Lone WWOOF

La Ciudad Amurallada

grantduncan — Tue, 6 Aug 2013 04:09:00 GMT

It had been obvious to me for some time that I had been far too long in Bogotá. The farms were not working out, Sebastian was having trouble getting a new ID after losing his, which prevented him from traveling with me. I had lingered in hope that things would work out but enough was enough. It was time for a change of scenery.

"You should go to Cartegena. Trust me, it's beautiful," Sebastian told me. "Once I get my ID again I'll head out there and show you a great time. Shouldn't be more than a day or two."

I had seen the city printed on the playing cards we had used to play Última Carta. Colonial architecture painted in bright hues, smiling vendors carrying fresh fruits, immaculate beaches bordering turquoise waters. It seemed like a model Caribbean paradise. I hadn't even considered going anywhere near that part of the country, but after so much time in chilly, cloudy Bogotá it seemed the perfect place to clear my head and finally get into the groove of traveling.

After consulting the Internet I decided overland travel would be best. The trip would be about 19 hours, plenty of time to get a big ol dose of Colombian countryside. The next morning I packed, making sure to keep a jacket, hat and sleeping bag at hand after Sebastian warned me that the buses run the air conditioning at full blast the entire time. I said my goodbyes to the staff at La Quinta. They had been incredibly kind and helpful to me, especially after my plans fell apart and I ended up staying in the hostel much longer than anticipated. Then it was out to the corner, where Sebastian flagged down a cab and worked out a good price for the bus terminal. A bit of negotiating, and we hopped in and took off.

From the backseat of the tiny economy car, I took in my last ride through Bogotá. It was Sunday, which meant that one of the main avenues through the city was closed to make way for cyclists. Families, groups of teenagers and couples rode in droves along the wide stretch of highway as clouds continued to pour across the bright midday sky. The terminal lay deep in the heart of the city, bordered by large brick apartment complexes and flooded with swarming taxis. I paid the fare and followed Sebastian into the surprisingly vacant terminal, a huge contrast to the frantic scene that surrounded it.

He once again took charge at making sure I went to the right place. The first desk didn't offer rides to Cartagena, but directed us to Expresa Brasilia, whose name I came across frequently when looking up transport within Colombia. The brightly smiling attendant confirmed that yes, there were buses for Cartagena. When does the next one leave? Oh, now. I hurriedly paid the 85,000 pesos (you do the math) for the ticket and scuttled over to the departure gate. "Now" in Colombia actually means about 15 minutes, thankfully. I said goodbye to Sebastian, who assured me he would do everything he could to join me in my travels as soon as possible. I watched him leave through the dragging automatic doors and realized I hadn't traveled alone since arriving in the city nearly two weeks earlier. Excitement welled.

The bus was more or less like any long distance bus you see in the States. I had a seat right up in front, anticipating curvy roads and a battle with motion sickness. The seats reclined an absurd amount, which would have been great if they had the leg room to match. Oh well, I made myself as comfortable as I could and awaited departure. After setting off and getting to the outskirts of the city, I watched in horror as the driver decided to drift into the oncoming lane and pass a truck that apparently was slowing us down. He did this as often as he could. Colombian drivers are incredibly impatient and will pass at any opportunity, regardless of whether or not it is "safe" to do so. This wouldn't have been so terrifying if we weren't COMING DOWN FROM THE ANDES. I gripped my seat tightly as we bombed down curvy roads, honking and passing any vehicle that dared get in the way. After accepting that no matter how intensely I stared at the walls of the closed driver's compartment he wasn't going to change a thing, I was able to take in the gorgeously rugged mountains and rich green valleys that stretched into eternity beyond the twisting highway. I lost myself in admiring them for hours it seemed. Small shacks hugged the small strip of land between highway and cliffside. Every other was a fruit stand or small shop of some kind, suggesting that the residents can't really afford not to sell something, even out of their own homes.

After leaving the highland region, we began to pass through larger towns. I was amazed that carsickness hadn't gotten the best of me, but I guess my brain was distracted by other aspects of the white-knuckle descent. The land gradually flattened into rolling hills. Rivers, low in the dry season, wandered toward the horizon. After making a stop in the town of Honda, things became distinctly tropical, reminding me of the landscapes I had seen during a trip through Costa Rica. Rich, thick and green, stunted trees and howling insects, suffocating humidity, at least outside my igloo of air conditioning.

Night fell, a violent storm moved over us as we continued north. Flashes of lightning revealed groups of ghostly white cows clustered against the fence near the road. I slept on and off as the rain pelted the bus, knit hat pulled down over my eyes against the cold and light. I woke once after the storm had passed, and saw hundreds of winking fireflies in the wake of the bus' headlights. Lightning still flared in the distance. I drifted off again.

I awoke to a man dropping his suitcase in the vacant seat next to me. He opened it to reveal samples of perfume, expensive watches, smartphones. Ah, he's selling knockoffs. He passed around his wares, making a story up about how he worked near a port in Venezuela and was able to get them all at a great price. I sighed as people began to test the perfumes. No more sleep for me. We were passing through a marshland of some kind, so large that I mistook parts of the river delta for the Caribbean. The town of Ciénaga (literally "swamp") brought the lifestyle of the region into perspective. Shacks with their foundations on stilts rotted away, children fished recyclables out of the filthy water, carts advertised fresh seafood and ceviche that couldn't have been any less appetizing after seeing the source. It was all difficult to take in, especially from a comfortable, air conditioned tube. I was relieved to leave the area and finally break through to the coast. My first view of the Caribbean wasn't very glorious: it was overcast and the water was silty due to a nearby river mouth. I still couldn't wait to get to a proper beach and test its surely lukewarm temperature.

We were shuffled onto a smaller bus in the city of Baranquilla, which lies in between Cartagena to the west and Santa Marta to the east, the three of them making up the largest and most popular of the cities on Colombia's Caribbean coast. Just a few more hours tracing the coastline, and we arrived in Cartagena. And man, was it ugly. All around the bus terminal were crumbling cement walls, cracked pavement and streets, crowds of frowning people and shouting vendors darting across the bustling road. Chaos reigned, and I was confused. Sebastian had told me it was about a 45 minute bus ride into the historic downtown, so I hopped on one of the dirty white Metrotrans and took my familiar place of staring out the window. I didn't like anything I saw for the majority of the time. The city was in ruins, loud, hot, crowded. But after a time I saw something familiar: the wall. The historic part of the city was still contained by the old Spanish fortress walls that had been constructed some 400 years before. The bus skirted around the perimeter, and though they had told me they made a stop downtown, I got nervous and asked to be let off on the north side of the wall, on an avenue that bordered the sea.

I took a moment to absorb my surroundings. Further west I saw a strip of high rise hotels that jutted into the sea. Boca Grande. The little Miami of Colombia. Too rich and commercial for my blood. I turned toward the wall and ducked my head to fit through a short opening in its rough stone facade. Spaniards sure were short back then.

