Saturday March 5 I took an ambitious ride bike ride up to an indigenous mountain village named Gunmaku. I’ve done most of the ride before, but this time pushed a bit further to a destination. From Aracataca the ride has several phases. The first involves winding your way through paved (cement) city streets and onto a busy, sometimes chaotic highway to the outskirts of town. Arriving at “Vuelta de Torrito” which might translate as the “Bull’s Turn”, you are completely out of town, crossing the larger inter-urban Via del Sol and onto a rocky dirt road.

Phase II of the ride is a long stretch of unpaved road across a very dry mostly flat landscape of  brush,  low density grazing land and dust. Traffic on this road is light, with motorcycles carrying sacks of coffee beans and passengers out of the mountains to Aracataca and returning with consumer goods and more passengers. There are occasional trucks, including a regular milk truck every morning picking up small quantities from dairies along this road. There’s a military monument, then a military checkpoint where the guards ask where I am going and sometimes tell me not to go there for safety reasons. Then the road begins climbing over and between low hills. The first time I did this ride I turned around at a small river crossing about two miles east of the military checkpoint. With essentially no rain in five months this river is dry.

Phase III begins as the landscape becomes much more mountainous. My bike has issues with steep hills and I am fading from the 90 degree heat, dust and steeper slopes. I have to walk up some of the steep sections or the rear while on the bike slips and binds against the frame. I started with two liters of water, and to this point have used less than ½ liter, but I’m already sure I don’t have enough. The hilly landscape is also very dry, but now there are much more interesting views, with trees providing intermittent shade, deep mountain valleys carved by the now-dry streams. The road twists along the northern side of a valley eventually reaching a fork called the “Ye”. This is the best I managed a week earlier, but from the Ye you can turn south-east to Cerro Azul or Blue Hill, or continue east passing a number of villages including my destination Gunmaku.

There is a huge sign in Gunmaku that makes it pretty clear that you need permission to enter the village. In fact, there is a locked gate that has to be opened by a guard if you want to enter the village in a car or motorcycle. I join a non-indigenous family climbing over the wall by the gate with my bike to walk up to the village.

The guard stopped me thinking I was a tourist (not allowed by the village elders). He let me continue in this case since I am making this trip to attend a meeting between the village, non-indigenous families with children attending the school in Gunmaku, representatives of the town of Aracataca (which includes Gunmaku) and the Department of Education.

Mariano Suarez, an Aruhauca Mamo, or tribal elder, was assassinated early in 2005 by leftists FARC guerrillas. At that time he was advocating for a safe home or refuge for his people during this sustained period of violence. Following his assassination the government took on his proposal and helped to build the village of Gunmaku. It was dedicated in April, 2007.

Gunmaku is a planned village, built as a center for the Arhuaca tribe that continues to range through a large area of the eastern sierra in dispersed settlements. The Arhuaca speak a language and practice a culture very distinct from Caribbean Latin culture. There clothing is black and white, almost identical among men and among women. Children adopt similar clothing from a very young age, though a few of the boys were mixing in modern clothing, like blue jeans.

Upon arrival in the village I wasn’t sure where to go. A group of the non-indigenous “costeños” neighbors were sitting in one area quietly talking and several groups of Arhuaco children, women and men were also sitting and talking. I floated between the groups not wanting to offend anyone and probably looking very uncomfortable. It was much easier to sit and chat with the costeños. I’ve been living in that culture for the last five months. They are outgoing, interested in what I do, inviting me to their homes and farms, hoping for assistance of one form or another.

On the other hand, I’m at a total loss for conversation with the Arhuaco. I grope for conversation, but I’m not getting much traction.

The men are chewing coca leaves, a practice common in Peru and Bolivia, though I never saw it in Ecuador. The carry gourds that contain ground shells or other alkaline powder mixed with a little water. They occasional pull the sticks from the gourds and lick some of the white paste or rub the sticks on the neck of the gourds. The white paste is a catalyst for the coca leaves, releasing the tongue-numbing alkaloid that also has a mild stimulant effect similar to coffee, but that also suppresses appetite. A small garden for coca plants grows in the center of the village.

(Photo: www.tripadvisor.com)

The women are engaged in cooking two large pots of stew. The kids are pretty friendly, but not aggressively friendly like the costeños.  
Not long after I arrived, the entourage of two cars and a motorcycle carrying government representatives came in with a flurry. I had assumed we’d go right into a community meeting to talk about educational needs. The process rolled out much differently.

