The waters run down the rainy mountains and irrigate Colombia. Through the vegetation flow the rivers, through shadow and through sunlight down to the deeper valleys and out long distances to the sea. A welcome noise: the sound of busy waters descending, circling the gleaming rocks, flowing away like time. And in the intolerable skies between the mountain peaks the vultures wheel in indolent gyrations.

Los páramos son espacios de nieblas, lloviznas y arremolineantes nubes adheridas a las rocas y al viento. Lugares encubiertos, sombríos, ignotos, donde los horizontes se multiplican y la totalidad se hace patente.

—http://www.memo.com.co/ecologia/paramo.html

Returning we ascended: up through the silver-grey Spanish moss hanging from the trees like shrouds. The higher climes ended the moss at the altitude of the narrow alleys of Pamplona. The best scenery is from Pamplona on up: so broad the view from a mile up, endless slopes, glimmering, distant rivers, the clouds above you and below, and the apple cheeked faces of the peasants along the sides of the road.

The highlanders of Colombia have been found to be friendly. Their lives are hard, agrarian and very probably short. The highlands of Santander are some of the highest with plateaus at 3,300 meters, and in the highlands they go about in sweaters and ruanas. Few are concerned with style, let alone foreign fashions. They still wear wide brimmed hats. It is chilly there, every day year-round; a bit bleak too as the tree line seems to have been passed for all but a very few species. A paramo must be 3,000 meters above sea level and in certain equatorial latitudes. Colombia has 70% of the world’s paramos, and they cultivate potatoes, onions and carrots in these highlands. You ride the curves and look over the top of the world at gentle, even mountains. Sometimes you come to an abrupt edge and the world falls away: you see a distant land below, or piled clouds, or just a piece of sky.

It reminded me of Isaiah 58:13 and 14:

If thou turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call the sabbath a delight, the holy of the LORD, honourable; and shalt honour him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: Then shalt thou delight thyself in the LORD; and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father: for the mouth of the LORD hath spoken it.

What is the meaning of that promise: I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth? Surely it is a reference to the mysticism with which the whole of Scripture glimmers. Holy Scripture is full of an intolerable light which many never find; it is hidden out of their sight because they are blind and unbelieving; they do not search for it. I believe there is a deep, mysterious interpretation to this which I continue to search out, but I do not believe I understand. Some day, if I turn my foot away from the sabbath in this life, I will receive the mystery in the next and ride upon the high places of the earth and be fed with the heritage of Jacob my father. So let me say first that all my interpretations of Scripture are shallow and inadequate, provisional in that they have not an expanded truth but its beginnings.

“Holy Scripture transcends all other sciences by its very style of expression, in that one and the same discourse, while narrating an event, transmits a mystery as well.” —Gregory the Great, and with that attitude come the four senses of the medieval interpretation of Scripture.

According to the allegorical sense, the high places of the earth no doubt signify the Church. What better reward for those who delight to worship the Lord as he commands than to be congregated with God’s people enjoying together and with one accord true worship: the kind God delights in and all his people learn to want. To have that is precious, and a great promise.

According to the tropological sense, the moral sense from which the application comes, we understand that those who turn their foot from the sabbath will have success: God will help them so to do, and they will have their desire, they will ascend the high places of the earth. There is something aristocratic about abandoning all other cares for the exclusive devotion of the Lord’s Day. I watch the iron smith across the road every Sunday when I leave for church: there he is toiling like a slave. Some people think other cares must nevertheless encroach. No doubt life will encroach, but for those who truly delight in offering up the day to the Lord, the Lord will make a way to do so in spite of all the circumstances, and they will live like kings and priests.

The anagogical sense is that which recognizes that Scripture speaks of spiritual realities. The high places of the earth cannot mean anything other than that highest place of Biblical geography, only better: the New Jerusalem which comes down from heaven. Those who delight in the Lord’s ways will be citizens of that city in which God will dwell with men forever. Here mystery glimmers close at hand.

Which leaves the literal meaning, and it makes me think that something is to be learned by actually going to the high places of the earth—let the devil take the commentaries. To go on the high places of the earth is to walk near to the vault of heaven.

To be close to heaven is to have one’s mind and attention fixed above. But it is also to have a proper perspective on the distant, busy cities of the plain below. Distant not because of a physical distance, not by removing us from the flood plains, but because by a spiritual distance we are raised to consider the lusts, passions, aims and pursuits of those citizens as distant; one day when they are visited with wrath and brimstone we will like Abraham look on the smoke which arises like a furnace from a distance, from on high, alive.

The chilly citizens of the highlands of Colombia are removed from the trouble and glamour of life on the plain. No ease of life, no luxury, but rather toil, meager comforts and cold wind. Pero la totalidad se hace patente, says the chap, and there I want to live.

There let me live with them, O Lord!

