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SALENTO AN INTRODUCTION
With Carlos Alberto behind the wheel urging his KIA onward, negotiating the mountainous roads as if he was Juan Pablo Montoya, the famous Colombian Formula One driver, we reached Salento in considerably less than the usual one hour driving time from the Valle del Cocora.

Salento was established in 1850, making it one of the oldest towns in the coffee zone. Simon Bolivar, the famous Liberator, passed through this area with his men and assessing the roads to be deplorable, he ordered them to be rebuilt. As nothing happens fast around here, it took twelve years before a prison work gang showed up to improve the road system and by that time Bolivar was dead, buried and reviled. If their sentences were remitted due to good work, under the table payments to the boss man, or whatever, the prisoners were given a piece of land to farm and stayed in the area. The others, who were not so lucky, found themselves installed in a new prison made just for them nearby. As per their custom, the prisoners were soon joined by their families. People attract more people and when a census was taken in 1864, they managed to tally up 581 souls. Apparently, this was enough and the community was officially considered a municipality. This modest beginning did not encourage too many growth spurts as the population today comes in slightly over 4,000. Similar to Australia, expressing pride in one’s founding ancestors must mean acknowledging their dubious vitae. The town was named after Salento, located on the “heel” of the boot of Italy and famous for being colonized by mainland Greeks in the 8th B.C.

AFTERNOON IN SALENTO
Carlos Alberto drove directly to the plaza, requiring several turns around the block until he could find a parking space. As he zipped into a recently vacated narrow slot, we were immediately welcomed by a “meter maid”, apparently the first sign that it is Salento and not Filandia that is receiving the bulk of the tourists. He parked between two brightly polished Willys Jeep presided over by their owners. Their machetes, sheathed in woven leather cases, dangled from their belts and their sculpted bodies, with each muscle the product of their life of labor, hidden beneath their loose white shirts.

It was late afternoon and the plaza was still packed with people, tourist and locals both enjoying the sunny afternoon. To Donald and me it felt like early spring. In a manner similar to Filandia, the buildings have been whitewashed and all the wooden trim has been covered in bright festive colors. This is when we learned that the local governments have been making paint available to the people free of charge. Striped tents, filled with long tables, lined one side of the plaza and woman were selling home cooked food and plenty of beer. With few exceptions, the buildings surrounding the plaza were historic, especially since there had been no reason to tear down the old to replace it with the new. The bank building was the most ornate and the old hotel appeared to have been turned into a charming bed and breakfast.

Donald and I stepped into the Catholic church holding up one end of the plaza. While the Conquistadors arrived in the pursuit of gold, the Catholic Church turned up to save souls and today 90% of the country is Catholic. This church was similar to the majority of the small churches we visited. There was a single aisle down the middle with side chapels architecturally forming the pattern of the cross. The parish was prosperous and the high ceiling was constructed out of wood and shaped like the keel of a ship. Light flooded in through the tall windows giving the place a spacious feeling. The large crucifix above the main altar held a pale Jesus while the Jesus on the side altars had a dark complexion. When making a comparison, Christ always seemed to have had an easier time of it in the Italian churches than in South America. Here he truly suffers as blood pours out from the crown of thorns and the lashings on his body.

Johnny escorted us down side streets where many storefronts had been turned into gift shops, each with a similar selection of trinkets. More so than Filandia, the town has given itself over to the tourist trade. Today, they are not thinking about reeling in yanquis dollars as much as the Colombian peso. We followed Johnny into a gift shop owned by his friend to enjoy a glass of homemade coffee wine that he makes in the back of his store. He welcomed Johnny and greeted us with “buenos tardes”. He did not need to speak English for us to realize he was a most charming man, not quite elderly, but on the verge. I wanted to know what had been in this store before it became a gift shop. He told Johnny it had been part of their home and now they live in the back part where he made a small addition. His children were working in Bogota, and since it was just he and his wife, he opened his store to have something to do. He winked at Johnny and then gave us a knowing smile, as if we too were partners in his secret, and reaching behind the counter, first tilting his head as if listening for the imaginary drum roll, he pulled out a red ceramic jug. It was one of the traditional kind we had seen earlier that morning in Filandia. With a flourish worthy of a sommelier pouring a grand cru, he filled three juice glasses with a dark cherry red substance. Johnny took his aguardiente style, in one gulp, while Donald and I sipped slowly, trying to figure out the taste. It was a perfect blend of full bodied coffee and a sweet red wine tasting of cherries, a tasty liqueur for after dinner drinking. Unfortunately, it was only available in a red ceramic jug, making it too unwieldy to take home. Complimenting his wine, we told him it was fantastic and he agreed saying it was made by the gods with help from his grandmother’s recipe. I wanted to purchase a selection of the mini ceramic Willy Jeeps loaded down with brightly painted local produce and the little mules carrying sacks of coffee beans. When I put the money on the counter, he pushed it back and from Johnny’s translation, we understood these were his gifts to us as a way to remember him and his town. Leaving his shop, we felt we had made a friend and had enjoyed another traveler’s moment.

