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| Looking from Monserrate to Guadelupe |
The sun was shining through the window
when I opened the shutters to the narrow enclosed balcony running
alongside the first floor of our Sayta Hostal, promising clear views for our
planned hike up Monserrate Hill.
We were on our way by a quarter past
ten, along the now already somewhat familiar little streets to a
bigger tree-lined thoroughfare that we followed uphill for about
twenty minutes. Traffic was heavy along that road, and, despite what
I wrote yesterday, pollution was still noticeable. Thank goodness we
didn't have to deal with this all the way up. We eventually reached
the parking lot that marks the start of the stairs. There are easier
ways to reach the top, no doubt: a cable car and a funicular are the
other options. But it is, after all, not only about reaching the
destination, it is about the way.
Monserrate Hill and its counterpart,
Guadelupe, were sacred to the indigenous Muisca already long before
the Spanish arrived. The latter tore down the temples and built
churches in their stead. The strenuous walk to reach either has been
done as a pilgrimage from those days on.
We passed through a gate manned by a
soldier, as in many public places there for security reasons; we
would encounter more at different stations along the trail. People of
all ages were on the way either up or down, and small stands with
refreshments, from water to ice cream, bananas to pineapple and
watermelon, baked goods, chocolate, candy, but also beer, empanadas
and grilled meats made good business from the crowd. Right at the
beginning of the trail an old man with a scale tried to attract
attention: for a small fee you'd be weighed, given a slip of paper
with the amount and, supposedly, could check if you had lost any
weight by the time you passed him again after the hike. When we
passed the spot again on the way down he was gone, however. Tough
luck for those who had hoped to find out if the pilgrimage had any
side benefits.
The sun was hiding behind clouds for
much of the way up, thankfully; it was hard enough to walk without
heat adding to the strain. The stairs consisted of mostly long steps
built from rocks; each one required at least two steps, sometimes
three. Lush vegetation lined the trail on both sides, flowers in
shades of red, pink, purple and yellow attracting butterflies and
birds. The air was fragrant here, exhaust fumes long forgotten. I
thought I heard the familiar twitter of hummingbirds a few times, and
finally I saw a beautiful green metallic one darting from flower to
flower.
I had to stop often to catch my breath
and was soon drenched in sweat, but I was by far not the only one.
The altitude gain on the hike is 465m over the course of about 2.5
km, and by the time we reached the church we were at 3,152m above sea
level. I was surprised how many small children, looking no older than
maybe three or four, walked up with parents or grandparents. There
were runners in sports gear hastening up or sprinting down, old
people who were obviously not well off, judging by their footwear
that, in some cases, was in tatters, groups of young people engaged
in lively conversation, some with music playing on phones to make
walking more pleasant. Near the top an old man was pulling himself up
step by step on the railing, determined to make it. And then, just
when it seemed it would never end, the stairs turned into a walkway
with only a slight incline for a bit before commencing for one last
push: we had reached the destination. The view from the top was
indeed stunning: much of Bogotá
was spread out in the valley below, and after some searching we found
Plaza Simon Bolívar
and the cathedral. In the distance clouds were rising from the
mountains. The sun had come out again, and the church gleamed pure
white.
Loads
of people were milling around in front of it, crowds spilling down
towards restaurants and souvenir shops we chose to avoid. Many had
come up via the cable car or funicular, no doubt, but I'm still
amazed how many of them walked. We had a look at the church,
surprised how plain it was compared to other catholic churches we had
seen in South America. The only more elaborate part was a gilded
side altar that featured a black madonna and child, quite beautiful.
Maybe the relative plainness was due to the fact that this was a
pilgrimage church?
The
way down took us less than the two hours we had needed for the way
up, but was hard on the knees, of course. Yet it was great to be
there, the city with all its noise far below, to share the way with
so many others who had come for so many different reasons.
We
stopped at Candelaria,
the same restaurant
where we ate yesterday, recommeded by our hostel manager John as a
place where the locals eat (he was right – not a single foreigner
in the rather big place), and enjoyed the cold beer as much as the
Arroz mixto,
rice mixed with chicken and vegetables. The siesta that followed was
much needed as well. I wonder how our bodies will feel tomorrow ...
It
will be a slower day, however, so we should be able to recover. We
have booked a room in Zipaquirá,
a smaller city about 50km to the north of Bogotá,
famous for its salt mines and a salt cathedral. Tomorrow morning we
plan to visit the Museo del Oro after breakfast and then make our way
to Zipaquirá
by bus sometime in the afternoon.
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