- Introduction
- Towards San Bernardo: Waves, Wind, and a Salsa-Dancing Captain
- The San Bernardo Archipelago: A Hidden Tropical Paradise
- The Most Densely Populated Island in the World: Santa Cruz del Islote
- Tales from the tiny Caribbean islands
- I, too, once fished with dynamite…
- Every time I longed for something,I wanted more, wanted it easier, faster.Instead of being a better fisherman.I dreamed of blowing the sea wide open.
- One day, the thought came to me—"Why not fish with dynamite?"
- Lucky me, it blew up in my hands—before it could shatter the reef,that silent wall holding back the deadly waves,the only thing standing between me and disaster.
- Luxury through simplicity in Archipelago of San Bernardo
- The Long Ride Home (and a Bit of Salt in the Wounds)
- Conclusion
Introduction
The Most Densely Populated Island in the World, right? If you had asked me where the most densely populated island in the world was, I would’ve guessed India, maybe China—somewhere known for impossible crowds and megacities stretching beyond the horizon. But no. It’s here, tucked quietly into the Caribbean Sea, off the coast of Colombia.
It felt almost absurd. The idea of that kind of human density—more than a thousand people squeezed into 1 hectare—in the middle of a tropical postcard. I knew instantly: I had to see it. It wasn’t curiosity. It was compulsion. How could something so extreme be sitting so quietly just off the tourist path? And so the plan was set. A little salt, a lot of sun, and a visit to the mysterious island: Santa Cruz del Islote.
I wasn’t exactly looking for comfort—I just didn’t expect it to be this hard to find. The journey from Cartagena de Indias to the Archipelago of San Bernardo is long, hot, and wet in all the wrong ways. But somewhere beyond the horizon, among a constellation of tiny Caribbean islands – Archipelago San Bernardo,, was a place I couldn’t stop thinking about: Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world.
Three hours by speedboat might not sound like much—until you’re actually in it. The sea between Cartagena and the Archipelago San Bernardo isn’t particularly gentle. There’s no shade. No snacks. Just salt, sun, and the occasional existential thought. But I held on, chasing a place my curiosity only whispered about: Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world.
What I found was… a lot. Houses layered like bricks in a Jenga tower. Kids everywhere. Roosters. Concrete. Life packed tighter than I thought possible. The heat and the smell made me think more of India—alive, overwhelming, and unapologetic. It was both fascinating and claustrophobic, beautiful and uncomfortable. But that’s only part of the story.
Because beyond the noise, beyond the crush of bodies and buildings, something unexpected happened in my interior universe.
Towards San Bernardo: Waves, Wind, and a Salsa-Dancing Captain
We left at the crack of dawn. I had already been in Cartagena de Indias for a few days—my second time in the city—so I knew my way around. Reaching the port was just a formality. I’d booked this trip to the Archipelago of San Bernardo through a local company I trust, and the price was surprisingly low considering the distance we had to cover by boat—around 30 to 40 U.S. dollars, paid in Colombian pesos.
At the small tourist port, a group of about 15 to 20 of us gathered—mostly Colombian travelers—and we climbed into a small, fast boat that looked more ready for a lake than the open sea. Our captain, somehow wide awake and dancing before sunrise, greeted us with loud salsa music and the kind of cheerfulness that either lifts your spirits or makes you deeply suspicious. He was clearly in his element—smiling, bobbing to the rhythm, shouting jokes over the motor, as if we weren’t about to be flung across open sea for hours.
What followed was nearly three hours of not-so-smooth sailing toward the Archipelago of San Bernardo. The wind was strong, the sea was loud, and the boat seemed to bounce more than it floated. Slowly, the imposing skyline of Cartagena’s Bocagrande district—those tall, shiny towers—shrunk behind us, swallowed by the horizon and replaced by nothing but blue. Blue sky, blue water, and the unknown.
