Barichara

We are staying in what feels almost like our private apartment in the home of Henne, a German woman, who moved here in 1964, when she married a Colombian. Now divorced, she has lived in this charming, sleepy little town for 14 years.

We have the spacious, airy back room with adjoining patio, facing the garden. We take our late-afternoon wine on the terrace by the open window facing the street. I told Henna I wanted to live here when I got old. “Everyone says that,” she replied, adding that houses are very expensive here.

Some Colombian films have been staged in dreamlike Barichara. The houses are all colonial white with green trim. Roads are paved with sensuous stone, the color of copper. It is beautifully quiet after nearby San Gil, a small but frantically busy town, Colombia’s Moab or Boulder, where eco-adventures of every type abound, along with noisy motorscooters and alarmingly fast cars, swerving around narrow corners.

Every morning we take a long walk before it gets hot; for the last two mornings we’ve climbed hills around town in hopes of finding the mirador (viewpoint) Henne promises us exists. The first day we walked to Guane, a village 7 km from here, on a rocky track created by another German in 1864.

We arrived in Guene around 5:00, looked for the hotel with a pool promised by our book (closed), and found a restaurant for a beer. It was post-comida so naturally there wasn’t much left in the kitchen; all the waitress could offer us was meat dishes. “Do you have fried platanas?” we asked. I’m already tired of them, but it’s one of Coloimbia’s predictable side dishes. “We don’t have any, but I can make you some.” “French fries?” “We don’t have any, but I can make you some.” We settled on French fries, but after a few minutes wait Barry said he thought he’d go wander around town before we took the bus back to Barichara.

I hesitated. Yeah, that sounded more fun. Maybe it wasn’t too late to un-order the French fries, though I’d seen the waitress leave the restaurant, go out, and return with what looked like newly bought potatoes. I wandered into the kitchen to ask if I could un-order the French fries. “Oh, no, we’ve started,” the cook said. “It’s just that I thought I’d look around town,” I said. “Well, you can come back and take them on the bus.” No, that didn’t appeal.

“How about we talk while the French fries are cooking?” I said to the waitress. She followed me back to the table, looking not very interested. I asked her if she was one of the descendants of the indigenas (Indians) who had lived here 100 years ago. Nope, she married a villager and moved here 14 years ago. Did she like living here? Yes, it was tranquilo. Was she able to buy all her food here? No, she bought supplies at the Barichara weekly market. Our conversation wasn’t getting too far.

But then a German couple showed up, also asking about food. They wanted bread and cheese, decided it was too expensive, the waitress offered a smaller portion for less money, they hesitated, then said no, she pleaded, they said no, again, she offered again, they said no. It was almost embarrassing witnessing this poignant exchange.

To my relief, they did order fresh orange juice. It arrived and Barry arrived and eventually even the French fries arrived.