Horonyaco

I am walking up a jungle road and birdsong is everywhere.  Suddenly there are flashes of yellow and black gliding across the open glades.  They are either Yellow-Rumped Tanagers or Yellow-Rumped Caiques, but they are stunning despite my ignorance. 

At the end of the road I cross a suspension bridge over the Rio Mocoa. It is strong enough for foot traffic or motos. This is not the jungle yet. I am walking through small groves and open grazing pastures.  Some local guys are tending to the path and we exchange "Buenas," the standard abbreviated greeting. It's not really hot but the air is heavy and sultry. Everything is wet, including me.  The path drops to a wet stream crossing and then up a muddy draw between the fields.  It is difficult going, slippery with gooey red mud sticking to my feet. 

The path becomes a corduroy "road" of slippery log rounds laid above the mud with a small runoff ditch on either side. There are more birds, Blue-Capped Tanagers, Crimson-Backed Tanagers and  a stunning Orange-Bellied Euphonia.  

The path climbs into the jungle now.  The air is still but not quiet.  As yesterday, cicadas and tree frogs mark my progress with their buzzing and screeching.  Suddenly there is movement at my feet and a snake twists across the logs, racing for cover on the other side.  It is easily over five feet long but whip thin, black with yellow belly stripes, and amazingly beautiful.  I am exclaiming out loud with wonder and delight.  

I find the second big bridge, the landmark for the sidetrail down to the falls. Walk two minutes further and look right.  So, counting Mississippis as I go, 120 counts and there is my trail, a slippery goat path plunging down into the darkness.   I'm clambering down, using rocks and roots as handholds, splashing through a tra turned creek by last night's rains.  Muddy and scratched, I am at the bottom, awash in the mist being sprayed from the falls.  I pass by the smaller falls and am drenched in the mist. 

I strip off my sodden gear and screech as I slip into the cool water churned by the big falls.    As I acclimate, I paddle against the whirlpool current just to stay in one place.  

I dress and climb back to the trail, doubling back at the top of the falls and climbing down onto a natural stone arch above the Horonyaco falls. The river actually passed under this arch just before it tumbles into the pool below. 

The view from the arch

Happy and refreshed.  

I'm back on the path, moving over the logs with speed and also with care.  I am s long way from any help.  

Just before the first bridge and the return to the road I veer down a side trail, slip on my ass and recover, continuing Ali g the Rio Mocoa.  I am heading for one more falls. 

Less than 500 meters and I am skirts g a cliff face and rock climbing the last ten feet. 

Here is the last falls for today and it is a beauty.  I ease into the pool and I am quickly spinning towards the falls.  The gyre is really powerful and I have to kick hard for shore. I grab onto an overhanging branch and let the current pull my body sideways. 

Hungry and tired, I'm back down the road, out onto and at the hostel.  Feeding one appetite brings on others.  Cleaned and fed, I am ready to relax.  Relaxing is better shared so I manage to find a pal to spend some time with. 

Today was good.  Very good.  I was able to get in touch with my animal nature, get wet and muddy, fall down, get up, swim, laugh and work hard at playing.  

San Agustin to Mocoa

It was early morning in the village of San Agustin as I rose before sunrise to head to Mocoa, a small town on the edge of the Amazon Basin.  Without the benefit of coffee or breakfast, I shouldered the backpack and walked down the hill from Hostel Francois to the town.  I first had to catch the local transport to Pitalito where I would change for a mini-van to Mocoa.  I would miss the oasis of this hostel, the best in Colombia so far, and hope to return.

My bag was loaded atop the ubiquitous third world transport, a pickup with a passenger canopy, and I had time for a quick breakfast of empenadas and coffee with the locals.

Everything worked like a well-oiled machine.  For an hour we bounced down the road to Pitalito through the briliiant sunshine of a Colombian mountain morning.  I had the end seat on the bench, closest to the back, with my feet well planted on the lowered tailgate.  I was the only gringo in the group.  We were packed cheek by jowl as we dropped off folks and picked up more.  There are no scheduled stops or pickup points except at the beginning and end of the route.  If you need a ride, you stand by the side of the road and wave your hand.  If you need to get off, you press the red button in the back or reach out and slap the side of the truck.  

