my My Wandering

‘There is a letter for you’, said the receptionist of the Munich hotel I was staying at between flights, a just amount of politeness and warmth in her voice. My tickets to the Münchner Philharmoniker Sylvester Concert had indeed been delivered but, even though just a mere month away, December 31 seemed a very distant prospect. For the time being, Richard Strauss’ home town oozed an atmosphere where classical music, underground beats, the expected Ordnung and the highland, Bavarian joy naturally blended in despite any apparent contrast they were about. The Christmas lights on and the air filled with the unmissable Glühwein scent, Munich was definitely celebrating. Yet, despite the countless tourists around, the city had managed to preserve its natural, own self. Tranquility and joy were the name of the game even in busier places like the ever crowded Marienplatz, while one needed not walk very far to pop into a young man playing parts of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony on a classical harmonica down the street with people standing around despite the sub-zero Celsius temperature outside. It did not take the city too long a time to revive in me the sense of natural belonging I have always felt when in Germany. A country I would have considered moving to had it not been not for any nexus with Romania, but for my love for Bucharest and its unhidden imperfection.

Walking down the streets that somehow eased my taking the time to think things over, I looked back at the year that was to soon come to an end. Deciding to spend ever less time and energy communicating with mall-caged people or on matters that did not interest me, dedicating ever more time to the mountains, sports and generally the outdoors, the things that had the ultimate meaning to me. Visiting Paris to get that déjà vu, after Rome, of an extraordinary heritage – actually mankind’s only positive outcome, art – being trashed by people that have turned failure and incompetence of any sort into a modus vivendi. Reaching the top of Ben Nevis on an amazing September afternoon, respectively trekking down the Carn Mor Dearg Arête while almost being blown away by the strong wind. Spending more time running, trekking, cycling even if that meant sleeping two hours a night while organizing group stays at work. For that reason alone, those hundreds of bicycles chained along fences or racks everywhere in Munich had me rejoicing, even with cold feet in my worn out, mesh trail-running shoes (they were not to make it back home, tearing apart in South Colombia) following half a day’s walk through town in that temperature.

The Portuguese Airlines left all their Bogotá and Panamá City passengers’ luggage in Lisbon, with the prospect of delivering it with their next flight three days later, not bothering to cargo it with another carrier. Later, when in Salento, I was to meet other TAP customers which had had the same issue on a different flight. Going to the airport to pick my backpack when it did arrive, an Italian fellow passenger started cursing the sweaty Bogotá airport staff running around with some 300 pieces of luggage to handle for being too slow, when the problem had obviously been in a Lisbon office. His frustration had conveniently met the fact that he was in South America and therefore felt entitled to blame people he obviously saw as inferior to himself.

One found the Colombian capital city in all of its vibrance, contrasts and buzz. With several universities located in the old town, but also with its countless salsa or rock bars, cafés, popular eateries and omnipresent street stalls selling snacks or aromática, there seemed not to exist a single quiet – or lonely for that matter – spot in town, as flows of people plied even the narrowest of those cobblestone-paved streets. While in many respects the La Candelaria District resembled the old town in Quito, the people density in the streets well into the night and the daytime buzz along the Carrera 7 were rather on par with those of downtown Santiago de Chile. Other than that, contrasts were expectedly plentiful, even though not as striking as in other parts of South America I had traveled to. The frequent – ‘constant’ might be more historically accurate a term despite its cynicism – civil unrest or turmoil in the country had not allowed long periods of steady development and even many of the high rise edificios gravitating around the centre bore evidence of their having been built in a hurry. Contemporary development was at the very same time thriving, with impressive new living and office quarters considerably spreading especially in the Northern and North-Western parts of the city, the neatness of which seemed a world apart from the centre, with their self-confident inhabitants walking their poodles or chatting at expensive, French style cafés in the shade of perfectly cut decorative trees, respectively next to smart design, glass-covered office buildings. In such a circumstance, only the man behind his ambulant stall selling freshly sliced fruit salads and loudly calling for customers seemed to provide life to the place. But the overwhelming beat in the downtown streets or in the busy Jiménez crossing flea market, as well as those large scale graffitis with social or historic messages down the Calle 26 granted the city with an equilibrium of its own. Beyond that, thousands upon thousands of people filled every tiny spot for a few kilometers of the Carrera 7 upon nightfall, with amateur acrobats, break dancers, musicians, dressed-up actors, stand up comedy acts, cyclists, juice makers, old book sellers and pantomime performances to replace the dull sound of cars, respectively with freedom to replace the illusory prospects of 21st century ‘civilization’.

Countless shop attendants moving up and down the sidewalk in front of their shop window, calling for customers usually with a microphone and a loud, engaging music background. A young man that had installed his full set of drums in the middle of the street, frantically playing and singing while passers-by stopped and some got dancing. Two mid-aged men relaxedly playing chess on a busy sidewalk half of which was in noisy construction works, as if living in a parallel world. The apparently – and truly – mad traffic up and down the main thoroughfares, where all vehicles – cars, trucks, TransMilenio buses, countless motorbikes and bikes – rushed up and down avenues in a seemingly chaotic manner, the thick buseta fumes engulfing them all. Of these, the TransMilenio project, a fast transit bus network generally provided with its own lanes as a faster and cheaper to implement solution than a proper subway, had been wrongly dimensioned for a city nearing 10 million people including commuters and students. Rush hour(s) saw thousands of people crowding to get in or out of main or commuting stations, with lines stretching onto access footbridges or straight into the street. With narrow platforms, a fragile automatic door system opening when buses called in and a slow, two-way 5-6 gate access system, as well as with buses that eventually ended by getting stuck in their own traffic, the city hall was trying to improve matters with the aid of countless, usually junior and otherwise very friendly police forces. Yet there was not much they could do to help the system, even though they did impose a certain order: on two separate occasions I witnessed arrests at the Avenida Jiménez stop, once of a pickpocket that got his face full of blood before he was taken away, and the following day of a young man that had turned recalcitrant in an attempt to stir the others to mutiny. One wondered whether it had not been better to rely on the more flexible solution of the apparently chaotic system of the busetas and colectivos alone instead of this subdimensioned hybrid that only worked well in the little population density, neat districts in the North-Western parts of town. Yet life is not – and should not be – perfect a matter, the TransMilenio buses went on, complete with the rush hour overcrowding and the frequent on board, ad-hoc shows provided by itinerant musicians that came complete with mobile sound stations or people selling snacks, naturist medicine and toys. The city moved on in its own, unique way, and it rightly did so.

