There seems to be a certain class of Colombian caberllos who are enveloped in sadness. Given the vibrant and colourful life exhibited by most Colombians, this sadness is remarkable. The only connection between these dolorous gentlemen seems to be their manner of dress. This is the clue. I will see a gentleman coming down the street or crossing a plaza. He will be meticulously dressed in a well-cut business suit complete with proper tie and often with a matching handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. The rest of his grooming will be up to the par of his dress; well trimmed mustache, proper haircut, etc. And, inevitably, this man will exude a palpable cloud of what can only be described as mourning. Each of these men seems worthy of a short story. I wish I could stop them and ask what has happened to them. Death, tragic love, a failed fortune? I do not know, but I continue to see men of this ilk and they fascinate me.
Colombia is swarming with policia. They are everywhere and of all types. There are the National policia, complete with Aussie-style bush hats. There are city police, traffic police and tourista police. Working their way up to becoming real policia, there are the auxilary policia, boys so young that they are not allowed to have weapons. These are often the kids walking around the square or plaza while I am enjoying the evening. The policia, in general, are very helpful if one is a tourist. They are also, to an individual, very proud of Colombia. They almost never fail to ask me how I like Colombia and are very pleased when I respond that "Colombia es muy bueno, muy bien." While very cordial to me, I have seen the policia stopping and searching young guys on a fairly regular basis. I have also seen many young guys smoking ganga, the skunky aroma of which is never too far away. Drugs are still a big issue here in Colombia, despite the decline of the cartels.
Colombia can be a very silly place. As evidence of this, I submit the photo above. I am staying in a colonial house in Popayan. To say that this house is old is to lack imagination. Age seeps out of this place. One could hole up here and write novels that would feel as if they were written in a time before the idea of flight became a reality. But, back to the silliness, the only way this tiniest of padlocks would keep anyone's belongings secure is if it was endowed with the magic of one of the characters from a Latin American surrealist novel.
If you love birds, Colombia is your country. I have given up on the idea of going somewhere to birdwatch. The damn birds are right here. They don't realize that touristas are up in the Ecoparques looking for them. I spent a good part of today's siesta sitting by the river. There was a flowering tree next to me, a large tree perhaps fifteen meters tall. It was filled with birds. I saw saffron finches, vermillion flycatchers, heaps of tanagers and literally more than a hundred humingbirds.
In a Colombian colonial town, life is lived behind the walls of the buildings, two-story buildings whose walls come right to the sidewalks edge. There is no such thing as a front yard or a front porch. The lives of the building go on inside them, in courtyards secluded from the street. This is so unlike SE Asia where life is lived fully in the open, oftentimes directly in the street itself. This air of solitude can make walking down the quiet evening streets seem like walking down the corridors of a fortress.
Colombia is a land of vast and varried terrain. There are the heat-drenched mangrove swamps and beaches of Los Indias, where Cartagena swelters. The Andes cuts through the western third of the country, from South to North, with the end of the mighty mountain chain dying in Colombia. There are many volcanoes here, and frequent earthquakes. Here in Popayan there was a massive earthquake in 1983. The locals were just getting ready for the very important Maundy Thursday procession when the earthquake struck, killing hundreds of people. To the East of the montanas there lie vast tracts of Amazonian jungle. There are even pocket deserts nestled against the eastern slopes of the Andes.
I will not travel through large sections of Colombia. Such is the nature of this trip. I still have some days left in Colombia and I look forward to what they will offer. Ecuador beckons, however. And I am nearing the border, ever so slowly.
The wind is picking up now, and the afternoon thunder is starting to echo over the town. The rain is moments away. Let it rain. I am safely tucked inside thick colonial walls, writing this entry from what feels like a time machine. Huge echoes of thunder now. It will rain, and it will rain hard, and then the night will be clear and cool. I will sit in the parque and while away the evening with another Gabriel Garcia Marquez story, immersing myself in his surrealism and magic, stories that are so familiar and comforting to me.
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