Pitalito is a small agricultural town.  As we entered, the turkey buzzards were perched on every available pole, their wings outstreched to dry off the morning damp prior to a day of soaring on the thermals looking for a meal.  The last stop of the truck was the terminal where I paid my fare and staked out a good seat on the mini-van for the four hour ride to Mocoa.

We left Pitalito and immediately began climbing up mountain passes and dropping into the next valley.  The landscape was one of high mountain valleys with grazing cows, incredibly steep coffee fincas and citrus orchards.  It almost had the look of valleys in Switzerland if the Swiss could grow oranges.  Each mountain pass became lower and each valley lower still as we continued to descend the eastern portion of the Andes mountains.  We descended into a part of Southeatern Colombia that has long been an area occupied by FARC, the largest of the Colombian guerilla armies.  There were two army checkpoints and one anti-contraband checkpoint.  Several bags were searched but, again, the gringo bag remained untouched.  This time I snuck a few photos from my vantage point in the back of the van.

One of our passengers bags being searched.  there were some disapproving words exchanged over the bottle of booze, but it was eventually returned to the bag and the bags to the van.

We arrived in Mocoa and I was immediately swept up in the heat and humidity of the lowlands.  Blinking in the bright sun, I noticed a well-worn gringo sitting in the open air terminal.  Asking if he spoke English brought a strongly accented Irish affirmative.  Mocoa is too small to rate a map in the Lonely Planet so I had only the name of the hostel and the driection that is was Southeast of town. To my good fortune, my irish benefactor knew exaclty where my hostel was and gave me very good directions along with the caution that it was a 40 minute walk.  No matter, I needed to walk, as is my custom when arriving in any new town.  I need  the flavor and smell of a place to feel as if I have truly arrived.

Over the river and through the woods.

I followed the directions, leaving the town of Mocoa behind, and sweated through my clothes most completely before I finally found Casa Del Rio.  After being welcomed by my new host, Filip, a Belgian ex-pat, it was a profound joy to resuscitate myself in a cold shower folowed by some shade and a cigar.  While Casa Del Rio sits a good ways out of the town, it also sits at the confluence of three rivers and a network of jungle trails leading to waterfalls and other marvels.  Because of my early departure and wonderful bus luck, I had arrived before noon and an afternoon of exploration lay ahead.  Revived, I was soon changed into hiking clothes, my water shoes, and ready for the jungle.

Ten minutes walk from the hostel, I was on my own along a rushing jungle river.

The trail threaded its way through the jungle canopy, growing narrow and slippery, climbing and scrambling over roccks and roots, skirting under rock outcroppings, and edging along narrow drops.

The end of the trail at the banks of the big river, Rio Mocoa.  I was entertained by White Collared Swifts darting above the surface of the river, snatching insects from the surface.  

The jungle is so full of life and colour as to stop a hiker in his tracks.  Every glance up or down brought some new treasure, colour, or creature.  Bird call echoed everywhere.  Cicadas and tree frogs shrilled the alarm as I passed by.

It is best to look carefully before reaching for a hand hold along the cliffs by the river.

Drenched in sweat and happy, I made my way back to the hostel and whiled away the evening reading and talking with fellow travelers.  There was even the novelty of another traveler from the United States, a true rarity in these parts.  Though decades younger than myself, as most all travelers here are, we shared a lively conversation well into the evening with the more expected German contingency.

The day ended with the sleep of the dead and the expectation of serious trekking in the morning.

Life is good.  Todo Bien, Chicas!

 

The View From the Top

After an amazing hike through some serious jungle terrain, I arrived at the waterfall I was searching for.  I will post a full length account of this, one of the best days of this journey.  For now, here is another video link to give you an idea. 

http://youtu.be/uR_CnpvvDjc

Popayan Rainy Season

Through the miracle of literary time travel, I am back in my ancient colonial house in Popayan.  Here is a link to a video that I was having trouble with.  There will be a bunch of entries all at once whenever I find some decent wifi.  For now, here is a view of the rains in the highlands. 

http://youtu.be/VXguE2t1JJs

Mocoa

Alright, it isn't exactly the Amazon Basin, but it is the foothills just on the edge of it. 

