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JUAN MARTIN REDEEMS HIMSELF
The mysterious man with the shovel was Juan Martin who, along with his wife, owned the tour company that had planned our excursions in the coffee region. According to Johnny, he did not speak English, maybe explaining why he never introduced himself to us.

The third event in our trifecta was a “horseback journey through El Valle del Risaralda” with a promised surprise at the end. As per the program, we would drive to a hacienda fifteen minutes away from the hotel where we would find horses and the trail that led through the valley.

The hacienda turned out to be a 7,500 acre spread complete with a horse breeding farm. We pulled up to the stables and directly in front of us, framed by the dust and the stable hands, was a young horsewoman directly out of a Goya painting sitting astride a black horse as shinned and polished as she was. Getting out of the car, the only attention we received from her was a disdainful smirk and with the flick of her wrist, she and the horse were off. Apparently, she belonged to the horsey set and Donald and I dressed in jeans, tee shirts, wearing ball caps did not meet her aesthetic.

We were introduced to Pedro, the man in charge of our ride. Johnny had told us about him. His grandfather was an Indian and had grown up in the mountains. He was being trained by the village elder to become a brujo, a kind of spiritual magician who can cure animals as well as people and when necessary, can call up the spirits of the dead. They taught him to smoke a puro, a kind of cigar whose fragrance can ward off evil spirits or materialize the good ones. When called to action, a brujo first drinks ayahuasca, a concoction that induces a trance, and then he is ready to foretell the future or make decisions for anything that needed to be decided. However, the Catholic nuns kidnapped his grandfather and placed him in a mission school before his training was completed. As a result, he only learned how to contact the spirits from the beyond but when they showed up, unfortunately, he did not know how to command them to do anything further. After that, the spirits would just hang around until they got bored and then go back to the beyond. In 1953 during the time of La Violencia, that insane period of Colombian history between 1948-1957 when Liberals and Conservatives tore themselves apart leaving 350,000 people dead, his grandfather was kidnapped again. This time he was forcefully conscripted into the army and was never seen again.

Pedro’s background, just like the country, is a jumble of ethnicity, a mixture of those who were already there and those who showed up later. His grandfather, an indigenous Indian, married a black woman, whose ancestors arrived as slaves from Africa. Their son married a woman who, even though illegitimate, claimed to be 100% Spanish. She maintained her lineage, dubious at best, stretched back to the Conquistadors. It was only when she exhibited a passion for gold jewelry that they believed her. When you do the math, their son Pedro is ¼ Indian, ¼ Black, and ½ Spanish.

Regardless of the blood coursing through his veins, Pedro is totally campesinos. Just as Juan Valdez loved his mule, Pedro loves his horses. He feels awkward walking and would stable his horse in his house except the extra bedroom, that had once belonged to his daughter, is presently occupied by his wife’s pet pig. When we arrived, Pedro, whose face is creased with the road map of his life, was sitting on a small stool next to a fence and his favorite horse, Arepa, named after his favorite food, was by his side. He was smoking a cigar, the soggy tip clenched between his teeth, and playing a small accordion, along with beer, a cultural gift from the Germans. Smoke was whirling around his head leaving me to wonder if that was the magic smoke known to his grandfather. Similar to the other campesinos, hanging from his belt was a machete sheathed in a leather tasseled scabbard. Since he traveled by horse, he required a shorter machete and his was made out of chrome, making it easier to sharpen.

As per the program, the ride through the valley was scheduled for four hours but we decreased it to three in deference to our nether parts still remembering our horseback ride from the day before. The stable boys brought out our horses. I asked for and received one not too wide. We were in the hands of professionals and like an airplane pilot, they walked around the horses, inspected all the parts and readjusted the stirrups to perfection. Pedro, wearing the traditional woven white hat with the black band, led the way and Johnny guarded the rear. Leaving Carlos Alberto in his car with another World Cup Soccer Game, our small procession set off down the main road, packed dirt sustained by a layer of gravel.

The estate, located to the east of the Western Cordillera, was acquired by the present owner’s grandfather in the early 1950′s. While Pedro’s grandfather was up in the hills conjuring up spirits, this grandfather was down in the valley buying up property at what today must seem like a ridiculously cheap price. A small portion of the land closest to the main highway has been sold off to developers who are creating a small community of upscale houses, the perfect country retreat complete with swimming pool and satellite dishes. The land is rich volcanic soil with acreage devoted to cultivating soy beans and corn, part of which goes to feed the extensive herd of cattle. Ostensibly, the present owner, a doctor, has an eye toward the future, testified by the grove of young teak trees and the newly cultivated vineyard. The rest of the property is rich grassland through which mountain streams meander. Since our recent intimate experience with Colombian grass lands, it was interesting to learn they import grass seeds from Australia and Kenya and these pasture lands had been sowed in seeds from the United States.

