Puente Chiquito is a colonial brick bridge spanning the river running through the city. Built in 1713, Simon Bolivar supposedly marched over this bridge during his campaign for independence.
In the evening I go see 101 Dalmations, which unlike most new releases, is in Spanish. It was good Spanish practice.
Before leaving in the morning I mailed some postcards and sent a fax to Mom, letting her know where I was and what my plans over the next couple weeks were. I hadn't communicated with her in some time, and had spent quite a bit more time in Colombia than I originally anticipated, and didn't want her thinking I had been kidnapped by guerrillas.
On my way out of town I rode up to the Morro de Tulcan, where an equestrian statue of Sebastian Belalcazar, Francisco Pizarro's lieutenant and the founder of Popayan, overlooks the city. Then I stopped at the Belen chapel which also overlooks the city, before heading back north out of the city for several miles where I picked up the road east to Totoro.
At the turnoff from the main road to Totoro, there was a sign that said detour, but the road was open and the truck ahead of me went through so I did also. I encountered one deep muddy stretch where I had to wait for a dump truck coming through from the other direction.
In a couple of kilometers there was a cable across the road and several trucks waiting and a half dozen men standing around. I asked if the road was open and if it would be a problem for the cycle. They said I could go through and that it wouldn't be a problem on the bike. One man asked if I would take him on to Totoro, but I said I didn't have room for 2 people and when he saw the seat, he agreed.
The road had serious drainage problems and fixing that was what most of the construction was about. They were also realigning the road at some of the sharper corners.
Over the next 30 miles or so to Totoro, there were about 20 construction areas with heavy equipment and the road was usually thick mud and well churned up by the tires of the heavy equipment. One place I rode through an axel-deep slurry of liquid mud. Fortunately the surface underneeth was solid and relatively rut-free.
The construction ended at the entrance to Totoro, just before the intersection with the alternate, paved route from Silvia. I was looking at the magnificent scenery and almost didn't see the cable strung across the road. I brought the bike to a stop just inches from the cable. Hitting that wouldn't have been much fun. The man who dropped the cable said the road from Totoro east to Inza was in better condition and that there was no construction.
The road through Totoro was paved and was full of local Indigenous men and women, dressed in their colorful traditional clothes. I slowly picked my way through the crowds and past several military jeeps full of soldiers.
The road climbed to 10300 feet where it came out onto a high plateau. It rained quite heavily as I crossed the plateau, and then began the descent to Inza. By the time I reached Inza the rain had stopped, and I parked on the plaza and was immediately surrounded by a dozen people asking about the bike and my trip.
The restaurant across the street was closed as it was mid-afternoon, but they opened up for me and fixed me lunch anyways. The town people tell me that I can get to San Andreas Pisimbala, where the Tierradentro underground burial caves are located, but not on to San Agustin because local campesinos are blockading the road to protest poor road conditions to the government. However, when I asked them, they said it might be possible, that as a tourist, I could talk my way through. Little did I know at the time what an adventure that would turn into.
A half hour later I reach Tierradentro which means "land deep inside" because of the steep surrounding mountains. I get a room at Residencia Luzerna, near the site museum, for P3500. True to it's name it has many pictures of Luzerne Switzerland hanging in it's courtyard. While it is still light out I walk up the road to the village, a half hour walk uphill. The village is known for it's unique old church with a thatched roof. Unfortunately, when I get there the roof is being replaced, and the whole church is temporarily covered with a corrugated metal roof. It just wasn't the same.
On my way back down I pass a Mitsubishi SUV stopped along the road and stop to chat with it's occupants. Four of them, Gerardo, Andre, Leila, and ****, are college students from Bogota, The fifth guy, Ronnie, whom they had just met, was a traveller from Holland. They had been here the last couple days and had gone to the burial caves today, so I get some tips from them. After more talking and some shots of aguardiente it's dark and I get a ride with them back to the Hotel, where they are staying also.
I have dinner with Gerardo at Restaurant Pisimbala. Gerardo speaks excellant English, as does Ronnie, while the other 3 from Bogota do not. The others were fixing their own dinner. I learn that yesterday they had driven to the blockade in the nearby village of Guadelejo. The village has 3 roads entering it, and all 3 were blocked, preventing any traffic from getting through. However they had talked with the campesinos and had been told that if they came back in a couple days they would be allowed to pass. That sounded like good news.
