Meliza sent me a screenshot of an flyer. “You shouldn’t miss this,” she wrote. The flyer was short on details. There was a photo of a silleteros (a porter) carrying a flower display. Ruta Silletera, Envigado 2022 was written underneath, with a number to call and the date and time: Domingo, 14 de Agosto, 12:00 m a 11:59pm.

Google and Google translate offered a little more information. It was a tour past 12 silletero farms in silletero territories east of the city. Bus and car directions were given along with a map with no scale. The article said that local buses would drop you off at a convenience store parking lot. From there, you could walk the trail or take another bus to various drop off points along the route.

I had originally planned to try and catch the parade commemorating the end of the flower festival, but thought I might be able to visit the farms and then head back to town in time to catch the end of the parade; I thought wrong.

Eager to check out the metro line, I decided to go the local route. I figured connections would be swift and that a large number of buses would be plying the route; I thought wrong.

I walked to the Poblado metro and bought a card, loading it up with 4 rides worth of credit. The metro itself is clean and efficient and everything people had built it up to be. I rode the three stops to Envigado and asked directions to the bus. I walked first in the right direction and then in the wrong one.. A woman passing saw me and pointed me back to where I should go.

A line had formed of people waiting for buses to the Ruta Silletera. A minibus arrived and picked up a third of the line. We waited as other local buses came and went before another minibus arrived and picked up another third. By then the line had been growing steadily.

I stood behind a mother and daughter and their friend. They spoke little English; I little Spanish, and yet we struck up a conversation. They asked me where I was from and how long I was to be in Medellin. Later they’d ask me about my relationship status, but for now, we kept the conversation simple.

A third bus arrived and we crowded onto it.

The bus headed east, climbing the hills around the city. At one point we passed the Envigado park, where a large line of people waited to pile into larger city buses.

The bus continued climbing up out of the city and into the hills. We wound this way and that past landmarks I had come to recognize on my various trips to and from the airport until we found ourselves in the country side.

At one point, the bus erupted in cries; the driver had taken a wrong tour and was taking us to the wrong park. He made a three point turn and we headed back in the direction we came. Even then it was a circuitous route to get to where we needed to go; at one point picking up a passenger to help direct us on our way.

Along the way, I asked Manuela which she thought was more interesting: The flower parade or visiting the farms. She thought for a moment and said, “La finca."

Arriving at the Tiende D1, we picked up supplies at the market and waited for another bus to take us up to the farms. A group of students I had met on the bus decided to hoof it; my new friends bade me join them on the bus.

The ride into the mountains was beautiful. We passed small farms and hills. From the road we could see flower beds and silleteros. People roamed the narrow streets and a steady line of cars wound their way on the route. A guide asked us if we wanted to stop at the first farm; Patricia said no and convinced the bus to take us first to a main stop in the middle of the route. There, we alighted and walked a small farm perched on the top of a hill to see if we could find lunch.

The farms that dotted the route all opened their doors to revelers. Some had small stages set up with troubadours, others played music on makeshift soundsystems. All offered food of some sort, and the visitors wound their way from farm to farm, eating, drinking and dancing.

There was no room to sit at the first farm and so we walked down to another. There, we watched as people worked on making a flower display. We looked over the food on offer and decided to walk back to the first farm.

Patricia found us a table and ordered soup for the both of us. It came with a small round of bread. The soup consisted of broth, plantains, potatos, and meat. It was somewhat bland until she returned with limes, which made all the difference. Suddenly, the soup was fragrant and tangy. Just beyond where we sat we could see them cooking the soup in huge aluminum vats set upon open fires. A woman fried empanadas in another smaller pot.

We ate and sat and chatted. It was then that they asked whether I was married, whether I had a girlfriend, whether I had children, and then why not. They asked how old I was and were surprised when I told them. They asked how long I had been in America, where my parents were, and where they were from. After a bit, Manuela and her mother ordered chicken skewers.

There was a festive air around the farm, with a steady stream of visitors coming to order food, to dance on the small patio, and to take photos by the flower arrangements.

At one point, a family arrived with a child in tow dressed like a silleteros. On his back he wore a small flower arrangement decked out in the colors of the Columbian flag. His parents put him in front of a set of flower pots to take a photo; his father stood nearby to catch him in the event he fell over.

After finishing lunch, we walked over to the flower arrangement and watched as people took photos of the flower arrangement, patiently waiting our turn. A few people added to the arrangement, working to make sure it was just so.

After lunch, we walked back up the road. A light rain started to fall, and we sheltered by a cafe that sat next to the main bus stop. Once it let up, we walked down the road to where a sax player was playing western rock songs to a recorded track. We were going to check out one farm, but Manuela’s mother decided against it and we followed the music to yet another. A large band of troubadours gathered on a stage and sang songs; Manuela’s mother sang along.

There, I stopped in to see another group of people working on a flower display before continuing down the road towards the main street. It was getting dark and as I walked the music became fainter and fainter. I hadn’t realized I had left the last farm on the route and that it was many kilometers to get to the main road. Duncan had told me that Columbia wasn’t a place where you wanted to be off the beaten path; I had made some questionable decisions in the past, and it was somewhat heartening to know that I could still make some of the questionable decisions a younger, backpacking me would make.

As the skies darkened, a heavy rain began to fall. As I dug for my umbrella, I heard an engine behind me; I turned in time to flag down a local bus assuming it was a shuttle to the parking lot. At that point, I was happy to be out of the rain.

Arriving at the Tienda D1, a man approached the bus to tell us that the bus to Envigado was about to leave. We filed out of one bus onto the other and soon found ourselves making our way back towards the city. The path was long and circuitous, and the bus driver had to keep wiping down the windows, which kept steaming over. It took over an hour to get back to the metro station.

From there, the road home was straightforward, back to the Poblado station and a walk back to the apartment. I had missed the parade entirely, but I was happy to have spent the day with local Columbians doing what I expect local Columbians do during the flower festival. 

On the walk home from the metro station, I picked up a cheap burrito for dinner. Duncan had texted me while I was still in the countryside to ask if I had made it home safe; I waited until I was safely ensconced in the apartment to respond. Home safe, I texted. 😊🇨🇴