Hotel Houston in Bucaramanga: the breakfast is the best I’ve had in Colombia: fresh arepa so hot it is almost too hot and slightly cheesy, excellent huevos pericos perfectly executed and cafe con leche. Shabby the premises, but not so shabby as Venezuela, and quite tolerable—shabby in the way of hot climates, shabby in the way of plants rampant and encroaching humidity. Don’t know why they’re against showerheads in these regions.

I love the grass of late afternoon in the Andes: the uneven grass, tufted and in ridges with the sun shining on it, all green and slanting down. I wish I could write a poem to express the meaning I sense when I see these sunlit slopes. But the meaning remains a mystery, sensed but not grasped. Something arises inside of me, but to no culmination.

Agua de panela: true sugar from the cane, unrefined and sometimes with bits of the fiber clinging about it, made into brown blocks and melted down in water. Too sweet for most foreigners, it is the delight of Colombians and especially the highland people. Often served with a slice of cheese, and understandably. It has gone so far as to become its own word: agüepanela.

Our guide keenly felt the necessity of helping us foreigners express ourselves fully by exploiting the rich vein of vulgarity available in his native tongue and local idiom. No doubt that without such expressions, he would feel something akin to amputation, and so persons of understanding and sympathy will be ready to tolerate this egregious lapse of judgment on his part. He had a certain exuberance, a zest—the kind that manages to shine through many obscurities. A real relish for anything is something I find hard to resist.

In Santander they eat enormous ants. They take the wings off, take the legs off, maybe even decapitate the buggers. Then: roast and eat! They sell them along the road or as an appetizer in the restaurants: a little bowl full of black, oily, salted ants. They also specialize in goat in those regions.

Tinto everywhere. It is common, I understand, in the fields for the campesinos to make agüepanela and add their coffee to that. Tinto is seldom provided without sugar, especially in the remote areas where they don’t use the big samovars but an aluminum pitcher to cook it in. But tinto is provided anywhere and always in small cups, usually disposable.

Colombia, land of winding roads; you go among the scenic Andes only by means of twists and turns. When you are not descending, you are ascending. This does not hold in all the country of course; it has long, flat regions, some of which you can only navigate by boat, but it is a big country, and the obstacle of the mountains makes the distance that much longer. The endless, curving roads have been laid all over the indifferent slopes connecting concentrations of population.

One such concentration is Bucaramanga, a beautiful place in a temperate clime. Bucaramanga has great trees draped in Spanish moss, large parks and fountains and a hot-weather population. Passing through one has to think that Bucaramanga is a place with many charms. Even hot weather has its charms.

But we were passing through, and on, and up and up and up. The way up is filled with vistas of increasing distances. We went at sunset and the valley fell below. We looked out on the mountains ringing it, the clouds, the sunset, the splendor. We climbed till reaching one of those Andean peculiarities: the paramo, a chilly, high plateau of mists and treeless expanses where hot weather is a distant dream.

The highlanders are not the lazy, hot-weather folk of Bucaramanga or of Cucuta. The dirty towns of the paramos are full of dour campesinos all wearing ruanas, hats and riding ancient motorcycles. Hard, peasant folk up there, dim light bulbs in the ill-stocked stores, and bandits.

After hours the buses form caravans, and soldiers with machine guns escort them over the dilapidated highland roads. In the continual fog it is easy for the bandits to escape; in the thin air it is hard for the army helicopters to scramble up. So they fill pick-ups with soldiers or send a couple of motorcycle—a driver and a gunner to each—to accompany those who would cross late at night.

I love the paramo: the chilly weather, the dirty, old town of Berlin, the peasants all in ruanas, the feel of an older way of life. Let that wind knife through me, let me breathe the vapors of its fog—hot weather lies all about it not two hours away.

And then comes the descent, first to Pamplona which is a cool town but not cold, which is above the Spanish moss line but not above the tree line. It is beautiful scenery descending all 3,300 meters: halfway to Pamplona and the other half to Cucuta. Cucuta is well below the Spanish moss line,and the trees all along the way are draped, some stand bare with only shrouds of silver-grey Spanish moss trailing in the wind.

Cucuta had rain and had hot winds. It had broad roads, malls and McDonald’s, long swathes of park, palm trees. We saw not much of Cucuta and had bad service there.

Returning, after Berlin, Bucaramanga and the depth of El Pescadero at the bottom of the Chicamocha canyon, we got to San Gil and went into that old, colonial place. One cannot be tired of narrow streets, of the wooden balconies, the overhanging roofs, the slumped red-tiles, the ancient trees in the plaza even in the hot weather. We ate in San Gil in a balcony of a restaurant with straw roofing, and it rained. The rain ran down the red tiles opposite, dripped from the ferns and relieved the noontime heat in the street below. Very eager, friendly people in San Gil; good service and good food.

I remember going on that road when I was young. I have a memory of looking out over the edge of road and into a long, green valley. On one of the hills of the valley, resting against the greater mountain behind, there was a little town: in my memory I could see the church, the red roofs, the distant dust, the white sides of the houses. That place is in the department of Santander and to this day I think it is one of the most beautiful sights I know. I saw it again, returning to Bogota after San Gil.

