Cartagena is a city that seduces you from every angle and through all the senses, from the most ornate, flower-adorned cathedral to the smell of greasy arepas wafting from street vendors.

I happened on these ceviche mongers one afternoon and any doubts I had over the freshness of the seafood were dispelled once I tasted it. Their allure is in their folksy simplicity: the sweetness of the tomato sauce with the tang of lime and the bite of the ají. I went back for more every day I was there.

Here Santander, my favourite vendor of the bunch, shows you how to prepare it at home.

.

Congratulations, Bianca. You are an excellent candidate for Lasik refractive surgery for myopia. Eat a light meal tomorrow, don’t apply make-up around the eyes, and be at the clinic at 1pm.

Gracias, doctor.

And this is how ophthalmologist Dr. Oscar Piñeros pronounced his verdict. I was going to be another patient who would (potentially) remove her glasses and contacts for once and for all, and who would surely fatten his hefty bank account. According to a study published in July 2009 by research firm Kalorama Information, 1.1 to 1.4 million people undergo Lasik surgery each year – and this is only in the U.S. It’s an industry that moves more than $2 billion a year, and this only during work hours.

I started using glasses at 19. I owe the discovery of my shortsightedness to my French teacher, who noticed how much I strained to read the conjugations for être and avoir on the blackboard. But I never fully assumed this frailty, and for years I reserved the glasses to indispensable situations, such as driving, the movies, or the computer. Because of my resistance, my daily world became progressively unfocused and its colors less vivid. As such, the indispensable situations progressively multiplied. And to my complete ignorance, I was taken for arrogant or snobby as I rarely returned an undetected smile from across the hallway.

Colombia is a mecca of so-called medical tourism. Roughly 35,000 gringos fly to the South American country each year to augment (or shrink) their junk or their breasts, clarify their teeth or submit to a root canal, operate their knees or eyes, even put a balloon in their stomachs. Out of vanity or necessity, the low prices, high technology and competence of Colombian professionals are attractive enough for the trip.

And what a trip. Caribbean beaches and national parks, warm and hospitable folk, stunning historical towns like Vila de Leyva and Cartagena, vibrant cities like Bogotá and increased public security are all the reasons I needed to buy my plane ticket, which cost a measly CAD$500.

.

.

The clinic that I picked – Clínica de Oftalmologia de Cali – is one of the most reputable in the nation. On my first visit I discovered that it’s more like a surgical mall, offering everything from cataract surgery to Barbie noses for the more complexed. And it’s foreign-friendly to the point of offering complimentary transport to and from the airport, as well as hotel discounts. The place is clean, the staff attentive, and the technology cutting-edge. My doctor – Dr. Piñeros – works in Cali as well as in Philadelphia.

Lasik surgery, which cost me CAD$700 (a third of what I’d pay in Montreal) is technically painless, and you don’t spend more than one hour in the clinic on operation day. Upon arrival, a nurse gave me half a tranquilizer and a painkiller. My eyes were hosed with a series of fluids and anti-bacterial drops and anesthetics. By the fifth application, my eyes and nerves were neurally whining. But this was just the beginning.

While all that chemistry settled in, you feel the odd sensation of having your eyes numb. I was rooting for the tranquilizer to knock me out like a good dose of roofies that it would leave me so submissive that I would happily hand over my bank credentials to anyone who asked.

But soon my name was called. I swiftly greeted the doctor and laid on the table trying to contain my heartbeat. No help from the roofies. The first thing they do is adhere a plastic sheet over your face with a hole for one eye. It was hard to breathe or talk. I instinctively tried to move the plastic away but the nurse intercepted my hand and, taking the hint, enlarged the hole around my eye with scissors.

And so, the doctor began to narrate each step: “Now I’ll place this device on your eye to keep it open and steady. Now I’ll apply three drops. Now I’ll pull back your eyelid. Now we’ll apply the laser. Your sight will get a little blurry now, it’s normal.”

He in fact narrated all the steps except for one:

“Now I’ll take a razor and slice off the top of your cornea, which will remain held in place by a tiny sinew like the foil cover of a yogurt bottle. Now you’ll smell something like burning meat. Now I’ll place the little cover back in place and rub your eye with a little spatula like it was a cake being iced.”

There’s another thing. This is the only surgery where you can’t shut your eyes or turn your head the other way and pretend nothing’s happening. I could SEE the blade GO INSIDE my eye to cut a CHUNK of my CORNEA! And despite all this I lay still, watching each movement, trying to remember that I was there on free will and that it would soon end, and that millions of others went through the same thing; I watched the little red light, trying to forget everything else, the heat, my beating heart, my nervousness, anxiety, hearing every pore of my body and of my mammal instinct screaming GET OUT NOW!!!

