Saturday morning farmer's market in Villa de Leyva, Colombia.

Saturday morning farmer’s market. And holy cannoli what a market.

A couple days ago we walked past the market space and it was a bare concrete platform with a few shattered crates and some rotting cabbage leaves. We walked up there this morning, expecting a couple rows of stalls…what we found was an ocean of vegetables, fruits, and what-the-heck-is-that?

Around the periphery were the means of transport for the people who had come into town for market day, cars below in the gravel lot, and donkeys and mules above on the grassy hillside. I watched one rugged fellow in a dusty poncho get in a tussle with his mule, holding tight to the reins and sneaking his hand up and up and then lunging for the ear as the mule ducked its head. He was faster, gave the ear a visible twist, then lead his subdued beast off for the walk home.

I was overwhelmed by the people and produce, and still a little sleepy, so am disappointed with my pictures, but let me give you some idea of the variety. That I can recollect offhand, there were stacks of carrots, tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, yellow squash, green gourd squash, pumpkins, zucchini, fuzzy-spiky bell pepper things, toothless-old-man bell pepper things. 

Green beans, eggplant, beets, and gorgeous piles of avocadoes. A dozen types of potatoes from familiar brown to tiny red fingerlings, garlic, corn on the cob and loose by the grain, as well as bunches of unknown herbs and leafy greens.

Peaches, yellow mangoes, green mangoes, apples, strawberries, grapes, bananas, plantains, watermelons, blackberries, blueberries, papaya, at least four different types of oranges, cantaloupe, pineapples, limes, pears, plums, persimmons (I think that‘s what chontaduro are?), guava, passion fruit, cactus fruit, star fruit, feijoa, guanabana, chirimoya, uchuva, mamones, tomates del arbol, lulo, gulupa, granadilla, curuba, and mangostino, whose name is a combination of mango and lobster, because the meat inside looks rather like the latter.

Good thing our hostel has a little fruit guide, otherwise I would have just said “uh…there were like…all the fruit I’ve ever heard of…then bunches more.”

We bought a bell pepper and two carrots for 25 cents, the same for a bag of 8 beautiful homegrown tomatoes. For 50 cents each we got an avocado the size of a canteloupe and a big bag of fresh local blackberries. For just over a buck we got a little pot of homemade uchuva (pic at left) and ginger jam.

One edge of the market also had durable items, like socks, pottery, ponchos, shoes, belts, kitchen supplies, bras and baseball caps. Then the upper edge was divided between sausage and meat grillers to one side, and bubbling pots of breakfast stuffs over wood fires on the other.

We took a seat at one of the latter among locals who ranged from helpful and chatty to politely ignoring us. We ate “pericos” eggs (not sure what the English word is, they’re sorta baked(or)grilled in a little metal pot with tomatoes and onions), rice, and for me a sort of stew with fatty little chunks of beef (maybe pork?) and (Spanish pronunciation please) “muta,” which were kernels of the thick corn prepared somehow-or-other until they are like a plump starchy sort of popcorn. It was delicious. Then of course two cups of the incredible real-cocoa hot chocolate that makes me want to weep tears of joy in the marketplace.

The wood fires were going strong, and by the time we left we were covered in flecks of ash and smelled strongly of woodsmoke. Leaving, my hands held bags of fruit and vegetables, my belly was full of fresh-cooked breakfast, and my traveler spirit was smiling fit to blind the sun.

Pre-Colombian petroglyphs in Sachica.

“It’s a pretty easy place to get lost…I don’t think there are any signs…there’s not really a path…what little path there was got pretty washed out last winter…there’s a bridge, but it’s missing some pieces…” With a description like that is it any wonder K and I set out this morning to discover the forgotten valley southwest of Villa de Leyva? But it was also described as a magical place with great energy and ancient paintings on the rock walls.

(They're not sure how old they are, but they pertain to either the Arawak or Chibchas civilizations, both of which date back to the fourth century AD.) (The Arawak language gave us the word barbecue which is pretty awesome cuz them hillbillies ain't got no idea they speakin' Arawakese.)

We walked along the same road we took to the aguas termales, marveling at how much shorter a distance is when you know where you’re going, and stopping to buy a pair of fresh peaches from a pair of brothers selling them out of the back of a pickup truck.

We passed the hot springs and headed uphill to the toll booth, where we asked if anyone knew how to get to the paintings. No one did, and they looked at us with baffled concern as we set off walking up the narrow winding highway, semi trucks groaning past an arm’s reach away, munching our peaches happily. Buenos dias!

We reached the top of the slope and were delighted to see a battered and bent sign for the paintings on a pole twisted nearly down to the ground. We left the highway and found the entrance to the valley, beginning our descent past a few silent houses. We passed the third and last motionless house to find that not all inhabitants of the valley are so peaceful.

