If we die here, it is your fault, because you absolutely had to go to Jardín.
I can live with that. If we are both dead, nobody will ever find out.
Hang on, let me quickly message Kai that it was your idea.
We are sitting on the first of three buses on our way from the Colombian showcase village of Jardín to Salento. 34 km and 3 hours of travel time, says the timetable for the first part of the route.
When we sat on the bus from Medellín to Jardín two days ago, we were still thoroughly enjoying the breathtaking route. What we did not know: the tarmacked part of the road ends right behind Jardín and turns into a dirt track that winds 30 km along the mountainsides towards Riosucio. We are sitting on a bus whose best years are long behind it. Its suspension in particular, which creaks at every pothole. To the right we look out over wide green valleys. Down to the right, into steep drops that the bus would roll down unchecked at one wrong move.
Suddenly the bus stops. In front of us a landslide. Beside us a steep grassy slope. No crash barrier, no trees to slow a possible fall. There are no seatbelts. In case they would have helped in any way.
The driver gets out and eyes the landslide. The other passengers call out ¡Caminamos!: let us walk around it. The driver waves them off. His decision is made: his bus can do this.
Since I am sitting by the window and would be the first to hit the ground if it tipped sideways, my strategy is clear: as soon as the window shatters, I grab hold of the first bush and watch the bus fall. I would of course hold on to Jan with the other hand.
The driver hits the accelerator and races towards the landslide.
24 hours earlier we are still strolling through Jardín, titled by so many the prettiest village in Colombia. Garden. And what a garden!
Set amid coffee and banana plantations, a growing area for avocados, physalis and granadillas, home to many exotic bird species. Shunned by tourists until a few years ago, the residents keep their beautiful, unspoiled world in order to this day: the facades are painted in bright colours, colourful flowers hang from wooden balconies and not a scrap of rubbish is to be found in the streets.
The village’s most characteristic feature, though, is probably the market square, lined all around with cafés against whose walls colourful little chairs stand in rows. Here you drink your tinto, your black coffee, and let the village’s leisurely life pass you by. As a true Jardínero you enjoy your coffee with style and wear a cowboy hat.
In Jardín you are best off adapting to the pace of the village and doing: not much. The village happily supports you in that by simply keeping its only two attractions closed: a modern cable car that runs up to a viewpoint, and the DIY cable car La Garrucha, which is reminiscent of a repurposed wooden shed.
So we do what all Jardíneros do: take a seat and drink coffee.
But we could not quite square it with our conscience to have sat on a bus for four hours only to drink a coffee in the end. We walked to the edge of the village and came across a path that looks so perfect you simply have to follow it.
After the two-hour walk, at least, and the realisation that my flip-flops really were about to depart this life, we went back - as one does in Jardín - to drink coffee. The best preparation for our next destination: Salento in the Zona Cafetera, one of the largest coffee-growing regions in the world. ☕
…
So the driver drove towards the landslide. He used the path to the very last inch. The edge of the tyre fitted the edge of the drop precisely.
And we were through. He knows his bus after all, and his forest track, and it was probably not the first situation of its kind. Not worth mentioning.
And hey, has anybody ever heard of a bus accident between Jardín and Riosucio? Exactly!
But it is also better if such things are not reported. On the ride back from the Ciudad Perdida our guide pointed casually at a bend that a jeep had recently taken too fast, shooting over the crash barrier. Fully occupied, of course. No, honestly, I would rather not know.