A quiet day in Mompox

After yesterday's excitement we decided we deserved a day of recovery. Mompox, a UNESCO world heritage site and one of the patrimonio towns of Colombia, is a perfect place for spending a quiet day. We walked on the beach walk along the Magdalena river, admired the architecture of churches and houses – our own hotel among them – and let the world go by in this sleepy town that once had much more importance as a port city until Cartagena took its place.

We watched a huge iguana near the water, well over a metre in length, and laughed with a couple of old local men at its 'macho' behaviour; it watched us, then started to nod its head vigorously before stopping, head pulled back, chest puffed out. We watched another lizard slip into the open door of a house, only to be chased by a dog. I saw horses, their ribs showing, but hooves in perfect condition, patiently waiting hitched to wagons with bricks and other building materials while their masters were shovelling sand and concrete at some building project. 

Old men and women were sitting in front of their houses in the shade, a group of boys jumped into the river for a swim, and a long, narrow boat ferried people back and forth across the river.

 Tomorrow is a travelling day again, but hopefully not a very long one: we decided to interrupt the bus ride to Cartagena one more time. 

Me and Julio down by the ...

This beautiful place is where we are now. Yesterday it felt even more like paradise when we finally arrived. What an adventure it turned out to be to get to Mompox!

People travel between small communities all the time ...

We had allowed plenty of time to make it to our ten o'clock bus, so were surprised to find the Co-Taxi employee we had talked to the night before at the taxi stand, talking to three people at once but ready to look after us. We were even more surprised to find the bus waiting already, and stunned when it left twenty minutes before ten, the time we had been given. It was a good thing we had aimed to be early!

We drove north on the smooth four-lane highway for about an hour and then turned northwest to head for El Banco, making good time all the way. 'Did you say goodbye to the Andes?' Johann asked when we left the four-lane. I turned around once more, a bit wistful: I love the highlands, and it's always been a bit sad to say goodbye. New vistas were awaiting, however, and soon I turned my attention to the big cattle herds in the savannah-like landscape. Just like in Costa Rica, huge solitary trees spread their branches to provide shade for the animals: arboles májicos here, too. The secondary highway was surprisingly good, too, and with a well-airconditioned (this time not too cold) bus we had a pleasant journey. It occurred to us that the bus we had so fortuitiously reached before the expected departure time was in fact the one that had been due to leave at 8:30, in which case it wasn't leaving too early but an hour late; this was a much more likely scenario. No matter what, we were glad to make such good time and arrived in El Banco in less than two hours.

This is when the trouble started. All of a sudden things came to a complete standstill, and we found ourselves in a lineup of busses at a place that was most definitely not the terminal. Only three or four people besides us were left on the bus by then, and everybody, including the bus driver, was at a loss what was going to happen next. Finally I gathered that this had to do with the paro, the general strike, and that we would not reach the terminal: all roads into and out of town were barricaded by the strikers.

How would we continue on? No busses, no taxis – should we return to Aguachica? And then what? Go on to Cartagena after all? Wait another night and try again the next day? When would a bus go back?

A group of guys with motorcycles – the local 'mototaxis' – surrounded us quickly and talked, all at once, obviously offering to take us wherever we wanted to go. Mompos? No problem, they could take us there. But how? We had the big backpack and were two full grown people, after all (that question, had I thought about it a bit more, shouldn't have even posed a problem: everybody travels on motorcycles, whole families sharing a single one, transporting the most amazing loads). No problema, no problema, we were assured. Welllll ....

It's hard to think in a situation like that, faced with a totally unexpected situation, pressed upon by some very determined people who try to make the decision for you. The men pointed to their motorcycles, the shag carpet covering the back seat for a comfortable ride, very, very eager to take us to Mompox. Johann was very reluctant (maybe rightly so), and I, weighing the different possibilities, was not exactly keen, but something nudged me: it would be alright, I felt, and we'd get to this elusive place within ... what? A couple of hours? What would it be like to travel on the back of a motorbike, with a backpack on your back, for 70 km? Only one way to find out. 

