White-water rafting and a quiet park in San Gil

Sunday morning:
 

A five metre high room with a wooden ceiling is not ideal if right above are dorms with a big group of young people getting ready for the day at six in the morning – not if you had hoped for more sleep, which, luckily, we didn't need after a good night's rest.

San Gil is called 'the adventure capital of Colombia', where everything from canyoning to ziplining, paragliding to bungee jumping attracts adventure seekers. We got our (small) share of it when we asked about white-water rafting at our hostel. Two options are available here, one for the inexperienced on the Fonce River that runs right through town, with class 1 to 3 rapids, the other, with class 3 to 5 rapids, on the Suárez River, which requires former rafting experience – not that we would have any desire for something this extreme. Of course hostels can arrange everything. The guy at the desk told us if we registered we would be picked up an hour later, only to find out minutes later that the van would pick us up in ten to fifteen minutes, which turned into not even five. Thus we had not much time to think about what to pack, just made sure we had sunglasses and sunscreen. We probably would have opted for bathing suits or at least shorts if we had had a moment to consider, but hiking pants would have to do: whoever comes to the door of any house along these narrow, traffic congested streets to pick someone up doesn't have time to wait even a couple of minutes before a honking concert convinces him to move on, drive once more around the block and try again.

In situations like these it always seems extremely urgent, but when we were dropped off at the tour operator's a few blocks east and only a block south near the river (we could have easily walked, had we known) we remained the only customers for a while, and it took at least half an hour, probably more, until the necessary amount of people was assembled: three young Latin American couples and two old Germans from Canada. :) Two rafts and a kayak were loaded on a trailer, hooked up to our van, and we were on our way to the starting point, 11km upriver. Three guides were responsible to get us safely back to where we started. One of them delivered the safety instructions, all in Spanish, of course, but thankfully one of the girls was able to help us out in English when we didn't understand something. We all received our safety gear, helmets and a life vest, then we were split up: the six young people manned the bigger raft with one guide, Ciro, our guide, took us to our smaller one, and the third guy in the kayak completed the crew.

The Fonce river runs brown and fast in its narrow valley, dense tropical vegetation to both sides, branches hanging low. Riding in a raft, I found out right away, is quite different from canoeing: the boat is more stable, of course, and small waves are less noticeable. We had a few minutes to get used to the feel – not many – before the first set of rapids. They looked scary, but to my surprise I found that it wasn't that bad, in fact, was fun. Big rocks jutted out of the water from time to time, but our guide's calls of adelante (forward) or atrás (behind) or to hold got us safely around them. I had hardly finished thinking that this was easier than I had expected when a deep valley appeared right in front of me, surrounded by huge waves going this way and that. A moment later I found myself in the water, going under for just a moment before I emerged, gasping, finding the raft still right beside me, thankfully. My paddle had slipped out of my grip, but I was able to grab it before I felt myself being pulled back into the boat by the front of my vest. A bit disoriented, I scrambled to take up my position in the front of the boat. All this went so fast that I didn't have time to get scared, really, and soon was able to join in Ciro's and Johann's laughter.  

 

A calmer part of the river soon followed, and the young people from the other raft all jumped in to swim. We weren't so excited about the muddy water – and I had had my chance to get wet already – so we just watched them float until the next set of rapids appeared. We got through without a problem, but I was careful now and hung on to the strap at the edge for the worst of the waves. Johann had laughed to soon: he, too, found himself in the water unexpectedly and was pulled in by Ciro. In retrospect – and looking at the photos and videos he took of our trip – we arrived at the conclusion that he had done it on purpose, either for the fun of it or to show us that it was nothing to be afraid of. The other rafters practiced tipping the boat over and uprighting it again, but we had no such ambition: we are most certainly not going to do anything more extreme than those class three rapids!

Shortly before the end of the two hour trip Johann started to feel a bit queasy, and by the time we got out of the water and had carried the raft up to the road he was really sick. We don't know what brought it on, but it might have been from the water he swallowed when he went in: it didn't look too enticing. Now, a day later, he's okay again.

