We got up late at the truck stop in the village of El Playon, it was nearly eight am and all the trucks had left. Layne made me tea, I walked Rusty and soon enough we were on the road to the big city of Bucaramanga 90 minutes away through the mountains.
It turned into a long slow march up hill and down dale following lines of cars stuck behind slow moving trucks.
We stopped for a “tinto” a small plastic cup of Colombian coffee sweetened and black like a large espresso. And our roadside barista said “good morning” and was delighted to practice his English. He doesn’t see many Americans on the road as the foreigners are mostly Germans in their campers.
And then we had our scare when the little red “brake” warning light came on. Not again! We fixed this in Panama with the application of time and money and lots of it. We came into town tight lipped and slightly worried, I can’t lie. Well I shrugged we might as well get to the dealer where they’ll laugh at us but maybe we can persuade them…faint hope.
Prepare to have your mind blown. We drove into the RAM/Jeep/Fiat dealer expecting the worst and hoping for the best. They took the van instantly, gave us coffee and a comfortable place to sit and came back half an hour later. Remember they’ve never seen a Promaster which isn’t sold south of Mexico.
The service adviser at Motoreste told us we were good to go. The brakes are fine and the only problem is a broken wear sensor on the left rear wheel. He smiled hugely, shook our hands as we stood there like dummies and charged us absolutely nothing at all, so they waved us out. Imagine getting that service in a US dealership on a vehicle driven through their gate. I was stunned and delighted. Layne was grumpy wishing the time spent in Panana could have ended with no issues at all. But here we are, still rolling!
It’s tax time even for nomads and Layne was on the phone sorting out the paperwork with our mailing service so I took Rusty for an urban walk. It’s this time of year when I know that if I outlive Layne my life will spin into bureaucratic chaos. I try not to think about it.
Layne wanted to check out the modern art museum and Rusty needed a nap. Perfect timing.
I won’t vote you with the details as we got the privilege of seeing the works of artists strictly local in a town not known outside this country. The problem for us was the lack of context as we know nothing about the local art scene and the cultural influences on the artists and the museum didn’t enlighten us.
Had I a wall in a house I’d have wanted this painting below. The spheres, the shading, the expression hinted at under the vein, it all caught my eye and then my mind. No idea who the artist is, not do I care as I doubt I shall be back but this place left its mark on me.
Bucaramanga is the physical expression of Colombia’s struggle with tourism. This country is full of the magic expressed by Garcia Marquez but they have no clue how to invite foreigners in. I find the absence of tourist infrastructure charming as it makes me feel like a pioneer but I feel bad for the people who could be living better by lives thanks to an influx of foreign money.
Colombians are lovely most of them
And they have a gentle curiousity that is charming as we shall show you. Consider this, Bucaramanga is a city of 600,000 known for its production of footwear and clothing.
There is no airport here, imagine that. The city is locked away in the mountains hours from Medellin and Bogotá, a provincial capital tucked out of sight and looking in on itself.
There are no foreigners here, no one speaks English though when asked, shyly, we switch to English to help them so they can hope to participate. They know English is the language of business and tourism and the future.
This house was built after World War One and from what we could gather it became a hotbed of intellectual rebellion and artistic expression.
I’d like to know the gossip of this town, the provincial stories of novels written about places not otherwise noticed. Bucaramanga hasn’t made into that list yet.
They see us come and go and walk Rusty and they come by and stare at our license plate and glance up and I say hi! And they marvel that we live in such a small space and oddly we feel accepted.
We are t more real than the ubiquitous telephone but we are a close second for some passersby.
Layne got some empanadas for dinner and she came back remarking how friendly everyone was and how they encouraged her to try different flavors and they waited patiently while she chose. So different from Panama we find. I met a man pushing a child in a stroller in small circles waiting for his wife. He plays in a band and has toured the US including Florida. Now he lives in Spain and goes on tour. His family lives in Bucaramanga and he comes back to visit. You never know who you’ll meet on the streets!
You know I said no one does is English? This young mother dies, fluently. Her children thought ours was a Barbie car and they wanted to see it.
There is a hunger to know things they don’t know. In a way it reminds me of journeys I made behind the Iron Curtain in my youth when strangers wanted to know about the world outside.
We drove up the hill to one of the many parks that litter this hilly secluded city. We walked a little way and Rusty, exhausted by his day walking the city, laid down in the long lush grass.
Dog walkers, lovers, families, unaccompanied teens with picnic baskets, loners with headphones, they were all there. Sadly the sunset wasn’t.
The sky was hazy and the sun went down on a blaze of nothing. Oh well. Layne bought a skewer with meat and sausage grilled on a hibachi at the entrance gate and put the empanadas in the fridge.
The police who guard the park 24 hours told us it was fine to park on the street round the corner just like this. I got to talking with the security guard on the street and he marveled at our life. His youngest daughter is leaving home Wednesday to go to a Poland to start a new life which makes him sad. He told us it was fine to stay and sleep well. So we did.
