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Few places on this planet have struck me as being so awful, onerous, and, yes, dangerous, upon arrival. The stories and travel warnings have been going out about Santa Marta for years, testaments from people who have been robbed at gun point in broad daylight circulate the traveler communities, but, like most of these scardy cat warnings, I could not honor them until it almost happened to me. My wife, daughter, and I arrived at the market in Santa Marta by bus from Palomino.
We were dropped off near Calle 11 and made our way for the hotels scattered on Calle 10C. Perhaps it turns to 10C farther down? We walked toward the coast on Calle 10 with all of our baggage. With each block the scene before us grew worse — garbage, disrepair, defunct lowlifes sitting on curbs yelling out to us.
The shit of Latin America to the tenth power. But we were just a few blocks from being near where the hotels we were shooting for would have been, so we kept walking. It was the middle of the day — maybe noon — not a bad time for walking around most places on the planet.
Then a large, tough looking guy with a machete jumped out in front of us. But as he swung his large blade in our faces, he did not issue threats but a warning:. It is not often that I stop in my tracks and listen to men swinging machetes, but when I saw what he was referring to I stopped dead and stood at attention. Before us, on the next street corner was a group of maybe 20 young men, they were shirtless, looked listless, and appeared to be waiting for us.
The big guy with the machete again jumped in front of me and held out his blade sideways as though it was a gate. He was nearly using force to prevent me from walking into eminent doom.