When last traveling to Colombia, I set aside a few days to spend at a village in the coffee highlands, or eje cafetero. Which to pick was the question. After meeting a fellow Wisconsinite in a hostel in Medellín, who recommended Filandia, I was hooked. With nothing to lose but spare time, I caught a bus from Salento towards Armenia, only to have to cross the entire highway to the opposite side on foot to be able to transfer. A brief conversation with a local pointed me in the right direction of the needed bus and twenty minutes after landing at the impasse, we were en route to Filandia.
This pueblecito – small village, about 45 minutes from Salento brought a certain sense of authenticity that was lacking in it’s larger sibling to the north. Very few non-Colombian tourists frequented the village, which made the experience all the purer. And of course, every single one of them stayed in the same hostel. Located near the main square, this bright blue bungalow stood out as a haven for travelers to escape the daily rains and take in multi-lingual conversation with the ever-present French contingent.
Disclaimer – I am not a small town person. The energy and options brought by a big city excites me. Usually. But this was not the case in Filandia. The same Wisconsinite recommended a hostel which luckily had space – and appeared to be the only one in town. Backpack in hand, I found my way eventually to Bidea Backpackers. Naturally, the hostel worker attending the front desk was from New Jersey. It’s only a coincidence that one travels to a new continent and the first person to converse with in this tiny village is a two-hour flight away. We spoke briefly, then headed for a drink at one of the local three bars. Charming. Real Madrid was finishing their game so we asked if space was available at a table. One of the patrons noticed our appearances and spoke to her in English. She mentioned her home in Madison county, New Jersey, of which neither of us were prepared for the following statement. Not only had this Colombian known where Madison was located, he had lived in a nearby town. For 34 years. And spoke perfect English. Taken aback, we spent the next six hours drinking Club Colombia beers and chatting in a mix of English and Spanish with this former-expat painter and numerous friends of his that stopped in. The conversation ran the gamut of what Americans can expect to be grilled on abroad: the Trump administration, a potential wall, how easy it is to visit and/or obtain permanent residence, what the cities are like, and most importantly, how much we were paid. The Colombian then offered to show us his finca, or country estate that had recently been sold. A pleasant introduction to a lovely small town.
After our vocabularies had been spent over those six hours, we went back to the hostel to converse with the rest of the backpackers. Now, I had only booked one night, with plans ever-shifting for the following days. But the hostel felt like home. Luckily, I was able to extend my stay with the sole act of not packing up any of strewn clothes. The staff at the desk welcomed an extra night, as I would have had to pay regardless of leaving or staying. Fast forward the day of mountain biking/bike walking, as my chain snapped, and night fell. Returning to the hostel, the owner’s cousin, who lived a town over, had come to stay for the night. He was relatively well-connected and within minutes of chatting to our group in the common room, suggested that we go to play Tejó. It’s usually reserved for the weekends, but by pulling some strings with Lucía, a bar owner in town, he was able to open up a field for us to play.
Tejó is a popular game in Colombia. For Americans, it’s known as cornhole or bags. However, there’s an explosive twist. The game is played by throwing stone paperweights some 20 feet/6m onto an angled muddy board. There’s an iron circle in the middle and on the circle, four triangles laden with gunpowder are placed on top. When the stone connects with the gunpowder and the iron, a reaction occurs. Snap, crackle, pop – the triangle explodes and the gunpowder lights, emitting a jet of smoke and a burning smell. Combine this with beer and don’t try this at home. Points are scored the following ways: one for the closest stone to the ring, three for cracking one of the triangles, and six for both cracking a triangle and getting the stone in the middle of the ring.
Our group was eclectic. Two Americans, too many Argentines to count, three Colombians, one Canadian Zidane-döppelganger, two French, and one Chilean. We played for three hours – the room coated in gunpowder fumes, empty Club Colombia bottles, a mish-mash of languages, and lots of cursing. At the end, my team had won: the first to 21 points is the victor. We washed off our stones and headed to the plaza for a celebratory beer or several. This group of hostelgoers and employees, switching languages, the only non-locals in the area, enjoyed our night of sport and togetherness. To me, the human connection is one of the most rewarding aspects of travel. Come alone, brush away your shyness, make friends, and quite literally blow things up. The night coming to a close, our ragtag group headed back to the hostel to relax and reminisce on the night. To the hostel staff at Bidea Backpackers and locals of Filandia, thank you for your openness and kindness. Let’s work on bringing Tejó overseas.
Dispatches by Alec 