Bogota

Bogotá

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The week of non-stop partying during the feria in Cali nearly killed me, but "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" right? That was certainly not how I felt after a night bus* to Bogotá, and therefore yet another broken night. I collapsed on the small couch of my travel-fellow Heral who decided to live in this city, and slept until I had just enough energy to stumble to the more comfortable CX Hostel I had in mind.

After a powernap I glanced into the mirror and saw the first pimples of my life didn’t vanish yet. The wonderful harvest of the greasy Colombian nutrition. I stroke my hair and pulled 30 hairs out without any effort. Ahhh, that’s the lack of vegetables after 3 months of menu del dia’s in Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador doing its work. And what’s that, the first signs of some love handles and a second chin? I think my body communicated it quite clear: I need to start cooking for myself again, an activity I actually really adore. Eating out was just so much cheaper… but not anymore, not in the more developed and modern Colombia. So I stacked up on veggies, fruits and arepas to save some pesos (both in cash and body weight).

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The second day I was still shattered, but I forced myself to walk all the way from my funky Chapinero neighbourhood to the previously dangerous, but now gringo-invaded Candelaria area to check out some art. During this walk I realized how much nicer the moderate temperature here is compared to the oppressive heat in Cali (then again, I was lucky enough to have a rain-free week). I also couldn’t help but notice that the men are so much more attractive here, opposed to the women who dropped a few significant levels on the scale of hotness (and ass-size). Self-high-five! Yes, the Colombian guys are pretty decent compared to their other Latino neighbours…

I never walked the streets alone before. Now I did I got acquainted with a whole new range of sounds: Whistling, kissing, hissing and even slurping seems to be the proper male reaction when something with legs and boobs crosses their way. I wonder if any man ever got laid using this approach.

After I agreed to get body-checked by 3 (!) smoking hot bodyguards I was allowed to enter the (free) Museo Nacional. No chances are taken with security in Colombia, not anymore. This huge well-done museum exposes literally everything that has the slightest relationship with Colombian history, wisely ignoring the drugs-war and FARC. This appeared to be my absolute favourite spot in town. Traditional art was presented next to the modern approach, and I became familiar with the high amount of talented painters who have their roots in this country. I even learned about 2 yet unknown styles: Indigenismo & Muralismo, I’m a fan.

If you kick off with a museum like this it’s hard to top it, I realized once I bought my ticket for Museo de Arte Moderno. This building had a lot of space for such a small amount of work. That would be okay if these paintings and installations would be absolutely world class, but I can’t confirm this information. I think my newborn cousin has a fair chance to exhibit in this museum somewhere in between now and 3 years max.

Next door I found the Biblioteca Nacional, where I visited a free exposition about the First World War. Although South America had not much to do with that dark part of history, it doesn’t make the subject less interesting.

On my way to Museo Botero I accidentally ran into some government building, where I had to open my backpack four times for a weapon-check. Very beneficial for my street credibility. Although Botero is admired as the ‘maestro’ of Colombian art, I personally pass this believe on to the land of bullshit. Off course I could preach that his fat little puppets are the best Colombia has to offer when it comes to art, but after my visit to Museo Nacional I know this wouldn’t do the country justice. I wonder why this place was #1 on Trip Advisor? Probably because the present tourist masses that painfully resembled Botero’s figures rather follows the crowd than do anything that comes close to either thinking or forming an own opinion. Or it’s just me, maybe I’m the outcast once again.

Quite museumed-out I checked how fast I could run through Casa de la Moneda next door, and walked back to my temporary home.

During breakfast I read a local critical magazine that addressed present issues like the lousy service of taxi drivers, peace negotiations with the FARC and the tension on the Colombian oil market now Saudi Arabia dropped their prices. Nevertheless, I thought about the 12 journalists that just got killed in Paris because they dared to express their opinion and realized I much rather be in South America than in Europe right now.

Too early I arrived in Parque de Periodistas, where I could take in the urine aroma while watching someone let his dog take a shit next to a sleeping homeless person. Classy. I saw a group of trendy style-conscious gringo’s gathering around and knew I was at the right place where the graffiti tour took off.

