Pueblo-Hopping in Bucaramanga

The function of the artist, the Navajo answered, is to provide what life does not.
--Tom Robbins, Another Roadside Attraction

I guess you could call it pueblo-hopping—like island-hopping, perhaps, somewhere off the exotic South Pacific, yet with the flavour of time lost in history, of modernity static in the hands of heritage. There’s something special, almost ephemerally picture-perfect, about pueblo-hopping, because not only does one see a tiny village for just an instant, just enough time to snap a lovely photograph and breathe the fresh air of a new place, but also because there is not enough time, nor history, nor experience, to taint the perfection of a place seen for only an afternoon. A few words in a journal, a few photos in a scrapbook, will retain our feelings long after the town changes, long after things happen that we will never see, long after our visit has been forgotten. That is the beauty of summer love, of travel, of meeting people only for a moment in your life, because, unlike most things, it hasn’t reached reality.

A people make a town; a town makes the people. Interestingly enough, so does Cartagena create its vast and curious faces, its stark changes between poverty and wealth, black and white, and pleasant beaches inside chaotic crowds. It is a city of contrast, not because I stopped by for a few charming days to soak in the sun and the colonial city—but because I came, rather, to live. Perhaps Cartagena would mean something much different to me had I breezed through as a traveller in my sunglasses and tour guide, but because I didn’t, it means something much more. Bucaramanga, on the other hand, a quaint city high up in the Santander district of Colombia’s interior mountain region, holds stark changes for me, perhaps because I only passed through, or perhaps because I found a tranquillity there in those sleepy streets.
Just $40,000 pesos (roughly, let’s say, about $18 dollars) for a fourteen-hour bus ride, round-trip, half-way across the country, took us to the city of Bucaramanga. I had envisioned a bus trip quite differently, however, than the reality in which I found myself—sleeping, that is, for the majority of the journey. I had imagined a night-bus scenario with the expectation of actually never taking one, for images of threatening, cracked roads winding through jungles with howling monkeys and coarse guerrillas, popping out from the dense woods with guns and motives, had me a bit worried. I had imagined rickety buses with stains on the ripped metal seats and holes in the dusty windows, military men patrolling highways, weird jungle smells, and that constant fear of being robbed and clinging to my bags. However, this was the reality: a Hollywood movie playing on the air-conditioned bus with refreshments and friendly chit-chat, passengers sleeping with their heads cocked to the side, drooling onto their cushioned seats, and bathroom breaks in-between. I was pleased to discover, albeit, that the bus companies pay the FARC a lot of money not to mess with their customers.

Along with Bua, my funny Thai friend whose sense of humor runs profoundly deep beneath her otherwise polite and Asian self, and Micha, a Spanish-speaking German co-worker and pious, seasoned South American traveller, I arrived at the University of Bucaramanga, where our conference was to be held, and where we met Heather from Canada and Leen from Belgium. My first impression of Heather was that of a confident, selfish, often demanding bitch with a sarcastic attitude and an edge of humor. When she announced that she was a confident, selfish, often demanding bitch with a sarcastic attitude, I began to wonder why people who are this way tend to brag about it as if it’s some sort of good thing. Leen, on the other hand, appeared quiet-mannered, soft-voiced, yet very friendly and interested, with a certain European air that I have grown to yearn for. It was after this first meeting, when we first interacted together, that we decided to make a weekend of pueblo-hopping.

Setting off for the "bohemian village of Giron," (to quote Lonely Planet), we found ourselves amidst a new Latin American world, one that is so underrepresented but necessarily imperative to include. I felt a certain ease, a comfort, which though probably was feigned due to my simple ecstasy of temporarily somewhere new, was much desired and heartily accepted. Giron greeted us with beautiful things: cobblestone streets, white-washed limestone churches and townhouses in perfect white rows with matching Spanish tile roofs in red, earthy clay; tall, European-styled churches with Catholic statues, and, in our case, a funeral procession led by a Hertz with the guy’s name plastered all over the casket in glittering, painted letters (most absolutely a cultural phenomenon). Little did Leen and I know this, however, as we unabashedly snapped tourist photos of ourselves in front of a pretty church (and yes, Micha got quite the air of satisfaction upon alerting us of our faux-paus). We passed over shaded patios, small stone bridges over tiny creeks, and wandered along the mountain town, lost in time.

