The Barichara Virus

There are two sentences you should be wary of. The first is: “We’ll just have a quick look.” The second: “Looking doesn’t cost anything.” Both sound harmless. In reality, they have the potential to turn an entire life upside down. For us, it all begins in a small house in the Colombian Andes, with the unexpected question of what life in Barichara might look like.

When we arrive at Casa Pájaro outside Barichara, it is already pitch dark. It has taken us twelve hours on terrible roads from Bogotá to reach our little birdhouse. The small house sits at the end of the road, literally at the end of the world, surrounded by forest. Alex is glad, as always, that he has his headlamp with him as he searches for the entrance. Early the next morning, we are woken by the loud rattling calls of Colombian guans, a kind of giant wild chicken. We step onto the balcony and discover that there is a forest directly below us. Beyond it, the hills roll away in gentle waves towards the edge of the deeply carved Cañón del Río Suárez. In the distance, we can make out the houses of Barichara, supposedly the most beautiful little town in Colombia.

At 1,300 metres above sea level, the climate is perfect. Dry, with a pleasant 25 degrees Celsius, it is just right. Perfect temperatures for thinking and writing, hiking and jogging. Of course, we have no idea yet that our bodies are about to put an end to those plans almost immediately.

Our first trip takes us into Barichara. We order a tuk-tuk to take us over the bumpy roads into town. It does not take long to realise, however, that the unpaved dirt road from our little house to the main road turns into a muddy track whenever it rains. Then it is impossible to walk along, and neither motorcycles nor tuk-tuks can get through. Since it often rains in the late afternoon, at least in August, we spend many evenings at home. We cook, read, write or watch a film.

Barichara itself seems to have been left behind by time. The streets, paved with large cobblestones, are lined with whitewashed houses built using the local construction technique known as tapia pisada. A damp mixture of earth and clay is placed layer by layer into wooden forms and compacted. The massive walls are load-bearing and provide excellent insulation. The streets follow a clear grid, and no building is higher than two storeys.

There are small fruit and vegetable shops selling mangoes, mangosteens, papayas and other fruits, as well as fresh cheese and spices. I soon discover my favourite shop. The woman who runs it sings as she places the groceries on an old-fashioned scale, usually adding an extra orange or a bunch of parsley. It is a special pleasure to choose fresh fruit and crisp vegetables, exchange a few words with her and then walk back through the streets with a full shopping bag.

At the centre of town stands the large Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepción. In front of it, beneath the trees on the square with its fountain, young and old come together. Wedding processions cross the square, groups of schoolchildren gather for selfies, and at weekends the centre becomes a meeting place for the entire town.

During our first week, we mainly enjoy the fact that, unlike Mabul, the house does not surprise us with a new unexpected problem every day. My first friends become our neighbour’s six dogs. Two are white, one is a small black dog who usually limps but still wants to be part of everything, another is a shy black dog, there is a dachshund and hunting-dog mix, and another white one. Every day, when I set off for a walk, I pass their house.

“¡Vamos!” I call from a distance.

Then I see the pack of dogs running towards me. Most of the time, they accompany me on the entire walk down to the river and back again. What a life for a dog! Completely free, yet always well looked after. Soon, Casa Pájaro gets animal residents of its own. A shy black-and-white cat appears. For an entire month, she eats the food I leave out for her but refuses to let me touch her. Then, one day, she finally allows me to stroke her fur. From that moment on, she leaves the house only once, to fetch her friend, who then decides to stay too.

Alongside the two cats, we have a bright green tree frog that comes in through the open shower and spends hours clinging to the glass door. At night, its eyes become enormous black spheres and its colour changes from bright green to muddy brown. Hummingbirds, bats, birds of prey and geckos soon become regular visitors. From the balcony, we also watch a huge lizard sunbathing high in the crown of a tree whenever the weather is good.

Our original plan is actually quite different. During the two and a half months we intend to spend at Casa Pájaro, I want to write a few longer pieces. Alex wants to recover from life on the boat, go jogging and hike. Both plans are derailed almost immediately. I develop tendonitis in both arms and can barely write. Alex twists his foot after just a few days and can hardly walk. And so our own bodies bring us to a standstill. We are forced to take a real break.

