Paradise

Jorge is the owner of the beautiful Colonial Hostel, our temporary home in Palmira. His father and brothers operate the family gem and pawn businesses in Connecticut, but he has returned to his hometown to build and operate his hostel and also to build his dream country home in El Paraiso (Paradise) nearby. He offered to take us there and we couldn't pass up the chance to see it.

   

And Paradise it was.  

Jorge drove us past field after field of sugar cane, then out of the Cauca River Valley, and up into the foothills of the Cordillera Central. The air freshened and the land became somehow more familiar to us. Crystal clear mountain streams hurried down the hill, birds sang, and fruit trees were everywhere.

He gave us a complete tour of his property and the interior of his large house which is nearing completion. Every room had territorial views across the Cauca Valley to the coastal mountains or of the high peaks to the east. Doors opened onto shaded verandas perfect for sinking into a comfortable chair with a large glass of fruit juice.

Jorge is an agronomist by education and he proudly showed us his organic beans. squash, and all manner of tropical fruit trees. We walked down by the stream below his house beneath Gradua bamboo over 40 feet tall and 10 inches in diameter at the base. This bamboo is a renewable resource, and is used everywhere for construction of rustic buildings, greenhouses, etc.


This foothill neighborhood has some older homes for sale or rent and properties are available. We walked down the country road to a large piece of property owned by the local indigenous people. They have a herd of African water buffalo and we took turns turning their heads with our amateur buffalo noises.

We had a wonderful time, we made a new friend, and we had fun. Yes we did.

Halloween!!

Dame dulces halloween! Dulces, dulces para mi!

(give me candy halloween! Candy, candy for me!)

  

Ever imagine how our Halloween traditions would translate into Latin culture? I admit the thought had never occurred to me until I found myself sharing a very narrow sidewalk with a throng of small princesses, pirates, and sundry superheroes all streaming towards the central plaza.

  

The proud mothers posed their dolled-up kids in front of their favorite Disney scene, arranged for photographs, showed off junior a bit, and then paraded back through town and into the various stores that offered candy. A true civic Halloween fun-for-all without much in the way of blood and guts.

Meanwhile at the community center many of the indigenous groups in Colombia had gathered to offer a day of speeches, prayers and music to help heal the state of the world.

  

The increasingly ghoulish interpretation of Halloween in the U.S. makes me sad. But I've never thought to pray about it. Traveling has opened my mind in many ways.

   

Caliento Cali

Moving north from Popayan, we actually had our hostel call ahead for a room at the popular Iguana hostel in Cali. Only the second time on this trip that we've made a reservation and it was good that we did because the place was full of 20-somethings from all over Europe and Australia. Friendly enough crowd, but deep into the cerveza and rum by dinner time. Everyone sitting around diddling with their i-whatevers, having multiple loud conversations, demonstrating cultural mastery, and performing radio-karaoke in furious spurts.

Am I sounding critical and old? OK so be it. But I did appreciate the Swiss pair who took over an hour in the kitchen to prepare an artful vegetable crepe dish. I did appreciate the acoustic guitar player over on the hammock patio who really knew some good old '70s licks.

Starr and I made a unique and wonderful tropical juice drink with our local purchases. Grenadine, sapote, acidic guava, sweet guava, and others I can't remember. So good!

After dinner the sky really opened up and the thunder and lightning came closer until finally the flash and the crash were exactly simultaneous. Starr showed me a rapid sort of tap dance to show how she would act if she was scared.

The thunder subsided by bedtime, but the party rocked on loudly for hours and hours. We were able to sleep, awakened only by the occasional shriek. Mind you, this was their TGI-Tuesday party.  Colombians REALLY party on the weekends!

In the morning we had a chance to meet and become friends with the owner, Urs, who emigrated to Colombia from Switzerland 25 years ago. Urs has walked in our shoes and offered many helpful ideas for our exploration of Colombia.

One night in Cali and we were ready to head out again.

Pasto Adios!! Hola Popayan. . .

Although I still get worn out a bit easily, leaving boisterous Pasto behind was a no-brainer.

