A weekend in a pueblo

For my first weekend in Medellin I opted to forgo the anatomically enhanced Parque Lleras for a pueblo an hour outside of the city. Lleras is a phenomenon like no other in terms of beautiful people per square foot, and in my previous trips I felt like a Gringo kid in a Latin candy store on most Friday nights. But this weekend was for nature, tranquility, and escaping the bustle of the big city, and Lleras deserves a night and an entry of its own. Santa Fe de Antioquia is one of a dozen pueblos within a few hours of Medellin that Paisa city dwellers frequent for long weekends and holidays. These pueblos vary greatly in climate due to the mountainous landscape, and one can literally choose if they want to leave the moderate temperature of Medellin for hot and sunny, or cold and crisp by traveling an hour in either direction. The norm for middle class to elite Paisas is not to go to the pueblo center, but to a finca (Literally “farm” but seems to really just mean “house not in the city”). Every Paisa will at least tell you they own a finca…..and have a cousin in Miami.

The poor backpackers of this world stay in a hostel on the main plaza. The design of Colombian pueblos seems to have been the brainchild for the today’s standards of product consistency, and all look as though they were made by the same assembly line worker. Church, big square, statue of Simon Bolivar, and benches lining the unvaried diagonal paths. I guess, like the perfect combination of water and ground coffee beans in a Starbuck’s dark roast, when you find something that works; you repeat it.

The first night it rained. Being from Oregon myself, I don’t melt, but Paisas must have one chromosome from the Wicked Witch of the West, and rain shuts down the nightlife as if each drop were a sister-crushing house falling from the sky. Us Gringos didn’t get the memo until we had already drunk a bottle of rum and went out onto the wet and empty streets looking for action. I settled for a hot dog, Colombian style. Showing us up at one true American food, they slather it with bacon, cheese, potato chips, sauces and a quail egg making it a perfect end to any drunken night.

Side note- I still have not figured out how this sloppy eating experience of about 3000 calories and 30 napkins doesn’t kill the romance of an evening, but it is common to see a couple after a night out, romantically devouring these heart-attacks-waiting-to-happen, before going home to devour each other.

The next day we wanted to go explore the surrounding landscapes and rivers. As it is a tourist town, you would think that people would constantly be asking the tourist office how to get to a trailhead, or to climb a hill, or get to the river…but being that it is filled with Colombian tourist, the attractions are man-made bridges, swimming pools, and resorts. Places where one never needs to set down their cerveza or be out of earshot of a salsa rhythm. We were pointed in the general direction of “nature” and went off on foot through a rural neighborhood of fincas; both real local farms and the vacation homes as per the Colombian version of the word. We were told that we would eventually make it to a point in the river that was crossable, but given the previous night’s rain and the rushing brown water, we became skeptical. My crew opted to call a taxi to pick us up cause we still hadn’t left civilization and working cell phones, but I could not leave for a day of nature-seeking adventure and dejectedly come home in a taxi. So, with 2000 pesos in my pocket (about a dollar) I followed the riverbank upstream hoping to find a shallow point or rock hopping bridge. What I found was two local kids crossing the river up to their neck and getting pushed down about fifty meters. No thanks. I approached them as they successfully skirted death and made it to my side of the river, and asked if there was an easier place to cross, but they both looked at me as a camper might awe at Bigfoot. Not sure if I really existed, and then even more shocked when I spoke their language. Through the very odd interaction I gathered that “No, dumb ass, if there were an easier way to cross do you think we would be risking our lives to be soaked right now?” A fair point, and so I headed back the way I came on foot.

When I got back to the main road I asked a 40-year old women where I could catch a bus back to the pueblo. Her reaction was similar to the awe and surprise of the river crossers, but instead of awkwardly staring silently, she actually giggled like a schoolgirl. I got the impression that the people outside of the town had not seen too many 6’2’’, blond-haired, pink-chested Gringos.

I made it back to town happy to still have one of the two 1000 peso notes I started the day with, and promptly ordered a well-deserved Sprite. As I sat alone in the main plaza, a group of obviously drinking, if not drunk, young Paisa tourists approached with a typical, lame attempt at English. Probably referencing their cousin in Miami. I am accustomed to the feeble yet good-natured attempt to engage me in conversation, and usually will do anything short of setting my hair on fire and running away to end the interaction. But in this rare case of solitude, I indulged Senor Drunk-Ass and joined his table in hope that is two friends had more tact and had drunk less. Both were true. After two pints of the vomit-inducing Aguardiente, as the third was being ordered, I was fully engaged in an interesting political conversation about the role of the Paramilitarios and Guerrillas. Senor Drunk-Ass at this point decided it was naptime. The third bottle went down easier than the first two, and when I came back from a quick empanada run, I found myself in the middle of a full-fledged sing-along with a local Vallenato band. It is amazing to me the ability of Colombians to memorize lyrics. I can’t think of a single American song that literally everybody in a bar would not only know, but happily belt out at 5pm……maybe Journey’s “Small Town Girl” at midnight.

With a good guaro buzz and free flowing Spanish conversation I had no choice but to accept their offer to go back to the finca for, you guessed it, more guaro. I spent a ridiculously pleasant few hours of swimming in their pool, eating sancocho (a typical Colombian everything-in-the-kitchen soup), drinking, and being the center of their curious grad student attention. I eventually left what was an incredibly fun cultural experience to find my friends back in town, with the promise to come back for lunch the next day.

After a night that made me wonder why I ever left the finca and comfort of my new Colombian friends, and another late night hot dog, I went back for a traditional Colombian lunch of frijolitos y chicharrones (A traditional bean soup and some bacon-esque meat). I was shocked, first to see Senor Drunk-Ass awake and coherent, then to see that the rest of the crew was still drinking guaro…..this time, for the double effect of drunkenness and hangover cure, with milk. I passed, but enjoyed a great lunch, and left with phone numbers, emails and promises to hang out again back in Medellin. The whole experience, besides being good drunken fun, was culturally enlightening. I kept trying to imagine it from the reverse perspective. What if a Colombian or any non-American was alone in a touristy small town in the states? Maybe they would meet people, maybe they would have fun, but I can’t ever imagine they would be invited to someone’s house and treated with the warmth and hospitality that I received. Maybe it is different. Maybe as Americans we are so used to foreigners that the novelty has worn off. But maybe we as Americans have grown cold, business-like, and skeptical and the warmth and acceptance of the people of this so-called dangerous country could teach us something.