Instead of writing, I read a lot and spend time in nature. Instead of jogging, Alex spends hours sitting on the balcony or behind the house with his camera and binoculars, waiting for a particularly beautiful bird to wander into view. Slowly, we begin to immerse ourselves in quiet worlds where observing becomes more important than doing. We hardly talk about Mabul at all.

After a few weeks, we get an unexpected visit. A friend from primary school whom I have not seen for more than thirty years is travelling around the world with her husband for a year. They have seen on social media that we are in Colombia. Our little house is big enough, so we invite them to Barichara. We spend two wonderful weeks sharing the birdhouse, talking about their adventures on land and ours on the water, and going hiking together.

Then we also get to know the people who created this little paradise. Andrés and Sandy discovered the property almost by accident about nine years ago. They had actually only been passing through. They wanted to spend one or two nights in Barichara before continuing their journey. But like so many others who come here, they fell in love with the place and stayed.

They sold their house in the city, bought what had once been coffee farmland and began turning their dream into reality, step by step. Instead of trying to produce as much coffee as possible, they allowed whatever wanted to grow to grow. Trees, shrubs and plants reclaimed the land. Birds, armadillos, porcupines and snakes returned. Slowly, a small ecosystem developed in which humans were no longer at the centre, but simply another inhabitant.

When they moved here from Bogotá, Sandy tells us, they were mainly afraid of nature, of wasps, snakes and spiders. Today she knows that the animals are not the real danger. “The most dangerous inhabitant of this forest,” she says with a smile, looking over at us, “is the human being.”

That is exactly why they learned not to fight nature, but to live with it. It is a lesson we have also had to learn at sea. Perhaps that is precisely why we feel so comfortable at Casa Pájaro. Not because everything here is perfect, but because this place reminds us every day how little we sometimes need to feel rich and blessed.

At Casa Pájaro, the day is not dictated by appointments, but by the light. In the morning, when the first rays of sunlight creep over the hills, life begins. Around midday, it becomes so hot that even the dogs seek out the shade. And when dark clouds gather in the afternoon, everyone knows that rain is on its way.

Often, a heavy shower follows, turning the dusty paths into little streams within minutes. Afterwards, the air smells of wet earth, and from every corner comes a chorus of chirping, croaking and buzzing, as if someone had started an invisible orchestra. Slowly, we begin to adopt this rhythm too. This very lack of excitement suddenly feels like a luxury.

Perhaps it stands out so strongly because our life before this was the exact opposite. The last few months in the boatyard had consisted of endless to-do lists. Every morning, we woke up wondering which problem we would have to solve that day. There was always something urgent, always a decision to make, always the next task.

At Casa Pájaro, that feeling slowly disappears. For the first time in a long time, we wake up in the morning without an immediate task waiting for us. At some point, I realise that I am no longer constantly checking my phone. The world continues turning. Wars are being fought, governments are falling, stock markets are rising and falling. For years, following all of this had been part of my profession.

Now I sit on a balcony in the Colombian Andes and watch a bird patiently trying to pull a piece of fruit from a branch instead. And I wonder: Are we allowed to disconnect when the world outside is constantly moving?

Perhaps people in my profession need breaks like this more than most. When you spend years always looking ahead, towards the next conflict, the next story or the next flight, you eventually lose sight of what is right in front of you. At Casa Pájaro, we are learning to look closely again. Not at the spectacular, but at the everyday.

Over time, we also begin exploring the surrounding area. Countless small paths lead through the hills around Barichara. Some end at old chapels, others at viewpoints overlooking the deeply carved Río Suárez. Still others simply wind their way between dry-stone walls, cacti and ancient trees.

Often, we simply let the dogs decide where to go. They turn off somewhere, we follow them and end up in places that do not appear in any guidebook. One of these paths leads through a small forest filled with enormous ceiba trees. Their roots rise from the ground like walls, while their crowns disappear high above our heads. Bromeliads, orchids and long strands of lichen hang from the branches.

It is quiet, even though there is life everywhere. Above all, birdsong is everywhere. Between the calls, we hear insects and the wind moving through the leaves. After a while, we automatically begin speaking more quietly, as if we do not want to disturb the place. The longer we walk here, the more carefully we listen and look. Eventually, we even begin to distinguish the different bird species and look them up in a bird guide.

One day, Andrés tells us that a piece of land further back is for sale. “Just in case you ever wanted to think about it,” he says casually. Alex and I look at each other and laugh. Us? Buy a piece of land? Weren’t we supposed to be sailing across the Pacific? But the next morning, we go to take a look.

