The 300 km square meter desert, bounded by the three rivers of the Magdelana, Villavieja and Cabrera, in the Colombian state of Huila is a geologist’s wet dream. There are also riches to be found for the paleontologist with plenty of fossils lying around the arid yet fertile land. The sheer variety of natural formations in a compact area means that a couple days can be taken to walk through the different planes, narrow rock formations and hilltop vistas in order to fully appreciate nature’s work in this part of the world. In order to start your journey, you can arrive directly from Neiva, the nearby capital of the state, or you can take a more adventurous turn through the twinned town of Aipe, that is only separated from Villavieja by the mighty river Magdalena. There is very little of interest in Aipe, it has the normal town square, bustling with activity, which leads you directly from the Panamericana main highway to the banks of the river. At the riverbank a number of small vessels are traversing the river constantly, they take everything from sacks of rice to the simple tourist from one side to the other. The journey across the river is swift and uneventful, for around 1 US$ you are not taking a cruise.
The arrival to Villavieja by river leads you up a dusty track into the town. The town has its charms but is by no means the most architecturally rich colonial outpost in the country. Surrounded by paddy fields, Huila is the center of production for rice in Colombia, with so many green shoots sprouting up all around it is difficult to understand that you can be so close to a desert. Whilst the town of Villavieja is considered by locals to be part of the desert complex you have to travel for around 10 minutes by road to get to the first part of geological interest. As you reach the peak of the plane, rising out of the small town from where you came from, you arrive at what initially seems to be like a miniature carved out planet. Over time or perhaps in one sudden shift the surface of the earth eroded to leave a new design of towers, dunes, hillocks and rugged banks all constructed out of a fiery red iron infused soil. If you have ever visited a miniature version of a town that is laid out by the architects envisioning a future society or perhaps the more morbid comparison of the map before and after in the museum of Hiroshima, you may feel you like you are standing above somebodies vision for a planned landscape, perhaps how they might craft something liveable on Mars. After viewing the land from above you can also enter below, walking through narrow passages and labyrinths that open up into broader areas on the Martian surface. There is life on Mars, mostly in the form of cacti, that bear a mini dragon fruit, completely edible and with a similar taste to its larger commercially sold cousin. Trees with gnarly, heat-shriveled trunks also pepper the plateaus. Fauna is present in the form of a bee; my guide, Guillermo, said it was a Africanized bee which Google will tell you is a bastardized version of the small buzzing insect, introduced by a genius to Brazil in the 1950s. It has merrily buzzed its way up north and spends some of its time burrowing football-sized holes into the earthen banks to make its nest. Apart from father time and the “killer” bee the only other principal destroyer of the region is the hapless human. As tourism is in its infancy there are little signs of human destruction such the installation of small tires filled with red dirt to make walkways and protect the restaurant from collapsing into the plain below when heavy rains set in.
The local tourist, those driving in from Bogota, Cali and Medellin are still lacking the insight into the ABC of environmental protection and you will see them casting aside sweet rappers and clambering around wherever the mood might take them; the local guides of the region make stark comparison between the appreciation of environmental impact from the foreign tourist compared to the local one. Thanks to a program by the local community the litter is picked up once a month, if not, the Martian surface would soon have the ignominy of plastic and paper waste everywhere. From casual conversation the majority of the Colombians who were visiting over the long bank holiday weekend seemed to be in awe of their natural patronage but equally lost in its simple surroundings. None of them that I spoke to left their home with a map, guidebook or a powered up GPS device in order to have any sense where they might be, instead relying on the word of a local to guide them from site to site. The idea of planning, buying a book or searching on Google for the most basic of information is usurped by the far simpler anti boy scout approach to leave completely unprepared and make it up as you go along. The salvation of the local tourist, if they are to see more than a small proportion of the wonders of the landscape is to book one of the large, cumbersome, overnight coach tours. Where you will leave at the crack of dawn or just after supper if you are coming from further afield, drive all morning, or perhaps all night, to be whisked around the sights while the sun is up, eat a goat inspired lunch and then as night falls head back to wherever you call home. The cultural strength of this tour is that they will employ a guide such as Guillermo and will therefore see the alternative landscapes to the Martian city just outside the town of Villavieja.