The Fonce River seen from the banks (Parque Gallineral)

 

 

 

Roots of an old Ceiba tree

 Later in the afternoon we walked the five or so blocks to the Parque Gallineral, a 4 ha green space along 'our' river. The city did a really nice job with this park, where cobblestone trails lead between trees hung with the 'old man's beards', a kind of parasite that, as the Lonely Planet so rightly says, makes parts of this park look like 'Middle Earth' from Lord of the Rings. It was cloudy, and dusk was setting in, so the atmosphere was almost mystical. Few people were about, the noise of the river rushing by drowned out even the traffic noise if you were close enough, and flowering jungle plants added colour to the many different textures of leaves and tree bark. 

Two bridges crossed small calmer tributaries of the Fonce, and here the river's sound had receded to make room for frog calls – at least that's what it sounded like. How nice to close this day of excitement at such a quiet, relaxing place.

Never quite as predicted: another day of bus travel

It's Saturday afternoon, and thanks to a sudden offer by the hostel guy here at La Casona de Don Juan in San Gil to take part in a whitewater rafting trip 'right away' this morning I couldn't post this any earlier. Here is yesterday's report, without any photos this time.

Assured we wouldn't have to go back to Bogotá or all the way to Bucaramanga to get to San Gil we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the small table in the front garden of Villa San Miguel, surrounded by blooming geraniums, lilies and bougainvilleas. The climate in Villa de Leyva is pleasant, in the low twenties during the day (which feels quite a bit warmer when you hike along a dusty road) and cooling down enough at night that the warm blankets are still welcome, and it's just slightly too cool to sit outside without a jacket in the early morning and in the evening. Our hostess wanted to introduce us to one more comida tipica (food typical for the area) and prepared envueltos, wrapped corn cakes. It's a lot of work, as I found out when I read up on it: corn is husked, the husks saved for wrapping, then the kernels are cut off and, together with melted butter, eggs, sugar, salt and grated cheese processed in a food processor. Two corn husks are arranged on a work surface, the corn mixture spooned into the centre, and the husks rolled up tightly, the ends twisted and secured. The corn cakes are then put in boiling water and cooked for about an hour. I think they would have tasted better if they had been hot (which they weren't; our landlady obviously had had breakfast long before us – we were the only guests), and the arepa (a kind of pancake made with ground maize) that accompanies the eggs at breakfast time here most often, is very filling in itself already. It was nice of Loretta to introduce us to more of the local cuisine, but I'm afraid in this case I was not as appreciative as I should have been because it was simply too much.

We shouldered our packs at a quarter past ten and were on our way to the small bus terminal, about 750m from our accommodation. We had just crossed the road leading out of town when a bus came by from the direction of the terminal. 'Tunja?', the driver called over to us. Yes, that was indeed where we wanted to go – not hard to guess if you see a foreigner walking with a big backpack. We crossed the road again, put the big pack in the back and joined about ten other people on their way to the city or anyplace in between. That was extremely quick! Our journey had started out well. Here and there the driver stopped to let people on or off, sometimes, seemingly, in the middle of nowhere. Several of them wore the traditional ruana, a kind of cape, older men usually simple ones of undyed white or brown wool, younger people fancier ones in brighter colours. These are very useful in the cool Andean climate. Even in the country, however, most people are no longer dressed in traditional clothing, and many Colombians are extremely well dressed and, especially in cities, after the latest fashion.

As on the way to Villa de Leyva I wondered again how people were able to cultivate the steep, steep hillsides. Many of the fields were big enough to be cultivated with machinery, but it seemed impossible to use a tractor. Now, I saw how things were done: on one steep hill a man was moving steadily uphill swinging a pickaxe, on a nearby hill, already cultivated, two men were pulling a big rake horizontally. On three other occasions men were engaged in spraying crops, using a backpack sprayer, no protection whatsoever beyond pulling the hood of their sweaters over their heads. Surrounded by sun-lit spray mist one man walked along the rows, another was stirring the chemical mixture in a big barrel. Once again I thought what an easy life we have in comparison. 

