By the time the fourth landlord turned us away, we started to wonder whether we would ever find a bed for the evening. The night was drawing in, even the camp sites were full, and we were stuck in a small town in Colombia, never the best place for a midnight stroll.
We should have had more faith though, as the fifth knock brought some luck. A large bubbly woman beckoned us into her garage, we negotiate a fee and slip into a double room upstairs, overlooking a dilapidated shrub garden below. Once inside we investigate. Malfunctioning air-con, slightly tangy bed-sheets and a badly dubbed American action film on the box: check. We cosy in for the evening. After all, we`re checking out in seven hours; she could only give us the night.
Through some haphazard journey from Bogota, Colombia`s intriguing Capital, in a series of progressively smaller vehicles, we had finally made it to the tiny colonial town of Villa de Leyva, four hours north. We had come following various local rumours of possible cultural and musical hedonism, and like submissive lemmings we had gladly accepted. The yearly Festival of Light was supposedly taking place here over the weekend, an exhibition of archetypal South America flare: fireworks, music and lots of liquor. Ten thousand students and wealthy families from Bogota would be arriving soon. It seemed a strange venue but the lack of rooms assured us we had come to the right place.
Morning broke and we packed our bags to pound the streets again. As we stomped off to explore in the full glare of daylight it soon became clear that our safety fears had been misplaced – the town that came to life was friendly and pristine.
As with a lot of Colombia`s countryside outside the cities, Villa de Leyva was an untouched paradise of rustic architecture, haphazard shop-fronts, lopsided cobbled streets and a ghostly still central plaza – in this case the largest in all of Colombia. A huge spiky topped barn with an old fashioned clock-tower, splashed thickly in chalky white, encapsulated the square at the top, surrounded on all sides by a symmetry of cafes. Gorgeous lumpy hills doused the entire perimeter in green. Endless space hung in the middle. Everything was either miniature or oversized here; it was like walking through a model village.
The festival wasn’t due to start until dusk, so the plaza wasn’t too populated with bodies yet. Given this, we managed to bump into some friends of ours, who recommended their hostel, high upon the hills outside town. Two spare beds plus some tents out back. We quickly hailed a taxi – essentially a rustic farmer’s truck – and threw ourselves into the open-top back, sucking in the air as we glided through the streets.
The surrounding hills were really the cream on the cake of what lay below. Lush fields lay peaceful, horse and carts hacked up side streets, forest vines bent over onto muddy tracks. It was a time capsule to a different time in a different place. Of course the mansions that perched on the crescents were for the privileged few (well to-do families from Bogota owned holiday homes here to escape the city) but it was a safe haven. You felt that this was Colombia showing off its best side.
We turned into the hostel, a pretty and peaceful place complete with all the normal hippy tools: hammocks, bbq`s and large oak communal tables, all done al-fresco style. By the time the sun shrank behind the clouds, the first crackles and bangs had started to ebb from the streets below - a crescendo of noise that wouldn’t stop for three days. The people were coming.
The following two days were chaos, but a cheery, organised kind of chaos. As we were promised they came in their thousands and by 9pm that evening one of the largest plazas in all of South America was at breaking point. We were the only gringos in sight and buoyed by this we drifted into the morning with the rest of the mob, dancing to folkloric beats and drinking the fiercely popular national drink `Aguardiente`, a sort of liquorish sambuca that we mixed with coca cola to take the edge off, much to the dismay of our new friends.
The first evening saw the main spectacle come to life: a fusion of light, colour and noise as fireworks were let off in every direction; some professional, some home-made. Loud music bleated everywhere in the background. The second night we were escorted by some locals to a nearby farm mansion, the parents of one of our crew members we were told. We had obviously mixed in the right circles. We ended the night with a comical episode outside the farm`s entrance as we all tried to free the son`s car from the thick mud that engulfed his estate. We left caked head to toe in chocolate dirt, only to rejoin the ensuing festivities.
The festival ended as it had begun – peacefully. There were never any safety concerns; people were merry and happy, not drunk and irritable. The ornate lines of police horses that dotted every corner were never used. Hangovers were duly seen to with a strong dose of early morning sun, a fact not gone unnoticed when you visited the square for lunch the morning after the night before and saw the bodies strewn across the cobbles.
Colombia has always received the butt end of the press in the annuls of tourism: only neighboring Venezuela receives less visitors in South America. But people that don’t go are living on outdated stories. The country`s safety record is noticeably improving under its current President and more tourists and backpackers are pouring in than ever. Villa de Leyva may be an excessive showcase piece in the puzzle but it proves the potential the country has to shine. It`s fitting that during my stay the Colombian tourist board had recently released a new national marketing campaign, complete with the slogan “the only danger is wanting to stay”. Bleary eyed after a weekend in Villa de Lleyva, I couldn’t have agreed more.
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