But while crossing over a certain small stone bridge, we came across some four or five children tossing a ball amongst themselves in a friendly game of catch, along one of the side streets tucked gently inside Giron. Upon seeing us, they started to giggle, point, stare at their unlaced shoes and cover their faces in shyness, peeking through a crack in their fingers. We greeted them, smiled at them, and continued our stroll towards the center, where we had hoped to stop in for an afternoon juice and typical Santander lunch. And not only did we realize that a tiny group of four had split off and decided to follow us, but I noticed that Heather and Micha were annoyed by their fascination, obviously irritated and annoyed by their presence. I imagined my pale face and blue-lagoon eyes as a tiny child from the jungles of Colombia might see them, and I wondered if next to their dark faces and black eyes I look emptied, drained of color, sun, and passion, with nothing left but a bright shadow. I was fascinated by the children: their innocent eyes, their mouths open in wide O’s like mosquito traps and ice-cream cone faces, their persistent, curious questions. How could anyone, I mused, be so fascinated by me, a dime-a-dozen blonde, a curious American, a less-than-refined, suburban girl from the South?

The children giggled and dug their toes into the dusty cobblestones, following us intently along the tiny sidewalks. They wanted to play with me and Leen—just play. Imagine if the curiosity in the whole world could be satisfied by simply playing! I kept glancing back to see them running to hide behind store windows and laughing at their game, but when I saw Micha and Heather tapping their watches and scoffing impatiently, I interrupted the children’s game and said my goodbyes, Leen doing the same. We soon realized, however, that despite the fact we had already given our buenas tardes, we had four tiny sets of feet trailing excitedly behind us into the restaurant. The children, it seemed, had decided they’d not had enough of us; and after hearing them call out Kristin! Kristin!, I turned to see the eldest girl waving a small yellow flower for me, smiling, and holding it for me. I paused to pick the beautiful yellow gift from her tiny hands and thought for a moment how much wonder child eyes hold. I went into the restaurant, left them outside, and watched eyes grow large and pouts inflate.

Not long after, we heard the familiar tune of naïve giggling coming from around the large wooden door of the café. Once again, it seemed as if the fan club had stormed the limousine, and the celebrity would have to remember, again, that he was a star. Curious little faces and tiny fingers had crept up behind us--peeking out from the door was a totem-pole of smiles and innocence. We had once again been conned into another game.

We realized that though time had paused in Giron, the afternoon sun was beginning to peak, and long shadows drifted across Spanish verandas and white windows, eventually beckoning us to Bucaramanga. We kissed the magic of Giron goodbye, tapped the children on their heads and waved them farewell, climbing into a taxi in order to rejoin reality. We arrived at our cabana, lit softly in romantic afternoon sun, and laid our heads on our pillows, trying to better understand life.

In the following days, we found magic in these places: San Gil, a little town with a mystical natural park of long, high trees dressed in silver shawl parasites and white-water rafting (during which I found exotic birds, parrots of rainbow colors, naked, hairless cows bathing on the shore, and our guide, Ruben Dario, as the famous poet himself...); Barichara, a 300-year-old colonial gem (which we celebrated by joining in the town festival with the locals, the coffee crops, and the cows); and Mesa de los Santos, a breath-taking village of lush canyons stretching farther than the sight of our eyes and the lines of the horizon (which we explored by jumping into the back of a Toyota truck and hitch-hiking our way up the vast farms of the magical countryside of Colombia, the untouched parts that the history books don't see..., to the fantastic Chichmocha canyons). We left with our wanderlust temporarily satisfied, for life finds itself in moments of rare pleasure when spontaneity takes a grip.