The Caribbean Sea bordering Parque Tayrona meanders with turquoise charm between Cartagena and Santa Marta, along the northern coast of Colombia. Two thousand years ago, the Tairona Indians flourished here in fishing villages, cultivating the lands. Then, in the 1500’s, the Spanish came, annihilating and pushing the surviving Indians into the adjacent Sierra Nevada mountains.

After gathering their resources over some years, the Indians made a last stand against the Spanish in 1599, burning churches and killing priests and political leaders. The Indians were overpowered and sentenced to death. Their fields and villages were burned and those who hadn’t escaped to the mountains were killed. Their descendants can still be found in small mountain villages throughout the region.

Lonely Planet tells us to expect a five-hour wait to get through the long lineups and an obligatory park presentation at the entrance. We leave Taganga on the early bus in hopes of getting into the park by noon.

As expected, a sea of people sits outside the entrance obediently watching the last few minutes of a slideshow. Others hover at the edges waiting for the next presentation. As the slideshow ends, the seated people jump up and rush over to a man at the front. I watch him hand each a small piece of paper. What is that, I wonder? Thinking quickly, I turn away from the just-starting presentation and join the crowd by the man. I’m handed, to my ashamed excitement, ‘proof’ that two of us watched the video,’ and we rush to the entrance. And we’re through! Four hours earlier than we expected. A great beginning!

The trail takes us through a forest, its tropical vegetation a thousand different shades of green. At the first curve of the trail, just ahead of us, a small animal the size of a small dog ambles slowly across the path. What is that? Whaaaat?! It’s an anteater! That’s crazy. Bren and I look at each other with big grins then walk on, peering into the bush on either side of the trail hoping to see the odd little creature again.

Winding our way through palm trees, we pass one beautiful beach then another. With the same thought, we turn from the trail and walk on to the white sand. Slipping my sandals off, I sink my bare feet into the warm, white sand ground from shells washed ashore for millions of years. We lay our thin sarongs flat on the sand, peel down to our bikinis, then lower ourselves to our makeshift towels. The sun feels heavenly and we relax back onto our elbows as we watch the swimmers beyond us in the clear turquoise surf.

A lovely fifteen-minute rest and a quick dip later, we follow the pretty trail for another two hours until we reach the football-sized clearing that is Cabo San Juan de Guia, the park’s main camp where tents cover ground that used to be thick rainforest. As we leave the cool air of the forest and walk into the clearing, the sun’s intense heat bakes my face and other exposed body parts. I throw my towel over my head trying to get some relief from the heat and pull Brenda over to a group of travellers huddled under the only shade available, the small roof of a ticket booth.

We can rent a tent for the equivalent of twenty dollars or a hamaca for ten. We choose the latter and, after receiving a receipt for our payment, walk over to the roofed, unwalled structure where the hammocks are set up. We throw our packs into two of them then head out to explore the camp.

A hundred metres from our beds, a small shack acts as bathroom for the entire camp. Our bladders bursting after our long hike, we walk to the women’s side of the building. I look around then glance at Brenda. My disgust is mirrored on her face. A few people were clearly too drunk to puke neatly into the toilets last night. So gross! We pee quickly and leave the putrid-smelling shack.

Away from the building, a much sweeter scent draws us to large, pink sprays of bougainvillea at the periphery of the clearing. Beyond the pretty, flowering walls, the dirt clearing abruptly ends and we step on to a white sand beach formed like a horseshoe around a sparkling turquoise bay. At the far end of the beach, an open-air cabana perches high on a massive, craggy rock.

