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We had two options - a thirty minute jeep ride at 7.30am or a three hour walk. It was a no brainer. Out came the boots. Yes, I would rather walk for three hours than get up early.
Even missing the jeep, we still left Salento the wrong side of nine o´clock for my liking. And so we walked, winding down from Salento into the Valle de Cocora. After the steep twisty descent we crossed the Rio Quindio and made our way along country lanes lined with eucalyptus trees.
Halfway to Cocora, a young lad was herding about ten calves down the lane behind us. James used his farming instinct and correctly pointed ahead at the field the cows were heading towards. The lad nodded. How James knew which one beats me - there seemed to be nothing special or different about this field as opposed to all the other identical looking fields on the lane. James opened the gate for him and he paused as he entered the field. We chatted about the cows and the family farm. It was a good sized farm with 25 milking cows plus the calves and other cattle as well. They milked
all the cows by hand and milk was the main income for the family. Once we had exhausted our Spanish farming vocabulary, we bid him good day.
Reaching the small village of Cocora, there was a buzz of activity beside the local shop. A group of soldiers were milling around, resting in the shade and chatting to the local trout farmers. Even with full on massive guns in their hand and bands of ammunition strapped to them like sashes worn by beauty pageant contestants, it was all very relaxed and not particularly intimidating.
Generally I find guns highly unsettling. I can´t even get used to armed police. Anything more than a truncheon and I´ll find someone else to ask for directions. But in Colombia, I must be getting desensitised by all the patrols and checkpoints across the country. The army is highly visible everywhere. The soldiers are generally friendly and polite, saying "please" before searching my bag and a "thank you" afterwards. Incredible. Very askable when lost.
So I feared nothing sharing a bench with a machine gun while we quenched our thirst with a cold bottle of bright orange Colombiana (looks and tastes just like Irn-Bru).
Charged full of artificial colourings and flavourings, we heading on to find a good spot to take a few snaps of the Palmas de Cera - wax palm trees - that are only found in this region and nowhere else in the world.
One of the platoon followed us and seemed to be trying to catch us up. He was. Not to frisk us, but out of curiosity. He was interested in where we were from and very chatty. He knew that the capital of Ireland was Dublin, that there were two Irelands, north and south, and that there was once a war. He could only say "Excuse me" in English (I told you Colombian soldiers were polite) but wanted to learn more in the future. Like most other soldiers we´ve seen he looked really young, or maybe I´m getting old. Our new amigo was called Velez, nineteen, from inner city Cali and doing his national service.
Follow me, he said heading off the path, there is a great view at the top of this path. Well we were hardly going to refuse an armed soldier. Close on his heels, we asked him if there were any FARC
guerillas nearby and if area was safe. Velez said of course we were safe, he was there! He zigzagged up a feint trail and next thing I know we are smack bang in the middle of his platoon´s camp. I didn´t see it at all until we were in it, that camoflage really works! Velez showed us his tent and Maxi, the army dog.
And what a view the soldiers wake up to every day. There was a 360 degree view of the whole area from the camp. Toblerone-shaped peaks rose up from the valley floor, covered with a patchwork carpet of grass. Spotted across the countryside were insanely tall wax palm trees, creating a surreal and totally unique landscape. If you carry on up the field the view is even better, Velez said. You can cut down to the road on the other side but be careful to avoid the field with the bull.
Glutton for punishment, we decided to walk all the way back to Salento, avoiding all bulls. En route we passed the field where we had been speaking to the young lad and his calves. He was in a farmyard closeby getting ready for
milking time. We called over from the lane and asked to watch. Slightly bemused but very friendly all the same, he welcomed us in and introduced us to his father. A man with a wooden stool and experienced fingers. After tying the cow´s hind legs together, he pulled and squeezed swiftly and firmly. The milk squirted into the bucket much quicker than I thought it could. In no time the bucket was filled and emptied into a metal churn, ready to start again.
"Would we like some?" Before we had a chance to answer, we were handed a cupful of fresh milk, literally just squeezed from the cow´s udders. I´m not a fan of milk at all. I eat cereal dry. Even Weetabix. But I couldn´t refuse, it would have been extremely rude. So I gritted my teeth and steeled myself. Here goes...and...it was like no milk I have ever tasted. Nothing like semi-skimmed UHT! Who knew? Probably everyone who didn´t grow up in a city, but I didn´t. For a start it was warm (which is obvious if you think about it) and creamy with froth on top. A bit of cocoa powder and it would have been
as good as my mum´s hot chocolate.
I confessed to the farmer that usually I didn´t like milk but I liked his. That got a massive laugh. Completely ignoring the part that was a compliment to his cow, he repeated what I said to another worker who had just come into the farmyard on horseback. More laughter. I though against telling them I was also allergic to animals - they wouldn´t get a dot of work done if they were rolling around on the parlour floor in stitches at the crazy gringo.
We finished our milk and thanked them. It was really very nice of them to let us onto their land for a gawk.
Halfway up the long and winding road back to Salento, I was very grateful for the bellyful of warm creamy milk. I needed the energy or my little legs might not have made it. After all, as Ian Rush once said, if I don´t drink my milk I´d end up playing for Accrington Stanley!
From Jess
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shimpal milk parlour
we want shimpale milk parlour