Colombia: Beautiful Bogotá

Bogotá, Colombia

March 12, 2015

What a pair of days! We were an hour out of Bogotá when the suburbs of the city finally gave way to countryside. I had vague feeling of driving down the spine of Vermont on a fine summer's day, but that's were any similarity between home and Colombia ended. We were on the altiplano of South America, 8,000 feet above sea level, and surrounded by mountains that towered on each side of us. Often, deep green valleys opened up. Long allays of eucalyptus lined narrow roads leading off the highway. A vast array of cactus dotted the space in between.

It was all quite lovely and a beautiful introduction to the landscape that emerged out of the capital.

I'd arrived in Bogotá two nights earlier on a four hour flight form Mexico City. My friend, Sandra, who'd I'd met in Uruguay in 2009, met me promptly at 10:00 am the following day to give me the grand tour of the city.

We spent the morning in the beautiful botanic gardens—far larger than I expected. Because we were well within the tropics, and only four degrees from the equator at an altitude of 8,300 feet, all sorts of things were growing in this more-than-temperate, benign climate. The gardens were full of field daisies, royal palms, roses and bird of paradise—plants that simply cannot thrive together in most places of the world. It was a perfect introduction to this beautiful city.

I treated Sandra to lunch and was introduced to Colombian cuisine. It's not impressive—meat, and three carbs: rice, yucca and fried plantain.

That afternoon we visited the Museo de Oro—the world's largest gold museum. Room after room greeted us with a stunning assortment of Pre-Colombian gold artifacts. I could only imagine what did not survive the Conquest. This, I was sure, was a very small example of what was left before the Spaniards melted down what they could find.

I didn't know it, but an earthquake had hit Bogota while were in the museum. I only knew about this from two emails and a phone call later in the day. I felt nothing—testament to the construction of this most important museum.

When we exited the museum, Sandra's parents were there to meet me. I loved talking her dad. He worked for Avianca, the national airline, and obviously had experience speaking with non-native-born speakers of Spanish. We walked through Candelaria, the city's historic center. His Spanish was easy to understand and he was a great guide through this interesting part of the city.

By now it was dark and after our walk we headed to the base of Monseratte—the mountain rising from city center. We rode the cable car to to the top then walked to the summit—at 10,244 feet—where views of the city went on forever.

I was exhausted and was glad to get back to the room I'd rented via Airbnb. I'd arrived the night before and barely had time to unpack then repack to get ready for our three day trip out of the city the following day.

I had long before given up any control of this trip. Sandra had a plan and with only six days in Colombia it made perfect sense to let her take the lead. She knew the country and she knew what tourists might want to see.

And in the end she did!

An hour out of Bogota the land opened up. We were above 8,000 feet, yet mountains towered on each side of us. Periodically the mountains would give way to deep, green valleys. Small farms, their homes made of adobe, punctuated the countryside. Now I had a feeling that autumn was on the horizon. This weather was most confusing in this land of no seasons.

Cows were everywhere. People walked along the sides of the road carrying large vats of milk. Horse drawn wagons carried larger quantities of milk. We were in dairy country and our first stop was the town of Ubate – “la ciudad de leche.” Sandra stopped the car, wandered over to a shop and came back with a handful of quesadillos—not quesadillas—a soft, mozzarella-like, new cheese filled with a sweet guava paste. OMG! One bite made me a believer! Like a Mexican paleta, this would be a highly exportable item.

From Ubate we drove through luscious countryside. I was always reminding my self of where we were geographically because my initial response that it was a fine day in summer, then a day with the promise of autumn, would give way to feeling as if it were a northern spring day.

By early afternoon we'd arrived in the quasi-colonial town of Chiquinquira, famous for its Virgen del Rosario. This particular Virgin has been the Patron of Colombia since 1829 and is highly regarded nationally. Unfortunately, the church where it was housed was temporarily closed. The earthquake from the day before had dome some structural damage to the building and repairs were necessary. We were both disappointed to miss this important site.

Chiquinquira was as good a place as any for a break. We stopped into a bakery and bought some bread, sat on a park bench in the park and enjoyed the early March sunshine under a deep blue altiplano sky. It was a perfect respite!

Sandra was intent on giving me a good impression of Colombia and she was doing a fine job. Boyoacá

was winning me over and I was enamored with what I was seeing.

After lunch it was a short drive to Raquira, known countrywide for its clay pottery. This small town oozed charm because the facades of its small shops had been painted in warm, bright earthen colors—all more vibrant because it was the end of the day and the warm sun was splashing against the store fronts.

It was hard to leave. I would have been happy to linger here for a day simply because it was charming and full of local color in the late afternoon sun—people sitting on the steps of the shops, couples holding hands and a young man playing his guitar on a park bench.

And so we were off again. Shortly into the ride Sandra announced that she was hungry. We stopped in Sutamarchan and again I put myself in her hands. She ordered. I was beginning to see a theme going on here: we were served a heaping platter of meat parts—two types of sausages, pork rib and chunks of pork roast—and a heaping pile of very delicious, small yellow potatoes. One had a distinct reddish tone—blood sausage. I found myself very carefully pushing those chunks away from anything that I'd eat. This was served, yet again, with rice, yucca and fried plantain.

How I wanted a salad!

Night had fallen, and the road deteriorated. Sandra was most uncomfortable driving the 20 miles more to Villa de Leyva—our destination for the night. More than once she'd stop and ask for directions. Without fail, Colombians, I'd observed, were polite and kind. They always stopped what they were doing, approached the car, and pointed Sandra in the right direction. I was very impressed!

We were both very glad to arrive at our destination. I was just so grateful to have a pleasant traveling companion—and a ride—that I sprang for a good hotel. I pad for two rooms in a small hotel that had an old colonial feel about it.

That evening we walked into the center of the colonial village of Villa de Leyva, lingered in the massive Plaza Mayor, stopped for ice cream. But my knee was hurting—a lot—from the more than 20 kilometer trek the day before. I just wanted to go to bed.

But what a day it had been—full of new sights, new places and rich with the taste of Colombian colonialism. I pondered this briefly and, without realizing it, fell fast asleep!