There are still remote places in the world, some unreachable by automobiles for miles, and this is one of them.
A blazing sun sent beads of sweat trickling down our backs as we climbed a steep mountainside trail. It was only 7:30 a.m. and the day was already scorching hot. It felt like we were in the middle of nowhere and everywhere all at once. Engulfed in nature.
Thirty minutes earlier, we had abandoned our car on a dirt road and continued on foot up a singletrack trail that snaked up a steep mountain. Hector, our guide, had come down from the farm to meet us and lead the way back up to the “finca cafetera,” or coffee farm.
Hector is a “campesino,” or rural farm worker. His family have been campesinos for generations, working the land and living largely off the grid.
Owner of the coffee farm, Hector. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
We connected with Hector through my uncle’s taxi driver in Medellin who mentioned his relatives had a finca cafetera near the town of Titiribi. Titiribi is where my dad and his brothers spent their summers as kids.
Coincidentally, my dad and I, who live in Texas now, were in Medellin at the time visiting family and working on a video production project with my uncle.
Upon hearing the story of the coffee farm near Titiribi, we all sprang into the idea of filming a mini-documentary about the coffee farm.
That’s how we found ourselves following a stranger up a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Hector, with years of walking the trail, climbed effortlessly while the three of us struggled to match his pace. We were no match for the elevation gain and I felt my heart pulsing in my throat with every step.
As the mountains closed in around us, Hector began telling us stories about their off-the-grid life. Slowly it dawned on me that we were stumbling into a deeper story. One about disappearing campesino lifestyles, the downsides of fair trade, harsh weather impacts, and living in harmony with nature.
Our guide, Hector. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
Trekking to the Farm
“I’ve walked this path for years,” Hector said as we continued the hike. “No one here has a car so it takes us three hours to walk to the closest town. Besides, even if we had a car, there are no roads to the farm. We must always go by foot.”
He walked and talked at ease up the switchbacks and shared that during harvest seasons they load up a couple of donkeys with coffee and cacao and walk the donkeys to the town. There they sell the crops or trade them for provisions like flour, rice, or medicine. “It’s a long and physically taxing journey, but our livelihoods depend on it,” Hector said.
Taking in Hector’s words, I wondered if we ever stop and think about our coffee's remote origins and the hands that cared for it. So many factors have to come together just right for a cup of coffee to be enjoyed. The soil, the weather, the temperature, and the people who care for it.
View from the top of the coffee farm. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
From left: Hector, Juan Carlos, Eduardo, Hector, Maria. (Photo provided by Maria Vargas)
Where Our Food Comes From
As we approached the farm, Hector stopped in his tracks and picked something off the ground. “Este es el cacao,” he said, holding up a big cacao pod and slicing it open with his machete.
Inside, the fruit was white and gooey. Not at all like the brown sweet velvet chocolate we are used to. I took a piece of the fruit and put it in my mouth. It was slightly sweet and coated with a layer of slime.
Maria picking coffee cherries in the fields. (Photo by Juan Carlos Vargas)
Taking in the sights all around us, I realized we were surrounded by cacao trees and coffee plants with little red cherries. Coffee and chocolate are some of life’s most delicious treats, and they are growing here right in front of us.
But something felt wrong. There were too many cacao pods on the ground and the coffee trees looked sad and yellowing.
Hector let out a sigh. “This has been the hottest, driest year in the past 60 years," he said. "We have never seen it like this." The giant cracks in the dirt are signals that the soil can hardly sustain life anymore.
We continued our march and a few minutes later Hector stopped again, this time pointing at a little colorful house in the distance tucked between the trees. Our destination.
The house on the coffee farm with everyone chatting on the porch. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
A Warm Welcome
The final climb led us to a red house where mama pigs and piglets squealed and greeted us, followed by Hector's brother-in-law (also named Hector), his wife Flor, and her elderly mother.
“I have lived here for 70 years,” said the new Hector under the shade of his antioqueño hat. “This land is our home and will be until the day we leave this life.”
The house is humble and small. A couple of hand-built walls, an open-air kitchen, a bedroom, and a wonderful little porch overlooking the mountains. They have a solar panel providing light, cold water from a well, and a little bit of cell service.
“We might not have luxury, but we have peace,” Flor said. “Nothing compares to the simplicity of life we lead. We take care of the land, the land takes care of us, and we take care of each other.”
Flor washing the dishes and chatting with us about peaceful living in the mountains. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
Younger Generations
Flor brought out glasses of cold fresh mango juice and ushered under the shade of the porch. As we sipped the juice, Hector shared with us that their type of farming family, known as “campesinos,” is disappearing. Younger generations aren’t interested in living so remotely and working the land.
“Our kids left years ago and moved to the city,” Hector said. “They are grown and have families of their own. They come to visit sometimes but they won’t move back here. Once we are gone, that’s it.”
As he pointed to the countryside surrounding us, he explained that multinational companies are purchasing hundreds of acres of land and bringing in employees to farm it. The magic and passion for tending to the land from generation to generation is getting lost.
Father and son commute by horse along the rural dirt road. It is rare for people in the area to have cars. (Photo by Eduardo Vargas)
The small farms that are not bought by big companies are also being encouraged to get Fair Trade certification. However, Hector unearthed a huge downside to Fair Trade regulations.
Because of the strict rules about kids not being allowed to work on the farm, connection with the land is not being passed down to the next generation. What is happening is kids come home from school and start watching TV instead of helping their families around the farm. There is increasing demand for farms to be Fair Trade Certified, which then bans kids from working the farms in any capacity.
