Tucked into rolling hill in the tropical jungle that forms part of the Sierra Nevada mountains, just behind the Caribbean coast of Colombia, sits a cabana that cradles me to sleep each night.
On my days off I rise to salute the sun on a circular slab of marbled concrete, disassembling the hammocks to make more space to move. When finished, breakfast is served. Farmers from nearby FINCAs make house-calls with organic peanut butter, jam, coffee and chocolate, and always have time to stick around for a conversation and a cup of joe.
The small town of Minca is only a few minute walk away. While not in Lonely Planet yet, through word-of-mouth many travelers hear of this hippie-haven, and have made their way from Santa Marta to check out what jewels lie hidden in this place. And there are many; I'm only beginning to discover.
While the indigenous live on the outskirts, the town itself is half inhabited by locals and half by transplants searching for a better way of life. The Irish man down the street left his job as a supervisor for Intel or some other well-known company, and is now building an Irish castle that will become a small hostel next year. Lavel, a Californian, has a five acre farm where the many Wwoofers go, and is one of many who makes the house calls. There's a Russian psychedelic couple and a music producer from New York. Oscar, our neighbor, has smoked three joints a day for 42 years and is an utter genius, who generates much of the energy in the area from his property and plays seven minute chess games religiously.
Whenever I can, I hike after a day of teaching. There are numerous treks, countless waterfalls and swimming holes, and a cute little café in which to sit and rest--with the area's famous organic coffee-- before heading home at sundown. When I lay my head to rest at night, I thank myself for getting to this refuge.
On my days off I rise to salute the sun on a circular slab of marbled concrete, disassembling the hammocks to make more space to move. When finished, breakfast is served. Farmers from nearby FINCAs make house-calls with organic peanut butter, jam, coffee and chocolate, and always have time to stick around for a conversation and a cup of joe.
The small town of Minca is only a few minute walk away. While not in Lonely Planet yet, through word-of-mouth many travelers hear of this hippie-haven, and have made their way from Santa Marta to check out what jewels lie hidden in this place. And there are many; I'm only beginning to discover.
While the indigenous live on the outskirts, the town itself is half inhabited by locals and half by transplants searching for a better way of life. The Irish man down the street left his job as a supervisor for Intel or some other well-known company, and is now building an Irish castle that will become a small hostel next year. Lavel, a Californian, has a five acre farm where the many Wwoofers go, and is one of many who makes the house calls. There's a Russian psychedelic couple and a music producer from New York. Oscar, our neighbor, has smoked three joints a day for 42 years and is an utter genius, who generates much of the energy in the area from his property and plays seven minute chess games religiously.
Whenever I can, I hike after a day of teaching. There are numerous treks, countless waterfalls and swimming holes, and a cute little café in which to sit and rest--with the area's famous organic coffee-- before heading home at sundown. When I lay my head to rest at night, I thank myself for getting to this refuge.
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