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I was aware of the reputation. How could I not be? But after five years in recovery it no longer felt like a concern. First stop Bogota. A vibrant mishmash of red-tiled colonial buildings with painted balcony balustrades. Narrow streets swoop up green mountains decapitated by clouds. A few people smoking crack in the street. That always grabs my attention. Then, curious red brick neighbourhoods that could have been transplanted from Oxford. They sprouted in rebellion against Spanish influence, after the 19th century wars for independence. He told me of a park with lots of parties and drugs and great opportunities to be robbed. I worried this was too ambiguous, and then wondered whether this was strategic ambiguity, that sneaky part of me leaving the door ajar without overtly leading him on. I felt a thrill of excitement, my skin tingling. What new experiences awaited in that light-flooded valley? He paused for a moment then reached into the glove compartment and handed me a box of injectable oxycodone ampoules. At this point my body became a travelling circus. My stomach launched into all sorts of acrobatics, somersaults, soaring trapeze stunts, fireworks going off down my spine, my breath hot and heavy like a fire breather, elephants stomping a foreboding death march across my brain, and my mind teetering on a tightrope above it all, its little arms outstretched, flailing to stay balanced and not tumble into the chaos below. I handed them back like a hot potato. Words that could have been said? Eventually, my urge to maintain polite conversation — the least consequential of all the urges and competing priorities clashing inside me — overrode everything. Just a few hours of fun, then leave it all behind and see the city, do what I came here for. The pharmaceutical protagonist of these fantasies, inches from my knees, was easy to cast. Then the rational voice kicked in: half a day? Yeah right. But… things are different now; after five years, you know enough about this beast to keep it in check. A one off would be fine. Just one more time. You can take it or leave it, which means you can definitely take it then leave it. Finally I hauled myself out of that debate and marvelled at how two voices, so distinct and persuasive, can co-exist in the same mind. We arrived at the hostel and the fantasies remained, for now, unconsummated. But the deviant part of my mind saw it as an investment. Now the sensible thing would have been to delete his number and forget all about it. And that idea certainly occurred to me. Yes, just in case. Upstairs in my room, two very wise courses of action occurred to me: delete his number, call someone. Neither were followed. Instead I chose a moderately wise course of action that kept the fantasies at bay until my eyes closed for the night — distract the shit out of myself. Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. Plump Botero statues bulged from plinths. But despite this visual feast, my attention was quickly consumed by people smoking crack around the perimeter. He theatrically brandished a colossal crack pipe, leaning back at 45 degrees, Matrix style. He went to light it, but performed yet another improbable feat; he paused, and brandished the pipe some more like a traffic conductor, before finally taking a hit. Beside him stood a woman, tranquil, calmly lighting her pipe over and over, without changing her posture or expression. My mind slipped into theirs and I wondered what they were feeling. My stomach lurched. Back on the bus I summoned the most vivid, euphoric snippets of speedball memories, like a butcher selecting the finest cuts of meat, savouring them until that circus started up again. Then I realised what was happening and how dangerous that was, and conjured the most miserable moments of those days, like a horror film connoisseur on a YouTube binge, seeing my old self sick and lonely, in a wonderful city surrounded by friends, yet unable to experience anything except cravings and misery. That shut the circus down. Funny that the best thing I could do for myself was tap into my worst memories. Imagining things induces similar neurological and physiological responses to actually experiencing them, which is why imaginal exposure can be such a valuable intervention for phobias, and safe-place imagery so helpful for PTSD. We can wreak havoc with our imagination, but we can also harness it to cultivate more helpful states. Sitting on that bus, I did both, over and over. A dizzying cycle of self-sabotage and self-preservation. He was reassuringly unconcerned. They come from nowhere, and if you let them, they disappear back where they came from; fucking nowhere. Research suggests a new thought arises every 4. What the hell should we do with them? Metacognitive perspectives suggest that our relationship with our thoughts matters more than their contents. The way we think about our thoughts determines the impact they have. Problematic metacognitive patterns in addiction include believing that you must control your thoughts and that thoughts are dangerous, which are significant predictors of relapse. I recalled my work with OCD, and the