 

The intersection was mayhem, strikers, police, and all kinds of people milling around, and there was no way to get through with a motorcycle either: mototaxis trying to do so were considered strikebreakers, that much was clear from their gesticulations even to us. The two men who had so urgently tried to talk us into going waved us to follow them on foot, and once we had passed the intersection they took two from a group of motorbikes, placed the carpets on the back seats, and gestured for us to get on. 'Are you really sure,' Johann asked. Not really sure, no, but wanting to. My guy, the one who had done the talking, assured me that we would travel together, that the road was quite good for the most part, and that they would drive carefully, then the other one – his brother-in-law, as it turned out – took our big backpack in its cover in front of him, Johann in the back, and I hopped on behind Julio, my (smaller) backpack on my back. We encountered no trouble on our way out of town, but saw another road plugged with trucks, mostly, unable to reach their destination. Within a few minutes we reached the outskirts of town, stopped once for gas – how that worked is quite evident from the photo – and were on our way, only a kilometre, maybe, on the dusty, bumpy road before we reached the smooth highway.

I soon started to enjoy it: the breeze felt good on my skin, the road was nearly empty, except for the occasional motorbike or pedal bike, once or twice, and only after quite a while, a car: news of the strike must have been keeping people away. To the left and right stretched savannah or swamp land, cows grazed peacefully, followed by their attendant white egrets, sometimes only their top half showing in the swamp. From time to time we slowed down to let a small group cross the highway. They were in no hurry. We passed through a few small communities, San Alberto, San Félipe, San this or that, only a few houses, few people. Every once in awhile there was a milestone, numbers getting smaller: soon we would reach the only 'real' town along the way, Guamal, at 35km halfway to Mompox. The nice, smooth road turned into a dusty one, pocked with deep potholes which our guys circumnavigated skillfully. For a short stretch the road improved, and we crossed the Magdalena river, before it turned again into a maze of bumps and dips. Julio and Damian drove carefully, and at no time did I feel unsafe. For a while progress was slowed down by the poor road, but finally the poor stretch was over and we made good time again.

We had only about 8 km to go when a passing motorbike driver honked his horn at us and pointed behind him. We turned around to find Johann with his pack walking towards a bus shelter by the side of the road, and Damian pushing his bike in the direction of a few small houses a bit further back: the weight and rough road had proved too much stress for his rear tire, and he had a flat. The three of us waited for him at the shelter, used the time to snack on some peanuts and have a drink of water, and after maybe fifteen minutes he came driving back, ready to go, but – the tire was already flat again. Back he went, and we waited again, trying our best to make conversation in my limited Spanish, limited even more in this case because Julio, like people here in the lowlands and on the coast in general, speaks a very different Spanish than the clear pronunciation I was used to from the towns we had visited before. Somehow people seem to swallow letters, sometimes whole syllables, which makes it difficult to understand even things I usually might. But we managed somehow, and he told us that driving the motortaxi was what he did for a living, mostly in El Banco itself, but on occasion to towns in the area, Mompox one of them. With three sons – 16, 14 and six – to raise it cannot be easy.

He asked where we were from, a question that usually happens much earlier in a conversation, and nodded when we said Canada, but it soon became apparent that this didn't mean anything to him. He had no idea where to find Canada, and I'm not sure if he'd ever heard of it. We told him that it was much, much colder than here, and Johann showed him our weather forecast, which, at -11 as a high, was not even an extreme one. 'Once,' he said – eleven, shaking his head. 'Menos,' I pointed out – minus, but that was more than he could imagine. We showed him photos from home, with snow, and he gazed in wonder. Then he remarked on the colour of my eyes and the paleness of skin (and here I thought I had tanned quite nicely already) and wondered about Johann's, motioning him to remove his sunglasses. Does everyone have such light coloured eyes, he asked. And the hair? Clearly, two completely different worlds had come together, for each one, quite likely, a day that will stick in our memories.

Again Darian returned, this time with a quite new looking tire, and we were on our way. The tire only lasted for another four or five kilometres, however, before it again went flat. Darian pointed to Julio's motorbike: he would take us. 'Juntos' -together – I asked, incredulously. Si, Julio grinned, todos – everything. So little left, no problem. I was not afraid for ourselves, but very much so for Julio's motorbike, not wanting to have another bike break down, but he had no such qualms. Thus he heaved the pack in front of him, I climbed on behind him, hanging on to him, and Johann with the small backpack was in the back. There was not really a place where we could both put our feet, so I lifted mine up and pointed them backward, thinking Johann would use the foot rests. Julio headed, slowly and carefully, for town on the now quite busy road. After maybe ten minutes we came to an intersection with a few taxis at the corner, and I asked him to stop: we could go by taxi now and save him from going further into town with this big load. He didn't object, called the taxi driver over and made sure we were on the right way. What a nice man, taking his promise to get us to Mompos seriously until the very end. We paid the agreed price, waved in parting and went our separate ways.

