Every travel should contain some bliss and bliss is doled out generously at Dos Aguas Lodge, which sits on the far end of the beach in Rincón del Mar.
The sea water is warm, la playa muy tranquila. The sunsets are out of this world and lend themselves well to the company of a Guaro Sour or similar, prepared by the shy bar man with tender concentration.
Bliss arises in more unexpected places too. Like recognising a kindred spirit in one of the giant sloths casually dangling from a tree branch in the nearby tropical dry forest. You can pooh-pooh sloths all you like but they are the only creatures that safely navigate the spikes that many of the trees have grown to protect themselves against wildlife. As a result, the sloths have the treetops to themselves.
Then, the glory of the almond trees — I did not even know almonds grew on trees! Or the genius of the mangle, or mangrove, an ecosystem supported by filtering tubes and tiny crabs. Mangroves are great carbon scrubbers and on a dreamy canoe trip, our local guides express their wonder and enthusiasm for them in the way other guys might talk about a world cup football match. Where Scotland wins.
Colombia has the second highest degree of bio-diversity in the world, after Brazil, and in Rincón del Mar I begin to catch a glimpse of it. I particularly love the baby pelicans practising flying in formation — they are still so very small and already have such admirable focus. Birds of prey are everywhere. On a dawn walk I also see parrots and toucans.
On the night of the new moon I sign up for a boat trip to see bio-luminescent plankton. The plankton sparkles at night, due to a chemical reaction, apparently, but in this case I don’t want the detail. Let there be some magic. In the water, tiny lights scintillate with every move you make: it’s like being a swimming fairy. We are far out and, what with my comfort zone being so small, I have to push myself into the dark sea. But once in the water, I look up: the number of stars covering the night sky is stupendous.
Rincón del Mar is a fishing village with a few dusty streets populated by playing children and adults watching a small world go by. Affluence is absent, but even the most humble homes are painted in unabashed colours and seem to have at least one boat at the back. There is one timid little hotel in Rincón del Mar, as well as few hippie-ish hostels, and improvised restaurants in people’s houses. No cars, apart from the food delivery van.
One day, I take a trip to the San Bernandino islands. We moor at Isla Mucura first, where Javier, a serious young boy, strikes up a conversation (thus becoming one of my many Spanish teachers) and shows me around the Pueblo. He doesn’t want any money for it. On Tintipan, the sea is Caribbean blue and the locals make the most of it. At 1 pm, lunch is served for everyone on the beach at the same time. And everyone (including me) gets exactly the same: two freshly caught fish, a deep-fried corn thingy and a smidgeon of salad. Everyone eats it together, companionably, at wooden tables.
So there is my bliss: slowing down with the locals. And also with the not-so-locals blissing alongside me at Dos Aguas Lodge, as we eat supper together at night (all the same meal too, but vegetarian and sustainable).