Bogota 8: The Llanos

Post date: Nov 5, 2010 5:01:21 PM

11-5-10

The Llanos.

One of my students invited me to stay the holiday weekend at her brother’s farm in the Llanos Orientales, a scenic region a few hours east of Bogota. The llanos is farm and pastureland several thousand feet lower in elevation than Bogota, and that equates to warmer temperatures and cleaner air.

Edilsa, her energetic 20 year old son, and their little beagle-like dog named Dante picked me up in their Montero, a sturdy beast with a dysfunctional 4 wheel drive and various underbody components that would rattle with the bumps, of which there were many, especially on the 60 minute chunk rock (not gravel) road that led to the farm. Any car would fall apart after repeated trips through the potholes we hit. I thought we popped a tire at one point. Part of the adventure.

Picked up Vicky down the street, and we sped out of Bogota’s mountains. Descending the other side of the mountain was all I’d been needing for some time- winding roads surrounded by green and fog. The air was immediately different outside the city. I was so disappointed that Edilsa preferred that I ride with them instead of on my motorcycle. She said that the llanos are becoming thick with narco-traffickers and that the road wasn’t in great condition in areas. This would have been a fabulous ride, however. I was warned also of the bars in the city of the llanos, Villavicencio. There the druglords congregate, and each one “owns” several women. If one of the women takes a liking to you, and you respond in kind, the druglord will walk up and put a bullet in your head without hesitation. And in true style, no one will do anything. Apparently these druglords are overnight successes; they are uneducated bums who suddenly make lots of money by selling drugs. They don’t know how to manage the money, however, and many of them are back to the bumlife before long. I’d love to see them just to see what they’re like.

We breakfasted at this adorable country family restaurant, and it felt like a Richards in Colombia. So cozy there. We had a traditional breakfast- pork and potato soup with arepas. It was weird. I wanted fruit and pancakes, but there was no sweetness with this breakfast. It was filling and good though. I joked about how fat I was getting since I’d moved to Colombia. That’ll change once I hit the road again.

It was a world away. Humid 80 degrees, blue skies with white clouds, and soft breezes. I could not stay awake on the way there, and not just because we were on the road by 5:30am but because I was just so relaxed. Edilsa commented on the construction of the road and the various habitats. One section of road collapsed years ago, killing an astounding 700 people. Some of the plantations, including palms, rice, and soybeans, are used to generate biodiesel, which is becoming more common in Colombia. I saw lizards like little komodo dragons scoot off the road from their sunbathing areas as we bounced and grumbled down the path. Blackbirds with big beaks made to crack nuts flew in flocks of five or six. Vultures soared above and digested atop boulders along the road. Cows, cows everywhere. The one thing out of place was us: the crappy ballenato music tormented me.

Shortly before the farm we dropped off Dante at a pet-hotel/home of an anthropologist and his little family. He owned several Indian carved stools shaped like various animals, and he explained the their spiritual significances to the indians. He also had an Indian bow and arrows and woven cooking/food processing instruments on the walls. Dante couldn’t go to the farm because the dogs there were sick, I guess.

We saw a large farm truck with massive cargo racks tipped over on the side of the rocky road. Looked like he’d just barely touched the grass edge that disguised the ditch, and over he went. He said we was okay, so we moved on.

We found guama along the way. Guama is an incredible fruit that grows from trees. It is 2 feet long, 2 inches wide, and encased by a hard green, ribbed shell. You twist the thing to break the casing. Inside are these peanut-sized seeds wrapped in sugary cotton balls. You eat the cotton and toss the seed. It’s kinda like a dinosaur-age green bean. That cotton is delicious. Guama, lichi, granadilla, and a couple other fruits are all new to me, thanks to this trip. We live on such a small variety in the United States.

7 hours after my pickup in Bogota, we were at the farm. It would have been quicker had we not stopped for groceries at the store, supplies at the brother’s house, and a visit with the anthropologist. We were greeted by 4 dogs: my favorite, Jonas the sociable Bassett Hound, Gremli the rattish mutt with only one upright ear (the other was limp) and who hobbled due to one wounded paw, Billy the Beagle, and some other brown Labrador-type dog who was quite quiet. Jonas and I became good friends during our stay. Billy liked to rest his chin on my thigh as I ate my meals at the table on the porch. Gremli was so named because he looked like a gremlin from the movie. Billy joined us cowboys wherever we went and was just as much a cowherder as the cowboy. The brown dog also accompanied us on some of our outings, but he wasn’t as extroverted.

