Colombia

Bogota

At 2640 metres above sea level, respiration is shallow but feelings are deep. After 14 hours of being airborne, my physiology is less defined by flight-fatigue and more by curiosity-fuelled adrenaline. It is 10 pm. The hotel has sent a car to El Dorado International Airport. The car moves along a stretch of highway and through wide empty streets. I was warned about the traffic in Bogota but there is none. There is, however, a brightly lit Movistar Arena to the right. They call it El Campin Coloseo, the driver tells me with pride. It mixes colours, transposing blues into reds and yellows, against a sheet of night.

He says it has capacity for “catorce mil personas”. I catch myself comparing it to the O2 arena in London, with a capacity of twenty thousand. Both are cities of at least 8 million. Before I finish the thought I cut myself off. “Heuristics... “ I think I say to myself. “Perdon?” says the driver. “Uuh perdona...  lo siento… hablando conmigo,” I fumble and grumble in broken Spanish. He laughs compassionately. “Felices pascuas!” he says from under a smiling moustache. I smile back.

At the hotel, I check-in and connect to the WiFi. “Siri, what does the Spanish word p a s c u a mean in English?” I ask. A woman’s response comes from behind the speaker, “I can translate from Spanish but only when it’s been set as the Siri language.” I turn to Google Translate. Google wins: Felices Pascua translates to Happy Easter. Ah it’s Santa Semana or Easter week, I remember. The city appears steep and spacious from the 15th floor of the W Bogota. I do not realise how tired I am until actually start to think about it. And then I sink. The pillows are soft, the room is dim, it looks as sleepy as me. I know tonight will be restful.

In the morning, the concierge tells me that we are in the north of Bogota and the district around the hotel is called Usaquen. Buildings are tall and erect enough to hide the hills. The windows are wide and glassy. In all big cities, I wonder if wide windows are symbolic of wealth. On the other side is a small open air market in what looks like an old villa. It becomes a quaint, circular shopping mall as one moves deeper in. There is not much light in its depth. Behind the mall is the Canadian Ambassador’s home, and across a wide road is a cluster of tall office buildings and banks. The area is well planned.

I am meant to meet a friend for lunch in Zona Rosa. The map shows that Zona Rosa or Zona T as the local calls it, is just a few blocks down from Usaquien. On foot, I misjudge the distance entirely. The streets run over inclines and descents that are barely noticeable in a car. My shins start to ache soon, unaccustomed to anything that is not a flat road.

Zona T makes sense now. The area has a T shaped pedestrian intersection, lined with boutiques, bars and colourful walls. Traces of colonialism fade into a hip South American neighbourhood, with burger joints, pizza parlors, cafes and lots of boutique shops. There are people everywhere and more shopping malls. I count two large ones, by non- American standards. During Santa Semana, it almost feels like half the city has poured itself into Zona T. Later I learn that Bogota is much more than Zona T and Usaquen, and neither has the capability to hold half the city surely. I charge myself with another ignorant heuristic.

I am finally at the Italian eatery. I apologize for being late. We settle into comfortable chairs at Di Lucca. I have an unspoken intention to curtail my appetite for some real Colombian street food, but I concede for a slice of a freshly baked Prosciutto pizza. It melts.

I am told that Bogota’s districts are highly stratified. The poorest are 1’s, the richest are 6’s, and 3’s 4’s and 5’s are less disparate. Homeless people are without a number. I ask why it’s like this. He tells me that the stratification is intended to enable subsidization for the poor by the rich. He’s not sure it works though. He tells me that stratum is dictated by the condition of housing, not by household income and now the disparity is exacerbated. “With Venezuelan immigrants, the problem is even worse… and they can’t even pretend to be local, their physical appearance is distinct. Assimilation is difficult, so many of them are begging.” he says.