 

The ride went by quickly, thanks to relatively empty roads and a driver who was eager to reach his destination, and we reached the bus terminal in Tunja a scant hour later. We were the last to leave the bus and were immediately approached by a couple of men: 'Bogotá? San Gil?' They waved us along as if our life depended on it, so that we thought the bus to San Gil was waiting for us already – but all they did was take us to one of the offices in the terminal with connection service to San Gil. The first company had a bus leaving at three, three and a half hours later, so he took us to the next one whose bus left at 12:45. As soon as he had delivered us he was gone again: likely working on commission. It's a huge hustle for passengers at every bus station, several bus companies competing for passengers, calls for one or the other city or town contributing to the general noise. We got our tickets, the bus number and departure time and were told to wait downstairs. This we did, watching bus after bus come in and leave for Bogotá for the next hour, hour and a quarter, hour and a half ... Finally came the call for San Gil and Bucaramanga, and although the motto 'Siempre a Tiempo' (Always on Time) was broadly displayed on the side of the bus we left 45 minutes after the expected departure time. How long did it take to get to San Gil, I asked the driver. Cuatro horas – four hours. No, we would not reach San Gil before dark, we realized.

The bus was comfortable, with wide seats and lots of legroom, and the landscape through which we travelled was stunning: the arid conditions around Villa de Leyva soon gave way to lush tropical forest, interspersed with small farms, some small sugarcane fields, more cows again, now that we were on a lower elevation more brahma type cattle than around Bogotá. Such lushness can only happen with a lot of rain, and we got quite a downpour when the bus stopped at one of the frequent roadside restaurants geared to serving busloads of people. The bus driver told us we had half an hour to have a meal or stretch our legs, and all this time it rained heavily, eaves spilling water into reservoirs soon spilling over. This half hour was added to the four hours of travel, of course, which had not been an overly generous estimation in the first place, it turned out. At 6:30 pm we arrived at the terminal, about three kilometres outside of San Gil, and were delivered safely to our hostal by taxi.

The Hostal La Casona de Don Juan is one of those colonial buildings with a breezy courtyard and rooms that must be nearly five metres high, simply furnished with just a couple of beds and a nightstand, but a private bathroom (in our case, and I'm not sure yet if the shower has hot water). We have all we need, including the perfect temperature for sleeping: warm enough for only a sheet for cover, cool enough so that neither fan nor air condition is necessary. Both the tall door and the shuttered window open to the courtyard, which is likely one reason that the temperature is pleasant both day and night.

We went out to the plaza only about three blocks from here, the Parque la Libertad, for a stroll and for something to eat. Shortly before a small group of protesters making a lot of noise banging pots and pans had gone by, but here, far away from the capital and other large cities, these protests are peaceful. By the time we reached the plaza the group had become part of the crowd enjoying rock music in one corner and more traditional folk music in the opposite one. The plaza, as in so many south and central American countries, is the heart of the community, with people of all ages enjoying themselves. I look forward to finding out what it's like in the daytime.

Fossils and small travel obstacles

Sometimes, if a place has come too highly recommended, if expectations are too high, it cannot but disappoint at least a little. Thus it has been with Villa de Leyva for us. It is – and there is no doubt whatsoever – a beautiful town,

our accommodation very nice, its people as friendly as anywhere. Nothing major happened, only several small incidences, no more than circumstances beyond anyone's control, really, that marred the experience here a little. It started with the difficulty of finding our accommodation the first day, the cold water where we expected it to be hot, and a disappointment first, an anxious hour later yesterday.

We had added an extra day here to go to Ráquira, a small town about 25 km away, famous for its pottery and colourful houses. We had planned to see the town and maybe walk a few kilometres to visit the Monasterio de la Candelaria, the oldest Augustine monastery in the Americas.