Due to the high altitude, the morning felt like late spring and the clear air encouraged the brilliant blue sky. We came to a stop on top of a knoll and the entire estate surrounded us farther than the eye could see. From the moment we arrived in Colombia, from the first look down as we were approaching the runway in Bogota, we had been spell bound by the beauty of the country. Since I began writing about this trip, I have hunted through the dictionary and crawled through a thesaurus searching for the various words to describe the color green, then the quality of green such as lush, luxuriant, verdant, abundant, etc. etc. As if that was not enough, I searched through the variety of geographical terms in order to describe the contours of the countryside, such as mountains, valleys, gorges, ravines, creases and crevices, etc. etc. Because I wanted the reader to see it with us, I resorted to a variety of verbs that described the motion of the green landscape as it rolled out, stretched up, covered over, again etc. etc. I wanted my writing to have a palpable quality; I wanted company as we were dying of the heat and the humidity and invigorated by the fresh springtime air. Guess what, I cannot do it anymore; I have run out of words. ALL THAT IS LEFT TO SAY: SITTING ON THE BACK OF OUR HORSES, WE WERE LOOKING AT A MAGNIFICENT VALLEY. I will leave it at that and go on to another topic, the kind of horses we were riding.

OUR PASO FINO HORSES
Even though we have ridden horses in a variety of countries, Donald and I do not know much about horses, which was the main reason we refused to ride through the jungle in Tayrona without a guide, but that comes later. Speaking for myself, they all look alike and I am lucky if I remember which is the proper side from which to mount up. With Pedro setting the pace, the horses walked across the pasture but when we arrived at the main road, the horses kicked into a higher gear and began trotting or doing a running walk. Donald and I immediately noticed, unlike other horses when they trot, we were not being bounced around. We do understand the rudiments of posting, but even that was not necessary. The horses had a smooth gait and we had that sensation of being “one with the horse”. It was magic realism until we were told these were Paso Fino horses.

The Spanish reintroduced the horse into the Western Hemisphere as those that once existed had become extinct thousands of years before they arrived. Part of the reason why so few Conquistadors were able to conquer so many Indians was that the latter were terrified of the horse since they had never seen one before. In 1493, on his second voyage to Santo Domingo, Columbus dropped off twenty-five horses and these horses along with those brought in by the Conquistadors formed the lineage of the Paso Fino. This horse, which translates into “fine step” was bred from a variety of Spanish horses and is famed for its natural “even four beat gait” which can be called “the amble”. This means the horse, without any special training, gives a smooth ride. It is in his DNA and the Paso Fino comes in all sizes, shapes and colors. This horse is known for its “brio” which means the horse has “natural drive and willingness” along with pride and a pleasant disposition. Bred for endurance, it was favored as a trail horse. We can attest to this as our horses responded to the slightest touch of the reigns and with just a slight nudge in the ribs, they took off into a lope. Because of this smooth ride, we were able to hang onto the horse with just our knees, holding the reigns in our hands, not having to cling to the saddle horn. What can I say, just another special Colombian experience.

SURPRISE
When we reached that knoll with the entire valley spreading out around us, Johnny took out the surprise that had been hidden in his backpack. Out came a beautiful wicker lunch box, wrapped up in red ribbons, which included a red checked tablecloth, matching napkins, dishes, stemware, a bottle of wine and a beautifully prepared platter of cold cuts, cheese and crackers and grapes. We proceeded to have a party in the shade of the leafy acacia trees. Johnny turned down the offer of a glass of wine, maybe thinking he was on duty, while Pedro had no trouble sharing with us. While we were enjoying the special moment, we learned from Pedro that both his children were in college, the daughter to be a teacher and the son to be a pharmacist. Reflecting on the state of Colombia today, now the children of a campesino (a country person) and the great grandchildren of an Indian shaman have the possibilities of a profession and a stake in the future of their country. On the return trip, realizing we could stay in the saddle, we urged our horses on. I am not sure if we ever proceeded beyond the speed of a lope but we had an exhilarating ride, returning faster than we set out. Once again, Colombia did not fail to enthrall us.

This was our last day in Pereira and the next day Johnny and Carlos Alberto drove us to the airport. Our destination was Cartagena, the Spanish colonial treasure, located on the Caribbean Sea. We were leaving the campesino culture of the coffee region and looking forward to experiencing the Caribbean culture, knowing the people as well as the food, music and atmosphere would be different. Waiting for our next flight, we were innocent of any knowledge of what it would feel like to trade in the cool mountain air for what lay awaiting to the north.

TO BE CONTINUED: NEXT STOP CARTAGENA