Dogs, man. Frickin dogs. This one fella was not happy to see us. At all. I think we may have startled him, and he showed his ire with barks, growls, raised hackles and gnashing fangs. There are no pictures of him because my hands were busy picking up rocks to throw at him if necessary.

Luckily it didn’t get that far, and we left the nasty little bastard behind us as we continued into the valley.

We found the bridge, which was indeed missing the guard rails and several planks, though some had been replaced by rough-sawn chunks of wood. What was left was hardly confidence inspiring but we made it across without any broken limbs or action movie moments.

On the other side the path continued through lush green grass between the sere cactus hills. What looked like cows were grazing along the path, but we couldn’t help but notice their rather impressive balls hanging down. Hello…oxen? Surely no one leaves their bulls out to wander around? Sometimes I realize what a city boy I really am, despite my best intentions.

Walking through the valley was a pleasure, and TV-Liaison Lady was right, it is a special place. Villa de Leyva is hardly a metropolitan spot, but THIS felt relaxed. It was a whole new side of Colombia we hadn’t seen yet, and I am immensely thankful that we had the chance.

Not long later we noticed a rock wall piled under an overhang; we had found the paintings. It never ceases to amaze me when you arrive at what could be a significant tourist site and there is basically nothing there. No ropes, no cameras, no security guards, not even any other people. Just a couple more cowbulloxen who were barely interested in us, much less the centuries-old artwork on the rock above their heads.

Again Liaison Lady was right, there was a special energy here, probably because there was no one else around. You could stand under the massive shelf of brittle rock overhead and imagine camping here centuries ago, a normal person just like you (only without the Ipod) making a fire against the stone and painting faces, figures, and designs on the rock overhead. Was it religious or were they just waiting for the rain to stop?

We stood and marveled for awhile, then started the long walk back, filling out pockets with stones of varies sizes in case the asshole dog was still there. We approached the place we’d seen him before…then his house…then we were in his yard when I suddenly heard…nothing. Our quick steps took us past, and with relief and smiles we began dropping our arsenals.

Back up onto the highway, where we immediately got a priceless look from a passing motorist of “Who the…? What the…? How the…? Where the hell did they come from?!?” The whole day was perfect weather, overcast to protect from sunburn but nice and warm, occasional short bursts of light rain to tickle the skin.

I enjoyed the use of my new hat (I’m kinda in love with it) and we bought two more peaches from the brothers with the overflowing truck, then we were back, perfectly tired, digging into a replenishing meal with a perfect glass of red wine.

Gotta say it was a good day.

My Colombian debut

Went for a walk today. Made my ankle blister bleed again, and got on Colombian television.

We found a flyer in town for a desert garden that advertised a labyrinth, medicine wheel, and a variety of unknown Spanish vocabulary that sounded enticing anyway. So this afternoon after changing hostels, eating lunch in one of the most gorgeous inner courtyards I have ever seen, and doing some laundry in the hotel sink (sh! Don’t tell them!) we started walking.

It was a nice walk, with a great view down over the valley and up onto the slopes of the Cordillera Oriental of the Andes. I didn’t think a picture would do it justice, but stepped over to take one anyway, avoiding the little group of people in a white minivan who were mounting a rather impressive camera of their own.

I took my picture and K and I started walking again, only to be stopped a few steps later by a lady from the group running up and asking if we were tourists, and if so, where were we headed. The Pozos Azules? (Blue wells/waterholes/ponds.)

She explained that she was working as a local liaison with a camera crew filming a sort of Colombia documentary aiming to advertise the country to its own inhabitants and expats living abroad. Would we like to be in it?

The director asked us to walk up the road again, this time on film. Okeydokey, sounds fun! There happened to be a military checkpoint right there, two babyfaced young men with assault rifles, and the liaison suggested that if they were trying to improve Colombia’s image, putting 18 year olds with automatic weapons in the shot might not be the best approach. “No offense, guys.”

We walked up the road. Then again, slower, straight at the camera and passing to either side. Classy.

Then they taped a mic up under my shirt and asked me what I thought of Colombia and Villa de Leyva, and why. In Spanish please. A little harder, but also fun.

Then they drove us to the Pozos Azules, and filmed us walking up to a vantage point, K taking a picture, and asked her what she thought of the area. It was awesome watching her negotiate away from having to answer in Spanish, then answering with the camera and crew standing around her. The poor sound guy looked like he was going to have an aneurism when he had to clip the microphone onto the neckline of her dress.

Then it was down to the water itself, where they asked K again how she felt about the area. Next was my turn, sitting on the embankment, asked what I thought about the area and the water, then if I felt Colombia was unsafe and how I felt about that.

