What a Day in Guatapé

Or "How I Almost Got Trampled By A Horse"

On my flight from NY to Bogotá, a Colombian man notices the book I’m reading.

“Me gusta este autor,” he comments, spurring a philosophical conversation that would continue on and off for the remaining 2 hours of our trip. The discussion was a welcome cure for my boredom, a perfect refresher for my Spanish, and a great way to make my first Colombian friend, who, in a gesture of good will, offers me a ride to my hostel with his family.  

Guess I picked the right book.

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I’ve only got a few days in Bogotá, so after a restful night I make haste for the tourist highlights. Cue the quintessential bike tour, Botero Museum, and Bolivar Plaza.

Day 2’s objective is the iconic Monserrate; a mountaintop chapel overlooking the city. After an early wakeup I climb rocky switchbacks alongside goats, chickens, dogs, and tourists through tiny mountainside shops and dense vegetation.

The summit mission leaves me primed for lunch, and so after my descent I tune in to my nose. I’m seduced by ajiaco, a traditional Colombian soup salted perfectly and brimming with potatoes, chicken, and corn. A side of avocado. A squeeze of fresh lime. A mango batido to wash it all down.

Next up – Medellín.  The culture seeps into every corner through savory scents, captivating colors, and smooth Latin rhythms. The streets at every time of day and night are filled with a flavor of life like nowhere I’ve tasted. Even the people are delightfully seasoned.

A wicked 3 days of salsa, booze, coffee, and sun fly by before I’m due for my next adventure.

Which begins with a 7AM hungover taxi rendezvous.

Are you really travelling if you don’t have at least one?

The driver I’d drunkenly bartered with the night before arrives right on time, and the quiet, foggy morning is in stark contrast to the social, tequila-filled, reggaeton-backed fiesta that was Medellín by night. We exchange “¡Buenas!” and make for my next destination – a historic, lush, lake-ridden landscape home to beautiful views and a charming pueblo - Guatapé.

The central attraction of Guatapé is geologic – a 500-foot stone monolith rises vertically above the landscape. From atop, the view is remarkable – rolling green hills rise out of crystal blue lakes spread in every direction. After the climb and obligatory photo, I descend and make way for downtown. Which is so quaint that even after the circumnavigating the entire town, savoring a hearty lunch, shopping, and tolerating the nationally revered michelada (Salty beer? No thank you.), I have 2 hours to kill.

Downtown Guatapé

Might as well get some exercise, I figure. I give my driver a ring and retrieve my running shoes. I’d seen the tourist Guatapé, but I yearned for the beyond.

Off we go.

Quickly, the commerce gives way to dusty paths, abandoned buildings, and stray dogs. I wasn’t missing much, and so after a mile or so I turn back to town. It wasn’t quite the adventure I was looking for, but that’s alright. Because in just a moment, it would solicit me. Aggressively.   

As I cross back over a bridge into the city limits, I come to a row of horses tied hastily to sidewalk posts. I slow my jog, curious what, in the absence of any farm or stable, these mangy horses and their mangier tender are doing so far from the beaten path. I don’t have to wonder for long, as his enterprising assistant pounces on my briefest hesitation.

“¡Amigo! Quieres montar?” he inquires. Ah, horse riding, I quickly realize.

“Cuanto cuesta?” I respond, after a moment's consideration.

I conclude after some quick mental currency conversions that this Colombian Cowboy experience is only about six U.S. dollars. Good deal. Much to the delight of the one-man marketing department, I agree, and am promptly escorted over to the row of depressed horses and their disgruntled handler, who wasn’t nearly as happy as his partner to see me.

I suppose speaking to horses all day had reduced his vocabulary to muffled huffs, labored grunts, and vague gestures. So, with a few of these he guides me to one of his larger (not that large) and older (not that old) horses, which, thanks only to western movies and no help from El Ranchero, I manage to mount.

I alert him this is my first time riding a horse, which prompts his reluctant and brief equestrian lesson:   

“Pa la derecha,” pulling the reigns to the right.

“Izquierda” and the left. 

“Parar,” impatiently. He pulls back towards me.

Thus concluded what would be my only instruction that even resembled Spanish language. Of my many questions, I manage to get only one off before he tires of my inquisition:

“Como se llama el caballo?”

“Canelo,” he grunts.

I figured if I am to trust this beast to escort me safely, I might as well know his name. He vaguely suggests a direction and sends me off, unaccompanied.

