Jumping onto one of the many buses heading regularly along the beach in Santa Marta, we wound back up the hill and down the other side into nearby Rodadero (for all of about 1200 pesos). Stocking up at the supermarket and working our way to the beach, we hired a little beach tent and chairs and chilled out on the beach for the day.
Rodadero has been pretty much wrecked by the big high rise tacky hotels scattered up and down the beach and on the surrounding hills, but the beach is still a nice place to hang out and get in some more Caribbean swimming. Apart from the constant hawkers, it was great to just sit back, read, drink a few beers and play some beach soccer.
Before we knew it, the sun was on it’s way down and we were catching a bus back to Santa Marta. We were dropped a few blocks from the beach, and by the time we navigated our way back, the sun was taking its last breaths. It made for some cool silhouettes of kids playing soccer on the beach and people walking along the shore, so we stopped once again to try and exercise some creativity.
On recommendation from our Hostel we ate at a little restaurant across the street, which incidentally turned out to be the best fish I’ve had in South America. Being our last night in Santa Marta, we headed out for a few quiet beers, which Dan turned into a few more and convinced me to head back to La Puerta. Being a Friday night it was absolutely packed and we struggled through the crowd to grab a stool at the bar. Still not convinced I wanted to be out, we had a few more beers and then started chatting to a group of gringos and locals sitting around on some couches. Some old mate poured us up a shot of rum each and another South American bloke kept telling us to get up and dance with the chicas. After persistent resistance on my part (I was happy just to sit back and relax with my beer), he convinced an Argentinian girl to pull me up onto the dance area and try and teach me to Salsa. After limited success, she gave up on it, and I sat back down, motioning that I’d tried. He in turn got up, twirled her about, reinforcing that South Americans can dance and most gringos can’t. After a few more drinks though my attitude picked up and I was giving it another go. After a few more laughs Dan and I dragged our feet home, passing my dance instructor on the way, who had by now necked about a bottle of rum and was stumbling all over the shop.
