like that.”
“It’s okay, it’s keeping me warm this way.”
He laughs and reaches across the table to adjust the scarf. Then he leans back in his chair and says “There, that’s how you wear it.”
The woman leans back in her chair and gulps down the remainder of her beer.
Before I left for backpacking South America in 2012 I had a small, but determined, bucket list. Getting to Rio for Carnival (without going completely broke), check out Foz de Iguaza, swim in the Caribbean in Colombia and trip balls in an Ayahuasca ceremony. Kidding! Well, kind of. I told my friends about my desire to try this mystical jungle plant, painting a picture of fire-lit ceremonies out in the Amazon, guided by an authentic indigenous shaman who would take me on a wild ride through my psyche. I Googled the hell out of it and when I finally got toSouth America I got first hand accounts from other travelers. Turns out Ayahuasca is a pretty common South American travel bucket list item. I heard stories of spiritual awakenings, hallucinations and vomiting, lots and lots of vomiting.
What is Ayahuasca?
Ayahuasca is a brewed mixture of various Amazonion plants. It’s Quetchuan for “vine of the soul” and has been used by shamans for hundreds of years to cure almost every ailment. It’s said to be able to cure everything from cancer to mental illnesses. What I was hoping to cure, I still wasn’t sure, but I was hoping Ayahuasca could identify something inside of me that needed to change, hoping that afterward I could feel somehow lighter.
Where are Ayahuasca Retreats in South America?
So after my trip to Macchu Pichu, I crossed the Sacred Valley into a small hippy town called Pisac. The location of the ceremony was behind a beautiful two-story house. A group of cabins (for those doing week long or even month long retreats!) were grouped around a small dome structure, where the ceremonies take place.
The dome was a bit like a giant igloo, with a entryway in front to leave your shoes and belongings, and behind the door a big circular room. Comfy pillows lined the edge and pictures of Ganesha & the Dalai Lama hung on the wall. When I walked in, I grabbed the pad and blanket that each participant takes to their seat. And the vomit bucket, can’t forget the vomit bucket.
The room began to fill up with a variety of people. Young, old, gringos and Latinos. A group of white people, mainly Americans made up the majority. They all seemed to know each other and had obviously done this before. They entered in couples or small groups, most wearing woven ponchos, each one more elaborately designed than the last. They weren’t exactly the native Peruvians I had hoped to be surrounded by at the Ayahuasca ceremony, but whatever. They chatted about upcoming parties and previous Ayahuasca trips until the shaman called our attention to start the night.
The Best Ayahuasca Shaman
On several recommendations I chose Diego Palma as my shaman. The ceremony started at about 9. He began by asking who the newbies were and we all shyly raised our hands. He also asked the group if anyone was taking prescription medication, to which I even shier raised my solitary hand. All 29 heads turned in my direction. He asked me what I was taking and I reassured him that his wife had emailed me with approval of my medications. He seemed to be happy with this answer, but I was left more nervous than ever and my thoughts started to race. Dear God, please don’t let me die in this dome shaped room full of hippies in overpriced ponchos.
The ceremony began with the shaman thanking the spirits and asking them to guide the ceremony. His started a type of sermon, guiding a theme for the ceremony. He discussed the importance of silence, both during the ceremony and in life afterward. We were told that Ayahuasca is a very solitary medicine and were instructed not to interfere with anyone’s journey. He explained that our end goal is to be in a state where we didn’t have conscious thought, but let our unconscious take over.
One by one we were directed to come up to the front and sit in front of Diego, the brew of Ayahuasca between us. At this point we should have had an intention in mind; a personal problem or theme we want to focus on. When it was my turn I nervously slinked up to the pillow. The shaman looked at me, sizing me up, then poured a bit of Ayahuasca into the cup. I stared blank faced back at him, completely unsure of anything at this point. He continued his gaze and poured a bit more into the cup. Then he handed it to me and I held the cup to my heart and closed my eyes, mimicking my predecessors. I tried to focus on my intention fighting off last minute nerves, and croaked out “Causaypaq.” A toast meaning “to life.” No backing out now, I thought, and swallowed the liquid in one gulp. It tasted like rotting seaweed and the flavor consumed my mouth and sinuses.
I shook my head and tried not to gag on the way back to my seat. I closed my eyes and tried to let myself go. I found myself searching for a sign that the medicine has kicked in. I took every passing thought as the start of a hallucination. My stomach burned and I could feel the brew rising up in my throat. I breathed and try to relax.
About 15 minutes later, although I don’t think my sense of time was exactly on point, the shaman said it was time for seconds. He previously instructed that anyone who was still thinking conscious thought at that point, should come up for more. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be feeling at that point, but I didn’t feel like I was starting my path to spiritual healing. So I waited my turn and scooted up in the dark for another cup.
