Busing Bogota and More
Many have suggested that Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Colombia’s Nobel for Literature winner, used Mompox (pronounced Mompos) as a setting when he wrote One Hundred Years of Solitude. I had visited Alamataca to see a replica of his boyhood home so why not see the fabled Mompox? Going to a Colombian colonial town beside a river for a couple of days sounded like a good antidote to city life but getting there would not be smooth sailing.
“No, you can’t get to Mompox from here,” I was told more than once.
In my several decades, I have learned you can always get where you want to go. You may have to detour a few times, change your routing or schedule, ride a burro instead of a horse, but you can get there from here, wherever either of them may be.
Less than a week before I arrived in Colombia, a police station in the north coastal part had been bombed. Peace talks with the guerillas had faltered, once again. I altered my route, made easier by checking into a wonderful 1927 built hotel farther east along the Caribbean Ocean. Now it was time to move southward from Mompox and by bus.
To my rescue came a Barcelona, now working in Marseille, boat captain. She had made the trip in reverse and provided the needed information. The next morning, at 3:30 am, leaving the bright city lights and my comfortable seaside hotel, I boarded a van for the journey.
Cane backed and bottomed rocking chairs dominated Mompox’s numerous charming, even stunning inner courtyards. Voices were more muted. The Magdalena River flowed peacefully as military surveyed the passersby. Massive plazas with cathedrals in the backdrop made a picturesque setting. One house appeared ready for me, proudly displaying the name Barbara.
As a French tourist in Mompox and I discussed our Colombian travels, I learned that going from Mompox to my next destination could not happen. Rebels had bombed a bridge on the route.
Hmmm. Time for Plan K.
Perhaps it was best to return early to Bogota, getting to know the capital more extensively than I did when I arrived a few weeks ago. I made my hotel booking and headed for the bus terminal where the agent promised the routing was not in the direction of the bombing.
Soon I was rolling along in an overstuffed velour recliner equivalent, wi-fi, air conditioning, front row views, watching Hollywood films. My seatmate surreptitiously counted her money, stuffing it back inside her bra. An apple, yogurt, water, and crackers waited at the top of my bag. Hot water flowed easily in the tiny toilet room’s sink. Life was good and I was ready for a serious bus ride.
Departing Mompox, we ambled along on dirt roads interspersed with asphalt, perfect for absorbing the countryside. My passport identification had been recorded. All passengers had been photographed before we departed, the first I had experienced on a bus trip. A few new passengers joined as we moved along yet it felt as if we were a bit of a temporary traveling family, all contentedly headed for the overnight trek to Bogota.
Both the Serengeti and the jungle seemed to pass by our windows as we bounced gently, then lurched. A pre-adolescent showered naked outside his house. Small termite mounds decorated fields while egrets remained close to grazing Brahmin cattle. Tinto (Colombian name for tiny light coffee servings) vendors stood in the middle of the road, serving buyers in their vehicles.
As darkness fell, the road began to rise. The driver had eaten but not rested at the thirty-minute dinner break where the fifty of us were well fed on soup, chicken, beef, and fruit in record time. Back on board, the assistant driver retired to his cabin at the rear of the bus. Passengers watched The Mummy or slept.
The farther south we went the more police presence increased, particularly heavier prior to a bridge. I begin to wonder.
Worry, maybe.
I’d been following our routing on my Colombian map and most of the time, I thought we were veering away from the bridge bombing site. If we weren’t, what could I do? Make the driver let me off in the middle of nowhere? Hardly. No, I was in for the ride, regardless of the route.
Most of the roads were two-lane with the occasional four-lane. Ninety five percent of the traffic included tankers and other eighteen wheelers or large buses like the one I was on. Few autos but several motorcycles whizzed and weaved at lightning speed, in and out among the giant rolling behemoths. Truck stops appeared filled to capacity with only the occasional hotel to be found.
Now we are at the four-thousand-foot level. This time of year, in Oregon, we could have snow covering the roads but none such is here. Curves increase but it does not slow us. Our driver, cautious yet like all Colombian drivers, passes easily on double yellow lines even when oncoming lights are in the distance, overtakes and is overtaken.
By the time we reach the seven-thousand-foot level, we experience numerous lane closures. Boulders have fallen onto the roadway, leaving our driver with only a foot clearance on either side, a skimpy margin of error in this setting. I thanked the Whoever-is-in-Charge that the night was cloudless, thereby more likely assuring road traction. Hours pass as the curves continue and the ascent continues.
Endless hairpin curves greeted the driver as he steered one handedly, holding his cell phone in the other and laughing uproariously at his caller. Only he and I remained awake. I counted the hours he had driven. Sitting diagonally behind him, I pondered what to do should it appear he dozed, or the gods forbid, he doubled over with illness—did I know how to stop this gigantic bus? Would there be a group of bandits, rebels, or just unpleasant folk around the next bend?
Three hours north of Bogota, he pulled over alongside the road and set the bus brake. Saying nothing, he opened the door, walking out into the night. The assistant driver strode from the back of the bus, took the driver’s seat, closed the door, and onward we rolled. Seamlessly.
As I waited for my luggage at the Bogota terminal, I realized I was shaken. I felt as if I’d been on a boat, swaying all night every which way for hours. My sea legs were not supporting me. I did not mind that I had chosen, for safety reasons, to wait until daylight arrived before taxiing to my next hotel. I needed to sit or stand in one place, not moving, not fearing I was rolling down a cliff, not exploding over a river. I did not need the terminal’s massive pinball machine room, but I did appreciate a breakfast tamale, made only as I’ve seen them prepared in Colombia.
