Stunning Beaches and an Intriguing Cultural Fusion Characterize Colombia's Caribbean Coast

While upside down in the lapis-blue pool of Casa Bambú Tayrona, a hotel in the Magdalena region on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, I gazed up at the equatorial sky in my quest to find the North Star. 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. I could just make out the sound of the ocean lapping against the shore. 

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. The fact that my dad came from the South American nation notorious for its drug cartels, kidnappings, internal terrorism, and civil conflict has always made me feel ashamed of my Colombian heritage. 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. Colombia was among the world's most dangerous countries in 1995, when I first went back to see my dad. 

At Casa Bambú, amidst the birds-of-paradise and banana palms, the strongest beach currents and the three caimans rumored to inhabit the river behind the hotel constituted the sole dangers. 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. 

Travelers are drawn to the area, which is five hours away from Cartagena, by these natural wonders—or hazards, depending on your point of view. Casa Bambú, which has been in operation for four years, is situated in the rainforest near the base of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta mountains. Ecotourists can reach Tayrona National Natural Park in just five minutes by car, and this resort is one of just a few that have recently opened to accommodate them. Animals like as jaguars, howler monkeys, and poison dart frogs call this 60-square-mile park home. It also features tropical beaches, mangrove swamps, and rain forests. 

“The 2016 peace accords, which won then president Juan Manuel Santos a Nobel Peace Prize, addressed the violence and drug trade in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta region,” said Cristián Sierra, our local guide. Sierra is a tall, 30-something Costeño, the local expression for a person from the coast. While the Colombian government has succeeded in demilitarizing certain areas, other areas, particularly those in rural and Indigenous areas, continue to experience turmoil. Cartagena and the other popular tourist destinations along the Caribbean coast are just two of many warm and inviting locations. 

 According to Sierra, now that the area is safer, the locals are taking more pride in their heritage. This nation is being "rediscovered" by us, he declared. 

 A shiver ran down my back even though it was in the tropical heat. I, too, was prepared to rediscover my nation. 

Mountains, rivers, and jungles naturally demarcate Colombia's six regions. Culture, ecology, and weather are all uniquely local. The first time my family and I ventured to the northern coast along the Caribbean Sea was when I was born in Popayán, a city in the southern Andes. 

 The following morning, after waking up to the sound of the waves, we had a hearty breakfast by the pool at Casa Bambú. The service was so leisurely that Sierra, who had arrived to accompany us on an excursion, had to wait until we had finished our eggs, arepas, fresh passion-fruit juice, and robust black coffee. He informed us that this slow pace is ingrained in the local culture, thus it didn't faze him. 

 Finally, we piled into the van, and our driver set off on the Troncal del Caribe highway, which continues eastward. Forty minutes down the road, we came to a fork in the road that led into the forest; we were at the edge of the Arhuaco settlement of Katanzama. Many members of the 42 distinct Arhuaco villages in Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta call reservations like Katanzama home. The Arhuaco are one of 102 indigenous groups in Colombia. 

 According to Sierra, "they've been in the area for so long," which is why they are called the Elder Brothers. 

 The Arhuaco Jason Arroyo escorted us through Katanzama. Wearing the usual white cotton tunic and hat, the small man had a neat black beard and gentle curls. Arroyo, like many Indigenous Colombians and many Colombians in general, sported a mochila, a regionally specific crocheted purse made of wool or cotton. 

 I now own one of those scratchy brown wool mochilas that my mom used to carry around when I was a kid in Minnesota; I used to be embarrassed by their lanolin smell. On the other hand, Arroyo's bag contained dried coca leaves, a substance that residents may lawfully grow and consume. To add to the leaves in his mouth, Arroyo followed the long-established tradition of the Arhuaco people by dipping a stick into his popóro, a hollowed-out gourd containing crushed seashells. The coca is activated by the lime from the shells, which produces a mild high. Even though the plant has caused a lot of trouble in Colombia, it is still deeply ingrained in Indigenous peoples' traditions, and this served as a poignant reminder of that. 

 The principal crops of the Arhuaco, which Arroyo guided us to, include plantain, yucca, and cocoa, which will eventually be made into milk, dark, or white chocolate. He detailed the ways in which the locals continue the practice of sustainable agriculture and self-sufficiency that their forefathers had begun years ago. We had grown accustomed to his sluggish speech. As I studied Arroyo's nose shape, I couldn't help but wonder if there was any Indigenous coding in my own DNA. 