Thousands of pedestrians, bicycles (with over 300 km., the city had the world’s most extensive bike path network in the world) and all sorts of hand-pulled carts engaged in an apparently endless, life-and-death struggle for the droit de passage, providing the visiting Bucharest cyclist with a challenging (mostly due to the buseta fumes and the failing direction, small frame rental bike), yet enormously rewarding ride. And, in the middle of all these, unexpected gems such as the Hacienda del Chicó with its marvelous setting and layout, as well as with its old world dining table. On the way back I rode in traffic following the up and down, busy Carrera 7 which lacked a bike lane for most of the way, with that urban cycling sense immediately getting back to me as I was slaloming between busetas. The rental guy had mentioned the danger linked to such an enterprise: coming from a country where our cycling group had twice been attacked with stones on roads across Transylvania (which had once ended with a broken arm), respectively where drivers orgasmically enjoy harassing anyone daring share the road with them, the Bogotá traffic seemed but a trifle.

Past a half an hour walk up the iconic Cerro de Monserrate and getting one’s lost luggage back, a short flight threw one in quaint Armenia around midnight, with a taxi driver rushing down the road into town with his car shaking from all joints, just to come to an abrupt stop in a final brake screech echoing through the whole neighborhood in front of my guesthouse. Early the following (actually the same, given the hour) day Salento was just a minibus hop away. Salento that meant, past the tourist crowds, the start of the trek up the Nevado del Tolima. The dense, jungle-like forest took one into another world, that where human presence was little and the endless Bogotá buzz was unthinkable. Of a minimalist thinking, usually going camping with a 20 liter backpack, I had not carried a 25-30 kg. backpack for a while, yet this time that was it, as, apart from all camping and climbing gear, Sebastián and I were to ferry up many fruits and vegetables, a load we were to typically loathe while going up, respectively bless when up there and dining on real, not dehydrated food. Fog alternated with clouds, unavoidable – but brief for the time being – rain showers, respectively a few short sunny breaks. Reaching the treeline and the Cerro de la Virgen, the clouds opened up and allowed a view of the grand, majestic Nevado del Tolima, with its expected snowcap half lost in the mist and vast páramo fields surrounding it. The first time I had reached the páramo, well before the trip to Colombia, I had greatly enjoyed it but only later came to realize why. The vast, rounded or all the way flat, tall grass-filled fields bore, beyond the first appearance, a striking resemblance to the desert I had always felt myself deeply attached to. And now, here I was – again – with only such overwhelming vastness between myself and the foot of the Nevado del Tolima.

Negotiating the slippery, muddy trail that often broke into misleading threads, we reached the Finca la Primavera at night, where cups of agua de panela with cheese to dip in instantly appeared in front of us together with a warm welcome, especially when the people there noticed the size of our backpacks. It rained for most of the day we continued to the Calvito and its nice, grassy camping spot; it only stopped for half an hour or so, just to allow running around in the wet pants and jacket so as to produce enough heat and have them dry. Past a copious meal including the most mouth-watering pimientos and cheese fry that had us forget about the heavy loads carried up the mountain, we hit the sleeping bags in the same constant dripping of what seemed to be a ceaseless rain; Peter, Paul and Mary could have hardly put in any better in their golden days.

At 2 A.M. the green tent lit up and there was an already unusual, absolute silence around, with only a lonely night bird singing in the middle of the vastness engulfing us all. The air was dry and the mountain  lay right in front of one’s eyes as he opened the tent zip: massive, inviting and bearing a snowcap glittering in the full moon light. So, not much later we found ourselves on the trail, passing through the two higher, deserted camps and noticing the white headlamp dots belonging to two other mountaineer parties coming up from the distant valley below. Above the last camp at around 4800 m.a.s.l., a rather rocky couloir led to a gully requiring a bit of scrambling and then, past a loose gravel and volcano ash slope, we reached the smooth snow cap ridge. The sun rose over the good, compact snow, but also on the active, fuming Nevado del Ruiz at the horizon. An hour later we reached the almost flat summit at 5220 m.a.s.l., in the same strong sunshine, some 4 hours and a half since leaving the the tent at 4200 m.a.s.l.

Going down, upon leaving the glacier and descending the gully, there occurred an almost instant whiteout, as if the mountain gods had decided to make people more appreciative for this world’s beauty and moments by taking things at a time, despite the ‘I want it all, I want it now’ hedonist, foolish, disrespectful and nevertheless useless obsession of the contemporary man. We reached our campsite at the El Calvito and rested for a couple of hours, planning to dismantle the tent in the afternoon, after eating something. It soon started raining again and the wind picked up, blowing wave upon wave of fog upon us. The mountaineers we had seen the lights of before dawn came down the slope: they had reached the snowline, yet had to turn back due to strong winds and a whiteout that made orientation impossible on the misleading snowcap. In the later afternoon we packed things and started down towards the Laguna el Encanto, beautifully located off the wide saddle leading to our next day’s route. Under a pouring rain, just as it was getting dark, two horsemen came, owners of a finca we had passed by the day before. Without too many words – or too long a stay for that matter – they took out half a dozen trout fish and gave them to us before leaving in gallop pace. Which ended the day with yet another treat, apart from the trout: that of barren humanity instead of the fake, bread and salt, ‘in the box’, ‘out of the box’ or ‘above the box’ hospitality we lie ourselves and those around us with way too often.

