I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need to travel. It had been nearly ten months since I had taken a plane anywhere. COVID has changed everything. I supplemented my wanderlust with overland trips seeking mountains, trails, anything to satiate my desire to explore. COVID is a. bitter pill that has hit tourism, perhaps the hardest. Secretly, I kept an eye on Skyscanner to see which countries were opening up. With Winter coming in the northern hemisphere, I scanned the south. Where could I hike? My legs feel heavy, lethargic from inaction. The map showed Colombia as green, open. It shone like an emerald, beautiful, and enticing. I booked my flight that very day.
Here I am a month later, sitting in a cafe near Plaza de Bolivar in the capital city of Bogota. Coffee tastes better here. Unlike the bitterness of 2020 and the global pandemic, the bitter beans fuel my desire for exotic places, people, and culture. Once again, I am on the road with my pack, a camera, and full of dreams. Outside the window, people walk, always masked, vendors push carts piled high with bananas as yellow as the sun, and avocados as big as melons. At night, festive lights twinkle from trees, and fruit vendors are replaced by women selling canelazo aromatico, a sweet, hot alcoholic drink, especially popular around Christmas time.
I walk the streets slowly. I’ll be here for another few days working from the hostel and exploring, before moving onto Medellin, Cartagena, and finally trekking to the Lost City, located in the remote north east corner of the country. I see no other tourists. It’s a hard time without the backpacker trade. Locals, always hospitable and welcoming seem even more appreciative of my patronage. It’s humbling. I’m encouraged to see the country opening up again, especially with vaccines on the way.
The narrow streets grow steeper. Beyond the old stone building of the La Candelaria district, dense forested peaks tower. In the mornings a mist clings to their sides, swirling with adventure. My mind wanders to days past where Spanish conquistadors overthrew the indigenous Muisca people. How different this place must look now. I rest on a bench talking with some locals and share an empanada. Everyone is friendly, happy, and proud.
Truth be told, there is not much to do in Bogota. For me, it’s another big city. Sure, it has some interesting architecture but lacks the charm of Cartagena or the notorious past of Meddelin, but it’s still wonderful. I am here. I am traveling. I feel a renewed energy for what lies ahead, post-pandemic. It’s no wonder that the period after the 1918 Spanish Flu was called the Roaring Twenties. As the Spanish would say, I can feel the Pura Vida is almost here. And, here, in Colombia, it’s pretty good.