Freezing, I slowly opened my eyes, trying to awkwardly roll over in the very uncomfortable khaki canvas hammock, hands tucked between my knees in the fetal position doing anything to try and get warm. It was a cold, sleepless night involving bats, mosquitoes and all sorts of moths landing on our hammocks while listening to strange animal noises all around us. We had survived our first night sleeping in a hammock in the Colombian jungle at a "camp site" that we could not exactly tell you where we were.

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We had spent the previous very hot summers day hiking in Parque Tayrona, a National Park on the northern coast of Colombia. It was idyllic. Stunning golden beaches with turquoise blue, crystal clear water, lined with palm trees and the rocky boulder outcrops creating small coves and lagoons all whilst in thick rainforest jungled, backed by the world's highest coastal mountain range, the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. 

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We would alternate between walking on the beach and in the jungle, all trying to reach the stunning beach, Cabo San Juan. After a tiring long trek in to Cabo, we discover that there were no spaces left at the camp and that we would need to hike an hour back to the last camp site we had passed. Hot, tired and disappointed, the man in charge of this campsite was nothing short of a sleaze and the thousands of mosquitoes weren't adding to the atmosphere. 'But is this our only option, where else can we go?' we deliberated between us. After a wander around the campsite, I noticed another path with a sign saying 'camp' with an arrow. We agreed that Margaret would stay and mind the tent, as it was the only one left and I would head into the jungle alone down the path to see if there was a camp site. We had only arrived in Colombia the day before so I can't say that I was in that groove yet of confidently knowing what to expect from this country. That confidence you just seem to obtain after a day or two getting lost figuring things out or that successful feeling of mastering public transport systems in foreign countries. I had none of that yet. I had also never been in a jungle before, so there was that too.

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'What animals do they have here?' I would find myself thinking, knowing that this park was known for its incredible biodiversity, before trying to distract myself with a little humming as I power walked down the narrow dirt path in search of the camp. 'At what point do I stop and turn around?', I also kept debating. It was getting dark but surely there wouldn't be a sign if there wasn't a camp, right? We were the only two girls at the campsite so I was determined to find another. My internal monologue thinking 'you shouldn't have split up, you shouldn't have gone off on your own, this is how people vanish, you're in the jungle for goodness sakes. This is Colombia!'. Thankfully, just as I was ready to give up and turn around, I spotted another sign which led to a shelter full of hammocks in the jungle. A camp site! I ran back to Margaret before it was dark and we quickly gathered our backpacks and off we marched back down the path to spend our first night in the jungle. 

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It was the middle of a Caribbean summer and it was so hot and humid. Except for the evenings, where we froze with no sleeping bag or blanket on the hammock. Rooky mistake not bringing either with us. Both of us using our damp beach towels as a substitute blanket. Margaret, is a Canadian girl I had met volunteering in Kenya in 2011 and having kept in contact, we decided to meet up in Peru and backpack a few South American countries together. Although it had been six years since we'd last seen each other, it was like being back with your best friend. That friend who is also willing to give anything a go. I just don't think she'll give sleeping with a bat hanging down beside her another go again. 

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We spent the next couple of days eating, drinking, swimming and lazing around Cabo San Juan. It was like living in paradise so far removed from the world. When the day came for us to hike back out, it was such a hot day that the thought of the walk on the sandy path was quite unappealing so we decided that perhaps, we could catch a boat. 

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There was no jetty or boat office in the park, nor any information but we had heard from other backpackers that there was an elusive boat that came once a day. While relaxing and swimming in the crystal blue waters we spotted a rough looking guy with a notebook in hand wandering along the beach chatting to tourists and handing them tickets. We wondered if he could be the boat man no one knew anything about. We raced up and ask and to our surprise and relief he was and he promised we could get on the boat at 4:00pm and head back to Santa Marta, the town where we had left our belongings and needed to return to. We handed over our Colombian Peso's and in return got a piece of paper that resembled a raffle ticket covered in squiggly illegible Spanish handwriting. Nothing official by any means. With our golden ticket secured, we spent the remainder of the boiling hot day swimming, trying to relax, whilst not entirely sure we hadn't been well and truly scammed. 

 

At 3:30pm we discovered that the boats docked or more so just ran aground in a cover to the north of where we were, so we hiked our way there through a rough jungle path and went down on the sand and waited. At first there were only a few tourists and we were all asking to have a look at each others tickets, all collectively wondering if the ticket was legitimate or whether we had fallen victim to a Colombian cartel and were about to be put on a boat to be kidnapped and sold off for body parts. 

