Coffee Plantation domecile

A corrugated aluminum roof protects us from the spattering rain. To the west, thunder rumbles and lightning flashes into the mountain peaks.
So green and lush--trees grow in the couloirs along the slopes which are covered in grass. So different from the naked red rock of Colorado or the grey granite of Yosemite. Side-stepping cows have grazed de facto terraces into the slopes, which catch the shadows and seem to sing a sad song of almost-nature taken over by people.
A light breeze blows through the bamboo supports of the roof. We have pitched a tent on a raised platform of wood overlooking a coffee plantation owned by a jolly British fellow with a Homer Simpson Valdez T-shirt and a floppy brown felt hat.
After arriving in Salento from Armenia from Bogota, Spencer and I stepped off the bus into the town square. The Lonely Planet Guidebook suggested The Plantation House Hostel--but we planned to find a spot to camp. Cheaper that way.
The owner described two options: a campground down the hill by the river (for only a few pesos less than the hostel) or asking at a farm miles down the road if we could borrow some land.
We slogged our way downhill through a muddy rut full of tree trimmings and horse droppings. At a farm we stopped and asked, but the kid pointed us farther downhill.
By this time, we were hot and sweaty carrying our laden bags in the muggy heat. I just wanted some cool water and perhaps a dip in the river.
We considered just scouting a spot along the river and squatting--but decided against what would likely (in this day and age) be trespassing.
Another few hundred meters down the hill, we came upon another gate in the barbed-wire fence strung along the road.
"Buenas!"we called, entering. "Quien duena?
A tall young guy with long hair and dirty pants tucked into muddy rainboots led us around the corner.
A rotund middle-aged fellow with a short grey beard climbed awkwardly down some steps, blonde hijita in tow.
"Como esta?" we asked.
"Bien, bien."
"Buscamos un sitio para camping." We explained that the hostel owner had sent us down toward the river, but we wanted to make sure before hiking all the way down.
"Ustedes son de francia?"
"Oye no no! Estados Unidos."
"Oh!" he chuckled, gratefully switching to English. "So you guys are looking for a spot to pitch a tent, yes? Hm. Hm. Okay."
We nodded.
With his pleasant British accent, he explained that there wasn't much in the way of flat space--but we'd be welcome to stay up on a platform overlooking the slopes.
His little daughter of about three watched our interaction, now and then chiming in with a charming bit of garbled Spanglish.
"Just have to clear it with my wife first. Um. Hm. Okay. Yes." He scooped up the girl and went inside, leaving us to scope the platform.
A space of about 12'x12' made of 2x6 planks bordered by a railing of bamboo (which grew in a thicket farther down the slope). Like a lookout tower--in fact, we can see for miles in the space between the peaks toward another town (Armenia) in the valley.
Below, banana trees shade and sustain the coffe plants which grow out of the hillside. The main house below us is made of solid brick and plaster with a patio and a big cooking fire.
A machine for separating coffee beans from husks sits on the concrete slab. Crickets and birds chirp as the sun heads for the hills.
This spot is perfect.
A couple of collies trot over to investigate. Tim--the limey--has given us the greenlight. We'll negotiate cost later (not much, hm hm, he says)--and we're left to our own devices. Turns out Tim lives up at the Plantation House (which he also owns with his pretty little colombiana wife).
This spot is not in the guidebook. I am immensely glad we've stumbled upon it. This is the kind of adventure I have looked forward to--crashing in random spots of hospitality. This is the kind of place I'd like to spend time in, but alas--settlement is not on the schedule. Tomorrow we'll hike around looking for the tallest palm trees in the world, and after that--onward to Cali.