Of all the ‘free’ (tip-based) walking tours offered, this seemed to be the most interesting one. Yesterday I learned about Muralismo, today I got to witness both its roots and current development on the brightly painted Bogotá streets. Combined with the fixed gear bikes, music and tattoo shops this place happily reminded me of another city I absolutely love: Melbourne. I think it’s fantastic that the obvious talent of the local street-artists is stimulated by both the police and residents, who give them the space and peace to express their art. En pasant I learned about the Plan Colombia, worth a read. This tour is an absolute must in Bogotá!

I decided to stay in Candelaria and lunched while watching the many street performers either dance like Michael or grunt like good old James Hetfield. Ok honestly, this metal-coverband had the most terrible sound and raped with their seriously lack of talent every classic they laid their hands on. But because they brought metal to the South American streets and made several random passing pedestrians headbang and play air-guitar it made me fall in love with this city even more. Yes, I could live here.

I headed to a few flea markets that are the Sunday specialty. The fact that I didn’t buy anything while being surrounded by a few hundreds of gorgeous vintage dresses can be considered an achievement. A modest applause is appreciated.

I want to say more positive things, but unfortunately I went to Museo de Oro next. Okay, I won’t exaggerate, it is a building filled up from top to bottom with gold, nothing wrong with that. Is it as amazing as the travel guides say? You tell me.

As I missed the Sunday ciclovia, when Bogotá closes all the main streets to give way to cyclists, joggers and inline-skaters, I decided to make up for that by renting a bike the day after. Together with my travel friend Adam who I met in Baños and Cali before we worked our body while racing to the sublime Simon Bolivar park. The West doesn’t have parks as developed as the ones in Bogotá. As I will head to the Colombian beaches at some point I showed off a bit at the free outdoor fitness facilities while enjoying the scenery. As Adam needed just 1 day in Bogotá to realize he wanted to live there for another 6 months he appeared to be the perfect guide to show me less obvious city highlights like the Virgilio Barco library, the fútbol stadium, the university (closed for outsiders) and the posh northern part of town.

Some backpackers complain that there’s not much to do in Bogotá. I don’t understand that, I needed yet another day here, to visit the Salt Church (Catedral del Sal) in the northern village of Zipacura this time. After over 4,5 months of non-stop travelling I’m quite churched out, but this underground holy zone carved out of a salt mine is a nice variation.

You could go here with an expensive tour, but that’s not really my budget backpacking style: I went by Transmilenio and other public transport, helped out by a dozen of incredibly friendly locals. After two hours I arrived at this Touristy hang-out, with a capital T. Cheesy I-love-Jesus songs dripped out of the speakers while I watched well-off Colombian families put on 3D-glasses to watch a commercial mining-movie. This is just too much. I skipped the guided tour that was included and ran in front of the masses. Ok, I admit: I was impressed. This place is unique. I did see Buddhist temples carved out of caves in Vietnam, as well as complete guerrilla hospitals, but it didn’t come close to the size of this. Was it the ‘First Colombian World Wonder’ (which is a contradiction in words really), how slick business-men had marketed this place? Nah.

I wanted to end the day at the Monserate look-out. When I told this to local Juan he informed if I had lost my mind. I would for sure lose all my belongings as well as my innocence (?) if I would visit this spot in the poorer part of town at night time.

So instead this young and upcoming film director took me to Cine Paraiso, a local art house cinema in the trendy Usaquen neighbourhood where I could practice my Spanish while watching the brilliant “Relatos Salvajes”. Trust me, you want to watch that movie.

My last day in Bogotá was the grand finale: Sumapaz National Park.

Quite amused I learned my guide Andres read this blog before and therefore feared my honest and harsh opinion. He had absolutely no reason to be worried however...

This place blew me away and exceeded any expectation as far as I had one. Recently a dangerous FARC red zone, this piece of stunning nature is not discovered by tourists or even locals yet. Good for us, as the absence of mass tourism gives any traveller the opportunity to be a pioneer in this slice of paradise. A guide is necessary, as the tough conditions of sharp cold winds and thick fog made some people disappear before (or maybe that's where the FARC comes in - joking)… However, we were blessed with skies as bright as only love songs could describe it. The endless views and the off-trail hikes made me realise what happiness feels like.

I can’t deny it anymore, I am head over heels in love with Colombia. And we only started dating.

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