Last morning in Bogota

Sayta Hostal

It is seven in the morning, and I have just opened the high, narrow wings of the door to the balcony we had closed last night, more to block out the noise from the street than the light coming in through the window. When this house was built the street noise would have consisted of horses' hooves and iron-rimmed wagon wheels rattling on the cobble stones instead of honking horns and the howling of bus engines a few blocks further down the hill: the Sayta Hostal at the upper end of Calle 12B is a beautiful house from the colonial era, like so many others in La Candelaria, Bogotá's historic district.

I had found it online when I looked for a place to stay before we left Canada, and while there were no reviews yet on “trip advisor” (the 'Sayta' has only been in operation since earlier this year) I was so taken by the curved yellow line of its facade, the photos showing the view, that I decided: this is where we'll spend the last few days in Bogotá.

After two days spent in this sprawling city of about 10 million we are now ready to pack our bags one last time before heading home this afternoon.

A bit bleary-eyed, we arrived at the main bus terminal at 6:30 on Tuesday morning after an 18-hour bus ride from Pasto. Since it was still very early to check into our hostel we sat on a bench in the sun not far from the terminal, right beside a fruit stand. Two dark-skinned men were busy preparing and selling fruit to a steady stream of customers on their morning jogging round or walking by in business suits. Fascinated, I watched how they skillfully peeled and sliced one orange-fleshed papaya and golden mango after the other with a huge knife. The fruit, cut neatly into cubes, was sold in plastic cups (plastic forks handed out with each purchase). The men obviously knew many of their customers by name; a few friendly words were exchanged, and several people chose a banana or a papaya from the newspaper-wrapped bundles waiting in wooden crates stacked around the stand.

 

The longer I watched, the more my mouth watered at the sight of the cups with the glowing fruits: could I chance it? Buying food on the street is one of the no-nos in Latin American countries, and it would be really unfortunate if I got sick. But the men wore plastic gloves, and the fruit looked so fresh, and I thought that we ourselves could not handle a mango more carefully if we bought one whole (which was the other alternative) – on the contrary, we'd probably make much more of a mess. Finally, I gave in to the temptation, was greeted with 'Buenas Dias, chica' (which changed into 'gracias, señora' when he took a closer look at me) and, after paying 2,000 COP (about $1,20), returned to Johann waiting on the bench. It was delicious - and of course we didn't get sick! 

(To be continued when time allows)