Monguí High

The old buseta groaned up the mountain, its gears loudly clashing at every curve.  With us, a busload of children, on their way home from school.  At the outskirts of town, one by one, a little voice politely chirped
"Stop here, please", and the driver, as is usual on Colombian buses, dropped each child at his destination.  The frequent stops, made the ride much longer than the distance warranted, but as we were soon to learn, in Monguí  no one is in a hurry.




Monguí, is known for its beauty, and as we  got off at the main plaza (Simon Bolivar, of course), we understood why.  At an altitude of three thousand meters, the sun is strong, and under the clear blue sky the church and the large square shone like a jewel.

We strolled the cobbled streets, admiring the small colonial houses whose doors and windows in vivid green, accentuated the white-washed walls.  Red flowers overflowed from second floor balconies, and provided a balance of color.  With this post-card beauty all around, it was easy to ignore the altitude effects, that is, until a street would incline ever so slightly upward, and we would need to slow down to catch our breath.

Mongui not only preserved the colonial architecture, but also its simple way of life.  At the creek, we encountered a boisterous group of boys, who proudly demonstrated their skill of catching trout with their bare hands.  Panting our way back up to the plaza, we shared a narrow alley with a donkey, carrying milk pails from a nearby farm.  The milk is to be sold by the cup-measure, at the village store.  Unfortunately, the fun in this idyllic village was soon to end.

A pack of dogs, wildly chasing each other up the the alley, passed by us.  I was framing a snapshot when I heard Adi scream.  One of the bigger dogs, hit her leg as it ran.  Adi does not like dogs, and I believe, that this close encounter, broke her spirit.  Her calls of "Hey, look how wonderful..., Look how pretty..." diminished in frequency, and then stopped.  She moved slower, and complained of a headache.  Our plan for the following day, was to rise early, climb to an altitude of  four thousand meters,  and visit a spectacular páramo (An eight-hour hike), but it became clear that the plan needs to be reduced to a short walk around town.  At dinner, she had no appetite, and as the evening turned into a freezing-cold night, we crawled under several wool blankets, and fell into a fitful sleep.   In the morning, Adi was a sad sight, her skin pale, and her lips blue.  After coffee, she returned to bed, wearing both her sweater and warm jacket under the blankets.  I realized that three remedies are required to cure her altitude sickness: 1. Elevation (lower); 2. Temperature (raise); and 3.  Love.

By the time the bus descended to Paipa, (Elevation  2300 meters), Adi's lips were pink again.   In this popular hot springs resort, historic Hacienda de Salitre. is considered the best hotel, and I decided that what was good enough for Simon Bolivar, should be good enough for us.  Indeed, the place was charming.





The hotel staff, attired in seventeenth-century colonial costumes (minus the wigs), escorted us to our suite, which included a private pool, fed by the town's natural hot springs.  We promptly immersed ourselves in hot salty water. As for the third remedy, let us note, that the next day we were both happy and ready to resume our travels.