Welcome back to Colombia!

“... only about three hours away from here by bus ... “

What was I thinking?

It is more than twelve hours later, and we are indeed in Pasto now, have been since about six, in fact. It's been a long day – and yet another bus day.

 

A taxi took us from our hostel in Otavalo to the Panamericana where, our hostel manager had assured us, we would be able to catch a bus that would take us directly to Tulcan, the last town on the way to the border. We had barely set down our packs when we saw a bus approach. “Tulcan” said the sign in the window – great! Timing couldn't have been more perfect. Another backpacker had been waiting with us, and after leaving our big bags with the bus attendant to store them in the baggage compartment the three of us entered the bus. Friendly faces were turning towards us, nodding, smiling – but there were way too many of them! Every single seat was taken, a phenomenon we had never encountered before on the long distance bus tours. Oh well, we'd have to stand, then. No big deal. The attendant actually found a place for me on a box-like seat at the very front, my back to the driver – not very comfortable, but better than standing. By now we had realized that 'standing' might well mean 'standing for the duration of the trip', which would mean 2 1/2 hours at least, since it seemed uncertain if the bus would stop anywhere between Otavalo and Tulcan, and if no passengers got off no seats would become available. 

The bus did stop, however, and after a while a few people left, so that all three of us managed to find a seat. My neighbour was a woman I estimated to be a little younger than me, with a cute little girl. She had pulled the girl on her lap and motioned me to sit down, and since I seemed to have more room than she did I offered to take the girl on my lap instead. This was the start of a somewhat laboured, but partly successful conversation in Spanish. I found out that the woman was the grandmother of the little girl, who was seven years old and whose name was Estefania. They had been up since four a.m. and were on their way to Pasto, though they planned to stop in Tulcan for the night. The woman had some problem with her eyes and was going to see a doctor in Pasto tomorrow. “I have never been past Tulcan”, she said, and I could see that the idea of travelling further, crossing the border and finding her way to the doctor's office in Pasto was scary for her. She had intended to travel by herself, she told me, but her daughter didn't like the idea and took Estefania out of school for four days so that she could accompany her grandmother. I can't quite imagine how a seven-year old could be of much help in this situation, but if nothing else her presence will be comforting.

We talked about farming in Ecuador and Canada, about our travels, the weather, and children and grandchildren, topics spanning countries and cultures, and from time to time she pointed out a feature in the landscape, named a river we crossed or a village we passed through. Estefania leaned back against me as if I was her favourite aunt, shifting once in awhile to get more comfortable. All the while the tv entertained whichever passengers felt the desire to immerse themselves in 'Wrath of the Titans” - and everybody else who didn't feel that desire, too. We had to shout to make ourselves heard, and eventually Estefania was sent to the front to ask the bus driver to turn down the volume, which happened immediately, surprisingly, though didn't last very long.

The bus ride took much longer than anticipated, and we finally arrived in Tulcan a little after one, almost 3 1/2 hours after we started (so much for 'about three hours to Pasto' - but I should have remembered that from the trip south, of course).

 

We found a taxi that took us to the Ecuadorian border. When we got there after about ten minutes we were due for the next surprise: a long line of people was waiting in front of the doors to the migration office to leave or enter Ecuador, much longer than when we were here three weeks ago. Weren't there different queues for people entering and leaving, maybe? Did we REALLY have to be in this line-up? Yes. There was no other way. Every ten or fifteen minutes a group of about ten people was ushered into the building, and we could move a few steps ahead. Finally it was our turn: we entered through the magic doors and knew we would not have to wait much longer now. When we had finally made it to the migration officer's window, however, we were sent away once again: we didn't have the Andean card – whatever that might be – and needed to get one from 'la signora a la puerta'. The signora was a signor who handed us a paper where we had to write down name, age, occupation, duration and intent of stay, etc, and, of course, the passport number. Nothing works without that here, and we finally found out why everyone seems to have memorized their passport number: it is necessary for any transaction, from checking into hotels and hostels to buying bus tickets, and heaven knows for what else if you live here. Even we have almost memorized our numbers now. Sometimes, when we checked into hotels and it was too cumbersome to dig out our passports from the depth of the backpack, we became creative and invented one. I'm sure nobody ever checks.

Andean card in hand we now were checked out of Ecuador quickly and without a hitch, and crossed the same bridge on which we had entered the country three weeks ago, walking in the opposite direction. It seems so much longer ago than that! On the other side we faced no line-up at all at the Colombian office, our passports were stamped, and we were sent on our way with a friendly “Welcome to Colombia!” In total, the border formalities took one and a half hours – it was now a quarter past three in the afternoon.

 

The collectivos (small vans used as group taxis) filled up quickly, and once our luggage had been stowed in the back of one already, but we were turned away at the door, fortunately retrieving our luggage before it left without us. The fourth attempt was successful, however, and after a few minutes we arrived in Ipiales, where we found a bus about to leave for Pasto.

The last stretch of today's journey was, for me, the most beautiful of the whole trip, yet I find it incredibly hard to describe it. Its beauty lies not only in the abundance of flowers – fuchsias, dahlias, brown-eyed Susans, Bougainvillea, hibiscus hedges bursting with pink, red and yellow blossoms, wild flowers in many colours spilling down the grassy hillsides, and roses, roses, roses everywhere – but also in the sheer wonder of the physical landscape, the depth, the immeasurable depth of the valleys, the green hillsides ascending from their narrow bottoms on the opposite side, one ridge beside the other, seemingly rising from the very heart of the earth, shelves, some very narrow, others quite wide, with plantings of beans, corn or potatoes interrupting the steep drop of the cliffs, the river glistening deep, deep below, waterfalls scouring the clefts between ridges. It is impossible to give an impression of what it is like with words, and equally impossible to take photos, because the bus hurtles along at top speed, and one beautiful vista gives way to the next with every curve we turn – and there are nothing but curves. It is a landscape to get lost in, a landscape that makes me feel small and insignificant in the face of such magnificence. It is a landscape that makes me want to spread out my wings and fly.

Welcome to Colombia!