Pulling the Colombian Curtain: Part I

by Sarah Gojekian (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Colombia

Everyone told us not to go, likening it to a third world country. "It's too dangerous." Meh. We learned a handful of spanish phrases, and figured as two pleasant-looking females with naturally tanner skin complexions, we would be just fine. We arrived in Bogota, with an immediate flight on to Medellin. But, the flight was canceled. Just on the board: canceled. No information, no one working to answer questions. We phoned home, like they said we would. Our boyfriends got us answers. Then we found the first of every saving grace on the trip: a bottled beer. By nightfall, we were being accosted into an "official" airport taxi by a young, gun-toting policia officer. Apparently, the alternative Uber is illegal there. We rode 45 minutes down a curvaceous mountain behind a man who was not afraid to die. But live we did. Our hostel was on a vibrant street. We were delirious and ate indian food for our first meal. We woke up and set off to explore. But first, a bottled beer: Club Colombia, basically the national beer, and soon-to-be familiar, gold and red label hand-in-tow. Taking off on the city's impressive public transit system, we took a cable car strung high above hatched-roof homes, dogs unleashed, and kids with just the earth for a playground. We landed at a lush green park, that led to a road, that led to a small town, that led to a small child serving us beers. That night, we attempted to buy cocaine. Using google translator, we asked a young waiter. He was not amused. It is not as easy as they say it is. In fact, we never dipped our noses; there was an air of respect: the Colombian people no longer wanted this strung into their identity. We signed up for an excursion through our hostel, and were on a bumpy bus ride to the town of Guatape by 7 a.m. Here, we got to tour one of Pablo Escobar's properties, namely his summer compound. It was a surreal experience to say the least, as the estate is largely intact. We ate lunch, drank shots of clear liquor, met one of Pablo's former associates, and saw the remains of a cartel bombing job, now a paintball field for the tour. Next, we took a boat ride to a giant black granite mountain aptly named "The Rock". We climbed about 650 steps up a staircase in a hungover stupor. Why? The view from the top - like the heavens. Land and water glistening below. We stayed the night in Guatape. Another hostel. We roomed with a young Scandinavian couple in love and navigating the world. The four of us found dinner in the upstairs of a narrow building. A candlelit pizzeria that felt like a living room in Roma. The food was salivating. We frolicked in the plazas the rest of the night, lying around fountains, sharing stories with other young travelers. We went to a local dirt-floor bar and played pool until 4 a.m. This was like the town hall, and as you may have guessed, we were warmly welcomed. There were little old Colombian men playing cards and rough-edged men with pistols. One of the latter came over and showed me how to properly shoot, his embrace at first jolting then … soft. We walked back to our hostel and found the rooftop - for a galactic show of shooting stars that brought me to tears. It lasted an hour. We drank wine, took photos, and cried together. It was truly the witnessing moment of a lifetime. We got back to Medellin by way of a public bus. We were headed to a futbol game. But we were scammed, the tickets weren't real; you live and you learn, and you drink. So, we spent the night drinking in fancy places and crying about dark places. I was overwhelmed by the nightlife in Medellin, and the breadth of its people. They were beautiful, intelligent, dressed to the nine. We were underdressed, but in the streets we felt alive, by the grace of Colombia's warm embrace. This was not a third world country.