This is Taganga, it’s raw and always hot. The people are poor, and there’s no water, but it is an honest town, in the way towns like these are. The truth is a mixture, a combination, of the vice and the virtue expressed by those that live there. There is nothing to hide because it is all exposed.
Early in the morning, when the fisherman push their boats out to sea, their feet drip sparkling drops of water when they jump on board. The wind blows clean and fresh from the ocean and it is the only time the town is quiet.
Later, once the sun is high and burning the gravel streets bake, and the wind shifts and begins to blow the other way. It funnels down the canyons from the dry brush hills, which surround the half-moon bay, and it blows strongest when the sun is setting. Howling at times, the wind is never cold warm and always enjoyable. When the weather is like this, life slows down and becomes more tranquil. The true beauty of existence can be touched and is brought to your sweating skin with each breath of breeze.
I dedicate this story to Monica, and La Tortuga Hostel.