By Sunday morning, rested and relaxed, I was ready for more exploration. I’d spent a cozy Saturday evening ensconced in my hotel room watching Youtube interviews with Dervla Murphy and Robyn Davidson. For anyone who doesn’t know, Ireland’s Dervla Murphy, now in her eighties is at the top of the list for women adventure travelers. Australian Robyn Davidson began her traveling fame trying to find her young woman self by walking with camels and a dog from central Australia to the western coast. I will never rank with them and have no pretensions about trying to do so but they reaffirmed that one can explore alone, and amazing experiences are the reward.
After a pleasant chat with another hotel guest, Tijuana based Cesar, I walked around “my” community. Flowers, kitchen ware, vegetables, meat and more sellers were in fine form this Sunday morning. A spritely senior, groomed and properly suited in white shirt, tie, and jacket, invited me to join the local cathedral worshipers. Poodles and pit bulls wearing pink bows and high visibility vests walked easily beside doting humans.
Then I saw the buses.
Various buses zoomed past me, screeching to a halt at the bus stop. Why not, I thought? I’ve ridden buses to the end of the line in several countries. I always make sure I have enough local currency to taxi back home and even more importantly, that I know where my temporary home is. Yes, I had funds. Yes, I had my address, and my phone was charged fully.
An oncoming collectivo–a small bus, usually old, decrepit, and rickety–displayed a sign, showing it went to El Centro (City Center). As it barely slowed, I grabbed a handrail and hopped on as I had learned to do a decade ago in Ecuador, to find myself the solo passenger. Others joined as we bounced past vegetable sellers, sports stores, and variety shops. Rising six inches from the seat as we hit a speed bump, I promised myself to remember to wear a bra next time I went for one of these adventures. This bus had not had a shock, strut, or spring, perhaps ever.
I recognized a few landmarks as we neared the Candeleria historic area. We passed a park where young men stilt-walked, an open doorway framing a young woman wearing see through black lace leggings bringing a frown from the young mother seated ahead of me, and the various street market sellers. Nothing looked interesting enough for me to exit the bus.
A salesman wearing a portable microphone boarded at the back, marched to the front of the bus, turned toward us, then opened a plasticized notebook showing various body parts. As he handed packets of whatever he was selling to various riders, he continued his sales pitch at full volume. We lurched back and forth as finally, he concluded and sat down, making no sales.
Past the government buildings and museums, we rolled, passing the tattoo academy, numerous shops for manicures and hair cutting, furniture stores, and coffee shops. Now we began an ascent, up narrow streets toward the barrios residing on the hillsides. Great views these residents have but little else. Terraces are used for drying clothes, not for barbecuing or relaxing on patio furniture.
With no warning, I was raised no less than eighteen inches straight off the hard seat of the bus, then slammed down immediately. Other passengers were raised as well but my screams, coming from the last seat on the bus, were the loudest.
My vertebrae were in shock. Never had they taken such a beating. My hip bones met directly with whatever is above my ribs. Passengers yelled at the driver to slow down when going over the many speed bumps. The passenger nearest me, one who boarded with a five-by-two feet stuffed, black plastic bag, then promptly opened his journal to make notes, asked if I needed to go to a hospital. I declined, mentally hoping I didn’t regret that decision. For blocks I moaned in agony.
Through the barrios we continued, up and around streets that most Americans would suggest would be impossible to take a bus. Twin boys with their mother climbed aboard. A woman wearing a black arm sling, carrying a large basket struggled to board. An elderly man tearfully said farewell to a similar man as he boarded the bus. We swayed, rose another six inches from our seats periodically, and hurtled onward. I hung on to a metal pole slightly to my right, braced myself with my feet askew, one onto a seat base and the other on the metal pole. I kept my mouth closed so if I fell, I would not damage my teeth.
I knew not where the bus would stop but I was sure it would stop somewhere at what was considered the end of the line. Meanwhile, I was seeing Bogota as likely few tourists did. As we rounded one turn, I could look down on perhaps more than five hundred buses of various sizes and shapes. Ah, here’s the terminal and the end of the line, I thought.
Nope.
Onward and upward the mountain we passed more wall to wall corner shops selling chickens, avoided goats herded in the back of a truck awaiting a new owner, and viewed young break dancers practicing their moves. Bogota’s fabulous street art had lessened as more graffiti decorated walls. More than two dozen dogs gathered lackadaisically in one area, some lounging, some strolling as if they were old men settling in for a weekend bocce ball tourney.
Near the top of the mountain with block houses on either side and even farther up, two sets of high visibility vest wearing police officers, cameras mounted atop their vehicles, sorted out a dispute among young men. Twenty or so onlookers surveyed the situation. Then we stopped. The driver pulled into a seedy, trash strewn lot with a half-dozen buses parked haphazardly. Hitting the mirrors on the bus next to us, he turned off the engine.
We were at the end of the line and I was the only remaining passenger.
The driver and I, due to my limited Spanish, could not communicate about when the bus would return down the hill. I sensed it was not for some time which translated meant, not until he was ready after his lunch and perhaps a siesta. Then he moved from being a transportation provider to a helper, insisting he wait with me beside the road until I secured a taxi to take me to my Chapinero area hotel.
The first driver refused, saying he did not know the area where I was going. Given the appearance of his taxi, I rejoiced as it looked like another vehicle with no shocks. My vertebrae could take only so much on this given Sunday morning.
I began to recover by the time the second taxi driver, along with his wife and two small children in the front seat, delivered me to my hotel. Now, a few hours later, the aches are setting in. I can only hope this last bus ride is only imprinted on my mind, not my body for any longer than it takes the aspirin to work.
Surely, there must be another Colombian bus I want to take to somewhere.