It is perhaps a twenty-minute walk from Casa Pájaro. Behind an unremarkable entrance, a narrow path leads through open woodland. Huge rocks lie among the trees, surrounded by bromeliads, ferns and wild orchids. Unlike many properties around Barichara, this one has never been completely cleared. It does not feel like a building site. It feels like a piece of forest that someone happens to own.

When we reach a small clearing, we both stop involuntarily. In front of us, the view opens across the green hills of Santander all the way down to the deeply carved canyon of the Río Suárez. The wind moves through the treetops. Apart from the birds, there is nothing to hear. “Imagine a little house here,” Alex says.

For the first time in years, I am not thinking about where we will sail next. Instead, I imagine what it would be like to have a place we could return to between our travels. A small house among the trees. A desk overlooking the forest. A vegetable garden. Perhaps a dog and a horse. A place where friends could stay for a few days, write or simply slow down. It is a dangerous thought. Because as soon as you start imagining a life, it suddenly feels surprisingly real.

Over the next few days, we look at more houses and pieces of land. Not because we have already decided to settle down, but because we are curious. What does land actually cost here? How do the people who left everything behind and stayed live? And what would life in a place like this actually feel like? Slowly, we begin to understand what people here mean when they talk about the Barichara virus. There is a saying we hear again and again: “Either you fall in love with Barichara, or Barichara spits you back out.” We are beginning to catch it.

One day, we meet Vladimir. Together with his brother, he owns the small Hotel Piedra Moler, just a few minutes from Casa Pájaro. Because it has a beautiful swimming pool, we spend several hot afternoons there. Every time we come by, Vladimir sits down with us. We talk about Colombia, Barichara and our sailing journey, and eventually, of course, about our search for a possible piece of land. “I have exactly the right place for you,” he says one day with a broad grin. “Not a piece of land like all the others. A magical forest.”

The next morning, he picks us up. After about twenty minutes on narrow roads, we reach a remote farm. Héctor is already waiting for us. He lives with his mother on a large coffee finca. His father died a few months ago, and they have now reluctantly decided to sell part of their land.

There is one condition, however. His mother wants someone who will respect the forest. Her husband cared for it all his life and never simply cut down trees. She wants that to remain the case. We set off without high expectations. But after just a few minutes, we understand why Vladimir called it a magical forest.

Coffee plants grow in the shade of enormous old trees. Four small streams wind their way through the property, and somewhere in the distance we can hear a waterfall. Sunlight filters through the dense canopy in scattered patches, bathing the forest in a soft, almost unreal light. Birds are singing everywhere, and the air smells of damp earth and coffee. The further we walk, the quieter we become. Eventually, we simply stop and look at each other. We are both enchanted. Suddenly, the idea of waking up here in the morning and making our first coffee with our Bialetti seems surprisingly tempting.

Almost without noticing, we begin making plans. The main house could stand over there. A little further down, perhaps two or three small guest houses. A natural swimming pool could be built. Alex immediately spots the potential of the small streams. “You could even build a small hydroelectric system here,” he says enthusiastically.

I see people sitting beneath the huge trees, reading, writing or simply enjoying the silence. We spend almost the entire afternoon walking through the forest and do not notice how quickly the time passes.

When we return to the farmhouse, Vladimir is already sitting there, drinking beer, loudly calculating how easy everything would be to organise, and reaching for his phone to call a notary. I have to laugh. While we are still trying to understand that we are seriously considering buying four hectares of forest in Colombia, Vladimir seems to have decided the matter already. And honestly, for a brief moment, it feels exactly right to us too.

That evening, we sit on the balcony of Casa Pájaro for a long time and talk about nothing else. What had been a crazy idea that morning suddenly feels surprisingly concrete. For the first time in years, we seriously ask ourselves whether our life after our sailing journey might look completely different from anything we had ever imagined. The plan almost seems to develop by itself. Héctor could continue looking after the coffee plants and selling the harvest while we are still travelling with Mabul. When our sailing journey eventually comes to an end, we could return to Colombia and gradually build something of our own.