We had tried to find an accommodation while we were waiting for the tire to be repaired, and had an address we could start out with. We hadn't dared to book beforehand because the way to Mompos was such a vague thing, but from the booking.com website we knew that there were plenty of hotels to choose from. It only took a few minutes until the taxi driver let us out in front of the 'Café Mompox', but although a room had clearly been available on booking.com the guy at the reception regretfully shook his head: no, he didn't have a room at this moment. His brother did in his hotel, however: did we want to talk to him? He put me on the phone, and after a few minutes we were standing in front of the Café Niento, like the other one a beautiful colonial house, but right on the Magdalena River instead of facing the main thoroughfare through town. It really was like landing in paradise after a rather demanding day.

How to get to Mompox?

And again it's a travelling day, with a clear destination in mind, but not quite so clear directions how to get there.

Yesterday we left San Gil for the district capital of Bucaramanga, with more than half a million people the ninth biggest city in Colombia. We were the last passengers to get on, and so got the front seats of the sixteen passenger bus, thus were able to enjoy a different angle of the view than usual. The drive led through spectacular country, deep down into the Chicamocha canyon, at up to 2,000m deep and 227km in length the second largest in the world. As usual big trucks slowed down traffic especially on the uphill section, and our bus driver proved once again how south American drivers, especially bus drivers, approach passing slower vehicles, always expecting them to make room when the bus driver has once again engaged in a daring manoeuvre. It does make you feel a bit queasy sometimes on those roads where the next curve is always around the corner, but it's something to contend with. At least the roads are good here, with guard railings, unlike the road in Bolivia where I had feared for my life.

A view from above: Chicamocha canyon

At the modern bus terminal in Bucaramanga we changed busses to get to our chosen destination of the day, Aguachica. We were prepared for the freezing aircondition on those larger busses and had brought jackets and long pants, which proved to be a smart idea. The bus was so comfortable that we both slept for part of the three and a half hour ride, which was a shame, really, because it was such a beautiful landscape again, steep, richly forested hills at first, the small towns along the way – in none of which we stopped – with lots of fruit stands overflowing with different kinds of bananas, oranges, mandarins, guavas, guanabas, melons and many others. Later on this changed to wide pastures filled with white and brown cows, the country much flatter, hills only vicsible in the distance: we have arrived in the lowlands. This means it will be very hot from now on.

When we got out of the bus in Aguachica it felt like stepping into a sauna after the cold air on the bus. Since we only wanted to stay overnight we had decided to try to find out how to continue to our next 'real' destination, Mompox, right at the bus terminal. The first company where we asked for information was the only one that has a bus going there, but – it leaves at midnight and arrives at five in the morning. Not a very nice prospect. How about El Banco, a station on the way? Oh, we could go there at seven in the evening, arriving two hours or so later. Not so great either. Unsure what to do we had almost decided to go directly to Cartagena and stop somewhere on the way, but left the final decision till the next morning. Walking out of the bus terminal we passed another company office, this one for small busses in the surrounding area, and low and behold, they have regular busses to El Banco where, if the employee we talked to is right, we can catch a bus to Mompox, or Mompos, as it is called here more often. That's what we are hoping to do today, leaving the option open to come back here and go to Cartagena from here if we can't find a way to go to Mompox, which seems less and less unlikely now that we are this close. People travel between small communities all the time, after all.

The nicest taxi driver in all of Colombia took us to our hotel, where we spent a pleasant night in an airconditioned room, very desirable here: when I said to Umberto, the taxi driver, that they likely didn't see many foreign tourists here he agreed: it's too hot, he said, hotter even than Santa Marta and Cartagena on the coast, where at least the sea breeze cools things down a little.

It's time to pack up and go if we want to catch the bus to El Banco at ten. What new adventure will this day bring?