Colombia has some different travel options, including small buses and vans.  The best part about the smaller transports is that the windows open plus we don't have to tolerate a LOUD, obnoxious (U.S.) movie.  Sure seemed like a good idea to try a small bus for our next trip northward.

With 8 tangerines and plenty of drinking water, We headed out for Popayan, population 270,000. I visited here in 1972 with my college buddy Paul, so I was curious to see it again.

The road we traveled is the Pan American Highway, just a fancy name for a two lane road that twists, winds, and spurts through the Andes.  Our small bus carried only about 20 passengers, an advantage when passing the innumerable tanker and freight trucks. This means that we spent a good deal of the time driving down the WRONG side of the road, barely skimming by the oncoming traffic.  These drivers seem to have an amazing sense of spatial relations.  I just look away.

With Mario Andretti behind the wheel, we passed through beautiful green valleys, deep arid canyons, coastal plains, and eventually climbed up into Popayan through a valley of beautiful banana, coffee, and bamboo groves. I love bamboo.

Did I mention it was hot at the lower elevations? Humid too. We saw (from the bus window) some perfect land where we would like to live. The unfortunate part is that we've been told this entire area in one of the last strongholds of the FARC guerilla forces and that we should only travel it during daylight hours.

Popayan is okay.  It was as clean and colonial as I remember. The whole town was leveled in the 1880's by an earthquake and was rebuilt. And I must say it's holding up very well.

We took an evening walk from our hostel up through the center of town and all was peaceful. Small groups of people, and very few cars. Utterly different than everyplace we've been. Quite lovely in a cobblestone/gaslight sort of way.

We had a tasty dinner of cheese and chicken arepas. New to me, but Starr treasured them during her Venezuelan days.

Our hostel is the best we've stayed in. The staff is helpful, information about the town is well-prepared, and almost everything works. We have a private bathroom, as well as a sitting room with a view of the city above one of the busier intersections in town.

One of the reasons we like staying in hostels is that the guests like to spend time in the common rooms comparing notes about their travels and how to make the traveling life work. Much better than staying in hotels where everyone stays to themselves.

Popayan is a place we like.

Cancel Uruguay

Days passed by while we just hung out in Otavalo, waiting to see what would happen with Jeff.  His symptoms seem to wax and wane but as long as he keeps taking acetaminophen and the antibiotic, he definitely feels better, though not cured.  At least he can get out of bed - AND go for short walks.

Heading off to Uruguay has become out of the question.  We were SO close to immediately returning to the USA just to get decent medical care.  Now, before doing anything big, we have to make sure he's really on the mend.  Taking another major plane trip wouldn't be a good idea right now.  That means cancelling our flight.  But that's okay.

So one day he woke up with some energy and decided he wanted to head off to Colombia.  That just means relatively short bus trips which he felt he could handle - plus he got really bored sitting still in Otavalo.  So north it was.

From the bus window, Colombia looked so much more interesting than Ecuador: cleaner, more colorful, much better maintained, homes showing love and pride, people more open.

We landed in Pasto, Colombia an a rockin' Saturday night.  Dang, that's a place to avoid.  Just a city out of control: bright lights, speeding cars swerving in and out, loud music from all sides, lots of people in the streets talking loudly.  The taxi driver made it clear that he didn't trust a single person he saw, calling them "ratones, todos son ratones." (Rats, they're all rats.)  "Guard your money, keep it under your shirt, hang onto your suitcases, don't trust anyone", were his parting words.

This seemed like a bit of a warning.  Jeff was feeling pretty good, thank God.  I backed into a storefront with the suitcases, Jeff went into the street to begin TRYING to flag down a taxi.  Finally he caught an empty one that knew of a hotel on the outskirts of town.

Taxistas are truly our best guardian angels.  Time after time these men have saved us.

We got our wish: a miniature sweet hotel with a locked front door: the clerk has to unlock it from the inside to let people in AND to let people out.  They seem to feel a bit insecure around that pueblo -and if THEY are that scared, we're a bit nervous too.