The man at Restaurant 56 where I have breakfast lends me a large flashlight to look at those caves which are unlit. I do a 7-hour hike to the 5 sites in the area, 4 with tombs, 1 with statues.
The scenery and vistas are spectacular. The trail climbs the mountain on one side of the valley to two sites near the top, then followed an old road towards the village and a third site, before dropping down to the village in the valley. From the village the trail climbed the opposite mountain to two more sites, one of them, Aguacate, on the ridgeline with spectacular views down both sides. In the distance I could see the church in Inza where I had stopped for lunch the day before.
The tombs are burial chambers carved out of the rock underground. Many are painted in geometric patterns and with figures of humans and animals. Some have pottery inside. Unfortunately, at the time I visited, the electricity was out, so I had to use my flashlight in all the tombs.
I get back from the hike about 4pm; it was a good workout, with steep climbs up and down the mountainsides. After an appetizer of arepas con queso (fried maize cakes with white cheese) bought a roadside stand, Ronnie and I go for dinner. After dinner we all hang out in the small kitchen area at the back of the hotel, overlooking the stream below. Kitchen area in the sense that it had a small wood-fired grill where we heated water for making agua de panela a beverage made with hot water and panela which is unrefined sugar. You can buy large blocks of panela in most small villages, and it is good to munch on by itself, though very sweet. Kind of like a hard lump of brown sugar, but slightly chewier.
I get to try coca for the first time. That's coca leaves, not cocaine, which is produced from coca leaves. I've never tried cocaine, or anything stronger than pot, and have no desire to. Coca is legal and in fact in most small, rural villages you commonly see the campesinos, men and women, chewing it. It's actually viewed almost like a food item, as it evidently can counter the pangs of hunger when they exist. It also is used to counter the affects of altitude sickness.
Basically you take a handful of coca leaves, which sort of resemble bay leaves, stuff them in your mouth, and chew them for a couple minutes until they form a walnut-sized wad. You then spit this wad out into your hand, where you add a pinch of calcium powder, which acts as a sort of catylist with the coca juice, and put the whole wad back in your mouth and continue lightly chewing it. You don't swallow the juice, but keep spitting it out. The idea is to keep the wad at one place along your cheek. As you continue chewing it, your gums and cheek go numb. That was about all it did for me. Others say it gives them a buzz, similar to pot, but then pot has never done much for me either. It was an interesting experience, but I'm not about to become a coca fiend anytime soon, especially considering the mess of chewing this wad of leaves and spitting the juice out all the time.
I leave at 9am, hoping I can get through the blockade, otherwise I'll have to retrace my route back through Inza and Totoro to Popayan, then decide if I want to take another route back east to San Agustin. Gerardo, Ronnie, and the others are also leaving this morning, but evidently aren't as motivated as I am for an early start.
Entering Guadelejo, I can see where one of the blockades had been as there are still some large boulders on the road and the remains of a large bonfire, however no one is around and I pass on by. However as I reach the village proper, the people wave and shout and say I can't go on. I stop and talk with some men along the road and they tell me the blockade has been moved farther down the road to the village of Valencia, and that I can't get through. I decide to keep going and try my luck at talking with the campesinos manning the blockade.
Valencia is a small village with the main road passing through it, and 2 or 3 other streets. It has a huge grass plaza, surrounded by brightly painted pink, red, and white stones. and a huge 45 year old tree in it's center with benches around it. Along one edge of the plaza is a soccer field.
Just after riding past the plaza some men standing outside a small store yell to me as I ride by that I can't get through. I ignore them and keep riding. A block down the road I come to some rocks in the middle of the road and a bamboo pole lying across the road. I ride across the bamboo pole.
About a quarter mile down the road, after rounding a corner, I come to the actual blockade. There are tents pitched alongside the road, used for shelter and as a mess-hall. As soon as I approach, people begin approaching, waving their arms, and saying I can't proceed. I stop the bike, dismount, and take my helmet off. By this time about 30 people have gathered around me and the bike with more arriving every minute to see what the commotion is about. They tell me they are blockading the road and that I can't proceed and must turn around. I don't press the issue, preferring to first talk about my trip and the bike and then later see if they will let me pass.
A lady asks if I want some breakfast and gives me a plate of rice and platanos and a cup of tinto. Nothing like eating while a crowd of 50 people watch you and ask you questions. But everyone is very friendly and is interested in hearing about the bike and my trip. At no time do I feel threatened. At several points I asked if I could pass through, pointing out I had no involvement in the issues at hand, but each time they politely said that would not be possible, that no traffic whatsoever was being allowed through.
