Festival de Luces in Villa de Leyva (or A Night of Pyrotechnic Madness)

The first you thing you should know is that there are rules in Colombia.  The second is that nobody actually follows them.  Nowhere was this as clear as Villa de Leyva during the Festival of Lights.

Home to just over 4,000 inhabitants, the town was heaving when we arrived after a 4-hour bus ride from Bogota.  Although there was a light drizzle, the streets were packed with visitors, and there was a buzz about the place.  We had come expecting a low-key village celebration, but it was clear this was something bigger. 

We camped in the back garden of a hotel two blocks from the main plaza- Colombia’s largest. 

 

Friday night passed quietly; since the big festivities were Saturday, we decided to zip up our sleeping bags early.  The next morning it was obvious others hadn’t shared our foresight.  Returning to the plaza, there were teenagers sleeping on the cobbles with empty bottles of aguardiente (Colombia’s aniseed-flavoured alcohol) as pillows.  

We spent Saturday walking up one of the mountains near town.  A steady climb took us past farms and increasingly isolated homes, until we reached the top.  The view extended past the tiny village to red and brown-tinted mountains across the valley.  Returning, we came across bizarre formations that I can only describe as brain coral on land.  

Back in town, the morning’s hangover had lifted, and the people were back into party mode.  Buildings were lit up, music blared out of every doorway, and once again the alcohol was flowing.  We wandered through the dozens of handicraft shops that populate its streets.  Every few minutes or so, the electric grid gave in to the demands placed upon it, and the entire town was plunged into temporary darkness.  This happened five times in an hour, and each power outage followed a similar pattern.  The lights went off, followed by a few screams, and then brief silence accompanied the complete darkness.  Next came nervous laughter and murmuring until the lights returned, the music rang out again, and everybody shouted their approval. 

The real chaos, however, began later in the plaza.  Hundreds of people crammed around the enormous square, awaiting the festival’s eponymous light show.   After a delay of over an hour (one of Colombia’s few rules that is unfailingly followed) the bedlam began.  South American equivalents to Catherine’s wheels erupted in each corner of the plaza, spewing explosives in every direction.  Children as young as five were throwing bottle rockets into the centre, and if they didn’t detonate to their liking they chased after them and investigate the bottle like Wile E. Coyote.  These were a prelude to the main fireworks.  

In every pyrotechnic event I’ve attended, the fireworks have been detonated at a safe distance from the crowd, to be enjoyed but not necessarily interacted with.  Villa de Leyvans are made of sterner stuff.  The fireworks were lit and shot in the square, maybe 50 yards from the crowd.  As everybody else ooh-ed and aah-ed, my girlfriend and I ran for cover under the eaves of the surrounding buildings.  The light show at such a precarious distance was spectacular, if a little terrifying.  Afterwards, there was live music, which, along with the beer, helped soothe our nerves.  By the morning, we were able to laugh at the ashes on our tent, a reminder of the previous night’s peril.

Salento and Cocora

When Cath and I decided to spend a long weekend in Salento with friends Dean and Sally, we hadn't expected to be avoiding stampedes. Our visit, however, was to exceed all expectations. A small town in the Zona Cafetera, Colombia's coffee-growing region, Salento has a colourful square, but the main reason for coming is to visit the Cocora Valley, home of Colombia's national tree, the wax palm.  Tree-watching may not sound too interesting, but this is no ordinary tree.  The tallest palm tree in the world, the wax palm can grow up to 60 metres high.

The statistics don't do them justice, however, when you come face to face with one.  The spindly trunks shoot up out of the ground until reaching the palm leaves high in the sky.  Think of Sideshow Bob on steroids (ones that make you freakishly tall, but not strong) and you're close. Standing next to them, it's easy to think a storm, or even a strong push, could topple these things, but apparently they live 120 years and longer.

Back in town, it was time to relax.  Dean and I went for a pub crawl while Sal and Cath did some shopping.  Our pub crawl consisted of mostly tiendas (small shops that usually have a table or two for drinkers) and cafes, until we came to the pick of the bunch.

As far as I know, the bar didn't have a name, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Inside it was decorated with remnants of the town's past, including pictures, farming tools, and old cowboy hats.  It's exactly how I would design a Colombian-themed pub in England, but nothing here was done for effect.
The people, though, really stick in my memory.  By the time Cath and Sally found us (there are only 2 main streets in the town) Deano had pointed out that, other than a few teenagers, the crowd was, shall we say, past their prime.

One old cowboy in particular had a face so wrinkled and leathery, it was easy to believe he had fought with Bolivar.  He earned the nickname Death, Dean and I figuring anyone this old still drinking and smoking like he was had made some pact with the devil. When a septuagenarian walked in, we imagined Death becoming annoyed by the increasingly youthful crowd. 

Later in the evening, festivities kicked off in an unexpected fashion. After some commotion outside, most of the patrons gathered outside the bar's door.  It soon became apparent this might not be the safest place to congregate.  Running down the street, heading to the town square, were dozens of horses, being ridden by reckless (and in some cases, obviously drunk) cowboys.  As the steeds and their charged past, everybody pressed themselves against the wall.  Despite a few daredevils (as inebriated as the riders, no doubt) running across the street, nobody was hurt, and soon the crowd trickled into the bar to resume their drinking.


We asked a few people what the occasion was, but either we couldn't understand the Spanish well enough or they weren't quite sure themselves, because we never got a satisfactory explanation.  It was typical of a Colombian weekend.  We had come expecting beautiful scenery and a bit of relaxation, which we got, but we left having experienced a unique (if unexplained) part of the local culture.