Written by admin on July 25, 2019

Un mecato en el desierto

Colombia

I found myself surrounded by cacti and dust, on a dirt road overlooking the obese, sweltering Río Magdalena. The lush greenery and waterfalls of the mountains had been gone for only a few hours since I descended from the mountains. Sweating, I hoped I didn’t run out of water, because I wouldn’t be able to find a stream around here to refill.

I heard the engine of a moto behind me, but the moto didn’t pass. I turned around; he was wearing an unmistakable pink polo shirt and was carefully picking his way through the potholes as he crept up behind me. 

I had seen him about an hour earlier, when I turned off the main highway. He was standing on the side of the road, as if waiting for a bus. The turn wasn’t signed, so I had asked him, “es la ruta para Villavieja?” He just stared at me and nodded and kept staring at me without smiling. 

I get a little nervous when anybody sidles up next to me on a motorbike, much less this guy.

“¿Quieres lechone?” he asked. I had no idea what a lechone was, but if I wanted one, I didn’t want it from him.

“¿Que es lechone?” I stalled. 

“Plato tipico,” he said. At that point, we came over the crest of a small hill, which I sped down as he carefully braked over the bumps on his moto. I breathed a sigh of relief. But moments later, the road pitched up again and he caught back up to me.

“Tercera casa a la izquierda,” he directed me to what was presumably his house. 

“En Villavieja?” I sought to clarify the directions so that I could make sure to avoid it, picturing the pink polo and all his friends waiting to jump me in a driveway.

“No, proximo pueblito.” I hadn’t realized there was another town before Villavieja.

“Necessito seguir a Villavieja antes de la noche,” I replied, citing my hurry as an excuse to decline his invitation.

“Tercera casa a la izquierda,” he repeated ominously, and he sped away.

Several minutes later, I saw houses, and vowed to keep my head down and bike hard through the tiny town. But the pink polo was too bright to avoid. I looked up and saw him at the third house on the left, as promised. He was in a yard shaded by unnaturally lush trees for the surrounding desert, unloading his moto to two older women. A sign read, “Hostal – Wifi.” One of the older ladies was standing over a cart that looked like it was some sort of fresh food. I chided myself for actually thinking this guy was going to kill me, and pivoted my bicycle into the yard. 

Still without a hint of emotion, the guy in the pink polo pointed at the cart and said, “Lechone.” Inside the cart glistened the entire body of a roasted pig.

“Bien, rapido?” I said, trying to feign hurry to maintain my previous alibi. He gave one nod.

The woman cut straight into the back of the pig, giving me a vivid appreciation for the origin of chicharrones. From inside, she scooped out a gooey mixture of rice, cheese, and vegetables. It was heaven in a pork belly.

Suddenly, I remembered the word “lechone.” The night before, in Ibagué, I met Daniel at a bar watching the Colombia-Chile fútbol match. He told me I couldn’t leave Tolima without tasting the typical food of the area: “tamales y lechones.” But I had already eaten dinner and told him as much. “¡Que pena!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’ve had tamales plenty of times. 

Then, the next day, before running into the pink polo guy, I asked at a bakery if they had anything savory. The man pointed to a cluster of leaf pouches on the counter. “Tamal?” The tamal was actually much richer than its Mexican relative – the bakery stuffed the leaf with rice, vegetables, and a whole chicken breast for a quick heat-and-go meal.

Now I would get to sample the lechone, too! I sent pictures of the tamal and the lechone to Daniel. “Bien – permitido continuar!” he replied.

I hadn’t realized the food in Tolima was going to be so different from the Colombian fare that I had already become accustomed to in Antioquia and the coffee zone. But after crossing over a mountain range, I was now in a different region of the country. New food, new accents, and new customs accompanied the new desert scenery.

And as I paid for my lechone and rode away from the hospedaje, the guy in the pink polo still hadn’t smiled yet.

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