The Boar

Forty minutes out of Bogotá in the state of Cundinamarca, I found myself nestled in the sleepy Colombian town of Bojacá. Sleepy however was an understatement, despite being a town of over 10,000 people, it would be more accurately described as dormant.

The town arose from its hibernation and this weekly market suddenly breathed life, dance, music and colour into Bojaca’s centre.

But then Sunday rolled around. The town arose from its hibernation and this weekly market suddenly breathed life, dance, music and colour into Bojaca’s centre. I sat down on a bench to observe the festivities and, if I didn’t already stick out enough as the only white person in a rural Colombian town for miles around, I cracked out my film camera and snapped away, just to really hammer home that I was the foreigner here.

A crowd slowly started to gather as four men and four women adorned in bowler hats, ponchos and frilly dresses took centre stage, dancing along to the buoyant vocals that rang out around the square. The men weaved in and out of the women in theatrical attempts to win them over before eight unwitting audience members were picked out and partnered up to finish off the performance.

With a second round of dancing underway I was keen to learn more. I had mangled to wangle myself a spot on a bench next to three generations of a Colombian family. After rehearsing a possible Spanish conversation in my head so as to not make myself look like a fool, I asked the grandma sitting beside me what type of dance we were watching. She responded briefly, telling me it was a traditional folk dance typical to this region. Then she paused, tending towards her grandchildren for a moment, and then all at once the conversation came flowing out of her.

Gushing over her beautiful country, she told me that she frequently travels to Bojacá from the capital to come to the market with her family.

Gushing over her beautiful country, she told me that she frequently travels to Bojacá from the capital to come to the market with her family. I was told of the country’s troubles and turmoils and used every inch of my Spanish speaking brain to understand the wisdom being laid bare in front of me. She asked what I was doing there and was eager to know what I thought of the place, listening intently and seemingly comprehending my Spanish bumblings. She was particularly curious to know how I thought Colombian people differed from those in England, and, to her shock, I said the English are colder and that the warmth of Colombians is apparent from the get go.

she clasped my hand and said with such heartfelt, genuine candour: promise me you will return.

This warmth was affirmed in her goodbye to me, as, rising shakily upwards, she clasped my hand and said with such heartfelt, genuine candour: promise me you will return. I nodded yes and waved her family off. I may not have learnt her name, but I came to see her affability and good-natured attitude was emblematic of all the Colombian people I was to meet and set the blueprint for an amazing holiday.