Enjoy this guest post from our friend Rick Lewis, a frequent visitor to Latin America:
The Athens of South America
The hotel doorman’s instructions were very specific. “It’s completely safe to walk from here to the bus terminal. Just don’t ask directions from anyone but uniformed police and soldiers. And remember that no one has the authority to see your passport or demand money. But be sure to carry your passport.”
It’s everyone’s best effort to comfort visitors whose only impression of their capital is its reputation as one of the most violent cities in the world. It still is—and there are police and soldiers everywhere—but as in New York or Jakarta, it’s not that hard to stay out of trouble either. It’s much safer than it was.
From its 16th century buildings to soaring modern skyscrapers, all embraced by the sweeping Andes, the sprawling city of Bogotá is the living vision of the Spanish conquest. What began as a settlement called Santa Fé de Bacatá in 1538 is home to more than seven million people, all apparently accustomed to the shortage of oxygen at 8600 feet. It’s the third highest major city in the world, and not just from chewing coca leaves. Viewed from the sanctuary of Monserrate at 10,000 feet (above), the metropolis stretches forever under passing showers.
Of the many world capitals upon which I’ve bestowed a hasty, superficial opinion, Bogotá stands out for a whole range of reasons. The weather is the first unavoidable impression, especially when arriving from Miami. It’s cool all year, with average highs in the upper 60s and lows in the 40s, but with some variations and occasional spectacular hailstorms in the fall. Then there’s that combination of a modern, bustling cosmopolitan business center and the city’s obvious colonial heritage. The Primary Cathedral of Bogotá, built in the early 1800s, anchors the east side of the central Plaza de Bolívar, a wide public space surrounded by the seat of the national Congress, the Palace of Justice, and the headquarters of the mayor. Like public squares everywhere, it is alive with pigeons. An inscription over the Palace of Justice reads, “Colombians: Arms have given us independence. Laws will give us liberty.”
There are abundant must-see destinations in Bogotá. One is the stunning Museum of Gold with the largest collection of pre-Hispanic gold objects in the world. The building itself is as lovely as its gleaming vessels, breastplates and masks.
There’s the whole colonial district of La Candelaria, or any of the numerous colleges and universities that inspired the “Athens” nickname. But a really striking characteristic of this town, among all the bangles and trappings of history, is—of all things—transportation.
It starts with the taxi ride from El Dorado airport, racing across the entire city at reasonable prices through world-class traffic. (Most taxis in Colombia, by the way, are fueled by natural gas.) Mine was stopped once downtown so that President Uribe’s motorcade could pass—five green SUVs and an ambulance, for that special kind of lead poisoning that so often afflicts Latin heads of state. And then there is the centerpiece of the city’s mass transit: the TransMilenio. It is an amazing system of well over a thousand sleek, double-length articulated red buses that speed down dedicated lanes in the middle of seven major routes, carrying about 1.6 million passengers a day. The stations are like subway platforms, and the doors slide open like subway doors to reveal comfortable and spacious interiors. A flat fare of about 75 cents takes you anywhere. With their restricted lanes, the buses are unaffected by traffic.
The tourist’s inevitable reaction is, “Why aren’t WE doing this?!” The TransMilenio uses efficient diesel engines, and by replacing 7000 conventional buses, claims to have reduced emissions by 59% since the system’s debut in 2001. Exhaust fumes are still noticeable in Bogotá, because there are still plenty of vehicles, and the problem is amplified by the altitude for reasons of physics that are beyond my grasp.
I took the big red bus one day to its western terminus, and then grabbed a small intercity bus for the pleasant hour-long trip to the historic city of Zipaquirá (another $1.25 or so). These colorful vehicles are always an experience in themselves. In addition to the driver and sometimes a few of his friends, each has a kind of “shouter” who drops from the moving bus at every place where a passenger might be found, urging everyone to jump on board, perhaps whether they want to or not. He kept recruiting all the way to Zipaquirá, a venerable city that tourism has swelled to 110,000 inhabitants. There, in the aromatic breeze among towering eucalyptus trees, is the entrance to the Cathedral of Salt. Fourteen stations of the cross and numerous chapels are bored into a mountain of salt for the length of two football fields, and it takes at least two hours to wander through its passages on a guided tour.
To emerge blinking into the daylight and silence and eucalyptus-perfumed air, with the bucolic view of the town’s tile roofs and drifting smoke from meat-roasting ovens below, is a reminder that most of Colombia—the parts I have seen—is a near-paradise of mountains, rivers, forests, seashores and quaint villages. Not to mention charming and friendly people who are passionate about their culture and their country. Those who avoid it because of a few thousand murders and kidnappings are missing something truly special.
Rick Lewis
July 12, 2009
(Photography courtesy of the author.)
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