Reise nach Kolumbien

South America Tour 2013-15 – Part I

Medellín - All beginnings are difficult

Tired from the long journey by bus to Frankfurt airport, Seraina and I stroll for a while through the oh-so-boring check-in area. It's Thursday, October 3. At half past eight in the evening, we make our way to the baggage check-in order to get to gate C9 in time.

A young Indian-looking official watches our bags on the screen as I step through the body scanner. For whatever reason, the thing whistles and a tall blond with a handheld scanner blocks my way. "Arms apart. Where do you want to go?" he wants to know. I obey and answer, "To Colombia." "You're in the wrong place."

Somewhat irritated and with my arms stretched out to the side, I want to correct: "But to Panama..." "You're in the wrong place," he interrupts me almost angrily. "Then why...", I try again, but again he cuts me off immediately: "If I tell you that you are wrong here, then you are wrong here. I ain't telling you no shit!" I feel my blood pressure slowly rising. What are you supposed to do with a guy like that? Take him seriously? Probably not. Punch him in the face? I'd love to. His comrades grin. I take one last run at him, "All I'm saying is that on the board card..." "Who do you believe more? The map is wrong. Look at the flight display."

I give up. I can't deal with so much arrogant obtuseness. We are sent to counter C6, where we meet the other Condor passengers (who were all in line at C9 earlier). Nobody knows anything until we ask ourselves. Technical problems of the plane have prevented the departure before the night ban.
Thus, Condor treats all passengers to dinner and a night at the Sheraton airport hotel.

Next Day

Rested, we take off the next morning at 7 am. The flight via the Domenican Republic and Panama to Medellin in Colombia drags on. We sit and wait. Sleep a little. Land. Take off again.
In Panama, we change planes. We are back at the exact same place where we interrupted our last trip together in 2012 .
Later in Colombia, we have to realize that both our backpacks were left behind in Panama.

The next day, our luggage is not at the reception of our hotel as promised by the airline. Nothing can be done. We have to be patient and wander through Medellin with stinking clothes sticking to our bodies.

Through the El Poblado neighborhood

Medellin was founded here by the Spanish in 1675. Much has changed since that time. The city has grown into a metropolis of three million, and since Pablo Escobar's death twenty years ago, the murder rate has dropped drastically.

The heat and humidity prove that if a city had never been built here, this valley would be a dense jungle. But even now, lush greenery provides refreshing shade in the streets of the Poblado overflowing with bars and hostels. The many fast-food restaurants make the American influence obvious.

To get a bit out of the exhaust fumes and the noise of the motor traffic, we take the modern metro to the Botanical Garden. Not only us, families and whole school classes use this green oasis to take a break from the rest of the millions.

In the paradise of Río Claro

After a few phone calls, my backpack arrives in the evening and finally Seraina's on Sunday morning. We decide not to stay longer in the city and drive the next day to the Reserva del Cañón de Río Claro, located between Bogotá and Medellin.

We find a small paradise that we have almost to ourselves. After pitching the tent in an ideal spot, we hike up the course of the river. Reservas are private natural areas in contrast to the state national parks. There are quite a few of both in Colombia.

The trails and cabana facilities appear well-maintained. Activities like river rafting, caving and canopy tours are offered. We're glad we didn't arrive here on a weekend, when all the city folk flock here.
Today we meet only a few people fishing and walking along the Rio Claro meandering through the rainforest. On the way we examine stalactites and stalagmites in which large spiders have built comfortable webs. On the other side of the river we see a cave from which a waterfall shoots out. I want to have a closer look at it.

With light and camera packed in plastic bags I swim over. I climb up the rope ladder attached to the cave entrance. Too late I realize that it is not holding properly. With plastic bags in my mouth and clinging to the ropes, I hit the rock. Somehow I make it up the waterfall with an open knee and into the cave. Indecisive I stand in a small pool and look into the darkness, behind me the water rushes into the river.

I wade a little further, shine my inadequate little light around the corner and still see the same as before. The water comes down from above, there must be steps to climb up. But in this darkness? I flash my camera into the black maw. Slippery walls light up. I feel like I'm inside a worm.

Suddenly, a screech. Something large and black shoots down from the ceiling and disappears into the throat of the cave.
The screeching becomes polyphonic and louder and louder. Maybe I'm just imagining it, trying to calm my nerves, but these bats sound angry. I hurriedly turn around, plunge down the rope ladder into the river, where the immensely strong current wants to force me to sink. I climb the last meters out of the water to safety. And laugh at myself: You've seen too many movies! No bat wants to eat you! Well, this cave expedition has probably fallen into the water.

