18/7/25 Nuquí, Chocó, Colombia

We had nothing planned for today.

We woke up slowly, lazily, and had breakfast without any rush.

I think I’m really, truly starting to fall in love with Nuquí.

Maybe it’s the heat wave these past few days, or the constant reshuffling of travel plans, I haven’t opened my laptop at all.

I haven’t touched my sketchbook, and I haven’t even had the patience to tap open my Kindle.

Yesterday, we went out to sea to watch whales. Altogether, we saw more than a dozen humpbacks slowly rise from the water, their tails sweeping across the surface again and again, like something out of a dream.

We were so lucky.

More than once, they came incredibly close.

At one point, we could even see a baby whale drifting quietly beneath the boat, its pale body gliding through the clear water.

Every time I see a whale, I’m completely overwhelmed.

That feeling never changes.

And for Beans, it was his first time.

We sat at the front of the boat, he widened his eyes and whispered to me,“I think my heart just skipped a beat.”

In that moment, seeing his eyes go all wide and bright like a little kid’s, my heart melted.

The first time I saw whales up close was in Antarctica, in a place called Paradise Harbour, located off the Danco Coast on the west side of the Antarctic Peninsula. That day, several humpback whales circled around us. I still remember the feeling, the unspeakable magic of it, the sense of awe, of being surrounded by immense, living beings.

From June to November each year, thousands of humpback whales begin their migration from the cold waters of Antarctica, traveling over 8,000 kilometers to reach warmer tropical seas for mating and calving. They stay for months in places like Colombia, Hawaii, Tonga, and Madagascar, nursing their young until the calves are strong enough to make the long journey back to the nutrient-rich feeding grounds of the south.

Their northern cousins in the Arctic make a similar journey, but they never cross the equator. They live in separate rhythms, in different hemispheres, never meeting, as if they exist in two parallel worlds.

Right now, I’m sitting in the shade of the front porch of our hotel. The sea breeze is drifting in, and a small black cat is curled up next to me, fast asleep. The soundscape is woven together with waves, birdsong, and the soft buzz of insects.

Other than that, the only voice is the hotel señora — occasionally on the phone, shouting instructions to her staff, or calling out to her son:“¡La muchacha quiere coco! ¡Ve y dale uno!” (The girl wants a coconut! Go give her one!)

Her accent is something else, I can’t quite place where it’s from, but it sounds like she’s singing.

There are loads of coconut trees in their yard, and sure enough, her son came over with two massive coconuts, no straws, of course. I truly love this eco-friendly lifestyle.

Of course, I had no problem drinking straight from it.

But Beans, my city boy, took one sip and spilled half of it all over the table.

I burst out laughing on the spot, like a total bully, delighting in his coconut chaos.

Last week, during a call with mi amiga Fioni, we decided to start a little weekly challenge: “art exchange”.

Every week, we each share something we’ve created.

I had originally planned to head out with my watercolors, scoop up a small cup of seawater, and sit by the shore to paint.

But the sun here is brutal, the kind that drains every bit of energy out of me. It felt like all the yang energy in my body had evaporated (In traditional Chinese thought, yang qi refers to the body's vital, warming energy — the kind that keeps you feeling active, alive, and in motion). So in the end, I stayed right here, tucked into this breezy, not wanting to go anywhere at all.

I realized what I really craved was to write, but there’s too much I want to write about.

The Eje Cafetero, especially Pijao, that tiny little town with almost no tourists and the most beautiful farm cabin I’ve ever seen.

My first time working with glass.

That wild skinny dipping under the waterfall.

And all the recent reflections that intimacy has stirred in me.

But today — in this moment —

I just want to write about Nuquí.

Nuquí is a predominantly Afro-Colombian community, most of its residents are descendants of Africans who were brought here as slaves during the colonial period. Further inland, closer to the jungle, live the Emberá, one of Colombia’s Indigenous groups, with their own language, belief systems, and artistic traditions.

There are barely any tourists in this little town, and the locals mostly ignore us, which, strangely enough, feels like a relief. It reminds me of Cairo, where I was constantly surrounded by curious stares. I still remember that one random man who insisted I take a photo with his one-year-old son, he literally shoved the baby into my arms.

That weird sensation of being watched just doesn’t exist here.

Nuquí feels like a mini Zanzibar — one without tourists.

Here, the white sand has been swapped for deep gray.

The parties aren’t your typical yoga meets techno with a hint of afrobeat kind of scene.

They’re louder, more local, raw, and grounded.

We happened to arrive just in time for the Fiestas Patronales en honor a la Virgen del Carmen, one of the most important traditional celebrations along Colombia’s Pacific coast, especially in places like Nuquí. It usually takes place between July 8th and 16th and honors Our Lady of Mount Carmel, the Catholic patroness of fishermen, sailors, and all those who travel by sea.

The streets were full of altars and offerings, but instead of the usual candles and flowers, we saw tributes infused with the spirit of the ocean: octopuses, images of whales, seashells, coral, fishing nets...

