I Leave Colombia

18 September 2009

I leave Colombia...

With a counterfeit 10,000 peso note. Not sure how it ended up in my wallet, but it has quickly become my favorite souvenir.

Maybe with a few extra pounds around the waistline, thanks to too many cold cervezas, freshly-roasted corn on the cob drenched in butter, sinfully yummy treats made of arequipe (basically caramel) and the arepas. Oh those damn arepas... imagine a big piece of corn bread in the shape of a thick pancake, lightly fried in oil and butter, and filled with a sweet white cheese that oozes out as you try to slow the speed of inhale. It's heaven on the go for a snacker like me.



With tremendous respect for a culture that is diverse, progressive and open-minded. I never once felt odd for being a solo female traveler. I was never stared at or made to feel uncomfortable or intimidated in any way, as I might be in many other corners of the world. Here's a secret for you: Women completely rule in Colombia. They are modern, educated, sophisticated and confident. Just don't tell the guys this. They would probably deny it.

Having made new friends from Montevideo to Asuncion to Alberta to Tel Aviv, not to mention every corner of Colombia. This is why I travel, after all.

With a few new excellent slang words to round out my Spanish vocabulary.

Waxed, manicured and pedicured for such little money that I felt compelled to give the gals a ridiculously large tip.

With immense appreciation for a remarkable country and its incredibly kind people. I have never before felt so totally welcomed or unconditionally accepted as a foreigner. In every respect, Colombia greeted me with open arms.

Equal parts grateful and annoyed that as a well-kept white girl from the United States, I generally breeze through security and Customs without a second glance. I recognize that I probably just jinxed myself.

So excited to finally be en route to Brasil that I might start jumping up and down and screaming with glee right here in the Customs line at the airport in Bogotá. But I won't. See previous mention.

With the knowledge that I can live and survive just about anywhere, all I need is a yoga mat, a decent pillow and an internet connection.

On my way to Rio but already wondering where the next adventure might take me.

Maniacs in little yellow cars

My first taxi ride in Bogota involved a lot of fearing for my personal safety. Can you blame me? After all, I had just stepped off the flight, during which I had carefully read LP`s in-depth warnings to women (and related horror stories) about taking a taxi alone after dark. But my flight was delayed, and I was to arrive after 9pm. What choice did I have?

So the entire ride from the airport I am clutching nervously at my bag, steadily holding down the broken lock on the door, and staying more alert than I have ever been in my life. At every stoplight, I hold my breath, just waiting for someone to reach in and hold me up at knifepoint.

Well, I arrived to the hostel just fine, and in less than two days of taxi-ing around Bogota, I pretty much have gotten over all that silly anxiety. But now, instead of fearing for my personal safety, I just fear for my life. Not much better, I know. But the taxi drivers here are maniacs! Certifiably insane. I wouldn´t be surprised to learn that the first road-racing video game was invented by a Colombian cab driver. In their tiny yellow cars, they weave in and out of traffic, changing lanes with an inch to spare, screeching around turns and slamming on the brakes. The words speed and limit are likely not used in the same sentence, ever. I lurch forward more than a few times, and wish at least one or two of these cabbies would install functioning seatbelts in the back seats.

But once again, as so far every time, I arrive to my destination in one piece: this time, the bus station. I have decided to save Bogota for later, and this afternoon I will make the 4 hour journey north to a town called Villa de Leyva. As a female traveling alone, I can`t help but be drawn to guidebook phrases like "the area is completely safe". Words like these, and the description of this quaint colonial town are exactly what I am after: a small pueblo best explored on foot, bike or horse (sans money belt); tons of safe hiking trails; waterfalls, canyoning, rappeling, rafting, and more. Even better, this town - whose name which, if slightly intoxicated, could look just like my own last name - is located in the direct path of Cartagena, my eventual destination. After a hectic couple of days in Bogota, the fresh air and vast, open skies in Villa de Leyva might just be paradise in the foothills. Stay tuned and I will report back soon.

Poker face in Bogota

When traveling, there are only two reasons a backpacker doesn`t go out to party at night in a city like Bogota: 1. He has no money. 2. He doesn`t want to get mugged. For me, the latter is most definitely true. Such is the reason I find myself deep in a game of poker with 7 guys at the youth hostel Destino Nomada, enjoying the relative comfort and security of being off the street, without a money belt digging into my pelvis bone. I can pretty much guarantee that these 7 guys are staying in tonight because they have no cash. But I don´t mind at all; their company is welcomed. And in the process I discover something very important about myself: I pretty much suck at poker. So much for beginner´s luck.

As for Bogota, I just have to say that all of you people at the State Department who write those scary travel advisories really need to step back and gain some perspective. Or at least, come here for awhile and see for yourself what´s going on. Because scary, dangerous, crime-ridden Colombia seems to be anything but. In fact, it feels no more scary or dangerous than say, the Bronx after dark. Even that might be a stretch. In fact, I would rather be here in Bogota than in downtown Los Angeles. Or in Yellowstone National Park, hiking alone. Which makes me wonder, if the State Department had to write a travel advisory about visiting the U.S., and foreigners actually read it, would anyone EVER come visit my country?

