After a week at an eco‑resort farther up Colombia’s Pacific coast, in the tiny community of El Valle, it was time to travel 40 kilometers south to our next destination: a remote eco‑lodge perched on a rocky stretch of shoreline near the village of Nuquí.
In 2008, this part of Chocó felt like the edge of the world — rainforest pressing right up to the sea, no roads and only two ways in or out: by boat or by small plane. Most travelers wisely flew into Nuquí, a dirt‑road town of about 15,000. We, however, chose the boat.
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A hard crossing
The morning greeted us with leaden skies and drenching rain. We rose at 5:15 a.m. for a 6:30 departure, pulling rubberized ponchos over our heads as the downpour intensified. The walk to the boat ramp was a soggy trudge. We stowed our gear in the foc’sle, hoping the wooden hatch would keep the worst of the rain off our cameras.
We sat on hard plank seats as the boatmen pushed us into the gray Pacific. Visibility was poor, the rain relentless. A visiting Spaniard sat hatless and unbothered as the rain pelted his bald head. The rest of us hunched under ponchos as the waves grew higher.
Each swell lifted the bow sharply before slamming us down again. Water pooled around our feet. Floating logs — some the size of telephone poles — drifted past, adding a new layer of anxiety. Still, the boatmen pressed on, unfazed, guiding us through the angry sea for nearly three hours.
MAX HARTSHORNE / For the Recorder
When we finally reached the sanctuary of the eco‑lodge, we staggered ashore like shipwreck survivors. Memo and Nana, the lodge’s owners, greeted us with hot Colombian coffee and dry towels. We collapsed under the ramada, grateful to be on solid ground. The amazing thing was that our boatmen — and the stoic Spaniard — had to turn around and make the same trip back four hours later.
Later, I asked Memo how many guests arrived by boat. He laughed. “Only the tourist board does that.”
The lodge consisted of seven simple cabanas, each with a small veranda and a hammock overlooking the surf. Beds were draped with mosquito netting, and the soundtrack was the constant crash of waves against the rocks. Memo and Nana had dreamed of building this place for years, beginning construction when almost no one traveled to this remote stretch of coast.
At night, we gathered in the main lodge, where a few outlets let us charge our phones and laptops from their small hydroelectric system — a homemade setup that powered everything. Logistics were, and still are, a challenge. There were no direct flights from Medellín’s main airport; travelers had to drive an hour downhill to the smaller Olaya Herrera Airport to catch the 29‑seat planes that hop along the Pacific coast. Weather delays were common. Supplies arrived by boat. Everything required patience.
But Memo and Nana were committed. They organized donation drives among friends in Medellín to buy school supplies for local children. They encouraged small‑scale entrepreneurship in a region where most commerce was barter, not cash. “Nobody wants to be chief here,” Memo told me. “People aren’t used to taking risks or working toward owning something.”
Still, there were success stories. One former employee bought an old boat motor from Memo, saved up for a boat, then another, and eventually built a small water‑taxi business — essential in a region with no roads.
One highlight of our stay was a dugout canoe trip up the Río Joví, a serene waterway framed by dense jungle. Two men stood at the back of the canoe, propelling us forward with long poles. Bird calls echoed through the canopy. After an hour, we reached a narrow stream and hiked to a waterfall with a deep pool perfect for diving.
It was a magical place — remote, quiet, untouched. Memo told us German guests loved the steepest hikes, the ones that left everyone else gasping. “They’re happiest when it’s straight uphill,” he said with a grin.
Colombia’s Pacific coast has long struggled with its image, overshadowed by decades of conflict and misconceptions. But even then, the reality was a region of extraordinary beauty and warm, welcoming people. As the tourism board once said, “The only risk is wanting to stay.”
What’s changed since 2008
A lot has shifted since that rain‑soaked boat ride. Chocó remains one of Colombia’s most isolated departments, but tourism has grown steadily as travelers seek wild, uncrowded destinations. Recent guides describe Nuquí as a place where “lush rainforests meet pristine beaches,” with whale‑watching, surfing and nature tourism now anchoring the visitor experience.
Flights to Nuquí and Bahía Solano are more frequent, with improved aircraft and better coordination. Weather still disrupts schedules, but the system is far more dependable than it was in 2008.
The lodge where we stayed — El Cantil — was once the pioneering eco‑resort on this coast. Today, it is permanently closed. But its spirit lives on in a new wave of sustainable lodges along the beaches south of Nuquí.
One standout is La Kuka, a beautifully designed eco‑lodge on Guachalito Beach. It has become a favorite among travelers seeking the same blend of remoteness, comfort, and nature immersion that El Cantil once offered. La Kuka follows many of the principles Memo and Nana championed: low‑impact construction, local hiring, and deep respect for the rainforest and Afro‑Colombian communities. At about $450 a night with full board, it’s a splurge — but a memorable one.
Whale‑watching and community leadership
From July to October, humpback whales migrate to the warm Pacific waters to give birth. In 2008, whale‑watching was niche. Today, it’s one of Colombia’s most celebrated wildlife experiences, with dedicated multi‑day packages now common.
Afro‑Colombian and Indigenous communities now run many of the region’s tours, including Río Joví canoe trips, mangrove walks, surf lessons in Termales and guided hikes in Utría National Park. Tourism here is increasingly community‑run and conservation‑minded.
Despite the changes, Nuquí remains one of the most remote and magical corners of Colombia. The rainforest still tumbles down to the sea. The beaches are long, empty and backed by towering palms. The air is thick with humidity and birdsong. And the sense of being somewhere truly off the map is as strong as ever.
Max Hartshorne is a longtime travel editor and the host of the GoNOMAD Travel Podcast. For more than 25 years, he has been publishing GoNOMAD.com from right here in South Deerfield, sharing stories, tips and discoveries with travelers near and far.