I experience a few moments of panicked confusion – I’m not sure where, on my own, I’m supposed to lead this horse. Is this like an Enterprise rental car? Do I need only to return the horse to its parking space 30 minutes from now with a stomach full of grain? 

The uncertainty is a perfect exercise for the traveler’s mind. How much of it you are willing to tolerate is usually proportional to how much excitement you’ll encounter. And right now, I’m definitely not short on excitement. I, an inexperienced rider, am atop a Colombian steed advancing between a murky and polluted lake to my left and a steep and slippery hill to my right. That’ll wake you up.

Thankfully, the ambiguity doesn’t last, and my trusty mustached friend soon approaches from behind, announcing himself atop his own steed with a new array of grunts, huffs, and whistles. Canelo responds with a brief burst of speed. At least one of us understands. 

Canelo knows the way, I quickly learn, and requires very little input from me. Through the cobblestone streets we click and clack, hoofsteps echoing off Spanish plaster walls. Eventually, we break out of town and head up into the mountains. Canelo seems to have inherited an attitude from his handler though, slowing to a crawl at every opportunity. Periodically, resident cowboy becomes dissatisfied with Canelo’s pace, and spurs him onward with a sharp whistle. With each one, Canelo briefly accelerates before returning to a lazy walk.

For this rest of the ride this dance continues – stubborn cowboy vs. lazy horse. We oscillate between labored walk and reluctant trot.

Soon begins a slow and scenic ascent into the hills surrounding Guatapé. Alongside unused paved roads pass inns, cabins, and the rolling green that characterizes Colombia. Everything seems to grow here, everywhere. Flora sprouts from every nook, cranny, and crevice where sunlight meets soil. A full year of sun, rain, and warmth nurtures all.

Sadly, my Bourdain daydreams come to an end and we begin to turn back, revealing a new panorama of the city. I try to savor each moment as the experience begins to close.

But before it does, the spirit of adventure makes an exciting return.

As we near our starting point, Señor Grumpy once again sends me alone down below along the muddy hill banked by the murky pond, neither of which offer sturdy footing for Canelo. As sketchy as it was the first time, there’s now a new hazard to contend with. About 25 yards away, a family has left their yappy, scruffy, skittish small dog unleashed. He spots Canelo and, with a fit of high-pitched barks, makes chase.

Unsurprisingly, Canelo is spooked, and launches into a full-blown gallop. My heart quickly matches the loud, fast thumping of hooves.

High speed evasive maneuvers were not covered in my $6 “lesson,” and so I am left in my panicked state to ideate. Briefly, I consider pulling then reigns - but I’m not so sure he’d listen. I certainly wouldn’t like that if I were him. Even if he did stop, that wouldn’t solve the problem of the incident dog, who would quickly close on us if we were to slow. As harrowing as the sudden and unexpected sprint is, I prefer it to a dog vs. horse stand-off, which would probably end with a 6-foot fall, a hoof to the mouth, and a dead terrier.

Instead, I try to relax and resign full control to Canelo. As scary as that is, I recognize that racing through Colombian countryside horseback at full tilt is also a little bit badass. Often, the only difference between anxiety and excitement is attitude. And so I loosen my knees, feel an unstoppable smile, and let loose a loud and liberating laugh.

After a few terrifying seconds, we outrun the dog. Canelo slows smoothly as we approach the same post he was tethered to before, and even repeats the exact angle and position we started in; that which would make it easiest for his handler to tie him back off. He stands perfectly still so I can comfortably dismount. I feel silly for ever doubting him.

Gracias, Canelo.

While I should have probably been upset, I fork over a little extra cash and profess gratitude to the horseman for granting me this near catastrophic yet life-giving experience.

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A wicked hangover, a sun-baked run, a long day’s travel, and a near death experience have readied me for the tranquility I hope soon awaits me at my next destination – a remote riverside tropical hostel deep in the jungle. All that’s left to endure is a 2-hour taxi back to Jose Maria Cordova Airport, a typical LATAM delay, a bumpy flight, and a bumpier 1-hour taxi ride along neglected dirt roads. I finally arrive, worn thin.

As I exit my ride and approach reception, though, I hear an obnoxiously loud dum.. dum… dum… of music-adjacent techno pulses emanating from the woods. What is going on? I beg of the concierge. I sense his sympathy as he realizes I wasn’t alerted of the monthly drug-fueled EDM rave that happens to be occurring on the night of my arrival.  And goes until 3AM. Guess I won’t be getting much rest. Even death by trampling seems preferable to this.