What a day to forget my camera...

So, Bogotá is not the city it was made out to be by all of the news articles and books I had read before I came.

First off, I was picturing something like San Jose, Costa Rica, my former Latin American home, a city of about a million...only more violent and dangerous.

Bogotá has about 8 million people in it, a population equal to that of New York city. And while much of that population lives under the shadow of abject poverty, a great majority of it doesn't. It is a bustling hub of culture and commerce, just like any other city of it's size, and it contains all the advantages and disadvantages thereof.

Let me explain by telling a story:

Yesterday, I woke up around six to the rhythmic pounding of steel against steel, as there is a construction site about 30 meters from my bedroom window. I got up, showered, dressed, and decided that it was a good day to find a church. I looked in the phone book, and there was only one church listed, a Wesleyan church about 30 minutes walk from downtown. I got some breakfast, and took the 45 minute bus downtown. I got off, and began to walk through a park that I had not yet traversed. I was soon greeted by a dozen or so nuns, who were passing out tracts. I politely declined and went about my way. It was not long before the streets got a little meaner. And then a lot meaner. There was trash everywhere, and the panhandlers and drug addicts were becoming more frequent and more aggressive. I turned the corner, and there I was, a gringo, alone, dressed in a suit jacket, with a wallet ever so conspicuously in my back pocket, in the midst of one of the rougher neighborhoods in Bogotá. I used my better judgment, and turned around, having decided that I will return in different dress and with someone who knows what they are doing.

I walked back to downtown, finding myself in front of the capitol building in a courtyard of cobblestone and pigeons...and bikes. Dozens of red and yellow bicycles. I politely inquired about the unusual addition to the plaza, and I was informed that every Sunday, several lanes of the busiest streets were partitioned off for the use of bicyclists. Curious, I walked further.

They weren't kidding, thousands upon thousands of bicyclists weaved in and out of each other, some whizzing by with aerodynamic helmets and brightly colored spandex, and some leisurely trailing behind friends and family, chatting in a rapid Spanish along the way. Enjoying a break from the noise and exhaust of the traffic, and taking advantage of Colombia's eternally perfect weather, I continued walking.

Not much further, I was stopped dead in my tracks, almost colliding with a clown that handed me a flyer, advertising a live theater production that was taking place that morning. I looked up and saw that not only was I across the street from that very theater, but the clown with whom I had previously interacted was not the only one. There was a veritable carnival in the street. There were jugglers, tiny cars, and a live band, all there to advertise the play going on inside. I grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich (not very Colombian, I know) and sat on a bench, enjoying the spectacle. After I finished my lunch, I moved on.

A little ways down the road, I came across an enormous cathedral with music blaring from its large, wooden doors. I had felt some slight pangs of conscience for not having attended any kind of church service on Sunday morning, so I wandered in.

Everything was dark, with the glaring exception of the cathedral's three story altar, gilded in gold from top to bottom, every inch decorated in the most ornate Gothic style. The booming pipe organ halted abruptly, and the priest, diminished by the monstrous architecture behind him, got up to speak. The PA was too loud, meant more for those outside the church than those inside, and it seemed as though the message was too. The tiny priest condemned every aspect of Colombian life from the guerrillas to the rich to it's overly-western consumerism. In fact, I could not discern any kind of coherency to his thoughts other than condemnation itself. I politely bowed, crossed myself, and left.

I passed a park, where hundreds of middle aged men and women were jazzersicing to Jock Jams, and deciding that I was active enough, not to mention dressed improperly, I once again forwent catching a bus home, and walked further into this increasingly fascinating city.

I was then lured into another park by the siren's song of familiar music (Coldplay's Clocks), where I found myself surrounded by pink.

Apparently, yesterday was also the date of Bogota's Walk to Cure Breast Cancer. Having nothing better to do, and rather anxious to see what was around the next corner, I bought a pink Avon balloon, and joined the march. I marched along, chanting little rhymes about preventing cancer and attempting to sing along with the marching bands of trumpets, congas and bass drums, playing music somewhere between a rumba and a New Orleans funeral dirge. After about 70 blocks, I was exhausted. I gave my balloon to a little girl next to me and I waved down the bus.

On the ride home, I couldn't help but reflect on how alive this city is. When I first arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is very much like a Chicago or New York, with the only difference being that signs and billboards are in Spanish. I am now inclined to think that Bogotá is better than these, as it has been able to keep that sense of community and public activity that makes Latin America so wonderful, while still embracing the amenities of being a world business center. Don't get me wrong, there are still slums of millions of displaced people, and there are still neighborhoods that are not safe for a lone gringo, but Bogotá is not the dark, industrial wasteland of violence and fear that still exists in the mind of those who have not been recently. It is moving, and from my little time here, I would say that it is moving forward.