What began as a no visibility, gloomy day soon turned into mind-blowing view morning, with the fog and clouds eventually allowing for a beautiful sight of the Nevado del Ruiz and its thick gas emanations that seemed to rise straight off the Laguna el Encanto; in a couple of weeks the volcano was to throw ash plumes and have authorities consider evacuation of communities at the lower reaches of the volcano that had 23,000 dead during the 1985 eruption. It was rather hot and sunny as we started on the quasi-strenuous way up the steep páramo slopes towards the Quindio Ridge. But, before one could have complained (yet after passing by the Laguna el Acereo seeming to be hanging off the slope), an overcast sky changed the otherwise bucolic scenery and, not much later, hail started falling on our heads, then turning into rain showers. The early afternoon found us at some 4600 m.a.s.l., in the Quindio Pass, with its fine, alternating carmine and grey layers of volcano ash and gravel. The very wet same layers providing no stability all did not allow one’s crossing the steep slopes at the foot of the two pillar-like secondary peaks before the El Eden, so we changed the plan and lightly descended, then went around a part of the ridge before figuring out a way down a gully and spending the night on a secondary ridge engulfed in a thick mist.

It rained all night, or so it seemed from deep down in the warm comfort of our sleeping bags. However, when it stopped for a while and we peeked out, we saw the surrounding slopes and the cliffs above under a new, white blanket. While it had snowed above 4000 m.a.s.l., it had equally heavily rained down below and now all streams, gullies and usually dry creeks bore veritable torrents. Going down a ridge as opposed to a nearly flooded valley, we stopped at a finca under a heavy shower for some ague de panel and a slice of fresh cheese; our route towards the Finca la Pastora and the Río del Otun Canyon required fording the usually low Río Cardinas, a tricky prospect now, so we decided going down the same way we had come up. That the whole trail down through the bosque looked more like a slippery bed, strong stream was another story. Under the heavy rain, water came from everywhere, while the mud was ankle deep at its best. With all the hard going it created, the weather however felt like the right occurrence in the right place, as the dense, rich vegetation bosque complete with its lianas, many flowers and enormous ferns could have hardly provided more appropriate an environment for a torrent rain. A rain that only made me more appreciative for the fine weather on top of the Tolima, something that seemed a fantasy now.

After fording the now knee-deep stream (that had been easily jumped over days before) and hence washing clean our mud yellow boots, we reached the hut at Estrella las Aguas and spent the night in the sound of the roaring stream with stuff spread all around so as to dry out. It was getting warmer as we went down Cocora Valley the following day and many people were going up towards the small Humming-bird reserve in the lower part of the forest. Reaching Pereira in the early afternoon, one was hit by a heat wave, as the temperature was well over 30C. The town was like a beehive, with thousands of people walking up and down the streets around Parque Bolívar that were lined with countless small shops. The 19th century church in the centre, with its apparent brick walls, intricate wood upper structure and fine – if slightly yet enchantingly clumsy – mosaic works above the altar, was a gem.

Even being so stinky so as to make the lady sitting next to me on the Bogotá flight turn ventilation on, one could not ignore the simple efficiency of Avianca’s operations: many cities saw an hourly flight frequency to and from the capital city, while intercity connections criss-crossed the map of the country, with the lowest fares being slightly higher than those of 10-12 hour bus rides on the respective routes. At the same time, domestic airports were kept clean, fully functional and nevertheless simple, including the secondary, hangar-like Puente Aéreo in Bogotá. One wondered whether traveling is more about the designer shops, futuristic airport design and USD 200 / square meter tile-paved departure hall or about just that: going from A to B at a reasonable price and not one where airport taxes are higher than the airfare itself. But then, subjective, I certainly was, especially after experiencing the bad attitude, eccentric approach and plain carelessness of carriers in Latin Europe, whether it was about the grotesque and gloriously inefficient UFO-village-in-the-’60s Charles de Gaulle Airport, AlItalia’s requiring its customers to make a scandal in order to be provided (any kind of) service, the carelessness of TAP Airlines or the always-no-for-an-answer, grim faces of TAROM staff wherever and whenever. As always, it is better to stick to things one is good at instead of lying both to himself / herself, respectively cheating the others with pointless, fake assumptions out of national ego and self-esteem.

I reached Bogotá in the evening, struggled a bit through the rush hour crowds with my large backpack and mountaineering boots on top, reached my hotel, chatted for a while to Señora Guzmán, the manager always gleaming with old world politeness and warmth, popped into an empanada place just before closing time, glued my eyes on the TV set with all of the city that closely watched some big soccer thing, respectively still found both the time and various spots in the room to do the laundry and spread it around to get dry.

A couple of days passed rather quickly while lazily strolling through town and visiting a couple of the museums around more for the houses them than for the exhibitions inside – even though Max Ernst’s ‘Génie de la Bastille’ at the Museo Botero was truly inspiring a sight and the political or social hints, as well as the bonvivant atmosphere in some of Fernando Botero’s paintings were a treat as well. Or watching the old photographer in the Plaza Bolívar as he was trying to find customers willing to pay for a picture with his llama and continuously arguing with the animal in beautiful a blend of sorrow and tenderness.

