Cartagena. Most beautiful city in Colombia, fabled jewel of the Caribbean. Founded in 1533, Cartagena de Indias has been witness to almost six centuries of love, war, death and commerce. Its massive fortress walls, Las Murallas, were built by Spanish conquistadors to stop English pirates from stealing the gold, silver and emeralds that Spain had already plundered from South American natives. Its ancient heart is protected from development (as a World Heritage Site), and I can’t wait to walk the cobbled streets, tiny parks, and stone ramparts. Cartagena was one of the first colonial towns to proclaim independence from Spain in 1810. It was captured by Spanish forces, but eventually liberated by Simon Bolivar in 1821, when Bolivar christened the town “La Heroica”, the Heroic City.

As I step off the plane in late November, I almost drown in the 90% humidity. Nothing I have experienced prepares me for la clima here. My T-shirt clings damply. Breathing comes with effort.

I step out of a taxi into blinding sunshine and knock on an imposing wooden door. Unmarked, there is no clue that a haven of hospitality lies behind the massive door with the wrought iron handle. Mrs. Elda welcomes me and shows me my room - a tiny cell off of a Spanish courtyard full of lush flowers. The floors are tiled and there is a stone fountain giving the brief illusion of coolness. The smell of mold and mildew is pervasive. However, Mrs. Elda yawns loudly when I fan myself and moan about the heat and humidity. No doubt she has watched many a visitor wilt.

Eager to explore, I venture back outside. I am sure I willbe able to recognize the casa’s bright pink façade. I fantasize about cold drinks at a bar full of handsome dark-skinned waiters.

A drunken spider web of crisscrossing alleys, lanes, cobbled roads and confusing circles, the Old Town turns my head around and has me lost in one short hour.

Instead of relaxing in a local establishment with jugo mango in hand, I become frazzled and damper. Sheepishly, I realize I did not bring address or map. I circle the picturesque streets, recognizing the same stalls selling sandals and sunglasses, but never finding the cobbled street that I seek. Its name has evaporated as surely as my good humour.

My stomach nags me - it’s time for lunch. At the Restaurante Juan del Mar, I order. I start to relax and enjoy the periwinkle blue walls, the Afro-Cuban vallenato music shaking the place.

Framed by the mullioned window, a most unexpected sight appears - down the street go three elementary school cronies. I leap up, throw down some cash, and run out the door, no doubt reinforcing to the friendly waiters the stereotype of the always agitated, relentlessly uptight gringo.

I start yelling like a madwoman: Steve! Steve! Jodi! Jodi! Tammy! Stop! Wait! A two block chase in the ninety degree heat and my efforts are rewarded. I am united with the people I have hoped to avoid on my getaway – the very people who possess a sense of direction, a map and past experience of Cartagena. Minutes later, with Steve’s help, I am re-admitted to the inner sanctum of Mrs. Elda’s. My colleagues head off to their cheap hotel just outside the walls of the city. We arrange to meet for dinner. I have a map clutched tightly in my hand the next time I step out the door.

I spend the afternoon exploring. I discover a shop that displays dozens of richly textured molas – one of a kind embroidered and appliquéd works of the Cuna tribe’s traditional fibre art. The molas often use motifs which are reminiscent of west coast Haida images. I venture into one of the local “emerald factories”, a shop which gives a demonstration-cum-sales pitch on how to choose a good quality emerald. Having no clear idea of the value of the merchandise, I smile and turn away. The salesclerks re-double their efforts, cutting the prices quoted in half. I continue to shake my head no. They continue to drop the price. Barrata. Muy barrata. Very cheap. I cave, picking out a pair of tiny sparkling earrings the colour of a rain forest. A gift for my daughter.

Down the street, there are hand carved animal figures made from the tropical tagua seed (also known as vegetable ivory), and all kinds of sandals, cotton shirts and sarongs. Cartagena is a shoppers’ paradise. Since political instability has increased in Colombia, Cartagena no longer hosts the thousands of foreign turistas of yesteryear. Things look a little empty, a little forlorn here. Very few European or North American visitors are visible. But middle class Colombians still love to vacation in this tropical seaport.

Strolling in the heat is a tiring business, so I am delighted to find a shady corner to rest and enjoy the liquid golden light of late afternoon. Moments later, a street vendor strikes up a conversation. I decline his offer to sell me a T-shirt. Samuel asks about my family back home. A few minutes later, I realize Samuel is hitting me up for money. He is deeply involved in a story of how his ninos - children - need clothes to go to school, but that he can’t afford them. I discover this is a sales pitch, but buy three ugly T-shirts anyway that say “I HEART CARTAGENA”.

I move on to one of Cartagena’s landmarks – El Iglesio y Convento de San Pedro Claver. Named for a Jesuit monk who lived and died in the city (1580-1654), the church is a monument to this first saint to be canonized in the New World. Saint Pedro ministered to African slaves brought here by the thousands to build the colony. His bones rest here in a glass coffin. Beneath the high altar of this musty stone church, a visitor can stare at the mortal remains of the man known as the “Apostle of the Blacks” or the “Slave of the Slaves”.

For $2.00 U.S., I get a personalized tour with a stooped, near toothless monk who shows me the bones, the stained-glass windows, the triple-tier arched cloister, the toucans and macaws which inhabit the grounds, the narrow, creaky stairway that leads to a choir loft with a view of the town. My tour guide seems like a sweet soul and I smile at his enthusiasm, but I have difficulty understanding his history lesson. He has a heavy lisp, a thick accent and one gold tooth which I find curiously distracting.