Pescaderito, near Curití

About half an hour by bus from San Gil is another nice little town, Curití. From here, it's three or four kilometres to Pescaderito, where a river tumbling down forms a series of pools, a popular destination for both locals and tourists, but much quieter during the week than on weekends. This was our destination on our last day at San Gil.

The road curved steadily uphill, until, after a brief descent, we entered Curití. Our plan was to take a tuk-tuk, or motortaxi, to Pescaderito; that way we had time and energy enough to walk upriver as far as we wanted. We could always opt for walking back to town after we were done.

I had just asked someone about the right way to the Pescaderito after we left the bus when a fully loaded tuk-tuk heading our way stopped. The driver called over that we should wait; he'd take us to the river right after he dropped off his load. Well, good. We used the wait to apply sun screen, and soon he was back, the back seat cleared for us. The road was paved for the most part, with little traffic, and only on the last few hundred metres of the way down pavement gave way to gravel with potholes, around which our driver manoeuvred skillfully. I asked to take a picture when I got out, and he asked me in turn to take a picture of his phone number displayed on the side of his vehicle; that way we could give him a call when we were finished with our hike, and he'd pick us up. I did, even though we weren't certain if we needed his services, but after he left we found that we didn't have reception anyway. 

 

Lots of these - a kind of vulture - everywhere we have been

We were told to take the trail to the right, which seemed to be the one most people followed, anyway. The river comes down through a narrow valley flanked by hills that looked relatively dry compared to the area around the waterfall we had visited the day before. To our right were fenced-in pastures (although I didn't see any animals), to the left, below us, the river, which runs fast and mostly shallow over smooth rock beds, except where it forms the pools Pescaderito is famous for. The first one, soon after we started, was a bit busy, but the further up we climbed the less people we saw. We met a young couple we had seen on the bus and a girl who we had passed with the tuk-tuk, who had stopped at a place where the trail narrowed even more and became a bit indistinct. They checked their GPS and weren't sure the trail continued, but we pushed on: we had come as much to hike as for the pools. 

I soon wondered if I would regret this decision: the trail narrowed ever more, hugging the hillside which was, although covered in vegetation, very steep. My old fear of slipping and heights was paying me a visit, and, while carefully setting one foot in front of the other, making sure I had secure footing, I was thinking of the way back already. Not a good idea! It creates more anxiety than necessary. 

The trail, while narrow, was firm, but I suppose the experience in the hills of New Mexico in the spring was still in my bones. In any case, I was glad when this passage ended and the hill below was a little less steep; now walking was more enjoyable for me again. We hadn't met anyone on this stretch anymore, even though the trail looked used, and the pools, far below us now, were empty. It seemed there was no easy way to access them from up here, and after a while we decided we had walked long enough. We took a little break and were just getting ready to turn around and walk to one of the more easily accessible pools when we heard voices right below us. A young couple emerged, and they urged us to go down to the river the way they had come up: no es difícil – it's not difficult – the girl assured us: short and steep, but completely doable, and muy lindo - very beautiful – down there. Well, if it was possible to go down, we would, of course, and after a few minutes we arrived at a secluded pool, surrounded by huge rocks. It was beautiful indeed. 

 

We spent some time down there, lying on the smooth rocks, Johann went for a swim (the water was not really warm), enjoyed some crackers and a mango from the tree at our hostal for lunch and listened to the muttering of frogs. There were human voices, too: a mother and her little boy, who was playing in the sand across from us with a dog, too far to hear what they were saying, but something in the cadence of the mom's voice made me imagine I heard German. This proved to be true when they went swimming and came closer. We asked how she had gotten to the beach, and she said there was a road from the other side, with a path quite a bit shorter and easier than the one on our side leading down to the water. She offered to take us back to town, but we declined: it would be easy enough to walk back, and we could do it on our own schedule. 

Climbing up the short, steep access was no problem at all, and soon we found ourselves back on the trail. For some reason the part I was expecting a bit anxiously didn't come; also, we thought the fence hadn't been running right beside us on the way up. It turned out that we had taken a different trail on our way back, higher up and a bit wider, the hill not so steep, and more used as well. The main trail branched right where we left the young people on the way up, but we hadn't registered that. 

