Finca

I met Alexis in Guatemala.  He ran a breakfast restaurant in San Marcos La Laguna when I visted there back in 2008.

Thanks to the marvels of social networking, I learned that he had acquired a finca in Colombia and was turning it into a hostel.  A finca is basically a ranch, often with crops and livestock.  Sometimes they are used as a family getaway.  Others are fully operating farms.

His Finca Hostel San Sebastian is in the mountains of San Jerónimo about an hour outside Medellín.  He and his girlfriend Matilda had been fixing it up for months and were preparing to throw a party for his birthday as a kind of soft opening for the place.

I remembered Alexis has good taste when it comes to creating a paradise for himself.  So when I received his party invitation, I couldn't think of a better way to spend April.

I did have second thoughts when I remembered all of the violence Colombia has become known for in past decades.  But after some research, it seems most of it is a thing of the past, at least in the parts of the country I'd be visiting.  Tourism has been increasing in the past few years.  This would be a good opportunity to see the country before heavy tourism begins to erode the sights and culture.

Looking out the window while my plane was landing at the Medellín airport, the landscape was surprisingly green and rural.  I was expecting a large metropolis.

It turns out, the airport is on the other side of some high mountains, about a 45 minute drive from town.

As my shuttle came over the peak and headed down toward the city, I got a bird's eye view.

It was a beautiful sight.  The steep, narrow valley cups a dense sprawl of terra cotta buildings, many of them highrises, surrounded by bright green nature.

It wasn't exactly what I was expecting.  Although it is the most modern city in Colombia, Medellín still has the feel of many other South American cities.  A little bit gritty and run down in places.  At least where the shuttle dropped me off.

I planned to meet Alexis at his mom's apartment in town.  As I got into my second taxi to head that way, I passed a congregation of street people huffing from plastic bags.  Although the scene was pretty bleak, it wasn't that unlike a scene from my own home city.  We have plenty of street folks.  I just never saw the huffing in person before.

Alexis and Matilda greeted me enthusiastically and whisked me up the mountain toward San Jerónimo.

They seemed a little bit apprehensive since the weather was turning a bit rainy and we wouldn't be there before dark.

They described the small dirt road to the finca as, well, adventurous.  Full of pits and big rocks.  Compound that with rain, mud, darkness, and a mototaxi loaded down with far too many people, groceries, and luggage, and the outcome was not exactly guaranteed.

It was a wet a wild ride indeed, but with some expert driving, and the occasional get-out-and-walk, we made it.

The next day I got to see the grounds in the light of day.  They have a grounds keeper, Ignacio, that not only keeps the place looking like paradise with green lawns, purple orchids, and tropical plants, but also tends the vegetable garden and chickens.

The finca could, in theory, sustain its inhabitants with its crops and eggs and chickens.  The water supply comes from the nearby river and flows through a simple purification system for drinking.  The garden contains all manner of fruits, veggies, and herbs, like tomatoes, yuca, mangos, guanábana, cilantro, onions, thyme, and countless others.

While I was there, Ignacio helped Alexis kill and clean his first chicken that we promptly grilled up that night.

They have a tremendous view of the surrounding mountains.  As far as you can see in every direction is wild nature and other beautiful fincas.  The occasional motorcycle or horse rides by, but other than that there are very few vehicles driving around.  There is only the sound of colorful birds and blowing trees.

The only Internet access is via a cellular USB stick they have, so laptops here are mainly to be used as jukeboxes with welcome new music to play.

I was the first of the party guests to arrive.  The rest of the folks were coming up a few days later - some local from down the hill in Medellín, others from far and wide.

My hosts invited me to come down to pick some of them up and party in the city for a night, but I felt such value in the peace and quiet, I figured I had better soak it up before things pick up here.  So I opted to hold down the fort.  I'd have my very own finca for at least a little while Matilda ran some errands in San Jeronimo.  I can party in the city anytime.

I read.  I wrote.  I sampled each hammock in their extensive collection.  I swam in their lovely pool.

I could feel myself relaxing more each day.  I could feel the speed of life slowing, my mind clearing.

Then one day the party arrived.  A large van pulled up, and out poured all the far and wide visitors.

I poured everyone a welcome-cocktail made with a panela simple syrup Matilda made, some local limes, and mint from the garden.  Olly, the English DJ, hooked up his jukebox and a whole new groovy finca vibe was born.

Later on, Alexis' Columbian friends joined and brought an enormous sound system.  It was hard for me to imagine how this might transform the otherwise quiet valley.  Well not that hard.  I hope we don't bother too many people.

The party went on all night and into the next day.  Sleeping was futile.  I pictured the neighbors - packing up and fleeing to the big city for some peace.  They must have, because we never heard from any of them.

That next day, the Columbians and their speakers promptly headed back home, while the rest of us sank in and relaxed for the next few days - cooking, lounging, and sharing some softer groovy music.  Each morning we'd wake to fresh baking bread and Columbian coffee brewing on the stove.  

One day, we made a beer run on foot.  The closest grocery store is about a half hour by taxi.  But about a 20 minute walk down the road stands La Fonda de Abraham.  Abraham is the 80-something proprietor of a tiny roadside store.  His cowboy-hatted likeness is painted prominently on the outside wall with his trusty mule.  He sells a few staples finca residents can't grow themselves like beer, grains, cooking oil, cigarettes, and animal feed.  Not too much more, really.  

Abraham brings out chairs for all of us to sit on his porch and enjoy at least one cold beer together.  He asks if we know anything about that racket earlier in the week.  Sheepish shrugs.

We walk home as it gets dark, weighed down with backpacks full of beer, and note that the valley is twinkling with fireflies.

I soak up the next few days, savoring the natural surroundings, the new baby chicks that just hatched, Mateo the rambunctious finca dog, and all of the cool people I got to know.

It's been fun here, but I can't leave Colombia without checking out some of those Caribbean beaches.  So as tough as it is to tear myself away, I must explore this country at least a bit.

The others are all leaving over the weekend and plan to head down to Medellín for their last night.  I coordinate and ride down with them.  I'll catch my overnight bus to Cartagena after having some dinner and drinks in the city with everyone.

I say my goodbyes, and as I get into the taxi to Terminal Del Norte, I commit a Colombian cardinal sin I had read about in my guidebook.  I slammed the taxi door.  The driver makes a hissing sound like I just slammed his fingers in the door.  Apparently taxi doors tend to be kind of flimsy and delicate here.

Sorry, dude.

Norte.