Now don´t get me wrong, street crime is most definitely a problem in Bogota, particulary at night. (But isn´t that the case in almost any hectic city, especially one that is relatively poor by international standards?) And the narrow, cobblestone streets do get pretty jammed with people, almost to a claustrophobic degree. But most of these people are students, I notice. In fact there are students everywhere! Apparently the Colombians take their education very seriously, and the system is top-notch here. Maybe Bogota is like Boston.... with Salsa dancing.

And there are tons of kids here. Happy little kids who laugh and play in parks, like kids do everywhere. In my so-far-failing effort to get a visa for Brazil, I had to stop by the American Embassy today to get more pages added to my passport. "Please come back at 3:00pm", the nice lady tells me with a big, hospitable, American smile. Three hours? For real? I don´t have to wait a week? I can`t help but wonder if this surprising lack of bureaucratic paper-pushing nonsense is Obama´s influence. Just let me think it is.

So anyway, to kill some time I taxi north to Parque Simon Bolivar. Supposedly, this park is bigger than Central Park in Manhattan. It is pretty fabulous, although I remain partial to its New York cousin. The park is a beautiful and peaceful place, a perfect respite from the smelly traffic and diesel fumes of Bogota´s main roads. And on this sunny weekday, it is jam-packed with adorable school children who are quite literally "frolicking", if I can use that word. Scary, dangerous Colombia???



But as a bible thumper reveres his own great book, I believe everything I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook. And I am warned by the LP authors to avoid walking on the streets at night in the center of town, exactly where I am staying. So I do. Instead - the book wisely tells me - get up early, sightsee and enjoy the city, and consider staying safely indoors at night. For an old gal like me who loves her sleep, this is so not a problem.

Speaking of age, whenever I do the youth hostel thing, if anyone asks, I am 28 years old. End of story. But have you ever noticed how innocently expressing love for a song can instantly give you away? Once again my cards stink. I fold. The radio starts blaring that soul-wrenching ballad "I need you now.... more than words can say I need you now....." by Alias, circa 1990. "Oh my god I LOVE this song" I exclaim without thinking. The game stops. 14 young man eyes are on me. They are confused. Dumb-founded. "How old ARE you?" they ask, practically in unison.

I just smile, and keep singing along.

Nothing but a hiccup

Hiccup number 1: I arrive at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and learn that my flight into Miami is delayed and I will miss my connection to Bogota. Sorry party people, but overnighting in Miami is not my idea of a good time.

I must look really sad and pathetic, because Brooke at the AA desk taps away at her keyboard and in no time has rebooked me on a Delta flight. (There is a lot to be said for keeping calm and not freaking out at the counter folks.)

If this is the worst that happens on this journey, I will be in pretty great shape.

Although it would be kind of funny if I become so enthralled with these final hours of using my BlackBerry that I end up missing my flight. Because yes, this is something I would do.

Crisis of confidence

Yesterday, while driving my sister’s minivan to the nearest Target store, I got smashed into by a car that had spun out of control on the freeway. Four cars total were involved, but thankfully that minivan is sturdy and everyone was fine. For over an hour, I was one of those people standing by the roadside being gawked at by slow-moving, donut-munching drive-bys, as though they had never seen an accident before.



I was annoyed, and in that moment, I wished I was in New York City taking subways and not having to deal with these incidents. And I realized this irony: I feel safer and more comfortable in big, hectic cities than I do in a suburban, strip-mall, drive everywhere because there is no other option, type of environment.

The irritation I felt helped me to overcome the nagging fear that has been haunting me for the past few days. In regards to my upcoming trip, I have been told by nearly everyone I know to be careful, be safe, bad things happen in South American cities, watch my back, pack mace, don't get kidnapped, etc. I get that this comes from a place of love, but it is really starting to get to me, and I have begun to drive myself crazy with doubts about my decision to travel alone.

But why? I lived in New York City for 5 years. Before that, Barcelona. Before that, San Francisco. I have traveled in Johannesburg, New Delhi, Istanbul, Havana, Beijing. In all these places, I was fine – in fact, I loved every moment of it all.

Cities, I get. Travel, I get. Hanging out in Suburbia... not so much.

Rio might be dangerous. Caracas might be complicated. Bogota might be challenging. The threat of malaria and yellow fever may be high throughout the region. But I think I would rather deal with all that madness then stand on the edge of a freeway during rush hour, somewhere in the middle of here and nowhere.

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PS: for those still in doubt, Richard McColl writes an excellent and concise article for Matador Travel - with gorgeous photos attached - Why Colombia is Not as Dangerous as You Think