We spent the day today amongst the grands crus of Bordeaux. The equivalent of Chateau Latour, perhaps. Well, at least, Chateau Pichon Longueville Baron.
The fact that we were in Colombia and the subject was coffee does not matter. And that needs a little explanation.
Last night we arranged a coffee plantation tour with a local guide, Paula, and her husband-driver, Juan Carlos. They picked us up in the morning at our hotel, and we were on our way to Santa Rosa de Cabal. More accurately, to Finca El Placer. "Us" being the traveling trio along with Alejandra, a Chilean who works for the United Nations as an observer of the peace agreement between FARC and the Colombian government.
Pereira is surrounded by coffee plantations. It is not a coincidence that it is also surrounded by steep mountainsides. Coffee and steep are natural partners.
Finca El Placer has two missions: to grow both commercial and specialty coffees. The plantation once contained 200 hectares -- large for the average coffee plantation. Like many of the local farmers, the owner, Juan Carlos Ortega, has been forced to sell off some of his land to keep the plantation operating. He now grows only on 22 hectares.
You can read elsewhere about the byzantine relationships between international coffee buyers, the local growers, and the cooperatives to which the growers belong. Suffice it say, the grower receives only 7 cents for each dollar sold at retail. Of the amount the grower receives, 75% is labor cost.
Colombia has long sent its best coffee out of the country -- with the exception of a small contingent of growers who are attempting to creating an internal premium coffee market (and I may tell you more about that tomorrow). Juan Carlos's coffee -- both the commercial and the specialty varieties -- are destined for export.
Coffee trees are slow growers. It takes a minimum of 30 months before a newly-planted tree will produce fruit -- or cherries, as the professionals call them. The trees will then grow for seven years, be cut back to the roots for another 5 five years of growth, and then be cut back a second time -- again for five years of growth.
During that time, coffee fads change. Some buyers want coffee grown in shades. Others only coffee grown in sunshine. It is a bit like steering an oil tanker through a storm with constantly shifting hazards.
That is one reason acreage is sold. Another is the shifting market that any commodity faces. Tied with the expense of water and the lack of pickers, some of the growers simply throw in the towel.
It is easy to see why it is hard to find adequate pickers. Most of the plantations are on steep hillsides and harvesting is often done in very difficult conditions -- spiders, scorpions, rain.
My cousin Dan makes it look easy. But if any of us had been forced to live off of the coffee we picked, we would have starved.
Don Carlos taught us how coffee gets from the cherry to the cup. How the cherries are fermented for 2 to 4 days to make the removal of the skin easier. How the beans are then dried -- and, in most cases, shipped off to the international buyers as green, unroasted beans.
The next step is roasting -- usually, in large commercial roasters. Don Carlos used a specially-designed pan that stirred the beans while they roasted. Time, sound, smell, and color lets the person roasting the beans know when to stop the process and air-cool them.
And this is where everything seems to go a bit wine school crazy.
According to Don Carlos, the beans should be hand-ground to ensure the proper grind is obtained. His grinder looked like something my grandmother used to mince beef tongue for sandwiches.
Coffee cannot be brewed in just any pot. It needs a special filter (the Japanese and Germans seem to have the best) that contains the right size hole for the brew to exit and bevels to properly funnel the water.
The water is the central key to successful coffee -- 90% of the taste is in the water. The temperature must never be above boiling or the coffee will taste burnt. The paper filter is rinsed to remove residue and the carafe is warmed with water.
The ground coffee is then added to the filter allowing itself to level, and the brewer creates a small hole in the middle to allow the water to completely pass through the grind without lifting it.
It must have taken Don Carlos at least five minutes to carefully pour the water over the top of the grind at about the same rate the water was passing through the filter into the carafe.
His goal is to serve the coffee no more than 10 minutes from the time the beans are roasted. And so he did.
I am not a coffee connoisseur. I am not even a coffee consumer. But I found his two offerings interesting. One was a medium grind. The darker is a fine grind.
Even though I tasted some subtle flavors in the coffee (and the adjectives thrown around would have thrilled the soul of an oenophile), I suspect the brew served could just as easily been served at a truck stop or Denny's.
But, remember, I hardly pass as a coffee expert.