But on the night of July 16th, the peak of the celebration, I fell asleep to the sound of thunder and rain. It stormed all night: lightning flashing, thunder rolling, while the beat of distant music throbbed faintly in the background, slowly lulling me into sleep.

The next morning, the village still echoed with the celebration’s afterglow. Some people were just making their way home. They had really danced the whole night through, without stopping.

There aren’t many fancy restaurants here. In fact, there are barely any real “options”, we kept going back to the same two places.

But somehow, every single meal made me say “wow.”

Chocó’s food has this raw, honest charm, ingredients so fresh, seasoning just right. The women in the kitchens make their own coconut milk by hand, and that rich, creamy coconut flavor feels like the very soul of this land.

They also steam the leftover coconut pulp together with rice, and it’s subtly sweet, unbelievably fragrant.

Each bite is tender and full, like a spoonful of sunlight after rain.

The fish is always freshly caught and grilled to perfection.

And the patacón, made from green plantain, is my favorite kind: not sweet, firm and crunchy, just a hint of salt. Golden and crisp on the outside, soft within. One bite and all I could think was: yes, yes, yes.

So far, every single dish I’ve ordered has hit the exact center of my cravings.They don’t care about presentation, or “refined” aesthetics, but they feed you in a way that feels deeply nourishing.

Simple.

Straightforward.

Satisfying.

And then, there’s the rhythm of this village, slow, steady, soft.

The air is humid, and the plants grow like they’ve been given permission to go wild.

Nuquí, like Zanzibar, carries that particular blend of tropical coast: salt, earth, sun, and ripe fruit.

Zanzi has long since become a tourist destination, of course. But if you stay away from party hubs like Paje, there are still so many villages that hold onto their essence, people sitting by the roadside in the sun, no one in a hurry, no one rushing you.

Pole pole, Tranki... Everything happens slowly, in its own time.

This little town was first mentioned to me by Samy, a friend I’ve never actually met.

Four years ago, he once stayed with a friend I love like family: Tiger, who lives in Egypt. That year, I had just left, and I kept seeing photos of him on Tiger's IG.

One day, I followed Samy on a whim.

Even though we’ve never met in person, we’ve kept in touch here and there over the years.

Samy is a true traveler, someone who walks deep into places, not just across them. When we spoke about my trip in Colombia, he told me Medellín felt too Westernized for him.

“If you want a super local place, beautiful and cheap, go to Nuquí, Chocó” he said, "Right now is whale's season"

So I started doing the research. I came across Nuquí and Bahía Solano, both looked like possibilities.

Bahía seemed to have more infrastructure, more places to stay.

Nuquí, on the other hand, looked like it had… almost nothing.

But somehow, I just knew.

I turned to Beans and said, "Let’s go to Nuquí."

photo source

There is one layered, and entertaining story:

I always thought I was an outdoorsy adventure gurlll, until this week, when I realized: yes, I can hike through remote mountains, paddle a canoe in the Amazon, rappel off a cliff onto a rock ledge, and rattle around in a tuk tuk on muddy roads.

But only if I know I get to go back to somewhere comfortable after.

I’d found one ecolodge a bit outside of town online, a 30 minutes walk along the coast from the little town. The photos looked like paradise: coconut trees, dogs, chickens, butterflies, a private beach, all the green you could ask for, plus a long list of five-star reviews.

I thought, okay.

Let’s go wild.

But the moment we arrived, something felt… off.

The owner and his wife gave off strange energy. Not in a “mean” or “cold” way, just overly enthusiastic in a way that felt pushy and annoying.

The guy started monologuing non-stop the second we got there. Just talking to us, trying to get us to sign up for tours, making weird, pointless jokes that weren’t funny. I couldn't fake my laugh, Beans tried his best to be polite.

At one point, we looked at each other, and then we both stared blankly at the chickens in the yard.

The air felt thick with social fatigue.

Showering with rainwater sounded romantic, especially when they told us they’d built the entire lodge themselves. But when the guy looked at us seriously and said, “This place is all about glamping,” I nearly lost it.

I thought to myself:This is camping, sir. There is nothing glamorous about this.

And listen, I’m not picky.

I can sleep on the sofa, in tents, in hostels, in wooden cabins. I’ve taken cold showers in remote refugios.

But something about this place, I can’t explain it, my whole self rejected it.

It wasn’t the rusty environment. It was something else.

Something in me kept going off like a quiet alarm: “I don’t belong here, and I don't want to be here.”

Even though it was beautiful, every moment I spent in that lodge made me want to cry. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my parents were busy, and they’d send me to stay overnight with some relatives I didn’t really know, the awkwardness, the forced politeness, the deep discomfort in my chest.

And to make things worse, they didn’t serve dinner. The owner just said, “You can go eat in town.”

So we did.

But by the time we finished and tried to walk back, high tide.

The path was underwater.

