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!
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