Now THIS was the Cartagena I had been expecting. Gorgeous, brightly colored buildings, bougainvillea spilling over balconies, vivid women in vivid dresses smiling and selling fruits and knick knacks. I took a look at the directions Sebastian had written for me to find the hostel I had booked. Obviously I had come in on the wrong side of the wall, but it couldn't be too hard to reorient myself. Wrong. The streets in this part of town have a different name for every block, and are so narrow that keeping my directions straight proved impossible. Hopelessly turned around, I asked for help, and then again when I got lost trying to get unlost.

Finally, I arrived: el Viajero. The highest rated hostel in the entire region, suggested to me by everyone I had asked about staying in Cartagena. I stepped into the lobby, and it became clear that I was staying in a well-oiled tourist machine. Entire walls were dedicated to things to do around town and beyond, directions were printed exclusively in English, and meticulously so. Wifi codes accompanied little signs reminding guests not to hog the computers, not to forget to clean their dishes. The lobby was large and tastefully decorated, racks of chips and coolers containing beer, soda and huge bottles of water occupied the bulk of its wall space. Rocking chairs and benches were filled with gringos absorbed in their smart phones and laptops. Fans roared overhead, a dark TV lounge flickered in the back of the space, top 40 hits blared. I was handed a set of sheets and a magnet which I would stick to my bunk to show it was occupied. I headed out back to the brightly painted open air corridor flanked by rooms and dorms. I was in the back, in a dorm stuffed with 10 bunk beds. Despite it being two in the afternoon, several people slept in the frigid air conditioned room. I made my bed, locked away my bags and headed back to the lobby.

It quickly became apparent that people traveled in packs here. Gone were the wide open, friendly faces that I had encountered at La Quinta in Bogotá. People were either buried in their devices or... Well actually even those that were talking with each other were buried in a phone or tablet. But cliques... Cliques everywhere. And I was without my trusty guide. I reluctantly pulled out my own phone to check in as the loneliness started to set in. No, too soon. You haven't even seen the town yet.

So I headed out to take in the sights, trying in vain to keep track of where I wandered to have some hope of getting back. After a few minutes of walking it became apparent that I was missing something important: sunscreen. A nearby supermarket provided me with that, a towel I could actually use to lie on instead of my tiny travel one, and a big bottle of water to tote around. From here on out the tap is not to be trusted.

And then I wandered. Cartagena, at least within the walls, is vibrant and beautiful. I headed back to the northern wall to get a view of the sea, and was stopped by a smiling old man offering a tour of the area. His name was Mauricio, a language professor according to the card he hung from his shirt pocket. After passing couple after couple and family after family I was ready for some company of my own, even if he was probably going to rip me off. I followed him around the wall, taking pictures and listening to the constant stream of historical facts that flowed from my energetic guide. He let me know that he was an extra in Romancing the Stone and had many friends in Hollywood. I smiled and nodded, did my best to focus on the beautiful colonial architecture that was repurposed over the years to accommodate the tourist industry. We ended our tour at the crumbling plaza de toros, where bull fights had once been held. I chuckled when he told me what he usually charged for a tour, but that he'd give me a discount. It was still far more than the professional guides charged for four hour walks through the city. I gave him about half that, thanked him for the time and headed back along the wall to my hostel feeling a bit down.

I spent a few hours reading in the lobby, doing my best to smile and look inviting but not feeling up to actual interaction. I then learned that not only was this a tourist machine, but a party machine as well. People began to stir around 10pm, prepping with drinks and preening for a night out. As the bulk of the guests spilled into the street around midnight in search of a club to lose their minds in, I headed to my bunk to catch up on the sleep I had lost on the bus. Maybe I would be up to being social after a good night's sleep. Maybe.

Un cambio de dirección

grantduncan — Sun, 4 Aug 2013 16:01:00 GMT

I am now five days behind in my writing, but there is little reason to be too detailed so I'll do them all in one entry.

7/31

By far the lowest point of my trip thus far. I woke up and went for lunch with Sebastian and then to our favorite park above the hostel, not feeling very well but that seemed normal after 4 nights straight of parties with new friends. We sat on a bench-shaped rock, talked, Sebastian smoked a cigarette, all was well... then, behind us in the road, a motorcycle pulled up. Two young policemen, visors flipped up on their helmets, bright green jackets, suspicious looks in their eyes. They pointed up to a camera in the corner of the park and said they were told we had been doing suspcious things, smoking unidentifiable substances. I was in disbelief, shaking in my boots, but Sebastian did his best to explain the situation to them. They weren't buying it, asked to pat him down, empty his pockets. Of course... just our luck... he had a joint in his pocket. Things quickly changed. I was asked to empty my own pockets, I could barely make myself understood or understand what the officer, who couldn't have been older than I was, was saying. One was chubby-cheeked, darker complexion, wide eyes. The other hatchet-faced, oily-skinned, brackets from braces that no longer functioned shining on every other front tooth. Each took turns grabbing my arm, asking if I wanted to be deported, imprisoned. I could barely speak. I knew I was innocent, or at least thought as much, but also didn't know what on earth I would do if it went as far as to be detained. One flashed his handcuffs at me, I couldn't believe what was happening. After a while Sebastian grew impatient, asked how we could solve this problem. They didn't come out and say anything in particular, stood back and let him make the suggestion. So that was it, eh? A bribe. Should have known. Sebastian had no cash, I reached for mine and the "officers" shouted that we couldn't do it like that. Of course, they're on camera, can't just go handing them a wad of money. So I told them which pocket, the oily one reached in and grabbed it, as well as a few pieces of gum just to be a jerk, and they left as quickly as they had appeared. Sebastian apologized profusely, promised me I was never in danger of being arrested, that they were just trying to intimidate me. Well, it worked. I had to go back and lie down for a while. After a nap I began to feel ill, but confused it with hunger. Halman and Ian had bought sandwich supplies for their bus trip that ended up being changed to a short flight, so they offered to feed us all. I made a few sandwiches, ham and cheese, but my stomach turned, I could barely swallow anything. I lay down, my mouth filled with saliva... here it comes. Dashed to the bathroom, nothing stayed down. I blame the fruit salad I had eaten at a pretty sketchy buffet for lunch. That's what I get for trying to eat lightly in Colombia, I guess. I hit the hay. Sleep came quickly.

8/1

A day of rest, reflection, convalescence after the traumas of the day prior. I was out of it pretty much all day, most likely a combination of nerves, altitude, food poisoning, who knows what else. I had never felt more lost, confused, alone, selfish and immature for the way I had behaved thus far, for letting my bad habits follow me here. My cycles of beating myself up are well known to my friends, but here they don't last as long. I am able to get to the bottom and recover my sense of purpose much more quickly than back home. So many things are possible from here, so many destinations and opportunities.