The bus station was uncharacteristically quiet when we got there, hardly anyone around. No people milling about, no shouts for different locations, only one man who asked us if we wanted to go to Bogotá, which we didn't, of course. We asked about the bus to Ráquira and were told there were none today because of the Paro Nacional. We had been warned to stay out of Bogotá on this national day of peaceful protest, an annual occurrence, because of the marches that would shut down many areas of the city, but had not expected this to extend into the country. 

 

Too bad; I had quite looked forward to our excursion. But it was not a disaster either: we decided to walk to the Museo El Fósil, not far from Sol Muisca which we had visited the day before. This time we followed the highway all the way to the turnoff to the museum, a less dusty option, but the one with a bit more traffic, of course. This whole area had been known to be very rich in fossils, but the find of a largely complete 'Kronosaurus' (a crocodile-like reptile) by a local peasant in 1977 was extraordinary. At about 9m in length it is the biggest fossil found in Colombia. The Museo El Fósil was built around it, starting with this one room, by now with the addition of another with fossils of ichtyosaurs and plesiosaurs, turtles and a lot of ammonites and shells. Information is in Spanish and English. It is a community museum, and people in the whole area are involved in this project and rightly proud of their efforts. More rooms are being added and will soon be ready to house a bigger collection. 

 

We didn't go back down to the highway to visit the CIP – Centro de Investigaciones Paleaontológicas (Paleontological Investigation Centre) – which holds one of the most advanced laboratories in Latin America for preparation of vertebrate fossils, which certainly would have been very interesting as well.

Instead we turned back towards Villa de Leyva after stopping at a small restaurant, continuing on the dusty road that led up to the museum after we had made sure that it would lead us back to town. This it did, and once again we passed the Austrian's property, this time coming from the other side, and saw that the load of rocks he had been expecting yesterday had indeed arrived.

The hour of (some) anxiety I referred to earlier came late in the afternoon when Johann read that there were no busses from Tunja – the bigger town we have to get back to to get anywhere from Villa de Leyva – to San Gil, our next destination. We had counted on the connection, Johann had read about it before, but now we could find no confirmation that there was one. The options we seemed to have were very unappealing: either to go back to Bogotá and take a bus from there – more than ten hours – or go to Bucaramanga, a major city north of San Gil, and reach San Gil from there, which would have been about eight hours.

We decided to try and see if the tourist information near the Plaza Mayor was open and hopefully get some reliable information there. On the way we reasoned that even if there wasn't a direct bus from Tunja we certainly should be able to take a succession of small busses to go to San Gil. The other two prospects seemed highly unlikely to apply to the local population, with so many small busses and collectivos in use. What we found out at the tourist information was even better, however: we were assured that busses run regularly, every fifteen minutes or so, from here to Tunja, and just as regularly from Tunja directly to San Gil. Big relief! The prospect of spending a whole day on busses had dampened our spirits a little.

I'm not sure we would want to go to Bogotá right now: I just read that yesterday's protests, which were supposed to be peaceful, had been disrupted by vandals, so that violence erupted in several places and the anti-riot police had stepped in. The article said that this had been very localized, but still, I'm glad we were far away. Will this be the beginning of more unsettled conditions here now as well? I'm not worried about safety on this trip, but looking into the future south and central America might not remain the desirable travel destinations for us they have been for the past ten years. 

 

A hike to Sol Muisca (ancestral territory)

The huge (and empty!) Plaza Mayor in Villa de Leyva

Wednesday night: It sounds as if the City Musicians of Bremen are being staged outside. Dogs have howled for the last half hour or so, and now they are being joined by a mixed-up rooster. So far I can hear neither cats nor donkey to complete the choir.

