Within the first second of landing in Cartagena, the Longitudinal Larrikin was punched in the face. No blood, no black eye, just the overwhelming humidity and heat that throws anyone a punch in this Caribbean coastal town.

A big enough place with an less than formidable history, the free walking tour had the local bloke absolutely making up a story as to how Cartagena had come to be known. Something about a native chick  getting kidnapped at 11 by the Spanish and then returning with another Spanish bloke back to the city. Her name wasn’t even Cartagena but she liked calamari or something along those lines.

During that history lesson, the Larrikin’s attention was more focused on the few dozen illegal Venezuelan immigrants trying to flog water and wide brim straw hats to the gringos. During the above myth being told, the Venezuelan’s piss bolted out of there. Medieval jousting like, the police were riding their motorbikes on the plaza chasing them down and grabbing their foam esky’s hanging from their shoulders.

There are a few different parts of Cartagena; the Larrikin stayed in a bohemian neighbourhood called Getsemani. If you’re struggling to pronounce Getsemani right, don’t sweat it, he still can’t. He’s been calling it Giuseppe, GetSomeMoney, Gepstami – close enough is good enough in this instance! Arts n crafts everywhere. The pictures explain themselves.

Being a coastal Caribbean town, the ceviche (fish, prawns, calamari, octopus) was bloody delightful, particularly as the 95% humidity and 30+ degree sun rayed down. Apparently you can get burnt this close to the equator.

Lots of photos taken in this city. If a picture says a thousand words, there probably isn’t a lot more the Longitudinal Larrikin should say.