Beautiful Beaches Can Be Found Along Colombia's Caribbean Coast

As I lay on my back in the lapis-blue pool at Casa Bambú Tayrona, a hotel in the Magdalena region on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, I felt as though I were searching for the North Star in the heavens above. While my husband and I were in the water, a chorus of toads and frogs sung in the nearby bush. Blue crabs swarmed among the bamboo roots on the forest floor, and the pool, like the eight houses surrounding us with thatched roofs, was set a few feet above them. Waves lapping against the shore were audible in the distance. 

Our adolescent daughter leaped into the water with a resounding splash. When I thought back to the 1990s, when I first started to investigate my family tree, I was her age. It has always been a source of shame for me to have been born in Colombia, the South American nation known for its drug cartels, internal terrorism, kidnappings, and civil conflict. My father is from that country. Growing up in Minnesota with an American mother, I was the target of class teasing regarding coffee and cocaine due to my last name and the intrusive inquiries that came with it. In 1995, when I initially went back to see my dad, Colombia was among the world's most dangerous nations. 

At Casa Bambú, amidst the birds-of-paradise and banana trees, the only dangers were the powerful waves at the shore and the three caimans rumored to reside in the river that ran behind the hotel. There are signs warning people not to go near the riverbanks, but the hotel manager smiled menacingly and stated, "Not yet." when we inquired if anyone had been assaulted. 

Just five hours' drive from Cartagena, this area is becoming increasingly popular among tourists thanks to its natural attractions—or hazards, depending on your point of view. Nestled amid the lush jungle at the base of the majestic Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta mountains lies the four-year-old Casa Bambú. A small number of resorts have recently emerged to serve ecotourists who are drawn to Tayrona National Natural Park, which is just a short five-minute drive away. The park spans 60 square miles and protects tropical beaches, mangrove swamps, and rain forests, providing a habitat for wildlife like as jaguars, howler monkeys, and poison dart frogs. 

 The 2016 peace accords, which were signed by then president Juan Manuel Santos and received the Nobel Peace Prize, were credited by our local guide Cristián Sierra, a towering 30-something Costeño (the local term for a person from the coast), with resolving the issues of drug trade and violence in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta region. Some rural and Indigenous areas in Colombia are still experiencing turmoil, despite the government's demilitarization attempts. Cartagena and the other popular tourist destinations along the Caribbean coast are just two of many warm and inviting locations. 

People in the area are taking more pleasure in their heritage now that it's safer to do so, according to Sierra. "Our country is being rediscovered," he declared. 

Despite the tropical heat, a shiver ran down my back. Like you, I was eager to find my homeland. 

Mountains, rivers, and jungles naturally demarcate Colombia's six regions. The climate, ecology, and culture of each region are unique. Popayán is a city in the southern Andes. My family and I had never been to the northern coast along the Caribbean Sea before my birth. 

Salads, eggs, arepas, fresh passion-fruit juice, and strong black coffee were served to us poolside at Casa Bambú after we woke up the following morning to the sound of the sea. The service was so slow that Sierra, who had come to accompany us on an excursion, had to wait until we finished our meal. His reaction was unfazed; he informed us that taking it easy is deeply ingrained in the culture here. 

Our driver finally got us all into the van, and we were off east on the Troncal del Caribe route. We were at the entrance to Katanzama, an Arhuaco town, when forty minutes later he came to a stop at a gravel road that vanished into the woods. There are 42 distinct Arhuaco villages in Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. The Arhuaco are one of 102 Indigenous tribes in Colombia. Many of these people reside on reserves, such as Katanzama. 

"Because they've been in the area for so long," Sierra added, "we call them the Elder Brothers." 

Jason Arroyo, who is Arhuaco, was our guide in Katanzama. Wearing the usual white cotton tunic and hat, the small man had a neat black beard and gentle curls. A mochila, a typical Colombian bag woven from wool or cotton in unique regional patterns, was carried by Arroyo, as it is by many Colombians, especially Indigenous people. 