Before getting on the night bus to the Cocuy and its snow-covered peaks, together with Eduardo, I strolled through the campus of the Universidad de La Sabana North of the capital. Many private universities in the country had not so obvious an owner: the church. With the number of the faithful dropping like pretty much everywhere else, the church had found a profitable business to invest in, way smarter and more effective a move than that in nationalist-religious states such as Romania, where hundreds of new churches were being built in a desperate attempt to get more people enrolled. In Colombia the church made money without preaching, as the university curricula had nothing to do with religion unless one willingly applied for a specific course.

10 P.M. saw us on the night bus that came together with the expected, endless playlist of local music meant to keep the driver awake on the road that was anything but easy to handle, especially with the hairpin switchbacks up and down steep slopes or the many sections that had been affected by landslides towards the end of the ride. Getting off the bus in Cocuy, I found a town that was much more pleasant than Salento, with its old houses painted in the same white and light green scheme, with far less tourists and a more quiet atmosphere. Completing the de rigueur paperwork with the national park and compulsory, recently introduced mountain rescue insurance offices, it was up the steep mountain road to the Hacienda La Esperanza, the last outpost before the over 5000 m.a.s.l. peaks rising behind it.

We had initially planned to go camping on the shore of the 4700 m.a.s.l. Laguna Grande De La Sierra, yet we instead decided on bivying under an overhanging rock some 100 m. below it. The rock quarry-like scenery was impressive. It looked as if the whole mountain had been a giant’s playground. With both darkness and a layer of thick fog embracing the mountains, one remained with only the sound of the stream nearby and the rare wind blows as reference before falling asleep in that beautiful place on earth.

We woke up at 2:30 A.M. to a clear sky and, after a quick breakfast of granola dipped in green tea, we packed our stuff, left what we did not need for the climb in the rock shelter and started into the dry, cool air, with flashes from a distant thunderstorm showing us the way across the vast fields of gravel and rocks off the Laguna Grande de la Sierra. The almost clear night allowed us to figure the white peaks of the Pan de Azúcar and, somewhat opposite it, the Concavo. Following an hour’s going up the crisp snow on the glacier, the day started to break allowing us to see the quite long few, thin crevasses that cut across the mountain face resembling scarves on one’s skin. A constant slope led to the summit cap that seemed to lie at the end of a steeper finale. Yet that was a fake peak; the real Concavo lay some 20 m. farther on, a distance that also included a 12-15 m. deep crevasse cutting across the ridge, covered by a 20 cm. – or less – thick ice bridge full of cracks. With an anchor to safeguard the crossing, we reached the 5200 m.a.s.l. peak to amazing views we had got only teasers of while on the way up: the seemingly perfectly square Púlpito del Diablo rising on the shoulder of the snowy peak of the Pan de Azúcar, the impressive drop of the Portales, while on the opposite side the eye simply stopped in awe upon seeing the jagged ridge of the La Aguja and El Castillo’s pointy peak. The sun shone in its full strength, while food constantly poured in over the ridge from a sea of clouds gathered down the U’wa side of the mountains.

After making a short detour to the peak of the Concavito, we started on the way down, reaching the glacier foot in rather high temperatures, to the sight of the Púlpito del Diablo crazily reflecting its cubic shape in the blue waters of the glacial lake below. Packing our stuff in the rock shelter, we went down and reached the hacienda by noon. Past a good meal, respectively a lengthy jeep ride, we got to the Posada Sierra Nevada, an inn set upon a simple, traditional pattern in one of the highest locations in the Cocuy. The rest of the day lazily passed while talking to the welcoming family running the place while rubbing our hands against the open fire in the small cottage they lived in while a drizzle constantly tapped on the roof over our heads.

The completely clear sky and rather hot morning saw us go up the zig-zagging trail towards the Las Playitas, just to quit the trail at a certain point and cross a rocky pass, then going down to the turquoise Laguna de los Témpanos surrounded by its impressive rock fortress. Two small lakes of equally turquoise water seemed painted in the rocky slope above the laguna, while not far above one could figure the lower reaches of the Picacho glacier as they blended in with the mist above. There was nobody around and, as most climbers went towards the Las Playitas on the trail we had left, few ever came this way. We camped on the lifeless shore of the lake and lazily listened to the afternoon hail, then rain drip on the tent tarp in expectation of the day to come.

With a 2 A.M. start under the already familiar (for that hour) clear sky, we went up the valley ad its slopes that were covered millions of boulders, rocks and gravel, as well as with slabs partly covered in verglas. At about 4700 m.a.s.l. we reached the bottom of a 10-15 m. high rock band and, trying to find a way to bypass it, we at first followed a ledge that, after some scrambling, ended in the void. Backtracking and eventually finding a generous crack in the belt, we soon reached the lower reaches of the snowy ridge and continued up towards its spine, then along it. In the glitter provided by the moon and stars above, one could figure somewhere in the distance the massive San Pablín Norte at around 5200 m.a.s.l., complete with its overhanging glacier bowing towards us. Getting to the bottom of the peak at daybreak, it took us about an hour to negotiate a way between the huge, sometimes well concealed under a layer of snow, crevasses winding across the whole glacier. It appeared as if the glacier gone under heavy bombing as it was dotted with enormous holes and cracks one could not figure the depth of. With vertical walls to the East and cliffs rising straight from crevasses or rimes to the West, there was only one way to the San Pablín Norte: straight up the incline that ended with the overhanging glacier above which there was the peak. The generally hard snow eased the going, the totally hidden, 1 m. wide crevasse on the way not so much, but we went up until some 50 m. below the peak, with the beautifully layered and potentially lethal glacier rising over our heads. The slope had turned almost vertical and our only way up went across a few slightly darker wave-shaped ice bands at the foot of the overhang, a sign of possible ice cracks or crevasses partly covered by relatively fresh snow. As for the odds, any fall would have had one propelled down the steep slope, respectively straight into the 20 m. deep crevasse below without any chance of self-arrest, while the ground was not solid enough for ice screws. Furthermore, the vertical going required two ice picks and I only had one, while the front crampon points did not always provide fully reliable holds in the various density snow as we got higher.