thought-action-fusion fallacy, which leads people to believe that thinking about something makes it more likely to occur. But you can think really hard about sitting down, whilst remaining standing. Having these thoughts after five years of recovery did not mean I was destined to enact them, or that something was going fundamentally wrong. The thoughts meant nothing at all, as long as I let them. The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. There is nothing new there. And sadly, in a way that is true. Nothing can feel as good as that intense flash of euphoria. One of the challenges of recovery is to accept slow burning pleasures instead. When you forgo the sublime intensity of narcotics, you need to find excitement elsewhere. And by God, Colombia was the right place to do that. Communa 13, with its brick buildings stacked precariously on a steep hillside, was one of the most violent parts. In , police raided Communa 13, killing nine people and wounding scores more. But since then, local projects and community centres have brought it back to life. The installation of nearly m of escalators has plugged it into the city. Buildings bloom with murals. Street dancers and rappers get crowds bouncing. The anthill alleys are cramped but not oppressive. It feels more vivid for the compression, human friction sparking festivity. But it also got me pondering my own complicity with the violence they were recovering from. Are western drug users responsible in part for the trail of destruction from Colombian coca fields to western mirrors and crack pipes? Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said :. The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. The jungle is not responsible. Society educated towards endless consumption, stupid confusion between consumption and happiness is what makes it possible for the pockets of the rich to be filled. Those responsible for drug addiction are not the forest. It is the lack of rationality of world power. Decreasing drug consumption does not need wars. It needs for all of us to build a better society with more solidarity, with more affection, where the intensity of life will save people from addiction. Art by Rhys James artbyrhysjames. I walked into the Botero Museum and started laughing like a delighted child. One painting shows a plump little conical nubbin of a Catholic bishop walking through a forest in a flamboyant pink frock, with a pink umbrella no rain and his pink cape trailing far behind. He is ludicrously, determinedly extravagant and inelegant against the effortless elegance of the towering trees behind. He is ridiculous. In a way that combination of levity and love is a guide to our relationship with ourselves. Laugh at the sincerity of our weird little pursuits, but love ourselves for the persistence of our pursuit, even in the face of this absurdity. Another painting, El Estudio, shows a colossal nude model, a vast expanse of buttocks dominating the foreground at eye level. The miniscule head of the painter peers at her from behind the canvas. His gaze is solemn and diligent, but the scaling mismatch renders his task and his solemnity absurd. How could he have enough paint? Standing in front of those inflated buttocks, I experienced an awe-inspiring sense of deflation like de Botton in the Sinai Mountains. I felt small and insignificant, like the pea-headed painter, and that downsizing left me floating free like a peanut shell dropped from a cliff top. I was drunk without drinking, and that is a good place to be in recovery. Forgoing those pleasures was a pleasure in itself. After an easy ride in recovery of late, the temptation to say yes reminded me of the thrill of saying no. Bobbing on a boat out at sea, I rolled backwards into another world. Instantly unplugged are the parts of your mind that process the past and the future and self and others. You are nobody. Just a floating awareness of coral brains covered in winding labyrinths and wrinkled purple pancake stacks. Architecturally adventurous alien cities. Flailing claws hint at crustaceans. A moray eel protrudes like a leathery hand puppet. Accusatory eyes. Accusing who? Not me. There is no me. Social anxiety does not exist here. Back on the surface the heavens had opened. I squeezed onto a bus into town. He looked up and smiled at me watching him watching. I felt alive. This is how I want to use this soggy bundle of neurons to pleasure myself, I thought. Keep mainlining reality. View all posts by Joel Lewin. The artwork by Rhys James adds a nice touch to the piece. Like Like. Enjoyed reading about your journey in the physical and mind. Skip to content. When I said I was going to Colombia some eyebrows were raised. Do you like drugs? Lots of heroin. When bad memories are medicine Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. It was time to call my sponsor. Intensity of experience The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. But… nothing feels so good. Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said : The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Next Dancing sober: the final frontier. Published by Joel Lewin. Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website.

