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Published: July 23rd 2011
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The convalescence ended. It was time again for travel. Faced with the prospect of an 18 hour bus trip through the northern Colombian mountains, we opted for a plane ride. For a not much more than a third extra expenditure we would end up saving 16 and a half hours of travel and a handful of Dramamine pills.
We had booked a place in Bogotá, and it ended up being located in the Chapinero area, north of the old centre,
La Candelaria, where most of the hostels are found. The taxi driver had a little trouble finding the place, and, when we arrived, we did too. There was no outside indication that the building was a hostel. To the street it presented an anonymous inner-suburban face – you were obviously meant to take it on faith that it wasn't the house of a hapless Colombino who had been the victim of another Lonely Planet error. The hostel was all right. It had once been someone's house, now converted into quite a small hostel.
The area we were staying in was the flash area of Bogotá – sort of its downtown. Just down the street from the hostel was a
huge shopping centre called Atlantis. It lacked a K-mart like shop for us to buy reasonably priced goods – instead it was chock full of big name outlets; Lacoste, Gucci, etc.
The area also had the
T-Zone. This was an incredible concentration of clubs and bars – think James St and the Valley times 20 and minus the drunken tossers. If you couldn't find somewhere to drink there you had probably got on the wrong bus in the first place. Klaire and I went up the road to the Hard Rock for a drink. Sure, there were a hundred other places to go, but there were so many gorgeous Colombian yoofs about I felt inadequate. Klaire could cut it, but I may have been the only bearded man in the district. Luckily, a battle of the bands was on, so it was an opportunity to see some local live music, and some was very good. Some, of course, was crap, but that just made it real.
Being close to the nightlife zone had its negatives to offset the ease of walking home. The room Klaire and I were staying in had once been the garage, so the front
wall was the standard green, corrugated garage steel door. No windows and a big area made for quite a nice hangout most of the time.
However, when the 4am street football match commenced outside with the goal drawn up on the garage door, the room took on a different character – much like that of a giant drum. “BANG.....gooooooalllllllllll!” became the soundtrack to our lack of sleep that Saturday night/Sunday morning.
We took advantage of the sights of Bogotá, easily accessed by the truly world-class
Transmilenio bus system. Having been all churched out by Central America we avoided these, but there was plenty else to see. Hopping a bus to La Candelaria was dead easy, and cheap.
We spent the day wandering the old city of Bogotá, taking in the telenovela being filmed in the plaza and dodging the pigeons feasting on corn that you could buy from little old ladies wandering the square. Feeling faint with hunger at one point we found a cafeteria on a side street. In a quirk of fate there was a power outage, but this was no obstacle. Instead it made for quite the ambient feed of an excellent
menú del dia, sitting amongst a strange collection of Colombian art and old typewriters.
But what to do around Bogotá? Not for from the capital is the small town of
Zipaquira. Not famous for much besides a big cathedral it held, at first, little appeal. Reading further, it turned out that the cathedral was salt! Wow, really, how does it not melt in the rain? Can you lick it? These questions and many more raced through my mind. This we had to see.
A couple of buses and we got to Zipaquira to see what would turn out to be a massive hole in the ground. Saying it was one of the better cathedrals I had seen is not normally a glowing recommendation, given my objection to obscene displays of religious wealth while their adherents starve outside the front gates. In this case, though, it held.
The cathedral was constructed out of an abandoned salt mine, hence the title Salt Cathedral, and it was truly massive. There were 14 chambers, corresponding with the 14 stations of the cross (I know this because I read the signs), and the last few were massive, with caverns as big as an above
ground cathedral.
Helpfully, each one had a giant number and a short explanation about what station it referred to – Jesus hiccups, Jesus trips over, Jesus has a nap, that sort of thing – like 2000 year old Facebook status updates from boring people, really. Up until then, having been mercifully spared Religious Instruction at school, I had guessed Stations of the Cross might refer to which line you might take to get from Oxford St to Darlinghurst street on your next Sydney trip. Honestly, the cathedral was impressive, and the trip worth it. Being me, though, the highlight of day might have been the discovery that the Bogotá central bus terminal has futsal courts in it.
Not next door, or within walking distance, but
right in the bus station. There were hordes of commuters who, instead of poking at their phones and looking bored, were cheering on slightly unfit amateurs having a crack at scoring a well earned goal. This was some consolation on out taxi trip the next day.
The drive, clearly experienced as demonstrated by his well worn beaded seat cover, pointed out that we were leaving too early. We would miss out on
the futsal world cup qualifiers
and the Shakira concert. Life's tough, I guess – some sacrifices must be made.
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