Indeed you do not have to travel much further up the road for the landscape to change completely, not so much in form but in color. The Martian reds, turn to grey and light brown as the mineral composition of the ground that contained strong traces of oxidized iron are shifted to only be made up of calcium, potassium and magnesium, as well as some other trace elements. The same towers, undulating dunes and solid banks can all be seen and traversed, but with less tourists and contamination as few make it beyond the realm of the red planet. The area of grey and light brown is known as Los Hoyos (the holes), it is little more cavernous than the red designed landscape, perhaps because it is less visited by the homo sapiens and therefore retains more of its original form, which to the layman like me feels like it has been crafted out of floods over thousands if not millions of years. Where water once flowed now human steps now tread, walking up and down the riverbed and touching the banks that once contained their flow in order to maintain equilibrium as you rise and fall traversing the landscape. Some of the shapes are a little different here. One notable display is a series of ghostly like figures, huddled closely enough together to form a small army. They are not carved out of the cracked mud like you see in the red part of the desert, by have been finely crafted over time into the igneous rock that stands tall above the crusted surface of the land.
In between the red planet and the greyish one, the lands are divided by a mirador (golden view), which allows you to see the full spectrum of the planes that lie at the center of the state of Huila. You can of course see countless fields cultivating rice in the far distance, but there are also solid sandstone formed shapes from the viewpoint they locally call Las Ventanas (the windows), for the 360-degree perspective on the environs of Tatacoa. Here with a little imagination you will see grandiose beasts rising from the arid floor, such as an elephant or a crocodile that nature has kindly sketched out of the rock formations over millions of years, something to keep those that would rather be at Legoland or Disney amused for a few minutes before they down another Coca-Cola and head off for their lunch. However this view is not to be scoffed at, it is ideal for the late afternoon where you might see cows or goats ambling along in the valley below, taking in their last meal of the day before they relax and chew on their cuds as they drift off into a somnambulant daze as the star filled skies then take over the imagination. If you are lucky you might see more exotic fauna such as ocelots, but the average visitor will mostly see the domesticated beasts on the ground and wonderful birdlife such as swooping eagles and hawks above.
One analogy of the breath taking view across the panorama from the “windows” look out is that the scene before you can be described as quite biblical. This has been taken up literally by a film production who have erected three crosses on the top of one of the hillocks. It is the latest tourist attraction with the crucifixes low enough that more nimble folks who want to get a selfie of themselves in a near death like pose can hop onto the cross and spread their arms, as once the Messiah was forced to do by the nails of the Romans. Whilst it clearly is just a bit of fun and Guillermo believes they are likely to stay, it does provide more seeds for the imagination of the scenes that could have played out over the years. The skies often bruise at night as the clouds roll in over dusty mirages that are kicked up by passing 4x4 traffic, create something that feels like creation itself. A genesis moment of how the land, this land of the Tatcoa desert, could have been created in such a brief moment of time by a power much greater than science alone can imagine.
There is as night falls a flood of activity towards the area with two small dome like structures knows as the astronomical museums. On nights where the skies are clear, plastic chairs are laid out in rows so that the budding Patrick Moore’s of Colombia can get their first taste of the night sky. With modern light pollution the moon and Venus are about all a young city dweller in Colombia might have seen if they had taken to time to crane their neck upwards when it wasn’t raining. The sites are a little over promoted as they claim to be one of the best places in the world to see the night sky. This might well have been the case when they were first constructed with their early visitors, but now, each dome is surrounded by beautifully lit cars parking, street sellers promoting their well lit products and the top off the ideal ambience you have a couple of bars near by blasting out Latino hip hop beats in the form of reggaeton. All of this changes more than a little the celestial mood as you gaze upwards and see what is left of the starry night; the light pollution from the surrounding area is not allowing the viewer to get the full experience that perhaps led Stephen Hawing to fully appreciate the brief history of time.
Moving further up the road again, past the “the windows” viewpoint, past Los Hoyos you will arrive at a wonderful site called the “Los Xilópalos”. If you haven’t run into a goat herd by now, at this point it will be almost impossible to miss one. The starting point and makeshift car park is just outside the farm of Don Miguel, perhaps the nicest man that lives in Tatacoa (according the author and accounts by locals). He has remarkably pale eyes for a man who has descended from the darker skinned end of the gene pool, his thick curly hair give this away. We actually ran into Miguel as we set off on the 2-3 hour walk around the area Xilópalos, featured for its tree trunk fossils lying around the dried out floor of the desert. He was returning home with his herd that had just been stretching its legs, as we were going in the opposite direction. I naively asked him how many goats he had, to which we received a reply in the form of a longish poem, not quite as long as the Ancient Mariner but more like a couple of sonnets that broadly described the spirituality under which the people of Tatacoa lived. The poem explains that there is no merit in knowing the quantity of your livestock, be it a goat, horse, cow or sheep, all you need to know is what color your animals are so you can identify and care for them. The underlying reason is that it is not necessary to count your wealth in numbers, you only need to see visually what nature offers and appreciate and love that, it cannot and should not be quantified. And for those that are worried about larceny, the poem kindly tells them that a serpent or some other grizzly fate will strike down anyone that steals from their herd; therefore why again do you need to know exactly what you have numerically. Life on the desert plane, outside of the tourist influx is one of tranquility and at peace with all that nature has to offer. Despite the harsh conditions at certain times of the year there is only the type of land that the big developers would never have interest in; enough water and foliage to manage livestock and enough sunlight to power solar panels to keep things cool and lit. And for those that are without, like Doña Ligia, who lives a mile or so away from Don Miguel, the community has donated a solar set up so that she can live in her mud inspired home with all the comforts of the inventions early 20th century.