Not a big hotel. More a place where nature is at the centre. Perhaps a few guest houses. A place for people looking for peace and quiet. Somewhere to write, read or simply breathe. The longer we talk about it, the more realistic the idea becomes. We start asking questions. We call a lawyer, find out about the possibilities for foreigners buying land in Colombia, and talk about visas, taxes and property rights.

We quickly realise that things are more complicated than they appear at first. Practical questions begin to occupy our minds too. Alex compares the GPS points he recorded during our walk with our Garmin to the official property plans. They do not quite match. Perhaps it is simply an inaccurate GPS signal beneath the dense canopy. Or perhaps it is not. Suddenly, we realise how quickly a romantic idea can turn into a project with countless unanswered questions.

Still, we cannot shake the magic of the forest. Again and again, we talk about what our life there could look like. Alex is already designing paths between the trees in his head and thinking about how the small streams could be used to generate electricity. I imagine a large wooden table beneath the trees, where people from all over the world sit together, exchange stories or work on their books.

It is amazing how quickly a fleeting thought can turn into a vision. And perhaps that is exactly where the danger lies. Slowly, a quiet feeling of unease begins to grow inside me. At first, I cannot quite explain it. The forest is beautiful. The owners are friendly. Even the price seems almost unbelievable compared with Europe.

But somewhere deep inside, I have the feeling that we should not rush into anything. For two days, I try to ignore that thought. Then we go back once more. This time, not filled with excitement, but with a little more distance.

We take our battered motorcycle and set off. After just a few kilometres, the roads become increasingly rough. Deep potholes alternate with washed-out dirt tracks. After rain, they would probably be almost impossible to pass. The further we go, the more isolated the landscape becomes. Houses become rarer. We hardly see anyone. Eventually, Alex stops. He takes off his helmet, looks around and suddenly says:

“You’re right.”

I look at him, surprised.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. “But it really is far away.”

That is exactly the point.

The forest is magical. Perhaps that is precisely why. But it is at the end of the world. We would build our own little paradise there, and eventually we might find ourselves sitting alone in that paradise. I know myself well enough. I need people around me. Encounters. Chance meetings. Friends who drop by spontaneously. A market where I can buy vegetables. A café where I might bump into someone. I want to write, but I do not want to live in complete isolation. And then I realise something else.

With Mabul, we already have a huge project on our hands. Alex is often thinking about the boat even when we are sitting in the most beautiful anchorage imaginable. Now we are about to take on another major project. Another dream. Another thing that needs to be maintained, built, organised and looked after. Another thing that ties us down. We look at each other. Neither of us says it out loud. But we both know that we are not going to buy this piece of land.

It hurts surprisingly much. Not because we are losing something we already own, but because we are saying goodbye to a life we had already begun living in our imagination. We can see the little house in our minds. The guests. The coffee plants. All of it disappears again. And yet the decision feels right. Sometimes freedom is not about making a dream come true. Sometimes it is about being able to let it go.

Eventually, we leave Barichara without a purchase contract. Instead, we take with us the phone numbers of estate agents, new friends and countless photos of properties we will probably keep looking at for years to come. Vladimir shakes his head when we explain our decision. “You’ll come back,” he says with conviction. “Everyone comes back.” Maybe he is right. Because Barichara has done something to us.

We came here to rest. We wanted to write, hike and get a little distance from Mabul. Instead, we suddenly found ourselves asking what our life should actually look like. Perhaps that is the real secret of this place.

Almost everyone we meet here tells the same story. They come for a weekend. Or for a holiday. They intend to stay only briefly. And suddenly they find themselves looking at properties, viewing houses or wondering whether a different life might be possible. Perhaps that is the real luxury of Barichara. Not the colonial houses. Not the spectacular landscape. Not the pleasant climate. But the fact that here, you suddenly find the courage to think about a different life.

But we climb back aboard Mabul. Ahead of us lie the Panama Canal, the Pacific and thousands of nautical miles. The boat is fuelled, the cupboards are stocked, and the lines are cast off. Slowly, the coast disappears behind us. For now, our home is still Mabul.

And perhaps that is the most important realisation of all: You do not have to make every dream come true simply because you once dreamed it. Sometimes it is enough to have dreamed it.

You can find more photos in this gallery, and here are the shots from birding at Casa Pajero.

Note: Links marked in orange are affiliate links. If you buy something via them on Amazon, we receive a small commission for our boat treasury – at no extra cost to you.

Related Boatcast episodes: