Rolling around like a pig in mud may not be high on most peoples' lists of things to do in Colombia. A mud pit also might not sound like the ideal place to get pampered and indulge in a little facial... but the Totumo Mud Volcano is IT.
Located halfway between Cartagena and Barranquilla on Colombia's Caribbean coast, El Volcan del Totumo has the honour of being Colombia's tallest mud volcano, standing at a diminutive twenty metres. But don't be fooled by its size. This overgrown molehill was created by natural gases emitted by decaying organic matter underground. The mounting pressure of these gases pushes the mud upwards where it hardens above ground, creating a miniature volcano with a mud-filled crater - and this crater was our destination.
At the semi-respectable hour of 8.30am LL and I were collected by a shiny new minibus from the centre of Cartagena. Tourism is relatively new to Colombia but they are racing to catch up and doing it well, as our wheels would attest. Having bolted our breakfast in record time and scurried to the pick-up point through the city's soupy humid air (thickening already at this early hour), we were (for once) more than happy to be enveloped in the arctic blast of air conditioning inexplicably symptomatic of all South American buses.
We spent an hour getting an unintended "scenic" tour of the newer part of Cartagena and its expansive hotel zone, unattractive at best, collecting argumentative tourists with too many belongings. LL and I settled in to enjoy the spectacle of our guide, Nieves, trying to corral a resistant Venezuelan family and coax them onto the bus before they were ready. This was an exercise operatic in its scale but eventually mother, father, three daughters and a coltish little son were all settled in and we were ready to go.
An hour or so later our minibus, capably driven by Fernando (only veering into oncoming traffic twice!) pulled up at the volcano.
Okay, so it isn't much to look at - at first.
A crooked and rickety set of stairs clings to the side of the volcano, and with some apprehension I watched my fellow tourists clamber up in their swimmers, nose to tail. I opted to take my sarong. "Leave EVERYTHING here," said Nieves imperiously. I did not appreciate being commanded to get (more or less) nude with a bunch of strangers, and fought for my modesty. "I'm taking it," I told her firmly. She shrugged, but her expression clearly read, idiot. I'd show her!
We clambered up the stairs to the top, where we found a tiny arena dominated by a mud pit reinforced with logs, and full of people rolling around in some kind of piggy orgy. They were like creatures from the black lagoon, covered head to toe in gloopy viscous grey mud.
In we hopped. The mud was thick and buoyant. A Colombian masseur pushed me straight across the surface of the water and I glided along like a little boat. In fact, it is impossible to submerge yourself in this mud. We sat in it as though in a chair and it would fill in the gaps left by our bodies, pushing us up.
The pit was full, and I won't lie, things might have gotten a little sexy. What with the massages on offer by Colombians in the pit, and being squished in like sardines in a little mud can, strangers found themselves getting up close and personal, bumping into one another, accidentally grabbing things beneath the surface in an attempt not to fall on their faces in the mud (if you move too quickly you run the risk of the mud popping you right out, whereby you immediately lose any balance and go plunging towards the mud face-first). There was a hotspot that emitted loud sulfurous fart bubbles, which had everyone from small children to grandpas giggling and pointing fingers.
LL and I got down to business - styling our hair into the latest mud fashions and applying mud masks to every square inch of our bodies. Getting mud in the eyes and mouth was a real danger and frankly, impossible to avoid, and also to wipe off. Mmmm... mud.
It began to rain, and the surface of the mud became pocked with raindrops, with the unfortunate side effect of splashing mud into everyone's eyes. Party over, we hopped out, only to find that the fun was just beginning. Coated in mud as we were, with absolutely nothing to wipe it onto, the rocky ground became a danger and the stairs a deathtrap. I almost fell over several times while standing still - how on earth to get down?
Like toddlers, we nervously began climbing down. This being Colombia, security measures were non-existent and visions of a broken back and paralysis swam before my eyes. I was hindered my my sarong, which, true to Nieves' prediction, was covered in rain and mud and utterly utterly useless. Once bemudded, modesty went out the window. What's to worry about? I got my mud suit on. Clinging with muddy slippery hands to the wooden railing we very slowly, one foot at a time, edged down.
At the bottom, we were directed to the Cienaga de Totumo, the lagoon next door, to wash off. Easier said than done - the hard ground was a danger at every step. I sloooooowly made my way step by step to the lagoon. I was halfway there when FWOMP! I fell flat on my butt. Hard. I sat there stunned for a minute wondering if my coccyx was broken. I decided not. A too-kind Colombian man edged over to me and allowed me to cover his arms in mud as I dragged myself up and tiptoed to the lagoon where I gratefully collapsed.
However, the thought of washing mud off my at my own leisure was shattered. A middle-aged Colombian woman waded over to me and unceremoniously tipped a bucket over my head. Oh, okay. She then proceeded to scrub the shit out of me - almost literally. I was dunked under water so many times I found it hard to breathe. This washing was frighteningly reminiscent of my Turkish Baths experience in Istanbul, complete with a fierce older lady giving me what-for.
"Take off your top!" she demanded. I liked to think of myself as a modern liberated woman who takes her top off when she wants to, not when ord-- oh, okay. There you go. She proceeded to wring my top out in front of me, while I took the opportunity to snatch a few breaths. "Now take off your pants!" She washed them too as I sat in the murky water like a chastised toddler, hoping no one would notice I was nakey - although on observation, they were all being scrubbed down too. Oh, except for LL. "You have no pants on!" he squealed, trying to hoist me out of the water. My washerwoman stood to the side and laughed. Thanks. Luckily he is a tiny man, and was unsuccessful.
Of course, none of these services were free. As Nieves pointed out, the people that live near the volcano live entirely off tourism and tips from visitors. They don't do too badly - my washerwoman made about five thousand pesos, or $2.50 off each victim. I mean, customer. Same went for the pit photographers and masseurs. Given that the daily minimum wage is 15,000 ($7.50, and definitely not enough to live off), and maybe a hundred people visit the volcano each day, then they're making decent money. For Colombia, anyway.
We squelched back onto the bus, newly exfoliated and mud-masked up the wazoo. I tuned out LL's ogling of the gorgeous Venezuelan daughters while trying not to be spotted by their burly father, watched the arid landscape whizz past, and shivered all the way back to Cartagena. Damned air conditioning.
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