Running From Derumbes / Colombia Part 1

By Paul Fast

I don’t know how to write about Colombia. This is not a land that reconciles itself cleanly into the neat bundle of a 3000 word article, although goodness knows the tourist blogs try. It is a land of persisting paradox and contradiction, where tremendous beauty and horrific violence erupt interchangeably and unpredictably. How do you write about the girl from Bogota, who tells us with tears in her eyes how she would have to pick her way over dead bodies on the way to elementary school. The couple who stops us in the middle of the highway and insists that they buy us coffee to hear our story. The passerby who shouts at our tour group…”Colombia is more than cocaine, it’s about peace.” The reality of 13 billion dollars of cocaine exported annually. The carefully cultivated rows of coffee plants nestled into the crook of the topographic lines like they had always been there. The quiet resilience read in the heavily creased face of the old woman sweeping the small town square that says, “I have always been here, and I will always be here, in spite of everything.” The systemic corruption that has infected almost every branch of government. The rich carpet of green topography that folds the country into a million nooks and crannies, each with its own special climate, geography and history.

It is estimated that in Colombia over 220,000 people have died in the narco and guerilla wars since 1953. On the flip side, a Gallup poll reports that the Colombian people are, statistically, the happiest people on earth. That’s not something that is easily made sense of, so I will tell this story through the eyes of a traveler, which, with all its faults, feels like the only real story I can tell of this place.

Our story begins in the Cartagena airport. We had snagged a cheap flight from Panama City while the Duramax took the long way round by boat. As we stepped into the line-up for immigration we are immediately picked out and hauled to the front. Daniella’s danger radar immediately went into full alarm mode, but it turns out we were carefully ushered to the front of the line-up, waved through immigration, and taken right past customs without even a look at our paperwork.

Colombians it seems, have a high regard for families, something we had already sensed in other Latin American countries. In fact, we have already taken advantage of this sentiment and use it shamelessly when passing police or military checkpoints. Our standard approach to these checkpoints is as follows. Approach using the California rolling stop method, so that the policeman must make an actual effort to flag us down (most of them are too bewildered by the approaching behemoth on wheels that it takes them too long to make this snap decision and we just roll by). If stopped, roll down all four windows, and instruct the children to yell “Hola” at full volume. This lays the groundwork of guilt and shame that generally wards off any bribe attempts. If the policeman speaks to you, respond only in English. By now we have a good enough handle on Spanish to know what they are asking for, but we play dumb. Half of them will try and figure out how to use their translation app….pretend you don’t have one. At this point it’s usually only a minute or two until they give up and wave you through. At one rather persistent stop in a remote highway in central Colombia, we were immediately waved over and stopped. A couple of men in obviously fake police uniforms were trying to solicit “donations” for some trumped up charity. One of them kept on reaching into the vehicle, which raised the hairs on my neck, but we persisted and after 10 minutes they too waved us on.

It was going to take a few days to wrestle our truck out of the sweaty grasp of the Colombian port authority, so we booked into a 20th floor condo of a tower overlooking the ocean and the city. The boys knew this break from camper life was coming and they had been looking forward to it. We settled into a comfortable daily routine. Mornings were for exploring a different neighbourhood in the city, afternoons were for lounging by the pool while Papa went back into the city to track down yet another piece of obscure paperwork required by the port. Cartagena is an old world city set behind a coral stone wall on the edge of the Caribbean. It is a city steeped in the history of Spanish colonization, of pirates and slavery, wealth hoarded and lost. There is much to see here and we made the most of our time. We walked the grafittied alleys of Getsemani, rented e-scooters and bumped along the cobbles of the wall top pathways. We bought cold, sweat-beaded bottles of pop from street vendors and watched yet another sunset fade into the curve of the Caribbean horizon. Daniella and I ditched the boys in the condo and slipped into the Old City for a long overdue date night. Under the dark sky, under the glow of the streetlamps we pushed our way through the hustle of the nighttime street and uncovered hidden courtyards. Some held art galleries, some cafes, some restaurants. All of them were delightful.