Here is a video link of what I was up to today.   Wifi is really sketchy here so this will have to do for now. 

http://youtu.be/7hvCqqdoK7I

Pargue de Anthropologia San Agustin

It was a typical Andean morning, bright and crisp after the early rains and the promise of heat just beginning.  I dropped down the hill on foot, resolving to avoid motor transport for the day.  There will be many, many hours of buses in the next few days as I cross from Colombia into Ecuador.

I was heading for the Archeological Park, located three kilometers outside of the town of San Agustin.  First there were errands to attend to.  I quickly found my favorite green ATM and with funds replenished, I found the bus stop and bus information for the early morning departure tomorrow.  Not on the errand list but always appreciated, I found a lovely little cafe that served espresso for Una Mil pesos, or fifty cents.  

Hiking out of town and uphill, I stayed to the shady side of the road.  Perhaps one kilometer out of town, I stepped into the paved ditch to avoid a bus traveling down the hill.  The slope was perfect and the wetness was perfect and my fall was perfect as well as I slid sideways and down, cleverly landing on my shoulder bag which was tucked against my right ribcage.  No major damage done, I picked myself up, laughed a bit, and moved on up the hill.

The Parque is the main archelogical site of the many scattered up and down this valley. From the few placards in English, I learned a bit more about the vanished cultures that left stone carvings and tombs here long before the arrival of the Spanish.  The Formative period of this culture began somewhere around 1,000 years BCE.  A great many of the statutes that have been found date from what is referred to as the Regional Classical Period, which lasted for about 900 years in the Current Era when the culture disappeared.  The statues guarded the tombs, amongst other uses, and the tombs were of two basic types.  The Mesa tombs, or "Little Tables," were built by digging a deep pit, builiding what looks like a little table out of stone slabs, interring the corpse, and then burying the whole thing.  At some point these cultures (for they believe there were two distinct groups) developed what is referred to as a Second Burial Tradition.  The fragments of remains from the Litttle Table tombs were gathered up, placed in ceramic urns, and reburied in pit graved lined and topped with stone. 

One of the true pleasures of the day were the quiet paths through the Parque that led from site to site.

Carved Guardians of the Dead

My favorite figure of the day, not least of which because it was more or less in situ.  Most of the other statues are behind fences and under cover to protect them from deterioration.

This is what remains of a carved water scuplture.  Archeologists believe that the water was forced to form a thin sheet over the entire carving.  The water flow has been reduced to preserve the carvings.

I walked all of the parque, climbed the hill to the top, skirted around a tour group of older Germans with their giant cameras, and enjoyed myself immensely.  I admit to enjoying the walk every bit as much as I enjoyed the sights.

A type of "Christmas Cactus" succulent that I found growing at least ten meters up the tree.

More gloomy tomb guys.

A "Little Table" tomb, recreated.  This would have been buried deep in the ground in its original state.

Having all of the culture and all of the sun that I needed, it was time for the hike back to town, which I managed to do on my feet and not my ass.  I wanted to have a late lunch at a place that my Caballero guide had recommended.  He did not steer me wrong!  Andres la Pallina was the real deal Colombian "Plata Del Dia" kind of place.  It was only after I had almost finished my meal that I realized it was Thanksgiving Day!!  So this became my Thanksgiving Dinner.

For those of you in the Estados Unitos, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving.  For those of you elsewhere, I send you my fondest good wishes.  I admit to having a twinge of missing everyone a bit fiercely today.

Tomorrow will begin my odyssey through some of the serious backroads of Southern Colombia.  It is either forge ahead or backtrack six hours to Popayan and then South six hours to Pasto, and I do so hate backtracking. There are either two ways to go from here, both of which lead through a small corner of the Amazon basin and the town of Mocoa.   Depending on what I find out about local road conditions and local border crossing and the local security, I will chose one of the two routes.

