I visited a little-known town that is the ‘real Colombia’ – and looks like time has stood still

Everyone loves Cartagena. Ask the next person to describe the perfect Caribbean town and, chances are, it will look just like this Spanish‑colonial jewel, on Colombia’s sunny northern coast.

Dainty wrought-iron balconies droop with bougainvillea, those pastel-hued plazas and churches are Insta-perfect.

The only trouble is – as everybody agrees – Cartagena’s quaint narrow lanes get jammed with mariachi trios and American honeymooners.

Not to worry, for I am told that if you put in some effort, you can find a colonial Colombian town just as exquisite – yet you can essentially have it all to yourself. Where might that be?

Next dawn I jump in my car-plus-driver. Soon enough the cityscape dissolves into banana groves.

Three hours later we rattle into Santa Marta, an agreeably vivid port in a spectacular location, where snowcapped mountains barge their way into the ocean.

Sipping a café cortado on the breezy seafront I mention my onward plan. The dashingly moustachio’d barista says, ‘Are you really going to Mompox? You are lucky. And unlucky.’

Lucky, he explains, because I will see the ‘real Colombia’; unlucky because after that, everywhere else might seem a bit colourless.

Onwards and inland. In time, the ranches and pastures give way to waterways and jungle

Finally, after a full six hours of driving, the great Magdalena River widens before us, and we pull into my ultimate destination. Santa Cruz de Mompox. Or just ‘Mompox’ to those that love it.

History hangs languidly around Mompox, like one of its many hammocks. In the 17th century Spanish merchants, fleeing piratical British raids on the coast, stashed their fortunes here: building palaces, churches, warehouses, mansions.

Then the channel silted up, trade evaporated, and Mompox was brilliantly marooned. Result – the nearest Starbucks is 200km away, likewise the nearest chain-hotel or hypermarket. No one complains.

There are a few decorous boutique hotels – and a few laid-back bars and riverbank restaurants. Safe, sequestered, delightful little Mompox gets just enough tourism for that. My bijou bolt-hole is a tiled, colonial palacio with greenery around a plunge pool.

After a soothing siesta I step out into the town and I discover that, just as I hoped, there is almost nothing to do.

At dusk the locals bring out mahogany rocking chairs, and perch them on the riverside, sipping cold Colombiana beer.

After an hour they drift off to the cafes, for fresh catfish in coconut curry. Meanwhile an owl roosts in an ornate church-tower, and boys play football in the starlit plazas.

Next day I go out on the river – which is what people do when they’re not staring at the river.

As the afternoon draws on drowsily, the boat idles through lily‑clogged creeks where kingfishers swoop, electrically blue. A fisherman grins, knee‑deep in the river; the haul is so plentiful he barely has to work, so he waves at us instead. His laughing kids do the same.

As we head home the skipper kills the engine – to watch the tropical sun perform its nightly trick. With the daylight dying behind, Mompox turns crimson, then purple, with its bell‑towers mirrored in the copper-coloured river-wash.

That Santa Marta barista was right. Cartagena dazzles, Santa Marta sizzles, but Mompox enchants

As I locate my evening rocking chair, I think of Gabriel García Márquez’s famous words about this town: ‘Mompox does not exist, yet sometimes we dream of her.’ 

With all due respect, I disagree with the great Colombian novelist. Mompox exists, gorgeously and stubbornly, right on the watery edge of reality.