These two questions caught me off guard. To the first I said I thought it was beautiful, that we had similar places (in the US) but that I liked that there was no pollution there. In doing so I made up a new Spanish word for pollution. Oops.

Then for the security question I said we have never felt unsafe, and have met a lot of very friendly and helpful Colombians, but that we did take it into account, for example by avoiding long or overnight bus trips. As I said that the director’s face fell. Sorry mate, gotta tell the truth, you don’t turn around a country’s entire image in 8 years. He was a purist though, and no second chances or preparation, just honest reactions.

The director said he’d email me the link when it’s ready and tell me when it’ll be televised. I’ll try to link it here.

The Pozo Azul, beautiful, even though it's actually
just a man-made reservoir (Sh! That's a secret!)

While they filmed K expounding on how beautiful the area is, the liaison lady told me about the area and its sacred and semi-forgotten past, including the old entrance to the valley (before a paved road changed the route) that has a lot of ancient drawings on the rock walls. She described how to get there, adding that it was an easy place to get lost, there was not really a path, and what path there was has probably been destroyed by last winter’s storms. We’re going to try and walk there tomorrow. Wish us luck, otherwise our upcoming Colombian debut will have a whole different vibe…

Ajiaco con pollo

It was with not a shred of reluctance that I returned to Albahaca restaurant for another round of ajiaco con pollo. Oh the things I put up with.

The same expressionless waitress was there to tolerate our presence (customer service just ain‘t the same overseas) even when we asked for guanabana and mango juices. Oh the things she puts up with.

(Guanabana is arguably my favorite new fruit, a big spiky green bastard with delicious white innards that are kind of a creamy combination of pineapple and pear. Our little fruit guide says it's rich in Vitamins A and C, as well as calcium, phosphorous, and iron.)

Ajiaco con pollo is a regional specialty, a bowl of thick chicken soup with potatoes and a spinach-like vegetable. It seems to usually come with corn on the cob, but I haven’t seen that yet. What it has come with is a separate dish with rice and avocado, and one with capers and sour cream.

Mixed all together in whatever portions seem appropriate at the moment, it is divine.

I managed to take a few pictures before ripping into it this time, and my thanks to K for mopping up the drool. (If I’m going to continue taking pictures of food I should maybe get a waterproof case for my camera…)

Aguas termales

Villa de Leyva has a number of worthwhile destinations scattered in the surrounding countryside, one of which is a set of “aguas termales“ or thermal pools.

The flustered girl in the tourist information center told us it would take about an hour and a half to walk there, a good distance for today's perfect weather, warm without being hot, a nice breeze, bright blue sky with occasional big fluffy white clouds to alleviate the chances of sunburn.

People were a little surprised we wanted to walk instead of taking a bus or taxi, but we enjoyed the views over this high altitude valley in the Eastern Range of the Andes (the town is 2,144 meters above sea level). The geography is dramatic here, with dark lurking hills on the far side of the valley, striped with erosion gullies that I’m sure could swallow entire towns.

There wasn’t much traffic on the road, mostly either minibuses blasting past and barely breaking for epic pothole zones, or larger trucks chugging along with their hold-your-breath hugs of black exhaust.

After just long enough to doubt we were on the right track, we found the large brick archway which stands self-consciously at the entrance to the area, immaculate bricks looking for something to do while the actual signage is a weathered wooden plank falling apart and barely visible nailed to a tree.

A cleaner sign read "private property, no trespassing, armed guards." We'll just ignore that one.

There is another out-of-place little house next to the pools, with a couple changing alcoves whose curtains blow straight up in the wind, and an area that I’m guessing serves cold drinks during High Season, or at least in some developer’s dreams of the future. Today there was a sign saying temporarily closed for remodeling. There was no one there, just us and two dogs sleeping in the shade.

Sulfur colors, better to see than smell.

There were three pools, two of which were murky soup of mushy algae, so we enjoyed the third one, with its pleasantly bubbling center, pleasantly geological sulfur smell, and pleasantly warm temperature. Quite a pleasant place, really. And my skin is remarkably smooth tonight.

On the path back we approached an epic old man, who I immediately adored until he said “don’t you have any money to give me?” Then at the highway another random guy making a phone call told us we owed him a 5,000 peso ($2.75) entrance fee each. My guard up, I asked for a receipt, which he laughed at, and told him we had no way of knowing he was legit, given that there was no signage of any sort, he had no badge, and could give us no receipt.

In the end my trust (in him and/or in karma) and inability to walk away from authoritative-looking people (he had a hat that said Colombia on it) won out and I handed him 10,000 pesos. Whatever. Share some with grandpa.