Meanwhile, if you are reading this in real time, get back to your friends and family and enjoy Thanksgiving.  

  

Cabellero

The morning view from my doorway.  Dampish, like most mornings here in the Andes.

I did mention that it was still the rainy season here in Colombia, yes?  Here in the Andes of southeern Colombia it is very much the rainy season, which translates ito very predictable patterns of rain and sunshine.  First there is light rain in the morning followed by bright sun and heat after 9 AM or so.  As the day rolls around towards about late afternoon, you can see the thunder heads massing and it would be a good time to seek some shelter.  Evening usually sees clearing again and night may bring some light rain.  So it goes, whether or not one has decided to go exploring on horseback or not.

Real Caballeros y Caballeras ride rain or shine.

There were four of us, the Belge and French Grrls that came in on the bus with me as well as Stephanie, a sweet German girl.  Our Colombian guide, a very real horseman complete with chiseled features, bad-assed moustache and easy smile, would guide us to several of the more remote archeological sites here in San Agustin.  Rain or no.  And it was.  Raining that is.

Heading out in the rain.

I drew Mariposa, a short, stout roan with a bit of spirit.  I also drew the stupid enclosed Mexican-style stirrups, which I loathe.  These  were munchkin stirrups as well so my feet did not fit fully into them and did that only with some hand pounding on the end.  This is a tricky manuever requiring leaning off of the side of a horse one does not know well.   Regardless, once mounted we were off and heading out through the impossible greens of the Colombian fields.  

The Gringo in front, the real Cabaello in back.

Right on schedule, the rains soaked us for another half-hour and then the sun blasted away the clouds.  We stripped off our rain gear and continued on across the fields of Lalu fruit, corn, and other crops.

San Agustin lies in a valley of the Andes mountains in Southwestern Colombia,  Crossing to the East from here will bring one to the most northern corner of the Amazon basin.  Crossing back over the mountains to the West leads to the steaming jungles along the Pacific Ocean.  Before the known Pre-Colombian societies, somewhere around the second and third centuries CE, two seperate cultures thrived in this valley.  The only record of their existence are the tombs that they left here and the carved basalt statues that they adorned the tombs with.  Other than what can be interpreted by the carved statutes, nothing is known about these peoples.  They disappered long before the arrival of the Spaniards in this region.  These were the archeological sites that we were bound for on horseback.

Steaming under the clearing skies, we tied the horses in the shade and coninued on foot, dropping down into the valley on a steep trail.  Here were amazing view of waterfalls and the rushing river below. This was the most impressive site, with an ancient carved figure left in situ, exactly as it had been 1700 years ago.

Many of the figures are actually free standing statues.  This figure was carved directly into a large rock outcropping.  I think this was my favorite, as much for the setting as the carving.

When one waterfall simply won't do.  There is a second waterfall in the left of the photo.

Mariposa and I had come to an agreement about who was directing whom.  At one point she bolted up a side trail in a fit of boundry testing.  I reined her in and wheeled her sharply about, which brought an approving comment from our Caballero.  In my experience horses, especially for-hire horses, are very much like 13 year-old kids, always wanting to see what they can get away with and who is in charge.  I tried to keep my rein hand firm but not harsh and mariposa resigned herself to bearing me without bearing me away.

A shady stop for drinks.  Marip[osa in on the right, sulking behind the post.

Our last stop was an excavated tomb on a small hill in the jungle.  The tomb had beeen partially raided, but had nothing of value in it.  This proved to be its salvation.  The raiders had no further interest in excavating for nothing and they missed the two large carved figures that guard the front of the tomb area.  These two figures are the only statues that retain some of their original coloration, which most of the statues were believed to have had at one time.

Both of these statues are believed to depict sacrificial rites.  This figure is holding a weapon in one hand and the small victim in the other.

The day grew hot and steamy and the horses trotted and walked, trotted and walked.  I posted as well as I could remember and tried to get Mariposas rythymn to keep my ass from being beaten to jello.  We rode the beasts down into San Agustin and dismounted for the last time.  The Grrls headed out to the larger Parque de Archeologia and I headed back through town and up the hill to Hostel Francois.  I have tomorrow to explore at my leisure and on foot.  

