Everything is extra tainted with gratitude and appreciation when you realize it’s going to end soon- and that’s how I felt when I landed in Colombia for the last 3 weeks of my Central and South American backpacking adventures. Seemingly all of the frustrating things about travel like getting constantly upsold items, navigating complex transit schedules, and the hostel dorm beds become things that I took in stride, and was happy to suffer through. Although I’m writing this from Paris, France, and have at least another 5 weeks of travel ahead of me, I knew that I had to wrap up the first leg of my trip appropriately.
I flew into Colombia’s capital city, Bogotá, after spending one night in Costa Rica. The day that I arrived, an armed strike from the ELN, or National Liberation Army, was scheduled to begin, meaning that all civilians were to stay off main roads or else risk action from the guerilla military group. As frightening as this was, the management at the hostel I had booked assured me that it would be fine, and lo and behold, I arrived unscathed. I chose a hostel in Bogotá’s Chapinero neighborhood- a trendy, student neighborhood with plenty of young professionals. I was pleasantly surprised when I got to Bogotá to see all of the young adults with bright coloured hair, tattoos, same-sex couples openly expressing affection to each other, and women dressed the way that anyone who is expressing themselves would in a large North American city. It was a huge change of pace from the streets filled with women wearing traditional clothing and being shunned for dressing inappropriately, which is how it often went in many Central American cities I had visited.
Bogotá, Colombia.
After getting settled into the hostel where I found a lot of the guests had been around for a while either as digital nomads or teaching/learning at local schools, I set off to meet up with my Belgian friend Evelyn who had been in Bogotá for a few days now. When we went to go get a sim card for my phone, I was absolutely floored. I didn’t know what language these people were speaking to me, but it didn’t sound like Spanish OR English (if someone could try), and frankly, seemed like a contest of who can speak the fastest. Afterwards, Evelyn invited me out for a night of clubbing, but I wasn’t feeling particularly up to it, given that I had been travelling since 6 AM and was still adjusting to the altitude in the city (Bogotá is the second highest capital city in the world after La Paz, Bolivia). However, once I got back to my hostel and one of my roommates found me in bed on a Friday evening, he insisted I join him and some of the other guys for a night out. I reluctantly agreed, but continued to hide in my room until two gentlemen, Adam the Aussie, and Viktor the French guy, came up and personally invited me out. They admitted that it’s hard to put yourself out there when first arriving to a new hostel and town, and that they knew I’d have fun.
I was not disappointed. The night began with myself, an Aussie couple, a fellow Canadian, and the two gentlemen heading into La Calenderia, Bogotá’s city centre and party hub. We went into an Andean rock bar with a live band that was dodgy and divey and we were the only other gringos in there. Locals who looked about my age filled the bar tipsy on aguaguente, Colombia’s national liquor made from star anise, embracing each other while swaying to the live band. It was all great fun, but I don’t think anyone in our group fancied listening to Andean rock the whole night, so once we all had enough drinks in us, we headed to a local salsa bar. Again, we were the only gringos in there, and Adam insisted on teaching me how to salsa, which I did terribly. As the night went on, some of us started to feel a little burnt out, especially myself, now running on very very little sleep at 2 AM. So, we did what most Colombians do when they want to keep the party going. When in Rome, right?
Needless to say, it was the perfect first night in Colombia, filled with all of the things that a typical Friday night would be filled with if you were a true Paisa (local!). What was supposed to be one night in Bogotá turned into 3, and every day after I left the city, I regretted it, and wished that I could have been back there (but not really, because literally every city in Colombia is jaw-dropping). I had a week of beaches, scuba diving, and the desert ahead of me in Santa Marta, which is on the Caribbean coast of the country. Unfortunately, Tayrona National Park, which is home to incredible rain forests, beaches, and dive sites, is closed during the month of February so that the indigenous tribes who inhabit it can celebrate their sacred month. It certainly did not take away from the beauty and authenticity of the coast, however, which took me to Taganga, a small but seedy town, and Palomino, where many of the locals still wear their traditional indigenous clothing.