Back on the street, an old timer’s band was performing on the sidewalk featuring a shorter version of Juan Valdez singing and doing something that resembled an “old soft shoe”. His cronies were backing him up with the refrain, two guitars, a hand drum and a guacharaca, which looked like a stick being stroked with a three prong fork. The large tin cup they had placed on the grown was being filled up by groups of Colombian tourists.

Parts of the original town were still in business catering to local needs. The barber shop was open for business with its original fixtures now museum quality. An old bar was crowded with men leaning on its long counter made from a continuous plank of wood whose edges were now worn down with age. We looked through the dusty window of an old junk shop. Scattered about in a jumble was the detritus of other people’s lives but we knew the owner would soon sort it all out, make artful displays, raise the price and call his merchandise antiques. We stepped into the old billiard parlor, creaking our way across the wooden floor. We were of no interest to the local men lining the walls, watching and commenting on the games. Anticipating customers, several wooden tables and mismatched chairs had been placed in the center of the room and there was an old wooden bar supporting a huge antique silver coffee pot. When Johnny ignored my suggestion that we stop there for a tinto, I figured he had something else in mind.

A frame house fronted the sidewalk and as we passed, I interpreted the open wooden shutters as an invitation to look inside. I was confronted by a small bedroom that opened onto a communal area beyond my sight. The room was decorated with old fashioned furniture, dull with age, as if the sheen had been lost in the miasma of time. Two single beds occupied a side wall, divided by a night stand on which an Art Nouveau lamp shared space with a Meissen Madonna figurine. Attached to the wall above each bed was a silver crucifix. On the opposite wall, there was a wardrobe flanked by a well used rocking chair. A bookcase occupied part of the third wall filled with Spanish titles topped off with an old fashioned pitcher and bowl. A small pedestal table holding black and white photos in silver frames filled the empty space in the middle of the room. Everything had a place, leaving it hard to determine if the room was still being used or if it was arranged to be a historical display. It would have been interesting to wonder about the children who must have lived in this room and who comforted whom in the rocking chair but it was the photos that attracted my full attention. I carefully looked at each one, seeing unique individuals who occupied a period of time. They seemed to return my gaze. With their eyes following me, I felt they wanted me to linger, to hear the stories of their lives, enabling them to live again. However, Donald and Johnny were up ahead and I, along with the others, was only passing by.

We crossed the plaza and started down the hill when Johnny told us we were going to the Jesus and Martin coffee shop. We had seen another shop by this name earlier in the Valle del Cocora. Located in the front rooms of an old building, their eclectic ensemble of old furniture and couches, lamps with tasseled shades and scattered oriental rugs, succeeded in creating a bohemian atmosphere. It had the requisite notice board, simple advertisements, a scattering of magazines and a collection of young travelers, making it a perfect back packers “hang out”. Their coffee making paraphernalia was straight out of Italy. When I stepped up to the counter to order, I was surprised when the young woman addressed me in English. I had no trouble ordering three cappuccinos and upon her suggestion, with a touch of rum. We were beginning to realize good coffee is possible but you have to know where to look. Once again, these people select the best coffee beans and roast them to their own specifications, producing a world class cup of coffee. The search for the bathroom, led me to the back of the shop and when I saw the kitchen, I realized I was in someone’s home. Not missing an opportunity for a peak, especially since the doors were open, I found myself looking into bedrooms, not much different from the one I had seen earlier. Peering behind one door, I discovered an old woman sitting in a chair staring at a wall, sharing a striking resemblance with Whistler’s mother.