Instant communication resulted in the common decision to turn around. On the way back to camp, we went up a cliff on the ridge that provided an amazing view to the currently forbidden East (as the isolated U’wa communities had forbidden access on their side of the mountain). To the South there stood the jagged Castillo and the Pico de Antonio, while to the North there was the equally jagged ridge of the Aguja, complete with its round glacier and corolla of Unnamed Peaks. In between North and South, the Quebrada el Avellanal, a nearly straight valley cut across the razor blade-like mountains, with three turquoise lakes set on layers in the massive rock bed. Back in camp, the whole valley roared as huge blocks of ice broke loose in avalanches from the glaciers above in the early afternoon sunshine and broke into millions of pieces upon reaching the slabs below.

Another early start had us go towards the ridge, picking up an initially steep glacier that solely got smoother. Making our way between a few crevasses some of which could only be figured out under a layer of snow, we reached the foot of the rocky Picacho at day break. What had appeared from a distance to be a big stump, a trapezoidal pile of rocks was in fact a sharp blade made of big rocks and slabs standing – or hanging for that matter – in all possible positions. Past a couple of more exposed sections, we reached the 4990 m.a.s.l. peak that commanded great views into the U’wa territory. Joy was fugitive a cuppa to enjoy, as the wind had considerably picked up and it was rather cold.

Back in camp, we packed our loads and went up the steep 200 m. to the rocky pass, then starting on a traverse towards the Las Playitas, where we once again met the trail going up towards the lower reaches of Ritak U’wa Blanco glacier. With the trail came the buzz, as there were some half a dozen tents at the Las Playitas, the last campsite at around 4600 m.a.s.l., and a few more people came in later on. We left the tent at about 2 A.M., some 2 hours ahead of the others, and reached the snowline almost an hour later; while the sky was crystal clear, the wind soon picked up and it was rather cold. Past the snowline, the route up was along a round, wide ridge with a steady 20-25 degree slope that seemed to never come to an end; that, we knew, as we had seen the long ridge from the Picacho. As for the ‘how long?’ question, the only point of reference was provided by the huge, massive peak of Ritak U’wa Negro we could see in the moonlight to the left. We knew the peak ahead of us was Cocuy’s highest and the Negro was some 100 m. lower. A more pointy ridge winding between crevasses slowly developed ahead of us and a big ice and snow stump appeared at its end not much later, the moon reigning on its very top in all glory: the peak of Ritak U’wa Blanco. My toes were numb due to the low temperature combined with the fact that the hard snow had had my boots almost always above the surface, with the quite strong headwind. Past a fake peak, we reached the bottom of a 10 m. deep crevasse separating the former from the real, 5400 m.a.s.l. peak.

Going out of the crevasse on the relatively steep slope with a 500 m. drop below, we climbed the final, short stretch to the peak exactly at daybreak. There could not have been a better moment. Remote ridges glittered in tones of red and orange as if the someone had set the snow on fire, mountain peaks seemed to rule over the land with the emerging light emphasizing their majestic shapes, the air was thin and, despite the wind blowing rather strongly one could hear nothing but his thoughts while standing there in complete awe. As Lionel Terray had put it in the book I was reading:

‘Tomorrow he might return to the valley and be swallowed up by all the mediocrity of life, but for one day at least he looked full at the sky.’

Upon returning home I was to write a friend:

‘[…] all mountain had turned red while the cliffs around us looked like flames bursting out of the snow sea below. For a moment, the bitter cold, that strong wind, those numb feet, every single thing but that emerging light ceased to exist. Going up the mountains on a weekly basis, I often get to see beautiful sunrises or sunsets, the sun emerging from behind the clouds, crystal clear skies full of stars or the like; while I naturally enjoy such moments, that particular one was a world apart. On obviously subjective a scale, it had not been more beautiful than other similar moments. I had seen fine sunrises sometimes from arguably more dramatic or scenic places. I had climbed peaks requiring definitely more effort. But this time it was all different, as I could sense this pure light embracing me, this certain something lifting me off the ground in absolute silence and peace to such an extent that time seemed to no longer exist as the moment turned into an eternity with no earthly point of reference. Then, as if someone had just slapped me in the face and chased me away, I was back in the ephemeral world I had come from. All of a sudden, while it appeared to me I had been standing there in that light for ages, I could once again feel the cold air on my face and the rope rubbing against my shoulder, I could once again hear the wind whistling through my helmet and hood. I could not help wondering how come I had not completely frozen during all this time, but seeing Eduardo standing there and quietly taking in the view, as well as the sun in more or less the same position like before, I realized I had only been ‘out’ for one single moment. Steel logic argued it all might have been but an outburst of fatigue and joy. On the other hand, I was now positive that happiness is worth its calling only if it lasts for just as long as those cliffs were burning out of the snow below in that emerging sunlight: a single moment. Because once the sun completely came out from behind the distant ridges at the horizon line and the night turned into day for good, that precious moment would turn into ordinariness, into the mediocrity given by the day’s long hours of so predictable and constant light.’