I had never really even heard of Palomino and it wasn’t on my radar. I stumbled upon it after I met a Dutch guy who was planning on road tripping there and I rudely invited myself after a few glasses of rum on the rocks. What I thought was supposed to be a day trip to a nice beach turned into an overnight trip at a resort right along the lazy river in Palomino that is famous for tubing. But, we were approaching Carnival weekend, which isn’t my cup of tea as a solo female traveller, and I wanted to press on to Cartagena, a colonial town also on the Caribbean coast. So after spending a day in paradise, I was dropped off at a bus station in Barranquilla (that’s Shakira’s hometown, btw!) with no cash hoping to catch a 2-hour bus. And just my luck, the ATM in the bus station won’t accept any of my cards, and you can only pay with cash.
Using my broken Spanish I try to ask two taxi drivers where the closest ATM is. They point to the bus station and I try to explain that I can’t use it, and negotiate with one of them to drive me to Cartagena (which he said would cost me the equivalent of $100 USD), and the other one to drive me to another ATM. While in the car to the ATM, the one driver says he’ll take me to Cartagena for about $ 50 USD. At this point, it’s getting late. Carnival in Barranquilla means there are crazies everywhere. The streets are insane and I just want to get to my hostel in Cartagena. So, I agreed to the rate, and he took me to an ATM inside of a grocery store.
It’s not until I’m sitting shotgun beside him with close to $200 USD in cash (that he saw me withdraw) that I realize his taxi isn’t marked. And he begins asking me about myself and if I’m travelling with anyone. “No.” I responded naively. “Estoy sola.” He makes a few cracks about the fact that I’m cold in his car, yet I’m Canadian, and when I try to turn the tables and ask him if he has a special someone, he says “Si. Tengo una novia Canadiense”, meaning, he has a Canadian girlfriend, i.e. me. A few short moments later, he gets on a call and begins speaking in his crazy fast Spanish and I pick out a few words- like the fact that he’s telling someone he’s driving a Canadian girl alone to Cartagena. This, combined with the fact that he knows I just stopped at an ATM, combined with the unmarked taxi, leaves me dumbfounded. He tells me that we’re stopping at his house so that he can change cars and not to worry. Very reassuring. But of course, we pull up to a house that looks like a bougie version of the projects, and we get into a Chevy Cruz after I meet his aunt, uncle, brother, nephew, and mom. It was certainly an upgrade from his tiny Renault with a nondescript model name.
I slept the entire ride (with my purse between my legs so he wouldn’t try anything funny) and arrived in Cartagena where it was HOT. It was nearly midnight, so I didn’t get to explore the beautiful city until the next morning, which was very much worth the weight. In Cartagena, I indulged in ceviche nearly twice a day, and wandered the colorful little streets. I was more than ready to move on 3 days later. The city itself smells kind of… foul. It’s a stunning place, but someone is trying to sell you something every 5 minutes. And, I felt that the catcalling and street harassment was the worst I’ve experienced in Colombia (but not worse than in Honduras).
I set off for Medellín and beyond, and felt like I was truly in the heart of Narcos, minus the violence and drug trafficking. Comuna 13, which used to be considered one of the world's most deadly neighborhoods due to narcotraffickers, guerilla military groups, and government military operations, was the highlight. The neighborhood has undergone a serious makeover, becoming strikingly modern with transit and infrastructure, street art, and local breweries. Some say that it might feel gimmicky, but being in Comuna 13 felt more authentic than the very gentrified El Poblado in Medellín.