 

An hour passed and no boats were to be seen just an additional 100 people now waiting for a small 20 person boat. I was doing the maths and getting a little worried. Knowing the Cabo San Juan campsite would be full by now, we certainly didn't want to hike back and spend another night with the bats. Impatiently and keeping an eye on the time, we wait and wait and wait. 

 

Finally, there in the distance two small wooden boats come sailing around the coastline. We look at them. We look at each other, stunned. Surely this can't be it? But it was. 

 

We watched on from the beach as they crammed about 40 people on this little wooden outboard which was so overloaded the water was lapping at the sides. Margaret and I agreed there was no way on earth we were getting in and at that point resigned to spending another night with the bats and whatever else (we didn't like to think) somewhere in the Colombian jungle. 

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The very unofficial boat captain came over to those left on the sand and tried to reassure us that a bigger boat was coming and not to worry. We wait and wait some more until another boat finally appears on the horizon but i no way was this one bigger than the last. But it was our last change to get out of the jungle, this time we eagerly hop in. Packed around the edge of the boat like sardines, we quickly grabbed a life jacket knowing there definitely won't be enough of them to go around. Sunken, water lapping at the sides, we set off out to sea. 

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As we came out of the shelter of the cove, things took a turn. It was rough! The swell was huge, the very casually dressed, severely overweight captain was screaming at us in Spanish not to move in desperation and fear that the boat would capsize or sink. The sweat pouring down his red, stressed face was a clear indication of the severity of his concerns. 

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With us all seated length ways along the boat looking in at each other, you could see the fear start to creep across everyone's faces. Every time someone moved to try and stabilise themselves the captain would scream. We were just going up over waves, nearly vertical, one after the other. There were a couple of people seasick which at least provided a little entertainment, watching their greeny-white pale faces as the boat thumped over every stomach dropping wave. I had never been so certain on a boat that it was going to capsize. Margaret and I had to make a plan if we wanted to survive.

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We would need our passports. So in between holding on tight to each other as we went over each wave, we very carefully got both our passports out and nervously put them into the zip lock bag we had been using to waterproof our phones as fast as we could in case they slipped and went overboard. We were quite far offshore by now but we looked for where we would both swim if it happened. Thoughts crossing our mind that we could end up living out our own version of the television show Lost, on the Colombian coast with any of the other passengers who would have the strength to make it ashore. We made a promise to each other that we would help no one, as we sat there, sussing out the physical condition of everyone on the boat. We would just swim for it rather than risk our lives helping someone and drowning doing so. We sat there looking at the others, eyeing them off, as if we had sneakily formed an alliance and made a plan right in front of them. Well to be honest, we had. Margaret and I then just linked arms, gripped on tight and waited until we had to jump into action. With the swell getting bigger, we were so assured with each roll and drop that that wave would be the one that throws us in. 

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Whilst the severity and danger of the situation was in the forefront of our minds, we continue motoring straight into an incredible deep orangey-red sunset on the horizon, which we only caught a fleeting glimpse of every time we peaked over top of a wave. It was beautiful and did make for a moment forget about where I was and the situation we were in; but then it got dark. 

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There were no lights around as we were off the coast in the Caribbean Sea, our boat didn't have any either. With night well upon us and everyone wet, cold and over it we continue going up and over the waves without an end in sight. It was torturous. I cannot tell you the sigh of relief that came from everyone on the boat when we noticed a soft glow of lights from a town in the distance. Phew. At last! We had direction. We had hope. After a very long, rough ride we finally docked at a jetty. We jumped off that boat so damn fast, happy to finally be on dry land. We look around and do not recognise a single thing. 'Oh no, where were we?'

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Already traumatised from the journey, we hesitantly ask another backpacker and are told that we are not in Santa Marta but a small coastal town to the north. Wet, tired, hungry, exhausted and still feeling like we were going over 12 foot waves on land, we were don. We went through all that and we were not even home.

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Starving we stop and grab some arepas to eat from a street vendor and notice a young girl selling colourful plaited wrist bracelets at the next stall. Margaret and I joke 'shall we get one to remember this boat ride?' Absolutely.

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Wet and with an added bracelet, with no other choice we hail a taxi and continue driving another forty five minutes back to Santa Marta while on the drive home, sitting in silence, regretting not just hiking those six hours back out of the jungle and being done.