The beginning of the Colombian Con
When we arrived at the airport in Cartagena, the car rental booth was closed. Signs directed us one way to another building that apparently housed after hours rentals but detours along a path ended in locked gates and, eventually, we waved the white flag.
Frustrated and in desperate need of showers and sleep, we went online, cancelled our compact, and flagged down a taxi.
Later, we were relieved to not be driving – especially when we saw how Colombians twist and bang their vehicles through potholed roadways.
Not only that, but streets in Cartagena’s Ciudad Amurallada (Walled City), where we were staying, are barely big enough for one Mini Cooper yet still allow two-way traffic.
The sidewalks, heaving like Mount Vesuvius during her luteal phase, leave only enough room for claustrophobia and one elementary-aged student who hasn’t eaten in three years.
Still, we wanted the freedom of a vehicle for one day of scouting outside the city.
Where, oh where to go?
My appeal: let’s drive south to Playa Blanca, splash about in indigo waters, and sunbathe with books in hand.
Mark’s suggestion: how about we drive north and hike the less-inhabited area there.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have suggested rock, paper, scissors. Nor should I have cheered for my win.
Because victory wasn’t really victory at all, unless your triumph includes a confusing, unnervingly edgy, and expensive exploit. (And I mean exploit as both escapade and as in swindle. Read on.)
From the beginning
Having ordered our rental online the previous day, we taxied to the address, only to find it didn’t seem to exist. Where the rental company was supposed to be was a sidewalk vomiting stones, earth, and a pile of what was surely intended for the trash. The chain-link fence was peeled back as if a roid-enraged crocodile had just escaped.
“Where is the rental place?” I asked, both of us shaking our heads in confusion.
We wandered to the next stop sign and back when we noticed, a dozen metres from our original drop off spot, a locked gate.
Inside, perched on a dirt and gravel base, was what looked like a double-wide portapotty with windows.
Across from it, under a lean-to, was a row of half a dozen vehicles that appeared to have seen about as much action in the last decade as Rick Moranis. (Where has he been, anyway?) Tires were flat, one windshield was cracked, and if asked what colour they were, I would most definitely answer, ‘rust’.
A toothless woman with knockers nearly knock-knock-knocking on the ground below her was being sucked into a metal lawn chair.
A man who looked like he could be her offspring was munching on some kind of nut and spitting out the shells as if to punctuate every short sentence he was shouting. Was this the Colombian version of a good ole Norman Rockwell scene?
The place, not the people, made me want to slowly back away…and then run. (And no matter my speed, they couldn’t have caught up to me in any of those autos.)
Just then, a dark-haired beauty barely out of high school came wandering out of the shadows.
I was mesmerized with her white blouse that was so starched it could’ve stood up on its own. One that amazingly had not a single sweat stain anywhere even though I, in this 40-degree humidity, was expending all of my mental energy begging the goddess of pit perspiration for some sort of miracle.
It wasn’t working and I glanced downward to make sure there wasn’t a puddle of sweat around my ankles.
This was the representative and this was the spot.
Before we waved bye bye bye
After shoving a rental contract written in Spanish with words barely bigger than a tick’s eyeball at us, we balked upon seeing a total due that was more than twice the online offer.
Holding up Mark’s phone to show the agreement, she made a big deal of calling her manager.
Eventually, she flipped her hair, batted her gorgeous hazelnut eyes, and, as though she was signing over the president’s mansion and we should bow at her polished toes, she acquiesced to the original dollar figure.
Then, from somewhere else that likely housed more appealing forms of transport, our vehicle arrived.
After circling and scanning it closely and taking pictures of all the dents (there were a lot) and the cracked side mirror, we chucked our bags in the backseat and prepared to leave.
“Wait,” the clerk said, shrugging calmly. “Make sure that when you go to Playa Blanca, you take pictures of the menu. If not, you order and then they change the menu to one with much bigger prices.”
Hm.
“Their own fellow Colombians are giving this warning about being ripped off?” Mark asked, looking both ways and pulling out of the parking lot.
We thought back to the story a group had told us the afternoon before. While clinging to the edge of the rooftop pool with one hand and simultaneously chugging a beer with the other, the two couples from Quebec shared their nightmare day trip. To Playa Blanca. (See, why didn’t I pay closer attention?)
Having paid for the boat trip, which included snorkeling, lunch, endless rum, and sights to blow your mind, they hopped on board and followed the currents away from Cartagena’s main harbour, Muelle La Bodeguita.
A little more than an hour later, they dropped anchor in a well-known snorkeling area, white sands beckoning in the distance but too far to swim to.
Some passengers were handed flippers and masks. They were not.
They were firmly told that they didn’t pay for all-inclusive (when they did) and that if they wanted to snorkel, ingest any booze, or have lunch, they would need to pay up.
Without any cash on hand, they spent the day on a shadeless watercraft, working on third-degree burns, and dreaming of water and their next meal.
Their minds were blown indeed. Not by the scenery, but by rage and dehydration.
Why didn’t we heed that warning and how did I think we could avoid getting hosed? [Shake my head, drop it in my hands, and let out a whoosh of a “Geesh!”]
The drive
Elbows on open window ledges, smoky city air invading our lungs along roadways with a “fend for yourself” mentality. Streets that were eight cars across would suddenly, for no apparent reason, veer to two in one direction and six aiming for a head-on with you.
No matter. We continued down the road, innocent in our only happy thought: We are going to the beach!
Check out my next blog to find out what happened. (And how badly we were scammed.)
And please know that Colombians aren’t all bad. It’s a beautiful spot with incredible people. This is just one small part of our adventure.