Open mouths on this steady ten, twelve percent, drift right, toward the bottom of the basin of the lifting curve where it’s slide moss bright green slime for a gutter. Chug sputter, Willys Jeep careens past. Relics cared for, lovingly restored maybe just kept in a suspended glinting condition between constant function and venerated stasis. There’s an annual Willys festival in a nearby town every year, image angular and crisp edged parades, prideful gear shifts around a plaza. We hear those now, the damp narrowness upward into shades of green dappled jungle meets forest jostling dairy cow farmland.
High vantage, irregular geometric plowed corduroy shapes, dark green gold bars church towers on hilltops, hedgerows hiding watercourses cobbled tape. Coffee grown picked packed, tourism around its history economy, and the drink itself, not especially beloved by Colombians, but it’s everywhere low and high, cheap acidic smolder the world’s stalls and diners and morning stained pots, boutique smooth doppio cappu eighteen seconds stainless steam machine.
Colombia is finger to your chest to make a point acclivity then freedive drops to rivers then agains again. Here the reply is Jeeps and coffee. We ride through tiny towns, almuerzo to a rainshower, cadence back against the grey to darkening, blacktop concrete gravel dirt cobble slabs grass home.