Moving on down the road

Shrimp. Maybe lobster but fresh. A gin and tonic before dinner. Perhaps two. A view of the distant ocean or at least one of the highest coastal mountain ranges in the world. That’s what I wanted.

I’d left stunningly gorgeous old Cartagena, staying in an architect’s grandmother’s house which he had lovingly and exquisitely restored. Now I was ready for a different experience along Colombia’s northern coast.

Sleeping in a tent, maybe sheep, or chickens nearby. Comparing the brilliant night sky to other places I had viewed it.

Yes, that was my vision.

Reality differed.

“Do you have a tent?” the hotel manager asked. “No”, I replied. “The booking photo showed a tent so, I thought you had tents which you rented.” He shook his head, saying that the tent I saw on the booking site was only for the photo shoot.

Five miles from the nearest town, no car or other transport and evening approaching, I made a quick inquiry. “What do you have?” I needed a place to sleep for the night. My phone held minimal charge and my charger cord had become unreliable. Making several calls to find other housing seemed untenable.

“I am not a bad man”, he replied. Why he described himself that way raised a mental red flag, but I chose not to question.

He continued.

“We have an air-conditioned room for seventy million but I will give it to you for fifty million”. And people in the USA are worried…