We were stuck in town, in the dark, with no way back to the “glamping.”

And of course, it started to pour.

We stood there under the rain, kind of losing it. That’s when a tuk tuk pulled up.

The driver looked a little sketchy at first, I braced myself to get ripped off.

But no, he turned out to be incredibly kind.

Not only did he not overcharge us, he drove us all over town looking for a place to stay.

And eventually, he found us a simple, clean little local guesthouse.

Beans and I were practically in tears with gratitude.

That night, while showering, we kept saying,“This. This is what a normal place feels like.”

The next morning, I asked Beans how he felt about "the glamping".

He said,“Honestly, I thought the owner was weird too. It wasn’t convenient, and it definitely wasn’t cheap.”

I immediately said,“Why don’t we just move to town?”

He replied, without missing a beat,“I completely agree.”

So we got up early and went back to check out.

We thanked them and explained: the place was beautiful, but it was just too far.

Walking 1 hour every time for each mealwith the risk of not being able to go back wasn’t sustainable, so we’d decided to move into town.

They did not take it well.

The owner hit us with the classic passive-aggressive: “Well… as long as you’re happy.”

His wife kept interrupting, sharp and snappy, clearly upset.

We said what we needed to say, but the complaining from the other side didn’t stop.

Beans got visibly tense, frozen with discomfort.

He hates walking away from unresolved conversations, but he also hates confrontation, so he just stood there, spiraling.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I turned to him and said in Spanish,“Your meeting’s about to start. Go. I’ll handle it.”

I turned back to the couple and calmly thanked them again.

She tried to interrupt me several times, I didn’t engage.

I just kept talking until I was done.

Then I ended it cleanly:“I’m going to pack our things now.”

No guilt. Not even a little.

The photos were misleading.

The location was inconvenient.

There was no food.

We’d paid double for the first night just to stay in town.

Transport and lodging weren’t easy.

And the emotional exhaustion?

Off the charts.

They could be upset, I understood.

But we didn’t owe them anything.

We made a reasonable decision.

And I knew, deep down, it was the right one.

After that, we started looking for a new place to stay.

Backpacks on, walking under the blazing sun, sweating, defeated.

The whole town was booked out because of the festival.

We were about to give up and head to Bahía, only to discover: there were no boats that day.

Perfect.

Stuck, no room, no plan.

Just when we were about to call it quits, I refreshed Google Maps, and saw a little hotel pop up: one room left.

The moment we reached the entrance, I knew, this was it.

The people at this hotel radiated good energy.

The air felt softer, the space open and gentle.

There was the scent of flowers, and even the insects seemed to hum with kindness.

It was clean, and quiet.

And just two blocks away from the little restaurant we loved.

The price? Way cheaper than that so-called “glamping.”

And in that moment, everything shifted.

All the isolation, the heat, the pressure, the weird energy from the night before, it felt like the wind had carried it all away.

We had finally found our place.

And it’s from here, right now, where I’m writing these words.

Later, we booked a whale tour through the hotel, and it was way cheaper than the one offered by the "glamping".

We were over the moon.

I still remember that afternoon, after our first time watching whales together.

We lay under a big tree on the northern white sand beach, not doing anything at all.

Just resting, chatting, teasing each other, kissing.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, falling softly in patches across our skin.

Around us: just the wind, the waves, a few sideways-walking crabs, and some slow, lazy hermit crabs circling our toes like they had all the time in the world.

Beans had one arm tucked under his head, looking like a big sleepy and goofy dog.

His chest gets all soft and squishy when he’s relaxed, and those round eyes of his always look a little… unfairly adorable.

A little like he’s about to say, “why are you like this?”

I kept squishing his chest and suddenly thought,

Wait… am I bi?

Is this a thing?

Why do I love playing with boobs so much??

But then I was like, who cares.

He probably doesn’t really get why I always go straight for his chest, but he never stops me.

Sometimes he just pretends he’s being bullied, in this super dramatic way.

I just keep doing it.

Because it’s fun.

Later, we wandered into a small patch of rainforest, just a short walk, and we reached a natural waterfall.

There was a short stretch where we had to climb using ropes, quite thrilling, and when the falls came into view, we both let out a “Woooow.”

The water was powerful, hitting our backs like a natural massage stream.

We kissed, swam, splashed each other, like two overgrown kids losing track of time.

On the walk back, the sun was setting.

Golden light spilled across the path.

We looked at each other for a moment with smiling eyes.

The days that followed didn’t hold any grand stories, they were light, simple.

In the mornings, we went out to sea to watch whales. In the afternoons, I’d write from a hammock, or curl up with Beans and watch a movie.

By dusk, we’d head to our favorite little spot among the two or three restaurants in town.

Sometimes, just a glass of coconut lime juice was enough to make me feel completely content.

There were no Instagrammable cafés, no “aesthetic” restaurants.

Nowhere had air conditioning.

The signal came and went.

But honestly, I didn’t need any of that anyway.