The farm, about 5 acres of lawn, flowering trees, stables, and garden, was a haven of rest. There were over a dozen chickens, a calf, three horses, four pigs, and all around us were cows, cows, cows. Such fun. The farm is tended by a young man and woman with two 3 year old boys, both named Santiago, but who aren’t twins. The food was yummy. Smoked pork, potatoes, steak, and surprisingly tasty rice. And lots of fried platanoes. And the best arepas I’ve had yet. The tomatoes, cheese, papaya, lemons, chicken, eggs, and sometimes pork eaten there come from that very farm. The surrounding land is flat pastureland dotted with small forests. Hazy mountains erupt abruptly along the northern horizon. It was so hot at night even that I had trouble sleeping. The Amazon is going to be a rude awakening.

I made friends with the dogs, of course, but I also attempted to befriend the food- the pigs and baby cow. The wooden, open-air pigpen was gross; the concrete was soaked in urine. At least there wasn’t feces. They didn’t smell, actually, and they weren’t filthy. They were hairy though. You always think of pigs as smooth and chubby pink things, not coarsely haired brown mammals. I fed them slop- a bucket full of cheesewater (water drained from the homemade cheese) and vegetable and chicken scraps. They slurped it up. I also fed them a rotten papaya. That, I hear, is their second favorite. Number one is the cheesewater. One of the pigs is slated to be slaughtered next month in celebration of the visit of a family friend living in Africa. I was happy to learn this. It was clear that the lady tending the farm loved those pigs, but she also recognized the value of that pig to them as humans. It’s nice to know where your food comes from. Vicky said she could never eat meat if she lived on a farm; she’d grow too attached to the animals.

The calf wasn’t so friendly. I was able to touch it but not pet it. It was too cute. Big ears, long as its head. It ran funny. The chickens are bird-brained. They strut around like they are masters of the universe, but once you walk their way, they are sprinting for their lives. At night the hens all sleep together in the same tree.

Over the weekend I didn’t do much but lounge and chat on the porch. I totally forgot about the pollution of Bogota and my responsibilities there. It was a getaway. But I did do a bit of horseriding. The first day bruised my butt bones and wasn’t much fun. Crossed a river a couple times. It wasn’t just sit and follow the other horses. I had direct my horse, La Llana (female name for the Llanos), who was the personal favorite of my student’s son, who “broke” her two years ago. Like the movie Avatar, I guess, except I get to ride this mount even though she’s not “mine.”

At night we were greeted on the porch by tiny green and beige frogs. These things could stick to anything. I caught one (in true farmboy style), and teased Vicky. She isn’t fond of creepy crawlies. She didn’t like it when I told her how I found a frog hiding on the rack holding my coat, and how it jumped onto her coat when I pulled mine off the rack. It’s just a cute little frog!

The second day I got to participate in a cow situation. A neighbor’s baby cow born yesterday was refusing to drink her mother’s milk (the farmer must really watch his cows), and if it didn’t learn to drink, it would die. I went with my student’s son, two of their farmhands, and the neighbor whose cow needed tending. Billy the Beagle and the chocolate lab-like dog joined us on the jaunt. We cornered the cow, and 15 minutes were spent chasing and attempting to lasso the cow. After one cinched around the neck by the son, the neighbor farmer lassoed the cow’s rear end, then together they tipped the cow to its side, using the strong pull of the horses. I kept well away while the cow heaved and jumped and at one point ran into the barb wire fence. A violent activity. Once down, one horse maintained tension on the rope pinning the cows head and right leg. It held its position without a rider for a good 30 minutes. Amazing. The other horse, manned by the son, kept the rear legs of the cow pulled back. A farmhand yanked and dragged the day old calf by its ears (rough, in my opinion) to the mother’s udders. He put the udder in the mouth, shot milk into it, but the calf wouldn’t drink. So they milked the cow into a bottle with an attachable nipple, fed the calf, then attempted to associate the milk with the udder again by force the udder into the baby’s mouth. It never took. They tried and tried, but the baby was stubborn or retarded or something else. If it didn’t drink on its own tomorrow, it might die unless some farm agreed to raise it themselves. When the cow was released from its ropes, it didn’t just run away. It stared at all of us and didn’t go. We left it and the baby to relax. The ride back I felt much more comfortable on my horse. Up and down ditches, trotting, crossing lanes… I was a cowboy; I’d just seen authentic cowboy action. Later we rode to a pasture where a giant, angry bull was living. I again kept my horse and I a safe distance as they directed it onto and down the road to some probably bitter ending. Later on still, La Llana and I blocked the bridge while a couple others guided horses out of the farm stables and down a road to a pasture. It was fun.

