Cartagena, Colombia: Statues deserve more respect than this

Have you ever taken a vacation that turned you into an Ivy Leaguer?

For the summer of 2014, I went to Colombia with my parents. This was a nice way to start off my senior year in high school because, every time I’d tell people I visited Colombia, they’d be very impressed and say “I didn’t know you applied to Columbia!”

Anyway, we stayed in a coastal town called Cartagena de Indias and, although it was supposed to be a beach town, the beaches weren’t exactly how you’d expect them to be.
 

Behold a regular swimmer and sun bather.

 

Considering how dangerous wild hogs are, we kept our distance and went to see the colonial ruins and Bolero statues that decorated the city.
 

Here we are in front of a fortress overlooking the ocean, designed to defend and alert the city of any incoming ships.

 

I am in a shoe.

 

 

No words.
 

 

After about 5 days, we ventured on a rickety boat to stay on a very tiny mangrove island called Baru. If you know anything about mangroves, you know that tiny hotels do not grow naturally within them.

Our hotel was essentially a series of cabins scattered and built into the roots of these tough plants, with bridges walking between the structures and a dug out, artificial beach.

The first day was novel, having the island to ourselves. The second day, we took a boat out and went snorkeling in the incredibly colored water.

 

 

The third day, we got bored. Curious as to why the hotel staff wouldn’t let us out onto the street through the back door, we insisted on taking a walk and exploring the island.
 

Eventually, we walked for 45 minutes in the blazing rainforest heat.
 

With hindsight, I realize how reckless this was. Any number of unspeakable things could have happened to us on that walk, or when we arrived to the town only to discover its immense poverty.

But the questionable decisions don’t stop there.

I didn’t mention that there were scads of boys no older than 13, presumably working for a local entrepreneur, zipping around on rusty motorbikes and offering us rides. Tired of walking, but unable to stay in town because it seemed a little dangerous, we took a ride offered by one of these kids.

Naturally, this was terribly frightening.

So, I’m seated behind the boy driving the dirt bike, and my mother is, in turn, behind me. As he starts up the bike, I timidly hold onto his shoulders because, naturally, he’ll drive slowly with three people on an old piece of machinery.

I realized immediately that he’s probably been driving this bumpy, dusty dirt road since he could operate this ancient motorbike, and had full intentions to get us back at the speed of light.

So, I held onto his waist for dear life, and tried not to look at the barbed wire guardrails coming dangerously close to my leg.

And Colombian fish is tasty and photogenic.