Cornucopia

by John Kinsella

  After visiting Villa De Leyva he continued to Barichara, two hundred and fifty kilometres south of Bogota in the Cordillera Oriental, there he found a small hotel surrounded by a courtyard garden. La Candillaria, a posada, had only seven rooms and apart from his the other six were vacant. On the square outside was a house where Humboldt had once sojourned and a few metres further a signpost pointed to Plaza Mayor: the town centre.

  The picturesque seventeenth century town was a haven of peace, clean with little traffic and no crowds. During the tourist season there were probably many more visitors, but as it was it suited him fine and after a short stroll around the centre he decided to stay a couple of days more, and perhaps visit the surrounding countryside.

  B

  arichara – Colombia

  The weather was agreeably warmer than Bogota, the air more breathable: since leaving the capital he had descended one thousand metres. Early that evening sitting in Portales, a café under the centuries old arcade on the main square, sipping a glass of local tinto, it took little effort to imagine how people had lived in the old colonial town during the three or four hundred years that followed the Conquista.

  Apart from the chatter the only other sound was the campanile ringing the Angelus in a nearby convent. There was a total absence of the kind of unnecessary attention he had become used to in the hotels and restaurants of big cities.

  The next morning he took his breakfast in the posada’s small garden, surround by flowering shrubs and cactus. The silence was almost total, interrupted only by the chattering of small brightly coloured birds and the buzz of insects amongst the flowers The silence had a healing effect, clearing his cluttered mind of the perpetual and needless demands that had taken control his life. The same pressures he had sought to escape when he abruptly quit London in 2008, as the economic crisis closed in. At that time, after a chaotic year with too little peace, he found himself back in same trap, that all pervading race to make money, and more and more of it.

  That morning in Barichara he set out to explore the stone paved streets lined with rows of low houses decorated with bright flowers, check-out the small shops and observe the passers-by going about their daily business. One or two friendly locals politely greeted him, they were evidently used to the presence of strangers.

  He was a gringo and as such could not avoid being taken for a tourist, which he was, but not in the conventional sense, he liked to think, perhaps a nomad, a visitor from afar.

  As lunch time approached he made a few attempts to put his Spanish to use. He had gleaned enough of the language during the property boom in Spain to be more or less conversant, then more recently in the Basque Country, which straddles France and Spain.

  He stopped to buy a Panama, then checked out a few of the local shops and cafés. He was pointed to a small and picturesque courtyard on the corner of Plaza Mayor where he discovered three or four small places to eat for tourists. He chose a table under the shade of a gnarled tree. The menu was in Spanish and English, which helped, as the food was unfamiliar, not Spanish, and opted for grilled chorizo with yellow potatoes and a beer.

  There was no longer any doubt, it was the low season, he had not seen more than a handful of tourists; so much the better, he thought sipping his Club Colombia. It was so different from his last fugue, seven years previously, when modern civilisation’s mad speed had caught up with him. At that time he had headed East. First Dubai, then India, before ending up in Thailand: the former he had fled following an outbreak of cholera, and in the latter, with its crowds of tourists, he had met Sophie.

  Those places had been alien, his background and upbringing had little in common with those civilisations. Colombia, although it was different, many things were familiar: he quickly discovered his Spanish worked, and many if not all of the people were of European or mixed descent, with whom he could converse, evidently sharing the similar cultural values: history, religion, education and government.

  *

  In comparison to Tom Barton, Kennedy was a different kind of adventurer. He was driven by an irresistible curiosity, which perhaps had its origins in a form of childhood escapism developed by the presence of an overweening mother. This later developed into a desire to escape the dreary provincial life of Limerick City and his island home in search of exoticism and adventure.

  His mother had wanted a different life for her son, different to that she had led as the wife of a driver who worked for the local bus company. In the hard times she had been content to have a husband with a secure job, not well paid, but he had a job, unlike others in the family who had been forced to cross the water to find work.

  When her husband, who was older than she by several years, retired, things would have been difficult had not Pat already started to work his way up in the world. Things changed in Ireland, the country had finally thrown off its economic constraints with a surge of growth and prosperity, which enabled him to repay the efforts his parents had made to provide him with an education.

  His marriage to Margaret, the only daughter of a well-to-do farmer and landowner, had been a big step up the social ladder, but to their disappointment, and in spite of her prayers, the couple remained childless.

  When Margaret inherited the farm and its dependencies they left the management to a tenant farmer. She, dedicating her life to work with the Sisters of Charity at a nearby convent; he, to his flourishing accountancy firm. As his clientele grew he travelled whenever he found an excuse to get away from Limerick, first to Dublin, then further afield to London and the Continent.

  It was more than a dozen years since Pat joined the board of what was at that time the Irish Union bank. The appointment followed his success in introducing of the Nederlandsche Nassau Bank to Fitzwilliams, then engineering the merger between the two banks to form the Irish Netherlands Bank, known as INB.

