Boca de Camarones barely exists; it is where the desert meets the ocean. We were the only guests in the entire “town” until the second day when a dodgy old white man checked in with his much younger Columbian woman. If you could find a place to eat, the breakfast options were a bologna sandwich with squeaky cheese or the same plate of fish and rice that would also be lunch and dinner. The routine seemed like an early afternoon swim and then hide out in the shade until sunset. Eventually we finally found what we came for, a Wayuu tribesman to take us to the hard to get to flamingo sanctuary.