I would later learn that the blockade was to protest road conditions in the area to the government. A week earlier, a car had gone off the road on a very bad, rutted stretch, gone over a cliff, and a woman killed. I actually have no problems with them using a blockade to try to get action from the government. They saw it as their only recourse. And that I was affected by their blockade, well that was unfortunate, but certainly not a crisis. At the very least I'd be inconvenienced for several days, or possibly have to take a different route, but so be it. It's all part of the adventure.
They ask if I have a camera, and whrn I say yes, ask if I will take a picture of them around my bike. They call more people until you can't see the bike. I say "Where's the bike?", they laugh, and the crowd parts enough so that the bike is visable and I snap a couple of photos. Then a guy wants me to take a picture of him standing in front of his tent and I oblige.
Just then, two men approach. They clearly were not campesinos. One was a padre wearing his clergical collar, the other was light-skinned and wearing slacks and a sport shirt. The padre pretty much kept his mouth closed and the other guy, whose name I later learned was Aleman, did all the talking. Aleman clearly held some kind of sway with the campesinos, as once he arrived on the scene he controlled the conversation. He started out seemingly nice enough, asking where I was from, where my trip had taken me, and what were my reasons for travelling. In retrospect, as I was to find out over the next 2 days, Aleman was an evil, sleezy, slimebag, and these questions were solely to give him sufficient information to proceed with his agenda. During the course of our conversation, after learning I was from the States, and since his English was excellant, we had switched over to English. I would also later realize he was using this to his advantage since the campesinos could not understand what he was saying to me.
At some point Aleman must have noticed my camera, which I was still holding, and the conversation took a decidedly confrontational turn. He told me not to take any more photos in the area. That was fine by me, as I already had my photos, so I put my camara away in the Givi topcase. I did think it a bit strange that the campesinos had been so eager for me to take their photos, while this outsider said no photos. However he would not let the issue drop, and 4-5 more times, each time a bit more heatedly and confrontationally, said not to take any photos, that they had their own photographers, they didn't want outsiders taking photos, and that if I so much as took a photo of the surrounding mountains, he would have my camara confiscated. By this time already, I was developing a strong dislike for this guy, and was wondering what his problem was. Little did I realize that it would get worse. I still had no idea of what his relationship with the campesinos or this blockade was.
And while the whole conversation about the camara had been in English, the campesinos had seen him point at my camara and then seen me put it away, and they could figure out basically what he had told me. Several minutes later, after Aleman had walked away, the campesinos jokingly asked me to take a photo of this or that, and when I said, no I don't think so, they laughed.
Aleman then told me that there would be a committee meeting of 8 people to decide my case and whether I would be permitted to pass, though wouldn't say when this decision would be made. Then he walked some distance away, towards the bridge where the actual blockade across the road was, and called a meeting of some sort. Many of the people followed him and gathered around him. It was too far away for me to hear what he was saying. There were still quite a few people gathered around the bike and several motioned that I should follow them over to the mess-tent, which was near where Aleman was holding his meeting. When he saw me approach, he immediately shouted that I should return to my bike and wait there. Though this Aleman character was clearly beginning to annoy me, I still didn't know who he was or what his involvement in this dispute was, and decided it best to follow his directives.
Back at the bike, while talking with the 20 or so campesinos still gathered around me I had learned that when they dismantled the blockade in Guadelejo, they had split it into two sites, one blockade here in Valencia, the other on the other side of Inza on the route I had taken to Tierradentro. So effectively I was now caught in the middle of the two blockades and couldn't get out in either direction.
A little while later, Aleman and the padre get in their red Jeep Wagoneer, and approach me at the bike. They stop and Aleman asks to see my passport. By now I'm suspicious enough of him that I won't hand it to him, but hold it and let him read it. He writes information from it into his notebook. He then says they are going to meet with the committee and that I should wait here until they return. They drive off.
I talk with the campesinos some more, during which time they tell me that Aleman and the Padre will not return today, and since I will not be allowed to pass today, I might as well return to Tierradentro where there are hotels, and then return here tomorrow when I might be permitted to pass.
