An auspicious start, the border crossing was painless. I left the Ecuadorian border city, Tulcán, early Sunday morning by minibus, covering the few kilometers that remained to the border. A naturally defined border, a bridge spans an Andean river overlooking lush surroundings. The Ecuadorian side had no immigration line, so with a quick stamp in my passport I casually crossed the bridge into Colombia. Effortlessly I received my entry passport stamp, quickly exchanged money, and began my journey to Columbia.
In Ecuador, the huge Andes mountain range forms a unique backbone in the mid-section of the country. Upon reaching Colombia, the Andes are divided into three separate mountain ranges. The tumultuous divide is dramatically illustrated along the road to Popayán, a colonial city some 200 miles north of the Ecuadorian border.
The first phase of the journey is defined by green mountainous terrain and cold air. As the mountain range begins to formulate its divergences, wider and deeper valleys emerge as the road begins its descent. Soon, the deep valleys transform into dramatic, plummeting gorges, the now arid and desert landscape. Villagers set up modest restaurants to cater to passing travelers, their worn structures perched precariously on the edge of the mountain.
The highway continues to zigzag down to a river crossing, suddenly climbing headlong up, then down again, continuing this roller coaster ride for many more miles as buses and trucks constantly strain their speeds.
I must have fallen asleep during this roller coaster ride because I soon woke up to a very contrasting tropical scene outside my window, a tall jungle encroaching on the curb edges. This is where the journey becomes interesting.
As the bus approached a small town, a road blockage obstructed our progress. Half a dozen men dressed in guerilla camouflage uniforms waved our bus to a complete stop. They identified themselves as members of the FURC guerrilla group, a benign branch of the more notorious FARC group. They were looking for people to volunteer as hostages. I was the only foreigner on board. Seeing my hesitation, they quickly announced that tonight at the guerrilla camp they were having an outdoor screening of the classic Laurel and Hardy movies, popcorn included. The temptation worked … I volunteered.
A covered truck was waiting for us. To keep his whereabouts a secret, I allowed the men to blindfold me. The ride seemed like an eternity, bouncing off the back of his truck. We finally stopped and the blindfold was removed. Squinting, my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the jungle. The complex was modest in size. My nostrils itched from the pungent smells of farm animals and human sweat. Fortunately, the aroma of freshly buttered popcorn softened the less pleasant smells.
When I started to sit on a log to watch the movies, I saw her: caramel skin, statuesque and dressed in jungle camouflage, the Colombian woman introduced herself as the leader of the FURC. The moment was lust at first sight. While the FURC men were preoccupied laughing and eating popcorn, we sneaked into their big canvas tent and made passionate love.
The next few days lazily flowed like tropical heat. Good morning Colombian espresso followed by volleyball games between guerrillas and hostages. The guerrillas had mistakenly taken two volleyball champions hostage; a Brazilian and a Swedish. Needless to say, our hostage team kicked butt!
Finally Friday came and although no one in the outside world had paid my hostage ransom in dollars, I told the FURC members that I had to go back to Ecuador. The Colombian reluctantly agreed. Since the group had cunningly confiscated a helicopter from a military installation many months ago, they hoped to use the helicopter to transport a luxurious hot tub from the residence of a prominent political figure back to their compound, to help them attract more volunteer hostages. I told them to text me when they did.
I thought about mentioning that as a possible alternative source of income, you might consider jumping on the ecotourism bandwagon by creating FURC tours. They reflected on this new idea.
After saying goodbye, we jumped into the truck, where I was once again blindfolded, and then we returned through the jungle to civilization.
That is one version of what happened during my visit to Colombia. Now … here’s another.
One of the joys and challenges of traveling is separating fact from fiction, truth from myth. Although far from being completely safe, guerrilla encounters along Colombia’s main travel routes have declined considerably in recent years. My trip to and from Popayán went smoothly, without incident.
Occasional bus robbery occurs, mainly at night. Are they influenced by the FARC or are they simply the criminal habits of thieves and thugs? Who knows?
The FARC wield considerable influence in the countryside and outlying towns near Popayán, yet no tourists, from what I have heard, have been bothered. All the travelers I have spoken with had had no problems and were really enjoying their trips around Columbia. The usual safeguards and precautions for travel certainly still apply, especially in big cities.
Popayán is a very quiet city, especially in the colonial section of the old town: whitewashed buildings, wrought iron balconies, churches on every corner. Popayán had been the seat of power several centuries ago, when the region was still under Spanish rule. The power later ceded to Bogotá and Popayán, probably to their benefit, has maintained a second-tier status ever since.
After suffering a devastating earthquake in 1983, in the last ten years Popayán has undergone a complete renovation, resurrecting to surpass its former glory.
My first night in Popayán I experienced a 6.8 magnitude earthquake while sitting in my hostel. The epicenter was more than 150 miles deep below the Colombian coastal surface. There was no damage in Popayán, just a feeling of rolling wild.
A university town, the cultural amenities in Popayán are plentiful as are the beautiful women. The coffees are also plentiful. Its interiors speak volumes, alluding to a rich colorful history: old dark wood chairs and tables, hardwood floors and balconies, cracked stucco, and faded cultural posters.
Taking my espresso, I looked toward the open door and the passing crowd. I can imagine militias and guerrillas running past, marching protesters, workers moving their horse-drawn work carts, and colorful villagers moving their produce on the back of flames. Was it yesterday or two, three centuries ago? Not much has changed here at Columbia. And what great coffee!