  From that point onwards Pat became the confident of Fitzwilliams, opening the door to other opportunities, going from strength to strength. He considerably reinforced his position as executive business development director through the successful negotiations with Sergei Tarasov for the creation of an Anglo-Russian holding bank, formed between INB and InterBank, known as the INI Banking Corporation, which was in effect a holding company.

  Kennedy then fixed his sights on China, starting with Hong Kong, where a new world awaited him. His imagined a mixture of twenty first century Hong Kong and Shanghai mixed with that of the legendary Middle Kingdom, full of promise, discovery and fabulous gains.

  *

  La Peñita Gourmet was a small bar in the Calle Reale, a cuadra up from the Plaza Meyor. It was early evening and the bar was a little triste. Its owner was a portly señora of sixty or more, who had gained local fame as a breeder of champion goats with the souvenirs of her past triumphs, in the form of dusty trophies and yellowing photographs, decorating the bar.

  A little lost in ordering something to eat, a Colombian wearing a grey straw Frank Sinatra style fedora came to his help. Once the menu was cleared they started talking together, it was a little complicated because neither was very practised in the language of the other. The Colombian introduced himself as Emilio. He was about fortyish; his face kind, exuding an air of patience, encouraging Barton whenever he fumbled his words. Emilio, an actor, ran the town’s cultural centre: teaching theatre and acting, organising cultural events and promoting traditional performing folklore.

  After a couple of beers, a friend of Emilio’s appeared, an amiable flower-power hippy throwback, who introduced himself as Juliano, an Argentinian, who had settled, at least momentarily, in Barichara. Once Barton had finished his meal, Emilio invited him to join them to a poetry evening at El Pueblo, another of the town’s bars.

  When they arrived a small crowd had already gathered in the smoke filled bar and Emilio made the introductions starting with Alfonso, an architect, then Muriel a French designer who had set up her atelier in the town, followed by many others whose names Barton lost in the happy clamour. It was late whe
n Barton finally found his way back to La Candillaria, where his new friends wished him a noisy good night.

  It had been a long time since he had enjoyed himself so much surrounded by people whose only goal was to enjoy their evening in pleasant company, exchanging stories with Emilio’s guest and vying to show him the region and its sights during his stay in Barichara.

  *

  The next day Barton returned to the small food court for lunch. According to a commemorative plaque set into the wall of the archway leading inside, it had been built by a family of local notables in what appeared to be a sprawling colonial style town house and its annexes.

  He took a seat by the fountain and after waiting five or so minutes a pretty twenty year old appeared, presented him with a menu, and disappeared. It was evidently early, just one or two people stood at the small bars and he was the only client in the eatery.

  Five minutes or more passed before the girl reappeared. He was discovering the pace of life in Barichara moved at a slow pace and couldn’t help wondering if things ever speeded up. As he studied the surroundings he imagined little changed even when the annual folk festival came around, which according to Emilio marked the high point of the town’s calendar.

  Barton looked at the menu again and ordered a beer and a cheese arepa. It seemed as if everything in Colombia contained cheese in one form or another. Then with a forced smile, more like a pout, the girl took the order and disappeared again.

  Looking around he admired the bright flowering shrubs and vines that decorated the courtyard. The soft air barely moved. The only sound came from the gently bubbling of the stone fountain and the cooing of a dove in the tree overhanging his table. There was an air of timelessness and tranquillity. It was a small corner of Eden.

  Ten minutes later he was served, this time with a shy smile.

  “Habla inglés?” he asked

  She made a sign with her forefinger and thumb to say a little.

  “It’s very quiet,” he said looking around.

  “Si, holidays are finished.”

  He wondered which holidays, it was already mid-February.

  “Where are you from?”

  “England.”

  “Inglaterra?”

  “Si.”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “I’d love to go to London.”

  She reminded him of a young Bardot, blond hair and flashing dark eyes.

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes, I work here, my grandfather owns the restaurant.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty...next week,” she said laughing.

  “You are not a student?”

  “I am learning English and tourism.”

  “Very good.”

  “My name is Dolores, my friends call me Lola,” she she sticking out her hand.

  “Oh, I’m Tom, Tom Barton.”

  She turned and disappeared inside leaving him to finish his meal. Then, as he wondered how he was going to pass the rest of the day she reappeared.

  “You are here by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like caballos?”

  He shrugged, wondering if she was talking about horse meat.

  “Can you ride?” She did not wait for an answer. “I can show you the countryside if you like.”

  “The countryside? When?” he asked startled by the sudden invitation.

  “Now.”

  “And the restaurant?”

  “Close until evening.”

  Barton could not refuse the offer from such a pretty girl, even if she twenty and more years younger than him.

  “Why not.”