Sebastian returned from the personal matters he had to take care of while I was taking the day to myself in bed. He looked shaken. He had gone to see his ex-girlfriend, with whom he will have a child in late September. They have a complicated relationship to say the least, but he wants to support her and be there for his son. Things had not gone well. He asked me for a hug, could barely keep it together. It hit me heavily, brought back a world of my own emotions and romantic struggles. I am constantly discovering things about him that endear him to me, that show me we are so similar. I think I will be spending a great part of this journey with him at my side. I think we can help each other recover from lives that went off the rails faster than we could regain control and find a new sense of self, of purpose.

Well, I had spent the entire day in bed, was feeling better. We kicked back with a few beers and games of chess in the main room of the hostel. Sebastian's friend, Kyle, a traveller from Seattle had arrived the night before and it was relieving to be conversing in my own language, even if I was cheating a bit on my lady Spanish. Sebastian wasn't having it, didn't like being cooped up with two Americans speaking a language he wasn't comfortable speaking. I could tell the earlier events of the day had put him in a bad way, and he insisted again that "Vamos a morir, locos." I didn't want that, Kyle didn't want that, but Sebastian was far more insistent than we were argumentative. Back to Doña Ceci's, I was going to behave myself this time. (I think I called the bar Doña Suci in my first blog, mistake). Before leaving, Sebastian and I had another emotional moment outside. He told me he knew we had a strong connection between us from the first day I arrived, something he hadn't felt with anyone who had been through the hostel in the month he has been in Bogotá. He told me he wanted me to meet his son, Samuel, when he is born. That he wanted me to be his child's godfather. I was touched, surprised, honored. I couldn't outright agree to it, but I didn't feel I had a choice in the matter. We'll see what time does to that emotional decision on his part. Having a connection in Colombia, a dear friend, seems like a great thing to me, but I can't get carried away. We'll see.

Then, we were off. Doña Ceci, la oficina. I wasn't yet 100%, so I slowly sipped on a beer with Kyle while Sebastian went hard. He struck up conversation with a girl who was having a drink after being stood up by friends, and we joined her at the table. He tried hard to make a move, she wasn't interested, turned him away time after time. I kept my eye on him, took him outside a few times to talk, cool him down a bit. He was a mess, at one point sobbing and throwing himself into my arms, lamenting that he had lost his family forever. I assured him it wasn't so, that the arrival of his son would change everything, but he was well down a path of destruction. Back inside, the girl finally had had enough and turned Sebastian down strongly, which sent him off in a huff. Kyle and I rolled our eyes and followed. We asked him to go back to the hostel, chill out a bit, call it a night. He returned with us but swore he couldn't say, that he wanted to go back out and forget everything, lose himself, but swearing that he'd be back. I was too tired to argue, and watched him bounce out into the night.

8/2

Spent most of the day writing in my journal (the fancy, leatherbound one that was a parting gift from my boss and dear friend, Sean). Couldn't shake my nerves, couldn't focus, wrestled with the idea of calling it all off, running home to be taken care of by everyone else yet again. No, not possible, you're doing this for you, Grant, you need this. Again, for whatever reason, motivation is becoming easier to find. After spending the better part of the day fretting, reminiscing, pacing about, it was time to do something else. We had made a call to the farm and arranged to arrive on Monday, so this was our last Friday in Bogotá, which meant one thing: fiesta. I was reluctant at first, but friends can be very convincing and I have never been one to stand for long in the face of pressure.

Doña Ceci, will I ever escape you? Live music and a promotion by Poker, the beer company. We saw all kinds of people wearing Poker trucker hats and wanted ones of our own. They came free with a sixpack, and Sebastian negotiated with the Poker girl until she agreed to give us a three for one deal. I made adjustments for my enormous dome and donned my prize. The sixpack, Poker Light, was simply awful, but we managed to choke through it. Sebastian said it was like someone had put a cigarette out in his beer, and I have to agree. One of the Poker girls struck up conversation with us, unable to escape the allure of two gringos (we are so exotic here!). She let us know she was off work soon and wanted to know if there were any good clubs in the area. Coincidentally, she happened to live right next to our favorite one: La Casa Babylon. We arranged to meet her there and jumped in a taxi ourselves to hit up an ATM to keep us going through the night.

The place was packed, the bartenders and guards all recognized and welcomed me back, which made me blush like an idiot in my silly Poker hat. The downstairs salsa bar was lively, but the reggae club upstairs was absolutely wild and packed. We all danced and laughed and goaded each other into making advances on girls. Sebastian told me to buy a drink for someone standing at the bar, I did, but after paying and turning back to talk to her she had apparently disappeared. I didn't notice at first and started talking to the girl that had replaced her, but when I saw her beer didn't match my own I realized my mistake and, tail between my legs, ran back to meet up with Sebastian and Kyle. Sebastian rolled in laughter when he heard what I had done, Kyle was too busy dancing with Paola, the Poker girl from Doña Ceci. After this went on for a while, and especially after one of Paola's friends came and gave the same amount of undivided attention to Kyle (an effortless ladies' man) Sebastian had had enough yet again. He was sick of gringos stealing his thunder. He came round with the same enormous cocktail we had ordered our previous night out, but this time around it didn't sit so well with me. I couldn't keep going, too tired, too drunk. Sebastian offered to take me back to the hostel, for which I was very thankful.

8/3

OK, that's it. This time the night was no where near worth the hangover, which put me in a bad place yet again. Overwhelming feelings hit me in waves. I missed everyone, felt contempt for where I was and the mistakes I was making. You know the drill, and it was only a matter of time before enough of my confidence came back to stop the barrage of negative thinking. I had spent too much time in one place, it was time to move on. I looked forward to Monday, to the farm, to a stable, steady lifestyle, and honest, hard work.

So imagine how crushing it was for me to receive a short, simple email from the owners that they could no longer receive me due to "unexpected circumstances". I had to take some time to recover. My world came crashing down for a good while as I lay rocking gently in the hammock in the hostel, wondering what the hell I was going to do. But no, this wasn't it. There was no way this had to be the end. Too much to do, to see, to explore. I was here and I had to make the most of it. I sent an email to a hotel called Playa Koralia, on the caribbean coast of Colombia. They wanted volunteers for their organic gardens and I wanted a change of scene. The beaches in the north look gorgeous, and I'd love to be in a climate more aggreable than the wet, gray mess that Bogotá serves up for me nearly every day. This had to be a slow day, a thoughtful one. I needed to form a plan.