By now even the more populated pools were empty, and when we arrived at the starting point no tuk-tuks were in sight. We walked along the quiet road, once in a while moving to the side for a passing truck or oncoming motorcycle, and were almost back in town when a small SUV stopped beside us: the young woman we had met earlier. Now, we accepted her offer to take us the rest of the way, and we went to a small cafe in town for a coffee (or, in Johann's case, a beer) and some pastry. It turned out that the young woman runs a tourist business with her Colombian husband, offering bike tours and canyoning in the area and a small hostel. They divide their time between Germany and Colombia, and we heard a bit about her life here, and the challenges they face in this competitive business. While we were talking a sudden downpour turned the road into a small river for a little while. The woman smiled: we need rain so badly, she said, every rain is welcome. Soon the sun promised to appear again, basking the curtain of water still falling in warm light, and just then the bus appeared right beside the cafe, too. A few kilometres down the hill the road was dry.

We were glad we had taken so much time in San Gil, to explore the surroundings a bit, see the different types of vegetation. We had only scraped the surface, I'm sure, but it was time to move on. 

Leaving San Gil

Whoever lives above us – an older Spanish speaking couple, by the sounds of it, the woman not always happy with her husband – has been walking back and forth continuously and talking full volume since a quarter to six this morning, just like yesterday. Since the ceiling of this high room consists of nothing but boards sleeping is impossible, and we might as well just get up and pack.

After four days and five nights here in San Gil it's time to move on. It was a wonderful time, and I feel a bit sad to have to leave: the whole area is beautiful, the town pleasant, the hostal and our room nice, the people friendly. It would be easy to just keep adding another night, and another one, and ... but that's inertia speaking, I'm sure. It's just easy to stick with something you know works well, harder to pack up and move on into the unknown again. But there is more to see here in Colombia, and on our bus rides today we are guaranteed some spectacular landscape again. We'll take the bus to the district capital Bucaramanga, about two hours from here, and will traverse the Chicamocha canyon on the way, at deep rift with the Suares River at the bottom. From Bucaramanga we'll take another bus to Aguachica, another bigger city, where we'll spend the night. We are trying to keep the legs of bus travel at a manageable length on our way to Cartagena instead of taking a fourteen-hour overnight bus, which is, even with all the comforts busses have to offer, not as comfortable as sleeping in a bed, and of course it would prevent us from seeing any of the amazing landscape on the way, too.

So, off we go, in hopes of busses being reasonably on time and finding fitting accommodation along the way. 

The blog entry about yesterday's trip to Curití and Pescaderito will have to wait, but here is a photo of one of the flowers I saw along the way. To me, it looks like an orchid, the small (about 2cm diameter) blossoms exquisit.

 

Christmas Light-Up in San Gil

There is one event I forgot to mention: the Christmas Light-Up here in town on Sunday. The plaza, three blocks from here, is a lively place at any time during the day and, at least on the weekend, at night as well, but Sunday was a special day. We were sitting in the courtyard of our hostal in the early evening after our visit to Barichara when a couple of loud bangs, very close by, startled us. For a moment I thought of shots and unrest, but then someone said: fireworks! Yes, we could see them looking up from where we sat, but went out to the street for a better view and enjoyed a great spectacle that lasted maybe ten minutes. The sound of music – more and louder than usual – drifted over from the plaza: this, we were told, was the start of the Christmas season here and was celebrated in a big way. A bit later in the evening we headed over to the place of the action and were stunned: the plaza had been transformed to a wonderland sparkling with lights in all shapes and colours, Santa, ribbons, and bells taking their place beside parrots and hummingbirds. A huge crowd was assembled, rows of plastic chairs on the sidewalk faced a stage where a youth band was playing Latin American dance music. columns of smoke rising from street food stands with skewers of carne, pechuga and salchipapa were caught in light beams moving back and forth behind the stage – a wonderfully celebratory scene. We stood for a while, listening to the band, and soon were offered seats by a couple of people who were leaving. The youth band finished, and a 'Christmas' production was staged by students of the local theatre school, with a lot of quite acrobatic elements, the grand finale featuring torch jugglers and fire-eaters. We had a great time, just like the rest of the crowd: how lucky we were to be here just now! 

I had a short video with music, but I've been unable to make it work here, so this photo, taken tonight, will have to do.

