Top Travel Leads

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.