8/4

I awoke early enough for breakfast, which is served everyday here until 10am. Long spears of papaya, a simple roll and hot chocolate. Light and refreshing. I sent a few more emails to other farms, one on the same coast as Hotel Playa Koralia, the other in the southwestern valley of the country near the city of Cali. I can't stay here any longer, must get out of Bogotá, Sebastian or no. He had another rough night and ended up losing his ID, but he thinks we will still be able to leave together come tomorrow after he gets things back in line. I am starting to wonder what will become of our friendship, but don't want to leave him high and dry. He needs time apart from his personal issues just like I do, and I think we can help each other find ourselves again. I hope we can.

After sending the emails, I decided to show a newly arrived German traveller, Linda, around town a bit, and it was fun to practice Spanish with her and hear of her travels. She made the same trip through Bolivia that I'd like to make, heading east through Peru into La Paz, then further east to Uyuni to see the famous salt flats. Apparently the altitude is murder and it gets freezing cold at night, but she assured me the adventure is well worth the discomfort. We made a pass through the typical spots. The Plaza de Bolívar was packed with people, as Sunday is a popular day for families to take their children out to see the city. They even close an entire stretch of La Carrera Séptima to cars so that bikes and pedestrians can enjoy the day with more freedom. Street performers dotted every corner, dressing like monsters from classic movies, vendors shouted for people to sample their fruits, juices, fried snacks and more, and mimes performed simple tricks for passersby.

Linda and I headed to the Museo del Oro, which was free to enter on Sundays, which meant the crowds were wild. On two separate occasions, young schoolgirls approached me, as I was obviously a foreigner, to do a short interview about my thoughts on Colombia. Typical activities for a field trip to a museum, I happily obliged. The museum proved to be a bit overwhelming in its information about the importance of gold to the indigenous cultures of Colombia, and the masterful skill with which they shaped it into decorations, jewelry, idols and more. Case after case of gold artifacts, plaque after plaque of information. After an hour my head was spinning, I was ready for lunch. A quick stop in a dark chamber meant to mimic a shamanistic offering to the gods, which was a little corny but served its purpose, and we headed back into the street to find food. Ended up going back to the old Colombian standby: arepas. These weren't nearly as good as the ones I had bought in the street with Sebastian and Kora, but they satisfied. Gulped one down with a juice made from the mora fruit, which is similar to a blackberry but much milder.

Linda and I parted ways in the Plaza del Chorro de Quevedo. She had decided to move to a cheaper hostel, but we exchanged Facebook info and entertained the idea of grabbing a beer later on. I haven't had much interest in drinking lately, but we'll see. Went back to La Quinta, talked with Sebastian about what I really wanted out of my trip, and what we could do to make it happen. Tomorrow we will be calling the two farms on the coast, since I have heard nothing but wonderful things about the area, and heading out. I can't wait for the next step in my journey, to get out and see this beautiful country instead of hole up here and lose my mind to anxiety. The time has come to move forward, to find an adventure, and the sooner I begin my search the better.

Photos: El tercer, quarto, y quinto día

grantduncan — Wed, 31 Jul 2013 09:11:00 GMT

Third, fourth and fifth day in Bogotá

Quinto Día: Un poco de senderismo y los ingleses

grantduncan — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 15:51:00 GMT

Altitude sickness reared its ugly head once more today, as Sebastian and I woke up a little earlier than normal (how, I don't know) to chill in the park above our hostel a bit. After chatting for a while (I was mostly listening, Spanish is always more difficult for me in the morning), something grabbed his attention higher up on the hillside. He told me that in the last hostel he was staying, he was able to see an old, colonial style home from his window at night, and he had always wanted to hike up the hill to see the reverse perspective. So let's do it, amigo!

The sun shone on us for our entire hike up hairpin roads where sidewalks came and went, cars whirred by, honking if they were kind enough to give us a warning that we were about to get smashed. Sebastian seemed completely at home, humming a tune and jumping from crack to crack, but my head was on a swivel, eyes wide and breath short (the smallest shift in altitude makes a huge difference here). I found myself thinking of a dear friend on her own journey, assaulted by narrow roads and cars at every turn with her bicycle. It made it difficult to take in the landscape, but in between looking every which way for cars I saw spindly trees that reached higher than should have been possible given their slenderness, a thick matted carpet of grass that devoured any surface that wasn't maintained, rocks and stepping stones alike sunk deeply into the light green coat. We did our best to cross only at safe intersections, where one was able to see enough ahead and behind not to be surprised by a speeding motorcycle or worse: a roaring, packed bus. One bus in particular gave me a bit of a shock. It had blown a tire in the middle of a sharp curve, and the driver simply crouched beside it (the side facing oncoming traffic, of course) and got to work changing the enormous, double tire. A motorcyclist had stopped to give him a hand, or perhaps watch the traffic for him. Either way, cars passed wihtin inches of him, and I marveled at his bravery.

At a particularly gnarly switchback, we were relieved to see a set of staircases heading up the face of the hill. They were narrow and steep, as all stairs I have encountered in the city are, framed by hedges that must be frequently maintained not to grow wild like all the other plants seem to. At the top of the stairs, huffing and puffing, I spied a group of power company workers on their break. Hardhats pulled down over their eyes, streched out beneath trees and power lines, they snoozed or chatted, laughing loudly from time to time. They didn't seem to mind our minor interruption of their free time, nodding to us, smiling and saying "Buenas", the shortened form of "buenos días" that works at any hour of the day. We continued on up the road, and as on our long walk the other night I could feel the muscles in my legs begin to perk up a bit, muscles tight from anxiety relaxing and being put to work as they so infrequently are. The flow of cars thinned considerably as we took a turn that led toward a group of small towns outside the city. We were close, just a few more bends, Sebastian assured me. I felt as if I wanted to go all the way to the top, but I may have passed out from the altitude at that point, struggling so much down here only halfway up the hill.

Finally, we arrived: la Casa Loma, literally "the house on the hill". Another fantastic panorama of the city, awash in sunlight in parts, overrun by the wandering clouds in others. I think I mentioned in my first entry that the weather seemed consistent... wrong. It changes every 40 minutes at most. The temperature, yes, very consistent, but the weather not so much. Up there, though, everything seemed tranquil, stable, beautiful. I let Sebastian take my iPhone to have his way with the camera. He surprised me with his eye for composition and ability to capture sincere, spontaneous moments. Satisfied with the view, we descended. It was a relief not to be climbing, returning to where the air was a bit thicker, easier to process. This time around I noticed the university that sat midway up the hill. We passed along a barbed wire fence that bordered its campus, spying groups of students on their breaks, hunched underneath power lines as the workers had been, smoking who knows what.

Once we reached the bottom it was time for lunch, and we entered a student-friendly pizzeria that we had spotted on the way up. A short counter stuck out from a large, domed dining room, walled off by a tarp on the side facing the road. It was filled with cackling groups of students scarfing down pizza, and again I was a sight to behold. No matter, we ordered some crazy pile of food, called mazorcada, which consisted of fried potato sticks, all kinds of meat, cheese, and a thick, tortilla-like piece of bread as a base. Absolutely the least healthy thing I have eaten, even still today as I write this a few days after. But it hit the spot, can't deny that.

