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The call of Colombia
No longer deemed a dangerous destination, this country is magnificent
Colombia has always been on my "bucket list." But its description as beautiful but dangerous had long held me back.
Then, last year, I met a young American aid worker who had bused through the country and couldn't wait to return. Perhaps the government's newly minted slogan "The only risk is wanting to stay" -which accompanies slick TV images of fine colonial cities, deserted beaches, festivals and magical mountain scenery -has some credibility?
It's true that cocaine production has not slowed, but with financial help from the U.S. government and the 1993 killing of Pablo Escobar, head of the Medellin drug cartel, (no relation to the football player, I'm told!), a determined President Álvaro Uribe at least managed to drive "La Violencia" into the mountains and his successor Juan Manuel Santos has maintained that resolve. Colombians can finally enjoy their wonderful country.
Bogotá, at 2,600 metres, is the third highest capital in South America after La Paz and Quito. It is cold and wet when we land. My hotel transport has failed to show, leaving me vulnerable to taxi touts who circle like hungry wolves.
Eventually, I submit and am soon barrelling through the night at breakneck speed with a driver who speaks no English. The meter is off!
La Candelaria, the old town, is the tourist zone, but streets are deserted when the driver finally points to a narrow doorway wedged between steel-shuttered shops. He takes 22,000 pesos from my wad, which turns out to be around $12. An honest fare for a 40-minute drive.
When I venture downstairs the next morning, I discover the Hotel Lido, despite being jammed between a bunch of men's tailoring shops, is right in the middle of the action.
I clamber over street vendors hawking images of the Virgin of Guadelupe for sale next to those of heavily augmented blondes, fake Christmas trees, papaya and pineapple sliced and sold in little plastic bags, freshly baked cheese buns, boxer shorts, tiny cups of café tinto (black) poured from rows of Thermos flasks on wooden pushcarts, umbrellas and flowers. Smart vendors have battery driven loud speakers which add to the melee.
I eat breakfast at a place up the street a block. Scrambled eggs, cheese, coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice -$5. The friendly owner helps me through the menu while his masked assistants do their Colombian thing of constantly wiping counters and cleaning windows. Cleanliness is a high priority here.
This is Sunday and it is "Ciclovía" (Spanish for bike path), a weekly event where from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. the main streets -122 kilometres of them anyway -are restricted to cyclists, rollerbladers, dog walkers, prampushing families and courting couples. Bands and Michael Jackson posers entertain crowds while children draw hearts with free chalk on sidewalks. Ciclovía is so successful it has been adopted in the other major cities.
Tourists line up to see the changing of the palace guards at 4 p.m., but rain has halted the ceremony. In the main square, Plaza de Bolivar, a man preaches peace while another offers llama rides. Children feed pigeons beside a huge Christmas tree.
After a couple of days, I head to the airport in need of some sun. Cartagena is all it's cracked up to be. Hot, pristine and never really affected by "La Violencia" of the drug wars which put so much of this wonderful country off-limits to tourists for so long. It is perhaps the most perfectly preserved colonial city in all of South America. In Cartagena you will encounter narrow streets with overhanging balconies carpeted in bougainvillea, leafy squares, ancient churches, creative boutique hotels and outrageous sculptures. It is an easy place to settle into, but is Cartagena real Colombia?
Mathieu is the delightful French, ponytailed, owner of Aventure Colombia. His travel agency can arrange anything from pack trips in the Andes to river rafting. If you are looking for adventure, he's your man.
"How about a trip to Punta Gallinas, the most Northerly tip of South America?" Mathieu suggests as he brings out a dog-eared photo album. Eight families of the once-feared Wayuu people live on the Upper Guajira Peninsula, a remote "handle" of land jutting into the Caribbean.
Four days later, I'm part of a group of five, squeezed into a beat-up 4x4 heading through axle-deep mud. Several trucks have become bogged down and sit at precarious angles awaiting help. It's rainy season. |
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