But there was still the left eye to go…

.

The day after, with 20/20 vision.

.

In the end, the doctor didn’t lie. The operation is, in fact, painless. But pain in entirely subjective, and I think I would prefer the assurance and familiarity of a friendly sting to that uncomfortable and strange torture. But yes, it was worth it, I’m fully recovered, my vision is 20/20 and I would do it all over again.

.

La Candelária

If the cobblestone streets and brightly-colored colonial homes don’t charm you, the ambling artists in this bohemian neighborhood will. Just pop inside any of the tiny art studios along the streets and have a riveting chat with the owner about his style, his influences and his messages.

This is also where you will find the impressive Botero museum housing the the most famous works of Colombia’s best-known lover of the obese. Just next door is a museum devoted to the minting of coins.

A few minutes away is the Gabriel García Márquez cultural centre, a gorgeously built complex devoted to the magic realism master, and where artworks from around the Americas can be found.

.

Monserrate

The cable-car doesn’t shy from letting visitors know how high they’re going and how fast they’re getting up there. The buildings and monuments at street level rapidly shrink as you approach the mountaintop chapel with one of the most breathtaking views of a city from above.

Gregorian chants trickle from speakers hidden among beautifully manicured gardens, creating a Catholic Zen oasis. And this is where you see the Colombian zeal for their green areas, as the mountain serves as a partition between chaotic city and pristine protected forests.

.

The salt cathedral in Zipaquirá

You learn that salt miners in this suburb of Bogotá demanded a place they could worship during the day. And you learn that the city pulled a miraculous engineering feat building an underground temple made entirely of salt.

The dark forms, lit only by green and blue lights, create an eerie, ethereal, and utterly serene enclosure.

.

Zona T

As you move north along the vibrant Carrera 13, you’ll notice your surroundings get a little more posh. Plain coffee stops become cafés. The clothes look more expensive. Then you see a mall with Prada and Zegna stores. That’s when you know you’re approaching the epicenter of Bogotá’s nightlife.

Zona T, at the intersection of Cra 13 and Calle 82, is a pedestrian-only cluster of bars, restaurants and nightclubs where the city’s chic come to play. You’ll find everything here, form salsa clubs to fancy pizzas, even an Irish pub. A mandatory stop for the party-inclined or simply to see how the locals cut loose.

.

Museo de Oro

The Spaniards pretty much robbed Colombia of every last pre-Columbian gold they could find. But all the gold they did not find, treasured buried in lost tombs, are housed in this fantastic museum.

Using clever smelting and molding techniques, the primitive peoples of Colombia expressed their mythologies through complex gold ornaments, jewelry and statues. The top floor exhibit was my favorite: an homage to all the people of the Americas and a plea for conservation through videos, dioramas, and ecological exhibits.

.

La Macarena

Relax, no one does cheesy synchronized dancing in this pleasant neighborhood full of great restaurants, cafes and bookstores. Originally an enclave for the poor, it has gentrified and become popular among left-leaning intellectuals.

Among the delightfully original restaurants is La Juguetria (see photo), where table are mini carousels and the ceiling is covered in creepily burned dolls.

And nearby is Bogotá’s best-known bullring, where, if you’re lucky (and not morally opposed to it) you can catch a bullfight.

1. Because it’s sandwiched between the Caribbean and the Andes, Colombia boasts an incredible variety of musical styles. Some of those styles include:
Champeta • Vallenato • Trova • Salsa • Despecho • Guasca • Merengue • Bachata • Reggaeton • Cumbia • Porro • Currulao • Bambuco • Joropo

.

2. If you order a café in Colombia, you’ll be served a little bit of coffee drowned in a lot of milk. If all you want is black coffee, you must order a tinto.

.

3. There are three ways to order eggs in Colombia: Frito (sunny-side up), revueltos (scrambled), or perico (scrambled with tomatoes and onions).

Huevos pericos

.

4. The town of Popayán was the first in the world to be designated a City of Gastronomy by UNESCO.

Popayán

.

5. Colombians call gasoline A.C.P.M., which some like to say is an acronym for the four main elements of the Colombian diet: arroz, carne (or cerveza), papas y maiz: rice, meat (or beer) potatoes and corn.

.

6. Colombia is one of the world’s most important exporters of emeralds.

.