Not only has Villa de Leyva redeemed itself, we also realized this morning how easily we could have gotten to our hotel if it hadn't been for Booking.com and later Googlemaps: all we would have had to do is walk about 750m in a straight line from the plaza. We did so in reverse after a good breakfast and first looked for the tourist information to find out what hikes we could take in the area. We were told that the one we had hoped to do, a two-kilometre walk to two waterfalls, has been permanently closed; that would have been the one that would have led most directly into nature. Most of the others would require taking the bus or a taxi for a bit, which we had hoped to avoid today. There were a couple of other, longer hikes with the option of taking bus or taxi one way, and we decided to walk in the direction of the palaeontological museum and the Muisca observatory. 

We soon left the town behind and followed the map from the tourist office, intending to take the somewhat shorter route that avoided the main road and led by the 'Casa Terracotta' (clay house), an interesting modern construction, but likely not worth paying money for looking at from the inside, according to the man at the tourist information centre. We took the most likely looking turnoff from the main road onto a dusty one and followed it for maybe half a kilometre, but we still weren't sure if it was the right one so decided to ask two men by the side of the road. To our surprise we got a reply in perfect German: one of the men was from Austria, working on a retirement building project, and had heard us converse. We talked for a while, found out that we had turned off a few metres too late and returned to the main road, where we quickly found the right one.

Casa terracotta from afar (as close as we got)

We followed the dusty, winding road, from time to time moving to the side to let cars or motorcycles pass, and were amazed at the many new, beautiful houses (all in colonial style with red tile roofs) that lined it. Even more empty lots were still for sale. Some lots were obviously intended to be developed but so far contained no more than a stone wall or a shack, for instance, others looked like storage spaces for a building centre, the most prominent feature huge rocks, the building material of choice in this arid area. It became clear how popular Villa de Leyva and its surroundings are, and how much more it will likely expand still. The Austrian had told us that this was probably the safest place in all Colombia: not only is there no worry at all to walk anywhere, day or night, there is also no problem with theft. He said he had left building materials stacked for a long time, and nobody had taken anything. In Cartagena, he said, you couldn't have left it for three hours before it would have been gone. “The Kitzbühel of Colombia”, he called Villa de Leyva. 

By the time we reached the Sol Muisca, the interpretative site that explains about the Muisca culture, it was quite warm, and we were happy to sit in the shade for a while before taking the offered tour. 

 

A tall, middle aged woman extended a friendly welcome. The tour would take about 45 minutes, and she could do it in English, Natalia explained – great. Tours like these, where so much relies on auditory information, would be worth little to us in Spanish, unless we had an interpreter with us.

Natalia told us that we were standing on ancestral land of the Muisca people which had inhabited large parts of central Colombia before being completely wiped out within a few years by the Spanish, who arrived in 1537. The Muisca counted about 1.2 million people and were an agricultural, peaceful people not out to conquer, using weapons only to defend themselves. The main religious centre was at Sogamoso – Valley of the Sun – about 80km east of Tunja. The Muisca considered this lake, Colombia's largest, to be the birthplace of their people. A woman and a child – not her own child – emerged from the lake. The woman raised the child, which later became her husband, and together they had many children who became the Muisca people. These people were well versed in astronomy: right across the road from the interpretive centre monoliths and other stones have been found that, it is assumed, were used as sun dials to determine solstices and equinoxes and thus the right time for seeding and harvest. Muiscas from far and wide would gather here on these occasions to celebrate these events with ceremonies, music, dance and drinking chicha (a fermented drink made from corn). The Spanish, considering these to be pagan rituals, called the place 'El Infiernito' (Little Hell) and destroyed it.

The Muisca traded widely with other peoples, including with the Inca further south and central American people, using salt and gold to trade for cotton, shells, seeds, macaw feathers and much more. They were talented weavers, but had to import the cotton because the climate is not suitable for growing it here. Theirs was a matriarchal society, and women were the head of the family. Houses were considered to be the womb of the family, the roof beams the ribs, which were covered with grass. It was a sacred space and was entered backwards, which symbolized that any worries would be left outside. A nice idea! 

