- MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS DRIVERS
- MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS DRIVER
- MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS FULL
MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS DRIVERS
The drivers bid us farewell and left us in just our flip-flops and swimwear, holding a comedy-sized inner-tube. Course foliage scratched at our inner tubes and threatened to tear them from us as we sped along, especially after our exposed arms coated the rubber in sweat.Īfter 20 or so minutes the path became too steep for motorbikes. The bikes zoomed up the road we’d hiked down, across a main road (lurching dangerously close to a speeding lorry), and onto a dirt track though jungle on the other side.
MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS DRIVER
It was hard enough with my relatively long arm holding on to the inner tube and the back of the driver at the same time – so how Fliss managed it with her short arm, I don’t know. Outside a shack along the sun-baked road we met two motorbike drivers who handed us a large inflatable inner tube each and told us to hop on.įliss had never been on the back of a motorbike before, let alone while holding a three-foot-wide rubber ring under one arm. The only word we recognised was ‘contraband’, and Robert suddenly didn’t look so at ease.Įventually it was the hostel staff who arranged ‘tubing’ for us. Later, after Robert brought us pizza, the police arrived and began questioning him on the cigarettes and alcohol he had for sale behind the bar. His response: “tubin’, or not tubin’, that is the question.” We enquired about hiring an inner tube with the view to floating along the Palomino river, a popular activity in these parts.
In front of him on the bar was Julieta, his beloved cat, who was harassed regularly by five “Julios” – his nickname for the resident monkeys living in the trees above the bar. We sat under a thatched parasol and ordered beers from Robert beach bar, whose eponymous, grey-haired proprietor spoke excellent English.
The palm trees and sandy beach and breaking waves were undeniably beautiful, though, and the beachside shacks selling pizzas and beer were unpretentious and inviting. It had a lively bar and pool area and a sandy walkway leading to a beach beset with boho backpackers. Our hostel was clearly aimed at the twenty-something crowd. I turned them down, but after heaving our heavy packs for 10 minutes in 35-degree heat, we realised it might’ve been worth it. Several men on motorbikes offered to escort us along this road for a fee. Travelling with our big rucksacks this time, we would be passing beyond Tayrona on our way to Palomino, a thriving backpacker town that we feared might be suffering from the same overpopularity as the park.Īfter a two- or three-hour journey we got out of the minibus along a busy strip of cheap tourist cafés and souvenir shops, turning onto a side road leading to our beachside hostel. This made us uncertain about our next destination. It had been an adventure along a rugged, sun-baked coast – our first dip in pristine Caribbean waters (not counting the sea at Cartagena, which was far from pristine) – but it was clear to us that the park was creaking under the weight of popularity, and those running it were exploiting both visitors and the area’s native tribe.
MARTA ANIMAL COME GALLINAS FULL
We returned to Santa Marta sleepy, sunburnt, our pockets full of sand – and with mixed feelings about Tayrona.
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