Shorter one for you. Could’ve combined it with the cities but didn’t. Didn’t want to. Didn’t have the energy. Didn’t anticipate you’d want to read such a chunky juan. Didn’t. How’s that for a rationale?
By way of a clumsy summary, Colombia is a land of kind people, chaotic, dusty towns and big water vestibules on top of houses, collecting rain and funnelling it into something practical later down the line. It’s also full of sleepy stretches and isolated homes dotted on spectacular sloping mountainsides. I’ve always waxed lyrical about Norway for its unrivalled natural beauty, but progressively throughout our month in Colombia I questioned that throne. These are the levels we’re talking.
Beyond sweeping aesthetic commentary, mentioning Norway and Colombia in the same passage perhaps only makes sense when talking of the Guatape region. This is a remarkable, fjord-like body of islands, peninsulas, outcrops, lakes, cabanas, twee settlements and farms, but a few hours from Medellín. So taken are we by its beauty and relative quiet that we stay in the area for four days. On one we opt to rent mountain bikes and take a hilly, silly scenic route to El Peñón, a giant incongruous rock with 700 steps to the top*. It's a giddying stroll and a rewarding vista of scintillating Scandinavian style. In fact, the whole day is a bit of a joke as far as scenery is concerned. Shame the whole shabang seems pretty exhausting to me, being in the grips of an achey shakey man cold, scientifically proven to be 5.9x worse than the exact same cold suffered by a woman.
* Now, I was a wee shite at school and so i may have been goofing off when this particular number was covered in Geography class, but I've just read that this 'big incongruous rock' is an 'inselberg'. Anyone? Any single one of you?! Didn't think so. Big, erosion-resistant bulbous rocky boy standing steadfast on an otherwise eroded landscape. Neat.
Guatapé is a colourful and quaint and quite lovely town that attracts a heap of tourists but on its fringes retains the lighter buzz of locals going about their business and enjoying the ride. Each building has its own zócalo — a painted, pictorial marker of the town's history and/or what that particular establishment represents. Not entirely sure of the rule of thumb because I definitely saw one with a unicorn on, but my sense was that if the place is a vet it’ll have a wee kitty on the front, if it’s a steakhouse it’ll have a big cow, if it’s a pharmacy it’ll have, I duno, an ibuprofen capsule. You get the idea. Zócalo. Cool word as well.
Mostly we relax and bask in the tranquility, in the views, in the simplicity of life in these parts. We stay at a spot called Bacoa Hostel for a few days, which is essentially a hippie commune, complete with three kindly doggos (Chango, Mango, Max), a lake for swimming, and a resident shaman (‘my physical form is in Colombia, but I am aligned with the Sirius star cycle’). We tried to head to an old dilapidated Escobar property, Finca La Manuela, but it’s been closed off to tourists for a while now and our attempts at shmoozing our way through private property fell flat. Quite the spot for a little nefarious retreat, mind.
INTERLUDE: AN ODE TO MIXED NUTS
This is important to mention. Not one person I’ve met — not before our trip in gathering intel and recommendations, nor during our trip in gathering stories and friendships — has anyone had the wherewithal to mention that the mixed nut offering in this country is really astounding. Plenty of variations on offer; plenty of different packet sizes; optimal levels of saltiness; good crunch and textures. I particularly loved the ones with small chunks of dried fruit in, and one of the crispy shelled nut types with an outer layer of white choccie and yoghurt. Mixed nuts in Colombia. There, thanks be to heavens and to nut plants. Someone has finally said it. Are you planning a trip to Colombia? The mixed nuts are really good there actually yeah, you should try them yeah, ha ha yeah do it ha.
As we head down to Salento, big dangly chorizo sausages of darkish red hang above grills on the roadside. Once we’re out of town, the weather capitulates and the mist does its best to obscure the sheer drops beside the slippy road.
We snake alongside the Cauca river for a long while. Some stretches of its banks are lined with mounds of plastic and trash. We pass through one town that resembles a single absurd page of Where’s Wally, but I’ve no chance of locating the lad. Moving parts in absolute abundance.
Before darkness falls I jot down this nonsense:
Homes and farmhouses all roofed with terracotta pink resemble to drowsy, drifting eyes a selection of strange, tanned salmon all flopping about the undulating fields. Yet another in a string of journeys where the majestic landscapes take all the points and all the plaudits. It’s wild. Wild salmon.
Despite all this gold dust the journey sucks. The driver is slow and we lose a day, really. I prefer the overnight buses, even if they render my spine spangled and my breath rather nasty.
INTERLUDE: STRANGE TRAVEL MASCOTS
So far our mascots have included an avocado, a half-eaten cucumber, and 32 years’ worth of receipts and clutter in Georgie’s day bag. These are items that have needlessly but valiantly accompanied us for at least 4 days apiece.
Salento is a haven, too. The streets around the main plaza are ripe with life, mind, and people flick in and out of local eateries or grab a drink overlooking the resplendent terrain. Bric-a-brac shops sell Encanto themed souvenirs. Our hostel there is run by an old couple without a shred of English and this immediately endears us to them. Also they’ve got a fantastic dog called Dante that we feed far too often during our stay.
We’ve not done a bunch of hiking since the ailments of San Gil, but an extended touch of R&R has served me well so we managed to get a whole day of ambling in at Cocora Valley. The journey there is spectacular enough; we’re clinging on to the back of a Jeep and slaloming through mountain passes until we catch a glimpse of those grand, gorgeous palms. The hike is about 4-5 hours in total, and it is stunning. No two ways about it. We start on flattish farmlands, work deeper into the valley across shaky bridges and alongside the rushing river, before starting a muddy ascent to a scintillating vista and some much-needed hydration. From there we work down to the palm fields and revel for a while before hitching a ride back to town. These snaps do the whole day greater justice.
We also did a coffee tour in Salento, at El Ocaso. This included picking our own ripe coffee fruits and planting the beans, as well as learning about the harvest lifecycle, washing, sorting and roasting methods. Lovely steaming cup of the good stuff to see us off.
Our final afternoon in Colombia is spent drinking beers on a bench in the sun, watching life unfold before us. Scran a giant arancini style ball of meaty, herby goodness. An elderly fellow pushes children around the plaza in a mini Jeep; people devour ice creams; we head for some grilled trout and flavoursome beans at a local joint. A balmy and brilliant final stint in this extraordinary country.
So there you have it. We aren’t doing Ecuador, sadly. We didn’t leave ourselves enough time to get south, head over the land border at Ipiales, and then feasibly enjoy the place before having to reach Peru. It’d have been a mad dash of one-night-stays, and that’s not really that fun, is it? Is it!!?! Plus Ecuador is a bit shifty at the moment, what with narco-trafficking being a major point of contention in the ongoing elections. Is what it is. We spent a long time travelling back to Bogota, to the airport, and then down here to Lima.
Yep — acutely aware of how fortunate we are to be living how we’re living.
We’ll pick things up in Peru.
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