Brother in Bogota

My relationship with my brother growing up wasn’t unlike most other brotherhoods. Although almost four years younger I could hold my own in our childhood scuffles because I was always a bit bigger (fatter). Our mutual competitiveness led to many a scrap, helped in part by my perceived luck in all competitions and Ben’s established propensity as a sore loser. So whether it was a hockey puck, ping pong paddle, frisbee or basketball, I could usually always count on some projectile hurtling towards me on a daily basis. A chase would ensue, eventually some poorly aimed punches thrown, and before you could say “Car Talk” Mom would have us both outside running laps around the house, the usual punishment. These laps were no joke, folks, as the track around our house was an obstacle course. If it was summer, meaning you never wore shoes, your trek was covered in pine needles, gravel driveways, and crab apples with buzzing with bees. And if it was winter, you were trudging through snowdrifts uphill all five quarters of the way!

 In fulfilling our quota of laps we were both determined to thwart the disciplinary heads (read: parents). Sometimes one brother would knock on the window to let parents know we completed another lap while the other would actually run around the house. Once they would see one of us pass the living room windows, we’d switch duties. Other times we would get halfway done and grab a basketball from the garage and be found at sundown playing “horse” (sometimes resulting in another scuffle earning additional laps to be completed in the dark). On one particular occasion, teamed up against the powers that be (again, read: parents) we had an escape planned to go camping in the woods where our father would often cut wood for the stove. We had all the gear packed up in our little red wagon and were ready to rid ourselves of such parental oppression, and all our problems were going to be solved by camping out at a well-known location in the woods for an undetermined number of hours. Needless to say, we were spotted before even leaving the yard and the prospects of grill cheese quelled any notions of rebellion. Damn we were easily won over!

Not sure if the city is ready for both of us.

The point is, from that point on and throughout our adolescence, the dynamic duo was forged. Our mutual love for all things sports led to many an evening playing basketball in the driveway or passing a soccer ball or disc back and forth on the hill behind the house. In those moments I learned a lot from my brother about school, friendships, ladies, generally how to not let life kick you in the rear too badly (jury’s still out on my success with the latter). So when I found out that Ben was finally able to visit me in Bogota, I was excited for the opportunity to show him how I’ve managed without his noogies and wedgies.     

The gringo crew at Guatavita Lake.

In his visit, Ben got a pretty decent snap shot of my life in Colombia. In our five days in the capitol, we managed to fit in visits to most of the important landmarks surrounding the area. Our first full day involved a trip to Guatavita, a town just over an hour to the north, which boasts proximity to the Laguna de Guatavita.

El Dorado representation at Bogota's Gold Museum.

Supposedly, back in the day, the Muisca tribes would gather at the rim of this crater looking lake while the chieftan, covered in gold dust, was paddled out to the center. He would then dive in to wash the gold off and the other tribes would throw other valuable offerings to the bottom of the lake. Then, as is the tradition of the fate of Latin America, the Spanish showed up. Following their wallets to the stories of El Dorado (The Golden One), Spaniards spent years diving in the lake, searching for gold. Fast-forward four hundred years to some gringos hiking around taking pictures and you have a pretty good image of our first day.

Before and after hiking up Monserrate.

We spent the next two days with my friend Alex, his wife Fernanda, and Alex’s cousins from Brazil who are travelling South America. We walked up to Monserrate, a rite of passage for any Colombian, a ritual that has been impossible for me up until now since the walking path had been closed for two years due to wild fires. After finding out how out of shape we really are, we got a repeat reminder later that evening when we played soccer with Alex and his cronies. But I managed to poke in six of our team’s winning thirteen goals, and Ben put in two for his side, the old fart proving he can still hold his own on the pitch.

The day after, we bussed north to Zipaquira, home to an underground cathedral carved out of an old salt mine. There are no real good pictures of this beautiful, massive, Moria-esque labyrinth of salt. We even managed to not get lost in the hundreds of nooks and crannies of the colossal caverns. If you go, bring your popcorn or fries. In many areas the salt chips right off the walls, making me feel both hungry and safe walking through pillars of the flaky stuff.
 

Not my picture, but this is just one room of the Salt Cathedral.

Checking out the local fruits. Don't remember half the names.

            The next two days’ plans to go camping just outside Bogota were foiled when torrential rains hit the city right at our time of departure. Instead, we attempted some art in the monastery’s art studio, brothers Gerson and Luis Gonzalo always generous with their time and art supplies. Later, we grabbed pizza at one of the few decent pizza places northern Bogota has to offer (Pizza Metro in the Santa Fe mall), followed by a few beers in the ever-buzzing Bogota Beer Company bodega just behind the northern bus station.

Biking in Bogota.

           




We finished off our Bogota tour with another tour, this one of the bike variety. 5 hours atop a rickety bicycle through downtown Bogota was something I probably should have done over a year ago. It might be the most inclusive bike tour around. You visit a small coffee operation, go to a market and learn about the zillions of fruits only found in Colombia, play tejo, and learn about some of the political graffiti that covers downtown’s streets. You also visit [one of] Bogota’s red light districts, where we were advised to keep camera’s stowed since the dudes that administer the girls on the corners “don’t like their girls photographed.” So after biking past prostitutes we thought we were due for some Jesus, and managed to get back to the monastery in time for Holy Thursday mass.

But our laps around Colombia weren’t up yet. Ben and I had gotten our yellow fever vaccinations the day he arrived. Throw in a half-packed backpack or two and we were on our way to the Amazon.  

Spanish word of the day: To express incredulity, we’d probably say something like “Really?” or “Seriously?” Likewise in their respective responses, giving us something like, “He ate all the cookies? Seriously?!” “Seriously, dude. What a fatty.” In Spanish ‘really’ and ‘seriously’ would be de verdad or en serio. In Colombia, those are also common. But only in Colombia is there the phrase a lo bien which essentially means the same thing. Therefore our aforementioned cookie tragedy would be something like “Comió todas la galletas? A lo bien?!” “A lo bien, parce, que tragón.” Imagino que así hablaban de mi la familia cuando era gordito jeje ^-^

Song in my head lately: Always the sucker for Disney, Pixar, or otherwise animated movies, I think the relatively recent movie Moana is one of the better films to be released in a long time. All of the songs are phenomenal, but the short but sweet How Far I’ll Go blows 'em all away.