Hungry now, we start thinking about dinner. Our packs have been weighted down with the food we bought back in town, and I pull out a can of red beans, another of tuna and a tomato. Trying to ignore the delicious smells coming from the restaurant, taking solace in the fact that we are lightening our packs and saving our cash by making our own meals, I open a can of red beans and cut up a tomato using a pita flatbread as a plate. Two teenage boys walk by us then do a double take. They turn and watch us. I look at them, wondering why they’ve stopped. And then they laugh. I realize they’re laughing at us. Two middle-aged women with headlamps around their foreheads, sitting in the dirt pouring sloppy beans into pita-covered hands. What’s wrong with that? A bit arrogant I think, staring them down. They leave finally, still laughing, and then, another couple walks by. Like the boys, they stop. They offer us their leftover fried bananas.

What the heck? Do we look homeless, I wonder? I look at Brenda. She’s got a similar embarrassed look on her face. “Whatever,” she says as she shoves a piece of banana in her mouth. “I’ll take their bananas,” she laughs.

Morning comes and the sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the beach is waiting! We walk to the toilets, wanting to wash up, hoping they’ve been cleaned up. They have, thankfully, and we join the line of young, pretty mujeres waiting in front of the door to the women’s toilets. Our bladders relieved, we head to the side of the building to wash up. A single old cement sink and chipped mirror have been hung on the cracked cement wall of the shack and large group of girls jostle to find a little piece of mirror by which to apply what looks like a heavy tonnage of makeup. You’re camping, ladies. Lighten it up! We wash up and I run my fingers through my short hair trying unsuccessfully to calm its messiness. Then, we’re ready for the beach.

Oh, the perks of having a young friend to travel with. Within minutes of sitting on the sand, a handsome man ambles over and sits beside us. I can almost feel the pheromones he’s emitting. Brenda responds, as chemically required to, and a romance begins, just like that. I sit back and watch it happen, giving the odd response to the guy when he pretends he’s interested in talking to both of us. The three of us spend the morning on the beach, baking in the sun, and breathing in the warm and salty air of this paradise. When three little brown girls traipse over with pan de chocolat, we buy one to share, and immediately regret our cheapness when we discover how delicious the sticky, soft doughnuts filled with chocolate and still warm from their ovens are. But the girls are gone and we can’t buy more. Lesson learned.

Our first two beach days are perfect. We eat when we’re hungry, swim when we’re hot, and go to our hammocks when it’s time to sleep. The third day, we decide to hike to Playa Brava, a beach three hours away. Our daypacks feel lighter by about a couple of cans of beans and a couple of tuna when we head out of camp, but they become heavier the longer we walk. The trail is tough and we go slow; Brenda’s not used to climbing rocks and is nervous and tentative. But although she’s more careful than I, she’s a star in comparison to the local chicas climbing like little scaredy-cats alongside of us. I wonder at the thinking behind the heeled shoes and flimsy flip-flops that these girls are wearing.

The boulders go on and on up a steep slope that makes our lungs scream, then the trail finally levels out, leaving us on a flat but just as precarious root-bound trail. We walk for two more hours, still no sign of Playa Brava yet, supposedly three hours from where we started. We’re at five hours now. I think we must have missed a turnoff. Sweating and exhausted, without energy to even talk to each other, I watch worriedly as the sun sinks lower and lower. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on ignoring my aching feet and shoulders.

As we turn a bend, I see a shard of blue sky in the distance.

“Brenda! I think we’re there,” I say. I walk faster, wiping the sweat from my forehead as I peer through the trees and pray in my godless way for another sign that we’ve arrived. The trail takes a steep turn and I spot a yellow flag tied around a tree. This has got to be it! We stumble down the trail. Yes! We’ve arrived at Playa Brava. Thank god.

We practically run across the clearing at the bottom of the mountain, aiming ourselves at the beach and ignoring the small wooden shack we pass except to register a small sign that says ‘Comidas’ on its wall (yes, they have food!). At the sand’s edge, we practically rip our hiking boots off, feeling immense relief as our feet are freed from the hot, sweaty boots, and then, joy as we sink to our ankles in warm, soft, black volcanic sand.

I look around at the empty beach. I can’t believe we have this quiet piece of heaven all to ourselves.