We headed down to the hostel for a little siesta, and maybe an hour later I heard some confused voices from the lobby. I strained a bit to listen, and it became clear that whoever was trying to check in had no idea how to speak Spanish. I got up and entered the lobby, where I saw something that still makes me laugh thinking about it: two wide-eyed guys from the UK trying desperately to make themselves understood in the most broken Spanish I had heard yet. I walked up behind them and said "I heard that you guys are looking for someone who speaks English" and they where overcome with relief. We introduced ourselves to each other. They were two elementary school teachers on vacation from London, one, Halman, a second generation Londoner of Punjabi descent, and the other, Ian, an Irishman with the accent to match. I assisted them through the checkout process, showed them the room and their bunks, and then we all decided to go out for yet another tour of the historical plaza.

Sebastian felt like the Pied Piper of foreigners this time around, even bringing his quena along to play a little tune as we followed along. Halman was in absolute shock that he and Ian had made it, that they were in Bogotá, Colombia, South America. I smiled as I recalled my own overwhelming state of mind, one that still hounded me whenever I was alone with my thoughts. I realized that having been immersed in Spanish for the better part of four days had made it rather difficult to transition back to English, especially British and Irish English, but in time I was conversing and cracking jokes as I had been able to in the past, or at least somewhat similarly. I practiced British slang to the laughter of my new friends. They helped me zero in on the pronunciation. I don't think I'll ever be able to say "wanker" effectively, but it was a hoot to try.

We soon found ourselves northbound on la Séptima, where Sebastian and I had walked our Gran Paseo two nights before. That meant one thing to the two of us: BBC. We all headed in for a few pints (I had a couple half and halfs, which were a delicious mix of the red and blonde ales), laughs and more conversation. Kora let Sebastian use her camera and he once again showed his affinity for photography, as well as (and much to his own surprise) the photogenic diversity of Halman's expressive face. Two rounds were enough, the newly arrived were hungry and no one wanted to shell out the tourist prices for the food (nearly identical to the price of brewery food back home, and seemingly of the same quality). We decided to do a complete 180 and go for the ultimate in Colombian street food: arepas. Think the shell of a pupusa split in half, stuffed with all kinds of meat and cheese, slathered in butter and grilled on an open flame before you eyes. Sebastian and I had gotten a few with everything on our day out with Kora, and they are absolutely divine. We went back to the same vendor, right around the corner from the hostel, a fast-handed young man, alternately flipping arepas and dipping into a bag around his waist to make change with lighting speed. Halman and Ian were completely satisfied with the meal, and thanked us for the grand tour. Oh no, boys, it wasn't over yet. This had been simply the civilized part. Ahorita, vamos a la oficina.

Doña Ceci, it seems I will never be able to escape your grasp. Cheap drinks, great atmosphere, what else does one need in a bar? All 5 of us went out for the night, alternating rounds of tequila and beer as always. Ian and Halman couldn't believe the tunes they were hearing on the jukebox, laughing out loud and nodding their heads to beats they hadn't heard in sometimes more than 20 years. When it was clear that simply being American wasn't enough to excuse my ignorance of some popular songs, Halman asked me my age. 23! Bloody hell! He shook my hand several times and admitted he was super impressed by my ambition at such a young age. I was touched. Ambition is something I had found myself struggling with after graduating university, and in large part it was my lack of it that led to a serious downturn in my life. Hearing him say that made me feel like I was doing the right thing for my life, for myself.

We all drank past our previously set limits, and once Kora began to nod off a bit decided we had better head back in. The party didn't stop, though, as Sebastian pulled out the remainder of the bottle of rum from the night before and we all passed it around, constantly being shushed by both management and each other. Whenever Halman wasn't around I did my best to make Ian laugh with my British accent, which I've always considered to be pretty up to snuff. His laughter confirmed that, or at least as much as drunken laughter can confirm anything, I suppose. I joined Sebastian outside for a bit, where we sat talking with a travelling French girl, Lynn. She spoke a Spanish that for whatever reason was extremely easy for me to understand, perhaps because we had both studied it in university and received the textbook and literature verisons. I felt my head swimming again, that meant it was time for bed. Can't keep up this kind of partying forever, bro, it's going to catch up to you. But that's another story for another day.

Cuarto Día: Una amiga nueva

grantduncan — Mon, 29 Jul 2013 18:27:00 GMT

It is becoming clear that all is not well with my digestive system. I may have made a mistake in trusting the many people who have told me the tap water here is fine, or eating in places that aren't exactly the cleanest, but I am making frequent trips to the bathroom and not having much luck keeping things regular down there. I am hoping it is just an adjustment period, as a trip to the doctor is the last thing I want during this trip. My small stock of medications have done a decent job thus far, and I guess there is little else to do than wait it out and be smart about what I eat and drink.

After a fiasco during the morning with the accidental deletion of my second journal entry, a quick lunch of pea soup with sauteed chicken and vegetables, and a short walk in the local park, Sebastian and I struck up conversation with a newly arrived traveler: Kora, a bright student of anthropology from Hong Kong. She was passing through Bogotá after having completed a few internship programs in Mexico and Peru. Her Spanish has grown from nonexistent to conversational, and her English is great so I definitey hold her in a place of esteem for the kind of intelligence and adaptibility it takes to be multi-lingual. Obviously I still have a long way to go.

Despite her initial timidness, we were able to convince her to come out with us, and we took her around the historical sites as Sebastian had taken me my first day. In the Plaza de Bolívar, we were stopped by a homeless man who absolutely blew me away with his encyclopedic knowledge of the architecture and history of the cathedral. He had a solid 8 minutes of material, and I was both impressed by his dedication to the subject and saddened by the fact that it was likely one of the few ways he could come up with to earn money. I couldn't lament for long, though, as the sun began to shine in la plaza, a rarity during this season of winds and clouds. The plaza was painted in a deep golden hue, we all unzipped our ever present jackets and breathed in deeply to warm our insides. Kora then spotted something across the plaza that made her squeal in excitement: amongst the chaos of pigeons and shouting vendors was a llama. She went running off, and I had trouble wrapping my head around her excitement, having grown up in a place where llama and alpaca farms are commonplace. But after excitedly snapping a few photos (enough to make the llama's handler demand payment if she took anymore) she came back and explained that she had never seen one, and it had been a dream of hers to photograph one. Dream completed, we moved on to other sites that were slowly becoming familiar to me, another thing that is difficult to believe, as all things are on this trip so far.