 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. We learned how to create a bag from Arroyo's wife, who was also carrying a mochila. She unpicked our erroneous stitches while laughing as our needles became entangled in 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. It is one of the most recent high-end developments on Isla Barú, a swoop of sandy beach facing Cartagena, and it is accessible by a windy 25-minute boat sail. 

 While on vacation with my parents and their wife in a little fishing town in Ecuador in the late '90s, it was the only other occasion I had been at a resort in South America. 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. 

 That is completely unrelated to calablanca. Bahía, the resort's casual beachside eatery, served us mango mojitos and fresh fish tamales while we had room service in our ocean-view suite. During our free time, we would go back and forth between the three infinity pools and the well-kept beach. 

 We continued our journey north for 1.5 hours from Isla Barú to reach our next hotel, the Sofitel Legend Santa Clara, situated in the middle of Cartagena's historic district. This area, which the locals continue to refer to as Cartagena de Indias (after a Spanish port city), was once a colony established in 1533 by the Spanish conquistadors and was protected by a seven-mile-long wall that is still in use today. Our driver led us past pastel houses with balconies on the second floor as we made our way to the hotel, each street and square serving as a window into the neighborhood's colonial past. 

 Tourists, particularly those traveling with little children, may be reminded of the city's architecture by the Disney film Encanto, which has contributed to a change in how Colombia is perceived by the public. A house started blasting the song "We Don't Talk About Bruno," and we saw commercials featuring the movie's protagonists. We spoke with several Colombians who were ecstatic to see their country's music, cuisine, and environment reflected in American popular culture. I wished there had been this film when I was younger because hearing the pride in their voices was so inspiring. 

 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. With the exception of that one wall, the room, which was once the dining hall for the nuns, is exquisitely furnished and painted gold. He informed me that the paint shows enigmatic patterns in turquoise splotches, resembling a Rorschach test, regardless of the number of layers applied. Perhaps there is a rationale behind this, as there is with many things in Colombia. 

 The butler acknowledged that even they were confused about what was true. 

 Colombia has this wonderful blend of myth and magic, and that is why I adore it. There's one aspect of this nation that hasn't changed—and likely never will. 

 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. It shocked me to find towns divided along racial and cultural lines; for example, one town would be home to Indigenous people, while the next would be home to Afro-Colombian people. The 2016 peace accord solidified Colombia's 1991 multicultural constitution, which had already granted Indigenous and Afro-Colombian groups cultural and territorial rights. Communities like Katanzama, where people maintain a lifestyle similar to that of centuries past, are preserved thanks to these laws and the physical isolation of many Indigenous and Afro-Colombian towns and reservations. 

 Another one of these conserved sites was our destination on the second-to-last day of our trip. Afro-Colombian San Basilio de Palenque is located approximately one hour's drive inland from Cartagena. 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. San Basilio de Palenque was one of the first towns in the nation to be legally recognized as a free town 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. "When people come, we're happy," Bembelé informed us. There are 3,500 people living there, and they've mastered the art of welcoming tourists, who are good for business. The women who were sitting on their porches waved, welcomed Bembelé, and voiced their concerns for my husband's fair skin under the noon sun. 

 We were welcomed to a shaded spot by Bembelé, a drummer, and a dancer to have some cold water and freshly cut pineapple. We learned the phrase "Kumo kusa ta" from our hosts, which is a sort of folklore rap song with a call-and-response structure. Good day! Traditional Palenquero, a language derived from a blend of African and European languages, is still spoken by the inhabitants of Palenque. Both Colombians and foreigners learn from songs like this. "I am fine," we awkwardly repeated. The chalupa is a lively traditional rhythm, and my husband and daughter tried their hands at its drumming patterns in turn. We were entertained—or perhaps mocked—by our hosts' laughter. 

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. 

Also 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. While gliding on my back, I looked up at the blue sky beyond the red tiled roofs of the three colonial mansions that were constructed in the 17th century. The pool is situated in a courtyard between these buildings. 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 enjoyed zesty ceviche with plantain chips and cocktails prepared with dark rum and coconut at the hotel's award-winning Alma restaurant later on. 

 We walked through the winding alleyways of Cartagena after dinner, a city that really comes to life as the sun goes down. We were part of the crowd watching a buskers' breakdancing under the yellow lighting 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.