Colombia Part 2: Pereira & Cartagena

PEREIRA

If endless partiers keep you awake all night in the Colombian coffee region, then use what you’ve got to make the best of it. 

Ironically, our apartment that first night in Marsella was above a café serving the region’s finest, so I jumped the one flight of stairs for a massive cup of fresh Don Danilo coffee.  Its flavor was so deliciously smooth and rich that I almost forgave the yodeling borrachos from a few hours earlier.   Nosedive #27 successfully averted.   

Our two 1954 Willys awaited us in the street, ready to transport us through the mountainsides to our destination for the day.  Like the Guatemalan chicken buses, Willys are a means of utilitarian transport for locals and wicked diversion for gringos from New York.  Climb in, find your footing, grab hold, and enjoy the view.  Oh, and while you are swinging your hips to the latin beats that pump out of the speakers, don’t forget to duck from the low lying branches.        

Throwing three kids in these bad boys goes against everything that responsible parents have been trained to do.  That said, JP, Owen, and Eamon’s beaming faces said it all as we’d hug a corner and brace for bumps.   If the experience of riding in Willys doesn’t make it into the boys’ writing assignments, then I throw in the towel as to what does.  This was riDICulously fun. 

We arrived at Brisas del Cauca , a remote organic finca (farm), run by the legendary Don Luis Fernando Velez Patiño, who greeted our dirty but smiling faces with open arms.  The lush hillside setting would make any Hollywood location scout giddy.  Trees and plants of all shapes and sizes covered every angle of green slope from our vista.  Machete in hand, he wasted no time in proudly explaining and demonstrating why his finca is so unique in its fruit production.

 

Through many years of introducing a variety of near extinct species of fruit plants, he has created a near perfect ecosystem where pesticides are simply not needed.  A multitude of insects compete for various plants, effectively killing themselves off before they attack the plants.   This may be understandably boring to most, until one samples the intensity of flavors from his fruit.  

Don Luis sliced and diced for over two hours into the treasures of his finca, allowing us to sample a rainbow of fruits and herbs, some familiar but many new.  Our pallets became overwhelmed by lulo, guayaba, papaya, guayabana, cacao, and many more.  Sweet, sour, chewy and gooey…we touched, smelled, sipped, and tasted everything.   To him, the boys were the gratifying beneficiaries and newly indoctrinated educators of the his finca.  To us, he will forever be the Willy Wonka of fruit.   

The next day we loaded once again into our Willys heading to Estación Pereira, a remote village deep in the coffee zone region that cradles the Río Cauca.   Our guide gave us little information other than today’s adventures would be just that, so we were naturally skeptical upon arriving to a shanty village that consisted of only a few houses and a tienda that hadn’t been restocked in weeks.  An abandoned rail line intersected the dirt road where our jeeps came to a stop.  It was then that the boys noticed our next mode of transportation…a brujita.   The brujita is a primitive form of rail transport, which is best described as a collision between a 1950’s motorcycle, wooden pallet, and a simple sideline bench.   

Straddled like first graders on a see saw, we took off down a rickety rail line to who knows where, guided by the trusty hands of our conductor, who communicated simply by directional nods and a warm smile.  Gliding through the edge of the riverbank was sensory overload.  I refrained from throwing my head back to proclaim, “Take that Disney!”, since the boys were already embarrassed by my jeep dancing.  Heads bobbed everywhere, trying to catch every passing sight: modest dwellings filled with gazing children, roaming animals with questionable fates, and fat bellied spiders the size of Eamon’s hand nestled in webs.  Fifteen minutes in, our brujita slowed as we approached what appeared to be our destination on the line.  The third and final leg of our transport trifecta awaited us: a the zip line across the raging river.

Lunch with the locals, a muddy hike to a waterfall, and enjoying the entire trifecta in reverse lived up to the promise of adventure set that morning. My sister in law Margaret unanimously won the day’s prestigious “Screaming Camel” award, the honor we bestow on the family member who shows the most determination and grit throughout the day.  Ask Eamon where the name came from, as we’re at a loss.  The pride one feels in winning, however, is undoubtedly clear.

   

CARTEGENA

Cartagena is like Miami’s unpolished little cousin, energetic and ready to party but not without some grime around it’s mouth.   Grateful to still have Tía Margarita and Uncle E with us, we took in the colors and sounds of the vibrant city.   Our group became thinner by the day, literally and figuratively, as some heavily sauced mystery meat, now affectionally dubbed mal carne, sidelined our fearless patriarch for a day.  We’d leave our AmEx at home but not these. 

   

Exhausted by the omnipresent and insistent street vendors, we decided to check out the Rosario Islands, an archipelago of privately owned thumbprints of paradise.  The day of our excursion, the wind gods fortunately were in our favor.  We had heard that the waves can be unbearably choppy for this 45 minute boatride to paradise, but the desire to sink our feet into white sand and clear waters superseded any reservations.  Lucky for Sean’s still fragile stomach, we had one of the calmest days all month. 

  

Economic prosperity in Cartagena is evident, both in the booming tourism within the historic city center walls and in the outskirts where white hi-rise condos are filling up the skyline.  We were invited by Tío Fernando and Tía Marta (remember what I said about traveling with your Colombian sister-in-law in Colombia) to come for a beach lunch at their new condo outside of the city.   We envisioned chicken and burgers on the grill, a dip in the ocean, and some sunset toasts among our small group.  Tío and Tía had grander plans.   We arrived to a ten piece band, an arsenal of cooks, friends from all places, and many, many bottles of the favored liquor of Colombians, Aguardiente.   Sean’s brother egged him that a little of the clear stuff would kill any remaining mal-ness in his body.   I saw Sean take a breath to say something, but Tío Fernando outdrew him, charmingly slipping a shot into everyone’s hand before we could hesitate.   Illness cured.

    

Likewise, Owen found himself pulled onto the makeshift dance floor, with the hands of happy dancers guiding the movement of his shoulders and hips.   I felt his awkwardness, but seeing his genuine smile triumph was a moment for me.    I promised him no photos. 

Time and time again, Colombians everywhere we go have treated us as family.   Why this can’t be the global norm we’re not sure, but what we do know is that we will certainly step things up for our visitors.  Knock on our door anytime… although you just might have something handed to you before you can say no.

As we’ve been traveling for just over one month, we compiled a few interesting stats for our right brained followers who prefer numbers to photos:

Borders crossed: 4

Flights to date:  12

Different beds each person has slept in: 12

ATM cards lost: 2

Current sources to immediately obtain cash: 0

Strangers we’ve met who genuinely insist that we contact them if we ever need assistance:  14

Electrolyte tablets consumed: 19

Bribes made with Eamon so that he will come to dinner or on a tour: 23

Number of times we’ve said, “I’m pretty sure we can get away without stitches”: 2