Al Son Que Me Tocan Bailo

"I'll dance to whatever rhythm you play me", goes this sweet little saying in English.  3 Alveros and 1 Jorge taught me this line one sensational night in the small Paisa (referring to the Quindio region) town of Filandia. I've been able to squeeze in the clever "dicho" to just about every conversation thereafter. It's always a surprise to my Spanish companions and the implications shall never stale. There at a pub on the edge of Plaza Bolivar (every town and city in Colombia, Venezuela and Ecuador has one named for Simon Bolivar who liberated the territories from Spanish rule), we enjoyed sporadic conversation interjected with boisterous laughter. Rounds of Aguardiente shots were paired with dainty cups (and saucers) of coffee. Bouts of Portuguese filled the air. Sentences were started in Spanish and then completed in English and vice versa. All of us shared at least 2 languages and we never got around to settling on 1 in particular. This traditional Colombian combination of Crystal and black "cafe" seemed contrary to all health precautions, but on we sipped and each duo got smoother. The night continued with a trip to Alvaro's farm perched on the green countryside and a walk through tall grass to his lake. There we stood mesmerized by "cucullos" (lightning bugs that rest on the ground) and the reflection of a twinkling Southern Cross in the still water. Stars shot across the sky. Only after a roaring ride in Jorge's '83, baby blue Mercedes Benz was the night complete. His capacity to turn anything with wheels into a racecar kept me on edge. I'd joke with Alejo, his son and Daniel, his nephew that we were on a "montana russa" (roller coaster) with no tracks and dodgy obstacles. 

I'm home (away from home, aboard Victoria) from the farm and I'm so thankful that I went with my gut and accepted Alvaro and Jorge's invitation to travel with them to Colombia. Jumping on the back of a motorcycle with 2 men I barely knew from the Yacht Club is one of the craziest and most fruitful things I've ever done. Living on the Macadamia farm with Jorge and his friend, El Negro shines among the most incredible experiences of my life. I'm certain that our time together could never be repeated although I do hope to return to Finca Betica one day. I'll always cherish our toasts to every drink be it coffee at breakfast, wine at lunch or chocolate milk roaming around the grocery store. I'll remember evening cooking lessons with El Negro and to go easy on the oil (over green beans) and ice (when blending Pisco Sours). I'll recall mornings with Sandra, roasting coffee and helping her with daily Macadamia chores over girl talk. Enchanting butterflies in the Mariposario (butterfly garden) and the setting light from the top of the Torre del Filandia (tower of Filandia) shant escape my memory. Nor will a hike alongside thermal rivers and the bathing pools of Santa Rosa. I'll wish for more runs along the outskirts of the farm, winding through pastures and over dirt garnished with fallen, colorful blooms. I'll forever seek out exotic fruits and look forward to my next ride in a Willy's Jeep (the "workhorse" of Colombia, there are millions dating back to the first farming days). I'll giggle when I think of Pilates with Lissette or my debut on a Scooter through the ancient streets of Salento with Jorge swearing behind me (Papa always said payback is hell!). Planting my own banana tree is in the cards thanks to Cezar's generous tour of his Banana and Coffee Empire. 

If I was ever to be "high-maintanance" it would be from the likes of Jorge and El Negro on Betica. Thank you, Colombian friends for treating me as a queen and for teaching me so much while in your kind presence. I felt at home and at ease. I learned that while the world may be in "crisis", we have a choice not to be. I learned that homesickness is easily cured with a slice of home baked bread and a cup of fresh milk (from the neighbor's cow earlier that morning). 

More to come of my world beyond Macadamia Heaven.