Back in the coffee shop, Donald was engaged in a conversation with a local man who appeared to be in his early ’50′s. He too had a woven leather case hanging from his belt but this time, instead of a machete, it held a cell phone. He told Donald that even though English was taught in his school at the time he did not pay attention but now he is taking English lessons because he plans to open a travel agency catering to American tourists. We wished him well on his business plan, told him we enjoyed his town and were happy to be there before his tourist buses arrived. Walking back to the plaza, a lost in South American kid with his dread locks pinned up on top of his head was strumming his guitar and singing softly to his dog. Maybe all was as it should be.

By this time it was late afternoon and the rays of the setting sun were slanting across the plaza. As we slid into the back seat of Carlos Alberto’s car, we knew we had experienced one of those special days, the kind you embed into your travel memory to be called up whenever needed.

Sardinia is not the first place you’d think of when looking to go on holiday, however if you’re looking for something different from the normal beach holiday in the sun, then look no further than the Mediterranean Island of Sardinia.

You’ll find untouched beautiful landscape and stunning scenery combined with plenty of things to do which make holidays to Sardinia different from any other you’ve been on.

Firstly, rather than booking a hotel, why not stay on an Agriturismo farm or in a log cabin?

An Agriturismo farm is ideal if you want to immerse yourself in true Sardinian culture – you’ll live with a Sardinian family who will put you up in their home, usually on a farm.

You may be asked to help out with some of the daily tasks as part of your stay, however you’ll be away from the city; and if you’re lucky you may get away with just putting your feet up for a few days, as you’re still paying for your accommodation. Most farms offer activities to pass the time, such as cookery classes, wine tasting, tours of the local area or horse riding tuition.

You’ll experience the Sardinian way of life, and be treated to some local cuisine, at a much lower cost than if you stayed in a hotel in Calgiari.

Alternatively, you could hire a log cabin on a campsite. Again, cheaper than a hotel, but located in the middle of the countryside where you can soak up the sun in the summer when temperatures top 30°c. Some log cabins have their own swimming pool for you to cool down in, or there may be communal pools in the camping village.

Things to do

Unless you’re planning on doing literally nothing for the duration of your stay, you’ll want something to do, so read on and discover what Sardinia has to offer.

Visit Calgiari

See the Nuraghe of Sardinia – the village of Barumini is home to a megalithic monument (called Nuraghe) built over 3000 years ago that is currently on the UNESCO World Heritage List. There are over 8000 nuraghes still standing in Sardinia, some of which have been excavated and been made open to the public. Dotted all around the island; you shouldn’t have to look too far to spot one of these historic structures.

Check out Arcipelago di La Maddalena National Park – situated off the coast of Sardinia, there are many small islands in La Maddalena National Park which can be explored by boat tours starting from the small nearby town of Palau. You may even catch a glimpse of dolphins swimming in the area so remember to take a camera.

Visit Costa Smeralda – a luxury tourist destination featuring amazing beaches, Costa Smeralda is a hangout for the rich, with many yachts and boats on display in the harbor in Porto Cervo. There’s plenty to do along the coast, mainly water sports such as sailing, windsurfing and scuba diving.

Head to Alghero – one of the most popular tourist destinations on the island, Alghero is an historic town with many bars and restaurants, and immaculate white beaches. If you like outdoor activities, Alghero should be on your list of places to visit, with caving, climbing/hiking and mountain biking trails all on offer. The most famous sight in Alghero is Neptune’s Grotto, a cave in the sea, with boat trips available to tour the cave. Neptune’s Grotto is also an ideal location for scuba divers, with many underwater caves also nearby.

The lakes and lagoons of Sardinia – Sardinia has many lagoons and lakes, including Santa Gilla and Cabras lagoons; home to pink flamingos. For a day away from sightseeing, head to Lake Gusana, where you can hire a boat out on the lake, or go kayaking if you don’t mind getting wet.