I step forward a few centuries, out into the intense sun. It’s too hot for further sightseeing, so I don’t make it to the strongest Spanish fortress ever built in the colonies – Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. I read in my guidebook that a complex system of tunnels connected strategic points of the fortress to distribute provisions and ease evacuation. Despite many attempts, Spain’s enemies never conquered this ode to engineering prowess, and the fortress defeated an armada of 186 British ships led by Edward Vernon in 1741. Despite his ten to one disadvantage, Spanish commander Blas de Lezo held the fort with only 2500 men and five ships.

Soon it’s time to rendez-vous with my buddies. Jodi shows me photos of her plunge into El Totumo – the world’s largest mud volcano, a 15m high conical eruption in the earth. Mud volcanoes are caused by decaying organic matter which percolates underground, turning to gas. The pressure pushes the mud up and out. Reputed to have therapeutic properties, some people, Jodi and Tammy among them, are willing to climb up the crater and immerse them selves in the sludge.

Signora Elda’s desayuno the next morning – fresh squeezed jugo, pan au chocolate, huevos y frutas - is tasty. Steve has booked a small open motor boat to take us to a beach near the Islas del Rosario – the Rosary - an archipelago of coral islands surrounded by reefs.

At the waterfront, Muelle de los Pegasos, our guide welcomes us aboard. We have booked the lancha from first thing in the morning to four in the afternoon. Plenty of time to enjoy the spectacular setting. We bring a picnic lunch. The trip is exactly what a Caribbean boating expedition should be. The sea breeze brings relief from the heat, the sky is pure cloudless cobalt, and the sun kisses our sunscreen-lathered faces. The colours of the sea span the entire blue-green spectrum, from pale aquamarine to deep amethyst. Soon enough, we pull up onto a white sand beach suitably named La Playa Blanca and spread out our towels.

The next few hours pass quickly. Swimming, sunbathing and snorkeling. A handful of locals stroll by and insistently offer their wares – fresh fish, crabs, hair braiding, green mangos. Our guide comes back and tells Steve we must pack quickly and leave. He neglected to tell us earlier that the waves after two in the afternoon become difficult. The sky darkens. The work begins. Massive waves pound us. Every time one hits us, we are thrown from our seats. Steve sits up front and yahoos. I merely whimper. After an endless forty-five minutes, we see the harbour ahead and gratefully haul ourselves onto dry, still land.

That evening, I set off to meet my other friends at the Puerta del Reloj. These Gates of the Clock Tower link an inner walled town, El Centro, to an outer walled town, Getsemani. The Plaza de los Coches, a former slave marketplace, is a large triangular plaza lined with balconied houses and colonial arches. There is nothing here to evoke its grim past, only stalls of vendors selling sweets – El Portal de los Dulces. Nearby is the Palacio de la Inquisicion, where heretics were denounced for magic, witchcraft or blasphemy, and then publicly executed – eight hundred souls in all between 1610 and 1821.

It is dark, and I take a wrong turn. I suspect I am close to my destination but not entirely sure of the way. I enter a side street that should take me to the Plaza. Here I encounter a gauntlet of grizzled, old men sitting on the ground, swigging from bottles inside paper bags. I stride past them as confidently as possible, ignoring the catcalls. Hola chica, muy linda! Como esta?

A few moments later, I emerge upon a large cobbled square. Twinkling lights are strung up everywhere, echoing the sparkling night sky. Dozens of couples bend heads together at outdoor tables. I have come upon the Hotel Santa Clara, a convent dating from 1621. It has been re-invented as a deluxe hotel in the heart of Old Town. The walls are coral pink, the colonial architecture is preserved, and there are elegant potted palm trees everywhere. I order a marguerita. The night air is a welcome respite, deliciously cool yet still tropical. The smell of jasmine is on the air.

Despite my surroundings, sadness grips me. This is a deeply romantic place, better shared with a loved one. And I am alone. I finish my drink and find my colleagues. Tonight we decide to splurge - dining at a restaurant with a dazzling reputation. It has a waterfront view, open air seating and white tablecloths. Our dinner karma has changed though. We wait literally hours and get mediocre luke-warm chicken.

I succumb to exhaustion and decide to call it a night. It is now after midnight, and there are no taxis. I see shadowy figures in dark alleys, and smell reefer on the air. Gangs of drunken young men hang out, partying to loud music. Back at Elda’s haven, I sleep soundly again. The day dawns bright and glorious. I am ready for one last morning.

Today I focus on the light. To describe it as glowing, or honeyed, or amber – none of these words convey the exact quality of what I see. The colours are so saturated, so intense, that each hue makes me sigh with pleasure.

I prowl around the mansions of San Diego, homes of moneyed aristocrats. The walls are amber and pink, turquoise and canary yellow. A painter’s paradise. I click the shutter a dozen times, juxtaposing baskets of scarlet bougainvillea against cast iron filigree, balconies and pillars and stone and bleached wood and tile. Looking down narrow cobbled alleys toward the sea, I make the tight shots of ocean-sky framed by classic architecture. I shoot rolls of film through breaches in Las Murallas that outline children playing, dark in silhouette against the sun.

And then it is time to go. I whisper the bittersweet goodbye that marks a well-spent vacation.