Catching Crabs in Colombia

Tayrona Park is a spiritual center of the pre-Incan natives of the North Colombian coast and the site of the world’s highest coastal mountain range. Just a decade or two ago this area was a big no-no for tourists; cocaine trafficking paramilitary groups used to control the area. These guys didn’t see gringos as humans, per say; they saw them more as a case of shiny new assault rifles thanks to mommy and daddy’s love and savings account. Tayrona is currently managed by a big hospitality corporation which has done well to build extravagant and exorbitantly priced beach front lodges, and the Colombian government has apparently done well to clean out the area of guerillas. Now this beautiful area is receiving a full-on gringo invasion, but the further in you go, the less fluffy white robes and mai tais are present, and the more once in a lifetime wilderness experiences materialize.

When hiking in hot weather, one should cool down
anyway possible.

After taking a cab with a Lil Wayne aficionado who’s forever banned to enter the US due to an illegal stay of over a decade in New York (see previous entry), we arrived at Tayrona. There were old Colombian men with horses attempting to push 10 minute rides on folks who had just arrived, with prices plummeting as we showed less interest (20 thousand... ok 14 thousand... ok 3 thousand!). The first ‘ecolodge’ (read luxury hotel in the jungle) we passed had big dumpsters outside; instead of raccoon, Cayman were digging through the trash, it was like a homeless Jurassic Park—my dreams were already coming true. We made our way down to the beaches and arrived at the ‘camping area’ in the mid afternoon. This ‘camping area’ turned out to be a field with a volleyball net, a restaurant, a covered area, and about 40 square feet with as many shitty tents and hammocks as they could stuff inside it. It was kind of like a KOA, but without the campers and NASCAR shirts. We decided to beat the system and go to the deserted cove next door (roughly 400 yards from the restaurant) and hang our hammocks there, forgoing the 10 dollars they were charging in the gringo ghetto dubbed the ‘camping area.’

The next day, faced with the dilemma of more possibly lame camping at the beaches further into the park or leaving, we opted to chance it and check out Playa Brava. After 4 hours of pretty intense hiking up and down hills in humid 100 degree Caribbean Jungles, we started hearing ocean waves. The jungle opened up into a lush field with an empty pool, a dilapidated volleyball net, some shacks, and cabanas. Past the cabanas was a giant, pristine, white-sand laden cove with 6 to 8 foot waves crashing upon each other. Our inner children took the reins and we sprinted for the monstrous surf; for the next half hour, we were 6 year olds being thrown around like rag dolls by the forces of nature.

We found out later that Playa Brava started out as a cocaine shipping port, due to its remoteness and proximity to the Caribbean and US. As a cover, they installed a swimming pool, volley ball court and a few half built buildings and called it a resort under construction. As the smuggling shifted away from the Caribbean and to the Pacific, there still remained a really sweet vacation spot. The buildings were never finished (and the shells are still there) and a few Cabanas were built next to the beach. Andres, a Colombian writer who weathered the intense hike out to Playa Brava, said that he had been coming here for almost 20 years now, and literally nothing had changed about the place, which he attributes to the difficulty of getting there and the laziness of Colombians to undergo the hike and eventually trash the place.

To the left....

To the right...

On the far end of the cove there was a river that fed into the ocean with mangroves growing around it. While checking it out, we spotted blue crabs. We felt it would be quite appropriate, since we were pretty much in the middle of nowhere with minimal clothing and food, to unleash the hunters inside us. We crafted devices made out of sticks, duct tape, and knives and went about capturing hard-shelled protein sources. We devised a pretty decent system by nightfall, and equipped with our head lamps and spears, we would corner crabs, pin them down with our make-shift tools and grab them from behind by hand. After a few hours we had a pot full of crabs to boil on the beach with the few other adventurous souls that took the hike out.

The cabanas and jungle behind the beach...

The folks that ran the place were a husband and wife, their kids, and one other guy. They lived in a little house in the middle of the property and had a few light bulbs powered by a car battery. Once a week Francisco, the other guy, would take a donkey into town and load it up with supplies—this was pretty much the extent of their outside world connection.

Bonfire with other folks that made the hike out, a couple of writers (left), Ludo (closest), a couple of Googlers (Center), and me and Fatimah.

Blue crabs roasting on an open fire... I know, pretty boss...

After a few days in Playa Brava, one could really start rethinking their life; electricity starts to not seem all that necessary, simple food starts to seem pretty acceptable, and anyplace else in the world starts to seem overcrowded and stressful. We didn’t need millions of LED lights from a TV screen or a busy road full of bars for entertainment—sitting on the beach at night was a subtle but satisfying feast for the senses; jungle noises behind us, ocean crashing in front, stars above us, salt water in our nostrils, and thoughts of simpler times in our heads… well, let’s just say it was a struggle to leave.