Brenda seems to be a little less enamoured with the solitude, wondering aloud where the other people are. After some musing, I get it – she probably misses the energy of the last camp. A few minutes later though, her Jim and his pheromones arrive via a different trail, and she’s content again.

Rested now, and suddenly starving, we head back to the small shack. As we walk, we see a thin, middle-aged man in T-shirt and jeans walking from a rockier part of the beach, a bucket in his hand. Fish, I wonder?

The little house, besides clearly being a family’s home, is a restaurant, and we put in an order for fish – it’s all they have - buy ourselves a warm beer from the cooler in the corner, and settle at a picnic bench to wait. So excited! Food that doesn’t come from a can.

Half an hour later, we smell our dinner and within moments, plates are placed in front of Brenda, Jim and I, each covered with a large fish, fried golden, and alongside a big helping of rice and colourful vegetables. I dig in. The sweet taste of coconut in the rice is both delicious and unexpected, and the fresh vegetables are heavenly. We haven’t seen veggies in a week.

Our very appreciated dinners finished, we ask about accommodation. The cabins are full, the fisherman’s wife tells us, but we can stay in the hammocks beside the beach if we like. We like.

Back at the beach, I choose one of the four hanging hamacas. Brenda and I swing gently and chat as Jim sets up his one-man shelter beside us and, soon, the sun disappears over the horizon. Sleepy, I wrap myself in the warm blanket provided by my hosts, I crawl back into my hammock, this time, lying back, my head looking toward the moonlit sea. Such a magical place. The music of the waves lapping at the shore’s edge takes me dancing into sleep.

The sky is pink and the sea stormy when I wake the next morning, and I watch it silently, listening to the waves as they crash on to the shore just twenty metres away from my bed. It’s just as magical as last night’s peaceful moonlit scene.

I’m not ready to leave my cozy hammock or this place but our time in the parque is short and we’ve decided we want one more night at the beautiful San Juan de Guia. We pack up, take one last look at this beautiful piece of the earth, then walk back to the mountain. Not looking forward to but expecting a tough long hike back, we’re surprised to see Jim take a different trail than the way Brenda and I came in last night. Following yellow flags. Whaaat? Where were those flags yesterday? Within what seems a very short time, we reach a site we recognize as well past the halfway point to the main camp. “Jesus,” I say. “Where the heck did we screw up yesterday? I think we must have gone over an extra frickin’ mountain!” Our day will be so much easier than expected!

We reach camp in the early part of the afternoon with an entire, and unexpected, beach day ahead of us. As we head to the water, we peer into some of the rent-a-tents. Inside them, two-inch-thick mattresses suggest a comfy sleep.

“Hey Bren,” I say. “Maybe we should get a tent tonight…?”

Her muscles ache as much as mine do and she’s totally in. We rent a tent, dump our stuff, park our asses on the beach, and lie like the dead for hours, soaking in the sun until its last rays disappear. Even after this long rest, I’m still exhausted, and anticipating a wonderful sleep on my cushy mat tonight.

At three a.m., I’m still awake. Sharp rocks poke into my lower back, and though I move as many away through the tent floor that I can find, another piedra jabs into a soft body part. I examine my mattress. Huh…I should have looked closer at the mattresses. Ours are only quarter-inch thick babies.

Resigned to a miserable night, I remember another. Another sleepless night I had, long ago, on another backpacking journey. The night a friend and I tried to save a couple of dollars by crawling down a hole in the middle of a highway construction in some German city to sleep one night. I remember thinking then that saving a few bucks wasn’t worth the exhaustion I felt the next day. Clearly, I forgot that lesson.

As I lie here now, tossing and turning, moving yet another rock from under my hip, I shake my head. That long ago decision was perfectly reasonable then. I was young. With no job. Backpacking for two years and trying to make my dollars go as far as they could. Tonight’s decision was just dumb. I’m not young anymore. Nor am I broke. I can afford a real bed.

Next Chapter: Dancing Like Nobody’s Watching