“That’s awfully nice of them,” Lynn remarked as we were seated in the thatch-roof dining area for our free dinner, courtesy of Responsible Travel.
“The missing driver pales in comparison to that horseback ride. I will have a word with them about that. If they are promoting this trip to people like us they should warn that Tayrona is really still a backpacker destination.”
“Yeah, I’ll give them feedback on that too. There’s no mention of it being an intense physical experience.” I didn’t fess up that I thought it had been fun—the highlight of the trip so far.
“If you had a bad back you’d be screwed. You’d have to go back into town and hope you could find a motel room. I wonder if anyone from Responsible Travel has ever actually been here?”
The waitress brought menus and a bottle of wine.
“It’s a lovely place and I’m glad we’re here,” continued Lynn. “They didn’t need to give us a free meal and I hope they don’t do it again when I give them feedback on the horses.”
“I know. I always hope when I give feedback that they use it to tweak the tour for people who do it next. But I suppose some people are hoping for freebies, in the age of Trip Advisor.”
There are always unexpected turns of event on any trip. With time, and from the comfort of home, sometimes they become the best memories.
“I’ll just have to have ceviche again,” I said to the waitress.
“And I’ll have the catch of the day,” Lynn ordered.
Nearby, backpackers shuffled through a buffet line where food was slopped onto their plates—it looked like beans and rice—while others sat hunched over picnic benches outside eating granola bars.
“I like having money,” I observed as I smoothed my hands over the white linen tablecloth. “I’m not rich by American standards, but I pinch myself when I think of where I came from and that I am sitting here in Colombia eating such a good meal and staying in the nicest accommodation.”
“And we’d be eating in here even if it wasn’t free,” Lynn commented. “I don’t do buffets.”
“Granola bars are nice once in a while when there’s no other choice, but to eat them for a gap year? Yuck.”
“I did it when I was 17,” Lynn said. “We traveled all around Italy by train and hitchhiking and slept in stations … and on hillsides.”
“With horrid little men!” I laughed.
“Yep, I’ve paid my dues too. I once stayed in a friend of a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn. It didn’t have hot water, and when my friend’s friend—I never saw her—complained, the landlord disconnected the toilet and put it in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t know how long it had been there. I had to run down four flights of stairs and use the bathroom in the bar at the street level.
“But it was free! I lived off saltine crackers the whole week and had a blast.”
Our luxury hut had a bedroom and bath on the first level, plus a porch with chairs and a hammock.
The beds were hard as concrete so, like Goldilocks, I checked out the ones upstairs. I suppose firm mattresses are easier to move—especially on horseback.
There was a single mattress off to the side that was probably meant for a spare kid. It was the softest bed in the place, so I set up there.
The bathroom had some amusing features. Well, we Americans are always amused and slightly horrified by bidets. It doesn’t make sense, if I’m being logical. But this one was set up so it would drip water on the TP roll.
Then there were these bad translations.
Yes—Plugs of the World, Unite!
How hard is it, really, to find a competent translator? This was a national park, not a mom and pop outfit. But maybe I’m being too critical.
It seemed like a shame, but we closed the shutters at dusk as we had been instructed, “to keep insects out.” We would learn that this was an illusion.