A day at the Cascadas Juan Curí

A first glimpse of the Cascadas Juan Curi

One of the suggestions of our friendly Colombian couple had been the 80m high Juan Curí waterfall on the way to Chachalá on the opposite side of the valley from Barichara. Their coffee farm is not far from there, and they told us they liked that side of the valley even better because it was not so dry and thus very lush. It's only a about a twenty minute drive to the start of the trail to the waterfall, and we decided to make it yesterday's destination.

We had checked upon our return from Barichara already if the bus for Chachalá leaves from the terminalito and found that both it and the one we'll take today do. Thus it was just a matter of walking to the terminal, finding out that the bus was in its slot, and getting in. We were the first to do so. For a while it seemed as if we might be the only passengers, but shortly before eleven the seats started to fill, and at eleven the bus left. We picked up enough people before we left town that newcomers had to stand, and then we were on our way, following the same road we had taken a couple of days ago for the rafting trip, but driving about twice the speed: no trailer with rafts made more cautious driving necessary.

After about 15 km the bus suddenly slowed down: a landslide had done damage to the road, obviously quite a while ago, and while construction was going on the road was a long way from being completely restored. Big boulders still lay by the side of the road, and for maybe a hundred or two hundred metres only one lane was usable, a reminder that this, too, can affect travelling in this part of the world. For the most part, however, the roads we have been on were very good, often better than what we're used from home.

A few kilometres later we were let out by the side of the road, together with a few young people headed for the waterfall as well. It was about 11:30, and a big empty tour bus was waiting in the parking lot for its passengers to return from the cascadas. Not many cars kept it company: during the week the waterfalls are supposedly less visited than on the weekends. The restaurant, only covered by a roof, but without walls, wasn't very busy either, and we didn't have to stand in line for our entrance tickets at the kiosk. The narrow trail to the waterfall, laid out with the same kind of big rocks as the Camino Real, takes about twenty minutes, according to the information. Soon after we started we encountered a bigger group of mostly older people, likely the ones from the bus; after that we were alone, except for two girls and a guy who had come on the same bus as us. They stopped frequently to take photos and selfies and were in good spirits, aided by a can of Aguila, one of the local beers. 

 

We made our way up the trail, passing a few grazing cows in a small pasture, but mostly through jungle with its usual sprinkling of flowering plants. The shade was a blessing: the combination of heat, humidity and climbing soon had us mopping our brows. We crossed small creeks tumbling down the hillside a couple of times, and after about fifteen minutes the canopy opened to let us glimpse the waterfall .

Soon after the trail descended, and we arrived at the flat rocky area bordering the bottom of the falls. Here, a handful of people were in the water, which, here, though in a hurry to make its way further down the hill, was very shallow, slipping over the smooth rock bed.

We had a better view of the waterfall itself when we climbed a few steep steps more and turned a corner. A man wearing a helmet was holding a couple of thick ropes, and when we looked up we saw two people rappelling down the lower part of the waterfall, maybe 30 or 40m high, about halfway from the top. They arrived, a bit breathless from the pounding they had received from the force of the water: it wasn't difficult, they said, but exhilarating. The latter I can easily believe, but this is not something on our list of things to do. I hoped to see what it looked like when somebody started the descent and didn't have long to wait. Slowly, carefully, another person made his or her way over the edge and started on the slow way down. 

 

We found a spot that was still in the sun – in this deep canyon the sun disappears early in the afternoon – and just enjoyed the beautiful surroundings before we headed downhill again. 

The rappelers had told us that the upper part of the waterfall is visible from the place where they started rappelling, and we had seen a very small trail branch off up into the forest on our way to the falls. It was still early, so we did this little detour, the climb, steep enough to warrant the use of ropes along the side for support, no longer than maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. We didn't expect anyone to do the same, but to our surprise the three young people came up soon after us. We were well rewarded: the upper part of the waterfall, about the same height as the lower part, was just as beautiful, the surroundings a bit more rugged. The young people again took pictures and insisted we should have our picture taken by them, too, standing on the rock ledge. Yurany, one of the girls, laughingly invited us to pose for a picture with her.

We didn't linger too long: shadows were creeping in here, too, although this part had been still in the sun when we arrived, while the lower was already in the shade. 

