My introduction to Bogotá was not through history books and Simon Bolivar or magic realism and One Hundred Years of Solitude , the Medellin Cartel or Angel’s unfortunate rendezvous with the chainsaw. I first heard of Bogotá in HG Wells’ haunting The Country of the Blind . The short story was first published in 1904 in The Strand Magazine , the same publication that featured the adventures of a certain consulting detective from 221B Baker Street.
The Country of the Blind told of a mountaineer, Nuñez, who while trying to scale an unconquered peak in Ecuador, slips and falls into a mysterious valley. Seeing the windowless and oddly-painted houses, he realises he is in the fabled country of the blind — a beautiful shut-in valley, where a disease has rendered the entire population blind. With the words, “in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,” ringing in his ears, he decides to set himself up as the ruler in the valley.
His plan comes to naught as the people of the valley think his mind is unformed, and when he tries to tell them of the world outside, they dismiss it as the ravings of a madman. They call him Bogotá when he says he comes from there. Nuñez’ homesick description of Bogotá, “a place of multitudinous stirring beauty, a glory by day, a luminous mystery by night,” echoed in my mind, as the plane landed at El Dorado International Airport — how is that for mythic overtones?
Oscar, the cheerful driver who picked me up from the airport, told me the traffic in Bogota is very bad. Coming from Bengaluru, I laughed superiorly, because as every Bengalurean knows, nothing matches the traffic jams back home — except, perhaps, the three-hour gridlocks in Lagos, Nigeria.
I had chosen a night flight for my return, to allow me some time to take in the sights. Everyone from Oscar to Geraldine, the concierge, said the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquirá, which is 49 kilometres from Bogotá, would be an all-day trip. Considering traffic, I would be cutting it a bit fine to catch my flight. And so I decided to look around Bogota, keeping the cathedral for another, longer visit.
I asked my driver and guide, Jorge Gualdrón Calderón, to work out an itinerary for me, keeping in mind the flight I had to catch at 9 pm. We decided on a cable car ride to the top of Monserrate, and being a museum junkie, visits to the Botero and the Gold museum.
The panoramic view of the city en route to Monserrate brought to mind Nuñez’ description of “a place of palaces and fountains, and statues and white houses, its busy streets and ways.” Monserrate and the neighbouring Guadalupe, called grandfather and grandmother’s foot respectively in pre-Columbian times, were sacred hills to the indigenous people of Bogota, the Muisca.
The church at the top of Monserrat has beautifully-carved, life-size figures for the Stations of the Cross. Instead of the crucified Christ on the altar, the church has the figure of Christ fallen from the cross, El Señor Caído (The Fallen Lord). While the religious retreat in 1650 was built for the Morena Virgin, the Fallen Lord replaced her as the centrepiece by the 19th Century.
We headed to the centre of town, where the distance between the Gold Museum (El Museo del Oro) and Botero Museum is just over a kilometre. The Gold Museum is spread over two floors, with the first floor dedicated to people and gold in pre-Hispanic Colombia, where gold work from different cultures is displayed in separate rooms — Calima, Quimbaya, Muisca, Zenú, Tierradentro, San Agustín, Tolima, Tairona and Urabáas.
The second floor has the Flying Chamanic with all the gold ornaments used in shamanic ceremonies, while the Offering Boat has pride of place in The Offering room. There are also videos on the important gold pieces in the museum. The pieces are clearly labelled in English and Spanish. Even though we zipped through the museum, trying to take in as many as 6,000 pieces of the 55,000 on display, it was 4 pm when we stepped out.
Jorge said there wouldn’t be time for the Botero Museum and catching the flight, so I consoled myself with prints of a plump, raven-haired Mona Lisa (Mona Lisa, Age Twelve) and a rotund Escobar lying dead on the roof of a building (Pablo Escobar Dead).
It was 4.15 pm as we headed to the hotel to pick up my bag and meet Oscar, who was driving me to the airport at 6 pm. I thought two hours would be more than enough to cover 13.2 km listed on the map. And that is when the beast of Bogota traffic was unleashed upon me in full force. Jorge’s GPS showed red on every route. As we inched along, I looked at the walls and was entranced by the vivid graffiti. Australian artist Crisp offers a two-and-a-half-hour graffiti tour, where he talks of the history and significance of street art in Bogota.
As we crept along, I had a default graffiti tour, feasting my eyes on Rodez’ Animales Fantasticos, sporting many eyes. The 50-year-old, with his sons Nomada and Malegria, has turned many of Bogota’s walls into surrealist landscapes. DjLu’s portraits of homeless people and street performers with the tag line Juega Siempre (‘Always Play’) are arresting. The fish by Pez from Barcelona brought a smile, while Toxicómano’s groovy mix of advertising and funk tropes and Bastardilla’s vivid concrete canvases were a feast to the eyes.
Even as I looked at brilliantly dynamic wall art, Jorge was trying every manner of shortcut. He finally said the only way to catch the flight would be to tell Oscar to pick up my bag and meet him midway. As the hands of the clock inexorably moved forward, Jorge and Oscar fixed a rendezvous. Inching ahead to the proposed meeting spot, with the windscreen wipers angrily battling the rain, in a scene right out of a gritty crime drama, the transfer was effected — thankfully it was the right suitcase! As I reached El Dorado puffing and panting, the girl at the counter told me the flight was overbooked. She offered me €600 if I would take the next day’s flight. For a moment, I was tempted. I could see the Salt Cathedral, the Botero, spend some more time with the graffiti and eat chocolate-covered coffee beans. But then, there is Muddu, my Labrador retriever to get home to, and I decide to save it for another trip. Hasta La Vista Bogota!