On the ride back to Tierradentro I catch up to Aleman and the Padre in the Jeep. They drive in a manner which prevents me from passing. Finally on a corner they stop and motion for me to stop. I pull up alongside. Aleman demands to know why I wasn't waiting for him back at the blockade. I tell him what the campesinos told me, that he wasn't going to return today, and that I was returning to Tierradentro. He accused me of lying. At this point I was getting fed up with him, and also a bit pissed-off and told him in no uncertain terms that what I told him was the truth, that I had no reason to lie, and I didn't care if he believed me or not. To this outburst, he replies that he believes me. Then he says that I should have remained back at the blockade, but since I didn't, I should now follow him to the other blockade where the committee is to meet.
At this point, following him was the last thing I planned to do, and I still planned to take the turn-off to Tierrodentro when I got there. Just as he pulls away, I see approaching in the distance the red Mitsubishi of my friends from Bogota.
I give them a rundown of everything that transpired, and they agree Aleman is an asshole not to be trusted, and say follow them back to the blockade since when they talked with the campesinos several days ago they were told they could pass. Back at Valencia it turns out that the campesinos they had talked with two days ago were manning the other blockade at Inza so that did us no good.
Around mid-afternoon Ronnie and I walked back to the blockade and asked if we could have some lunch, and were quickly offered large bowls of soup followed by several large, juicy oranges.
At one point in the afternoon it looked like if we made a contibution to the campesinos cause we might be permitted to pass. But it had to be done in a manner so as not to appear as a bribe. That option sort of fizzled out and nothing came of it.
During the afternoon, several mayors of some of the small villages caught in the middle of the blockade arrived to plead with the campesinos to allow food to get through. Several villages were running low on food. But nothing was being allowed through. We also learned that in addition to the poor road conditions, they were now also protesting recent spraying of marijuana crops higher up in the mountains, which they feared would contaminate their rivers ans water supplies.
In the late afternoon Gerardo, Andres, and I joined a bunch of the village athletes in a soccer game on the town plaza. But the day ended with nothing further happening. A family with a house right on the plaza offered us dinner, and then said we could sleep on the floor in their living room. I was able to ride my cycle inside for the night.
In the morning we walk back out to the blockade and are given breakfast gratis by the campesinos. We then wait around the plaza until about 11am when the Padre and Aleman show up. After "disobeying" his directives twice, I'm a bit apprehensive as to what his reaction will be. He's walking around carrying his little briefcase, going into the town telecom office, presumably to make some phone calls. He sees me sitting outside the store and says he will see me shortly. He still didn't know that I had 4 Colombian friends who spoke both English and Spanish.
A little while later he approaches and motions for me to follow him out under the tree in the center of the plaza, where there will be noone else around to hear us talk. We sit down on a bench and as the day before, he starts out very cordially, saying he saw in my passport that I was born in Holland and asking if my parents were Dutch. Some more chit-chat follows, and then as the day before, the conversation becomes more confrontational. He first says it is very suspicious that my passport is only valid for one year. I explain, as I did yesterday, that my original passport had been stolen in Costa Rica, and replacement passports issued abroad are generally only valid for one year. He asks if I was dealing with the ambassador or staff and says its very suspicious, that they could simply call back to the States to verify things. Then he wants to know if I have been in contact with the Embassy here in Colombia. He says what I did yesterday was very dangerous, to first not wait here in Valencia, and then later not to follow him back to Inza. He says the locals hate North Americans and that travelling along those roads things could happen. At this point I interrupt him and say with all due respect, it has been my experience that the locals do not hate North Americans, that on the contrary, everyone I have met has been very friendly and outgoing. That while it may be true (it is) that our two governments are having their disagreements right now, the people can differentiate between the government and the people.
At one point Leila approaches, and Aleman is initially very hostile towards her, telling her to leave, until he learns she is Colombian, from Bogota, and a student, at which point his tone changed completely. He still would not allow her to remain however.
Aleman then says that the committee met yesterday and voted 8-0 against allowing me to pass. He than said I could be stuck here for weeks without being able to leave. That there were guerrillas in the area, who sometimes came into town, and that sometimes the electricity went off at night, and that when that happened, nobody was responsible for my safety. It was a clear threat if I ever heard one and I was boiling inside, and I started to get up to leave. He then says, wait, he has a suggestion, that it is only a suggestion, that he can't tell me what to do. But if I make a donation of my motorcycle and my camera to the Padre, not to himself, Aleman, but to the Padre for use in his work, then he could arrange my passage through the blockade, and he would take me on to La Plata where I could get transportation back to the States.
