Digging in the Dirt (Part 2)

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By mid-morning, Paul and I are on our way to Tierradentro.

Two days ago, the trip from Popayán to San Agustín was on a short little shuttle bus owing to the rough terrain and light traffic. But now, on the real back roads of rural Colombia, all forms of mass transportation of any size is discarded entirely in favor of a 4x4 pickup truck with a fiberglass shell and two solid bench seats that run either side of the bed. I sit at the back – elbow perched on the lip of the tailgate as I watch the trees roll past and disappear into plumes of dust kicked up from the tires. All six and a half feet of Paul sits to my left – hunched over and wound up like a watch spring in the compact space of the truck bed. He is practicing his basic yet rapidly improving Spanish with a chatty, older man across from us on the other bench.

Having spent his toddler years in Brazil, Paul's first language was Portuguese until moving to New York where he promptly forgot it all. He has never had any exposure to Spanish, but the past eight months in the more southern realms of Cokaygne have apparently triggered a series of latent Latin neural pathways deep in his mind. He has a good ear, an impressive sensitivity to proper pronunciation, and drops complex grammatical constructs with an ease I was only able to muster after endlessly staring at conjugation charts.

I suspect the bulk of his training took place in Medellín – a large city a few hours north of here Paul visited, took an immediate liking to, and subsequently decided to make home for two months.

There is nothing terribly special in Medellín. A few art museums. No ruins, no great landscapes, no lost cultures. But the consensus always seems to be that it is a place worth visiting. Paul is emphatic about this. Bogotá is nice if you have time. But given a choice, go to Medellín.

Ok. I'll go.

After a few hours of jostling around in the cramped little truck, we arrive in a small town called La Plata. The dusty street that serves as a sort of secondary transportation hub for the region is lined with facsimiles of the pickup in which we've just arrived. We ask around for the next ride to San Andrés – the tiny hamlet just outside the Tierradentro ruins. Being tiny, there aren't many trips per day, and we discover we'll have to wait until late afternoon.

With plenty of time to euthanize, we find a cafe and have a leisurely lunch. Then we walk into the town center which is adorned with a beautiful plaza with a large cluster of trees and a little cathedral in one corner. We sit on a bench to watch people pass by.

After a while, a thin guy with bushy black hair, wire frame glasses, and a beard wanders over to us.

"You guys are going to Tierradentro?" he asks me timidly in Spanish.
"Yeah, later on."
"Oh ok, we are, too. Er– my friend and I," he says gesturing to a shop in the other corner of the square.

Alejandro is from the wine-producing region of Mendoza in Argentina. His friend, Cesar, is from Jujuy just north of Salta where I started out three and a half months ago. They are making their way back to Argentina from Venezuela.

–

At around 5:30, the two Argentinos and I find ourselves crammed into the back of a late 80's model station wagon parked in what serves as a bus terminal for the town. Paul is sitting in the passenger seat next to a woman with a toddler on her lap. In front of us is another of the dusty pickup trucks packed with people. With no more seating room, two younger men stand on the rear running board and hold on to the trucks flimsy roll cage. One of them drums his hands on the top of the shell.

"Vamos, vamos!"

A Colombian man runs up to the truck to say something to the driver, then jogs over to the station wagon and climbs in behind the wheel. He starts up the engine.

"Ok, everybody ready?"

Sí.

"Ok, ready. Mirrors. Gas. Lights, Ok. Traditional Colombian music."

He feeds a cassette tape into the stereo on the dashboard and the opening guitar chords of The Wall erupt from the wagon's tinny speakers. He lowers the volume, puts the car in gear and heads up the street to follow the pickup which has already taken off.

–

By the time The Judge has sentenced poor Roger to be exposed before his peers and darkness has fallen, we arrive on the outskirts of San Andrés. The driver drops us off on a dark road about a mile from the village center and tells us that most of the houses here rent rooms.

Paul and I take a room at the first place we see – a bungalow with an enormous inner courtyard owned by a quiet old man. The Argentinos being Argentinos are going to roam up and down the street to quibble over price and ameneties in a valiant Argentino effort to keep alive the Argentino tradition of being very Argentino. But for a grand total of $5 a night, Paul and I can't be bothered.