7. The most typical Colombian food is the humble arepa, a pre-Columbian flatbreat made of corn flour. Depending on the region, it can be thin and crispy, fat and buttery, filled with cheese, and stuffed with meats and condiments. The best one I had was in Sogamoso near the bus terminal. It was thick, crispy on the outside, buttery and cheesy on the inside.

Arepas

.

8.  Colombia boasts a dizzying selection of tropical fruits. Some of the fruits I tried for the first time include:
Lulo • Guanabana •  Mamey • Feijoa • Borojó • Corozo • Tomate de arbol (tamarillo) • Mamoncillo • Chontaduro • Arazá

.

9. Because of the improving security, many Colombians are starting to discover their own country, yet few know what other regions of the country are like. Colombians regions are so distinct that they can be considered separate nations.

.

10. Depending on who you ask, Colombia’s president, Alvaro Uribe is either a) a great man with the courage and leadership to push Colombia into modernity and really fight the FARC guerrillas, or b) a right-wing dictator who neutered the judicial system, rules over the legislature, and has friends in the media to keep Colombians from realizing that he’s slowly steamrolling over their constitutional rights.

Cartagena: beauty built on tyranny

The more I learn about Colombian history, the more pissed off I get at the Spanish. Which creates an awkward situation: I can’t possibly stay mad at the nation that gave me paella, sangria, tapas, flamenco and Penélope Cruz.

And so I reconcile this loving hate the American way, by which I mean pan-American, from Alaska to Patagonia, a continent founded on Europe’s thirst for dominance and baptized with the blood of natives and African slaves. I paint over the ugly parts, make it pretty, erect small monuments to the tyrannized, and get on with life.

It’s what South Americans excel at, and the city of Cartagena de Indias is the most vivid reminder of this. Stroll near the northeast city walls and you’ll find an enclosed courtyard housing several expensive restaurants. One of them, offering Spanish cuisine, has three angled arches made of aged, exposed bricks. That’s because this was once a gunpowder depot, and if there was an accidental explosion, the arches directed the force of the blast down the length of the room, rather than sideways into the courtyard, where people could be working.

A few blocks away, a series of arched cubbyholes called Las Bóvedas house souvenir shops selling T-shirts, miniatures of the city, and colourful shot glasses. These were once used as prisons, where no doubt the captives were tortured.

.

Las Bóvedas. Borrowed from sinosrealestate.com

.

I know this about the restaurant because a waiter told me. I now this about Las Bóvedas because an aged plaque above a Botero poster says so. One wonders if the tourists strolling down the city’s cobblestone lanes, admiring the stunning, brightly painted colonial homes are aware that this was a strategic port where the Spaniards shipped treasures they stole from Peru back to Madrid.

You have to look for this, as cartageneros dwell on the past in memory, not in sustained grudges. They swept off the streets the systematic slaughter of Amerindians and the countless deaths from English and French invasions and stored them in neat displays at the Naval Museum and the Inquisition Museum. They’d rather keep the city gorgeous and romantic.

But what defines the Americas if not the beautification of past horrors? From the evils of slavery were borne many beautiful things, like samba and capoeira in Brazil, reggae in Jamaica, compas in Haiti, the blues in the United States. Bloody struggles for freedom became stunning plazas and sobering monuments. Then they blend into the cityscape, citizens give a nod to their memory, and then move on.

In Bogotá, the splendid Museo de Oro houses the few pre-Columbian treasures that weren’t melted into gold coins. And that’s because they were found in buried tombs long after the conquistadores did their damage. There I saw groups of schoolchildren on a field trip taught to admire the ancients’ craftsmanship, silently honour their memory, and move on to enjoy what they have today.

A chant in capoeira has a verse that goes, “I’m grateful for slavery / For without slavery, there wouldn’t be capoeira.”

But this is a continent that has been routinely mistreated by its leaders, men afflicted by psychic echoes of their ancestor’s love of power. And when the hurt subsides, they demand closure so they can honour the tyrannized. We saw this most recently with the movement to bring to justice the leaders of Operation Condor, the conspiracy among right-wing South American dictatorships to share torture and repression techniques in the 70s. Pinochet and other bastards were nailed and others continued to be hunted, despite denials and obstacles by current governments.

And when the truth is found, they move on.

Cartagena is so fascinating because it invites you to look past its beauty and contemplate on the many layers of hideous bits that sustain it. And as such, it becomes a multi-dimensional beauty, more complex and intriguing than other pretty historical towns you’ve visited. And it makes you wonder if perhaps a mutant flower sprouted from the seared grounds of Hiroshima, and if it was more stunning than anything that had blossomed before it.