Sardinia’s events and festivals: throughout the calendar year there are many different festivals on, the majority of which are celebrating the rich history of Sardinia:

April:

San Giorgio festival (St George’s Day) in Bonnanro, Bitti and Onifai is celebrated with a horse led procession through the centre of the town.

Sardinia Day – April 28th: The National Day of Sardinia, commemorating the Island’s release from Piedmont ruling, is celebrated with processions, parades and firework displays.

May:

Sant’ Efisio Festival – Similar to most celebrations in Sardinia; a huge procession is led through the center of Calgiari, carrying an effigy of Sant’Efisio, while locals play a Sardinian wind instrument called a “launeddas”. The reason behind the festival is that in the 17th century, thousands of people died during a plague, and the town prayed to Sant’Efisio to save the people of Calgiari.

Cavalcata Sarda – Usually the third Sunday in May, Cavalcata Sarda is another festival and parade, featuring over 3000 horses, horse races, dancers and musicians.

June

St John the Baptist Day – June 24th: Similar to Cavalcata Sarda, the celebrations feature horses, dancers, poetry competitions, musical performances and a huge fireworks display.

July

S’Ardia horse race – A 2 day festival in honor of the patron saint of Sedilo, St Constantine. The main spectacle is a horse race, where the best rider of Sedilo is chased around the course by 100 other horse riders.

August

The Archer’s Tournament – 24 archers take part in a medieval style competition, followed by a medieval parade.

Fireworks and fried fish – on August 14th in Alghero, at the port on Busquet walkway, a fireworks display is put on for spectators, while there are stalls selling various different fried fish dishes.

September

The Shoeless Men Run – a large battle is re-enacted to depict the fight between locals and the Saracens.

The festival of Sant Miquel – September 26th, celebrating the patron saint of Alghero in true Sardinian style, with parades, musical performances and a fireworks display.

October

Sagra della Castagna – The chestnut fair held in late October. The event includes wine tasting, food stalls and as always, a parade.

November

Mountain Products Agricultural Fair – celebrating the Island’s arts and crafts, the fair shows off paintings, exhibitions and musical performances by locals.

Try some of the local food

You can’t go on holiday and spend your time eating the same boring meals you’d have at home, so why not sample some of the local dishes such as:

• Porcheddu – roasted pig cooked on a wood fire
• Malloreddus – gnocchi served in a meat sauce with either cheese or tomato
• Stufato di capretto – a goat’s cheese casserole served with eggs and artichokes.
• Culurgiones – onion, egg and garlic ravioli, served with potatos.
• Ostrich – the meat is supplied by two local ostrich farms on the Island, and is prepared as a speciality.

Finally

Not everyone on the Island will speak English, especially the further in land you go, so you’d do yourself no harm to learn some Italian phrases. In some towns, people speak Catalan and French, so you may be able to get by using either of these languages.

To reach our next destination, the Valle del Cocora, we headed back into the mountains. When the road was not following the contours of the mountains, it was going up, over and down, crossing from one valley to the next. Lush tropical vegetation grew in profusion, enveloping us in a symphony of green. Lacy tree ferns lined the road while poinsettias and what we consider houseplants were growing tall out of deep ravines. Sparkling green moss covered every available surface while lichens were attached to unwitting trees. Johnny, our guide, pointed out the yarumo tree, growing on the side of the mountain, made distinctive by its broad silver leaves. We commented on the large groves of leafy bamboo telling him after all our years in Asia we had never seen bamboo grow so large. He explained this was the guarda, a type of bamboo indigenous to this area. Thriving on the climate in the zona cafeteria , it is able to grow up to eleven centimeters per day reaching maturity in six months. Called the “steel vegetable”, it is promoted as a renewable resource, strong enough to be used in construction and pliable for furniture manufacturing.

The Valle del Cocora, named by the indigenous Quimbayas, translates into “water star”, supposedly in honor of the daughter of an Indian chief who ruled five hundred years ago. Regardless, the name is appropriate considering the area’s high rainfall. The valley is part of the foothills of the Central Andean Range (Cordilleras) and located near the Parque Nacional Los Nevados ( National Park of Snow Mountain) with its snow capped peaks reaching fifteen thousand feet.

