I write this with coffee at my hotel in San Gil. After a nine-hour bus trip from Bogota I enjoyed a peaceful sleep in this pretty adobe design, over my budget allowance, but my only costly expense in Columbia. I awoke to the songs of birds and a not too distant rooster and setting similar to home, with a flooded river below, hidden by trees of all sorts. The long ride left me a little tight and also worried as we passed over flooded areas, and raging rivers ripping only a few feet below the bridges. It has rained heavy for over a week. I wonder if my return to Bogota is in jeopardy. In the meantime my current plan is to walk to town, find the bus and head to nearby Socorro.
This was accomplished. Socorro is an old colonial village, the birthplace of the revolt against the Spanish. A massive cathedral, relatively new, and the traditional plaza in front were the primary attractions. Simple, but enjoyable. I watched the activity in the plaza for an hour, then headed to the bus stop, to find that the stop of arrival is not the same as departure. But, I have encountered this before, and not surprised nor angered.
Next day off to Chicamocha, a three-year old National Park, of the second largest canyon in the world. Started off doubtful, as I was the only one requesting this destination. The conductor informed me he could not justify the trip. As I was rethinking the day, ready to leave, two Columbianas arrived with the same request. Buena suerte! For the most part we worked the day together, giving me an informal practice session.
The park is rather different. The natural setting itself is impressive, providing magnificent views of the canyon valley and flooded river. Being in the Andes the depths are extreme. The canyon slopes are relatively gentle in descent, not cliffs as with the Grand or Black at home. Still, the perspective of the distances and depths, with the flooded river below are memorable.
Another focus of the park, besides the restaurants and artisan shops, is the provision of a variety of testing experiences. For my zip lining friends, they have opportunity to zip across parts of the canyon. Apparently by intent, to add to the excitement, the acceleration is stopped by the participant´s impact against a gym-mat. I saw no one carried away after, but the loud thump could easily be heard at the other end. There are also giant swings out over the canyon and paragliders that soar over the canyon like condors. We took the teleferico, condolas designed for eight, from one side, down over the river, then back up the other side.
There is also a monument to the heroes of the revolution from this region of Santander, the home of the revolution. The monument has a huge representation of a tobacco leaf, and upon it are wonderful expressive metal figures, each with an important story behind, both of heroism and traitors. Many stand among a representation of bomb blast, rocks being sent into the air. It is a captive, artful display of emotion and energy.
Oh, and for the culinary interest, the area is known for its hormigas, fried black ants, the size of June bugs. Crunchy, with a bit of salt, not bad tasting at all. I am challenging customs to bring a few back with me for my friends.
Final excursion was to another pueblo, Barichara. It has been used as film set numerous times. It is the only place I have seen in Columbia without a traffic problem. It became my favorite place, with a hint of Cusco and Taos. On the slopes of a mountain, the plaza and obligatory cathedral are positioned in the middle. The walk up the hill takes you to a chapel that fronts a water garden, with several fountains carved with stone from a previous art exhibition. At the back edge, the terrain falls steeply to provide for wonderful views of the valley.
Without traffic, peace was present. The cathedral below was playing Gregorian chants that could be heard clearly, making for a mystic atmosphere. The rooster crowing nearby made me think of Peter´s third denial on this Easter weekend. Walking the slate streets among the white walled architecture aroused my artistic interest. Was a great and fortunate end to my travel. Gracias.
Only the return to Bogota dampened the enthusiasm, literally. I was lucky during my days, but every night brought heavy rains. The rains have flooded many areas in Columbia, and roads including mine were washed out and reduced to single lanes in several areas. I could observe the flooded fields, rivers and pueblo streets from my bus window. And yet Texas burns.
Tomorrow I head home. Again, I return with memories, unrepeatable experiences, sights, thoughts and questions. Made some friends. Had a wonderful family. Some sadness, dissatisfaction, uneasiness. Sights of poverty exist everywhere in South America and eventually you get tired of it, but don´t know what to do. Again I leave a family that has adopted me, sincerely. I know that from their efforts to bring me in. Sunday, after Easter mass, a large family gathering followed to celebrate Easter, a birthday, and a secret. I was going to leave, but two of the sisters intently wanted me to stay, and I did. They wished me to witness the secret, the announcement of engagement. One example. So, as I think about my departure tomorrow, I have feelings of a ungrateful son, a father sneaking away, a thief who has stolen trust, confidence and kindness. And that feeling hurts. They hope for my return, but I wonder how likely that will be.
I´ve mostly watched, but sometimes spoken
Mostly quit, but sometimes tried
To heed the earth and drink the ocean
And share the water from my eyes.
I´ve sometimes fought, but mostly hidden
In between the songs and lights
That saw the seeds of fruits forbidden
To dream of juice when dreams get dry.
I´ve mostly tripped, but sometimes chosen
Stumbled low and stumbled high
And the signposts on the paths have spoken
They´ve all said how, but none said why.
I´ve mostly watched, but sometimes spoken
Mostly quit, but sometimes tried
To heed the earth and drink the ocean
And share the water from my eyes.
D.Schimdt
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