For whatever reason, all the museums and historical sites are closed to the public on Mondays, so we went for a few drinks at Doña Ceci. Kora made it clear she isn't much of a drinker, taking three times as much time to finish her drink as we did. Probably for the best, she has too much going for her to get carried away partying like an aimless American. I had a fantastic conversation with her comparing the Communist Party in China with the Conservative Party in the US. We each feel like they do not speak for the majority in our countries, but are so outspoken and ingrained in the political system that it will take quite a bit of time before they lose their grip on control of their respective countries. It made me smile to make that kind of connection with someone from the other side of the globe. Exactly the kind of connection I was hoping to find during this trip.

After spending a few hours to update my journal, Sebastian and I went out to find a bar that wasn't Doña Ceci's. We went upstairs in a cantina-style retaurant, paid too much for an absolute failure of a mojito, and then back to Doña Ceci's we went. A few beers, a shot of rum, sometimes I think the only way to get over my anxiety is to let loose like that. I know it's an illusion, but I rolled with it nonetheless. Sebastian decided to buy a small bottle to take back to the hostel, where he taught me how to play La Última Carta, a simple and fun card game that reminded me a bit of Uno. After a few games, the doorbell rang. Javier, the manager, asked us to answer, saying it was a friend of his who had paid for a private room. Sebastian let them in: man and woman...private room...if it wasn't already clear what was going on the explosion of noise from the room made it clear. The bed crashed into the wall again and again, the woman made no effort to be discreet, and neither did her partner. We tried for about a minute to continue our game in the common room, but the walls weren't exactly thick and we couldn't keep from giggling like idiots. We went outside to chat, and Sebastian regaled me with stories of his own sexual adventures. My head began to spin a bit, rum is not my typical drink. So it was off to bed, and, as every night thus far, I hit it like a sack of bricks.

Tercer Día: El Gran Paseo

grantduncan — Sun, 28 Jul 2013 22:14:00 GMT

Woke up with intense anxiety. Tried to clear my head by lingering in bed a bit but to no avail. I began to pace about, nervously waiting for my guide to wake up and take control of the reins that I was letting flap in the breeze. I can't leave them hanging forever. I won't always have someone like Sebastian to latch onto and then avoid taking command of my own trip. Maybe with some more time I'll get comfortable, but I need to keep myself in check before I form any bad habits or let my old ones take hold of me again. Maintaining this journal has helped, time spent reflecting is very therapeutic, but can be a slippery slope...

Sebastian finally woke up, time to snap out of my funk. He was so hungry he skipped a shower and we went straight to another hole in the wall. A dim, crowded joint run by a Chinese family. We took a seat (there's never enough leg room for me, seats here aren't designed with tall folks in mind) and ordered two arroz mixtos and a couple Mountain Dews (I had never had one in a bottle before, so I treated myself a bit). A heaping portion of rice mixed with shrimp, beef, chicken and who knows what else. It came out to about $4 each, and again neither of us could finish. I managed to give the waitress the wrong change two or three times in a row, while Sebastian shook his head and giggled. Paying for something in the thousands is completely new to me, and my rusty math skills are being put to the test. Sebastian boxed up the food with the intention of giving it to someone in the street, but of course our walk back to the hostel was the only time no one came out of the woodwork to beg. Into the fridge it went, which proved to be a wise move later on.

We talked a bit about what to do next, and Sebastian came up with the idea to visit a part of the city he hadn't seen yet, but warned me it was quite a ways away from where we were, a district called Usaquén on the northern end of the town. I, of course, had nothing else in mind, and it was off to the Transmilenio station to catch a bus. I struggled even more with producing the correct change. Sebastian had to step in and count out the amount for me. I was still feeling pretty shaken and had an immense amount of trouble focusing. Still can't decide if it's purely nerves or if the altitude is having a subtle effect on my functionality. Either way, we made it through the gate and asked a few guards which bus to take for Usaquén. They couldn't have been more than 18, and Sebastian explained that due to Colombia's mandatory military service you will often see teenagers in positions like that, opting to be a security guard instead of going out into the mountains with a rifle and a prayer. I felt lucky to be from the states, and pondered what it would be like to be forced into service as we hopped onto the crowded bus, arms pressed to our sides to make it easier to snake between the masses.

I marveled at where I was, tightly gripping a rail in the accordion-like seam of a bus swarming with locals on their way home from work. It was so mundane and yet so surreal all at once. After crossing a good chunk of town, the bus twisting and turning along its special commuter lane, catching the curb only two or three times and pitching me forward at hard stops only five or six, we arrived at what someone had told us was the closest stop to our destination. We were all the way out at Calle 116, over a hundred blocks north of our hostel. Heading east toward la Carrera Séptima, we followed a small canal that ran between upscale apartment complexes. We passed numerous people walking their dogs, children playing on playgrounds, couples on benches. This was the closest thing to suburbia one is likely to find in this city. A familiar setting, but filled with elements that were completely foreign to me. The songs of the birds, the flowers and trees that dotted each bank of the canal, the arches lush with greenery that marked the start and end of a winding path, they all combined again for that perfect mix of mundane and surreal that had struck me on the bus ride in.

After crossing a freeway by way of a narrow pedestrian lane, a motorcycle nearly taking Sebastian's head off as it went whizzing by, we arrived at la Carrera Séptima, one of the city's main arteries. Things moved at a slower pace on this side of town, and the wider, calmer streets were a relief after a few days of having to be on my guard in the narrow, clogged routes of downtown. Pedestrians do not have the right of way, and traffic lights often go ignored, so it's a constant source of stress to get around when you could round a corner and get blindsided by a screeching taxi or worse. But out in this tranquil suburb, things were peaceful and I felt safe moreso than ever before. We crossed la Séptima and headed into La Hacienda Santa Bábara, a historical building whose colonial facade had been reappropriated as the entrance for a large shopping center. It was a mall more or less like any other, with electronics, clothing and restaurants as well as a large, circular food court featuring all kinds of comida rápida. The layout was the strangest aspect to me, corridors twisted at random, a set of stairs would take you down a half level and then back up for no reason. Large sections of storefronts were partitioned off for repairs yet no work was being done. We gave it a short tour before exiting through the back into what we had come for in the first place: El Parque Usaquén. A quaint plaza topped by a colonial era church, carribbean drums pounding from a far corner, a bungee trampoline and a nutty game involving a pool of water and large clear plastic balls that encapsulated children rolling around and laughing on the water's surface, it was quite the scene. Definitely a place to bring one's family for a nice evening out. We walked around the main plaza, and then took a turn down an alley lined with tables where vendors sold artesanal goods. I was tempted a few times to buy souvenirs and gifts, but reminded myself that my journey had only just begun and I didn't need to be carrying anything fragile around with me for several months.

