Parking Lot Volcanoes

Disclaimer – I tried to take a vacation. I tried to leave my raccoon-esque fatigue look behind me in Munich and run away to Colombia. This is the story of what happens when I try to take a vacation.

Think 'Volcano'…

Things that come to mind are gaping craters in the earth requiring helicopters to traverse their grand scope. Also, images of month long plumes of smoke from merely a minor eruption halting European travel and life as we knew it (read: Eyjafjallajökull circa 2010). 

By definition a volcano is a rupture in the crust of planetary mass. 'Planetary' itself suggests an image of grandeur.

Imagine our surprise when we arrived at the El Totumo – Colombia's most underwhelming 15 meter glorified termite mound, nestled neatly next to the lagoon and tidily fitting into a makeshift parking lot.

Ok. Ok. That is a bit harsh, but we didn’t know what to expect. After an amazing three days of activity planned for us by the bride and groom, we threw together a last minute group of 12 to venture an hour outside of Cartagena in search of geographic wonders. Guide book photos showed smiling faces within what was once lava now turned to healing mud by priests many storyteller generations ago, but mentioned nothing of the 'grandeur' of the external structure and its rickety staircase that ascends to the top. Volcano – I beg to differ.

We had a briefing from our host as she basically told us 'take off your clothes, get in the mud and nothing is for free. So either learn to chant 'No. Gracias.' or be prepared to pay'. After we exchanged skeptical looks at each other from the corner of our eyes, we stripped down to our bathing suits and with a bit of blind faith took the walk to the open top of the crater. The first 'No. Gracias.' moment for me was when two little boys charmingly tried to take my shorts and flip-flops from me. They smiled in a manner that took me to the Taj Mahal as adolescent Jamal and Salim stole tourists' shoes in Slumdog Millionaire. No. Gracias. But they were so cute.

Arriving to the top at the front of our group, I peered bravely into a crater about half the distance back down an even less convincing ladder. I shot a not so brave face to my friends looking forward to me with anticipation and hopes for adventure. Beer in hand, I slid down the ladder while the guide outstretched his arms as if he were my grandfather welcoming me home from summer camp. 'No. No. No. Gracias!' The buoyancy of the mud was shocking and I fearfully put my feet down and let go of the ladder curling instantly into a precariously balanced ball. 'Grandpa Guide' took control of my shoulders and positioned me before sliding my thru the mud narrowly dodging the backpackers already bathing themselves in a thick gray pudding. I slid across the pool of mud at an intended angle and speed to my position. I have never felt more like I was in a game of Tetris – clearly 'Grandpa Guide' knew what he was doing. Then one by one my friends were twisted, turned, flipped and slid over to my side. Level cleared.  

After a few failed attempts to stay balanced (I apparently have extremely buoyant feet), we made our way up what was once a sturdy ladder to the top and now was merely a well worn pile of wood, caked in mud. We waddled down to the lagoon as the mud dried and cracked with each step. I smiled to see that little Jamal and Salim had only taken the pesos from my pockets and my flip flops still remained.

Following the rejuvenating mud bath, your only hope for cleaning was the lagoon with ten local women standing in the ready with bowls in hand and pesos on their mind. We uttered our way thru many attempts for assistance and so began the chant of 'No. Gracias'. I opted for the less than seductive massage by my Indian friend as he yanked my leg into the air to scrub the mud off, subsequently dunking my face under the water quite unceremoniously. After what I believed was a thorough and systematic cleansing, I left defeated and carried a thin layer of mud from head to toe back towards our bus.

Now it was payday and in a flurry of activity I had to remember how many times I owed someone 3000 Colombian Pesos. I negotiated with the camera man who promised he took 'many, many, super special photos – many – 5000 Pesos many'. Unconvinced I surrendered our contracted sum. I hopped on the bus and watched with appreciation as little Jamal and Salim took a left over pizza that was gifted to them, split the remaining pieces and sold the what remained to the twenty-something backpackers that were too high on young love and adventure to notice they had been swindled.

And back to the city walls we went. Cartagena had been good to us. A group of strangers connected by a couple in love, in a city of charm, had become friends united in awkward adventure. We packed our bags and left Cartagena for Cali the next day. We traded in the coast for mountains, humidity for wind and the gentle buzz of energy for a cadence of city life. It was time to get these kids married – but first we needed to conquer horses and pool sticks – a seemingly tricky task.