Now that I own one, I can finally shed my childhood humiliation over the lanolin odor of my mom's scratchy brown wool mochila, which she would occasionally wear while we lived in Minnesota. Arroyo, on the other hand, had dried coca leaves in his bag, something that locals may lawfully grow and ingest. Arroyo continued a long-standing tradition among the Arhuaco people by adding crushed seashells to the leaves in his mouth using a stick dipped in his popóro, a hollowed-out gourd. The coca is activated by the lime from the shells, which produces a mild intoxication. It served as a poignant reminder that the plant, despite its contentious history in Colombia, continues to hold significant cultural value for Indigenous communities. 

The Arroyo took us to a field where the Arhuaco grew their staple crops: plantain, yucca, and cocoa, which will be made into milk, dark, or white chocolate in the future. As he described it, the locals continue the practice of sustainable, self-sufficient farming and living that their forefathers began hundreds of years ago. His deliberate pace of speech was something we were starting to anticipate. I pondered whether my DNA had any Indigenous code as I studied the angle of Arroyo's nose. 

Following our tour of many Katanzama homes and meetinghouses, we enjoyed a beach picnic under the lacey shade of the Gliricidia trees. We munched on granola bars and local plums as we listened to the crashing of blue waves on the shore. The wife of Arroyo demonstrated how to construct a bag while simultaneously toting a mochila. She laughed as she unpicked our messed-up stitches and freed our needles from the yarn. 

Upon our arrival at the Sofitel Barú Calablanca Beach Resort, I experienced a mix of Colombian and American emotions as the friendly personnel alternated between speaking Spanish and English when greeting me. There were very few Americans at the resort other than my spouse, daughter, and myself. Located on Isla Barú, a pebbly stretch of beach facing Cartagena, this is one of the most recent high-end developments there. The boat voyage to Cartagena takes around 25 minutes. 

My sole prior experience with a South American resort was during a late 1990s vacation to a small fishing village in Ecuador with my father and his wife. Since there were no other customers at the motel, our only meal options were fish and eggs. It turned out that the beach where my stepmother and I tried to soak up some rays was actually a road that fish trucks used. 

It has nothing to do with Calablanca. At the resort's casual beachside restaurant Bahía, we enjoyed mango mojitos and delicious fish tamales. In our ocean-view suite, we placed an order for room service. During our free time, we would go back and forth between the three infinity pools and the well-kept beach. 

Our next stop was the Sofitel Legend Santa Clara, right in the middle of Cartagena's historic district, and it was 1.5 hours' drive north from Isla Barú. Founded in 1533 as a colony of the conquistadors, the area is still known by its original name, Cartagena de Indias, after a Spanish port city. Its seven miles of wall are still visible today. Along the way to the hotel, our chauffeur meandered through open plazas and tiny streets, passing pastel buildings with balconies on the second floor and other sights that reflected the neighborhood's colonial past. 

The city's architecture may bring to mind the Disney film Encanto, which has contributed to a change in how Colombia is perceived by the public, particularly among families traveling with young children. A house started blasting the song "We Don't Talk About Bruno," and we saw commercials featuring the movie's protagonists. The Colombians we spoke to were ecstatic that elements of Colombian music, cuisine, and environment were making an impact in the United States. As I listened to the sense of accomplishment in their voices, I couldn't help but wish there had been this film when I was younger. 

Convent construction began on the Santa Clara in the 1700s. The building's unique architectural appeal has been preserved despite its transformation into a luxury resort. The initial refurbishment that occurred when it was transformed into a hotel in 1995 maintained a crypt that supposedly served as the idea for the novel "Of Love and Other Demons" written by Nobel Prize-winning novelist Gabriel García Márquez. 

The hotel's French restaurant had a wall dated 1621 that a white-suited butler pointed out to us as we entered. Except for that one wall, the space is exquisitely furnished and painted gold; it was once the dining hall for the nuns. He informed me that, similar to a Rorschach test, enigmatic patterns emerge in turquoise splotches through repeated applications of paint. Like a lot of things in Colombia, this might have a reasonable explanation—or it might not. 