The walk back of course went faster (anyone understand why that is?) and soon we were back in Villa de Leyva, sporting slight hedges of sunburn and prodigious appetites. We tried a typical-looking place first, but the smell of death and chicken-only menu dissuaded K, and I am glad because we ended up at a fantastic little family place. It was so good I had nearly finished my meal, again, before it occurred to me to share it with you, and since I have discovered that food is serious business in blogging, I’ll leave that for another day, after I have a chance to go back and eat there again.

Thank you for being my excuse to have another lamb wrap.

Villa de Leyva

To say the streets of Villa de Leyva are cobblestone would be like saying Bogota has traffic; sure it’s true, but the level of understatement is unacceptable.


Antwerp has cobblestone streets, regular shapes that sound rhythmic under the tires of passing luxury sedans, and look like fish scales on rainy days. Villa de Leyva’s streets look more like riverbeds than fish scales, each stone a different size, shape, and personality. There is no rhythmic sound of passing cars, perhaps because the town’s speed limit is a crawling 5 kilometers per hour.

5 kilometers per hour! We would walk faster than that, except the stones are uneven enough that walking to the store is a 10 minute game of Try-Not-To-Break-Your-Ankle, so we all go 5 kph, staring at our feet, the cars just big lugs going with the flow of traffic, like cows in Nepal.

I suspect this mandate for a leisurely pace is a significant factor in the towns impressive ability to be sleepy and relaxed, even with 400 years of history and enough tourism sex appeal to build a ring of chic hotels around the town. God bless the Low Season though, because we have seen only a few other whiteys; I suspect most of the tourists here are Colombian.


My skin thinks it’s in a Goldilocks story, Cartagena was too hot, Bogota too cold, but Villa de Leyva is juuust right.

I’m spoiled on gorgeous windows after Cartagena, but I still can’t walk more than a block without staring at someone‘s wall; thank goodness the shutters are always closed or I might find myself with some explaining to do.


There are old women walking around in awesome hats, very similar to the iconic bowler hats of Bolivia, some serious indigenous highland style with weathered cheeks and wise eyes.

I was already falling in love with the town within an hour of arrival, despite the hunger in my belly, but when the waitress set down my bowl of “ajiaco con pollo” I was ready to propose marriage. A regional specialty, ajiaco is a thick chicken soup with potatoes and some sort of spinach-like herb, served with rice, avocado, thick corn, sour cream, and capers.

(The corn is thick and meaty, totally unlike our flaccid kernels. It’s like Botero’s version of corn.)

A couple seconds after it arrived I realized I should take a picture. Um…sorry. I’ll try again tomorrow. Eagerly.

(The beverage was a hot cup of "agua de panela" which is basically delicious unrefined sugar water.)

Bogota, reunion, and departure.

As far as cities go (and a capital city at that) Bogota is pretty good. And most significantly, it was where K joined me; I am half a pair again.

She joined me Tuesday night after a rather stressful journey from San Francisco (do any airlines fly on time anymore?) and we spent three days wandering around the city, remembering how to be together and how to travel non-alone, both of which used to be easy, but take some reactivation time.

Wednesday we spent resting, hunting for food, admiring the truly impressive and ubiquitous graffiti, avoiding the impressive piles of dog feces, and trying to tell if we were feeling hints of altitude sickness (I think we were). On Thursday we walked around a large protest of bicycle taxis, whose horns and whistles drowned out the snazzily dressed fellow who had been shouting his message in La Plaza de Bolivar the day before. (He stood and calmly recited his Message anyway.)

Friday we walked to the Modern Art Museum, exploring the myriad differences between guide book maps and reality. There was a surprisingly small number of actual art pieces (Bogota‘s real modern art is the graffiti), but we did happen to be there when the current artist was, so we found ourselves accidentally sitting in a lecture hall listening to Orlan speak about her art in French, translated into Spanish, and shouting between the lines with the common latent hatred of the artiste for the audience.

By Saturday we had had enough Bogota, so headed for Villa de Leyva, a country town whose single paragraph description included “spectacular mountains…a must-see showcase of colonial architecture…sitting around the 400-year-old plaza drinking sangria…untroubled ambiance…mild climate…perfect place to relax.”

I read that while sitting in a cafeteria in downtown Bogota while a nonstop parade of mini-buses roared by outside, each puking a visible cloud of black airbarf so the other side of the street looked hazy.

First we took the TransMilenio, Bogota’s double-length red buses that act more like a subway than a bus, stopping only at elevated stations which are entered via turnstiles and are built like cages to prevent freeloaders. Public transit systems abroad are always a learning curve, and first here, and then again at the normal bus station, I was impressed by the helpfulness of the Colombian people, even in a big city.

About four hours of green countryside and one seriously epic kung-fu movie later we pulled into Villa de Leyva and I got a funny feeling. The cobblestone street was… The white-washed buildings with doors and windows of bold greens, blues, and reds were… The people walking around… The perfect temperature felt…

Oh my. I’m in love. With a town.