We thanked Natalia for her excellent tour and found out that this project was started eight years ago by her husband because he was passionate about making more about the Muiscas known. It is maintained only by the two of them: an admirable initiative. They live on site, and with the 12,000 COP per person for a tour they are certainly not getting rich.

We crossed the road to the archaeological site, but decided not to pay the entrance fee to look at it more closely. We could see the monoliths and sun dial through the fence, and felt we had taken in enough information for a day.

The way back, as so often, seemed shorter than the way there, but nonetheless we were glad to be back at our hotel for a long siesta before heading into town for supper. It's dark by six, and of course there is no sign of things slowing down just because it is dark. We managed to buy a prepaid phone card for Johann's phone, which will give us internet and the possibility to call (unlikely as it is in Spanish) even when we don't have wifi. The experience after our arrival in Villa de Leyva was just one more reminder that it might be a good idea, and at 23,000 COP ($9 Can) for the chip and unlimited calling and texting, plus 2 GB of data, for 15 days is very reasonable indeed.

A wild goose chase

 

Church and another beautiful colonial building in Zipaquirá

Wednesday morning: For the first time during this trip there is a lively exchange of rooster crowing: we have arrived at the smallest town yet, much praised for its quaint colonial beauty, sought out by people from Bogotá as a weekend getaway. We really liked Zipaquirá, which was nearly bare of tourists, as far as we could tell, and thus just an ordinary town with all the hustle and bustle, the tiny shops, local restaurants and bakeries, that belong to any town in central and south America we have visited. There are few shops selling trinkets, expensive restaurants geared to the tastes of foreigners, and the exchange of a friendly 'buenos días' in passing is not unusual. It suited us well, but we also want to see more of the country, go on hikes, enjoy the landscape, so Villa de Leya, much praised by several people we met, was a logical choice.

We left Zipaquirá with one of the frequent small busses running to the small town of Briceňo, situated on the bigger road that runs from Bogotá to Tunja and beyond, crossed the highway where, conveniently, a bus was waiting already and arrived in the city of Tunja about two hours later. Again it took no time at all to get on a bus to our final destination for the day.

The landscape had changed slowly from the lush pastures with cow herds to ever drier conditions, and now the hills looked even more arid, cactus and agave the prominent vegetation. The road, very curvy and at times steep, provided a great view of the deep valley below. Finally, after a long descent, we arrived at the small bus terminal of Villa de Leya. Johann had downloaded the instructions how to get to the 'boutique hotel' from booking.com, and to be sure we also looked at google maps: it seemed straightforward and not far from the main plaza. We weren't worried at all about the walk with our backpacks, didn't even give it a thought.

We found the plaza right away, but then our instructions didn't lead us anywhere. Where the hotel was supposed to be none was to be found. We asked a guy at a nearby bar, who punched in the address and sent us four blocks up from the plaza – nothing. By now we were ready for a break and decided to stop at a restaurant for a beer and wifi: maybe we'd be able to figure out our mistake and get the right directions. Fortified and armed with new suggestions we were again on our way, but try as we might, the hotel remained elusive. More inquiries just netted us shrugs, even when people looked at our instructions from booking.com and the address: nobody seemed to know the name, and as for the address, opinions varied where it might be found. Did it even exist?