While one might attempt to explain, describe or provide pictures of such a moment, words and images shall always miserably fail to provide for the task and the viewer, reader or listener shall be at most impressed by the narrator’s eloquence or style. In the often case where the latter misses the aforementioned eloquence or style, the former clings to what appears to him to be downsides comforting him he made a good choice relying on the conveniences of the misunderstood term of ‘civilization’ for an entire life. In this case, numb toes, waking up at 1 or 2 A.M. for several days, a week’s worth of sweat and dirt, getting some 50 m. short of one of the peaks on the way two days before or, to start with, traveling almost half the way around the planet to get to, don’t they deal only drugs, paramilitary and kidnappings there, oh yeah, Colombia (even though, it needs be said that, without claiming this put and end to drug cartels, Pablo Escobar had been shot dead some more than 20 years before).

We went back and the round ridge down now seemed like a cake a child had played with too much of grandma’s whipped cream on, as piles and mounds of ice and snow on the round mountain seemed about to overflow over the slopes and valleys to the left and right. We reached the other climbing parties at the snowline, as they were on their way up. They had unfortunately missed that magic light, were going up on ever softer snow, respectively with a strong sun ahead. Back down, with climbers gone up and the tents spread on the generous, flat slabs of stone around a creek, the camp seemed like a ghost town.

Past lazying in the strong sun for a couple of hours, past trekking down to the posada, respectively lying down among cattle and horses while waiting for Don Alfredo to drive up the steep, narrow dirt road and pick us up, past a couple of empanadas and arepas in Cocuy, past the vibrant local pre-Christmas fiesta complete with police escort carrying colorful balloons and a night bus ride, the following morning at 5 saw me and my dusty backpack in Bogotá’s Portal Norte with two days of self-imposed slow pace walks, laundry and lengthy talks to strangers as the only allowed prospects.

Leaving Bogotá for the North on a Sunday morning provided a different image of the city, as its lengthy anyway bicycle paths multiplied with whole avenue or highway lanes dedicated only to cyclists, runners and skaters. Well signposted route junctions, frequent refreshment points and omnipresent police assistance provided for the (many) thousands of people into sports, whether at an amateur / recreational or a professional / intense level. While running or cycling on a car-packed avenue, even on traffic free, dedicated lanes is not that glorious a prospect, the amount of effort the city put into this project was outstanding, as it created a whole pool of people interested in the outdoors in the same city rocked by fiestas and late night kicks on a regular basis.

Villa de Leyva was a fine, probably usually quiet highland town – well, not on a late December Sunday, when many people from the capital came on a day trip -, with its adobe houses and their ornate wood balconies, while the nearly omnipresent Christmas lights and plastic décor came as a nice ad-on to the otherwise typical, movie set colonial architecture. The Luis Alberto Acuña mansion proved to be a welcome oasis of tranquility for the visitor from the endless buzz outside, with some excellent early works of the master, but the most interesting part was given by the fresco-adorned patio complete with scenes from the local Chibcha mythology. While wandering through town on the rather hot early afternoon, I had just entered the parish church in the Plaza Mayor and, having spent a few minutes admiring the altar, I turned around to walk out when I found a crowd blocking the entrance. Quiet, solemn dark-clad men and women stood there around a coffin while waiting for the priest to come say a prayer. There was no loud wailing or gesturing, which made these people’s sorrow heavier and more obvious. The priest eventually came and, after the Padre Nuestro, the crowd went towards the altar for what would have appeared to be nothing but a regular Sunday service. The scene reminded me of how often Colombians used the word ‘tranquilo’, mostly as a low key urge or rather advice meant to point out that everything was in due order and, even if not, life was going on in a laissez faire, laissez passer way. It came as a strong contrast from the behaviour of some of my colleagues and generally many of my countrymen for instance that kept on going around boasting the so typical omnipotent, ‘been here since Creation day, know it all’ approach. Egocentrics pushing the others (or sending them straight to hell for not being quick enough), forgetting any sense of politeness and slamming doors while pretending to be in a continuous rush and / or lack of time, but actually showing they have no sense of respect for themselves, let alone the others or the very thing they have to do. Humanly lifeless characters making unnecessary noise, hence disturbing the peace of the universe around them like nothing but a rusty trinket and therefore not being granted anything resembling the very respect the quietly mourning crowd had for that corpse in its simple coffin.

Two bus rides away, getting to the bus station on the outskirts of San Gil at night, I walked into town to find it oozing of life, with many people, young and old, walking around the main park, with a few restaurants still open and a dozen or so of foreigners in flip-flops drinking beer while propped against an old building wall. A few blocks away from the park, I popped into a hotel: it was 10 P.M. and it had been a long day.

Located on the rather dry hills above the city, Barichara was the picturesque South American colonial village torn away from a period postcard or, better, from a contemporary telenovela. Unlike the Villa de Leyva, it was smaller, far better – even obsessively – restored and, despite the several upscale restaurants and guesthouses set in its old adobe houses, there were not that many visitors, which granted its nearly deserted streets a special touch. More than anything else, it was quiet, with only boards, crickets, church bells and the odd child laughter coming from behind an open window to break the silence. As for the hot, windless afternoon, it could have hardly completed the picture in a better way.

Back down in San Gil, after a welcome break in the busy local market full of joyful, friendly farmers selling their produce, for the day’s second batido and (also second) fruit salad with cheese, I hopped on a van to the Santander District capital of Bucaramanga and its one million people. The ride, with the road going across steep slopes facing 1000 m. drops in the Parque Nacional Del Chicamocha, came just as much of a shock as the heat or the Lahore-like motorcycle and old bus buzz and fumes in the city. Vast street stalls selling all sorts of textiles stood next to the central butcher hall, while everything and everyone was embraced by a thick, mouth-watering smoke coming from vendors pushing mobile grills and arepa stoves; the place was to get a total change of appearance the following morning, when smartly dressed men and women walked into banks and various other businesses nearby. The big board above the airport road could not have put it any better: ‘Si pises a Santander, eres un santanderino’.

