Colombia 1: Bogota
Exploring Bogota with my long lost fiancée
As my flight descended through the dark of evening into the embrace of the myriad lights of Bogota, Colombia, I had ample reason for anxiety. For much of my life, Colombia was a byword for cartels, crime and narcotics-fueled civil war. In fact, to this day if you mention Colombia, chances are someone is going to make a joke about cocaine. Popular perceptions are slow to change.
But Colombia has changed a lot since the 80s and 90s when it topped the world homicide rate (84.2 homicides per 100,000 residents in 1991). Since then it has fallen 70% to a current rate of 26, putting it between Newark, New Jersey (27.1) and Cincinnati (23.4) in homicide rates. Bogota itself is even safer (19), though parts of the country are still less safe and I’d heard comparatively recent stories of blatant armed robberies. It's hard to gauge what those statistics really mean compared to how it feels on the ground though, and I was about to find out.
And there was another thing increasingly on my mind as I walked through the nice modern airport and approached the exit — my fiancée, whom I hadn’t seen in 3 years, 11 months, 12 days and (looks at watch) about nine hours, would be waiting for me. She, a Venezuelan, and me (an American living in Australia) had been separated by Covid and visa problems, as described in previous posts here.
She had arrived the day before and was staying with a cousin. As I ascended the escalator to the curb-side pick-up area, there she was at the top of the escalator, seeming to glow like an angel above me as I impatiently ascended.
She had been a bit worried about earthquakes in Colombia. I’d assured her I’m sure they aren’t that common. Then the day she arrived in Colombia there was a 6.1 magnitude earthquake not far from the capital. It killed two people, both, as it happens, Venezuelans. One was a 26-year-old Venezuelan woman who had only just arrived in Bogota the day before, panicked during the quake and jumped out of her 7th-floor window. Thankfully Cristina did not do so.
After our joyous reunion, our taxi (a friend of her cousin’s actually) took us to our hotel in the Zona Rosa neighborhood. After unpacking we found ourselves peering cautiously out the window — we were hungry, but, was it safe out there??
We could see couples ambling along the sidewalk dressed for a night out, clearly not frightened for their lives, but then again there were also people desperate enough to be rummaging through the garbage in some nearby public bins.
We decided to chance it. As a precaution we left behind our phones and only took enough money to buy dinner, leaving behind everything else of value. The hotel receptionist encouraged us to go out when asked if it was safe. So out we went.
It turns out we were just looking out at a side street from our hotel room. On this Friday night, the main streets of Zona Rosa were thronged with people dressed for the clubs. And yet right in the middle of these milling crowds, there’d be beggar women seated on the ground with a blanket on their lap with a sleeping baby. The crowd ignored them and they weren’t overly persistent themselves, nor were the promoters of the many clubs overly insistent as we passed them. And clubs a plenty there were, each throbbing with a different type of Latin music.
We found a little step-above-street food restaurant and I had a pork sandwich. The churro Cristina got she declared to be terrible, but I found it worlds better than any churros I’ve had in the US or Australia, if this is a bad churro I immediately looked forward to a good one!
At the table next to us sat four men dressed in the elaborately embroidered outfits of a mariachi band (apparently a nearby club was Mexican-themed). Surrounded by the vibrant ongoing nightlife, the Latin beats, and these mariachi men to top it all off, it definitely felt like I “wasn’t in Kansas anymore” (note: I’ve never been to Kansas, but you get the idea).
Day 1 Plaza Bolivar and a Rumba!
By daylight, we found the Zona Rosa looking clean and upscale, with a mall full of higher-end shops than I’d ever shop in.
We took a DiDi (a rideshare app like Uber, I hadn’t used it before but apparently it was the thing here) to the old part of town to meet Cristina’s cousins. He dropped us off at the end of a broad pedestrian-only boulevard, the Calle Real. Many families were ambling up and down the Calle Real, and various street performers, from jugglers to human statues were out performing for money. But again, no one was annoyingly persistent.
After a few blocks, we came to the broad Plaza de Bolivar, filled with pigeons and people, and surrounded on three sides by colonial-era palaces, and on the fourth by a cathedral.
After meeting up with Cristina’s family we went up the crowded alley beside the cathedral, into a restaurant there for some Colombian food.
The food was muy deliciouso, mine was kind of a sampler of various things.
After we ate we returned to the plaza to attempt to fly a kite — we were ultimately unsuccessful.
“You are mortal” Cristina’s 23-year-old cousin Anthony informed me sincerely.
“What?”
“You are mortal” he repeated
“Well, yes, but why are you telling me?”
“You are more tall maybe you’ll have better luck with the kite.” Ohhh. But still no luck.