The San Bernardo Archipelago: A Hidden Tropical Paradise
After a few hours of being tossed around like luggage in a speedboat, we made our first stop: Isla Palma. One of the larger islands in the Archipelago of San Bernardo, it’s home to a kind of rustic resort—nothing flashy, but with a beautiful beach and just enough structure to feel semi-civilized.
Most of the passengers got off here, ready to spend a few days in this quiet corner of the Caribbean. I stayed just long enough to crack open a cold beer, feel solid ground under my feet again, and sink into a shady lounge chair.
The beach was lovely—white sand, clear water, and a laid-back calm that felt almost untouched. The setup was simple, modest, and refreshingly free of excess. No extravagance, no all-inclusive buffet chaos. Just the basics, done right. A tropical escape that hadn’t yet been swallowed by mass tourism.
Soft Latin music played in the background, the hotel staff laughed and moved slowly, with the kind of ease that only comes from living in constant heat. Two lonely, sunburned trees stood guard over a supply boat, trying their best to shade it from the 40-degree Celsius inferno—so it wouldn’t turn from a delivery vessel into a boiling pot of tropical stew.
My brief moment of rest was coming to an end—slowly but surely—and the journey had to continue. The plan for the day was ambitious: visit Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world, then have lunch and a swim in the turquoise waters of a private island.
Now, when you hear “private island,” your mind probably goes straight to billionaires and royals, champagne on the beach, and helicopters waiting nearby. I’ll admit, that idea made me a little uneasy at first—it didn’t exactly sound like my scene. But after my stop on Isla Palma, I started to get a better sense of the kind of “luxury” this trip had to offer. And funnily enough, it turned out to be exactly my scene.
The speedboat that had delivered us to this point—while not exactly new or graceful—had one big thing going for it: a tarp roof that offered at least some protection from the merciless sun. And when I say merciless, I mean it. The day I went, even locals were sweating like it was a punishment. Around 42°C at noon, with over 80% humidity. Think sauna, but outdoors, and with no escape.
I quickly realized the speedboat wasn’t coming back. And so we greeted our next mode of transport with a mix of enthusiasm and mild panic: a tiny fishing boat, the kind that looks like it’s more used to hauling nets than carrying tourists. There were six of us, crammed in tight. The captain—an actual fisherman who had just wrapped up his morning catch—pulled up to the pier and began clearing out buckets, fish, and equipment to make space for us.
Once his cargo was safely dropped off at the resort, he motioned us aboard. We were headed—slowly, humbly, and a little too closely—to one of the most surreal destinations in the Caribbean: Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world.
The Most Densely Populated Island in the World: Santa Cruz del Islote
We’d been drifting for about 15 minutes in that tiny fishing boat, winding our way between the tiny Colombian islands scattered across the sea. It was midday, and the sun was—no exaggeration—unbearable. The last weather check had shown over 41°C, and it felt every degree of it. There was no land in sight anymore—just endless blue—and ironically, though I was in the middle of the ocean, a strange, claustrophobic panic started to creep in.
All I could think about was: What happens if this little boat gives up on us right here? It didn’t exactly scream “open-sea-worthy.” We were bobbing in open water, in over 40-degree heat, no cell signal, no shade, no drinking water. I was already mentally preparing for survival mode. And then, as if summoned by the Laws of Murphy, the engine gave out. I didn’t panic. I didn’t even flinch. I’d already lived this moment in my head. My palms had toughened into imaginary oars. I was ready to row if needed.
Luckily, the fisherman was a professional. He tinkered with the motor for less than ten minutes—cool, calm, and entirely unbothered—then gave us the nod. We were back in motion. About twenty minutes later, something odd began to appear on the horizon: a strange shape, like a smudge on the sea. A tiny scrap of land, seemingly tossed carelessly into the middle of the Caribbean. It looked like an anomaly, a glitch in the landscape—a sliver of concrete and tin, rising out of nowhere, ringed by what looked like a shield of floating debris.
We were almost there: Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world. It was surreal. Like someone had taken a favela from Rio de Janeiro, shrunk it down, and dropped it smack in the middle of the ocean.