The landscape around this part of the desert is completely different from that closer to the town of Villavieja. It is midway to a town named Baraya and instead of the collapsed earthen layout it is mostly crafted out of rock, with a much more igneous feel to it but still mixed with sedimentary formations. There may well be metamorphic rocks but my seventh grade geography lesson did not provide me with the tools to fully recognize this formation unless it was marble, the only example the textbook ever gave us! So here the harshness of acidic rain, the sun and the tempests have had to work harder to grind out the passageways, caves and tunnels that you walk through. At one point in time there was a forest of different trees, which were one day captured inside what you imagine must have been a fierce eruption, spewing out ash that mollycoddled and then preserved the trunks for the paleontologist (and tourist) to see years into the future. Walking through what feels again like a river bed, but this time limited by solid igneous rock formations the floor is littered by parts of trunks that would not have been the tallest and mightiest of trees like those that go to war in Lord of the Rings, but modest size timbers, maybe 15 or 20 meters high. On closer inspection you can see the parts that were planted in the surface and the beginning of roots distinct from those parts that were higher up the structure. You can see different types of tree from the color and formation of the bark. Other fossils can also be found, scattered around the old river bed, where now only a small rill carries the cleanest of mineral rich waters that create a sticky, muddy mess, that is guaranteed to laden your walking boots or trainers depending on what type of tourist you are. Parts of the ancient ancestors of turtles, terrapins or perhaps tortoises are easily found, its impossible for the layman to know which as in Spanish there is only one word for all three.
Walking further along there are much narrower parts where you need to breathe in a little to pass through. We happened upon a dead snake that the guide thought had perhaps been killed by a stone, an apt sacrifice as it lay in the passage that is locally called the culebra or serpents pass, not for its notoriety to murder the reptile but for its snake like, winding shape. Here the igneous rock has a beautifully formed grey, smooth surface but for some reason the watery hand that crafted it has left large bulbous parts that would make void the challenge to the professional rock climber as there are so many small ledges that they almost purposefully resemble the beginners climbers wall you might see inside a human built training venue. They are not touched or created by the human hand apart from one outstanding example. As in the vast desert plane from the “windows” view where you can see the sandstone crafted zoo of animals, a deft human hand has carved into the protruding bump the head of a baby goat or perhaps a snake, neatly scratched into the hard surface the eyes and cartoon mouth. This stands at the exit of the serpent’s path as a more comical and apt intervention than the graffiti scribbled hearts of one or two lover’s trysts that do not complement the majesty of their surroundings. It is likely in time as the more adventurous Colombians travel beyond the initial tourist attraction that the entire pass will be littered with boy loves girl or other messages, but for now it is more or less as nature intended it.