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Last updated Apr 19, First published on Dec 1, Colombia. T his is simply my personal opinion and review of Taganga, Colombia. To conclude quite a long, eventful trip, I hoped to enjoy some diving and beach time in paradise. Sadly, Taganga was anything but paradise. After taking care of some business in Santa Marta such as finding a working ATM and admiring the first Santa Claus I have seen on a beach, Alex and I grabbed a minute taxi across a sea cliff to the tourist village of Taganga, Colombia. Taganga has been in our sights for many difficult weeks of busing around Colombia, Ecquador, and Peru. We were saving the little Caribbean beach town as a grand finale to our South American adventure. Water the color of jewels, white-albeit-somewhat-dirty sand, and lots of travelers. Taganga appeared to be the coastal paradise that had me burning up kilometers across Ecuador for the past week. To say the least, this final stop before Christmas was highly anticipated after all the long days on the road. We checked into the Casa Blanca, a Swiss-owned hotel directly on the beach with excellent views. The hotel was nice enough, but we had to deal with perhaps the most murderous, unfriendly bastards they could hire to staff the front desk. Yes, they were truly that bad. After all these years of budget travel, my expectations are low, but I thought I was going to be throat punched in the Casa Blanca. But those were quite a way up the hill away from the beach. If there is ever a time to splurge while traveling, your last week on the road in is the time to do so! Even after eight solid days in Taganga, the place is still a mystery to me. I want to love it, but there are just too many reasons to hate the place. I want to hate it, but there are just as many reasons why I could and should like the place. After closer examination, Taganga seems to be a foul parody of paradise. One of those places that look picturesque from the top of a cliff when you are still too far away to see the ashtray they call a beach or the condoms floating in the water. Rusted bottle caps and gravel are more common on the beach than seashells. POW-camp concertina razor wire and broken glass decorate walls rather than colorful murals. There is no reef, so you spend your swimming time looking at interesting rubbish artifacts on the bottom, of which there are plenty. Strung-out travelers and locals mix uneasily in front of the shops in a sullen murmur, sitting on steps and drinking rum or eating hamburgers and hotdogs. Taganga, Colombia, is one of the few places I have been where straggly backpacker junkies beg for drug money more than the local residents. If you have been to Taganga in some bygone era, go take another look before sending me my usual dose of flaming hate-mail. Blogs are subjective; I write about something the way I experience it. There is a lot of construction going on all along the waterfront. The extra bricks for the new promenade and other construction waste still lay around in plain sight. Trash is already piling up because, according to one local I met, the barrel-drum trash bins are stolen as fast as the government puts them out! Tourism is relatively new here in Taganga. Needless to say, tourist prices here for eating, drinking, and basic living are brutal. Making the problem worse, local proprietors will overcharge you or give back the wrong change 90 percent of the time. Every transaction becomes a fight to wrong some right. Pay attention. The nearly poisonous food will sadly make you watch the clock in dread of lunch and dinner, unless you pay the price in one of the expat-owned hostels listed above for something more edible. My last and worst complaint are the local people. Whether they be shopkeepers, hostel workers, waiters, or expats…I can honestly say that these people would rather stab you in the face than attempt to complete a transaction. The rest of Colombia was fine. What happened to Taganga? Who knows what goes on behind the scenes. With proprietors getting rich by local standards within eyesight of the Caribbean, it really is surprising behavior. The hatefulness is almost unnatural. So many times I busted someone giving me the wrong price or incorrect change. Expect to fight for the smallest amount of respect. We made the best of it and did our best to avoid getting robbed by junkie backpackers. On the flip side, Taganga has a rugged charm that kind of grows on you — like a fungus. I enjoyed Taganga because it was one of the first places I have been able to interact with lots of other travelers in Colombia. After a week here, you either learn to start liking the place with all its rough edges, or run like hell from all the red-eyed backpackers that moved here for the cheap cocaine. This place is a trap for addicts. Budget travelers who linger here pretty well only have one mission: they get hooked on shitty cocaine. I spent an extremely lazy eight days here in Taganga, which after all the hurry-up-and-wait lifestyle of exchanging night buses for day buses to move around Ecuador and Peru, feels totally unnatural. Taganga was a great place to sit on the beach, get lost inside my own head, and absorb some of the things I saw in eight different countries this year. Despite the negativity, this beach gave me time to get centered, prepare myself for coming home during a busy Christmas season, and to enjoy the end of my third year of vagabonding. Greg Rodgers is a vagabonding writer and adventurer who began traveling the world in Now he helps others begin a life of location independence. Get in touch by emailing greg vagabondinglife. My Review of Taganga Even after eight solid days in Taganga, the place is still a mystery to me. Honestly, the vibe was just really bad. Seriously broken. Plastic bags drift around you like ghastly, white jellyfish. Cocaine in Taganga Taganga, Colombia, is one of the few places I have been where straggly backpacker junkies beg for drug money more than the local residents. Prices in Taganga Tourism is relatively new here in Taganga. The People Now for the controversial part. What Happened to Taganga? For this reason alone, Taganga will always be a special memory.

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