the city of Cartagena is on the northwest coast of the Caribbean, unnervingly close to Haiti. What a great sadness that is. Now this is another face of Colombia altogether. The city is alive with a riot of sights and sounds. Between narrow weaving streets cars and bikes share the road with horse drawn carriages. The building are pastels or florid Caribbean colors all dressed up to party. Balconies pitch forward over the streets precariously offering a gay overview. Here is where the Latin culture meets the black world of the islands. Wandering in and out of the alley ways , take a turn and suddenly a town square , and then inevitably a band playing. It might be salsa or there may be an African dance troupe or clowns with horns blaring or even the dreaded world beat rock blasting from a radio. There's quite a competition for airspace but no one seems to be objecting. At night is when things really come to life. People stream down the streets seemingly emerging from every nook and cranny. Everywhere the sidewalks are covered with the wares of vendors. Bracelets, necklaces, and straw hats compete for our pesos with homemade coconut candies and vast arrays of fruit and fried banana cakes. It is hot and sticky and no matter how amusing , we can't take too much of this input. We decide to venture forward. We see an add for a trip to a volcano where there are mud baths. What the heck,I could use a bath. We pile into a van with a collection of other novelty seekers. As in everywhere we have traveled in this country, we are the only Americans. English speakers are thin upon the ground around here. Our companions for the day are vacationing Colombians and Argentineans. What a gay and cheery bunch they are. With in minutes we are all the best of companions and jokes are flying. Of course we don't understand the jokes. Perhaps they are at our expense. But I flatter myself. I think they have much more amusing things on their minds. After an hour's drive through tropical but dry scenery we arrive at our destination. Our volcano resembles more a termite mound than the mountain we had envisioned. It is a curious formation thrusting straight up for about sixty feet. We scale the pathway to the top . There is a wooden ladder leading down into the pit of glistening gray mud. Well, here goes. We slither in. The mud won't let us sink so we bob about ooze encompassing us. Lithe young fellows proceed to massage our legs and arms. We flail about. Suddenly everyone erupts into giggles and guffaws. It is impossible to contain our mirth. After 20 minutes or so of this we climb out looking like aboriginal mud men. An ancient wizened black woman takes my hand and leads me down to the nearby lake. She proceeds to pour buckets of lake water over my head. She's cleaning my ears. Then she pulls off my bathing suit. Whoa. Is this part of the program? After departing the volcano we are driven to a beach where a black woman with rag headwear cooks over a wood fire . Vast vats of oil are bubbling away in her thatched hut. In the vats she has cooking whole fish, bananas, and rice. Is this safe the tourist wonders. But I'm hungry so we fill up.