“We are not saying that kids should be used as labor and prevent them from going to school,” Hector said. “But what we are saying is that kids should still be able to get an education and help on the farm in some capacity. That is how we pass on the sacred knowledge of the land. We can’t do that if our kids aren’t allowed to help.”
Hector, the farm’s owner. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
Warming Climate Puts Livelihoods in Jeopardy
In the afternoon, they took us on a hike even farther up the mountain to see the coffee groves. By this time it was 106ºF (about 42ºC) and both Hectors agreed this was the hottest year they’ve ever experienced.
Banana trees are falling from lack of water, cacao fruit is not producing well, and coffee cherries are being eaten by bugs that appear in hot weather. In combination with being an El Niño year, when higher-than-average temperatures are experienced near the equator, the drought and extreme heat are damaging crops at an accelerated rate. This means less food for them to sell and less for the family to consume.
Coffee cherries. (Photo by Eduardo Vargas)
Next, they took us to the shed where they kept all the coffee equipment. The washing station, the de-pulping, fermentation, and the drying roofs. Unfortunately due to the heat, they couldn’t show us the process because there is not enough for a coffee harvest.
Fruits grown on the farm. Coffee thrives better if there are other fruit trees nearby. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
Fed by the Land
By the time we arrived back at the house, Flor had been busy cooking plantains and stewing up vegetables, rice, and chicken. They lined up chairs under the shade of the porch and filled up our plates.
We had not expected to be invited to have lunch with them, so tried to politely decline. Flor, however, insisted. “Nothing makes us happier than hosting visitors, which is already rare! Please share this meal with food that came straight from this soil,” she said.
I had never eaten a plantain that tasted so good. Flor said food takes on the energy of the people who grew it, and I believe she is right. Generosity and hospitality are signature in these campesino families.
On one side it’s easy to view this lifestyle as idealistic—surrounded by nature, eating fresh food, away from city chaos, and leading peaceful lives. But the reality can be harsh. Extreme drought and high temperatures have impacted all of their food production, they have no air conditioning, water quality is questionable, and they live very far away from any consumer goods stores or medical facilities.
Even as Flor’s aging mother starts having medical complications, they must recruit several neighbors to make the six-hour journey to town and back carrying her on a makeshift stretcher through the mountain pass.
Maria and Hector in the distance on the hike to the farm. (Photo by Eduardo Vargas)
Off the Grid Living
It’s hard to describe the peacefulness you can feel tucked away on their farm under the shade of banana trees. Not a car can be heard, no street lights, no sirens, no voices from other people, no humming of electronics. You can only hear the pigs squeal, bees buzz, and cacao simmering on the stove. But soon it was time to go.
We waited until the sun sank a bit to make the trek back to the car. Before going our way, we dunked our heads into the cold well water in preparation for the hot hike.
About halfway down, Hector asked if we were up for a little detour. Ten minutes later we found a little tin-roof tienda. It was a slab of metal held up by a couple of old tree stumps. We sat in the shade and an older lady came to greet us and take our order. She disappeared into her little house and came out with a tray of cold beers, Coca-Cola, and tinto (black coffee).
You would think in this coffee-growing region, they’d serve top-quality coffee, so it was my surprise to taste that it was instant coffee. Hector explained that they sell all the good coffee for the export business, so local people never drink the good stuff. I enjoyed my cup, nonetheless, and reflected more on where our food comes from and the people who grow it.
Tired and with my head spinning with everything I had just learned, I laid down on a tree trunk chair and took a nap with the sound of stories being told in the background.
The rural tienda Hector took us to where we drank cold beer and Coca-Cola. (Photo by Maria Vargas)
Nature’s Goodbye
After the tienda, we reached our car and said goodbye to Hector who said he was taking the long way home because he wanted to forage an herb for healing arthritic pain.
It had hardly been 10 minutes since we got in the car when the sky turned dark and a clap of thunder echoed. A huge thunderstorm rolled through, bringing rain with it.
The downpour lasted for hours. Hector even texted us saying that we had brought the rain. He was thrilled.
Our day with the campesino family turned out more incredible than we had imagined. Sometimes we can never predict the stories that come out of trips like these. We just have to go in with a full heart and ample curiosity.
While we expected to capture a story about a coffee farm, we found ourselves connecting with a kindhearted family deeply bonded to their land, and documenting what may be the last generation of campesinos.
We were reminded of the fragile balance between tradition and modernity, old and new generations, and the challenges posed by a changing climate.
As we drove back to the city, the unexpected rain felt like a sign of nature's response to our shared experience, a brief moment of interconnectedness.
Maria Vargas. (Photo by Juan Carlos Vargas)
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Maria Vargas is a multifaceted storyteller, traveler, and adventurer who embraces discomfort to expand her horizons. As a writer, entrepreneur, and photographer, she captures the essence of her experiences, from inviting her Uber driver to paraglide on a whim to embarking on challenges like a 10-mile open water swim. Born in Bogota, Colombia, Maria now splits her time between Austin, Texas, and Paris, where she finds inspiration in the ordinary and shares compelling narratives that illuminate the extraordinary aspects of life. She is currently working on her debut book, The Long Way Home, chronicling lessons learned from going around the world in 89 days. Follow her on Instagram @iavargas and read her Substack publication about thought-provoking global adventures.