I arrive at the edge of town in the morning. Because I am reluctant to admit to anyone else that I am not a local (a fact which is absurdly obvious), I wander around clean, quiet streets for a while looking for the main plaza. Seconds before the day’s last trip up to the valley leaves, I spot the plaza and pile into a ‘50s-era Jeep with an Irish couple, a few Spaniards on vacation and a group of Colombians.
We take off up a steep mountain road, skidding around curves at heart-skipping speed. All of a sudden, I hear a CRASH and the sound of shattering glass. I shut my eyes and turn my head. A few shards fell into my lap and I hear tires on gravel roaring past us. When I open my eyes again I see that a truck driving down the road had passed us so close that he’d smashed the drivers’ side mirror clean off, sending the pieces flying in on us. We screech to a halt (the truck had, of course, continued without a backward glance). Our driver’s forearm is gashed deep and bloody, but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed. He glances at it, grabs a stained, greasy rag from the dashboard and wraps it around his arm several times, tightening the knot with his teeth. He brushes the makeshift bandage along the edge of the plastic seat to sop up the blood that had spattered there and continues up the hill again. In the States there would have been some major yelling and sueing going on.
The wax palms sit half-shrouded in mist on the hillsides. Their trunks are tall and spindly, topped by a small burst of fronds at the very top. I remember being struck by a picture of those wax palms on the Lonely Planet website (one of my favorite time-wasters on slow days at work), and I’m happy to get to take my own. The sight is ten times more impressive in person, and the Irish couple and I document it thoroughly. The saturated sky opens up on us and I am suddenly soaked to the bone. The Irish couple is happily dry under their rain ponchos, and I realize that I haven’t brought, nor do I own, a raincoat. Oops.
Our Jeep rolls back to Salento under the weight of twice the number of people we’d come up with: seven on the inside and four more standing on the bumper, arms stretched onto the roof, grasping for a good hold. Every time we bounce, I hear a WHOO! from the outside riders.
With the soggy day’s remaining light, I took these pictures. Each house and shop was painted different colors, and I especially liked the doors:
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