Los Estoraques

One perk of being the only foreigners in an area is seeing things not mentioned in our handy, though limited, Lonely Planet. And, as an added bonus of working in exchange for just room and board, every weekend is a three-day weekend ripe with opportunity to do so. A twenty five-dollar roundtrip taxi ride put us at one of Colombia’s Unique Natural Areas, Los Estoraques. Hello, Friday.

Situated 10 kilometers off the main road, the park is guarded by the tiny town of La Playa de Bélen.  A kilometer farther up the road lies the entrance to Los Estoraques, though the massive stone formations surrounding Playa and interrupting nearby farms have been flashing by like the coming attractions.

With only a small building and no real entrance fee, only the ANU (área naturale única) sign and the presence of a volunteer tour guide indicate that this is, in fact, a national park.The park’s massive towers and sprawling network of narrow canyons is the work of erosion. Sandstone looms overhead in peaks and spires, its warm colors contrasting sharply against the day’s crisp azul sky.

Our guide, naturally a Spanish speaker who doesn’t realize or understand that only half our party speaks Spanish, insists on relaying all information to Win and I, in addition to our Colombian companions. We nod and ooh and ahh in all the right places, following pointing fingers as he points out rocks that look like monkeys, lions, and kings. We wait patiently for Camilo’s translations, or simply wander on along the path.

He leads us up a steep flight of stairs cordoned off with bright yellow caution tape, surely just there to discourage those who have opted not to use a guide. Or so one hopes. Up, through, and around we make our way to the top of a hill for a bird’s eye view of the valley. Seen from above it is as though one were looking down on a cityscape carved from clay, etched into stone. Mock skyscrapers cluster together interlaced with patches of trees.

As we make our way back down, the path, simply the work of past rains, weaves between and around the rough sandstone giants. They tower overhead, blocking the harsh sun, as we scamper and explore alleys and caves.

We return to La Playa de Bélen, catching a ride in the back of a pickup (although as the only female I am offered a place in the cab, and therefore partake in some awkward conversation between myself and four Spanish-speaking men).

Winding cobblestone streets lined with blindingly white buildings topped by rust-colored terracotta roofs make up this tiny town, no more than three streets wide and petering out after maybe ten blocks. A dry fountain stands ready in the central park. The shade of nearby trees and shopfronts offer a bit of respite where one can enjoy some horchata and jalea, a surprisingly delicious local candy made from cow hooves and sugar.

As the taxi snakes its way back toward Ocaña, immaculate hills and farms roll past the windows, mountains fading to sky in the background. Amazingly interesting geology, spotless little towns, and incredible scenery: what more could one want for a Friday morning?

Holy Salt

Spending multiple days in Bogotá, a large, cold, sprawling city, warranted a bit of peripheral exploration. Enter: nearby Zipaquirá, home of Colombia’s Salt Cathedral. Originally merely a salt mine, the Catedral de Sal has gone through several incarnations before reaching the status of pilgrimage destination, holy sanctuary, and tourist attraction it possesses today.

Throughout history, up until man developed refrigeration techniques, salt was incredibly valuable. Understandable, as people tend to be neither physically tolerant nor especially keen of rotten meat. In fact, our English-speaking guide informed us, the word ‘salary’ has its roots in the word ‘salt’ (imagine my surprise when a google search confirmed the etymologic origin). Since the massive salt deposits were discovered several hundred years ago, Zipaquirá’s salt mine has been active, though it is less prosperous in the modern age of home appliances.

In the early 1930s, a sanctuary was carved into the mine for the sake of those who wanted to pray for protection before beginning their day’s work. In the 1950s, the sanctuary was expanded and dedicated to the patron saint of miners (because if there’s one thing Catholic countries have no shortage of, it’s patron saints). However, after 40 years of mining and praying in the same place, the mine was shut down for structural issues; the problem with building a cathedral inside a mine is that now your cathedral is in a damn mine.

After a major facelift, including structural additions and building only in the inactive areas of the mine, the modern incarnation of the Catedral de Sal was constructed. It wasn’t cheap or easy, but it is thoroughly impressive.

