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.