Shortly after my second drink I began to feel a very physical high. I started slouching further and further into my cushion until I was pretty much laying down. I felt like a strong gravitational force was pushing me against the wall and down to the ground. It felt like I was traveling through space at light speed and the momentum had thrown me to the back of my spaceship. Was this the emotional weight of my demons I was meant to breakthrough? I wasn’t sure and at the time I didn’t care because I was thrown into an instant state of euphoria. I was completely in the dark but I knew I had a ridiculous giant grin on my face.
All around me I could hear sounds of violent vomiting. I could hear some retreating to the porch to vomit. I could hear the distant sound of others gagging in the bathroom. I could hear the guy next to me puking loudly, his bucket echoing the noise.
Do You Vomit During the Ayahuasca Ceremony?
My nausea, however, hadn’t kicked in yet. I felt ecstatic and started thinking about all the amazing people in my life. My mind started running through a list of all the friends and family I missed from home and wished they were there. I thought about how much I loved my (then fairly new boyfriend) Jules.
Then the nausea started. At the beginning of the ceremony our shaman had said that nausea was expected. Vomiting was the expulsion our demons, but he mentioned that we shouldn’t force it. If it happened, it happened, but we should definitely not stick our fingers down our throats to coax it. With that in mind, I laid on my cushion with my stomach churning. I pulled the bucket up to my face a few times, in hope of some relief but it never came. I sat in an uncomfortable state of nausea, but was comforted and a bit jealous of my fellow Ayahuasca takers vomiting all around me.
The next hour or so (again, my sense of time was probably drowned by the brew) I spent in a weird dream state. Honestly, I might have fallen asleep. It was around midnight by that point and I had barely eaten anything all day. I think I fell in and out of sleep, although the Ayahuasca induced a sort of dream like feeling. I began to hallucinate a bit of geometric, fractal images.
Then the shaman and some other participants who had brought musical instruments began to play in the dark. The songs, many in Quechuan, we’re beautiful medicine songs. The voices of the participants were stunning and I let them guide me through the rest of the night.
Soon some candles were lit in the center and the music became livelier. A group of three women came up and danced. They moved their bodies to the music and their fluid movements flashing in and out of candlelight triggered more hallucinations. I saw more intense fractals projected onto the curtained wall in front of me. I laid back and fully enjoyed being a spectator to the impromptu performance without any pressure to participate.
Eventually the music transitioned into a soft lullaby and people started to fall asleep. I slept restlessly, transitioning between dreams and Ayahuasca strangeness. In the morning I could hear several people packing up their cushions, but did not have the energy to fully awaken. I dozed until I heard the sounds of something scraping against the floor near me, the sounds coming closer and closer. It sounded like it was about to approach me, then stopped, moved to my other side and continued. Was I still hallucinating? I poked a cautious eye from beneath my blanket to find the room empty except for my heap of blankets and a cleaning woman sweeping the floor.
I checked my watch and saw that I had slept until 10:30 and everyone had left. Embarrassed I folded my blankets and thanked the very impatient looking cleaning woman. My eyes were still playing tricks on me as I found my way to door. A small group was lingering outside and I can only imagine how I looked to them, my eyes bugged out searching for a returned sense of normalcy. I tried to ignore the geometric patterns I was seeing in the grass while they asked me how my first time was. Clearly I wasn’t fooling anybody. They were seasoned veterans and noted that the previous nights ceremony was one of the best they’d ever experienced. I had nothing to compare it to but was glad to hear the shaman was one of the best.
I reunited with my friend, who had been in the shower, to wander back into town. After not eating for almost 24 hours I was unstable on my feet. We grabbed a collectivo back to Cusco and then hopped on a bus back to Pisco. The whole day I felt shaky and odd, but wasn’t sure I had experienced a true spiritual healing. Overall, it was a far cry from the indigenous jungle ceremony I had prematurely bragged to my friends about. Participating in an Ayahuasca ceremony has definitely become a popular stop on the gringo trail. The experience was intense and I’m glad I tried it, but it’s not something I’ll be trying again in the immediate future. Perhaps I hadn’t gone deep enough to fight off my demons, or maybe I don’t really have demons to fight off, but I was reminded that, in general, I’ve got it pretty good.
For more info on Diego Palma’s retreats, check out his site at Sacred Valley Tribe.
As Jules and I spent our last two months in South America making our way up from the Peruvian Amazon to the northernmost tip of Colombia, we began to collect memory cards full of photos and videos. Most of the photos are still sitting on my computer waiting to be sorted and the videos have began gathering hypothetical dust in IMovie. So I finally decided to do something with them. This travel video is a highlight reel of our time in Colombia. Enjoy!
“Pare! Pare!” Jules yelled at the bus driver, immediately shaking me from my daydream staring out the window. The bus lurched to a stop and we wrestled on our backpacks and jump out the door. True toSouth American form, the driver completely neglected to yell out our stop, even after reassuring us several times he would.