What I learned to appreciate most of all is the hard work and time that both the growers and pickers put in to ensure that cups of coffee appear on tables throughout the world. Whether or not the resulting brew is indifferent.
Today is Easter.
You know that by looking at the calendar. I know it by walking down the street.
Religious processions are not rare in Latin America. I experience them regularly in my part of Mexico. But my Mexican experience is rather narrow. For a lot of reasons, Melaque and Barra de Navidad do not have Cecil B. DeMille-style processions.
Colombia does. Even the smaller towns like Sevilla.
We had just finished breakfast and were on our way back to the house to catch a local bus to our next stop -- Pereira, true coffee country.
The three of us despise routine. By sheer chance we decided to take a new route back to the house of Patty's father. And chance served us well.
The town's Easter procession had just formed and was on its way back to the church -- wending its way through Sevilla.
All of the beloved Sunday school characters were there. Mary. Joseph. Mary Magdalene. And, of course, the risen messiah.
Each on his own separate pedestal, heavy enough to extract the sufficient amount of physical mortification to conform with post-16th century Catholic theology. The weight was relieved during frequent stops only by staffs that were slipped under the pedestals.
What struck me was the seriousness of each participant. There was not a smile in the lot.
I thought that odd because this was Easter, not Good Friday. Theologically speaking, the resurrection is Christmas and New Year's Eve wrapped into one.
The crucifixion absolved us of our sins. The resurrection gives us the promise and hope of life eternal. It is a day of absolute joy.
But I was not entering into a street discourse with a Jesuit scholar -- as fascinating as that would have been. Instead, I was witnessing the devotion of Christians to their risen messiah. Literally, through the eyes of an angelic child.
Had we followed the procession back to the church, we may have seen the street dogs, who had perched themselves on the church’s porch, greet the return of the faithful.
On this special day of faith.
We have arrived in Sevilla.
Not the Spanish city of Columbus fame, but the small town of Colombia fame. Or, at least, famous enough for this traveling trio. Patty’s father has a house there. And that is where we are staying.
If there was any doubt that we were no longer in the urban embrace of Bogota, this is what greeted us when we opened the front door. I almost felt at home. For me, it is goats. For Patty’s papa, it is cows.
This morning, we flew from the capital to Armenia. Even if Armenia had not been on our agenda, I would have requested a stop there. Place names can be rather eccentric, at times. And they are always worth investigating.
A member of Patty’s extended family, Humberto, picked us up at the Armenia airport. It was quite evident that we had left the temperate weather of Bogota behind.
Colombia contains almost every type of biodiversity imaginable. This region grows coffee. The clashing shades of green were proof enough that we had entered a tropical zone. As was the 20 degree jump in temperature -- along with a similar increase in humidity.
Humberto braved the semana santa traffic on the region’s narrow roads. We stopped in Montenegro for lunch. (And, yes, I will get around to writing an essay on Colombia’s food -- just as soon as I can stop savoring it.)
On the ground, the greenery has the texture of a tapestry. Towering wax palms. Coffee trees marching in orderly rows. Banana plants. Yellow bamboo. And a green bamboo called guadua that look like verdant ostrich plumes.
This part of Colombia has been settled only recently -- with the obvious exception of the local Indian tribes. It is now an ecological mix of cattle, horses, coffee, and bananas.
The entire town seemed to have turned up in Montenegro’s plaza this afternoon. After all, the entire country is on holiday. Once again, with the exception of the people who service us tourists.
One of them is a fellow who pushes children around the park in their own personal car. You would almost expect to see something similar in a Paris suburban park in 1895. Both scenes would be equally charming.
As we drove through the string of villages on the road to Sevilla, we made two beverage stops. The first was at a coffee shop. I have not drank coffee for quite a long time. Let’s call it 10 years. I simply am not fond of the taste.
But, we were in Colombia -- the reputed coffee capital of the world. So, I had a cup. I can now say I have recently consumed a cup of coffee.
The second stop was a roadside stand selling chica de piña -- a mixture of sugar cane, pineapple, and water that is allowed to ferment fior 3 or 4 days before it is sold to passing motorists. Just like cowpuccino in Melaque.
Refreshed, we pushed our way up into the hills to Sevilla -- where we will spend the next few days. If we are all lucky, we might learn a few things about the production of coffee.
