I´m still loving life and learning more each day. It´s safe to say that I´m head over heals in love with Colombia and am in the best hands possible for this chapter in my South American Education. Best hands, yes. Most tranquil hands, no. My host, Jorge is quite the daredevil himself and every day he´s got something new up his sleeve. Impossible to recall the past 2 weeks in one update, but I will tantalize you with my perfect day in an effort to inspire yours:
I woke up this morning a little late and fuzzy with the perfect, morning light shining through my white curtains. I rolled around all night long with sweet dreams and slept hard to the steady rain. This morning, as every morning at Finca Betica, I close my eyes and try to fine-tune my ears so that I can delight in the birds´early symphony and the mooing from cows in the neighboring pasture.
I woke up this morning a little late and fuzzy with the perfect, morning light shining through my white curtains. I rolled around all night long with sweet dreams and slept hard to the steady rain. This morning, as every morning at Finca Betica, I close my eyes and try to fine-tune my ears so that I can delight in the birds´early symphony and the mooing from cows in the neighboring pasture.
I remembered the night before and blasting firecrackers towards the Finca (farm) high in the hills where a wedding was taking place (we´d biked through the mountains all day and actually got to see the preparations for this exact affair). We marveled at their fireworks and of course, the men of the [full] house (Jorge, El Negro, Nando- Jorge´s brother, Alejo- Jorge´s son, Daniel- Alejo´s cousin with a little fuzzy mohawk) get the bright idea to send a couple LOUD ones back to them as a commemorating surprise to the celebration. If only we could have seen their faces. The bands stopped playing and I´ve never heard such booms. I don´t think we can buy those kinds legally over the Georgia state line.
Slowly but surely, I rise up and get tickled with one of my favorite morning rituals: pulling back the drapes and swinging open my heavy door to let in the cool mountain air. I continue outside in route to the kitchen making sure to stop and pay tribute to paradise of green. I´m met with a handful of morning greetings (the custom here is to always kiss the right cheek hello and goodbye- a gesture I learned early on from my Mama) and offered Lulo (one of the many strange fruits that I´ve come to know here) and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I take my time taking down my morning Betica coffee (the best in all of Colombia) and using the smallest spoon (so it lasts longer) to eat my morning granola with yogurt and honey (Sandra, one of the gals who works on the farm helped me to make the batch of granola last week and the honey comes from our bees! EVERYTHING has Macadamias).
El Negro lets me know that he´s ready to go whenever I am. We had big plans for our second day on the road as Team Betica´s newest cyclists. All geared up, we loaded our 3 bikes into the wooden bed of Jorge´s white Ford pick-up and El Negro´s daddy drove us to our starting point in the town of Calarca (named for a brave Indian Cheif who resisted the Spaniards and suceeded in retaining a wealth of golden treasures in the mountains for his people). I was so naive and blissful, I hadn´t any clue what we were getting into. El Negro invited us to his hometown of Buena Vista (Good View) set high in the hills of the Central Range and offering a bird´s eye view of all of Quindio. He wished for us to visit his family´s coffee farm that has flourished for over a century and that is the setting of his youth.
If I had to chose a favorite of the lads, which would not be fair one bit, I´d have to say Antonio. He wore my favorite of the typical Colombian hats- white with a black ribbon and molded perfect to his head, it was worn and rugged. I didn´t know until after we dropped him off at his house that he kept a large pistol (loaded with precisely 18 shells) named ¨Niña¨ in his pocket at all times. This detail confirmed my adoration for a happy, army vet who´d called me brava (brave), linda (pretty), amable (friendly) and natural (natural- this is what we Spanish teachers call a direct cognate). Every woman needs at least one man like Antonio in her life (I think of my sweet Papa!).
It was easy cruising in the beginning. El Negro´s father and friends started showing up along the way with thoughtful concessions (crispy Bull skin- not my favorite and baggies of macadamia nuts). We had our own squad of jolly, old (young at heart!) male cheerleaders flashing photos and reaching out for high fives. Little did I know that they came along for a reason. We were in for a marathon. UPHILL!!!!! I love biking but never have I ever known the strenuous plight of a cyclist until this very afternoon. We climbed and we climbed and we climbed and we climbed some more. We rounded steep bends in the road that got us closer, meter by meter to the top. I applied the zig-zag tactic that I sometimes use in hiking to alleviate the strain on my muscles and lesson the incline. Somehow it worked. Merrilly we rolled along, up up up. Motorcycles and cars zoomed past us. Somehow this always invigorated me. I knew we were taking the most challenging route, and somewhere in my sick mind this comforted me. I consciously breathed slow, inhaling and exhaling, managing to take some photos (my waterproof camera nestled conveniently in my sportsbra now drenched with sweat) and revel in the buena vista that got more magestic with every push and pull on the pedels.
Every now and then, Jorge´s truck would appear and our support group would hoop and hollar and whistle and call my name, Cah-
tah-reen-ay. It reminded me a lot of my mom who did the same for me when I ran my first marathon. I just smiled, raising my arms and egging them on, posing for pictures on my slow horse (compared to the motorcycle). At one point I even hitched a few seconds, holding onto the rear of their trailer with one arm and balancing my bike with the other (I need to practice this practical art that I´ve seen many Colombians successfully accomplish on uphil highways). I´m certain I was a novice in the eyes of onlookers- Typically Colombian women are not seen on the futbol field or on a bike on the side of a mountian- and this too energized me. I hoped this crazy sight may give the women and little girls a confidence to push their own limits of physical fitness.