In the paradisaical Parque Tayrona I met a couple from Barcelona who have been travelling for eight months. I felt the urge to ask them what it’s like to visit the land their ancestors both raped and beautified. Do they feel any retroactive remorse? Should they? But the girl was charming, friendly and beautiful, and the guy chatty and chummy. We talked about food instead and got along great.

One of the tamer ads for figure enhancement armor

.

A fun game to play in Cali is to spot the enhanced women of the city. Since this is plastic surgery capital of Colombia, the game can get absurdly easy: just look for the women whose breasts arrive before they do.

If that’s not enough, then bet on probability: a woman who has implants most likely has had a suite of other work done in Cali’s clinics, many of which offer bundled discounts on liposuction, lipo-laser sculpting, hydrolipoclasy, gluteal augmentation, rhinoplasty, otoplasty (and just about every other plasty, including those in places only visible to privileged men), wrinkle and freckle removal, collagen injections, Botox, laser hair removal, and excessive perspiration treatment, to name a few.

Such women are therefore also easy to spot because they hardly move. In Cali’s world-famous salsa clubs, they become part of the decor and conveniently cushion excited dancers from crashing into walls.

“Why don’t you move your head? Oh, it would mess up your hair. I understand.”

Ask a caleño why his city has become such an aesthetic hub and you’ll get a few answers, all of which make sense: a) There are three medical schools, which is a lot for a city its size. b) Cali surgeons became specialized in reconstructive surgery for victims of violent crime and animal attacks. And c) Rich drug kingpins gladly pay to keep their wives looking perpetually young, while ambitious women upgrade their bodies to lure the attention of such men.

You’ll find these clinics just about everywhere you look, even shopping malls, where they’re as understated and pedestrian as a hair salon or nail parlour. Some clinics specialize in post-operative care. They’re you’ll get special massages with exotic oils to prevent swelling and scarring, while under the watchful care of personal trainers and nutritionists. The ophthalmology clinic where Bianca had her eyes corrected has a facial aesthetic unit just beside the refractive laser correction wing. To me the message is clear: now that you can see yourself better, please do something about that mug of yours.

.

Also doubles as a bullet-proof vest

.

While body-enhancing operations here are much cheaper than North American and European equivalents, they are nonetheless out of reach for many Colombians of limited income. Which is where the fajas come in. If you can’t afford a tummy tuck, there are abdominal bands that squeeze in fat to give the impression of a flat belly. They go from simple straps for the abdomen to body armor, starting at the thighs and all the way up to the neck and down to the elbows, with extra padding on the buttocks and breasts to give its user that ideal Jessica Rabbit figure. This is, in essence, the full-body Wonderbra.

But the similarity stops there. The Wonderbra is a white lie, a simple, hyperlocal optical illusion. If a woman seduces a man with her cleavage, its prompt disappearance upon removal of the garment can be forgiven, if not condoned. I imagine it’s much harder to overlook the half-mummified woman who just undressed before you.

“Ummm… are you going diving later?”

Years of robbery and kidnapping by paramilitary thugs made travelling within Colombia a fool’s venture, but improved security over the past few years has sparked a tourism renaissance. In many parts of the country (Cartagena excluded), there is no formal structure to receive visitors; rudimentary services are improvised by local entrepreneurs.

This makes travelling to Colombia off-limits to those without a functional level of Spanish, but the perfect destination for anyone seeking an uncontaminated experience in a fascinating country: most of the coast is blissfully free of all-inclusive monstrosities and sunburned gringos with ridiculous hats, over-sized cameras and Hawaiian shirts are nonexistent.

Plus, it’s cheap. Really cheap. And that’s partly because Colombians still haven’t learned how to haggle.

Observe Exhibit A:

Paipa is a town famous for its thermal baths and rustic scenery. Several hotel-spas line a lake, most of them predictably expensive. The first we looked at charged 320,000 Colombian pesos (about $160 USD). A second one we saw, the Casona Salitre, was majestic: Spanish colonial architecture, a stone thermal bath fed by four gargoyles, lots of potted plants and flowers. Plus, the liberator Simón Bolivar spent a few days there, which in this part of the world, turns any location into a national monument.

We expected to find the highest price. Said the concierge:

“Our rooms start at 250,000 pesos.”

We thought about this in silence for about two seconds, after which the concierge said:

“But we can give it to you for 190,000.”

Again, we said nothing for a bew beats and then declared, “We’re going to take a look around the hotel, all right?”

“Fine, 152,000,” he shot back.

