As I lay my weary head and mosquito-bitten body to rest on my last night on Cartagena, thoughts turn to a grand reflection of the past 10 days.
I have persevered a terrible flight detour without shedding a tear. I have proved to some entity that I am not too unfit to scale the 740 steps of Guatapé or hike for an hour under the scorching sun and heavy humidity of Tayrona National Park - both with an ailing right foot. I have floated in mud, danced the night away in a salsa club, and dared to walk into Pablo Escobar's bookcase.
Don't get me wrong, the guide for the Intrepid itinerary is fantastic. I truly hope to keep in touch with her and cheer her on through the next chapter in her young and beautiful life. But when I came to Colombia, I couldn't help but want a little of that stereotypical barrio-esque life that I had the pleasure of sampling in Peru.
Enter the southern Getsemani district in Cartagena de las Indias.
Having been released from the constant "consensus" of the group, I ventured on my own into parts of the city that our guide had not shown us. Usually this brings me to an unsavory area, like when I wandered into the prosty hangout when I wondered what was west of Las Ramblas in Barcelona.
It was a Sunday so many shops and restaurants were closed in Cartagena. But while the touristy areas were dead, Getsemani - a city extension that was historically the neighborhood of slaves - refused to sleep. I wandered around the southern wall and wove my way through the streets filled with dogs barking and with reggaeton music blaring from stereos on the street. I actually heard Lucenzo's and Don Omar's "Danza Kuduro" on Calle del Espiritu Santo... that is my most played song in my music library and I had to wait until my last day in Colombia to hear it!
I found my way to la Plazuela de Santísima Trinidad, which was already full of people. The faithful sat in evening mass in a small church while children playing with small and probably illegal firecrackers did their best to interrupt the service. The little square was so full of life compared to the rest of sleepy Cartagena and I loved every bit about it.
I even loved it when I tried to order an epic-looking chorizo dog and the lady made a face when I didn't understand her. Finally! After hearing from almost every Colombia that I speak Spanish well, the food cart lady reminded me that I am not as eloquent en castellano as I thought.
After apogizing for my inability to order a simple chorizo dog in Spanish (only 5,500CP / just over $3) and picking up Aguila beer at a corner market (1800CP / barely over $1,) I watched as the children in the square gave way to a free aerobics class. I kid you not, three not-very-Colombian-looking ladies led an ever-growing mass of people through a tai bo dance workout. It was like something out of Turbo Jam but with more bootyshaking, and all were welcome. Locals mixed with hippies mixed with young expats mixed with women in party clothes mixed with women in workout clothes mixed with a few men mixed with some of the children, and all were partying down.
I left at the early hour of 9PM to prepare my duffel bag and nervously check my flight status every hour. Neither the plaza nor the streets of Getsemani showed any signs of slowing down, and my only regret is that I didn't find la Plazuela any sooner.
I have persevered a terrible flight detour without shedding a tear. I have proved to some entity that I am not too unfit to scale the 740 steps of Guatapé or hike for an hour under the scorching sun and heavy humidity of Tayrona National Park - both with an ailing right foot. I have floated in mud, danced the night away in a salsa club, and dared to walk into Pablo Escobar's bookcase.
Don't get me wrong, the guide for the Intrepid itinerary is fantastic. I truly hope to keep in touch with her and cheer her on through the next chapter in her young and beautiful life. But when I came to Colombia, I couldn't help but want a little of that stereotypical barrio-esque life that I had the pleasure of sampling in Peru.
Enter the southern Getsemani district in Cartagena de las Indias.
Having been released from the constant "consensus" of the group, I ventured on my own into parts of the city that our guide had not shown us. Usually this brings me to an unsavory area, like when I wandered into the prosty hangout when I wondered what was west of Las Ramblas in Barcelona.
It was a Sunday so many shops and restaurants were closed in Cartagena. But while the touristy areas were dead, Getsemani - a city extension that was historically the neighborhood of slaves - refused to sleep. I wandered around the southern wall and wove my way through the streets filled with dogs barking and with reggaeton music blaring from stereos on the street. I actually heard Lucenzo's and Don Omar's "Danza Kuduro" on Calle del Espiritu Santo... that is my most played song in my music library and I had to wait until my last day in Colombia to hear it!
I found my way to la Plazuela de Santísima Trinidad, which was already full of people. The faithful sat in evening mass in a small church while children playing with small and probably illegal firecrackers did their best to interrupt the service. The little square was so full of life compared to the rest of sleepy Cartagena and I loved every bit about it.
I even loved it when I tried to order an epic-looking chorizo dog and the lady made a face when I didn't understand her. Finally! After hearing from almost every Colombia that I speak Spanish well, the food cart lady reminded me that I am not as eloquent en castellano as I thought.
After apogizing for my inability to order a simple chorizo dog in Spanish (only 5,500CP / just over $3) and picking up Aguila beer at a corner market (1800CP / barely over $1,) I watched as the children in the square gave way to a free aerobics class. I kid you not, three not-very-Colombian-looking ladies led an ever-growing mass of people through a tai bo dance workout. It was like something out of Turbo Jam but with more bootyshaking, and all were welcome. Locals mixed with hippies mixed with young expats mixed with women in party clothes mixed with women in workout clothes mixed with a few men mixed with some of the children, and all were partying down.
I left at the early hour of 9PM to prepare my duffel bag and nervously check my flight status every hour. Neither the plaza nor the streets of Getsemani showed any signs of slowing down, and my only regret is that I didn't find la Plazuela any sooner.
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