About an hour's drive from Cartagena there rises a strange, conical mound that looks like the work of an over-sized, hyperactive band of termites. What it actually contains is much, much stranger: hot mud, tourists, and "masseuses" with very busy hands.
Visitors climb a rickety set of stairs to the top of the volcano. You can hear the laughter before you see the muddy figures flailing helplessly in the dense, creamy mud.
To put it plainly, the mud is weird. It's warm, not too malodorous, but you can neither swim nor really walk in its viscous thickness. Upon entering, your feet search helplessly for the ground- a futile effort as you are quickly seized by a masseur who proceeds to float you on your back and cover you with glop.
This assistance is hilariously unnecessary. There is no way to be in the pit and not be covered in mud, but you tolerate the manhandling because, well, because you have very little choice in the matter (trend alert- more "services" forthcoming).
But first, here's a little peep at the gang at our very dirtiest.
The mud is rumored to have beautifying/detoxifying/MAGICAL properties. At the foot of the volcano, you can even buy yourself a two-liter jug full of the stuff.
The legend surrounding the volcano states that it grew rapidly- rising quickly from the ground, spewing fire and lava and chaos and generally behaving like Satan's Very Own Hot Tub. This naturally terrified the neighbors, until one day an intrepid priest sprinkled holy water into the pit and shut the whole evil spirit thing down, leaving only hot mud for fun and profit.
Anyhoo, soaking in mud is the easy part of this adventure, soon followed by the humbling indignity of scaling a slippery ladder while coated in ten pounds of drippy glop. Hell, even writhing through the warm pudding-like goo to get near the ladder was a challenge, but there was more adversity ahead!
The warm breeze felt bracingly brisk after lolling in Satan's (former) hot tub. Our new objective was to descend a staircase and rinse off in a nearby lagoon. We raced into the murky water, passing the local women with plastic buckets who soon warned us not to go too deep. Our eyes scanned the water for any signs of danger. What the hell could be out there? Cocodrilos?
But before we knew it, we were a different kind of prey. Each member of the gang was suddenly outfitted with a local woman and her bucket, who proceeded to rinse and scrub all that therapeutic mud off like a bad memory. Resistance was useless. Our gang was de-bikini'd and de-pantsed with clinical detachment and these garments vigorously rinsed before our eyes as we squatted in the murky, possibly cocodrilo filled waters.
Once our lady deemed us properly rinsed, we dressed and decamped for dry land. Unsurprisingly, we found our way to beer and thus fortified, walked boldly into a firmer, smoother, more exfoliated afternoon.
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