I was now fuming inside, but simply got up, said "Muchas gracias, Senior", and walked away. I walked over to the edge of the plaza where my friends were waiting along with some of the local townspeople and campesinos. Aleman had walked back to his jeep, where the Padre was waiting, and drove away towards the blockade. I told them what Aleman had told me, and as soon as the locals heard this, they were clearly outraged. They walked over to another group of local men, and within minutes a mob of about 15 people formed and we headed towards the blockade. There they relayed to the leaders there what had transpired, and a larger mob forms and confronts the Padre and Aleman who are in their Jeep getting ready to be let past the blockade.
Of course Aleman accuses me of lying or misunderstanding what he told me, and the Padre denied any involvement with respect to the requested "donation." As soon as they could, Aleman and the Padre, drove off. They clearly did not want to stick around. There were numerous small groups of campesinos talking about what to do, and it soon became clear that they fortunately believed my version of the story. Whether that was because of my Colombian friends who could provide a good translation, I don't know. We had got to know many of the townpeople and campesinos over the past day, and that helped too I'm sure. At any rate I was quickly assurred by the campesinos that I was not going to have to give up my camera or motorcycle. As if I was even considering it.
The leaders at this blockade I think would have liked to just let me pass through. However there were co-leaders at the other blockade who had to be consulted. So it is decided that Gerardo, Andres, myself, and two leaders, a man and a woman, at this blockade will drive to the other blockade, talk to the leaders there and try to acquire permission for me and hopefully Gerardo and the others in the Mitsubishi to pass.
It's about an hour and a half drive back to Inza, and of course we get a flat tire on the way. They only have a small hydraulic jack which requires several iterations of jacking the car up, propping rocks under it, and then jacking it up some more. Back at the other blockade on the other side of Inza, we park some distance away and are told to wait, while the two leaders walk to the blockade.
One, two, two and a half hours go by. Gerardo and Andres are chewing coca leaves. I'm munching on panela. At one point we decide to drive a bit closer, one more curve up the road, only to be told to turn around and return to where we had been parked. Eventually the two campesinos return, accompanied by two others, who it turns out we will be dropping off at their homes on the way back. They also have the slip of paper, about 4x5", on which is written "Los gringos que pasen no hacer exigencias ni recibir prevendos delos antes mencionados. Atentamente, Pedro Pinzon". It basically said the gringos can pass without requirements or having to pay anything. Gerardo and Andres got a laugh about being lumped in with Ronnie and me as gringos.
On the way back, we turn off the main road onto another road which winds and climbs way up into the mountains. It turns out this is the road where the accident which precipitated the blockade occurred, and they point out the site as we pass. It is now marked by a small cross. Along the way we drop off 3 of our passengers as we pass their homes along the road. We continue on, climbing up and up, until we can see the small village of Pedregal in the distance.
Only the male campesino who came with us from Valencia is still with us. His home, too, is up here, and we park along the road, then climb a slippery, muddy trail a hundred yards up the hillside to his home. Chickens and pigs are tethered in the front yard. The home itself has about 3 rooms, all with dirt floor. His wife, who has extremely disfigured hands, offers us each a cup of coffee. While we drink it he brings out a small jar containing some crystals he found in the local river. He is clearly quite proud of them. Several are quite beautiful, with numerous facets, and a light blue-green color. He also shows us an ancient Inca grinding stone for grinding maize, and a small rock, which when viewed from one angle resembles the sole of a left foot, and when viewed from another angle resembles the sole of a right foot. The wife then produces a hand-drawn and colored geneology of their immediate family. They are very proud of all these items.
Back in the jeep we continue up towards Pedregal when we run out of gas. Andres and the campesino walk the half mile to Pedregal and shortly return with two liter bottles of gas. We then continue on to Pedregal where we buy more gas, and also pick up 2 more passengers for the trip back down the mountain. Along the way we drop them off, but pick up two more and a sack of potatoes for the ride back to Valencia. At one point one person was riding on the back bumper, holding onto the spare tire back there. We get back to Valencia after dark. During the day the villagers have erected a gate across the entrance to town, and the road has a board with nails across it. I never did find out who they were guarding against.
Once again we walk to the mess-tent at the blockade for dinner. Dinner is already over, but it isn't long before they stoke up the fires and have 3 dinners ready for us.
After dinner, the villagers invite us to the newly erected gate at the village entrance, where a radio and some chairs have been assembled and a makeshift party is in progress. We bring several bottles of aguardiente, which get passed around and is appreciated by the villagers. The villagers know I have a camera and say I should take a photo of everyone. I jokingly ask if it is OK to take a photo, and they laugh, and assure me it is fine. So I get my camera and take several photos in front of the gate. Then someone suggests we take a group photo in front of the church next door, so we all troup over there for several more photos.