We walk across the street to a shop to buy a few bottles of water. The nice woman who owns the place promises us an excellent breakfast if we come back in the morning before setting off for the ruins. We agree.

I point to a bottle of wine on a shelf that has no label.

"Is that local?"
"Yes," she says. "From a few towns over. It's coca wine."
"Coca wine," I repeat. "As in fermented coca leaves?"
"Yes," she says. "Well, more like an infusion with a lot of berries and stuff added in to make it sweet. Would you like a bottle to try?"

I study the bottle for a moment.

"Yes, please."

Tierradentro

After the, indeed, excellent breakfast, we follow a trail into the hills. Not far ahead of us, we see Alejandro and Cesar walking. They notice us, slow their pace, and wait for us to catch up.

There is even less known about the people that inhabited this area than the culture at San Agustín. Like San Agustín, the discoveries are recent and further study is hindered by not infrequent outbreaks of fighting between government and rebel forces in the area. The most notable aspect of the culture is the collection of large, underground tombs that dot the countryside.

Each site has been covered with a large wooden gazebo-like structure with padlocked panels in the floor to guard against vandals.

Peering down into the open trap door, you see a set of steep, rounded stairs that descend about three meters into the earth. At the bottom, the stairs meet an open stone doorway that leads to the tomb itself. This is a large room supported by stone pillars – some of which are still painted with an intricate design.

It isn't a large room – about the size of a kid's bedroom. But its more than enough space to lie dead, to lie quiet, and listen to history creak by.

We spend the day wandering from site to site and end up on a ridge overlooking the valley. A gravel road lines the top of the hills and deposits us in the center of San Andrés – a pleasant little town with shops, cafes, and a long, white-washed church.

Paul, the Argentinos, and I find a place to eat and devour a long-overdue lunch. After, we mill around the town to see what there is to see. On the way back to our hostels, we stop at a bakery to buy bread and cheese for later.

The entire day has gone by and we haven't seen a single other tourist.

It is a long walk back along a winding country road as the day closes. The sun hangs low on the uneven horizon and shouts out its final contributions in a series of Morse code flashes from behind the thick mesh of leafy branches that shroud us on all sides. By the time we reach the Argentinos' hostel, it has given up and slipped beneath the velveteen blanket of hills.

We sit at a picnic table under a gazebo in front of the hostel and use Cesar's small hunting knife to slice cheese and bread. Paul stays only a little while. Tired from the day and in want of a shower, he gets up and heads back to our place.

Ten minutes later, and out of nowhere, rain slams down onto the roof of the gazebo, so the Argentinos and I stay put at the table. We discuss politics and economics. They tell me all about the various trials and tribulations of life in western Argentina – so much more complex than what you get in a BBC profile or an IMF analysis.

They talk about their trip through Venezuela and the disaster Chavez has made of the place. In one town, they set out from the bus station to walk into the central square, when a policeman stopped them.

"Where are you going?" he asked them.
"A la plaza," they answered, pointing down the street which led to the center a handful of blocks away.

The policeman shook his head forcefully and pointed up the perpendicular street.

"Go up two blocks and take the other street in. If you take this street, they'll shoot you for sure."

This, in a town of four or five thousand people.

After a while, it becomes clear that the rain isn't going to let up anytime soon. Its getting late – the already dark sky made darker by the thick storm clouds that have rolled in to drench the land. From somewhere far behind me, a single street lamp casts a feeble glow on the table and two golden discs on the lenses of Alejandro's glasses.

Paul and I have to get up early to catch a ride back to Popayán. The Argentinos will be sticking around for another day, so we shake hands and wish each other well.

It's a good half mile back to my hostel. I stand at the edge of the gazebo and bounce lightly on the balls of my feet a few times before darting out into the rain and running up the road.

After about twenty yards, I'm about as wet as one can reasonably get. But a good run, once started, begs to be finished – especially in the pristine air of Colombian hills.

–

I enter he room to find Paul stretched out on his bed and texting furiously on his mobile phone.