For now, I will simply relish our newly-acquired bucolic existence. Eva Gabor has nothing on us.
Today is Maundy Thursday.
I was not raised in a liturgical tradition. My Christianity is more plain-spoken. In fact, when I first heard the phrase "Maundy Thursday," I thought it was a Mama and Papas song gone wrong.
It is Holy Week here in Colombia. Of course, it is Holy Week throughout the world. But, in its guise as semana santa, it is a very special week in Latin America.
Back home in Barra de Navidad, Mexican tourists are flooding the town. You could almost believe that the interior of Mexico en masse this week to decamp to the beach. I was curious what Colombians do.
A lot of them go to the beach. But the residents of Bogota head out into the surrounding countryside for a long weekend.
We decided to join the throngs heading out of town today. Our destination? The town of Zipaquira, 30 miles north of Bogota.
There is nothing special about the town itself -- other than the fact that the local restaurants serve up a mean plate of carne a la llanera, a vice in which we indulged.
The big attraction is a large salt dome in town. The local Muisca indians mined salt from the dome for almost 2000 years before the Spanish arrived in Colombia in the early 1500s.
The mine is still active. In the 1930s, the miners dug out a place of worship inside the salt mine. A more formal "cathedral" (the term is an honorific; no bishop has his see here) was built in the 1950s. Structural problems -- we are talking about digging through salt -- caused the closure of that structure.
A new "cathedral" was opened in 1995. And it is the perfect Catholic retreat for Easter.
Each station of the cross has a chamber carved out to reflect its significance -- complete with kneeling platforms for the devout. The only people I saw kneeling there were indulging in the sin of vanity. Mea selfie; mea selfie; mea maxima selfie.
There is also a dome carved in the ceiling of the mine. It marks the transition from the stations to the church itself.
Then there is the carved church itself with its three traditional naves.
I love church architecture. This place struck me most with its simplicity. After all, it was a place of worship for miners. Originally, at least. Before it became a tourist attraction for the devout and the not-so-devout.
The church is simple enough that even writers with Quaker sensibilities feel comfortable. The cross above the altar, like almost everything else, is carved from the mine's salt and rock. Even the lighting (that shifts slowly) is done tastefully.
When we returned to Bogota, the skies were clear. That was a first for this visit.
One spot tops the "things to see" list for most visitors to Bogota -- the Monserrate Sanctuary, sitting high above Bogota on a ridge.
Besides being Bogota’s number one tourist attractions, it is a functioning church. And, during semana santa, mass after mass is celebrated.
We had put off visiting the church earlier in the week because the clouds were low enough, there would be no view. But this afternoon, the weather was clear.
When we returned to Bogota from Zipaquira, we combined a cab ride with a healthy walk over to the base of the ridge.
We were not alone. Because this is a religious holiday, it appeared that anyone who did not drive out to the country was intent on taking either the cable car or the funicular to the top. I have seen shorter lines at Disneyland.
But the time spent in line was worth it. The view of the city -- a city that stretches far out of sight -- is spectacular.
The church itself is almost Presbyterian in its ornamentation. It has very little.
But that is not why Catholics make the pilgrimage to the sanctuary.
So, today was a church day. As we walked around Bogota this evening, we reviewed the day. Our unanimous verdict was, even though we spent a lot of time in taxis, on a bus, and standing in line, we had a great time learning a bit about another aspect of Colombia.
“History does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.”
Mark Twain nailed it. And the adage applies equally as well to our personal histories.
My first visit to London was in August 1973. Richard Nixon had just resigned the presidency, and I had moved from Greece to the United Kingdom as an officer in The Republic’s air force.
Like many a tourist before me, I stood slack-jawed in Trafalgar Square gazing up Nelson’s Freudian column. An older Englishman in a well-worn suit and shoddy shoes started chatting with me. About what I do not recall.
The sights of London inevitably came up. It turns out he had a background in art and history, and had been the tutor to the heir of some dukedom or other. Or, so he said.
He started showing me around. It turns out he knew his stuff. I did not realize how accurate some of his tales were until I confirmed them from other sources years later.
He ended the tour at the trappiest of tourist traps -- the Sherlock Holmes pub. He was satisfied with a pint and the few pounds I gave him.
