Catagena!!

So close!  Cartagena in the morning light.

Morning on the Corto II, day six.  We were in sight of Cartagena, but we had not set foot on South American soil.  Or pier.  Sebastian put me on the helm for weighing the anchor, then took back the helm and put me on anchor duty as we eased stern first to the corner of the pier at the yacht club.  We dragged the anchor backwards until we reached the pier and then tied up with two stern lines.  The crossing was now officially over, but we were still prisoners to immigration.  Sebstian mentioned that there were showers in the yacht club.  Showers????  Si'.  Jacko and I were off the boat like a shot, clutching towels and cleaning gear and giddy as school children.  Six days of salt and sweat and grime disappered into the drains of the posh club facitilites, but then it was back to the boat to bake while waiting for the immigration man to cometh.  Of in this case the immigration woman.

Time moves slowly without the passports.

Eventually, long after we were packed and ready, immigration showed up, asked us whether anyone had been to Africa recently, and matched up the passport photos to the faces.  That done, we were informed the the passports would be processed by midday and could be picked up at the Blue Water Sailing office in the Old Town.  We were free to deboat and move on.  Without our passports.  On foreign soil.  Yeah.  This was a direct violation of Marco's Rule of Travel #3.  Oh well.  Onward!

Goodbyes were exchanged, hugs and emails swapped.  The rest of the crew set out in cabs for the Old Town.  I chose to walk, as always.  I need the feel and smell of a new place and walking is the only way.  Sebastian got this and gave me a second hug.  I am sure we will cross paths again.

Did I mention the Cartagena is hot.  Really hot.  And did I mention that it was the weekend for Carnival?  Yuppers, Carnival weekend.  Know what happens on Carnival weekend.  Hostels book up quickly, that's what happens.  Six Lonely Planet recomendations and a few other hostels later, I was a stewed ball of sweat and backpack and still roomless.  After six days and five nights on a small sailboat, a dorm room just wasn't going to cut it for me.  So, deep in the narrow streets of the Old Town, I left it to instinct and started hunting on my own.  Ten minutes later I had splurged on a small boutique B&B with divine aircon, an ensuite bath, and a lovely little courtyard.  Big money by my traveler's standard, but cheap by Seattle standards.  Its all relative and I was soon showered, smelling sweet and back out on the streets of Cartagena without the bag.

Oh, finding the passport?  No big deal.  It was not at Blue Water when I got there, but the amazing Dutch woman smilingly phoned immigration and was told that the packet was on the way over.  She recommended the french creperie across the street and, after a lovely tart and coffee, i returned to find my passport waiting for me with a smile.  I ambled back to my B&B so that I could be officially checked in and turn their frowns upside down.  Hotels here get pretty frowny-faced if one shows up sans passeporte.

Clean, documented and refreshed, I was ready for the heat of the day in the walled Old Town of Cartagena.