Almost There—a Journey Through The Desert to Nowhere

What I found when the road disappeared in northern Colombia

Cabo de la Vela, Colombia, 2011

“Punta Gallinas is the kind of mystical place you read about in books (like the Thai beach in Alex Garland’s novel “The Beach”) or see in movies (like Playa Boca del Cielo in the 2001 film, Y Tu Mama Tambien), but rarely stumble upon in real life. Reaching this stunning wildscape, South America’s northernmost tip isn’t exactly a skip down to the corner store, either. But those that make the effort will be rewarded with one of the most dazzling landscapes in South America, a sanctuary of solitude that equals travel Nirvana.”

That’s how the guidebook described Punta Gallinas, a beach in the Ayuhama Desert of La Guajira Peninsula—the northernmost tip of Colombia.

So I boarded an overnight bus from Medellin to Santa Marta. Then another, north to Cuatras Vías—a remote crossroads marked by a woman grilling white bread and a few middle-aged men missing teeth who offered their personal cars as taxis.

I chose the back of a black, mid-90s Corolla with tinted windows and a sound system any suburban teenager would envy. A few miles in, lightning cracked, and then it started raining like it was the end of the world. We passed a motorcyclist, his partner clinging to his hips in a soaked skirt. By the time we reached Uribia, a fast-flowing river a foot deep ran through the main street. I grabbed my pack. The driver floated off, but not before pointing to a large white truck behind us that would take me to Cabo de la Vela, the jumping off point to Punta Gallinas “nirvana.”

By the time I reached the truck, the cab already had four people inside. Two more were perched on the roof. Ten squeezed into the back, along with several hundred pounds of rice and supplies. One elderly woman, likely pushing 90, sat tucked between coolers in the corner. Everyone bore the sun-weathered look of the region’s native Wayuu—the Indigenous group known for their steadfast resilience. The Wayuu have a saying: It is only from strong sunlight and harsh rains, that a seed can sprout.

I tried to squeeze in.

The dirt road to Cabo de la Vela had turned to a foot of thick mud. At first, we paralleled train tracks as we slogged forward. Our truck passed vehicle after vehicle with flat tires, others stuck axle-deep in muck. Eventually, the landscape flattened and turned barren. There was no road anymore. We drove north toward the coast, weaving between cactus stands on compacted sand, stopping to drop off passengers at their homes—often nothing more than a thatched roof, no walls, a single hammock.

When we arrived in Cabo de la Vela, the sun was low. I checked into a one-room shack with a grass roof, ten feet from the placid bay. It cost five bucks a night. The toilet flushed with a half-bucket of seawater. My bedsheets were sandy, and there were signs of roaches. I was the only guest. 

At dusk, my host brought me a plate of fresh white fish and rice. The sky turned pink and orange over the navy sea. It was quiet, remote, and gorgeous. I had come a long way. At the doorstep of Punta Gallinas, I ate with a proud, serene feeling of accomplishment. I was almost there.

Children played in the water as the stars came out. A kid named Dietibe joined me at my red plastic table and we tried to play cards. He spoke the dialect of the Wayuu. Communicating the rules of cribbage proved tricky. Before long, he went to bed. His one-room school with chipped aqua colored paint started at 5 a.m. each morning, before the heat set in. 

I asked the host, a handsome man no older than 18, about Punta Gallinas. He looked skeptical. I surely wasn’t the first foreigner to ask. The road there, he said, had washed out in the rains. The only way now was by motorboat—a five-hour ride that would cost about $600. I didn’t have that kind of cash, and the nearest ATM was back in Uribia. 

That night I walked the sandy road, looking for others to split the fare. I brought my headlamp and walked a quarter mile to the only light in town—a generator-powered stand where one man sold jewelry and another sold popcorn. I introduced myself to a couple of Italian women. We spoke in Spanish about Punta Gallinas. They were interested—mildly—but only if we could get the cost under $100 each.

The next morning, I asked everyone I could find about the trip. A few pointed me to local fishermen. I tried to haggle. We got nowhere. The Wayuu of the La Guajira Peninsula are famously durable, stubborn, and self-sufficient. You don’t live in the Ayuhama Desert without being all three. 

That afternoon, I took a break and walked a few miles through the desert to a secluded beach. A pair of Wayuu women sold sodas from a makeshift stand. They wore long white dresses and had coated their faces in black pigment for sun protection. The red sand burned my feet. The clear, blue water offered relief.

The Italians were there too. We swam, chatted about Rome and Berlusconi. They were leaving the next morning. My chances of reaching Punta Gallinas were fading.

On the right side of the beach, a memorial built from rocks stood atop a hill. I climbed up and looked out. The view was surreal—like the Caribbean crashing into the American Southwest. The scorched, flat red earth met a sea of blinding turquoise. It wasn’t Punta Gallinas, but it sure looked like it could be.

A couple more tourists showed up the next day but none had much interest to pay a lot of money to be taken in a dinghy to a place they knew nothing about. They had come far enough. I accepted that Punta Gallinas wasn’t going to happen. As hard as it was to let go of something I had come so far to see, I knew the rules of the road: sometimes you just can’t force it. 

I spent that last day reading with my feet in the water. I wandered the shoreline. The only person I saw was a little girl in a bright pink dress, walking along the beach. Offshore, a wooden boat named Capitán Peligro bobbed gently in the still sea—painted white and red, with a black skull and crossbones. 

At 4 a.m., my hosts woke me. The white truck was waiting. They tied my bag to the roof and I climbed into the back. This time I shared the ride with a dozen Wayuu, four goats, and a chicken. We dropped the livestock in Uribia. The truck returned me to Cuatras Vías, where I bought some white bread and waited for the next bus.

When it arrived, I found a seat to myself. The bus had air conditioning and TVs. They were playing The Marine, starring WWE’s John Cena. I settled in and watched.

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Field Notes

Miles traveled: 620

Busses taken: 2

Human truck co-passengers: 17

Animal truck co-passengers: 5

English speakers: 0

Essential Gear: Salomon Speedcross 6 trail-running shoes. I know they were essential because one night they were stolen outside my Medellin hostel room and I missed them dearly. They have been my go-to shoe for most travels since: perfect for airports (no laces!), hiking, walking, running, and pretty much anything else.

Reading Material: “Infinite Jest.” A summer alone in Colombia with few plans was the ideal setting to tackle David Foster Wallace’s masterpiece. Confession: I did not read the footnotes.

Song of the Trip: “Animal” by Miike Snow

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Words to Live By

“Yes” by William Stafford

It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.

It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.

But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.