I cannot even recall what letter of the alphabet began his name. Let’s call him Nigel.
I thought of him this afternoon while we were standing in Bogota’s equivalent of Trafalgar Square -- Bolivar Plaza. Patty suggested we take one of the walking tours.
She returned with Nigel’s Colombian cousin -- wearing the same down-on-his-luck tour guide outfit. His name was Elgar. We think.
The fact that he spoke only Spanish was not a deterrent. Patty, of course, is fluent. And Dan and I were content to hop into the linguistic equivalent of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.
The tour covered a very small portion of Bogota’s central area -- Colombia’s Capitol, its presidential residence, some ministerial buildings with interesting architecture, and several distant churches.
The tour may have not covered much ground. That is just as well. Elgar had suffered a stroke that left him a bit eccentric in walking.
But he concentrated a lot of information in that small space. We learned far more than we ever could have from a tour book. Elgar, like Nigel, knew his stuff.
Colombia only recently made peace with a group of criminals masquerading as revolutionaries. The war ran for decades. And the area around the governmental compund has long been heavily guarded.
Elgar knew the police, military, and presidential guards well enough to gain access for us. He formally introduced us to each of the guards, and they all greeted him rather indulgently. We never discovered the subtext -- though it was obvious there was one.
And, like any good performance, there were rules. No photographs here. Some there. No walking on the sidewalk. No spelling Colombia with a "u."
We were able to get a close up look at the president’s residence and office -- from the outside, of course. And, at Elgar’s request especially for us, he convinced the presidential guards at the front of the “white house” to perform a reduced changing of the guard.
On my last visit to Washington, DC, the security around the Capitol and the White House was so thick that you would believe the United States was at war with Germany, Italy, and Japan. But, of course, when we were, the security was nowhere near as thick as it is these days.
The young men we met were professional, but took the time to greet both Elgar and us. We ended up posing with one after another until I felt as if I was on an international dignitary tour.
And Elgar? He wanted us to pass on a message to our friends. Colombia is a beautiful country to visit. Everyone we have talked to is proud to be a Colombian. The country -- and its people -- invite all of you to come for a visit.
I second him. I expected a lot from Colombia. And it is delivering even more.
Our afternoon government tour was only a small part of our day.
We spent most of our time in a series of museums. The Botero Museum -- with its millions of dollars worth of Botero’s paintings and sculpture in their distinctive foreshortened perspective, and the associated international art collection with works from some of the art world’s most famous dadaists, expressionists, and impressionists. The Casa de Moneda with its exhibits of the various currencies used in Colombia through its history. And, certainly not least, a museum devoted to the modern art produced exclusively by Colombians.
But those are tales for another day. And I will tell them later. The Botero Museum alone was the highlight of our day.
To all of the Nigels and Elgars out there in our various worlds, I commend you. The amateur historian is a treasure for any country. Especially, when the historian is willing to rhyme history in his patriotic love.
We lift one to you and all your colleagues.
"You are going to love the place. It is as if Germans were running South America."
So said a blogger friend who has visited Colombia several times. I was going to ask if Germans running South America was a good thing -- considering the reputation of both following the second world war. But I decided that would have been a bit churlish. Not to mention predictable.
It turns out she is absolutely correct.
On the taxi ride in today from the airport, I did not pay close attention to the buildings we passed. All I knew is that we were heading for an apartment in La Candaleria neighborhood.
If I had been watching, I would have noticed that our apartment is in the heart of colonial Bogota. This is where the original city was founded.
My first task was to find a store where I could buy a SIM card for my telephone. I was not going to re-learn the expensive lesson I experienced in Australia.
The doorman pointed me down the street and around the corner. So, off I trudged.
The first major building I encountered was a cathedral. That threw me off. What was an archbishop's church doing in a small neighborhood of Bogota?
You already know the answer. I was not in a small neighborhood; I was in Bogota's colonial center.
The cathedral sits on the corner of Bogota's central square, Bolivar Plaza. Yup, the same Bolivar whose image has been stolen and sullied by the gang that cannot rule straight in Venezuela. He is also the national hero of Colombia.
