Cartagena, the city where the legendary South American writer Gabriel García Márquez once lived, has always been a place of endless fascination for me. I envisioned it as a vibrant tapestry of culture and beauty, brimming with the magic realism that defines its most famous resident. But alas, my experience there was far from enchanting—it was, in fact, downright dreadful.
During the day, I was relentlessly pursued by vendors who refused to take “no” for an answer. Unlike their counterparts in Medellín, who politely back off after a refusal and even offer a friendly fist bump to wish you well, Cartagena’s hawkers were relentless. If you ignored them or declined their offers, they would resort to calling you names like “China Puta.” It was exhausting and disheartening.
At night, the old town transformed into a different kind of battleground, teeming with prostitutes who aggressively approached anyone within reach. In contrast, Medellín felt much safer—Provenza, for instance, was refreshingly free of such harassment. Unable to endure the constant pestering in Cartagena’s old town, I decided to cut my losses and head back to my hotel.
Negotiating a taxi ride should have been straightforward, but it turned into a nightmare. After agreeing on a fare of 10,000 Colombian pesos (for a mere 700-meter journey), the driver tried to scam me upon arrival, demanding 10 US dollars—or an astronomical 100,000 Colombian pesos! When I handed over all the cash I had, he attempted to speed away without letting me exit the vehicle.
I leapt out just in time and sprinted back to the safety of my hotel. As I passed his car, he even tried to strike me—a terrifying finale to an already unpleasant encounter. This was a world apart from Medellín, where drivers courteously use GPS to show you your route and charge fares comparable to Uber.
Despite these misadventures, Cartagena wasn’t entirely devoid of charm. I met some delightful Spaniards who made my stay more bearable. We spent many evenings at Café del Mar, sipping drinks, chatting animatedly, and watching the sun dip below the horizon while basking in the gentle sea breeze. Nights were lively too, especially at La Movida nightclub, which buzzed with energy despite being frequented by tourists.
Though it lacked the authenticity I craved, the atmosphere was undeniably electric.
In the end, Cartagena left me with mixed feelings—a blend of frustration and fleeting joy. Perhaps, like life itself, it’s a city best appreciated for its imperfections.
