Final destination Bogota

So then the last 420 kilometers. The 10 clock bus has been booked, nothing stands in the way of the last leg of my journey.

However, a vague feeling creeps in that the trip might take longer than the indicated eight hours.

But let's see. I take the metro once again, this time without interruptions (yesterday's trip in the early morning required walking two stations because a woman had thrown herself under the metro).

However, I do not like the waiting bus at all. Although it belongs to the same company as my ticket, it looks a bit run-down, and the unfriendly bus driver ("Un poco de cortesia, por favor!") foreshadows bad things.

And so it happens.

One should beware of general assessments, and it is dangerous to draw an accurate conclusion from a statistical quantity of just 7-8 journeys.

Any statistician will pull his hair out at the following conclusions, but I don't care. So, I have to get it off my chest. All, really all the bus drivers in Colombia are brainless and mindless idiots, completely crazy morons. What these rat bastards, these no-brainers provide their passengers is, to say the least, attempted murder, which should be punished with jail and the revocation of the driver's license for life.

I have already pointed out several times that valid traffic rules in all of South America are of no interest to anyone, but outside of Colombia they are at least followed with a certain amount of shame. Not here. I have come to believe that there are competitions among the drivers, probably a board on the wall in the main office listing the fastest trips between Medellin and Bogota. Pablo Gonzales, 12 hours 14 minutes. Pedro Ibanez, 12 hours 15 minutes.

Siberia on the bus

Today's driver is, as I mentioned before, a charmer of the first order, who rebukes a woman and her children in a half-empty bus because they have settled on three seats instead of two they have paid for. He is a particularly nasty specimen.

Not only does he drive as if bitten by the devil, he also apparently belongs to the species that harasses his clients with particularly low AirCon temperatures. It's so cold that I first have to put on the sweater, then the thick Helly Hansen jacket, then the scarf, and finally the wool cap. The ice-cold air jet from the ceiling, with the nozzles closed by the way, is so strong that I get cold legs through my pants and cover them makeshift with the backpack.

There are families on the bus, small children, babies, and only a few people have warm clothes with them, but no one complains. As if the cold were God-given, people are quietly suffering, sneezing, coughing, sniffling.

I once argued with a driver about the temperature ("Porque hace tanto frio? Es una locura, una estupidez!" and only received a sneer and a few stupid remarks, so I let it go. Outside is high summer, T-shirt weather, shorts, inside is Siberia. Wonderful ... The young man who has a puppy with him wraps it in a warm blanket, while the woman on the seat in front of me presses her little daughter to her chest to give her some warmth.

And so the last few hundred kilometers go by. Soon the almost 10 kilometers will be done.

Surprisingly, I'm not physically tired, but my mind is getting limp. It urgently needs a break of a few weeks to put things in order, to process the thousands of impressions, to make room for something new. Maybe it also realizes that the end is in sight, that in a few days the boredom of everyday life will set in again. Enough time to rest, to shut down, to give things their usual course again ...

But the eye remains curious. Again and again, the gaze wanders out of the window, letting the last impressions flash by. We cross rivers, nameless, unknown, but impressive ... The world seems cold and gray and terrifying in its loneliness. There is nothing here, only water and clouds and fog and abysmal nothingness.

Or even farms, equally nameless, unknown, in the middle of nowhere, hidden in the green hell ... I wonder who lives here. What life is like in the wasteland. Are there children, animals, is there enough to eat, to work. Or is hunger and poverty the permanent companion through time and space?

I don't know. It is the same question I have asked myself on each of my journeys. And never received an answer. Maybe I fear the answer.

Of course it is pitch dark in Bogotà, it's almost nine o'clock, when the bus pulls into the terminal, so as I expected just under 11 and not 8 hours. So that's it. Bye bye, you pork belly of a driver. May you freeze to death in the deepest hell ...

The cab takes me to the final address, a highly praised hotel in an old colonial house in the middle of Candelaria, the old center.

The owner Joshua is supposed to be particularly nice and helpful, but in my case this quickly changes. I ordered and booked a room with a private bathroom. When I get - tired and irritated from freezing for hours - one without private bathroom, I start to get a bit grumpy.

Given the late hour, we agree on a single night, then I will look for something better. Admittedly, the hotel is really beautiful, and those who like huge, hundred meter tall rooms are in paradise. Not me, I feel out of place and hurriedly retreat under the blankets, which are, however, of the finest ...

Mileage: 10118

Matching Song: Green Day - American Idiot

And here the journey continues, to the end