Rising up out of the snaky walkway, passing by a half collapsed, bat free cave, you arrive at Doña Ligia’s house. It is marked on the official route of the walk and she is not unaccustomed to prying visitors taking photos of her property which was built by her own sweat and toil over what appears like a millennium but practically was only fifty years. Using the traditional techniques of creating adobe through mud and strands of what could be wheat but more likely rice or local grasses she has glued together four walls that although cracked and ant infested still stand proudly today. The walls are topped with a rusty corrugated iron structure, a modern day shortcut to the more traditional palm woven over wooden beams that you can often find in Colombia. On one side you see the community donated solar panel with enormous battery back and on the other the plastic-rapped refrigerator. Littered around the property are tools of yesteryear such as a maize, or whatever you like, grinding machine, beautifully crafted in stainless steal, perhaps made sixty or seventy years ago still grinding into flour whatever Doña Ligia needs for her breads, pastries or more commonly eaten arepas. Around the property are small dogs, a donkey and a herd of goats. Again I asked, how many, this time I received a smile and a shrug of the shoulders, nobody it seems has the inclination to count their livestock. A small baby goat can be bought for 15 to 20 US dollars. It is unclear to me who would buy them as the fashion for food in the town has shifted to chicken, fish, pork and beef. Goats are only really on the menu these days for special occasions when they are still roasted in the fine, dome-shaped ovens that many construct on their properties. These ovens are constructed using local earth to create a cistern chapel inspired dome that sits on a square base made of local igneous rock boulders. The temperatures will easily reach 300 degrees inside, powered by felled wood that is quickly dried by the harsh sun before it is burned. They look like traditional Italian built wood burning pizza ovens, perhaps with a slightly higher more semi circular shaped dome as they are built to receive a whole animal rather than a slither of bread topped with tomato sauce. In the nearby restaurants, the most famous and aptly name El Rincon de Cabrito (the baby goat corner or kiddies corner if you prefer) you can enjoy a delicious lunch of roasted baby goat with pepitoria, an accompaniment prepared by boiling rice with the visceral parts of the animal such as the heart, liver, kidney and tripe.
Having no use for one of Doña Ligia’s kids or even the fully grown horned parent we moved onwards and upwards towards the property of Don Nato, a man that perhaps lived around fifty years ago or maybe two hundred depending on whose story you want to believe. As you walk across the moon like surface, with a large distribution of solid black boulders, passing some cacti and short grasses, you arrive at the only remains of the property of Don Nato, which is the base of his ancient oven. His mud constructed house has long been taken by nature, or perhaps by Doña Ligia’s family and all that remains is a long and intriguing story of the man, the legend that was once the father to three beautiful daughters.
Don Miguel’s father who passed the story to his son recounts a version of a stoic indigenous man, who whilst not being rude was so taciturn that he would not converse beyond a good day. As love has its mysteries he was presented by fate to a “foreign” woman, that could just mean not indigenous but in the context of the story also means beautiful. Miguel tells the story as only a farmer could, of how its important to breed your young and that was the exact task that was the focus of the union between the indian and the traveller, the result being three stunning daughters that he then raised, fed and educated (Miguel says “formed” like they were made out of clay from the surrounding earth) and were seemingly the desire of all young men around. Don Nato being incredibly anti social did not want or desire any attention for his daughters but unfortunately his wife was not of the same disposition. When he went to market the girls would walk down what is now known as the beautiful girl’s pass, a passageway so narrow and deep that at points not even one foot can be laid flat on the ground. If indeed these girls did clamber through the tightly knit walls they did not do so in fancy shoes, but either bare foot or with something so rugged it is hard to imagine it was available to such a family in those days. Anyway the fact they did not own a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes did not stop one of the daughters finding a lover at the end of the passage, who in turn managed to get her pregnant. The young lover taking full responsibility for his actions fronted up to Don Nato, to ask for her hand, only to be chased out the house by the machete wielding father who wanted to skin him alive. There the story ends, some say they moved away, others say that nobody bothered them again for fear of their lives. Either way there does not seem to be any relations left to tell the story of their mother, grand mother or even great grandmother; so perhaps it was such a long time ago that the story that has passed from generation to generation and family to family has as much myth as fact, but who wants to live in a world of only factual history anyway!
In leaving the narrow pass named after the legendry girls, the landscape opens up again into sedimentary rocks that are literally lined with gravel that would have been deposited by a fast flowing river or perhaps a larger mass of moving water such as an ancient sea. It is hard to imagine the sea came so far in land, but in a recent visit to the museum of the Panama Canal there is a wonderful moving graphic of how over millions of years the continents of the world shifted through the ocean and join together as we see them today; so its not really a question of thinking of a retreating sea but more of how the land that shifted to where the sea once was. Around the rocky surface a small river flows, the Africanized bees are busy making their honey and short grasses flourish amongst different flower and fruit bearing trees. We eat some berries from one tree and pass on the mini dragon fruit snacks which are nice to try but not interesting enough to eat time and again. The land pulls the weary traveller up to the roadside, passed the herd of Don Miguel and there ends the journey of rocks, fossils and legends. As we were leaving the property of Don Miguel I saw a car parked in the entrance to his house. I asked him how many goats he had to sell to buy the car, he replied the whole herd. It is possible then to quantify something in this land that time has shaped so beautifully, so distinctly from other parts of the planet, but I suspect it is impossible to imagine or realise just how much time has passed to create what the tourist will see in their brief moment in the desert of Tatacoa.
