a seven month sojourn: Salento, Colombia

Valle de Cocora, Colombia

It's just passing midnight when the bus into Colombia is pulled over and armed soldiers scramble on board. Our efforts to avoid night travel in Cauca province, notorious for guerrilla activity, have been spoiled by slow progress on waterlogged roads. The frightening account we heard from a traveller held at gunpoint on this route looks like it might play out in front of us. Having spent the previous night sleepless with worry Nic's kittens have been had.

It takes a few frantic moments before we realise that these are the guns of the police, not the guerillas. I get escorted off the bus with the rest of the men on board and get frisked while sniffer dogs inspect the baggage compartment. The women aren't given the same treatment and when Nic's heart rate has recovered she ventures a question to the guy in charge. It's met tersely and brings about an unwanted interrogation about why we're in Colombia.

Picking the coffee berry

The benefit of being out-of-date with the blog is that we can look back now and mark this as the only time we felt uneasy throughout Colombia. The perception of safety may not always be well-founded but it certainly feels a safe country. There's barely a corner without a policeman posted on it, if that's any measure. And the people are outwardly happy to have tourists in their country. It might not hold water statistically, but in our 3 week study of Colombia it seems possible that living here are 46 million people with nothing but happiness and goodwill for each other.

Our first fleeting stop is to Cali, the supposed home of Colombia's most beautiful women. Like many of the other big cities in South America we choose to skip through and stealing a few hours sleep in a noisy dorm we head out to Salento the next morning. (But in the two blocks we walked for breakfast Cali's reputation appears justified).

Salento has easily installed itself near the top of our South American highlight reel. We arrive with the intention of spending a couple of nights before heading to Medellin for Christmas but after over a week we still don't want to leave. This is no small part due to the coffee at Jesus Martin cafe. Finally in a continent renowned for the making stuff we get a decent cup. Actually far better than decent.

Doors of Salento

We also get the chance to produce some coffee of our own. Meeting up with Pedro, a local farmer who grows coffee, we have lunch with his family at their house followed by a tour of the coffee plantation. The farm is not as orderly as you might imagine; the trees are grown wild amongst thickets of other native stuff. It's the kind of model organic operators in other parts of the world try hard to contrive. Pedro then took us through the production process, picking, defleshing, drying, dehusking, roasting, grinding. The end result is us drinking delicious fresh coffee out of white china at the top of the Colombian countryside. It all felt very out-of-context but then this is the beating heart of coffee. It's all my coffee experiences up to this point that have been out of place!

Salento itself is a small, colorful village, surrounded by the green hills of Colombia's coffee growing region. Cowboys in ponchos and wide brim hats roam the streets. As it was Christmas time and approaching the town's anniversary day the central plaza was dotted with marquees for drinking and celebrating. The locals offer warm greetings to each other (and us) in the streets and sometimes stop for welcoming handshakes. The community feel is unlike any other place we've visited.

Local milk tankers

Hummingbird sanctuary, Valle de Cocora

Salento taxis

Twenty minutes away in the back of a jeep is the Valle de Cocora. With cows grazing on the green hillside it could be Waikato except for the spindly wax palms sticking up through the clouds. We make our way around a short loop track through the valley. It's a few days before Christmas and when we stop for a moment after passing beneath the clouds, I spare a thought for those battling it out in the final rounds of Christmas shopping.

Bolivian hammer pants get one final outing. RIP.

When we decide to stay for Christmas we ask about a private room. They move us into this private wing. Amazing.

Our hostel, which is more like a farm retreat, puts on a huge Christmas dinner. Nearly all the people we meet in the first few days of arriving in the house have made the same decision as us - it's too nice to leave - and it's a full house for a huge meal. In the evening we head down into the town centre where the streets are busy and the celebrations continue into the night.