A Solitary Man Playing a Red And White Tuba
I had known for quite some time that I’d be venturing outside Bogotá this weekend just past, but I guess I didn’t really acknowledge the entailments of that until the car was clear out of the city. What I mean by this is that, having been immersed in the perpetually sluggish yet simultaneously suicidal traffic of Colombia’s capital for the past month, it was a shock when we suddenly came to open-road, two-chevrons apart from the car in front.
Frasier was driving, with Dad in the passenger seat and myself sat in the back, en route to Villa De Leyva, a small colonial town some 3 hours outside of Bogotá. I was equipped for a long journey as I would be if driving on the M5 to Wolverhampton; I had my book (kindle, sorry) and iPod ready to be called into action at the first flicker of boredom, but the flicker never came. I found myself physically unable to look away from the window. Civilisation blurred and dwindled behind us, and my first glimpse of rural Colombia arose. From all sides, mountains thrust themselves out of the earth, surrounding the road with celestial serene and a green quiet. I was fascinated by the sudden burst of activity that popped up in the emptiness; a single house, or a miniscule community with identical makeshift plastic roofs; a tiny football pitch, kids ferociously competing to kick the ball through a rusty goal-frame; a solitary man playing a white and red tuba (that one required a double-take). These pockets of life were so remote, so isolated, it was almost as if they were only there because we were looking at them, and once our car whizzed past them they would cease to exist forever.
As the drive went on, the roads began to wind and contort, and the mountains rose into the dusk before seeping into the night sky, the thin outline of the peaks creasing the blackened globe. The hum of the engine filled the earth. I saw a man sat in a rocking chair under his porchlight and wondered what kind of life he lived in the middle of nowhere.
We arrived in Villa De Leyva, juddering over the thick cobblestone roads right the way up until reaching our hotel. The hotel was owned by a charming woman called Ximena, who spoke her Spanish at a pace slow enough for me to register and respond to. Frasier, the hero who had driven for almost 3 and a half hours, was understandably in need of a beer, so we dumped our stuff in the rooms and headed out to the square, which opened up out of the narrow street into a vast, tranquil space void of almost any soul. All the people, like us, were sat around the square, looking in and sipping on their bottles of Poker beer. As peaceful as it was, I wasn’t truly struck by the squares magic until the following morning, once the sun rays had illuminated the pristinely white, quaint buildings that graced the entire town, and the staggering mountain that stood behind the chapel like a monstrous wave ready to crash down and obliterate me to splinters. In fact, ambling around the market and the backstreets of Villa De Leyva, I was continually surrounded by this same combination of beauty from aesthetic pleasantries and beauty from sheer awe, the stunning intricacy of the balconies and shutters hawked over by the mountains encompassing the town, or the sweet plucking of the harpist encircled by vultures in the cloudless sky above.
Our time there was leisurely and care-free. We did, after Frasier sealed the deal to sell his flat, spontaneously buy cowboy style Colombian hats in a sudden rush of glee, but other than that we very much took our time seeing the famous Pliosaurus fossil and the not-so-famous blue lakes, which were really more teal than blue, but had some cracking rills knocking about according to Dad.
The purity of Villa De Leyva could not have been more delightfully juxtaposed by Ráquira, a town we stopped off in for lunch on the way back. Walking down the buzzing market streets of Ráquira was like looking through a kaleidoscope; each building was painted its own bold, bright colour and hammocks in hard reds, yellows and greens hung outside every shop. A town known for its pottery, clay vases and sculptures were everywhere, including a giant clay statue of a man carrying clay pots in the centre of the square. Despite this ceramic specialism, the town also seemed to have quite an eye for ‘tat’. Not ‘I Heart Colombia’ t-shirts and foam fingers, however. Really outstanding tat. Entire shops were dedicated fake fruit, to metal bugs, to windchimes which hung in their thousands from the ceilings like a suspended sea of sound and colour. In short, it was a truly amazing, perfectly bizarre place.
The weekend out of the city made me desperate to see more of this radiant, alluring country, to make the most of my time here. Almost as soon as I arrived back at the gap house I began looking into places to stay in Medellín and the coffee region. I also bought myself a ticket to Estereo Picnic, a festival in Bogotá hosting The Weeknd, Justice, The Strokes and others in a fortnight’s time.
Dad has gone back to England (or rather he is on the flight there from Atlanta as I write). It’s been really great having him here and seeing him so excited. I’ve loved how much he’s loved meeting everyone and seeing everything. There was an odd moment of role rehearsal as he got in his taxi back to Frasier’s for the last time, waving out the window with his fingers just peering out of his oversized cagoule’s sleeve, and going back into the house I realised that, from this moment on, I was out here on my own. There wasn’t going to be another delivery of English goods; once we’re out of tea, that’s it; once we’re out of instant gravy, that’s it. I’ve used up all my lifelines and now I’m entirely responsible for making my time here as great as possible. Maybe a month ago that would’ve frightened me, but upon shutting the door I felt nothing but excitement. Even now, sitting in my room, the house being bombard with rain, the sky flashing every 30 seconds and the thunder getting closer to my walls so fragile and thin, I don’t feel afraid at all. I actually feel rather indestructible.