We were invited to walk a short distance out of the village and into a small wooded area. The Mamos, men, women and children were waiting there for us. We removed our shoes, entered the grove and sat on small rocks arranged roughly in circles. The Mamos presented each of us with a small piece of yarn tied in a loose half-hitch knot. They spoke quietly thanking us for coming and hoping that the visit would be productive. We were asked to tighten the knots in the yarn and hand them back, indicating our commitment. We left the grove, put on our shoes and returned to the village. I thought it was a grand way to welcome us, giving a little insight into their culture and adding a bit of gravitas to the visit.

The atmosphere, at least among the officials quickly changed back to the typically festive, costeño culture. They had cases of water, soft drinks, beer, snacks and huge boxes of toys, and toiletries. I was thrilled to receive two bottles of water as my own supply was running out and I still had to ride back out. I fell back into talking with the non-indigenous farmers that were not part of the welcome ceremony, but seemed content to be in the village. We talked agriculture while the officials lined two sides of a long table for a lunch of the stew that had been boiling all this while. It was a rich mix of yucca, potatoes vegetables and chicken. Eventually I was also invited to the table and again my choice to be a vegetarian made me seem pretty impolite. I had a few bananas in my bag and joined the table as such.

After lunch the kids packed into the open air “comedor” or lunch area and the officials reigned gifts on them. I’m never sure how these things work out. It seems chaotic and unplanned, but eventually I think most of the kids got something a doll, plastic toy or bar of soap. At this point I thought the meeting would begin, but instead the officials jumped in their SUVs and headed down to the Tucurinca River presumably to splash around. It turns out that the people in the SUV’s were spending the night in the village. I didn’t have enough time to go on the river trip, but that turned out to be very lucky.

After the officials left the non-indigenous neighbors gave up waiting. They had hoped, I think, to participate in the discussion about education. That discussion was scheduled for the evening and they had to return during daylight hours.

There is a cultural gulf between the farmers, who are a mix of coastal Colombias as well as people that have moved to this area from other regions around Bogota (Cachacos) and Cali (Paisas). They expressed a feeling that government support goes primarily to the Arhuaco, while they receive very little. I can't judge who is right in these cases, but it is clear that the sierra as a region presents big challenges to any public agency wishing to help. Acces, lack of elecrification, sometimes torrential rains washing away roads and currently a multi-year drought make it very difficult to support a highly dispersed, mountainous community.

I was approached by a young Arhuaco that spoke the best English I have heard in Colombia. He had been living in the town of Minca on the north slopes of the Sierra near to Santa Marta. There he learned a lot of English from a Peace Corps volunteer and was determined to learn more. He’s very interested in getting to study in the United States and has a budding interest in environmental protection. He opened things up a bit for me too, walking me around the village, introducing me to others, and sharing some bits about the culture. I’d like to help him in his quest to study in the US. He is the only student that I have met that has really learned to speak English. Many want to, but very few get very far.

The village has a unique structure. Most of the houses are small, layed out in a perfect grid with pedestrian ways between each of the houses. There are a few larger buildings that I think are for social and spiritual use.

Below this residential area is a cluster of modern buildings that serve as school, health center and lunch area for the kids in school. You can see the village using Google Maps or Google earth at coordinates (10.66186, -74.05088).

Time was up though and I needed to pound my way back down the mountain. I’m not sure how mountain bikers contend with the pounding. Perhaps better bikes with springs make a different. I get to the point that it really hurts to sit back down on the bike seat, but there’s no other way out. Gravity was my friend, so what took three hours in took just under two hours back out despite my exhausted, dehydrated, hungry and somewhat rickety conditioning. I caught a final wind on the last leg of the trip and raced into and to a cool shower.

I'm very sore now. The bike and I took a pounding. The bike held up admirably. I put a new, pretty costly tire on the front just before the trip which I think was worth it. All the sand and dust work their way into everything, so each of these trips creates new creeks and grows from the belabored bike and requires another round of maintenance.

Tomorrow morning will be a cultural celebration of the life of Gabriel Garcia Marquez with music, dance and readings.  I may also take another bike ride to Fundacion to look for musician friends. It's all quite amazing. I'm very lucky to be here.