I checked out of the lovely Prado 61 and headed with sure steps to the now familiar Prado Metro Estacion. I knew what the fare was, which direction I was going, and what stop I was getting off at. Because I was now strapped to the faithful Deuter, I had waited for rush hour to die down a bit before squeezing onto the train. While managable, the Metro was still full. I road to the Poblado stop, detrained, and found the pedestrian overpass with a nice sign pointing me towards the Terminal del Sur, the South Bus Station. This is where I would catch the bus to Manizales, my next destination.
I climbed down the stairs from the overpass, having crossed over the rushing and very murky Rio Medellin. I had an idea where the terminal was, but I object to random wandering when wearing the backpack. I asked for and received directions from a Colombian gent. I headed in the indicated direction and waited to cross the street, no small feat in this town. The same gent suddenly appeared at my elbow and said he would walk me towards the station. It was broad daylight on a busy enough street and I was a lot bigger than he was, but still and all I was on my guard.
We quickly exhausted my crappy Spanish as we walked. He pointed out the big roadway signs that indicated we were heading straight for the Terminal. Still, he was texting as we walked and one part of my traveler brain was questioning when the minions would appear to pounce. So I kept my eyes open and my bag firmly in hand. We reached a shiny shopping mall and my guide indicated the way to the ticket windows. He then shook my hand and told me he had to head off to work at the mall. So much for my suspicions, but I did not feel too badly about it. One has to have their wits about them to survive third world travel and sometimes that manifests in being over cautious.
Each detail of the travel day was falling into place and continued to do so. I quickly found the ticket window for Manzinales and the agent smilingly took my 37,000 pesos, used his cel phone to call the driver, and told me "Once! Vamos!" It was five to eleven in the AM. We scurried towards the departure area and were met by the driver, also smiling. I was quickly ensconced in the very comfortable back seat of a nine seat mini-van. We were off, threading through traffic southbound on Highway 26.
La Mini-Van
Being a passenger on most any Third World transport requires either a suspension of one's mortality or embracing the certainty that no one gets out of this world alive. As we made our way to the end of the long Medellin valley, the road shrank to two lanes of twisting hairpin turns as it climbed and climbed into the cloud forests that cloak the mountains. The two lanes are often not wide enough for the larger trucks to pass one another on the tight turns and thus the games began. Take a small, snaking mountain road, add many slow and large trucks, fast and agile motos, and a lot of determined auto drivers. Mix these ingredients with burros, bicycles and buses. Then add a generous measure of humorous and fatalistic determination to get to the end of the road ahead of everyone else. Such is a mini-van trip through the mountains of Colombia. The double yellow line, when it exists, is a mere chimera, meaningless in the extreme. Regardless of upcoming traffic, blind corners, steep grades, or the basic laws of Newtonian physics, trucks, buses, motos and speeding autos vie for position.
Following distance? Bah! If there is space, why waste it?
Tight quarters on the turns.
As we continued to climb, we entered the zone of the cloud forests, beautiful green mountainsides gleaming in varying degrees of diffuse light. The sight was all the more beautiful for knowing that at any moment it could be my last.
Hours into the trip, it was time for the obligatory meal stop. My expectations were low based on past experiences. Some greasy fried stuff that I would pass on. Well, not today Skippy.
The rest stop by the river, El Paisa.
My "Small" Platillo Paisa. This feast, for it was, set me back 8,000 pesos, todo. That's $ 4 US.
The limonada was home-made and packed with ginger.
Lunch with a view. I even got to spot some tanagers in the bushes along the river.
Even the pissoirs had a view.
Saying Adios to the mini-van and its pilot.
Sated and happy, I piled back into the mini-van with the others. We were traveling along the river valley now, cattle and coffee country. As we neared Manizales, we began climbing in earnest. The road wound upwards through a fairytale scene of clouds and coffee fincas clinging to the hillsides. Up and up we ascended on a near perfect road. All at once we intersected the TransAmerica highway and then there was the bus terminal. Manzinales sits at over 7200 feet above sea level, a far cry from the steam bath of Cartagena. The destination was almost achieved. The bus terminal lies well below the ridge on which Manzinales is perched. Accessing the town center requries either a taxi ride or taking the cable car driectly from the station to the town. Guess which one I chose? But that is the stuff of the next post, the long walk through Manzinales.
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