San Agustin from the hill.

It was very, very good to be out of the towns and cities for awhile.  Tomorrow is a lazy day devoted to walking and  enjoying the luscious green of this landscape.  I am giving myself the luxury of three nights in one place, something I alwasy try to do around the middle of a trip.

From San Agustin in the Colombian Andes, ciao for now!

More Random Travel Notes from Colombia

Without any segue, chronicological order or much sense, here are some of the random notes Ihave jotted down as I travel through Colombia.

There are an extraordinary number of notary offices in this country.  Notarias are everywhere, which leads me to believe that this is, like many Latin American countires, a society that loves, or is mired in, paperwork.

Coupled with the plethora of notarias are the equal number of copierias.  No small town like Popayan needs so many copy places and yet they seem to be two to the block.  One would have to posit an obvious conneciton between the notarias y la copierias.  I can only say that I am glad I do not have to wade through whatever paperwork morass these folks must deal with on a regular basis.

To add to the preceding two paragraphs, there are an inordinate number of papelerias in this lovely country.  However, given the preceding two paragraphs, the mystery of why there are so many paper stores becomes less of a mystery, no?

Colombians, like Thai and Lao folks, hate large bills and hold on to small change as if it were the last coin they will ever see.  Woe betide you if you whip out a 50,000 peso note, which is a whopping $25.  Even at the bus terminal, where they have a drawer full of small bills, the teller will give you the frowny-face if you try to pay for a 30,000 peso ticket with a 50,000 peso note.  

The two predominant groups of travelers here are Deutsche and Francaise.  Ass I type this blog entry, I have a conversation in German going on on my left and in French on my right.  My German fellow travellers are the sherpas of the world wanderers.  I have seen kinder no older than my son carrying packpacks that simply dwarf their bodies.  I did not know that Deuter even made backpacks of this degree of enormity.  Then, to keep themselves from falling over backwards from the sheer tonnage they are hauling. they hang a smaller backpack from the front of their tiny bodies.  They appear to be luggage with legs.  With regard to my French travelers, I can only say that I have never heard a relationship arguement carried on with such passion and such duration as that which entertained me one of my nights in Popayan.  

There are two fairly common sights in Colombia with an obvious connection.  The first are the "Love" hotels.  Usuallly on the outskirts of town, these places sport names like "The Love y Sex Hotel" and are obviously geared for those interested in a shorter stay.  The second part of this are the fairly common sex shops.  They are what you would expect, with windows displaying frenchmaid outfits, skimpy construction outfits for the boys, all of your garden variety fetish costumes.  I have not ventured into either of these establishments, but such is what I have observed.  As a side note, I would offer that the female mannequins here are amongst the scariest I have ever seen.  There is no way to be delicate about this:  They have enormous and physiologically impossible breasts.  Not only are these plastic mammaries huge, they jut skyward at an angle that defies gravity.  They are disturbing.

To close, I would like to mention the giant bumblebees.  They are not exactly bumblebees, and they are not exactly hornets.  If one were to breed the two, one might  produce a two inch long armoured pollinator that is jet black, and that would be the creature I frequently see in the same flowering trees as the myriad humming birds.  I have not gotten close enough to find out if they sting.

 

The Real Bus Ride

If you have been following this blog, you may have read some of my posts about bus rides in Panama or Colombia.  Forget all of that stuff.  Laughable man!  Bush league shit.  Today was the real thing.

When it came time for me to leave the ancient hostel in Popayan, the ever-present senora had disappeared.  I left my money and the key along with a thank you note.  The policia have not tracked me down so things must be ok.  I walked to the terminal and this time my bus luck did not hold out.  There was no bus to San Agustin until once, 11 AM.  With an hour and a half to wait I went for a coffee and then staked out my area to be first in line for a good seat.  This would prove a blessing.

Alas that I had already eaten or I would have indulged in some porcine bits at the bus station.