Finally our paperwork came through for the truck and it was time to push on. We have learned that the times after camper breaks are the hardest. The re-entry into close quarters and the low-grade grind of everyday travel are tough on both kids and adults alike. I am starting to sense that the glow of the grand adventure is wearing thin. We are in the thick of it now, and with the crossing of the continent and the shipping there is no turning back. There is only looking forward and southward. Tempers are flaring quicker than normal, and the tolerance for seeing and discovering is growing shorter. With every kilometer we push south, we are hitting our limits a little quicker. Like the bushings on our truck’s suspension, the rubber that normally controls the friction and provides some cushion in our team is becoming cracked and worn. Seeking the comfortable and familiar as part of our rhythm is becoming more important as we balance it with adventure and new settings. I had known this would happen and it’s not surprising, but I am at a loss as to how to reset our energy levels. Is this the slow, inevitable decline in moral fortitude that will eventually cause us to throw in the towel, or is there a way to perform a hard reboot? I know that we must slow the pace and give ourselves some breathing time. But in the meantime, we must continue south.

Our route takes us along the coast, almost to the Venezuelan border. We hike into a series of beautiful beaches. Somehow all of our beach time so far has been on the Pacific Ocean, and this is the first time the boys dipped their toes in the Caribbean Sea. Our campsite is down a steep dirt track with overhanging branches from a mango tree. Armed with a machete, I climb onto the roof and instruct Daniella to slowly work the truck camper through the canopy while I hack away the thickest branches. She takes it a little quicker than I was hoping and I find myself on my back on the camper roof, being carried through a vegetative car wash, the odd green mango bouncing off my forehead. The camper roof looks like a fruit stand, and over the course of the next week we pick mangos off the roof for breakfast. Several days later we come to an abrupt stop at a red light in a small village and a bowling ball sized mango that had escaped detection hurtles from the roof onto the street in front of us, careening its way between cars and motorcycles. It comes to rest at the foot of a moto driver, who reaches down, picks it up and drops it in his basket without a backwards glance.

El Nino has brought a heat wave. The hot breath of the sun lingers into the night and won’t go away. Each night we crawl into damp sheets and position the fans to deliver some relief over sweating bodies. Occasionally (and when we don’t have neighbours), we fire up the generator and run the A/C until the gas tank is empty. But it is too hot and it has been for some time. The variation in climate is due to seasonal change decreases as you get closer to the equator, and so there is no looking forward to a colder month. The only way to control the temperature dial is altitude. Fortunately, Colombia has some topography to work with, and is trisected by three ranges of the Andes mountains as they splay out their fingers and reach for the Caribbean coastline. We pick the nearest range and chart a course for higher ground, cheering as the temperature readout on the truck mirror slowly edges downward. I find myself smiling at the prospect of being back in the mountains, and the cooling temperature loosens some of the tension that has been building in our merry little band.

Our first stop takes us to the Chicamocha Canyon, which Colombians claim as the second largest canyon in the world after the Grand Canyon. I try briefly to relay a geographer’s critical view of what actually makes a canyon the largest, but in the face of soaring canyon walls my arguments fall apart quickly. We reach the rim, and the bottom drops out of the world and we are staring at the layered walls catching the late evening light. It is a pretty big canyon.

Our campsite for the night is a pull-out on a wider section of gravel road halfway down the canyon’s walls. Here we watch the sun set, shafts of light from notches in the canyon rim spotlighting the cactus on the other side. Daniella is not happy with my selection of the campsite (“on the edge of a freaking cliff” as she put it), and chocks the wheels with extra rocks. I put them in the right position afterward without her knowing. Somehow spending the night with the front wheels a few feet from this rather cliffy drop off doesn’t make for a good night’s sleep. The next day we found our way back to the rim. I have managed to convince my family that the only way to experience a natural feature of this scale was from the seat of a paraglider, and soon we are winging our way high above the canyon walls. Even Elias and Daniella took to the skies, and the truck is full of big grins and even bigger stories as we pull away. Even poor Nathaniel, who had ejected most of his breakfast on the pilot and probably some unsuspecting goats below was able to muster up a grin. The day provides me with some hope. We are discovering that moments like these can galvanize us as a family; they can help reset the emotional atmosphere of our tough little travel group and give us stories to share with friends back home. Adventure has become not just an end goal, but the means by which we discover each other and find a common ground amidst the upheaval of months of hard travel.