The sun was setting, we had had our fill of quaintness, it was time to head back. Sebastian asked me how I'd like to get back: taxi? Bus? Walk? I think he meant the last option half-jokingly, but for whatever reason it struck me as a good way to go. What better way to get familiar with the city? He gave me a critical looked, asked if I was sure, which I was, and off we went, back down la Séptima as the sun disappeared behind the gorgeous, rugged green hills to the west. The street was desserted when it came to pedestrians and not very well lit, and after a while Sebastian wanted to make sure we weren't heading into a bad situation and asked a passing bicyclist if it was much further before things got a bit more civilized. The man assured us it was only a few more blocks before we were back in the outskirts of downtown, where streetlights and storefronts had a stronger presence and we'd have little reason to worry. He was right, and we were at ease again, joking and laughing as we conquered block after block of Bogotá. We passed the clubs we had been at the night before, dark and solemn as most businesses were closed on Sunday evening.

But as the looming skyscrapers of downtown grew near (one with each side ablaze in LEDs that flashed advertisements and silly cartoons), we came upon a bar that was still open: Bogotá Beer Company, or BBC for short. After miles of walking, we figured it was time for a break, and it turned out to be great timing as the rain picked up just as we entered the bar's warm, wood paneled interior. Modern, clean, pop music playing in the background, this place could have been in any city in the US, or really any country for that matter. I asked for a sampler of the four beers they had on tap, and was immediately taken back to all the time I spent drinking craft beer with my friends in the East Bay. We kicked back on the balcony near a large fire-lit heater and had a few rounds as the rain fell in sheets outside. Tourist prices restricted my intake to two red ales, both of which were full-bodied and flavorful, which I never would have expected to say about any South American beer. I was warm, content, awash in happy nostalgia as I sipped those slices of California.

The bartender let us know they were closing up soon. It was close to midnight. We had been walking longer than I thought. There was still a good distance between us and the hostel, and the rain had lightened but showed no signs of stopping. So we braved the drizzle and kept ourselves occupied discussing films of an actor we both had a deep appreciation for: Gael García Bernal. Great art truly crosses boundaries of culture, and it was plenty enough to carry us along the abandoned streets and back home again.

Una noche de fiesta y segundo dia

grantduncan — Sat, 27 Jul 2013 12:38:00 GMT

Well, that was awful. Apparently I took way too long to write this entry and as I went to save it, was kicked back out to the homepage, all 2,000 words of my post gone. I'm still working out the kinks of this whole blog thing I guess... but man, that was quite a blow. Here's a shorter rundown of the events:

Friday night: drinks at the local dive, Doña Sucis. The most popular drink is a light beer called Poker, but Sebastian prefers another called Costeña, and I'm with him there. The bar was brightly painted, split leveled and packed with what seemed to me a majority of locals. I stick out like a sore thumb everywhere I go. We drank a few beers, a few shots of tequila and Sebastian blew me away with some passionate stories of his struggles with the bad reputation that Colombia has around the world despite all the love he has for his home his people. I have never seen such pride before.

After wiping the tears from his eyes, he wrangled a couple girls and we all talked for a good while, liquor flowing, me doing my best to be understood, which seemed to become easier with each drink. We hopped next door for a little bit of dancing in a basement club. Sebastian apparently saved me from myself when he realized the girl I was talking to had taken a serious interest in me and was just the type of person to get a naive simpleton like me in heaps of trouble. He told me to wait outside and he would work things out. Shortly after, the girl came out in a huff, hailed a taxi and bounced. He came back out, told me I owed him one (I owe him waaaaay more than that) and we went in search of an all night rager.

We were pointed towards a venue called El Piso Treinta, an all night dance club that occupied the entire top floor of a thirty-story building a bit to the north of us. Sebastian, excited and ready to party, and I, head swimming and a big dopey smile on my face, headed into the lobby of the building, which looked like an upscale hotel, into a shining mirrored elevator, and, when we reached the top, out into a big, beautifully decorated.... empty dance floor. What a disappointment. Other rooms on the floor were a bit livelier, and each played a different style of music, but it certainly wasn't the wild party we had been expecting. I took a few photos of the view, we paid too much for a couple beers and decided enough was enough. We taxied back to the hostel as the sun broke through Bogotá's ever-present but always wandering clouds. I promptly climbed into my rickety bunk and slept like a corpse.

Saturday afternoon: hangovers and second languages do not go hand in hand, dear readers. It was an enormous struggle to make myself understood to anyone, so I decided it was best to shower, eat and try to feel like a normal person again. Sebastian took me to a place where I could sample Colombia's national dish: el ajiaco, a thick stew with shredded chicken, corn, potatoes and capers. It really hit the spot. We walked back out into the brightly lit street (the sun comes and goes as it pleases here) and Sebastian abruptly stopped, turned to me and asked if I wanted to do something touristy today. I answered with a phrase I am trying to adopt as my new slogan: ¿Por qué no?

So we headed up to a spot neither of us had seen except for at a distance: El Monserrate, a large hill on the southeastern edge of the city (coincidentally not at all far from our hostel) on top of which was a small church, shops and restaurants, not to mention a stellar view. Teleféricos, which are gondolas suspended from cables, carry visitors to and from the summit, and it was hilarious to hear Sebastian shriek and swear with every jerking motion as it became clear he had a slight fear of heights. We got off at the top, and I learned quickly how high up we were as my vision began to blur a bit, my breath grew short, and my heart rate soared. I took a moment to collect myself while Sebastian whipped out his quena, a small wooden flute, to play some traditional Andean folk songs. That guy can shred on the quena, and people around us smiled and clapped along with his melodies as he danced and stomped. It was a perfect way for me to catch my breath, and once I did we headed up to see the view, which was stunning. Bogotá is truly enormous, and rays of sunlight broke through the massive swathes of clouds, touching down in various districts all across the grand basin from which it overflows. I snapped some photos and we continued on to check out the strip of vendors that wound alongside the church. Little drums, painted plates, hats, bags, all the typical products you see in tourist spots in this part of the world, but to me it was new and interesting, at least for now. We bought two canelazos, spiced hot drinks, and relaxed, then relaxed some more on the balcony of a cafe to take in the sunset. Sebastian bought a bottle of aguardiente, a popular spirit flavored with anise, and we took a few shots, talked, and kicked back. Having been carrying around a big ball of nerves in my gut since I got here, moments of peace like that are simply wonderful.