The downhill stroll begins with the Stations of the Cross. Though the rock in the mine is too hard for any detailed carving, each station features a large stone cross in various symbolic depictions, places to kneel for those who wish to stop and pray, as well as LED lighting.

A beautiful circular room, complete with an overhead dome, painstakingly hand-chiseled, represents the division between heaven and earth. Marble angels, designed by an Italian artist, perch throughout this massive complex. And, multiple staircases offer sinners the chance to repent before entering the main cavernous cathedral.

As you reach the farthest point underground (or farthest reached without donning a hardhat), you enter the main sanctuary. The primary cathedral is separated into three sections, partially due to structural limitation, representing the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. It is enormous. All told, the Salt Cathedral can (and each Easter Sunday does) hold up to 8,000 people.

Truly a magnificent feat of engineering and the human proclivity toward repurposing and interior decorating in places that are otherwise drab.

Erawan: Seven Waterfalls in One

Erawan Falls is a seven-tier waterfall, and a very popular tourist destination, even among Thais.  Located about two hours outside of Kanchanaburi, Erawan Falls is well worth the trip, even in a rickety local bus, plunging up, down and around winding mountain roads. You have to go early, as around four o’clock the park starts closing up and the last bus pulls out of the parking lot to make its way back to Kanchanaburi. But, even in Thailand, one can get up early every now and then.

It is about a two-hour hike to get to the top, allowing time for stopping frequently to let people pass in the opposite direction on the narrow trail. The trail follows relatively confusing signs from tier to tier, leading you on over rocks, up wooden staircases, and trudging through water.

The farther up the falls you go, the more the crowd thins out, leaving the small and elderly toward the lower levels. It is hot, sweaty, and at times slippery work to get all the way to tier seven, but a lovely pool awaits you. Monkeys relax, lazy in the trees, waiting for munching tourists to let their guard down and allow the snatching of snacks. Fish swim, languid in the shadows.

At each of the tiers you can stop to swim in the clear blue pools, as tiny fish nibble at your heels. A free fish massage. Climbing up the various falls is easier in many places than one would believe, thanks to the mineral buildup, giving the rock faces their off-white hue and an almost sandpapery finish.

The trek back to the lower levels takes less time, but we were thankful for the various snack and drink stands that precede the parking lot. Hiking, swimming and climbing, when combined into a full-day activity will leave you parched and starving. Not to mention, ready for a beer and one helluva nap when you finally make it back to the guesthouse. 

A Chill in the Air

Northern Vietnam was cold. Arriving at night, people were bundled up in winter clothing, coats buttoned up to the throat, hats pulled down snug over ears. By our standards it was an overreaction, but all over Hanoi, on motorbikes and on sidewalks, seated on tiny plastic chairs, clothing was layered to fend off the chill. The sky was grey, ominous, the sun rare. It wasn’t bitter winter cold, more like fall crisp, but the change was dramatic. Even we put on jeans and long sleeves.

Whether it was the weather, or simply a regional disposition, the chill seemed to be in the personalities as well. The people were aggressive. Smiles seemed rare. A foggy trip to Halong Bay ended in a yelling match – tourists vs. tour guide, 18 to 1 – after he kept us waiting on a street corner for over an hour and then tried to leave some people behind. We hadn’t seen the sun in days; dealing with people was tiresome. We decided to cut our losses, make one more stop, and head the 800 km down the coast to central Vietnam.

Before leaving we stopped in Ninh Binh, more commonly known as ‘the Halong Bay of the rice fields’. It was yet another rainy day, preventing us from renting bikes (read: saving money) and biking around in comfort. But by the time we arrived at the tourist dock, the temperature was rising, leaving only a thick fog around in its wake. 

As we left the dock, a hush seemed to settle over the landscape, interrupted only by the steady sound of the oars. Immense limestone cliffs towered above us, layered over one another like construction paper cutouts. On either side of the waterway, villagers tended to their rice paddies, boats tied up nearby. We drifted leisurely down the river, through natural tunnels in the cliffs, past vendors and homes. 

It was a tiny, but much-needed, spoonful of tranquility in our stressed-out North Vietnam soup.