We then parted with plans to reconvene in the evening for a “rumba” in Zona Rosa.
“Rumba” is Colombian (and Venezuelan) Spanish for party, or, as in this case, clubbing. At just after 10pm Cristina and I met her cousins Yineska (42) and Anthony (Yineska’s son, so actually Cristina’s cousin once removed or some such) in front of our hotel. Once again we’d taken the minimum of valuables and we headed around the corner to the partying throngs of the Zona Rosa.
After going once around the block to survey the options we returned to a likely-looking place and went in. It cost $25 each to get in and $70 for a table & bottle of rum on the second level. I haven’t been clubbing in about twenty years so don’t ask me how this compares.
The place alternated live music with recorded hits and we had a blast dancing amongst ourselves in our corner. At one point the MCs were asking the crowd to cheer when their country was called out, and when he got to Venezuela it sounded as loud and numerous as the Colombians. I kept thinking I can’t believe here I am dancing in BOGOTA of all places, with my gorgeous fiancée and her relatives — no my relatives!
Day 2 Montserrat!
Around noon we took a DiDi to the cablecar station for Montserrat Mountain. We met the cousins there and slowly snaked our way through a long line until we were able to get into the crowded cable car. Cristina insists that the Mt Avila cable car in Caracas, Venezuela, is much less crowded. Still though, there was a nice view from the cable car.
At the top, there was a church and walkways around gardens and statues. Fog was soon blowing in and though it blotted out the view of the city far below, it was beautifully ethereal to see statues fade in and out of the mist.
There were shops selling souvenirs on either side of the walkway leading into an enclosed area with little restaurants. Once again I found it pleasantly noteworthy how non-insistent the shopkeepers were (I may have been permanently traumatized by places like Egypt where they practically assault you).
We ate some food and bought some souvenirs. Then it began raining as we headed to the funicular. This once again involved waiting in a long line (in retrospect we should not have gone on a Sunday when tickets are half price and crowds are therefore bigger), and soon the rain was pouring down and people were scrambling to buy umbrellas.
Day 3, Salt Cathedral!
Our friend the driver took us about 40 minutes out of Bogota to the town of Zipaquira. Outside Bogota, we found ourselves in a mountain valley surrounded by small rural plots. The town of Zipaquira turned out to be quaint with a large part of the town full of narrow roads and colonial architecture.
On a hill overlooking the town, we arrived at the entrance to the salt mines. While they apparently still mine for salt in the lower levels, much of the salt mine is now empty cavernous halls which have been made into a cathedral. In we went!
We entered the mine through a long gently sloping tunnel, inside our tour passed through a number of niches with illuminated cross sculptures. We had headphones with an audio tour, the English voice sounded like a man with a strong Irish accent trying very hard not to have a strong Irish accent. He explained how the crosses weren’t all the same, though they sure looked it to me.
The massive cavernous spaces made for dramatic views and a uniquely immersive setting. Finally, we arrived at the Cathedral portion itself, which was impressive.
Rather abruptly after the cathedral one entered a part of the caverns full of neon signs — souvenir shops and snack cafes. I found the contrast between the impressively grand cathedral which evokes unfathomable immensities of eternity, with the frivolous neon signs of the gift shop area rather jarring.
There was also a small cinema that showed an informational film about the mine site (apparently the native people had collected the salty water from nearby springs, then the Spanish colonizers had enslaved them to mine the salt. Now the salt is extracted by injecting water and pumping out the resultant brine), and rather peculiarly a hall with replica Egyptian funerary artifacts.
We emerged from the mines (via a cute little train). Our admissions also covered a city tour so we hopped on the city tour bus and it wended its way through the city’s narrow streets and we were given commentary about the various sights. A number of guests got off at a restaurant the guide recommended. We rode it back to the mine entrance though, and then called our driver.
From Cristina’s gasp I thought he had been robbed. It turned out he’d only been in a minor crash, resulting in a dent in the right side of his car but otherwise without serious consequence.
But as he was at the time busy dealing with that (not that he got any compensation from the driver that hit him) we got back on the tour bus hoping to ride it to that restaurant. And as we were the only guests on it this time, they were happy to just take us right there.
The server conversationally asked us where we were from, which is normal enough that I didn’t think anything of it, but then he came back with a table-top flag holder with the Venezuelan, Colombian, and Australian flags in it which we thought was incredibly cute.
I had pork loin with a passionfruit sauce and it was delicious. Our driver joined us presently and though we offered to buy him dinner he just had a beer.
Then we explored the town a little bit more in the (now rainy) twilight before heading back to Bogota. In the morning we’d be off to Cartagena!