"You get a signal out here?" I ask, peeling off my dripping shirt and replacing it with a towel.
"Yep. I borrowed a corkscrew and a few cups from the old man if you want to try that coca wine," he says from behind his Nokia.

In a dry set of clothes, I flop down onto the bed and gaze at the small table between the two beds. After a few seconds in the dim light, the jumble of lines and colors resolves itself into recognizable shapes. I pluck an old corkscrew up from behind two clear plastic cups, then reach under the table and bring the wine bottle up by its neck to study the viscous liquid inside.

"How much coca do you think they use to make this stuff?" I ask.
"Can't be that much, can it? Not anymore than you use to make tea."
"I guess. It's a lot more controlled here than in Bolivia. I guess they couldn't get away with anything too strong," I say.
"Well, yeah. But we're kinda in them iddle of nowhere."
"True," I pause. "And we are technically in rebel-held territory."

I begin to spin the helix of the corkscrew into the cork.

"Oh well. Nothing like finishing off a day of hiking and grave robbing with a bottle of the FARC's finest."

The wine definitely carries the taste of coca leaves, but is dampened by a sugary fruit flavor. It reminds me of a plum wine I tried once in a Japanese restaurant. I give the cup an abrupt swirl and observe the lines of liquid that ooze back down. This sucker definitely has legs, but I certainly wouldn't rate it up there with the best of ports.

We run through about half the bottle before deciding that the alcohol content isn't at all high and that there won't be any hangover risk in the slightest. So we finish it off and switch off the lamp.

About half an hour later, we're still talking. Apparently the alcohol in the wine is no match for the cocaine component.

An hour later, we are still chattering away.

An hour later, we are still talking.

Enough! Ignore the alkaloid ignition of synapses just behind your eyes and go to sleep.

On to Medellín

A few days later back in Popayán, I buy a ticket on an overnight bus to Medellín. After dinner, I gather my things at the hostel and say goodbye to Paul. Another farewell, another handshake, another email exchange. He's on his way south, and I'm northward.

I walk the mile to the station and find my aisle seat on the bus. A beautiful girl in her early 20's sits next to the window and is waving and blowing kisses to an old woman standing outside under the tinted window. The girl is wearing a black habit – signifying a nun in training.

The coach backs away from the station and the girl looks straight ahead at nothing and sighs nervously. As the bus makes an about face, she catches another glimpse of the old woman and they make one more furious gesture of farewell to each other. As they slide out of each other's view, she gives me an apologetic smile.

"My aunt."

I smile and nod.

The bus pulls around to the side of the station and stops. A man gets on the bus with a digital video camera and slowly makes his way down the aisle – filming each passenger for a second or two. Occasionally he has to grab someone's attention.

"Sir, sir. Can you look this way for just a moment? Thank you."

The girl looks confused.

"Why do they do that?" she asks.
"It's a security measure," I say. "In case anything...happens, they have a record of who was on the bus and can track people down later."
"Oh," she says, and pauses. "I'm not sure that actually makes me feel any safer."
"You aren't. The illusion of safety is better than nothing."

It's my turn to pause. Then I grin.

"Although if the bus happens to fly off the road and burst into flames, the video of where we're sitting would make it easier to identify the charred remains of our lifeless corpses. Look on the bright side."

Time freezes in my brain. Is this really any way to be speaking to a sister of the Catholic Church? Why don't I just start telling her dead baby jokes and be done with it? Jesus.

She surprises me by bursting into laughter – magnifying her beauty by a factor of ten.

My relief at not having offended her shifts into dull agony at the thought of being trapped on a bus for eight hours next to an angel with a sense of humor who has chosen celibacy as a key line-item on her resume.

We chat for a while. She's from a small village outside Popayán where she was raised by her aunt. She will be doing her postulancy at a convent in Medellín for a year before deciding where to go next. This is her first time away from home. She's terrified and thrilled.

After a while, she and the other passengers grow silent with sleep. A little later, I start to fall asleep, too. Just before nodding off, I feel the girl's cheek on my shoulder.

Sleeping with a nun, I think with a smirk.

Some sort of abstract truth tries to rise up out of this thought – something about the immutability of humanity. But consciousness fades out before it has a chance to form.

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