Comuna 13
I normally hate big cities, and while Bogotá was a pleasant surprise, Medellín proved all of the things that I disliked about them. That took me to a quaint little town called Salento, where many backpackers base themselves before setting off on hikes through Los Nevados and the Cocora Valley. My time there began slowly, as I was unimpressed with the hostel I had checked into, but loved the charm of the town. I was planning on yet another night in as I went to grab cash from an ATM when I was stopped by a strikingly handsome server who was one of many trying to get tourists to come into their restaurants by showing them a menu while they walk by. He spoke to me in Spanish that I could actually understand, which took me by surprise, and then switched to English. I took a look at the menu and reluctantly agreed to come back to the restaurant, but the company really made it worthwhile. I wasn’t let down, of course, as that was probably one of my most favorite meals in the last 2 ish months of travel. I had trout (a Salento speciality) with a coconut cream seafood sauce, accompanied by a massive fried plantain and some coconut rice. And of course, coco-limonada on the house.
Despite my evening taking an unexpected turn, I made it out to Finca Momota, a coffee farm, the next morning bright and early alongside two guests from my hostel who were from France. The girl, a bit younger, spoke English and French. The guy, a bit older, spoke Spanish and French. Our medley of languages showed up to Momota for the coffee tour and we weren’t sure how the guide would handle it-- I think both my French and Spanish are up to par, but would naturally prefer English. To our surprise, our guide, a Colombian named Sebastian, addressed us in all 3 languages with incredible grace. If my heart was melting in that moment, his knowledge about permaculture and growing coffee completely turned me into a puddle. And how can you let an impression like that sit idly? Too shy to give him my info after the tour, I ended up sending the farm owners a message on WhatsApp using the business card they provided, and they were eager to share his contact info (after getting his permission of course).
From the coffee farm tour.
Before Sebastian and I would meet again, I completed a 6-hour hike with a group of solo travellers from my hostel. All reigning from different countries, we were a mish mash of people who all seemed to be travelling at the same pace as one another. Anyone who has travelled alone and stayed in hostels knows how magical it feels to find a group that meshes well. And while they went out to play tejo, a game involving throwing packets of gunpowder at a target, Sebastian and I grabbed a drink at a local fonda. Fonda’s erect themselves around Salento’s town square on the weekends, and all of the local farmers, servers, everyone-- even their children, gather around and listen to cumbia, salsa, Andean rock, and drink casually, but heavily.
It was a rather simple evening, but one that felt educational thanks to Sebastian’s natural tour guide instincts. While I was telling him about the difference in cultures between the few Central American countries I had been to and Colombia, he told me that there’s a Colombian saying, “El vivo vive del bobo”, which essentially means “the wise man lives from the idiot”. It spoke to this unique cultural feature of Colombian’s nonchalantly stealing from each other and from tourists-- and I noticed it when I was first in Bogota, when taxi drivers would tell me to put my phone away or roll up the windows because someone outside will literally reach in and take the phone from my hand. It didn’t take many drinks for me to start craving some food, so we hunted down some empanadas-- deep fried corn flour typically filled with potatoes and meat. Of course, we walked by a restaurant where a gentleman tried to get us to look at the menu and come on in. I’ve perfected deflecting such pursuits with a firm, “Gracias, amigo”, but Sebastian decided to ask him where we could find some good empanadas. The two go at it in their super-fast-is-that-even-Spanish, and as we’re walking away, Sebastian says, “Do you recognize that accent?”. I shook my head. “It’s Caribbean- Venezuelan, actually.” There’s a ton of Venezuelan immigrants in Colombia due to the economic and political unrest that has driven the country to unprecedented poverty.
Another fact that Sebastian left me with was the impending sale of the coffee farm that he gives tours of. I fell in love with the property and the operation there (yes, before I met him), as I have a piqued interest in permaculture after spending some time in it in Nicaragua. And as my trip wrapped up, I began to think more and more about what it would be like to buy the farm. I was already looking at masters programs in Colombia, and wanted to figure out a way to live there. And, after getting the price tag from Sebastian, I realized that this is an incredibly feasible dream of mine.
All in all, Colombia was incredibly eye opening. It’s a diverse place that is much safer than one might think (but please practice basic awareness and safety precautions) and it’s just a very dreamy, picturesque country. Obviously, writing this from Paris means that I haven’t bought a coffee farm in Colombia, but I’m glad that I know it’s a very real possibility now, and that I managed to travel a place that resonated with me so much.