And Exhibit B:

East of Santa Marta is a fishing village called Taganga, where several diving schools have been set up. The town is quickly primping itself for tourism; all day long workers slowly build a boardwalk where a scraggly dirt road met the sand. A 15-minute walk over a rock gets you to Playa Grande, a pleasant, secluded cove that is nowhere near grande but filled with ramshackle estaderos, essentially fish eateries under straw roofs.

Stroll near one and a lady eagerly ushers you to a table and brings out three freshly caught fish of different sizes on a tray: “This one is 15,000, this one 18,000, and this one 22,000,” she says.

I repeated the information, pointing to the smallest one. “This one is 15,000?”

Immediately she responded, “It’s ok, we’ll make it 12,000.”

This happened a few other times, which led to the inevitable conclusion: Colombians haggle for you.

Contrast this with Guatemala, a country with a long-established backpacker trail and multiple tourist destinations. Whether by mastery in haggling or unshakable pride in the work, Guatemalan merchants rarely ever lower their prices. Rather, they often look at you like you’re some kind of bathroom tile buildup. “This is the price,” they calmly respond, and hardly care if you walk away.

One could assume that Colombians are suckers or simply naive, but I ascribe this to their tender nature, where the fear of offending a friendly stranger takes precedence over profits. It’s as if they know that their original asking price is a rip-off and can’t bring themselves to actually charge it.

It’s too bad this won’t last.

I gazed at it again. It looked like something a hideous subterranean rodent might crawl out of. It went about 30 degrees downwards, and had so many pointed edges that the strong LED lamp couldn’t illuminate beyond a metre in.

“If you can handle this you can handle everything else,” he said. Then he asked for a volunteer to go first.

We were two couples, the other one a doll-faced girl from Cúcuta named Karen and Paul, her tall English boyfriend with a shaved head and not a word of Spanish to his lexicon. “I’ll go,” I said and eased my feet in, facing up.

If cavemen played limbo, it would have been something like this. I had to keep my body erect as my feet felt for something to step on and then slowly shimmy my butt onto any surface that would hold it. I couldn’t look down to aim my helmet lamp at where I was going. The edges of the rock grazed my face and at one point I had to raise one arm, as I would not fit with both at my side.

I felt like I was in The Thing’s birth canal.

He had a point. Up to this moment none of our challenges had been very physical. About three minutes into the cave, when no more natural light crept in, I felt a slight burn in my nostrils, the familiar tang of bleach.

“What you’re smelling is ammonia, which is a component of guano,” the guide said.

Guano. Bat shit.

Bats.

“It’s okay, the vampire bats feed mostly on cattle blood,” he said to assuage us. We silently agreed he could have spared the word “mostly”. The squeaks and the flapping wings grew louder and the guide pointed his flashlight at the first nest. It was a writhing mass of grey on the cave ceiling. I was reminded of that scene in Matrix 3 where the machines break into the human citadel.

Just below the nest the rocks were spattered with a hardened black ooze with white dots. “The bats just extract whatever nutrients they need from the blood and then secrete the rest,” our guide said. Though bats are blind, they are nonetheless sensitive to light, and every time we shone a light at a hanging cluster, several took flight, sometimes right over our heads.

The girls did a good job of holding back their shrieks. They couldn’t stop associating them with vampires. I thought of Batman, and it made each subsequent colony a bit more optimistic.

Yes, you could say that was our mental challenge. And then there was the clay corridor, which tested both. “This part is optional,” the guide said, which was to me and Paul was a blatant dare. We squeezed through a narrow horizontal fissure and found ourselves ankle-deep in soft, slimy mud. My sandals became stuck to the clay like a molar on a dense caramel. After a few steps, the mud felt good, like we were walking on a delicious creamy dessert.

And when we reunited at a spacious chamber, the guide asked us to turn off our lamps and sit in complete silence for five minutes. It was utterly black and all we heard was the occasional drop from a growing stalactite. And suddenly it occurred to me. Not once in this trip, not during the cave visit or the rafting earlier that day, was I asked to sign a legal release form. They didn’t ask me to check off any ailments that could make me less than fit, or acknowledge that there are risks involved, including, but not limited to injury, drowning, hypothermia, coma or death. And I was never asked to relieve them of any legal liability.

The agreement was implicit in the activity: It’s a cave. It’s dark and there are rocks. I chose to come here. In a way, that first grueling hole was our release form. If I wasn’t aware of my own limitations, I had only myself to blame if something went wrong.

“If you can handle this you can handle everything else,” the guide had said and he was absolutely right.

I found this incredibly civilized.