Adventures of a Sun Seeker: "I was cheering on you!"

The road up the mountain. Paved as deliciously as butter.

A six hundred meter climb to the little mountain town of Minca; to put this in Ithaca terms it was biking up the Cornell hill three and a half times, but with a full load, and in Hot Yoga temperatures.

Our first big climb of the trip.

Needless to say, it took us no short amount of time, cranking up there, sweating like furnaces. The dump trucks passed us, grinding into low gear, the cars loaded with people trundling upward. Mostly we had the road to ourselves though, climbing up into the tree'd hills. The men working on the side of the road gave us thumbs up, whistles of appreciation (never an hour goes by here where we are not appreciated, even the trees whistle as we pass sometimes), or simply "hola! cómo está!"

This hot climb could have been an experience of suffering, but instead I am learning to simply accept: I am so hot my ears are thrumming, my shorts are adhered to me, so be it. I carry emergency water and back-up water, so I stay hydrated. I was also munching on little red cubes of guava paste, the tropical equivalent of shot-blocks. Each portion of shade is a glorious gift, each breeze is thanked personally.

There is something especially pulsing and alive about climbing on a bike for me, I was drugged on endorphins. And the mountain views are thusly so earned and seeing a poinsettia (tree! not a Christmas decoration here!) growing roadside had me in disproportionate raptures.

A poinsettia tree!!

Organic coffee!

Coffee worthy of a good tiny tear.

Half way up the mountain we pass this "Organic Coffee" place on the quiet uninhabited road; of course we stop. The two men working there make us coffee and then come out and sit with us, never in Southeast Asia or even in the states would the establishment owners be so interested in making conversation, asking about our trip, being patient with our Spanish. Mr Coffee Finca had a calm aspect, telling us how he preferred his farm to the city, sharing with us some cocoa nibs in honey, bringing a bag of coca leaves for us to smell.

I was holding a real ceramic mug of organically grown coffee, coffee grown in the same soil as that under my feet, a beautiful view expanded before me. The coffee was like silk, not a molecule of acid, mellower than any coffee I've had. I nearly shed a tear then, how right this all was together.

We finally arrived in the little mountain town, high-fived, and parked self-satisfied on a cafe porch and watched the world go by. So far our Colombia experience has been us and all the lovely local people, but this place has the backpacker vibe, English is spoken, hummus is served, and book exchanges are available. What a treat. Few others are from America though; I've met Germany, Switzerland, Holland, France, and New Zealand so far.

Our bikes and ourselves gained no small amount of attention. "Did you bike up here?" four Colombian travelers asked us from the street, "we passed you in the car!" Then, standing there in their line of four, they applauded us. "I also ride bikes!" said a Señor, "and that looked hard."

"I was cheering on you!" said the Señora, waving her hands.

Those of the Wayman persuasion will be pleased to know I ate a burger upon reaching the town and cooling off. It may have gone directly to my quads.