I was the first person ready when the 3010 bus pulled in and I threw my gear on the best seat on a thirteen person vomit-van, the window behind the driver's seat.  There is extra leg room for the exit row and a good solid place to lean against as a brace for the hairpin turns.  This would also be a blessing.

Your standard vomit-van and my gear already stowed onboard.

The ride started off with the normal deranged charging through hairpin turns, climbing into the mountains above Popayan.  It was reckoned to be about a five hour ride, give or take a day.  Our first delay came at a major washout of the road.  This is also where the pavement ended.  If one has to be stuck on the side of the road, this was a lovely spot for a piss break.  A long piss break.

Waiting for the road to cometh.

Now things got seriously third world.  Once underway again, the road resembled many a ranch road that I have bounced across on a moto.  I wish I had been on a moto.  But I was squashed in a vomit van and careening between potholes, slaloming from side to side as our driver raced from one washout to the next, washouts and washboard road that even he had to slow down for.  At times he would put one set of wheels in the shallow ditch and slide along the edge of the road with the jungle sweeping inches from my face as I peered through the window. 

This is the kind of bus ride that can only be measured in time.  Distance is meaningless.  Much of the time we were twisting and turning at least ten kilometers for every one kilometer of progress as the crow flies.  Things became more interesting after the rain showers passed through,  True, the dust was dampened, drowned actually, but the road quickly became a thing that took no prisoners.

An unlucky transport being dug out of the ditch by hand.

We jounced along for hours as the mountains rose and fell.  We crossed countless rivers on narrow bridges.  The jungle crept by the window, sometimes crawlled past the window.  It was like traveling through an ever changing palette of all of the colours of green ever know, each of them glistening in the reflected wetness.  It was as if we were loose in an arboretuem of exotic plants, species that gardners in the nortth would struggle to raise one of, and yet here was an explosion of life that would simply boggle a gardener's mind.

Suddenly there was pavement.  We entered one of the national park areas and the road became pristine.  It was back to full throttle and racing through hairpin turns!  Three hours into the saga, we pulled over for the obligatory lunch stop.  This was the most isolated rest stop yet, a dark and smoky shack on top of a mountain pass.  

Nothing lacking in decor or in ambience.

Folks are wearing jackets for a reason.

Hot sopa was not a manical choice today.

Fifteen minutes for lunch and we were back on the road, at least for a moment.  We had come to the first military checkpoint of the trip.  The soldiers stopped the van, took a few of the younger guys out and searched them, but left me be.  The area we were traveling through used to be a hotbed of FARC activity not too long ago.  FARC was one of the guerilla armies operating in Colombia.  This area is still prone to banditry and some of the roads are not safe to travel at night, even portions of the TransAmerica to the East of here.  I deemed it unwise to take any photos of the soldiers so just picture a bunch of guys in uniform standing on a mountain pass with automatic weapons.

As we dropped down the pass, the pavement disappeared.  Jouncing along the really bad road, we were entered steep farming country, with some sort of orchards of fruit, coffee fincas and cattle.

At the five hour mark, we were heading down something that resembled a stream bed a lot more than it resembled a road.  Looking up I saw an amazing waterfall and at the same time we struck  the pavement again, this time for good.  We crossed the Rio Magdelena, a famous rafting river, and dropped off some passengers.  Then I saw the blessed sign that read San Agustin 5 Kilometers.  Hallelujah!

We motored into the small town of San Agustin and dropped off the rest of the folks in El Centro.  There were two French girls and myself, all of us bound for Hostel Franscoise.  The driver shrugged and drove all of us up the steep hill through town and to within 50 meters of the hostel.  A first and a miracle!!

I am now safely ensconced in a fairytale hostel set above the lights of San Agustin.   Night has fallen, but not before I enjoyed a lovely cigar whilst watching an amazing array of birdlife cavorting over my head.  All is well and I have lived to tell the tale.  Tomorrow I will be astride a Colombina horse, riding through one of the most important acheological sites in all of Colombia.  But that is the stuff of another entry.  Buenas Noches Chicas y Chicos!!