An old man standing at a corner saw our indecision and waved us closer, looked at the address and decided that it should be 'siete quadras' (seven blocks) in that direction, but before we could even start an older woman with a kerchief, a lot of missing teeth and carrying two black plastic bags took over. 'No, no', she told the old man, this was totally wrong. 'Vamos', she waved to us: she would take us where we needed to go. This turned out to be another wild goose chase, however; her enthusiasm didn't change the fact that we were still lost. She finally stopped at a hotel a few blocks from the plaza and asked a clerk to look up the address on the internet. The clerk then seemed to know exactly where it was and explained it to the old woman, who marched off at a fast clip, two tired, backpack-carrying tourists in tow. It took another ten or fifteen minutes, but finally we saw the house depicted in booking.com's photo, the sign indeed announcing 'Villa San Miguel” - thank goodness! We had pretty much given up already to ever find it. We thanked the old woman and sent her off with a tip and lugged our packs up the stairs to our room, clean and welcoming. Finally! We had looked forward to a shower, but here the next surprise awaited us: the water was cold! This is not unusual in the tropical areas of Colombia, but here, in the highlands, hotels and hostels always have warm water. What a disappointment. Johann, who was the guinea pig for the shower (apart from the water temperature there can be several other surprises, like non-functioning electric shower heads, for instance), suffered through the cold shower, but I decided to wait until I had found out if this was not a mistake. This turned out to be the case: warm water would be available again at seven in the morning, I was told. What a relief! I could wait until then. We were able to get something to eat, at least, and had no trouble sleeping after that exhausting day.

Today, we'll see if we can wipe out the first less favourable impressions and enjoy the much-cited

beauty of Villa de Leyva. I'm sure we will have no trouble to do so. 

The big Tuesday market at Zipaquirá

A visit to Nemocón salt mine

Nemocón, as seen from above the mine entrance

Once again our main mode of transportation is the bus – by far the most economical and interesting one. Yesterday we used the high-speed Bogotá city bus – the TransMilenio – to reach Puerto del Norte, one of the bigger bus terminals connecting to other cities, and from there took the bus to Zipaquirá where we are at the moment. During the ride, which took about an hour, four different men tried to get the passengers to part with a bit of money: the first ones were vendors selling sweets or other snacks and ice cream; the third one, maybe in his early twenties, told a story of extreme misfortune: he had come from Ecuador eight months ago, didn't have a job, had no money for food, very few clothes and missed his family – or something to that effect. It's hard to tell how much of these stories is true; he didn't look really hard off at first sight, but who knows? He got a few coins, from women mostly, just like the next guy who came in with a microphone and a loudspeaker and entertained us with some rap, obviously a political rant of some sort. I still don't understand a lot of it, though it is getting better from one trip to the next, and at least I mostly get the gist of what is being talked about. These guys (I've never seen a woman earning money this way) jump on at one stop and off at the next. Sometimes what you see inside the bus is as interesting as what you watch through the window.

When we left the bus terminal we were the only passengers, but we picked up more and more on the way out of town: all one needs to do is stand by the curb along a bus route and flag the bus down. The bus driver doesn't seem to mind to stop twice within twenty metres; it seems that's easier for him to do than for the passengers-to-be to walk twenty steps. By the time we reached Nemocón the bus was full. We knew Nemocón was a much smaller place than Zipaquirá (or Zipa, as the sign on the bus said and as people here often call it) and weren't worried that we might not get out at the right stop: at worst we might have to walk a bit further, which is our usual approach to this question. Since we were very obviously the only foreigners on the bus and the salt mine was the logical destination for us, we were gently nudged in the right direction by fellow passengers. In leaving we handed our fare – 3,400 COP ($1.40) per person – to the bus driver like we had seen people do who got off before us. It's as easy as that.

Mine entrance

It took only a few minutes to walk to the entrance of the salt mine where we found out that we could have an English guide – great: we'd get a lot more out of it that way. Two English speaking young men soon joined us, and then about ten Spanish speakers, so Juan Carlos, our guide, did a bilingual tour, adding a few words in German here and there when he found out that we spoke that language. He has been taking lessons at the Goethe institute, he told us, and asked if Hannover would be a good city to spend a few months to improve his German even more. We were a bit puzzled about his choice, but he explained that he had heard that this was where the purest German was spoken. Of course! 

 

The mine is no longer active, but there is still salt being mined in the area, and there is evidence that the salt was extracted here as early as the end of the first millenium BC.