A quick stop back at the hostel, a failed attempt to convince a Canadian girl to come out with us, and it was back to Doña Sucis. This time a live band played on the upper level, and I chuckled as they played a few hits from the US with heavily accented vocals. The service that night was pretty poor, we were largely ignored, so we quickly decided it was time for a change of scenery. Sebastian, as always, had the perfect place in mind: La Casa Babylon, a reggae dance club. We taxied back to the northern end of downtown, close to where we had been the night before, and had an absolute blast dancing to some great reggae and sipping on mojitos, which he assured me were not as girly as I thought. But all that happened in the upstairs bar of the club, downstairs was a different beast entirely: salsa bar. And I'll be damned if everyone but me couldn't salsa their butts off. Sebastian told me it´s almost customary to learn all the dances that go along with the many varieties of Latin music one finds across the continent, but even after attempting to show me a few simple steps it was obvious I wasn't going to pick it up any time soon. I was feeling pretty wiped and headed outside to get some air. When I began to nod off in a chair, Sebastian came back out and told me it was time to find another all night party. I reluctanly tagged along, and was again thoroughly disappointed by where we ended up: La Boca del Lobo. A deafening, flashing, glitter ridden cave of a bar, it didn't take long for me to get sick of it and head back upstairs to wait for Sebastian to come to the same conclusion. He soon did, and after we spoke to a few crazy Dutch travelers who were planning to do a full tour of South America in three weeks (absolutely nuts) we both felt it was time to go home.

Outside the bar, Sebastian turned to me and said enough was enough, we had to make a pact with one another: no more all night parties. We were 0 for 2, out more cash than we wanted to be, and both nights the bars that started the night were far better. I immediately and whole-heartedly agreed.

Back at La Quinta we wasted no time jumping into our bunks and passing out. We would definitely be taking things a little slower the next day.

Hasta luego,

Grant

Photos: Noche de fiesta y segundo día

grantduncan — Sat, 27 Jul 2013 11:13:00 GMT

My first night out on the town, and second day in Bogotá

Departure and Primer Día

grantduncan — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 16:46:00 GMT

Well, I made it. I am sitting in my hostel, next to a new friend, typing up a journal entry on a Spanish keyboard for which I have no muscle memory. I still get a few waves of nerves every so often, but I've calmed down significantly since arriving in Bogotá. But, before I get ahead of myself, let's talk about how I got here in the first place.

After a fantastic, nostalgic week of visiting with close friends and family, July 25th rolled around: the date of my flight out of the US and into the wild, uknown reaches of its southern neighbor. I was absolutely freaking out the morning of. Pacing around my apartment, frantically sighing and tapping my feet, thinking to myself, "Oh God, Oh God , what the hell are you doing?" But things were in motion, finances were committed, promises made. I could not back out without significant damage being done...which was of course the point. No more backing out of these plans, I had done that enough.

But when I got in my mom's car to leave for SFO, a strange change began to come over me. It seemed the farther from home I got, the more I was able to let go of that stress, chase away those butterflies and start to feel excited. It was happening! I was going! I could feel my troubles washing away.

This feeling was further amplified with each flight I took on my way to Bogotá. Lift off from SFO: ball of nerves. Lift off from LAX: ball of nerves with a smile creeping across its face. Lift off from Houston: genuine excitement. Touchdown in Bogotá: elation.

And man did I hit the ground running. Determined to speak Spanish as a first resort to everyone, my dad's stories of Panama came to mind as I greeted the customs agent with a simple "Buenos días" and he immediately rattled off a series of unintelligible phrases that left me wide-eyed. Oh man, this is going to be tougher than I thought.

I continued onward, through customs, through baggage claim, out of the airport and into... early morning chaos. The signage in Bogotá's airport is not nearly as generous as the ones in the states, so I had to ask for directions from a few different people. But doing so revealed something very relieving to my jet-lagged in the deep end self: most of these strangers want to help you! And help they did. A security guard pointed me toward the bus station, the bus driver let me know where to get off and make a transfer, the women at the ticketing window helped me get a transit card and in no time I was cruising the main drag with a bunch of Colombian students and workers whose days were also just beginning. The buses here, called Transmilenios for the company that operates them, are efficient, clean and fully taken advantage of by the natives. They filled and emptied quickly, and I just sat back and took in the surroundings while people who had a much better idea of where they were going gave me concerned looks before disboarding. So many strange looks from people, not mean, but slightly bewildered. "Who's this crazy gringo with the oversized pack, and why on earth is he on my morning commute?"

As for those surroundings, they are a pleasant surprise from what I had gleaned from photos. Despite its altitude (over 9,000 feet) Bogotá is lush and green, the temperature is consistently mild, and aside from a slight drizzle when I first got off my bus, the moisture has been a nonissue. I am reminded at every turn that this is still a developing country: delapidated builidings, cracked brick-paved streets that only kind of follow a grid, few if any traffic lights, dogs lounging around and trash overflowing from bins, but I'm also pleasantly surprised at every turn: talented street performers, beautiful street art sticking out amidst the graffiti, an enormous variety of people flooding the streets around lunchtime to go to their favorite hole in the wall or just grab some comida rápida during their break. The parts of the city I walked through lacked any of the urban solitude I've felt in places like San Francisco, although my new friend Sebastian warned me that if you go to the right (or wrong) spots you can find plenty of uptight business types. And surrounding the city sprawl are some of the most beautiful mountains I have seen. Plenty enough to keep your mind off the decay or snobs if you find yourself in a low spot.

Speaking of Sebastian, he is an absolute godsend. I know, and he is quick to remind me, that my gringo head would be waaaay underwater if he hadn't offered to take me around town and help me search for the few extra things I needed to buy. He's a blast to hang around with, cracking jokes, teaching me slang and being patient as I stumble through my own sentences. He is originally from southern Colombia, but had been living in Spain for 8 years before returning just recently, and he is stoked to be home. We are similar in age and character, and it has made for a great transition into what would have been an overwhelmingly unfamiliar place.

He took me on a tour of La Candelaria, the historical traveler's district that houses the bulk of the hostels and cheap hotels. Our hostel, La Quinta, is just yards away from la Plaza del Chorro de Quevedo, the well that was struck on the day of Colombia's founding. We tooled around la Plaza de Bolivar, which houses Colombia's first cathedral as well as government buildings (interesting juxtaposition) and was awash with protesters. The government is about as corrupt as the rest of South America, and the people are not as complacent as those of us in the states who just turn on the TV and forget.

After buying some medical supplies, bathroom stuff that is forbidden on airplanes still, and a cell phone that was mysteriously only good for one call (an important call to confirm my volunteer work, which is good to go!), we decided to go for lunch, and Sebastian knew just where to take me: a little hole in the wall that served authentic Colombian cuisine at an awesome price: about $2 for a bowl of lentil and potato porrige and a plate of rice, beans, squash and meatballs in a sweet orange sauce. I couldn't even finish. Let me rephrase that: I couldn't finish a TWO DOLLAR meal. No complaints, just satisfaction.

So we headed back to La Quinta, took a quick siesta (while 80s hits played in the main room) and here I am, writing a post after spending an hour trying to get photos posted on this dang blog. I can't get them to upload correctly but I'll take another crack at it once I'm done here.... which is now!

¡Saludos!

Grant

Photos: Departure and primer día

grantduncan — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 16:15:00 GMT

My journey to, and first day in Bogotá.