We came to this valley to see the wax palm trees, the palma de cera, named by Alexander Von Humboldt, the German naturalist/explorer otherwise known for the current that bears his name. In 1801, he chose this name based upon the thin layer of protecting wax that covers its gray black trunk. Even though there are over three thousand species of palm trees, this one is special. It is indigenous to this valley, referred to as the “cradle of the wax palm” and thrives in high altitudes exceeding 4,500 feet above sea level. It grows to 180 to 200 feet tall making it the tallest palm tree in the world growing at the highest altitudes. It will grow under 4,500 feet but not as tall. On Palm Sunday, the faithful parade with palm leaves in order to celebrate Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem. In Colombia, the fronds of the wax palm were so popular that the tree was almost loved into extinction. In 1985, the government declared the wax palm the national tree and protected it by law. Today, the tree is treasured as a national symbol and the Valle del Cocora is a nature sanctuary and a park popular with Colombia tourists.

Entering the park, we were once again stopped by the military. In the past, FARC, the left wing guerrilla movement, had invaded the park and blew up a hotel in 2006. Right wing militias had also staked out a presence. Today, that is considered the past and once again, Colobians are coming here to enjoy the beauty of their own country. Carlos Alberto remained in the car finishing the soccer match and Johnny, Donald and I walked to the stable. We would ride horses through the valley, meet the travel agent to plant a palm tree, and then enjoy a special lunch of freshly caught brook trout, a specialty of the area.

THE VALLE DEL COCORA
The stable hands seemed to know Johnny and we were soon saddled up and heading out for the trail. Ahead, loomed a wooden bridge, one of those constructed from guarda trees, spanning a stream tumbling down from the nearby mountain. Without any input from us, the horses nixed the bridge, preferring to charge through the water, seeking out the sandy eddies, avoiding the stones. They soon found the path, and when they turned left, an astounding narrow valley spread out before us, a Colombian Shangri La. Plush grassland carpeted the valley walls, covering all the ravines and creases of the valley’s terrain with a brilliant green, stopping only when over taken by thick forested areas. These palms, nature’s skyscrapers, captivated our attention. They were scattered everywhere, securing the valley floor, locked into the sides of the hills, and projecting skyward from the tops of the ridge lines. Each one a graceful silhouette against a brilliant blue sky. Looking up at their soaring height, we marveled at their tapering elegance and felt diminished in their presence. Our horses moved slowly prolonging the moments, allowing us to observe the details and absorb the peace and tranquility, interrupted only by the sound track of water rushing through the nearby stream.

We followed the trail through the valley until it ended at the beginning of the park. Ahead lay a dense jungle marked with hiking trails. As we turned to go back, the weather deployed another agenda. The wind began to pick up and as if called to a meeting, dark clouds began to gather where the mountains reached their peaks and then taking available seats, settled down on the sides of the slopes. What began as a fine curtain of rain turned thick and we were soon pelted with heavy raindrops. Mist tumbled down from the heights, wrapping everything it touched in a gray shroud. However, the wax palms, oases of calm in the maelstrom, refused to be covered up and as the mist fell toward the ground, they projected through it like giant mysterious lollipops floating in the ether. As quickly as the rain began it stopped. A tear in the clouds revealed the blue sky and shafts of light poured through, highlighting the wax palms, now seen as beacons in the midst.

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE OR PARADISE IN THE RAW
While we were traveling on horseback, we were willingly mesmerized by the charm of nature’s power and beauty. However, our reverie was soon broken when Johnny told us to dismount and follow him. Ahead of us was a man we did not know, carrying a large plastic bag and shovel. Following Johnny, who was following the man, we were guided over the thick grassland now completely soughed in water. Earlier, we had marveled at the beauty of the grass. Now we were stepping in it only to find the elevated thick clumps were surrounded by bare earth, properly arranged to assure a twisted ankle or worse. We had admired the valley’s otherworldly charm but its etherealness faded with every hill we climbed. Those cows, magnificent in the distance, close up became insouciant beasts with green saliva dripping from their mouths, too fat for their own good whose manure piles made the walk even more treacherous. We felt like we were on a forced march with the addition of drizzling rain as another element of inconvenience. No mas, no mas we wanted to shout and thirty minutes later we caught up with the man in a small grove of wax palm trees.

