Hard Days

After 4 days in Bogotá we are finally starting to feel more acclimated to the altitude (8500 ft). A flight of stairs doesn't leave me dizzy anymore, and the mild morning headaches have faded away. The pulse of the city breathes new energy into us as we transition into our Spanish rhythm. Our new friend Gabriel volunteers to accompany us to the Brazilian embassy in our pursuit of a Brazilian visa. We've decided to secure a visa ahead of time in anticipation of our boat ride down the Amazon next month. Our last travel leg will take us to Guayana via the river in search of our friend Michelle who is finishing up her service in the Peace Corps. As Brian fills out our visa applications, Gabriel and I walk up the block in search of refreshments. The surrounding businesses consists of upper end jewelry stores, restaurants and clothing stores; the Manhattan of Bogotá. It's then, standing on the corner of a busy intersection, Gabriel turns to me with a somber look in his eyes, and says softly, "A car bomb went off here at this corner. 1993. Killed many people. Those were hard days. Very hard days". As I turn to him I am at a loss for words, so I look at him in silence, and for that brief moment I catch my first glimpse into the horror that plagued this country for too many years. In that brief second I see the past resurface in Gabriel's eyes, and then, just as quickly, it disappears. We return to the present and cross the road. 

Until that moment I had only noticed the Colombia of today: modern progress fused with Spanish Colonial influence combined with ancient Muisca civilization. But for most, the memories remain. As long as the US creates the demand, supply will follow, but from everything I've read, and what little I've seen, the widespread violence that ravaged the country for so long has ceased. Tourism prevails. The heart and soul of the country resonates resilience. I am humbled as my respect for the people of this country grows.