After our success at white-water rafting we were pumped for our next 'extreme' adventure. What would it be? Paragliding over a canyon, spelunking through caves, rappelling down waterfalls? With new courage coursing through our vains we opted for the only logical choice: a visit to a local historic village where there is absolutely nothing to do other than drink beer with the locals in the town square and soak up the beauty of 16th-century buildings frozen in time. White-washed walls, brightly painted doors, terra cotta brick churches and western-orientated food. The most dangerous element of this town being a large mango tree outside our room that bombed fruit, narrowly missing our heads every 5 minutes.We were being totes CRAZY!
Sarcasm aside, Barrachara is a stunning village, its place rightly deserved on the gringo tourist trail. Apart from soaking up the historic atmosphere and wandering through cobbled streets, our main aim for coming was to undertake a two-hour trek along the Camino Real through beautiful countryside to the tiny hamlet of Guane - a place which was essentially the same as Barrachara, just smaller and more remote. It was the trek however that made the journey so worthwhile, as the views and scenery were stunning (sorry, I realise I do keep banging on at how amazeballs the Colombian countryside is, but it really has blown our minds). My ability to keep injuring myself was in full swing as usual, with me gaining two huge broken blisters on both feet, and a whole on the underside of my right foot due to a small stone that had inconveniently wedged itself into the bottom of my shoe. Of course most sensible people would have stopped and removed said stone, but hey, I've never been the sharpest tool in the box. I may have to buy new footwear for our upcoming Inca trail.
Camino Real
See, I'm not lying about the scenery, check out the gorgeous wildlife...
At the end of our walk we rewarded ourselves with a traditional Colombian meal - my fish with plantain was delicious; the potato and pasta soup with suspect-looking cuts of meat less so. This was made all the worse by the waitress refusing to remove it from the table until we paid the bill, in a bid to guilt me into eating it. Sorry lady, cow entrails just aren't going to be the delicious 'carne' that makes me break my vegetarian (I mean pescatarian) - ism. We caught the bus back to San Gil in time for sunset and beers. It was meant to be party night in the town square, but sadly none of us had the energy, although I'm pretty sure Ais would have pushed on through.
A fishy on my dishy
We spent our last day in San Gil visiting the local 'cascadas', a spectacular 100-meter waterfall with a freezing cold plunge pool at the bottom. We braved the icy temperatures and swam in crystal clear water, followed by a picnic of avocado, tomato and crisp sandwiches... Colombian gastronomy at its finest.
Ursula Andress eat your heart out...
We would have been very sad to leave San Gil if it hadn't been for one thing. On returning to our dorm to settle down for the night we opened the door and were greeted with a smell that would make a festival toilet on day three, stuffed with rotting fish and a side of durian seem like the finest Chanel money can buy. Dead animal can not do this aroma justice and is too kind a description for the beast that lay within. The culprit was a man of unidentified age and name who had such bad personal hygiene it made Ais and I gag on entering the room. This, of course, caused much hilarity to anyone not sleeping in our room (thanks Ben and Alex), although understandably I would have happily laughed at any other poor soul in the same situation, as evil as I am. The main offence were a pair of shoes that looked liked they'd been welded on to said individual's feet for about 25 years, and he'd chosen this night to prize them off with a slice of Stilton. There was no choice, the shoes had to go. We threw them down the hallway and vowed to leave before 'shoes no more' could find out. With pegs on our noses, windows open and earplugs to drown out the additional strange grunts in the night that also emitted from Mr gorilla, we grabbed a few hours kip before packing our bags and leaving in haste the next day. We never did find out what he looked like as he was still asleep when we left, but hasten to say if I ever see a pair of rotting denim boat shoes again, I will be running for the hills faster than you can say pass me the Brie.
Goodbye San Gil, hello fresh air....
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