Heading to a coffee-themed fantasia

When in doubt, follow the children. That might not be a good tactic when, say, you’re waging war. Or paying your taxes.

But it certainly works when you’re fighting a battle with your own emotions during what might be the longest day of your life. Especially when, during that day, you’re being bombarded with a vision of life that is so far from your wildest expectations as to be surreal.

That was yesterday for six of our group, only one – Mary Pat – having the confidence to say, when invited to go on a daylong excursion to what we thought was going to be a coffee plantation, in a word … no. Or, in her pidgin-Spanish, “No, gracias.”

That left the rest of us to rise in time to catch a 6 a.m. minibus to the Parque Nacional del Café . In the vehicle waiting for us were our intrepidly sunny handler Maribel and new driver (our regular one, apparently, not wanting to work on Sunday).

Following is my chronicle of the trip:

June 28: Part One

6:17 a.m. – On the road to what we think will be a coffee plantation, though some of us have an idea that we’re going to visit a coffee-themed amusement park. MP has opted out, saying that she will think of us riding on roller coasters in cars shaped like little coffee cups. She so funny.

6:32 a.m. – I begin to think that she is right when we stop to pick up one of our teachers, Oscar, and his incredibly cute 8-year-old daughter, Sara. Soon, Oscar and his daughter engage Megan, Holly and me in a card game in which, when cards with particular letters are presented, we have to come up with thematic words to fit each one. Example, the letter P: pájro (or bird).

7:50 a.m. – At this point we’re passing through the village of Buga, where Maribel tells us that an important cathedral exists. It is one of supposed miracles.

But at least two of us feel as if a miracle already has occurred. Both Marilyn and Jonathan were watching the road ahead and had to endure a moment when it appeared as if we were going to run head-on into a coming car. The rest of us discovered what was happening only when Jonathan yelled, and I looked up just as our driver swerved, the other driver swerved, and we seemingly missed each other by centimeters.

It happened so fast that it didn’t seem to have any real impact on most of us. And we continue on. But Marilyn and Jonathan are both shaken up. No telling about the driver, who looks as if the whole Valle de Cauca could disappear in a rain of plantains and he wouldn’t notice.

8:57 a.m. – We stop at an outdoor cafeteria, a road-side rest stop that caters to travelers of all types, those riding in huge buses, those (like us) riding in minubuses and even those riding the various kinds of motorcycles that Colombianos seem to love (none of which go much over 50 mph)

Think of a hispanic Howard Johnson’s, only open-air.

We sit around a table, imbibing a variety of drinks (I have not one but two cafés con leche) and eats (rolls such as pandebono or a fruit-salad type drink called a salpicón), as the road-side community whirls around us.

Jonathan is nowhere to be seen, and when I talk to Marilyn I understand why. “I really thought, ‘This is what it is like to die in a head-on crash,’ ” she says.

10:21 a.m. – But we continue, some of us joining Jonathan and Marilyn in paying more attention to our driver’s driving abilities. And, finally, we begin to approach the park.

As our minibus nears the entrance, right away it seems that MP’s fears were correct: This is Disneyland Goes Juan Valdez. Dozens of the giant buses already have beaten us there, and hundreds of people are massed at the entrance trying to get in or shopping at the small shops that line the sidewalk opposite in both directions as far as I can see.

Maribel hands each of us a pass, part of the $90 fee that each of us paid to go on this excursion, and tells us to stay together. The park, apparently, is huge and easy to get lost in. Whatever else happens, she says, pointing to a wooden structure that towers maybe 60 or 70 feet over the entrance, we will meet under there at 5 p.m.

Say again, 5 p.m. Really?

And then we’re off, each of us set in various stages of preparedness to embrace the world of … Juan Valdez.