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. Although he had been globetrotting for over three years, this was his first time visiting Colombia.
He had long wanted to go, yet fear had kept him away. In fact, during one of his trips through Central America, he chose to fly over Colombia entirely. However, once he arrived in South America, every traveler he met—whether on excursions or in hostel bars—spoke wonders about Bogotá’s mountains or Santa Marta’s crystalline beaches. Eventually, these stories convinced him to visit the city of changing moods: cold and warm Bogotá.
His plane landed at 4 a.m.—the cheapest flight he could find. He had booked only one night at a hostel he found online: The Cranky Croc. Upon leaving the airport, he took a taxi to the historic center. Several streets were blocked due to the arrival of a foreign politician at Plaza de Bolívar. Consequently, Martic had to get out five blocks away and walk alone at dawn.
Nervous but determined, he paid 40,000 pesos, grabbed his backpack, and programmed the route to the hostel on his phone. He also memorized it, just in case. His battery was low, and he didn’t want to risk having it out on the street—one of the first recommendations other travelers had given him.
He estimated a 10-minute walk if he moved quickly. He followed 19th Street, crossed the Transmilenio Las Aguas station, and headed toward the Journalist’s Park. While the streets were still dark and empty, he saw a group of cyclists heading toward the mountain. The city looked stunning in the dark, especially the white building illuminated atop the mountain, casting a romantic glow. He reached for his phone to take a photo, only to realize the battery had died.
Now in the middle of the park, next to the Simón Bolívar Temple—the last landmark he had memorized—he considered asking a cyclist for help. He noticed a water channel separating the park from a row of houses that reminded him of old Europe. Sitting in front of a convenience store, he waited to see if anyone passed by. After a few minutes, he noticed a hunched man with long hair and a thick beard approaching.
The man gave him a glance and walked toward him. Martic stood up, unsure but with no other option. When the man was close, he asked in Spanish:
—¿The Cranky Croc Hostel? Friend.
—Yes, we’re very close—only three blocks, —the man replied—. I can show you.
Martic accepted. They walked together into the heart of the historic center.
—My name is Claudio, —said the man—. I’m a painter. I use old CDs as my canvas. I recycle and live off the tips tourists give me for my art.
—The houses on your right are colonial-style from the Spanish era. You’re lucky to walk here at this hour; I’ve always thought La Candelaria looks more beautiful in Bogotá’s cold, dark dawn.
They walked three blocks, turned right, then continued on the left side of the sidewalk. Afterwards, they crossed Carrera 3 on Calle 12D. Then, as Claudio had said, halfway down the block, a white and red sign with a smiling crocodile appeared.
—Friend, —said Claudio—, here is the hostel.
Joffrey smiled, pulled out a 50,000 pesos bill, and handed it to Claudio, who replied:
—I’ll take the money, but in exchange for a little painting.
He pulled out an old CD, a brush, and small jars of paint. In less than two minutes, he created a memory: yellow and black circles, a line here, a shape there.
—This represents Colombia, —he said—. A sombrero vueltiao.
—Thank you, my friend, —said Joffrey.
He took the painting, handed over the bill, and rang the doorbell. Claudio, seeing him enter, said:
—Take the walking tour at the hostel. I recommend it. A friend of mine is one of the guides. He supports street workers like me and shows both the beauty and the reality of the city.
By Fredy Calderón
Edited in English by D’ette Marceaux
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By. Fredy Calderon
Edited in English by. D’ette marceaux
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