Cabo de la Vela sits in the northwest corner of the untamed La Guajira peninsula, where the asphalt ends and route finding consists of a lottery of faded tracks written in the desert floor. There, fifty miles from the nearest petrol station, gas is sold to desperate motorists in repurposed plastic bottles hanging like fresh butcher cuts from the driftwood beams of thatched huts. If you can decipher a path through this wasteland you will discover a vast milky blue sea that is as lifeless as the land. No sunbathers, no jet skies, no hordes of seagulls pickpocketing tourists, no peddlers hawking local wares. Just waves lapping against the sand while lonesome boats rock silently in the tide.
The only activity in Cabo are the kite surfers, drawn to the area's steady breeze, who glide across the the surface of the water like pelicans, occasionally lifted up into the heavens by a rogue gust. For non-surfers, there is nothing to do but pass the time until the day's psychedelic sunset. No cell service, no wifi, no electricity during daylight hours. The whole place is like a hidden land described in some children's fable: a journey beyond civilization where a lost tribe lives under Olympian skies and colorful water acrobats have the power to fly.