Stepping off the bus, Palomino appeared to be a far cry from the Caribbean beach community I had imagined. A couple of pharmacies, a few restaurants where people idly sho flies away from their menu del día and a hardware store lined the main highway. Big trucks flew by, passing through the entire town in 2 minutes, nearly missing stray dogs that fought over the spillage of an overflowing trash can.
A group of young mototaxists dressed in Hollister knock offs, leaning against their motorcycles, told us that the only hostel we’ve been recommended is closed down. As seasoned travelers we know better than to believe this trick. But as we were in a new town with no sense of direction, we put our faith in humanity and let them give us a ride. We threw our big backpacks on our backs and tried not to fall off as we bumped along the dusty dirt road, whizzing by tin-roofed houses and fields of lush grass.
They dropped us off at the end of the road and directed us to the beach, a wall of thick vegetation blocked the view of the ocean so we only had the sound of the waves crashing to guide us. Emerging from the trees we finally stepped foot onto the hot, tan sand. Miles of beach stretched out on either side of us, sandwiched in between calm dark blue water and disorderly rows of palm trees. Walking to the left we hit the Palomino river which runs peacefully into the ocean. Turning to the right the beach wraps around a small bay revealing undeveloped, unpopulated beach as far as we could see.
Discovering the quiet beach community of Palomino, Colombia is what I imagine would have been like for those that first uncovered the potential and natural beauty of Cancun. Before the high rise hotels and beach vendors hawking cheap sunglasses took over. A line of quiet hostels run along the beach front, but walk 30 feet in either direction and you will have your very own slice of paradise.
The town itself is mostly residential. Don’t expect a charming downtown with artisan shops and cafes. Palomino has remained refreshinglu unaffected by its small influx of tourism. The most central location is the town plaza, with a church on one side and a football pitch on the other. On Sunday we purchased a couple of chupetes, popsicles, from the corner store and sat down on the curb. The plaza was full of what seemed like the entire town. Young boys in Colombian football jerseys picked teams for the next match and argued over positions, girls with hair covered in braids and brightly colored barrettes took turns swinging the ropes for double Dutch, parents and grandparents sat on their porches gossiping and watching the children play. From one house a speaker in the window blared reggaeton and teenagers danced to a song that played on repeat. Eventually, the crowd migrated into the church for evening mass leaving the plaza in an sudden state of silence .
After an arduous day of reading by the beach and kicking it in the plaza with the locals, we had worked up an appetite. Most hostels along the beach have kitchens and serve up a decent, although sometimes pricey, meal. Typical tourist fare like pizza, sandwiches etc, can be found along this strip. But for a more authentic taste we headed back into town to one of the restaurants on the main drag which will always had some sort of fresh fish, beans and rice combo. My strategy for choosing a place to eat in a new town is find a restaurant packed with locals; that’s always a good sign.
Although Palomino is a beach town, we were never approached by the usual brash, fast talking tour promoters pushing their jet ski rentals or boat tours. The most we were bothered on the beach was by someone selling the occasional organic chocolate, which we had to sample, for cultural research purposes, of course. The only downside to this serenity is that there isn’t a whole lot to do in town.
The only “adventure” activity is floating down the Palomino river in an inner tube. Unless you’ve just ditched your retirement home to tour Colombia, this won’t be terribly thrilling. But for the backpacker looking for a break from the hectic life of traveling, this is the perfect afternoon activity.
We rented inner tubes at a hostel in town ($5), hopped on a moto up the river and chose a place to slide down the bank of the river and hop in. We spent the next two hours moseying along, enjoying the scenic view of the jungle on either side and waving at groups or kids splashing around the bank. Sunscreen & a hat is key for this day as we were literally baking in the sun. A couple cold beers from in town didn’t hurt either.
There aren’t any pumping nightclubs in Palomino which only adds to its laidback charm, but on a Friday night we bought a couple beers from the corner store and kicked back on the main strip. I think people watching is a must while traveling, but more so in a small town when you can start to recognize some of the local characters. Kicking back with a cold can of Aguila, , we watched women serve up piping hot arepas to hungry tourists stopping only for a quick snack before continuing on to Santa Marta, kids play tag in front of their parents fruit and vegetable stalls and groups of teenage girls and boys assessing each other from across the road. In a close by restaurant we listened to the preachings of a local “loco” who shouts biblical passages and “hallelujah!” at anyone who will listen. Men played billiards in a dimly lit pool hall across the road and catcalled anything female. Families crowded inside corner stores, watching a soccer game on a fuzzy TV.
We ended up staying for two weeks in this quiet beachside town only to return again on our way back down the coast. This is the kind of place we can’t wait to tell your friends about, but at the same time want to keep our own little secret.