They love their horses. At the ends or beginnings of outings, they would race around these stationed barrels. My bodyparts were still adjusting to the pounding of the ride so I did not join them. They even let a couple cows into the farm just so they could practice chasing and lassoing them. They never succeeded at the lassoing, but they sure as heck scared the cows. It was hilarious to watch Jonas the Bassett hoot and howl and chase like he was a prized cattle herder. They also gave the horses haircuts and hairbrushings. The haircuts are individualized for the sake of style.

The morning of our scheduled departure I was up before to go fishing! I had no trouble waking up, of course. Our rods and reels were our hands; the fishing tackle consisted of a stick wound with 30 feet of 50lb test monofilament. The line ended in a heavy swivel to which was twist-tied heavy wire, which was twist-tied to a massive hook. I ended up replacing the hook with a far smaller one, despite the farmhands’ reports of large fish in the waters. Our bait was old beef cutlets. We rumbled down the road to a flooded ditch that was peppered with little fish breaking the surface. In the distance across the pasture I heard big pigs squeeling and screeching- a far more unpleasant sound than “oink.” I don’t know how they got “oink” out of that sound.

Following the lead of the son and two farmhands, I spun the bait and lobbed it into the water. Waiting and waiting and waiting, no action. I had a bite at one point, but hooksetting is awkward when your arm is the rod. I switched bait because I figured the fish were popping at little minnows on the surface. I tied on a sabiki rig and I landed a little silver piranha on my first or second cast. Yes, it’s teeth was sharp! I tossed it to the bank, intending it for bait after a bit. I tossed and hand-reeled, tossed and hand-reeled. Nothing. One of the farmhands farted as he was squatted and waiting. We all laughed. One of the farmhands and the student’s son went back to the farm for some reason. The son said we needed worms. He never returned with worms. I didn’t catch another fish on the sabiki, so I switched to my preferred bait in pursuit of my preferred fish- catfish. I cut up the piranha and before long I had a 7 inch catfish with the longest whiskers I’ve seen on shore. I happily showed the farmhand, who was busy digging for worms. Around that time we also spotted a “baby” four foot alligator in the ditch. I was a little glad at that time that we never went swimming as planned in the river which that ditch drains into. I spotted another 3 babies after that. I had only 20 minutes left to fish after my catfish, and in that time I missed two fish, one of which I recognized to be a red bellied piranha. I went home quite pleased- my first piranha and south American catfish! None of the other guys caught a thing. I’m sure they hated me. They said I was lucky because fish seldom come that far up the ditch. At the farm (yes, I brought the catfish home to show the folks and to feed it to the pigs or something)… the cook sliced the sides of the fish and threw it into the skillet to fry! It had maybe 6 littles bites, but it was tasty. Fun. I heard that the river there contains big catfish, and after reading yesterday, I learned that there are some species of catfish in Colombia, particularly in the Amazon of southern Colombia, that reach the 100lb mark. More spectacular though… the day before we fished, we watched a little family fishing in one of the creeks near the farm. They caught several piranha and catfish the size that I caught, and they were using worms around a fallen tree in a creekbend. The student’s son said that a farmer pulled a 9 meter (27 foot) anaconda from that very creek! He said the farmer turned it into some boots. After nearly wiping out the anacondas in the region, he said, the locals have learned to respect them as a necessary part of the ecosystem, despite the fact that they eat the little pigs, chickens, and such. Wild.

The way home was pretty quiet. We stopped in Villavicencio for some ice cream/ice/berry concoctions. Not bad. That afternoon, watched a couple movies and slowly sunk back in to the apartment city life.