Then he tells me about Nora, a family member and the lady who has run his home for over two decades. “Nora comes from across the city, from Kennedy. It takes more than an hour to get to my home but she does not want to move. She says the price difference between milk in her area and Sopo is enough to convince her because of the cross-subsidisation. She says she would not be able to afford anything more than tinto. Tinto is commodity coffee, the remains of export-quality beans. It means inky water, and it’s a real cheap cup for $0.10. We’ve even offered her a room in our apartment but she says stratum 2 is who she is now and she keeps commuting.”

The conversation lightens up when my friend asks me about the day’s plans. I tell him plan to take a taxi to mercado Paloquemao and then to walk down to the Chapinero district. His eyes grow wide and he laughs. “Paloquemao… where the hell did you hear of that? You can not walk there, this is not London puta gringo!” he says. I laugh and reference the Guardian. He tells me he hasn’t been in years, but that it has a diversity of Colombian fruits and vegetables. “It’s messy and the area outside the market is not walkable… you are dressed like a gringo so you cannot even blend in,” he teases. He reminds me to keep my belongings close and not to carry any valuables. He is heading to the US tonight. We plan a night out when I transit through Bogota in a few weeks. In a few weeks, I will be different.

He tells me that there is a highway called Avenida NQS running through Bogota. South of the line has no-go zones. “Be careful, and don’t go further than the line,” He warns.

___________________________________

It is sunny outside Paloquemao. I am told such weather is not common in Bogota, the city of day seasons. There are greens in trees, yellows in petals, hues of reds and pinks in brick buildings, deep light blues and greys in the sky, and then some whites and browns and other neutrals everywhere. In the market I become convinced that yellow will be the colour of Colombia. Heuristics… but I don’t stop myself this time.

Amarilla or yellow

is the colour of the bumpy pittaya

that could have come from Ecuador,

but is being sold by

a Venezuelan street kid

singing “a papaya dada, papaya partida”

near Santa Fe,

in Bogota.

Amarilla,

the sweet but hard-shelled granadillas,

and curubas

maracuyas,

heaped in an aztec breakfast bowl

on a rosewood table

in a Santa Marta hotel.

And what about the little finger bananas,

off green platanas

from Guajira,

and the uchuvas

that could be mistaken for Peruvian golden berries,

ground cherries,

that are yellow too.

There is also a tint of yellow

in the flaming skin

of bittersweet Spanish plums

or ciruelas,

and orange lulos

that resemble Japanese persimmons-

God’s pears-

fed by the September glare.

Fat mangoes too,

red, orange or green outside

but yellow

when exposed,

after being cubed, sliced and

spiralled,

by street hawkers in Cartagena,

who speak Creole.

In Paloquemao,

petals have fallen

from flowers,

heliconias and agave,

crushing yellow

against grey pavement.

And

birds of paradise,

float high above the aisles,

buttressed by rough, brown, farm hands

their sweet nectars linger-

momentarily-

until swallowed

by the scents from

sweating meat, salted shrimp

and deep-fried dough.

In the corners of this place,

tall sheets of glass protect arepas de chocolo;

descendants of white corn flour,

whisked and beaten

into yellow pulp,

moulded,

into spherical afternoon delights

that are too large to pocket.

But there is no treat

as sweet

as envueltos or corn cakes,

that have been crumpled, steamed and rumpled

into the durable husks

of kernels from Antiqua.

And on the very edge

of this world,

a group of elderly men

sit outside a vender,

sharing tissue-wrapped empanadas

of goldenish-yellow,

and bunuelos

of yellowish-brown.

Suddenly,

a mulatta girl emerges

darting through narrow aisles,

dodging arms, bargains, and fruit files,

unaffected

by the carcasses

of cowhide,

spilt water, melted ice.

Her muddy feet fly,

abiding movement

like they have always pelted, felt,

dwelt

above pavement,

and

she is dressed

in a football jersey,

the colour of the Colombian flag.

