Joffrey Martic carried about twenty kilos in his backpack, including random kitchen items for camping and his laptop for his freelance web programming gig. He was a small, robust man with an inquisitive gaze. He had already been globetrotting for over 3 years but for the first time he was finally going to visit Colombia.   

He had been interested in going for many years, but out of fear he had avoided it.  So much so that on one of his trips coming down from Central America by bus, he decided to hop on a plane to skip the country of coffee altogether. But ever since he landed at his first destination in South America, all the travelers he met on excursions and hostel bars, after a few drinks, ended up telling him wonderful things about Bogotá and its mountains; or Santa Marta with its crystalline beaches. 

This finally convinced him to visit the city of changing mood: the cold and at the same time hot Bogotá. 

It was 4 a.m. when his plane landed; it was the cheapest time he could find to fly. He had booked only one night’s accommodations to try his luck, in a hostel he found on the internet: The Cranky Croc. When he left the airport, he took a taxi that took him directly to the historical center. Several streets were blocked off in preparation for the arrival of an important foreign politician at the Plaza de Bolívar. This caused Martic to have to get out about 5 blocks from the hostel, to walk alone at five in the morning. Frightened, he took a deep breath, paid 40000 pesos to the taxi, took his backpack and set off for the unknown, but not before programming the route to the hostel with the app on his cell phone. He also memorized it just in case. His phone was about to die and he didn’t want to risk having it out in the street. This was one of the first recommendations the other travelers gave him. 

He knew it would be a little over 10 minutes if he walked quickly. He had to go along 19th street, cross the Transmilenio de Las Aguas station to head to the Journalist’s park. It was still dark outside and the streets were empty, when suddenly he saw a group of cyclists heading in the direction of the nearby mountain. The city looks so beautiful in the dark, he thought, noticing a stunning white building illuminated at the top of the mountain, casting a romantic feel to its surroundings. He decided to take a photo, but when he took out his phone he realized the battery had died. 

He was in the middle of the park, next to the Simón Bolívar Temple. It was the last landmark he had memorized of the route, as his plan had been to get there and then check his map again. He thought of asking a cyclist for help and walked quickly to cross the road, where he had observed other cyclists passing by.  He noticed that there was a natural border formed by a water channel that ran between the park and the other side where you could also see houses that reminded him of old Europe. He sat with his backpack in front of a convenience store to wait a few minutes to see if anyone passed to ask for directions. After a minute or two he raised his head, noticing a hunched man to his left with long hair and a thick beard. It was apparent he was a street dweller, one of those who always prowl, the true natives in the big cities. 

The man also noticed Joffrey’s presence, giving him a look over and walking to where he was. Martic was a little nervous to see him coming, but with nowhere else to go, he decided to wait on his feet. When he was near, almost a meter away, the man with the thick beard asked him if he was lost. Joffrey answered him without delay in his limited Spanish. 

—¿The Cranky Croc Hostel? Friend. 

—Yes, we are very close, only three blocks —the man replied—, — I can show you where it is. 

Martic had nothing more to lose and decided to accept the offer. They set out up the road along the sidewalk, entering the heart of the historic center. 

—My name is Claudio, —said the man—, —I am a painter. I use the old CDs as my canvas. I do this to recycle, I live on the tips that tourists like you give me for my paintings. 

—The houses you see on your right are in the colonial style of the Spanish era. You’re lucky to be able to walk around here at this hour; it has always seemed to me that the Candelaria looks more beautiful in the dark and cold dawn of Bogota. 

They walked about three blocks, turned right, then continued on the left side of the sidewalk. Then they crossed Carrera 3 on Calle 12D on the right. Then, as Claudio had said, halfway down the block, you could already see a white and red sign with a smiling crocodile on it. 

—Friend, —said the thick-bearded man—, —here is the hostel. 

Joffrey put his hand in his pocket and, with a smile, took out a 50,000 pesos bill to give to the man, who quickly replied: 

—I’ll take the money, but in exchange for a little painting of mine. 

He took out of his backpack an old CD, a brush and some tinctures that he kept in small jars, and on the shiny side he began the art: a series of circles between yellow and black, a line here, other shapes here, in less than 2 minutes the memory was ready. 

—This represents Colombia, —he said—. 

— A sombrero vueltiao. 

— Thank you, my friend, —said the traveler—. 

Joffrey took the painting, handed over the bill, turned his back and rang the doorbell. Claudio, seeing that the visitor was entering his hostel, said goodbye to him with thanks and said: 

—Take the walking tour at the hostel. I recommend it, a friend of mine is one of the guides, he has always supported me and the other street workers. He likes to show the beauty but also the reality of the city.    

By. Fredy Calderon 

Edited in English by. D’ette marceaux