When the Spanish had established themselves in the area they immediately started to exploit the mines, using the indigenous population for slave labour. This is depicted in several salt sculptures by Colombian sculptor Ronnie M. Edgar Martinez Parra. 

We started the tour in the small archaeological museum housing fossils found in the area: mastodons, a huge sloth-like animal that weighed three tons and stood on its hind legs to reach leaves, ammonites and many others: this whole area was covered by an ancient sea, which left behind salt deposits as well as rich fossil beds.

Puerta Áleman

The salt mined here has mostly a dark appearance, due to coal and other minerals, like sulphur for instance, which are mixed in. When we entered the mine the entrance was supported with a wooden construction called 'puerta Áleman' – German door -: a German invention. Alexander von Humboldt, who visited the mines in this area in 1801, brought several innovations to the mining industry here. He determined, among other things, that salt mines didn't need these support systems because salt is somehow flexible and shock absorbent (if I understood this correctly); for that same reason they are safe during earthquakes as well.

At one point our guide told us we'd experience some magic, but we would have to put our hands on the shoulder of the person ahead of us and close our eyes until he told us to open them again. When he did, we stood beside a deep gorge, as other parts of the shaft illumined by coloured lights. He asked for volunteers to join him on a small ledge, then asked what we estimated the depth of the gorge to be. Answers ranged from one metre to several metres, but it really was no deeper than a foot: a long rectangular basin (reservoir?) was filled with water, and as long as this was undisturbed and very still it mirrored the ceiling, which made it appear to be a deep underground cave. The illusion was complete, and the resulting mirroring beautiful.

Other stops were at a slanted wall called 'salt cascade', which looked exactly like that, a grotto that resembled a nativity, and a large cave where stalagmites and stalagtites had grown to fantastic shapes, resembling spiders, tree roots and animals. 

Juan Carlos told us about mine safety and then got to the topic of the 33 miners that had been trapped for 69 days in a copper mine in the Atacama in Chile and all been safely brought back up in 2010. He showed us the Fénix rescue capsule with which they were taken up (developed in Canada, he said), and finally told us why the story of this rescue had significance for the Nemocón mine: it was here that the movie 'The 33', with Antonio Banderas in one of the main roles, was filmed. We saw the room that replicated the refuge room in the mine, and memorabilia from the filming of the movie.

After a couple of hours we had completed our one kilometre walk through the mine. We were glad that we had chosen this mine instead of the much more touristy salt cathedral here in Zipaquirá. It was a very interesting tour without being so overwhelmingly commercialized.

 

Huge salt block

We had been thinking about having something to eat in Nemocón but had pretty much decided to wait till we were back in Zipa when an older woman hailed us from the door of a house along the way: 'Restaurante?' Well, why not. We walked over to her, and I asked her what she had on the menu. I received a long answer from which I was able to extract sopa (soup), arroz (rice), pollo (chicken), papa (potatoes) and ensalada (salad). Johann asked about cerveza, beer, and received an affirmative answer, so we decided to stop. In no time at all we had not only the beer, but a tasty potato soup with vegetables, followed by a big plate of rice, lentils, a baked potatoe, a chicken thigh, and tomatoes and avocado, all for COP 30,000 ($12). The place looked like a German 'Gastwirtschaft' and was immaculately clean, the woman friendly and talkative. Johann's worry about getting sick proved to be unfounded. I am not usually worried, but I'm not usually the one getting sick either. 

The way back again led us through pretty rural Colombia, with many cows (mostly dairy) along the way, egrets stalking through small ponds and among the cows, horses and single cows tethered along the roadsides, all looking sleek and well fed. Flowers grace every house, and for the first time ever I saw huge amaryllis grow in a garden. A llanero (Colombian cowboy) was exercising a horse with a very high, distinct gait, likely a Colombian Paso Fino. Colombia is a beautiful, fertile country, and I can but agree to the passionate exclamation of a man we met on the way to Monserrate: Colombia es paraíso - Colombia is paradise,