Outside Paloquemao, I am suspecting and wary of people around me. Somehow, the inside felt safer than the outside. There is another massive mall behind the market, but to its left are abandoned warehouses. The area has a heavy police presence, and more homeless people than I have seen. A drug addict comes up right to the taxi window, he lingers, laughs and kicks the tire.

The car curls through construction works, some empty streets and many full ones. There is much more traffic in the depths of the city than in the north, even during Santa Semana. It is perhaps representative of what a shopkeeper said when I asked why the market is open over Easter. “Not everyone has somewhere to go or the money to take them,” he said.

The taxi drops me off that the bottom of Montserrate. I walk up a number of low and wide stairs, along a narrow waterway. A little boy is walking across the low rising ledge. He loses his balance, like a tightrope walker, and falls into the fountain. He is drenched, immediately getting up and standing in knee high water. His friends are in hysterics. The neighbourhood is clean again, but exceptionally quiet this afternoon. It is a university area, home to Universidad Los Andes.

At 3150 meters above sea level, Monserrate is accessible by both chairlift and foot. Compared to the night before, a panoramic view of the city suggests anything but space. At 3 pm, the hills are humble but wise in their presence, lending shade and protection to the city. Bogota has spread itself well wider than anything the eye can hold in terms of width. While the eye adjusts to the width of the city, buildings are not tall anymore, they appear small and boxish. A few jut out like the Avianca Building or Centro de Commercio Internacional, currently the tallest, but are nothing compared to the sky’s low hanging clouds. Like shapeshifters or illusions of space, I will learn that the clouds borrow color from the sun in different ways on different days. The clouds feel tangible, like swathes of cotton that will soak and balm the city’s needs.

There are more flowers and carefully curated bushes leading up to a church for the Fallen Lord or El Senor Caido. Across is Guadalupe Hill, at what appears to be a slight angle of elevation, is a statue of Christ on the crucifix. It is reminiscent of Christ the Redeemer in Rio, like Monseratte is of Monserrat in Barcelona. Once a stronghold for Farc, Guadalupe is not currently accessible by tourists. Upon descent, a bright spring afternoon turns to cold grey rain. I realise now that Bogota is a city of rain and seasons, a few in a day as they say.

___________________________________



Descended, I move deeper into the city towards what I think may be its heart. Taller buildings are less frequent now and spaced around around clusters of low rises. Once I arrive in La Candelaria, or the old colonial quarter, I realise that this part of the city is not tall at all. The square in Plaza Bolivar is crowded; it is older, less well kept but strong in identity. There are vendors with strips of salted mangoes, freshly cut coconuts and big jars of lemonade with ice. There are also old women and men selling candy and books and cigarettes piecemeal. They like they sailed across from the Caribbean but have probably seen more corners of Bogota than any other locals.

It’s cool now and there is a feeling of late afternoon haphazardness, of old bush shirts, cigars, hotel billboards from the 70s and throngs of people with music in corners of squares. As I move deeper through the streets, the beat gets louder. There are tunes coming out of sidewalks, from old boomboxes. They appear to be part of the same old structure. Old men are moving their heads to old Afro Colombian cumbia tunes. Teenagers and young men are breakdancing to new reggaeton and soukos. In the square, there is a toddler is in an oversized, red jacket. He puts up his hood and waddles to the bin in the centre of the square. His feet rise, and stomach tips, balancing his body on the rim. He scours as deep as his arms go, losing balance, he retrieves, regains his concrete footing and puts something in his open mouth. Nobody else seems to be paying attention. He walks away with dirty, bare little feet.

In depths of steep streets that I arrive at Plaza Del Chorro Del Quevedo. I am told this is heart of the city. The square holds songs, intoxicated mirth, and flirtation. It is populated by street performers, a few guitarists, 2 stray dogs and lots of young people sipping on the fermented maize drink or “chicha”. There are several amused tourists too. As the sun sets over the square, exhaustion and altitude set in again. At the same time, a couple rise from a bench, the only vacant space in the square. I sit and look up. The sky is yellow.

Cartagena

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Santa Marta

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