Trying some of Colombia's finest

Update: 11

One can't come all the way to Colombia and not try at least a little of the stuff. I love it, so it wasn't a problem for me. Tam on the other hand prefers gentler recreational substances, like tea, but I managed to persuade her to have a bit. Now she's addicted. The coffee here really is world class, and drinking a tinto (what Colombians call an espresso) on the farm where the beans were harvested is something special.

We made our way from Manizales to Chinchina with little effort as everyone seemed to pull together to help us and buses work like clockwork here. Once in Chinchina, we went into a telephone office to call a number we'd been given to stay on a finca (coffee plantation). Instead of giving us a line, the attendant insisted on making the call. Being rubbish at Spanish, we didn't put up much resistance. After she'd hung up, she tried to tell us that Mathilde was in her shop across the square where we should meet her and she'd lead us to the finca. Like I said: our Spanish is rubbish and we didn't understand so, without any sign of frustration, the phone attendant ushers us out of the shop and then proceeds to lock it up to take us to Mathilde herself! This is the kind of hospitality that we're getting accustomed to in Colombia. I'm trying to imagine a Londoner closing shop to help two, ridiculous looking, mute and smelly backpackers find some random farmer's wife. I can't.

So, anyway, we finally get to Mathilde who - you guessed it - closes up shop and takes us to her home to get refreshed before what was about become a rude awakening. She offers us the use of her internet, makes us a coffee, offers lunch and then takes us onto her balcony and, in Spanish, explains how we have to walk up to the top of what she called a hill (in Andes terms, it was. In our terms, it was like Ben Nevis) where Carlos would meet us. She then arranged for a taxi to take us to the foot of the "hill" because "blah blah something something guerrillas something something no es bueno".

I didn't flinch, but when we did finally get to the foot of the "hill" and started walking/climbing, Tam asked me if I heard her say "guerrillas". I wasn't hallucinating.

So there we were, two gringos weighed down with 90 and 112 kilos respectively (confirmed here) carrying, amongst other things, a decent camera and a laptop, stranded in the middle of Colombia with "guerrillas" behind us and a particularly savage hill in front. To make matters worse, (a coffee plantation isn't like a wheat farm where you have a plain of waist high crop that you can see over for some distance. No sir, the magic bean grows in a region with an average annual temperature of about 20C and rainfall that could be measured in meters. Plants grow like they're on steroids.) we could hardly see each other. In fact, a plant grew past me while I was trying to find Tam. The path up the wall/hill was slippery clay and only allowed for us to walk in single file. After two falls each and losing half our body weight in perspiration, we were met by Carlos at the summit.

Carlos is Mathilde's husband and in who's family Colina del Sol has been for over four generations. The old farm house is at least a hundred and twenty years old, but he can't put an exact age on it. We spent two nights here in absolute tranquillity. From the veranda you can see the town of Chinchina below (you'd be crazy to walk up from there) and dotted all over the opposite hills, other beautiful, old farmhouses. Carlos, who we think has life sussed (his wife is down in the village running a grocery store and he's up in the mountains drinking the world's finest coffee and watching football) didn't speak any English either, but was adamant that we use this time to learn Spanish. Lessons started as we neared the house with our bags still crushing our spines and perspiration forming pools around us - ok, me. I had to ask if he'd mind if we dropped our bags and showered before we started lessons. He said, "no es problem! Eso es un perro..... Perro.... Perro, " and proceeded to point to the dog.

When we did finally manage to break from school and revert to normal breathing rhythms, he came out of his room and handed us some basic books to help our Spanish. I think somewhere he mistook us for two kids who's parents had agreed to send them to Spanish boot camp as he was adamant that every waking hour was class. Anyway, the book that I was most interested in and read from cover to cover, was a phrase book with pictures actually meant for Spanish speakers to learn English, but still useful in the other direction. I say I read it from cover to cover... that's not entirely true. I didn't read all the Spanish sentences, I was more interested in the phonetics beneath each English sentence. I couldn't help myself and made a note of some of my favourites which I'll share with you as you may find them useful when visiting Spain. Bear in mind that "J" in Spanish in pronounced "ch" like in Loch:

• Zer ar leruses in di vechtabol garden (There are lettuces in the vegetable garden)
• Tern ap di volium to di maximom (Turn up the volume to the maximum)
• Di yentelman is kerchous (The gentleman is courteous)
• Ay prifer kauboy muvis (I prefer cowboy movies)
• Di jerdreser iuses sisers (The hairdresser uses scissors)
• Japy berzdey tu iu, dir Ana (Happy birthday to you, dear Ana - the whole song was written out!)
• Ay uater di plants uiz di jous (I water the plants with the hose)
• Ay du di sobtrakshon on may noutbuk (I do the subtraction on (sic) my notebook)
• Ay faynd may direkshon bay iusin di kompos (I find my direction by using the compass)

and my absolute favourite:

• Mam layks jay jils (Mom likes high heels).

