Parque Tairona

After a far from romantic, but pleasantly debauchery-filled weekend in Cartagena, I moved east by bus to a tiny fisherman village just outside of the previously touted Parque Tairona. This village, Taganga, was once a poor and sleepy home to those that wanted to avoid the hectic city life of Santa Marta, and be able to drunkenly stumble from their boats to the liquor store, from the liquor store to their beds or respective pass out posts, then back to their boats. That hasn’t changed. Now fishermen just have to dodge a few similarly drunken Israeli tourists in their lifelong quest for fish and alcohol. I don’t know what tourism genius did it, but Taganga and Parque Tairona have exploded among post-Army Israelis like Cancun for post-pubescent frat boys. I have all 73-investment dollars I own in “Israelis gone wild: Taganga”. There are 6 million people in Israel, which if you break down the age demographics and crunch the numbers, means every 22-24 year old Israeli has been cloned twice and is this tiny town. Maybe after 2-3 mandatory years of army service (and a lifetime of Holy War) they don’t have the same fear that us lilly-ass American tourists have about the violent reputation of Colombia. There are other tourists here as well; Bogotanos, Paisas, Cartageneros……and I think a German came here once in the 80s.

We had had a slow-moving and inefficient morning that started past lunchtime in Cartagena, and were happy to achieve our two stated goals of getting supplies for the park and some rest. The 45 minute bus ride to the park entrance is the first obstacle that keeps the prissy tourist away; maybe second if you count the century of bloodshed, kidnappings and cocaine trafficking that has plagued Colombia. Packed busses leave from a street that resembles a swap meet in which all the stuff anyone wanted was bought weeks ago, but the sellers hope the smell of urine and yesterday’s catch will bring people back for a second look. The best entrance into the park is an exquisite, but arduous jungle hike up to a preserved indigenous pueblo, where white-robe wearing Taironas still live they way they did 1000 years ago……except for the crazy, sweaty, foreigners that insist at looking at them through their magic Nikon boxes. Few speak Spanish or have ever left their jungle paradise, but the tribal chiefs who travel to other communities are more hip to the changing world around them, and in my first visit I was shocked when a 4’7’’ indigenous man asked in broken Spanish to borrow my cell phone…..then to buy him a beer…at 6am. Ahh, the beauties of the modern world.

From El Pueblito it is another hour down to one of the most spectacularly picturesque beaches I have ever seen. Calm, blue water forms two gentle, sandy bays that are lined by huge white boulders. An idyllic grassy area with palm and mango trees is just off the beach, and is filled with young, sun-soaked travelers lounging in hammocks or playing soccer on the makeshift field. There is a huge palapa hut on the rocks between the two bays that provides an impressive view and is home to a Colombian family that runs a small restaurant and rents tents and hammocks. It is probably what most people pictured when they read “The Beach”, and for those that saw the movie it was how they wished Dicaprio’s paradise had looked.

Unfortunately, due to a newfound burden of being weighed down with things of value that I couldn’t leave in my dorm-like hotel, this time we chose to enter the park through the main entrance to avoid the long and sweaty walk through El Pueblito. Unfortunate not so much because we missed out on a beautiful hike, an anthropological experience, and losing double-digit pounds of sweated out water weight, but due to an unexpected “security” checkpoint at this entrance. Two militarily dressed police all but homo-erotically pleasured us with the intensity of their search, just knowing that two young (ish), unshaven Gringos must have some illicit “supplies” from Taganga. I spent a nervous 10 minutes of awkward Spanish chit-chat as they ransacked our bags, smelling tent poles, opening pill bottles and questioning he legality of my Echinacea droplets. My bag was clean except for the suspicious immune system enhancers, some rolling papers, a lighter, and a bottle of Guaro. I was aware that my non-Spanish speaking friend’s bag might turn out something besides tobacco to warrant my papers and lighter, and was silently rehearsing my plea or bribe attempt while motionlessly warming up my legs for a mad dash into the safety of the jungle. Amazingly, his bag was found to be clean as well. They had confiscated my Guaro, which was $10.00 I was happy to walk away from, but then said I could take it in if I bought them each a soda. Done. I wonder how many sodas I would have had to buy them if they had known that their local firewater wasn’t to be our choice means of intoxication in their beloved park.

When my heart rate slowed, ironically aided by the use of the same substance that had caused it to rise, I began to reflect on the situation we just narrowly avoided. What I found myself feeling, besides a squishiness in my pants from the scare, was a confused disappointment with the logic of the newly enacted policy. The goal of keeping the park safe is understandable, but the means are ridiculous. In a place where ten years ago tourists were not safe to travel because of armed Guerrillas and kidnapping possibilities, I think the last thing anyone fears is a cookie-eating stoner on the beach. It actually made me feel less safe. This idiocy is compounded by the fact that the nature-loving tourists that frequent this area, and the stereotypically drug-loving Israelis that dominate Taganga, are likely to be turned off to this destination that is trying to grow in tourism popularity. Furthermore, the checks are so arbitrary that some days they have checks some days they don’t, they don’t check cars that enter, don’t check boats, and don’t check those that go through El Pueblito. I’m pretty sure any gun-holding Colombian is savvy enough to find an alternate route to the naïve, but not thank god not stoned, tourists. Only the dumb and unlucky pay the price of this stupid policy. Thank god I am not unlucky.

We spent an amazing 4 nights in the park sleeping in hammocks, sucking down tropical juices, hiking through jungles, and scampering up various beach side boulders to jump off. After our ritualistic sunset Frisbee and swim, we would eat at the amazingly affordable restaurant given both the limited options, and the fact that the police probably would have taken any food one packs in as a threat to national security. A bonfire on the beach was the nightcap before our sleepless battle with the mosquitoes. A little rugged for some, but undeniably some of the most spectacular hikes, beaches and swimming that the world has to offer. Though Parque Tairona is growing rapidly in popularity as Colombia’s security and international reputation improve, there seems to be a strong commitment to preserving the ecological, low-impact style of tourism. There are now cabins for those choosing the comfort of a bed over a hammock, and to avoid red-dotted legs and itchy feet, but don’t expect your Costa Rican 5-star hotels or cruise ships anytime soon.