  “So let’s go, “she said pointing the way. “The caballos are not far.”

  They led him down an adjacent calle where after about a hundred metres she pointed to a small field where there were three or four horses.

  “Here. I will call Jesus. He will fix the saddles.”

  Barton, caught off guard, thought she was joking, but was saved from making a fool of himself when an old gaucho appeared.

  “Look, that’s my caballo,” she said pointing a tall light tan coloured mare. “You can take Bolivar, that one.”

  Barton was a little dismayed to see it was even taller than Lola’s.

  “Don’t worry he’s very tranquilo, he is thirteen years old. He was my father’s favourite.”

  The old gaucho helped him strap on leggings, then he pointed at the stirrup. Barton obeyed with his foot and in a single movement the old man hefted him up into the saddle with surprising strength.

  Before he had time to ask questions they were heading out into the surround country at an easy gait. After a shaky start he relaxed, settling into the Western saddle, adjusting to the swaying movement of the animal, marvelling at the unfamiliar hues of the undulating Mediterranean type landscape and the mountains beyond.

  “How do you like it Tom?”

  “Wonderful,” he replied, and it really was, seated high above the roadside vegetation, the air in his face as Bolivar broke in a trot. Lola drew up beside him, her face filled with her youthful pleasure.

  Feeling the warmth of the sun on his face the last lingering feeling of gloom that had hung over him in recent weeks evaporated. As they broke in a canter he realised there was another world to be discovered beyond the City and its unbearable constraints.

  He galloped with this youthful Colombian companion across the soft red earth, through strange vegetation, pass brilliantly coloured flowers, and towards the mauve and violet hues of the hills beyond, his mind evacuating the echoes of London’s omnipresent media, dismissing the exhortations of BBC India and the press that whipped up opinion, reporting the rantings of interested politicians and businessmen, all of which was as irrelevant as the endless commentaries on the exploits of tattooed men chasing balls.

  *

  Over the next days Lola showed Tom Barton the countryside surrounding Barichara, galloping through a landscape of amazing variety, under the springlike sky of the Andean Altiplano. Barton was enchanted and Lola radiated with pleasure.

  Emilio jokingly warned him he would find himself in trouble, not only was the town small, but Lola was young and unruly. She had made life difficult for grandparents by her refusal to go to university. In reality she clung to the protective warmth of her grandparent’s home in Barichari, where she lived following the death of her parents in car accident on the dangerous mountain road to Bucaramanga. She had been just twelve years old when her maternal grandparents were suddenly confronted with the task bringing up their tragically orphaned granddaughter.

  Lola’s grandfather, Don Pedro Herida, adored her. She was all he had after the loss of his daughter. His family had fought alongside Simon Bolivar in Colombia’s War of Independence from Spain at the beginning of the nineteenth century. At the end of the war the family expanded its large estates that lay between Leyva to the south and Barichara to the north adding to their wealth and prosperity.

  Lola’s only real interests were her horses, and her home, the Hacienda San Cristobal, set against the rolling landscape of the Altiplano and the surrounding peaks of the Cordillera Oriental, in a region blessed with a year round climate of eternal spring. It was not surprising Lola that had rejected out of hand the idea of leaving home to study in the depressing wet, cold, atmosphere of Bogota.

  Some saw her as spoilt and petulant, but Lola’s grandmother understood her and coaxed her into learning about the realities of life and what better than a job at the food court in the recently restored property the family owned in the town centre.

  The spacious corner house had been transformed into the food and souvenir court at the prompting of the mayor as a contribution to his programme to attract more tourists to Barichara. His plan was to transforming the town, already a world heritage site, into an obligatory stopover on the Andean trail for discerning travellers.

  Lola found her job in the small café uninteresting and bo
ring, the tourists were mostly old or young married couples passing through. Those who stayed over in Barichara like Juliano she disdained, they were not of her class, and besides that she had little or no interest in that style of backpacker with his knitted Andean shoulder bags, sandals and bongos.

  As the days passed Tom relaxed as his riding skills improved and he felt at ease at a gallop. At the same time his feelings towards Lola were confused, was he a father figure, an uncle, or was it something different? She was very young, and beautiful, but their age difference was something else. Lola was no dizzy aspiring fashion model, nightclubber or eco-warrior. Her family life that of colonial grandees: the Colombian upper class, old money, whose wealth had been based largely on the ownership of land and property and more recently industry and commerce.

  “Would you like to see the waterfalls tomorrow Tom?”

  “What about your job? What will your grandmother say?”

  “I told her I’m having extra English lessons.”

  He laughed.”

  “Is true,” she said with a pretty pout.

  “With who?”

  “An Englishman.”

  “Did you say he was old?”

  “You are not old Tom.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.””

  “What?” she said not catching the phrase.

  “Never mind.”

  “Is okay?”