I’m not a fan of hot weather but I know it has its pleasures: the sudden air-conditioning upon entering, the lazy pace of life, the delicious shade, the cold drinks, the unexpected breeze. Mornings in hot weather are more languid, arriving slowly and ominous with the approaching noon. The sky is indifferent, the tops of the cathedrals wait, the people stir and shutters are gradually raised. Life begins awaiting and remains that way until it is dark and the heat dissipates reluctantly. In hot climates life moves slowly, like a great, brown river: only children have the energy to run. Hot weather is for ancient, plugged-in fans to spin their propellers, propelling the disinterested air, milling the heat and troubling the contemplations of luxuriating indoor plants. Hot weather is for languid life, for pools and growing slowly fat.

I was glad to be in it; I was glad to leave.

We of the human race have learned, by means of travel, gracious ways of life and have copied them from better places and other places. And, of course, as time goes one we learn and our own places develop more gracious ways of living over the years. But the way of gracious living comes through time. We stumble on little things gradually, our creative classes grope along by trial and error: it just takes a while, even with ideas you borrow.

In San Antonio, Venezuela we stayed at the Heart o’the City Hotel: on the shabby side—at least our room—with hot, pale-green hallways and an old Italian elevator. Within the dilapidated hotel complex was a very little pool, a wall with moss and plants down which the water dripped, a gentle breeze that waved the palms and boded ill for the temperature of the beginning day.

It was dark by the time we wound out of the mountains nearing Cucuta, the border and Venezuela, and we watched the lightning playing in the east. Rain came as we approached the border. We stopped at a late liquor store where people leaned against shuttered store fronts to drink and blare pestilential music from pimped-out, sub-compact cars. Perhaps because she saw me frown, the woman of the thugs proceeded to go to the trouble of turning up the music, walking back through the rain to where her company stood drinking. She wanted me to know she liked the music, and I did not wonder; it was a squalid scene.

We left that little outpost of hell and headed for DAS—the immigration and counterintelligence arm of Colombian government—with some relief, ironically. We waited for service, received the necessary stamps, assisted the civil servant there in verifying her Ben Franklin was indeed genuine (she wanted to ask us supposing we regularly handled such bills, ha!), and in the downpour rushed to the car to cross the bridge.

A policeman eyed us and jerked his head. Welcome to Venezuela. We had arrived.

San Antonio was deserted, and on a midnight after a downpour it was to be expected. We managed to get the air conditioning started. Some went down to the desolate pool and indulged potations at the midnight—the night clerk turned on the lights but procured no chairs. I looked out on the dark, wet town; went to bed.

In Venezuela they drive the old, big cars—the square ones from the late seventies and eighties: LTDs, Caprice Classics, Novas: in Colombia you see more of the Renault 12s— http://www.r12colombia.com —which are also common in Venezuela, but mostly lots of big, American cars, including the old conversion vans.

Gas is cheaper than water in Venezuela. They fill up the capacious, thirsty tanks of these old cars, drive over to Colombia, siphon the gas out, and voila!: black market. You can buy black market gas right next to the customs offices—not ten meters away. You can buy black market gas from Venezuela in Colombia all the way to Bucaramanga, way on the other side of a mountain 3,500 meters tall.

Viva la revolucion, man! Who’s a Chavista now? Our Uribista driver filled up on amber, black-market gas.

In Venezuela it is hot, the people seem larger and less friendly to me. In Venezuela they have longer, nicer bills than in Colombia, bigger coins, things are cheaper though they don’t produce in Venezuela; things are cheaper because they don’t earn. In Venezuela you can see airbrushed pictures of the beloved leader in government buildings and functionaries working under those conditions like its nothing; you can also get good empanadas and buy liquor really cheap. No wonder the country is going down the toilet.

And Chavez is arming the place to the teeth. Our two British chaps capitalized on the exchange rate and the price of liquor to return with clinking bags. I joined them in capitalizing on the empanadas. One day, when Chavez passes like a bad dream, you’ll be able to capitalize on really cheap rusted tanks and missiles in Venezuela, like the FARC do nowadays. Viva la revolucion!

We had to get copies of the documents we went to procure in Venezuela. 45 minutes. We got them in a fabric store because it was across from the Colombian consulate and the guy had some copiers stashed away. Waiting, I thought of buying fabric for my wife, I thought of buying her some sweet vermouth to cook with, wondered what to bring her back. I brought her back two coins: six hundred old bolo’s—Bolivares. They chopped three zeros off their old currency and started calling it Bolivar Fuerte, but they still use the weak Bolivar coins. One day my wife will be able to go to Venezuela and with that money buy and AK-47; then she’ll be saying: Viva la revolucion!

I think that being in Venezuela rubbs off. If you have to go there to get a visa, then hold your nose and do it. Otherwise, man, stay away.