Every country has a Cartagena of its own: the Czech Republic has Prague, Turkey has Istanbul, Ecuador has Cuenca, Poland and Cracow. In some of these cases however, the price such cities paid for tourist fame has replaced authenticity with tourist mod-cons, regular restaurants or taverns with whatever fake theme venues and generally common sense with a plethora of otherwise superfluous facilities meant to pamper, to please at all costs. While Cartagena de Indias had its share of trade-offs, for the time being that was true only for a part of its old town. The rest was still noisy (let us call it vibrant), chaotic (colourful and captivating), respectively crowded (alive, a natural feature for one of the continent’s main harbour cities). Contrasts abounded, from the fusion, smart design and upscale décor restaurants off the Plaza de Santo Domingo to the many stands selling steamy arepas de queso (which were way thicker and richer in taste than their Southern equivalents), from tourists opting for a horse-pulled cart ride across town to those that had no option but to glue to the already packed busetas down the Avenida Santander, from baby butt-white face, high end foreigners enjoying a sunset cocktail at the trendy El Baluarte Café while listening to an endless lounge theme and grazing not at the sea, but at the fancy Charleston Santa Teresa Hotel they were staying at, and all the way to various local workers and employees quickly gulping a tamal or empanada while sitting on a sidewalk with cars and trucks passing by down the Avenida Venezuela.

Other than that, despite the torrid day heat, contemporary architectural intrusions and whatever conveniences, necessary or not, the old town hosted many beautiful, colonial style houses and churches. The houses with their walls painted in different colours and featuring picturesque wooden balconies, those cobblestone streets, the massive wall running around the old town, the oasis-like small parks and plazas, the stunningly quiet break provided by the peaceful San Pedro Claver Convent, as well as the fruit-laden carts pushed by dark complexion, vivid colour dress ladies, all these and many other details joined in to create a captivating image one could not break loose from and enjoy the Cartagena from a ‘safe’ distance due to two things: the tropical, humid heat, respectively the human flow plying the streets, especially in the Eastern part of town, its noise and go-to-and-fro included.

A flight down to Pereira took one to some 10 degrees C less than the temperature in Cartagena, not to mention half the air humidity there. After a quick hop across town to the already familiar bus terminal, the journey South continued with a 6 hour minibus ride to Popayán in the late afternoon. The leg to Cali went across rolling hills; hay and grasslands alternated with big isolated trees and forest thickets, reed and cornfields, while ponds completed the scenery every now and then. As the sun went down, its light granted everything with a surreal shine and that omnipresent Colombian intense green turned into gold; at the same time, the light wind created waves in the tall grass, hence emphasizing the magic effect of the hour. Just like on the summit of Ritak U’wa Blanco, it was the right moment, with that place that stretched forever turning into flames and only with distant mountain ridges covered by dark clouds providing an – if any – end to it all.

After passing through the busy bus terminal in Cali, we got to Popayán at about 11 P.M., in the sound of decades old tango and salsa songs the minibus driver was very fond of and one of the passengers kept on humming along. A short walk to the old town took one into another world, that of square, rather massive, almost without exception white houses bearing similar square street lights matching the architecture. Only the few churches around provided curved lines and more joyful a design in old Popayán. After walking at ease for a couple of hours with petards and music coming from the main plaza as a background (it was December 24), I walked into a small hotel for the rest of the night and woke up to a different reality, where the square, white town slowly got up and kicking, as rural horse-pulled carts, motorbikes, colourful stalls selling juice, empanadas and plastic slippers started to fill in those straight streets.

Finding transport on to San Agustín was easy, as it was Christmas day and there was only one service announced for 2:30 P.M., which allowed for 3 hours I lay down in the small park off the bus terminal, reading with the buzz of cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes surrounding me. Yet when going back to the terminal, the staff there plainly informed me that, somehow, the bus scheduled for 2:30 P.M. had gone at 1:00 P.M.; they probably got a small group or anyway passengers enough to run it and would not risk on a low business day. Which allowed for an extra night in town in order to get on the early morning service the following day. Which, in its turn, allowed for leisure walks across town, steamy arepas and cool avena.

A good share of the way to San Agustín, that crossing the dense bosque-covered highlands en route, was nothing more than a dirt road perfectly fitting the landscape. With no village or settlement for this whole leg, the army presence at both its ends pointed towards security issues in the past, and so confirmed the extremely courteous lady sitting next to me. Reaching the town, a small community nested in the lower reaches of bucolic countryside and green hills, I found the archaeological park to be not impressive, but a great imagination starter, with its 5000 year old, fine carved stone figures, some of which bore striking resemblances to Inca design patterns. The late afternoon found me walking down less trodden trails to the tumultuous Río Magdalena, only returning to the picturesque, quiet posada I was staying at after dark, with many horsemen trotting down the road towards the town. The posada was some 1 km. above town, so the night was only about a sky full of stars, hens sleeping up in a tree, wild ducks moving around their own reed-surrounded pond, the intense smell of fresh cidron emerging from my cup, as well as a lengthy chat with the considerate elder couple running the place. Just like up the mountains, happiness needs so little material a value (if ever), requiring instead only one’s keeping the window open all night to hear the crickets, smell the hay and feel the cool breeze.