We approached the small wooden dock, gently bobbing with the waves, and stepped off the boat beside a tiny, welcoming bar. Built from uneven planks and topped with a roof of dried palm leaves, it had a handmade charm—simple, but full of character. Locals gathered under its shade, sharing music and conversation in a calm, friendly atmosphere that immediately set the tone of the island: community-first, warm, and unhurried.
But what I noticed first wasn’t the bar—it was the strong smell that hung in the air. With so many people living in such a small space, and the midday sun pressing down at over 40°C, the scent of life—waste, sea, heat—was hard to ignore. It was intense, and it stayed with you. I’m not sure if this is always the case, but at that moment, it felt like a challenge to the senses.
Our group was welcomed right away by a smiling man who radiated friendliness. He introduced himself as Señor Gusto, the island’s guide. Shorter in height, solidly built, and with a few visible physical disabilities, he carried himself with quiet confidence and pride. He seemed genuinely happy to share his home with visitors.
He first brought us to the island’s aquarium—a small, handmade pool where a few species of local marine life are kept: stingrays, small sharks, and colorful fish. Visitors can even swim with them for a small fee. I chose not to join in—not out of fear, but because I wasn’t sure about the cleanliness of the water. Maybe I was being cautious, but the heat and scent had made me more sensitive to these things.
From there, we began our walking tour of the island, which measures around 200 meters in length and 100 in width. And yet, those few square meters are home to a thriving, tightly knit community.
The narrow pathways were alive with energy. Children played soccer in every open space. Women chatted or did laundry near their homes. In one corner, a group of men shared a bottle of rum and laughed over music playing from a speaker. Despite the crowded conditions and the challenging climate, life here moved with rhythm and resilience.
Santa Cruz del Islote isn’t a place filled with typical tourist attractions. It’s home. You’ll find colorful murals, a small church, a school, a shop, and a large water tank—crucial, because freshwater must be delivered by boat from nearby Isla Tintipán. There’s not a lot of space, but there’s a whole world of daily life unfolding here, rich with dignity, creativity, and community spirit.
Tales from the tiny Caribbean islands
Mr. Gusto had more than a few stories to tell. As we wandered the narrow paths of Santa Cruz del Islote, the most densely populated island in the world, he began painting a broader picture of the Archipelago of San Bernardo—a constellation of tiny Caribbean islands, some inhabited, others left to the birds and the sea. Located among the Colombian islands near Cartagena, this archipelago has long depended on one thing for survival: fishing.
That’s when he told us how he lost his hands—not in a shark accident, as my imagination first jumped to, but in a fishing mishap. When he was just ten years old, he went out to sea with his father. They were fishing with dynamite, and it exploded in his hands. Yes, dynamite. At ten years old. As surreal as that sounds, it’s not the only adrenaline-fueled activity on the island. He also mentioned the controversial, and technically illegal, cockfighting matches held here. With few alternatives for entertainment, this tradition has persisted, though it’s not without its critics.
But what truly stayed with me was the story of the island itself. Santa Cruz del Islote didn’t exist in its current form until the 1860s. Originally, it was just a sliver of land—a safe haven where fishermen from nearby tiny Caribbean islands could take shelter during storms, protected by a coral reef. Over time, they began to expand the island, adding everything they could find: coconut husks, logs, seashells, debris, and yes, even garbage. It’s a partially artificial island, born of necessity and persistence.
Back then, it didn’t even have a name. But legend has it that a wooden cross washed ashore one day, and from that moment, it became known as Santa Cruz del Islote. Over the decades, some residents moved to nearby islands like Tintipán and Múcura, while others stayed, slowly building a tight-knit, overgrown village on the sea. Today, the island has a school (which even children from other Colombian islands near Cartagena attend), a local council formed in 2013, and since 2020, access to the internet.
I wouldn’t call it the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. But it’s certainly one of the most extraordinary, a place with a soul, a history, and a rhythm all its own.