On the way back to the campground we follow an almost unrecognizable sign with the inscription: "Hospedaje y Servicio de Restaurant" , and across it: "Camping". We climb a dangerously steep staircase and discover a simple hut behind overgrown trees. A monitor lizard shoots past us into the high grass out of our field of vision. Then Martín stands in the doorway and laughs at us: "Buenos Dias! Soy Martín, a la orden!" How should I describe him? A fifty-year-old Afro-Colombian in worn, short clothes and few hairs on his head. He could be a fisherman from the Caribbean.

Instead, he welcomes us to his humble home in the middle of the jungle and cooks us a delicious meal. We chat a bit and promise to come back. "Simón! Mucho gusto. Ciao mamita linda!" he says goodbye to us in a good mood. No one here has any trouble with my name, it is after all an expressive affirmation. Seraina, on the other hand, hardly anyone can remember. Martín also has to write down the name first - then he lets it melt on his tongue with relish. Satified and happy, we return to the campground.

Calm and rain

The following days are quiet. We cook by the fire, read, knit, play the didgeridoo, watch small nimble monkeys, go for a walk. In between we have to lay out the tent and our things to dry. Every night it rains. Sometimes it is just a few raindrops, but in one or two nights thunderstorms pass by, which are really something. Lightning strikes close by, a branch just misses our tent. The next morning the sun shines again as if nothing had happened. Only the river shows what has happened. Río Claro is now a raging brown river.

More and more we delay our departure. But then the weekend comes and with it the crowds. What we didn't know: This week the school year ended and all of Colombia celebrates a long weekend. At first we have the feeling that we would make it through. But then we see our tent surrounded by celebrating Colombian families and students.

Our little quiet paradise - in ruins. The rain that starts early in the evening confirms us.

Escape to Bogotá

On Sunday morning, we flee. Out of the rainforest, into the next bus to Bogotá, the capital with eight million inhabitants. From the valley of the Río Claro at about 500m.a.s.l. the road climbs up to 2600m.a.s.l.. After more than eight hours of bus ride (instead of the five that were announced) we are glad to finally reach our destination.

A whole eight years have passed since I last saw him. Mauricio was in Switzerland for six months as an intern when we met.
We ring the bell at his apartment door in one of the many apartment blocks in the neighborhood that - how could it be otherwise - is called "Bella Suiza" (Beautiful Switzerland). Mauricio welcomes us with a big hug and introduces us to his wife Vivi and their dog Mara. We haven't spoken for half an eternity, we have a lot of catching up to do. Of course, old stories of our time together from Buchs to Pontresina are not forgotten.

Over the next two weeks, we get to know Mauricio and Vivi's friends and family. As well as Bogotá. The huge city has a lot to offer. Large parks, museums, universities, people, traffic.

Vivi takes us to the National Museum where she works and we learn more about the history and culture of Colombia. In the Emerald Museum we learn more about a wonderful, sinfully expensive gemstone. At the Gold Museum... we haven't been yet.

Above all, however, I am fascinated by how the devilishly poor and the outrageously rich can exist so close to each other in this city. The gap between the two seems enormous to me.Nevertheless, one often sees one of the businessmen hurrying in droves through the streets in tie and suit slipping something to a beggar without legs or a juggling and fire-breathing street performer.

The government is also trying to do its part to break down the interpersonal bridge by, for example, lending street kiosks to destitute people instead of renting them out, thus creating official jobs. Or it demands higher rents from those living in the richer neighborhoods - that is, the apartments are more expensive than they are worth - in order to relieve the poorer stratum of the population. Nevertheless, the country is still miles away from social justice, let alone stability.

City and country

While Mauricio and Vivi work, we like to stroll with Mara, their dog, in the park, where I immediately feel transported to Australia as soon as a light breeze floats over to us from one of the eucalyptus trees.

Marita quickly got used to us and is happy like a little child every time we go for a walk. We complement each other splendidly. We take her with us on our walks and she shows us around her neighborhood.

After an invigorating Saturday morning yoga, Seraina and I are happy to leave the stuffy city for a weekend at least. Friends of Mauricio own a finca (farm) an hour's drive from Bogotá. Once there, we can hardly imagine the noise and smog of the big city.

What a bliss to hike through the forest in the fresh mountain air, sit by the fireplace in the little "chalet" with a hot chocolate and spend time playing games and eating.

We will soon move on. Mauricio and Vivi equip us with valuable tips and connections for the journey north to the coast. The two make us really eager for more Colombia.
As the country's new slogan already advertises:

The only dangerous thing about Colombia is that you want to stay.