The buildings around the plaza (the cathedral, the congress building, and the Lievano Palace) all look somewhat germanic in style. But I would modify my fellow blogger's analogy. It does not feel so much German as Austrian to me. As if the Von Trapps are going to jump out from behind Bolivar's statue and assault us with Edelweissian choruses.
And why not? The Habsburgs ruled not only Spain, but Austria, as well.
The problem with that theory is that the slightly baroque cathedral and the neoclassical palace and congress building were all built after the Colombians sent the Spanish king packing -- or, in the case of the cathedral, he was well on his way out. Construction on each started in 1807, 1905, and 1876 respectively.
But who is going to let a few dates get in the way of a good narrative? The buildings may have not been built while the Habsburgs ruled Bogota, but they do have an Austrian patina.
I had been warned about carrying my camera around town. So, all of my shots came from my telephone. But, it is just as well. Today's light would get a low phopographer rating.
It is Bogota's rainy season. And even though it merely threatened rain most of the day, it carried out the threat a few times.
I was successful in finding a shop that sells SIM cards and a 15-day plan that meets my needs perfectly. I have bought SIM cards in The States, Mexico, Denmark, Britain, France, and Spain.
What is universal with each purchase is the clever young things who manage to set up the telephone with the most arcane information that passes screen after screen. If I had to do it, I would be just like Lenny Bruce: "I will end up like a schmuck with a dixie cup on a thread."
So, I am a happy tourist. I get to make irrational architectural references while shooting my camera that now works as a telephone.
And I get to walk. The central area of Bogota is a walker's paradise. With one small pebble in the shoe. Combining its hills with its 8600 feet altitude is a bit taxing on this sea-level walker.
But, two weeks of adventure lie ahead. By 9 tonight, Mexpatriate and whatever Dan was going to call his blog will join forces to give you our interpretation of Vienna in the mountains.
My friend Lou Moody sent this cartoon to me yesterday. It fits me to a "t" -- or any other letter that inexplicably needs fitting.
Ever since I started my walking regime, I have become a bit obsessive. The obvious price was a series of blisters. Fortunately, that particular affliction has stopped.
But, as economists tell us, everything has hidden costs. One has been social. I have now heard through several sources that I have mildly offended people by not stopping and talking with them while out on my daily walks. Someone said I have become "aloof." I suspect that was the Canadian way of calling me something far more blunt.
I will raise my hand to that one. When I am doing something, I do not welcome interruptions. And it is not true just during my walks.
If I am working on something at the house, I will often not answer the telephone or the door. And, because I am almost always doing something, telephone calls and door knocks do not get much response from me.
I was a bit concerned that I would not get my daily 10,000 steps in today. In truth, the number is just a random choice. Quite artificial. But it is a goal. 20,000 is closer to reality.
I thought flying and staying in an airport hotel would not be an ideal combination for walking. It turns out I was wrong.
My home for the night was the Hilton in Terminal 1 of the Mexico City Airport. It turns out the terminal was perfectly designed for my style of walking. It has two levels that stretch longer than any shopping mall I know.
It is a bit like walking in Manhattan. Lots of shops. Even more people.
The people make walking difficult. There is a lot of "red rover" meandering combined with contests of how many family members can stand slack-jawed in the middle of the terminal looking at the arrival and departure screens. There have been several finalists.
And I do not blame them. Mexico City is one of those airports where fliers are told to arrive 2 or 3 hours before their flight -- only to discover that they cannot check in until an hour before their departure time. So, they kill time by wandering aimlessly like the Israelites in the wilderness. Not unlike me.
But walking in the terminal is far better than walking in Manhattan because there are no traffic signals. I can walk and walk and walk and walk without anything to stop me other than the odd lost tourist.
I am writing this at 8 PM. My telephone tells me I have walked over 21,00 steps today -- most of them in terminal 1. That is just over 12 miles. And 80% counted as "healthy."
Best of all, I have burned over 1500 calories. But I have managed to replace those calories with some unwise lunch and dinner choices.
I am going to watch the last of the three new episodes of Sherlock (a series that has augured into the ground from stratospheric heights) and then I will be off to bed after a nice soak. The glorious Hilton has a bathtub. But it will not make up for that 5:30 am cast call.
My walking time is done. I need to charge the telephone. Or I will not be able to get out of bed in the morning.