We walked down to the road where the bus picked us up again: it comes by every fifteen minutes or so, and we didn't have long to wait. Once it stopped along the way to pick up an older farmer, who, with the help of a young man, heaved a small engine into the aisle of the bus, obviously to take it to be repaired in town. Johann helped him unload it at the terminal, where, he assured us, he didn't need more help: a taxi would pick him and his load up from there. 

 

This neat little group caught my eye on the way down; they looked like torches

It's another sunny morning, still nice and cool here in the courtyard of our Hostal Casona de Don Juan, but promising to turn into a hot day. We will take the bus to another small town, Curití, from where we can hike to a river with a series of pools. These small (18 passenger) busses are very convenient means of getting around.

Walking the Camino Real from Barichara to Guane

From San Gil it is only a short bus ride to Barichara, often called the most beautiful town in Colombia. From here, one can walk the Camino Real, a stone road used already by the Guane people who lived here before the arrival of the Spanish, to get to the small village of Guane. This is what we decided to do yesterday.

The bus left from the terminalito, the terminal for smaller busses connecting San Gil with the surrounding communities, only five or six blocks from our hostel. Busses to Barichara are frequent, and we soon were on our way. The road climbed steadily towards Barichara, and about half an hour later we got out at the plaza, like the one here in San Gil a shady haven with lots of trees and benches to enjoy the respite from the day's heat. From the moment we entered Barichara it was apparent that it was worthy of its reputation. Red-tiled roofs offset beautifully the white-washed buildings, and the deep blue sky completed the impression of a picture book town. 

We oriented ourselves with the help of the street map in the Lonely Planet and slowly climbed from the plaza to the edge of town where we soon found the entrance to the Camino Real. 

The ancient walkway, paved with big stones, was reconstructed in the mid 1800s by German settler and expedition leader Geo von Lengerke and once more restored in 1996. 

 

We stood at the top of the camino and had a magnificent view of the deep, wide valley below, parts of the road we were about to walk visible here and there. It's almost all downhill to Guane, so even with the heat it would not be too hard to walk the eight kilometres (or nine, or ten, depending on the source). 

 

At first steeply, then more gently the Camino led downhill, old stone walls lining sometimes one, sometimes both sides, the soft whites and muted browns of Brahma cows complementing the lemon yellow, red, orange, pink and blue blossoms of trees, shrubs and small herbs. Sometimes it felt as if we were walking through a spring landscape, tender green covering branches spreading wide. Yet this is fall, which, for someone used to clear definitions of seasons, is hard to distinguish. 

We saw only two people on their way down, a few more – Colombians, all of them, and some jogging – on their way up. The big stones make it impossible to walk fast, and I had to pay close attention where I put my feet, so to walk here is a kind of meditation, almost a short pilgrimage. The only sounds were birdsong and the wind, a gentle, cooling breeze softening the heat.

A little over two hours after we started we saw the first red roofs of Guane and soon were walking down the almost deserted street through the village that, even more than Barichara, looked like time had stood still for centuries – as long as one was able to ignore the cars and motorcycles, at least. 

 We slowly walked through the village, which, at a second glance, had more little restaurants and stores with handicrafts than we had first thought. The plaza, as everywhere else the gathering point for hawkers, taxis, tuk-tuks and people out for a stroll or some shopping, also was the bus stop, but for us the next bus would not leave for two and a half hours. We were still trying to decide what to do next when a Colombian man called over from his truck if we would like to ride up to Barichara with him, his wife and their two dogs. We gladly took him up on his offer and soon found out that they had a small organic coffee farm on the other side of San Gil. They both spoke English well, and we got information not only on what the life of an organic coffee farmer (and roaster and self-marketer) was like in Colombia, but also what else we could do here in the area. They let us out at the plaza in Barichara, suggested we might want to walk up the hill to the Santa Barbara church and the small park behind to enjoy another amazing view of the canyon below, and told us where we'd find a good (local) restaurant. That's the beauty of travelling like we do, without a set schedule: every once in awhile an unexpected encounter rounds out the experience. 
 

Iglesia Santa Barbara, Barichara

 

Madonna del Agua, sculpture by a Colombian artist in the park behind Sta. Barbara church

Part of the Camino Real as seen from the park

Not only Cartagena has interesting door knockers