I, too, once fished with dynamite…
Every time I longed for something,
I wanted more, wanted it easier, faster.
Instead of being a better fisherman.
I dreamed of blowing the sea wide open.
One day, the thought came to me—
“Why not fish with dynamite?”
Lucky me, it blew up in my hands—
before it could shatter the reef,
that silent wall holding back the deadly waves,
the only thing standing between me and disaster.
Luxury through simplicity in Archipelago of San Bernardo
We left Santa Cruz del Islote the same way we came—rocking gently in the small fisherman’s boat, its wooden frame creaking as it cut through the water. As the island faded behind us, I turned for one last look. From a distance, it looked like a floating village stitched together from stories and cement, clinging to the sea like it refused to be forgotten.
Just as we drifted away, I noticed the fisherman pull something from a net with practiced ease: a large, bright-red lobster, still writhing. I asked how much. “50 000 pesos” he said, with a shrug. Around 12 dollars for the freshest seafood imaginable—less a transaction, more a passing of good fortune between strangers.
We weren’t headed back to the mainland just yet. Our next stop was what the locals called a “private island”—a phrase that sounds like luxury, but here simply means quieter, emptier, untouched. On the way, we passed a scatter of floating houses and makeshift bars resting gently on the water. They looked like dreams suspended between sky and sea—shacks on stilts painted in faded blues and yellows, pulsing with slow music and slow life. I couldn’t stop staring. It was all so simple, so barebones—and so beautiful.
When we docked, the island revealed itself for what it was: a quiet stretch of sand, hammocks swinging lazily between palms, and a small outdoor kitchen tucked under a thatched roof. It wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be. The sea did the rest.
The fishermen got to work right away. In that humble kitchen, they grilled the lobster over open flames, serving it with rice and crispy patacones—slices of fried plantain, golden and salty. I ate with my hands, sitting barefoot at a plastic table in the shade, the ocean breeze cutting through the midday heat.
That meal wasn’t fancy, but it was unforgettable. The lobster was smoky and sweet, the rice fluffy, the patacones crunchy and perfect. Everything tasted like the day itself—wild, warm, and generous in ways I didn’t expect.
The Long Ride Home (and a Bit of Salt in the Wounds)
The return to Cartagena was… something else. If the way out had been rough, the way back was a battle. This time, we were riding against the waves—three solid hours of white-knuckle grip, trying not to be tossed into the Caribbean. The sea, once playful and warm, had turned into a relentless force, slapping the boat with every surge like it had something personal against us.
By the time we reached the coast, my arms felt like they’d wrestled Poseidon himself. Two days later, I still had muscular fever. It hurt to lift my backpack, to hold a cup of coffee—hell, it hurt to breathe too deeply. My body had taken the brunt of the ocean’s mood, and it wasn’t shy about reminding me.
As if the ride wasn’t enough of an experience, there was also the Venezuelan guy on board. You know the type—shirt unbuttoned, sunglasses even in the shade, and a deep need to be heard. “Déjame que te lo explico, papi,” he kept saying, trying to lecture the rest of us on how to relax so we wouldn’t feel the pain. Then he promptly lost his balance on a wave and nearly flew overboard. The irony didn’t go unnoticed, though we all pretended to care deeply for a moment or two. Still, the chaos and discomfort of the journey didn’t erase what came before.
The Archipelago of San Bernardo, the tiny Caribbean islands near Cartagena, the strange wonder of Santa Cruz del Islote—the most densely populated island in the world—they left a mark. Not just on my skin, sunburned and salted, but deeper.
Conclusion
If you’ve made it this far through my story, thank you. And if this place sparked something in you—curiosity, a craving, a question—know that I’m happy to help. You can check out more of my travel articles, reach out if you’re planning a similar trip yourself, or just follow along on Instagram for more stories, scenes, and surprises from places like this.
Sometimes the best parts of the world are the hardest to reach. But trust me—they’re always worth the ride.
