Twice I had been warned in advance, about the jerking in the jeep, about the hours that would be spent in the desert in northern Colombia between sights. I could have canceled my booking. It would have cost me only the deposit of 15 euros. But I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to put all my eggs in one basket and experience it for myself.

With six strangers in a car. A bet that unfortunately didn’t quite work out for me. No one wants to talk to me, no one talks to each other. The guide turns out to be a mere chauffeur, who you have to sqeeze every word out of. For me, the interesting part of travelling is the energy I’m putting in to arrive at my destination. Simply being brought to the destination is somehow pointless for me.

The sun is burning, I take the obligatory photos, then quickly back into the shade under roofs that often consist only of wooden beams and brushwood, obviously gathered from the surrounding area.

I feel sick. I feel lonely. To sleep there are again, as in Tayrona Park, hammocks, which this time I lay on the ground. It almost reminds me of sleeping in my tent. My air mattress had the unpleasant property of losing air. The hard ground doesn’t bother me as much as the slouching in a hammock.

Already on the second day I almost collapse mentally. I am the only one in the group who has booked the four-day tour. Everything is too much for me, the heat, the vibrations, the slight nausea. I want to run away, but I can’t. I muster all my strength and hold out for the third day until I am dropped off alone at another beach bar. There they won’t allow me to sleep on the floor. I secretly make plans to do it anyway.

I haven’t felt so lonely in a long time. I almost cry. I contact friends back home. They comfort me. Suddenly a ray of hope. Another group I have met several times in the desert adopts me. Everyone asks with interest, everyone tells interesting stories. I feel heard. I feel at ease. The loneliness fades. In the end, all is well.

Kidnapped

The last day, a trip to the indigenous people of the desert. In the morning I was to be picked up. Nine o’clock. I make a phone call. Julian has an ear for me. We talk about life, this and that. Suddenly a man. He says he is my driver. I quickly pack my things. We drive off. We discuss the day’s program. The man knows the area. He talks about his family. About his second wife, whom he apparently bought for little money. The story makes me a little uncomfortable. He smiles superiorly. He feels good about himself teling the story. Suddenly I realize that I have forgotten my charger. We turn around.

Back on the beach, another man approaches me. He has moved God and the world to find me. I am shocked. Who is this driver I was in the car with earlier? Someone who wanted to make a quick penny. Someone who has the gall to charge money for kidnapping me as well. I’ll send him packing. Because of him, I forgot my shoes in the rush. My onward journey only in slippers. As it turns out later, it is a difficult task to find shoes in my size in South America.

Native people of the desert

It is hard to believe that people live in this desolate area. The environment seems so hostile to life, and yet thousands of people live here. Where they get their water from is hard to imagine. Many live on a few goats, which they either eat themselves or trade for other food. The goats sip on the few leaves they find on the scrawny bushes.

With our desert cruiser, we keep passing roadblocks, ropes hanging between two wooden posts. Children ask us for water as toll for the passage. At first it seems like a game to us. It is somehow heartwarming how the children are happy about this mild gift. But after the hundredth time, we realize that a dependency has developed here. Some tax collectors even get angry when we have to tell them that we only have empty hands to offer. One old woman even curses us.

In the past, people in the desert could survive well without outside help. But at some point tourism came, and they live off of it to some extent. They make a little revenue from the tourists, selling cold drinks and homemade bags. The bags are nice, but I have no use for them. Coal has also been found on their land, which they are hardly compensated for mining. But with the roads, dirt and rails they don’t need, they have to live now.

I’m torn between feeling sorry for the indigenous people and disliking the interference of us Westerners. Shouldn’t we leave them alone? Aren’t we robbing them of their customary lives? We bring them dependency. We bring the garbage that is everywhere. They want nothing to do with that. This is our problem, Carina, the local woman we are talking to, tries to make us understand. If it were up to them, she would banish the strangers so that they could return to their original values. But this is more difficult than one might think. The desert people are not one tribe, but many, with their own rules and leaders. Politics as we know it is largely alien to them. That is why there is no consensus on the situation and how to deal with it.

Carina gave us some insight into how marriage works in their tradition. Basically, it is initiated by the man. Instead of presenting himself to the woman he likes, as we do, he goes to the oldest man in the family. To him he presents his interest in the woman of his desire. The elder then decides whether he agrees to this union. If the elder agrees, he presents the proposal to the woman of his desire. If she can imagine marrying the man, she meets with him a few times to get to know him better. She always has the last word. She can decide if she wants to continue meeting with the man and if she wants to marry him. This is not an arranged marriage, but it is not a completely free marriage either. If a woman is interested in a man, she can only initiate the process through a back door by spreading some kind of rumor through other women that she is interested. If the man takes the bate, he can initiate the usual process through the family elder.