Apparently, we were attending our own wax palm tree planting ceremony that began without us. By the time we arrived, the man had already dug a hole in the side of a steep hill and dropped in the contents of the plastic bag, a seedling. Without bothering to introduce himself, he incanted some kind of prayer, filled up the hole with loose dirt and as he turned, slung the shovel over his shoulder and left.

It was up to Johnny to explain just what had happened as I struggled to stand upright on the side of the hill. Apparently, a wax palm ritual had just been performed harkening back to the days of the Quimbayas who had a great respect for the tree. In modern parlance, we were now eco tourists, only the second ones to have had a wax palm planted in their honor. Knowing the need to protect them and that they grew slowly, I asked Johnny to point out where they planted the first tree. He looked around for the moment, looked down at my shoe and said under your foot. I guess this was not the green footprint they had in mind.

Lunch was served in an outdoor setting and while a small band played salsa and cumbia music, Donald and I feasted on perfectly fried brook trout, trucha, that had been swimming in the trout pool that morning. It was accompanied by the patacones, fried plantains and a sweet tomato relish that doubled as a dipping sauce. Crispy French fried potatoes were also included. In Asia we are always told the best potatoes come from the United States but now I think there are excellent potatoes in Colombia. After all the potato was first discovered in Peru, not too far away. No matter where, we always try to sample the local beer. We drank Poker beer for the first time and decided we liked it better than the Club Colombian we had been drinking. Johnny ordered chocolate santa fereno. This Colombian specialty, usually enjoyed at night, is a cup of hot chocolate drunk filled with white cheese, the same that we enjoyed at Ettica’s house in Bogota. The beer was served frosty and the chocolate hot enough to melt the cheese. It was 3:30 and we were happy and very full and ready for the next stop, the small town of Salento an hour drive through more mountains.

From the beginning, when there were only paths, coffee beans and other agriculture products were brought to market on the backs of mules, intelligent, hard working animals, capable of carrying heavy loads while negotiating the rough terrain. In place of roads, cable cars were strung between the mountains but the mule still proved the most durable means of transportation. Along with electricity, the telephone and other modern conveniences all was going to change when a new kind of pack mule was first introduced into the coffee region in 1965. It was a 1954 J3B model, four-wheel drive, flat fender jeep produced by the Willys Company, the same company that built jeeps for the U.S. government during World War ll. The Willys,(Will-is) can be considered the first SUV and as time passed, this jeep, called a “yipe” by the locals, became the iconic goods carrier within the coffee zone. Juan Valdez loved his mule but the jeans wearing new breed of cafeteros love their Willys to the point it has garnered a “cult-like devotion.” As we looked around the plaza, this gas guzzling workhorse filled every available parking place and many were doubled parked. Coming into town on Saturday, the owners had spent a great amount of time shinning their bumpers and adding after market accessories. Many were standing by their Willys with polishing rags in hand. Sort of reminded us of bike night at the local bar in Knoxville where we play trivia.

There is reputed to be over 3,000 Willys in the area, more than anywhere else in the world per capita and many are still the original 1954 model. Annual Yipao Festivals are held in various coffee zone towns, which include contests organized into categories. In the “house moving” contest, the competitors empty out their houses and pile their furniture up on the jeep. For the “produce of the region” category, the participants load their jeeps down with coffee beans, bananas, sugar cane and anything else they grow. There is also a “freestyle category” that includes anything you can think of. In the “extreme category”, the Willys is loaded down in the back, usually with long stalks of bananas , until the front wheels are lifted off the ground allowing contestants to compete for the longest wheelie. In 2007, the town of Armenia scored a Guinness World Record with the longest jeep parade. Three hundred and fifty-four jeeps, extending three miles paraded through the town. The local people are having a great time and Colombian tourists are coming now that it is safe to travel in the coffee zone. Check the local listing for the next festival. Due to the ability of the Willys to negotiate the rough roads in the hinterlands, it is now the vehicle of choice for the anti drug police. As for the tourist, the gift shops are full of brightly painted ceramic mini Willys with stalks of bananas and other produce strapped to their bumpers and loaded down with people, a perfect souvenir of this wonderful area.