Think of all the spoon-to-head bashing that could have been avoided had Basil Fawlty only read this book.

*  *  *

Carlos's farm manager lived with his family in a fairly rustic house next door. Jorge (Horgay) was a simple guy who worked the land during the morning and in the afternoon played a game with his mate who's name I can't remember. Not unlike the kind that would keep my brother and me entertained for a few minutes in the school holidays, the game (which had a name) involved throwing iron ingots into a clay pit and getting points for being nearest a ring placed in the centre. There was a piece of triangular paper placed ceremoniously on the top of the ring. I nearly soiled my pants when Jorge's mate, displaying his prowess as a grown up marble player, hit the triangular bit of paper and it exploded. Turns out, it's a tiny envelope of gunpowder!

While I was regaining my composure and every dog in the valley was howling in pain, Jorge and his buddy were slapping each other on the back and giving high-fives like he'd just scored a debut test hundred at Lord's. "Que pasa?" I asked. "Tres puntos" replied Jorge. All that for three points in some made up game...

Enjoying the idea of being part of the action, I welcomed the invitation to partner (twelve year old) Jorge Junior in a match against his dad and the Maestro. Tam saw what was coming and made a getaway for more coffee with Carlos who was reading the paper on the veranda. The match kicked off with Jorge throwing the winner. I didn't even hit the pit never mind the ring or arsenal.  Jorge Junior then proceeded to unleash the finest display of rock throwing since Tarzan tried to woo Jane and took us to five - one. Jorge Senior was not impressed and threw a tantrum suitable for a professional marble player. I was ready to pack it in and join the coffee drinkers when Jorge Senior - with a look of "don't you %@&^$ even think of leaving now" told me that we play to 21. So an hour later, a rematch over, pride restored and my hands caked in clay, I was released to my hammock. 

Later that evening, as we were enjoying our box wine out of mugs, Jorge Junior came over to ask if we'd like to come and play another game at his house. Thinking we were going to play cards or something with a child, Tam and I agreed and walked over to take a look. There, sitting at the table with a board already set was Jorge Senior, waiting. Foolishly, so foolishly we sat down. Another real brain teaser, this game involved each player having four pieces and rolling two dice to move clockwise around the board. The other players do the same and if they catch you, you have to move that piece back to the start. The winner is the first one home. You'd think this is simple except there are subtleties in the combinations of numbers that can be thrown. Neither Tam nor I knew what the hell was happening and by the second throw, we were merely spectators to a full blown war between Senior and Junior. On our respective turns, we'd roll and then before we could even add up the two dice, our move had been made and a debate in Spanish went over our heads. I'm sure my dad never consciously let me win as a child, but if I did, he'd certainly congratulate me and let me bask in pride for a bit. Not with the Jorges. There was dice snatching, board sweeping and resetting, arm grabbing and sulking. And this was Senior. Again, we couldn't get away until I said Tam had to go and make supper. This appeared to be acceptable: women can leave a game so long as they are going to work in the kitchen. I had the misfortune of being born with too many Y chromosomes and was not allowed to leave.

*  *  *

The rest of our time there was spent reading and walking through the plantation. Carlos was incredibly patient with teaching us Spanish and explaining the coffee process to us and we had a truly fantastic time. His wife Mathilde, son and daughter all helped us out with getting a bus to Medellin.

The trip there was as terrifying as all the others and we were really looking forward to arriving, taking a hot shower and getting an early night. How we went from a mountain paradise to a youth hostel dormitory hosting the kind of students who don't mind sleeping in their own vomit, I don't know, but as soon as the sun came up the next morning we were out of Casa Kiwi and moved to Provenza Hostal around the corner which is a peaceful, clean and warm place that costs less and provides free coffee and internet. I think we might be here a while.

Medellin itself feels very first world. We are staying in a particularly nice area but it could be anywhere. The shops are trendy and exclusive, the bars and restaurants are like any Mediterranean European city. Two small differences are 1 - there's a lot more breast around than we're used to and 2 - we were offered cocaine twice in the space of 10 minutes last night.

Other than that, another tough week on the road.