The South American Swindle Part 2
“Tourist…meant ‘idiot’.” Terry Pratchett, The Color of Magic
A lot of contemplation took place while telling the story of our Colombian Con to family and friends. Contemplation that maybe, just maybe I had overreacted about the level of deception. Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have posted my angry-in-the-moment Facebook post. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you decide.
I told my friend about being ripped off in Colombia.
“They do that in my country, too,” she sympathized. “In Jamaica, it’s pretty bad. But we see you tourists with money, and we think, hey, they can afford to share some with us.”
It made me realize: Anywhere there are tourists and wealth disparity, there is bound to be folks willing to take cold, hard cash off your hands – whether that is legal or ethical or not.
“I guess,” I respond, thinking about Canada’s tourism industry. “I guess we do it here, too. Places like Collingwood or Toronto. Wherever there are tourists, locals will jack up the prices. It’s not quite the same but kind of.”
After much more thought: Yes, even in Canada we do it.
Is a bottle of Dasani the same price at small town Circle K as it is on a night when Iron Maiden’s rockin’ the Rogers Centre? Big, fat nope.
Gas prices go up on long weekends (shudder that they can get any higher). The cost of flights will kick your travel budget in the kneecaps on March break or Christmas. Okay, we plunder like pirates here in the first world as well.
However.
It still didn’t make me feel good about what happened on the day we rented a shady car from a shady place and drove south to a shady waterside area known as Playa Blanca.
Our usual MO of choosing our Airbnb home-away-from-home is based on it being a little-known place in a fairly remote location. With Colombia, we had somehow changed it up when I clicked on a condo in a city scene.
Staying in an urban setting was spectacular – just not our norm. We missed solitude. We longed to have only shoreline between us and miles of whitecaps, butts relaxed in lounges, and only one another with whom to converse.
In the end, as you have already guessed (or read about in my previous blog), that wasn’t quite how it worked out.
Leaving Cartagena for the day
As we exited the city of Cartagena, we veered onto what was a peninsula but is now considered an island (Isla Barú) after the Canal de Dique ship canal severed it from the mainland. Our destination, Playa Blanca, was about 40 kilometres south of Cartagena.
It wasn’t long before a flip flop-clad man just past the drinking age in Michigan pulled his motorcycle up beside us. Still driving, he started yelling questions in our direction. Mark, arm resting on the open window, gave almost all of his attention to conversing with the dude.
“Brake!” I shouted, white knuckling the edge of my seat, as our front hood came within three feet of a facelift. Our already-battered Renault bore enough scars.
We didn’t realize that this was only the beginning and that this friendly fella was bound to us for the rest of the day.
As we sped past coconut-laden palms and plywood tables flaunting bloody chunks of beast for sale, the motorcyclist stayed in front. He consistently lowered a hand when we needed to slow down and waggled fingers when it was safe to pass. After about half an hour, we arrived at the turn off for Playa Blanca. We’d already decided we wanted to drive as far south as we could and hit the beach up on the way back.
But that isn’t what Motorcycle Man had in mind.
“Not that way!” he started shouting as if we were driving straight into a cannibalistic cult.
Suddenly we noticed half a dozen police officers lining the eastern side of the well-worn roadway.
“What are we getting into?” I whispered.
Two troopers waved their well-muscled arms above their shoulders and shouted something in Spanish. On the grassy area below them, two officers were half-naked and full out fight club wrestling surrounded by twenty cheering officers.
All I could think was,
“Oh no, we’re about to be probed and chucked into a sewage-laden dirt hole with other ruler deniers. I might not see a pork chop or a martini for the rest of my soon-to-be-shorter life. I might discover firsthand the pitfalls of waterboarding. I might end up as some hairy-backed bro’s prison slave. Yikes. On the other hand, at least this will make a solid blog entry. If I ever escaped with all of my typing fingers.”
But…this isn’t of course what happened. No more arms bearing shiny medallions and guns were waved. Yet still, wee bits of anxiety gurgled about my chest.
We continued on our way south, now flanked by two of Motorcycle Man’s pals, one in front and one beside us.
If bits of fear weren’t bubbling up and being burped out of my belly, I would’ve felt like royalty in a motorcade – or at least the runner up in the Queen of the Fair parade.
In the end, it doesn’t even matter?
Instead of drawing this whole thing out for any longer, let me just explain what happened.
After an interaction at the tip of the peninsula in which the three gentlemen insisted, through the use of a phone translator app, that they only wanted to take us to their mother’s beachside restaurant – AND THERE WOULD BE NO COST, we followed them to Playa Blanca.
We were led straight into a parking space amongst piles of garbage, rocks, and tree debris and walked down to the water. Seated at a table that stared straight at the teal water and white sand, a menu was produced. (Yes, we took a photo as per the car rental woman’s suggestion.)
Food and drinks were ordered. Delivered. Delicious.
When we decided after an hour and a half that we’d had enough of screaming crowds, oil-slicked water, seadoos that nearly skidded into us, Colombians endlessly touching us, offering massages, and yelling at us to buy souvenirs, the bill was produced.
We staved off an aneurism. Barely. When we saw that they wanted almost $800 Canadian.
“You no leave without pay,” they told us verbally and then through the translator app. “We will get the police.”
In the end, after much cajoling and bargaining, we were forced to pay over $500.
It just felt like a giant Colombian slap in the face.
I don’t want this incident to define our whole trip to that country. But for a long time, I have allowed it to.
Thoughts?
Maybe, just maybe I overreacted about the level of deception? Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have posted my angry-in-the-moment Facebook post.
Maybe, just maybe…I’ll let you decide.