A few hours since our blast off (I have no concept of time- it probobly seemed longer than it was), Buena Vista was in view. And my have I never been rewarded with such a pleasing sight. Who knows, maybe the buena vista wouldn´t have been as buena if we weren´t completing a vigerous day´s joy. The small town snug in the mountain top was bustling with color and at least a quarter of its 2,o00 residents. We rounded the plaza and peddled stupid with amazement that we´d reached our goal! It didn´t take us long to park underneath a colored umbrella and raise glasses spilling over with refajo (beer mixed with Colombiana- their orange version of creame soda) to an emphatic, ¨¡SALUD!¨.
Our perfect day was born. We peddled even higher as if taking our victory lap and at last we laid eyes on a 100 year-old home that belonged to El Negro´s family. As if testing my imagination and stretching the limits of my idea of a perfect farm, a tiny white labrador puppy appeared at my feet. Here we stood 1,560 ft above sea level looking out at all of Quindio and beyond and all the while I had a sweet puppy dog cradled in my arms. Winding around porches beaten with time and etched with character, I felt as high as the 200 year-old Caucho tree perched to my right and as light as a feat
Our perfect day was born. We peddled even higher as if taking our victory lap and at last we laid eyes on a 100 year-old home that belonged to El Negro´s family. As if testing my imagination and stretching the limits of my idea of a perfect farm, a tiny white labrador puppy appeared at my feet. Here we stood 1,560 ft above sea level looking out at all of Quindio and beyond and all the while I had a sweet puppy dog cradled in my arms. Winding around porches beaten with time and etched with character, I felt as high as the 200 year-old Caucho tree perched to my right and as light as a feat
her. Naturally we made our way into the home and sat around a table strewn with cigars, shots of aguardiente (fire water! Colombia´s version of pisco in a Peruvian Pisco Sour), cups filled with hot, smoothe home-grown coffee (with saucers!) and mounds of more strange fruits (one of which is near extinction- so the farm has lots of trees and Jorge and El Negro packed some seeds to plant at Betica). Now I was in the company of 6 ¨Paisas¨, or typical Colombians reigning from this specific region of the country. I had to laugh because it seems I´m always with a bunch of men! They told stories and we all chuckled deep from our bellies. Were all days this good in Buena Vista?
If I had to chose a favorite of the lads, which would not be fair one bit, I´d have to say Antonio. He wore my favorite of the typical Colombian hats- white with a black ribbon and molded perfect to his head, it was worn and rugged. I didn´t know until after we dropped him off at his house that he kept a large pistol (loaded with precisely 18 shells) named ¨Niña¨ in his pocket at all times. This detail confirmed my adoration for a happy, army vet who´d called me brava (brave), linda (pretty), amable (friendly) and natural (natural- this is what we Spanish teachers call a direct cognate). Every woman needs at least one man like Antonio in her life (I think of my sweet Papa!).
On we went even further up into the hills to another gorgeous home (belonging to El Negro´s cousins) structured and stiled in ¨typical¨ Quindio fashion. Bright colors, detailed wood work and endless, outdoor covered hallways enchanted us. Every room had windows swinging open to the mountain side. The long house sat amongst steep patches of healthy, green coffee trees and high above the clouds. The fog now far below seemed to dance as it made its way across the valley. Hanging flower pots, blooms of red ¨novios¨ (boyfriends- the name of the flower), fountains and antique light fixtures caught my eye. We were served delicious, hot tapas and sweet guava juice. All I could do was sit back, relax and bathe in the splendor and circumstance. How on earth did I get to this hidden paradise with these incredibly generous, compassionate and colorful people?
I learned that this particular coffee farm is acclaimed to grow the best coffee in all of Colombia (National champion for 5 years straight- although my loyalty is with Betica). You must remember that Colombia has the ¨best¨ coffee in the world and this coffee that touched my very lips is the cream of the crop. Its named San Antonio, and its beans are selected 5 times over throughout process to ensure that they provide coffee of the best quality. The beans that San Antonio doesn´t use are sold at premium rates to coffee buyers around the world. These guys are in the process of building a coffee shop on their land where tourists can come and enjoy their coffee while learning about the art of coffee growing. This is a fabulous idea considering I´ve been inquiring about a coffee ¨tasting¨ (kind of like wine ¨tastings¨ and enjoying a visit to a vinyard) ever since I arrived in Colombia. Millions of people must desire to learn about this world-cultural phenomena, but very few coffee farms offer venues to share and sell the fruit of its labor. The San Antonio Cafe will be ready in 2 short months, so coffee lovers take note and make your way to Buena Vista, Quindio, Colombia.
Dare I write more. I love you all SO VERY MUCH. Thank you for inspiring me to be here and to follow my heart.
Catherine
I learned that this particular coffee farm is acclaimed to grow the best coffee in all of Colombia (National champion for 5 years straight- although my loyalty is with Betica). You must remember that Colombia has the ¨best¨ coffee in the world and this coffee that touched my very lips is the cream of the crop. Its named San Antonio, and its beans are selected 5 times over throughout process to ensure that they provide coffee of the best quality. The beans that San Antonio doesn´t use are sold at premium rates to coffee buyers around the world. These guys are in the process of building a coffee shop on their land where tourists can come and enjoy their coffee while learning about the art of coffee growing. This is a fabulous idea considering I´ve been inquiring about a coffee ¨tasting¨ (kind of like wine ¨tastings¨ and enjoying a visit to a vinyard) ever since I arrived in Colombia. Millions of people must desire to learn about this world-cultural phenomena, but very few coffee farms offer venues to share and sell the fruit of its labor. The San Antonio Cafe will be ready in 2 short months, so coffee lovers take note and make your way to Buena Vista, Quindio, Colombia.Dare I write more. I love you all SO VERY MUCH. Thank you for inspiring me to be here and to follow my heart.
Catherine
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