To Antioquia

tranquil, baby-blue skies

We made the climb out of the Aburra Valley early in the morning. Once we left the near-vertical streets of the city, we were greeted by tranquil, baby-blue skies and cool breezes broken only by the thud of the car's wheels on the poorly-maintained, uneven road. Pure white, fluffy clouds floated next to the light-green mountains on whose edges was carved out the road on which we drove.

hot pan de queso with sugary cafe con leche

When the breezes got chilly, we stopped at a roadside bakery where we picked hot pan de queso off the bakery trays and washed it down with sugary cafe con leche, a combination that warmed our stomachs and sustained us for the rest of the 90-minute drive.

death squad propaganda

Thirty minutes down the road, I saw death squad propaganda written on a building. I saw it again and again: "Fuera Communistas!" "Autodefensas anti-communistas" and plain old "AUC" in big letters. It troubled me because I had been on this same road 10 days before and had not seen any of this. It was new.

People didn't think much of it

People that I asked about the writing on the walls didn't think much of it. "They are just announcing their presence," one woman said. Yes, of course, I thought. But what comes next? Displaced people? Massacres? Paramilitary checkpoints? The end of trips to Antioquia?

Mention the war and people talk about the guerilla

Some people seem to simply know very little about the AUC or have had less time to be angry with them, as opposed to the FARC which has had 37 years to irritate people. Mention the war and people immediately talk about the guerilla. They kidnapped a friend of mine. They demanded a thousand million pesos. Granted that the FARC have earned this anger, but what about the AUC, who massacre noncombatants in villages as butchers do with cows in slaughterhouses? Is the AUC viewed as the lesser evil? or just the newer one?

unrecognizable fruits of all colors

We passed steep green mountain sides to our right and precipices to our left. In the tree-filled valley below, we glimpsed the pueblo of San Jeronimo. Fruit stands sat along the side of the road with unrecognizable fruits of all colors laying around. Red, grapelike bunches hung next to yellow bananas and green limons. Large green ovals sat next to mangos and mandarinas. Spiky green guanabanas rested below. And all of it available for little more than the pocket change of a Chicago banker or a Japanese sarariman.

very gregarious older ladies

We stopped at one stand where the man was sitting down eating his product. His only answer to our bargaining attempts was to shake his head and take another messy bite of fruit. He seemed unconcerned about anything at all, so we moved on to the next one, which was much larger and was staffed by 2 very gregarious older ladies. They not only helped us select our fruit but also made us smile.

tierra caliente

After an hour, we arrived at the finca near Santa Fe de Antioquia, tierra caliente, with bright flowers over the white entrance gate, gargantuan trees inside and surrounded by bushes, cacti, buzzing insects ready to bite and exotic fruits of all kinds falling from the trees and into your hands: small, green acidic grosellas, sweet mamonsillas that you have to break open with your teeth and then suck on the inside, huge green totumos that hang from the trees like ornaments on a christmas tree. We also opened a few coconuts and drank the water. One we filled with aguardiente and enjoyed the next day. Others we cut with a machete to eat the fresh white insides.

over the river and into the pueblo

Later, we passed over the deceptively powerful Rio Cauca and into the pueblo. We drove up streets of rock and over policias, lumps in the road meant to slow traffic that we call "sleeping policeman" in the US. The larger policias, I learned, are called generales.

a tale of two churches

In the public square we encountered a large church, with high ceilings and people sitting so far from the priest, they could not possibly see him. People came and went casually. Birds flew to and from their nests seemingly oblivious of the worshippers. Down the street, we entered a smaller church where the service was less traditional. There was lots of singing and a generally more active and involved attitude.

People screamed and headed for their cars

Afterwards, we sat in the public square, drank beer and ate empanadas, delicious, substantive meat and vegetables rolled together in a bread shell and fried. Lightning flared in the distance and we were suddenly pitched into total darkness. People screamed and headed for their cars as the stores scrambled to close their doors. A downpour ensued and we headed for the car and back to the finca.

Will I be able to come here again?

After a last, cool dip in the pool, I laid down to sleep, jolly images of multi-colored fruits mixing with paramilitary propaganda and people screaming in the dark. Will I be able to come here again?, I wondered. Originally published 13 July 2001 on Locombia.org