Over the next couple of weeks we wind our way through the mountain communities of the Santander Province. The mountains here are of the low, foothill type, and covered with a thick blanket of green. You could drop pretty much anything into the soil here and watch it grow, and this soil provides the platform for rural Colombian life. Low farmhouses built of mud-packed adobe walls are attached to small and large gardens that feed families and supply the fruit and vegetable stands that dot the road at half kilometre intervals. While we mostly grocery shop at the larger, more convenient supermarket chains, we have learned to fill up on produce at these road side stands where the produce is always much fresher and cheaper. The fruit stand vendors are eager to make a sale, sorting out the best fruit and giving us honest prices.

We drive miles and miles of winding roads. These roads don’t get you very far as the crow flies, but they are very effective at removing mind and soul from the heat and intensity of the larger cities. It takes a lot of time to cover ground in these mountains. The road takes us to Barichara, located on a high table of land that tilts to the setting sun. Here we wander streets that try and make sense of the topography, that sluice us through tight corners packed with vendors selling ceramic wares, ice cream and hot empanadas. The buildings are rammed earth, thick walled deeply rooted and huddled tightly together as if to help prevent each other from sliding down the slope. From a higher vantage point it is possible to look over the tiled rooftops, which, made from the earth itself, look like a gigantic piece of carefully tiled topography lifted up out land. Kids play in hidden courtyards and old women share styrofoam cups of tinto (black coffee) on the entry stoops. Men in cowboy hats bend over an old 1960’s model Ford engine, and wonder whether it might not be best just to hook up the donkey again. At least the donkey doesn’t need an oil change. Italian made Tuk Tuks prowl the streets, the drivers hunting down potential fares. There is an older rhythm and pace to leave in these small towns that is not a modern one. It is a rhythm from long ago, when life was timed to growing seasons, festivals and the daily orbit of the sun around the earth.

Our path takes us through a string of small towns, hunting out nice camp sites and secret swimming holes. There is very little public land here, so finding a spot to sleep for the night usually involves getting permission from somebody. Soon our time in Santander is up, and we must head for the big city. Our route to Medellin requires us to cross the valley between two mountain ranges and we plot out our next day’s travel. The next morning, we wake early to hit the road, but it’s been raining hard all night and I’ve got a nagging feeling in my gut. Sure enough, 2 kilometres into our route is a small mudslide (Derumbe en Espagnol) across the road. We consult Google Maps on a rather spotty 3G connection and are rerouted to a secondary road system. I turn the Duramax around head in the opposite direction. What we quickly learn is that Google Maps really has no idea as to what’s going on in the backroads of Colombia. We are lured deeper and deeper into the mountains with the promise of connecting to a slightly more prominent “highway”. The roads get progressively worse, but with slow enough transitions, it’s hard to notice. We are the road warrior equivalents of the proverbial frog being slowly boiled in hot water. We pass village after village, where the inhabitants stop their work and stare at the swaying beast that lumbers down their narrow roads. They usually give a thumbs up. In short order, we find ourselves fording creeks, the Duramax in full 4x4 mode, crawling out of holes, climbing over old concrete culverts, slowly clawing its way forward, meters at a time. We breathe a sigh of relief when we finally hit the “main road”. This is where Google betrays us. What was indicated as a major paved road is really just an extension of the roads we have already travelled. We are a half a day’s travel from a paved road, and things are about to get worse.

As we track our way along a narrow mountain ledge, we are stopped by an oncoming truck driver. “Derumbe” he explains. Landslide, and a big one. In broken Spanish we are told there is no way to get out, but it is difficult to understand exactly where the slide is. The truck driver looks at our map but can’t make sense of it. In the meantime, another vehicle pulls up. They are quite excited to see the gringos and a Casa Rodante (aka- house on wheels) waddling its way through their part of the world. They motion us to follow them to the nearest village, where we can get some hard answers as to how to make it out.

