Cartagena

Clambering atop the imposing ramparts of Castillo San Felipe de Barajas feels less like touring a traditional fort and more like invading the whims of whichever paranoid Spaniard thought, "You know, Cartagena really needs thicker walls and maze-like tunnels-just in case." Built in the 17th century (because pirates were basically the startup disruptors of their day), this sprawling colonial monolith in Pie de la Popa neighborhood represents Spain's obsessive-compulsive investment in cannonballs and double-strength masonry. Visit early in the morning or late afternoon to dodge heatstroke-or worse, hordes of selfie-stick samurai bused in from cruise ships-and set aside roughly two hours to properly meander through its shadowy passageways and hidden bunkers. Budget around 30,000 Colombian pesos ($8 USD) for admission, and remember sunglasses, sunscreen, bottled water, and a healthy appreciation for the ingenuity of paranoid imperialists. Sure, traipsing through centuries-old tunnels might leave you sweaty and slightly bewildered-but charging through a fortress once designed to repel pirates and rival empires is a story you'll smugly tell over cold beers for years to come.

If your idea of public transit involves quietly scrolling Instagram in awkward silence, Colombia's neon-splashed chiva bus is ready to violently shatter your expectations-in the best possible way. Born as brightly painted rural buses navigating mountain roads overloaded with passengers, chickens, and produce, chivas have evolved into rolling nightclubs fueled by aguardiente, salsa beats blasting louder than your abuela's disapproval, and spontaneous dance-offs that send gravity fleeing in embarrassment. Book your spot (a night or two ahead usually suffices), show up post-dinner with around $25 in pesos, and brace yourself to bounce through city streets alongside strangers swiftly becoming amigos. Dress footwear that'll forgive spilled drinks, pack your tolerance for relentless rhythms, and consider preemptively hydrating-or accept tomorrow's hangover as a vibrant souvenir. It's loud, chaotic, borderline absurd, and utterly Colombian. You might question your sanity halfway through, but trust me: when else can you say you've conga-line-danced down nocturnal city avenues aboard a vehicle that looks like a school bus collided headfirst with a pinata?

It's not every day you willingly climb into a natural sludge pit nestled in Colombia's Santa Catalina countryside-yet El Totumo beckons, with irresistible oddity and a faint whiff of sulphurous rebellion. Legend goes that an ambitious priest, tired of the volcano's fiery tantrums, doused it in holy water, converting satanic magma into benign therapeutic mud (practical Catholicism at its finest). Today, you'll find yourself elbow-deep in earthy goo alongside giggling travelers and no-nonsense locals happy to rub medicinal muck into your back-for a small tip, of course. Aim for morning hours to dodge the sunburned throngs fresh off the cruise ships, and don't forget cash (a few thousand pesos per helpful hand, plus the obligatory rinse-off from entrepreneurial local ladies waiting by the lake). A waterproof camera? Absolutely essential-otherwise, who's going to believe you voluntarily coated yourself in volcanic goop? Book a day ahead, budget around 50,000 COP for entry, tips, and transport, and pack some disposable swim gear; volcanic mud has a mischievous habit of never quite rinsing entirely clean. Why do it? Because life's most memorable adventures rarely involve dignity or cleanliness-and everyone deserves the story of how they were ceremoniously dunked into Mother Earth's own chocolate mousse.