Homage to Antioquia

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River of Rooftops in Salamina, Caldas, Colombia

The fevered pitch of Colombia, loud, inspired life in second helpings, is all around us.

After a week in beautiful Barrio Laurales, in the impressive city of Medellin, we are cruising the mountains of Antioquia. The green, windy paths open and close, the old men in the square welcome our bus with a stare, as if it were the first ever to pass through their little pueblo. But they are busy enough without us. They must pay daily visits to people and places today just like they have done for decades. They must lean on their canes under their Monte Cristos while their wives run the show from kitchen councils and patio palaces.

Here in Colombia altitude is everything where comfort is concerned. One can spend time in the steamy heat of Caribbean beaches or linger on hot chocolate rivers, muddied from the rain. For most Western Coloradans that option would quickly lose its luster in favor of green, dome mountains and cool, fresh climates.

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Jerico, Antioquia, Colombia

Already I have experienced dirt ridges that make Red Mountain Pass look like Kansas. A rattletrap bus bounces along a dirt road filled with chuckholes and bumps left by the Conquistadors . The road twists and curves like fast waves on an asphalt beach up high somewhere in the clouds. The mountains rise and descend as we passed great forests of green, giant leaves soaring, and water flowing in the Rio Cauca. The light breezes catch up with the sun in the up and down seasick soliloquy of tortoiselike kilometers.

They often shoot video of the passengers on these buses so as to easier sort out who is who in case the thing goes over the side of the cliff. Unfortunately my driver’s video camera was broken and we had to dispense with the practice. The homage to Antioquia is full of surprises, some good, some not so good.

I’ve lived in the mountains for the better part of my life but after this hair ride I was forced into the Bar Horizonte located on the plaza next to the Stand Up Tavern in La Merced.

Today mi amarante y yo wake up in the lovely town of Jerico, about 70 miles (3 hours on mountain roads) southwest of Medellin. This sparkled postcard village is perched on the side of a mountain with strenuous stairways and charming terrazas, parks and plazas. The clop-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestone is accompanied by the obnoxious roar of motorcycles bouncing off the canyon streets.

Our two knowledgeable museum guides are 11 and 10 years old. The youthful duo waltz us through anthropological antiquities, accented by comments peppered with schoolbook English. We give them each a Kennedy half dollar and they are pleased by the gratuity.

It will be a busy day here. First we eat a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, cheese, arepas (corn muffin tortillas) and coffee con leche (no sugar please). Then it’s time to ride the gondola that creeps up the side of one of these emerald slopes. Later we visit Henry Espinosa’s Hotel Bohio for lunch where we meet Victor “the greatest cowboy of Jerico”.

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The Terraza in Jerico, Colombia

A walk up a hill past the curious stares of women window watchers to the Tango man nets a beer, a rum and Carlos Gardel before our siesta. Tonight we plan to have dinner at La Gruta, a restaurant just opened by David and Julianne two new Colombian friends. (He lived for 10 years in South Carolina.)

Yeah I know that it sounds like all we do is eat. That is not true. We log 3 to 4 miles a day wandering the sweet, spiraled, noisy streets of Jerico. Cevere! More later…

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