So Long and Thanks for All the Arepas

For our final Colombian destination, we chose Cartagena. After two months of calling Colombia home, a much shorter time than anticipated due to some very unexpected changes in our plans, we were down to our last couple of days.

Cartagena oozes old world colonial charm. Buildings, facades crumbling and faded, repainted in vibrant hues, wind along narrow streets throughout the old quarter of town, a UNESCO World Heritage gem. The walled old city, surrounded by the coralstone protection of once-great fortress walls, maintains an air of Spanish colonialism infused with a taste of the Caribbean.

We roamed the city, took in the sights and the history. We indulged in our final Colombian arepas, corn-flour pancakes essential in the local diet, piled high with cheese and eggs. We sipped on juice made from local fruits. 

Church-studded, flavored with diverse history, Cartagena makes for a beautiful place to laze about, stroll around, and generally take in bit by bit. Scorching heat, high humidity, and a perplexing lack of water (of our three days in Cartagena, we only had water for a day), and heavy afternoon showers drove us into the hostel’s shady patio for much of the time.

Maybe not ideal by most postcard holiday standards (I certainly could have used another shower or two), but Cartagena served as a lovely sendoff in its own right, a beautiful goodbye to Colombia. And it gave us a bit of calm before our Central American whirlwind tour

Caffeinated

Rich and aromatic, dark and velvety. Even as someone who drinks very little coffee, I can appreciate a good cup o’ joe. And, seeing as coffee is second only to oil in global exports, I am clearly not the only one. When it comes to getting a cup of high quality coffee or espresso, there are few places in the world better than the rolling green hills, crisscrossed and sectioned, of Colombia’s Zona Cafetera.

Colombia, home of the world-recognized (fictional) Juan Valdez, is number two in global coffee exports and the number one producer of Arabica, the world’s highest quality coffee. The label ‘Colombian Coffee’ has become synonymous with excellence. So, we made it a list item to tour a coffee farm (or ‘finca’) and see what the fuss was about.

The tour of a local, family-run coffee finca outside of Manizales was conducted entirely in Spanish, and, despite our speaking skills not being up to par, we had a surprisingly easy time understanding the majority of what our guide was explaining. She led us through the entire planting process, from tiny roots to fruit to roasted coffee beans, while showing us each part of the process on the sprawling coffee plantation.

Win tried his hand at being a coffee laborer, searching each branch for only the ripe, red fruit, plucking them individually, and watching his bucket as it filled at an unbelievably slow pace. The life of these workers, going from farm to farm, making a living one kilogram at a time, cannot be easy. Yet, it is an integral step in the process, a process that supports vast swathes of Colombia’s people.

Incredible time and consideration goes into each step of the process, ensuring that the years of work that lead up to an individual harvest aren’t wasted. Colombia’s coffee farms are outstanding in their emphasis on organic, hand-picked crops, ensuring the absolute highest quality in the finished product. 

They are proud of the fact that they do not use machines for harvests, that they rely on original sorting methods (does it float?) for separating good beans from bad. They are proud that they are careful about what fuel is used for roasting and what bags for storing to prevent flavor contamination. They know that size matters, and sort the coffee beans as such. The coffee growers know what works, and it is this human touch that distinguishes Colombian coffee as some of the world’s finest.

Where Time Slows Down

Ah, old colonial towns. Whitewashed buildings, nearly blinding in the sun, topped with red-orange tiles, doors and windows painted in vibrant colors. A town square, complete with bubbling fountain, a magnificent church, and plenty of stands peddling foods, hats, ponchos, and produce of every shape and variety. Cobblestone streets make their way from house to house, leading onward dogs and cars alike. Residents recline about in shady patches.

This quaint scene has repeated itself time and again in our Colombian travels. The midday sun, soon to be quenched by afternoon rains, drives people into the shade and under the brims of hats. It makes you feel the need to slow down, to adjust to the siesta-loving pace of the locals. Here, time works at the speed of molasses, slow and sticky, irresistible. It is the time of slow-cooked meals and freshly made juice.

Nestled in among mountains and greenery, these are towns and cities built in clusters, settled into their individual nooks and crannies. They stack together, tumbling and climbing around hills and valleys. And, though each of the towns are so similar, each time we crest a hill the blues and greens that wrap themselves around these colonial towns, entangled with gauzy white clouds, catch me off guard. I am reminded that, although it may be difficult coming from a Western perspective, it is important to stop, appreciate places where time runs a bit slower, and just sip it all in. 

Free Toes, Fluttering Wings

As the jeep bounced along, overflowing with tourists and Colombians, I felt a tad underdressed. The other white folk had donned hiking boots, rubber galoshes, and carried plastic ponchos in preparation for the day’s trek. I was sporting my usual flipflops and yoga-inspired clothes (read: comfortable), my only actual shoes, in fact a pair of much-underused running shoes, waiting patiently, still packed away in my backpack in Ocaña. So, as the jeep jerked to a halt, there I sat, flipflop-clad but ready to hike.

A rutted dirt road led us down into Cocora Valley, past a trout hatchery and weaving between cow-specked farmlands. Towering wax palms dotted the hillside, stretching up surreally from otherwise treeless fields and hills, reaching as though they could brush the azure of the bright morning sky. The road, a mere track only passable for humans and their equine friends, carried us onward, graciously dipping into patches of shade as it headed toward a lush cloud forest.

