By the 1990’s, paramilitary groups waged war against FARC and the violence escalated. By the early 1980’s, violent battles erupted as FARC waged war against the government, riddled the police station with bullet holes and attacked locals who didn’t comply with extortion demands. It wasn’t long before FARC came to the area and set up their own marijuana and coca farms to fund their operations. Coffee exports came nearly to a standstill during the war, replaced in the early 1960’s with marijuana and cocaine. Up until WWII, Minca was a nearly self-sustaining village based on coffee production in surrounding hillside farms. Minca is a small and not particularly pretty village but it’s in a beautiful location and has somewhat of a frontier vibe to it, which makes sense when you realize that only 10 years ago it was a stronghold for FARC, the rebel military wing of the Colombian Communist Party.
It was the only time we didn’t use our UV sterilizer for drinking water and Susan would soon pay for it. As he spoke, he gave us a couple of glasses of water that he assured us were purified. Frank told us the story of how the family built the lodge over the past few years. The main lodge had very slow internet and up at the cabins where we’d stay there was no Wi-Fi, only incredibly slow 2G service (think dial-up speed), which meant our phones were not very useful. At the top, Frank explained that the lodge was built in concert with the natural surroundings by the family who also lived there, with help from indigenous locals. He grabbed Susan’s suitcase and I grabbed mine as we headed up the long steep dirt path to the main house, both of us panting. We were met at the gate by Frank, a lanky 20-something local who spoke a bit of English. He also gave us his WhatsApp number and said he could pick us up in three days to take us to the airport when we’d be ready to leave Minca for our next destination. We paid him a 30% tip and he smiled hugely, fist-bumped us and thanked us. He grinned at us as he said, Muy caliente! Going downhill, he said, would be fine.
#Dark woods tijuana driver
Eventually, we found the gate to Sol de Minca ecolodge and preserve where the driver promptly got out and raised the hood to let the tiny engine cool. The tiny three-cylinder engine was surging and we were struggling in first gear. Twice the driver nervously asked us how much farther. Cacti and scrub gave way to large-leafed trees and banana plants as the taxi struggled up the hills. Soon, we were climbing into the mountains outside of town and left the city behind. It wasn’t the first nor the last time we felt exceptionally fortunate. The smartwatch on my wrist probably represented weeks of wages for the poorest and we were heading to an ecolodge in the clean air above Santa Marta where people paid $50 a night to commune with nature. Even in the beat-up taxi we felt conspicuous though I was wearing an old T-shirt, faded shorts and broken sandals and Susan was dressed no better. Dust and smoke choked the air as we weaved through traffic.
#Dark woods tijuana windows
Small concrete hovels built on hills had trails of trash from the windows and doors spilling down the hillside, and the people we saw on the streets looked downtrodden though everyone was busy trying to make a living. Neither of us had seen anything as dirty and dilapidated, except maybe parts of Tijuana, Mexico. On the way, we drove through the outskirts of Santa Marta. We haggled over the price in the middle of the busy street, settling on 70,000 pesos (about $17 US) and we left the small village of Tagonga in the car, barely big enough for us and our two small suitcases. We gave it a 50/50 chance that anyone would be there but at 10:25, our driver Lenny arrived in a tiny battered Kia. Our taxi was theoretically supposed to arrive at 10:30 am to take us to our ecolodge in Minca, about 45 minutes away in the mountains.
We’d not slept well but were glad to be in this vibrant part of the world where people happily celebrated life. When the sun rose, loud music was still playing from another hostel a half mile away that faced us. Every time I woke, I heard music and dogs and honking as the locals celebrated Saturday night.
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