We sleep at the same house as last night. I can feel the effects of not having eaten enough today along with consuming too much aguardiente.
In the morning we leave Valencia, the paper serving as our ticket out. We stop at the blockade for numerous photos of the crowd, the blockade, the Mitsubishi, the bike, and several campesinos sitting on the bike. Then we are through and on our way.
I have no idea what Senior Aleman was up to. He clearly had some agenda of his own, and it wasn't neccesarily the interests of the campesinos. In the end he lost all credibility with the campesinos and that was gratifying so see. I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out, if I hadn't had my friends from Bogota there. It's hard to say. It was clear the campesinos were good people and had nothing against me personally or as an American. I think I would have gotten through, though it might have taken a little longer. I guess I'll never know.
I decide to ride with them for a ways, even they are travelling slower than I would otherwise. We stop in La Plata for lunch and to fix the flat tire on the Mitsubishi. We also buy some of the delicious white cheese which is available throughout the country. Wherever I stop a crowd gathers around the bike, nothing new for me, but Gerardo and the others in the Mitsubishi find it amusing, and ask if I get tired of it. Not really, it's a good conversation opener, though it means my stops take longer than they would otherwise, but I'm used to that by now.
We pass through several more small towns, stopping to look at several plazas and churches, then finally hit pavement near Garzon. Shortly thereafter, the lure of the twisties became too great and I pass the Mitsubishi, wave goodbye and take off. They're also heading to San Agustin for the night and we have a tentative meeting place picked out.
In San Agustin I get a room at Hostal Mi Terruno. I can't find Arturo's Pizza, our designated meeting spot, until after the designated time, so fail to hook up with Gerardo or the others.
Saturday January 18
At mid-morning I begin walking to the Archeological Park, where there are large carved stone figures of men, animals, and gods, dating from around 3300 BC. Along the way a man driving a two-wheel horse-drawn cart stops and asks if I want a ride. Since it is uphill and quite warm, I accept.
The park itself has a small museum, some stone figures artificially placed along a small path through a small woods (Bosque), and more stone figures as they were found in their natural settings. The stone statues are very impressive.
At the Fuente de Lavapatas, a stream runs through carved channels in the rocks. It was some kind of ceremonial site for this culture, and is quite beautiful. Some of the channels are circular, zig-zag, and enter and leave small pools, as the stream flows down the gently sloping hillside.
Above the Fuente is a large hill, the Cerro de Lavapatas, from the top of which are good views of San Agustin in the distance and the surrounding mountains. While at the top I talk with a man and two women who then want a photo of me with the two women. I also meet a couple from Nieva, between here and Bogota, who rode here on a 125cc motorcycle. We walk through the rest of the Park together, back to the Museum.
On the way down the hill from the Cerro de Lavapatas, who should I run into but Shaul, whom I last saw some 3 months ago in Poptun, Guatemala. Between then and now I had met several travellers who had crossed paths with him. His friend, Lior, had returned to Israel, and he had sold his motorcycle and was now travelling by public transportation. He actually was renting a house for the past month here in San Agustin. He gave me rough directions to his house and said I should stop by.
In the museum I ran into Ronnie, and we finished looking through the museum and the statues in the Bosque de las Estatuas together. Just as we finished outside, it began to pour down rain, and we hitched a ride back to town in a jeep. Back in town we ran into the others. Yesterday when they arrived in town, they met a local woman who invited them to stay at her finca (ranch or farm) just outside of town near the top of a large hill. She was from Bogota, but had bought the finca several years ago and was in the process of moving there permanently along with her two daughters. Her husband, from whom she was seperated was also there. They invited me up to the ranch, so we drove paetway up in the jeep, parking it at another finca partway up, then walked the rest of the way. The road to the top was extremely steep, extremely rocky, and extremely muddy. I would not attempt that road, in that condition, on my G/S. The house itself was fairly simple with several rooms with rough wood floors, a large porch out front with several couches and a hammock looking out over the valley below. Toilets were outside across the front lawn.
They invited me to stay for dinner or even for the night, but I didn't want to lug my things up there, and it was getting dark, and I didn't want to walk down that muddy hill in the dark, so we agreed to meet at Pizza Arturo at 10am tomorrow, and I said goodbye and left.