The landscape changed abruptly and dramatically as the trail dumped us, reeling, from the illuminated fields into the dense, shadowy tree cover. Ancient trees, some laden with leaves the size of your face, tangled overhead, offering respite from the nearly-midday sun. With the shade came the trail’s inability to recover from the previous day’s rain. The mud, mixed with ever-present horse droppings, forced me to spring from rock to rock, searching out dry spots for my exposed feet, where others could simply tromp along the trail how they pleased.

Back and forth, up and over, the trail wound through the dense vegetation. Here and there we crisscrossed a river as it tumbled toward the valley behind us, swaying precariously on one person suspension bridges. Waiting as, one-by-one we bottlenecked behind another gringo cluster, a butterfly alighted on my bare toes. He even stuck with me for several steps.

Disclaimer: Though I felt blessed at the time, as I always feel when a butterfly chooses me as a temporary resting place, these butterflies would turn out to be a bizarrely friendly variety.

Following our hummingbird hangout at Acaime Natural Reserve, we stopped for a cheese-and-crackers lunch on the return hike. Perched along the river bank, we happened upon a massive kaleidoscope of butterflies. (I thank science for this bit of beauty, as ‘kaleidoscope’ is actually a proper name for a group of butterflies.)

Clustered about muddy pools collecting in the rocks alongside the river, their sheer numbers made the ground look as though it were ready to take off all at once with the whisper of so many delicate wings. Not only did the butterflies flutter about my toes, but they seemed genuinely to lack typical butterfly skittishness. Perhaps drawn by the salt of crackers and sweat, they climbed onto our outstretched hands, flitted about our hair, and even ventured an exploratory journey onto our noses.

Though, as infatuated as they were with us, and we with them, the spell was broken with the muddy, stomping intrusion of a stray dog looking to share our lunch. The dog quickly took up the role of new friend, joining us for the remainder of the hike back through the cloud forest. He trotted along ahead, fur shining in as he tromped through patches of sunlight, stopping every so often to glance back and make sure we silly humans were still following the path he bravely laid out for us.

Though he too parted ways with us, leaving us as the cloud forest trickled out and gave way to the rolling hills and wax palms of the valley, we were left with the sweet afterglow of a day spent in the embrace of nature. Even if that embrace left my feet a bit filthy.

The Humming of Tiny Wings

Acaime Reserve, a place bordering on magical in its beauty, is intended primarily to protect one thing, its numerous hummingbirds. At any given time of year, the reserve provides haven for six to eight hummingbird species. For a small donation (roughly $1.50), we received hot chocolate and a chunk of cheese to enjoy as the tiny birds darted around us. Eaten in local fashion, dropping the cheese into the chocolate, this was a surprisingly delicious treat. (We have found that cheese pops up in the most bizarrely delicious ways in Colombian foods.)

I find hummingbirds, much like geckos, to be endlessly fascinating in their specialized engineering. The speed at which their wings move is an unparalleled aerodynamic feat. This movement allows them to move in all directions, including backwards, a talent unique among birds. Incredibly long, narrow beaks, in conjunction with ultrathin tongues, allow them to feed from flowers (and plastic feeders of sugar water) inaccessible to other creatures. Hummingbirds are, hands down, an evolutionary marvel.

We have hummingbirds in New Mexico, as with much of the U.S., but there is something surreal about being in the presence of dozens of them all at once. They dipped and dove around us, whirring past on their way from flower to feeder, feeder to branch. Green and orange, black and white, iridescent blues, pausing briefly to drink one second, they darted away the next. Beautiful and majestic; they were worth the five-hour roundtrip hike. 

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.

Buenos Días, Colombia

And we’re off again.

After a summer in our hometown of Albuquerque – enjoying first world comforts, hating first world prices, soaking up some beautiful high desert weather, spending quality time with old friends and new, stockpiling money, a whirlwind east coast visit with family – we have set our sights on a new continent.

It was an incredibly open-ended job hunt – Turkey? Indonesia? Bhutan? Costa Rica? Cameroon? Ethiopia? – leading us to settle on Latin America. Faced with dishearteningly low pay compared to teaching in Asia, our options were few (though job opening were numerous). Immediately, the volunteer jobs that want volunteers to pay were ruled out. The remaining options were a high-paying job in a capital city teaching business English six days a week or a low-paying job in a rural school. We went for hidden Option D: working four days a week in exchange for room, board, and Spanish lessons.

And sometimes, following instinct rather than money pays off in a big way.

Our instinct has led us to Olits Insitituto de Idiomas in Ocaña, Colombia. The school is new; students are few and classes small for now.  Olits is run by a couple, German Christine and Colombian Camilo. Along with Christine (and their two children), we are the only foreigners in all of Ocaña. Possibly this little bit of celebrity will help the school to grow.

So, here we are, in Ocaña. Built in among the landscape, the houses tier up and down hills, stacked like blocks, all terracotta roofs and beautiful balconies. Buildings crowd up to tight winding streets, restaurants, churches, and shops interspersed with the residential. Spanish rattles all around us, still indecipherable, but becoming more intelligible.

Language is shared, taught, practiced. And through this exchange, our international family grows ever bigger.