Bogota, 11 avril 2011

Perhaps my last chance to see parts of Bogotá I have not yet experienced. Weekend next is a take-off for a week of travel, east and north. My mother, who works for an international insurance firm, has been preoccupied with quarterly reporting pressures, so I snuck off before she arose, tow objectives in mind. One, to relieve her a bit from making my breakfast, and two, to have a try at a local panaderia. Had a great cheese and ham omelet, pan, juice and coffee, for $3.00. I left filled with change in hand.

I got off the Trans Milenia, one of the most efficient mass-transit systems I have experienced. It is a bus-system that works like a subway, having its own lanes, and is very rapid, although normally packed like sardines. I was in an area known as the Candelaria, where Bogota began. It is not totally historic now, as much of the commercial activity has constructed modern and high rise structures. Still, there are plenty of sights and numerous museums, including one only about the history of gold in the country and another on the history of law enforcement in the country, with a model of the bullet ridden corpse of the drug lord, Escobar.

Where I live is all apartment buildings and commercial sites. So, visual sights for memory or photo have been lacking. With that objective in hand, I took my walk, branching off from the Plaza de Bolivar. It is relatively easy to navigate here, with the reliance on the traditional Spanish grid pattern, carreras running N-S, calles E-W, numerically sequenced.

Having all day, I pretty much meandered up and down, letting the appearance of anything interesting pull me like the fly to the candle. I had wondered about the lack of catholic presence, but I found it this day. They began to show themselves, like the dandelions in my yard in Colorado. Beautiful, delicate, both inside and out, the spires rising slightly above the tiled roofs of the casas surrounding, balconies flowered or colorful banners flowing. Most of these historic homes have been converted to hotels, restaurants or businesses.

Little by little I was drawn further and further away. And, in the same manner the barrios became a little more obscure and less kept, and sure enough, drawn by the tall spire of one church and the domed tower of another, I stood alone, a stranger in a cracked plaza, looked at intensely by an assortment of characters from a Charles Dickens book. Luckily I suppose, two police approached me. One never really knows what motives the police have here in South America, but these two were gentlemen and friendly. Their intent was to actually to provide me warning of the danger present in the area, which I was slowly realizing myself. We talked some after the discovered I spoke Spanish and was an American tourist. They wished me well, and watched as I took a couple of photos and started back to the plaza.
Back around the plaza the crowd of humanity pressed upon me. Even in New York, Chicago or LA, I have not been surrounded by so many, so closely, so diverse. Every sidewalk had every available space filled by vendors or artists of some sort, food of all kinds, items for sale down to key chains and single cigarettes. There were jugglers, street painters, musicians as well. I swear I saw a dental chair with patient. Not all is pleasant to observe as many do what they can to survive. I don´t find many surprises anymore. Unfortunately my camera does not capture the essence of the scene. Perhaps the day will come when I can create a painting of representation.
Sunday turned up wet, but only a continuous warm drizzle. After another breakfast away from home I stood, trying to decide if the rain should interfere with the intended plan. I watched the umbrellas bounce down the enormous metal labyrinth that allows pedestrians to cross the fourteen lanes of the autopista. Looked like the dancing mushrooms in Disney´s Fantasia. I have learned that opportunities rarely come twice, and even then, they normally do not provide any better conditions the second time. Hence, I took off for the Parque de Simon Bolivar. It is larger than Central Park. And, now having been there it is indeed big. The slow sprinkle likely diminished the normal crowds. So, I walked about in relative peace. It is large, impressive, beautiful and I enjoyed it in the rain. Just did not dance.

Nest week should take me to new locations, smaller, more open, more natural.
Nobody knows, knows, knows

So many things, things, so
So out of range, sometimes so strange
Sometimes so sweet, sometimes so lonely
The further I go, more letters from home never arrive
And I´m alone, all of the way, all of the way, alone and alive.
P.Griffin