The route I originally intended to take is closed. There is no information of a detour, and the name of El Golfo on the road sign I spot, is just halfheartedly covered up by a flimsy piece of plastic. A quick glance at the map tells me that I can make my way there by going in the opposite direction of what is actually a roundtrip covering my chosen destinations for the day. And sure enough, after a few minutes’ drive through the by now familiar, bun never boring, landscape, I come up over a hill and look down upon the small, beautifully situated village of El Golfo, with its spread of white buildings, next to the black beach separating it from the blue, blue sea.
I park my car and walk the designated path up a hill, towards the famed green lagoon, nestled in parts of a volcanic crater, patiently and constantly awaiting the visitor on the other side. My white jogging shoes are soon covered in a dust of rusty orange, as if I’ve just played a match of tennis on a gravel court. The color reflects that of the rock formations looming over the path, both majestic and beautiful.
Reaching the top of the trail, I stop and gasp. The photos depicting the place in guidebooks and brochures have, as occasionally happens, not bee lying. In fact, no photo, painting, drawing or written description can do justice to the scene unfolding before my eyes. Taking it all in at one glance is not in my power. My eyes are involuntarily drawn to the emerald green body of water below me, looking like a fata morgana in a desert or in this case, a moonlike landscape at first glance devoid of vegetation.
After a while I register…
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