A half a day horse ride to a few other archaeological sites spread around the lush vegetation-covered, hilly countryside off San Agustín showed far more than millennia-old carved stone statues or tombs: vast (terrain-allowing) coffee, lulu, plantain and other fruit plantations, a plethora of bright colour flowers among which a few beautiful orchids, as well as hills upon hills for as far as the eye could see, with the last ridges seeming to melt away in the mass of clouds above. Going together with two French girls I had met on the bus from Popayán the day before, while stopping at a farmhouse in the bosque for a cup of coffee, we met this French couple and, given our common passion, a discussion about the mountains of Colombia and neighboring Ecuador started. Somewhat naturally the topic turned to the former country’s highest range, the Santa Marta, where access was currently denied by the local population out of deep-rooted beliefs and customs. The couple proudly mentioned some friends of theirs that, having attempted the climb and being turned back, had gone back to Europe, studied the mountain on Google Earth and returned to Colombia during the rainy season, when most of the locals had gone to the lower reaches of the mountain and were less active, hence sneaking around and making it to the top. The gesture of climbers Joe Brown and George Band during the first successful expedition to 8586 m.a.s.l. Mount Kangchenjunga automatically came to mind: the two, as well as most (if not all) climbers following them since 1955 stopped about 50 m. short of the summit out of respect for the will and beliefs of the local Chogyal population. None of the locals (or, in many cases, anyone else but their climbing partners) would have seen Brown, Band or, among their followers, Wielicki, Kukuczka, Boukreev or Viesturs on the very top. But they all chose to respect the people living there; it was not being seen that mattered. It was respect as opposed to egocentrism, openness as opposed to ignorance, caring as opposed to greed, common sense as opposed to theft. As for the San Agustín episode, it left one wondering what had happened to the ‘la liberté consiste à pouvoir faire tout ce qui ne nuit pas à autrui’ article of the 1789 Declaration of human and civic rights.

Leaving the tranquil, green countryside behind, I started on the way back to the capital, with an overnight stop in the dry lowlands of Tatacoa. A relatively barren plateau with only thickets of typically pale acacia trees (reduced to bush size) and tall cactuses spread around welcomed the visitor together with a wave of hot air, while a oued fed by carmine-colour ravines wound its way into what seemed to be but an endless nothingness with all landscape fading into the dry haze.

As it was Saturday night, available rooms at the handful of guesthouses or hostels in the so-called desert were scarce, so, together with a few other foreigners and Colombians, I got a hammock tied up between two roof beams on the verandah of one of the hostels. Feeling the hot, dry desert breeze, as well as gazing at that enormous sky at night was, as always, a treat. I woke up just before dawn in what appeared to be the sound of one million birds, with the hardly believable prospect of going to the big city, respectively with the definite one of a lighter backpack, as my one kilo and a half camera was missing from my backpack in the verandah I had shared with about a dozen of other tourists. Later that day, while the Bogotá-bound van driver sped up playing hide-and-seek with death while overtaking trucks with minimal clearance, images of those unique moments up the mountains came to my mind in flashes and I could almost feel the cold night wind on my face. Eduardo was to send me his pictures from our climb – sharing the same rope, we had shot many similar pictures up the snowy ridges – but I was not sure they were of much use: those images were all in there and needed not prints or screen shots.

The air got gradually cooler as the highway went up in tight curves towards Bogotá and there was ever more traffic, as it was Sunday night. Hopping off the van at the Southern reach of the TransMilenio, I got to the large square off the daytime busy Jiménez crossing at almost 11 P.M., finding a highly contrasting image: the place was full of cardboard and plastic packages and boxes, torn out stalls, litter and broken glass, while a few homeless people were warming their hands against huge fires made of heaps of scrap and other remains of the day. Except for them, not a soul was around, which gave the place a ghostly touch, as if taken from a post-apocalyptical theme movie. It was a cold night indeed, so, reaching the Carrera 7 which was a bit more populated, I found a yawning old lady still pushing her cart bearing a big metal pot of steamy aromática, got a glass of the heavenly drink and, happily sipping from it, walked to my hotel. Chatting to the always naturally smiling receptionist curious about the places Don Alejandro had visited, it was past midnight before I knew it.

Past half a sunny day of walking through town and past the stopover in Panamá City, the airline had somewhat managed to sandwich most passengers towards the front of the aircraft, while a group of nearly a dozen Colombians commanded by two self-possessed mid-aged women and a single foreigner (myself, thanks to a change of airline-assigned seat during self-check-in) throned towards the less than half-occupied back of the aircraft, telling jokes, singing and laughing. Hopping over the ocean, spontaneity and – to a certain degree – freedom died out. A fast pace city tour of Lisbon while always surrounded by crowds of tourists, as Pedro, an old friend, tried to show me as much as possible. An elder French lady verbally discontent that someone had dared walk in and hence spoiled her ‘perfect’ picture of the Padrão dos Descobrimentos. Young men frequently offering marijuana and cocaine up the Rua Augusta with its high end designer and pastry shops. The sterile, beautifully dead former dockland quay nowadays turned into the typical ‘look at me’, fancy stone-paved promenade expanse. And, sir, what about dinner sitting at a stylish plastic table up in the very Castelo de São Jorge, a glass of Croft Quinta Roêda aside? A world that had killed all its traditions with only nicely packed surrogates displayed in restaurant and discounted store windows at buy two, get one for free, day’s special fare.

A month later, having read the story above, all a colleague remarked of my trip through Colombia was that I had got my camera stolen there. I was indeed back in Europe, where materialism alone mattered, where people had managed to lose their very human nature while trading it for fancy restaurants, comfy hotels or posh cars, suffocating it in convenience and glitz. And then throwing the meagre remains of the human spirit in a – golden, it is true – cage while denying themselves the right to relax, wander and ultimately be free.