"Even we are confused about what is true anymore," the butler remarked. 

What I enjoy most about Colombia is its combination of enchantment and folklore. It remains a constant, and likely always will be, in our nation. While I was visiting my dad in Colombia for the first time in 1995, we took a ride on the Pan-American Highway between Popayán and Cali. One village might be entirely inhabited by Afro-Colombian people, 

while the next would be home to Indigenous people. This racial segregation shocked me. The Indigenous and Afro-Colombian communities of Colombia were granted territorial and cultural rights in the country's 1991 constitution, which was further solidified by the 2016 peace accord, recognizing Colombia as a multicultural nation. Katanzama and other Indigenous and Afro-Colombian villages and reservations are still around today, thanks to these safeguards and the physical separation of these settlements from the rest of the country. 

We went to one more of these conserved sites on the day before we left. Approximately one hour's drive inland from Cartagena lies the Afro-Colombian settlement of San Basilio de Palenque. Palenque traces its roots back to Benkos Biohó, an African leader from the 17th century who founded a clandestine settlement in the countryside after escaping from his colonial masters. Unesco has included Palenque on its Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, a designation that recognizes living cultural expression. Among the earliest towns in the nation to be granted official recognition as a free town was San Basilio de Palenque in 1713. 

We were led by Nuno Bembelé, our Palenquero guide, across the arid center square, where a statue of Biohó stands with his arm extended toward Africa. On the main dirt road, which is currently being paved, chickens, goats, and school uniformed youngsters stepped around the construction. Another group of sightseers went by us as we made our way across the plaza. "We enjoy having guests," Bembelé informed us. This tiny town of 3,500 has figured out how to attract tourists, who are great for the economy. The ladies on the verandas welcomed Bembelé with waves and greetings, and some of them voiced their concern over my husband's fair skin under the noon sun. 

Beyond the red tiled roofs, I looked up at the azure sky. It appeared as though the enchanted mansion in Encanto might have been modelled after this sight, complete with potted plants draping over wooden balconies and trailing across whitewashed walls.

Joined by a drummer and dancer, Bembelé extended an invitation to pause in the shade for some ice water and freshly chopped pineapple. "Kumo kusa ta," our hosts instructed us to say, in a style of folkloric rap song that incorporates a call-and-response format. Good day! The indigenous inhabitants of Palenque continue to use Palenquero, a language that evolved from a combination of African and European varieties. Both Colombians and foreigners learn from songs like this. We awkwardly repeated, "Kusa ta bien" (I am fine). My husband and daughter each tried their hand at the chalupa, a lively indigenous rhythm, with drumming rhythms. Whether it was with us or at us, our hosts couldn't help but chuckle. 

Two healers met us before we left Palenque; they taught us about medicinal herbs and plants and gave us shots of a potent handmade tonic flavored with rum. They advised us to wear beaded bracelets blessed with fragrant oil since they brought good fortune, longevity, and protection. I had no problem trading some pesos for some Colombian enchantment. 

in Cartagena, we reached Casa San Agustín that afternoon, our final lodging for the trip. To cool off after a long day, I dove into the L-shaped pool and paddled around in the water. As I swam freely in the pool, I looked up at the beautiful sky beyond the red tiled roofs of the three mansions that were constructed in the 17th century for affluent colonial families. It appeared as though the enchanted mansion in Encanto might have been modelled after this sight, complete with potted plants draping over wooden balconies and trailing across whitewashed walls. 

We had some dark rum and coconut cocktails and some zesty ceviche with plantain chips at the hotel's award-winning Alma restaurant later on. 

After supper, we strolled through the winding alleyways of Cartagena, which come to life as the sun goes down. We watched a group of buskers breakdance under the yellow streetlights with the crowd near the Plaza de Bolívar. A locally made white cotton sundress—and my daughter's very own brown mochila—were purchased when we stopped by a shop. She takes great pride in her Colombian background. Myself included.