We follow our new friends to the nearby village of El Guacamayo, population 700. Parked at the town square, a small crowd quickly forms, and everyone is eager to pitch in with their opinion on how to get us back on track. Our rig is parked next to a utility truck. Its driver leans quietly against the wheel, chewing on a toothpick watching the scene. He’s been sidelined by the derumbe as well, but he doesn’t get involved with the general discussion. Something tells me he’s the guy I need to talk to. I make way over to him and begin to relay the names of a string of towns. After each one I ask him “Esta possible?”. He nods, and we go town by town until I’ve pieced together a route that I think will work. He then jumps in and explains two of the tricky navigation sections. This will have to be it. I’ve begged 10 litres of questionable diesel fuel from a nearby tienda, but we’ve only got enough gas for one attempt. If we have to turn back we will run out.

As Daniella and I collect our information and our courage, the boys have wandered over to the basketball court. We take a moment to pause and look around. Like so many small towns, the town plaza is perfect. The buildings flanking the plaza are plain faced, honest, and include the obligatory church, eating houses and tiendas (stores). The grounds contain a generous geometric arrangement of planting and seating areas. Benches are located in the cool shade of the trees lining its edges. Kids play on the courts, old men smoke cigarettes and sit quietly in the sun watching them. Wherever we would travel in Colombia, we would discover these delightful public spaces that clearly functioned as the living, breathing hearts of the community. These are hardworking spaces that are loved by Colombians. They form the backdrop to everyday life and special events, a silent background that enables the sometimes quiet and sometimes dramatic hustle and bustle of life in rural Colombia to play out. The faded posters on the church door outline the wealth of community activity that plays out here.

In one corner, an older woman is hunched over a broom sweeping the walks. She isn’t being paid by anyone, least of all the government. The government gives these people nothing - the woman sweeps the walks because this is her plaza. This is where her children and her grandchildren have played, where she celebrates Semana Santa each year. This is where she meets here friends and where they share stories. She has outlived all the empty promises tossed by politicians when they show up at election time. She has lived her entire life here, and as long as she continues to be here, she will look after her plaza. Life in rural Colombia suddenly makes a lot more sense. These are people who have built a life here entirely on the backs of their own efforts. Their sense of ownership comes from having to be entirely self reliant as a community. Nobody’s coming to clear the road for them, or to hand out social security checks. If they want something done, it happens on their dime, and their own sweat. It’s a beautiful thing, until you remember that there is a government in place who is paid to do all of the things they have to do on their own. But money that should be used to clear rural roads is diverted to private pockets and everyone forgets about the people in El Guacamayo.

The quiet guy with the toothpick was right. We follow his directions and step by step we make it through the mountains. The roads are still unpaved and rough, but they are passable. Along the way they treat us to some of the most stunning backroad scenery that we have seen yet. Small fincas carved out of emerald forests. Granite cliffs erupting from steep folds in the topography. Each turn in the road opens up to a new vista as we climb higher and higher. As we slowly slip from the clutches of the mountain valleys, the stress begins to dissipate. Eventually blotches of pavement begin to emerge, and we all (including the Duramax) breather a collective sigh of relief. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good gravel road tour, but the uncertainty of actual conditions, and the complete failure of our digital maps have left us a little unnerved.

As the tires pick up speed on clean asphalt, we contemplated the day’s detour, which had put us a day behind schedule and spit us out in a completely different location than planned. Perhaps there was something to learn here after all. For hundreds of years rural Colombians have adapted to shifting political and economical realities which, like the derumbes, are constantly re-arranging the landscape around them. They have learned to adapt, pivot and persevere. Their pride and sense of ownership have created a resilience that has outlasted generations of government abuse and neglect. Like the carefully stacked dry stone walls outlining their fincas, their fortitude and sense of community provide an immoveable permanence against the everchanging world around them.

Perhaps our detour had tried to teach us the same thing. A detour isn’t always a detour, but an opportunity to adapt, to learn a new perspective, or see some new country. Perhaps the road we had travelled today was exactly the road we were intended to take. Despite failed maps and shifting information, we had traveled a road that put a smile on our faces, shown us some incredible things and allowed us (again), to lean on the willing arms of the people here, for help. We would take this lesson from rural Colombia with us, but it was in the coming big cities of Medellin and Bogota that we uncover an entirely different side of the country.