*
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 boring, 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?”
“Yes.
She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.
“We can swim in the pool.”
Monday morning they set out to visit the Cascadas de Juan Curi, near San Gil. They parked the car and after a walk of about fifteen minutes along the bank of a river, they reached the fall that towered more than two hundred meters above a pool of crystal clear water.
“You can climb to the top,” said Lola pointing to a ladder and ropes.
“No thanks, I don’t feel like breaking my neck.”
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s a joke. I prefer to swim.”
It was hot, though not much more than a fine English summer day. There were no seasons, Lola told him, the vegetation perpetually green with flowers throughout the year.
“Nobody comes here?”
“Yes, but only weekends, or in the high season.”
“So, shall we swim.”
He had taken the precaution of wearing his swimming trunks under his shorts and was quickly undressed and in the water. He was surprised by the pleasant temperature.
“Come on,” he shouted to Lola.
“I forgot my, what you say … top.”
He laughed, “Never mind, I won’t look.”
He turned his back and a few moments later she was behind him lacing her arms around his waist.
“Guess who?”
He playfully wrestled her under the water and then splashed off towards the fall that cascaded into the pool over a series of step-like rock slabs.
We can go up, there are more pools, she point to the fall.
They clambered over the rocks, through the cascade to the upper pool where they played like happy children under the fall as it tumbled down the mountainside. Sitting down on a shady ledge, they shook off the water and listened to the splashing stream.
“How do you like it Tom?”
“Very beautiful … like you.”
A Caballero in Barichara
She put her hand on his and drew herself to him, her lips brushing his cheek.
“Te quiero Tom,” she whispered softly.
He kissed her lips and pulled her close. She seemed to melt in his arms. He felt her firm breasts, his desire seem to submerge him.
“No Lola,” he said gently pushing her away.
“Si Tom....”
They lay on the rock, apart from the movement of the water a total calm reigned. Her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her back as she breathed. Their love had been tender, natural, she was not experienced and had let him guide her.
An hour later they slowly made their way back to the car, their arms entwined; not a word was spoken.
Lola was not very talkative when it came to her grandparents, though it was evident that they were the centre of her world.
What Tom Barton gleaned came from Emilio.
Don Pedro Herida was a grandee, an important man in the region, often absent for his business affairs in Bogota, Medellin or Cartagena. His splendid colonial home was situated five or six kilometres from the old town of Barichara, which Barton had only glimpsed from a distance during his afternoon rides with Lola.
Cascadas de Juan Curi near San Gil
The invitation to the Hacienda was inevitable, which did not make him any less nervous. Lola had told her grandfather he was teaching her English, which Barton realised was rather thin, to say the least. In a small town there were eyes and ears everywhere, commencing with Jesus, the old gaucho.
Barton was picked up at his hotel by a chauffeur and driven to the hacienda where Lola, after shyly introducing him to her grandfather made some excuse almost immediately disappeared, leaving Barton alone with the tall, aristocratic Colombian.
“Welcome to Colombia Señor...”
“Barton …” Tom Barton, he said introducing himself, somewhat intimidated, not in awe of the Colombian, but rather because of his own awkwardly embarrassing position as a not very convincing ‘English teacher’.
“So my granddaughter tells me you are teaching her English,” said Don Pedro raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, but I am afraid I’m not an English teacher,” replied Barton, believing it was better to avoid being ridiculous from the start.
“Oh!”
“I’m spending some time here in Barichara,” discovering Colombia.
“That’s good news. My family came here more than four hundred year
s ago with Pedro de Herida. In 1525 to be exact, when he landed in Santa Marta. My forefather was his brother.”
There was a silence.
“Señor Barton, I will be honest, my granddaughter is very special to us, she is very young … she is also very headstrong, the temperament of her mother. Lola has never shown much interest in the things many young women of her age seem to be attracted to, fashion, big cities, music .... We have been worried about her future… you see we are, as they say, getting on in age.”
But ..., he added with a quizzical smile, “just recently she seems to have become more easy going, happier, perhaps it is your English lessons? ¡Quién sabe!”
Barton choked.
“As I said, I will be direct. My information is you are a serious person. You have means … banking and investment, I believe.”
“Yes,” admitted Barton seeing the old man had done his homework.
“But I am curious as to why you are in Colombia?”
“That’s a good question Don Pedro, so I will be equally frank. It is true I have been successful in my investments, but money is not everything. I decided, if you can understand it, to take a pause. Business meetings hotels and airports and do not make for a happy life.”
“I can understand that. You have no family?”
“No, I am not married, if that’s what you mean. My parents passed away some years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“So what do you want to do in Colombia?”
“Barichara’s a nice place, perhaps I’ll look at some property here.”
That would be a good idea … and Dolores?
Barton shrugged his shoulders, surprised the two were linked, and lost for an answer.
“There is a big difference in age, she is just twenty.”
Barton acquiesced.
“When I married Lola’s grandmother, there was also a big difference in our ages .... When we lost our only daughter, Lola’s mother, it was very hard for us. Now Lola is all we have. So I will ask you to be good to her.”
Barton nodded numbly. It seemed everything was cut and dry. He confusedly wondered what he was letting himself into without having the time to think about the future.
“Our family has consolidated its wealth over generations. I would not like to see Lola married to a poor architect or a penniless actor. Marrying young in our country is a long tradition. In the past life was hard and people did not live long. Before I die I would like grandchildren. You understand Señor Barton.”
Barton smiled and nodded, he understood Herida’s urgency and his concern about the family fortune. On the positive side, if that’s what it should be called, it seemed as though he had passed a test.
“I have always admired the British … they gave us a lot of trouble over the course of our history, but that is the past. The English were empire builders like us.”
Barton smiled, relieved the don had a good opinion of the British.
“What would you like to drink Señor Barton? Maybe a glass of our very own wine?”
Cornucopia Page 64
